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After the ridiculous events of his trial that culminated in being let off, Harry could not help noticing that there was one person within number twelve, Grimmauld Place, who did not seem wholly overjoyed that he would be returning to Hogwarts. Sirius had put up a very good show of happiness on first hearing the news, wringing Harry’s hand and beaming just like the rest of them; soon, however, he was moodier and surlier than before, talking less to everybody, even Harry, and spending increasing amounts of time shut up in his mother’s room with Buckbeak. 

“Don’t you go feeling guilty!” said Hermione sternly, after Harry had confided some of his feelings to her and Ron while they scrubbed out a moldy cupboard on the third floor a few days later. “You belong at Hogwarts and Sirius knows it. Personally, I think he’s being selfish.” 

“That’s a bit harsh, Hermione,” said Ron, frowning as he attempted to prize off a bit of mold that had attached itself firmly to his finger, “you wouldn’t want to be stuck inside this house without company.” 

“He’ll have company!” said Hermione. If she meant the house-elf heads and the people who never stayed longer than a meal at a time, her definition of company was rather poor. “It’s headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, isn’t it? He just got his hopes up that Harry would be coming to live here with him.” 

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Harry, wringing out his cloth. “He wouldn’t give me a straight answer when I asked him if I could.” 

Just that sad, strange smile and a quiet, “We’ll see.” If he’d truly intended for Harry to live with him, the reply would have been much more forthcoming than that. 

“He just didn’t want to get his own hopes up even more,” said Hermione wisely. “And he probably felt a bit guilty himself, because I think a part of him was really hoping you’d be expelled. Then you’d both be outcasts together.” 

“Come off it!” said Harry and Ron together. He spared a moment to be glad that even though Hermione seemed to think rather lowly of Sirius in comparison to before, Ron was in agreement such thoughts were complete rubbish. 

Hermione merely shrugged. “But I sometimes think Ron’s mum’s right, and Sirius gets confused about whether you’re you or your father, Harry.” 

“So you think he’s touched in the head?” said Harry heatedly. She might be his best friend, but even Hermione couldn’t get away with saying such things about his godfather just because she decided that she didn’t like him so much anymore. 

“No, I just think he’s been very lonely for a long time,” said Hermione simply. 

No kidding, Harry thought. Twelve years in prison and two on the run would made even a hermit lonely. 

But Hermione’s surprisingly stern appearance in regards to Sirius left Harry regretting that he brought the matter up in the first place. He’d only wanted to figure out how to make his godfather feel less alone or relieve himself of some anxiety with the topic and came out of it feeling as though he was worse off than when he started. Now Hermione was thinking less of his godfather, Sirius was still distressed, and Harry was still useless. 

And though Harry could not find it within himself to spend a moment longer in this miserable, wretched house with its endless shut cupboards, cobwebs, gruesome decor, and rude house-elves muttering nasty things under their breath when Hogwarts was still an option for him, he found himself quite upset at the whole of things when he had a chance to think upon it later. Perhaps Hermione was right and he didn’t need to feel guilty about leaving Sirius alone in this shabby, horrid place - but Sirius not wanting to be stuck here and being upset about Harry leaving wasn’t some sort of failing. The way she said it made it sound as if Sirius was some sort of arsehole at best and a loony at worst. Harry thought rather darkly that Hermione wouldn’t be forming such opinions if she’d ever had to live with someone as dreadful as the Dursleys, much less Sirius’ Dark, Voldemort-loving family. Besides, he was touched that his mere presence could somehow negate the unpleasantness of this house for Sirius when it didn't seem as if anything at all could truly make this place feel worth living in. 

If it weren’t for the fact that Hogwarts was the most wonderful place on the entire Earth, Harry would have jumped at a chance to live with Sirius. He knew without a doubt that Sirius wanted the opportunity just as badly so long as it meant Harry wasn’t suffering for it. In the same way he’d imagined the horror of being stuffed back into Privet Drive over a decade after he’d finally been free of his nasty relatives and their home in order to relate to Sirius’ pain, Harry began to imagine what it might feel like to find out that Ron or Hermione might have to come stay with him there; his hopes risen at the thought of company, the very best company, and trying to shove them down, however futile it might be, out of concern for them but being unable to fall into disappointment regardless. It was a horrible, sinking feeling that overcame him at the idea, and he shuddered to think that Sirius had it even worse with no permission to leave the house in any form because of Wormtail and Ministry on his back. At least Harry could escape to the park or down the street to stretch his legs when the house became overwhelming, and he’d always suffer through with the guarantee of school and its endless freedoms just round the corner. Just two months of pain before he could have everything he wanted. Sirius had no guarantees of the kind at all until he was proven innocent. 

He still looked forward to Hogwarts with her beautiful spires, to Hagrid, to playing Quidditch and sitting upon the lake with his friends more than anything else, but...Harry decided in the midst of his sleeplessness that he would make the most of his time with Sirius while here amidst the ongoings of preparing Grimmauld for proper living. 

Because despite whatever Mrs. Weasley and Hermione thought of him, despite how much more temperamental he was compared to the letters that Harry was used to receiving from him, Sirius was his godfather. His. The one and only thing Harry had left of the family he was supposed to have in the first place, the one and only person who chose Harry to be his family from the very beginning. Harry loved Ron and Hermione more than anything, loved the Weasleys, and was genuinely touched to find he was considered good as, but - they weren’t his family in the way they were each others. When Harry finally became eighteen and got to live as he pleased, it was Sirius who he’d be living with in the end. In fact, if Sirius wasn’t unfairly accused of a crime he hadn’t committed, he and Harry would be living somewhere together right now. Harry wouldn’t have had to spend a single, awful day at Privet Drive this entire summer, he’d have a home to return to on holidays, and he’d have someone who could tell him everything about his parents that Aunt Petunia refused or others shied away from. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t care about Sirius just because he didn’t want to be stuck in here instead of at lovely Hogwarts with his friends and magic and broomsticks and the lack of this awkward, oppressive atmosphere that reigned within Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. 

Hermione had a family. Ron had his. No matter how much they loved Harry and spent time with him, they’d still, in a way, belong to others. 

But not Sirius. 

For in the same way that Sirius had Lupin living with him but it didn’t quite make the difference, Harry had only Sirius to turn to when his friends were gone. Because one day, when Harry finished school and said goodbye to Ron and Hermione for the night or for the break, he’d be coming home to his godfather the way they were going home to their parents and siblings. Things weren’t as he or Sirius wished them to be, but one day they would. One day, Sirius would be a free man. So would Harry. 

And then for the first time in his life, Harry would have the things he only assumed he could dream of: a happy, welcoming home, and a guardian who loved him enough to do absolutely anything for him. 

It would take Harry Potter nearly a year to realize why Sirius, despite spending such little time with him in person, meant more than almost everything else he had ever come across in his short life, for it was only upon losing his godfather that he realized the significance of what Sirius Black represented to him. When Harry was only eleven and traipsing across the castle corridors to peer into the Mirror of Erised, his deepest wish was reflected in the form of his blood family: his parents, his grandparents, all the extended family he could have had but didn’t. Harry’s wish had remained unchanged in essence since then. He still wanted a family, but his idea of what one looked like was a fair bit different from what it was before. 

If the one to stand in front of the mirror was fifteen year old Harry Potter instead of eleven, his heart’s most desperate desire wouldn’t consist of an endless crowd of people he had only concepts of. Though his parents would linger within the mirror, those surrounding him would be vastly different. Gone would be his grandparents, cousins, uncles, aunts, and Merlin knows who else. He would no longer be a child in the mirror, nor would he be desperately searching for people who could have loved and cherished him. 

If Harry looked in the mirror in the summer before his fifth year, this is the sight that would have met him: he would be sitting at a table with a cake in front of him, all eighteen candles lit. He would have Sirius at his shoulder egging him on, beaming and healthy, with Ron and Hermione on either side. His parents would be sitting at the table with them, smiling proudly, and they’d all cheer as he blew out his candles. The home behind him would be filled with Gryffindor banners and family pictures just as he’d imagined Sirius’ house might, and the scar on his forehead would be conspicuously missing as a testament to the fact that Lord Voldemort wasn’t a problem for him to ever be concerned about again. Harry would have a home, have a family, have a wonderful life unthreatened by dark wizards, and have his best friends. 

