Knockturn Alley was dark—more gloomy and decrepit than Harry remembered. Only a handful of witches and wizards roamed the wet, mossy cobblestone. But unlike Diagon Alley where everyone minded his own business, those among the poisonous candle shops and shrunken heads gazed forebodingly and deliberately at Harry and Ron.
Feeling stiff, Harry could only stare back at the thick, black robes and lanky hair of the passersby.
The boys walked briskly, keeping their heads down but allowing their eyes to wander among the windows, thickly coated with dust. Shivering, Harry tore his eyes away from the clouded display of a knotted hand.
Suddenly, Harry felt Ron clutch at his sleeve.
"I don't like this," Ron whispered hoarsely. Usually Harry would have shrugged him off, but today, he allowed his friend to stay close.
"Neither do I," Harry answered softly, never taking his eyes off of the dark, eerie surroundings, "I told you we're not supposed to be down here. Hagrid told me—"
"Well no joke, mate," Ron interrupted in a huff, "I've been coming to Diagon Alley with mum since I was a baby. Don't you think I know it?"
Harry stemmed the urge to role his eyes. When Ron was with Harry, the redhead was braver than usual. However, without the protection of the invisibility cloak, the boy was jittery and rigid.
But Harry didn't blame him. Walking down Knockturn Alley among the leering eyes of potentially evil witches and wizards made Harry feel frightened and vulnerable—as if he were naked in the middle of London.
"We're too far in," Harry said, suddenly jolting and sidestepping a large, brown spider as it scuttled down the street.
An odd, quiet whimper escaped Ron's lips at the sight of the furry creature, and Harry felt the hand on his shirt tighten considerably. "I don't know where he went, Ron," the boy exclaimed, shaking his head, "This isn't right….not without the cloak. We need to go back—"
"Harry," Ron breathed, pointing a trembling finger towards a rotted piece of wood that hung awkwardly on a rusted iron bar. Harry snapped his head up, squinting at the dark, splintered sign:
The Outlandish Greenhouse of
Professor Octavious
Est. 1356
Harry's stomach prickled, "That's got to be it," he said, using his other hand to detach Ron from his sleeve, "If we're going to do this, let's go. And I mean fast." Standing a few feet from the entrance of the dismal shop, Harry glanced wildly around his shoulder. Only a black-clad, wrinkled wizard was eyeing them out of his peripheral vision.
Ron nodded shakily as Harry stepped forward and pushed open the heavy, wooden door.
It creaked noisily.
Immediately a rush of cool air ran over Harry's cheeks and forehead, thick with the mingled scent of musty parchment and dried pine needles. Reaching back to make sure Ron was still behind him, Harry pinched a fold of his friend's shirt and pulled him to his side.
Harry glanced around. The shop was silent and nearly empty, except for a few dead plants that sat encased in cobwebs on the shelves behind the counter. Everything was coated with a dense layer of filth.
As they inched forward a few steps, the dusty wooden floor groaned beneath their weight.
"Maybe this isn't his shop," Ron whispered, his eyes hastily scanning every corner of the room, "It looks abandoned."
Suddenly, a man cleared his throat gruffly. Harry jumped, breathing in sharply and briskly through his nose as his hand scrambled to the waistband of his jeans. Ron grabbed the edge of Harry's shirt again and began to back up toward the open door.
Elbowing Ron off of him, Harry swallowed dryly and took a few steps toward the counter. He kept his hand poised against the thin ridge of the wood underneath his t-shirt.
"Hello?" Harry called out weakly, his voice cracking. And sensing that Ron wasn't following, Harry reached back blindly and pulled Ron forward again.
Leave it to my best mate to lose his nerve at the last minute…Harry thought, giving Ron an annoyed look when he stumbled over next to Harry
"Give me a mo'" a high, rasping voice echoed from around the corner of the dimly lit, narrow corridor at the back of the shop.
Harry's heart pounded heavily in his chest at the sound of the familiar accent. They'd definitely chosen the right store. Glancing over, Harry saw that Ron was shaking his head frantically. The boy was panicking.
"It's all right," Harry whispered emphatically. His own nerves were buzzing, but someone had to keep it together during a time like this.
The slow, hollow sound of footsteps thudded and scraped against the floor. And several seconds later, the heavy-set man with the purple shoes appeared beside the counter. The shopkeeper's cheeks were rosy and his forehead glistened with perspiration.
