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It was almost easier to pretend to be okay at the Dursleys’.
Not that Harry was complaining about being at Grimmauld Place—Merlin, he would take a cardboard box over Privet Drive—it was just hard. At the Dursleys’ he could almost convince himself that none of it had happened—Cedric, the graveyard, everything. He couldn’t forget, could never forget, but he could push it away. Like it was only a story. A nightmare from a far-off world.
Grimmauld Place was different: wands and magic everywhere, Order members in and out, the looming specter of the war ever-present. There was no pretending that Voldemort hadn’t been resurrected in front of him, that he hadn’t been exposed to the Cruciatus, that Cedric wasn’t—
No. He wasn’t going to think about it. He couldn’t.
It certainly didn’t help that he’d been kept in the dark the whole past month, but he wasn’t angry about that anymore. It had been a fleeting sort of rage once he gave it a voice, weeks of pent up anger spewing forth until all that was left was an empty calm. A blankness.
Everyone in this house was a constant reminder. He didn’t want to avoid them, but—he had to. It was better for him to stay up here with Buckbeak as much as he could. Most of the Order never even came in here, and the hippogriff wasn’t bad company.
Definitely better company than Dudley and a couple of Dementors, or Voldemort and—
He squashed the thought ruthlessly, closed his eyes. He wasn’t thinking about it. He wasn’t.
“Harry?”
“Sirius!” exclaimed Harry, starting. He really had to start paying more attention to his surroundings. If Sirius could sneak up on him, then it stood to reason that others could too. He suppressed a shiver.
Sirius eyed him with concern. Hesitant, he asked, “What are you doing up here?”
“I’m not hiding!” Harry retorted defensively, then shut his mouth, cursing himself. Sirius hadn’t said anything about hiding, making Harry’s response really more of a confession than an explanation. Unfortunately, Sirius seemed to have realized that as well, clearly suppressing a smile.
Harry deflated, leaning his head back where he’d been resting it against the wall before Sirius’ arrival. All of a sudden he felt tired. Bone tired.
None of this was fair. He shouldn’t have to be here, shouldn’t have to approach every conversation like a loaded gun waiting to go off, shouldn’t have to be a guest in his godfather’s home. Why did he feel so tired all the time? Why couldn’t he just have a normal year, or hell, a normal summer where he didn’t get attacked by Dementors—
He heard Sirius sink down to the floor beside him.
“Hi ‘not hiding.’ I’m Sirius.”
Harry, shaken out of his spiral, leveled him with the most vitriolic glare he could summon, before an idea struck him.
“What are you serious about?” he asked, arranging his face into a genuinely confused expression.
Sirius let out a shocked laugh. “I walked into that one, I think,” he said with a snort. But his amusement faded quickly. “Harry. Are you…”
Noticing Harry’s violent head shaking, he trailed off.
“Don’t,” Harry said quietly. He didn’t think he could stand the question, and he was sure Sirius already knew the answer. What would be the point in saying it?
Sirius didn’t look happy, but listened to his plea and didn’t press further. Instead he wrapped a gentle arm around Harry’s shoulder and said, “Okay.”
Harry relaxed, letting out a breath. It was silent, but not tense—Sirius was a grounding presence next to Harry, one that he hadn’t known he’d needed. It was harder to dwell on the past with someone beside him, anchoring him to the here and now.
After a minute, Sirius broke the silence. “You know, when you were still with your relatives—” he patted Harry’s shoulder gently when he tensed—“I spent a lot of time ‘not hiding’ in this room too. It’s… a lot, here.”
Harry could tell Sirius’ words weren’t an empty attempt at placating him, or false sympathy, so he accepted them as an olive branch. He didn’t want to be questioned about anything right now—didn’t want to have to explain himself again—but Sirius wasn’t asking him anything. And while Harry was still not alright with being interrogated, maybe he wasn’t so opposed to—this. A conversation.
After all, there were plenty of things to converse about.
