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Tonks comes in and shuts the door with care, which is worse than if she had slammed it. She takes two steps into the room and stops, like she has reached the edge of something.

“Sirius,” she says. “It’s Harry.”

He looks up at her. Waits for the rest.

“He was attacked in Diagon Alley about an hour ago, near Knockturn, but still on the public stretch. He’s at St. Mungo’s.”

Sirius pushes his chair back and stands. He does not interrupt her.

“He’s alive,” Tonks says quickly. “Unconscious, but stable. The Healers are calling it a curse injury because they don’t have a better category yet, but it doesn’t behave like one. It went straight through his shoulder. Entry and exit. Burned going in and out.”

She crosses the room and sets a report down on his desk. He does not pick it up.

“There were witnesses,” she continues. “Enough to establish a timeline. Harry was seen with Draco Malfoy shortly before the attack. They were together long enough for people to notice, and then Harry was found down a few streets over.”

Sirius’s jaw tightens. He says nothing.

“At the scene,” Tonks goes on, “we recovered spell signatures matching Malfoy’s wand. Defensive and offensive spells. Harry’s wand was also used after the injury to send up a distress signal.”

Sirius finally looks at the parchment and presses his hands flat against it, as if to keep it from moving.

“And Malfoy,” he says.

Tonks hesitates. It is brief, but she does not hide it.

“He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“We don’t know. He hasn’t reported in. He wasn’t located during the initial sweep, and by the time the Ministry locked down the Floo points, he’d already vanished.”

Sirius exhales slowly through his nose. “So he hurts Harry in the street and disappears.”

“That’s how it looks,” Tonks says. 

Sirius turns away from the desk and reaches for his coat. He gets one arm into it, then pauses.

“Who knows,” he asks.

“Kingsley. Evidence team. The Healers involved. We’ve kept it tight.”

“And the pres?”

“Not yet.”

He nods once. He buttons the coat, unbuttons it, and does it again properly.

“St. Mungo’s,” he says.

“I thought you’d say that.”

As they move for the door, Sirius stops. His hand stays on the handle, his gaze locks on something far away.

“How bad,” he asks, not quite trusting his voice.

Tonks does not soften her answer. “Bad enough that if it had been an inch over, we’d be having a different conversation.”

Sirius pushes the door open. They walk through the corridor without speaking. People look up as they pass. The DMLE smells of ink, old wards, and burnt coffee, all stone floors and glass-fronted offices, the walls lined with moving notices that catalogue other people’s disasters in neat, official script. Aurors pause at their desks, conversations thinning out as Sirius goes by. No one stops them.

Harry Potter has been attacked before. Curses, ambushes, blows, things meant to maim or kill. He’s had so many Quidditch related injuries, Sirius has lost track. Sirius has stood at bedsides and watched him recover, has made jokes and chastised him for being reckless and thinking himself invincible. But this, this is different and the name sitting in the middle of it is one Sirius Black has never learned to forgive.

By the time they reach the lifts, Sirius has already decided what happens next.

First the hospital.

Then he finds Draco Malfoy.

And then he will make sure Draco Malfoy is not in a position to hurt anybody ever again.

They Apparate to the outer gate because the wards won’t take anyone closer. Sirius barely registers the jolt. Tonks steadies herself beside him and then he is already moving, past the ironwork, toward the steps. The main-entrance is busy with traffic, healers and medi-witches coming and going. An elderly man stumbles around, his skin blue. A medi-wizard catches him gently by the arm and leads him towards a bench.

That’s when he sees the spaniel.

It keeps to the hedges, pressed low beneath winter-thinned leaves, light brown fur nearly the colour of sand. It’s not hiding exactly, it lies attentive, alert,  its eyes track the doors, then Sirius, then the doors again. It shifts its weight and settles, tail tight to its flank.

“Do you see that?” Sirius says.

Tonks glances. “Stray?”

“Working dog,” Sirius says. “Look at it.”

The spaniel lifts its head as if it has heard its name spoken. Its ears prick. When a witch passes too close, it edges back without breaking eye contact with the entrance.

“It’s very handsome,” Tonks says. “Maybe it’s waiting for its owner?”

“Maybe.”

They leave it there.

Inside St. Mungos, the air smells of antiseptic charms and old magic. Sirius gives his name once and is waved through a corridor he knows too well. They sit. Stand. Sit again. Sirius buys a cup of tea and forgets to drink it. Tonks drums her fingers on legs, shifting. Time passes.

Sirius checks twice through the window and sees that the spaniel has not moved. It remains, rigid with attention, gaze fixed on the doors as if willing them open.

Eventually a healer comes towards them. Hair folded in neat plaits, glasses resting on the tip of her nose. Older. Tired. Clean robes already marked with blood that is not hers.

“Sirius Black,” she says. “You’re next of kin?”

“Yes.”

She nods, as if this confirms something. “He’s still unconscious. The injury is severe and atypical. We’re repairing internal damage now.”

“What kind of damage,” Sirius asks.

“Mechanical trauma,” she says, choosing the words carefully. “With magical complications. There’s disruption along the muscle and nerve pathways. Some internal scarring. We’ve stabilised him, but we’re still correcting what the initial impact did.”

“What hit him?”

She looks at Tonks and then back at Sirius. “We don’t know.”

“Will he wake up?” Sirius says.

“Yes,” she says. “We expect him to when the draughts have run their courses.”

Hermione arrives while the Healer is still speaking, coat half-buttoned, hair pulled back with a charm that’s failing at the temples. She’s carrying a bag, overflowing with paperwork and a scarf, hastily stuffed together. She stops short when she sees Sirius.

“Is he alive?” she says.

“Yes.”

She exhales and nods, already reaching for a notebook and a quill. “Can he fly again?”

The Healer does not answer at once. “It’s too early to speculate,” she says finally. “We need to see how the repair holds, how the nerves respond. Flying is demanding work on the shoulders.”

Hermione closes the notebook. “I’ll handle the statement,” she says. “I’ll buy time.”

She leaves before Sirius can answer.

The Healer gives him a final nod. “We’ll come get you if there’s a change.”

When she goes, the waiting room settles into itself again.

Sirius goes back to the window, rests his forehead against the cool surface of the glass. Closes his eyes for a moment. When they open, the spaniel is still there. Sitting now. Perfectly still, watching the door.

“Bloody idiot,” Sirius mutters, without heat.

Sirius turns from the window before the image can settle into anything like comfort.

“Get me a warrant,” he says. “For Malfoy. I don’t care how thin it is.”

Tonks looks at him. “Sirius—”

“I want it active,” he continues. “I want his name public. I want every witch and wizard who still hates him to remember why. We will flush him out.”

“That will turn this into a spectacle.”

“Yes,” Sirius says. “That’s the point.”

Tonks hesitates, then nods once. She already knows when he is past listening. “I’ll start the paperwork.”

“And the press,” Sirius says. “Controlled leak. Not the injury details. Just the association. Just the name.”

She exhales. “You’re sure?”

“If he did this,” Sirius says, “he doesn’t get to disappear quietly.”

Tonks shifts her weight. “We can try to find him first.”

“Where does he live?”

She pauses. Pulls a small notebook from her pocket. Flips through it, frowns, flips again. “There’s an address on record,” she says slowly. “But it’s unplottable. Under a Fidelius.”

Sirius stops. “Who holds the Secret?”

Tonks closes the book. “Classified.”

“That means Snape,” Sirius says.

“It could mean a lot of—”

“It means Snape.”

She doesn’t argue.

Sirius turns for the door. He does not say where he is going. He does not have to.

Outside, the cold hits hard and clean and he fills his lunges with it. Exhales. Focuses. 

He almost runs straight into Snape.

They stop inches apart.

Snape is not wearing the black of the dungeons. He is in dark grey, long coat buttoned high, hair pulled back with uncharacteristic neatness, and his hands are covered in fine leather gloves. He still carries his usual scowl.

Sitting squarely at Snape’s heel, is the spaniel. Its posture straight, eyes flicking between the two men with sharp, restless focus. Its tail flickers back and forth.

“What are you doing here?” Sirius says.

Snape does not look at him. His attention stays on the dog. One hand is extended, palm down, not touching, hovering just above the spaniel’s head.

“Trying to keep this from becoming worse,” Snape says.

Sirius laughs, short and ugly. “Are you chatting up strays now?”

The spaniel shifts. Its tail flicks once. Snape’s hand lowers a fraction, steadying.

“It isn’t a stray,” Snape says.

Sirius’s gaze drops to the dog again. Close enough now to see the fine tremor along its flank. The way its eyes never leave the hospital doors for long.

“Then whose is it,” Sirius says.

Snape finally looks up.

“Mine,” he says.

Behind them, the doors to St. Mungo’s open and close again. The spaniel’s head snaps toward the sound.

For a moment Sirius forgets what he came out here to do.

Snape. Outside a hospital. Talking to a dog. His dog. Not a hound. Not something sharp-toothed and grim. A spaniel. Soft-eared. Light brown. Sitting like it belongs in a catalogue for wholesome domesticity.

Sirius stares.

“That is not your dog,” he says.

“It is.”

Sirius laughs before he can stop himself. It comes out wrong, but not angry. “You do not own a dog.”

Snape finally turns, expression thin with irritation. “I assure you—”

“Prove it.”

Snape exhales through his nose, the sound sharp. He drops his hand an inch.

“Major,” he says. “Lie down.”

The dog lies.

Perfectly. Immediate. No shuffle, no hesitation. Its spine straightens, haunches tucked, eyes lifting to Snape’s face as if awaiting further instruction.

Sirius blinks. Looks from the dog to Snape and back again.

“Major,” he repeats. “You named it Major.”

Snape’s mouth tightens. “It responded, did it not.”

“That’s not the point.”

“That is precisely the point.”

Sirius shakes his head once, slow. “You have a spaniel,” he says. “Named Major.”

“Yes.”

“Why.”

Snape opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearly reconsidering his life choices. “That is none of your business.”

“It became my business the second I saw you whispering to it outside St. Mungo’s.”

Snape’s gaze flicks, briefly, to the hospital doors. The dog’s head turns with his, ears lifting, attention snapping back into sharp focus.

“Can we,” Snape says carefully, “set aside the dog.”

Sirius narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” Snape says, “there are more important matters.”

“Like what?”

Snape looks back at him fully now. “How is Harry?”

The question lands badly.

Sirius’s expression hardens. “You hate Harry.”

“I dislike him,” Snape says. “That is not the same thing.”

“You have spent the better part of twenty years wishing him ill.”

“And yet,” Snape says, voice flat, “I am standing outside a hospital asking whether he survived.”

Sirius steps closer. “Why do you care?”

Snape does not answer immediately. His hand lowers again, resting between the dog’s ears. The spaniel leans into the touch without breaking attention on Sirius.

“Is he alive,” Snape asks instead.

Sirius holds his gaze. Holds it longer than necessary.

“Yes,” he says. 

Snape nods. His shoulders lowers somewhat, the tension seeps out of the spaniel’s posture.

“I want Malfoy’s address.”

Snape’s expression stills. His hand remains on the dog’s head.

“So that’s it,” Snape says. “You intend to drag him out into the open.”

“He attacked Harry in the street,” Sirius says. “Where do you think he went?”

Snape’s eyes flick up, cold and precise. “Draco Malfoy would not hurt Harry Potter.”

Sirius stares at him. Then he laughs. There is no humour in it.

“He absolutely would,” Sirius says. “He’s had a decade to learn how.”

“That is not what I said,” Snape replies. “Nor what you think you know.”

“You expect me to believe Malfoy suddenly grew a conscience.”

“I expect you to believe he is not an idiot,” Snape says. “If Draco Malfoy had intended to kill Harry Potter, he would not have left him breathing.”

“That’s your defence,” Sirius snaps. “He didn’t do it properly.”

“That is not a defence,” Snape says. “It is a fact.”

“And facts don’t stop warrants,” Sirius says. “I’ve put them out already. Every portkey hub, every floo checkpoint. I’ve alerted the press. You won’t be able to tuck him away somewhere damp and clever and pretend this isn’t happening.”