Not Molly and Arthur Weasley, much as he adored them. Not the twins and Ginny and Bill and Charlie, fun as they were. His best friends and his family. Because deep down inside himself, Harry did not know how to be a son, did not think he could handle pretending to be a normal boy, and did not think he could live as Molly Weasley’s son without wondering if he was doing it all wrong at some point. But there wouldn’t be such concerns with Sirius or his parents - they were his from the very beginning. He still wouldn’t know how to be a son or a normal boy, but Sirius wouldn’t expect him to be. And then he and Sirius could wear down his parents together, the way the Weasleys often worked down their mother, and he could know what it was like to have a family entirely of his own that cared about nothing more than him. 

Perhaps he would never admit it aloud, but it made Harry quite glad on occasion to know that Sirius couldn’t have someone else even if he wanted to, though his godfather made it emphatically known he didn’t. His parents would still have one another if they were here today, but not Sirius. Never Sirius. He would only ever have Harry. It’d just be the two of them together forever. 

When the time came that he was staring at the ghosts of his parents in an odd, endless train station as he thought over the state of things, Harry came to the exact realization that where Ron and Hermione had represented everything that was worth living for in the present, Sirius represented everything that was worth living for in the future. His happy, fairytale ending where everything that he suffered through became worth it. Where a little orphan boy who didn’t even get to know his name until he was five and was told he was unloved, abandoned, of the worst stock - that orphan boy got to know what it was like to have his name spoken with pride, told he was adored, and be doggedly accompanied by someone who told him he was the best of the best and they wanted nothing more than him in their life. 

But before he could ever truly know it, it was stolen from him by a witch with thick, tumbling curls and a laugh that haunted his nightmares until the end of time. 

“I’m off,” Remus whispered as he shook Sirius gently awake. “Molly will be coming to wake you soon as well for breakfast.” 

Sirius moaned and turned over in his bed. Chuckling softly, Remus just tugged on one of his locks of hair to earn a weak whine of complaint and reminded him, “I’ll be back before dinner.” 

Buckbeak cooed softly in the corner as he sorted out his feathers, but Sirius ignored it. After indulging in some gin last night to make up for his pathetic sorrows, he was in no mood to be up earlier than he had to be. It wasn’t as if he’d be good company for anyone other than Buckbeak at the moment, much less of use in an actual mission or task. There was even less reason to bother being awake when Remus was finished coddling him to make up for being bound to this childhood house of horrors. He was falling back into the sweet grasp of sleep when the door creaked open and a hesitant pair of feet tread over to the bed. 

“Sirius? Are you awake?” 

His brows twitched imperceptibly before he decided that sleep was still better than waking up to deal with his awful hangover. 

“Sirius? Padfoot?” The steps came closer. A hand reached out to hover above his shoulder before it patted down a few times. “It’s time for breakfast. We’re, er, cleaning after.” 

Sirius’ stomach ached at the mention of breakfast once again, but he was already foggy with sleep. It’d take just a moment…if everything was just quiet and still for a moment longer, he’d be able to fall right back…

The hand began shaking his shoulder instead. Bugger. 

Groaning miserably, Sirius rolled over onto his back and tried to dodge the hand. There was a snort of amusement before the hand doubled and began attacking his ribs with a vengeance. Only too familiar with this routine after a long night of bad decisions, Sirius slapped at the hands groggily and rasped, “Go away, James.” 

The tickling stopped immediately. Huh. That never worked before. Cracking open one eye to peer at the intruder, Sirius only saw messy black hair and the glint of glasses from the faint sunlight peeking through the closed curtains. Frowning faintly, he asked, “Prongs?” 

Wide green eyes met his through the glasses. Sirius felt a faint smile twitch at his lips and sighed. “Would you give up on the bloody eyes already? They’re positively unnatural on you, mate. Let Lily and Harry have something to themselves without having to shove your big head in and make it about you.” 

Waiting for the typical whine of, “But I’m the only one without them! It’s not fair!” that he’d come to expect from his best mate, Sirius frowned when he was only met with silence. Growing concerned, he used what remained of his strength to crack the other crusty eye open as well. 

For a moment, all he did was stare in bewilderment at the boy while the boy stared back. The smile on Harry’s lips faded into an unsure line. And then, all of a sudden, it hit him with the speed of a galloping Abraxan. Sitting up despite the way it sent his head spinning, Sirius hurriedly wiped his eyes clear and said, “I was - I was drinking last night, I’m not all here yet, it wasn’t-” 

Of all the things to do after arguing for so long that he didn’t see Harry as a replacement for James, he just had to confuse them for one another. Somehow he didn’t think anyone would find the argument that he was hungover and tired a worthy excuse. 

“But my eyes are green,” Harry said rather nonsensically. Taken aback, Sirius met his gaze with a churning stomach and rasped, “What?” 

“You...I mean, you looked into them,” Harry said, his words falling to a whisper as he shuffled his feet. “But you still mixed us up. And everyone says I’ve - I’ve got mum’s eyes.”

“You do,” Sirius said after a moment. Running a hand through his hair and blinking a few times to clear his view of the morning blur, he considered the words for a moment longer before he understood what Harry was attempting to say. “You have your mum’s eyes, no doubt, but, er, when your eyes settled, your James - I mean, your dad - was jealous. He couldn’t stand being the only one in the house with boring, ugly eyes, so he’d go about charming them so you all matched. And your mother would never look so pleased to see me as you do for fear of me and James getting up to old tricks, which is why I’d figured…well.” 

She always did like to sigh while bemoaning the way he and James reduced themselves to children in one another’s presence instead of the more composed, responsible adults they had otherwise evolved into from their immature school days. Though they weren’t going round hexing Slytherins anymore, she mourned the countless jars and pieces of furniture that broke or grew scuffed in their presence as soon as James and Sirius became Prongs and Padfoot. In their defense, it made them very good playmates for little Harry. 

Harry inched closer as he spoke with a clear interest in hearing as much as possible. After a split-second of hesitation, Sirius pulled up his legs to make room for the lad and gestured for him to sit down. Harry flopped onto the bed without bothering to remove his shoes, which everyone had taken to wearing in the house for fear of being bitten, scratched, or stepping on something unsavoury amidst the clean-up. Sirius stifled a smile at the thought of what Molly would say to such a thing before Harry piped up, “His eyes were brown, yeah? Like Hermione’s?” 

And though he must have known what they looked like from the pictures he’d seen of them in the photo album that Hagrid gave him, Sirius felt no displeasure at being made to confirm or deny Harry’s questions. 

“Not really,” Sirius said easily. “Bit brown, bit green, sort of a half and half situation. Think it’s called hazel to be specific. Sort of like Moony’s except Moony’s type makes his eyes look like a lighter brown more than it does green. With James you could obviously tell there were two colours.” 

Nodding thoughtfully while he recalled Remus’ eyes for comparison, Harry pressed, “That’s not boring, though. And what do you mean settled?” 

“Too boring for him,” Sirius explained with fondness creeping into his words. “More than boring, though, he just hated being left out. He and your mum were taking bets on whose eyes you’d have at first, and your mum used to joke that it wouldn’t be fair if she spent nine months carrying you just for you to come out looking the spitting image of James with nothing of her in there. There were months on end of desperate prayers and threats going round your house until your eyes finally stopped changing. That’s what happens with babies, you see - their eyes are usually a bit paler when they’re born and they can change colour up until they’re about a year old.” 

When he realized Harry was eagerly waiting for him to continue, Sirius pulled himself out his memories and kept speaking. “Anyway, there wasn’t a speck of brown in your eyes by the time it was obvious they’d settled, so James decided that he was going to make the lot of you a match set no matter what. He spent nearly two weeks fiddling with books and potions to figure out something good enough to get the same green as yours and Lily’s, and he went round every chance he got changing them. It was a bit horrifying, to be honest - didn’t suit him one bit.” 