“Yeah,” he agreed, quietly. “And—it’s hard. To pretend.” He meant to elaborate, but something stopped him. The air felt heavy, and he closed his eyes, trying for some semblance of calm.
“Pretend…” Sirius trailed off, giving Harry the chance to elaborate if he wanted, but not asking outright.
Harry steeled himself and went on. He wanted to do this, he reminded himself—this was Sirius. He was hardly perfect but in this room, in this moment, he was here. And that might not be much, but it could be enough.
“To pretend that it wasn’t real. Last year.” He was quiet for a moment, then went on when Sirius didn't cut in. “It’s just—with the Dursleys I could pretend, a little, that it was still like before I went to Hogwarts. When magic was just a far off idea in a fairy tale, one that I couldn’t even mention without making my aunt and uncle livid,” he recalled. “All of this is so distant, there. And that used to make the summers worse, really, because I’d start wondering in the back of my mind if I’d made Hogwarts up somehow. I knew I hadn’t, but there was always that—removal. But now I wish I could feel removed from it. The graveyard—”
Harry stopped talking abruptly. He didn’t want to think about it, and this was all—jumbled, even to his own ears. “This doesn’t make any sense. I’m sorry.”
“Harry—” Sirius looked pained. “It’s perfectly natural that you’d want to distance yourself from last year. And even if it wasn’t, your thoughts about it don’t have to make sense.”
Harry looked down awkwardly, not wanting to face Sirius’ eye contact. “I know, but—Hogwarts always felt like my home, before. I hate that I have to push it away. I hate that everything—last year—had to happen there.” His frustration heightening, he couldn’t help but voice a sentiment he hadn’t bothered putting into words in a long time. “It’s just—it’s not fair.”
“It really isn’t,” Sirius agreed. Harry looked at him sharply, searching his face for pity, but he just looked tired. And somehow, like he understood.
“You know, I thought of Hogwarts as my home, too. At least in my earlier years there.” Sirius grimaced. “You’ve met my mother’s portrait, so I’m sure you understand why.”
Harry nodded, wincing, and then hesitantly asked, “Why only in your early years?”
Smiling sadly, Sirius said, “When I was 16, I ran away from this house and went to live with your dad. His parents were so wonderful about everything—they didn’t just take me in, they treated me as part of their family. After that, I couldn’t help but start to think of it as my home. Hogwarts is great, but it’s meant to be temporary. A stopgap for people like us before we find somewhere else.”
Harry thought back to his first year, when he’d wanted to stay there for the summer so badly he’d begged for it. He should’ve known, then, that belonging at Hogwarts was conditional. It could never truly be his home.
And Sirius understood. Better than Harry could have ever hoped he would. More than that, he was here, still, despite Harry’s jumbled words and clumsy questions and constant, constant inadequacy. He’d expected to be yelled at if anyone found him up here; instead he found himself feeling just a little lighter, with a newly forged belief that maybe—maybe—he wasn’t so alone.
“I wish I could live here,” he said, hoping his meaning was clear. He wasn’t talking about the house—Number 12 Grimmauld Place was hardly going to be winning any awards for cleanliness, or comfort, or even lack-of-dark-and-evil-magic—he meant with Sirius.
“I know, kid,” was Sirius’ solemn response. “I would do anything to make that happen but—”
“I get it.” This was the middle of a war. Sirius didn’t have the time to put in so much effort, not just for Harry. “I know I can’t be the priority right now.”
“What? No—Harry, that’s not it at all,” Sirius looked at him through troubled eyes—it was in moments like these, when he looked far older than he should, that Harry remembered this was a man who spent 12 years imprisoned with Dementors, only his innocence keeping him sane. “You will always be the priority. The only reason I haven’t kidnapped you from your relatives, Dumbledore be damned, is that I’m wanted by the Ministry. It wouldn’t be safe, for you or me.”
“Oh.” That was—not what he was expecting, but with Sirius’ arm around his shoulder and his understanding and his talk about homes, Harry could almost believe it. “I—thanks. I don’t—thank you.”
