Chapter 6: Words Left Unsaid

The group of friends spent the next hour and a half catching up on the summer's events and discussing the upcoming school year. The contrast between Hermione, who was already nearly apoplectic about the OWLs, and the twins, who had almost forgotten it was their NEWT year, was hilarious to Harry. He knew that the twins were brilliant. They just didn't like spending time on their studies when they could be experimenting.

Growing bored with talk of academics, Ron proceeded to offer his customary commentary on the Chudley Cannons. Although they'd finished last in the League, Ron assured them all that their year was coming.

Harry thought that Ron should pick another team to support, especially considering how awful the orange colors looked with his red hair. Ginny (who had joined them shortly after Harry's arrival) seemed to agree, telling Ron in no uncertain terms that he was a fool for continuing to support a team that hadn't caught a single Snitch in the last three years.

Their conversation about the relative merits of various Quidditch teams was interrupted by knocking, the door swinging open to reveal Sirius. "Alright, you lot," he said. "Downstairs for dinner."

As the others scrambled to leave the room, Sirius hung back, clearly waiting for Harry.

"Hey, kid," he said, draping an arm around Harry's shoulders. "I know you must have questions but try not to ask them around Molly, alright? It makes her nervous. After dinner, I have something to show you. We'll talk then, ok?"

"Sure, Sirius," Harry said, breathing a sigh of relief at the prospect of answers. "That sounds good."

Sirius was going to talk to him. He might finally get some real answers.

"Excellent," Sirius said, tugging Harry gently from the room. "Now, why don't you tell me your opinion of this house? Lovely place, isn't it?"

As they walked downstairs together, Harry savored this time alone with his godfather, warmed by the comfort only Sirius could offer. His godfather always seemed to know exactly what Harry needed, knowing when to be a mature adult and when to be mischievous.

As the two entered the dining room, Harry couldn't help but be amazed by the sheer volume of food Mrs. Weasley had made. The long table was groaning under dishes of shepherd's pie, vegetables, bread rolls, and treacle tart. She'd clearly gone out of her way to make all of Harry's favorites.

The table was packed with people, loud voices echoing through the room. Tonks was sitting with Ginny and Hermione near the center of the table while Mr. Weasley and Bill were deep in conversation with Mad-Eye and Kingsley at the end closest to the door. The twins were sitting at the far end with Remus, clearly interrogating him about something.

Sirius walked over and slid into the seat beside Remus. Harry followed, plopping himself down in the empty seat Fred and George had left between them.

It wasn't unusual for Fred and George to sandwich him like this. They'd done it on the morning of his first Quidditch match, seeming to sense that he needed support. Their muscled bodies gave him the illusion of being shielded from the world. It reminded him strangely of his cupboard which, despite its cramped space and darkness, had been a place of refuge from a world that seemed to despise him.

The twins must have known that they helped him because they'd sat on either side of him on the morning of every Quidditch match since.

Harry wasn't sure how he felt about them doing it now. He'd thought he'd done a better job of pretending. He didn't want anyone to think he was weak.

What right did he have to be sad? Cedric's parents were allowed to grieve. Cho Chang was allowed to grieve. Harry, who had caused Cedric's death, who had brought back Voldemort with his own blood, what right had he to be anything other than fine?

Dinner was a struggle.

Harry was only vaguely aware of conversations going on around him, focusing instead on the daunting task of managing a full meal when he hadn't eaten in days. He tried his best to eat, forcing down food even as his stomach protested. He managed nearly three-quarters of his plate, choking down as much as he could.

Harry knew eating would get easier. It always did. It would just take him a few days before he could manage the portions he should be eating. It wasn't like he appreciated being this skinny. If he didn't gain at least a little weight before going back to Hogwarts, he ran the risk of being blown right off his broom during Quidditch practice. Malfoy would never let him forget it if that happened.

George nudged him, a questioning look on his face. "You okay?" he asked quietly, looking pointedly at Harry's plate.

Harry blushed. "I'm fine," he said, hating that George had noticed him struggling. "I was just a bit ill over the summer. I'm still recovering."

