Chapter Text
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Sirius says as they trudge up the stairs of the Shack, Snape and Pettigrew’s prone, floating bodies following them, their heads harshly scraping against the low ceiling.
No one in their little party minded too much.
“What?” Harry asks, slightly distracted as they pry open the entrance hatch leading to the Shack.
“Well, I don’t know if anyone told you,” Sirius pauses to help Harry cart Ron through the door. Poor Ron, with his mangled leg, blood seeping through the threadbare fabric of his jeans. Sirius shifts rather guiltily beside him before determinedly soldiering on.
“I’m your godfather, Harry.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Oh,” Sirius replies, looking slightly thrown. “Well, your parents— they wanted you to go with me, in case anything ever happened to them. Now, I know you live with your aunt and uncle and probably have your own family—”
At this, Harry bursts out, “Wait, you want me to live with you?”
“Like I said,” Sirius starts, clearing his throat, eyes fixed on the moonlit clearing before them. “It was just a thought. I understand if you’re comfortable where you are.”
Moonlit clearing.
Moonlit—
“Professor,” Harry says, whipping his head back to look at Lupin, who is currently dealing with Snape and Pettigrew, brow furrowed in concentration as he levitates their bodies into the clearing. “Isn’t it a full moon tonight?”
Lupin turns to look at Harry, panic rapidly blooming on his face. Snape and Pettigrew drop like hot potatoes on the wet, muddy grass while Sirius flails in the background, hastily binding them with more rope.
“My potion.” Lupin’s voice is a faint echo in the dark forest. He turns to look back at the castle, large and brightly imposing as the glow of its candles and lanterns illuminate the heavy swathe of forest in front of them.
“You didn’t take your potion?” Hermione looks up, her expression blistering with equal parts fear and consternation.
“I forgot,” Lupin says calmly. He drops his rucksack at Harry’s feet.
“Get yourselves and Sirius to the castle. Find Dumbledore or McGonagall, and don’t let the rat wake up.” Lupin puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder, amber eyes softening with apology as he runs another hand through his thin, brown hair. “I’m sorry to put so much on you, Harry—”
“We’ll manage, just go!”
Lupin bolts past them in the opposite direction, robes flapping in the wind as he quickly becomes a scant brown fleck in the distance.
Sirius returns to Harry’s side, passing a quick, guilty glance at Ron’s leg. Hermione mutters something under her breath as she gets back on her feet, allowing Ron to sling an arm over his shoulder and helping him hop to Harry’s side. Harry wraps another arm around his waist and listens to Ron curse heavily as the three of them hobble back in the direction Lupin went.
Sirius follows them at a sedate pace and Harry can hear his heavy footsteps behind him as they slowly, painfully walk back to the castle. It’s strangely comforting.
On their way back, as they pass Hagrid’s cottage, they see Dumbledore standing in a small circle with two other men. The first is Fudge, Harry quickly recognizes, while the other man is unfamiliar, dressed in black robes and carrying a large, oversized hatchet, the type of prop that Harry imagines a cartoon Grim Reaper would greatly appreciate.
“Black!” Fudge screams as he catches sight of Sirius, still levitating the two bodies behind him.
“Yes,” Dumbledore agrees, folding his wizened hands inside his pale green robes as he surveys at the six of them, blue eyes sharp behind shadowed half-moon glasses. “That is indeed Sirius Black. But I somehow find myself more interested in the floating body behind him.”
“But I— he—'' Fudge splutters. “He’s here! We have him!” Harry feels Sirius tense as he stands behind him, gray eyes taking on a blank expression. Harry is sure he’s relieving the idea of going back to Azkaban, being surrounded by that horrific, slimy, cold feeling the Dementors always leave you with.
“And yet, he never got a trial. I think the public will feel more at ease if they know proper justice has been served. I know I will, Cornelius.” Dumbledore grips Fudge’s shoulder with long, thin fingers, towering over the portly little man as his eyes twinkle with amusement.
Sirius’ lips twitch in the shadow of a smile and suddenly, inexplicably, Harry feels like Dumbledore believes them.
That’s a start, Harry thinks.
Harry stretches back in his chair in the Hospital Wing, watching Ron’s peaceful face as Madam Pomfrey flicks her wand to pull the covers over him, bandaged leg gently peeking through the thick blanket.
She bustles over to the bed next to Harry, pulling the curtains as she re-starts a whispered argument with Sirius, who had tried to refuse all the nutrition and sleep potions she tried to shove down his throat, instead making a beeline for Harry. He was touched, but as Madam Pomfrey whipped her head to make furious eye-contact, he told Sirius that it was best if he lay down.
“You’ll still be here in the morning,” Harry says, using a foot to nudge the sturdy, oak legs of Sirius’ bed, gesturing for him to get comfortable. He had seemed slightly in shock as he felt the soft fabric of the mattress, running his hand over the cotton covers over and over, occasionally clutching them hard as he made a fist. Harry guessed it had been a while since he had a nice bed to sleep in.
“I’m not believing anything until the trial is over,” Sirius murmurs in response. Nevertheless, a faint smile played on his lips as he continued to look at Harry, eyes hungrily raking over every inch of him, as if he was taking Harry in for the very first time.
It was bewildering. No adult had ever behaved this way towards Harry. Like they actually wanted him to be close.
Harry averted his eyes, playing with a large, threadbare hole in his pants.
After their stunning entrance (and Sirius’ reappearance) on school grounds, Dumbledore had coerced Fudge into not calling any additional reinforcements besides Amelia Bones, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The man with the hatchet was told to leave, as Dumbledore had proclaimed that a slightly larger emergency had come up and “it was best he come back at another date.” Harry had the sneaking feeling that Buckbeak would be long gone from Hogwarts before that day would ever come — even Hagrid would see the wisdom in that.
They — Bones and Dumbledore, that is — had conjured manacles for Sirius and frogmarched the lot of them to Dumbledore’s office, Snape and Pettigrew’s levitating bodies serving as the tail-end of their rather odd procession.
Pettigrew had been woken up rather unceremoniously, while Snape, on Dumbledore’s orders, continued to remain unconscious, much to Harry’s relief. He’d rather tackle one problem at a time, and Snape’s fury wasn’t something he was in the mood to handle at that very moment.
