December 15, 1980

In the small hours of the morning, Sirius Black Apparated into a Muggle hotel room in the middle of Mayfair, holding an unconscious woman in his arms.

Gently, he laid her on the feather bed, tucking the covers around her shoulders. He drew the curtains, blocking out the milky dawn light, and allowed himself a moment to smooth a stray curl from her forehead. She was so pale, with dark circles under her eyes, but he had managed to heal the cuts and bruises dotting her body. Growing up in a family like his, one learned those charms at a young age. She hadn't wanted to tell him about the marks. Just as well. He could imagine how they'd gotten there, and he didn't think hearing about it was good for his self-control at present. Clenching and unclenching his fist, Sirius cast a sleeping charm just to be safe—he didn't know how long his complicated memory charm rendered the victim unconscious—and Apparated away to run his errands.

In the evening, the muggle hotel room was near to overflowing with trunks and suitcases of various sizes. Some were filled with her clothes, others with books, and still others with vinyl records and sheet music frayed from use—all things Sirius had procured from her flat, being careful to leave duplicates behind so that her home would appear undisturbed to the other Aurors.

Now, sitting beside her sleeping form, he placed his left hand once again over her heart and pointed his wand to her temple, adding modified scenes of his whirlwind packing day onto the tapestry of a life he'd woven in her mind. He'd been working on the charm all night, but again he marvelled at the way her physical brain offered no resistance to the touch of his magic, no push against him when he smoothed his fabrication over every inch of her memory. By instinct, she trusted him. In her body and in her mind, she trusted him. Sirius swallowed and ignored the leaden ball of guilt growing heavier and heavier in his gut. He had to focus. He'd had to learn the spell theory and execute it the same night, all without practice. One wrong move and all his work might unravel.

Finally, he folded her elm wand into her hand, then slipped his ebony one next to it, so that she held both against her chest.

"Néas Zois," he whispered, the Greek feeling foreign on his tongue, and watched in his mind's eye as her real name lifted from the wand's magical core, replaced by the final thread of her new identity.

He sat looking at her for a long time then, drinking his fill of her familiar, beloved face. One day, if they ever managed to win this war—no, when they won this war, Sirius scolded himself—he would have the chance to see her again, but in this moment, he had already lost her. When all was over and she reclaimed her memory, she would never forgive him, he was sure. He would certainly never forgive such a breach of trust.

Yet this was for the best, and the only way he could keep her safe. Safe from pain. Safe from Voldemort. Safe from the swine who had kept her in Hell for weeks.

And Sirius had learned that he would do anything to keep her safe, no matter what lines he had to cross or what suffering he had to inflict on himself. She was his clarity, his warmth, the balm to his restless darkness. He needed her to be somewhere on this earth—living, happy, smiling that sweet serene smile—so this was the only way.

As the first rays of dawn once again seeped through the darkness of night, Sirius leaned down and kissed her one last time. He let himself linger, barely moving, desperate to sear in his mind the feel of her soft mouth on his own.


He'd kissed her first in the spring of Sixth Year, tucked in an alcove on their way back from Slughorn's garden party.

There had been rumors that Slughorn had invited a real-life incubus to the event, and they'd spent half the afternoon deducing which of the many adult guests was the purported sex demon. Their target established, the two had decided to "befriend" the man—who turned out to be a wanker of the first degree. So much so, that they had amused themselves by convincing him that they were both his offspring from liaisons with muggle women.

She had plastered the perfect mix of vulnerability and hope on her face, and the unsuspecting git had been bamboozled from the first. It remained unclear whether the man really was the incubus or simply a good-looking bastard with a penchant for womanising. Either way, they had enjoyed the overripe fool's bafflement.

They left the party early and stumbled down the halls, unable to contain their laughter around polite company. Sirius reached for her slender hand, and she didn't pull away. Naturally, the ruse had been her idea. Tucked away behind her intelligence and grace was a sharp and dedicated instinct for mischief, the discovery of which had delighted Sirius more than he'd ever thought possible. She was a wonder to him, and his parched soul wanted to drink up every discovery, every moment in her presence.

Half certain that he was pushing his luck, yet unable to help himself, he pulled her onto the dais below a set of bay windows. Late evening sunlight spilled through the coloured glass panes, making her dark hair glow like a blanket of embers.

"You're incredible," he whispered.

Her clear eyes rippled with expectation.

"Are you going to kiss me then, Sirius Black?" Her voice had its usual chocolate-smooth timbre, but he saw with satisfaction that a blush had bloomed on her pale marble skin. Her reached out to run his thumb along her cheekbone.

"What if I did?"

"We'd be here a long while."

Sirius felt his stomach swoop, a new, exciting sensation that at once bewildered him and made perfect sense.

"Sun's still up," he said, his own voice going hoarse. "We have time."

"Thank God," he heard her whisper, and then his brain no longer registered anything but the feel of her sweetness against his skin.


Sirius sat in the lobby of the muggle hotel, his appearance transfigured to look like a portly businessman. He'd ordered a coffee, and now he waited, his nose buried in a muggle newspaper, for her to emerge from the elevator. He heard a ding. Looked up. There she was.

