I'm so sorry for not updating sooner – all these holidays completely messed up my schedule. Anyway, here we are again. We're still in the build-up phase but rewards await those who show patience!

Chapter Seven – The Witness

Numerous were the times in Harry Potter's life when he had felt that he, for one reason or another, did not fit in; when he was a part of something that definitely concerned him but which put him in situations in which he still somehow considered himself an outsider. In name only had he been a member of the Dursley family, and even after the great revelation, he had discovered that there was a lot about the wizarding world that a Muggle raised boy such as himself did not know. He just could not get over the idea that he was some kind of intruder. This was not a feeling he enjoyed but still could not ignore as he waited for a weary Mr Weasley to answer Ginny's question from earlier.

"Well..." Mr Weasley raked a hand through his thinning hair, "because it's close to Hogwarts... where the battle took place." (Harry saw Ron and Hermione exchange a look.) "But also because Hogsmeade is the only all-wizarding village in Britain and that will make it easier for families and friends who will want to... visit the... graves."

The light from the fire danced around the drawing room. Harry, Sirius and George were seated in the sofa and Ginny had found a blanket that she had wrapped around herself before curling up on the floor by George's feet. Harry remembered another night, so very long ago, when she had sat at his feet in the Gryffindor common room and it seemed to him now that the world had been a happier place then, even though Voldemort had been alive, and he had thought Sirius gone forever. He edged a little closer to his godfather, happy at least that not everything had been lost. Ron and Hermione were sharing one of two armchairs and Mrs Weasley had sunk into the other one. Mr Weasley was standing by the fireplace, the only one in the house that was now connected to the Floo Network.

In vain Harry had tried to imagine the upcoming funeral. Somehow they had all assumed that it would be solely for Fred but of course that was not the plan.

'A whole new section will be added to the Hogsmeade graveyard,' Mr Weasley had announced quietly. "There is not one available room left in the whole village... Guests will have to bring their own tents if they wish to stay overnight..." he continued now.

It was like a mockery of the Quidditch World Cup final in Harry's fourth year. And if he had any say in the matter, after the Horcrux hunt, he personally never wanted to see the insides of a tent ever again.

Ron, who probably shared his sentiments, gave a somewhat disgusted grunt. "Can't we Floo there?" he asked.

Mr Weasley nodded. "Of course. Madam Rosmerta has a fireplace at the Three Broomsticks reserved for arrivals only. Also by Wednesday afternoon the Portkeys will hopefully have been dispatched to their designated locations."

When no one said anything in response, Mr Weasley turned to Harry's godfather. "Now, Sirius, we've been trying to find someone at the Department for Magical Law Enforcement who might be able to express an opinion on the house... Percy thought old Butterwold might have an idea but it seems he fled the country like a coward only days before the Death Eaters took over the Ministry." Mr Weasley sighed. "At least that is what his desk shouts every time someone walks past his office. They never got along very well," he added thoughtfully.

"Mr Butterwold and his desk?" Harry heard himself asking.

"Ah, no." A bleak smile flitted across Mr Weasley's lips and there was a spark of something familiar in his eyes. "See, the desk was purchased some ten years back by Andrew Long from a wizard from Peru who had put a few interesting spells on it. The desk remained fiercely loyal to Andrew until his untimely death two years ago – eaten by a particularly nasty troll they say – when it was moved to Butterwold's office."

"How's a desk loyal to someone, dad?" Ginny cut in.

"Well, for instance, it won't accept any complaints directed to its owner," said Mr Weasley, talking a little faster now. "Once I remember dropping off a letter to Andrew from a highly dissatisfied witch who'd been illegally selling irate cauldrons – no matter what you dropped into them, the contents would explode in your face – and as soon as the parchment landed on the desk, it caught fire and disappeared, leaving a rather pleasant scent of raspberry tart behind..."

"Arthur," said Mrs Weasley, quite sternly.

"Oh, right, Molly." He coloured a little and cleared his throat. "In any case, Sirius, I believe the best thing you can do is to pop into the Ministry and show them that you are Returned."

"I shall have to go to the Ministry?" Sirius, when Harry glanced at him, did not look half as animated as Mr Weasley. In fact, he was looking slightly frightened.

