Ehrm, right. It's been a while. I know some of you have been waiting... Sorry...

To all of you who have reviewed of late – thank you! And a special, huge, thank you to "semi anonymous" reviewer Kristen for your lovely comment a few days back! Oh my... All that praise... :) I can't get back to you but please know how happy your review made me and I do hope you will like this next instalment.

Chapter 17 – The Chief Warlock

Sirius stayed true to his word. He did steal a couple of glances at Harry as the latter stripped down to his boxers and hurriedly, and with burning cheeks yet again, pulled on his pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. With a careless flip of his wand that would have earned him a scolding reprimand from Hermione had they both been students at Hogwarts, Sirius had lit a few candles by the bed, but no fire. They did not really need one, Harry reasoned as he lay down and dragged the covers over him. They were only here to sleep – all covered up – and nothing else.

He did not mean to look when Sirius – probably deliberately slowly – freed himself of his t-shirt and dropped it to the floor by the bed. And Harry most certainly meant to close his eyes when his godfather proceeded to flick the buttons of his jeans open but, as it turned out, good intentions soon melted in the face of what Harry was coming to realise was desire.

With his jeans hanging low on his hips, barely holding on, Sirius padded around the room, doing this and that, his body moving in and out of shadow and flickering candlelight. Harry swallowed as the warm glow illuminated pale skin and made black hair gleam. He was not aroused – it was nothing like that. It was more of a deep ache, a yearning for some closeness, someone to hold on to that was beautiful and kind and... his.

If that was the case, that was. And, if so, that was fucking frightening but also magnificently marvellous.

He had just arrived at this conclusion when he realised he was being spoken to. His head jerking up, he found Sirius watching him with an odd little half-smile in the faint light. "Sorry?"

"I was saying that..." His godfather came a bit closer and the way the fine lines around his eyes were accentuated by the shadows kept Harry's gaze from wandering southwards. "That... this is the first time anyone else sleeps here..." He made an attempt at a grin. "Of course I don't know what Kreacher got up to while I was... away... but it's the first time that I know of..." His voice faltered and so did his grin.

Moving cautiously, Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, as though afraid he would take Sirius by surprise and frighten him and consequently be chased out into the hallway. "It is?" he asked, stupidly.

"Yeah." He gave Harry's legs a nudge and sank down on the edge of the bed. "Yeah," he nodded, some of his hair falling into his face. "Would you believe it..."

Harry did not know what to say. "I..." he began, "I guess I never thought about that."

For a brief moment, Sirius looked at him almost fatherly, like Harry was a child that could not know better, but then he sighed and covered one of Harry's hands with his. "As I told you, boyfriends weren't allowed in the House of Black," he said simply, and bitterly. "And though at times I hated it, I valued my life enough to never try to sneak one inside."

Harry heard him, he did, but the word boyfriend had somehow got stuck in his head. Did this mean that Sirius now considered him his boyfriend? Or was he only recalling times past and applying memories to present-day circumstances? And wasn't Sirius too old to be his boyfriend? Or was it Harry who was too young? Shaking himself free of his tangled thoughts, he tried to focus on his godfather.

Sirius had begun moving his thumb in small circles over his skin and the touch was soothing. Given the current situation it should really be him comforting Sirius, but his godfather did not seem to mind. They sat for a while in the building darkness. Not a sound from the small square outside or the streets beyond made it into the room. Harry's skin was tingling lazily where the pad of Sirius' thumb was rubbing it lightly. Any tension he had been carrying in his shoulders and neck dissipated as his breathing deepened and he felt pleasantly warm and perfectly safe where he sat with his back against the pillows.

"Sirius?"

"Yes?"

"You know I love you, right?"

The modest ministrations slowed but did not stop. The older man looked up at him. "Yes, Harry, I know." His smile was both sad and happy at the same time. "And I love you – I always have. Even though..." He bit his lip, looking suddenly a bit rueful.

"Even though what?" prompted Harry.

Sirius shrugged. "Nah, nothing."

"No, what?"

Releasing Harry's hand, his godfather circled the bed and, in a fluid motion, pushed down his jeans and stepped out of them. "Well... I guess I might have been a little, you know, somewhat..." he sounded terribly uncomfortable and his eyes did not meet Harry's as he lowered himself on to the bed.

Curiosity – and a twinge of worry – drowned out any interest Harry might have in his godfather's near nakedness. "What?"

"In the beginning... or rather, to tell you the truth, from the moment James told me Lily was pregnant with you I was a little... envious..."

Harry could feel his own eyebrows making for his hairline. "Of whom?"