George looked skeptical, but he nodded, turning his attention back to his conversation with Sirius about the best way to remove paint from hair.

Harry listened to their voices, feeling a bit of his anxiety ease as laughter and conversation swirled around him. He was so caught up in the sensation of listening that he barely noticed the passage of time, only coming back to himself when the clanking of empty dishes indicated that dinner was over.

He glanced at Sirius, remembering that his godfather had wanted to show him something. Sirius caught his eye, gesturing for Harry to follow him. He led Harry up to the second floor, walking in uncharacteristic silence. His godfather seemed nervous about something, twisting his hands together and worrying at his nails.

Sirius finally stopped in front of a door that, unlike most of the others in the house, had been painted in a coat of fresh white paint. It wasn't the paint that stood out to Harry though. It was the name painted on the door in gold lettering: Harry.

Harry whipped his head around to stare at his godfather, mouthing hanging open in shock. Sirius was looking back at him, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

"I know I promised you a home in your third year," he said quietly. "I can't tell you how much I wish I could've fulfilled that promise then. I can't offer you a proper home, but I wanted you to have something. I've been working on this room for quite a while. You deserve to have a room of your own in my house." Sirius reached around Harry, pushing the door open. "If you don't like it, I'll understand. We can change anything you want."

Harry couldn't reply. He couldn't find his breath.

He was standing in the most beautiful bedroom he had ever seen. There was a full bed with a red and gold patterned duvet, a fuzzy carpet covering the dark wooden floor in a merry pastel yellow. The walls were decorated with Quidditch posters, pictures of Harry's friends, and even a Gryffindor flag. There was a desk, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a bookshelf. The bookshelf was packed full of books, colorful tomes beckoning him forward. The desk had an inkwell and a stack of parchment standing at the ready.

It was perfect.

"It's okay if you don't like it," Sirius said nervously.

"Like it?" Harry exclaimed incredulously. "It's brilliant, Sirius. It's just brilliant."

Sirius beamed at him, nervousness fading away.

Harry could tell that Sirius had put a lot of time and energy into this room. For a boy who had lived in a cupboard for ten years, this was heaven.

"That's not all," Sirius said as he strode over to the wardrobe. "Your friends told me that you wear your cousin's hand-me-downs. Since he's about three times your size, I thought it was time you had some proper clothes." Sirius opened the wardrobe to reveal rows of hanging clothes. "There's more in the chest of drawers. It's mostly basic stuff since I didn't know what you liked. It should all fit, but if it doesn't we can…"

Sirius was cut off as Harry attacked him with a hug, holding on tightly. Harry didn't normally initiate contact, but this was an exception. He felt like his heart might burst with gratitude.

"Whoa, try not to kill your poor old godfather," Sirius griped, failing to conceal the emotion in his voice. "There's just one more thing," he said. "Sit down." Sirius sat down on the edge of the bed, gesturing for Harry to join him. "I couldn't help but notice that your glasses have seen better days."

Harry snorted. That was an understatement. These glasses were held together by Spellotape and wishes.

"I thought you might want these." Sirius pulled a black case from his pocket. Opening it, he revealed a pair of circular glasses much like Harry's own but framed with delicate gold wire instead of chunky black plastic. "These were your father's," he explained. "The prescription is charmed to match your eyesight, and they'll stay on your face unless you want them off. They're also nearly indestructible. It's a lot of really complex charm-work. Your father loved them because it meant he didn't have to wear Quidditch goggles. He thought they messed up his hair which I never understood because his hair always looked like birds had just attacked him. Anyway, Dumbledore had them. I guess he collected them from your old house after, well…"

Harry was barely listening to Sirius, so entranced was he by the glasses. He reached out a trembling hand to pick them up, fingers brushing across the cool metal. Sliding off his old frames, he placed his father's on his nose. The world immediately came into sharper focus, details that had once been fuzzy becoming defined and crisp.

"There now," Sirius said teasingly. "Don't you look handsome."

Harry rolled his eyes, sticking his tongue out at his godfather.