Harry stilled and instinctively lifted an unsure hand to brush under his eyes. “But…if we look like each other…wouldn’t they be odd on me too?” 

“Yes, but he was James,” Sirius said with an automatic shake of his head. “And you’re Harry! He wasn’t supposed to have green eyes where you’re absolutely meant to. It could have been him being a twit incapable of casting the charm correctly, but, well…personally I think they look much better on you than they ever did on him.” 

Harry blinked at him for a moment as if he didn’t quite know how to process that before a smile tugged at his lips. “Thanks?” 

Chuckling, Sirius extended a leg to nudge his knee and said, “You’re welcome.” 

They sat there in silence while Harry chewed over this information, his knees jiggling up and down. Though Sirius wished he could leave his godson to process this as he pleased, his stomach was beginning to roil most unpleasantly and was positively begging to be let loose upon a toilet. Not undeserved after what he’d put it through the night before, but it was certainly with poor timing. He subtly sniffed his clothes and thanked Merlin that Remus was kind enough to change them so’s not to smack poor Harry in the face with the scent of gin, lime, or self-pity that he must have been utterly soaked with beforehand. 

“Hey, Harry, have you woken up - oh! Morning,” Ron said as he slammed the door open without a single modicum of grace. Sirius groaned and clutched at his throbbing head in answer. “Well, breakfast’s ready whenever you’re done washing up.” 

“I’ll be right there,” Harry said in reply to Ron’s questioning look before he jumped off the bed. Sending a sympathetic smile to Sirius, who was still clutching his head, he made his way to the door. Just before leaving, he paused and turned to ask, “Sirius?” 

Grimacing at the taste of yesterday’s dinner creeping up his throat, Sirius managed a, “Hmm?”

“How come other people don’t mention that?” Harry asked hesitantly. “Dad walking round with green eyes to match me and mum? They always just say..."

Yes, Sirius knew what everyone else said upon meeting his godson for the first time. Looks exactly like James but for the eyes. He’d thought it before on his own, though he figured none of them would be saying it so often if they’d ever had the pleasure of meeting Harry as a baby and knowing where his smooth, chubby cheeks defined into the features he wore now. Sirius often found himself in awe at the way Harry’d grown from that little baby into such a big, strong boy capable of more than his parents ever could have guessed. 

“Well, they wouldn’t know, would they?” Sirius told him as he gingerly slipped out of bed to find the toilet. “Lily and James went into hiding not long before you were born, Harry. After the Fidelius Charm was put up, the only people who could come round your house were me and-” 

He cut himself off with a scowl, but Harry understood what he left unsaid. His young face fell, all signs of joy or wonder vanishing, and Sirius cursed himself for ruining the moment by mentioning the blasted traitor that brought them to these wretched circumstances. 

Watching as Harry left with significantly less energy than he’d arrived with, Sirius wondered if he’d ever stop mucking things up and be the godfather he was meant to be. Perhaps Molly was more right than he wanted to admit. 

With that pleasant thought in mind, he crouched in the bathroom and spewed the sad contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl. 

Given that few members of the Order could find the time to cook in between their tasks, much less cook with the skill and fervor of one Molly Weasley, they took it upon themselves to help with the cleaning up afterwards to make up for it instead. The combination of relief and disappointment that Harry wouldn’t be staying with him for the year because of the Dementor business made him quite sullen and ashamed, so Sirius left the table early and began the washing ahead of time. He was simultaneously upset to watch them have fun and incapable of remaining too far when Harry was laughing or joking with his friends, only too eager to absorb the sight; it was terribly conflicting, not wanting to be alone but understanding that things were better off this way. He’d known from the beginning that it was unlikely for Harry to be expelled and made no such promises when asked for that very reason but couldn’t help being bitter. He couldn’t blame Harry for being glad to escape here, couldn’t blame Moony for not sticking round more when he had missions to accomplish for the Order, and couldn’t do anything but be miserable anyway. 

He found a suitable rhythm while the others began dropping off their plates and Remus cleaned up the spills from Fred and George’s antics earlier: rinse, scrub, wash, dry. One by one, he worked out his emotions on the delicate china that was unfortunately spelled to prevent damages below a certain level of force. The chaotic mix of conversations spilled into the kitchen from the table, and Sirius felt his shoulders loosen at the sound of Harry snorting so hard at Ron that it echoed off the walls. But there was no point in going there to witness it without bringing the mood down, so he remained where he was instead. 

Accepting the stream of dishes as they came in short bursts after dessert, Sirius lifted an arm to wipe sweat off his brow. The movement revealed an area of the kitchen he hadn’t noticed in his periphery before, and he felt his heart skip a beat when a familiar gleam caught his eye in the dim kitchen lighting. Instinctively thinking of days long past, he called out, “Lily?” 

In the other corner of the kitchen, Harry and Ginny exchanged wide-eyed glances. Halfway through tying up her hair so it wouldn’t fall into the food, Ginny released her long red locks and made a face at Harry that he shook his head at unsurely. Biting her lip, she moved the plates she’d been intending to wash with Sirius by the counter and hurriedly excused herself from the kitchen after handing them over to Harry. Clearly she didn’t fancy being mistaken for her friend’s mum or watching what would be a surely awkward attempt at explanation afterwards. 

Sirius turned back to the sink with a tight jaw and continued his task. He knew they’d misunderstood, but he wasn’t in the mood to go about explaining himself any more than he’d already had to since the Order had reconvened. After a pause, Harry settled in next to him and began picking up dirty spoons to rinse. They stood there in silence while chairs groaned and people began leaving for the night, their hands covered in soap suds and similar frowns on their faces. 

“Was it her hair?” Harry asked eventually, unable to hold back the question. 

Sirius didn’t need clarification to understand what was being asked of him. Debating whether or not he wanted to bother with this, he recalled the way Harry had lit up when being told about James and Lily last time.  Even after being mixed up with his father, the boy had wanted to stick round and hear him out. He was beginning to tire of explaining himself, but it'd always be worth it if it meant something to Harry. 

“No,” Sirius said quietly as he moved a towel over the dishes for drying. Though magic made things go much faster, he was reluctant to lose such simple moments with his godson in favour of something so silly as efficiency in domestic chores. “It wasn’t her at all. Lily’s hair was different - darker, redder, and a bit wavier.” 

Black brows furrowed in confusion at the answer. If it wasn’t Ginny’s red hair swinging round that compelled Sirius to remember Lily Potter, then what was it? Before Harry could ask aloud, Sirius told him, “It was your eyes again.” 

Ignoring the hitch of breath beside him, he continued, “Lily was always in the kitchen cooking something up. She liked those sorts of things, you know: potions, cooking, baking, alchemy. Thought it was soothing.” 

“Potions? Cooking? Soothing?” Harry asked incredulously. 

“Not the way Snape teaches it, I imagine,” Sirius said with a sudden grin. Harry snorted and then looked surprised that Sirius had made a joke, which made him guiltily wonder how gloomy he must have seemed for something so simple as a snark at Severus Snape to earn that reaction. “That’s probably more like torture than anything. But yes. They used to do it all together at home.” 

“Who did?” Harry asked with a blink. 

“Your mum, your aunt, and your grandmother,” Sirius said as he began sorting away clean dishes to make room for more. “Did everything by hand. They were awfully keen on that stuff for muggles - I used to figure only wizards bother making things the old-fashioned way now that muggles have got all their techynology and fancy shops.”  

“Huh,” Harry said as if he couldn’t imagine it. Sirius didn’t blame him. Petunia Dursley seemed as if she had been born a horse-faced and miserable adult from the get-go, and the idea of her in the kitchen willingly kneading dough with Lily was something he could only imagine after witnessing photographic evidence from one of Lily’s childhood albums. “Strange.” 

“Quite,” Sirius agreed without knowing what, specifically, Harry found so strange about it. 

