Chapter Five – The Past and the Present

Mr Weasley's Patronuses proved effective because when Bill and Fleur arrived at Grimmauld Place that night, there was no screaming. Kingsley, too, dropped by to see for himself that Sirius Black was indeed alive and he promised to find someone at the Ministry who could look into the legal issues regarding the house. He made no promises, though: since the location of the old Black residence still could be considered a great secret, even among wizards, digging into the Ministry's records was likely to be a waste of time.

Harry did not much care if he or Sirius ended up the owner. Once he had got some more sleep and had eaten a few proper meals, he began to think that perhaps the world was going to mend, and all those he loved along with it. This turned out to be a view shared also by Bill and Fleur who, on their third morning at Grimmauld Place tentatively announced that they were intending to return to Shell Cottage that evening. Mrs Weasley, who had pulled herself together somewhat after Sirius' Return, burst into tears and would not be easily consoled.

George and Ginny kept mostly to themselves. The guilt that had begun to claw at Harry on the second day in the house did not leave him but offered no solutions either. Occasionally, he thought he caught Hermione looking at him questioningly but she did not say anything. She and Ron had started to show some more affection publicly; Harry walked in on them kissing one day when he was searching for Kreacher and by the time he'd had the sense to flee the kitchen, all three of them were blushing.

Sometime in the afternoon on their third day, another shriek reverberated through the house, waking Mrs Black and causing Harry to almost walk into a door. With his arms wrapped around his trembling frame, Kreacher stood swaying in agony before the drawing room curtains Harry had altered before. Ron, who upon seeing Kreacher thus had had the audacity to laugh, later found his trainers quivering and covered in sickly yellowish-green blisters that smelled of rotten eggs. When no one openly took responsibility for the abuse of the curtains (Harry, having honestly forgotten about them, was not too keen on making enemies with the elf once more) Kreacher decided to blame Sirius and so consequently, Harry had to secretly shuffle some of his roast potatoes and beef onto his godfather's empty plate that evening.

After this incident, the house-elf seemed intent on showing Sirius how much he preferred having Harry as his master, and he did so by doubling his efforts in the kitchen. Nobody complained at this turn of events, least of all Ron who – as soon as he'd managed to persuade Hermione to heal his shoes – took to encouraging Sirius to glare at the elf on a regular basis, much to Hermione's disapproval.

Sirius, Harry repeated to himself. The name only, now that it no longer belonged to a dead man, made him smile. When the fourth day in the house was coming to an end, the wounds that the battle deaths had bestowed upon Harry had begun to heal.

It was, however, easier for him to smile than for anyone else. Ron was in a similar position, in a way. Harry had Sirius and Ron had Hermione, though, of course, Harry did not spend a good portion of each day kissing his godfather. At first – for the thought insisted on returning to him every time he tried to make sense of his feelings – the mere idea made him cringe, but then he got so used to it that he barely reacted when it floated back up to the surface.

Sirius, who seemed to oscillate between grief and joy at having returned. Sometimes, Harry's godfather spent long hours, hidden behind a firmly closed door. Sometimes, the mournful light of the gas lamps would tangle in his hair and he would smile. But always upon leaving the confines of his bedroom, he would seek Harry out. They spoke very little for spending so much time in each other's company.

Sirius. Is alive.

"Harry?"

He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, staring at the opposite wall. Hermione was standing in the doorway, a load of Muggle clothes in her arms.

"These are yours," she said. "I've been going through my bag... I've got your rucksack too."

"Oh, right. Thanks." He got up and made to relieve her of his stuff but she flashed a small smile:

"You might want Kreacher to wash them first..."

"Good idea." He glanced around the room. "Just... put them on the floor for now?"

She did not look happy about it but she did as he suggested. "Um, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"I think... Can we talk?"

"Sure." He moved over to the bed and dropped down. "What's up?"

With a sigh, she joined him. She idly picked at a few loose threads in the worn bedspread. "This is all so strange," she began. "We're back here again... Voldemort's dead. Sirius is alive." She shook her head and looked up at him with an expression of genuine incredulity. "Voldemort's really gone, Harry."

"I know..." he said. "I know."

"But... it's incredible, isn't it?" She looked torn between elation and disbelief. "He's dead. You killed him."

"I didn't kill him, really," said Harry uncomfortably. A little colour rose in his cheeks. "I only Disarmed him..."

"Well, technically, yes. But technically–"

"No, Hermione," he cut her off, "I didn't kill him. We all did it, together." He tried a smile which turned out rather like an awkward grimace. "Without you and Ron, he wouldn't have died. We did it."

Hermione's smile was more convincing. "You know this is exactly why Rita Skeeter needed to use that Quick-Quotes Quill when she interviewed you – you're entirely too humble to be a proper hero, Harry."

He did not know how to respond to that and so, after a moment of silence, she went on, her smile fading rapidly, "So I... I thought I should talk to Kingsley... about... about my parents, you know." She traced the faded pattern embroidered in the bedspread with a forefinger. "I really miss them."

"Oh, yeah." He had completely forgotten about Mr and Mrs Granger and now he mentally kicked himself. "I'm sorry, Hermione, I should have asked..."

