Rating: T+

Warnings: Character death (mostly past and offscreen), massive canon divergence, friendship, angst, eventual slash, unhealthy coping mechanisms, blood, Harry being Harry, etc.

Word Count: ~5200

Pairings: eventual Kyōraku/Starrk, implied past (and one-sided) James Potter/Regulus Black

Disclaimer: I don't hold the copyrights, I didn't create them, and I make no profit from this.

Notes: Hey look, Kat managed to update before a terrestrial age passed! Clearly it's a miracle. A few lines here are borrowed from The Prisoner of Azkaban—you'll probably recognize them when you see them.

(Also, thank you so much for your enthusiasm and kindness regarding this story. I'm a little overwhelmed with how positive the reactions have been. You're the best!)

oh Lazarus, how did your debts get paid

Chapter 2

Harry doesn't have a single bloody idea what he should do now.

Bad enough to have turned Aunt Marge into a balloon—that's probably going to get him expelled. Or arrested. Or both. And now…this. Whatever this is.

He'd been halfway through the extent of his grand escape plan, not that there was all that much of it, when a man had fallen out of thin air, battered and bloody with strange white robes and a sword, and hit the ground hard enough that Harry was afraid for a brief moment that he was dead.

The man's obviously a wizard, asking about his wand and dressing like that, but Harry's never seen him before. And yet—

James, the man said. And Lily, squinting up at Harry like he couldn't quite tell who he was. Harry's had enough people tell him he looks just like his father to realize that the wizard probably mixed them up since he was so confused. But really, what are the odds that someone who knew Harry's parents would appear right in front of him, literally out of nowhere, half-covered in blood and looking like he'd just come out of a massive fight?

Well. Good enough that it actually happened, Harry supposes.

The panic that came hot on the heels of fleeing the Dursleys' house is still there, lurking in his chest, as is the slow-boil anger at Aunt Marge's words, but most of it is buried under confusion and worry for the man lying next to him. Harry managed to drag him a little further out of the street, but he's almost offensively tall and too heavy to do more than roll a bit, so Harry has to be content with covering him in his too-small cloak and settling down on the curb beside him.

There's blood on the side of the man's head, but not too much—not as much as is staining his robes, which is frankly rather alarming in quantity—and his breathing is steady. It's been only a few minutes since he passed out, but Harry is hoping he wakes up again soon. He has no idea how he'd possibly explain this to a Muggle policeman, and he doesn't particularly want to try.

It would probably be best to leave right now, get his Invisibility Cloak and charm his trunk to be lighter and fly to London on his broom. It's not a good plan, but it's about the best Harry has at the moment. The Ministry is probably looking for him, and Magnolia Crescent is a little too close to the Dursleys' for comfort if they start the search there.

But—

But this stranger is hurt, and knew Harry's parents, and Harry can't just abandon him on the street.

A low groan from beside him makes his head snap up, and he turns to look at the man as he stirs. A grimace crosses his face, pain all too evident in the expression, but after a moment blue-grey eyes slide open with clear effort. The man's hand in its ragged glove tightens over the hilt of his sword for just a moment, then relaxes, and he turns his head slowly to look at Harry.

There's a pause as Harry tries not to blurt out who in Merlin's name are you and mostly succeeds.

With a careful breath and another grimace, the man gets an arm underneath himself and cautiously pushes upright. Harry reaches out to help, only to abort the motion when the man's breath catches on a pained gasp, and the stranger slumps forward, wrapping an arm around his stomach. His unruly brown hair tumbles around his face, hiding it from view, but Harry can see the fine tremor running through him.

"You're not James," the man says after a long moment, raising his head enough to look at Harry. Some of the confusion from before is still present in his face, but he looks a lot more aware than last time and also not half-dead, which is a definite improvement.

Self-consciously, Harry brushes his hair forward over his scar. "Er, he was—he was my dad. You knew him?"

The man looks mildly perplexed, as if he doesn't quite know the answer to that, either. "I…did," he says slowly, like he's just realizing it's true. Another pause, and he runs a hand through his hair, scraping it back from his face. "Was," he repeats, and winces a little. "Sirius must be devastated."