“So you just see green and think of mum?” Harry asked rather suddenly. “Not all the snakes and Slytherin things here, or your family?” 

The freshly cleaned plate in his grasp reflected a tired, worn down man that Sirius turned away from. Green was a colour that haunted him for a long time - in the form of the wallpapers within this house, in the lining of his brother and cousin’s Hogwarts robes, in the glow of the Killing Curse that he grew only too familiar with during war. But green was also a colour that reminded him he’d made it past all that, however pathetic he seemed now. 

Thinking of the startling green that met his gaze under the streetlights of Privet Drive only two years ago, completely unchanged from the day they last saw each other before traitors and prisons and tragedy, Sirius said, “Most shades of green make me think of my family’s poor sense of interior decoration, Harry, but only one shade of green reminds me of you and your mum.” 

Harry blinked again at the response. Slowly, a tiny smile spread across his lips. “And dad.” 

Recalling their conversation only two days ago about Prongs’ childish antics, Sirius smiled back. “And James.” 

They washed the rest of the dishes in a comfortable silence they hadn’t known since the day after the trial. When Sirius said his farewells at the staircase after dinner, Harry watched him with an expression that seemed horribly longing. Abruptly, events from the day since his godson arrived flashed through his head: Harry not knowing that this was his parent’s house, Harry having to ask what the Order was, Harry wondering what colour James eyes were, Harry asking how much he resembled his parents, Harry not knowing most purebloods were related or that Blacks were considered some of the worst and darkest of them. Harry, standing there, looking as if he had a dozen questions he wanted to ask and wasn’t sure he’d get answers to them. It was with a sudden, gut-wrenching devastation that Sirius realized that despite being James and Lily’s son, Harry Potter knew very little at all about a great many things other people took for granted. He was always asking questions and begging for answers that should have been natural to him as a boy born to two wizards, especially such clever ones that loved magic as such, but his childhood had deprived him of even such basic information as to what his own parents were like. The idea that Harry even needed to ask…that he was standing here before Sirius and did not know yet what two of the greatest people to have ever existed on this earth were like despite the fact that they died to protect him…that he was so far removed from the life he was meant to have that Hermione and Ron and everyone else was constantly filling in the gaps where he had nothing…

A dreadful hollowness began to carve its way betwixt Sirius’ ribs. How many times had Harry wanted to know something and got shot down? How many times had Sirius, like everyone else, overlooked that there were over a decade of experiences that Harry never had which set him apart from others? How many times had his godson wanted to know something and never bothered to ask because he assumed everyone else was as clueless as he was? About magic, about his parents, about his life? 

“You know you can ask me anything, don’t you?” Sirius blurted out before he could refrain. His hands clenched tight round the bannister while guilt and shame crept up his spine. “I can’t tell you about Order secrets, obviously, and I don’t even know them all myself because they think I’ll lose my head hearing it without wanting to make a move, but anything other than that?” 

“Of course I do,” Harry said automatically. He looked bewildered by the sudden question, but he shook his head and then nodded. “Haven’t I already done it loads?” 

“Yes, but I mean…about anything,” Sirius finished lamely. He wasn’t exactly in the state of mind to be an eloquent adult, but he tried to get the point across as well as he could. “Like - like your parents, or your grandparents, or wizardly things.” 

Harry furrowed his brows, chewed his bottom lip, and then said with a matter-of-fact honesty that made Sirius’ heart ache fiercer than any wound, “I wouldn’t know where to start, really.” 

Lingering by the stairs in case there was anything else to be discussed, Harry gave him an awkward nod and mumbled, “Thanks anyway. If something comes up, I’ll ask. Good night, Sirius.” 

“Good night, Harry,” Sirius echoed. Feeling drained of strength, he slumped upon the last step and held his head in his hands for a long, long time. 

Well, Sirius thought with a growing resolve. Even if Harry couldn’t find the words for all the things he was curious to know, Sirius would simply have to deliver the answers without being prompted. If there was nothing else he could do in this foul, dilapidated home as an Order member but sit in on meetings and be disparaged for his lack of - well, everything, really - then he would at the very least make sure that Harry returned to Hogwarts knowing more than he could have ever imagined about James and Lily. 

Which had most dishearteningly turned out to be nothing. 

The task at hand bolstered him enough to wander in between cleanings and conversation for a few moments at a time, but not much longer. Sticking round would mean remembering that he didn’t get to have this for even one year, much less fourteen, and Sirius was better off remaining the fun, collected godfather rather than the one who was angry and awful and couldn’t accept the way of things as he ought to. No, Sirius decided, it was better off for everyone involved if he simply did these things in passing. 

“Maybe we ought to make something that’ll get your hair fit for the public,” Fred joked while he, George, and Harry clustered in a corner to discuss Molly’s attitude regarding their joke shop. “It might just be the miracle that has her forgive us for all the other stuff!” 

“That already exists,” Sirius told them idly as he tossed every gaudy bauble he could find into a bag for the bin later. “Haven’t you heard of Sleakeazy’s?” 

“Ron got some as a present from Charlie,” Harry said with a wrinkled nose, “but I don’t bother with all that. Hermione used it for the Yule Ball too." 

The twins exchanged smirks and then said, “Well, that’s more than proof enough.” 

“If it can work on Hermione’s hair, then it’ll do fine for yours!” 

“Of course it will,” Sirius said with amusement. “It was bloody invented for him.” 

When the three of them turned to look at him with confusion, he snorted and reached out to gently tug on one of Harry’s locks. 

“Potter hair being absolutely unreasonable is why the potion came about in the first place,” he explained. “It’s quite literally the only thing on the market to ever work on your dad, or his dad, or any of you lot. Your grandfather was the one to come up with it.” 

“Hang on,” Fred interrupted incredulously, “Harry’s grandpa invented Sleekeazy’s? Are you telling us Harry over here is the heir to some sort of bizarre hair potion fortune?” 

“Is that why you’re rich?” George asked with his mouth falling wide open. 

Harry looked just as surprised as the both of them to be hearing it. “I - I dunno. Is it?” 

“Well, you don’t own the business,” Sirius told him before they could go getting any odd ideas. Harry’d already given them a thousand galleons - any more than that and they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. Clever though they might be, handing another fortune to two mischievous seventeen year olds was hardly a sound proposal. “Your grandfather built the company, sold it for a mountain of galleons, and then bought a share or two when they opened it up later on to investments. They’re in your name now, obviously, but all it means is you get some money every year - no getting to make decisions or have control of anything. As far as the people who run the business are concerned, you’re just some bloke.” 

“Is that so,” George muttered with interest. “Familiar with investments and things, are you?” 

“Not really,” Sirius shrugged. He stunned a biting teacup that’d fallen to a corner and threw it in the bag with a sneer. “Only as familiar as you are, I suspect. Anyway, James never bothered using the potions unless his parents made him, and I don’t think Harry fancies slicking his hair or doing it up.” 

“Definitely not,” Harry quickly responded, relief spreading across his face. Clearly he found any sort of formal setting as stifling as his father did. 

“So curing his bedhead is a no-go,” Fred sighed. 

“You won't tell Mrs. Weasley about this, will you?” Harry asked with concern. “Only if she knows-” 

“She'll be slathering him top to bottom in it,” George teased. 

“Pulling out Witch Weekly,” Fred added with a wide grin, “looking through the most fetching haircuts of the quarter, plopping you down into a chair-” 

“The day Molly finds out his hair can be tamed and goes fixing him up is the same day I tell her what Mundungus has been helping you smuggle from the black market,” Sirius announced firmly to his godson's utmost gratitude. 

“Thank you,” Harry whispered when he ignored the twins moaning and groaning in favour of moving to the other side of the room for more contraband to throw out. Sirius didn’t bother responding to something he considered rather obvious. 

