A/N: This story came about from writing Ever Mine, Ever Thine, Ever Ours. There is, well, a ton of backstory involved with that fic, and I realized that skimming the whole late seventies era was one of my favorite things about writing it. So I decided to delve into the beginning of Sirius's relationship with Laura in 1979. Her first person perspective was influenced by the character Claire from Outlander, one of my favorite novels. Anyway, this type of story is not everyone's cup of tea, but I've missed writing Sirius. Especially young, strapping, libidinous (and straight, in my little universe) Sirius;) Hope you enjoy!

BTW, "One" is taken from the Metallica song, which really reminds me more of older Sirius than his early twenties counterpart. But I've always been lousy with titles and couldn't think of anything better, so there you go.

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and rights-holders. I make no money from this.

Trans World Airways flight 16 passed over western Ireland, giving me my first glimpse of land since the snowy peaks of Greenland the previous evening. The aroma of airplane-grade eggs and sausage links still lingered, and stewardesses trawled through the cabins, picking up empty food trays. I had awoken from a restless sleep, though nap was probably a more appropriate word. I smelled like a distillery, too, having spilled the dregs of a bourbon and coke on my only pair of jeans before falling asleep earlier. I managed to soak up most of it with cocktail napkins with the help of a very amused stewardess. By the time the pilot announced we were flying over the Blasket Islands, I was ready to be back on solid ground and in clean clothes. Judging by the sound of crying babies and the restlessness of the other passengers, I wasn't the only one.

Every so often, the realization struck me anew, and made my heart stop when it did. What I was doing was the scariest thing I had ever attempted. Living on my own, even temporarily, in a country where I knew absolutely no one. But it was exhilarating at the same time. I had enough money to take care of myself for quite some time, no motivation to be in America, and a ridiculous excuse for coming in the first place. To work on a doctoral thesis that was more unlikely to be finished with every passing mile away from home. I had finally admitted that to myself between New York and London. What I really wanted was to be on an adventure. Well, preferably in a place where English was the official language; I wasn't that adventurous.

Money I'd inherited from my grandmother had made a first-class voyage possible, at least once, and I soaked up the special treatment while trying to steer away from gauche verbosity or mannerisms. Trying to act as if this were no big deal was rather difficult, since this was not only my first flight in first-class; it was my first time on an airplane ever.

Finally, the pilot announced our initial descent into the London metropolitan area. The in-flight food had been better than I'd expected, but descending through clouds and the resulting bumpiness had taken a toll on my stomach. Then we broke through the clouds, and I had my first look at early morning Britain. Raindrops slid across the window, verifying the pilot's monologue overhead about the current dreary weather in London, but still, the landscape was verdant. Large squares of land in different shades of green and brown, with the occasional farmhouse, dominated whatever area we were flying over now.

We passed over cities, towns, villages, farmland, until the towns didn't end anymore. More and more buildings crammed together down on the ground, urban sprawl as far as I could see from my window. Soon enough, we were sitting upright and putting tray tables up, and flight attendants were seated. Then the plane touched down. Welcome to London, I told myself. Now what?

#

I splurged my first few nights there, staying in a decent hotel I'd read about in Frommer's. Even flush with cash in the form of travelers' checks, that grew old quickly, and I figured it was time to be looking seriously for something more permanent. I managed to find a decent place off Old Brompton Road in South Kensington, in Roland Gardens.

The next few weeks were reserved for travelling. I was tempted to overdo it, after thumbing through Frommer's 1979 Europe guidebook. Germany, Italy, Spain, France … there were so many places to visit, and fortunately I had all the time in the world to do it. But not yet. It wasn't until I took a breather in Inverness, up in the north of Scotland, that I slowed down enough to take stock of my current situation. My desire to come here had been fueled by the need to just get as far away from family as possible. What I planned to do long term, though … Well, I had no idea.

