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Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

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Sirius Black: Therapy Dog

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Sirius prowled through the ancient library of Grimmauld Place, alert for man-eating mothballs or whatever other horrors this thrice-be-damned house threw at him.

The Order had met just once in the drawing room. Dedalus Diggle broke out in hives upon walking through the doorway. Molly had thrown open the drapes, only to see the grimy panes of glass reflecting her appearance with about three stone extra weight. An armchair wheezed like ancient bagpipes when Dumbledore sat on it. The tassels on the curtain draws kept sniffing Arthur's nether regions. After the couch swallowed Nymphadora, Molly had declared the room a death trap.

Sirius had the odious task of finding the least objectionable room for the next meeting. Hence his foray into the bowels of the family library.

There were enough warding spells on the bookshelves that the books themselves should have escaped infestation and the evils of neglect, but there was every chance the wards had warped. Then there were the curtains—dark crimson travesties. Mother's choice, of course. They were watching him, he'd swear it. He approached cautiously, wand at the ready.

"Excuse me?"

Sirius kept his wand trained on the curtains but did a quarter-turn to see the newcomer.

Woman. Brown hair, sturdy build, flat chest. New recruit.

Sirius opened his mouth to offer a friendly warning about the rug under her feet, but an unholy shriek of "Sirius Black!" accompanied a jet of red light that struck him in his side. His wand went flying. The force of the spell knocked him back, and a tripping jinx sent him flying head over heels. He heard a ripping sound.

"Oi!" he shouted.

His next words were muffled and his sight was blocked by thick fabric trying to strangle him. He hit the floor in a wild tangle of arms, legs, robes, and moldy velvet. He yelped when sharp teeth sank into his ankle.

"Petrificus totalus!"

He was frozen. Absolutely motionless. Couldn't move his jaw to shout his innocence or curse at the creatures swarming him.

Teeth latched onto his hand. He couldn't even whimper in pain.

"What on earth—?" came a second voice. A familiar voice. Molly Weasley.

"Professor Dumbledore told me to come here," his attacker babbled, "but then Sirius Black—!"

"You must be Healer Rowle! Such a pleasure."

Then Molly explained certain things to the uninformed healer—very pertinent things, things that really should have been passed on before the wand-happy harpy was given his address! The witches were chatting away as things. Kept. Biting. Him. Their wings beat furiously as they scampered over his skin to find the best places to maul.

"All evidence was lost when Pettigrew escaped." This was followed by a tragic sigh.

The creatures began crawling up his trousers. Merlin preserve him.

He recognized Kreacher's ghastly voice saying, "Did the good Miss Rowle set a nest of doxies on the blood traitor?" The miserable wretch was thrilled.

"Did I?"

A quick Finite later, and Sirius was thrashing wildly to escape the dastardly drapes. Arthur arrived sometime during the ruckus and opined they really ought to get the kids down here to clean. Sirius had his head free by then and was swearing more foully than he had since leaving this miserable house as a teenager.

"Really, Sirius," chided Molly, "there's no need for that."

He kicked the infested curtains across the room and grabbed hold of the doxy stuck to his hand. The trick was to squeeze at the base of its neck to make it unlatch from his skin. He knew; he had experience. When he succeeded, he flung the little blighter at the window.

"You're Healer Rowle, then?" asked Arthur.

"Serafina, please. Or Sera if you prefer."

"Arthur Weasley. Charmed."

A second and third doxy joined the first.

"Why," said Molly, "we were ever so pleased when Albus said you'd joined us. A proper Healer in the Order! Poppy does what she can, but her priority is the students. As it should be! Ever so pleased to have you."

"Blood traitors, wizarding scum," muttered Kreacher. "The good Miss Rowle will show them, yes she will."

Sirius was busy yanking up his arm sleeves to grab a burrower. He nabbed it by the wings.

"You'll really want to get out of those robes, Mr. Black. The doxies are crawling underneath them."

As if he didn't know that! If the stinging was any indication he had no fewer than eight doxies hanging off him and plenty more bites besides.

"Your wand flew off that way, but here, I'll just—"

A wave of her wand and Sirius was starkers in front of the healer and the Weasleys. He stared at his bare legs and other parts for a brief moment of total incomprehension. Gaping, he covered himself. The witches tittered.

"Ah. My apologies. Usually my patients are wearing underpants. There, though. You can see the doxies."

"Bit more than that besides," chuckled Arthur.

"No need for modesty, Sirius. I have six boys," said Molly.

Though he turned around, Sirius did, in fact, prioritize ridding himself of the sharp-toothed little buggers over regaining his dignity. The psycho healer—Rowle or whatever—approached to help out.

Somewhat bitingly, Sirius said, "Next time you want me naked, sweetheart, there are much nicer ways to go about it."

"I'll keep that in mind," she replied.

"Although, seeing as I'm already naked—" Sirius yelped when she yanked out a doxy and a fair chunk of flesh. "Don't pull from the bodies," he choked. "Grab their heads first!"

"Hm," she said pleasantly. "I don't work in the 'Creatures' ward."

"Whatever happened to 'do no harm,' you barmy—!"

"Sirius Black!" said Molly. To the psycho healer, she said, "Don't mind his temper, dear. He really is innocent."

"I believe you," she said, and finally she did some good by numbing the affected areas. "It's all my fault really, on edge as I was. Professor Dum—er, Albus—that is so weird—he told me to expect a lively crowd, but there I was walking through this spooky house, not a soul in sight. I swear something ran across my feet—"

"The Pygmy Puffs again. They're living in the woodworks. Gnaw on absolutely everything. This house, Serafina. We'll spend most of the summer making it habitable. And the time of the meeting changed. We pushed it back an hour, so I would have time to fix a snack for the Order."

"I sent an owl?" said Arthur.

"Ah. I receive several dozen owls on a light day. My house elf sorts them for me. Any she deems 'personal' I tend not to read immediately. Silly of me not to check before coming."

"Oh no, dear," said Molly. "This is a lesson for us. From now on, we'll assume a member hasn't received information without confirmation."

"And?" said Sirius gruffly as he grabbed hold of another doxy.

Arthur caught on. "And ensure we've explained Sirius's innocence before meeting him."

"Speaking of which, we haven't properly met." So saying, Rowle moved to his frontside and extended her hand. "Serafina Rowle, Mr. Black. I suppose this is what Tonks meant about meeting her cousin."

Sirius stared at her proffered hand, utterly nonplussed. He had bright red, oozing wounds all over him, still had a doxy clinging to his shoulder, and, by the by, was completely starkers. Gingerly, he took her hand.

"I'd better take a look at those bites," said Rowle.

Sirius wrenched his arm away. "Merlin, no. I've got something upstairs that'll do nicely. Now if you'll just excuse me."

By the time Sirius had showered, downed a pain relief potion, spread some ointment over the wounds, and thrown on clothes—a Beatles t-shirt (couldn't believe old Mum hadn't trashed it), trousers, and underpants, dammit—he could hear the rest of the Order chatting downstairs. Opening his door, he started and swore. He'd thought the healer had vanished his robes into oblivion, but nope, they were floating in the hallway. The arm sleeve waved at him. His wand floated next to it. A note hung from the handle.

Certified booby trap and doxy-free, said the note in large, loopy writing. Snorting, he grabbed the wand and shoved into a pocket.

