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“Just a graze,” Sirius says, later, after the battle at the ministry, when Harry is one terrible truth sadder and Sirius has yet another near-death experience under his belt. That’s where it begins: with a lie, with a kindness, with Harry’s arms tight around him.
Harry looks at him with disbelief. “You almost died.”
“But I didn’t. It would take more than that to kill me.”
Probably, he shouldn’t have said that, as the universe makes several more attempts to put him in the grave throughout the next few years. At first, Sirius is indifferent at best to his own death; his best friend had a head start into the afterlife and the balance of Sirius’ heart has been skewed too much toward the dead. Azkaban didn’t help and after that follows a different sort of containment.
Sirius almost dies again from the dementors after him, then when Death Eaters storm Hogwarts, then protecting Harry from a giant snake masquerading as a little old lady, then in the final battle against Voldemort, when he has a rematch with his cousin. It is sometime in between all these near-deaths that Sirius realizes he doesn’t want to be dead. Not only that, that he wants to live.
It is a strange realization for a man who spent so long in a fugue-like state. An honest realization, rooting itself in his core: that Sirius wants to live. For Harry, yes, but also for himself. He yearns to take back the life that was taken from him when he was wrongfully imprisoned. He doesn’t know what he wants to do with it, but he knows he wants it.
In the years following the war, Sirius decides that it’s really rather alright, that he lived. He makes his peace with becoming the last marauder by spoiling Teddy like mad and spending altogether too much time suntanning on foreign beaches. Harry joins him more often than not, though he complains about international portkeys and having to be back at work once the weekdays begin. Sirius makes sure to let him know that James would be proud of Harry becoming a working, upstanding member of society, even if Sirius is entirely disappointed.
Death no longer haunts Sirius’ thoughts, which is when Sirius draws closer to death than ever before.
He’s in Diagon Alley, which is a shame, since Sirius would hope to disappoint his mother one final time by dying on foreign soil.
It’s about Harry, which Sirius can’t blame his attacker for, since Sirius’ whole life revolves around Harry. It’s fitting that his death does, too. He’s on the ground by the time the aurors arrive.
Sirius tries to keep his eyes open, fails. Harry isn’t one of the first responders.
And everything hurts, so staying awake doesn’t seem to be in his best interest, anyway.
The next time Sirius opens his eyes, he spends a short while simply staring at the ceiling, wondering how a man can be so lucky. Near-death after near-death, all through the war and now once after, and he is still alive. What a lucky dog.
The overhead lights are dimmed but not off. Even in pitch black Sirius would recognize the figure slumped over himself next to him in the private St. Mungo’s room. Harry’s hand is warm against Sirius’.
“That can’t be comfortable,” Sirius says, quietly, in case Harry is asleep.
“It’s not,” Harry mumbles.
“My martyr,” Sirius says, amused. It’s better to be amused than to let himself linger on how his whole body hurts. It says a lot about how bad the damage was, that he has woken up before the healing magics finished their work. “You should have gone home. I’ll be fine.”
“No.”
“Alright, then.”
Sirius is all too familiar with Harry’s usual reaction to Sirius’ injuries. It happened often enough during the war. Harry would latch on like a burr and only let Sirius leave his sight when he was healed. A part of Sirius was surprised Harry’s response hadn’t changed as he aged out of needing Sirius so much. The rest of him, well. It is hard to mind being needed, being loved.
“I almost lost you, Sirius.” Harry’s grip is so tight it hurts. “The healers said you’ll make a full recovery, but— you were almost gone.”
Sirius doesn’t tell him to let go. He places his other hand over Harry’s, massaging Harry’s fingers until his grip loosens slightly. His jaw unclenches. There you go, Sirius thinks.
He raises his hand up to pet Harry’s hair. Harry lets him, leaning into the gesture, moving closer when the distance is too much for Sirius’ bruised body. Sirius smooths down the mess of hair. After a while, Harry’s hair is still wild, but the look in his eyes is less so. Harry dips his head until it’s touching Sirius’ other hand, until his forehead meets Sirius’ palm. Sirius continues to pet his hair.
“I survived it,” Sirius tells him. His tone is even, his voice quiet. He is not calm, but he is steady. “I’m here with you. No one is going to take me away from you. It was an isolated attack—wasn’t it?”
He feels Harry’s nod against his hands. “Her name is Amelia Vaisey. She lost her godfather during the war. He was a Death Eater, one of the worse ones. In league with Greyback. We had her on a watch list for until she seemed to integrate well enough with post-war society. Ron took her off of it last year. We both thought she was doing well.”
“Then she saw my handsome face and couldn’t take it anymore,” Sirius decides. He feels Harry’s breath against his hand. His godson still won’t look at him, which won’t do. “Recite it to me.”
“Sirius. I don’t need to.”
“Harry.”
Finally, Harry looks up, if only to huff at him. Sirius lets his hand drop from Harry’s hair. It’s a relief to let his arm lie still; his body still aches quite a bit.
“My hero complex is not being consulted in this situation,” Harry recites, rolling his eyes. “It’s not my fault that you get into dangerous situations. You’re fine now and there’s nothing to forgive.”
Recite after me, Sirius said, so many years ago after Harry almost watched him die in the ministry. Half in jest, half seriously. Then again and again during the war.
“And?”
Harry shakes his head, but there’s a softening to his expression. “And you care about me too much to let me angst about this.”
