Sirius lead the way upstairs, clutching at his bleeding arm while Harry trailed behind—a fistful of bandages in hand while Mrs Weasley's healing tonics clinked inside the pouch looped around his forearm—following along until finally, they reached a remarkably tidy and clean room.
Grimmauld Place had very few neat chambers, the house itself, a conjunction of oddities; age-old heirlooms and keepsakes, luxury indulgences and flaunts, and evidence that a long line of Blacks' had walked the dim halls and paced on it's creaky steps. All manner of artefact, object and whatsit's lined Grimmauld's dusty shelves (and there were many of those) and even some 'cleaned' rooms—like the kitchen—were crammed with secret items hidden in plain sight; like the strange hovering jewel in the plate-cabinet or the windowsill vase that glowed indigo and popped small wafts of silvery mist at noon. In Harry's short stay, he understood how old and cobbled together, Sirius's house was. It was proof that the Black lineage existed. A sort-of dysfunctional, knitted-together Frankenstein of a home that fossilized the family tree through its accumulation of their stuff. The different layers of wallpaper peeking out from the current olive-green peel, the blackened portraits, the ever elegant but stylistic-clashing assortment of knick-knacks and furnitures; Grimmauld was akin to a museum or even an antique shop, it's entire twisted yet intimate existence similar to that of Knockturn Alley, or specifically Borgin and Burkes. 12 Grimmauld Place was a trove of memories, which was why, the stark arrangement of Sirius's room blew Harry away.
Despite all the posters and pictures Sirius had hung in his childhood bedroom, this room was free of any decorations, the wallpaper ripped off entirely and exposing wooden beams underneath. It's floor was clear, the bed made and even the shelves were vacant, Sirius's windows as clean or arguably cleaner, than any glass-pane Harry had ever seen in his life.
Sirius's bedroom was a contrast, not only to his childhood bedroom but the entirety of the house, and Harry could not help but feel a slight discomfort. After all, he had spent weeks being subjected to dust and towers of ancient furniture and baubles, that choking wrap of Black history and evidence shrouding every room he ventured; always lingering behind every hallway he walked through, in every corner they mopped up. Strangely, the constant reminder that humans really did live in Grimmauld, made the place less… eerie.
But in comparison to that, Sirius's room was empty, almost desolate.
Bare.
"Over here Harry," said Sirius suddenly, and he motioned him over before stumbling toward the bed, little gas lamps around the walls burst with flame as they walked further into the room. Harry began to treat the claw wounds with ointment, while Sirius downed two tonics, the faint scent of mint and eucalyptus helping him brave nausea and stinging pain. Carefully wrapping the bandage around Sirius's hand, Harry wordlessly made adjustments, keeping watch of Sirius's pale face and the small beads of sweat on his brow from the corner of his eye. Each flinch, grunt and uncomfortable shift carefully considered while Harry tended to the wounds as best he could.
"Here." he said eventually, "Is this alright?"
He tugged at the cloth one last time.
"Yes, yes that's fine." Sirius said. He waited for Harry to pin the bandage down before taking a moment to breathe, screwing his eyes tight—almost like he was concentrating—before he flexed his arm in and out, adjusting to the new pressure and bind.
"Careful!" Harry said, wary.
"Just trying it out," said Sirius, "I've never been scratched before."
Harry's eyebrows furrowed,
"Are you-.. Do scratches-?"
"No!" said Sirius immediately. His eyes snapped open and he swiveled his head violently toward Harry, before continuing in a much quieter tone, "No. Only the bite of a werewolf can cause lycanthropy, scratches are… just scratches."
"Right," Harry nodded, "Then does it hurt?"
"...Well yes, of course." Sirius whispered. He had stopped flexing and started to simply stare at his bandaged arm, unable to look up as he grimaced, pained. But Harry figured that it wasn't the scratch that put such a sore expression on Sirius's face.
