The sky was rosy, with the thick stretch of orange sun blazing over the tops of the trees and bleeding into the clouds; the air was warmer now as well, heavy with dew. Harry's skin was beginning to feel clammy underneath his jacket, but he was too busy scanning the hundreds of carts and vendors scattered along the grass to care.

Children, nearly two heads shorter than Harry, darted around the legs of grown-ups who were standing around in clusters, laughing and clapping hands on friends' shoulders; the high-pitched squeals of four-year-olds mingled with the clashing sound of Irish flutes and several brassy-sounding instruments. All the noise was an unintelligible blur to Harry, like the dull roar of his primary school lunch room, but he wasn't bothered in the least; he was too excited. And there were too many new things to gawk at.

Smoke curling off of burning logs seeped into Harry's nose, but it wasn't unpleasant, as it mixed with the scent of roasting meats stabbed on skewers and the sweet smell of fresh butterbeer sloshing over the rims of sticky, finger-printed mugs.

He was a bit hungry, but he wasn't ready to eat yet. Besides, Harry knew that Sirius would be steering him toward a reliable-looking food vendor before the match started whether he wanted to or not. After all, he'd barely gotten down his oatmeal and cream this morning, thanks to the overactive butterflies swarming around in his stomach.

But there was still plenty of time for that. The music, laughter, and the smell of sizzling food and sugar-sprinkled sweets wafting about the air were intoxicating.

Suddenly catching sight of the bundles of glimmering, color-changing streamers attached to the outside of a wooden booth, Harry smiled to himself. He moved closer to see the sign hanging slantways underneath the jutting tabletop; he bent down to read it:

Can't decide where your loyalty lies?

The paint glittered and faded, a new message bleeding onto the wood; Harry blinked in surprise, and then squinted, reading:

Chudley Cannons this week… Appleby Arrows, next?

Harry's eyes widened a bit; he remembered reading about the Appleby Arrows in Quidditch through the Ages. It had been ages since he'd read that book, but he couldn't forget the small paragraph he'd read about the game that had gone on in 1932, when the Arrows defeated the Vrasta Vultures in a sixteen-day match. Bloody exhausting, it must have been…

The message was fading again and a new one appeared:

For only 15 sickles, you can root for all your favorite teams!

Someone was prodding Harry between his shoulder blades, but he shrugged the sensation away, squinting, again, at the new set of letters fading in:

Buy a jar of Jemima Cristoff's Color-Changing Face Paint today!

"Brilliant…" Harry muttered through a small grin as his eyes traveled over the small jars full of peculiarly clear, gelatin-like paint; he dug his hand into his jeans pocket for the leather coin purse Sirius had given him.

Harry and his godfather had Apparated to the site three hours ago, and thankfully, the dizziness from that first experience had diminished almost completely; he had been too keyed-up to give it much thought, even though Sirius had insisted that he take a minute to sit and clear his head before they hiked the rest of the way with the Weasleys.

Before they had left the cabin, Sirius had given Harry twelve galleons worth of spending money to buy anything he wanted from the vendors—well, almost anything. According to Sirius, the firewhiskey cart was off-limits. In his giddy, rather daring state, Harry had made certain to mention such a purchase. In return, Sirius had made certain to guarantee a complimentary warmed arse with each pint the boy tried to order.

Giddiness waning, Harry'd abandoned the prospect quite swiftly.

"C'mon mate, I'm hungry," an impatient voice shook Harry's concentration.

"Hold up," Harry barely mumbled, recounting the handful of galleons spread across his palm. "One galleon will buy a jar of this, won't it?" He could feel Ron fidgeting behind him. A hefty sigh from his friend fluttered the locks at the base of Harry's neck.

"One galleon'll buy a whole basket of fish and chips…"

Still going over the arithmetic in his head, Harry jutted an elbow towards Ron's knuckle which was poking at him again. "Get off," Harry complained with a frown. "I'm trying to figure this out—"

"You're trying to starve me to death, that's what you're doing," Ron huffed.

"It's not even ten o'clock yet!"

"So?" Ron retorted. "What of it? That's only two hours away from lunch…"

"I said I'd come with you," Harry reiterated. "Just hold on—damn!" One of the golden disks had slipped through his fingers while he was trying to count and fell into the grass below; Harry stooped to get it, bumping into Ron's legs as he crouched down, combing his fingers through the damp grass to search for the galleon.