The spaniel shifts between them, weight moving forward, ears high, body angled not toward Sirius but toward Snape, ready for something that has not yet happened.

Sirius notices anyway.

“You always did enjoy overestimating your favourites,” Sirius says. “First yourself, now Malfoy.”

Snape’s mouth thins. “You always mistake noise for righteousness.”

“This is Harry,” Sirius says. His voice rises despite himself. “He’s lying inside with a hole burned through him and you’re splitting hairs about Malfoy’s competence.”

“And you,” Snape snaps back, “are prepared to burn down half the country because it fits your narrative.”

“Don’t talk to me about narratives,” Sirius says. “I buried friends because of his family.”

“And I buried my soul because of yours,” Snape says. “We can trade tragic history all night.”

The dog whines once, low and sharp. Snape’s hand tightens reflexively in its fur.

Sirius points at Snape. “You know where he is.”

Snape does not deny it.

“You’re protecting him,” Sirius says. “After everything.”

“I am protecting the truth,” Snape says. “Which you seem determined to trample.”

“You’re lying,” Sirius says. 

Snape steps forward. His voice drops. “If you put Malfoy’s name in the papers, if you turn this into a hunt, you will not like what you find.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is a warning.”

They stand there, breathing hard, the air between them taut enough to snap.

The spaniel plants itself squarely at Snape’s side, eyes locked on Sirius, the hair at the name of its neck rises slowly. 

Sirius drags a hand through his hair. “You don’t get to decide this.”

“No,” Snape says. “But you do not get to destroy what you do not understand.”

Sirius draws a breath and reins himself in by force.

“Where does he live,” he says.

Snape studies him for a moment, black eyes sharp and measuring, as if weighing damage against inevitability. Then his mouth twists.

“Very well,” he says. “If you insist on leaping to conclusions, I suppose you may as well do so efficiently.”

Before Sirius can respond, the dog moves.

The spaniel springs upward in a smooth, practiced motion and lands against Snape’s chest, paws braced, weight balanced. Snape catches it without looking, one arm coming up automatically, fingers curling into fur with familiarity that makes Sirius’s stomach drop.

The dog presses its head under Snape’s chin. Snape allows it for precisely two seconds.

“This is unnecessary,” Snape mutters, and then, to Sirius, “Pay attention.”

Snape takes Sirius’s arm without warning. Fingers locking around his sleeve, magic already gathering, dense and controlled.

“Be grateful,” Snape replies, and Apparates.

The world snaps back into place with damp air and birdsong.

Sirius stumbles half a step and then stills.

They are standing at the edge of a narrow lane, grass creeping up between worn stones. Ahead of them sits a small cottage tucked into a fold of green, roof low and uneven, windows bright with lamplight despite the hour. Smoke curls lazily from the chimney. There are flowers. Actual flowers. A crooked fence. A bench with a folded blanket draped over one arm.

It is obscene.

“This is a joke,” Sirius says.

Snape releases his arm. “It is an address.”

“That,” Sirius says, pointing, “is a storybook.”

Snape ignores him and lowers the dog to the ground. The spaniel barely waits for its paws to touch before bolting forward, tail wagging so hard its whole back end sways. It skids slightly on the stone path, corrects, and vanishes through a small flap cut neatly into the bottom of the door.

A doggy door.

Sirius stares at the spot where the dog disappeared.

“You expect me to believe,” he says slowly, “that Draco Malfoy lives there.”

“Yes.”

Sirius looks again. At the bench. The fence. The flowers.

Sirius feels something hot and furious lodge under his ribs. Domesticity. Warmth. Safety. All of it sitting there, smug and intact, while Harry lies broken somewhere else.

“Harry is bleeding out in a hospital,” he says. “And Malfoy is playing house.”

“This,” Sirius says, stepping forward, “is going to end very badly.”

Sirius is already moving.

He takes the steps two at a time and pushes the door open without knocking, wand raised. It swings inward easily, not warded the way he expects, not resisting him at all. Warm air spills out, carrying the smell of tea and damp wool and something baking too long ago to still matter.

“Malfoy!” Sirius calls.

No answer.

The cottage answers anyway. Wood floors worn pale at the centre. A narrow table by the door stacked with post. A rack of coats, one long and dark, one shorter and old, softened with wear. A racing broom rests in a corner. Sirius does not register any of it.

He strides inside and nearly goes down. His boot catches on something heavy in the mudroom. He stumbles, swears, steadies himself against the wall. Looks down.

Boots.

Flying boots. Scuffed toes. Repaired seams. Mud still dried into the treads.

Sirius steps over them without stopping.

“Malfoy!” he calls again, louder now, already halfway down the corridor. “Where are you, ferret face?”

He opens doors. A small sitting room with a sagging sofa and a low table buried under parchment. A hearth with ash still warm. He scans corners, behind doors, under the table, as if Draco Malfoy might have folded himself into something small and ignoble.

Nothing.

He moves on.

A workroom. Low shelves. Jars and cages. Augury feed measured and labelled in careful handwriting. Correspondence stacked neatly, tied with twine. He grabs the top letter, skims it. Breeding cycles. Export permits. Complaints about weather. Marginal notes about ward integrity and roof leaks.

He tosses it back onto the pile.

A bookshelf catches his eye. Quidditch histories. Old match programmes. A battered copy of Flying for England: A Retrospective. He snorts and turns away. He does not notice the bookmark halfway through the season Harry blew out his shoulder the first time and flew anyway.

The kitchen is next. Clean. Used. A kettle cooling on the stove. Two mugs drying on a rack. One green. One red.

Sirius opens cupboards. Under the sink. The pantry. He pulls open drawers, scuffs away the carpet, knocks away a chair.

“Malfoy!” he says, sharp now, irritated that the name keeps echoing back at him unchanged.

Snape stands in the doorway and watches him tear through the place with an expression that is almost bored.

“You will not find him by dismantling the furniture,” Snape says.

“Then where is he,” Sirius snaps.

Snape’s gaze flicks, just once, toward the back of the house. Toward a closed door Sirius has already passed twice.

Sirius follows the look and scoffs. 

He strides to it and throws the door open.

The room is small. A large bed takes up most of it, pushed close to the window. White curtains, thin and practical, stirred aside to let in the grey light. A chair by the wall with clothes folded carefully over the back. 

He crouches and looks under the bed. Empty. Just a pair of slippers pushed back neatly, toes aligned.

There’s a dresser by the wall. He yanks the doors open, pushes away cloaks and sweaters, jeans and wool trousers. No one inside.

Sirius exhales hard. “Of course.”

He turns, already backing out, already mentally redrawing the map, already planning how Malfoy slipped past him.

He does not look at the bedside table. He does not see the framed photograph angled towards the bed . He does not register the vial of calming draught beside the bed, measured out and waiting.

Snape watches him leave the room without comment.

The dog appears then, padding in from the kitchen, nails clicking softly on the floor. It pauses in the doorway, looks from Sirius to Snape, then trots into the bedroom and hops onto the bed without hesitation.

Sirius does not see that either.

He is already back in the sitting room, rifling through the post again, eyes skimming dates and addresses, searching for anything that will give him the satisfaction of proof.

All around him is a life assembled quietly and with care.

And Sirius Black, for all his fury and love and certainty, walks straight past it.

Sirius comes back to the front room with nothing in his hands and too much in his head.

Snape is still by the door. The dog has returned to sit at his feet, head lifted, eyes tracking Sirius’s every step.

“Are you content,” Snape asks, “that he is not here?”

Sirius snorts. “He’s somewhere.”

He pulls his wand and sends the Patronus without ceremony. A large dog bursts into the air, silver and sharp-edged, and runs through the walls without slowing.

“Tonks,” Sirius says aloud, knowing she’ll hear it. “Post someone on this site. Watch it. Day and night.”

The light vanishes.

Snape’s mouth tightens. “I am telling you,” he says, “you are pursuing the wrong suspect.”

Sirius rounds on him. “I am not.”

“You are reacting,” Snape says. “As you always do.”

“I am responding to evidence,” Sirius snaps. “And to Harry bleeding in a hospital bed.”

“You are responding to your hatred,” Snape says. “Which is not the same thing.”

Sirius steps closer. “You don’t get to lecture me.”

“I am doing so regardless,” Snape replies. “Because if you persist, you will make this worse.”

“Malfoy attacked Harry,” Sirius says. “And ran.”

Snape’s voice drops. “Draco Malfoy did not hurt Harry Potter.”

Sirius laughs once. “You keep saying that like it makes it true.”

Snape’s hand lowers to the dog’s head. The spaniel presses closer, gaze fixed on Sirius with a steadiness that feels unearned.

“You will regret this,” Snape says.

Sirius looks past him. 

At the door. 

At the quiet. 

At the kettle gone cold.

“No,” he says.

He steps back, lifts his wand, and Apparates without warning.

The air snaps closed.

Snape is left alone in the cottage, the echo of Sirius’s departure still hanging in the room. The dog shifts, ears pricking, and looks toward the place Sirius vanished, then back at Snape, tail giving a single, uncertain wag.

Snape exhales and rests his forehead briefly against the doorframe.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “You will.”

By the time Sirius returns to St. Mungo’s, the street has changed.

What began as a handful of people has swelled into a crowd pressed up against the outer wards. Scarves in England’s colours. Jerseys with Harry’s number stitched or painted or charmed to glow faintly in the dusk. Candles hover above them, held aloft by spells that tremble with uneven concentration. Someone has enchanted banners to float, the fabric rippling gently, Harry’s name repeating in different hands, different inks.

An Auror cordon holds the line, already tired.

Sirius slows only long enough to register it. This is how it starts: worry turning into ritual, ritual into pressure.

Inside, the hospital hums with contained urgency

Harry lies exactly as he was before. Bandaged. Pale. Breathing shallow but steady. The monitors tick softly, indifferent to reputation or grief.

Sirius stands at the foot of the bed. 

“Don’t you dare,” he says quietly, to no one in particular.

Nothing moves.

The Healer on duty gives a small shake of her head from the doorway. No change. No complications. No progress.

Sirius nods and leaves before stillness can start to feel permanent.

He finds Tonks in the hospital canteen. She looks up as he approaches, relief flickering briefly across her face.

“The crowd’s growing,” she says. “We’ve got extra Aurors on rotation. Kingsley’s authorising barriers if it spills over.”

“Good,” Sirius says. “I don’t want this turning into a circus.”

“Ready to go?.”

“Where?”

“The alley,” she says. 

Sirius nods. “Let’s go.”

They Apparate just outside the perimeter wards. The alley is narrow, stone slick with old rain and newer magic. Chalk outlines mark where Harry fell. Evidence markers hover, precise and clinical.

Sirius steps inside the boundary and stops.

“Walk me through it,” he says.

Tonks does. Where Harry was standing. Where witnesses last saw him. Where the distress signal went up. Where they think Malfoy was standing. What spells were registered. Where nothing else makes sense.

Sirius crouches and presses his fingers to the stone. The scorch marks are faint. Too controlled. He straightens slowly.

“This wasn’t random,” he says.

“No,” Tonks agrees. “It was close. Deliberate.”

Sirius looks up at the narrow strip of sky overhead. Grey. Ordinary.

They do not get three steps out of the alley before Tonks stops short.

“Oh,” she says, and then, unhelpfully, “wow.”

Sirius follows her line of sight and feels something ugly flare behind his eyes.

Snape is there.

He stands just inside the boundary ward, coat buttoned, posture infuriatingly composed, as if he has every right to be present. At his feet, the spaniel moves with quiet purpose, nose down, tail spinning, tracing the stone in short, precise passes. It pauses, circles once, then moves again, intent and methodical.

Sirius’s hand goes to his wand.

“What,” he says, flatly, “is he doing here?”

Tonks doesn’t answer right away. She’s watching the dog.

“That,” she says slowly, “is the most handsome dog I have ever seen.”

“Tonks.”