Taking Sirius's thoughtful silence as a small moment to relax—the panic now subsiding with his arm properly bandaged—Harry glanced about the room and realized that it actually wasn't as empty as he thought it was.
By the window sat a table, complete with a tea-set and a record-player on top. In front of it sat two armchairs, who faced toward the city skyline, the breach of morning sun just about to crest above London's rooftops. Next to an old armoire in the centre of the room—a tweed jacket slung over a half-open door—stood a coat rack and one battered, half-unpacked suitcase, it's clothes strewn and spilling out to the floor. From the dim light, Harry could also make out several stacks of books scattered about and after getting up to get a better look—discovering that they were in fact Muggle historical novels—Harry found more Muggle and Wizard magazines dispersed in strange places across the room, with one box of neatly organized vinyl records, beside the window.
"If you're wondering why it's so empty, it's because I didn't really have much when I moved in." Sirius said, settling in one of the armchairs. "I only grabbed things from the old bedroom and scattered them about."
"Like the Muggle books?" Harry asked, holding a copy of 'Homer's Iliad' as he turned back.
"Oh those, I recently bought." Sirius said, getting to his feet. As he walked toward the window, he snapped his fingers and suddenly, on the table; a disc on the record-player began to spin and a familiar trumpet tune slowly trickled out into the room. Curious, Harry moved toward the window and watched in wonder as the teapot began to hover and pour steaming, hot water into two cups.
"Believe it or not, there wasn't much to do before you lot all made your way here." Sirius said, scooping a teaspoon of tea leaves into a cup. "Reading, music—I even tried my hand at arts and crafts last year."
As Sirius one-handedly made tea, Harry noticed two pieces of what seemed to be, parchment; almost entirely hidden, save for it's corners, underneath the record player. He picked them up just as Sirius sighed, attention drifting after a quick glance.
"Really, I've been showing you my worst sides this entire summer." Sirius said, teaspoon clinking on porcelain as he stirred the cup.
"No you haven't." said Harry, almost at once. Sirius gave him a weak smile.
"I'm usually more charismatic than this you know,"
"You always say that,"
Sirius laughed and handed over a cup of tea, which Harry gladly took. They both took long sips and cast their gaze straight ahead, eyeing what looked to be a relatively cloudy day despite the bits of dusk peeking from the horizon.
The sun would rise soon.
"Can I ask something?" Harry said.
Without looking, Sirius nodded, "Penny for your thoughts?"
"What were you and Lupin arguing about?"
The corner of Sirius's lip curled, "You, of course."
"Oh."
"Well not you entirely… it was more about me, I suppose," Sirius said, crossing his arm. "See, I wanted to accompany you and Arthur to the Ministry, as Snuffles. And as you well know from the doorway—"
"He.. didn't like the idea." Harry said, caught.
"Correct. I didn't think he'd hate the idea so much, it just felt like he was just doubting me and my abilities…" he tilted his head. "But I didn't hear him out."
"Hey," said Harry, shifting to catch Sirius's eye. "He'll be back soon. He and Mrs Weasley and Cedric will all be in Grimmauld in no time."
Sirius paused before he replied.
It was a familiar pause.
He was always vague when it came to Lupin. Harry figured that it was something that he couldn't—no, wouldn't—talk about. But there was something snaking in the back of his head, something that told him he couldn't leave it alone.
Not this time.
Sirius slowly drank from his cup.
"Well, I hope they come back soon," he said, quiet. But he didn't address the unsaid, didn't answer any of the burning questions left in the air, rattling around the walls of Harry's head; Cedric's cryptic last words felt like dice being tossed around in an empty tin can. Not knowing what else to do, Harry pulled out the two photos he pulled from the record player, bringing them into early morning light. There was a sharp intake of breath as Sirius caught sight of the figures on the first photo,
"Oh," he said, lips parted in a fond smile. "I've been looking for these!"
"They were just on the table," Harry said, "I almost didn't recognize it."
He shifted beside Sirius and properly stared at the photo as well. A group of five people stared and smiled back.