This is not looking to be an enlightening conversation. "Sirius," Harry echoes with confusion. "I don't know who that is."

"My brother," the man says, and then stops, as if the statement surprised him too. There's a thoughtful pause, and he chuckles a little, wry and tired. "I'm…Regulus. Regulus Arcturus…something. James and I—we were at…a school?"

"Hogwarts?" Harry supplies Though two thirds of a name is at least a start. "You were at Hogwarts with my dad?"

Regulus closes his eyes, tipping his head back. "Hogwarts. Yes? I can remember just… We were up in the air. He was wearing red and gold, and there was something small—wings. It had wings."

"Quidditch. You played Quidditch with my dad?" Harry honestly isn't expecting much of an answer, but the words seem to help, so he's willing to supply as many of them as he can.

"Against," Regulus corrects, and then winces and rubs at his head. His fingers graze the bloody patch where his skull hit the pavement and he stops, then pulls his hand away and glances at the blood on his fingers with a frown.

Not a Gryffindor, then, though Harry supposes it doesn't matter much. Regulus doesn't really look old enough to have been in the same year as his father, even if wizards and witches age differently than Muggles. "Did you get hit with a Memory Charm?" he asks, a little tentatively. Easy enough to think of Lockhart just a few months ago, though Regulus doesn't seem anywhere near as mentally blank as Lockhart did after his encounter with Ron's backfiring wand.

To his surprise, Regulus's frown smooths out into an expression of distraction. "Memory Charm—created by Mnemone Radford in 1604, part of the mental modification family of charms, and only capable of being broken under…torture." He pauses, as if considering, and then shakes his head. "No. No one tortured me. I think I was…someone else for a while, that's all. Maybe I still am." Raising a hand, he tugs his ruined glove off, then studies the number one tattooed on his skin with a contemplative expression.

That doesn't make much sense at all to Harry. "You mean…you forgot who you were?"

"Mm." Regulus glances up, and it's like meeting the stare of a wolf, those pale eyes against the tan of his skin and the deep brown of his hair. "Not quite. There's forgetting and then there's becoming."

Ah yes. That clears up so much, Harry thinks, exasperated.

He doesn't realize he's said it aloud until Regulus chuckles, humor slipping into his quiet features. "Sorry," the wizard offers. "My head's all jumbled."

This isn't exactly news, so Harry just nods, accepting it. "Do you—do you remember why you're hurt?"

Regulus blinks, then looks down at himself. "I'm still Starrk, even if being Regulus is still fuzzy," he says, like this is an explanation. "It was a Shinigami. Captain Kyōraku."

That's not much of an explanation, either, but before Harry can say anything more Regulus—Starrk?—glances at him, then at his abandoned trunk, and asks, "What is James Potter's son doing outside in the middle of the night?"

"It's not that late," is Harry's slightly feeble protest. When Regulus just lifts a brow, Harry flushes, glancing down, and makes a face at the threadbare knees of his jeans. "I, er. Inflated my aunt? The Ministry's probably coming to throw me in Azkaban," he adds gloomily. "I couldn't just stay with my aunt and uncle."

Regulus is frowning again, with a faintly distracted air that says he's trying to remember something. "Your…aunt and uncle? But if James and Lily are dead, Sirius should have, or Lupin, or Pettigrew—there's no way James wouldn't have made one of them your godfather."

Harry's certainly never heard anything about a godfather, so he can't offer any help there. "Aunt Petunia is my mum's sister," he says. "She's—I've never heard of any of those people before."

With a low sound of pain, Regulus hunches forward again, rubbing at his temples. "I can't remember," he says, and it's not quite blatant frustration in his tone, but it's close. "They didn't—there was a war, but Sirius couldn't have—"

Died, he doesn't say, though Harry hears the word anyway. He suspects that Regulus is trying to convince himself more than Harry, though, so he keeps his peace.

"Do you—are you going to try to find him?" Harry asks instead. "It's been a while, but…"

Regulus closes his eyes. "As many years as you've been alive, at least."

