Parting Ways
by Morgan D.

There are things worth dying for.

Harry Potter had felt a deep surge of pride that his godfather had said so.

Such a bold statement would have sounded empty and pompous coming from most people, but not from Sirius Black. No one had been braver or stronger than Sirius. No one else had had to go through what he had. No one else would have faced it so courageously, no one else would have survived. He had been the rare kind of man who truly earned the right to have his name spoken with the utmost reverence.

Except that Sirius Black had died stupidly, for nothing worth dying for.

His death had accomplished nothing, except for giving Bellatrix Lestrange the last laugh over her cousin. His death had been no sacrifice for a greater cause — the Order of the Phoenix had gained nothing from his demise, and apparently had lost nothing either, since no one had allowed him to be that helpful anyway. His death had served one purpose only: to make Harry so forlorn and sorrowful that not even Voldemort could stand being inside his mind.

Curling on his side, Harry cuddled up tighter to his old pillow, hiding his screwed-up face against the coarse fabric. There had been no funeral, no grieving, no goodbyes. No obituary in the papers. No acknowledgement whatsoever of the man's passing. Officially, Sirius Black was still the name of a dangerous criminal, hunted by the authorities, cursed by society. If word got out that he was dead, wizards throughout the country were likely to run to the streets and celebrate, as they did when Voldemort was first defeated.

As far as Harry knew, he had been the only one to shed tears for Sirius.

No one else seemed to care. Ron and Hermione looked completely unaffected, and they both had been guests at Sirius' house for longer than Harry himself had. Dumbledore had cried, but for Harry's sake, not for Sirius, and that was just not the same thing. His mates from the Order? Nothing. Not even Lupin, Sirius' oldest friend. Lupin had looked old and tired the last time Harry had seen him — didn't he always? — but had also smiled tranquilly as if nothing had happened, and not mentioned Sirius at all.

Only Hagrid... but that had been even worse. He died in battle, an' tha's the way he'd've wanted ter go... As if falling through a ruddy archway was the noblest death a warrior could have hoped for. In fact, Harry suspected Sirius was, wherever he was, extremely embarrassed by having died in such a pathetic way.

Mrs Diggory's words about her son kept returning to him. He suffered very little then... He must have been happy... That might have been true for Cedric, but Harry could not in any way measure whether Sirius' death had been painful or not. The expression of fear on his godfather's face as he fell through the veil was imprinted deeply in the boy's mind. What kind of death was that? What had Sirius felt, and how long until he stopped feeling entirely?

And if there was one thing Harry knew for sure was that Sirius had not died a happy man.

That godforsaken house in Grimmauld Place... Everyone there had known how much it must have hurt him to be there. Everyone there had heard the endless cursing of his mum's portrait. Everyone there had known Sirius had spent twelve years of his life in Azkaban, wrongly accused, in the company of creatures who drained all happiness, peace and hope from one's heart. But who among the house's habitués had offered him any sympathy?

Harry felt such an urge to send Fred a particularly loud Howler... Dear Fred. Remember when you taunted my godfather on Christmas holidays, saying you weren't seeing him risk his neck? Well, I hope you're satisfied now. Sincerely, Harry.

Snape had done worse, of course. But then, Snape was Snape, no one expected him to act any differently. That Fred would have dared to talk like that to Mr Padfoot, whom the twins seemed to honestly admire, was just unthinkable. (Had the twins ever learnt that Padfoot had been Sirius' nickname at school? Harry didn't even know that.)

And what irony that one of Harry's visions had worked to save Fred's father, and another to send his own godfather to a pointless end.

Mrs Weasley, who had always been so nice to Harry, treating him just like one of her sons... Was she content now that there was no reckless godfather to question her authority any more? Maybe she was relieved that Sirius wasn't there to be a bad influence over him, so Harry could now go back to being a good boy, an obedient boy, just like... Percy?

Harry felt an evil grin tugging at the corner of his lips, but the void inside him seemed to grow larger and larger. He feared everything that was good in his life would end up distorted and corrupted into a nightmare of lonesomeness and sarcasm.