Yes, he couldn’t argue that Molly was an important part of Harry’s life and had done much more for him than practically the entire world had. If nothing else, Molly Weasley was a good mother who put everything into her children, and she clearly decided to count Harry among them. But Sirius was a grown man capable of complex thoughts who could both admire her for the effort and be angry that she thought it made her quite above him. Her remark that he hadn't done anything worthy of note as a guardian since Harry's birth wasn't an insinuation that he was unworthy for being a criminal or for having to hide - it was a bottled anger that he could have apparently escaped Azkaban whenever he liked and only chose to do it after Harry spent over a decade by his lonesome. 

Part of him agreed with her. It was one of his largest regrets. He'd only thought that wherever Dumbledore took Harry, the boy would be much safer and better off than with Sirius, who's oh-so-clever thinking had gotten James and Lily murdered. Yet the truth remained that he hadn't failed his godson by choice. If he'd known for even a second that Harry wasn't safe, wasn't happy within his new home, that Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew survived that night…Sirius would have torn out throats with his teeth and clawed out of Azkaban on his knees in an instant to get back to Harry. 

There were dozens of ifs that could have made a difference. In the end, all that mattered was that he didn't know. He didn't escape early or manage to prove himself innocent. Harry grew up under Petunia Dursley and her walrus of a husband with only Molly Weasley to ever spare kindness for him that might make up for it. She was allowed to be angry with Sirius for that. He was angry with himself too. But being angry with him and claiming she was the only one who should have any sort of say in Harry's life were two completely different matters. 

So Sirius took his revenge in these small, petty ways that he could and resolved to let the entire world know that he was going to be involved in every step of Harry's life possible. 

Whether they bloody liked it or not. 

At breakfast the next morning, Harry chose to eat porridge instead of his usual fare. Realizing that the sugar jar was still within one of the cupboards as his godson ladled a hearty portion into his bowl, Sirius turned on his heel to dig it out instead of sitting down. 

“Here,” Sirius mumbled while placing the jar right by him. “For your porridge.” 

“Oh, thanks,” Harry said while reaching out for the spoon to scoop some. “I was just wondering where that was.” 

Pausing amidst his stirring when a thought occurred to him, he looked up at his godfather and wondered, “Aren't you going to use any?” 

“Hmm? No, I'm fine,” Sirius told him while settling a few seats down to join Remus. 

“Then why'd you get it?” 

“Because you wanted it.” 

“But I didn't even mention the sugar,” Harry said with bemusement. He took a tentative bite and then added some more for good measure. 

“Unless it’s changed since you were a baby, you’ve always liked porridge with sugar,” Sirius said through a yawn. He accepted a plate of eggs and kippers from Remus with a mumbled, “Thanks,” and then searched the table for a fork to use. “It was one of the only things you’d eat when you were being fussy, too. Get that from your mum - James and I would never choose porridge when there was meat and eggs to be had.” 

Harry’s stirring grew slow from distraction. “Did she, er, like it with sugar too?” 

“Hmm?” 

Swallowing a bite of kippers first, Sirius tried to think back to their past and paused unsurely. Though he felt as though he should know the answer immediately, nothing came to mind. Remus noticed his hesitation and took over the conversation on his behalf. “Your mother liked it sweet, but not with sugar. Usually it was honey and fruit if she had her pick.” 

“Oh,” Harry said quietly. There were no more questions and no further information volunteered as they dug into their breakfasts, but Sirius spotted Harry taking a handful of raspberries and adding them into his bowl later on. 

He slipped other things when he could - or more specifically, when he was in the state of mind to be thinking of something other than how desperately he wished to be anywhere other than his childhood home doing anything other than cleaning. Returning to Grimmauld was both a blessing and a nightmare for his groggy memories: it brought forth physical evidence in the form of letters and pictures that sparked cascades of recollections, but remaining inside any room for too long began to make him feel as though he’d never left, and not at all metaphorically. Sirius had escaped Azkaban with far more of his mind than anyone else in history ever had, but extended exposure to Dementors wasn’t the sort of thing one could simply move on from. Time in the sun and out of their reach couldn’t combat the natural inclination towards despair that his body was attuned to from twelve years under their tyranny. His entire being had become tempered to hang onto anger, regret, and desolation in order to survive those years, and no amount of chocolate or mind healing could undo the harm that had permanently set in. Sirius would never be stark raving mad, but he was, unfortunately, liable to fall into madness if a list of conditions were met. 

It was entirely inaccurate to assume that he was constantly forgetting things; it was more that the faded, monochrome recollections he retained after the Dementors came for his mind were suddenly too far to reach now that he was busy fending off the evil of Grimmauld threatening to sink into his bones. If Sirius was still a house pet but in any other home, he wouldn’t have struggled so heavily with keeping himself in order. Additionally, where having Dementors nearby summoned memories of his mother’s death and the battle at the graveyard for Harry Potter, the worst memories Sirius was made to relive over and over again within Azkaban could be boiled down to either James and Lily’s death or his life at the Black family home. One by one, returning to the very same place while another war waged on and Voldemort continued to target his beloved godson met every condition needed to summon the madness within. All the work Sirius had put into shaking off what had happened to him began to unravel as time passed within this personal prison of his. 

Some days he would forget things he swore with unshakeable confidence he’d known only a month or two ago. Some days he could feel the walls closing in, the house-elf heads sneering, and his mother’s screams echoing in his ear with demands to become a respectable Black while Regulus cowered behind him. Some days he would look at the toilets with their silver, embellished snakes and remember being sick for hours round an empty stomach because he couldn’t bear to digest the nutrition potions before eating proper food. Some days he would walk past the drawing room or the dining room or the study and remember with utmost clarity the pain that had wracked through his limbs while his parents inflicted punishment upon him for not falling in line. Some days…on his worst days, he would wake up to Gryffindor banners and scantily clad posters and completely forget that it was 1995 instead of 1975. 

Sirius shook it off quickly at first, but the lapses in time where he would be unable to separate the past from the present grew more frequent. The longer he spent within Grimmauld Place, the more his efforts at rebuilding himself after Azkaban crumbled away bit by bit. Remus caught him once or twice and spent the next few days hovering over him for fear of his mind going. Sirius wanted to tell him that it’d certainly be gone soon enough if he didn’t get a chance to leave and be useful, but he was still aware enough to understand that would only make the situation seem worse. Harry’s arrival spared him the effort of trying when his mere presence alone was reason enough for Sirius’ mind to remain in the present. 

Tragic that like all good things in Sirius’ life, it didn’t last long. 

The past returned to haunt him when his deepest, darkest hopes were struck - he couldn’t keep Harry, and he would be alone again soon as September rolled round. He didn’t want his godson to be forced into these lows with him, exactly, but…Sirius was in rather desperate need of a reason to be holding himself together at the time. He began avoiding his old bedroom for fear of it triggering more fits he didn’t want the others to witness and stuck to his mother’s room with Buckbeak, who would cluck and coo and keep his head on straight when it felt as though he was slipping. When he tried to drop tidbits about the Potters for Harry to soak up, he fell into the habit of bringing up James more than Lily because any memory with Wormtail remained perfectly clear within his hateful, worn mind, and nearly every memory of Wormtail was based around the Marauders rather than her. It was both a way of reaching out to his godson in a controlled manner and a way of reclaiming the experiences of his life without falling victim to them as a slave. Slowly but surely, Sirius began approaching Harry in the little ways he could manage without realizing that his behaviour was beginning to trigger alarm in the hearts of others.

For while Sirius believed he was handing over pieces of James and Lily to their unfortunate son who would never know them, the rest of the Order believed he was slowly beginning to confuse poor Harry with James Potter and was no longer capable of determining the reality of things because of his time in Azkaban. It wasn’t an entirely untrue notion, but it did undermine the fact that Sirius was more often than not a perfectly sane man with a spotty memory and a scowl than he was truly delusional. In just under a month they’d already begun suspecting the worst had befallen his lucidity. Dumbledore refuted the concerns of those who approached him on the topic with a gentle reminder that Sirius was still healing from his exposure to Dementors but was mostly assuredly not any more mad than the rest of them. Molly wasn’t convinced, but she could never be convinced of anything that might resign her loved ones to danger. 