Sirius laughed, reaching out to ruffle Harry's hair. He let his hand drop back to his side, eyes suddenly growing somber. He watched Harry for a moment, eyes scanning his face, sharp gaze taking in every shadow and bruise.

"Are you okay?" he asked suddenly, startling Harry with the question.

Harry couldn't bring himself to lie, merely shrugging, not knowing how to explain the terrible storm in his head.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Harry shook his head wildly, knowing that he wouldn't be able to talk to Sirius without panicking. He didn't want his godfather to see him like that, didn't want Sirius to see how much of a coward he really was.

Sirius sighed heavily, looking slightly disappointed. "I won't press you, Harry," he said quietly. "Just know that I'm here if you want to talk. About anything at all. Whether it's about OWLs or how you really got that bruise on your face."

Harry looked up at his godfather, horrified. What did he know?

"I have my fair share of experience with less-than-ideal family situations," Sirius said wryly. "You can tell me anything. I won't judge. In fact, I'll probably understand better than you'd think."

Harry so wanted to tell him, but something stopped his voice, a strange anxiety reaching out to choke him.

No matter how much he willed them to, the words simply wouldn't come.

All he could do was nod in understanding.

Seeming to sense that Harry was not going to talk about this, Sirius changed the subject, turning to the topic of Voldemort.

"I know you have questions about what the Order is doing," Sirius said. "But I want you to understand something, Harry. You are a child."

Harry opened his mouth to protest but Sirius cut him off.

"I know it doesn't feel that way," he said quickly. "And I know you've been through terrible things, survived terrible things. For me, that's even more reason to keep you out of this war for as long as possible. I want you to take this time of your life to be a teenager. I want you to focus on Quidditch, your OWLs, and your friends. This time is so precious. I do understand that you're in a rather unique position, so I'll make you a promise. If at any time I feel there is information you need to know, I'll tell you. Whether I like it or not, I won't keep you in the dark. Can you accept that, Harry? Can you trust me?"

With anyone else, Harry wouldn't have agreed. He would never have allowed someone to keep information from him like this. But he trusted Sirius. Almost more than he trusted himself.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I trust you."

Sirius smiled at him. "I think it's time you got some rest, Harry. Merlin knows you need it. Tomorrow, Remus is going to help you start preparing for your hearing but for now, you need to sleep. You look like hell."

With that blunt remark, Sirius stood and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Now that Harry was alone, he was once again hyper-aware of the strange feeling in his scar. It had faded to a dull thrum while they were downstairs but now, on the second floor, it had seemingly tripled in magnitude. He felt like someone was tugging on a thread attached to his forehead. It didn't exactly hurt, but it certainly wasn't comfortable.

His scar had hurt before, but never like this.

He tried to distract himself by unpacking his rucksack and placing his books and notes into the drawers of his desk. It felt so good to have his schoolwork out in the open. He placed the folder full of his completed summer assignments proudly in the middle of the desk, knowing they were well done.

Harry took a step back, staring at the room around him, still not quite able to believe it was really his. It was surreal to have a space like this, a place where he could be unabashedly Harry.

It was freeing.

Smiling slightly at the thought, Harry moved to the chest of drawers to look for a pair of pajamas, finding a set of blue ones patterned with what looked to be tiny broomsticks. He chuckled a bit at Sirius' taste, imagining his godfather arguing with Remus about the practicality of Quidditch-themed pajamas.

He pulled them on, shocked by the softness of the fabric, strongly suspecting that magic was involved. They were a bit large, but Harry knew that they would fit him perfectly once he was able to eat properly again.

He folded Dudley's old clothes back into his trunk, knowing he would need them next summer. Harry grimaced at the prospect, dreading his return to Privet Drive. He would be in so much trouble for escaping. He wouldn't be shocked if they locked him up as soon as he got off the train.

All thoughts of Privet Drive fled from Harry's mind as he settled into his new bed, sinking into a mattress so soft, so cloudlike, so wonderful, that it nearly took his breath away. He burrowed happily under the duvet, wiggling his toes against the incredible softness of the sheets.

That night, Harry fell asleep easily, eyes flickering shut against the perfect paradise Sirius had built for him.