Her pallor still frightened him, and her chin was too pointy from weight loss, but the bottles of pepper up potion she'd drunk two nights before had largely erased the circles under her eyes and the general strain of her features. Good thing she was going to Austria. The rich food would do her a world of good.

She looked comfortable, even cheerful, as she strode through the lobby in her brown wool coat and boots, the image of aristocratic ease. At the front desk, she signed the check-out paperwork, the handbag at her elbow holding all her trunks and suitcases in an undetectable extension charm. Everything about her—every movement, every expression—was so familiar and normal that Sirius had to remind himself he could not rise from his seat that very moment and slide his hand around her waist. The ball of lead in his stomach was back, and he drained the rest of his coffee, hoping it would help. Of course, it only made the dread grow.

She was finished at the front desk now, and as she passed by his chair, Sirius took a shuddering breath and said her name. Not too loudly, but enough so he was certain she could hear. She did not turn around. He said it again, louder this time. Unreasonably, ridiculously, an unquashable part of him willed her—begged her—to turn around at her name, to show Sirius that his memory charm had been a complete failure. But of course, it had not been. Sirius had to admit he was not the best at charms, but in this case, the theory required to change memories had closely resembled transfiguration, and Sirius had done it better than well.

Naturally, she did not turn around. It was not her name now. So that was it then. His spell had worked. This had been the last step, the last instruction the book had given, this testing of the victim's former name. And there was no turning back from here. Guilt and a sense of grave loss twisted, dark and ugly, in him mind. Feebly, he reminded himself that this was temporary, that he would undo the charm as soon as it was safe for her, but she would never want to look at him again. This would be how it ended for him. Sirius rooted himself ruthlessly to his chair, his nails digging into the leather, as he watched her step out the door and into a waiting cab. He was not sure how long he stared, still seeing her in his mind's eye, but his legs were stiff by the time he rose to find James. He had two Death Eaters to find.

On December 16, 1980, a young witch who called herself Caroline Müller arrived in Vienna by airplane. After her muggle parents had died in a house-fire the year before, she had decided to move here, a city her inner musician had always wished to call home. She walked through security like any other muggle, presenting the border officer with a genuine Austrian passport. Her parents had been Austrian after all, even if they had spent most of their lives in England.

In the city, Caroline checked herself into another muggle hotel, then made her way to the nearest leasing agency, jam-filled roll in hand. By the end of the workday, she had found herself a Belle Époque apartment in the 1st District, its long windows overlooking a rare quiet street. By the end of the week, she had enrolled in the psychological healer's course at The Reinberg, Austria's wizarding hospital—just like she'd wanted to do before the British war had pulled her into emergency medicine. By the end of the month she had made friends, all of whom were too charmed by her quiet wit and underlying streak of mischief to ask why she never talked about her friends back in Britain. Within three years she was a fully certified mind healer, and it wasn't long before she was known in medical circles as an expert on mind trauma healing.

And so, Caroline Müller lived in Vienna, working in the wizarding world, seeing her friends and casually dating, attending muggle symphonies and playing piano as light streamed in through her tall windows. There had been a war in Britain, but wizarding Austria was tranquil and at peace. People here still remembered their own war. They still remembered Grindelwald, remembered the fear. Now they lived each day, subdued, relieved that for them, the war had ended in 1945.

The years sped by, and in Vienna, Caroline was happy.


July 3, 1995

Fifteen Years Later

Caroline Müller knew something was wrong the moment she Apparated outside her front door. The air felt disturbed somehow, and though her protective charms showed no sign of tampering, something was still…off. Unstable. She cast a silencing charm at the door, then a whispered Protego, and slowly depressed the lock.

Her apartment took up the entire top floor of the old building, and she preferred Apparating to the landing rather than directly inside. A vestige of her muggle upbringing, perhaps, but appearing inside a home without using the front door had always irked her. Lucky that she'd had this quirk. Whoever was inside must not know her well.

A stunning spell hit her shield charm as soon as she stepped into her foyer. Caroline jerked at the impact—she hadn't been on the receiving end of such a spell since her Hogwarts days—but recovered without stumbling. She turned towards the direction the spell had come, the hallway leading to her bedroom, and the sight of her attacker's sneering face sent a sharp tingle down her spine.

She had never seen him before, she was certain. And yet, there was something in his face that was familiar. Yes, familiar, and so hateful that the very sight made her sick. Forcing down the inexplicable bile rising in her throat, Caroline gave her wand an imperceptible flick—a trick she'd perfected at school—and shot a stunning spell before the shield had completely disintegrated.

The man had been ready for her move, however, and the jet of red from her wand hit his own shield. It was like he knew to expect the trick from her, but how could that be?

Keeping her face blank despite her surprise, she persisted in her stunning spells, shooting a barrage at at his head, his chest, his legs, and watched his face twisting with effort as he tried to fend off the sudden splatter of curses. Suddenly, he lunged to the right, crashing into a side table and avoiding her spells, then aimed what looked like a stinging hex at her chest. Caroline dodged too, barely missing the shower of sparks, and crashed into the wall, her left shoulder jamming painfully.