He fully expected the round of grins and chuckles that went up at his appearance in the kitchen. Sirius bowed good-naturedly and told them he'd charge for the show next time. After some teasing by Tonks and Remus, Rowle was pink-faced. She asked Sirius about the remedy he'd applied to the doxy bites. He gave her a wink and told her not to fret. No telling what would happen if he drank one of her concoctions, as she seemed to want him to. A ruddy menace, that one.

Dumbledore arrived just after Mad-Eye and Mundungus, and all were soon privy to Sirius and Rowle's first interaction. Dumbledore smiled, but Mad-Eye grew grimmer than usual and sent all their moods plummeting. The meeting opened with a lecture.

Failure to communicate.

What were they, bloody rookies?

Dead wizards walking.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

Shape up or bloody well portkey out.

At least Rowle's got a lick of sense. Cast first; ask questions later.

Sirius didn't much care to be lumped in with the rest, seeing as none of this was his fault. He tugged at his shirt. It was hot in this damn kitchen.

Mad-Eye desisted when Dumbledore cleared his throat. Molly passed out crumpets as Dumbledore officially welcomed Rowle to the ranks. He went on a bit long, likely to put to rest any anxiety her last name evoked. During her Hogwarts years, she'd organized some sort of "web of concerned students," which "made material strides in rescuing Muggle-born students from Death Eater initiation practices" while being sneaky enough to avoid identification by said Death Eater wannabes and Dumbledore himself for a time. She had Dumbledore's complete trust, etcetera.

In the space between the welcome and what was likely to be the meat of the meeting, Sirius interjected, "Right. Let's talk about how soon we can get Harry out of that Muggle hellhole."

And boy did that open the floodgates. He thought he had the Weasleys solidly on his side for this one until he realized they expected Harry to go to the Burrow for most of the summer first. Thank Merlin Mad-Eye knocked out that option, citing security risks. Given that Grimmauld Place was under the Fidelius and there were Order members in and out all the time, Sirius couldn't fathom why this even warranted a discussion.

"As soon as the house is habitable—"

"Oh, but he'd be stuck inside all summer."

"Better trapped here than trapped at the Dursleys."

"At least he can go outside there."

"Harry'd prefer a summer at Malfoy Manor to—

"Don't be crude, Sirius."

"Crude? Was I being crude? Mr. Moony, do translate."

"Not crude so much as 'tasteless,' Mr. Padfoot."

"Tactless."

"Uncouth."

"Indecorous."

"Now you're just gassing."

"That was cruder than anything I'm allowed to say."

"Enlightening as this is," said Dumbledore, "I'm expected at Hogwarts within an hour."

Molly turned pink in embarrassment. Tonks, having done a fair impression of Snape, morphed her hooked nose back to normal.

"For a number of reasons, I think it best that Harry remain with his relatives for a few weeks at least."

Then followed the "something" Sirius couldn't have fathomed. Blood wards. Best protection. Lasting protection. Something about the safety of the Dursleys themselves. What rot.

Sirius was furious. Sirius was also sweating. Why was no one else sweating? He rubbed his arm against his trousers and saw red spots cropping up amid his arm hair. Wasn't pretty, but he'd had worse in Azkaban. He saw the healer eyeing him. He quit fidgeting and focused on what mattered: Dumbledore got the final word on Harry's placement. Shocker, it wasn't with Sirius.

"Furthermore," said Dumbledore, "be circumspect regarding what information you choose to share with Harry and your children. With owl post in particular we must be cautious."

Dumbledore and Mad-Eye had cornered Sirius about owl post in the days following the Third Task. Still sick with worry for Harry, Sirius had pretty much sworn to tell Harry nothing about anything. He'd tried to recant, but Dumbles could guilt trip a dementor.

Seeing red, Sirius glared at everyone over the rim of his cuppa.

Really, though. He was seeing a whole lot of red. Either Arthur's head had multiplied, or more Weasleys had slipped in. Which was the oldest one? Bill? Sirius really thought there were a disproportionate number of redheads. Tonks counted as one, right now at least. Or maybe always. What was her natural hair color?

"Moving on, I do have suspicions as to Voldemort's short-term goals."

Sirius wiped a sweaty palm on his shirt. He was willing to bet Ted Tonks was a natural red head.

"He's been preoccupied with the Department of Mysteries."

Lily had red hair. So did Harry's friend Ron.

"I have a contact within the Unspeakables."

Merlin's bollocks. So did Dumbledore.

"In the coming days, Alastor will reconnoiter with her—"

At his wit's end, Sirius banged a fist on the table. "To be fair, the ginger conspiracy failed to win over the unicorns. They're still silvery."

A pause. Sirius had the pleasure of seeing a baffled Dumbledore. Then his vision started to blur.

"That'll be the doxy venom kicking in."

Rowle's voice sounded very far away.

He woke up hours later to Kreacher's cackling. Sirius was naked but for his underpants and slathered in a weird-smelling purple paste with a god-awful taste in his mouth. He slid a thumb under the edge of his underpants and lifted. Yep, there was purple gunk there, too. Figured. Rash or no, it was the first time a woman cared to fiddle with his privates in over a decade. He wasn't even awake for it.

Ruddy menace, indeed.

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"Padfoot?"

Hearing Remus in the hallway, Sirius peered cautiously out of Regulus's room. The coast was clear.

"What are you doing?" asked Remus.

"Just avoiding Rowle. Tetchy sort, isn't she?"

"I haven't found her to be so."

"Won't stop calling me 'Mr. Black' like I'm my goddamned father."

"She called me 'Mr. Lupin' when I went to her for a check up. I think the formality is just a way to put a little distance between her and her patients."

"That's it then. She's on a health kick. Got me in her sights."

"She is a healer."

She'd visited him after the disaster with the doxies. Apparently, she'd taken advantage of his unconsciousness and state of undress examine him. Medically speaking. She'd determined he was dreadfully malnourished and was host to no fewer than four species of Muggle parasites rather commonly found in Azkaban inmates. She recommended various potions and spells and changes in behavior.

He done his best to comply. For all of a day. The potions made him gag. The sunshine and exercise were impossible. She'd implored Kreacher to cook plenty of leafy greens, but Sirius flat-out refused to eat anything the elf touched. Rowle popped over every few mornings before work to drop off potions that were foul enough to come straight from the pages of Moste Potente Potions. Sirius thanked her and poured the brews down the drain. The sink sparkled like new as their corrosive power scoured years of grime. She wanted him to put that in his body? Madness.

"Don't scare her off," Remus warned after Sirius had said his piece. "I like having a healer around who doesn't flinch when she sees my scars."

"Bah. The scars complement your handsome devil vibe. I saw my cousin eyeing you. Marauder's honor, Moony."

"She's brewing the Wolfsbane potion for me."

"Ah, well…"

"Do you know how few Potion Masters exist in the first place, two, have the resources to obtain Wolfsbane's very expensive ingredients, and three, have the license to obtain said ingredients such as, but not limited to, the highly regulated aconite, boomslang skin, and Swooping Evil venom?"

"So she's useful. I never claimed otherwise."

"She wrote up the order so that the Ministry's footing the bill."

"That's a fun bit of rebellion, no doubt—"

"Don't scare her off," Remus repeated.

"Does it bloody well sound like she'll be scared off?"

Finally Sirius had said the right thing. Remus smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "She's leaving for St. Mungo's soon. Come down for a sandwich." Remus started for the stairs, but he paused on the landing. "And Padfoot, four species of parasites? Take the damn potions, man."