That's longer than Harry had expected, an almost painfully long time to think of being separated from family, to think of them not knowing Regulus's fate and Regulus not knowing theirs. He hesitates, not sure of what to say, but before he can think of anything Regulus's eyes open again, wolf-stare landing on Harry.

"There was a family house," he says, slow like he's weighing each word as he speaks it. "In London. You have nowhere to go, and I need to find out what happened. Would you like to come?"

There's every conceivable reason to say no. Harry doesn't know this man, he's more or less on the run with the threat of Ministry punishment bearing down on him, no home to go back to, Hermione and Ron both out of the country and no one else he can turn to. Being desperate doesn't exactly lend itself to good decision-making, Harry knows.

But—

But Regulus knows something about his parents. Knows about his parents' friends, about men who should have been his godfather, about his father in school. He needs help, too—there's far too much blood on his robes, and a trickle sliding down his cheek from his hairline. He's pale, and Harry can't push down the sharp flicker of concern in his chest.

"I would," he says, and maybe it wavers slightly, but Harry still means it. So easy, on the heels of Marge's words, to cling to this small piece of his parents. Regulus was a schoolmate, maybe a friend, and knows people who were his parents' friends. Maybe Harry can find out the names of the people in his photo album. Maybe Regulus even knows stories about his parents, if his brother was close enough to Harry's dad that he should have been Harry's godfather.

Regulus doesn't quite smile, but there's warmth in pale eyes, and he nods easily. Before he can say anything, though, something prickles down Harry's spine, like eyes on him in the dark. He stiffens, and in the same moment Regulus surges to his feet, drawing his sword in one smooth movement. The light from the streetlamps scatters across the silver of the blade as he turns.

Harry follows his gaze as it sweeps across Magnolia Crescent, but his eyes keep darting back to the shadowed alley between the garage and fence behind him. He doesn't want to think that there's something there, watching them, but there is, he's sure of it. His wand is in his pocket, and he pulls it out even as he steps back towards Regulus. "Lumos."

A hand closes on his shoulder even as the light sweeps over a hulking shape with gleaming eyes, and Regulus yanks him back and out of the thing's line of sight. Harry yelps as he falls, caught off-guard and halfway through a step, and trips backwards over his trunk. He clutches desperately to his wand even as he falls, throwing out one arm to catch himself even though he already knows it's hopeless, and sees Regulus jerk, clearly torn between lunging to save Harry and going after their watcher. He hits the ground hard, almost losing his grip on his wand—

There's a deafening bang and a flare of light.

In the same moment a hand grabs Harry's collar, snatching him up and away as wheels screech to a stop in the same spot he occupied just an instant beforehand. Regulus practically hoists him back to his feet as the triple-decker purple bus creaks and settles.

It's…really purple. Harry had kind of thought he was used to the wizarding world's eccentricities by now, but this is a lot to take in.

Before he can demand what just happened—not that Regulus looks any more sure than he feels—a conductor in a purple uniform hops out, all protruding ears and pimples. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be…your…conductor?"

He trails off, blinking at Harry and Regulus with a bewildered expression. Harry blinks back, then glances behind him at where Regulus is watching with faintly narrowed eyes. His sword is still in one hand, and his white robes are mostly red with drying blood. As Harry watches, a drop falls from the curve of his jaw to stain the black-edged collar, and Harry abruptly realizes that Regulus looks pretty much precisely like a murder victim. Or maybe a murderer.

" 'Choo all right over there?" Stan asks cautiously.

"Fine," Regulus answers curtly, though his eyes flicker back to the alley. Harry looks, too, but in the light from the bus the gap is empty. There's nothing there.

With a hiss of metal over cloth, Regulus sheathes his sword, his eyes still on the spot where the creature—a dog, Harry thinks, but absolutely massive—was lurking. There's a distinct feeling that Stan is beneath his notice, so Harry glances at Regulus, then back to the conductor, and says, "Er, can you really go anywhere?"

Stan drags his faintly horrified stare away from Regulus, glancing down at Harry, who nervously flattens his hair over his scar. "Yep," Stan confirms, and there's a hint of pride in his voice. "Anywhere you like, so long's it's on land. Can't do nuffink underwater."