She swore under her breath, but pushed herself off the wall. Before he could recover, she cast Oppugno on the broken bits of table leg so they shot towards him like arrows. The bastard. That side table had been enchanted by an 17th century witch to perfume the air, and the explosion had surely destroyed the charm. Caroline gritted her teeth. She abhorred strangers in her home. This was precisely why.

Her attacker swore too, but loudly and in English. Unable to slow down all the shooting wood, he took off into her bedroom. The wooden splinters nailed into the door just as he slammed it shut, then he opened it once more to yell "Expulso!" at Caroline.

So the man had come all the way from Britain to kill her? More confused than ever, Caroline deflected the poorly aimed spell, then sped forward instead of Apparating, blocking his increasingly deadly attacks, the impact perversely satisfying to her rising anger. As she reached her bedroom door, he again slammed it to buy himself time, but Caroline blasted it open with a jab of her wand, taking satisfaction in the splintering sound of the wood.

"Who are you and why could you possibly want to kill me?" she demanded in English, raising her voice over the booming explosion and entering the room to face him.

He sneered again, ignoring her question, his lanky body coiling as he prepared to aim another spell.

"Well, so he was right. You really do remember nothing," he snarled, his smooth, aristocratic voice dissonant with his tone, but Caroline barely heard him as he blasted the wardrobe next to her.

"I must say I am offended, Montagu. I'd have thought I'd seared my face into your mind."

"What in the—" she leapt back again as he shot more red jets of light at her, but the usually empty space beside the foot of her bed was now occupied by her nightstand, and she stumbled, falling hard against the corner of the table and rolling out of the way of the new hex from his wand. It managed to nip her arm, however—a slicing curse she didn't recognise—and red-hot pain burst from the wound.

She swore again, pain bubbling with mounting anger, and in a second she was up, aiming a shower of stinging hexes. He growled as several sparks hit his arm and torso, and turned away, levitating her lamp to protect his face. The hexes shattered it midair.

"Protego!" They both cried as the shards of the lightbulbs rained down. Caroline stepped back, minding her feet this time, and aimed another spell at the man, but this time he was again ready for her. He levitated another wardrobe and brought it down right in front of him as a shield. Caroline could have screamed if she had been the screaming type. How dare he, show up in her home and decide to leave at will, as if he owned the place? With another jab of her wand and a verbal "Defendo!" she blast apart her wardrobe, and was satisfied that pieces of wood rammed into her attacker's face and arms.

Yet the rain of broken wood didn't stop his turning to Disaparate. Even as Caroline tried to disarm him, he shrank away with a pop, and all she was left with was his final expression as he disappeared: a twisted, triumphant smile, full of malicious promise.


Caroline spent the rest of the evening repairing her apartment and trying to get warm. Despite the summer heat, she was chilled to the bone, that man's last smile clenching at her gut. The cut on her arm had bled profusely, and it had taken her hours to mend it. It still throbbed. Worse, she could not shake the restless disturbance her attacker had stirred in her mind. He hadn't known she liked to use her front door, but he'd known how to respond to her curses and duelling tricks. And, he'd called her Montagu in a way that belied a long acquaintance. That name was a disturbance itself, at once familiar and foreign, and it badgered like a fraying thread on the smooth weave of her mind.

She knew minds. She'd built her entire career around their healing, after all, and she'd seen inside hundreds, if not thousands of minds in her work as a mind healer. But as she delved into meditation to examine her own brain, Caroline was certain she'd never seen this strange ripple in the fabric before. It really was as if a thread had come loose—that name, his face—and she could not stop picking at it.

Finally, after a long night of poking and pulling, something seemed to… unravel, just a touch. And she had a name to match the man's face. Silas Nott.

She grabbed the thread now, eager and curious to see what other mysteries awaited her beyond this strange cover over her mind. She sent a note into work, pretending illness. Against her better judgement, she decided to see to the wrinkle in her mind before going to the Aurors, and returned to her slow work.

By the end of the first day, it was becoming clear that someone had cast a rather intricate memory spell on her mind. By the end of the second, Caroline was no longer curious. She was crazed. It was as if a whole other life been lived beneath her own. She had to get beneath it, figure out what it was, or surely she'd go mad. Finally, by the end of the week, she managed it. She had unravelled bits and pieces, but that day, she finally found the master thread, and with one pull of her mind, the entire charm came loose at once, unravelling into the ether like a broken tapestry.

And then she could not move, for it was like floodgates had been opened in her head. Waves and waves of people and memories and emotions—oh, the terror and guilt and love and pain—crashed into her, and finally, finally she knew. She lay there for days, it seemed, letting her real life return to her. Submerge her. Suffocate her. And when she saw it all, and felt it all, she wondered if she should have left that first thread alone.

A week later, she moved back to Britain. Caroline Müller ceased to exist.