This is the last chapter! I hope you enjoyed my story! Thanks very much to everyone who read it.

Chapter 4: Thirty-three

At thirty-three, Sirius Black adopted Harry Potter.

It was all for Harry, everything he did. He had escaped Azkaban to protect Harry from the rat, but he had wanted to check on Harry first, just make sure he was happy.

In later years, he would shudder to think what would have happened if he hadn't spent that week in Privit Drive.

He had found Harry fairly easily, following scent and some latent godfatherly instinct, and when he had first seen the boy something had warned him not to walk away at once. He couldn't put his paw on anything then, particularly because his dog brain couldn't quite analyze what it was about Harry that felt off, but he had the instinct that something wasn't quite right. So he hung around for a few days.

Taking Harry to France with him the night his godson ran away had been a decision made on the whim of a moment, he knew, but he didn't regret it, not one bit. In the last few days since he had offered and Harry had made the amazing decision to trust him, he had realized both that his godson had been abused, and that he was somehow a wonderful person in spite of it.

But Sirius knew that the wounds of abuse run deep; he had experienced it himself. It had been years after he escaped his mother that he had managed to stop flinching when someone raised a wand at him, and that had only happened after Mum and Dad Potter had used their wands to heal him after a Quidditch accident he and James had had one summer. He had finally realized then that wands lifted to him could heal as well as hurt.

But he had never wanted Harry to experience what he had, never wanted his godson to carry the scars of abuse the rest of his life as he did. He wished fiercely he had broken out of Azkaban sooner. But he was here now, he had Harry, and he would do everything in his power to help him heal. He would never let him go again.

He stretched and got up. They had been living in the little French villa they had selected together for a couple of weeks now, after a week and a half at the hotel. Harry was finally beginning to relax around him, Sirius thought, finally beginning to trust that Sirius would not treat him as his relatives had. It would take time for his godson to learn to fully trust him, he knew, but at least he seemed to be starting right. Good thing, as he'd never had experience with parenting before.

The first morning they had moved to the new house had been rough, as Harry had woken ridiculously early and begun cooking breakfast for him. It had taken a rather long and strange conversation for Sirius to convince him that he did not have to always cook breakfast, or clean, or act like a house elf around Sirius. The conversation had left Harry rather bewildered and Sirius fiercely compassionate toward Harry and furious at his relatives. He had realized that morning that the abuse Harry had been subjected to had been more psychological than physical, and he determined to heal the unseen wounds as much as the bruise paste he had bought the first day they were here had removed the physical.

Harry greeted him warmly, if a little shyly, when he came downstairs this morning (Sirius had been unable to break his habit of getting up ridiculously early so far), and they began making breakfast together. Sirius had resolved, after that first conversation, to make cooking fun for Harry; clearly his godson was good at it, but it was something he had been forced to do without thanks or – this infuriated Sirius the most – even eating much of what he had made. If they did it together and occasionally got into food fights or cooked crazy French things, Sirius hoped he could make Harry's skill at it one he enjoyed using someday.

They went down to the little village next to them that afternoon to shop in the small local market. Harry's latent curiosity, driven deep by the blasted Dursleys, awoke when he was surrounded by so many French things, and he was asking questions, trying to use the faltering French Sirius had begun teaching him, when a family walked by that made nearly every man turn and stare.

Sirius watched them too – a father, mother, and two daughters. He could tell that the mother and daughters, unnaturally beautiful with their long blond hair and perfect faces, were at least partly Veela. He felt the pull of attraction, but the knowledge that the mother was married and the younger two were nearer Harry's age than his kept him from drooling at them like some of the men did.

He glanced at Harry, curious of his reaction. The boy was watching them, but he wasn't drooling or making a fool of himself. Sirius smirked; this might make good teasing material when Harry was ready to be teased.

But in the wake of the Veela family's passing flowed a wave of whispers. "Strange . . . they shouldn't be able to do that . . . unnatural . . . freakish."

Sirius felt Harry give a slight wince when that last word was said by the burly man currently selling them cheese and bit his lip. Another wound he would have to heal.

They were walking back to the villa together, laden with purchases, when Sirius opened the conversation. "So," he said, "to continue your magical education, the mum and daughters of that family back there were Veela."

"Were what?" Harry asked, confused.

Sirius grinned. "Veela," he said. "They're a type of magical person. The ladies are almost irresistibly attractive to men and tend to turn us into awestruck piles of mush."