"How much to get to London?" Harry has plenty of gold with him, while Regulus doesn't look like he has much of anything. He drags the lid off his trunk, rummaging through to find his money bag, and picks up the winter cloak that ended up in the thankfully dry gutter when Regulus stood.

"Eleven Sickles," Stan answers promptly. "But for firteen—"

"Not Diagon Alley," Regulus interrupts, finally turning his attention on the conductor. Stan all but flinches, looking like he'd much rather Regulus have kept facing away. Not that Harry blames him; there's a slant to Regulus's mouth, a darkness that the shifting shadows bring out around his eyes, and even though he's reserved and quiet he still looks strangely dangerous in a way that is only passingly related to his bloodstained clothes. "Number 12 Grimmauld Place."

Well, that's two more names than he seemed to know a minute ago, so Harry's going to take it as a good sign.

"Sure, sure," Stan agrees instantly, all but snatching up the two Galleons Harry offers him. He grabs Harry's trunk, and Harry gets the other end, helping him heave it up the stairs with Hedwig's cage balanced on top. With one last glance around the street, Regulus follows them up the stairs. Harry watches him carefully, but he's steady enough on his feet, even if he briefly grips the handrail so hard his knuckles whiten.

"Woss your name?" Stan asks as they stow the trunk under one of the beds several down from the armchair the driver is sitting in. He seems to have decided that Harry's the one to talk to, rather understandably. Regulus's current way of standing, even when he's so pale he looks like a ghost, is rather more like looming, and he has one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Er," Harry says, mind instantly going blank. He's not about to give the man his real name—no need to make things easier for the Ministry if they're trying to find him—but he can't think of anything.

"Coyote Starrk," Regulus says unexpectedly as he sinks down onto the bed, one hand pressed against his side. "And my godson James."

Not exactly what Harry would have picked, but Stan thankfully doesn't blink at the strange name—Coyote, Harry thinks a little disbelieving; does Regulus think he's a cowboy or something?—and waves a hand at the driver. "This is our driver, Ernie Prang. Ern, this is James and Mister Starrk."

The elderly driver nods back to them, thick glasses catching the light, and Harry offers a faintly nervous smile as he brushes his bangs down again. Carefully, he takes a seat on the bed next to Regulus's, casting a curious look over the interior of the bus. The paleness of Regulus's face is a distraction, though, and Harry asks quietly, "Are you okay?" as Stan takes a set next to Ernie.

Regulus nods, though he leans back against the headboard carefully. "I will be," he says simply. Pale eyes close for a moment before they slide open again, heavy-lidded but mostly alert.

Briefly, Harry gets sidetracked watching the Knight Bus leap forward, trash bins and street lamps scattering out of its path before they snap back into place behind it. Every bang seems to carry them at least a hundred miles, and Harry has to hang on tightly or be knocked right off the bed by the momentum of it.

Still, once the novelty has rather worn off, Harry can't help but glance back at Regulus, who's awake but slumped back against the pillows. All too aware of the looks Stan keeps sneaking at them, Harry lowers his voice and says, "Er, you—you said you'd been gone for years. Where were you when you…" He doesn't quite want to say forgot who you were, but were becoming someone else doesn't seem right either.

Thankfully, Regulus understands without him having to finish. "I was dead, or something like it," he says.

What? How is that any sort of answer? "I hadn't though there was a lot of wiggle room," Harry says, a little perturbed. "Aren't you either gone or…not?"

A shadow of a smile crosses Regulus's face. "Yes. But not is a rather large area. Sometimes souls linger. Sometimes they have business, or sometimes they're angry. Or hungry. Or…lonely."

"Like ghosts?" Harry has definitely seen his share of those, but Regulus isn't anything like the Hogwarts ghosts. Not in the least.

"Mm. Ghosts are the start of it. With the right power, and motivations, there are…chances. I was given one." With a faint wince, Regulus presses a hand to his chest. The white fabric there dents slightly, like there's a dip, but before Harry can start to worry, Regulus adds, "The lord who gave it to us led us into a war. I survived." His faint smile is humorless and tired, like he wishes he hadn't, and it takes effort for Harry not to wince. He's willing to bet that the other parts of that 'us' weren't quite so lucky.