One day, while wandering around an isolated stone circle in a steady drizzle, I wondered what would have happened to me if I'd existed a few centuries back. Condemned as a witch, most likely, if my little eccentricities had been discovered. I wondered if at least some of the women who had been burned at the stake or drowned had a few of the talents that had driven my parents nuts, or if they had simply been destroyed by superstitious men. The thought of my mom and dad brought back a memory of our last monster fight, and my grandmother's death. The mystical mood of my surroundings thus destroyed, I turned away from the stone circle and headed toward the rental car at the foot of the hill.

#

Once I had experienced a few months of life, British style, I wasn't too interested in making a change. I had made a few friends, travelled even more, and settled down with the intent of working on my doctoral thesis in musicology. Being several thousand miles away from the university and my advisor made that plan slightly more of a challenge, though. Who cared about music theory, even if it involved my pianist hero Keith Emerson, when there was plenty of goofing off to be done in a much more interesting place than East Tennessee?

The fact remained that my visa was due to expire in four months. Getting around that might require a bit of creativity, and by that I meant the below-board kind. If I could manage it, though, no one would be wiser. So one day in mid-March, I planned a visit to the local immigration office to see if I could make something happen. A heavy sense of guilt accompanied me, which I managed to quash with difficulty. Any time I considered using that method, memories of Carrie took over, and I wondered if God was going to get me for this. On the other hand, I preferred to called that method the Jedi Mind Trick, and Jedis were good guys, therefore trumping telekinetic murderers who'd had pig blood foisted upon them at the prom.

Shoving God and Stephen King over to the side for the moment, I heaved a deep breath out in the hallway and cleared my mind. This sort of thing worked for me only sporadically, and I hoped I was lucky today.

A woman, maybe mid-forties, was seated at the desk, jabbing away at the keys on an IBM Selectric. She glanced up at me with regulation indifference.

"Be with you in a mo'," she muttered. "Have a seat." She motioned with her head to a naugahyde chair with several cracks in the seat, directly in front of her desk.

I sat opposite her patiently, trying to project an aura of supreme peacefulness. What might work once I got into her head? Okay. The weekend is almost here. Get out and have a pint with the chicks from down the hall. Wait, you like shandies? Jesus, how old are you, anyway? Shit. I was going to have to start all over again. Breaking my concentration with careless thoughts like that was going to get me kicked out of England before long if I wasn't more careful. But the mind reading seemed to work easily with her, at least. Perhaps she would be easily persuaded. She kept typing and ignoring me for the moment, but her expression grew a tad dreamier. Try again.

This lady in front of you would like to obtain a long term visa. Five years would be awfully nice. She's a model citizen of the United States – okay, this sounded stupid, but what were some good buzzwords? – uh, and …productive member of society, yadda yadda yadda.

I stopped for a moment and wondered if I shouldn't delve into her mind, not to plant something this time, but perhaps browse through some of her interests. There was … gardening. I could kill a silk plant, though. Pass. Quilting? Ooh. Good one. My own grandmother had been into that, and tried unsuccessfully to pass along her interest to her offspring's only daughter. And though I hadn't been the slightest bit interested, I knew some of the lingo, at least. And mentioning my sweet little grandma, recently deceased, might help.

Finally, she looked up. "What can I help you with?"

"My name is Laura Ketron. I'm currently here on a six month visa, and I would like to apply for a long term, uh, visa. Excuse me, is that a quilting book?"

She flushed. "I was looking at it during lunch."

"Oh yeah? I pieced a quilt with my grandmother, just before she died last year. Have you ever done a tie quilt?"

"Huh! No, don't think so. What is it?"

"You just take old ties and put them together. It looks hideous, to be honest, but it's fun. At least the one we did. There's any number of ways to do them, though. Yeah, we had lots of fun. Before she died." I sniffled and looked down, trying for a particularly intense brainwave in her direction.

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry." She reached across the desk and patted my hand. Once we began to talk quilts, the mind suggestion thing took off. Verna, as she called herself after pumping the same hand enthusiastically, promised to have everything I needed taken care of. I promised to attend her next quilt group meeting, once the visa issue was resolved, and left feeling very satisfied with myself.