"It's OK," she said quickly. "I just want them to come back, too..." There was an anxious gleam in her eyes when she looked up. "Do you think I could trouble Kingsley with that? I mean, seeing as he's Minister for Magic now and all, but maybe he could find someone to...to..."

"Someone in Australia who could restore their memories and send them back?" Harry finished for her.

She nodded. "I'd like that."

"Sure he can," said Harry confidently. "You helped kill Voldemort, you're a hero."

It had the desired effect: Hermione's lips twitched into a smile. "Right."

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while before Hermione spoke again, tentatively. "And what about Ginny?"

He could tell she had aimed for casual but she did not really succeed. With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall. "What do you mean?" he asked, though he already knew what was coming.

"Well... I thought you two were maybe going to...?" She bit her lip and the sentence was left hanging in the air between them.

"Yeah... I thought so too. It's just..." It was Harry's turn now to pick at the bedspread. "I wanted to, you know. I broke up with her because we were going on the Horcrux hunt and because I thought she'd be safer if she weren't Harry Potter's girlfriend..." the word felt foreign on his tongue, "but now I really don't know. It's like I don't know what to say to her."

Hermione was regarding him with a frown. "Maybe you need some time?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, Hermione. It just doesn't feel right, I can't explain it."

"You should talk to her, Harry. She's really upset about Fred but I think she misses you..."

"She's been avoiding me..."

Hermione only raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you've been avoiding each other?" With that, she slid off the bed and gained her feet. "Do talk to her, I mean it. I think she'd like to know what you're thinking."

"I hardly know what I'm thinking," he muttered, but he could not argue with her when she so obviously was right.

Pretending, most likely, that she had not heard him, she gestured at the heap of sorry-looking clothes on the floor. "Make sure Kreacher gets those." Then she added, in a softer voice, "I'm going to see if Mrs Weasley needs anything."

He sat staring into the dark hallway long after she was gone. In the end, and with a huge effort, he pushed himself to his feet and tried to summon some of that famous Gryffindor courage. He failed miserably.

The feeble light the gas lamps provided had never managed to lend the house a charming air. Harry's mood sank as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. "You're being silly," he muttered to himself. "It's Ginny, you know Ginny. You like Ginny." Except he was not sure he did like her any more. At least not in the way that he should be liking her. He dragged his feet upstairs, inexplicably dreading the moment he stood face to face with her.

"It's Ginny..."

"Harry?"

He jumped at the sound of Sirius' voice. His godfather, in turn, was descending the stairs, a large stack of something frayed, crumpled and paper-like under his arm. Sirius gave him a crooked smile. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"No, no it's OK," said Harry quickly. Looking up at Sirius he could not help his smile. "What are you doing?"

"Interrupting your mumblings, by the look of it," said Sirius, still with a smile playing on his lips. "But I won't keep you from yourself."

Some heat made Harry's cheeks sting. "I was just..." but he found that he did not very much want to tell Sirius about the conversation he was about to have with Ginny. He lapsed into silence, and his gaze fell on his own feet.

"Right. You do that, Harry," said Sirius. "I'll leave you to it, then."

"Yeah..." He stepped aside to let Sirius pass but his godfather had only taken a few steps before he stopped:

"Listen... I was going to, um, get rid of these," he nodded at the mass of paper he carried, "in the drawing room but, hey, if you want to join me... we could talk... Upstairs?"

Harry's embarrassment disappeared in the face of the curiosity that woke in him at Sirius' sudden... shyness? He glanced over at the door to the room Ginny shared with Hermione. He was going to talk to her, he really was, but this was Sirius asking and there was so much lost time to make up for. "I'd like that."

His heart took a leap when Sirius smiled. He knew he should be alarmed at how easy it was to ignore his bad conscience as he trudged after his godfather up to the fourth floor, but right now he could not be bothered. The door to Regulus' room was closed but Sirius' stood ajar. As he stepped inside his godfather's old bedroom he had a small shock. The last, and only, time he had been in here had been after Dumbledore's death and Snape, and most likely Mundungus, had searched it before him. Then it had been in complete disarray and Sirius had made no effort to clean up. Rather, he'd made an even greater mess. The bundle of paper he was carrying, Harry realised after a quick scan of the walls, were the posters of Muggle girls that had been pinned to them, having long ago lost their glossiness.

Sirius crossed the floor to crouch by the fireplace. Shoving the old posters onto the pile of ashes already there, he fished out his wand from his back pocket and directed it at them. "Incendio." Immediately, flames sprung up to devour the paper.

Sirius sat back on his heels and the firelight played on his face. He was still handsome, Harry reflected. Not in the way he had once been. Not in the carefree, youthful, self-confident way Harry had seen him in Dumbledore's Pensieve, but instead there was a sort of wild, rough charm about him now.

"I have to move on, Harry," said Sirius softly, still staring into the flames. "Remus is gone, James is gone... hell, even Peter is gone. They're all dead. And I was too..."

"But you weren't... not really." Harry edged closer, trying not to step on anything. The old Gryffindor banners had been taken down and lay in a heap just inside the door; where something had been stuck to them, there were large dark patches on the walls. The floor was littered with books, scraps of parchment, old quills, various pieces of clothing, something that looked like a broken Sneakoscope...

