Chapter Twelve
Harry slapped his hand on the mat, and Miguel let him up. Harry bounced up, ready for another bout. He kept his balance on the balls of his feet and kept his arms tight to his sides for a block or a strike.
Miguel had trained any notions he'd had of when a fight was over right out of him. He'd catch him off guard at the strangest moments—in the middle of instructing him in a new technique, while they were walking back into the house after practice, at the sink washing dishes—and Harry was very rarely not on guard, anymore. He couldn't be, after the night Miguel came into his room while he was asleep and woke him up with an arm across his neck, and told him his reflexes needed work.
It was a hard lesson, but one Harry had adapted to much more easily than most people would. Enemies could be anywhere, at any time. One must always be ready to move. He didn't know why Miguel had stressed that so much (and his godfather hoped Harry remained ignorant of his request), but he'd learned it well, and it showed in more places than just their garage. At school, he always knew where the bullies were and if they were ready to pick on any of his classmates. He knew when a teacher was looking at him and ready to ask a question. He always knew where the exit doors were in any building he entered. It wasn't something he did consciously. He was just always supremely aware of where everyone else in a room was and how much space he had to move within if he got into a fight.
Miguel just shook his head and grinned. "We are finished today," he declared, wiping at the streams of sweat coursing from his temples down his cheeks. "You gave me a good workout," he chuckled, his breath a bit short. "You're getting good at this."
Harry grinned, and acknowledged the compliment with a little dip of his head. They went back into the house for a drink of water, and Harry toyed with the idea of kicking Miguel's legs out from under him, but dismissed it. Miguel was a good teacher, and there was no reason to pick a fight by pointing out that he wasn't nearly as good at being on his guard as Harry was, now.
Miguel lowered the glass he was drinking from, and gave Harry a rueful smile. "I think I'm teaching you too well," he said. "But don't think I don't see you there."
Harry blushed. Of course Miguel was ready for him. He was just better at not showing it, at acting casual. Harry knew that was his next step. Hiding that he was even watching. Ready for a fight while looking like he was anything but. What an advantage that would be! he thought fervently. Well, he would get there.
"I'll have to learn it for myself," he muttered.
"Hmmm?" Miguel queried around his glass. He swallowed. "You think there's something I can't teach you?"
"Attitude," Harry said with a smile.
Miguel laughed. "You've got plenty of that on your own," he assured Harry, ruffling his hair.
Why was everybody always doing that? he scowled.
"You're telling me," Sirius said, and they both turned to acknowledge him. They'd known he was there. He might flatter himself into thinking they didn't, but he was slowly learning that awareness for himself. Miguel didn't beat it into him the way he did with Harry, for some reason Harry hadn't figured out. If he ever did find out that Sirius had frankly asked Miguel to do what he could to prepare Harry for a dangerous life, he probably wouldn't be altogether surprised.
"He's got enough attitude for three kids," Sirius said, stepping across the room and pulling Harry in for an affectionate hug. "But since I can only handle one at a time, it all got packed in here."
Harry made grunting noises of disapproval at the teasing, but they were half-hearted at best. Miguel updated Sirius on Harry's progress while Sirius finished off Harry's glass of water and refilled it.
"He's becoming quite a warrior," Miguel said, sounding proud, but his face was serious. Harry's godfather reacted to that by tightening his arms until Harry was almost suffocating, but he slipped free easily and resumed replenishing his body of the water he'd been sweating out. He knew why Sirius was worried, but he was doing a lot better, really. No reason to squeeze him to death.
"Not like I'm getting the training I really need, anyway," he muttered. Sirius gave him a sharp look that he returned. It was true.
When Sirius walked into the kitchen for something to eat and found Miguel slumped at the table with a half-empty bottle of cheap cachaça in his hand, his heart skipped a beat. Miguel had no objection to drinking, far from it, but Sirius had never seen him drink to excess. Not once in a year of knowing him. Now the slightly younger man was completely pissed. Something was wrong here.
Very quietly, he joined Miguel at the table. He knew the problem wasn't Catalina, since he'd left her lying in bed only a moment ago. He knew it wasn't Miguel, since his one true worry was behind him—his acceptance letter had come yesterday and he was enrolled in three classes at a nearby college, starting in three weeks. In fact, their little family seemed to be thriving.
Last time Miguel had needed to talk to him, it had been about Harry. Sirius prayed mightily that Miguel wasn't getting drunk to prepare himself for a conversation about Harry. The nearly-twelve-year-old had taken that talk a few months ago to heart and had applied himself to spending more time out of his room and with the family. He was almost doing well in music class, even. Sirius had thought he was doing better.
Miguel looked up at him, his eyes reddened and tired. "Are you done fucking with my sister?" he growled.
"What?" Sirius stammered. He scrambled to come up with a single memory of a moment when Miguel had acted disapproving of the relationship he had with Catalina, and couldn't find one. This was coming out of nowhere! What had gotten into Miguel?