Harry opened his mouth, feeling his tongue peel away from the roof of his mouth as he did so. "I…we…I mean, my friend and I—"
"What do you want?" the man inquired roughly, inspecting the pale faces of the two young boys standing awkwardly in his shop.
"Erm…" Harry stammered, his face burning as he struggled to find words, "We wanted to ask you a question...I mean, we need some information—"
"Harry, let's go…" Ron whispered hoarsely, tugging on the hem of the boy's shirt that was now clenched in his fist.
"Oi!" the shopkeeper nearly shouted. Ron and Harry jumped at the sharp echo. "I ain't about to give any snot-nosed kids a scrap o' information about anythin', I won't—"
"It's for Professor Snape…" Harry cut in, the air in his lungs freezing in shock at his impulsive outburst, "We…er…work for him in the summer."
Shit.
Harry could hear Ron breathing at a feverishly fast pace; he didn't dare make eye contact with him.
The man's dark eyes narrowed. "Severus Snape, you say?"
"I…"
"Harry…" Ron whispered desperately, pulling firmly on his shirt.
"Yes, sir," Harry said quietly, ignoring Ron's plea. The blood that had rushed to his cheeks was undoubtedly boiling, but they'd come too far to turn back now.
The man's eyes flickered back and forth continuously. And the more Harry gazed into the rapidly shifting orbs, the more uneasy he felt. Something was off with this man.
"And what is it that 'e needs?" the portly man asked as he took a step forward, a hint of skepticism coloring his tone.
Harry resisted the urge to shrink back at the approach. "He's working on improving the Wolfsbane potion," Harry lied. His legs were trembling. "He…erm…read somewhere that there might be a plant that keeps werewolves from transforming…or something." The words formed stupidly on Harry's lips. He wanted to look away from the penetrating gaze of the man, but he couldn't.
The man remained silent for a long moment. However, Harry could tell by the expression on his face that the wheels in his head were turning—if not grinding together.
"Come along then," the man said slowly, "I've may have a bit o' useful information in the cellar."
Harry's head began to spin. Every ounce of reason told him that he shouldn't follow this man. If the shopkeeper couldn't tell them anything right away, then he didn't know anything about the plant. Harry was sure of it. And besides, he was getting the same sort of icy sensation in his stomach that he got the last time he'd accidentally stumbled into Knockturn Alley and was offered help by a dark and chilling witch carrying a tray of fingernails. Next to him, Ron emitted a soft and strange sort of whimper. Obviously, he was having second-thoughts as well.
"Er…no thanks…nevermind," Harry replied quickly, "We've got to be going…"
"Come on, then," the man beckoned, his eyes dancing back and forth wildly.
Simultaneously, Ron and Harry took a step backwards. Gripping his t-shirt covered wand, Harry shook his head feebly. Slowly, the boys moved toward the door. But the man followed.
"For werewolves, you say?" the shopkeeper drawled, beads of sweat glimmering on his forehead.
Frantically, Harry glanced behind his shoulder. All of the sudden, his stomach dropped sickeningly.
To Harry's morbid astonishment, across the cobblestone road stood Professor Snape, less than twenty feet away from Octavious's Greenhouse.
Oh, god, Harry thought, we're trapped.
However, their professor was seemingly engaged in a conversation with Mr. Borgin—the notorious shopkeeper of Borgin and Burkes. He hadn't seen them. But as the large man sauntered forward menacingly, Harry was almost certain that he was more of a threat than Snape.
Taking a chance, Harry stepped backwards over the threshold, a panting Ron close beside him.
"Professor!" Harry called out, twisting over his shoulder as he continued to back up.
Immediately, both Snape and Borgin snapped their heads in Harry's direction. After a fleeting second of frozen shock, Snape strolled briskly forward.
Ron groaned. However, Harry wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or horrified. He was only aware that in his desperate state of panic, he'd chosen what he had believed to be the safer option.
Snape's features were grave and solid as he surveyed the scene. But his eyes, Harry noticed, were alert and intense.
"Sev'rus," the shopkeeper exclaimed, stepping out of his store but away from the trembling boys, "Your…apprentices was just speakin' of you." The sweat dripped profusely from the man's head, but he didn't bother to soak it up with the sleeves of his robes.
"My apprentices…" Snape repeated coldly, glaring at Harry and Ron.
Dammit, why did I do this…Harry thought miserably.