In the photo there was a young, leather-clad Sirius who smirked at them, ebony hair tumbling to his shoulders while he cocked his chin upwards, looping his arm around Lupin, who was half-hidden by his fringe; freckles and scars more pronounced as he sported a patchy, tweed-like sweater and a familiar but more awkward and unperfected grin. Beside him, Harry assumed it to be Pettigrew, looking much younger than the man he last saw in the graveyard. This one had blonde curls that bounced while he smiled nervously, both of his hands waving enthusiastically out at them while he strained to not blink. Finally, the last figures in the photo were two of whom Harry could painfully recall, having seen their older versions in the Mirror of Erised.
James, with his curly mop of a head stood proudly in the middle of the photo, his arm slung around the waist of Lily, whose freckled face and ginger hair looked ablaze while they laughed. Harry could almost hear it, the kind of beautiful laughter his mother and father would have had; it was almost there, echoing in the room. But Sirius's soft sigh took him out of the moment, back into reality. He realized that a light patter of rain had started to hit the window, and as he blinked,
He was back in Grimmauld.
"We took these after joining the Order the first time round. It was quite the exciting new adventure for all of us back then," Sirius said, eyes turned to crescents as he began to chuckle.
"Look at James and Lily!" he pointed his finger. "It was, quite frankly, disorienting how deeply in love your parents were."
"What were they like?"
"Disgustingly affectionate. You don't even know!"
Harry laughed. He watched as Sirius continued to smile at the photo and waited one moment more, before placing two fingers on the corner—"Sirius, tell me about this one,"—and slipping out another picture.
In this second photo only two people were captured, but in a rather comical moment; a young (though not too far away from the first picture) Sirius and Lupin leaned against what looked like the Hogwarts Quidditch stands, mouths gaping open, caught just before they could eat two rather large sandwiches. They blinked in surprise and realization towards the camera.
Sirius gave a raucous bark of laughter.
"Gods! It was Lily who took this one!" He said, pulling the photo closer, his grin half-agape from laughing. "Remus and I were never meant for sports—we attended every one of your father's games of course—but to be honest, I still don't know the rules, even after all these years."
"It's not too hard of a game," Harry murmured.
"Not for jockheads like yourself and your father, but for everyone else, it's a logical nightmare." Sirius said, eyes drifting between the photos in his hands. Harry heard him mumble something like "Gorgon! We looked awful!" and "He really let me out of the house like that?", but despite the insults, there was something undeniable twinkling in his dark eyes.
Sirius's wrinkles and lines were still creased and aged, but Harry felt that an even older piece of sentiment melting all the hardness; he felt young, like how he'd become when he told his stories, or even sometimes in those wine-tipsy conversations he'd have with Lupin after dinner.
It made Harry stare, feel wistful.
"What was it like?"
"Sorry?"
"Being at school with everyone. My mum, dad, Lupin and Pettigrew; what was that like for you?"
Sirius turned to Harry and immediately connected his gaze with him, an abrupt sense of curiosity brimming and washing over Sirius as if it was his own. It made him pause a moment and stroke his beard, careful to consider the question. Eventually, as the croon of the record-players music faded, Sirius spoke—
"It was magical," he said, simply.
"...Magical." Harry repeated, whispering.
He looked confused.
"I didn't appreciate at the time," Sirius continued, propping the photos against the record-player. "In our world, it's something you take for granted, but my time in Hogwarts, with your parents and our friends…" Sirius beamed at Harry, brighter and brighter still,
"It was.. truly magical. They were my family, you know?"
Harry nodded. He knew what that felt like.
He watched as Sirius carefully stroked the faces of each person in the photo, even Pettigrew. His touch lingered on Lupin's figure.
"Is that why you cried?"
"Eh?"
"When Lupin apparated, you—"
"Oh Merlin, don't remind me of that please." Sirius walked back with a hollow laugh that came more out of his gut than his stomach.
"Sorry, I just—I've never seen you like that." said Harry, following him. Sirius groaned.