"Yes, I think so. We've set up a small re-registration centre for those who have been labelled dead in the war but are really quite alive. They should be able to help you"

Harry felt Sirius tense beside him and suddenly his godfather's cool hand closed around his own. Through his flash of surprise, Harry tried to smile encouragingly at him, but Sirius' grey gaze was fixed on Mr Weasley.

"Arthur... is there no other way? I don't think the Ministry..." he trailed off and his hold on Harry's hand strengthened.

"It seems..." began Mr Weasley, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Well, it seems that there is some trouble with your records, Sirius. They have... not, um, been adjusted to suit your present status."

"What does that mean?"

Mr Weasley tried to exchange a glance with his wife but she appeared just as confused as Sirius. "That is... Well, technically, you are still... deceased."

Harry's mouth fell open. "But..." Mr Weasley quickly raised his hands as though to stave off an argument he knew was coming, but it did not stop Harry who could not believe what he was hearing. "How can that be?"

Mr Weasley grimaced. "The records, Harry..."

"Doesn't anybody know he's alive?" Ginny, was staring up at her father disbelievingly. She had flipped her mane of bright red hair over one shoulder and was leaning forwards.

"Not...yet," conceded Mr Weasley weakly.

"But," began Harry again, too shocked to compose a coherent reply.

"Harry, didn't you say that you met this witch–" Hermione interjected but was, in turn, interrupted by Mr Weasley:

"Now, children," he began, "let us all calm down. All Sirius will have to do is to present himself at the Ministry for–"

"Present myself at the Ministry?" Sirius echoed him, releasing Harry's hand as he shot to his feet. There was a dangerous glint in his grey eyes. "Since when has the Ministry been inclined to help me?"

"Sirius, sit down, please," said Mrs Weasley. "I am sure Arthur–"

"It is because of the Ministry that I spent twelve years in Azkaban! They didn't even hear me out before they shoved me into a cell," cried Sirius. "No one cared then so why should they care now?"

Something cold wrapped around Harry's heart as he heard the agony in his godfather's voice. In the corner of his eye he saw George shifting where he sat and he could hear Ron and Hermione whispering to each other.

"To them I'll always be a mass murderer!" Sirius rounded on Mr Weasley, causing his wife to gain her feet too.

"Sirius, please," said Mr Weasley, his voice acquiring an uncharacteristically sharp edge. "The Ministry is undergoing an unprecedented change..."

"A change," snorted Sirius, his lip curling. "Yeah right. A change..."

Harry was distantly aware of Ginny and George shuffling out of the drawing room, and a moment later, Ron and Hermione followed them, firmly closing the door behind their backs. Harry, however, was determined not to leave. He could easily see a hint of Padfoot in Sirius' features now, and it was not that of a small, congenial puppy.

"Now, Sirius, don't be unreasonable," Mrs Weasley reproached him, but she blanched at the growl that greeted her words.

"Unreasonable?" spat Sirius. "I don't care what the Ministry does or says. I don't care about the house!" He flung his arms out to indicate his surroundings. "I don't care about the money! All I want is for–" He spun around but the very second his stormy grey eyes met Harry's he fell silent.

Sirius was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, and his dark hair fell in tangles around his face. His lips were slightly parted and some colour stained his cheeks. A tingle raced across Harry's skin and he shivered at the sight before him.

"All I want..." tried Sirius again, his voice hoarse and low now, but also this time he failed at completing his sentence.

Harry swallowed. There was an urgent longing creeping forth from some hidden place deep within him, screaming at him to get up and wrap his arms around his godfather, but he remained in his seat unmoving.

"Of course, Sirius..." Mrs Weasley's voice had turned gentle and almost did not manage to break the spell. "Of course, we all want Harry to be happy..."

Confused, Harry tore his eyes away and watched how a flustered Mrs Weasley awkwardly patted Sirius' arm. A wave of jealousy so strong that Harry was sure it had no counterpart nearly knocked him over. He should be the one to comfort Sirius, not Mrs Weasley, not anybody else. For a moment, this new sensation completely blocked his vision but when it cleared she had stepped away from Sirius and was standing by her husband again.