“Look at it,” she insists. “That’s a working cocker, right. Look at the focus. Merlin, those lines.”

“Tonks.”

She blinks, looks at him, then back at Snape. “Right. Yes. Crime scene.”

Sirius is already moving. He steps over the ward line with deliberate force.

“Get away from that,” he snaps.

The dog freezes instantly. Sits. Eyes flicking to Snape without moving its head.

Snape straightens and finally turns, expression sharpening. “I would advise you,” he says, “to lower your wand.”

“You are interfering with an active investigation,” Sirius says. “Again.”

“I am observing,” Snape replies. “Quietly. Unlike you.”

Sirius takes another step. “You are not an Auror.”

“You have already decided who is responsible, so I fail to see how my presence worsens matters,” Snape answers.

The dog lowers its head again, nose returning to the stone, tracing the edge of a scorch mark Sirius had not noticed.

“That’s enough,” Sirius says. “One more step and I will arrest you.”

“For what,” Snape asks. “Existing in public.”

“For contaminating evidence.”

Snape’s mouth curves faintly. “If your evidence is so fragile that a dog’s nose compromises it, I suggest you are already too late.”

Tonks clears her throat. “Sirius. He’s… not wrong. Technically.”

Sirius rounds on her. “Do not–”

She raises her hands. “I’m just saying, the wards are holding, and he’s not touching anything.”

As if in demonstration, the dog backs away from the mark it was investigating and sits again, posture immaculate, gaze fixed on Snape.

“Call it off,” Sirius says.

Snape lifts one finger. “Major. Stay.”

The dog stays.

Perfectly.

Sirius feels his jaw tighten. “You think this is funny.”

“No,” Snape says. “I think this is tragic. And you are making it worse.”

Sirius laughs once, sharp. “You show up at a crime scene with your dog and you expect cooperation.”

“I showed up,” Snape says, “because someone I care about is being hunted by your incompetence.”

Tonks inhales sharply. “Care about?”

Sirius steps in close enough that only Snape can hear him. “You are one heartbeat away from a cell.”

“And you,” Snape replies just as quietly, “are one bad decision away from realising how badly you have misjudged this.”

Between them, the dog lifts its head and looks at Sirius, eyes bright, unafraid, intent in a way that feels disturbingly aware.

Sirius looks away first.

“Get your dog,” he says. “And leave.”

Snape does not move.

“Major,” Snape says instead. “Come.”

The spaniel rises and pads to his side, brushing Sirius’s boot as it passes. 

Snape rests a hand briefly on its head, then looks back at Sirius. “You are chasing the wrong truth,” he says. “And you are running out of time.”

He turns and walks out of the alley, the dog at his heel, nose already lifting toward the street beyond.

Sirius watches them go, pulse hammering, every instinct screaming to stop them.

He does not.

Tonks watches them go, head tilted slightly, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and delight.

“Wow,” she says. “Snape has a dog.”

Sirius does not answer. He steps back inside the ward line and raises his wand.

The alley responds the way it already has. Traces lift briefly from the stone. Residual magic. Old, clean, already catalogued. Malfoy’s signature where it should not be. Harry’s where it should never have ended up like this. Defensive casts. Counterwork. Nothing new. Nothing that changes the shape of the thing.

Sirius lowers his wand. He knew this before he started. 

Tonks looks at him. “You noticed the dog, right.”

“Yes,” Sirius says flatly. “It was interfering with my crime scene.”

“No,” Tonks says. “I mean, really noticed it.”

He gives her a look.

She grins, unabashed. “Snape. With a dog. A spaniel. Named Major.”

“So.”

“That’s hilarious.”

“It is not.”

She laughs. “It is. It’s just—” She waves a hand, searching. “You can’t explain it. If you explain it, it stops being funny.”

“If you say so,” he says.

Tonks watches him for a moment longer, then sobers. “Do you still think Malfoy did it?”

“Yes,” Sirius says. 

She nods. “Okay.”

They stand there a moment longer, the alley settling back into itself, quiet and unhelpful.

Somewhere else, Severus Snape is walking away with his stupid dog.And Sirius Black does not yet understand why the image refuses to leave him alone.

By the time Sirius gets back to St. Mungo’s, night has settled in properly and the vigil has grown teeth.

The crowd fills the street now, pressed up against the wards in orderly, relentless rows. England colours everywhere. Harry’s number repeated on scarves, jackets, hats. Candles float higher, steadier, fed by shared concentration. Someone has started a low chant, not words exactly, just a rhythm that carries.

The Prophet is everywhere.

Bundles slap into hands, hover at eye level, shout headlines at anyone slow enough to hear them.

WAR HERO STRUCK DOWN
MALFOY LAST SEEN WITH POTTER
A HISTORY OF HATRED

Sirius pushes through, ignoring the mutters that follow him. People recognise him. They always do. Some of them nod like he’s reassurance. Others look at him like he’s permission.

Hermione is waiting just inside the outer doors, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back again, eyes bright with a fury she is keeping on a very short leash. She thrusts a copy of the Prophet at him the moment she sees him.

“This is bad,” she says. “This is really bad.”

He doesn’t take it. He’s already read it. Twice. Once by accident, once because he needed to know how far they’d gone.

“They’re printing speculation as fact,” she continues. “They’re dredging up his trial, his sentence, his family. They’re framing it as a motive. Like inevitability.”

She flips the paper open anyway and jabs a finger at a paragraph. “Look at this. They’re implying premeditation. They’re implying obsession.”

“They’re implying Malfoy,” Sirius says.

“Yes,” Hermione snaps. “And that doesn’t help anyone.”

“It helps me,” Sirius says.

She stares at him. “How?”

“It gets people looking for him.”

Her mouth tightens. “It gets people hunting him.”

“Good.”

“Sirius–”

“If he’s innocent,” Sirius says, “he can come in and prove it.”

“And if he’s not,” Hermione says quietly, “you’ve just turned half the country into vigilantes.”

Sirius looks past her, through the glass, at the sea of candles and floating banners. At the way Harry’s name has become something people are holding onto like a spell.

“They were going to do that anyway,” he says.

She watches him for a long moment.  “Harry wouldn’t like this,” she says.

Sirius’s jaw tightens. “Harry isn’t awake to object.”

Outside, the chant rises again, stronger this time. The candles lift higher, their light washing the hospital walls in gold.

Sirius turns towards Tonks “Post more Aurors,” he says. “Keep them back from the wards. And. Find. Draco. Malfoy.”

Tonk nods. Turns on her heel and disappears.

Sirius waits until the corridor clears before he goes back in.

Harry’s room is dim, the lights turned low, the machines steady and quiet. The curtains are half drawn. The bed is where he left it. Harry is where he left him.

Something else is not.

For a moment Sirius thinks he is seeing things. Exhaustion finally winning. Then the shape shifts, lifts its head.

The spaniel is on the bed.

Curled close to Harry’s side, pressed against his ribs like it belongs there. One paw rests on the sheet near Harry’s hand. Its head comes up at the sound of the door, ears flicking, eyes sharp and immediate.

Sirius stops dead.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he says.

The dog does not move away. It watches him. Its body tightens.

That does it.

Sirius crosses the room in three strides and grabs a fistful of fur at the scruff and shoulder, hauling the dog up and off the bed.

“Get off him,” he snarls.

The reaction is instant.

The dog twists with startling strength and snaps, teeth closing hard on Sirius’s forearm. There is a growl in it, low and vicious, nothing pet-like about it at all.

“Shit—”

Pain flares. Sirius jerks reflexively and lets go.

The dog drops to the floor, lands badly, scrambles back, whining now, sharp and frightened. It skids on the tiles, turns once in a tight circle, then bolts for the door and slips through it before Sirius can think to stop it.

The room goes quiet again.

Sirius stands there breathing hard, arm throbbing, sleeve already darkening where teeth broke skin. He stares at the open doorway.

“Unbelievable,” he says, to the empty room.

Harry does not stir.

“Everyone’s losing their minds,” he mutters. “Including me.”

Harry does not answer.

Morning comes in thin and grey, the kind that makes the hospital stone look tired.

Sirius stands by the back door, collar turned up, cigarette burning down between his fingers. The Aurors inside have learned not to comment. The wards hum. Somewhere above him, Harry breathes.

Footsteps crunch on gravel.

Sirius doesn’t turn. He knows before he sees him.

Snape stops a few feet away. The spaniel sits at his side, alert, eyes bright, a faint bandage wrapped neatly around one paw.

Snape speaks, his voice is clipped and sharp. “Why did you throw my dog out of Harry’s room?”

Sirius exhales smoke through his nose. “Because the little shit bit me.”

He lifts his arm. The sleeve is torn. Beneath it, teeth marks, already darkening.

“And,” Sirius adds, “because it’s unhygienic. A filthy mongrel does not belong in a hospital bed.”

Snape’s expression goes cold. “The only mongrel present,” he says, “is you.”

Sirius laughs, short and humourless. “You bring an animal into a secure ward and you’re surprised it gets removed.”

“You grabbed him,” Snape snaps. “You terrified him.”

“He was on Harry’s bed.”

“Because he was guarding him.”

“He’s a dog.”

Snape steps closer. “He is more disciplined than half your Auror corps.”

Sirius flicks ash onto the ground. “He drew blood.”

“You deserved it.”

They are close enough now that Sirius can smell potion ingredients on Snape’s coat. Bitter. Flowery.

“Keep your pet out of my way,” Sirius says. “And out of my investigation.”

Snape’s mouth curls. “Your investigation consists of shouting and newspapers.”

Sirius takes a step forward. “At least I’m doing something.”

The dog yips. Small. Sharp. Enough to cut through them.

Both men stop.

The spaniel has risen to its feet, ears back now, body angled toward Snape, tail low. Its gaze flicks between them, unsettled.

Snape closes his eyes for a fraction of a second. “Right,” he says. “Enough.”

He looks at Sirius. Really looks at him.

“We found something.”

Sirius snorts. “We?”

Snape’s eyes flick briefly downward. Back up. “Yes.”

“You and the dog,” Sirius says. “What are you, an investigation team now?”

Snape does not answer. He turns on his heel and starts walking away, the dog falling into step beside him without a word.

“Snape–” Sirius calls.

Snape does not slow.

Sirius hesitates for half a heartbeat. Then he crushes the cigarette under his heel and follows.

Snape leads them back the long way, through streets still damp with last night’s rain, until the alley opens again in front of them. The wards have thinned. The chalk is smudged. It smells older now.

The dog drops its head the moment they cross the boundary.

It moves fast. Nose low. Tail working in short, sharp arcs. It overshoots, circles back, checks the stone again, then turns decisively and heads for the mouth of the alley.

“There,” Snape says.

Sirius swears and follows.

They cut off the street and onto a narrow gravel path that looks like nothing at all until you are already on it. The dog takes it without hesitation, paws crunching softly, body loose but focused, checking and rechecking as if the world is layered and only one layer matters.

Sirius grips his wand and keeps his eyes up.

“If this is some elaborate trap,” he says, “I’m killing you first.”

Snape does not look back. “Do try not to fall behind.”

They leave the city behind in pieces. Brick gives way to scrub. Scrub gives way to trees. The path narrows, splits, rejoins. The dog ranges ahead, doubling back, sometimes vanishing entirely only to reappear ten metres on, satisfied.

Sirius curses every step.

Mud sucks at his boots. Branches catch his coat. His shoulder protests when he stumbles and catches himself one-handed. He does not slow.

Snape moves differently. Lighter than Sirius expects. He ducks low branches without breaking stride, picks his footing without looking down, adjusts to the dog’s erratic pace as if this is not the first time he has done so.

The dog stops abruptly, circles twice, then bolts off at an angle Sirius would have missed entirely.

“Merlin—” Sirius mutters, and follows.

They hike on.

A kilometre. Two. The forest thickens. The light changes. Sound dulls. Sirius keeps his wand ready, thumb tight along the grip, senses stretched thin. Every snapped twig registers. Every shift of shadow earns a glance.

If someone steps out now, he will be ready.