"Of you," said Sirius, with another shrug. "And as much as I loved Lily, I..." He paused and grimaced. "OK, so maybe I wasn't too fond of your dad settling down and having kids and all... I'm not saying I didn't love you! I did. The moment I saw you: frail and small and innocent, but with so much potential for marauding..." The grin that had begun working its way into his face suddenly vanished and he groaned and dropped his head into his hands. "Shit, I'm old!"

Laughing, Harry scrambled closer and pried his hands away. "You're not old... you're perfect." He blushed even as he said it, but he stubbornly looked Sirius straight in the eye as the older man turned to him.

"I'm not perfect, Harry," said Sirius quietly. "I never will be."

Harry lifted a hand and brushed some of his hair off his forehead. "Then you're perfect enough."

They did not speak more after that but Harry did not mind. When Sirius wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close, and pressed a silent kiss to his forehead, he smiled. And a moment later, when there was only darkness around them, Harry was happy to discover that the arm did not pull away.

o.O.o

"Don't..." Sirius tugged at Harry's robes to smooth the fabric over his shoulders. "Don't say anything stupid, OK?"

"Why would I say anything stupid?"

"I don't know!" His godfather gave a shrug that did not entirely mask his unease. "Just don't try to be the hero, Harry."

"I won't." He smiled. It seemed to make Sirius worried, the more he smiled. Harry was rather enjoying it. "Hopefully there'll be no need for that."

"May I remind you that it is the Wizengamot you are about to deal with?" Sirius gave a huff steeped in so much contempt that one had to admire both the effort and the execution.

"I'm not dealing with anyone or anything," said Harry, slowly. "I'll sit at the back and not one stupid word shall cross my lips." He smiled again.

Sirius, apparently, was immune to any such tricks this morning. "I'd prefer it if you didn't say anything at all," he muttered. His hands cupped Harry's shoulders and his thumbs worked circles into the fabric. "You sure you don't want to borrow–"

"Um, no, thanks," Harry hurried to say. "Listen, I'll pretend I'm not even there," he said, and as much as he liked Sirius holding on to him, he made a move towards the waiting fireplace.

"Wait." Sirius' grasp strengthened. He frowned. This time there was a more genuine furrow between his brows. "Don't... don't get caught up in their politics, Harry."

"Sirius," said Harry, unable to keep a hint of exasperation from sneaking into his voice, "I promise I won't do anything reckless but I really have to go. I need to see them, to hear what they have to say for themselves. What more do you want from me?"

For a moment Sirius only looked at him, a queer light in his eyes. Then he said, very quietly, with his lips barely moving, "At the end of the day, Harry, I just want you to come home... to me."

Harry was not sure who moved first but he made sure his arms were as tightly wrapped around Sirius as his godfather's were around him. He buried his face in the crook of Sirius' neck, glasses and all, but no protest ensued. Sirius breathed deeply against him and Harry imagined that he could feel lips brushing his hair. They parted reluctantly, Harry slowly working his way towards the grate and the fire. A handful of Floo powder later, the flames flashed a bright emerald green and Harry stepped in among them.

Just as he was about to state his destination, Sirius spoke up again, "Oh, and don't–"

But Harry, deciding that at some point enough had to be enough, reached out and, before his godfather could finish his sentence, caught him by the collar of his t-shirt and yanked him close. So close in fact, that their noses bumped into each other, but the main point was that their lips were firmly pressed together.

It was a quick kiss and nothing fancy at all, but Sirius was sporting a somewhat self-conscious smile when it was over. Harry released him and said loud and clear, "The Ministry of Magic." Then Sirius was only a blur of black mixed with black and there was not much more Harry could do than submit to the customary unpleasantness of Flooing.

He managed a relatively graceful landing (password: 'xylophone'; which a weasel Patronus, speaking with Mr Weasley's voice had informed Harry of as he was brushing his teeth after breakfast, effectively making him choke on a mouthful of toothpaste) and was glad that he did not have to waste precious minutes dusting himself off. The whole waking-up and getting-dressed, and having-breakfast, and having-to-listen-to-Sirius-worry procedure had taken a bit longer than strictly necessary and time was ticking away quickly. If there was one thing that was guaranteed to grant him unwanted attention, he assumed, it was a late arrival.

The Atrium was neither crowded nor empty as he set out for the lifts. What it was, was strangely quiet. He passed two witches standing very close but speaking so low that he could not make out one single word, and a group of elderly wizards, all dressed in a dark and formal grey, that seemed to communicate solely by exchanging long looks and heavy shakes of their heads.

Harry's trainers made soft squishy sounds as he crossed the damaged floor. Peripherally he wondered when it would be repaired and the rest of the Atrium restored to its former glory, but mostly he tried to keep his head down and his presence unnoticed. Every step he took that brought him closer to the lifts seemed to him loud enough to match the roar of a dragon and yet no one looked his way.

