"I wish you'd told me," Sirius says, breaking the silence. Remus shifts on his pillow, propping himself up on his elbow.

"I wasn't sure."

"Yes you were, you knew. You knew that he was sneaking off to… do that." Sirius is still having trouble wrapping his head around the situation. This isn't something they treated at St. Mungo's, it's not something Sirius can treat with a healing spell or a liniment. This is something else. Something scarier. Sirius places a hand on Remus' cheek. "I'm not blaming you, Moony… God, no. I just. You know about these things, you know about everything, and I need you to help me to understand."

"It's not an easy thing to understand, Pads. It's just, you know, a coping mechanism, that sort of thing."

"I know, I know… It's just, why this. Adolescent angst and that, why isn't he out - I don't know. Shagging girls and coming home smelling like grass. That's what we did when we were messed up kids," Sirius frowns. "I know he's got the weight of the world… But we were messed up kids too, Moony, and we didn't do this. I mean, food is supposed to make you feel better, like you and your chocolate…"

Remus says nothing, and he's not sure Sirius wants him, needs him, to say anything at all.

"I spoke to Dumbledore today, while you were out. He had no idea any of this was happening. I got a little heated with him, probably said some things that I - but honestly, Remus! He had no idea! He's supposed to be watching over the boy, supposed to be his protector while he's at Hogwarts and he had no idea!"

"Did he have any… advice? Anything?"

"You know how Dumbledore is," Sirius drags his hands down his face, exasperated. Remus does know. He leans forward and tentatively places a kiss on the corner of Sirius' mouth. There's a moment of uncertainty when Sirius doesn't immediately respond and Remus' stomach starts to wriggle its way out of his body. But then Sirius kisses him back, hard.

"I love you, you know. Thank you for sticking by, even…" Sirius has trouble choosing his words.

Remus feels, with a pang of bitterness, like he knows exactly what Sirius was trying to say. Thanks for sticking by and helping out with Harry even though you're not as close with him as I am because when he was a toddler we all thought you were a snitch and cast you out. Remus bites back his resentment and lets the realization wash over him that Sirius has just said I love you in that serious, honest way that somehow makes the past okay again. He presses another kiss to Sirius' jaw.

"I love you too."

...

For Harry's first meal after the talk, Remus prepares chicken soup, mostly broth. Not exactly breakfast fare but it's light and unintimidating. Sirius places a bowl in front of Harry then sits down beside him with his own. Remus leans against the counter, behind them, afraid to penetrate their bubble.

"Sirius," Harry begins, his face in his hands.

"I know, Harry. Grab your spoon," Sirius responds casually, beginning to eat his soup. Without looking up, he pauses with his spoon halfway to his mouth and adds, "Are you going to join us, Remus?"

Remus holds his breath for a moment then fills himself a bowl. "Right."

He sits down on the other side of Sirius, trying to melt into his chair so that he won't accidentally catch Harry's eye. Not that it's currently a possibility: Harry's head is still in his hands. Sirius puts down his spoon.

"Harry," Sirius says quietly. Harry sits up in his chair, pressing the heels of his palms against the edge of the table.

"Remus, thank you so much for cooking, this smells really lovely," Harry says quickly, forcing a smile. Remus sinks further in his seat.

"Eat your soup, Harry. It's getting cold," Sirius speaks flatly, his eyes boring into Harry's. Harry nods, forces his smile wider.

"Yes, of course, Sirius. I just think today isn't the best day to be starting this, maybe tomorrow morning? I'll even get up early and cook for us, it'll be lovely-" Sirius slams his fist down on the table and both Harry and Remus jump so suddenly that Remus can taste copper where he's bitten his lip.

"Stop. Not another word. We are going to sit here, as long as it takes, until you finish your soup. There will never, ever be any discussion or leniency on the subject." Sirius leans forward and slides Harry's bowl towards him. "You will finish your breakfast."

Remus doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until he suddenly feels the blood pounding in his head. He takes a gulp of air.