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Two weeks later, Sirius slouched in a chair in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Apart from Buckbeak's hideaway, the kitchen was still the only safe room in the house. He'd thought his bedroom was finally in the clear before he'd realized the bed frame was walking around during night. Being startled awake by his mother's hideous shrieking at midnight made him lose a night's sleep.

The usual suspects crowded around the table as Dumbledore droned on: the Weasleys, Remus, Nymphadora, Mundungus, Hestia, Emmeline, Dedalus. This was Kingsley's fifth or sixth meeting. Snivellus was blessedly absent. Unfortunately, Rowle was not.

Things hadn't gone well when she learned the fate of her potions, but unfortunately, it hadn't stopped her talking to him. He didn't remember Rowle from Hogwarts, but they'd probably overlapped by a few years. A Slytherin if he ever saw one. Maybe not the nastiest sort since Dumbledore trusted her, but then again he trusted Snivellus.

She was proud to a fault, ambitious, unbending, no doubt cunning. Only that and blatant nepotism would have landed her Healer-in-Chief on the Spell Damage ward at the ripe old age of early thirty something or other. Skill could only take her so far.

Her promotion snagged Dumbledore's attention, and Kingsley and Tonks, frequent visitors to Spell Damage, reeled her in. Kingsley flirted with her. Tonks drank with her. Remus was indebted to her. Molly would probably divorce Arthur to marry her. Even McGonagall regarded her with affection. Sirius should probably cut her some slack.

But Kreacher loved her. Enough said.

At last the usual business was taken care of, and Dumbledore made a plea. "Is there anyone of your acquaintance with a modicum of talent who might be persuaded or, dare I say, beguiled into teaching Defense at Hogwarts come September?"

Arthur Weasley sighed in commiseration. "No luck with applicants then, Albus?"

"It is truer to say 'no applicants.' Full stop. I'm afraid I'm rather unpopular at the moment." He looked around expectantly. "No one? Serafina my dear, you're a fresh face."

Hers was a face somewhere on the border between plain and pretty. She'd look nice enough if she bothered to fix up.

"I know two or three qualified witches, but barring actual beguilement, I can't imagine them choosing a year teaching children over their current pursuits." She showed empty palms. "I could more easily suggest a teacher for Potions."

Sirius perked up. If she was having a go at Snivellus, she might not be so bad after all.

"Isn't Severus willing to teach Defense?"

Nope. She was the worst. Nice to have it confirmed.

"Severus is best-placed where he is," said Dumbledore.

"He'd be brilliant at it," said Rowle. The worst. "Given the circumstances, Defense Against the Dark Arts is the last subject you want to let slide."

Dumbledore hesitated. "As to that, we are in complete agreement, but alas, I cannot risk losing Severus. You see, he could not take up his position as Potions professor again next year. With a single exception, all former Defense professors left the castle after their terms were completed, despite a few offers of other professorships that they wanted to accept but could not."

"The exception?"

"She was the school nurse before Poppy Pomfrey."

Rowle sighed. "Severus would object to the school nurse attire."

Tea shot out of Tonks's nose.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Indeed."

Sirius grinned at Remus, who rolled his eyes but looked amused. Then Sirius realized Rowle was looking right at him. "Well then, what about Mr. Black? I understand another Defense teacher managed to Polyjuice himself all year."

In one fell swoop, Rowle rocketed out of the 'minus points' hole she'd dug herself. "Ruddy brilliant," Sirius breathed. Then came the objections.

"Sirius would hex the Malfoy boy within a week."

"Only if he deserved it."

"You'd favor the Gryffindors in general and Harry in particular."

"Snape favors the Slytherins like mad! I'd be putting it to rights!"

"He and Severus can barely be in the same room without quarreling. Working together for a year? They'd kill each other."

"S'not like I'd be roomies with him. I vote we just don't tell him."

"You honestly think he wouldn't figure it out?"

"The students would be suspicious from the onset. They've had a series of wretched teachers—"

"I beg your pardon."

"—with the exception of Remus, of course. An actual Death Eater taught them! There's no way they wouldn't catch Sirius in the act of taking Polyjuice."

Dumbledore interlaced his fingers and leaned forward. "While I would welcome Sirius to the staff under different circumstances, the stakes are rather too high, I'm afraid."

"Now, now just wait a minute." Sirius marshaled all his considerable mental powers for a quick and easy solution that would allay their concerns.

"You are not a subtle man, Sirius," said Dumbledore. "I would not have the power to contain the backlash were you discovered in my employ."

It was the first hope he'd had of an actual life beyond this infernal prison, and it was dashed before he could compose a single lesson plan.

"The Ministry could move take over the school with an excuse like that," said Rowle quietly.

"There are a series of educational decrees moving through the Ministry and Wizengamot as we speak," Dumbledore confirmed.

"My apologies. I didn't consider the ramifications or the, er, personalities involved."

Bloody hell, the witch just could not redeem herself. Bitterly, Sirius sank down in his chair.

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Weasleys were practically ubiquitous around Grimmauld Place nowadays. They hadn't moved in yet, but they were busy clearing the bedrooms in preparation for that eventuality. Couldn't walk for tripping over them. Tonks laughed at him and called it the ginger conspiracy.

The onslaught of Weasleys meant that Rowle was back. After an overture by Molly, the witches had a lively discussion about the endless funding war between St. Mungo's and the Ministry and how frustrating it was that preventative screenings merited few subsidies while the Ministry bankrolled advanced cases of preventable illnesses. "The moral is to get really, really sick first—better yet, wait until you're on your deathbed and then come to St. Mungo's." It ended with Rowle assuring Molly that she was happy to look over the kids and not to fret about money. Molly left to track down a child.

Rowle crossed the room for a bag she'd hung on a coat rack. She caught Sirius's eye, which wasn't hard because he'd already been watching her. It was a 'friends close, enemies closer' sort of thing.

Motioning to the bag, she said, "I was recently able to outfit a portable exam room for the Order's use and restock my supply of potions, diagnostic runes, and InsideOut Mirrors. I usually make my own first-aid potions, but this time, I deemed that the time saved was worth the extra expense."

She had hazel eyes—pretty eyes, if you were looking, which he wasn't. Then he registered her words and heard the threat. Morgana's tits, he'd be knee-deep in potions and tinctures before the hour was up.

"There's some gold set aside for medical purposes for the Order, you know."

That was news to Sirius. "Is there, really?" he said and looked around for an excuse to escape.

"Oh, yes. I call it the Black Family Vault."

The implications left Sirius gaping.

"Kreacher placed the order for me," she went on blithely. "I can provide you a full accounting of my expenditures."

"That's—that's theft!" he yelped.

"Also known as recompense for the willful destruction of thirty-two potions and considerable hours of labor—skilled labor, Mr. Black. Not to mention the cost of ingredients. Those weren't stock potions." So saying, she plopped the bag on the floor, opened it rather violently, and began pulling things out. "You could have handed those potions back to me with 'no thank you' or even a 'damn you, woman, I'm not your toxic sludge receptacle,' but no! You chose to throw them out!"

"It's still theft!"

"You want to be nicer to your house-elf. He's practically begging for ways to undermine you."

"You saw that and swooped in to take advantage, didn't you. Bought this Bag of Doom and stuffed it full for personal gain!"

At this point, the drawing room was occupied by a hospital bed and a long wooden table with various instruments affixed to it with sticking charms. Rowle wasn't done though. She piled scopes, books, and mirrors on the table.