The dog slows at last. Its pace evens. The circling tightens. It begins to work in a smaller area, nose pressed to leaf litter, tail steady now.

Snape raises a hand. Sirius stops.

The dog lifts its head and looks back at Snape, then at Sirius, then returns to the ground, huffing softly as it traces a final loop.

Sirius adjusts his stance and tightens his grip on his wand.

The dog lowers its head again, sniffs once, then paws at the ground, scraping back damp leaves and pine needles. Something dark shows through.

Snape steps closer and crouches. Sirius keeps his wand up and moves in from the side.

Snape lifts it carefully with the tip of his wand.

A scarf.

Red and gold, the colours dulled with age. The fringe is half-burned, the wool stiff in places with soot. There is blood on it. 

Sirius’s stomach tightens. “That’s—”

“Gryffindor,” Snape says. “Yes. I can see.”

The dog yips, sharp and high, then begins to circle again, wider this time, tail whipping, energy spilling over as if the find has only sharpened the trail.

Snape straightens slowly. “So,” he says, “you believe Draco Malfoy wrapped himself in Gryffindor colours and then attacked Harry Potter.”

Sirius glares at him. “Don’t.”

“I am merely clarifying your theory.”

Sirius exhales through his teeth. “It could have been a lure.”

“A lure,” Snape repeats. “Using his House colours.”

“Harry would notice,” Sirius says. “He’d stop. He’d ask questions.”

“Because Gryffindors are famously uncritical,” Snape says.

Sirius snaps his wand up a fraction. “He trusts people.”

Snape looks at the scarf again. “Yes,” he says quietly. “He does.”

The dog cuts across them, nose back to the ground, tracking hard now, pulling the line outward, deeper into the trees.

Sirius watches it go, then looks back at the scarf. The blood. The burn marks.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he says.

“No,” Snape agrees. “It does not.”

Sirius folds the scarf carefully and tucks it into an evidence pouch. His hand lingers a moment too long on the fabric.

“Still doesn’t clear him,” Sirius says.

Snape’s mouth tightens. “It condemns someone else.”

“Or it's a misdirection.”

Snape meets his gaze. “Then someone went to extraordinary lengths.”

Sirius takes one last look at the scarf and pulls out his wand.

“Tonks,” he says, already moving. “Get evidence here. Now. Bring everyone.”

The Patronus goes silver and sprints away.

It does not take long.

They come in waves. Crime scene technicians first, then Aurors, then more technicians because the first group realises what they are looking at. Wards go up. Flags mark the ground. Spells hum and overlap until the quiet of the woods is broken into manageable pieces.

Snape steps back without being asked. He positions himself just outside the perimeter ward, the dog at his side, watching with an attention that never wavers for long.

It does not go unnoticed.

One Auror slows as he passes. “That’s a beautiful animal.”

Snape does not respond.

Another technician glances over. “Working cocker?”

“Yes,” Snape says curtly.

“Thought so. Gorgeous lines.”

The dog’s tail gives a single, restrained wag.

Sirius catches it out of the corner of his eye and feels his patience thin to a thread.

A younger Auror stops outright. “Can I—”

“No,” Snape says.

“Sorry. Just—”

“That is enough,” Sirius snaps.

Heads turn.

“This is not a petting zoo” Sirius says. “Move.”

The Auror flushes and hurries off.

Sirius stalks over to the edge of the ward.

“You,” he says, pointing at Snape. “And you,” pointing at the dog. “You are distracting my people.”

Snape lifts a brow. “By existing.”

“By drawing attention.”

“That is hardly my fault.”

“Get out of here,” Sirius says. “Both of you.”

Snape looks at him for a long second. Then he nods once.

“Major,” he says. “Come.”

The dog rises instantly and follows, casting one last look back toward the marked ground, ears high, body tense with unfinished work.

Snape leads it away along the path they came from, disappearing into the trees with a grace Sirius is beginning to resent.

By the time Sirius gets back, the vigil has tipped from anxious to feral.

The street is a solid mass now, pressed tight against the wards. Candles burn low and steady, fed by shared focus and shared fear. Someone has added flowers. Someone else has started singing, softly, off-key, a team chant slowed into something almost reverent.

The Prophet hovers overhead, shouting updates Sirius has no interest in hearing.

Hermione is at the centre of it, flanked by Aurors, hair escaping its pins, jaw set hard. She is answering questions with clipped precision, deflecting speculation, refusing to be drawn. When she sees Sirius, her eyes narrow. He does not slow. He does not apologise. He slips past her and into the hospital before she can decide which of them she wants to yell at first.

He turns down the corridor toward Harry’s room and catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Pale fur. A flash of it. The spaniel slips out through the doorway ahead of him and scampers down the hall, nails clicking briefly on stone before vanishing around a corner.

Sirius closes his eyes.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, and goes in.

Harry lies where he has been all day. The steady rise and fall of his chest the only reassurance Sirius trusts.

Sirius pulls a chair close and sits. He takes Harry’s hands carefully, thumbs warm against skin that is cooler than it should be.

“You’re causing chaos,” Sirius says quietly. “Just so you know.”

Eventually, Harry stirs.

It is small at first. A shift. A breath that catches. Sirius is on his feet instantly, leaning in.

Harry’s eyes open. Unfocused. He blinks, swallows.

“Sirius,” he says, hoarse.

“I’m here,” Sirius says. “Easy.”

Harry frowns, the effort visible. His fingers tighten weakly around Sirius’s hand.

“Draco,” Harry says. “Where’s Draco?”

Sirius does not hesitate.  “Don’t worry,” he says, firm and certain, like a promise he can keep. “We’ll find him.”

Harry exhales. His grip loosens. His eyes close again, relief settling over his face like sleep.

Sirius stays standing, holding his hand, staring at the door.

By the following morning, Draco Malfoy is everywhere.

A blond man in Hogsmeade who vanished behind the Three Broomsticks. A pale figure seen on the coast near Holyhead. Someone swears they saw him in the atrium at the Ministry, head down, moving fast. Another claims he boarded a train. 

Sirius’s team runs until their boots are soaked and their tempers frayed. Every rumour has to be checked. Every rumour wastes time. Blonde hair becomes a trigger. Anyone sharp-featured, anyone pale, anyone who walks too quickly gets followed, stopped, questioned.

Nothing sticks.

The cottage remains untouched. The Aurors posted there report nothing beyond the ordinary. No lights. No movement. No Apparition signature. No visitors.

The Prophet escalates.

THE RIVALRY TIMELINE
A two-page spread charting every recorded interaction between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, colour-coded, annotated, stripped of context and dignity. Childhood antagonism reframed as obsession. Sixth year weaponised. The war flattened into a narrative that ends exactly where the Prophet wants it to.

Another headline follows.

FROM SCHOOLYARD TO SHOOTING: WHEN HATRED FESTERS

Sirius reads it once. Then again. He recognises his own voice in the quotes, shaved down and sharpened until it sounds like certainty instead of anger.

Sirius stands outside the hospital later that night, watching the crowd rearrange itself around the Auror line, and feels something sour twist in his chest.

He thinks of the scarf in the woods. Gryffindor red, burned and bloodied. Of the way the dog circled wider and wider, frantic, as if the truth lay just out of reach.

He thinks of the cottage. The dog door. The boots by the door he stepped over without seeing.

Snape has not contacted him. Not once. No gloating. No warning. No furious missive demanding restraint.

Sirius exhales slowly and rubs a hand over his face.

Going public was supposed to flush Malfoy out.

Instead, it has scattered him into myth.

And for the first time since Harry went down in that alley, Sirius allows the thought to form fully, without shoving it aside.

This may have been a mistake.

Harry surfaces again sometime later. His eyes focus on Sirius’s face with visible effort, like it takes work to keep him there.

“Did you—” Harry says, and stops. Swallows. “Did you check?”

“Yes,” Sirius says, without waiting to know what the end of the question was meant to be.

Harry frowns. “The cottage.”

“Yes.”

“Anyone there?”

“No,” Sirius says.

Harry blinks. His gaze drifts to the window, then back, as if he has lost track of how the room is arranged.

“Draco,” he says. “He didn’t—”

“He’s not here,” Sirius says, carefully neutral.

Harry nods. Or tries to. The movement stalls halfway and turns into a wince.

“He would,” Harry says, with quiet certainty. “He wouldn’t— he wouldn’t leave it.”

“Harry,” Sirius says.

Harry looks at him again. His eyes are glazed, his hands curls into fists and then relaxes again.

“Severus,” Harry says suddenly. The name drops into the room without warning. “Did you talk to Severus?”

Sirius hesitates.

“Yes,” he says finally. “Briefly.”

Harry’s brow creases. “Where is he?”

“Busy,” Sirius says. “Harry, you need to rest.”

Harry’s breathing picks up. His fingers tighten again, knuckles pale. “You didn’t listen–”

The monitor shifts tone.

“Healers,” Sirius calls, already standing.

They are there in seconds. Calm hands. Soft voices. A charm laid over Harry’s chest that eases the strain back down.

“Don’t push him,” one of them says quietly to Sirius. “He’s disoriented. Stress makes it worse.”

“I wasn’t—”

“We know,” she says. “But he doesn’t.”

Harry’s eyes flutter. He murmurs something Sirius can’t quite catch. 

“Go get some air,” the Healer adds. “We’ll call if there’s a change.”

Sirius hesitates, then nods. He backs away from the bed, reluctant, like Harry might vanish if he looks away too long.

Out in the corridor, the quiet settles again. He walks until the lights dim and the foot traffic thins. Pushes through the back doors into the cool air behind the hospital.

For a moment, he thinks he’s imagining it.

Then the shape resolves.

The spaniel lies under a bench near the wall, curled tight, head on its paws. Pale fur dulled with dirt. One ear flicks as Sirius approaches, but it does not rise. It only watches him, considerately, as if measuring.

“You,” Sirius says.

The dog’s tail thumps once. Sirius exhales and rubs a hand over his face.

Harry’s questions echo in his head. The cottage. The waiting. Severus.

He looks down at the dog again. At the way it has positioned itself where it can see the doors without blocking them. 

“Unbelievable,” he mutters.

The spaniel does not move.

Tonks finds him in the side corridor by the back doors, voice already lowered before she reaches him.

“We didn’t get anything new,” she says. “From the alley or the woods. The scarf’s real enough. Old. Gryffindor issue, but not Potter’s. There’s blood on it. Not enough to match the injury. And there’s a smell.”

Sirius looks at her. “What kind?”

She hesitates. “Sharp. Acrid. Not hex residue. Not potion. Not anything I recognise.”

“That’s comforting.”

“I said worried, not comforted,” Tonks replies. She glances past him, toward the bench. The spaniel is still there, head up now, ears pricked. Watching the doors.

Tonks’s mouth tightens. “You look like hell.”

“I feel worse.”

“You’re running yourself ragged,” she says. “And the crowd’s getting harder to manage. They’re pressing the wards now, Sirius. Not violently. Yet. But it’s close.”

She shifts her weight. “We had an incident.”

Sirius straightens. “What kind of incident?”

“A witch tried to slip past the guard rotation. Disguised herself as staff. Got as far as the ward corridor.”

Sirius’s stomach drops. “She got into Harry’s room.”

“No,” Tonks says quickly. “She didn’t make it that far.”

“Because–”

Tonks exhales. “Because Majored chased her off.”

The words take a second to land.

“She reached for the door,” Tonks says. “And the next thing anyone knows, there’s a spaniel at her ankles, teeth bared, going for the hem of her robes. Loud enough to draw attention. She panicked. Ran. Ran straight into an Auror.”

Sirius stares at her. “You’re telling me a dog is doing perimeter security in a spell damage ward.”

“That thing should not be here,” Sirius says. “It should not be in the hospital. It should not be anywhere near Harry.”

“And yet,” Tonks says gently, “it seems to be.”

“And you’re fine with this,” he says.

“I’m worried about you,” Tonks replies. “I’m worried about the crowd. I’m worried about the scarf soaked in blood and something none of us can identify. And,” she adds quietly, “I’m worried that whatever that dog is doing, it’s doing it better than we are.”