Sirius gave him a fond look, ruffling his hair affectionately. When Harry playfully swatted his hand away, perhaps a little over-zealously, Sirius protested, “Hey! I’m a dangerous criminal, you know. You should be more careful with how you treat my appendages.” He cradled his “injured” hand theatrically.
Harry snorted. “Dangerous criminal? Well, I’m an attention-seeking lunatic who lies for fun.” There was a slight tinge of bitterness in his tone, but not as much as there would’ve been earlier that day.
“All right, you’ve got me there,” Sirius said lightly. He tightened his arm around Harry’s shoulder a smidge, as if to reassure himself that Harry was there.
Harry thought, all of a sudden, about finding out your best friend was dead and being labelled a murderer, a traitor. Getting locked away with no one believing in your innocence for years and years, any happiness you might find sucked away without a trace.
Fudge, the Ministry, the Prophet—their disbelief hurt so much. It stung him to the core, haunting him with stubborn persistence. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if his friends sided with them too.
He let his head settle against Sirius’ shoulder.
Maybe there were worse things than facing a hostile world with your friends at your side. This wasn’t going to be an easy year—that much was abundantly clear, and besides, when was it ever? But maybe he wouldn’t have to get through it alone.
He thought back to what he’d said to Ron and Hermione—he didn’t regret it, exactly, but he did regret hiding afterwards, being too scared to come out and talk to them, tell them he’d missed them, tell them he hadn’t been angry, he’d just been hurting.
“Sirius? Ron and Hermione—have they—” He stopped short, not entirely sure where the sentence was going.
Sirius knew, though. “They’re worried sick about you—they know you’ve been hiding out here but as far I gathered they’ve decided to leave you alone for now, give you some space,” he said. “They’ve been running interference to keep people out of this room, actually. I was terrified they’d done something until I figured out why, since they kept intercepting me when I was trying to go feed Witherwings. You have some loyal friends.” The ghost of a smile flashed across his face, and something bitter and nostalgic lingered in the air.
“Yeah, I reckon I do,” said Harry, feeling a swell of affection for them.
“While we’re talking about people covering for you—did you realize that it’s eleven thirty?” Sirius said sternly. “I had to tell Molly you were with me talking about ‘something important’ to stop her from putting together a search party, and even then she didn’t stop fussing until Ron talked her down.”
Harry was befuddled. “Er, it’s past eleven? How long have I—”
“Time flies when you’re dwelling by yourself and avoiding people who want to help you,” quipped Sirius, tacitly chiding Harry, who looked down, his face red.
“Sorry. I just—”
“You don’t have to apologize, Harry. I get it.” Sirius offered him a kind smile, and, again, Harry got the feeling that he wasn’t just saying it—he really did understand. “But if you’re up to it, it would be nice if we left this room now. Witherwings is going to kick us out himself if we keep crowding his space, and I’m not about to leave you here alone.”
Harry agreed, far less reluctant to leave his self-imposed isolation than he thought he would be. Sirius continued, “Molly would say you should go to bed, but I’m not nearly so boring. Come, let’s go to the kitchen. I can make you some hot chocolate. Remus taught me how back in school except—and don’t tell him I said this—I think I make it better than him now. It’s all about the ratios, he never gets them quite right.”
Sirius pulled him out of his hideaway, still talking about hot chocolate and Remus and Marauder traditions. For the first time in a while, Harry found himself forgetting about Voldemort and the Ministry. Just—being. Existing in the moment.
He’d have to face Ron and Hermione tomorrow. Try to get them to see why he’d been such an arse, tell them he was grateful for the space they gave him, hope they understood—he had a feeling they would.
But here and now in the kitchen, watching Sirius search chaotically for cocoa powder and sugar—it felt like the beginning of something good, without thorns or teeth or strings attached. Something unconditional and free and altogether different, leaving him floundering in the best way possible.
He didn’t know if Grimmauld Place could be his home, not when he couldn’t properly live there. But thanks to Sirius, it could be something else.
It could be somewhere safe.