Earlier that evening...

When I wake up, well I know I'm gonna be... I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you. And when I go out... yeah, I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you. When I get drunk, well I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you. And when I haver, hey, I know I'm gonna be the man who's haverin' to you... And I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more... Just to be the man who walks a thousand miles to fall down at your door....

Sirius lay on the bed in the Shrieking Shack, a small fire contained in a trash bin lid glowing and putting off a very small bit of heat - not near enough, mind. He was lazily flicking through the pages of some old catalogs and magazines that he'd knicked from the bins outside the post office.

"Dadada-dah-da!" he sang as he flicked. He paused to read a headline, "Never waste your morning casting cleaning spells again! With the choresmaster 2000 you're sure to have ease of mind as your chores literally set themselves to work each morning! Program up to thirteen chores, each timed to allow for a perfectly cleared up home every day when you arrive back from the office!" Sirius laughed and tore the page out, crumpling it and tossing it lazily into the bin, where it promptly caught fire with a blaze of colour as the ink burned off the sheet.

"Fashionable Muggle Wares, available for galleons less than those other shops offer them for! Trousers, skirts, knickers and more! You'll be well dressed blending in with the nomaj in moments! Imported American clothing with STYLE!" Sirius looked at a photo of a wizard in a bright yellow raincoat, striped green pants, and a pair of bowling shoes. "Well they certainly nailed that one," he muttered, and turned the sheet over to see the back where an article described all the ways that suspenders were IN IN IN among the muggle fashions. "THEY ARE THE RAGE IN PARIS," he read.  "Yeah. Alright." He tore out the sheet and - POP! - into the fire it went.

The song changed over and Sirius sang along, just flicking pages for a few minutes. "I don't care if Monday's blue, Tuesday's grey and Wednesday, too... Thursday I don't care about you, it's Friiiiiday, I'm in love! Monday you can fall apart... Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart... Thursday doesn't even start... It's Friday, I'm in love... SATURDAY WAIT and Sunday always comes to late, but Friday never hesitate..." 

He cast the last of the page of the magazine he'd been on into the bin lid and the flames rose a bit higher than he'd expected, startling him so he knocked the stack of magazines and catalogs over with his knee. He laughed and raised his palms to the fire, gathering the heat of the higher flame a moment, then he looked down and at his knee was a Quidditch magazine called QUAFFLE TALK. 

"Finally somebody's subscribed to something worth giving a read," he muttered.

Sirius lowered his hands and picked up the catalog, studying the cover of it. "Merlin's left third nipple," he muttered, looking at the  photo on the front. An extremely well built, muscular blond wizard with a gorgeous jawbone and a pair of bright orange green quidditch robes sat astride a gorgeous broomstick that vibrated with the power it contained. The hot quidditch player grinned at Sirius, his teeth glinting. 

"International Quidditch League's star Chaser, Declan Lynch, shares with us all his secrets of intense broom handling," Sirius paused, looking at the photograph. "Bloody hell. I'd love to share some intense broom handling with you, Declan Lynch, any time." He grinned.

The next page was an advertisement for Quality Quidditch Supplies in Diagon Alley. It featured the same gorgeous broomstick that Declan Lynch had been riding on the cover of the magazine. 

"Like what you saw on the cover?" Sirius read. He nodded, "Did I ever..." Grinning, he continued on, "Declan Lynch shops at Quality Quidditch Supplies to keep up with the latest models of broomsticks, dragon hide gloves, and more! Now you, too, can ride to win - on the all new FIREBOLT!" The ad went on to describe all the nuts and bolts of the broomstick, going on and on about the handle and the twig count, speed, and handling options. Sirius stared at the ad.

A sudden gust of wind blew one of the shutters off the window and Sirius let out a yelp, jumping up and tossing QUAFFLE TALK onto the bed. He rushed over as the wind that came through the gaping window blew out the fire he'd worked so hard at keeping going in the bin lid. "No! Bloody hell, come on!" He leaned out the window to see where the shutter had gone and saw it some ways off in the snow, broken in pieces and looking rather sad.