Pettrigrew had cried and blubbered, spinning the same sob story he’d tried on Harry before finally clutching at Fudge’s little legs, pleading for mercy. Harry thought that if Pettigrew hadn’t made such a pathetic display, Fudge would’ve almost gone through with his plan of arresting Sirius and pretending that absolutely nothing had happened.
The meeting was then wrapped up rather quickly and without much fanfare. Fudge had summoned Auror Shacklebolt, a tall, dark man wearing rather dashing blue robes, who had taken one look at Pettigrew before Stunning him and hauling him through Dumbledore’s Floo, presumably for further questioning. Fudge had then shaken Sirius’ hand without meeting his eyes before practically fleeing Dumbledore’s office. Ms. Bones had also taken a moment to clasp Sirius’ hands, apologizing for the great injustice that had been done to him before telling him that she’d be in touch to discuss reparations. Sirius had merely nodded, face unreadable as his hands twisted the fabric of his filthy robes.
And here they were.
Pettigrew’s trial was to be scheduled for the very next day, and after a very emotional McGonagall had gripped Sirius in a tight embrace— one hand wrapped around his neck while the other smoothed down his long, knotted hair— she had shooed the four of them down to the hospital wing, shooting Dumbledore an angry glance as he mildly agreed (“What an excellent idea, Minerva. I hadn’t even thought of that!”).
Harry had not seen her that overcome with tears since they had won the Quidditch Cup, and that was only a week ago.
Maybe she was losing her edge.
“About—” Harry raises his head, giving Sirius his full attention. “About what I said before—”
“I’d love to,” Harry cuts him off, wearing a small grin as he watches the gears turn in Sirius’ head.
“You’d— what?”
“You were offering, right?” Harry asks, suddenly worried. What if Sirius only meant it as a visit, like the occasional one a nephew might make at his uncle’s house. Obviously, he has a lot on his plate. He’s just become free, after losing more than thirteen years of his life. He deserves rest. A chance to live his own life.
He doesn’t need one more burden.
“It’s OK if—”
“I’m so—”
Sirius holds up his hands. “Wait.” Harry obediently falls silent.
“I want you to come live with me,” Sirius says, lips trembling as he seemingly screws up the courage to continue. “I’m your godfather, and your parents wanted you with me if— if anything happened to them. Were you saying yes— to my offer?” His voice is remarkably even, only having broken once, when he mentioned Harry’s parents, but Harry can see his eyes clouding over with some unknown emotion.
Is he offering for the sake of it? Because it’s his duty?
He must be, Harry thinks. What other possible reason could he have for doing this?
“Yes!” Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets, eager to hide any signs of nervousness. “I’d love to. Have you got a house? When can I move in?” He cuts himself off, resisting the urge to pepper him with questions, desperate to believe this is real.
Sirius’ faint smile widens to a sharp, bright grin, and he suddenly looks remarkably like the handsome, laughing man from Harry’s parents’ wedding photos. The sallow skin lightens as a bright pink suffuses his cheeks, and despite his knotted hair and cracked, yellowing teeth, he looks good. Healthy. Like a drowning man who had just been handed a life raft.
Or maybe Harry’s projecting because that’s how he feels, too.
They both startle as they hear Madam Pomfrey’s heavy footsteps, wincing as she roughly pulls back the curtain and shoos Harry away.
“This man needs to rest,” she hisses. “And take his potions!” In another hand is a tray groaning under an assorted array of potions, each looking more gnarled and disgusting than the last. Harry breaks into a grin as Sirius groans after looking at them.
“I should get going.” He rises to leave but is stopped by Sirius’ hand wrapped around his wrist. His fingernails are long and yellow, with teeth marks edging off a few of them.
“Come visit me tomorrow. We’ll talk more about this,” Sirius promises, looking at Harry with a quiet intensity.
“You couldn’t keep me away,” Harry says, grin growing wider as he feels something warm start to burn in his chest.
“We’re going to be a real family soon, Harry. You’ll see.” Sirius nods confidently as he turns to Pomfrey, sighing as she thrusts the tray at him.
Harry quickly checks on Ron and Hermione before leaving, ambling through the empty corridors of the castle as he reaches the Fat Lady’s portrait.
He knows he’s a bad person for taking advantage of Sirius’ clearly overdeveloped sense of duty. But he would do anything to escape Privet Drive. To live with people who treat him like he’s a human being, and not some piece of furniture — maybe an ugly vase or a rickety old coat rack — that they accidentally acquired and can’t quite manage to get rid of.
Then and there, Harry vows to himself that he won’t ever be a burden to Sirius. He won’t ever give him one opportunity to think that Harry’s more trouble than he’s worth (even if he is), or that Sirius has a lot of responsibility on his hands. God knows Sirius has suffered more than his fair share. He deserves a quiet, easy life.
Harry will do his goddamned best to not get in the way of that.
And yet, despite himself, there’s a strange warm feeling that never leaves his chest, not as he’s waving away questions in the Gryffindor Common Room, or dragging his feet up the stairs of the boys’ dormitory, or falling into his bed with a tired smile on his lips.
It feels foreign — almost like hope.
Harry drags his trunk out of Privet Drive and sets it on the pavement next to the street in front of the house. He takes a seat, tapping a tuneless rhythm against the side of the trunk as he lounges back, eyes fixed on the end of the long stretch of road in front of the Dursley home.
He reaches into his pocket to re-read the note Sirius had sent him earlier that week, eyes roving over the neat ink scrawl that occasionally bled through the cream parchment.
Harry—
Trial over. Wormtail was sentenced to life in Azkaban last night. Will be picking you up on Wednesday at noon. The trunk in my car has an Extension Charm, so there’s lots of space for all your belongings — I’ll help you with the boxes.
See you soon,
Padfoot.
“He’ll be coming by car.”
Harry had told the Dursleys as soon as he got the owl, taking care not to let them know that Sirius was actually innocent. He hoped that the threat of a soon-to-be-visiting, violent criminal godfather would buy him a bit of good behavior during his last few days in this house, not to mention a mercifully calm exit.
Harry often thought that for someone who loathed him more than Draco Malfoy and Lord Voldemort combined (although perhaps a bit less than Snape), Uncle Vernon had always been quite prone to histrionics at their parting, never once failing to make a scene in the past three summers since Harry got his Hogwarts letter.