And just as Harry had expected, Snape grabbed each of them by the collar, twisting the fabric tightly in his fists. Stumbling backward by the force, Harry cringed, feeling the hem constrict against his throat.
"We were just—" Harry began.
"Silence," Snape hissed, tightening his hold on the boy's shirt.
The shopkeeper's eyes continued to flicker nervously. "Said they was lookin' for information, they was."
Harry felt the bile rise in his throat. He gazed apologetically at Ron who had gone very pale and was glancing desolately between Harry, Snape, and the dodgy shopkeeper.
"Information, indeed," Snape scoffed, "They will be coming with me." And yanking both boys around, the professor steered them forward roughly.
Not daring to turn around, Harry could feel the impending stare of the shopkeeper as he stumbled along in Snape's grasp. It wasn't until several shops later that Harry could hear the deafening creak of the heavy door of Octavious's Greenhouse swing shut.
Snape said nothing as he dragged the boys swiftly out of the frightening gloom into the mild sunshine of Diagon Alley. Harry supposed he should feel relieved to be out of the mysterious store and away from the perspiring man, but with each step, Harry felt worse. Amid the silence, Harry's stomach had twisted into thick, painful knots.
They shouldn't have gone. And Harry had known it all along.
Suddenly halting, Snape stopped and wrenched the two boys around, pressing their backs up against the stone front of a nearby building as he glowered down at them. But after several long seconds, Snape's eyes rested only on Harry, boring into him with fierce intensity.
"You foolish, ungrateful child," Snape seethed in a whisper. His black, drab hair dangled close to Harry's nose. "Of everything you have ever done, Potter, this is by far the stupidest." Only when the words were spoken did Snape shift his glare to Ron.
Harry didn't respond. As much as he loathed to admit it, Snape was right. Harry's heart constricted painfully at the thought of Remus waiting alone—alone and worried—in front of Flourish and Blotts. Panic subsided, Harry's stomach simply ached hollowly.
Directing his tirade towards Harry once more, Snape shook his head in disgust. "You have no idea, do you Potter?"
Harry clenched his clammy hands to keep them from trembling.
Snape stared at Harry strangely for a bit longer. "Who brought you here?" the man inquired coldly. "Both of you."
"Professor Lupin," Ron croaked, his chin nearly touching his chest.
"And where, may I ask, was the Wolf while you imprudent imbeciles gallivanted off to Knockturn Alley?" Snape demanded scornfully.
At the mention of the word wolf, Harry felt a lump rise in his throat.
"He's at Flourish and Blotts," Harry whispered dejectedly, the guilt overpowering any ounce of customary defiance he may have directed towards the potions master.
Pointing to his left, Snape grabbed Harry's arm and pushed him toward the street. He did the same with Ron.
"Go," he commanded.
Harry couldn't look at Remus. He was so ashamed and felt unbelievably small standing in front of Lupin with Snape looming behind him. Surprisingly, they'd only been about seven minutes late. From a distance, Remus had looked slightly anxious, but not yet unnerved—at least not until he had spotted two thoroughly downcast boys with the stern professor in tow. Dimly, Harry realized that if he hadn't called out to Snape for help, they probably would have been able to easily smooth things over with Lupin. Then again, they might have been stuck down in a cellar with a beady-eyed maniac.
"Your shrugging isn't going to cut it, young man, so I suggest you start explaining," Remus admonished, yet his voice remained as placid as always.
Harry glanced up hesitantly, twisting the hem of his shirt the way he did when he didn't know what to say, "I can't," he muttered, "Not here."
After a long moment, Remus sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "I trusted you, Harry. Both of you," the man added, pointing a finger at Ron. "And apparently, I shouldn't have."
The lump that had been lodged in Harry's throat for the past five minutes expanded considerably. He swallowed, forcing himself to keep his emotions under control. Even if the crazy, purple-shoed nutter did know anything about an exotic herb that would cure werewolves, Harry knew that he and Ron wouldn't be the ones to find it. In fact, he wasn't sure what possessed him to go along with the plan in the first place. The more he thought about it, the more idiotic it seemed. Such a stupid idea. A stupid, childish idea.
As Snape cleared his throat, Harry was suddenly jolted out of his despairing thoughts.
"Seeing as Potter and Weasley clearly understand the severity of their actions," the potions master sneered sarcastically, his tone dry and unforgiving, "I shall return to the castle to spare myself another second of this farce," he continued, regarding the entire situation with disdain. He turned away from all three of them.
