Archive of Our Own

Still, the gaping dark eyes and the hissing serpent-tongue of The Skull induces a numb horror in him that he has been unable to shake off, ever since the Quidditch World Cup. He hates it. All he can see in his mind is the friends he lost in the War, Order members and colleagues and classmates and, and—best friends.

Lily and James.

It terrifies him, haunts him. He lost them.

And now—Harry; his scar hurt ominously, Dumbledore thought there was a chance of Voldemort returning, the attack in the World Cup...

His throat clogs. Sirius will not lose Harry.

You aren’t going to. He’s right here, safe in your house, Sirius reassures himself. He’s in the next room, sleeping peacefully.

Just then, as if fate has some sort of animosity against him, something creaks, and in the dense silence, it sounds louder, longer. Ominous. It gets his heart racing back again. He curses.

Stop being paranoid. It’s just the wind...

Houses creak and groan often, he knows. But as another longer creak sounds, a shuffle of movement, Sirius can't help doubt himself.

A wind in August?

His heart jumps into his throat as he hears something else, some indiscernible noise, and he swings his legs and plants them on the floor, getting up dizzyingly fast, wand clenched in his hand.

He isn’t being paranoid.

I’m just checking if everything is alright.

Yeah. That’s it. This isn’t his paranoia activated, this is just him making sure the house is safe and everything is secure, which he is certain every sane person does every so often.

He pads into the corridor, and seeing Harry’s door shut, releases a sigh, and descends the stairs. He finds nothing out of ordinary and suppresses down the voice that gloats on how he’s getting old and paranoid.

Instead of going back to sleep, which he thinks will be a lost cause seeing how shining skulls and lifeless eyes are stamped on the insides of his eyelids, he heads to the kitchen. Might as well have a warm cup of tea while he’s awake.

He stops when he finds the kitchen door slightly ajar, spilling light into the corridor, and a shadow moves... someone shuffles about...

Sirius enters the kitchen, a demand ready on his lips, a curse on his wand — “Harry?”

There his godson sits, wide-eyed and not-sleeping, looking pale. “Are you alright? Why are you up?” asks Sirius, voice turning softer as he tucks his wand away.

Harry’s eyes dart around, before stopping at the glass of water in his hands as he mumbles, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Much softer this time, concerned, “Is your scar hurting again?”

“No, uh.” Harry rubs his neck. “I... it’s silly, really...”

Sirius pulls out a chair to sit beside Harry. “I’m sure it’s not.” Still finding hesitance on Harry’s face, he continues, “Nothing’s silly when it concerns you, Harry, and especially not if you’re losing sleep over it. You can tell me.”

“Okay, it’s just. I was tired but I couldn't sleep and the skull at the World Cup kept repeating in my mind... it gave me chills... I had a nightmare.” Harry gulps down some water, before turning to Sirius. “It wasn’t very unusual but well, it’s silly. Yeah?”

“No, it isn’t,” Sirius says at once, firm but soft-toned. “A nightmare is not silly, or something to be ashamed of. You know why I’m awake at this hour?”

“Because I was too loud?”

Sirius huffs. “No, you're actually quiet for a teenager. I had a nightmare too.”

Harry stares at Sirius. “Really?”

“Yeah. The thing at the World Cup, Voldemort’s brand — you know that right?”

“The dark mark, everybody called it.”

“Yeah. His ‘dark mark’ was something that gained popularity in the War, he and his death eaters loved to throw it in the sky after murdering muggles or doing some other dastardly thing to terrorise us and muggle-borns. It was his symbol. It was something to fear. You never knew if it were you or your friend's house it was going to be displayed over next. Voldemort even branded his followers with the mark, here, somewhere on the forearm. Seeing that at the World Cup brought back memories... not the good kind, and I woke up in a sweat, terrified.” Sirius places a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder, rubs his bony back. “So you see, Harry, it’s not silly at all. It’s okay to have nightmares and feel frightened. You understand?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, slowly, and nods.

“Do you want to talk about your nightmare?”

Harry chews his lower lip. “I’m not sure...” 

“That’s alright. How about I make you some hot chocolate and then we’ll see if you want to talk about it?”

Harry perks up. “Hot chocolate? Really?”

Sirius smiles. “Yeah, do you like it?”

“Hogwarts makes nice hot chocolate,” Harry says, nodding.

“I bet you’ll like mine even more. It’s Lily’s recipe.”

“Oh?”

Sirius ruffles his hair, places a quick kiss on his cheek as he gets up. “Yeah, love. Want to see how it’s made?”

“Sure!”

In no time, two mugs of steaming hot chocolates are prepared, Harry proving himself quite helpful, eager to bring out the things Sirius asks him to, all with a bright smile on his face.

“Toppings?” asks Sirius, setting a variety of it on the counter. A packet of Marshall’s Colourful Animal Marshmallows, some cream, chocolate, candies and crushed peanuts. “Which topping would you like?”

“Hmm. Some of those candies and...” Harry picks the marshmallow packet and turns it over. “What’s this?”

“Marshmallows.”

“How do they taste?”

Belatedly, Sirius realises Harry has never eaten one. Eyebrows pinched, he manages to say, “Soft and sweet, very spongey. They taste good with hot chocolate. Here, try some.”

Sirius nudges a couple of marshmallows into his hand and watches as Harry pops them in his mouth. “Oh,” Harry says. “They’re nice. Really squishy.”