Spotting it, Harry picked it up, slowly straightening as he blew off a few bits of grass and dirt. All of a sudden, Harry felt a kneecap nudge him in the backside, nearly sending him toppling. "Hey!" he cried, leaping forward a bit to catch his balance.

As Harry got his bearings straight, Ron grinned at him. "Whoops. Sorry, mate."

"Yeah," Harry muttered, frowning; he gripped the galleon in his palm. "No problem…"

Ron's smile instantly fell when he caught the vengeful gleam in Harry's eyes, but before he could slink away, Harry thrust his arm toward Ron's chest and shoved him.

"Oi!" Ron exclaimed as he stumbled.

"Goodness me!" a chalky voice squealed in alarm.

This time, Harry's eyes grew as round as overcoat buttons, his own mischievous grin on the immediate fade. He swallowed, grimacing guiltily when he noticed the elderly woman clutching her husband's arm as she straightened her green robes with a huff, smoothing a piece of hair back into her silvery bun.

Ron stood frozen, gaping at the old man and woman who were now gliding in the opposite direction, muttering indignantly about the blatant naughtiness of young wizards these days…

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, even though he knew they couldn't hear him. He scratched at his hair, still squinting.

Making a rather quick recovery, Ron smirked as he watched Harry tangle his fingers into his fringe. "You look really strange like that, you know."

"You are strange…"

"No, I mean, your hair—"

"Ron," Mr. Weasley called from behind. He was standing between Sirius and the twins, who were grinning rather derisively. Ginny and Hermione trailed behind, sipping bottles of butterbeer and pointing out to each other every other booth that they passed.

Ron flipped his head around at the summons. "Yeah?"

"Come here for a moment," Mr. Weasley said. Harry pressed his lips together, hoping against hope that no one had seen the old bat nearly fall face-first into the grass. But Mr. Weasley looked neither angry nor jovial.

Sighing, Ron obeyed, jogging back to where his father stood; Harry watched closely, sinking his teeth into the insides of his lips when Arthur gently pulled Ron aside; Ron's eyes quickly trailed to the ground. The twins snorted with glee and ran forward, almost clouting Harry across the forehead; good thing he'd ducked.

"Now, Ronnie," Mr. Weasley began, speaking softly into his son's ear, who had tucked his chin to his chest, his hands stuffed into his pockets, "you know what we talked about…" he trailed off.

Harry smiled to himself. Ronnie. He couldn't wait to pull that one out when Ron least expected it. His amusement was short-lived, however, when hardly a second later he caught sight of Sirius' expression. His godfather began to move forward, past the Weasley clan.

"Oi! Fergus!"

Shit, Harry thought, cramming his fists, galleons and all, into his own pockets. But then, suddenly, he glanced up, making a face. Fergus? he mouthed in disgust. Harry glanced around both shoulders, certain that Sirius was speaking to someone else.

There was no one.

Sirius raised an innocent eyebrow as he strode over to where Harry was standing, looking very different with a shortened crop of dark ginger hair on his head, but Harry noticed right away that Sirius' eyes were still the same. Gray and tranquil, like kitten's fur.

"What's with the face?" Sirius queried, his nostrils flaring in silent hilarity.

Harry gawked up at his godfather in disbelief. "What's with the face?" he breathed incredulously. "More like what's up with that name!"

Sirius' shoulders gave a subtle bob as he bit back a chuckle. "What, no good?"

Mouth hanging half-open now, Harry nearly snorted. "You're joking, right?"

"Am I?" Sirius said with a shrug, rocking back on his heels as he peeked over his shoulder at a small child who'd just brushed against his knee hollows as he ran past squealing. The boy's mother caught him with a Levitation spell, holding him against her chest and speaking sternly in his ear while his little legs kicked.

"Sirius…"

"Hmm?" His godfather flipped his head back around at the whispered summons. Harry was giving Sirius quite the look.

"Of all the names you could've chosen for me, you chose Fergus?" Harry complained in a hushed voice, wrinkling his nose. "Fergus Weasley? It's bloody foul—"

"It's my own godfather's name…" Sirius glanced over his shoulder again.

Harry's mouth froze mid-whinge. A hawker's scratchy drawl bellowed from behind, filling up the stretch of conversational silence.

"Oh…" Harry murmured after a moment, his eyes finding a dirt patch; he swallowed slowly, feeling a bit stupid as he peeked up. "Is it, really?"

"No." A slow smile spread across Sirius face; he winked, and then chuckled for real this time. Harry rolled his eyes, hardly amused.