Hermione had called him on the phone the previous afternoon. To ask him how he was, moan in anxiety because the results of their OWLs hadn't come out yet, and cry about how Crookshanks had suddenly run away from her house four days before. "He'll come back," Harry had assured her, probably more dryly than he had intended it. Hermione must have noticed something was off, because she didn't try to prolong their conversation any more than the necessary.

Harry had been so tempted to tell her the opposite. No, Crookshanks will never come back, you'll never see him again, he's gone forever, and you'll never be able to spend any more time with him, no matter how much you want it, no matter how much you need it. For a moment, Harry had just wanted her to feel the same abyssal sorrow that was eating his heart, to make her face the same grim reality and hopeless future he could see ahead of him.

He didn't want to be mad at Hermione. Always when she had done something that had upset him, she had done it with his best interests at heart — even if not necessarily with her best judgement. But he kept remembering her constant remarks about Sirius, so rarely complimentary. Like the time she had called him selfish, assuming he was secretly wishing Harry could stay with him. Like the time she had almost given up an idea of hers because Sirius had approved it. Like all the times she had dropped suspiciously vague comments about his sanity. She kept worrying herself sick about Kreacher, ranting about that despicable elf's loneliness and forgiving all his insults, but would dismiss Sirius' feelings as if the man was nothing but a sulking child.

Harry hoped Hermione would never bring up the subject of house-elves' welfare with him again. Because if she dared to use Sirius' name as a bad example of how wizards treat elves... like Dumbledore had...

The boy's clenched fists socked the wall beside the bed in fury. All will be safe as long as Albus Dumbledore is around, Harry had once believed. Now Harry couldn't even think of the old man's name without being assaulted by a powerful torrent of rage and repugnance. Dumbledore's words in his office that night — about Sirius, about the elf, about... love! That twisted, venomous avowal of love for him... I cared about you too much... What did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future, if in the here and now you were alive, and well, and happy? I never dreamed that I would have such a person on my hands. How could this be love? It sounded so perverted, so profane, so manipulative and depraved. Was that Dumbledore's idea of caring? Caging the people he wanted to protect in places where they felt completely isolated and depressed?

From under his pillow, Harry pulled the old photograph he had taken from the album Hagrid had given him. The one photo he had of Sirius, his only way to see his godfather's face now. But the Sirius in the picture was not a man Harry had ever met. That young, laughing face knew nothing about Azkaban, traitorous friends or troublesome godsons. His eyes could light a new-moon night with their impish sparks, and his handsome figure stood healthily near his best friend, who would forever remain at his side in the everlasting moment contained by that piece of paper.

The godfather Harry had known had never been happy like that.

Or maybe... that last Christmas... Sirius had been ecstatic by having him around, and had managed to exorcise the house's grim spirits with his cheerful carol-singing and over-enthusiastic decorating. He had joked and laughed, and made the comfort and entertainment of his guests into a sacred, self-appointed mission. Not even the insults from his mother's portrait had managed to dampen his joy, and the morbid house had temporarily felt like a shrine to all the shiny and sprightly things on Earth.

And where had Harry been then? Hidden in the drawing room, feeling sorry for himself. The only Christmas holiday Harry got to spend with his godfather, and he had chosen to remain on his own, brooding. He couldn't even remember if he had thanked Sirius and Lupin for the books they had given him...

In the photo, James and Sirius exchanged a worried glance, then started dancing a funny cross between a cancan and some Russian dance, visibly trying to cheer him up. Lily, dazzling in her wedding dress, smiled and shook her head at the two men's antics, and waved encouragingly at Harry.

The boy rolled over to lie on his back, pressing the picture against his chest. As he did so, he realised he had never truly hugged his godfather, not even once. A half-embrace when they parted after Christmas, and that was it. Dumbledore — blasted, creepy bastard Dumbledore — had said Harry was the person Sirius had cared the most about in the world, had said Voldemort and the Death Eaters had used Sirius as bait because they knew Harry loved his godfather and would do anything to save him. How could they know that? What could Kreacher have told them, what could the elf have seen?

