Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I make any claim of ownership. All rights belong to the copyright holders and J.K. Rowling.

A/N

Material has flowed well into these most recent chapters, along with some character development taking an interesting turn, different to what I initially had planned. But that was how the chips fell, so to speak, and that was where my versions of the characters seem interested in taking me.

On the RL front, I've sorted several big things out - I'm employed again, for one - so I expect my free time to be all kinds of messed up in the coming weeks/months, but with any luck I'll find a good balance in time.

Please, enjoy!

- JudgeKnox

"Harry, pay attention!" Wood shouted as he swooped past, following the Chasers' movements and bellowing encouragement as they soared across the pitch. Harry darted his eyes away from the road to Hogsmeade and turned about on his broom, following the team's progress as he scanned the sky for the practice Snitch.

He'd bade Sirius seek shelter in the Shrieking Shack since their meeting a few days prior, and had ordered him to stay there, and under no circumstances was he to leave except when Harry came and collected him personally. His godfather had looked mutinous at the prospect of sitting out the first moments of Pettigrew's capture, but Harry didn't want to keep Sirius inside the castle – even in the Room of Requirement – if he could at all help it.

And, as much as he didn't want to admit it, he wasn't ready to trust Sirius.

His godfather's condition had improved since their first meeting – Harry had been bringing packages of food from the kitchens himself if he could make it, or sending them with Hedwig. However, Sirius was still prone to dangerous fits of delusion and emotional instability, perhaps even memory loss. Harry had no point of reference to check, but it certainly seemed the case. The specifics of his godfather's condition therefore changed on an almost daily basis, and it made him too much of an unknown variable.

When that was coupled with the intense, almost physical reaction that was caused whenever Pettigrew was mentioned, and the disquieting glint in Sirius' grey eyes, he'd realised that he just couldn't trust his godfather to keep his head when confronted with James and Lily's betrayer.

The trap was almost set – but Harry needed the Marauder's Map to do it. He had good chances of avoiding detection with a Supersensory Charm, but he couldn't leave it to chance.

Although he'd planned to obtain the Map in similar circumstances to the first time, that was no longer an option. With the first Hogsmeade weekend now past, he'd have to wait until the next one at the beginning of the Christmas holidays if he wanted to take that course.

The very suggestion of waiting so long with Pettigrew practically in his grasp sickened him. No, he'd get the Map over the weekend, after the first Quidditch match of the season on Saturday.

He did his best to silence the thoughts of disgust that accompanied the notion of stealing from Fred and George, justifying it as best he could.

It's the only way.

Flattening out on his broom, he began circling the pitch whilst the team practiced below. Occasionally one of the Weasley twins would send a Bludger careering into his path, but his attention didn't waver for the rest of the early-morning session, and he caught the Snitch after about fifteen minutes, electing to help the Chasers practice until breakfast. The air was unseasonably warm and humid, expectant of a storm.

Friday evening found him back in Conjuration lessons with McGonagall – they'd since moved on from blocks to more complicated shapes, with the aim of reaching rudimentary functional objects by the end of the school year. The Deputy Headmistress was slightly more formal and detached since his fight with Malfoy, but that didn't affect the quality of her instruction. Under her watchful eye, he was fast improving.

The storm broke in the early hours of the morning, and by the end of breakfast gale-force winds and a veritable wall of freezing rain hammered against the Great Hall's windows, the ancient glass rattling in its frames. The Gryffindor players watched with grim satisfaction from across the room as the Slytherin Captain tried to protest the game's continuation to Professor Snape.

The conditions hadn't even moderately improved a half-hour later when the match was due to start, the downpour so thick and fast that the entire team was thoroughly soaked by the time they'd made it down to the changing rooms.

As they walked out onto the pitch to the roar of the crowd – which was surprisingly muted against the howling winds and booming thunder above – and mounted their brooms, his stomach dropped, and realisation crashed down on him.

He'd been so busy, so preoccupied with the plan, that he'd forgotten what happened on this day.

The Dementors.

A bolt of ice ran down his spine, every hair standing on end, and it had nothing to do with the rain. He almost missed the start of the match at the sharp sound of Madam Hooch's whistle, hastily taking the Nimbus up high so that he could work on spotting the Snitch.