"Thank you for the boys, Severus," Remus attempted quietly. But Snape didn't acknowledge the gratitude. He simply swept his robes behind him and continued briskly down the cobblestone.
Biting his lip, Harry stared at Lupin. He was gazing forlornly at Snape's back, watching as he disappeared around the corner.
"I'm sorry, Remus," Harry mumbled, studying the faraway look in the man's eyes.
Lupin finally glanced down, but he didn't soften his resolve. "We're going," he said resolutely.
"Where?" Harry asked meekly.
"Home," Remus replied, "To wait for your godfather."
Harry's stomach turned over. Of course Lupin would tell Sirius. For a moment, Harry felt like pleading with him, but deep down, the boy knew that wouldn't do any good. Harry knew that he deserved whatever was coming to him.
"Let's go," Remus told them, "Move an inch from my side on the way to the floo and I'll be holding your hands until we get back to the cabin."
Ron looked over at Harry in horror over such a predicament. But the boy only shrugged. He was too preoccupied in deciding how he was going to explain everything to Remus—the man with the cart, the reason for following him into Knockturn Alley, the letters…
Oh no, Harry inwardly groaned. He'd nearly forgotten what had got them here in the first place. Dragging his feet, Harry wallowed in desolation. But he kept up alongside Remus. Nothing would make the day more wretched than having his hand held like a bloody four-year-old…
Unfortunately as they arrived home, Harry didn't have much time to conjure up an explanation. Sirius was already there. And upon hearing what went on at Diagon Alley, his godfather had sent Harry and Ron upstairs immediately.
Red-faced, but obedient, Ron had headed toward the staircase the minute he was ordered. However, he turned and waited on the first step for Harry who had strayed.
"Can I at least tell you what happened?" Harry asked weakly.
"No, you can't," Sirius answered quickly. "I meant it when I said there'd be no mucking about in Diagon Alley, you know I did. Go up to your room and wait for me. And tell Ron to pack. He's going home."
The muscles in Harry's face wanted desperately to crumple, but he gritted his teeth and blinked rapidly to prevent it.
Please don't be mad at me, Harry silently pleaded with his godfather, searching his face for any indication of emotion. But Sirius wouldn't look at Harry. He just seemed sad—more put-out than Harry had ever seen him.
Attempting to swallow the burning knot in his throat, Harry stared hard at the fringe on the edge of the living room rug. After several seconds of tense silence, Harry turned, his limbs cold and heavy, and walked slowly toward the stairs.
Sirius sat down tiredly on the sofa. He rested his head in his hands. After a moment, Remus moved forward and sat down next to him.
"I told Harry he could explain when we got home," Remus said softly, "That's why he didn't go up to his room right away."
Keeping his head firmly planted against his hands, Sirius nearly moaned. "I'm a failure as a godfather."
"Oh, come off it, Padfoot," Remus chided, placing a hand on the man's shoulder, "You're not a failure by any means—Harry adores you, and you know it." Remus squeezed his friend's shoulder comfortingly. "He doesn't listen to anyone the way he does you."
Sirius lifted his head slightly, glancing at Remus incredulously. "Harry's just been caught in Knockturn Alley! Why in the bloody hell would he go down there? Why? He doesn't listen. He doesn't understand how dangerous it is for him to wander around a place like that…"
"Then make him understand," Remus replied simply.
Sirius sighed heavily. "I don't know how."
"Yes, you do."
Rubbing his hand across his forehead, Sirius shook his head as if he was at a loss, but he didn't argue.
"So now," Remus continued, removing his hand from Sirius's shoulder and resting it upon his own knee, "What are you going to do about this?"
Sirius stilled his hand, pausing several seconds before speaking. He shifted his eyes towards Remus once again. "He needs his arse tanned."
"Yes, he does," Remus agreed.
"I don't like punishing him," Sirius exclaimed, shaking his head against his hands.
"What sort of parent does?"
Straightening up, Sirius laced his fingers together as he gazed thoughtfully at his friend. Remus gave him a light smile, "James and Lily would be honored to see the way you take care of Harry. You've been more of a father to him during the past couple of months than he's ever experienced in his whole life," Remus stated solemnly. "And I'm proud of you, Sirius."
Returning the smile briefly but quickly shifting his eyes to the floor, Sirius could only nod.
"Go on," Remus said quietly, "I'll take Ron for a bit. You and Harry need to talk."