Before Harry can think of a safer subject, though, Regulus glances towards the front of the bus, then stiffens. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, pushing painfully to his feet, and too fast for Harry to even get up and steady him he's heading for where Stan has just flipped open a copy of Daily Prophet. Harry gets half a glimpse of the picture taking up the front page before Regulus's body blocks his line of sight.

"May I see that?" Regulus asks, polite but firm.

Stan takes one look at his face and hands over the front page. "You want more? 'Cause I can—"

"This is fine." Regulus staggers a step as the bus takes another lurching leap, and this time Harry manages to get there in time to grab his elbow and hold him steady as he steers the man back towards the bed, newspaper gripped tightly in one hand.

"What is it?" Harry asks curiously, leaning over to get a better look at the headline.

Silently, Regulus shakes the page flat, revealing a photo that takes up most of the front page, of a sunken-faced man with long, matted hair. BLACK STILL AT LARGE, the headline reads, and the face is familiar even if Harry has never seen the man in person before.

"He was on the Muggle news," Harry says, not quite able to help a frown. "What did he—"

"It's Sirius," Regulus says, low and sharp, his eyes fixed on the man's face as Black blinks slowly.

"Your—your brother Sirius?" Harry demands, shoving his glasses up so he can see the article beneath the picture. "Sirius who was my dad's friend?"

Regulus doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to. Harry scans the paper, taking in the details—mad, dangerous, escaped prisoner, murdered thirteen people with one curse—and feels his heart sink in his chest.

"Well," he says, and can't quite manage to keep it light. "I guess that's why he wasn't around to be my godfather."

If anything, though, Regulus's frown is deepening. He curls his fingers around his left forearm, rubbing the inside of it through the sleeve of his robes with the air of an old habit. "Sirius wouldn't have killed Muggles. He was—he hated being a Black."

Harry isn't sure what that has to do with anything. "A Black?" he echoes.

Confusion flickers over Regulus's face, then frustration, like he's grasping for a memory that's just out of reach. "He left," Regulus says, though it's less an answer to Harry's question than it is the voicing of some fractured thought. "The door closed. He was…smiling." Blue-grey eyes fall shut, and Regulus's expression twists. "Honorary Potter. That's what James always said."

Which doesn't help with the faint, nebulous sense of betrayal churning in Harry's stomach. To know that his father's friend, close enough to be considered family, turned into murderer doesn't exactly sit easily with him. "Maybe he changed? If you were gone, you can't know—"

"It's Sirius," Regulus interrupts, though his voice stays even. "He would never be capable of changing that much."

Harry wants to believe in Regulus's faith, if nothing else, but… "Then what happened?" he asks quietly.

"Twelve years ago, I was already dead." Regulus's finger brushes over the paper just beneath Black's picture, and his expression is grim. "I'm not sure."

Harry can think of quite a lot that happened twelve years ago, but he isn't sure how any of it is related, so he keeps silent as the Knight Bus barrels towards its next stop.

Shunsui is less than enchanted with Las Noches, to be quite honest. It's flat and dull and boringly white, a confusing mass of passages and rooms that seem designed to mislead the unwary.

Given that it was Aizen who made his headquarters here, Shunsui wouldn't be surprised to find that was the exact reasoning behind it.

"You're very insistent about this, aren't you?" Urahara says lightly, even as he waves a device in from of them. Shunsui doesn't need to look to know there are sharp grey eyes on him, half-hidden under the shadow of Urahara's hat.

Shunsui chuckles, even though it makes something in his side ache unpleasantly. "Ah, I suppose I am," he agrees easily. "Though I'd expect you to be just as eager to find Starrk, given how easily he took you down, Kisuke."

Urahara pouts convincingly. "At least I came out of my bout with Aizen still on my feet," he retorts, though there's no real offense in his voice. "You were hardly conscious, Kyōraku-san, so if anyone should be making comments like that, I think it's me."

With a quiet laugh, Shunsui tips his sakkat and concedes the point, even as something in his gut sours at the reminder of the other captains who weren't quite so lucky. Juushiro, for one, and maybe that's a good portion of the reason Shunsui agreed to accompany Urahara here so readily. His only other option is taking up residence at Juushiro's bedside, and he knows his old friend would berate him for hovering.