Harry sat up on the bed, as if hit by an electrical shock. The words he had never said, scorned into a farcical joke by Bellatrix Lestrange's mock baby voice... How was it possible that people like that existed? What god or deity allowed them to be born? People who considered themselves superior to everyone else, who judged themselves in the right to manipulate others as they pleased, people who could make the word 'love' sound dirty and repulsive... people like Bellatrix, and Voldemort... and Dumbledore.

This world was rotten, irremediably rotten. May the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix obliterate it in their petty war, atomising every single soul that infested it — wizards and muggles, beasts and beings, mortals and gods alike. May they all perish as victims of their own poisonous games and pathetic ambitions.

Only then could Harry's soul stop bleeding.

He gazed at the picture once more. The three faces stared back at him in concern, and yet they seemed incapable of being anything but deliriously happy. Perhaps that was what a magical photograph immortalised: the emotions of one given moment lost in time. That Sirius, that James, that Lily, they would remain laughing forever in their blissful ignorance of their future. Harry wanted to smile at that thought, to think of it as a good, blessing thing. However, one selfish notion kept tugging his weak smile into a sad grimace.

That Sirius, that James and that Lily did not know Harry. He did not exist to them yet. They did not love him.

That was why they could still be happy.

He wiped his eyes angrily before any tears could escape them and stood up, moving to his school trunk to return the photo to the album. If he didn't look at them again, if he never thought of them again, maybe he could forget. Maybe it would stop hurting at some point. If he could only stop thinking...

Lost to his downcast musings, Harry took about five seconds to register that the inside of his trunk should not, in normal circumstances, be staring up at him with distressed yellow eyes. "Crookshanks?!"

The big ginger cat mewed ruefully, then turned his squashed face down and dug into Harry's belongings with his paws.

"Hey, stop!" Harry protested, fearing what those sharp claws might do to his father's Invisibility Cloak. "Come on out, you're ruining my books."

Crookshanks didn't fight when Harry pulled him out, but as soon as he was put down on the floor he tried to climb back inside.

"No!" Harry stopped him, pulling the cat to his lap. "What are you doing here? Hermione is worried sick about you, did you know that?"

The cat didn't seem too concerned about that, no. All he cared about now was going back to the trunk and finding whatever it was that he was looking for.

"Okay, okay, stop scratching me," the boy huffed, sitting cross-legged beside the trunk. "Just tell me, what is it that you want?"

Harry started taking his belongings out, one by one, distantly wondering why he just didn't go downstairs and phone Hermione, so she could come and get her bloody pet. Schoolbooks, rolls of parchment, ink bottles, the painting Dobby had given him for Christmas... the cat paid no attention to any of that. With a hand firmly grasping his fluffy fur, Harry kept on emptying the trunk. A quill-case, the photo album, the Practical Defensive Magic collection — don't think about it —, the Pocket Sneakoscope, the homework planner, the melted penknife — don't think about it —, the Broomstick servicing kit, the Firebolt — DON'T think about it —, the Invisibility Cloak...

The boy barely had the time to be relieved that the cloak had been extracted without any damage. Once again, Crookshanks leapt into the chest, and pawed frantically at the one object left inside.

The broken mirror.

Harry cursed under his breath, scooping both object and animal up, getting on his feet and laying them on his bed. Crookshanks straddled the mirror with his forelegs, staring into it and mewing in what Harry suspected to be a questioning tone. Then he pressed his furry face against a small part of its surface that remained intact, and licked the glass affectionately.

For a fraction of second, Harry thought Crookshanks might have done what he had been unable to: summon Sirius from the space behind the veil. But as the cat looked up at him again, the loss and frustration in the yellow eyes were too familiar to allow the boy any hopes. "He won't come back," he told Crookshanks, because that was what he had been told.

Indifferent to Harry's opinion, Crookshanks returned his full attention to the mirror, sniffing the glass and murmuring his plaintive mew.

How could Harry explain the mysteries of death to a cat? Even if he were able to communicate with felines the way he did with snakes, how could he explain something he didn't understand himself? Why couldn't Sirius come back? Why was everyone so sure he couldn't? Where had he been taken?

