I'm sorry about the delay but here is the next chapter!
Chapter 6 – Recover
The passing days turn into a strange summer. It is a summer of mourning, grief and silence, but also of rebuilding. Harry, Ron and Hermione find plenty of time to talk – as if they have not already spent the greater part of a year together doing just that. But it is different now: for the first time in many years, time is on their side and nobody is asking the impossible of Harry any longer.
They talk it through: every detail of every memory is pulled forth into the light and examined from all possible angles. They go over everything that happened through the years, everything from the wealth of information that Dumbledore passed on to Harry (it seems greater now in retrospect – when so many of the pieces of the puzzle have been uncovered – than it did on the hunt), to Draco's actions, and the way Snape behaved – in the light, now, of what they have learnt about his love for Lily. It is liberating, to meticulously weave through it all. It becomes a way for them to process.
And heal, Harry thinks, at he watches humour and joy slowly begin to shine again in Ron's eyes after the loss of Fred.
Ron and Hermione are being very considerate, which is nice. And open, too, about the way their relationship is changing, which is uncomfortable at first but rather quickly turns out to be a good thing. It would have been worse if they had hidden it from him. The way it is now, they make it clear – without saying very much at all on the subject really – that Harry is still as much a part of their trio as he has ever been. Or, The Golden Trio, as the Prophet hollers from every page. Whichever way, to Harry's infinite relief and pleasure, he is quickly assured that blossoming romance does not grate on the bonds of friendship.
They hold hands, Ron and Hermione, and sometimes when Ron is on the bed with his back to the wall and his legs spread out before him, he pulls Hermione in to sit between them. She usually mutters something and frowns but eventually leans back against him.
They discuss wands and Snitches, and Fiendfyre and Patronuses. Hermione reads The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore again (even though she probably already knows it by heart) and Harry thumbs through Beedle the Bard, pausing long moments before the inked-in sign of the Deathly Hallows every time.
It is, in a way, hard to let go.
People come to visit. Charlie takes several weeks off from work and shares a room with Percy. They manage. Kingsley, appointed Minster though he is, finds time for them and so also does Professor Slughorn (Harry imagines that there is a perpetual undercurrent of guilt in his eyes). Since there is suddenly a distinct lack of space at The Burrow, Fleur and Bill remain at Shell Cottage but they Floo over almost every day to sort out the cooking as Mrs Weasley cannot face it.
After a time, Hermione's parents return to England with their memories restored. This causes a whole new level of commotion and it is a while before things settle down again.
The weeks pass. The time Harry does not spend with the others he spends in Sirius' little room. It is a bright room, not unlike Ginny's (of which he has seen only glimpses while passing by) and he keeps the curtains pushed away from the windows to let the summer sunlight sweep inside. He imagines this helps. He pretends that the dazzling burst of dawn, the comforting bands of noon sunlight and the sizzling firework of sunset sink into Sirius too pale skin and shine their light from within. If only Sirius would open his eyes, Harry would see that light reflected back at him.
Slughorn leaves the potions with Harry when he pops by. The first few times Harry only watched as his former professor gently lifted Sirius' head in his hands and the glass vial to his lips. Slughorn explained the effects to Harry in detail, showed him how to mix the ingredients together and how often to administer the potions. Behind his walrus moustache his face was somewhat hard to read but there was no mistaking the nature of that which sometimes rose in his eyes. Harry knows it too well, himself. He knows what it is to be haunted.
Faithfully, Slughorn lumbered up and down the stairs to Sirius' room until Harry felt confident enough to take over completely. He still pops his head in from time to time and though he does his best to drum up an encouraging smile every time, by the end of June, desperation and defeat make themselves present in his gaze.
Hermione returns in mid-July, just as a rainstorm passes over Ottery St Catchpole. Mr Weasley is flinging off his cloak in the hallway, scattering drops of rainwater over the carpet, and Bill has just placed a steaming pot on the kitchen table. The sudden sighting through the window of Hermione hurrying across the grass to the door has Ron's attention quite diverted where he sits, spoon at the ready. It is good to have her back. It did not feel the same without her.
She finds him in Sirius' room, by his bedside. She is wearing a new jumper Harry has never seen before and he suddenly realises how much her hair has grown: it reaches halfway down her back now.
"Harry? Can I come in?"
He nods and she steps across the threshold. "How is he?"
"The same."
She pulls up the other chair and plops down beside him. Her lips form a thin, grim line as she regards Sirius, motionless in the bed. "What does Professor Slughorn say?"
Harry shrugs. He is stiff from sitting down and there is a murmur of pain in his lower back. "Not much," he admits. "But he's not a Healer."
She nods thoughtfully. "Maybe you should have another Healer examine him, Harry. I know what Madam Pomfrey said but… maybe there's something else… Something more we can do?"
"Maybe…"
The storm is gone but rain is still tapping on the windows. Harry wishes for it to stop, to move on and let the sun stream down again.
She turns from Sirius and her brown eyes land softly on Harry's face instead. "How are you?"
He wants to shrug again and pretend that he is handling this perfectly well but her kindness is stirring things up inside him and making his throat tight. "I…"
Sirius is nothing but pale skin, shallow, empty breaths and dark hair and stubble and circles under the eyes that all blend together into a scary palette of despair. He is alive, to be sure, but if a living man can also be dead, this is what Sirius is.