Sirius opens his eyes again.

The spaniel’s tail thumps once against the stone.

The meeting happens in a side office that smells faintly of ward polish and burnt coffee.

Robards stands by the window. Kingsley has taken the chair nearest the door, solid and immovable as a wardstone. Hermione is pacing because no one has told her not to. Harry’s coach sits stiff-backed on the edge of a seat that looks too small for him, hands clasped hard enough to whiten the knuckles.

Sirius stands because sitting would feel like surrender.

“We’re stretched,” Robards says. “You know that. Half my Aurors are on crowd control. The other half are chasing shadows across three counties. You want more.”

“I need more,” Sirius says. “I need guards outside Harry’s room at all times. I need the cottage watched properly, not one rotating Auror with a boredom problem. I need teams following up every lead instead of dismissing them as hysteria.”

“And I need to not have a riot outside a hospital,” Robards replies. “And I need to not have the Prophet running whatever version of the story it likes because we’re giving them nothing.”

Harry’s coach clears his throat. “My concern,” he says carefully, “is whether Harry will ever fly again. And whether the narrative around this attack damages him regardless of the outcome.”

“No one is talking about narrative,” Sirius snaps.

Kingsley looks at him. “Everyone is talking about narrative.”

Robards folds his arms. “Which brings us to the question you keep dodging.”

Sirius meets his gaze.

“Are you still certain this was Draco Malfoy?”

The room goes quiet. Even Hermione stills.

“Yes,” Sirius says.

Kingsley watches him closely. “On what grounds.”

“Motive,” Sirius says. “Opportunity. History. He was with Harry shortly before the attack. His spell signature was at the scene. And no one else benefits from this.”

Robards tilts his head. “Benefit how.”

“Publicly,” Sirius says. “It drags Harry back into an old story. It taints his image. And personally—” He stops, jaw tightening. “Their rivalry is legendary. Everyone knows that.”

Kingsley does not look convinced. “Rivalry is not a motive.”

“It is when it turns into obsession,” Sirius says. “Malfoy has never let Harry go.”

“That’s an assumption,” Hermione says quietly.

Sirius turns on her. “Then give me another suspect.”

She doesn’t.

Robards exhales. “You’re asking me to put the full weight of the Auror Office behind this.”

“Yes.”

“On your certainty.”

“Yes.”

Kingsley studies Sirius for a long moment. Long enough that the silence starts to itch.

“If you are wrong,” Kingsley says finally, “the damage will be extensive.”

“I’m not,” Sirius says.

Robards glances at Kingsley. They share a look that carries far more than words.

“All right,” Robards says. “If you are that sure.”

Sirius straightens.

“You’ll have your manpower,” Robards continues. “Extra guards on Potter. Full surveillance on the Malfoy property. Expanded search radius. We’ll give the press something to chew on.”

Kingsley’s voice is low. “This puts you on record, Sirius.”

“I know.”

“If this turns,” Kingsley says, “it turns on you.”

Sirius does not hesitate. “I’ll carry it.”

The coach stands, uneasy. Hermione stays where she is, eyes on Sirius.

“You’d better be right,” she says.

Sirius holds her gaze. He thinks of Harry’s voice, thick with potion and pain. Draco. 

He thinks of the scarf in the woods.
Of the dog at the door.

“I am,” he says.

When Sirius opens the door to Harry’s room, he already knows.

It is that kind of day.

Snape is there, standing at the foot of the bed with Harry’s chart open in one hand, reading as if he belongs. The Healer is beside him, arms folded, listening. And on the bed itself, curled against Harry’s chest like it has always been there, is the spaniel.

Its body is tucked carefully along Harry’s side, head resting just below his collarbone, one paw draped over the sheet near Harry’s hand. 

The Healer glances up and nods at Sirius, calm. Satisfied.

“His vitals are steadier,” she says. “He settled when—” She gestures vaguely at the dog. “—that arrived.”

Sirius closes his eyes for a fraction of a second. Opens them again.

Snape turns a page. “Your analgesic dosage is excessive.”

The Healer stiffens. “He has significant internal trauma. We are keeping him comfortable.”

“Comfort,” Snape says coolly, “is not synonymous with recovery.”

“He needs to be pain free.”

“Recovery is not painless,” Snape replies. “Pain is information. You are drowning it.”

Sirius looks from one to the other. From Snape’s rigid focus to Harry’s slack, pale face. To the dog’s steady rise and fall as it breathes with him.

“Reduce it,” Sirius says.

Both of them look at him.

“Just a little,” Sirius adds. “See what happens.”

The Healer hesitates, then nods once and reaches for the drip. Adjusts it with practiced precision.

Almost immediately, Harry’s brow furrows. His fingers twitch. His grip tightens on the sheet, breath catching shallow in his chest.

“Easy,” Sirius says, stepping closer without touching.

Harry exhales, a soft sound of discomfort.

The dog lifts its head.

It shifts just enough to bring its muzzle to Harry’s hand and licks his fingers once. Slow. Careful. Then again.

Harry’s grip loosens.

The furrow smooths from his brow. His breathing evens.

The Healer watches, lips pressed together, then glances at the monitor and nods, reluctant but convinced.

“Well,” she says. “That’s… effective.”

Snape closes the chart and hands it back to her. “Monitor closely,” he says. “And do not increase it again without cause.”

She nods. “I won’t.”

The dog settles back down, resuming its place against Harry’s chest as if nothing happened.

“And you are going to explain it.”

Snape finally meets his gaze. His expression is tired. Not defensive. Not triumphant.

“In time,” he says. “If you do not destroy it first.”

Snape does not linger.

He waits until the Healer nods once, satisfied, then reaches down and taps the dog lightly at the shoulder.

The spaniel rises at once.

It hesitates only long enough to press its nose briefly into Harry’s hand. Harry stirs but does not wake. The dog steps back, posture changing, watchfulness folding into something held in reserve.

Snape opens the door. The dog slips through ahead of him, nails clicking once against stone, then stopping.

Snape follows. He closes the door softly behind the

Harry wakes properly this time. His eyes open and stay open, tracking the room as if he is orienting himself on purpose. 

“Hey,” Sirius says quietly.

Harry turns his head with effort. His gaze finds Sirius and settles, intent.

“Why haven’t you brought Draco back yet.”

The words are clear. No slurring. No confusion.

Sirius stills. “We’re looking.”

Harry frowns slightly. “How hard?”

“As hard as it gets,” Sirius says. “The whole country’s looking for him.”

Harry exhales, relieved in a way that makes something twist painfully in Sirius’s chest. “Good,” he says. “He shouldn’t be out there alone.”

Sirius does not answer that.

“He’ll come if you find him,” Harry says. “He always does.”

There is a sound in the corridor. Raised voices. A sharp intake of breath.

Harry stiffens.

It is immediate. His shoulders tense, breath catching, eyes flicking toward the door. The monitor shifts tone. 

“Easy,” Sirius says automatically.

The door bursts open.

A witch stumbles in, breathless, eyes wild, clutching a folded banner under one arm. “I just want to see him,” she says, already stepping forward. “I brought—”

She does not get any farther.

Snape appears behind her like a closing door and flicks his wand without breaking stride.

The witch freezes mid-step and collapses backward, neatly stunned, banner slipping from her grasp.

Silence drops into the room.

Snape steps over her and shuts the door with care. Wards flare and settle.

“Idiotic,” he says.

Harry’s head turns. His eyes light with unmistakable recognition.

“Severus,” he says, voice weak but pleased.

Snape’s expression tightens, then smooths. He moves to the bedside without hesitation, glancing at the monitors, the drip, the set of Harry’s shoulders.

Harry’s gaze slides past Snape, searching.

“There,” he says, faint but certain.

The dog steps forward at once. No hesitation. It plants its forepaws on the edge of the bed, then gathers itself and hops up, careful of tubes and wires, landing against Harry’s side with practiced ease.

Harry laughs. It’s quiet and surprised and breaks off halfway into a breath he doesn’t quite have.

“Hey,” he says.

The dog noses at his chest, then turns once and settles, warm and solid, pressing its weight into him like an anchor. Harry’s hand comes up automatically, fingers sinking into fur.

“There you are,” Harry murmurs.

The dog stills, satisfied, chin resting against him, eyes half-lidded but alert.

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs. “People keep coming in.”

“They will stop,” Snape says. “I have made that very clear.”

Harry smiles. A small thing. Real.

Sirius watches it happen with something like horror.

Harry looks content. Safe. Relieved.

Not because Sirius is there. Not because Aurors are outside the door.

Because Snape is standing at the foot of the bed.
Because the dog is curled against him.
Because whatever they are, together, they mean protection.

“That’s better,” Harry says, eyes already drooping. 

Snape straightens and finally looks at Sirius.

“You see,” he says quietly, “the problem.”

Sirius cannot speak.

The stunned witch lies forgotten on the floor. The banner has come undone, spilling England colours across the tiles.

The idea is pitched as mercy.

Robards calls it a pressure valve. Kingsley calls it optics. Sirius calls it necessary.

Hermione calls it a disaster.

“You cannot let them in,” she says, standing rigid at the end of the corridor while Aurors argue quietly behind her. “This is a hospital. He is not a monument.”

“They’re not going into the room,” Sirius says. “They walk past. They see he’s alive. That he’s healing. Then they leave.”

“You made this mess by going public,” Hermione snaps. “You fed the Prophet, you fed the vigil, and now you want to reward them for it.”

Sirius holds her gaze. “We have to give them something.”

“What we should give them is distance.”

“If we don’t control it, they’ll invent whatever story scares them most.”

Hermione presses her lips together. She looks tired. Worn thin by questions she can’t answer and headlines she didn’t write. “Someone asked me,” she says quietly, “if Draco Malfoy sacrificed Harry in a dark ritual to resurrect Voldemort.”

Sirius closes his eyes. “If we don’t shift the narrative to ‘slow recovery,’ they’ll keep escalating.”

She exhales. Long. Controlled. “Fine,” she says. “But I choose who comes through. No screaming. No touching. No gifts. No spells. And if anyone so much as breathes wrong—”

“They’re out,” Sirius says. “Immediately.”

They pick six.

Hermione chooses carefully. Long-standing supporters. Older witches and wizards. One young man in a new Gryffindor scarf who keeps his hands folded tightly in front of him. A woman with a homemade badge pinned crookedly to her coat. Quiet people. Nervous people.

Sirius signs the order.

The ward is sealed tighter than ever. Two Aurors at each end of the corridor. Another inside the room, standing back, unobtrusive.

Harry is asleep when they start.

The dog is not.

It lies curled against Harry’s side as usual, head up now, ears alert. It watches the door with a stillness Sirius has learned to recognise as attention, not rest.

Snape stands near the window, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“This is a mistake,” he says.

“We’re not debating it,” Sirius replies.

Snape looks at the dog. The dog does not look back.

The first pair is brought through.

They slow as they pass the door, eyes shining, faces soft with relief. One presses a hand briefly to the glass. The other mouths Harry’s name.

The dog does not move.

The second pair passes.

The dog shifts slightly. Its tail stills.

Snape straightens.

The third pair approaches.

The young man in the scarf stops walking. His breath catches. He smiles too fast, too wide, eyes fixed not on Harry’s face.

The dog rises.

It places itself between Harry and the door and growls.

Low. Certain.

The sound cuts through the corridor like a blade.

“Easy,” Sirius says automatically. “It’s fine.”

Snape does not echo him.

The young man takes a step back.

The dog takes one forward.

“Get that animal under control,” he says, nervous laughter in his voice.

The dog’s nose lifts. It inhales.

And then it stops moving entirely. The fur on its shoulders, back and haunces prickles and rises.

Snape’s voice is very quiet. “Sirius.”

The young man turns.

For a heartbeat, Sirius thinks he’s simply overwhelmed. Then the man bolts.

He runs hard, shoulder down, scattering the carefully chosen fans like birds. Someone shrieks. Someone else stumbles and falls. Aurors surge forward, wands up, shouting spells that trip over one another in the narrow space.