Seeing the animal's affliction, memories rushed to the teenager's mind, unbidden, unwanted. Cat and dog walking side by side on Hogwarts grounds under the moonlight. Crookshanks sitting defiantly on Sirius' chest, protecting the man from Harry's murderous fury. His godfather petting the ginger fur with his callused hands. Hermione having to hold her pet back so he wouldn't step into the fireplace from where Sirius' head was talking to them.

So Harry wasn't, after all, the only one on the face of Earth mourning for Sirius Black.

Strangely, that didn't make him feel any better. In a way, it made things worse. Now he felt he had the moral duty to console the cat, to be strong for him, to do something — anything! — to make Crookshanks feel better, and he simply didn't know how. Harry wanted nothing but to crawl under the bed and stay there until doomsday.

"BOY!" yelled an incensed voice from downstairs. "Come down here! NOW!"

Harry frowned. Since he came from Hogwarts this summer, none of the Dursleys had dared talk to him, let alone shout. They clearly hadn't forgot how members of the Order had threatened to pay them a visit if they heard any complaints from Harry, and his aunt in particular had been making an obvious effort to stay out of his way. What could have prompted her to change her mind now?

"Did you hear me? Boy?" A pause. "Harry?"

"Must be really desperate," Harry muttered to himself, "if she finally remembered I have a name..."

Perhaps another horde of Dementors was banging on the front door, he thought wryly. Wouldn't that be just lovely?

"You stay here, okay?" He stroked Crookshanks on the neck. "I'll be right back."

Harry took his wand with him, out of habit. But he didn't hurry, nor did he verbally answer his aunt's nervous calls. Whatever it was she wanted, he didn't care, and he couldn't be made to care.

Petunia Dursley was standing at the bottom of the staircase, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet, waiting for him with the most peculiar grimace contorting her face. It took Harry a moment to figure out she was in fact trying to smile at him, while still keeping her usual sneer of dislike. "There is... someone here to see you, Harry."

'Someone' obviously hadn't been the first word to come to her mind, and Harry understood why when he turned to see a well-known figure waiting for him in the hall. "Professor Lupin?"

"How are you doing, Harry?"

It was a disturbing sight. The man looked much sicker than Harry had ever seen him. His overly patched garments were wizard's robes of muddy green, which must have caught the neighbours' attention due to both their unusual cut and frayed state. And if it was possible, there was twice as much grey hair on his young head as there was the last time they had seen each other, no more than ten days before.

But none of that was as puzzling as the broad, honest, positively euphoric smile on his face. Indisputably, Remus Lupin was a very happy man today.

Harry wanted to punch him.

"What are you doing here, Professor?" he asked, more coldly than he had ever expected to address the one who had been his favourite teacher.

The icy reception visibly confused Aunt Petunia, who stepped back from both of them.

Lupin, on the other hand, went on smiling, unruffled by the youngster's apathy. "I've come to see you, of course," he said, coming forward. "How are you?"

"Fine," Harry answered automatically, and just as automatically raised his hand to shake Lupin's, since that was how the man usually greeted him.

Lupin looked down at the offered hand with an odd expression on his face. "Dear me, this is so inappropriate..." But he shook hands with the boy all the same. "Hopefully this will be changed too."

Aunt Petunia was frowning at the unwelcome visitor's bizarre manners, and for once Harry felt sympathetic to her opinion. "Are you all right, Professor?" he inquired suspiciously.

"Actually, I feel much better than usual," Lupin shrugged, "at this time of the month."

Harry's eyes widened as he belatedly realised why the man looked so sickly. "Oh my... last night was..."

"Yes," Lupin nodded. "Your godfather would have thrown a fit if he saw me out of bed so soon. But I guess even he would have understood, knowing the circumstances..."

The frank tenderness in the werewolf's voice as he spoke of Sirius disarmed Harry entirely. He felt his anger slipping away, despite his desperate wish to hate that happy smile with all his heart. There was no acceptable excuse to be happy at a time like this... was there?

"There's a matter I'd like to discuss with you, Harry," Lupin continued, in a lower tone. "A matter of great importance."

What a sharp contrast from the previous summer, when no one would bother to tell Harry anything. Curiosity got the better of him. "Er... would you like a cup of tea, Professor?"