"You should count yourself as privileged then! Not even Buckbeak has seen me—.." Unexpectedly Harry shot a rather pointed look at Sirius, which made him burst in genuine laughter mid-sentence, "Really! It was just- I was a little shocked, is all. I didn't know that—"
He then suddenly stopped, a stutter step in his walk before he sagged into an armchair.
"What were you about to say?" Harry pressed, settling into the second one. Sirius sighed, slightly amused, "Must we never enjoy some silence and tea in any of our discussions?"
"Sirius-"
"I mean we always talk about me! What about we talk about you this time, hm? I'm sure you're nervous about today but I bet—"
"You're deflecting!"
"Me? Deflect? How dare you say that to your godfather! I am appalled at the gall of your—"
"Sirius." Harry said, voice a little harder. His godfather faltered slightly, the playful grin on his face waning away.
"You're.. really worried about me?" he asked, "I'm fine! It should be Remus that you should be worried about!"
"You were crying."
"The consequence of being swept away by the moment! Look Harry—this entire affair has… addled with my emotions a bit. True, I'm shaken but I-I'm O.K, in fact I'll be great! So why don't we just enjoy our tea," he said, gesturing to the tea cups they had in their laps. "And maybe I can tell you another story?"
Harry shook his head, "I hate it when you lie like that," he said suddenly.
Sirius stopped, the teacup halfway to his lips.
"I know," he said, his voice now rid of any jovial mood.
"You are not fine." Harry continued.
"I am perfectly—"
"—Not okay." Harry said, looking at him with an unbreakable stare. "You're not."
At first something glinted in Sirius's eyes, the beginnings of a joke, something to play Harry's rather unexpected seriousness (haha) off; distract him, alleviate whatever had thickened the brew of the room's tension. But as he stared longer at Harry, gaging how successful that attempt would be; he realized there wasn't even a need to calculate any odds.
Besides his eyes, Harry did not have a drop of Lily's likeness. Dark hair and even a face that resembled James, it all assembled into a certain mellowness, the air of someone often overlooked and woven into background noise. In other words, there was nothing flashy about Harry at a first glance, no eye-catching quirks or features that drew the eye to him from the throng of a crowd. His own defining mark was usually hidden behind a lump of messy hair, constantly brushed in front of his forehead; his usual choice in colors and fashion neutral, assessed to blend in with everyone else as much as possible. No, Harry was definitely James's boy. He didn't stand out like how Lily often did.
And yet, in this moment, Sirius felt like Harry was lit ablaze.
There was an intensity in his stare which penetrated, almost as if those green irises themselves danced in flame; a certain and familiar energy that Sirius knew he couldn't shake, coalescing around Harry's person; it felt exactly like the times where he could never joke anything away with Lily. It resembled all those decades ago, the pre-interrogations and urging that she'd do to make him spill and ramble about whatever feelings or internal scars he tried to hide away.
Sirius sighed.
He was wrong.
Harry was James and Lily's boy, he must remember. And as the breath left his body, large, deflating. He set his tea cup aside on a little wicker table by his armrest, and pressed his nose into the cup of his palm.
"I'm-I am not… No, I'm am not okay." he admitted, finally. Harry leant over and rest his elbows against his knees,
"Talk to me." he said, almost pleading.
"Would it be enough to say that the scratch hurts more than it looks?"
"No. That's not the whole truth, is it?"
Sirius laughed bitterly, "You really are alike to- No, never mind, but you saw from the doorway. He's never looked at me like that."
"We didn't mean to eavesdrop—"
"It's alright."
"—But, yes. I saw Lupin's face. He looked horrified, even though you were the one hurt."
"You have to understand Harry, Remus has been afflicted with lycanthropy since he was a child… Do you know what kinds of complexes that develops?"
Harry shook his head.
"He thinks he's a monster. Thinks that he's not worthy of the luxury of love, trust and friendship-" Harry watched Sirius's hands tense, not as fists but open-palm, claw-like.