"As good as." Sirius voice had lost all of its earlier mirth. "But you're right, I wasn't dead..."

Harry swallowed nervously as he sank down beside his godfather. "What was it like... behind the Veil?"

Sirius' sigh was deep and he did not answer at once. The posters were crumbling among the flames and Sirius reached for a stack of parchments that all bore the Hogwarts seal. One by one he fed these too to the greedy flames. "I did not know myself..."

Harry kept his gaze trained on the fire, afraid that if he moved, Sirius would not continue.

"I had no body, no thoughts... no sense of who I was, or where, or why... All I knew was when somebody I loved was hurting. I did not know who it was, and I'm not sure I knew enough at all to care, but there was pain, and sorrow and despair, and I knew I could do nothing about it." He drew a ragged and shallow breath. "I couldn't help you..."

It became impossible to pretend like he was not listening to anything more interesting than the weather forecast. Harry stared at him. "But... how does that...?"

"Work?" Sirius added another parchment to the fire. "I've no idea... Everything was dark I suppose. Though I didn't know what colour was. The only times I 'came to' was when any of you suffered... There was this feeling of love, too. Only to tell me that I should be bothered by all the pain."

They were sitting so close that Harry did not have to reach out for him, he only had to lay his hand on Sirius' arm. "I love you, Sirius," he said quietly, the words rushing out of him before he could check them.

For a moment his godfather looked taken aback, an odd blend of surprise and sadness drifting over his face. Then he drew Harry into a fierce embrace that almost toppled them over. With the strong arms wrapped around him, Harry could only follow where Sirius led but he willingly settled down, leaning back against his godfather's chest. His head fell back to Sirius' shoulder and when he looked up he saw traces of tears on the pale cheek.

"Harry..." his voice was raspy, "I love you so much." Resting his chin in Harry's untameable hair, he gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Sometimes you're nothing like James, you know." After a pause he added, "And I think that's a good thing."

"How d'you mean?" The combined warmth of Sirius and the crackling fire trickled through him and it was such a wonderful feeling that it was strange to think it was here at Grimmauld Place, this house of gloom, he was enjoying it.

"Don't get me wrong," Sirius Levitated another scrap of parchment and let it sail into the flames, "you father was my best friend and we loved each other well but... Well, I don't think he would have said it out loud." Absent-mindedly, he fingered a hole in the threadbare carpet. "James is really dead... It's high time I came to terms with that. And Remus... My god... James and I were the idiots... we were the insolent gits, but Remus – he was the good one, Harry." He sighed again. "He deserved to live."

Harry did not need to look up to know Sirius was crying again. "So do you."

"Do I?" There was a streak of bitterness in his voice.

Without really thinking, Harry caught one of Sirius' hands and clutched it firmly to his chest. "Yes you do."

First he thought Sirius had not heard him but then his godfather pressed his lips to his temple and left a kiss there. "Thank you, Harry," he whispered.

A wave of something warm that had nothing to do with the fire, slithered down Harry's spine. He had no name for it and it was lost too soon for him to think of one. All he knew was that he had not minded it's presence – at all.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the parchments turn to ashes, until something struck Harry, "I thought you'd used a Permanent Sticking Charm on the posters and the banners," he said, remembering trying to pry the photograph of the four Marauders off the wall on his previous visit here, deeming it was his and wanting to keep it with him on Horcrux hunt.

"I did," said Sirius. "But I made it so that it became impossible for anyone else but myself to take them down." He prodded Harry's thigh with the tip of his wand. "Why? You tried to steal something?"

Harry grinned up at him, pleased that his godfather's mood seemed to have improved slightly, and willing to do whatever to keep it so. "You think I'd tell you if I did?"

"Who's got a wand, Harry?" Sirius warned him, but the corners of his mouth were twitching. "I could blast your leg off before you could fetch yours."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh no?" But Sirius dropped his wand to the floor and tightened his hold on Harry instead. "No," he relented softly. "I wouldn't."

Harry could not remember that last time he'd felt this safe, this warm. When the last of the Hogwarts parchments – which Harry thought looked like an essay of some sorts – had crumpled and vanished among the flames, he felt Sirius shift behind him. In silence they disengaged and got to their feet, Harry's body protesting at once at the withdrawal of the source of warmth.

Sirius reached out for him but instead of touching Harry, his hand fell back towards the floor. There was an almost rueful air about him. "Bedtime," said Sirius simply.

"Yeah..." He made his way over to the door, managing to not step on anything but an old, yellowed copy of the Prophet. He turned to look at Sirius who still stood by the fireplace, the last of the golden light flickering across his forehead and hollow cheeks. "You're my favourite godfather, you know."

Sirius' lips curved into a wry smile and it seemed in that moment that Harry could still feel them press against his temple. "You're my favourite godson."

The last of the flames stretched confidently upwards but after a second's glory they hesitated and sank back and died. As Harry stepped out into the silent hallway, he vowed that he would never let the glimmer in Sirius' eyes do the same.

TBC