So Sirius gained a certain reputation amongst the adults - plus one Hermione Granger - that he knew balls-all about. Remus knew him far too well to even consider informing his friend of the matter and instead chose to help him manage the lapses in memory where he could. 

No matter how difficult it was to retain his composure and recall things as they originally were, though, Lily Evans was just too outstanding and beloved for Sirius to have nothing to share about her. 

“You know, your mum was allergic to mint,” Sirius said while shredding peppermint leaves for the sauce Molly was going to make later. Harry’s head lifted so quickly that he nearly ended up slicing off a finger while peeling potatoes. “Careful!” 

“No, yeah, I’ve got it,” Harry mumbled with a flush rising to his cheeks. Peeking through his lashes at Sirius, he subtly checked if anyone else was listening in before whispering, “H-How allergic? Itching and things?”

“Very,” came the reply. “Gave her rashes, made her throat close up. She said it was barely a tickle when she was younger, and it only grew so bad after years of brushing it off in potions and food.” 

In their fifth year, Alice had spilled a bit of tincture on Lily during Potions and promptly sent her to the hospital wing while they watched in horror. Everyone thought she'd accidentally spilled something toxic onto her skin from the way it began swelling in big, red welts so quickly. In hardly a moment she wasn't even capable of lifting her arm. James had almost worn his shoes ragged walking back and forth in front of the hospital wing while Remus went in to check on her after class. It was one of the few times he had the emotional intelligence to figure out that Lily Evans would want nothing to do with him at the moment. James was allergic to pecans, of course, but they were hardly ever found in England as opposed to where they seemed to be in every nutty dessert the Potters tried in America while traveling over the hols. Sirius’ lips twitched as he recalled James’ exaggerated reenactment of the exact moment he tucked into a delicious pie he’d been served only to fall over, gagging, as the life was seemingly sucked out of him while his parents fretted uselessly. He used that story on at least ten different people before he was satisfied with the attention it gave him. 

“Hang on,” Sirius said as his head jerked up with concern. “Harry, do you know you’re allergic to pecans?” 

“I am?” Harry asked, blinking with confusion. “Since when? …What’s a pecan, anyway?” 

Torn between amusement and self-reproach for never mentioning such an important matter, Sirius explained, “Since birth. Your parents were worried you’d have their allergies, so they had the midwife check when you were born using a spell. They’re a nut, a bit like walnuts, but they don’t often grow here. Your dad was allergic to them and he only found out after eating a pie made with them in America.” 

“Oh,” Harry said as his expression cleared up. “Well, all I have to do is never go to America then. Doesn’t seem hard since I never get to go anywhere in the first place.” 

A chord of empathy ran through him at the sour, disappointed sentiment, but Sirius shook his head and began growing rather concerned. “No, that’s not entirely true. Tonks quite likes them, you see, and she’s found some nearby at this shop that sells fancy things from abroad-” 

Cutting off his words when he realized that there might be pecans in the house at that exact moment, Tonks’ eager query of whether or not Molly might know how to make a pecan pie ringing in his ears, Sirius stopped shredding herbs and scurried off without another word. 

“Molly,” he panted at the woman busily cooking food at the stove, “pecans!” 

“What’s that?” Molly asked distractedly. “Out of the way if you please.” 

Moving aside so she could turn the hob down on one of the flames, Sirius grasped her arm when he realized she wouldn’t be stopping any time soon. 

“Molly! Pecans! Did Tonks bring any into the house?” he asked her urgently. “Those odd nuts she liked from America, the ones she was asking you to make a pie with?” 

“Pardon?” Molly’s immediate scowl grew smaller at the genuine agitation with which he was staring at her. “I - I believe so, yes. They’re sitting in one of the cupboards until I learn what to make of them. I’ve never had them, of course, but I suppose it can’t be that difficult to use-” 

Grip loosening with relief, Sirius sighed and told her, “Be careful with those, please. Harry’s allergic to them.” 

Her mouth fell wide open with shock, all thoughts of the food bubbling away at the stove disappearing from her mind. She wiped her hands clean on the towel upon her waist while anxiously wondering, “Allergic? I hadn’t even known he had allergies! How bad is it? Should I throw them out of the house? I can wipe down the cupboards right away - but is there anything else I should get rid of? Anything he might not do well with? We’ll get rid of it all at once, just to be safe.” 

“No, no, he’ll be alright so far as food goes,” Sirius told her with a shake of his head. “It’s just pecans. Normally it wouldn’t even be a problem, but I just remembered that Tonks has been helping with the shopping and mentioned them the other day. I thought I should warn you before he accidentally ends up finding some in a sweet or on the table as a snack. They should be fine where they are now so long as he doesn’t eat any. I’ll tell Tonks not to bring them round next time to avoid any accidents.” 

“Quite right, Sirius,” Molly said with a firm nod. “Best not to take chances with his health. Merlin, I wouldn’t even have known. I could have put them right in front of him!”

Glaring at the cupboard where the innocent pecans were hidden, Molly patted her chest to relieve the fear that lingered. “I wish Remus had told me when they were mentioned before…not very sensible to ignore something so important. And he was sitting right next to us! If he’d spoken up then, I’d have never allowed them in the house in the first place. Awful things, allergies. I’ve seen them take grown wizards to hospital with only a nibble. No, no, we’ll have to be rid of them as quickly as possible!” 

Most wizards only dealt with allergies as serious as hay fever and weren’t sure what to make of them, but Sirius was glad to see that Molly placed an appropriate level of concern to them. It was hardly uncommon for wizards to suddenly go dropping dead with rashes, swollen tongues, and closed throats that others chalked up to bad potions or poisonous ingredients, so the concept of being specifically susceptible to harm from something perfectly innocuous was quite a new age manner of thinking. Thankfully it didn't seem as though Molly subscribed to the belief that allergies were only for children and picky eaters. 

“It’s not his fault, Molly, Remus doesn’t know,” Sirius told her as he headed to the cupboard to make sure the bag was untouched. Realizing it might be unfair to toss out Tonks’ food when she likely paid a hefty price for it, he made do with sealing the cupboard shut until they could send them off with her again. “We never thought to tell him back then, and he wasn’t there when the midwife told us what things Harry ought to watch out for.” 

Moony would have never willingly skipped over anything he thought could harm Harry. He simply couldn’t have known. Of course he just sat there listening while Tonks rambled on about visiting her father's family in America and how she was excited to find pecans here. When Sirius turned round to head back to the herbs he’d abandoned, Molly was studying him with a frown. 

“But you were,” she said slowly. 

Feeling a bit defensive given the fact that she’d made her opinion of him very clear recently, he asked, “I was what?” 

Her frown became more pronounced.

“Nothing,” she sniffed. Reaching for her wand so she could return to cooking for a veritable army, she told him, “Thank you for informing me of this, Sirius.” 

Narrowing his eyes at her suspicious behaviour, Sirius chose to return to the simplicity of meal prep with his godson rather than start another fight with Molly. 

“Where’d you go?” Harry wondered when he returned to their corner of the table where the others were filing in and out with ingredients. “You acted like something big had happened.” 

“Just had to tell Molly about the pecans,” Sirius replied as he settled back down to pluck mint leaves off the stems. There was still an enormous pile waiting to be sorted for the dozen and a half people who’d be drenching their food in sauce at dinner. “Wouldn’t want you to get sick eating one now, would we?”

Harry looked as though he was utterly disarmed by the suggestion. Sirius couldn’t possibly begin to guess why, for he completely missed it when he was rolling his sleeves up. Hands still halfway in the air while the potato sat frozen within their grasp, the teenager blurted out, “What would happen? If I ended up eating one?” 

“If it’s anything like James, you’d be itching all over and start swelling up everywhere,” Sirius told him with a grimace. A handful of mint leaves fluttered into a bowl. “Tough luck breathing, big tongue, round face sort of deal. Not very pleasant to sit through, that’s for sure.” 

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” Harry whispered. “I’ve had worse. Not as embarrassing as being sick everywhere either.” 