“Stop—!”

The man twists as he runs and fires.

The sound is wrong. It cracks down the corridor and punches holes into the calm. Plaster explodes from the wall. Glass shatters somewhere behind them. People scream and duck, hands over heads, banners dropping to the floor.

A curse flashes past Sirius’s ear and slams into the ceiling. Another ricochets uselessly off the ward line.

The man fires again. 

“Down!” someone yells.

Sirius shoves a witch flat against the wall as another shot tears into the far end of the corridor, sparks flying as it hits a ward anchor. The smell hits then. Sharp. Acrid. Exactly what Tonks described.

The dog launches.

It comes out of Harry’s room like a released spring, pale blur against stone, barking now, not fear but fury. It ignores the Aurors. Ignores the spells snapping past it. It tracks straight and true, low to the ground, eyes locked.

“Major—” Snape starts.

Too late.

The dog hits the man at the ankle, jaws clamping down hard. The man screams, loses balance, staggers sideways, firing again as he falls. The shot goes wild and takes a chunk out of the floor near Sirius’s boots.

He is sobbing now, hysterical, shouting Harry’s name like it’s a plea.

Harry stumbles out into the corridor.

Bare feet on stone. A tangle of tubing dragged loose. Someone shouts his name but it comes from too far away to matter. He blinks against the light and the noise, trying to understand why everyone is on the floor.

“Harry—”

He takes another step.

The man on the tiles moves.

He plants one hand, pushes himself upright just enough to raise the gun. His face is slick with tears and sweat, mouth working around Harry’s name like it’s a prayer he’s already decided won’t be answered.

Time thins.

Harry sees it then. The line of the barrel. The way it steadies.

“No,” someone says. 

Maybe Sirius. 

Maybe no one.

The dog moves.

It comes up from nowhere, small and pale and fast, launching itself at the man’s arm with a sharp, furious sound. There’s a flash of teeth. The man jerks, fires.

The dog is airborne for a fraction of a second. Then it drops.

It hits the floor hard and slides, a pale blur coming to rest against the wall. The gun clatters away. The man collapses with a broken, animal noise, spells crashing into him all at once.

Harry doesn’t hear any of that.

He sees the dog on the ground. Sees the blood spreading too quickly to be anything else. Sees the stillness where there shouldn’t be any.

His knees give.

He’s on the floor before anyone can stop him, hands shaking as they find fur already slick and warm.

“No,” he says. “No, no—”

Blood is already spreading through the pale fur, impossibly bright. The dog’s legs twitch once, scrabble weakly, then still. Its chest moves. Barely.

Snape is on his knees before anyone thinks to stop him.

“Major,” he says. His voice breaks on the name. “Stay. Stay with me.”

His hands press to the wound, magic flaring uncontrolled, raw and bright and nothing like potion work. He doesn’t care who sees. He doesn’t care about rules.

The dog whines. Soft. Fading.

“Healers!” Sirius shouts, the word tearing out of him. “Now!”

They come running. Stretcher. Spells. 

Sirius moves forward, places a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and tries to pull him away. Harry rips free of Sirius’s hands with a strength that isn’t there a second earlier, tangling himself in lines and sheets, feet hitting the floor hard and wrong. The monitor shrieks. Someone yells his name. Someone reaches for him and misses.

“Harry—!”

Harry makes a noise Sirius has never heard before. It tears out of him, raw and unfiltered, and he drops to his knees beside the dog without hesitation, hands shaking as he presses them into fur already slick and warm.

The dog’s eyes flutter. Its tail drags once against the tile, weak and desperate.

Sirius is there instantly, gripping Harry’s shoulders, steady but not gentle. “You must not,” he says, voice tight, breaking at the edges. “You are injured.”

Harry shakes him off. “He’s hurt,” he says stupidly, like no one else can see it. “He’s bleeding.”

“I know,” Sirius says. “I know.”

Harry presses his forehead to the dog’s head. “Stay,” he whispers. “Please stay.”

The Healers hover, flustered, spells half-formed, eyes darting between Harry and the dog and Snape like none of this fits the protocols they memorised.

Sirius stands uselessly a step back.

Why isn’t anyone moving faster.
Why is no one shouting.
Why—

“Where is the medi-zoologist,” Sirius demands suddenly. The words feel wild in his mouth. “Why is no one calling a medi-zoologist?”

The Healers glance at one another.

“We—” one of them starts. “We don’t— we usually call—”

“It’s a dog! It’s been shot,” Sirius snaps. “With a gun. What are you waiting for?”

Someone finally moves. A wand flashes. A Patronus goes streaking down the corridor, silver and urgent.

Harry’s hands are soaked now. He doesn’t seem to notice. “He jumped,” he says, voice wrecked. “He jumped in front of him.”

Sirius closes his eyes for half a second. When he opens them again, something has locked into place behind them.

“Yes,” he says. “It did.”

The dog whines again, softer this time. Harry curls over it instinctively, shielding without knowing he’s doing it.

The corridor is chaos around them. Aurors hauling the sobbing attacker away. Fans crying. Someone retching in a corner. The vigil outside is screaming now, not chanting.

None of it matters.

Harry’s hands are shaking. Snape’s are steady by force alone. The dog is bleeding out on hospital stone because Sirius wanted to control the narrative he created and lost control of.

“Hold on,” Harry whispers again. “Please.”

For the first time since this began, Sirius has no order to give, no spell to cast, no authority to invoke.

He just stands there, watching a dog die in front of him, and understands exactly how far past wrong he has gone.

The whine cuts off.

Not fading. 

Stopping.

The body under Harry’s hands goes slack all at once, weight changing in a way Sirius feels rather than sees. 

“Hey,” Harry says, panic sharpening. “Hey—”

The fur ripples.

It is not dramatic. There is no flash, no burst of magic. Just skin shuddering under Harry’s palms, bones shifting with a wet, awful inevitability. The pale fur thins, pulls back, disappears.

Harry jerks his hands away with a choked sound.

Someone screams. 

It might be a Healer. 

It might be Tonks. 

Sirius doesn’t know.

Where the dog was, there is a man.

Curled on his side on the hospital floor, blood soaking into white tiles, pale hair matted dark at the temple, breath coming shallow and uneven. One arm is twisted wrong beneath him. The other is flung out instinctively, fingers curling weakly as if searching for something already lost.

Draco Malfoy lies unconscious at Harry’s feet.

Time collapses.

Harry stares at him, eyes wide and unblinking, mouth opening on a sound that doesn’t come out. Then he makes it anyway, broken and breathless.

“Draco.”

Snape moves.

He is suddenly everywhere at once, hands already working, wand out, voice sharp and controlled as if this is the only moment in the world that has ever made sense.

“Clear the corridor,” he snaps. “Now. Healers, this is an Animagus reversion under trauma.”

The Healers freeze for half a second. Then training kicks in. Wands lift. Spells reorient. Someone swears softly.

Sirius cannot move.

This is impossible.
This is obscene.
This is—

“You,” Snape says, turning on him, eyes burning. “You did this.”

Harry crawls forward on his knees without seeming to notice the pain it costs him. He reaches for Draco’s hand with shaking fingers and grabs it, hard, like he’s afraid Draco will vanish if he lets go.

“I told you to run,” Harry says, voice breaking. “I told you to stay away.”

Draco does not answer. His chest barely moves.

The Healers lift him onto a stretcher, spells already working to stabilise human anatomy instead of canine. Blood smears the tiles.

The corridor smells like gunpowder and iron and something else Sirius now recognises with horrifying clarity.

Fear.

Obsession.

Protection.

All of it collapses inward, folding around the fact that Draco Malfoy did not run.

He stayed.

He guarded.

He took a bullet meant for Harry Potter.

Sirius finds his voice too late for anything useful.

“Oh,” he says.

Snape looks at him with something like hatred and something like grief.

“Yes,” Snape says. “Oh.”

It detonates all at once.

Harry lunges for the stretcher, half falling, half being caught by Snape before he can put his weight where it will do real damage. His breathing goes ragged, sharp and fast, eyes wild.

“Don’t take him,” Harry says. “Don’t you dare take him.”

“We are taking him to surgery,” a Healer snaps, trying to manoeuvre the stretcher past bodies and chaos. “He is bleeding out.”

“He was fine,” Harry says, voice breaking. “He was right here. He was—”

“He was shot,” Snape says, grip iron-hard on Harry’s shoulders. “And if you do not breathe properly, you will join him on another stretcher.”

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Sirius demands, words tumbling over one another. 

Snape laughs. It is short and vicious. “So you could arrest him. Parade him in front of the press. Put him back in Azkaban.”

“That’s not—”

“He would not survive a day there,” Snape cuts in. “Not after this. Not after what you did to his name.”

Harry turns on Sirius, fury burning through the shock. “What the hell,” he says. “What did you do?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“You hunted him,” Snape hisses. “You turned the whole country into a mob. He was hiding because of you.”

“I thought—”

“You thought,” Harry snaps, voice cracking. “You didn’t listen.”

Snape’s eyes blaze. “I thought you saw their cottage and understood.”

Sirius stares at him. “Their cottage…?”

“Yes,” Snape says. “Their. You walked through it. You tripped over his boots. You stood in their kitchen and saw two mugs and still convinced yourself Draco Malfoy was a monster.”

The words hit harder than any spell.

“That cottage,” Sirius says faintly.

“Yes,” Snape says. “That one.”

Harry sways. Sirius grabs him just in time.

“You promised,” Harry says to Sirius, quieter now, more dangerous. “You promised you’d bring him back.”

Sirius opens his mouth. 

Nothing comes out.

Voices are rising everywhere now. Healers shouting orders. Aurors arguing about containment. The stretcher disappears through double doors.

Harry makes a sound that is pure loss.

“Enough.”

The word cuts through the corridor like a curse.

The senior Healer steps forward, face thunderous, wand raised.

“Shut the fuck up,” she says. “All of you. This is a hospital, not a courtroom, not a press conference, and not your personal reckoning chamber.”

Silence slams down.

“You,” she says, pointing at Sirius. “Out of my way.”

“You,” to Snape. “With me. Now.”

“You,” to Hermione. “Get him back to bed before he collapses.”

She looks at Harry last, expression softening just a fraction. “We are doing everything we can. But if you do not calm down, things will only get worse.”

Harry nods once, miserably, letting Hermione guide him back toward his room, eyes fixed on the doors Draco vanished through.

Snape hesitates only a second before following the Healer, shoulders rigid, fury banked into something colder and more dangerous.

Sirius is left standing in the wreckage.

The corridor smells like blood and gunpowder and consequences.

Hermione has both hands on Harry’s shoulders, steering him back toward the bed by force of will more than strength.

“Sit,” she says, low and fierce. “Harry, sit, before you fall over.”

Harry goes, because his legs give out rather than because he agrees. He collapses onto the mattress, breathing hard, eyes still locked on the door.

“He stayed,” Harry says. “He stayed the whole time.”

“I know,” Hermione says. “I know. Lie back.”

Sirius watches it like he’s underwater.

The door shuts. 

The shouting fades. 

The corridor chaos becomes distant, unreal. The room feels too small for what’s happened in it.

Sirius sinks into the chair beside the bed like his strings have been cut. He scrubs both hands over his face and lets them drop.

“What the fuck,” he says.

No one contradicts him.

“A dog,” Sirius continues, staring at the floor. “A cocker spaniel.” He looks up, wild-eyed. “He was a dog. For days. And I—”

His voice breaks off. He swallows and tries again. “Snape said his name was Major,” Sirius says, as if that’s the part his brain keeps snagging on. “Major. Who names a dog Major.”

Tonks is leaning against the wall, pale, eyes too bright. She lets out a breath that might almost be a laugh.

“Well,” she says carefully.

Sirius looks at her. “No.”

“I mean—”

“No,” Sirius says again. “Do not.”

Tonks winces. “I think Snape was trying to tell you.”

