'You won't be killing anyone else tonight … You won't be able to kill any of them, ever again. Don't you get it? I was ready to die to stop you hurting these people … I meant to, and that's what did it. I've done what my mother did. They're protected from you. Haven't you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can't torture them. You can't touch them. You don't learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do you?' – Harry Potter to Lord Voldemort, Deathly Hallows, p. 591.

One moment he had been suspended in a slow fall, only the pain of Bellatrix's curse to remind him that he was still alive. The next, he was on the stone on the other side of the veil, blood seeping into his chest and lungs winded from the fall.

Gasping, ears ringing, Sirius flailed as he tried to find his wand – Harry was there, and the other children too, and Voldemort was surely coming to get his prophecy …

But it was quiet. Silent, in fact. Sirius' eyes rolled around as he tried to find Death Eaters in the darkness, tried to find a flash of Lucius Malfoy's hair or the silver of masks or Dumbledore's beard. There were no flashes of spells or hurrying feet.

Perhaps – he staggered to his feet, back aching, bones withered after Azkaban – the fight had moved somewhere else. He might have even been knocked out and left slumped there at the foot of the veil, left for dead. Not much time could have passed, surely, for he was in the Ministry and he was not in chains. He, the infamous Sirius Black had not been recaptured. Yet.

His chest pulsed in short bursts that made his vision blur at the edges each time. He must find the group, look for Harry and Remus and all the rest. Look for Lord Voldemort, if he must.

Unsettled and without a wand, Sirius leant carefully on the floor and the side of the veil in turn, wary of the silence it now afforded him. There were no whispers from the veil; it did not flutter. He stood slowly and took a few steps away from the veil before feeling comfortable to look around himself properly.

There wasn't a sign of anything at all, he thought in disbelief. No battle, no fight, no scuffle. Not even the hint of a single witch or wizard touched the strange limbo he found himself in.

'Strange,' Sirius muttered, left hand clutching his chest as he made his was slowly down the steps. His footsteps rebounded around the room.

A soft light came from an archway and Sirius approached it with caution. He had briefly seen the state Harry's schoolfriends were in and was woefully unprepared to fight off anything of the kind even if he didn't have the inexperience of a teenager anymore. The least he could do for himself, he reasoned, was to ensure he was not taken by surprise. It was because of this that his hands clenched into fists – one around the filthy material of his clothes, the other around itself – and why he stepped slowly and deliberately towards the doorway.

Nobody else seemed to occupy the Department of Mysteries. No Unspeakable shuffled by; not a sound bounced off the tiles. Sirius was faced with, somehow, an entirely empty circular room. Corridors branched off on his left and right, both turning into the distance a mere ten feet in. Opposite was a lift, the only point of interest.

Sirius was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. If this was the only alternative to wandering aimlessly through the Department of Mysteries while his godson faced Death Eaters somewhere in the building, he would take it. Perhaps the Department itself, sentient and judging, had decided he was worthy of a chance to do some good in the boy's life.

Having stepped lightly into the lift, the shutter rattled closed with a shriek. Sirius wet his lips and coughed. 'The Atrium, please.' He asked, eyes moving upwards as his body shrunk downwards, growing hair and legs as he took on the familiar form of his animagus.

Percy Weasley was working late. He thought he would get away with it because Audrey was still basking in the Christmas after-glow, and was pleased to have more time to herself after the insanity of waking up with a revolving number of relatives in your home. The girls were back at Hogwarts, sending a half-hearted letter apiece, and so Percy was comfortable with devoting himself to his work for the time being.

Nevertheless … the legislation he was working on required intense concentration which he had only managed to muster at three o'clock that afternoon; he doubted he would be able to pull himself back to it another time. Gone were the days of feeling passionate about cauldron bottom thickness; the excitement of beginning a career in government would have worn off quickly even without all the nastiness that soon followed.

It was just gone eight o'clock when Percy next looked at the time with a sigh. He was expected to complete another fourteen and a half inches of parchment by the end of the week and it was Wednesday already.

Dinner indoors by the fire desperately calling to him, Percy shuffled out of his chair and made the arduous journey to the tea station in the corridor. There were not many witches or wizards on the Minister for Magic's team, and so the halls surrounding Kingsley's office were not often bustling. This kept the kettle free and blissfully accessible. Percy hated to think on the state of the sugar bowl in the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. He preferred the quiet rustling of parchment and dim lighting of his workplace.

When he was watching the water turn a deeper brown, mind thankfully straying away from acceptable trading standards for magical phials and measuring instruments, the corridor bloomed in orange light. Kingsley emerged from his office looking tired.

'Tea?' Percy asked, stirring his own cup. Kingsley nodded and scrubbed his face.

'Give me an extra sugar,' he said lowly, grimacing. 'Dawlish has only just finished whinging.'

Percy did not envy him. Dawlish, having retained his job by the skin of his teeth (and considerable pleading that he had spent the war confounded and not, as George had sneered, merely being a coward and thick as dragon dung) was engaged in a constant, one-sided battle to be promoted after his many years of loyal service.

Kingsley always refused.

'When do you reckon he'll retire?' Percy asked conversationally, getting the milk.

Kingsley smiled wryly. 'He'll be killed off first. Either by a dark wizard trying his luck or –'

'Harry.' Percy finished with a grin. Kingsley laughed deeply. As their laughter, fuelled by hysteria of managing the pile up of work from the Christmas break, petered out, Percy glanced over Kingsley's shoulder. The smile slid off his face.

'Percy?' Kingsley said suddenly, wand already in hand. The mug Percy held began to shake. His hand was getting scalded and he had left his wand, stupidly, at his desk.

Kingsley was already turning and had stilled by the time Percy managed to point. On the far end of the corridor, trotting towards them, was a large black dog with straggling hair. It was shadowed by the empty cubicles around it, light from Kingsley's still open door glinting off it's eyes and making them shine a medley of colours.

'Do you believe in the Grim, Percy?' Kingsley asked slowly, wand levelled at the dog. The Grim came to within six feet of them and sat, head tilted curiously. It was two thirds the height of Percy, who considered himself rather gangly.

'I didn't,' Percy replied.

The Grim barked in a clipped, short way. Percy and Kingsley, for their shame, flinched.

'Now I think about it,' Kingsley began in the same steady voice, 'it actually –'

The grim stood sharply and rose on it's hind legs, growing taller and taller, getting more and more pale before it's shaggy hair moved inwards, and –

'Kingsley!' Sirius Black hissed, wrapping fur around himself hurriedly. 'I've got no wand, I – Percy? Percy Weasley? Where's everyone, where's Harry –?'

'Stupefy!' Kingsley said firmly, and Percy remembered he used to be an auror. Sirius Black crumpled to the floor, limbs weighted and flailing, shocked expression staying on his face.

'That's bought us some time.' He said to Percy, turning to face him properly. Kingsley looked shaken. Percy was too, and he hadn't even known the man. 'Let's get … whoever this is, to a holding room.'