There was a wheezing, groaning sound and Sirius glanced up to see the grey clouds were blighted by the long, flowing black cloaks of dementors that swept among the falling flakes of snow. He quickly ducked back into the Shack, backing away from the window nervously. Could the shutter tearing off been just enough to expose him here in the Shack? Could the dementors sense him now?

Hurriedly, he grabbed his wand. He hesitated, but then seeing Declan Lynch's face grinning up at him, he snatched up the magazine, too, tucking it under his arm, and hurrying out into the corridor. He went down the stairs, regretting that he'd moved so quickly out of the room that he'd forgotten to flick off the radio. He didn't much fancy going back in the room where he feared the dementors might be able to smell him, and headed down the steps quickly.

Standing in the middle of the living room of the Shack, Sirius looked about. He could still hear the radio, which meant he couldn't hear it if there were any dementors that came in. He shivered. Even from downstairs, the open window caused a draft that rid the Shack of the little bit of heat Sirius had procured from the catalogues and magazines he'd been burning all night.

"I'm going to bleeding freeze to death," he muttered to himself. 

Ironic that he wouldn't get to exact his revenge after twelve years of waiting for it all because of a broken shutter.

He looked about, wishing desperately that there might be some blankets or something, but all he had was the clothing on his back, and that was so threadbare by now that it could hardly count. 

 Something upstairs crashed. 

He panicked, looked about, and grabbed at the trap door, flinging himself down into the tunnel and tugging the door closed quickly. He jumped down the steps to the dirt and changed into his dog form, sinking against the dirt and staring up at the trap door nervously. He pictured the Shack filling up with the living nightmares, pictured it overflowing with them, swarming and sweeping about, sucking up all the air that smelled of him, searching, searching...

They couldn't open trap doors, could they?

He inched away, his heart beating rapidly with fear. 

He had two choices at this moment, he thought. He could stay here in the dark, in the tunnel under the ground, in his dog form, unable to create any fire to keep himself warm without transforming back into a human - in which case, the dementors very well may figure out how to open the trap door if they could sense him so close, or worse he wasn't entirely positive that they couldn't just float through the trap door... or he could walk to the other end and hope that he might be able to get into Hogwarts itself and perhaps find some place to hide there, as he'd done before.

Was there any way to make that a permanent situation? 

He pictured laying on the warm couch in the Trophy Room Passageway, curled up with pillows and cushions, blankets and light. There were books stacked up in there still, and all the old pictures...

He could see the pictures of the young Charlus.

His heart thrilled at the thought of seeing that brilliant man, if even for a moment, if even in photo form.

His mind made up, he started off toward the castle. 

It took him some time to do it. The walk was long, the snow was getting deeper, and by the time he'd made it up into the castle through the greenhouse passageways it was well after one in the morning. He moved quietly, listening closely for Mrs. Norris or Filch doing rounds about the corridors. A run in with either would lead to a snog session with a dementor for sure.

Sirius paused in the corridor suddenly. 

He was outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office door again.

He stared at the door.

Just a few inches of wood stood between him and Remus Lupin here.

 He inched closer to the door.

He imagined for a moment that he would grab the handle, wrench it open, and just go wander in, curl up in dog form next to Remus, and it would be just like the old days, when he would keep Remus warm as Snuffles the whole night long.

He pressed his palm against the door.

What would Remus do if he did it, though?

He ought not to do it.

He couldn't do it.

He wanted to do it.

But he couldn't.

He forced himself away from the door, forced himself to keep going, to duck behind the tapestry, and rush up the passageway to the secret room partway up to the Trophy Room. It was warm there, just as he'd hoped. The heat from the laundry rooms came up from the trenches and there were old blankets on the couch, and he curled himself up under them, twisting and turning until he'd curled into a ball, tucked his nose under his tail, and let out a long, low sigh of relief.

By the time Remus Lupin would've been finally getting back to his office a couple hours later, Sirius had enjoyed a good nap, woken up, gotten brave enough to transform, and was laying on the couch, feet up, reading through the rest of QUAFFLE TALK and rather enjoying it for the articles, as they say. He couldn't help but think he'd made a rather wonderful choice. Next night, he told himself, he'd go hunting for the rat, but for now it was nice just to be warm and have his mind on other things.