Aunt Petunia's strained smile dissolved into her typical scowl at everything magical. "I'm not serving him any tea!" she screeched.

"I am," Harry growled impatiently, turning away from her before he gave in to the urge to hex her.

"Do you think the day is too hot for chocolate?" Lupin countered, following him into the kitchen. "I reckon you and I are in need of a big mug of hot chocolate now."

Out of reflex, Harry thought of Dementors, and how chocolate was used to soothe the brutal depression they inflicted on their victims. Lupin, however, didn't look like someone in need of cheering up, despite his frail health.

They found Dudley in the kitchen, stuffing his mouth with pastries while watching television, too hypnotised to notice their entrance or the smears of sugar on his cheeks. The encounter with the Dementors the previous year seemed to have subdued the blond boy's temper a little, but also greatly increased his natural propensity to live as a couch potato. He had even given up boxing, to Uncle Vernon's dismay, and shied away from his friends' company since the beginning of his summer holidays.

"Out, Dudley," Harry snapped.

Startled, Dudley jumped to his feet, eyeing his cousin and the man beside him warily. "Who's that?"

"You've met him. King's Cross station, remember? He was with that group of..."

But Dudley was already running off the kitchen, noisily climbing the stairs and banging his bedroom's door closed.

"Sorry about my cousin, Professor," Harry sneered. "He's allergic to magic."

"Magic can be very unhealthy at times," Lupin muttered distractedly, staring fascinated at the shiny screen.

"Uh... that's a television."

"I know. I used to have one."

"Oh." So Lupin wasn't like those wizards that were completely ignorant of Muggle things.

"So that's where you came from..." the werewolf murmured, clearly amused.

Perplexed, Harry gazed at the screen, trying to figure out what he was talking about. Harry noted with some surprise that Dudley had been watching a cartoon for girls, not the usual action-packed programs he had always enjoyed. Had his cousin finally grown too inert to operate the remote? "Do you like Japanese animation, Professor?"

"I'm beginning to think I might."

Before Harry could inquire further, Lupin turned the television off, and took a seat at the table. "I'm sorry I didn't come to visit you sooner," he apologised. "I... well... you could say I haven't been myself lately."

Harry nodded politely, not sure how to respond to that. "This matter you want to discuss with me... is it about... you know... the Order?"

The boy half-expected to be shushed or scolded for saying that word aloud in a Muggle house, but the werewolf did none of it. "Not really. To be quite frank with you, Harry, I have no idea what's been going on lately. I wasn't in any condition to help, so I've been kept in the dark too."

"Oh." Harry was becoming more confused by the minute. "I thought they had sent you here..."

"No, this was my idea. They might be looking for me, as a matter of fact."

"Looking for you?"

"I didn't spend last night where I was supposed to."

Harry got the milk from the fridge and filled a small glass jar, wondering why it would be the Order's business where Lupin spent the full moon nights. As long as he was safe and isolated... "Won't they be mad that you're here? I mean, last year..."

"Last year Dumbledore was determined to keep the facts from you, and that proved not to be such a brilliant idea after all," Lupin snorted. "He might be more willing to let you into the Order's movements from now on, but then again, he might not. I wouldn't know."

The boy put the jar in the microwave, thumbing the buttons with unrepressed violence. "You'd think he'd have learnt his lesson," he muttered. "Or maybe he just doesn't care..."

Lupin observed the jar of white liquid revolving inside the machine with curiosity, but not the same fascination of an Arthur Weasley. "He cares, I'm sure. He cares especially about how it has affected you."

"I wish he'd start caring for someone else then," Harry snapped. "I'd be much better off without his wise, loving guidance." He braced himself for a chiding on his ingratitude and disrespect...

...and again, was surprised by Lupin's calm reply. "Have you ever played wizard's chess against him?"

"No. Have you?"

"Twice. Lost the first match, won the second."

The microwave beeped, and Harry took out the jar. "I'd imagine him to be good at it. Good at stratagems, sly manoeuvres and stuff." As he poured the steaming milk into two large mugs, the boy marvelled at how little complimentary he sounded, even while praising the Headmaster.

