A/N: I know, I said my next fic would be a phic, but I just had this awesome idea, so here we go!

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Dinner at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, was usually a boisterous affair, especially with the Weasley twins able to do magic whenever they wanted. That night, however, dinner was unusually subdued. They had had a hard day, and just when they thought it was done, someone—Kreacher—had put some more malevolent items he had saved in the pantry and kitchen. Even Fred and George were calmer after having a near brush with a particularly potent Draught of Living Death pretending to be afternoon tea.

The only sound in the room was forks clinking on plates when Harry asked the question that had been bothering him for several days. “Sirius, how come you never got married?”

All sounds came to a stop. Sirius choked on his butterbeer, coughing and spluttering. Lupin pounded on his back. Everyone looked at Sirius. When he had composed himself, he let out his short, barking laugh. ‘Harry, I was in Azkaban.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t like you walked out of Hogwarts and got chucked straight into prison,” Harry pressed, not to be deterred. “My parents had time.”

Sirius smiled, and then sighed. Tired lines appeared around his eyes and mouth, making him look years older. “I should have gotten married. There was this one girl. Beautiful, funny, charming, excellent witch. Her name was Cassandra.”

“What happened?”

“She was killed. By one of Voldemort’s followers. By her best friend, Patricia. Her best friend.”

Now, for some reason, Lupin was looking sad, too.

“What happened to Patricia?” Ginny asked.

“She died in Azkaban,” Lupin said dully. “She denied to her death that she killed Cassandra. I visited her once. That was all she could say, ‘I didn’t kill her.’ If you told her often enough that you knew she was perfectly innocent, she would look at you in that way she had and say, ‘Then why am I here?’”

Harry instantly regretted asking. He could feel that these two women had deeply affect Sirius and Lupin.

The rest of dinner was eaten in silence.

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The next day, decontamination began with a sinister-looking chest of drawers that nearly had Ron’s arm off. While everyone was occupied with Ron, Harry noticed something on the top of the dresser. It was a small, brown leather book, a little torn up, with ‘Patricia Brennan’ embossed on the cover in gold letters. Harry instantly pegged it as a diary, and something about the name on the cover seemed familiar. The penny dropped. Patricia, he realized. Patricia, the Death Eater. Even knowing this, Harry wasn’t sure it was the right diary of the right Patricia. He opened it, and saw, taking up a full page, the words, ‘Cassandra Trousdale is the best friend in the world.’ Harry pocketed the diary and went to see to Ron, who was unscathed but still shaken.

Later that night—much later, nearly ten o’clock—Ron cornered Harry in their room. “Thanks for helping me out, mate,” he said, looking the part of wounded innocent. Harry merely thought he looked like a prat, but shrugged it off.

“Never mind,” he said, pulling out the diary. “Look at this.”

“You’re keeping a journal?” Ron asked skeptically.

“It’s not mine, it’s Patricia Brennan’s. You know,” he continued at the blank expression on Ron’s face, “the girl who killed Sirius’ fiancée.”

“Why would Sirius have a girl’s diary in his house?”

“Why would Sirius have a dismembering dresser in his house?” Harry countered.

Ron opened his mouth to reply when Fred and George appeared—crack—waving Extendable Ears. “We think you should read it,” George said.

“Get Hermione, then,” Ron said. “She’ll kill us if she misses this. Ginny, too.”

Fred disappeared—crack—momentarily and returned—crack—with a sleepy-looking Ginny and Hermione. Harry didn’t explain, just held the diary up. Hermione’s mouth formed a small ‘o,’ and she whispered frantically to Ginny, whose mouth formed the same ‘o’ a second later.

George lounged on Ron’s bed, pushing Ron to the floor. “So, Harry, read it.”

Harry opened the diary. He wondered where to start, but picked fifth year. He had always wondered what a Death Eater was like at his age. “September first,” he read. “I’m going back to Hogwarts again! My trunk is mostly unpacked, the Earl of Lichtenstein left droppings everywhere again—”

“What kind of name is the Earl of bloody Lichtenstein?” Ron demanded.

George raised an eyebrow. “What kind of name is Pigwidgeon?” he asked coolly. Ron’s ears turned red.

“—the Earl of Lichtenstein left droppings everywhere again,” Harry said firmly, “And the train leaves in two hours, but I’ll make it. I always do. Gryffindor tower awaits.”

“Wait!” Fred said. “This Death Eater was in Gryffindor? What’s up with that. I thought that riffraff was only in Slytherin.”

“I would hope Patricia wasn’t in Slytherin,” Hermione said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Never mind. Harry, continue,” Hermione smirked.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Ginny asked, and the two started whispering furiously, then giggled in unison. “Harry, continue,” Ginny said, smirking.

“I’ll make it. I always do. Gryffindor tower awaits…”

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Patricia looked at the disorderly mess that was her school trunk, and sighed. “Nothing for it, then,” she muttered, and bellowed, “Mum!”

Seconds later, a harassed-looking witch with short, dark hair and hazel eyes burst into the room. Patricia had always admired her mother. She was a strong single mother that still went by ‘Mrs. Brennan’ instead of ‘Ms. Wilkes’ even after the divorce, to lessen the scandal, for Patricia’s sake. This admiration didn’t keep her from exploiting her mother, though. Patricia looked at her trunk, and smiled expectantly at her mother.

She sighed. “Pack,” she said, waving her wand exhaustedly, then sighed, “Scourgify,” and the droppings vanished.

“Thanks, mum,” Patricia said warmly, but Mrs. Brennan had already bustled out of the room to tend to one of the other ten things she had to do.

A couple of hours later—time having flown for Patricia, who read a smutty Muggle romance novel about a lost princess with amnesia—they were driving to King’s Cross, the Earl of Lichtenstein’s hoots drowning out Mrs. Brennan’s customary worries.

“Bye, mum. I love you.” She said, kissing Mrs. Brennan on the cheek and walking through the divider to Platform 9¾.