Harry flushed. "I didn't find them irresistibly attractive," he said after a moment. "I mean, they were pretty, but –"

Sirius chuckled at him. "I noticed you didn't," he said warmly. "For your information, I don't find them irresistible either. Very attractive, yes; irresistible, no."

Harry chuckled at that, a warm little sound. It was one of the first times Sirius had heard him really laugh, and he thought to himself that he could easily spend the rest of his life coaxing that laugh out of his godson, making him smile. He'd had too little happiness in his life.

"By the way," Sirius said quietly after a moment, knowing he needed to address something else, "I'm guessing your wretched excuses of relatives called you freakish?"

The slight wince Harry gave at the word was confirmation, but the boy hesitated to say anything. Sirius could guess the reason pretty easily – he was debating if the relief it would be to confess this to someone else and get it off his chest was worth the risk that Sirius could use this as a weapon against him. To Sirius's immense relief, he trusted him enough to choose to tell.

"Yes," Harry whispered. "They almost never called me by my name. It was always 'freak' or 'boy.'"

Sirius bit his lip to keep back the wave of anger that washed over him; he had learned that showing his anger around Harry always scared the boy, who thought it was directed at him. He remembered the names Walburga had called him and the way words had had the power to hurt him almost worse than her wand; looking at the hunched way Harry held himself, he guessed words held dark power over him, too. He stopped walking.

"Harry," he said gently, making sure to emphasize the name, "maybe you should know that my birth mother tended to call me 'blood-traitor,' 'wretch,' or 'abomination.'"

Harry's jaw dropped, but by the look in his eyes, he understood what Sirius was trying to tell him. They were both in this together.

"I ran away to live with your dad and Mum and Dad when I was thirteen, you know," he continued, "and they called me 'son' and 'dear.' So I solemnly swear to you, Harry," he continued firmly, "I shall never call you those words your relatives used as they didn't. You'll never hear them again."

Harry's eyes were large and rather disbelieving, but that didn't matter. In time, when Sirius proved himself trustworthy, he'd believe how sincere he was. Sirius bumped Harry's arm lightly with his and began walking again.

"I think I need to find you a few good nicknames," he suggested. "Maybe 'pup' or 'kid' or . . ."

Harry was smiling now, a broad smile that he couldn't seem to help, and Sirius grinned. One more wound beginning to heal.

Sirius might still have nightmares of going back to Azkaban; he might be alone without Mum or Dad or his brother alive in this world. But he had Harry, and Harry had him, and neither of them had anyone else, and it was enough for them to have each other.

(And he promised himself, as he continued up the hill with his beloved godson by his side, that he would heal Harry as the Potters had once healed him.)

At thirty-three, Harry Potter brought a wounded girl home.

He was married now, to Gabrielle Potter nee Delacour; he still lived in France, which had become a home to him once he learned to speak the language fluently, with Gabrielle and their little girl Lily and Sirius. Gabrielle had just discovered she was pregnant with their second child, and she and Harry could not have been more pleased. Harry was content and happy these days; he had no one chasing him anymore since the defeat of Voldemort years ago, and he had his wife, the man who had become his father, and his children around him. He taught in a magical primary school in France and enjoyed it very much.

Sirius was out this particular evening with Lily, who called him Grandfather. Harry had never really called him Dad, because that name belonged to James Potter and Sirius kept his memory (and Lily's) vividly alive, but a father was what Sirius had been to Harry. A father, friend, and older brother combined.

Gabrielle was taking a nap, as her new pregnancy was tuckering her out, and Harry ducked out of the house to go for a short walk. There was a seven-year-old girl in the neighborhood that he and Sirius were worried about. Ever since their childhoods, they were both sensitive toward children who might be unhappy in their homes, and they were trying to keep an eye on this girl and see if they needed to confirm their suspicions and rescue her.

That evening, on his walk, Harry found the girl sitting on the curb, a small bag of things beside her and tears streaming down her cheeks. When he asked her what was wrong, she told him her father had struck her and she was running away from him.

Remembering himself, and Sirius, Harry took her home with him.

Gabrielle was wide-eyed when she found what he had done, but accepting. She had been Harry's wife long enough to know his past, to know that the wounds of his childhood had healed but that the faint scars they left behind would always make him sensitive to other children who might be like him. In spite of her pregnancy, she agreed that they would take the girl in and make her their own.

"I knew there was a reason I married you," Harry said jubilantly as he kissed her.

And as he drew back from the kiss, he winked over her head at Sirius, who was watching him proudly from the doorway.

(They understood wounds, and healing, the two of them. They would heal this girl as they themselves had been healed.)