"I really need to organize all this," she muttered. She reached into the bag again. Out came a Pensieve.

"Bloody hell," cried Sirius. "Did you empty the entire sodding vault?"

"Comfort yourself with the knowledge that blood traitors and Muggle-borns will benefit from this wanton thievery of mine. Besides, the Pensieve was already mine."

"First you steal from the Ministry—good on you, really—"

"I did not steal from the Ministry. The clause that covers Wolfsbane is already written in the by-laws. It falls under a public health initiative!" She reached deep into the bag and heaved out a rack of clanking glass vials.

Sirius snorted. "I don't believe you. If that were true, werewolves would flood St. Mungo's every month, and the Ministry would be bankrupt. If it is true, you've lost my respect."

Rowle set to work laying things out on her massive table. "Firstly, what respect? Secondly, it is true. Granted, I fudged a few things to bypass a stipulation or two, but—"

"Oho! Haven't the guts for outright rebellion, but worming your way through the cracks is acceptable, aye?" No surprise. That was the standard modus operandi for Slytherins.

Rowle stopped paying attention to him and instead pulled on lime green robes. The symbol of St. Mungo's, a bone and wand forming an X, was embroidered on the chest. At a word, parchment attached itself to a clipboard, and a crimson quill levitated to a writing position. She reached once more into her bag and pulled out a stack of St. Mungo's patient files.

"This one's yours, Mr. Black." She opened the top one. "I'd like it to be quite a bit thicker, but since you've chosen to forgo treatment—"

"Look, you gave contradictory instructions. Gain some weight, you said. Drink these potions, you said. But when potions result in the loss of recently consumed foodstuff, what's a wizard to think?"

"Did you actually vomit?"

"It was a damn near thing."

"You're the only one who remains obstinate, Mr. Black, and perversely, you are the one most in need of treatment."

"Dumbledore," he said. "Bet you haven't checked out Dumbledore." Sure enough, Rowle paused. Sirius smiled broadly. The old man had a special way of diverting attention and ducking odious chores. It explained how he kept dodging Sirius's queries about Harry. Plus Dumbledore had Pomfrey for all that nonsense. "Manage that, and I'll reconsider. He's getting up there in age, best do a full work up."

Her hesitance was a concession. She rallied, however. "While you're here, you can at least help me fill out your medical history. First, blood type. What is your blood type?"

"MgO, something or other."

She rolled her eyes. "I need a blood sample then. Just a single—"

"Yeah, no. Not happening. I don't expect you'd turn me into a puppet via Dark Arts, but your cousin, dear Thorfinn? Can't take the chance, dearie."

She'd closed her eyes as though praying for patience (or patients, teehee, he'd have to make the joke to Remus). "It's a single drop of blood that I'll destroy in front of your eyes the moment the reading comes through."

She took her job way too seriously. He knew. He was Sirius.

He told her so.

She held her wand to his throat. That shut him up.

"Say you're hit in the neck with a Severing Hex or your stomach is opened up by a close-range Confringo. You're bleeding out and a Blood-Replenishing Potion isn't working fast enough. You die, Mr. Black. Without ready donors, you die."

Close up, Sirius decided that her eyes weren't so very pretty. It was more that the rest of her was so plain. Some feature or another had to stand out. It was the eyes by process of elimination.

"Everything all right?" Molly had returned with Ron.

Rowle lowered her wand.

"Course, course," said Sirius. He waved at the medical paraphernalia. "I'm simply surveying the fruits of my investment."

Rowle smiled at Molly. "Mr. Black has taken it on himself to fund a medical unit for the Order."

"Comprehensive stuff here," said Sirius loudly. "Dissolvers for determined hangnails, elixirs for incontinence, antidotes for arthritis, banishers for bogies, no doubt."

"Don't forget warthog extract for wart removal," Rowle added.

"Oh, really?" said Molly happily. "Which formula, may I ask? I've tried everything, but Ronnie's—"

"Mum!"

"Don't be shy. Serafina is a healer."

"He's not!" Ron pointed an accusing finger at Sirius, who was already starting for the door. No way in seven hells did he want to hear another word of this.

Two hours, three Weasleys, and one biting snuffbox later, Sirius had become adept at a mold-repelling charm. The bastion of said mold was once the sunroom, but the twins had claimed it for a bedroom. One of the twins poked his head in. There was a short white stick sticking out of his mouth. The twin pulled it out. It had a colorful disk attached to the end. He gave it a lick.

Then he asked, "Where's Fred?"

"Aren't you Fred?"

He grinned. "Where's George then?"

"I thought he was with you."

The twin shook his head. "Ginny said he was with you."

"He was with me. Past tense."

Sirius gestured to the room, empty of wizards but for himself. Fred (maybe Fred, Sirius honestly couldn't tell) popped the candy back in his mouth.

"What are you eating?" asked Sirius.

"It's a lolly. Muggle treat, pure sweetness."

Sirius wrote it off. Did it explode? No. Did it burn your tongue off? No. Muggles got loads of things right—motorcycles, case in point—but candy? Nope. He'd stick with Honeydukes, thanks.

Fred wandered off in search of his wayward twin. Ten minutes later, he returned. "Apparently, you're the last to see George alive."

Sirius paused, turned slowly on his heel, and considered the room at large. He thought back. The last he'd seen of George, the boy had been uprooting the overgrown potted plants dear old mum had left behind.

They found George before the Venomous Tentacula could digest him. Rowle was still hanging around, so a hefty dose of antivenom was administered promptly. Molly was in hysterics and utterly worshipful of Rowle.

"M'fine, Mum," George insisted as she fussed over him.

"He really is fine," said Rowle. "That was a Somewhat Less Venomous Tentacula."

Dumbledore graced them with his presence that evening as Mad-Eye had new information to share. The headmaster seemed to enjoy having so many Weasleys around. In fact, he was eyeing the youngest with particular interest.

"What is that in your mouth, Miss Weasley?" asked Dumbledore.

She turned red and pulled out the lolly. "Er, sorry, Professor. It's a lollipop. Muggle candy. I had my appointment with Healer Rowle earlier. She gives them out after the check ups."

Dumbledore beamed.

He was still beaming forty five minutes later when he exited the drawing room, straightening his robes with one hand and twirling a lolly with the other.

Rowle looked at Sirius with a now-familiar glint in her eyes.

"Snape!" he called out to her as he slipped out of the kitchen.

Molly tracked down Sirius before she left that evening and exclaimed tearfully that if it weren't for his generosity her Georgie might have suffered far worse. He mumbled something about there being no better a use for Black family galleons than in the service of blood traitors. Thereafter, Molly gave him extra large portion of whatever treat she was serving.

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.

.

The drawing room couch was still swallowing people, despite efforts to the contrary. Sirius sat on it and tried not to cringe when the pillows shifted and springs wrapped around his ankles to pull him down. They squeezed him between the wooden braces of the couch and the dusty floorboards. Didn't even create a pocket dimension to store him in. The couch wasn't creative enough to do worse.

The door opened.

"Thank you for coming," said Rowle.

"Albus insisted." Even his voice sounded greasy.

Some rustling ensued, then came the scratching of a quill on parchment. Sirius tried not to sneeze.

"Blood type?"

"Magus A, Muggle B, Rh positive, Dm negative."

"Truly? I guarantee you'll never be called for donation, Mr. Snape."