"Although," Sirius continued, scrunching up his face and digging into his pockets as he spoke, "your friend Seamus has a grandfather with that name…on his mum's side. He went to Hogwarts with your granddad, I think."

"Doesn't make it any more brilliant—"

"Oi," Sirius muttered through gritted teeth, reaching his arm around Harry's neck and pulling him forward for a good-natured poke in the side.

Unable to help himself, Harry let out a short cry of laughter as he tried to dodge it, his voice cracking.

"Quite the mouth you've got today..."

"Only today?"

"Good point," Sirius commented through a half-grin as he pulled out his own coin purse out of the front pocket of his trousers and began wiggling his fingers into it. "You still look like a 'Fergus' with that hair…"

"Yeah, well, you look like—"

Sirius cut him off, calling out to Ron who was sauntering over in slow motion. Harry turned as well; he gave a slight sigh of defeat, carefully nudging his Disillusioned glasses back up on his nose so it wouldn't look noticeable. Sirius had taken some time to get that particular spell just right…

"What were you two getting ready to buy?" Sirius questioned, as he stared down into his own palm to count a small pile of coins. "You know…before that poor lady nearly died of fright from being ploughed over." He glanced up at Harry with a hint of admonition in his raised eyebrows.

"Dunno," Ron shrugged, his hands still buried in his pockets. "Harry was the one who wanted to buy that cold cream—" He expertly dodged a forearm to the chest, laughing.

Harry scowled at his friend, wiggling his wrist free of Sirius' rescuing grasp. "It's color-changing face paint to root for a bunch of different teams, you tosspot…"

"Hey, now," Sirius interrupted in a rather strained voice, as if he were holding in a laugh; he planted his palm on the top of Harry's head, who was still glaring at Ron, as he continued to jiggle-count his money, one-handed. "You've cashed in your blasphemy bank for rest of the year, just so you know…"

Ron sniffed amusedly.

"I don't even know what that means," Harry mumbled sourly. "Don't act like you do, Ron."

"Sounds good, though," Ron said through a chuckle.

"All right," Sirius interjected, giving Harry's mop a fond ruffle. "Go get your paint. Look," he nodded toward the motley booth, "it's almost sold out."

"We can share one," Harry suddenly piped up, as if the small tiff never occurred. "C'mon, Ron." He stuffed the rest of his coins back into the miniature leather satchel as he moved forward.

"And then we'll get a bite to eat," Sirius called after them. "You barely swallowed a thing this morning…"

Harry rolled his eyes, but nodded anyway as he and Ron queued up behind a girl with dark-brown braids hanging down her back.

He'd known that was coming.

Several Hours Later….

Sirius sat hunched, perched on the corner of Harry's bed, the mattress slanted with his weight; his forearms rested like sandbags against his knees as he stared.

It had all happened so fast. Too fast. As if the exhilaration of the match had never taken place.

The music, the excited shouts…Harry's ecstatic beaming as he gazed out at the thousands of faces hovering in clusters around sparkling advertisements—all of it smeared in Sirius' memory, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain…

The minutes ticked by as Sirius sat there.

It was nearly two in the morning, now. And still, Sirius watched his fourteen-year-old sleep. It had taken quite a while—two glasses of milk, a warming charm…and finally, a bit reluctantly on Harry's part, a brief neck rub, until Harry's heavy lids had slipped closed and remained. It always worked eventually. Being fourteen now, Harry liked to think that it didn't; Sirius knew better.

Harry breathed evenly now as he lay on his side, his quilt-covered shoulder rising and falling, rising and falling.

Sirius continued to watch him, gazing down at his hands every so often. He sat very still, breathing quietly so he wouldn't disturb Harry's deep slumber.

He'd been so foolish. So naïve to think that he could keep his kid from seeing the bad things—from knowing them, even.

Sirius had seen the look of terror and confusion that had flashed across Harry's face, not for himself, but for the family floating above their heads—for his friends who'd been ordered to remain in the woods while the men in masks lingered threateningly, their skull faces the color of frozen flesh.

Thinking about it made Sirius feel ill. But the memories of the past several hours continued to surface, swirling sickeningly about his thoughts:

The smoke curling like ribbons into the night air; the shrill screams of children and panicked shouts reverberating into a single, horrifying clamor.

Harry's hand, slippery with sweat, clutching Sirius' own wrist as they sprinted blindly through the ink-blotted woods together.

His ordering the rest of the Weasleys to remain where their father had told them to hide, ignoring his godson's protests as he attempted to tug Harry in the opposite direction.