Harry drops his head onto his hands, blocking his eyes from view, and begins to quickly swallow spoonful after spoonful. Getting it over with, Remus observes. He looks down at his own untouched bowl. His stomach in knots, Remus considers the breach in decorum that he would be committing if he decided that he, too, wasn't much in the mood for breakfast.

After several minutes of silence, Harry pushes his empty bowl away. Sirius stands up and clears away the table, save for Remus' soup. He gives Remus a pointed look, but his voice remains casual: "Finish up, Remus, I think there's a match starting. Harry and I will be in the drawing room." He passes behind Harry's chair and places a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Come along, Harry."

He leads the boy out of the kitchen, leaving Remus to stare into his bowl, alone.

...

A week since the confrontation with Harry, meals have not become any less difficult. Remus stands in the kitchen in his robe, preparing two scrambled eggs (cooked furtively in butter) and a half slice of plain brown toast each for Harry, himself, and Sirius.

He and Sirius had chosen to eat the same meals as Harry in an attempt normalize the situation. Not that there's really any chance of normalizing the situation, thinks Remus. He plunks down three bowls, portioning out their eggs.

They had developed a system in which one of them kept Harry occupied while the other cooked. It kept Harry from analyzing and fretting over every ingredient - the first few times they had let him stay in the kitchen while dinner was being cooked, he had protested at every splash of oil, every hint of fat. Butter was grounds for a meltdown.

"Breakfast," Remus calls. He places the three slices of toast on a plate and sets it in the middle of the table. Sirius and Harry appear in the kitchen a few moments later, each mechanically taking their bowls and sitting down. Remus sits down opposite Sirius. He lets his right knee brush Sirius' left, reassuring. They allow Harry to eat in silence, Sirius offering the occasional conversation starter to Remus.

The only time Harry speaks up is when Sirius alludes to Molly's desire to bring the Weasley family over for a Sunday supper in the next few weeks. "Not yet."

Sirius hides his crestfallen expression as best he can. Remus brushes his knee again under the table in sympathy.

...

It's Sirius' turn to do the washing up, so Remus escorts Harry out of the kitchen for his after-dinner observation. Remus would happily do the washing up every night in exchange for never having to do guard duty, but Sirius had insisted they trade off. He had become increasingly frustrated with Remus' attempts to fade into the scenery, and it led to almost daily arguments in which Remus was forced to face how fucking useless he was in this whole... whatever this is. You're a part of this family, Remus, you need to take a little responsibility, he had said. I can't do this alone, and it's not fair that you're forcing me to!

Before they reach the drawing room, Harry catches Remus by the shirtsleeve and pulls him toward the staircase. Remus' heart begins to race.

"Remus," Harry whispers, tears in his eyes. "Remus, please."

"Harry, come now. Let's get you back to the kitchen and we can sit down with Sirius and talk, all right?" Remus shifts uncomfortably, trying to herd Harry back toward the kitchen but the boy stands firm.

"Just today, I'll be so quick and quiet, I won't get you in trouble and I promise you I'll never ask again," Harry is pale, his eyes roving desperately, like a cow being led to slaughter.

"Harry, you're doing so well -"

"Remus, please, I can't, just today, I won't tell Sirius, I just can't," Harry pleads. "My stomach hurts so much, please. It's about to happen anyway, I feel so ill, I just need to get to the washroom in time-"

"Is everything all right?" Sirius steps into the hall, pot and dishcloth still in hand.

...

That night, Remus and Sirius argue quietly in their bedroom. They try to be quiet, at least, but Remus can see a shadow under the door where he suspects Harry is sat on the other side, listening.

"I almost let him, Sirius! I was this close to telling him, 'Okay, Harry, just this once! Be quick! Brush your teeth afterwards!'" Remus spits. Sirius just looks at him, aghast. "I don't know how to do this! You're so calm and so confident and I feel like a fucking trespasser! You have this connection with him, you're practically his father, and I don't know who I'm supposed to be."

