The boy's eyes were far older than the rest of him. Strange, that this was what Sirius noticed as he struggled to remain conscious. He felt like he should know this boy, this small, wild-looking creature crouching wearily above him. He felt like he owed this boy everything. And he certainly felt like he should warn him about the enraged werewolf bearing down on his exposed back. But Sirius could only watch, eyes wide in helpless horror, as Greyback seized the already weakened child in clawed hands, throwing him like a ragdoll across the forest clearing where his skull impacted sharply with a large boulder. The small form lay still, lifeless, and even as Sirius willed himself to do something – ANYTHING – Greyback grabbed the boy by the hair, and was gone with a crack. The dark forest blurred behind tears and confusion as Sirius slowly lost his fight with the black…

Sirius woke in a warm bed, his wife sleeping peacefully beside him. He stared at the ceiling as he once again contemplated his only memory of the night Lord Voldemort was destroyed. Eight years on, and still none of them – not James, not Lily, not Harry – had any idea what happened on that fateful night in 1985, when Voldemort tried to murder the Potters. But somehow, the most powerful and evil wizard in the world had been killed, and the only clue they had was a memory that didn't even make sense. Who was that boy? What was he doing there, in the woods behind the Potters' house? Had HE killed Voldemort? Because the madman was definitely dead. It had been proven. But HOW?

Sirius sighed. Eight years of racking their brains and experimenting with reverse memory charms had yielded no answers, and they had finally decided to stop questioning this incredible gift of life in a world of peace. Somehow, miraculously, they had all survived the darkest period in Wizarding Britain's history. He was married, with two beautiful children and a third on the way. Harry – once in mortal danger from Voldemort's single-minded quest to prevent a bogus prophecy – was about to start his third year at Hogwarts, healthy and happy (apart from when his little sister, Hannah, was bugging him). Friends and family were everywhere to be found, and Grimmauld Place was a very different house than the one he grew up in, with various Potters, Weasleys, Tonks's, Longbottoms, and other hangers-on traipsing in and out for visits and holidays. Snape and his family had even been known to grace Sirius's doorstep, and the occasions were becoming surprisingly enjoyable as time passed.

All in all, life was good, and the former members of the Order of the Phoenix were moving past the horrible memories of war. But on mornings like this, when Sirius awoke with sweat on his face and a cry on his lips, he always spent several moments thinking about that nameless boy, wishing he could have done something to help him, and thanking him with every ounce of his soul. For though he could not remember a thing apart from his recurring dream, some part of Sirius knew without question that all of them owed their freedom, if not their lives, to the child Greyback killed all those years ago.