Harry's pleading.

His own panicked scolding amid his godson's threatening defiance.

The weak struggling…

Sirius' loss of patience…

The tiny moment of shock, on both their parts, after the quick, unplanned swat; the sharp pain in Sirius' stomach immediately following as Harry stared at him with flushed cheeks…

His eventual compliance…

Sirius swallowed, gazing down at his hands again. He had apologized to Harry for losing his temper earlier. He hoped that Harry really had understood, like he said he had.

He glanced back toward the sleeping bundle again. Harry's breathing was deeper now.

He'll sleep in tomorrow, Sirius thought; the tight feeling in his chest eased slightly. He'd be careful not to clang pots and pans around as he made coffee in the morning.

As a baby, Sirius suddenly remembered, Harry had always slept soundly in his crib—his soft, little fist moist and burrowed under his nose, his bottom in the air. Sirius remembered how James would pull the old oak rocking chair right next to his son, wedging his hand between the painted slats of wood to stroke the downy black hair that stuck up, like a duck's tail, at the top of Harry's head.

Thirteen years later, a thicker shock of black hair protruded just so. Even now, it peeked above the folded blankets.

Sirius' expression softened a bit as he studied the streaks of paint that still striped Harry's cheek, faded now to a mint-green; the soap Harry had used in the bath must not have been much help in scrubbing.

It's okay, Harry had said quietly to Sirius as he ran a towel through his wet hair. I think Ireland's my favorite team now, anyway.

The mattress creaked as Harry grimaced weakly in his sleep, for only a second, and then his cheeks drooped again as he relaxed back into a deep sleep.

Without warning, a quaffle-sized lump suddenly lodged against Sirius' Adam's apple; wet warmth flooded his eyes more quickly than it ever had before.

It wasn't fair. Nothing was.

He had told Harry over and over that it was all right to be frightened—that he didn't have to put on a brave face, especially not after tonight. But Sirius knew, more than anyone, that Harry's stoicism was a part of James that he would always retain, whether Harry knew it or not.

The child-like honesty, however—the vulnerability in those green eyes—that quality, alone, belonged to his mother.

He's really taken to you, Sirius, he remembered Lily saying to him, over thirteen years ago. She had been watching Sirius as he sat on the floor against the foot of the sofa, the baby clinging to his middle like a monkey, while he stroked the base of Harry's small neck and mumbled soothing nonsense into his ear.

Sirius sniffed, almost silently, attempting to swallow down the thickness in his throat.

Lifting his shoulder to his cheek, he gently swiped at the lukewarm tears that continued to leak down his face, even though he hadn't made a single noise.

He tugged a bit at the bedclothes, covering the bare toes that had slid out from under Harry's blanket; Sirius laid his hand over the boy's ankle and kept it there, but Harry didn't stir.

Sitting quietly, Sirius allowed the tears to drip off of his chin for a while.

In only thirteen years, too much had been lost. Harry's first words… His first loose tooth… His first trip to Platform 9 ¾… Sirius couldn't get any of it back.

He had only known Harry for two months, and people were already telling him that his godson's life was in danger. That safety, he remembered Snape saying, safety for his child had never existed.

Sirius swallowed, wiping once more at the tears that were drying on his cheeks as quickly as they had appeared. He gave Harry's ankle a gentle squeeze as he gazed out at the moon-washed curtains.

All of a sudden, Sirius' throat burned with determination; for the first time in his life, he felt more certain of himself than he ever had before.

He would never miss another milestone.

He had taken Harry on his first trip to the seaside, and he would take him again, maybe before school began next week, Death Eaters or not. He had purchased Harry's first Quidditch set, and Sirius would learn to play again, so Harry could practice—he wasn't yet forty, after all.

Harry had yet to have his first girlfriend…or his first shave…or his seventeenth birthday.

And Sirius would be there for all of it.

The End.

A/N: Wow, I can't believe it's over. Thank you, everyone, for reading :-) Thanks for sticking with me and for the encouragment over the past year and a half. This story is really close to my heart, and it's been overwhelming to learn that so many of you feel the same way.

A sequel is plausible. I have even managed to plan one out, for the most part, with the help of ObsidianEmbrace...my faithful friend (and occasional beta) who has truly kept me going, even on the toughest days, with her enthusiasm. Does this sound like something you guys would be interested in? A continuation? My plan is to begin writing my sequels during the summer, since I'll be off work for a few months. Would you still read, even if you had to wait a while?