She leans in and takes Harry's hand. Her fingers feel warm around his cold ones and she gives them a squeeze. "Did you try… Sharing a bed with him?"
He frowns at her. "What? Here?"
"Yeah…" Her voice drops closer to a whisper. "I mean, you were… Well…" It seems she cannot finish her sentence while still looking him in the eye for her gaze skids over Sirius' immobile form instead. "Sometimes… those kinds of things sort of help." She clears her throat.
"Hermione… What is it that you're saying exactly?"
Some colour steals across her cheeks and she pulls her hand free. She sits up a little straighter. "Well..."
"Hermione, really?" In his surprise, he is grinning at her. "Are you suggesting that I…?"
"No! Goodness, Harry!" There is no forcing away that burn in her cheeks, however. "All I am saying is that you and Sirius used to be… well, intimate and so you could maybe try to use that connection."
He frowns at her, no longer sure of what she is getting at. His confusion must be written all over his face because she rolls her eyes.
"Oh, fine! You and Sirius had sex. A few times, if I've understood matters correctly. Which must've meant that you both liked it. And, as for you, Harry, you've been in love with him ever since – if you weren't before. So, use that! I'm sure the potions are important while he's unconscious and not eating but they are only potions, Harry. If you want to bring him back from the darkness, you've got to do something else." She raises an eyebrow. "Obviously."
"Right." He blinks at her.
"Besides, you look like you need a shave. And a bath, to be honest."
There is a space of silence between them during which only the insistent beating of the rain on the windows can be heard.
"OK," says Harry, finally, when he thinks he has successfully digested her suggestion. Then, absurdly, he hears himself saying: "I don't think I've ever needed a shave before."
At this, she smiles, and the fondness is back in her face. "I think you're right."
"So…" Harry licks his lips, trying to hold back a suggestive grin. "You and Ron, eh…?"
"What? No!" The colour crashes back into her cheeks. She gives an odd little jerk of the head. "Well…"
Harry laughs and she thwacks his thigh.
"Maybe."
"Right."
"I'm leaving," she announces, but by now her grin is matching Harry's. When she is on her feet, however, she pauses, the grin melting back into a warm smile. "This too, Harry: laughter."
He sits staring after her for quite some time before he finds the courage to turn back to his godfather. Sirius looks so incredibly fragile, like he will break if Harry tried to lie down next to him. He looks… much like he is immersed in his own world, encased in something Harry cannot break through. He looks… unreachable.
Harry pulls off his trainers. Hermione is probably right about him needing to wash but… Hesitantly, he glances at the door she left ajar. He makes his decision slowly: it actually takes him a few minutes to reach the door, pull it closed and return to Sirius' bedside.
What if… if on some level Sirius is still aware of what is going on and is really quite against this? It never happened again after Christmas break, after all. Instead, Harry walked straight into Voldemort's trap. It was Harry's own fault that Sirius died, he knows this with every fibre of his body. If he had only taken one peek into the mirror Sirius had given him he would never have gone to the Department of Mysteries and they would not be here. Not like this, anyway.
He fingers the waistband of his jeans but somehow seems unable to take them off. He knows that under the covers, Sirius is wearing one of Percy's old pyjama bottoms and a simple t-shirt. After all this time, it is inexplicably hard to undress for his godfather, even in his present state.
Voices drift into the room from under the door but they seem far away. Among them, Harry can make out Kingsley's comforting rumble and Charlie's laughter.
Laughter.
Laughter and… closeness.
Harry shoots the array of potions on the bedside table a glance. Perhaps they are indeed not enough. They said Sirius needed light, but light comes in many forms. Or at least that is what he thinks Hermione was trying to say.
Biting his lip, Harry edges closer. Sirius' chest barely rises with his inhales. What if he does not want this? Does not want Harry?
But what if Harry is out of options?
He carefully folds a corner of the heavy blanket aside. When nothing happens he pushes on, this time lifting it away enough to gauge the space between his godfather's thin frame and the edge of the bed. If he lies down on his side… He will still be needing to press rather close to Sirius. Then again, is this not the point of this entire experiment?
So he does it. The bed dips and gives a faint creak as Harry stretches out alongside him. It is not as warm as he expected, what with his jeans and socks and shirt, for the warmth emanating from Sirius is frightfully humble. Awkwardly he drags the blanket back into place, cocooning them both. He does not dare to dislodge the pillows and he is not very comfortable but at least they are side by side.
There is only silence and stillness.
Of course.
Because if this were easy Sirius would be up and about by now.
And so, there is only one thing to do. And Sirius can complain and protest later.
Gathering up his determination, his courage and his hope, Harry moves even closer and curls an arm around his godfather's waist in an echo of that horrific morning at Hogwarts. When he dips his head just a little, he finds skin below the sleeve of Sirius' t-shirt and he presses a kiss into it. Then he does it a second time, and a third. It does not cause an earthquake or a hailstorm or a volcano to erupt somewhere, and no unicorns dance in the garden and no trolls lumber over the hill, as far as Harry can hear.
It does not even cause a shift in the air.
Yet, from out of nowhere, a single word comes to flit across Harry's mind:
Finally.
TBC