Aunt Petunia had merely pursed her lips before grudgingly swapping Harry’s pitiful breakfast of half a grapefruit and a scrap of toast for a portion of the full English she had made for the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon grunted as he continued to studiously ignore Harry, choosing to burn small holes into a picture of Blair in the newspaper instead.
(Of course, the animosity directed towards Blair was likely genuine — a proud Tory, Uncle Vernon loved nothing more than to engage in long rants against the Labour Party, a jewel among other cherished topics such as: the homeless, the arts, Harry, gay people, Harry, the BBC, the EU, Harry, anyone who didn’t look like him or share his values, Harry, and a few others. Harry couldn’t recall all of them, given his habit of tuning Uncle Vernon out whenever he got on a roll, but he had a general policy of approving of anything or anyone that his uncle hated.
Obviously, they were doing something right.)
“So this is it, then?” Harry hears a voice behind him, accompanied by thundering footsteps, as he turns back to see Dudley slowly inching his way out the door, keeping both hands on his bottom as his watery-blue eyes dart across the street.
“Yeah,” Harry says. “S’pose it is.”
“Will you be coming back next summer?” Dudley asks, face a tortured cross between a sneer and genuine curiosity as he stops a few paces from the pavement bordering No. 4 Privet Drive. In the corner of Harry’s eyes, he sees a flash of thin blonde hair whip away from the kitchen window.
“Hopefully not.”
“Oh,” Dudley says, eyes dropping to his feet as he wiggles uncomfortably, his body rippling with fat from the effort. He opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can, a gleaming black sedan slows down in front of Harry.
The man who jumps out of the car is vaguely recognizable as Sirius, but not the Sirius Harry had gotten familiar with in the last week of term. This Sirius has clean, wavy hair neatly put in a short ponytail, and a well-trimmed beard. He’s wearing a smart, three-piece suit — it looks expensive, along with his matching, shiny black shoes, but Harry wouldn’t know. All the clothes he has are Dudley’s practically unusable hand-me-downs (although the few old blouses of Aunt Petunia’s thrown in the mix honestly fit him quite well) he had half-heartedly charmed to fit his size.
“I hope I’m not too late. Traffic was horrible,” Sirius says, rounding the short distance between them to stand in front of Harry. He grins widely, betraying a row of sharp, sparkling teeth. “Well, traffic, and me re-learning how to drive a car. Your mum taught me, you know. But it’s been ages.”
Harry offers him a small smile as he gets up off of his trunk. A small squeak from Dudley leads both of them to stare at him. Sirius has a bit of a bemused look on his face as he watches Dudley scurry back into the safety of his house, hands tightly clutching his bottom as if it might fall off.
“Is he alright?”
“No, not really. Shall we leave?”
“Don’t you want to say goodbye?” He asks Harry.
“I’ve already said goodbye. And trust me when I say that they wouldn’t want to meet you,” Harry says brusquely.
“But I—” Sirius pauses, gray eyes darkening with suspicion. “I suppose I should at the very least thank them for taking you in all these years.” The emphasis he put on the words ‘thank’ didn’t reassure Harry. The last thing they needed was a scene. “No, I don’t think it’d be right to leave without at least a chat.”
“Sirius,” Harry says. “No. Stay.” But Sirius doesn’t hear him, shoes smartly tapping against the hot concrete path leading to the front of the house.
A pressed doorbell later, Aunt Petunia whips open the door with a harried expression on her pinched, thin face.
“You are taking him, aren’t you?” She asks, cutting Sirius off as he attempts to say hello. Harry creeps up behind Sirius, body tensed as he prepares to intervene if necessary. He’d prefer Sirius not find out about his… embellishment of Sirius’ character, the way he led the Dursleys to believe that he was a violent criminal who meant to kill all those Muggles; that might make things awkward.
He doesn’t want Sirius to think he’s a liar on their very first day of living together.
“Of course I am,” Sirius says haughtily. Proudly. “I just wanted to—”
“Take him and leave. Before the neighbors see. Vernon’s already gone to work, and he was very specific about not wanting the boy to be here when he gets back. We’ve had more than enough of him.”
“Now, look here— ” Sirius’ face is slightly flushed as he stares Aunt Petunia down. Sirius is a very tall man, and despite his slightly-emaciated frame and thin figure, with his suit and shiny shoes, he cuts an imposing figure. But it’s not enough in the face of Aunt Petunia’s withering hatred of anything magic, or not-normal, or Harry.
“No,” Aunt Petunia hissed. “We have had enough of his freakishness, and we don’t need any of yours. I don’t care who you are, just take him and go. And don’t come back.” She slams the door in Sirius’ face.
Harry is so close to Sirius, almost hiding behind him, that he can feel Sirius trembling as he turns around to look at Harry.
Harry immediately feels ashamed — he wanted so much to keep Sirius from meeting the Dursleys, from realizing how much they hated him. And now he failed.
What if Sirius sees this as a bad omen? What if he decides he doesn’t want Harry anymore?
No, Harry reassures himself. Sirius won’t leave him sitting on his trunk on the pavement. Sure, Aunt Petunia hadn’t exactly given Harry a ringing endorsement, but the question was, would Sirius believe her? Even if he does, Sirius is a good man. He’ll probably take Harry in for a few days as he tries to figure out where to place him. And Harry could use the time with Sirius to make another plan. Maybe he’ll live with Ron and his family for a bit. Mrs. Weasley loves him; she had even expressed her extreme disapproval at Harry’s plans to move in with Sirius. Surely they’d let him stay with them if Sirius decided he didn’t want Harry. It’s not like he’s homeless. He has options. He can—
“Harry?” Harry’s head shoots up as he hears Sirius tentatively call out his name.
“Can we just go?” His voice is tight as he attempts to reduce the lump in his throat. It’s embarrassing. Of course, he doesn’t care what the Dursleys might think of him, but to have their opinion of him poison Sirius — it’s so unfair.
Why can’t things ever go right for him?
“Of course,” Sirius’ voice is unbearably gentle as he puts an arm around Harry’s shoulder, steering him out of the Dursleys’ nauseatingly-perfect, factory-form front garden.