“Excellent.”
Harry huffs. “I still hate seeing you like this.”
“I know. If the situations were reversed, I would be unbearable,” Sirius admits. He doesn’t often let himself dwell on the image of Hagrid carrying Harry’s lifeless body into the great hall of Hogwarts. It haunts his dreams enough. “I’m glad she chose to go after me instead of you.”
“I’m not,” Harry grumbles. He’s still holding Sirius’ hand when he says, “She was in love with her godfather, you know. Amelia. She loved him. She said so during her case interview after the war. I haven’t been to the holding cells—I didn’t want to leave you—but I’m sure she targeted you to hurt me.”
There are times when it’s hard to look Harry in the eye. On bad days, when Sirius’ head is stuck in the past instead of in his arse, as it should be. Now, it’s hard to look away. With a half-grin, Sirius says, “Us purebloods, right? If not actual family, then god-family will do in a pinch. Harry, what she thought, what she did, it doesn’t reflect on you. Her guilt and her crime doesn’t echo through you just because you too have a godfather. She made her choice. The law will deal with the rest of it.”
Harry nods shallowly. He reaches for the bedside table and picks up a vial, which he offers to Sirius. “You’re supposed to drink this when you wake up.”
Sirius takes it from him. He sighs when he gets a whiff of it. “They make these worse every year. Smells like rotten cherries. Bottoms up.”
Sirius doesn’t feel any different when he takes it, but here’s to hoping.
Harry sits up properly in his chair, finally no longer hunched over to hold Sirius’ hand. “I don’t feel guilty about what happened. All I’m saying is… I understand her better than she thinks. Had you died, I don’t know what I would have done. You mean so much to me.”
“Best dogfather in town—”
“When are you going to let me say it?” Harry asks, his tone a stark contrast to Sirius’ attempts at levity. He takes the empty vial from Sirius’ hand, his fingers grazing Sirius’ skin, and returns it to the bedside table. “I’ll wait if you need me to wait. But I’m not waiting patiently anymore. I used up all my patience sitting in the waiting and hoping against hope that you wouldn’t die while a team of healers worked on you.”
Sirius swallows. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and when he opens them again, Harry’s expression hasn’t changed. The words haven’t faded into a dream.
“Don’t,” Sirius says, carefully.
He has to be careful. It’s all he has left.
All those times when Sirius begins to think, to dream, of things he shouldn’t, he carefully puts the feelings away where he cannot touch them in daylight. He cannot look at Harry and think such things. He cannot become a worse man when he has tried so hard to be a better one. It is trying, this urge to be good, but it is for Harry.
Harry nods. He runs a hand through his hair. Then he takes Sirius’ hand again, holding it like a lifeline. He says nothing.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Sirius says, despite himself. He shouldn’t allow the conversation to continue. He never has before.
Harry rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “There’s not much you can do about it. I just think it’s stupid, us both being miserable and alone.”
Instead of being together, goes unsaid, for which Sirius is grateful. “I’m not miserable. You’re not, either. You’ve had a shock. We’ll get back to normal soon enough.”
“A normal state of denial?”
“If you want to call it that,” Sirius says. He instills his gaze with godfatherlyness in the hope that Harry won’t see beneath to the feelings that have for too long lurked under their platonic bond. “You have so much ahead of you, Harry.”
Harry doesn’t disagree with him. “’Course I do. I plan to succeed Robards at the auror department when he finally decides to retire. I plan to visit another dozen countries with my godfather on his vacations. I plan to have a full life, one with friendship and love. I just wish you would give in sooner rather than later.”
“You sound confident in that,” Sirius huffs.
“You love me. I’ve never had to worry about that, ever since I met you. You hid in a cave and in Grimmauld for me, you sent me care packages and letters, you saved yourself and you got better, for me. Whatever else happens—and I hope it does—I know you’ll never change.” Harry’s thumb rubs gently against Sirius’ hand. “I went from having no one to having a brilliant, handsome godfather who adored me. I never got over it. You’ll have to deal with it.”
Sirius shakes his head. “It’s still inappropriate.”
“You sound like McGonagall.”
“I would try my Dumbledore impression if I thought you still put stock in authority figures.”
“No luck there,” Harry says. He lifts his hand, leaving Sirius bereft. “Tell me to drop it and I will this time. I promise.”
“Until the next time it comes up?”
Harry doesn’t try to look embarrassed. He simply agrees, “Until then.”
Sirius shakes his head. “I must deserve this for all my sins.”
“You do deserve this,” Harry says, firmly.
An inhale, then an exhale. One simple moment, just long enough for Sirius to bend to the inevitable. His godson is a force of nature. Sirius has grown weary of resisting, of pretending he can’t see or hear or feel what lies in both their hearts.
He reaches for Harry’s hand. “Don’t drop it. I’m not ready for the full force of hurricane Potter, but… you don’t have to hide it.”
Harry’s surprised and pleased smile is blinding even in the dim light. He brings Sirius’ hand up to his lips. It’s too fast and too slow and heartachingly perfect. “You won’t regret this, Sirius.”
“Don’t underestimate the occasional resurgence my guilt complex,” Sirius grumbles, but he’s smiling, too. For the first time in a long time, he feels at peace with his feelings. Tomorrow, he can deal with the rest. Today, “You’re right. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Harry says, simply, like it’s a given. Like it’s the beginning and the end.
Sirius knows exactly how he feels.