You're going mad, Harry told himself. It's Mrs Weasley – Ron's mother – she's not... But what was it that Mrs Weasley was not? Interested? He stared at Sirius and knew a stab of fear. What if his godfather...

"Harry, dear," said Mrs Weasley, her gaze flickering back and forth between her husband and Sirius, "why don't you come with me to the kitchen?"

But Sirius shook his head. "Forgive me Molly... Arthur... I never meant to..." he began, but in a strained voice Harry was not fooled by. He let his shrug complete his sentence for him. "I need to speak with Harry alone... We'll see you at dinner."

Mrs Weasley opened her mouth to protest but her husband put an arm around her shoulders and nodded curtly at Sirius. "Later, then."

They left behind an oppressive silence. Harry found that he lacked the courage now to look into Sirius' face, and the latter said nothing for a long while after the door had swung shut with an eerie finality behind Mr and Mrs Weasley. It was as though something had changed, even if Harry could not say for certain what had indeed transpired between them all. He sat staring at his own knees, silently begging Sirius to speak first. The rain was still pounding against the window and, by the sound of it, the wind had picked up. Harry shivered where he sat.

When Sirius with a soft sigh sank down beside him, he did not move. "Listen, Harry, I... I'm sorry... You didn't need to hear us argue."

A sudden, irrational wave of anger caught Harry off guard and he could barely restrain himself when he spoke. "I'm not a child, Sirius. I don't need to be protected! I know people argue."

"Of course you do," his godfather quickly agreed. "Of course. But–"

"But what?" snapped Harry. The image of Mrs Weasley's hand on Sirius' arm would not go away, no matter how hard he tried to push it aside.

"Well... But nothing, really..." said Sirius miserably.

Harry finally looked up at him and caught the regret and confusion in his godfather's face. He wanted to apologise for his small outburst but no words would come to him. Instead, when Sirius lifted a hand and cupped his shoulder, he only gave an undecipherable grunt.

"I am not trying to protect you," said Sirius gently. "I just think you deserve some peace and quiet after... all that's happened."

"Maybe I don't want some peace and quiet," countered Harry, perfectly aware that he was not making any sense but only being obstinate.

The softness in Sirius' eyes would not be intimidated, however. "Come here," his godfather said simply and with a smooth move, had Harry pressed against him in a very welcome embrace.

They curled up together on the sofa, making themselves as comfortable as was possible, half sitting, half lying down. Harry lay with his back against Sirius' chest and with his thoughts swirling. After a while, he screwed his eyes firmly shut and twisted around as much as the limited space allowed so that he might bury his face in his godfather's robes and breathe in the somewhat dusty scent that still clung to him. Hesitantly, Sirius' hand wandered up to his face and stroked his cheek, and then fingered his glasses. When Harry did not protest, Sirius gingerly slipped them off him and deposited them on the coffee table.

The anger dissipated and was replaced by a kind of feeling Harry had never before experienced. He did realise that maybe this was not how your average godson and godfather spent time together, and yet he could not for his life see what was wrong with him lying so close to Sirius that the other man's breathing could have been his own. A warm, heavy sensation was working its way through his body, making him yearn for further closeness, making him wish for even greater reassurance that Sirius this time would truly stay with him. He shifted and pressed even harder against his godfather, startled out of his desire for comfort when he thought Sirius gasped. This, however, made no sense to him because the other man's hand had drifted down to his belly and was holding him firmly in place; and so Harry felt himself relaxing at last and let the world slip from his grasp...

"Master Harry Potter?"

Somewhere between the land of dreams and the waking world, Harry frowned at the call. He was warm and safe and no matter how many Death Eaters somebody needed him to kill because these had broken into the Three Broomsticks to register Lord Voldemort as a fireplace, he would not leave his bed.

"Harry Potter?"

It sounded like a toad croaking but surely Voldemort had a snake with him? Or was it a troll that had put Mr Weasley in that cauldron...?

"Harry Potter!"