"He's always been like this and it was always us telling him, scolding him for buying into that rubbish. 'Drivel that fanatics conjure up' we'd say, and yet—"
Harry began to see something curdle in Sirius's head, a boiling cauldron of molten lead frothing and almost spilling over.
"I was a hypocrite. When we were young, I told him that I'd accept him no matter what—and after all these years, he accepted me, telling me he never once believed I had killed our friends and yet I-I-I push him away because of a scratch?! "
"I'm sure that would be anyone's normal reaction, you don't need to be the exception-"
"You don't understand—! I promised him that I'd be an exception. I—we promised each other."
The lead was writhing now, shedding like snake skin and seething; the cauldron red-hot, steam and fizzing and contorting bubbles that morphed but never popped blending into pure awful,
"I don't understand-"
"I can't explain what I was thinking at the time, but as soon as I pushed him away.. I knew. All he saw in me was another victim. He didn't see his friend, his partner... He didn't see me,"
"Hold on, I-"
"How infuriating! All these years trying to build him up and now its my fault that he loses his confidence—!"
"Sirius!" Harry grabbed his hand. His head spun with the flood of words, a thread of logic tucked between each vowel yet he couldn't get enough sense to connect it, Sirius's rant gushing much too fast and new for his mind to wrap around.
There was only one clear thought in his mind, one burning question that left from his lips,
"Why did you cry?" he asked.
But when thinking about Sirius's elusiveness, the way he skipped around Lupin's name and topic. How he would light up after Mrs Weasley would set a spot for Lupin before dinner, how Lupin would bring sweets and a particular bottle of wine for Sirius every time he came back. Thinking about the photos that Sirius kept and the stickers on the battered suitcase in the corner, the patchy tweed suit jacket hung over the closet door; Harry realized that there were two armchairs, and two bedside tables and two teacups. And if he looked, he was sure that Cedric's slip of tongue would make sense, that Lupin's suits would be found in Sirius's wardrobe. And if he had a second longer, he could draw a clear picture out of the dots and clues, fit a jigsaw puzzle together out of the talk of promises and partner's, he could pick into why Sirius cried and why Lupin ran away.
But he didn't need to.
Because as soon as he asked, as soon as his mind began unravel that red yarn and pull out an idea; in that moment, Sirius dipped his face into his hands. Like a beacon, a beam of sunlight hit his figure and finally—
"Because I love him, Harry," he said. "Because, I love him."
Sirius lifted his face from his hands, and for the second time this morning, Harry watched as a stream of tears came running down his godfather's cheek; his hair, his eyes and his tears all glinting in the sunlight.
"Not like a… brother!" Sirius laughed, strained. "And more than a friend, I love him more than myself, most days,"
"I don't even need to try to do it, I just love him. He was the only thing that kept me sane in Azkaban, and now with you," And at this point Sirius gave in; a sob that was trapped in his throat, spilled out in the break of his voice. His chest and shoulders heaved and shook as he lifted up a hand to cover his eyes, trying to cover the tears.
"You and he are the only things that keep me alive," he wrenched out, his voice edged into a whimper.
Harry didn't breathe.
He didn't dare move or make a sound as Sirius shifted in his seat.
"And now, it is killing me to know that I made him look like that... And I know him, Harry. He feels guilty, he feels wrong. He feels like the 'monster' he always thought he was, and it's my fault, I failed him, I—"
"Don't. It wasn't, it isn't."
"I made him disappear."
Harry reached over and wrapped his arms around Sirius, "Stop that, stop it." he said. It felt like he was going to cry too.
"It wasn't your fault," he continued, "It wasn't anyone's."
And at this, Sirius didn't say anything more. He simply clung to Harry and cried, silent.
"He'll be back Sirius, he will." Harry said, squeezing him tightly.
"How do you know?" came Sirius's raspy voice.
"Because he loves you too," Harry said.
There was still no reply. But he felt Sirius pause and then squeeze, just as tightly back.