"You have two choices, Sirius," he said, his voice slow and careful, the S's becoming long and hissing. "You can marry her or you can go."
His first feeling was of relief that Miguel's first question had been figurative rather than literal and that he wouldn't actually have to discuss his physical relationship with the woman's brother. The second one was gut-twisting panic at the options being laid before him, followed by anger and disgust with himself for not knowing which answer was right. To cover his roiling emotions, he asked his own question.
"What brought this on?"
"I told Catalina . . . I said to her, why don't you enroll in school, too? We both put it off long enough." Then Miguel lapsed into Portuguese, although he didn't seem to be aware of it. He continued relating the conversation. Sirius had been learning some, but with Miguel's drunken, slurring speech, he was completely lost.
"Um, Miguel, I don't understand you."
Miguel didn't offer to translate, but Sirius didn't really need him to. Catalina had said she wasn't interested in going back to school, obviously, and likely it was because she was happy with the life she already had. She didn't have time to go to work and contribute a third of their income, and be the heart of this family, and go to school. She'd already mentioned some of this to Sirius before.
"So, if you're going to be here and take care of her, then you will marry her. If you're not, then you leave now so she can make a better life before she gets too old." Miguel finally set the bottle down on the table, but only so he could get unsteadily to his feet and come around the table to where Sirius sat. He clapped a hand on Sirius' shoulder, holding himself up as much as getting his point across. "I like you, and you've been good for her. You're . . ." He belched. ". . . good man. If you want to marry her, we'll be a real family. But I know how you move around. If you're moving on again, do it now. Before Catalina gives up too many opportunities to be with you. You understand, don't you?"
At one time, Sirius would have turned this into a fight, his injured pride and honour would be the first thing on his mind. But he thought he'd matured beyond that. Besides, Miguel wasn't trying to insult him, or didn't seem to be. He was drunk and doing a lousy job of explaining himself, but not intentionally trying to say anything bad about Sirius or Catalina. He just cared about his sister. Wanted the best for her. Sirius could understand, since he wanted the same thing.
"I need to think," was all he said, but his head was already turning toward the door to Harry's room. He took a few pulls from the tequila bottle before he stood up. It was all very well to talk about dependency on alcohol and the evils of liquor, but once in a while (as Miguel seemed to have discovered), you needed a little liquid courage.
When Sirius walked into Harry's room with his face grim and his shoulders hunched against the confusing battle in his head, Harry immediately stood up, walked over to him, and raised his face. He sniffed.
"You've been drinking."
"I had a shot of that petrol Miguel's drinking, about three seconds ago," Sirius answered.
Harry shrugged and stood aside, gesturing to his bed so Sirius could sit down.
"Miguel and I were talking . . ." Sirius sighed. "I don't have the energy to explain it all. Go ahead and look," he invited, trying to relax his mind for the invasion.
Thirty seconds of silence later, when he realized Harry was staring at the wall, he frowned.
"Aren't you going to look?"
"I'm done," Harry said casually. "I'm just thinking."
Sirius kept himself from gasping in shock with supreme effort. Harry had gotten good enough that he hadn't even noticed the Legilimency being used. Of course, he was no great Occlumens himself, and he'd issued the invitation, but he still reckoned that wasn't too shabby for a kid Harry's age. I could kiss that Japanese priest. Except that it makes Harry just that much more unusual . . . at least he's at school, spending time with his own peers now. Who knows what he'd act like if he never saw other kids?
"Do you love her, Sirius?"
Sirius didn't know what to look at, so he looked at his hands. They were calloused and rough and two of the nails were blackened with bruises from getting his fingers smashed under a crate. His forearms were a mess of bruises and welts from sparring with Miguel. And he honestly didn't mind. He liked this life. He liked this house, and Catalina . . .
"She's so beautiful," he mumbled. "And she's got so much . . . spirit, I guess. I'm grateful to be living free anywhere, of course, but when it's with her, I'm really alive. And there's so much to love about this place, this city. Her, most of all."
"I won't look into your head again," Harry replied calmly. "Do you love her?"
"I do."
"Then that's that, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"If you love her, then love her."
Sirius stared at his godson, who looked back at him with determination through his glasses and the shaggy hair that hung low over his forehead and hid that scar. He was so proud of this boy, who was hardly a boy anymore and certainly not the child he'd been when they met.
"You didn't learn your ideas about love from me, that's for sure. I've got a history of being bad at it."
"You've got a history of not getting attached to women you're going to leave," Harry corrected him. "You're not leaving Catalina."
"I don't want to," Sirius said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But what about you?"
"What about me? I'll be on my own soon enough, anyway. Don't . . ." Now Harry seemed to struggle for words at last. "Don't give up your home for me again. Don't give up someone you love so much. Please."