A deafening crash stabbed the air and with his heart pounding, Harry shot up from his bed, which turned out not to be a bed at all, and found that the world was a perfect blur. A part of his mind registered that his t-shirt had ridden up in his sleep and that Sirius' hand had lain pressed against his skin.

"Master Harry Potter was asleep," the voice contemplated solemnly.

"Kreacher?"

"Harry..." Sirius also struggled to sit up, but his endeavour was no great success. "Here..." He fumbled with something on the table and then pressed Harry's glasses into his hand.

"Thanks..." He shoved them onto his nose and immediately his eyes fell on the old house-elf who was standing by one of the glass-fronted cabinets, an impressive assortment of silver cups and platters and other trinkets strewn around him on the floor.

The elf followed his gaze and gave an odd little smirk. "Forgive Kreacher, he dropped them."

Harry opened his mouth to reply but quickly closed it again. The heat of Sirius' body still clung to him and surely they both looked a mess. Colour crept over his cheeks. He had needed Sirius' closeness so badly but he had not meant for anyone else to see them. He swallowed hard and wished he would stop blushing. "Um, it's OK."

Kreacher was staring intently at them both and his smirk would not be wiped from his ugly face. "Thank you, master," he said almost breathlessly.

"Um... Harry..." Sirius shifted behind him. "Could you..."

"Oh, right." He clumsily scrambled away from his godfather. He tried to avoid looking at Sirius because he did not want him to spot his discomfort but it seemed the other man was too busy unfolding himself to inspect him any closer.

Harry tugged at his t-shirt to get it to cover up the spot where Sirius' hand had rested on his belly. The patch of skin now felt unnaturally cold.

"Kreacher did not mean to disturb Harry Potter and... Mr Black," ventured the elf with a disgusted glare at the latter.

"Then why did you?" growled Sirius. He was dragging his fingers through his messy black hair and sending the elf an equally hostile glare in return.

Kreacher's smirk turned ingratiating. "It is the duty of a good house-elf to inform his master that dinner is ready."

Sirius grunted something in response and Harry made to speak before another discussion exploded into an argument, but Kreacher was the faster one:

"Perhaps Mr Black would have preferred Kreacher to send one of the Weasleys instead..."

It was as though somebody had poured a bucketful of cold water down Harry's back. Mrs Weasley who had never been particularly fond of Sirius would surely have thrown a fit if she had caught them thus entwined on the sofa. Not that there had been anything improper about it, Harry firmly told himself, but even so...

Determinedly, he pushed the thought aside and shook his head, "Thanks, Kreacher," he said in a voice he deemed was steady enough.

"Master." The elf performed one of his awkward bows which always gave the onlooker the impression that it caused him more pain than pleasure, before he disappeared with a crack.

"So dinner, yeah?" Harry hastened to say before a new heavy silence settled. He glanced over at Sirius and found that his godfather's usually pale cheeks were flushed.

"Right... You go ahead, Harry. I'll be right there."

Frowning, Harry tried to catch his eye, but Sirius kept staring stubbornly at the opposite wall where the Black family tree hung. "You OK?"

Sirius nodded curtly. "Yeah, I just need to, um, sort something out."

Harry leaned a bit closer, worry trickling through him. "Are you sure you're OK? Is there anything I–"

"No, Harry," Sirius cut across him rather harshly. His eyes were oddly bright, Harry saw now. "I'm fine. Go down to dinner."

"But..."

"Go."

For a moment, Harry did not understand him. Then rejection swept down upon him and his heart sank like a stone in his breast. Sirius' face was unreadable when he chanced a last glance at it. Harry stumbled to his feet, feeling unwanted but not brave enough to ask again. He could not remember the last time after the events in the Shrieking Shack – if there had ever been one – that his godfather had spoken so unkindly to him. Sirius said nothing either as Harry picked up his wand from the coffee table and stored it in his back pocket, or when he hesitated by the door and bent down to pretend to tie a shoelace that was already tied.

In the end, there was nothing else for Harry to do but leave. He stepped out into the deserted and dimly lit hallway and carefully closed the door behind him, all the while wishing he could access some of that rage from earlier. Then he could have slammed it shut instead. But he was not angry. He was confused, lost and very, very lonely.

TBC