Silence. More the scratching of the quill.

"Shirt off, please."

Snape sighed. He did a lot more sighing in the next five minutes as Rowle listened to his breathing and other such things. Sirius grew bored and cramped under the couch. He hadn't believed for a second Snivellus would actually allow Rowle to examine him but would own to it only to spite Sirius, hence the subterfuge.

Something snapped. Then Rowle said, "Calming Draughts are not safe with excessive use, Mr. Snape."

"I'd be calmer if your idiot cousin would stop proposing schemes to assassinate Albus."

"My idiot cousin was smart enough to escape Azkaban. How many draughts do you take per day?"

"Never more than two."

"In conjunction with…?"

"He and Macnair seem to think it a viable plan to off Albus at Hogshead and claim that sibling rivalry finally reached a breaking point. No, I don't believe he was smart enough to escape Azkaban."

"Family lore, otherwise known as incessant gossip, says that his mum placed him under the Imperius Curse so his brain activity would show all the necessary hallmarks to the Aurors when they arrested him. Then she offered concessions to certain Wizengamot factions. No doubt a considerable number of others escaped in a similar fashion. Thorfinn was at least smart enough to listen to his mummy. Are you done bothering me?"

Silence.

"What do you take along with the Calming Draughts?"

Half-forgotten knowledge was worming its way back into Sirius's head, precipitated by a crawling, creeping sensation of doom. This was the worst idea he'd ever had, and he'd had a lot of bad ideas.

"Your cousin is a brute, and I do not use that term lightly."

"Third cousin once removed. We're barely related," said Rowle shortly. "Given a well-known side effect of Calming Draughts and your own reticence, I'm going to start making assumptions. Ideally, we'd discuss a lifestyle change to reduce stress factors and wean you off the draughts. You'd be restored to healthy wanking habits within a fortnight."

Silence. Except the muffled sound of Sirius gagging.

"Must you be crude?"

"Must you be squeamish? The long-term health of your prostate—"

"I'm none too concerned with anything 'long-term.'"

"Clearly. You're faffing around with potions, dosing yourself without an iota of training. Look, just because you can make the potions in your sleep doesn't mean you understand how they'll interact inside your body. How many different potions are you taking in a week?"

Sirius jammed his fingers in his ears as Snivellus gave in and grew, by his standards, verbose. Robes were removed. Gloves were snapped. Instruments were utilized. Probes were performed. Sirius was growing claustrophobic and nauseous beyond belief. It was only when the tremor of footsteps led to the door and the door itself opened that Sirius hazarded a listen.

"Was there something else, Mr. Snape?"

"I'm told there is a Muggle candy—"

"Are you serious?"

"Thank Merlin, no."

"Really, Severus."

Another sigh. "Albus demanded it as proof of my cooperation."

Rowle snorted. "Take two. He could have just asked. Honestly."

It felt like another hour before Rowle left the drawing room. Sirius waited three seconds longer. Then he threw the couch off him with a burst of wandless magic. In seconds, he'd broken it into pieces with the Severing Hex and ripped the pieces apart before setting them on fire and vanishing them.

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.

.

The dementor attack changed everything. And nothing. The house was loud and chaotic, which Sirius liked. Mundungus was on the naughty list; Molly actually poisoned his soup, which Sirius liked even more. But Sirius was still stuck in his job of doing nothing while listening to Snape go on and on about the risks he took on a daily basis. Sirius had Harry at least, and boy was his godson a bundle of happy feelings. Resentment and impatience were eating at him. Sirius could relate.

They set the kids to work and tried to keep Harry busy while keeping him unaware of the Order's agenda. Sirius was nursing a cuppa in the kitchen when Snivellus walked in. Sirius quickly deposited the mug in the sink and made his escape. He didn't miss the smirk Snape wore, clearly believing he'd won some competition, but Sirius quite literally couldn't look at the git without wanting to hurl. There were things he could never un-hear.

"Mr. Black."

He cringed at the sound of Rowle's voice. Sirius swung around, ready for a fight, only to see Harry standing next to her. He looked a little surly, but that was normal these days.

"Oi! Leave Harry out of this!"

"I can hardly leave Mr. Potter out. My primary purpose in the Order is to keep the rest of you healthy, and if I have to stir the good sense of familial bonds to achieve that objective, I won't hesitate."

"Stir the sense—? Look, you're a bloody zealot for your job, and that's just grand. But trying to saddle Harry with responsibility for my own choices is a step too far."

"Er, Sirius," said Harry, looking sheepish, "Healer Rowle was—"

"Don't you worry about a thing, Harry," he said smoothly. "I'm in my prime. Healthy as a hippogriff. Speaking of which, I really ought to see to Buckbeak."

"In your prime?" Rowle scoffed. She crossed her arms. "Fine, let's talk about you, Mr. Black. Twelve years in Azkaban, chronic malnutrition, signs of advanced aging, colonies of parasites—"

"Private information that is!"

"You have told, by last count, six people about the parasites, as though they give you bragging rights! Given that you communicate with fewer than fifteen people on a regular basis, I consider it public information. Your obstinacy offends reason, Mr. Black, but I can't very well force you to accept treatment."

"I'll thank you to remember your own words next time you come round. Carry on then. Harry, ever pulled the ticks off a hippogriff?"

"By not seeking treatment now," continued Rowle, "you are setting yourself up for short-term deficiencies and complications later in life."

"Well, Harry m'boy? It's not as bad as it sounds."

"Point of fact," Rowle said. Poncy pureblood Slytherin with poncy turns of phrase. "We didn't corner you to talk about your health, Mr. Black."

"Could've fooled me." Sirius tried to ignore Harry's uncomfortable look.

"Not at all," she said. "If a patient is stubborn to the point of idiocy, I'll admit defeat and give my time and talents to a willing patient. I promise I'll not pester you in the future unless you come to me first."

Well, that was fine. Just fine. Exactly what he wanted.

"I want to talk about your godson."

Er, what? A glance at Harry showed he was not surprised.

"If you'll join us in the drawing room, Mr. Black?"

He followed, a bit perturbed to find himself back in the room he'd been assiduously avoiding. No one had questioned the disappearance of the couch. They were well shot of it.

Rowle got right to the point. "I've spoken with the Dursleys and Madame Pomfrey to establish medical history. He's had all his Muggle shots. He's been treated for broken bones, concussions, and such at Hogwarts. All normal. He has not, however, been vaccinated for Dragon Pox or Mumblemumps. I'd like your permission before inoculating him."

"Don't they have the kids catch those on purpose when they're young?"

"Oh yes, Dragon Pox in particular. The disease is almost harmless for small children. At your age, Mr. Potter, you'd be stuck in bed for three or four days, rather miserable, but you'd recover."

Sirius put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Harry's grandparents died from Dragon Pox."

"What?" said Harry as his head spun towards Sirius.

"I remember. I attended Mrs. Potter's funeral," said Rowle. She addressed Harry. "Did you know your grandmother was a Rowle? The name 'Euphemia' gets passed along every generation or two in my family. I've got an aunt—well, I call her 'aunt'—she's really a cousin—her name's Euphemia, too."

"We're…related?" Harry's voice was a little breathy.

Rowle seemed to realize she'd stepped right into a sticky topic. Sirius squeezed Harry's shoulder. "All purebloods are related in one way or another if you go back far enough."