This was the first hint Harry had ever given that he felt guilty for his place in Sirius' life. It was true, after a fashion, that Sirius had given up many things for Harry, but . . .
"I've never regretted it," Sirius said, his voice so rough with emotion that he was growling. His scarred, battered hands clenched into fists. "I love you like you were my own, and I've never once regretted this. Don't believe for a minute that I could. So long as I'm raising you as best I can, trying to make James and Lily proud, being here to watch you grow up—that's all the life I need. You know that, don't you?"
"I do," Harry said, his voice quiet. "But we have Catalina and Miguel now. And I can't— Can't see you that lonely again. Stay, Sirius. Stay here."
They embraced for a long time, not saying anything. Then Sirius broke the embrace and moved toward the door, feeling like he'd never felt before. "I . . . um, I have to go make a marriage proposal." He almost thought he'd giggled, but of course he hadn't, he didn't act silly and never had. But he felt like he was moving in a haze, like his feet didn't touch the ground. He was going to ask Catalina to marry him, and he was going to stay here, and he was going to allow himself to believe he'd found a home again like he hadn't known since before the war.
Maybe he was finally done punishing himself for letting James down.
Catalina was laying in bed, reading a book. Sirius titled his head to see what it was. Borges. She really was a marvelously well-read women, he thought with admiration. She'd barely finished high school, but she'd been raised in the hopes she'd marry into a higher class. Her father had counted on her being beautiful and intelligent to catch the eye of someone much more important than him. Then he was dead, she was practically in the streets, and still she read high-brow literature and practiced the violin from time to time.
She was an excellent cook, too, he thought with contentment as he slid into the bed beside her. She worked as a waitress at a really nice restaurant, so she ought to be sick of looking at food by the time she came home, but instead she was always cooking something. She made the most amazing empanadas. But maybe what he really loved about her was that when he'd told her he'd gone to jail for some murders he hadn't actually committed, she'd just kissed his cheek, said she believed him, and made him dinner. She was just so very loving and accepting and beautiful and everything he wanted.
He just watched her read. He'd been with her for very close to a year, now, and he still hadn't discovered anything he didn't like about her. Her tongue was sharp and cutting, certainly, but only when he deserved it. She had kind of a rocky history with men, but she hadn't had a father to scare off her boyfriends and her brother had been too busy trying to keep them from starving. He couldn't blame her for it.
"I love you," he murmured with contentment, his breath causing a few hairs loose from her braid to dance across her neck.
She went stiff, for a moment. She laid her book aside very carefully, and slithered sideways so she lay with her face next to his. No arguments here, he thought lazily, smiling at her. "You've never said that before," she said, an uncertain smile on her (beautiful) lips.
"No, I haven't. Doesn't mean it isn't true."
She smiled back, and they lost themselves for a few moments in the pleasantries of reminding themselves what they found so enjoyable about each other's company. Her lips weren't just beautiful, they were skilled, Sirius thought, but when she showed signs of being willing to let this go further, he pulled away.
"I want to talk," he said, feeling his heart twisting. He was . . . could it be he was frightened? Why should he be? He knew she loved him. He knew that when he asked her, she would say yes. He knew that. Why ought he to be afraid?
Because he wasn't going to ask, he realized, and his heart twisted until it hurt. Harry's reckless comment a couple of days ago had sunk in too deeply. Harry wasn't getting the training he needed. He had muscles and reflexes Sirius had never before seen on a kid his age, but Harry was no wizard. And he needed to be. It was the life he'd been born into, the life they'd both been born into. And Catalina . . . she couldn't fit in, there. She might come, if he asked. But she'd never be the powerful woman she was here. Did he dare ask, anyway? Ask her to join him in a world that would never be hers, and watch her slowly wilt away in a place she'd never be part of?
Or he could leave her here. Let her go and let her become accomplished in her own way. Free her to pursue her own life, and find happiness with a man who'd be much better for her than Sirius could ever be. Because no matter how much he loved her and wanted to be with her, and no matter how much Harry loved him and tried to release him to do so . . . Harry was his responsibility first. When he'd escaped Azkaban, it was Harry that had saved him. Harry was his child, now, and he had the raising of him. It was a tricky, difficult job, but it was his. He couldn't abandon it. It was his penance for getting James and Lily killed, but it was also what made his life worth living and had been for years. He loved Harry, and loving Catalina didn't excuse Sirius from doing what was right for him.
Catalina was watching him, waiting for him to speak. Did she know what was coming? he wondered with regret. Did she have any idea what he was going to say? Her eyes were calm, her face still, but there was so much tension in her shoulders. She knew something was wrong.
"I have to leave," he whispered. Then he closed his eyes to wait out her tears and fists and whatever else she would shower on him until she gave him the chance to explain. He started trying to think of what to say.
The truth was all that came to him, while he let her slap him and shout and cry. "You know how you found that stick, and I told you it was a magic wand? I was being serious . . ."