"He's a very intense player," Lupin said slowly. "Extremely patient, but willing to face rather violent sacrifices too."

Harry turned to a cabinet to get the chocolate powder, taking the time to regain control over his face, which was darkening with rage.

"On the other hand, he was too protective of his Queen, too confident of her capacity to overcome the enemy," the werewolf added. "I noticed that, and in our second match I set a trap for her. Got her smashed by my Knight in thirty-one moves. He was utterly lost after that."

"You should be the one leading the Order then. If you're better at strategy." Finding the chocolate and spoons, Harry sat across Lupin at the table, gesturing to the former teacher to help himself.

"I'm better at chess, possibly," the other corrected, "but I only became a decent player when my father taught me how to put the broken pieces back together after the game. I cannot be trusted to make painful, irrevocable sacrifices, Harry. Or to accept them gently."

The boy watched in silence as his former teacher added three very generous spoonfuls of sweetened chocolate to his milk. The smile was flickering slightly, smudged by unpleasant thoughts. With some regret, Harry mused that it had not been only from Sirius that he had kept his distance during his days at Grimmauld Place. Remus Lupin — classmate, dear friend and partner-in-crime to both Harry's father and godfather, wonderful teacher and supportive figure to Harry himself — was still little more than a stranger. It was impossible to tell what was going through the man's mind now.

"I wouldn't want to keep you from your affairs, Mrs Dursley," Lupin said suddenly, a bit louder than before. "Don't concern yourself with me, I'm sure Harry can keep me entertained."

Harry heard a gasp, and muffled footsteps hurrying away from the kitchen door.

The werewolf winked.

"Sorry for that too," the boy grinned, despite himself. He prepared his own chocolate, willing himself to listen to Lupin before judging his right to smile. He had taken for granted the short time he had had with Sirius and wasted it; he wouldn't make the same mistake again.

Lupin tasted his chocolate, and made a face.

"Something wrong?"

"No. It's just that..." Lupin smirked. "My stomach has been under terrible abuse lately. Particularly in the last twenty-four hours. I'll be fine. And speaking of which..." He stared straight into the youngster's eyes, the smile replaced by a worried, sympathetic look. "How are you doing, Harry? The truth, this time."

"Is that what you've come to talk to me about?"

"No, but it's what I should have come to ask you two weeks ago."

"But you didn't."

"I couldn't."

"Because you were ordered not to?"

Lupin's lips twitched in a half-grin. "Because I've been kept in such a state that I could barely remember my own name. But I'll tell you about that later. I know you and Sirius had..."

"Can we talk about that later too?" Harry interrupted, trying not to sound too harsh.

The greying man looked at him gravely for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Later."

"So... what's this matter you want to discuss with me?"

Lupin took a deep breath and a sip of his chocolate — to gather courage, it oddly seemed —, and then asked, very seriously. "Tell me, do you believe in fate?"

What surprised Harry the most was that the apparently out-of-nowhere question had not, in fact, surprised him at all. "I'm not sure what I believe."

"Because of what happened to Sirius?"

The boy closed his eyes tightly. If he were to put the words 'fate' and 'Sirius' in the same sentence, he knew he would end up breaking down. "Not just that. Dumbledore..." That vile, vile name. "Dumbledore once told me it's our choices that make us what we truly are," he answered slowly. "But..."

"But...?"

Harry decided to take the safest path: cold logic. "How can there be Seers and prophecies if it's all up to our choices? If it's possible to foresee a choice, doesn't it mean we're fated to make those choices? And doesn't that mean that they're not our choices at all?"

Lupin smiled sadly. "You've been giving this some thought."

"I should have given this some thought ages ago," Harry huffed. "When Dumbledore said that, it made me feel better. It made me stop thinking. But it didn't give me any answers, really."

"What were your questions then?"

Harry breathed deeply, taking his time before diving into yet more troubling memories. "The likeness between Voldemort and me. Why I'm a Parselmouth. And why the Sorting Hat put me in Gryffindor."

"Ah," Lupin sipped his chocolate. "It seems to be an obscure truth of the universe that antagonism will often rise between people who are much alike. Just look at Severus and Sirius, for example."