He wove around small knots of visitors and blue-robed workers, all of them oddly blind to anyone not belonging to their own party. Not enjoying the luxury of a well-stocked wardrobe with plenty of alternatives to choose from, Harry had opted for the same set of dress robes he had worn at Bill and Fleur's wedding, but with a few minor alterations that would make it easier for him to blend in with the crowd. Sirius, on his part, had generously offered him a set of mouldy old robes that looked as though they might have belonged to some long-forgotten wizard, whose name was now nothing more than a smudge of faded ink on the Black family tree, but Harry had politely declined. Most likely his godfather had hoped that the proffered robes would emit such a foul smell that Harry got thrown back into the Floo system before he could even set foot in the courtroom, but Sirius had denied the allegations with a perfectly sculpted expression of indignation.

Ignoring him, Harry had turned his dress robes a green so deep it looked almost black and had, after some experimenting (he had, after all, never encountered this particular challenge before), managed to remove the lingering traces of Veela-silvery shimmer that had radiated from Fleur on her wedding day, and which had so beautifully enhanced the guests' appearances as well. Whatever glow that had rubbed off on Harry then was now utterly and absolutely gone.

He had felt confident about his results earlier; now was a different matter. However inconspicuous his ensemble, Harry would have preferred to keep to the walls instead of crossing the open floor. He passed the spot where the security desk had once stood and glancing upwards he saw, mounted on the wall, two ornate, albeit dusty, hourglasses: one in which bleak blue sand was swirling wildly as though caught in a desert storm, and the other seemingly empty. He had no idea what these were showing but Harry sped up a little, suddenly overcome by an inexplicable feeling of foreboding.

By the time he had passed through the golden gates and reached the lifts, the uneasy and hushed whispers were beginning to get to him and his skin crawled. A faint, barely audible murmur was slithering along the walls and the dull sound of footfall echoed around the Atrium, but neither of these were comforting sounds. Harry found himself casting glances over both his shoulders more than once but no one spared him even the quickest raised eyebrow. Wiping sweaty palms on his robes, he waited for the grilles to clatter open. Not even the solid presence of his wand in his sleeve did much to reassure him that he was in complete control.

A stale smell rose to meet him as the lift descended into darkness and the lower levels of the Ministry closed in around him. Alone as he was, he had more than enough time to study the scratches in the golden bars and the grimy floor. Was it possible that the Ministry was in a worse condition now than it had been only a few days ago? Or perhaps he had been too preoccupied with the whole ordeal concerning Sirius' recorded status and the kiss to notice...

When the lift finally came to a stop with a clang, Harry told himself that it was his own imagination that made even the cool female voice announcing "The Department of Mysteries" sound wary. He stepped out into a pool of flickering torchlight and must steel his heart against a numbing surge of pain that rose in his chest as the door leading to the Entrance Chamber flashed into sight among the shadows. Somewhere on the other side of that door, somewhere in that maze of madness and fear and anger that spread out behind that simple wooden barrier, lay the Death Chamber... where...

Harry forced himself to turn his back to it and he stole a few precious moments to recall the feeling of Sirius' arms around him, of his lips against his own and his smile. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and headed the other way and down the flight of steps that led down to level ten.

Down here, the stale smell had turned distinctly sweeter and headier. It mingled with a dampness that suggested to Harry that something had died in some secluded corner and was now rotting without somebody to clear it away. He pulled out his wand, if only to feel its familiar weight in his hand, prepared to face more blank, impersonal stone and a building loneliness. But when he reached the end of the steps and the corridor opened up before him again, he was completely unprepared for the enormous crowd that had gathered there.

Quickly sliding his wand back into his sleeve, he moved as quietly as possible. Here also the people were whispering – if they were communicating at all. Heavy doors, unadorned save for keyholes and iron bolts, lined the walls on both sides of the corridor. Torches cast an uneven and restless pattern of light on the rough stone. All of the doors were firmly closed and Harry must assume that the one leading to courtroom number six was the one that had attracted all the attention. He approached the crowd on silent feet, the brooding shadows obligingly devouring any soft noises his trainers made. When he was close enough to make out individual faces, he scanned the assembled audience for any familiar ones but was both relieved and disappointed to find that he recognised no one. As he waited on the edge of the throng he wondered what Hermione would have made of all of this. Would make, of course, when he told her.

There was an uncomfortable lurch in his breast, very close to his heart, at the thought. Why had he not asked Ron and Hermione to come with him? The question bubbled up to his mind's surface and he realised he had no answer to it. They had done their fair share of running after him, he reasoned, and they should be focusing on rebuilding their lives now, not on the business of the Ministry. On top of that, Ron was in mourning. But, a small voice in his head countered, that does not explain why you did not ask them. You could have asked them.