It was almost surreal to face a match with stakes like these. He had to end it as quickly as possible, get everyone back inside the safety of the castle. He-

Lightning flashed overhead, and he caught sight, in the very back of the Gryffindor stands, silhouetted against the suddenly-illuminated clouds above – a massive, dark-furred dog.

His heart almost stopped. When the beat finally carried over to the next, his disbelief gave way to anger.

Sirius, what have you done?

He snarled wordlessly, tightening his grip on the handle of the Nimbus as he swept away, pelting along the pitch, keeping an eye out for the slightest glint of the Golden Snitch. The minutes ticked by in a disjointed blur of motion and freezing cold, the game beneath a frenzied blur of coloured cloaks, permeated by the occasional loud gong of the score-counter, or Lee Jordan's unique style of commentary.

Fifteen exhausting minutes in, there was still no sign of the Snitch. At every pass of the Gryffindor stands, he saw Sirius' Animagus form staring back at him, utterly oblivious to the danger, to what was at stake.

His anger – at himself, for failing to anticipate this, for being unable to stop what might be coming, and at Sirius' apparent inability to follow basic fucking instructions, roared through his mind far louder than the storm around him.

The game was called to quick time-out by the Slytherin Captain, and in their own team-talk Harry learned that Gryffindor were a few goals ahead, but that he really needed to catch the damn Snitch, Potter, to paraphrase Oliver. The rain hadn't let up – if anything, it was getting worse – and it seemed like even the spectators wanted to leave.

Once they were back up in the air, he noticed that Malfoy was tailing him, rather than looking for the Snitch himself. Malfoy had the faster broom, but at this point Harry couldn't care less who won the match, as long as it was over.

A minute or two later he spotted it, darting low along the edge of the pitch. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he dipped the Nimbus into a steep dive, his body – despite the worry that gripped him – relishing in the raw sensation of flight. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Malfoy – now a green blur – doing the same, hot on his tail.

The Snitch weaved left and right, as agile as ever despite the winds that threatened to buffet it off course. Harry followed as best he could, his eyes keeping up where the broom could not, chasing the Snitch as it rose high above the frantic match taking place below.

Malfoy dogged his flight path, but took a poor opportunity to catch the Snitch early, swooping past on his Nimbus 2001 and overshooting as the gold ball abruptly dropped and turned, right into Harry's grasp.

Relief bloomed in his chest as he cheered – more to himself than anyone else in the roar of the storm – before dipping the broom back towards the ground, holding the ball for everyone to see. The three-quarters of the crowd who weren't supporting Slytherin, and a few of the green-and-silver clad spectators also, cheered and whooped and stamped in a bellow of noise that drowned out the thunder and wind, and for a moment the stadium was filled with a sense of euphoria.

And then the storm, which appeared to quieten, briefly muted behind the cheers of the crowd, fell almost silent, replaced by a chill of ice so sharp it felt like it was stinging his lungs. Rain turned almost instantly to shards of hail, and the wind tore at his skin as if it were barbed wire.

And then the screams started.

He felt them before he saw them, the cold growing more pronounced by the second, until suddenly they were there, drifting soundlessly out of the forest in droves, a horde of eerie black figures whose cloaks were utterly unaffected by the thundering wind.

The crowd was in pandemonium, and deep, almost instinctual fear screamed at him to use his broom to escape, to get out and run whilst he still could. A part of him seriously considered taking that course, until he remembered-

SIRIUS.

He whirled about as he saw spellfire erupt from the Gryffindor stands – students trying whatever hexes or jinxes they knew to defend themselves, for sure. Blurry figures leapt from the lower stands onto the pitch, running in every direction. He couldn't see Sirius in the stampede.

Drawing his wand from inside his robe, he pointed it towards the Dementors, taking a deep, freezing breath that tore at the inside of his lungs.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" he yelled, forcing his willpower into the spell, picturing a happy memory in his mind's eye.

"Lily, it's him, he's here! Take Harry and go, I'll hold him off!"

No.

"Stand aside, silly girl!"

NO.

Hail lashed at his face, and his wand remained still, the cold growing in his chest as the Dementors swarmed over the pitch.

Embers glittered above, dancing into the night sky as the castle burned, her limp form held in his arms, blood dripping through his fingers.

Nothing. No light, no warmth, no Patronus. With a yell, he flattened out on the Nimbus, and shot like a bullet towards the Dementors, his wand pointed in front of him.

Plan B.