Sirius snorted softly, "If only."
"You'll be all right," Remus assured him, rising from his seat on the sofa, "So will Harry."
Gazing up finally, Sirius smoothed back the few stands of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. He nodded again.
Sirius sat perched on the edge of his bed, knuckles resting against his lips. His stomach churned violently.
He hated this. Hated it.
His godson was not a trouble-maker like he and James were at that age. Harry wasn't mischievous or naughty just because he wanted to be. He was a good kid. A good kid who'd made a colossal mistake. A dangerous one, at that.
But Remus was right; Harry needed to understand exactly what he had done—what could have happened.
Sirius' stomach rolled over again. Harry might not have even returned. The thought alone made him ill.
When he and James were fourteen, they'd sneaked away one summer afternoon to explore an old shack down by the seaside. They had been forbidden to play on the other side of the hill but did it anyway in a severe state of boredom. James had wanted to knock on the back door of the hovel, but Sirius made him swear not to. They sprinted away when they heard a phlegmy cough from inside and had nearly gotten lost trying to find their way back home.
It was dark and clammy and windy by the time they reached the Potters', and James' mum and dad had been sick with worry—hugging them so hard they could hardly breathe and checking them all over for bruises or injuries.
But then Mr. Potter had gone very quiet and solemn—more stern than Sirius had ever seen him—before sending both of them to separate rooms.
It was the last of three spankings Sirius had received from him. Mr. Potter had barely even spoken beforehand, but he didn't have to. He let the slipper do the talking—and it hurt. But not as much as the realization afterwards that he and Jamie had done something very dangerous.
Sirius couldn't remember ever being more upset and ashamed of himself, and he'd vowed never to do anything delinquent enough to warrant such a pang in his stomach (or a sting on his arse) ever again.
He'd never even told Remus about it; only James had known how long and hard he'd cried into Mr. Potter's shirt—there had been a matching damp splotch on the other shoulder, after all.
With legs as weak as toothpicks, Sirius pushed himself up, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he dragged his feet over to the open wardrobe and crouched down.
Faded, mismatched shoes clunked against each other while he searched.
Lying on his bed, Harry turned over on his side and squeezed the corner of his pillow between his hands. His stomach hurt. And not just because he knew he was about to be punished.
Sirius was angry with him. Once again, Harry had ruined everything.
Five minutes earlier, Ron had finished packing, and Remus had come upstairs to collect him, assuring Harry that they'd be back later. At the moment, Harry wasn't sure whether that was comforting or not. As long as Ron was here, he knew Sirius wouldn't punish him. But now his best mate was gone. And that couldn't mean anything good…
Groaning, Harry turned his face against the pillow. He felt awful.
Not more than a minute later, Harry heard the doorknob turn. Whipping his head around unconsciously, Harry blanched when he saw Sirius slip through the door and close it softly behind him.
"Scoot over," Sirius said gently, gesturing with a jerk of his head.
Confused but willing to comply, Harry wiggled toward the middle of the bed, keeping his head on the pillow. Once Sirius had settled beside him, Harry didn't dare meet his eyes for fear of seeing the disappointment he knew was there.
"I didn't give you a chance to explain, and Remus promised you that," Sirius began, keeping his voice grave and steady. "It's not going to get you completely off the hook, but it might make you feel better."
A statement like that usually would cause Harry to spill his guts. But not today. He simply lay against his pillows and shook his head. He didn't know where to begin. And besides, if Harry was being honest with himself, he knew all along it was wrong to go to Knockturn Alley.
"You're not going to tell me?" Sirius asked, leaning closer.
"It's not that I don't want to…" Harry whispered, his voice muffled against the feathers. "It's just...embarrassing. And hard to explain."
Sirius sat up again, sighing a bit in frustration. He knew exactly what he needed to be said.
"I never thought I'd ever have to say this, especially to you, but I'm disappointed in you, Harry. You know better."
The words stung.
Harry blinked several times, his eyes burning. But using all his strength, Harry pushed back the hot tears.
"But I suppose if you don't want to talk about it now, we can afterwards," Sirius said quietly.
Afterwards.
Harry could have sicked up. His chest ached with a deep sadness at Sirius' disappointment, but figuring it was well-deserved, he turned his face away, flipping over on his stomach. Harry had effectively concealed the fastening of his jeans, hoping his godfather wouldn't notice.