“How,” Sirius snaps. “How, Tonks. Because unless I missed the part where he stood up and said ‘by the way, Malfoy is a dog,’—”

“Canis Major,” Tonks says.

The room goes very still.

Sirius stares at her.

She grimaces. “Your own fucking constellation, mate.”

The words land with horrible clarity.

Sirius’s mouth opens. Closes. He looks at Harry’s bed. At the empty space where the dog curled. At the place on the sheet where fur had been warm and solid and real.

“Major,” Sirius says again. Quieter now.

Tonks nods. “Yeah.”

Harry turns his head toward Sirius. His expression is tired. Hurt. Furious in a way that doesn’t need volume.

“You never see past yourself,” Harry says. “Do you?”

Sirius flinches like he’s been struck.

“I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” Harry says. “You always think you’re right.”

Silence settles in again, heavy and earned.

Sirius stares at his hands. They’re still shaking.

“A cocker spaniel,” he mutters. “All this time.”

Harry closes his eyes. “He hates being noticed.”

Sirius drags a hand down his face and looks at Harry again, really looks at him, and something sharp finally punches through the shock.

“You were playing house,” he says. The words come out flat. Disbelieving. “With Draco Malfoy.”

Harry opens his eyes.

“Yes,” he says.

“In secret,” Sirius continues. “For years.”

“Yes.”

“With a dog door,” Sirius says, helplessly. “With boots in the mudroom. With—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

Harry’s jaw tightens. He turns his head slightly away, then back again, eyes bright with pain and something harder underneath.

“Because you’d have opinions.”

Sirius stares at him. “You didn’t trust me.”

Harry laughs once. It’s bitter and it hurts to hear. “I trusted you to react exactly like this.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You went public,” Harry says. “You fed the Prophet. You turned my life into a story again. And you expect me to believe you’d have been calm about Draco Malfoy.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“You were trying to control it,” Harry shoots back. “You always do.”

Sirius opens his mouth, closes it, then says, “He nearly died.”

“He jumped in front of a gun for me,” Harry says, voice shaking now. 

Sirius takes a step back like he’s been shoved.

“That’s enough.”

The Healer stands in the doorway, arms crossed, expression thunderous.

“I told you not to stress him,” she says. “And here you are, raising your voice like this is a family argument instead of a medical ward.”

“I’m his—”

“You are not helping,” she cuts in. “You are agitating my patient, elevating his vitals, and undoing hours of work.”

Harry’s breathing has gone shallow again. His hands tremble slightly on the sheet.

“Out,” the Healer says to Sirius. “Now.”

Sirius looks at Harry. For a moment it looks like he might argue. Then he sees Harry’s face and stops.

“Harry,” he says, softer.

Harry doesn’t answer. He looks at the wall.

“Out,” the Healer repeats.

Sirius backs toward the door like retreating from something dangerous, then turns and leaves without another word.

The door shuts behind him.

Five cigarettes later, Sirius is still outside.

The night has cooled into something damp and grey. The stone wall behind the hospital smells faintly of smoke and disinfectant and old magic. He has lost track of which thought he’s on. Everything circles back to fur under his hands. To blood. To Major.

Tonks finds him slumped on the low wall, elbows on his knees, cigarette burning down forgotten between his fingers.

She doesn’t joke. That’s how he knows it’s real.

“He’s out of surgery,” she says. “Draco. He’s going to be fine.”

Sirius looks up at her.

Really looks.

“Fine,” he repeats.

“Going to hurt like hell,” Tonks adds. “But he’ll live.”

Something in Sirius finally gives way. His shoulders sag. He lets out a sound that might have been a laugh in another life.

“And Harry,” Tonks continues. “He insisted on making an appearance.”

Sirius blinks. “What.”

“Five minutes. Balcony. Looked like death warmed over. Thanked them for caring.” She rolls her eyes fondly. “Told them to go home and do something useful.”

“Of course he did.”

“They listened,” Tonks says. “Mostly. Vigil’s breaking up. Aurors are standing down.”

Sirius scrubs a hand over his face. “The Prophet.”

Tonks grimaces. “Oh, it’s… a lot.”

She pulls a folded paper from inside her coat and hands it over.

The headline screams up at him.

SCRAPPY DOG SAVES POTTER
Heroic Canine Stops Gunman in Hospital Horror

There’s a grainy photograph charmed to move. Pale blur mid-lunge. A smear of blood. Harry’s hand reaching.

Sirius stares at it.

Then he laughs.

It starts sharp and sudden, the sound ripping out of him like a cough. He bends forward, elbows on his knees, paper crumpling in his hand as the laugh keeps coming and coming, breath hitching, chest shaking.

Tonks waits. 

The laugh breaks.

It turns ugly. Wet. Sirius presses the heel of his hand into his eyes, shoulders folding inward as the sob finally claws its way out.

“A dog,” he gasps. “A scrappy dog.”

Tonks crouches in front of him without asking and takes the cigarette from his fingers before it burns him. She crushes it under her boot.

 “I hunted him,” Sirius says.

“I know.”

“I turned the whole country on him.”

“I know.”

“And he stayed,” Sirius says, voice wrecked. “He stayed anyway.”

Tonks doesn’t argue. She just rests her forearm against his knee, grounding him there in the cold air.

Sirius goes back inside like someone returning to the site of a surrender.

Harry looks better. Not well. But the colour is back in his face, faint and stubborn, like it’s decided to stay. He’s propped up properly now, hair mussed, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. 

“Are you still mad at me,” Sirius says.

“Yes,” Harry replies calmly. “Not as mad as Snape is.”

“That’s comforting.”

Harry’s mouth twitches despite himself. “He threatened to hex you into something educational.”

Sirius exhales and drags a chair closer, sitting this time because he’s learned something today. He stares at the floor for a second, then looks up.

“Why did Snape know,” he asks. “Before anyone else. Before me.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. “Because he needed to.”

Sirius frowns. “For what.”

“He was Draco’s medical proxy,” Harry says. “Until a few months ago.”

The words land gently. The meaning does not.

Sirius blinks. “Medical proxy.”

“Yes.”

“As in,” Sirius says slowly, “decisions. Consent. Emergencies.”

Harry nods again. “Someone had to. Draco didn’t want the Ministry anywhere near him. And I couldn’t always be available.”

Sirius leans back in the chair, hand coming up to scrub over his face. “Oh,” he says.

“Yes,” Harry agrees. “It’s that serious.”

There’s another pause. Sirius opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again.

“You trust him,” Sirius says. It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“With your life,” Sirius adds.

Harry snorts softly. “Apparently.”

Sirius drops his hand and looks at him, really looks at him, like he’s trying to recalibrate something fundamental.

“And you didn’t think,” Sirius says, carefully now, “to mention this.”

Sirius stares at the wall, then back at Harry. “How long.”

Harry’s voice stays steady. “I asked him to marry me four times.”

Sirius freezes.

“Four,” Harry repeats. “Different years. Different moods. Different levels of optimism.”

“And,” Sirius says faintly, “he said no.”

“Yes.”

Sirius drags a hand down his face again, slow and thorough, like he’s trying to wipe the day off his skin.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he says.

Harry huffs a tired laugh. “That was his exact response to the third one.”

Sirius looks at him, disbelief and something like awe tangled together. “You nearly died. He took a bullet for you. He’s been a dog in a hospital corridor for days.”

Harry’s expression softens, just a little. “He’s very consistent.”

Sirius lets his head fall back against the wall behind him.

“I hunted your fiancé,” he says.

“Boyfriend,” Harry corrects. “Technically.”

“Your future something,” Sirius amends. “I turned him into a national villain while he was sleeping under benches and guarding your bed.”

Harry’s jaw tightens. “Yes.”

Sirius closes his eyes. “I am spectacularly bad at this.”

Harry watches him for a moment, then sighs. “You are,” he agrees. “But you came back.”

Sirius opens his eyes again.

“That counts,” Harry adds quietly.

Sirius waits until the corridor quiets before he goes looking for the other room.

He finds it by accident. Fewer guards. Dimmer light. A different kind of silence.

Draco lies pale against white sheets, bandaged and motionless, chest rising shallow but steady. Tubes. Monitors. Human this time, undeniably. 

Sirius stops in the doorway.

For a long moment, he says nothing.

Then, because there is nothing left to lose, he steps inside and closes the door softly behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The words fall flat in the quiet room. Too small. Too late. Sirius keeps going anyway.

“I was wrong,” he adds. “About everything that mattered. I hunted you. I made you a story people wanted to hate. I put a gun in a hospital corridor by pretending certainty was the same as truth.”

He swallows.

“You saved him,” Sirius says. “You saved Harry. Over and over again. And I—” He exhales. “I don’t know how to make this right. But I needed you to hear it. Even if you can’t.”

He takes a step back. Another. Turns for the door.

“That’s a shame.”

Sirius freezes.

Draco’s eyes are open. One of them, anyway. The other looks like it will follow shortly if given time.

“Because,” Draco continues, voice dry and faint but unmistakably present, “next time you should try not being a coward and say it to my face.”

Sirius stares at him.

Then, slowly, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“When I can summon up the courage,” Sirius says, managing a crooked half-smile despite everything, “I will.”

Draco closes his eyes again, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“See that you do,” he murmurs.

Sirius leaves the room more carefully than he entered it.

The press conference is meant to be a penance.

Sirius stands behind the lectern in a borrowed conference room at the Ministry, shoulders squared, hands braced on the wood like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Kingsley is off to one side. Robards to the other. The room is packed. Flashbulbs already popping.

Sirius clears his throat.

“I was wrong,” he says, and the room stills just enough to register surprise. “I allowed my personal history and old prejudices to steer an investigation that should have remained objective. Draco Malfoy is innocent of the attack on Harry Potter. He is, in fact, one of the victims.”

Quills scratch. Cameras whirr.

“I authorised a public narrative that endangered an innocent man,” Sirius continues. “That responsibility is mine. Not my team’s. Mine.”

A hand shoots up.

“Is the dog alive?”

It comes from the front row. Loud. Urgent. 

The room shifts. Quills pause mid-scratch. Cameras tilt, refocus.

Sirius blinks.

“Yes,” he says. “He is alive. He’s in recovery.”

The relief is instant and enormous.

“Oh thank Merlin.”

The room erupts.

Cheers. Whistles. Then they stand, row, by row. Standing ovation. A woman in the second row presses a hand to her chest and mouths thank Merlin. Someone actually claps him on the shoulder like he personally performed the surgery.

Sirius blinks.

“Thank you,” he adds weakly, because that seems expected.

Another hand shoots up. “What’s his name?”

“Major,” Sirius says.

“Oh that’s perfect,” someone sighs, starry-eyed.

“Who’s a good boy,” a witch near the back murmurs reverently, to no one in particular.

Sirius feels his soul begin to leave his body.

“Was he trained?”
“What breed was he?”
“Did he really tackle the gunman?”
“Did he bite him?”
“Good.”

Sirius raises a hand. “If I could just—”

“Will he get a medal?”

That one lands differently. Expectant. Hopeful. A hush falls.

Sirius looks out at them.

At the shining faces. 

At the way they are already in love.

“Yes,” he says, because apparently this is his life now. “Yes. He will.”

The cheer that follows is thunderous.

Someone sobs openly.

“That dog is a hero,” a reporter declares.

“He’s a very good boy,” Sirius says helplessly, and hates himself a little for how easy it comes out.

“Will he attend the ceremony,” another voice asks eagerly. “In a little cape?”

Sirius rubs a hand over his face. “No capes.”

Laughter bubbles up. Warm. Fond.

“Will Harry Potter be there,” someone asks.

“Yes,” Sirius says. “If he’s well enough.”

There’s a collective aww.

Someone dabs at their eyes again.

“Well,” a reporter says brightly, “we can’t wait to meet him when he’s better.”

Sirius steps back from the lectern, applause rising again, and for a surreal moment it feels like he’s just announced a royal birth.

As he leaves the room, Kingsley leans in and murmurs, “You realise you’ve just agreed to knight a dog.”

Sirius exhales.