"FULGURIS MAXIMA!" he screamed. For the briefest moment, the Dementor closest to him was illuminated as if floodlit, the arc of lightning tearing through the air and sending it reeling, the boom of the spell rattling his teeth down to the roots. The others nearby paused and turned, as if they were watching their counterpart fleeing.

Then the hooded figures turned towards him.

That's it, let them go, follow me.

Pulling the handle of the broom hard about, he flew towards the middle of the pitch, the Dementors gliding over the crowd in pursuit. As he flew, a white light shot out of the stands opposite towards him – a Patronus, in the form of a Phoenix – and barrelled into the Dementors chasing him, driving them into the air and back out over the grounds. The biting cold receded, and the press of unpleasant memories forcing their way into his mind vanished. It was over, for now.

Sirius smiled gently at him when he emerged into the Shrieking Shack's basement that evening, until he saw the look on his face.

"Harry, what-"

Harry shook his head angrily in response. For a moment, he stood in silence, staring at a spot on the wall past Sirius' head. When he spoke, it was quiet and filled with barely-restrained rage, coming out strangled and furious.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing there today?" he hissed, Sirius' face colouring slightly at the anger in his tone.

"I-"

"I gave explicit instructions," Harry stated, his voice rising to a shout, as he met his godfather's eyes, "not to leave this building unless I came to get you. Do you have even the slightest idea how much you put at risk?"

"Harry, relax, will you!" Sirius countered, his own voice growing sharp as Harry walked towards him.

"Shut up!" Harry bellowed. "I don't care what reason you think excuses what you did today, Sirius. You put yourself in danger of being caught just by being in that crowd. Did you think I wouldn't recognise you? What if someone else had – Professor Lupin, maybe? Did the thought even cross your mind, or did you seriously weigh it up and go anyway because you were bored?"

Sirius' brow narrowed, and his eyes turned hard as he stared back at Harry. "You listen to me, I did not escape Azkaban just so that I could spend my freedom locked up in a different cell! I was in there for twelve years, Harry, so forgive me if I'm not obedient enough for you – a bloody thirteen-year-old, at that!" He took a few steps of his own, until the two were almost nose-to-nose, his grey eyes alight with mad energy.

"I can't stay here forever. It's been almost a week now, Harry, and you still haven't gotten Wormtail like we agreed. I thought you wanted him to face justice, so tell me, are you just lazy or are you getting cold feet? Should I be worried about Dementors breaking in the door when I'm asleep!?"

His voice had risen to a roar of its own, and the silence that followed was so thick that it could almost be cut with a knife. A few moments after he'd finished speaking, Sirius seemed to realise what he'd said and his expression shifted from one of argumentativeness to horror.

"Harry, I-"

But Harry was already gone, storming down the stairs and into the tunnel. Sirius stared after him for a moment, his face closed off and withdrawn before he walked over to a dusty armchair, settling down tiredly and brooding in silence.

The fiasco at the Quidditch match was plastered over the front page of the Sunday Prophet, the reporters – notably Rita Skeeter, of course – lambasting Fudge, Dumbledore and the Ministry at large for the handling of the manhunt for Sirius. Although Gryffindor had won the game (much to Malfoy's consternation and vocal objections), the joyous energy that had gripped the castle the previous morning had disappeared as if it had been on the receiving end of an Evanesco Charm. Despite the Headmaster's assurances that the Dementors would not again trespass onto the grounds, students began walking around in tight-knit groups, alert and watchful of every corner and alcove in case they held some new danger.

Harry had attracted no small amount of attention from the rest of the students for his stunt during the game, but was unpleasantly surprised when he found himself summoned to Dumbledore's Office that evening after dinner – putting his plans to steal the Map from Fred and George on hold until tomorrow.

"Ah, come in!" Dumbledore called out from behind the door barely a moment after Harry knocked on it.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Harry asked, wandering into the Headmaster's Office.

"Yes, have a seat, please." The Headmaster gestured to one of the chairs opposite his desk. Harry did so, and Dumbledore considered him for a moment before continuing.

"That was a very brave thing you did yesterday, Harry. Headstrong, perhaps, but brave all the same," he said with a twitch of a smile. Fawkes crooned a warm note from his perch, and Harry felt himself smile almost reflexively at the Phoenix's song.

"Why were they allowed anywhere near the castle?" Harry asked. "Don't they have handlers from the Ministry?"