Sirius frowns as Harry picks up his large trunk, rolling it over to the trunk of the sedan. It’s a Peugeot 405 — Harry knows this from the years he spent stealing Uncle Vernon’s old car mags from the garden shed. Dudley would rip up any books he tried to borrow from the library, and it got boring, being shut up in his cupboard for hours at a time. They practically taught him how to read.
A French car. Interesting.
“Is that it?” Sirius asks as he fishes a key out of his pocket and opens the boot, helping Harry dump his large trunk inside the roomy interior.
“Yeah, it’s all I’ve got,” Harry says, heading towards the passenger side of the car.
“But— these are your school things. Don’t you need your other things— clothes, knicknacks…” Sirius trails off as Harry looks at him blankly.
“Can you—” Harry gestures to the car door.
Sirius clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, here.” He clicks the car key and Harry opens the door with a bit of unnecessary force, he realizes belatedly. He takes care to shut it gently, hoping that Sirius didn't notice.
Sirius shuts the car door on the other side and puts the sedan into drive, looking in the rearview mirror as he pulls the car onto the street. Harry makes the mistake of meeting Sirius’ eyes in the mirror. He looks… Confused, sad, angry. Harry wishes Sirius would tell him what he did wrong. He hopes that they can recover the rest of the day from here, because it was a pretty bad start.
“So,” Sirius says, injecting a false note of brightness into his voice as they get on the motorway. “Do you want to know what I have planned?” He asks Harry.
“Er— sure, I’d love to.”
“Well, I’ve bought a house in Knightsbridge. Really, I just owled the nearest real estate agent I could find and told them I wanted some place with sun, but still, you know, in central London, and they recommended this gorgeous four-bed, three-bath. It’s right in the city, really nice location. Near Diagon Alley and King’s Cross, and close enough to Islington if I need to go to the family home. But hopefully, I won’t need to do that.” Sirius speaks in a rush, barely keeping himself from babbling as he continues to check the rearview mirror. “I think you’ll really like it, Harry.” Sirius smiles as he turns to look at him. Harry’s cheeks flame up as he breaks eye-contact, turning to look outside the window. His gaze… it was too warm. Harry doesn’t know how to respond to that.
“That sounds nice,” he offers lamely. “London’s fun.”
“I also thought, if you’re amenable, we could go on a mini-vacation. Maybe someplace with a beach. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a beach,” Sirius says, looking almost wistful as he grips his hands on the steering wheel. “Your grandparents used to take your dad and I on a seaside holiday to Brighton, every summer. There’s a hidden magical island off the coast. Your dad insisted on participating in this sandcastle-making contest they used to have there every year. He and Fleamont were awfully intense about it.”
Harry frowns, a small ache piercing him between the ribs. “Who’s Fleamont?”
Sirius huffs, the start of a laugh bubbling in his throat. “Who’s Fleamont? Harry,” he breathes, looking over to take in Harry’s utterly serious expression of confusion. Harry grips his arm as the car begins to steer to the right.
“Watch the road!”
Sirius blanches as he turns his attention to the motorway. He grips the wheel tightly and gets the car back in the left lane, raising a hand in apology to the car behind him.
“Harry…” Sirius’ voice is soft with confusion, soft with anger and a thousand other heavy emotions. He stares straight ahead, knuckles tightly gripping the steering wheel. “Fleamont was your grandfather.”
Harry frowns as he picks at the threads pulling from his shirt. It’s stained in several places, primarily from Dudley’s relentless attempts at eating his parents out of house and home. He studies a small patch of what most likely used to be mustard as he tamps down on the urge to sit and cry.
How was he to know? It’s not like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon kept pictures of anything but their darling Dudley on the walls of their home. Aunt Petunia didn’t even like talking about her own family.
He had no chance.
“Did no one ever tell you their names?”
“People are often more concerned with keeping information from me than the opposite, I’ve found,” Harry says, trying for a nonchalant tone but landing right on something bitter and whinging. “It’s fine,” he mutters. “Not like I tried all that hard to learn all about them.”
“But someone should have told you!” Sirius bursts out, slamming the steering wheel with his hands as his face blooms with fury. “Why did no one contact you? And those— awful relatives of yours…” He impatiently rubs his nose, returning his hands to the steering wheel, knuckles going white from the intensity of his grip.
He had meant to, Harry thinks, as he remembers the photo album Hagrid had given him at the end of first year. During the beginning of that summer between first and second year, Harry had impatiently flipped through the album, absorbing all the pictures of his parents and friends from cover to cover. Hagrid didn’t mention what pictures came from which people, so Harry had meticulously removed each photo from its smooth, plastic covering, looking for marks or handwriting on the back to see if someone had indicated who had taken the photo, or to whom it belonged. A good majority of them had the acronym “RJL” on the back, along with the date of when the photo was taken and who was in it in faded, loopy handwriting. Harry had grand plans of talking to Hagrid in the fall and contacting all the people who gave the photos, seeing if he could find some close friend or unknown relative of his father or mother. If he was really lucky, maybe they would’ve wanted to talk to him, too.
He didn’t have a lot of time to do this in the beginning of that summer, busy as he was with re-painting the fence and cleaning the house and weeding the garden and watching Dudley loll about, stuffing ice lollies into his fat face that came alive with an unholy glee whenever he saw Harry sizzling out in the sun. Dudley especially chortled whenever he saw Harry working in the garden, crowing all the time about how “dirt belonged with dirt.”
As the summer wore on, Harry’s mood had plunged from bad to worse. His friends weren’t writing to him and life at the Dursleys seemed to be extra miserable, as if they were compensating for all the fun he’d had at Hogwarts. He stopped thumbing through the glossy, faded pictures, feeling bitter as he watched his father laugh himself silly with his friends and wander around the castle, hand-in-hand with his mother. How pathetic was he, to feel jealous of someone dead and gone? Someone who’d given his life for him.
But it hurt. It hurt because sometimes, late at night when he didn’t have to answer to anyone, deep in the safety of his own mind, he’d have these fantasies. That if his parents had lived, he wouldn’t be crouched in the Dursley garden hunting for weeds as the back of his neck burned from the heat of the sun or desperately scrounging for the last dregs of cold soup pushed through the catflap (a catflap!) attached to his bedroom door because he had to give all the vegetable, solid bits to Hedwig. He’d probably be included in those photos, laughing with those mystery men and women as his mother hugged him from around the waist and kissed his cheek and his father put a comforting arm around his shoulder and ruffled his hair.