Rowle still looked a little unsure of herself, as though realizing for the first time the Boy Who Lived was an orphan and might just find a magical family member, even a distant one, riveting. "I can find a copy of the family tree if you're interested." She hesitated. "Though I have to warn you, a rather large portion of the Rowles is, well, Death Eater Central."

Harry stared. Rowle shrugged a little helplessly. Sirius stepped in again. "Same with the Blacks," he said. "I'll show you the family tapestry, Harry. Maybe we can figure out how to burn the thing. Now about the Pox…"

Rowle took up topic with a relieved air. "The Potters were quite old when they contracted the disease. There's no reason to think Mr. Potter has any sort of inborn weakness to it. Of course, I still recommend vaccination. He won't even register effects from the Mumblemumps potion, but it's not uncommon to have a fever for a day or two from the Dragon Pox potion. If you're very unlucky, you'll develop a few spots, but I can safely promise they won't form itchy pustules."

"Right. Permission granted," said Sirius.

Rowle nodded. "I'll come by again this weekend. Miss Granger needs her vaccines, too. There's one more thing." Rowle held out some parchment with a sodding ton of stuff written all over it. It looked like a star chart honestly. There were a bunch of dots and lines and spirals. One thicker line of ink sort of blobbed one way and circled back on itself.

"The results of Mr. Potter's blood test. Magus O, Muggle A, Rh positive, Dm positive." Then she tapped the blob of ink as though it should mean something to them. "You're anemic and vitamin C deficient."

Sirius and Harry exchanged blank looks.

"Anemia a Muggle condition. Easily treated, except that I don't yet know what kind of anemia you have. There are many causes of it, but I rather suspect…" She cleared her throat. "That is to say, your cousin is obese, Mr. Potter. You are underweight. This leads me to believe your anemia developed as a result of poor nutrition. To confirm this, I need another blood sample. If my suspicion is accurate, I'd like to prescribe a course of treatment."

Rowle paused. And…bloody hell, there was a lot to read between the lines, and every bit of what Sirius was reading made him sick. Harry was looking at the floor.

"You're a far sight healthier than your cousin, but I want to be thorough."

So saying, she held up an InsideOut mirror to his abdomen, did the equivalent of snapping a picture, and showed Harry. "That's your liver. Now let's take a look inside…"

Over the next few days, Sirius made a special effort to liken Harry to James and Lily (loudly enough so everyone could hear him), talk broomsticks and witches (in mixed company to make the boy blush; it was adorable), compliment Harry (pretty much all the time), and hug Harry (when no one else was looking). Sirius got into a spot of bother when Molly wanted to talk about Harry's lengthier examination, but Sirius wasn't about to air anything Harry would rather not be known. Surprisingly, Rowle turned out to be his ally in this.

Molly was not allowed inside the drawing room as he and Harry watched Rowle drop Harry's blood into a series of tinctures, which all changed colors. She then drop those tinctures onto a metal plate that was holding a clear liquid and a very white piece of parchment—or what looked a bit like parchment. He hadn't the foggiest notion what it was. The parchment-thing absorbed the colors, which moved around the thingie. After a minute, Rowle flicked her wand to levitate the now-colorful thingie and cast a Drying Charm.

"Better than I would have guessed," she said. "In broad terms, we need to work on your vitamin intake. For that matter, lay off the bready snacks and treacle tart while you're here. I'll have a word with Molly. At Hogwarts—hm, I'll speak to Minerva, too. The food's a bit heavy on the fat and cholesterol, and the house elves are all too willing to overlook untouched greens."

The more she spoke, the more unhappy Harry became. She prescribed something for his anemia, and Harry took the first dose right then and there. Then she handed over a stimulant for his liver and a familiar potion that was murky green in color and smelled about as good as it looked.

"Why are there chunks in it?" Harry sounded outraged.

Sirius stifled a grin. He'd asked much the same question.

"Bottoms up, Mr. Potter."

Harry gagged. Sirius let the grin out.

"That's it, right?" Harry asked, almost gasping.

"For today," said Rowle.

"Er," said Harry.

"You are not yet of age, Mr. Potter. Therefore, I defer to your guardian's judgement when it comes to your health, and that judgement grants you a six-week course of treatment."

Harry shot him a wounded look. Sirius chuckled. "Take heart, Harry. After finally doing some godfatherly duties, old Lils won't have cause to fuss at me in the afterlife."

"Except about your health," Harry muttered mutinously. Then he seemed to realize he'd hit on something. Green eyes narrowed, but somehow the look was mischievous. "I'll do it if you will."

Sirius cleared his throat. "Now see here, Harry, there are things a growing wizard needs that an adult wizard does not."

"Healer Rowle," said Harry respectfully—so very respectfully, the little wanker—"what do you recommend for Sirius?"

"Oh, if I had my way, he'd be strapped to a bed in St. Mungo's being force fed potions for three weeks before being released with a strict regimen to continue at home along with ample exercise and healthy meals."

"And you can duel with Dumbles over that," said Sirius. "Be my guest. The fact is I can't be out and about and useful to the Order with ninety-nine percent of the wizarding world ready to set doxies on me. There's not much I can do—"

"Because you aren't thinking hard enough!" said Rowle. Sirius was taken aback. "You need a job, an activity, a pursuit! You shouldn't be wallowing in this miserable place. Surely there's something you can do."

She probably wasn't trying to insult him with that remark. Probably. But Sirius was feeling all out of sorts and couldn't come up with a rejoinder that didn't sound pathetic. Rowle recovered herself and added for Harry's benefit, "I'd also have him under a Cheering Charm for two hours each day. It's artificial happiness, but the body does respond to reduced stress and does increase endorphin production under its influence."

Harry's eyes had grown large over this exchange. "Sirius," he said. His voice sounded hollow and unsure.

"I'll leave you two alone for a bit, shall I?"

Sirius did not enjoy the conversation that followed, not one jot. He couldn't—wouldn't—brush off Harry, and Harry didn't have a whole lot of experience cajoling recalcitrant family members. That reminder worked better than one of Dumbledore's guilt trips.

Finally Harry repeated, "I will if you will." His jaw was set. His eyes gleamed. But there was also a sense of hesitance in his manner—rather, that he had to take a breath and build up courage before delivering the ultimatum—like it was some kind of test—test of what? Test of Sirius's affection?

Aw, damn.

Rowle didn't have the courtesy to gloat when he asked her politely for some of her bloody concoctions. Okay, he wasn't too polite about it.

"And, er," he added and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I got the impression all this medical mess is time-consuming and a wee bit costly." And where the hell did that language come from? He straightened and added haughtily, "Not that you need permission apparently, but the Black Vault—get Kreacher to run your errands. It's fine."

She smiled at him, and Sirius thought it was a rather nice change.

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.

"Here's your grandmother, Harry."

Rowle had spread a knitted blanket of all things over the kitchen table. Embroidered on the blanket were six generations of the Rowle family tree. Sirius would have scoffed, but his family did weirder things. Harry's friends crowded around the table. Remus stood off to the side, somewhat interested himself as he thought he had a Rowle ancestor, too.

Rowle was pointing at a silhouette with the name "Euphemia Rowle" stitched underneath. "It doesn't follow her line since she married out, but see your great-grandmother here? She was a rather famous Seeker."

She told Harry what she could about his family, though Sirius got the sense she was cherry-picking the details. Meanwhile Hermione traced a line with her finger, paused for about half a second to think, and exclaimed, "This means you and Harry are second cousins twice removed!"