"They do indeed," the Headmaster replied, "but it appears that they've been growing hungry in the absence of victims on which to feed. I have always protested the use of Dementors by the Ministry, even more so when Cornelius recommended that they be used for the school's protection, because I feared this very eventuality.

"I thank you, Harry, for being brave – and bold – enough to leap to the defence of your schoolmates."

It wasn't just for them, a voice whispered, as Sirius' face appeared in his mind for a second.

"I couldn't stop them, though, sir," Harry replied, remembering the total failure of his attempt to cast a Patronus.

"True heroism isn't measured solely by its success rate," Dumbledore responded sagely. "It's immaterial whether you managed to stop or drive the Dementors away, my boy. You drew their attention onto you, and placed yourself in harm's way to help others."

Dumbledore's praise would've felt better to receive had it not served to remind him of how many secrets he was keeping from the old man. Instead, Harry schooled his expression into one of gratitude, his tone neutral.

"Thank you, sir."

He crept silently across the dormitory towards Fred and George's beds, covered by the Invisibility Cloak. Their trunks lay at the foot of each bed, and he had no idea which one held the Map. Pulling his wand from his robe pocket, he pointed it at the trunk on his left and cast a silent Alohomora.

As he expected, the trunk didn't even budge. Evidently Fred and George had enchanted them, protecting them against magical means of theft. Swapping his wand for a set of lock picks he'd managed to find in his wanderings through muggle London, he crouched down and began carefully trying to open the lock.

It was slow going – as even with the Silencing Charms he couldn't risk disturbing the scene – but after around five minutes of trying, the lock sprung open with a click, followed immediately by successive clicks from the other latches. Gently, he lifted the lid, draping the cloak over both himself and the trunk and vanishing out of sight.

He was thankful that he was still small enough at thirteen to find extra space under the cloak – by the time he'd finished school in the original timeline it could barely fit one person under it. The trunk was packed haphazardly, with weathered books, worn clothes and a surprising collection of oddities – including some dark glass jars that likely held stolen potions ingredients.

"Specialis Revelio," he whispered, having to use a vocalisation to force more power into the Detection Charm. Sure enough, his wand vibrated gently in his hand as he gestured over the trunk with it, signifying that some of the contents held active magic. He bit back a curse as he considered the disorganised contents of the trunk. Some of the magic, knowing Fred and George, would likely be joke spells or hexes, perhaps even an inventive booby trap or two. As a result, there was little chance he could safely disturb the contents without consequence, or reorganise them back to how they looked before he'd opened the trunk.

Someone across the room yawned loudly and shuffled in their bed.

Can't stay here. Nothing else for it.

"Accio Marauder's Map!" he hissed through his teeth, his heart beating fast and shallow in his chest.

To his surprise and sudden relief, something rustled in the bottom of the trunk before shooting out into his outstretched hand. Despite being disguised as a piece of parchment, he knew he recognised it immediately. Then he turned his eyes back to the trunk, just in time to watch a stack of socks teeter and fall with a gentle thump.

Right onto a Dungbomb.

With a bang like a firecracker, the room filled noxious yellowish smoke that smelled so bad Harry fought back a gag. Fred and George – and the rest of the room's occupants – woke suddenly, swearing and choking.

Dropping the trunk lid shut and hoping that the lock clicked back into place, he darted across the room, avoiding one of the other fifth-years as they stumbled out of bed.

Slipping out of the door, he hurtled down to the third-year dormitory and nearly threw himself into his bed and under the covers, the map clutched tightly against his chest as he fought to get his breathing back under control.

The commotion in the fifth-year dormitories woke several other students, and before long most of Gryffindor House were crowded in the Common Room, half-asleep and furious. When a very irate McGonagall was summoned, it was quickly assumed that the whole thing was one of Fred and George's pranks gone off at the wrong time, and they did little to dispel the notion, despite ending up in detention for the next week and a half for causing such a ruckus late at night.

As Harry headed back to bed with the rest of his dorm-mates, however, he saw the sharp gazes the twins levelled over the rest of the Gryffindors, and his stomach squirmed uncomfortably.

They know it's gone. They know it was one of us.

There was little that could shake his resolve, though, as he looked at the Map once everyone was back to sleep and, sure enough, spotted Peter Pettigrew written in flowing ink in the third-year dormitory.

The trap was ready to be sprung.