So he stopped looking at the album, fishing out a photo of his parents just before they got married and sticking it to the wall behind his bed and leaving it at that.
He didn’t need the rest.
They stay silent for the rest of the trip. Occasionally, Sirius would open his mouth, looking at Harry as if he were on the verge of confessing something, but Harry steadfastly avoids his gaze, staring out the window and watching as the gray road and light blue sky and blazing sun above blur together, his glasses fogging over, his face wet and salty with tears.
Living with Sirius is… odd. Good, but odd.
Harry has never known what it’s like to be comfortable where he was living. At the Dursleys, he always had to be on the lookout for the footsteps of his aunt or uncle or, God forbid, Dudley. It was like a horrendous game of hide-and-seek. If he was found, it would never end well. He’d either be yelled at for standing around doing nothing and be given some crushing list of chores or ignored, like an ugly vase or the set of encyclopedias that had gathered a near decade of dust in Dudley’s room. The few times they had all gone out as a family and left him to wander the living room and watch telly to his heart’s content instead of depositing him at Ms. Figg’s had all been his most cherished memories.
Sirius was nervous when he showed the house to him, both of them having emerged from the car ride in a dark mood.
“Your bedroom’s right next to mine,” Sirius said as they climbed the stairs to reach the first floor. The house is a duplex in an apartment building, basically joining two flats together, with three bedrooms on the first floor and one on the ground floor along with the kitchenette and drawing room.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, but I remember the way I decorated my childhood bedroom, and it was awful,” Sirius said, grinning at Harry’s raised eyebrows.
“How so?”
“Oh, you know. Everything I put in there was for the sole purpose of pissing off my parents. Gaudy reds and Gryffindor decor, posters of motorcycles and naked women on the walls…” Sirius wiggled his eyebrows as he led Harry to go past him in the corridor.
“Not that that’s appropriate for you. None of that on your walls, now.” He cleared his throat, attempting to sound lofty and responsible.
Harry laughed, awkwardly shuffling from side to side as they moved past the guest room. “Yeah. Girls. Don’t really know about anything in that department,” Harry said lamely, looking back at Sirius with a sheepish expression on his face.
God, this was a landmine of a conversation.
“Oh, neither do I,” Sirius said, waving a dismissive hand. “I only put them up because I knew their worst nightmare was me marrying a Muggle woman. I’m actually gay,” he added casually, voice exploding in the small corridor as the backs of Harry’s ears heated up.
“Oh,” he said, voice strangled as he attempted to find the right thing to say in response.
“I know the Muggles had some… ideas about that when I was in school,” Sirius started carefully. “And of course, if you’re not comfortable—”
“No, no,” Harry said hastily. “I’m fine with it.” Uncle Vernon was not. He had a laundry list of things that made someone less of a man, and being a “namby-pamby fairy,” as he called it, was at the very top.
“Yeah?” Sirius asked.
“Oh, yeah. My uncle hated it — the whole… community,” Harry said, waving his hands to generalize. “But he also hated magic, you know. And me,” Harry added wryly. “So I figured he was wrong about a lot of things.”
Sirius’ gaze softened as he gave Harry a sad smile. “Of course he was.” Sirius put a hand on his shoulder and Harry reached up to squeeze it back, keeping eye-contact with him for a few, valiant moments, before he dragged his gaze down to his large shoes.
Too much vulnerability for one day, Harry decided. If he had to deal with any more of these moments, he’d choke.
“So’s this it?” Harry opened the dark green door to a beautiful clean, bright room, about twice the size of what Dudley’s had been. It was done up in nice, calming shades of hunter green with walnut floors. There was an empty bookshelf to the right side of his large, four-poster bed and a rather large dresser to the left. Harry didn’t think the clothes he had would take up even a fifth of the space in there.
“Do you like it?” Sirius asked. “I tried to go for a neutral color scheme. And you can change it, add posters or furniture or whatever you want later.”
Harry stood in the middle of the room, marveling at the space and colors and golden rays of sunlight streaming through the large, clear windows. It was so different from his bedroom at the Dursleys, or from the cupboard. He felt like he was in an alternate universe.
“It’s brilliant,” Harry said, finding that he meant it. Sirius grinned his sharp, bright grin and levitated Harry’s trunk up for him.
That night, they sat down in the small breakfast nook of the living room and tried to get the television that came with the house to work despite the magical interference Sirius’ ward enchantments had been causing. They cheered as the news came on and sank onto the red sofa in the living room, gorging themselves on greasy Chinese and a rerun of Melrose Place. Sirius was immediately hooked, despite having very little idea of what was going on, much to Harry’s amusement.
Living with Sirius is genuinely effortless. They start most mornings having breakfast together, although Sirius’ sleep cycle is still a bit irregular from all the nightmares he suffers. Some days he doesn’t wake up until two in the afternoon. On other days, such as this one, when Harry comes down at seven in the morning, he finds Sirius slumped on the kitchen island, rubbing his eyes as he mournfully stares at the coffee machine.
“Did you stay up all night again?” Harry pats him on the back as he maneuvers around him, reaching for coffee powder in one of the cabinets across from him.
“How do you—” Sirius yawns. “How do you wake up so early every bloody morning? Aren’t you supposed to be a teenager?”
Harry shrugs. “Do you want breakfast? It’s Saturday, so I was thinking crepes.”
Sirius sighs. “I really need to fix my sleep cycle.” Harry grins as he begins to pull out flour and fresh strawberries from one of the charmed supply cupboards.
“You should go rest. I can save some portions for you, if you’d like.”
“No.” Sirius shakes his head, clambering off the high-top chair he was sitting on. “I’m going to go and drink a Wakefulness Potion. It’ll tide me over until tonight. And really, Harry,” he adds, looking over at Harry as he frantically beats flour with water and eggs to create a nice batter. “You should stop cooking for me. I’m the adult here.”
“Do you know how to cook?” Harry asks, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“I could learn.”
“Well, until you do, I’ll keep at it. I’d rather not get poisoned.” Harry ducks as Sirius aims a light swat at his head, laughing as some of the batter splatters the front of his shirt.