Rowle nodded at Harry. "At least you're closer to me than you are to Thorfinn." She snorted. "Seriously, if you see a giant blonde brute with a face like an arse, run fast. Or hex him. Whichever comes naturally."

Harry was rather quiet about all of this, and Rowle got a panicked look, like she wasn't used to dealing with family members who had feelings she wasn't afraid to hurt. Actually, Sirius would bet that was the exact problem. He jabbed at a picture on the blanket.

"Helen Moffat?" he asked with a raised brow.

Rowle chuckled grimly. "Oh, yes. My great-grandfather married a Muggle-born. While he wasn't officially cast out of the family, he suffered for it, and ever since he's been obsessed with seeing his line re-purified." She gave a mock bow. "I stand before you a first generation pureblood."

"Perseus Rowle—that's a familiar name," mused Hermione.

"Really?" asked Rowle. "That's a surprise. He's never done anything noteworthy except to arrange disastrous marriages."

Hermione mumbled to herself, and Harry and Ron exchanged knowing looks. Rowle watched the trio curiously.

Remus said, "Hermione is one of Hogwarts most dedicated students. No doubt she—" He cut himself off when Hermione stared at him, then at Sirius.

"He's an Animagus!" Hermione cried. "There are just three registered Animagi in all of Britain, and Perseus Rowle is one of them."

"Oh, that," said Rowle. "You're right…which I suspect is not an uncommon occurrence."

Hermione beamed.

"He never has told me what animal he is. My guess is a donkey. He's a stubborn arse."

"Then why's Sirius a dog?" asked Ron.

"Because he's a playful, stupid mongrel," said Remus fondly.

"Oi!"

"Loyal," added Harry. Sirius puffed his chest. "He's friendly, and well, he'll eat anything."

Sirius whacked the back of his godson's head as a thanks-for-nothing-kid. He caught Rowle staring at him and stared right back, raising a brow in question.

Finally she asked, "You're an Animagus?"

Sirius bowed. "At your service."

"A dog Animagus?"

"Everyone and your mum's favorite Death Eater know that."

"I didn't know it."

Seeing nothing for it, he transformed into Padfoot. Rowle's brows furrowed. Remus bent down to scratch his ears, and Sirius leaned into his hand, wagging his tail ferociously. He made his best puppy eyes and whinged a little. Harry laughed and joined Remus in scratching. Sirius knew he was adorable. Rowle's expression didn't change.

Must be a cat person.

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.

.

The kids left for Hogwarts, and Grimmauld Place regained its status as the pit of despair. Even Order meetings were suspended for a time. The only people he saw were Remus, who took pity on him, Tonks, who needed to sleep off a hangover, and Rowle, who dropped off potions every four days. He might just quit drinking those foul concoctions. Familiarity did not dampen their utterly rancid flavor. Plus, they made his joints ache. On the other hand, he wanted to be able to look Harry in the eye next time they talked, and he didn't hate the occasional chat with Rowle.

One Saturday evening, some of his gloom lifted. The house was crowded again, and he'd seen Dung sneak in firewhisky. First, they had to let various people get various complaints and concerns off their chests. It was important to listen and nod in sympathy, Sirius was told, thus fostering a sense of community and safety and love and joy and bubbles. Load of tosh. He could barely keep his eyes open.

"I really must question Mr. Black's role in the war effort, in that he doesn't have one."

It was Rowle. Of course it was. Just when he started to think she was all right, she kept hexing herself in the foot. She was a blunt, forthright person, which Sirius would appreciate if she weren't so fixated on fixing him.

"The point has been contested in great depth," Dumbledore said with a pleasant nod. "Sirius's position is unique, and leaving Grimmauld Place even on business for the Order is, while regrettable, altogether untenable."

She waved away his polite suggestion to shelve the subject. "I understand. If Voldemort finds him, he's dead. If the Ministry finds him, he's Kissed. If he's simply spotted on the streets in human or canine form, he's liable to endanger whatever mission he's on. He could disguise himself, but Transfigurations fall apart with a simple Finite, amulets can be confiscated or lost, and potions wear off."

"A succinct explanation," replied Dumbledore.

"Countering that, it's a dreadful waste of resources to keep him locked away in this house, especially considering the Ministry's propaganda and the resulting blockade of critical thinking. I'm the probably the last proper recruit the Order will get, at least until Voldemort is outed."

"You're not wrong about that," said Kingsley. "I made a reference to tenpin bowling and Albus's knack for it. Thicknesse looked like he'd swallowed an eel."

"He always looks like that," said Tonks.

Moody grunted, "Better to have Sirius on hand in case of a raid."

"We need someone in headquarters at all times," added Molly.

And Sirius, while briefly interested, began to tune them out. Hadn't Rowle learned how these things went by now? The chorus of naysayers took up the chant.

"—can't guard the Hall of Prophecies—"

"—can't recruit new members—"

"—can't spy—guise would fail—"

"—Harry would be devastated—"

Were they going to have the same discussions and disagreements over and over?

"Those are all the objections?" asked Rowle.

"It's rather a lot," offered Arthur.

"But none are insurmountable," said Rowle, and Sirius perked up. "We won't be conducting raids until Voldemort is in the open. As for staffing headquarters, there are others of us more suited to so passive a role."

"Tah," put in Dung.

"He needs access to potions—because it really has to be potions. No other method is as safe from detection. He needs a secure and private location to drink the potions, a controlled space where he can walk in and out without drawing undue notice."

"A controlled space, as you say," agreed Dumbledore. "One that is also significant to our cause. That rather narrows the options."

"Those are the prerequisites?" she asked.

Dumbledore hesitated as though there were a trap. "Serafina, if you can suggest a viable alternative for Sirius, one that does not put him directly in harm's way, I'm all ears."

Rowle smiled. Sirius sat straighter. Hell, Dumbledore sat straighter.

She held up one finger. "St. Mungo's."

Then a second. "My office."

She paused. "As a human, he's got no business being on my ward unless it's as a patient, but Mr. Black is a dog Animagus—"

"Oh, but everyone knows about that."

"A great black beast of a dog. Hardly subtle."

"Were you there when he saw Harry off? Reared up in a most un-doglike manner."

"What business would a dog have in St. Mungo's?"

"He would be there as a therapy dog," said Rowle. "My dog, which I loan to St. Mungo's during the day. I can't safely change his size long-term, but hair color and texture? Not even difficult. My office is the controlled space. I've already got wards in place for my own safety, but I can build a doggie door of sorts for Mr. Black. He can take the potions there and roam St. Mungo's to listen for news. Actual Death Eaters aren't likely to show up, but their children will. Their associates will. Their victims will. All the above are points of contact in one way or another. You would be in an ideal position to eavesdrop. What do you think?"

Sirius blinked, realizing he'd been asked a direct question, as though his opinion actually mattered. "What do I—what's a therapy dog?"

"A Muggle notion, but damn if it isn't effective for witches and wizards, too. You let adults pet and hug you, you romp with other dogs, you lick children, bring joy to babies, that kind of thing. Love and cuddles from dogs have remarkable restorative powers. Granted, you might have to suffer some embarrassment, sniff a few arses—stay in character as it were—but think of the possible information." She turned to the rest of Order. "In the event that Voldemort reveals himself and Mr. Black isn't cleared by the Ministry, he's still positioned to spy and provide security in case of an attack. I for one would be relieved to have a contact within St. Mungo's."