He sounded oddly considerate. Thinking of James’ eagerness to walk into situations full well knowing they were trouble for the fun of it, Sirius chuckled. “Trust me, it’s not worth it. They’re hardly that delicious, really, and it doesn’t make a story worth telling past the first few times. You shouldn’t bother tasting it just to see what you’re missing out on.” 

Harry avoided his gaze and returned his attention towards the potato. 

“I wasn’t going to,” he mumbled. “Just…wondered what it’d be like.” 

He made no point in explaining to his godfather that it was the thought of receiving such warm care and concern that made him consider trying one, for unlike his beloved cousin Dudley, Harry had never once been fussed over while dreadfully ill by someone who thought of him as their son or son-adjacent family member. So Sirius assumed he spoke out of the need for excitement that he and James had often suffered from rather than the desperate, childish desire to be spoiled amidst illness that it truly was. But the true tragedy of that moment wasn’t that Harry would never be told about his father’s run in with the dastardly pecan pie of 1974 nor that he would never be able to delight himself with a food that a new friend favoured. It was something else entirely.  

The true tragedy was that if Harry had only asked, he’d have been told that Sirius was more than willing to spoil him in every form as recompense for the childhood he’d lived through. If Harry had mentioned even once that he would like to be accompanied to bed by Padfoot the dog…that he’d like be told he was loved…that he’d like to know what it means to be fussed over in a way that made him feel warm instead of humiliated for being weak…or told bedtime stories of his parents…or had his favourite foods made for dinner to cheer him up after a hard day…his wishes would have been granted within an instant by an enthusiastic godfather.  

Harry knew that Sirius would do anything for him. He simply figured that these things were the sort that could only come naturally, in a proper home, and were utterly impossible to request because his endless begging and pleading and daydreaming throughout his life proved that asking for good things changed very little about his circumstances. Oftentimes it even made everything worse when Uncle Vernon got it in his head that Harry was being an ungrateful, abhorrent, wretch for being bold enough to want things. 

So Harry would not ask because he didn’t understand how, and Sirius would not take the initiative because he didn’t know these were things that needed to be said or done in the first place. 

It wasn’t the worst thing to come about from Harry Potter’s short-lived and lamentable seventeen years of living; there were still duels to the death and tortures and the continued losses of loved ones vying against one another for the top places. But if he had known that he didn’t have to wait for the fairytale-like happy ending after declarations of innocence and the downfall of dark lords to receive the things he’d wished so dearly for all his life - had known that he had wasted his time waiting for the perfect moment and perfect occasion as he’d built it up in his head to begin receiving these things - he’d perhaps be even more devastated by that knowledge than a great deal of the harms he’d ever suffered at the hands of Voldemort. 

Only a week before the term would start, sending his godson away for what would likely be an entire year of little communication and company, Sirius Black made the mistake of falling asleep in his bedroom surrounded by photos of times long gone. Remus could tell soon as he woke up that something had changed within him overnight. With a sigh that carried a lifetime of grief and sorrow in it, he herded Sirius to his own room in the hopes of preventing anyone else from searching for his friend until he could come together again. 

“I’ll be back in the afternoon,” he told Sirius quietly while he passed over a stack of catalogues and books. “You just keep looking through these to figure out what we should buy until then. Don’t go wandering around, please.” 

“I’m not a child, Moony,” Sirius said with a roll of his eyes. “I can take care of myself perfectly fine! Just because I’m on bed rest from a mission doesn’t mean I’m inept.” 

Flipping through the stack as Remus lingered for a moment, Sirius added, “What are we supposed to be buying, anyway? And for who?” 

Remus gave him a small, sad smile. “A Christmas present, Padfoot.” 

“Yeah, well, the only people I bother buying Christmas presents for right now are you, James, Lily, and Peter,” Sirius grumbled. “Somehow I don’t think any of you fancy sneakoscopes or ancient tomes on curses for the hols.” 

Remus flinched at the mention of Peter, but quickly collected himself. “Just, erm - just take a look, would you? And tell me if you find anything good.” 

With one last look he left Sirius there to find a gift without ever declaring who it was intended for. Moody had initially proposed that the task wouldn’t take much more than a few hours. Remus hoped he was correct because he was determined to return to his friend before anything worse could happen. 

Sirius spent nearly two hours rifling through the stack and taking notes - there were some things in there that he didn’t mind receiving as a present either, given how the war was going - before a knock came upon the door. His head jerked up with alarm. Hovel thought it may be Remus was temporarily staying in, he would never have allowed for any random stranger to enter the premises. He reached for his wand and approached the door with a sense of caution. The knock came again, and a quiet voice called tentatively, “Prof - er, Lupin?” 

Sirius heard an even more quiet, “Not a professor, idiot,” muttered afterwards and felt his lips twitch. Well, whoever was outside the door might not be a Death Eater, but they certainly weren’t very bright. How on earth could they have ever assumed Moony was to be called professor? They did sound quite young - perhaps it was a prank of some sorts? 

After casting a few spells to ascertain that there was only one, much smaller person behind the door, Sirius chose to open it. To his surprise, the face that met him was almost as familiar as his own. 

“What are you doing here?” Sirius exclaimed with astonishment. It all made sense now. If it was James who’d come, Remus wouldn’t have bothered setting anything up that could prevent Prongs or Lily from arriving. He was looking quite odd, though. Was it just Sirius’ imagination or had his best mate grown shorter recently?  

James blinked at him in the dim candlelight outside. “Sirius? I thought you were in bed.” 

“I’m supposed to be,” Sirius said with a dismissive scoff. “Moony put me on house arrest. Did you come for me or for him?” 

“Er, for him,” James said while following him back to the desk inside. “I was going to ask him something, but that’s alright. I can just ask him later.” 

“Speaking of questions,” Sirius said with a grin, “what in Merlin’s name compelled you to call him professor?”  

James flushed and then sighed. “Habit, I think. I’m, um, not really sure what to call him now.” 

“Is this some sort of joke I’ve missed recently?” Sirius raised a brow. “Because you know how I feel being left out of jokes, mate.” 

“Well, calling him Remus feels odd,” James complained after flopping onto the bed. He seemed eager to talk with Sirius in a way that felt different from usual - almost as if this was a rarity rather than something they did all the time. His eyes also seemed too green today, but Sirius blamed it on the horrible wallpaper casting a sheen to them in the light. “And I don’t like Lupin much either, so I’m mostly just avoiding saying his name at all unless it’s Moony.” 

“All of a sudden?” Sirius asked with amusement. “I’ve never heard of this being an issue before. Is this because of the baby names?” 

“Baby names?” 

“The ones you and Lily are coming up with,” Sirius said while he subtly pushed the gift-research pile out of sight. “For the baby. Has all the thinking finally driven you mad so that you can’t stand anyone’s names anymore?” 

He turned back in question when James didn’t respond. Taken aback by the wide, gaping mouth and horror on his friend’s face, Sirius whispered, “Prongs?” 

James snapped his mouth shut and closed his eyes. After a moment of struggle, he opened them again to ask, “P-Padfoot?” 

“Yeah?” A sense of foreboding swept over him. 

“Do you…know who I am?” 

“Course I do,” Sirius said uneasily. “You’re James." 

James turned on his heel and beelined to the door. 

Wanting to hold him back, Sirius blurted out, "Is this some kind of mental crisis because you’re about to be a dad? Because if it is then I’m going to need warning. I’ve not prepared anything for this yet since we got the news - I was sort of busy buying toys for the sprog. Got to establish that I'm the top dog in the house by showering him in them, haven’t I?”  

An odd mixture of joy and grief warred on James’ face at that. Hand frozen on the doorknob, he opened his mouth a few times before finally turning round. 

“Toys?” he asked. Sirius stepped closer in alarm when his voice broke, but James just shook his head. “What…kind of toys?”

Feeling as though things had gone terribly wrong somewhere but unable to put his finger on where, Sirius decided he might as well go along with this until James was ready to talk about it. Whether it was the state of his parent’s health, the war, or Lily’s pregnancy that was bearing upon his shoulders, it would come out eventually. He and James never hid secrets from one another and it would take more than that to make them start. He’d just have to give him more time to be out with it, that’s all. 

