So, I'm trying to get back into the swing of things with this. As of right now, I have 3rd Year planned out to be 20 chapters but that will probably change as this arc will be very plot heavy to set up the next two arcs.

Their days continued much the same, just the two of them and learning how to live life again. But with every day they stayed, Harry observed the shadows creeping back under his godfather's eyes, could see the little weight he had managed to gain slip from his figure as his clothes hung looser and looser.

There were memories here that haunted Sirius and Harry hated himself for making the man stay in this place that he hated so much. It was only temporary, the man assured him, but he was returning to Hogwarts in a few weeks and where would Sirius go then? Would he stay in this house by himself, slowly losing his mind? Did he actually want to go back to Hogwarts? After last year, he didn't trust the castle nor the people. And if he went back, he would have to deal with Snape again. His blood boiled just thinking about it!

...But if he didn't go back, he'd never play Quidditch again or see his teammates, he'd never be able to browse through the library and get lost for hours, he wouldn't be able to practice magic freely for four more years. But above all, he wouldn't see Hermione again. His friend through everything, his opposite yet twin. She pushed him as much as she aggravated him. He didn't want to lose her too.

The thought of returning to school was put on hold because of another pressing issue: Derrick. He had promised to take him to a Quidditch game this summer and had offered his home for the remaining weeks. He wanted to take it, Sirius wanted him to take it, but that meant leaving Sirius behind. If he went to Derrick's, he would no longer have this time with his godfather.

It was with a doggish grin that Sirius suggested he tag along as a stray Harry had taken in, "No one can resist Padfoot!"

Harry gave him a look of disbelief and muttered under his breath, "Maybe with a haircut and bath."

"What was that!?"

Harry put on an innocent face, "I said, who's Padfoot?"

Sirius turned from where he was slouched in the armchair, lazily rising to his feet before transforming in front of Harry's eyes.

Harry felt his mouth literally drop to the floor, a childish glee lighting his eyes, "You're an animagus!" Dropping to his knees, he runs his hand through matted, limp fur, definitely signs Sirius wasn't as healthy as he wanted him to believe. A thought came to mind as the sudden revelation, "This is how you broke out of Azkaban."

Padfoot nudged his hand to encourage the soothing motion of Harry's hand running down his back.

Harry obliged, commenting to himself that just when he thinks he has Sirius Black figured out, he surprises him.

Merlin, he loved magic.

Their mornings went much the same. With Harry the only one capable of making a dish that didn't risk poisoning them, he had taken to making the meals.

Sirius was insistent that he learn to cook though, adamant that it was his duty as the adult to provide for Harry, not the other way around. Harry only laughed, moving over so Sirius could participate in this new adventure. He had to admit, Sirius was a marvellous student with scrupulous attention to detail. Standing in the kitchen cooking, Harry remembered his earlier days, back at the Dursley's when they had forced him to prepare all the meals. He had hated it then, had refused to even step into the kitchen at the orphanage until Dot had coaxed him in and retaught him everything he learned through failures and beatings. While he would never love cooking, he held an appreciation for the complexity and variation one could develop.

Maybe, he thought, this could be different. Making memories, connecting, that's what they were doing. Replacing the bad with the good.

A laugh bubbled out of him as he demonstrated to Sirius how to properly cook a duck. The horrified look when he gave the grown man a handful of lard and instructed him to coat the inside had sent his side into stitches.

"You're joking, mate, that's…"

What was the right word? Repulsive? Violating? Vile?

Seeing the serious expression on his face, Sirius grimaced, closed his eyes and quickly jammed his lard covered hand inside the poor bird. Immediately, he gagged, his hand coming into contact with the moist, fibrous, bony inside of the carcass before touching something foreign and gooey and scary.

"There's something in here!"

Harry was having a hard time controlling himself as he stood next to Sirius, feeding him instructions, "Well, grab it. It's some of the organs. Butchers keep 'em in there in case you want to cook them."

"I'm touching what!?"

Though it was his choice to remain at 12 Grimmauld Place, he felt like he was back in Azkaban. It was suffocating being back here. The emptiness, the echoes of screaming and neglect, the fear of being heard…it was all ingrained into him by this point and he just felt like he was reliving his last few weeks in this house as a teenager all over again. He couldn't sleep which wasn't unusual but this was a different nightmare, one he thought he had already escaped. He drank his way through his father's liquor when Harry wasn't looking. It took the edge off and dulled his emotions.

His plan had been to lay low here for a few weeks before moving on to Potter Manor. But to get to Potter Manor, he'd have to go to Gringotts and get the key from James and Lily's vault. The second he stepped into Diagon Alley, he'd be arrested or attack or probably both.

This snag further sunk him into his depressive state. He had been too reckless in his desire to get Harry back that he hadn't thought through everything and now they were stuck here for the time being or until it was time for Harry to return to school. He had just been so angry after his visit with Petunia that nothing had mattered until he got his godson back. Mooney wouldn't have made such a mistake.

Every day, another memory rose, reminding him just how much he had despised this place growing up. This place was worse than prison for him. It held pain and agony, memories and betrayals. It was a place his sixteen-year-old self had sworn never to return to. And now, by a stroke of ironic karma, he was the sole heir and owner of the Black Family and Grimmauld Place. His dear mother having reinstated him as the heir after his brother died and he was sent to Azkaban as a supporter of Voldemort.

Sirius didn't understand her reasoning – she knew how much he hated their family – but with the portrait of his mother in the walkway, he imagined she had gone mad in this house by herself in the last year of her life. The loss of his brother and father had to have been devastating for her, and the fall of the Black family even more so. Half of them dead or locked up and the other half dying of old age. He would be the last living person with the Black family name. Something he took to shoving in her face when he passed her portrait. But even that didn't bring him joy anymore. Just another reminder of all he's lost. She gave just as good as she got and she had no problem telling Sirius how she had never loved him, what a disappointment he was, that the only good thing he did was being sent to Azkaban.