She paused and looked to Dumbledore. He stroked his beard but didn't speak.

Rowle went on, "The first major attack of the last war was in Hogsmeade on a students' weekend. It makes sense. You want to sow panic and fear? Attack the children. The second was on St. Mungo's. Want to terrify the populace? Take away their best and often last resource for any number of ills. Remove that safety net, and people are too terrified to leave their houses, let alone fight back. Besides, you aren't the only ones recruiting healers from St. Mungo's. I guarantee it. Mr. Black can sniff out any odd behavior in that respect, too."

She turned back to Sirius. "I'm not saying it's ideal. You'll really have to play the role. It might be demeaning at times. Mostly I suspect you'll be bored."

"No worse than guard duty," said Kingsley.

"Better than guard duty," Arthur bemoaned.

"We can pass you for a crossbreed," said Rowle. "Maybe a Labrador and St. Bernard mix? A little crup, too. They're intelligent, so I doubt anyone will look too closely unless you try reading patient files or bulletin boards."

"You'd need to be licensed to own a crup, even a mutt," said Kingsley, whereupon Rowle patted the bag she had slung around the back of her chair. "I've already got the paperwork."

Dumbledore moved his hand to his lap. The movement was noted, and heads turned to await his verdict. "With some precautions and assurances, the idea has merit."

"We'll have a training exercise," said Mad-Eye. "Shoulda done it when the kids were here."

"Info gathering, nice" said Tonks, grinning. "I want the dirty old man role."

"You're welcome to it," said Kingsley dryly.

"I had an uncle who raised dogs," said Hestia. "He was an old hermit, died just a month ago. You could use him as a backstory."

Rowle nodded. "I was going to invent a friend of a distant cousin. Your story's better."

"The details are simple to fashion. My primary concern remains," said Dumbledore, and dread grew in Sirius's stomach. He knew there would be a catch. There always was. "Forgive me, but your interactions, from what I've seen and heard, do not suggest temperaments that are ideal for a long-term assignment such as this."

Rowle's face flushed. "I know I can be overbearing—"

Sirius interrupted. "He meant me."

"I meant both of you," corrected Dumbledore. "Can you work together? Can you rely on one another? You would be interacting on a daily basis. Personalities clash. Tempers fray. You could not get away from each other so easily."

Sirius was at a bit of a loss because, yes, Rowle was a sneaky Slytherin who sneaked around his back to dose him with her toxic sludge, but rather than fractious, he'd thought their interactions erred on the side of…stimulating. Yes, that was the word for it. Maybe not Rowle's word for it though. He could be an arse, he knew it as well as the next person.

So he said, "I can hold my temper. If it means getting out of this house, I'll trim Malfoy's begonias."

"It's important work," Molly fussed. "You have to take it seriously."

"But I am—"

"That!" cried Molly. "That right there. The flippancy, the disregard—it's no wonder your suitability for the role is in doubt!"

"For instance," said Dumbledore cheerfully, "I would never approve an assignment that put Molly and Sirius working together in close quarters."

It was a rebuke. Molly colored. Sirius snorted.

Dumbledore brought his hands together and steepled his fingers. "Sirius would be in your home, Serafina. Sirius, your schedule would depend completely on hers. You could not come and go as you pleased. Months may pass and you might have nothing to show for your efforts. Serafina, this would increase your workload, which is already substantial. Your office is a refuge at work, and you would be sharing it."

Faces around the table grew regretful and sheepish as people realized they'd gotten overexcited about a possibility that was, in the end, futile.

"Doesn't matter," said Moody. Heads turned to him. "We're soldiers in a war. There's a job that needs doing. Personal preference doesn't matter, not for one damn second."

Sirius had to wonder what he'd missed that made people think they hated each other. Had Rowle been ranting about him behind his back? He thought not, else why would she bother to suggest something that would shove them together semi-permanently? Or maybe his growling and griping about the potions had given the wrong impression, though not to Rowle herself because, again, she had gone out of her way more than once to secure some sort of employment for him.

He glanced at Rowle to see a frown of confusion on her face, which he imagined his own echoed. Rowle was a menace, true enough, who put up a fight every time he sought one, but he couldn't say he disliked that. She was…refreshing. Yes, another good word.

"I agree, Alastor. It is indeed a worthy task, and Sirius is in a unique position to fill it. So!" said Dumbledore brightly. "If you would, please, say three kind things about one another. Put our minds at ease. Show us you can behave cordially."

Sirius stiffened. Dozens of eyes stared him down. Was this really happening? Had he really fallen into the role of a naughty child? Rowle appeared nonplussed, too. Sirius licked his lips as his mind drew a blank. He felt completely put on the spot. Silence reigned as everyone waited for him. Why did he have to go first? What exactly was he supposed to say?

"You're very, er…womanly," he said. "Nice hips."

Remus smacked the back of his head, and Hestia cried foul.

Rowle grinned though, and Sirius relaxed. It was her turn. "You'd be handsome if it weren't for the state of your internal organs."

"Oh, really? Well, you have loose morals," said Sirius.

"You're a sweetheart with Harry."

"I am, aren't I?" he replied, pleased. "Let's see, I like how you don't take shit from anyone—oh! And how you diss your family at every opportunity."

"I like how willing—scratch that, how eager you are to study potion-making so that I don't have to spend hours each week making the potion for your hair." Rowle looked to Dumbledore. "I'm assuming we passed."

His eyes twinkled. "I'd rate it an Acceptable, but yes."

She turned back to Sirius and winked. "How's white and fluffy?"

And suddenly, things reverted to what might just become the new normal.

"I'll bring the mug shots," said Moody. "You'll have to study up. And we need the names of the children."

"Crabbe, Nott, Carrow, blah, blah—that's the easy part."

"Minerva can provide a registry of pre-Hogwarts students."

"This works because—publicly—Rowle has no association with the Order. Keep it that way. Anyone who messes that up will deal with me."

They were talking to him. Preparing him for the work. Making plans. All of which meant he was getting out of this house. It was actually happening. Sirius leaned back in his chair, dazed. The meeting wrapped up soon afterwards. Remus clapped him on the back and said "well done" as though Sirius had something to do with it, but it wasn't him. He'd thrown in the towel weeks ago. He'd wallowed and griped and stewed bitterly. The sudden change in his fortune was all on Rowle, who was chatting with Hestia, no doubt about the dead uncle because Rowle never seemed to stop working. He was grateful. He was impressed. He was…staring at her.

Catching his eye, Rowle approached him. "I've got a half-shift in two days. Can I swing by afterwards? I'll bring the Bag of Doom, and we can get to work on the potion."

He felt lighter somehow. "Two days…I'm in no hurry to mar the wonder that is my hair. Then again, if anyone can pull off white and fluffy, I can. Handsome bloke like me."

She patted him on the chest. "It's the inside that counts, Sirius."

And his insides were chock full of parasites. He watched her leave with a grin on his face. He was finally 'Sirius,' eh.

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I recently went through a phase of reading nothing but Sirius/OC fics, but they were almost all set in the Marauder Era. I started imagining an OC love interest in the Order, and this is what came about. Sirius is a fun POV to write; I see him as a rather unreliable narrator and also self-destructive but in a weirdly lovable way. Hope you liked it!

Recommendation: I enjoyed The Reader by Frodo'sPen and The Ones Left Behind by Sudowoodo.