"You are supposed to be his, my, support system! Fine, if you don't want to get your hands dirty, that is fine. But at least let the boy know you care about him once in a while instead of haunting this place like a fucking ghost when he's around!" Sirius' voice is venomous and Remus feels his legs go weak and he half-collapses on the corner of the bed.

"You're right," he says, roughly wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. "You're absolutely right."

...

Remus is reading in the drawing room when Harry joins him. He settles gently into the sofa - the boy's ribs are still giving him trouble - and tucks his feet underneath himself, yanking the blanket that's folded over the back of the sofa onto his legs.

"You need to sort things with Sirius," Harry announces.

"Pardon?" Remus frowns, marking his place in Magical Mysteries: A History of Confounding Architecture with his thumb wedged in between the pages.

"I've fucked things, between you two," Harry glances up to meet Remus' eyes briefly, searching for any outrage at his use of vulgarity. Seeing that Remus' face is blank, he continues, "I don't want things to fall apart. I know you and Sirius, as it is, try to keep things… low key. But I can still see the difference."

Remus continues to stare at him, not knowing what to say. Harry isn't wrong, things are strained between himself and Sirius. As of late, there were longer and more frequent fights and, worse, silences between them.

"And I'm sorry for putting you in that position," Harry continues, "By asking you to let me… I just… I can't do this. I'm trying so hard, and I can't talk to Sirius about it because it would crush him, and I just. I'm having a really hard time." Remus doesn't know where to focus his eyes - they flick from his own chapped hands, to Harry's bony knees underneath the woollen blanket, to a hole in the sofa's gaudy upholstery. Anywhere but Harry's eyes. You're such a coward.

"Anyway," Harry says, uncomfortable, aware of Remus' stare. He shifts in his seat, wincing almost imperceptibly. Remus chews at his lip, looks down and clears his throat.

"I, uh. I can fix that for you," He attempts. "Your ribs. I know you said no before, but I can still - the offer still-"

"Okay," He nods immediately, surprising Remus. Harry rubs his hands back and forth over his knees and takes a deep breath. "Okay."

Harry's thin fingers begin to curl under the hem of his sweatshirt, before his eyes dart to the doorway and he lets go. "Can we close that?"

Remus opens his mouth, but finds he didn't know what to say. Sirius is somewhere, probably splayed out on his bed with headphones on - Remus vaguely remembers him mentioning a Sollima record that he needed to catch up on. Still, Remus thinks, close the door? Before he can say anything, Harry hops up, shuts the door gently, and settles back down onto the sofa.

"I'm sorry," Remus says suddenly, surprising himself. His voice is shaky. "I'm sorry I haven't been any help, with any of this. I've been shite, and I want you to know that I care about you, and I want to help. Even if it's just, you know, talking. You can always… we can talk, all right?"

"Okay," Harry says again. Okay, okay, okay, Remus' brain responds, panicky. The boy's thin fingers once again hook under his jumper, lifting it up until his ribs are visible.

Fuck, Remus thinks, then realizes he has mouthed the word to himself.

"Sorry," Remus says, feeling unsteady. Harry just nods.

The boy's ribcage is like waves in the ocean, crests and troughs of pale skin and brittle bone. Remus has to hold back the urge to trace his fingers through the trenches to see if they're as deep as they look. Tearing his eyes away, he grabs his wand off of the coffee table and gently presses it to Harry's side. "Costaeum sanatum."

Harry hisses, then exhales deeply. He leans into the sofa with his head tilted back and eyes closed and seems to test the range of his breathing for a few moments, shallowdeepshallow. Remus notices that there's still a yellowish, faded bruise from the fall near the front of Harry's ribs, reaching his sternum, and he tilts his head to the side, eyes following the discolouration, until -

"God, Harry," Remus' fingers shoot out, involuntarily, and lift the right side of Harry's shirt. Harry's eyes fly open and he squirms away. Remus tries to catch his wrist, but he jumps off of the sofa and speeds out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Remus doesn't shout after the boy, but draws his feet under himself, head in his hands