Her words still cut the deepest, even after all these years. Some part of him still allowed itself to be hurt by his mother's words.

Harry was fascinated by all of it but even he could see that this was no place to live.

The novelty wore off when he entered Regulus' room two weeks into their residency only to see a Hogwarts student's room. His house banner still hung on the wall, his Quidditch gear in the corner, a team picture on his nightstand.

This wasn't the room of a Death Eater, it was the room of a kid, a teenager and it froze him where he stood, face dropping at the blatant reminder that even kids weren't safe from this war, at the remainder of what he had tried pushing down the last few weeks, not wanting to remember. Because as he stood in this Slytherin room, he couldn't help but imagine the room that was vacant across the country, the room that would be floor to ceiling red and gold with posters of the Holy Harpies lining the walls, the room that would've had the same Quidditch equipment if she had only been given the time.

Harry backs out of the room, suddenly feeling like he had violated a place that should never have been touched.

Sirius spots him as he is pulling the handle to close the door and there's a dull look of understanding as he beckons his godson closer. There was a reason he had kept Harry from this room. It was bound to reopen the Ginny size wound he was trying to heal.

"Let's get a cuppa."

Seated next to the kitchen fire, Sirius began what he knew of his brother's final days.

"It was only a few days after the end of school, Bella had been a Death Eater for years and had convinced mother that Regulus should take the mark. Father, from what I understand, was against it. He hadn't particularly cared for You-Know-Who but he agreed with his rhetoric." Sirius shook his head, hair falling to shield his eyes, "Reg didn't stand a chance. He could never stand up against our mother and without me here…she got her wish and Voldemort gave him a mission he couldn't complete. I heard different versions in prison: he got cold feet and tried to back out, he betrayed his master somehow, Death Eaters hunted him down for running…None of it matters, all the stories end the same: with his death."

Sirius threw back a fire whiskey, trying to drown out the sorrow he felt rising up, hoping to burn out the tears. Harry could see the sadness in his eyes, the haunted look of not knowing what had happened to his little brother after all these years.

"He shouldn't have been there, he was just a kid…we were all just kids caught up in a war we shouldn't have been in…but it was the right thing to do! We were fighting for freedom, for peace, the price had to be worth it," he whispered harshly to himself.

The tumbler was placed heavily on the wooden table, but it wasn't, was left unsaid and Harry had to agree. If the price of winning this war was losing everyone he cared about or who cared about him, he didn't want it. It wasn't worth it. His parents, Ginny, Derrick's brother, Regulus…what was the point when Voldemort was still out there? Their deaths were meaningless.

"But this war…I won't lose you to it, I'll protect you," Sirius swore, eyes of steel but crystal clear.

That's fine but what if Sirius dies protecting him, what then? Why was he worth protecting? What made him worth sacrificing his life over?

It brought up the reality that they were now facing the same thing as a decade ago. With Tom, there was a real possibility of that happening again, students having to pick sides, dying for a stupid ambition. He didn't want to pick a side, he just wanted to finish school and explore. He wanted to live.

Though the previous year had placed him in a dark place, he had learned so much about what he wanted from life. The future wasn't guaranteed to anyone and he didn't want to stand still. He wanted to experience everything this new world had to offer him. He wanted to push the boundary of known magic, go places he could only read about in books, he wanted to experience what it felt like to belong and for the first time, he had someone who could provide that. Sirius was the only family he had left and the last few weeks had only solidified those feelings. He didn't want to feel that loneliness again, the feeling of not belonging anywhere, always being the second option.

Some would say he was selfish with his wants but he didn't think so. Why was it selfish to desire what everyone else had? A basic human experience?

Maybe if Tom had – NO! He couldn't think that! While their upbringing may be similar, Tom made his choices. No one forced him to resent his parents, no one forced him to torture kids or told him to split his soul.

No matter how much he tried, the thought always nagged at him, ever since their discussion all those months ago. It was scary to see just how similar they were, not only in their upbringing but their personality and desire to be better. They were more similar than they were different and he clung to those differences like lifelines...

"I think that's enough reminiscing about the past," Sirius paused in his deflection, seeing the clenched fists and tears threatening to fall from Harry's eyes. "Harry, what's wrong?" He moved a tattooed hand forward for comfort but Harry flinched back, drawing in steadying breaths. He was terrified but he had the resolve and wasn't sure for how long.

He had to tell Sirius about Voldemort's soul, he had to know what he was signing up for.

"I-I," he swallows thickly, the words catching in his throat. Licking his lips, he tries again, "Dumbledore said," he had to pause again. He couldn't do it, he couldn't tell him and see the disgust enter his eyes, the revulsion at being in the presence of the thing that had killed so many people.

As luck would have it, Kreacher popped in at that exact moment, equipped with more logs for the dying fire. His presence was enough for Harry to lose his nerve and go silent.

Sirius recognized the reaction and knew that Harry wouldn't be saying anything more and it only caused the dread to rise. Whatever Harry was keeping to himself had to be worse than the Dark Mark he had shown him. And there were only so few things that could be worse than being branded by Voldemort. He retracted his hand, nursing another fire whiskey and debating the risks of contacting his old friends who had been interns in the Department of Mysteries. Well, friends was a stretch. What they had shared was a total disregard for one's health and safety in testing the boundaries of magic. James hadn't approved of the friendships, deeming them too self-destructive.

But what was he left with at this point?