The days are mostly open — after breakfast, Harry would typically go back to his room and chip away at his holiday homework, something he could finally do under the light of day rather than under his covers with a flashlight propped awkwardly against his school books. After making lunch, he would send an owl or two to Ron and Hermione, responding to their daily letters (Mrs. Weasley had insisted — she was still somewhat under the impression that Sirius was a reckless criminal and barely restrained herself from sending mountains of food along with Ron’s letters; Harry was quite worried about Errol, who he didn’t think could handle the strain of flying so often with such heavy packages).
Sometimes in the evenings, Harry would Floo to the Burrow and play two-a-side Quidditch with Ron and the twins. If he and Sirius had nothing prepared and he didn’t feel like cooking — which wasn’t often — they’d make good on the standing invitation they had to the Burrow and stay there for dinner as well.
All in all, it’s shaping up to be an idyllic summer. The likes of which Harry’s never had before.
As Harry sets the table with a steaming pile of buttery crepes and a small plate of fresh fruit, Sirius bustles back into the drawing room, freshly showered and alert.
“Ah, thank you, Harry.” He sighs in pleasure as Harry pours a cup of coffee for him — six sugars and no milk, because Sirius has a problem — and hands him a plate.
“You know, you really don’t have to do this.” Sirius tucks a small curl behind his ear as he levels Harry with a stern, almost paternal look of exasperation.
“It’s fine. Nice to be cooking for someone who appreciates it, anyway.” Sirius pauses before digging into his breakfast, looking a bit queasy.
“Something wrong with the food?” Harry asks.
“No, no. It’s wonderful, Harry. Honest.” Sirius wears a faintly troubled expression on his face for the rest of the morning, which Harry ultimately decides to ignore. Sirius is not going to kick him out for making him breakfast, he sternly tells himself. Sirius is not going to kick him out, period. Harry has given him no reason to be unhappy with his behavior. He’s been a consummate housemate. He really ought to stop being so jumpy around him.
“So.” Sirius finally puts his utensils down as he gives Harry a conspiratorial look. “I think today’s a fine day for going to the shops.”
Harry nods. “OK, so you’ve got plans. I’ll owl Ron, see if I can go to the Burrow for the day. Be out of your hair in no time.”
“No!” Sirius exclaims. “That’s not what I meant. I want to take you shopping.”
Harry gives him a blank look. “What for?” No one had ever taken him shopping before, except for maybe Hagrid. But that didn’t count, because Hagrid, bless his heart, had nipped off to the Leaky Cauldron for a quick drink after they visited Gringotts, leaving Harry to take care of the rest of his school supplies on his own. Aunt Petunia had only ever taken him to the grocery store if she needed extra help with carrying items. He was a glorified packing mule, at best.
Harry suddenly feels apprehensive. Sirius clearly has expensive tastes. He doesn’t think he wants to waste the gold in his vault on anything too extravagant. And he can’t possibly let the man buy things for him. On one hand, it’s a bit presumptuous of him to think that Sirius would even do that, but on the slim chance that he tries, Harry cannot, under any circumstances, let him. He’s already living in his home for free and buying groceries on his dime. Sirius even bought him a Firebolt for Christmas. It’s just too much. He’s certainly done nothing to deserve it.
Sirius gives him a gentle smile, reaching over to pinch the collar of his oversized shirt, practically falling over his shoulders in two separate folds like a large blanket. “I can’t imagine that you chose to buy this for yourself. I say this with love, but your wardrobe is an abomination and I want to burn it.” Harry flushes as he fiddles with the long, torn strings of his joggers, five times his size and held together with a nice belt he bought at Diagon Alley before his first year started.
“My clothes are fine,” he says, his tone a bit too clipped for his own liking, but it’s too late.
“No, they’re not. They are very, very far from fine and it’s important to me that you know that, Harry.” Sirius’ voice is firm and implacable, leaving no room for argument. “Now, you can either come with me willingly, or I’ll haul you over my shoulder, kicking and screaming. I’ve got some strength in my bones now, and you’re practically a walking beanpole. I can do it.”
“Sirius…” Harry trails off.
Sirius must see how Harry is struggling to think of a valid excuse in response to that, as he grins brightly, popping a large strawberry in his mouth. Battle won. “It’ll be great. We’ll go to the shops, then lunch, then I’ve made an appointment with a Muggle travel agent at two in the afternoon. I was thinking we could look at some places for that vacation I was talking about earlier. And maybe in the evening, we can even go to the cinema.”
“Now,” Sirius says after he polishes off the last crepe on his plate. “Do you want to go take a shower? We’ll leave in thirty minutes.”
Harry weakly agrees and drinks the rest of his coffee in silence.
What is he going to do now?
Nothing, as it turns out. He can do nothing.
Sirius is a force of nature when he wants to be. Knightsbridge is in a very posh area of London, Harry knows. Aunt Petunia always used to talk with envy about so-and-so’s sister’ friend’s cousin who purchased a high-end flat in the area— that or Belgravia. So it makes sense that large shops are right nearby.
“Harrods,” Sirius breathes. “Haven’t been there in forever. Come on,” he beckons Harry, ushering him into the bright, busy building as they pass large billboards and a golden sign that displays the name of the store in large, flashy letters. It’s a nice, summery Saturday and the streets are packed. Harry’s never seen anything like it.
The next few hours pass in a blur of clothes and ornate hallways packed with people bustling about. Sirius and Harry wage a silent cold war, with Sirius dumping every article of clothing he likes that might be in Harry’s size in their cart and Harry surreptitiously attempting to put them back. After a few turns of this, he sighs and silently points Harry to the fitting room at the other end of the floor.
“Go, try these on.” He shifts a handful of clothes — some nice polo shirts, trousers, and a very 80s bomber jacket — in Harry’s arms. “And report back to me. I’ll continue finding things you may like.” Before Harry tries to protest, Sirius shakes out his dark hair and ties it in a ponytail, giving him an arch, challenging look. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doing with the clothes. Go. Now.”
Harry goes.
It’s later when he comes out of the fitting room that he sees Sirius sitting on one of the low chaises in front of the door, ruffling through a cart full of clothes. Sirius raises his head to look at Harry, who is wearing a smart, dark green button-up with nice black slacks and gives an approving nod, gesturing towards the mirror opposite them both.