“Yes,” he says. “And somehow that’s not even the strangest thing that’s happened this week.”

Behind him, the room buzzes with joy and nonsense and uncomplicated heroism.

The shift happens so fast it makes Sirius dizzy.

One day it’s MALFOY THE MONSTER, inked thick and black and certain.
The next it’s gone, wiped clean, replaced with something smaller and brighter and much easier to love.

SCRAPPY HERO DOG SAVES POTTER
MAJOR THE BRAVE
GOOD BOY TAKES BULLET

Draco Malfoy vanishes from the story entirely, erased not by forgiveness but by irrelevance. No retraction. No apology. Just absence.

In his place: a dog.

A new vigil forms outside St. Mungo’s within hours. Candles again, but softer this time. Kinder. Someone leaves a chew toy on the steps, then another. A neat line of biscuits appears along the wall, each wrapped carefully in parchment with little notes scribbled on them.

For Major.
Get well soon.
Who’s a good boy.

Sirius watches it from a distance, arms folded, unsure whether to laugh or scream.

George Weasley turns up before noon.

He’s set up a folding table by the outer wards, grinning like he’s struck gold, waving what look suspiciously like enchanted badges.

“Major the Magnificent,” he announces cheerfully. “Hero dog! Wiggles when you pet it! Also comes in glow-in-the-dark!”

Sirius opens his mouth.

Hermione beats him to it.

“George,” she says, deadly calm, “if you do not pack that up and leave right now, I will personally ensure you never sell a novelty item in this city again.”

George sighs, wounded. “It’s for charity.”

“For your pockets.”

“Mostly.”

He gathers his things with exaggerated sadness, shooting Sirius a wink as he goes. “Missed opportunity, mate. Dogs sell.”

Hermione stalks back toward the doors, muttering about capitalism and trauma.

The crowd remains. Gentle. Reverent. Someone starts a rumour that Major likes ear scratches. Someone else claims he prefers chicken to beef. No one asks who he belongs to.

If the world had stayed angry, stayed hungry for blame, Sirius would have been forced to answer for what he did. Instead, the story slipped sideways, latched onto something warm and simple, and let him go.

A scrappy dog.
A good boy.
A medal.

Sirius looks up at the hospital windows, at the quiet rooms where the real damage is still being stitched back together, and understands something at last.

The world didn’t forgive him.

It just found a better story.

And this time, for once, Sirius is grateful it did.

Sirius finds them the way he’s found everything today. By accident. 

Harry is perched sideways on the chair pulled too close to the bed, one leg tucked under him like he forgot he’s meant to be injured. He’s holding the Prophet, folded down to a manageable size, reading aloud with the solemnity of a bedtime story.

“ ‘Major the Brave,’ ” Harry says, trying and failing not to smile. “ ‘The scrappy spaniel who stared down danger with nothing but loyalty and heart.’ ”

Draco makes a sound into his pillow that might be a groan or might be a plea for death.

Harry ignores it. He keeps reading.

“ ‘Sources report the heroic hound enjoys ear scratches and roast chicken—’ ”

“That is slander,” Draco mutters. His voice is rough, still weak, but very much alive. “I prefer lamb.”

Harry squeezes his hand, warm and certain, fingers laced through Draco’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re not helping your brand.”

Draco opens one eye and looks at Sirius standing in the doorway. “Make him stop.”

Sirius clears his throat. “You look… better.”

“Do I,” Draco says flatly. “Because I’ve just learned I’m a chew-toy icon.”

Harry beams. “There’s a sketch. Look.”

He tilts the paper so Draco can see. It’s awful. Exaggerated ears. Big, soulful eyes. A little cape that says BRAVE across the back.

Draco stares at it.

“I was shot,” he says. “I nearly died. And this is how history remembers me.”

Harry leans in and presses his forehead briefly to Draco’s shoulder. “You saved people,” he says. “You saved me.”

Draco’s hand tightens around his. He doesn’t argue that part.

Sirius shifts, suddenly aware he’s intruding on something intimate and unguarded. “They’re talking about a medal ceremony,” he says. “For the dog.”

Draco closes his eyes. “Of course they are.”

Harry looks up, eyes bright. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “you could write a children’s book.”

Draco opens his eyes again, slow and dangerous. “I beg your pardon.”

“Think about it,” Harry continues, undeterred. “Major the Brave. Teaches kids about courage. And patience. And not biting Aurors unless strictly necessary.”

Draco stares at Harry for a long moment. 

Harry laughs, soft and delighted, and squeezes his hand again, leans in and kisses the stunned expression off his face.

Sirius watches them. The newspaper. The ridiculous headline. The handhold that says more than any press conference ever could.

Harry’s press conference is smaller by necessity and larger by reputation.

They prop him up at the edge of the hospital atrium, a lectern that looks sturdier than he feels, Aurors flanking the space with the careful calm of people who have learned their lesson. He’s pale. He’s steady. He smiles anyway, because that’s what people expect and because, this time, it doesn’t feel like lying.

The applause when he appears is gentle. 

Harry waits for it to fade, hands braced lightly on the lectern.

“I’m doing better,” he says, voice a little hoarse but clear. “I want to thank the Healers, and everyone who’s shown kindness. It’s meant more than you know.”

Cameras click. Someone sniffles.

“And,” Harry adds, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I want to talk about the dog who saved my life.”

The reaction is immediate and delighted. A ripple of sound runs through the crowd. 

“He didn’t hesitate,” Harry continues. “He saw danger, and he acted. That’s… that’s bravery. And loyalty. And I owe him everything.”

He steps back half a pace and turns his head.

“Major,” he says.

There’s a beat. Just long enough to build anticipation.

Then Major walks out.

He limps. Just a little. A bandage is wrapped neatly around one paw, bright white against pale fur. His ears are brushed. His eyes are enormous. He pauses at the edge of the light like he’s shy, then takes another step forward, tail giving a careful wag.

The sound the crowd makes is indecent.

A collective aww swells and breaks into laughter and applause. Flashbulbs go wild. Someone gasps like they’ve seen a miracle.

Major sits. Perfect posture. Heroic.

Harry beams.

Sirius, watching from the side, feels his brain short-circuit.

Hermione appears at his elbow, smug and exhausted.

“How,” Sirius murmurs, not looking away, “in Merlin’s name did you get Draco Malfoy to agree to this.”

Hermione doesn’t hesitate.

“I gave him a choice,” she says. “Either he does the press conference as Major.”

Sirius swallows.

“Or,” Hermione adds calmly, “he does it as Malfoy.”

Sirius exhales, helpless laughter bubbling up despite everything. “That’s not a choice.”

Hermione smiles thinly. “Exactly.”

Out front, Harry crouches with visible effort and scratches Major behind the ears. Major leans into it, shameless, tail wagging harder now.

The crowd eats it alive.

Sirius finds Snape in a small consultation room off the ward corridor, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands stained faintly with potion residue and blood that isn’t his.

Snape doesn’t look up when Sirius steps inside.

“If you’re here to apologise again,” Snape says, “save it. I am very tired of your sincerity.”

Sirius closes the door anyway.

“I’m not,” he says.

That gets Snape’s attention. He looks up then, eyes sharp, unreadable.

“Good,” Snape replies. “At least you’ve learned something.”

Sirius stands where he is. “I called off the hunt,” he says. “Publicly. On record.”

Snape’s mouth twitches. 

“And,” Sirius adds, “I will make sure nothing about his Animagus status goes anywhere. Not in reports. Not in testimony. Not in press leaks.”

Snape studies him for a long moment.

“You will fail,” he says calmly. “Someone always talks.”

“Then they’ll answer to me.”

Snape’s eyes flicker. “You think that’s sufficient.”

“No,” Sirius says. “I think it’s the minimum.”

Silence stretches.

Snape closes the file in front of him with deliberate care. “Do you know,” he asks, “how many forms I signed over the years because Draco Malfoy did not trust the Ministry with his body.”

Sirius swallows.

“How many times I sat in rooms like this,” Snape continues, “arguing with Healers who saw a former Death Eater and stopped seeing a patient.”

“I didn’t know,” Sirius says.

“No,” Snape agrees. “You did not.”

Snape stands. He is very controlled. That is worse than shouting.

“You walked through their home,” he says. “You saw the life he built quietly, carefully, because the world made noise dangerous. And you chose not to see it.”

Sirius has no defence. He nods once.

“If Draco Malfoy had died on that corridor floor,” Snape says softly, “I would have testified against you.”

“I know.”

“For negligence. For malice. For spectacle.”

“I know.”

Snape steps closer. Not threatening. Precise.

“You are very fortunate,” Snape says, “that he lived.”

Sirius meets his gaze. “I don’t deserve it.”

“No,” Snape says. “You do not.”

Another silence. This one settles differently.

Snape exhales. Some of the tension bleeds out of him.

“He is asking for you,” Snape says at last.

Sirius looks up, startled. “Draco.”

“No,” Snape says. “Harry.”

Snape turns back to the table, already done with him. “Do not make me regret not stopping you sooner,” he adds.

Sirius hesitates at the door.

“Thank you,” he says finally. “For keeping him alive.”

Snape does not turn around.

“That,” he says, “was never optional.”

Sirius leaves quietly.

Only after the door closes does Snape allow himself to sit down, press his fingers briefly to his eyes, and breathe.

Recovery takes longer than the news cycle.

Draco learns the limits of his body the hard way. He stays human. The bandages thin. The pain dulls into something manageable. Harry’s healing is quieter, signed off in clipped phrases and a six-month prohibition he accepts without comment.

The story loses interest.

The vigil disperses. Major becomes a punchline. Draco Malfoy is allowed to vanish.

They go home on a grey afternoon.

The cottage smells of damp wool and tea. Mud has dried by the door. Two mugs sit in the sink. Draco pauses on the threshold, then steps inside. Harry closes the door behind them.

They settle where they always do.

Sirius is at the door, one hand on the frame, when Draco shifts on the sofa.

He gets up too quickly. His balance goes. Harry’s hand is there before the wobble finishes, fingers firm at his elbow, steadying without fuss.

“I’ve got you,” Harry says.

“I know,” Draco answers.

Draco exhales, irritated, then tilts his head and says something under his breath. Sirius can’t catch the words, only the tone. Dry. Familiar. Harry’s mouth twitches despite himself.

“Don’t,” Harry says quietly.

Draco’s eyebrow lifts. “You started it.”

Harry stills. Looks at him properly. The corner of his smile softens into something private.

“For the record,” Harry says, just as low, “you’re terrible at pretending you don’t like being fussed over.”

Draco snorts. “I tolerate it.”

“Liar.”

Harry’s hand slides into Draco’s, thumb brushing the inside of his wrist like it’s muscle memory. Draco’s fingers tighten, deliberate, anchoring.

They lean in without discussion. The kiss is unhurried. Familiar. Not careful, exactly, but aware. Draco’s hand comes up to Harry’s jumper, curling into the fabric like it belongs there. Harry hums softly, barely audible, and kisses him again, slower. Their foreheads touch. Whatever Harry says next doesn’t carry.

“Yes,” Draco says.

Harry laughs, once, breath catching. He brings his other hand up and kisses him again.

Sirius looks away, then back again, too late to pretend he didn’t see it.

He sets the pizza box down on the sideboard and clears his throat.

Harry glances over Draco’s shoulder. Meets Sirius’s eyes. There’s no edge in it. Just something settled.

“All right,” Sirius says.

Harry nods.

Sirius steps out and pulls the door closed behind him.

The light stays on inside.

He pauses on the path for a moment before Apparating, noticing the small things he missed before. Muddy boots lined neatly by the threshold, one pair scuffed beyond saving. A jumper draped over the back of a chair, visible through the window. Flowers.

Inside, Harry laughs at something Draco says. It carries faintly through the glass. Then quieter voices. Movement. The soft thud of someone sitting down.

Sirius turns away.

Behind him, the cottage holds its warmth. Mud dries. The kettle will be put on again later. The door stays shut, the dog door unused for now, waiting.

The light remains on.