Harry pushed the thought aside. Hermione knew of his plans and presumably she had told Ron about them, and neither of them had offered to come with him. Still, it was strange to be standing here by himself, without their bickering to accompany him. At that, a small grin twitched in the corner of his lips and he decided he did not blame them for preferring to stay out of this.

No more had he come to this conclusion before there was some commotion ahead of him, and bustling, as people hurried to part to let someone through. Harry hastened to press himself against the cool wall but not before his left foot had received a stab from a sharp heel. He let out a grunt of pain and a very short and plump witch with iron-grey hair and an impressive shade of bright red lipstick turned to look up at him.

"Forgive me, young man," she said, pleasantly enough but without sounding contrite. Her face was lined but her eyes a razor sharp, bright blue.

Harry shook his head. "Don't worry," he mumbled, hoping that would be the end of that. He squinted down at his foot; there was a deep dent in his shoe which he did not mind so long as he did not have to discuss it any further. His attention was diverted almost immediately, however, as a deep voice rose above the rustle of robes:

"Make way for the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot!"

Harry could not have said exactly when the tiny wizard appeared: in one moment there were only the twin rows of people lining the walls and, in the next, the small figure was trotting down the corridor at a respectable pace. He must be ancient, Harry decided, as he took in the bony hands and the wispy snow-white beard that fell almost to the ground. The Chief Warlock wore the usual plum-coloured robes of the court and on his right forefinger glinted a large amethyst set in silver.

The bodiless voice rang out again as he drew nearer to where Harry stood. "Make way for the..."

"Yes, yes..." the Chief Warlock raised a hand and the voice was gone in an instant. "That will do, Aloysius. Thank you." He spoke softly and his voice reminded Harry of the dry rustle of parchment.

A low murmur rose as he stopped before what Harry saw, if he dared to lean forwards just a little, was indeed a door. With slender fingers, the Chief Warlock produced an equally slender wand, pale and long in the torchlight, but before he worked any type of magic, he half turned so that he was once again facing Harry.

He was not looking directly at Harry and yet the latter felt a shiver travel down his spine. For a moment there was only silence as even the very air held still, and Harry did not breathe. Then the small wizard came alive again and gave a sort of bow to the door. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, softly and quietly; and seemingly without any effort, the heavy wooden door swung open.

"Always a show-off, he was. And still is, I see."

Harry snapped out of his trance to find the witch with the red lipstick snorting. Daring a bit of conversation, he asked, "Who is he?"

"Who is he?" she echoed him, as though she could not believe that any human being could be so dumb. "Algernon Pod, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot." Her eyes narrowed up at him. "You are not deaf, are you?"

"Er, no," said Harry. "I guess I just didn't know who had succeeded Dumbledore..."

"Hm," she said, her sharp eyes raking over him appraisingly. If she recognised him, she gave no indication. "Well, they've found themselves a successor now... Algernon was always fond of a bit of drama."

People had started to move through the door but Harry hung back. "I didn't know the Chief Warlock would be here today," he said, doing his best to feign innocent curiosity.

"There is nowhere else he'd rather be," she said with another snort. "Not with what happened last night."

Harry's eyes shot to her face. "What happened last night?"

"You are here and yet you don't know?" she asked him, incredulous. Steel-grey brows furrowed at him. "For a saviour and a hero, Mr Potter, you do not seem very up-to-date with the latest goings-on."

Harry flushed, but she spared him the trouble of coming up with an excuse. "I'll tell you what happened," she went on instead, the crowd thinning as more and more people disappeared into the courtroom. "No one knows how it came about – they were of course stripped of all their belongings, wands and all, upon their arrest – but the fact remains – the fact remains – that the guards found Lucius Malfoy lying, stone-cold, on the floor of his cell last night. Lifeless, as it were. By his own hand, it seems."

Harry stared down at her. "But... how?"

She shrugged and her lips pursed. "Merlin knows. But I will tell you that I was strongly opposed to the building of Azkaban. And I still think it should be shut down. And I am not the only one – we were all saying it!" She gave a small irritable shake of her head, her grey curls bouncing. "Ah, but who listens to us? Not the Azkaban Security Officials and Very Important Wizards, at least, I'll have you know."

"But..." Harry shook his head to clear it. "But if he didn't have a wand..."

She cut him off with a pointed look. "The point is, Mr Potter, that things are not running as smoothly as one would like." With that, she turned on her heel and, quite decisively, made for the door.

And Harry, with his thoughts swirling, let himself be swallowed up by the remains of the crowd and swept over the threshold to courtroom number six.

TBC