*** *** ***
Author's Note On Progress- *claps hands* This chapter, dear readers, marks the first appearance of my most favorite character EVER in the realm of these lovely books. Also, I'd like to warn up front that this chapter again departs from the angst, if only a little bit, into the wonderful land of sap I'm so well acquaintanced with.
*** *** ***

He hadn't said a word about his confrontation with Draco.

Nor would he. How could he even think to bring up the idea, to vent his confusion and residual anger, to Ron, to Hermione? It didn't matter. It wasn't worth worrying them over when he didn't understand it himself.

He had sworn his protection on Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, who he loathed only second to the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Draco Malfoy, the arrogant Slytherin, the Seeker who had never bothered with petty rules, the wizard who seemed second only to Hermione in sheer intelligence. His rival, his constant irritation. The boy who had voiced such support of the genocide of Muggles and Mudbloods. The son of Lucius Malfoy.

The sleek blond hair. The quicksilver eyes. The lithe silhouette that rose to the bluest skies, a spot of effortless green, forever smug and unreachable.

The pale cheeks painted with blood. The face innocent in death. The sinuous figure shadowed in blood and fire, betrayed and ravaged with the affections of a father.

There had been something in his eyes, something shining out of those raging eyes in the darkness, something he wanted to reach out and grasp with both his hands, something hot, something powerful... Something like a candle sheltered in between protective hands in the midst of a gale, burning on proud and haughty, but clinging so desperately to those moments of asylum, knowing that the moment those hands drew back, the wind would snuff it out, never to return...

Helpless. Vulnerable. And yet refusing his hand. Rejecting his offer. Rejecting him, rejecting everything that he was tied up in those fingers he offered, everything that he was refused...

"Harry?"

Harry snapped out of his reverie, casting his gaze to the dark, warm eyes of Hermione Granger. "Is this the room?" he asked quietly, regarding the walnut door before them.

"Yes," she said succinctly, brandishing the key. She had informed him after he had reentered The Leaky Cauldron that her parents had rented out an inn room for the three of them, since they were now old enough to stay in Diagon Alley by themselves. "There are two beds, so you and Ron could share, I suppose. Unless you want to fight for it."

"I don't mind," Ron said genially. "'Nless you've got clammy feet, Harry. I had t' share a hotel bed with Percy once... thought I was gonna die."

That thought accompanied by the look of remembered distaste on Ron's face forced a smile to his lips, and Harry patted him lightly on the shoulder. "I'll wear socks," he said kindly. "If you will."

Somehow, that simple comment made them all laugh, and they continued in that bewildering mirth as Hermione unlocked the door and they jostled inside. It was a small room, but there were indeed two beds, and a chest of extra blankets. It was entirely lit by flickering candles, burning with a harmless magical light. Ron dumped his bag onto the floor between the two beds, while Hermione cast him a perturbed glance directly before tripping over it.

Harry sat lightly on the farther bed, leaning back against the headboard. The confusion still broiled in his mind, refusing to let go of the synapses that it had claimed. What had he done...? And more importantly, why? Why did he concern himself with someone so untrustworthy, someone so distasteful, someone like Draco Malfoy... Why?

And what on Earth was he going to do about it?

The familiar sounds of Ron and Hermione squabbling was just a warm background noise nowadays, one he was well used to. Thus, when it was disrupted by the polite knock at the door, every sense he owned jangled in surprise. Harry sat bolt upright, one hand lifting almost automatically to his forehead to soothe the scar that wasnt even hurting. A nearly instinctive paranoia gnawed at him. Someone knew they were in here. Someone was going to come inside the room. A hand was already searching for his wand.

Hermione cast a puzzled at the two boys, then took charge in characteristic Hermione fashion and peered out the peephole. Whoever had designed this inn had a fondness for Muggle things that nearly rivaled Arthur Weasley's, it seemed. After only an instant, her hand was working at the lock, flinging the door open.

Ron and Harry were at her back in a rush of both curiousity and panic. Such hastiness seemed unlike the girl, and immediately provoked some sort of worry. But the visitor they greeted at the door was hardly the Dark Lord himself.

In fact, it was rather the opposite.

"Professor Lupin!" It was Hermione who found the words first, backing up hastily enough to bump into Ron, waving him and his companion inside. "I- This is quite the surprise- Hurry, come in-"

Their former professor did so, urging the great black dog at his side through the doorway and pulling the door closed quickly enough to snag the end of his tattered robes on a hinge. The calm smile on his lips didn't abate in the slightest, though, as he simply tugged sharply on the fabric and ripped it free. "There's little more damage that can be done," he explained lightly. "But enough of that. Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, it's a pleasure to see you well. As well as-"

Anything more he might have said was obscured by the sudden flurry of activity on the part of the creature anyone would have guessed to be his pet- a large and intimidating pet, perhaps, but that was a rather small eccentricity for the characters often found in the area. But that great black dog had lengthened and straightened, in the space of less than a second, into a tall man in threadbare robes.

"Harry-" The exclamation was one of pained relief, and he found himself crushed in a powerful and desperate embrace. Harry closed his eyes and went limp into his godfather's arms, breathing deeply and feeling the air scrape his lungs.

Security. Warmth. It had been so long... and so he clung to Sirius now, glasses digging into the bridge of his nose, heartbeat thudding against his own. Sirius. This was his shelter, his only protection anymore, this man who had so fiercely become the father he had never known, the father he had so longed for all these years. Sirius, who had given so much for him and would gladly give so much more.

After a few pounding moments, surrounded in complete safety, Sirius Black drew away, if only enough to grasp Harrys face in his hands, the hands that had been so terrifyingly skeletal when they had first met, four years ago, hands that were now regaining their strength. The candlelight shadowed his face, dancing over his cheekbones, reflecting in the tightly bound hair that seemed now as satin as it must have been before Azkaban, shining off the intense blue of his sharp eyes.

"Harry," he whispered again, staring deep into his eyes, deep into his soul, the relief and thrill tempered with the haunted fear he knew so well there. "Harry, thank God. You're alive."