“Well,” Sirius said slowly, “I was thinking that since we won’t be able to transform much to keep your house in one piece now that you’ve got a wife and kid on the way, we ought to find suitable replacements to represent us. There’s this wizard that sews stuffed animals in Hogsmeade…” 

James found a place on the bed again and listened to him without a word. Taken aback by how very strange this situation was, Sirius began to notice a great deal of things out of worry for his brother. He found that James had truly shrunken a fair bit compared to last he saw him, that his eyes had not a speck of brown and resembled the bright, vivacious green of Lily’s far more than they should, and that he was quite withdrawn and quiet in comparison to usual. His nose was different, his jaw off, and his voice changed as well. It was jarring to see someone he ought to know like the back of his hand blur into someone so distinctly off. 

Then, like magic, the confidence that allowed him to know the boy before him was James Potter vanished and in his place sat his godson Harry. 

When Sirius stopped speaking to stare at him with trembling pupils, Harry called out, “Sirius?” 

A cold weight settled within Sirius’ stomach. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to be sick or to be snuffed out to prevent himself from realizing just how badly he’d fucked this all up. 

“I.” Throat working, the man tried not to fall apart from shame. “Harry, I-” 

Green eyes brightened, then dimmed. “It’s alright.” 

“It’s not,” Sirius said forcefully. “It’s nowhere near alright! Merlin, I can’t believe I fucking…” 

Running a hand over his face and taking deep breaths, he choked out, “I should have never done that, should have never allowed it to happen. Harry, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. This doesn't happen often, I swear, and it's nothing to do with you! It's just me being unable to stay calm in this house and letting the worst come over me.” 

“I won’t tell anyone,” Harry said as if that was what mattered here. “I promise.” 

“That isn’t the point,” Sirius replied with a shudder. “Fuck! This isn’t supposed to…you should never have to deal with this, especially not from me, and I’m just fucking proving everyone else right-” 

Everyone who called him mad, who called him a bad influence, who said he wasn't appropriate company for Harry! The very last people he'd ever wanted to lend reason to! 

Harry shrugged and stared at his trainers while Sirius struggled to find the right words. “I don’t care because it’s you.” 

Pausing in his tracks, Sirius made a quiet noise of confusion. 

Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, Harry mumbled, “I…I like hearing that I remind you of mum and dad. I like knowing I’ve got them in me. I like that you - you know more about them than anyone else in the world, and you find more and more of them in me every day. I never…I never know except when you tell me, really.” 

Sirius felt as though he’d been clobbered by a troll. 

“Harry,” he said with such vehemence that it startled the boy into meeting his gaze. “Even without being here to raise you, your parents left plenty of themselves within you. No matter how many years go by, no matter what you go through, no matter what happens in the future, no one will ever be able to deny that you’re James and Lily Potter’s son. You…you have their strength, their courage, their intelligence, their kindness, their sense of justice, and you have it not because someone handed it down to you, but because you found that in yourself without someone needing to show you. And the other things…the little things…those too. You eat your favourite foods off the plate first like your mum used to. You’ve got your dad’s face but your mum’s scowl, somehow. You’ve got your dad’s allergy to pecans.” 

He pushed forth while his chest ached at the sincere wonder in Harry’s expression, as if no one had ever thought to tell him these things. “You’re better at quidditch than your dad ever was, worse at Transfiguration according to McGonagall. Have his temper, but have your mother’s good sense to accompany it most days. You’re skinnier and shorter now, but I bet if you eat enough this year then you’ll manage to be even taller than he was at the end.” 

"You're Harry James Potter," he said with a fierce, biting affection, "you're everything your parents were and more. It'll just take some time before you can see it too." 

Filled with a sudden fear that his mad fit had cost him credibility, Sirius pressed, "You still trust me, right? Trust that I mean it when I say that?" 

Swallowing round his thick throat, Harry's hoarse voice whispered, "I'll always trust you." 

Abruptly, Sirius felt a burn behind his eyes. Not wanting to further shatter Harry’s image of him by bawling like a child, he made a hurried excuse and left to find Buckbeak for something to physically hold onto. Harry didn’t call out for him, and he didn’t turn back. 

Sirius didn’t speak to him again until the day their Hogwarts letters came. 

Harry was shouting. Not with anger as he had when he arrived at Grimmauld during summer, but with fright and alarm. At once, Sirius felt his heart leap to his throat. He stumbled out of his chair and up the steps behind Remus, who was closer, and could hear the wooden stomp of Moody’s peg leg following. Sirius hoped Harry hadn’t come across some sort of cursed object or been bitten by something in the scant time that had already passed, his anger at this wretched house growing twicefold at the thought of it - as if it wasn’t enough to be hurting him, it just had to go after his godson as well! Damned, horrid, twice-be-

His thoughts and breath shuddered to a halt when they reached the drawing room the shouts were coming from. For a moment, all he could see was the boggart: Harry, his glasses cracked and askew, pale skin bruised and scratched up not unlike his appearance upon returning from the graveyard at the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Blood trickled down his forehead, across his cheek, and stained his mussed robes. The pallour of his skin and jet black of his fringe perfectly set off the crimson red scar on his forehead that appeared more a wound than the memory of one. All he could see was blood and dirt while a sobbing filled Sirius’ ears; he felt as though the world was slowly grinding to a halt even though he knew, without a doubt, that it was not real, for his godson was standing tall and true only a handspan away with concern on his face for Molly. It wasn’t true, it would never be true if he had a say…yet he considered that if he had faced this boggart alone instead of her, it might still take this form. 

And despite the fact that he couldn’t quite forgive Molly Weasley for the insinuation that Harry was anything less to him than the boy was to her, he suddenly began to feel a sort of kinship with her, for the evidence that she truly did love Harry much as he did and feared for his life had sat before them only seconds ago. This sense of kinship spurred one of the only moments of true thoughtfulness he’d managed for someone other than his godson since returning to Grimmauld Place, London. Still staring at the empty spot where the boggart pretending to be a dead Harry Potter had lain, he abruptly spoke, “Don’t worry about Percy. He’ll come round. It’s a matter of time before Voldemort moves into the open; once he does, the whole Ministry’s going to be begging us to forgive them.” 

Then her lost son would return to her, Sirius would be set free of this dreadful being hidden away business, and they could all have the families they were meant to in the first place. 

“And I’m not sure I’ll be accepting their apology,” he added with a bitterness that sank deep within his core. 

Twelve years of unfair imprisonment while Harry was shuffled off to people that could never know the definition of words such as kindness or mercy or sympathy. Three years of denying Voldemort’s return. Another two months of denying Harry’s suffering to push off the responsibility of resolving the real issues that plagued their society instead of unnecessary legislation on magical creatures.  

No, Sirius thought darkly, there would be no making up for the harms they bore due to the incompetence of the Ministry of Magic. But he damn well wanted them to bleed themselves dry trying. 

They never got the chance.

When the moment came that he was falling backwards into the Veil of Death at the Department of Mysteries, Bellatrix's cackle ringing in his ears and Harry's green eyes widening with horror and fright while Remus gasped behind him, Sirius realized he was going to die with a stunning clarity. His only thought that managed to manifest past the fear, regret, and shock was terribly simple. Staring at Remus and Harry with a naive, almost petulant confusion while his hands stretched out towards them, he thought: 

But I don't want to leave you again.  

The world went dark. 

“SIRIUS! SIRIUS!” 

It was too late. 

Harry struggled and screamed against Remus with every bit of strength he had until the truth set in, for still his godfather did not reappear beyond the Veil. Sirius had never kept Harry waiting before. Sirius had risked everything, always, to see Harry, to help him. If Sirius was not reappearing out of that archway when Harry was yelling for him as though his life depended on it, the only possible explanation was that he could not come back. 

And with him went the small, little boy within Harry Potter who clung to the idea of fairytales and happily ever afters.