At least right now he can pretend he's thinking about the safety of Soul Society, even if the reality is something far closer to personal curiosity.

"Anything?" he asks, rather than admit his thoughts.

Urahara frowns thoughtfully at the device. "We're close to where someone came through—the most recent Garganta opened up a short ways from here. I believe it's his reiatsu, though I didn't get much of a sample before he bolted."

Shunsui doesn't blame Starrk for that reaction; with Aizen defeated, his partner gone, and the majority of the Espada dead, the Primera didn't have much of a reason to stick around. And while Shunsui doesn't exactly think he'll cause trouble, he also doesn't want to be mistaken and end up with any more deaths on his head.

Starrk hadn't wanted to fight at all, even if he eventually had out of some sense of indebtedness to Aizen. His morals were clear, and his regard for his partner even more so. When the girl sacrificed herself—

Shunsui had thought of Juushiro falling, a hole torn through his chest, and hadn't been able to push down a flicker of deep-seated sympathy for the Espada.

He hasn't allowed himself to forget that Starrk is dangerous, though. He was easily the strongest of the Arrancar, even if Barragan led them into battle, and if he disappears into the World of the Living Shunsui is sure things will turn ugly very quickly. Add in Soul Society's debt to Kurosaki Ichigo after all he did and all he sacrificed for them, and Shunsui knows there's no choice but to track Starrk down.

Halfway through a sweep, Urahara's device lights up, dials spinning, and the former captain makes a sound of victory.

"Aha!" he says cheerfully, waving the black box in Shunsui's face. "Here we are! This is where he landed."

The white tiles on the floor are smeared with blood, though little enough that Shunsui is fairly certain Starrk wasn't in the process of bleeding out. He studies the spot, then a smear on the wall that must have come from a glove as Starrk levered himself to his feet. The corridor branches here, and Shunsui glances down the side passage—

And stops, every muscle going tense.

"Kisuke?" he says, and long centuries of practice keep his voice light.

"It's not a Senkaimon." For once Urahara's voice is very close to serious as he steps past Shunsui, a hand tight around Benihime's handle. "Though I would suspect it isn't entirely different, either. Aizen must have been researching it." A glance takes in a few scattered drops of blood on the tiles in front of the archway and veil, and then he looks back at Shunsui. "I'll get my equipment and let you know where it leads as soon as—"

"As soon as you get some rest," Shunsui cuts in, managing a cheerful smile for the younger man with a bit of effort. "Go home and sleep, Kisuke. I need to check in with the squads here anyway, and this can wait for one more day, hm?"

The scientist's gaze is far too knowing for comfort, but instead of arguing he just nods, stepping back. "Thank you, thank you," he says, tone as light as if he's joking, even though he looks a little grey with exhaustion. "Your reputation for ruthlessness doesn't do you credit, Kyōraku-san."

"Ruthlessness? Ma," Shunsui protests, though truly ruthless is usually the least of what people say about him. He's one of the longest-serving captains, after all, and that's not a title earned through kindness, no matter what Juushiro likes to play at. "Such disrespect to your elders! I'm the picture of civility!"

Urahara chuckles, waving a lazy farewell over one shoulder as he heads back the way they came. "I wonder what the Primera would have to say about that," he calls cheerfully, only to vanish around the corner before Shunsui can manage a retort.

Shunsui smiles, shaking his head, but the expression fades quickly as he looks at the arch again. The tattered veil is moving, as if in a breeze, and the trail of blood leads right through. If it really is a Senkaimon, or even just something like it, that means Starrk is back in the World of the Living, or has managed to slip into Soul Society undetected. And while Shunsui is far more at ease with Starrk being there than he would Barragan or even that pretty Arrancar woman who took the third-ranked spot, Starrk is still a Hollow, and Shunsui is still a Shinigami.

He'll find Starrk no matter where he has to look, and make sure the Espada is contained by any means necessary. It's his duty, and mannerisms aside, Shunsui has known little else in the last thousand years.