"They're NOT alike!" Harry protested. Why must everyone say such horrible things about Sirius? It had been like that for the whole past year, everybody taking any opportunity to criticise him for one reason or another. Only Ron had been somewhat sympathetic... And now, keeping the bashing on when Sirius couldn't even defend himself any more... it was really low.

But Lupin was grinning tenderly, his eyes vaguely longing. "I reckon none of them would appreciate the comparison either. Be that as it may..." he shrugged. "Dumbledore told me about his suspicions regarding your powers. That you might have absorbed some of Lord Voldemort's abilities when he tried to kill you for the first time."

"So I'm a Parselmouth because of Voldemort's bad choices," Harry grumbled. And he was the one described in Sybill Trelawney's prophecy because Voldemort had chosen to make him so.

However, Trelawney had foreseen the choice. And it was ultimately the choice — Voldemort attacking the Potters and marking Harry with the scar — that had proved the prophecy to be real. So fate urged a choice, and the choice put fate in motion. So where was free will in all this?

Harry rubbed his temples, muffling a moan of dismay. This reasoning was about to cause him a serious headache now.

"Let's leave that aside for the moment," Lupin soothed him. "Tell me, why the Sorting Hat shouldn't have put you in Gryffindor? It was your father's House, you know."

"It wanted to put me in Slytherin."

"I see."

"I asked it not to put me in Slytherin," Harry clarified. "So it put me in Gryffindor. And Dumbledore said my choice made me different from Voldemort. And I was glad to hear it. But it doesn't make any sense, does it?"

"Why didn't you want to be in Slytherin, Harry?"

"Because I knew Voldemort had been in Slytherin. Because Malfoy had been sorted before me, and I didn't want to be in the same House he was. And Hagrid had told me all wizards that turned out to be bad were in Slytherin."

"So you didn't want to be equated to Lord Voldemort," Lupin concluded. "Or to Draco Malfoy. Or to anyone Hagrid would call bad."

"But that doesn't mean anything. The world didn't become a better place because I chose to be in Gryffindor."

"It did... and it did not."

Harry dismissed his former teacher's cryptic remark with a wave of his hand. "And it's not like I knew what I was doing. The Hat said Gryffindors were brave, Ravenclaws were bright, Hufflepuffs were loyal and Slytherins were cunning. But Hermione is bright, and Ron is loyal, and the twins are cunning, and Cedric was brave. If they all chose their Houses, why do we need a Hat? Why not just ask us which House we want to be in?"

"Because the Hat is magical," Lupin spoke softly. "And we do not dare question the reasoning beyond magic. We get used to magic, we try to understand its patterns and get along with it, but we never really question it." He looked down at his now half-empty mug. "The Sorting Hat is a pragmatic tool to send us to our fates without the need to offer many explanations."

"Who?" Harry frowned. "Who sends us?"

"The powers behind fate."

The boy eyed the werewolf with curiosity. "So you believe in fate."

"Oh, positively. Absolutely. Just as I believe you and I are here drinking chocolate and having this conversation."

"So our choices..."

"There are no choices. Not in any world you and I live in, at least."

"And everything that happens is part of a bigger plan we know nothing about?"

Lupin smirked. "And sometimes it's not even a good plan."

Harry leaned forward, staring doubtfully at the man across the table. "Why would you want to believe that? Don't you prefer to believe in free will?"

"I'm not sure preference has much to do with it," Lupin countered. "But answering your question, no, not any more. Free will has little hope to offer me now, Harry."

"But that's a bit sad, isn't it?" Harry's lips twitched. "Where do you get the strength to get up in the morning if you know your whole day was already planned to the last detail and there's nothing you can do to change it?" Not that Harry himself had felt much eagerness to get up in the morning lately, no matter what his private beliefs were.

"That's hardly a problem, is it? I will get up in the morning, and feel accordingly, unless I'm fated to stay in bed that day."

"But... but..."

"You think that's horrible," said Lupin.

"Yes!"

"Because you'd rather know you have some control over your life."

"Well, wouldn't you?"

"Why would I want to see myself constrained to one narrow path, if I can have the infinite?"

Harry blinked several times. "Erm...?"