The material is so soft. Harry looks at himself, the edge of the slacks tapering off near his ankles, colliding slightly with his oversized, worn sneakers. He tucks the green shirt into the well-fitting pants and pushes his worn glasses to his face.
Sirius sneaks up behind him and ruffles his hair, laughing as Harry attempts to duck his hand.
An old woman wearing the store uniform coos at him as she carries a stack of clothes from the other fitting room.
“I think the green brings out your eyes, dear.”
“Doesn’t it?” Sirius says happily. He turns Harry around, smiling as he inspects the fit. He frowns as his gaze reaches Harry’s shoes. Harry has a nasty feeling that their time at the store won’t be ending anytime soon.
“How do I look?”
“More handsome than your father. He’d be so proud.” Sirius’ voice tightens as he abruptly turns away from Harry, reaching out to touch a truly hideous burnt-orange macramé belt someone had (wisely) left behind on a clothes rack. Harry continues to stare at himself in the mirror, at the person in the mirror who looks confident and happy, who wears smart clothes that fit him and has a smiling adult putting a hand on his shoulder.
For some reason — he doesn’t know why — it reminds him of the vision he saw in the Mirror of Erised, almost two years ago.
Maybe because he almost looks like someone who’s been loved.
After a dozen other clothes trials, Sirius finally takes Harry to the men’s shoes department, pushing more than five pairs into their cart.
“Two for formal wear, two pairs of sneakers, and a nice pair of loafers. For casual outings.” He pushes past a gaping Harry as he orders the assistant to get three different boxes in Harry’s size.
“I think I’ll come back here next week. My wardrobe needs an upgrade, too.”
“Well, that’ll be easier for you,” Harry grumbles. “I mean, you look good in anything.”
Sirius laughs. “It’s all about confidence,” he assures Harry. “If you carry yourself with confidence, you can pull anything off.”
“Well, yes,” Harry agrees. “But the way you look probably doesn’t hurt, too.”
“Don’t sell yourself so short.” Sirius says as they reach the counter. “You’re a good-looking lad. Your parents were lookers as well. Everyone’s just a bit awkward during this phase of life. But you know what’s more important?”
“What?”
“Your personality. I remember your father. He was charming, talented, really good at heart. But he had a big, fat head in those days.” Sirius gives a short chuckle as he adds, “He would do this thing where he’d ruffle his hair repeatedly, to look as if he’d just gotten off a broom. Used to drive your mum mad.” Harry laughs, ducking as Sirius attempts to give him a visual demonstration of what it looked like.
“You, on the other hand. You’re modest and likable. Kind. A lot like your mum. You just need to believe in yourself a bit more. Stand up a bit straighter.” Harry immediately straightens his shoulders, feeling a bit warm inside as Sirius grips his shoulder in silent but warm approval.
While they stand in the queue, he grabs the other two carts that Sirius had picked out, attention entirely focused on the meter attached to the computer in front of the cashier.
Harry gropes for his wallet in his jacket pocket but as he’s about to remove it, his heart sinks like a stone when he sees the total on the monitor. The cost of these clothes… It’s more than twice the amount of muggle money he’s saved up in his reserve, from years of scrounging for spare change around the Dursley house. Dudley’s room was always a goldmine for crumpled, chocolate-stained twenty-pound notes, especially around the holidays.
He could exchange some galleons during his next visit to Gringotts and pay Sirius back, but he’s heard Hermione complain about how the amount the goblins charge at their bureau de change is positively predatory. Either way, he’ll be taking a hit.
“Sirius,” Harry whispers. “I can’t afford this.”
Sirius frowns as he looks at Harry, hand fishing for something in his own leather jacket. “Of course you can’t. You’re a child. That’s why I’m paying.”
“But you can’t!” Harry almost shouts, earning the both of them the attention of the young woman behind the counter. Sirius charms her with a quick flash of his teeth and gestures with one finger before gently taking Harry aside by the arm.
“OK,” Sirius says, leather jacket rustling as he crosses his arms and stares Harry down. “I’m beginning to sense that you have a problem. Care to explain why?”
“Well, I just—” Harry exhales through his nose in frustration. “Look, I can’t pay you back right now. I don’t have that much cash on me. I mean, I’ll give you what I have—”
“I don’t want your money,” Sirius says, eyes widening in shock. “Why did you bring money? I’m paying.”
“Well, do you want me to pay for lunch, then?” Harry asks, reaching for his wallet so he can double-check how much he has left. There must be some restaurants in his price range — although they may have to walk for a bit. This area’s rather posh for his wallet.
“No, I don’t—” Sirius shakes his head in confusion as he presses his thumb to the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want you to pay for anything. I’m paying. From now on, I’m always paying.”
“Sir?” The woman at the counter tilts her head to the long line behind them. “Whoever’s paying, can you hurry, please? You’re holding up the queue.” Sirius aims one last glance of confusion — and maybe a bit of anger, Harry thinks — at him before stepping up and fumbling with his card.
“Sorry,” Sirius says. “I just got it a few days ago. Which way do I—” Harry jumps in to help him insert it into the card reader, keeping his head low. He can feel the warmth of Sirius’ hand as it stills before allowing Harry to take the card from him. Harry slots it into the card reader and does his best to not look at the monitor, not letting the obscene total linger in his head.
They walk out of Harrods, clutching their shopping bags in total silence. Sirius leads Harry to a dark corner behind a busy intersection before wordlessly shrinking all the bags and putting them in his jacket pocket.
“So,” Sirius ventures, voice unusually clipped and low. “Can you tell me what that was all about?”
“It’s too much,” Harry says quietly. “You can’t just— allow me to live in your house and eat for free and then buy me so much stuff. Stuff I don’t even need.” He thrusts out a hand in the direction of all the tiny bags Sirius just pocketed, accidentally hitting his arm in the process.
“I’m sor—”
“Don’t be sorry,” Sirius replies, just as quiet as Harry. “But for the record, I think you do need all those things, Harry. Your wardrobe is dreadful, and I’m beginning to understand why. But what I don’t understand is why you think every little thing I do for you is one half of a transaction. Like I’d want something from you in turn. Do you really think so little of me?”
