I am the jovial host. Happy to have everyone here, to offer someone a butterbeer.

It is good having Harry back. When he laughs, I am flooded with nostalgia. I remember planning and executing pranks with Remus's disproval and James's roaring laugh. And Peter. That little bastard.

Remus looks gorgeous tonight, with his hair windswept and his cheeks red from the long ride in the cold. I admire his chocolate brown eyes and his chapped pink lips.

I try avoid looking at Remus too much, but to no avail. I don't want to cause too much suspicion. Homosexuality is accepted about as much in the Muggle world in the Wizarding world. That is to say, it is merely tolerated.

I know Remus (on the rare occasions when he has dated) has dated both men and women. I don't think he knows that I know. That's alright. He doesn't know about me. As much as I do, I don't want to bring it up.

I talk to Harry and I'm glad he's away from those blasted Dursleys. I can't believe how tall he has gotten, how much more sorrowful and angry he looks. With every day, he looks more and more like James. I still remember how he looked as a baby, chubby and fat, always happy and gurgling. I remember getting pictures from Lily in the mail. No matter how dark the world had seemed, Harry's smiling face always made me laugh. I had imagined being the dashing Godfather, the one teaching Harry how to pull off pranks, showering Harry with gifts, getting into madness and mayhem. But most of all, I had promised Jamie-boy that I would look after him. I intend to keep that promise. The only person I love as much as Remus is Harry.

And I suddenly become angry. Why is the world so fucking unfair? Hell, I'll still be that Godfather, the one that gives Harry what he wants, treats him as an equal. I feel the anger, the restlessness, and the unhappiness lurching together unpleasantly in my stomach; I know it is a dangerous combination. I lash out at Molly Weasley, who is mollycoddling Harry as usual. I feel a twinge of regret when I see her hurt face, but it is immediately satiated by Harry's look of respect. I tell myself that Harry should know information about the Order. James would have included him. To my surprise, Remus agrees. I feel elated. So there, Molly Weasley.

But I am mad at Molly anyway. Though her cooking is downright delectable, she had been a meddling busybody, judging me with her uppity airs and blaming me about Dung. It's not my fault that Dung left guard duty.

Then Molly mentions Azkaban and I explode. It's not my fault I spent twelve years of my life locked up in Azkaban. It's not my fault I couldn't look after Harry. Merlin knows I wanted to. But I was stuck in fucking Azkaban being sucked dry of the few happy memories I had in my shitty life. I start to stand up, feeling the anger course through my blood.

Then Remus reproaches Molly and snaps at me. Bloody hell, he must be pissed. He normally never raises his voice. I sit down, chastised. Bad dog. I feel the anger leave from my face to be replaced with the pale colour of shock. Remus is right. Remus is always right. Has always been right. He keeps me in control. I am getting out of control. I can't do that in front of Harry.

But as I sit, listen and contribute to (rightfully) informing Harry about the actions of the Order, my anger still simmers, especially at Molly. Sometimes I think she dislikes me because I am a Black. I am foul; I am rotten; my soul is as black as my name. After all, the Blacks had a hand in the murders of the Prewett brothers. My relatives are murders. And I wish I had murdered Pettigrew.

I am ready to let Harry join the Order. Let him fight! Why stop him? He is old enough now to understand; he shouldn't be babied. He should understand what's going on. He should be able to avenge the death of his parents. He's probably faced more than everyone at this table combined. He's certainly braver than anyone else at the table; that is a fact. I'm ready to argue with Molly Weasley for hours. I'm ready to win. Who the fuck is she to tell Harry what to do? She isn't his bloody mother.

But it is Remus who says no and so I swallow back my arguments and shrug. I'm not going to argue with Remus. And if he says no, he's probably right. I trust Remus now. I must.

I stand up from the table and run my hands through my hair. What a shitty day. What a shitty shitty day. But I suppose, since Dumbledore's kept me cooped up here, every day has been pretty bloody awful.

On the bright side, Remus spent a lot of time looking at me. I could feel his eyes on my face. I couldn't tell if he was staring at me because he thought I was being a prick or because he liked looking at me. I hope will all my heart that it is the latter. I love looking at Remus.