Lupin laughed. "It is a rather pretentious statement, isn't it? But it does have a point."

"Which is...?"

"For beings like us, Harry, fate is much more liberating than free will."

For the boy, that sounded like Hagrid being much shorter than Flitwick. "How come?"

"Because there aren't that many choices I can possibly make. I can drink the rest of my chocolate. I can leave my mug as it is. I can have a few more sips, then leave it. All my options are variations of those. Even throwing my mug against the wall is merely a variation of not drinking the rest of the chocolate."

"But fate will simply determine one option and that's it, end of story," Harry argued.

"Ah. Yes. But that's our blindness. We look to where we came from and where we're going to, and we call this fate. We never look sideways. If we did, we would see each one of us has many, many fates. Far more fates than options, as a matter of fact."

Harry was frankly bewildered now. "I'm afraid you've lost me, Professor."

"And I'm afraid this isn't something I can explain in a logical way," Lupin admitted. "All I can tell you is this: the decision about whether I will finish my mug of chocolate or not doesn't truly belong to me. I don't even know if that decision has been made already. But after it's made, I'll act accordingly and unsuspectingly. That's fate.

"On the other hand, I'm not the only Remus Lupin there is, just as you're not the only Harry Potter there is."

"Erm... no?"

"No. There are far too many of us, more than we could have any hope to count."

Harry found himself glancing around quickly, as if expecting to catch a glimpse of himself out of the corner of his eyes. "And... where are they?"

"Following their own fates. Which might be slightly similar to this one, or outrageously different."

"Something like... hmm..." What was that term from the TV show Dudley used to watch? "...parallel dimensions?"

Lupin pondered the question for a moment. "Not parallel. They do touch each other. They might even cross paths at times, or bifurcate from some common point. They're mutually influenced, even when they drift apart." When he saw the boy frowning, he tried an example. "My asking for hot chocolate here and now might have something to do with some other event from some other fate... or dimension, whatever you prefer. And me finishing or not finishing this mug might affect events somewhere else."

"Even if we're completely unaware of those other dimensions?"

"It doesn't make any difference if we're aware of them or not," Lupin shrugged. "Remember, we don't really choose anything. We simply stick to our fates. And the power that moves our fates is aware."

Harry stared at his former teacher, not for the first time wondering if there was a point to this entire conversation. He kept expecting the argument to turn into some sugary theory about how Sirius was in a much better place now, so they should be happy for him. But if there was some not-really-parallel universe where Sirius was alive, that didn't make Harry feel any less sad and remorseful. It only led him to wish he could be some other Harry, with some other fate, and not doomed to live in this one, where he had no Sirius and no one seemed to give a damn about it.

Something heavy landed on his lap and the boy looked down to find Crookshanks there, staring worriedly at him.

"Is that...?" Lupin asked, noticeably surprised.

Harry nodded, petting the cat's ginger fur. "He ran away from Hermione some days ago, and I just found him fumbling inside my trunk."

"Is that so?" the man smiled. "So we're not the only ones that'd have bothered after all..."

Crookshanks turned his head toward Lupin, and cat and werewolf exchanged a long, enigmatic look.

But Harry was through with enigmas and mysteries. "You reckon he's alright now?" he blurted out, the words escaping him before he could stop them.

Lupin just gazed back at him, not understanding.

"All this stuff about fate," Harry tried to explain. "Does it tell you where Sirius's gone to? Does it tell you if he's okay? If he's happy? He was completely miserable in that house... and before that... Gosh, he was a wretch for almost as long as I've been alive!" He cursed the stinging blur covering his vision, the bitter lump choking his throat. "Is it finally over now? Can you tell me that he's fine wherever he is, and that he'll never have to suffer again?"

Lupin grasped his mug with a death grip, and drained it. He dried his lips on the back of his hand before raising his head to face the teenager again. "No, Harry. I can't tell you that."

The boy's face hardened, his hands clenched into fists. He tasted his forgotten chocolate for the first time. It was cold already.

"But there is something I can tell you," Lupin said, holding his hand gently.

"What?" Harry croaked, feeling utterly dispirited.

"I know how we can bring him back."