“But you do want something,” Harry says miserably. “Of course you want something, everyone does.” He shoves his hands in his pockets as he shuffles into the small patch of sunlight not consumed by the shadows of the tall, tall buildings they’re sandwiched between. He suddenly feels very cold. “I just don’t know what it is. I don’t know how to repay you for taking me away from there. And it’s frustrating me that you keep adding on to all the things I owe you.”
When Harry finally looks up from his shoes, he sees Sirius shut his eyes as he walks away, presumably to take a few minutes for himself.
Harry slips out of the alley and waits at the busy intersection of Brompton and Cromwell a few feet away. Moments later, he feels footsteps approach behind him. An arm wraps around his shoulder, squeezing tightly, and they head off for lunch.
That afternoon, Harry’s wallet stays firmly inside his jacket pocket.
“What about Majorca?” Harry suggests.
Sirius makes a face. “That’s for old people. Let’s go somewhere fun, like Asia or Africa. Ooh, what about Madagascar?” He excitedly leafs through the glossy brochures the travel agent had piled into their arms.
Harry lounges on the sofa, Quidditch Through the Ages clutched under his arm as he watches Sirius brandish a large travel guide with a very shocked lemur on the cover. Frankly, he thinks it’s all a bit of a lark, and an unnecessary one at that. But Sirius had seemed so enthusiastic, especially when he discovered some of the deals the travel agent had offered included a discounted fee on plane fare, that Harry feels his apathy melt. Just a little.
“We have to go by aeroplane,” Sirius declares. “I’ve always wondered how aeroplanes stay in the air, that too without magic.” He shakes his head as he thumbs a photograph of a small plane soaring over some tropical islands, brilliant blue waters glistening under the sun.
“Oh, well, you see, they’re actually live birds. The Muggles have tamed them, and we sit inside their mouths as the pilot tugs on strings attached to their feathers and directs them, you know,” Harry nods. “On where to go.”
“Well, that can’t be right,” Sirius scoffs. “Can it?”
“Oh, yeah. They have surprisingly smooth skin, almost metallic. That’s why they always look so cold and hard in photographs.”
Sirius gives him a piercing look and Harry desperately struggles to keep a straight face as he plows on.
“They’re actually rather like Hippogriffs. That’s why it’s very important to bow deeply in front of the plane before you get on. Wouldn’t hurt either to give the stewardesses and the pilot a big, fat snog either—”
“OK, OK, I get it. Piss off,” Sirius mutters over Harry’s loud snickers. He shakes his head as he spreads out a dozen different pamphlets on the table and climbs onto the kitchen table chair to look down at them.
“That’s what you get for taking Muggle Studies when you were in school,” Harry calls out. “I’ve seen Hermione’s textbooks, they’re bloody ridiculous.”
“Speaking of Muggle Studies, what options are you taking?” Sirius raises his reading glasses to his forehead, looking down at Harry with a curious stare. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked you how things are going at school.”
Harry promptly returns his attention to his book. “They’re fine,” he says noncommittally.
“Uh-huh,” Sirius adds. “So, what are your favorite subjects?”
“Erm, I liked Defense this year. Charms is also fine. Rubbish at Potions and so-so at Transfiguration—”
“Moony told me you came in first in the year for Defense,” Sirius says, face breaking into a wide grin. “You should be very proud of yourself, Harry.”
Harry feels the back of his neck heat up and he avoids looking at Sirius, feeling embarrassed but also strangely warm inside. One of the oddest things about living with Sirius, he thinks, is the man’s need to compliment him for every little thing. Yes, he cleans up after himself (and often Sirius as well, much to his godfather’s chagrin) and he knows how to cook and he’s aces on a broom. He can cast a mean Disarming charm.
There’s not that much more to him.
What if Sirius is desperate for glimpses of a person that isn’t there? Someone like his father. All Harry ever hears from people is how brilliant and funny and dashing and smart his parents were. All he knows is that he doesn’t measure up. Not really.
Not enough.
Harry abruptly rises from the sofa and moves around to look at the dining table. Sirius has now climbed on top of it, head nearly hitting the ceiling as he cranes his neck down to look at all the brochures below.
“You’re putting a lot of thought into this. Bit too much, if I’m being perfectly honest,” Harry remarks, peering over the side as he catches a glimpse of all the glossy pictures shining as they catch the light of the lamp fixture on the side wall.
“Well if I may also be perfectly honest, you’re not taking it seriously.” Sirius huffs as he carefully edges his way around the side of the long table, socked feet lightly padding on the oak-paneled wood.
“I just want this to be right, you know?” he bursts out. “My entire world was confined to this grotty, dark little eight-by-eight cell. There was this— small window, too high to look out of, and the air was so… cold, all the time, though I couldn’t tell if that was from the Dementors or the North Sea…” Sirius trails off, eyes vacantly focused on an aerial picture of a small house on stilts, surrounded for miles by nothing but glistening seas.
“Can’t imagine you got to go anywhere better, mind,” he adds darkly. “What with the way those animals treated you.”
Harry wants to tell him about the cupboard.
Harry says nothing, watching Sirius’ hands clench into fists at his side.
“It doesn’t matter,” he offers. “Where we go, I mean. We’re— doing it together, right? That’ll be the fun part.” He determinedly avoids Sirius’ sudden, blindingly soft smile (too sentimental, abort mission, his brain screams) and grabs a pamphlet at random.
“Here,” Harry says, thrusting it into Sirius’ hand. He collects the rest of the brochures spread out across the large table, ignoring Sirius’ half-hearted protests, and stacks them on the coffee table in front of the telly.
“Now, if you can get your shoes off the table,” Harry calls out as he flops back on the couch, shaking off the belated horror that rises within him as he realizes what an Aunt Petunia-ish thing that was to say. “That would be nice. We eat there, you know.”
“Yes, Mum,” Sirius says, semi-mockingly; he hears a large thudding sound from behind him. Sirius flops onto the sofa next to him, pamphlet clutched in one hand, remote in the other. He wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulder and against his better judgment, Harry sinks into his side.
“I knew you were excited about this,” Sirius says, and Harry doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s grinning widely.
Harry rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t deny it. He imagines declining Ron or Hermione’s invitations to come stay with them.
Sorry, I can’t, I’m going on a family vacation.
Obviously, he won’t say it in so many words, but that is what it feels like.
It’s strange and new and honestly wonderful.