Sirius froze. Before he climbed the stairs to Harry's bedroom, he'd been preparing himself for a full-blown battle. But his godson wasn't being stubborn like the first time Sirius had punished him. This was different, and for a brief moment, Sirius wasn't sure how to proceed.
Maybe Harry knew what he'd done was wrong. And he knew what to expect.
Sirius closed his eyes for an instant, trying to channel his capacity for liability as a thirteen year old. The results were slim.
A simple case of wishful thinking.
Using every bit of resolve he possessed, Sirius reached behind him and pulled out the lightweight slipper he'd found and stored in his back pocket. With heavy, clumsy limbs, Sirius exhaled deeply as he rested it on his lap.
He knew Harry was going to hate this, but Sirius reached over with both hands and turned Harry's waist to the side anyway, quickly popping the button through the fastening hole of the boy's jeans. Catching hold of both waistbands, Sirius pulled them down only as far south as they needed to go.
"I didn't mean to, Sirius…" Harry's whimpered plea was muffled against the pillow.
Sirius tried to swallow down the stinging sensation in his throat. "I know."
It was the wrong thing to say, but Sirius was unsure how else to answer.
He picked up the slipper, nearly cringing as he watched Harry hunch up his shoulders and bury his face into the pillow. The boy's neck and ears were glowing a deep pink.
Resting his hand in the middle of the tensed back, Sirius raised the slipper over Harry's bottom. Gritting his teeth, he swung it down smartly, flinching at the sharp crack of the sole smacking against bare skin.
Jerking in surprise, Harry instinctively tried to push his upper body up off the mattress and twist around to identify the sting, but Sirius only pressed his hand firmly between the narrow shoulder blades to hold him in place.
I know it hurts, Sirius thought, thoroughly hating himself. But he forced himself to lift the floppy slipper once again, determined to end the punishment as quickly as possible.
Realizing he was going nowhere, Harry dropped his head back down, unable to keep his legs from twitching at the second thwack. He held onto the edge of the mattress and pressed his face into the pillow again, nearly choking on a hoarse sob.
Sirius paused at the sound of his godson's despondent weeping. He remembered what the slipper felt like, but he didn't think that two cracks of it would cause such a reaction. Then again, it wasn't as if he was the one experiencing it at the moment...
A dull cranberry-colored splotch was slowly flushing the white skin; Sirius bit his lip. Harry had tightened up his shoulders up again to try and stifle his crying.
How in the bloody hell had James' dad dealt with both of their punishments consecutively that summer when they were fourteen? Sirius felt like he'd taken an elbow to the gut.
Holding his breath, Sirius quickly doled out three crisp spanks with the slipper. Harry stiffened and enfolded his entire head into the pillow.
Sirius blew out a rickety breath and shook his head, tossing the tattered thing to the edge of the bed. His planned ten was out of the question.
He couldn't take it anymore. This was enough.
Sirius' fingers trembled slightly as he slipped Harry's clothes back up in a swift, one-handed tug; grabbing the boy under the arms, Sirius gently lifted him until he was almost sitting back on his heels.
He forced his godson to look him in the eye.
"I love you, Harry James Potter," Sirius said, his own voice cracking with emotion. "Do you know that?"
The punishment had been brief, but Harry cried hard as Sirius held onto him, tears trailing down his cheeks and dripping off of his chin. He somehow managed to nod.
"And I may not be doing everything right…I'll admit that I don't always know exactly how to handle things all of the time, but I'm trying, Harry. I don't care how many scars you have on your head or what you symbolize to other people. You are my godson, and I'm not going to lose you to something—" He swallowed. "—something as silly as a trip to Knockturn Alley. I won't—" Sirius broke off, his throat constricting tightly.
Harry sobbed loudly and messily as he clutched Sirius's forearms, not caring that his nose was dripping or that he was hiccupping brokenly.
"Merlin, Bub," Sirius breathed, "I do not like doing that to you. C'mere."
And without waiting to be pulled close, Harry leaned in and pressed his face into Sirius's shoulder. He could barely see through the streaks on his glasses, but it didn't matter.
"No more, do you hear me?"
Harry wanted to nod—to reassure his godfather that he wouldn't mess up again. But he couldn't move. He was too ashamed of what he'd done, and his head throbbed violently.
All Harry could manage to do was grip handfuls of Sirius's shirt even tighter, the buttons pressing into his palms, and hope that his godfather understood.
TBC...