Sirius huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Let’s add that. Wait, before it, do you want some cream?”

“Yeah, sure.”

A few minutes later, with toppings decided and them comfortably seated on a couch, Sirius watches Harry take a sip of the hot chocolate, eagerly awaiting his reaction. Harry’s glasses are slightly fogged, but not enough to conceal his bright eyes, or the way his face beams with a growing smile when Harry finishes his first sip.

“That was delicious!” Harry exclaims and licks his lips.

Smile covered by his mug; “I’m glad you like it.”

Sirius slides his free arm around Harry, pulling him closer and pressing a kiss to his mess of hair. They are snug and warm together, Harry’s presence beside him comforting. He’s a joy to be around, really, and they talk, from Lockhart’s horrible antics as a DADA professor to Harry gushing about what Charlie did as a profession. Sometimes it’s Sirius who talks and tells Harry about his parents, what they loved and how they laughed and where they lived.

By the time their mugs are empty, Harry is practically in Sirius’ lap, feet thrown over the armrest and head on Sirius’ chest, and a companionable silence has settled.

A yawn escapes Harry and Sirius realises how little Harry must have slept. “You feeling sleepy, Harry?” 

“No... I’m awake.” There’s a lazy, slurred tone to his voice that opposes his statement.

Sirius smiles, strokes Harry’s hair. “Nuh-uh, you don’t sound very awake.”

“I am! I promise!” He tilts his head back and looks up at Sirius, widening his eyes instead of squinting them to appear awake. Sirius, who had been a teenager too, indulges Harry and nods, but predictably, after two minutes, Harry starts to nod off.

Sirius slides Harry’s glasses off his nose, gently. Harry’s eyes flutter close, and his face looks so peaceful, mouth slightly tilted up in a barely there smile. “Come on,” Sirius murmurs, placing a hand on Harry’s back to prop him up. “Let’s get you to bed, shall we?” 

Harry groans, burrows himself into Sirius, who laughs a little. 

“Come on, Harry. Your back will regret it in the morning if you sleep here.” 

“I’m not sleeping.”

Sirius snorts. “Sure you aren’t.”

He gently forces Harry upright, and after a moment of sitting up, Harry gets up on his own and stands. Harry rubs his eyes. “I don’t want to sleep.”

There’s something in the way he says it that gets Sirius to pause in his ushering of Harry out of the living room. “Why?” 

“I... I don’t want to have a nightmare again,” Harry mumbles.

“Harry,” Sirius says, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You won’t.” 

“You don’t know.”

“Yeah I don’t, but you don’t avoid sleep if you have nightmares, Harry.” Sirius pauses before continuing, coming to eye-level with Harry, “You remind yourself that whatever you saw wasn’t real. That it’s never going to happen. Got it?” Harry nods. “Do you want to talk about what happened? It always helped me to share my fears with someone close, to get rid of that beast of fear prowling in my chest, you know?”

“Really?” 

“Yeah. Sometimes I talked with James, sometimes with Remus, or Lily, but no matter who, it has always made me feel safe. And that fear doesn’t plague me after that, not when you’ve had someone to reassure you and tell you that it’s going to be fine.” 

“I’ve never had that...” Harry whispers, eyes wide.

Sirius’ heart twists. He stares into Harry’s green eyes, slightly dull with the haze of sleep, imagines it fearful and uneasy after a nightmare, without anyone to comfort him. “Now you do, Harry,” he says, softly. 

Harry smiles, then chews on his lip as he starts recalling his nightmare, “In the beginning, it was alright. I was in some random place when my mother entered the room — and she started screaming, then, everybody else was screaming... and I wanted to find you but you weren’t there, and I couldn’t find you and then that Mark went up and Death Eaters started entering our house...” His eyes start to glisten and he scowls.

Sirius rubs Harry’s back. “It wasn’t real. You know that, Harry. I would never leave you, and our house is safer than Gringotts, I promise.”

Harry nods, wipes his eyes.

“And I love you, you know?” Sirius says, and that seems to be the breaking point for Harry, who ducks his head. Sirius glimpses the rapid trail of tears and pulls Harry into a hug, rubbing his shuddering back. “A lot. I love you, no matter what, and I would never leave you. You’re safe here, Harry.” He repeats his reassurances and slowly, Harry’s sobs fade away, leaving him sniffling and wiping his tears away roughly. 

“Sorry,” Harry mutters, embarrassed.

Sirius feels a sharp pang at seeing Harry like this, and continuing to rub his back, he says, “None of that. It’s okay to cry, Harry. I’m not going to think any less of you for crying, for releasing your emotions.” 

“It’s disgusting, though.” 

“Not for me, love.” Sirius bends down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Nothing’s disgusting about you.” 

Harry smiles, sweet and soft, teary-eyed. Then, a wild, wide yawn escapes him. Sirius laughs. “Let’s get you to bed now, sweetheart. I’ll leave my room open for you if you ever feel discomforted in the night, okay? And don’t hesitate to ask for help, alright? I’m here for you, and nothing is too embarrassing to take care of.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, come on.”

Sirius ushers him to his bedroom, and though Harry acts embarrassed at Sirius tucking him in, covering him with a blanket, kissing his forehead and placing a night lamp on the bedside, Sirius knows he loves it. “I love you. Good night, Harry.” 

Harry smiles. “I love you too. G’night, Sirius.” His eyes flutter shut as Sirius strokes his hair.

“Sleep tight, love.”