Chapter 19 – Guesses and Promises

When the golden grilles flew open with a clang and Harry was deposited on the level of the Atrium a little while later, he was feeling remarkably less enthusiastic than he would have done only a couple of years ago. That was, before – when he had hated Lucius Malfoy almost as much as he feared Lord Voldemort. Today, however, it was hard to summon that old contempt for the Death Eater in question.

I should have spoken up, he thought dismally, as he hastened to move away from the lifts that were still spewing out wizard after witch after wizard in an endless stream of swaying robes, chattering heels and bobbing, pointy hats. I should have said something.

But what? And why had not that thought come to him while he was still in the courtroom?

Perhaps Harry had simply not been interested in saving Lucius, after all. Perhaps ten years in Azkaban was as good as that man was ever going to get and, considering his crimes, perhaps it was indeed a fair sentence. Perhaps, when it came to Lucius, Harry actually did not care. And perhaps it might do him some good, too, finally admitting to that.

He avoided to meet anyone's gaze as he let himself be swooped off, past the golden gates and into the hall, towards the row of fireplaces. He snapped up bits and pieces of hushed conversation but it was only when he heard Draco's name in conjunction with "that poor boy" that Harry dug his heels into the wooden floor and caused a minor traffic jam behind him. Ducking his head and mumbling his apologies, he made a quick half-turn and hurried back all the way to the lifts.

Maybe he did not care what happened to Lucius but Draco was an entirely different story. Draco had looked so... so... un-Malfoied where he had sat during the trial. He had looked so scared. And it was only now that Harry was beginning to understand, to truly understand, that Draco must always have been scared. Always.

And just like that, with a pang, it dawned on Harry just how deeply he missed Dumbledore. Dumbledore would have known what to do, what to say and what to think. Sitting there in his Hogwarts office, with his chin resting on his interlocked fingers, his snowy white beard falling to shield them, and his bright light blue eyes shining through his half-moon spectacles, he would have let Harry catch a glimpse of something bigger, something important that told him how to act. Or perhaps they would have worked on a plan together. And Harry would not have felt so utterly powerless.

He had spent so many – too many – months doubting and questioning the old Headmaster and therefore it came as something of a relief to him when he found himself wishing that whatever Dumbledore's past, all Harry wanted to do was to hear his counsel. But Dumbledore was gone and there was no bringing him back. This death, too, was final.

And so Harry needed to seek advice elsewhere.

The flow of Ministry workers and visitors was thinning now and Harry needed only share the next lift that came clattering along with two other wizards, neither of whom deigned Harry with as much as a cursory glance. The ride to the first level was short and Harry hoped that his luck would stay with him; he really did not need to be recognised any time soon. His hopes were promptly crushed, however, when the female voice warily announced "Level One, Minister for Magic and Support Staff," and he stepped into a corridor teeming with Ministry workers who all appeared to have been Summoned just in time to see him arrive. A haze of murmurs rose to a wild chatter that rose to a thunder of blending calls and cries:

"Harry Potter?"

"That's Harry Potter!"

"Harry Potter...!"

"Oi! It's Harry Potter!"

And behind Harry Potter the grilles rattled closed, and the lift continued its descent into the bowels of the Ministry.

"Harry Potter! What an honour!"

"My dear boy!"

"Allow me to introduce myself..."

The world narrowed down to a flurry of blue robes, long beards, tear-stained cheeks, happy smiles and lots and lots of hands that grasped for his to shake, or encouragingly slapped his back. Amidst all that commotion, Harry lost his balance and footing more than once as he tried to work his way towards the Minister's office, and he had no idea what he was saying himself. Not that it seemed to matter, really, since no one was actually listening to him and for a moment he was tempted to cry out Blast-Ended Skrewts! just to see what would happen.

But he never got to find out for before he'd had a chance to make up his mind, a booming voice drowned out the din: "What is going on out here?"

The crowd parted immediately and Harry was flushed with relief. Kingsley Shacklebolt was standing on the threshold to his office, holding the door open with one hand and looking rather imperious with a deep frown over a sharp, dark gaze. It was when his eyes fell on Harry that his stern expression faded away in favour of bemusement, but it was quickly masked and his deep voice retained its splendour when he spoke again. "Harry?"

Hastening to straighten his robes and push his glasses back into place, Harry was suddenly nervous. "Yeah, um... Minister..." He had always thought of Kingsley as, well, Kingsley, and it felt strange now to address him like he had done Cornelius Fudge once. (The short-lived reigns of Rufus Scrimgeour and Pius Thicknesse did not count.)

Kingsley was the first to collect himself and seize control. He drew himself up even further and inclined his head gracefully. "I am pleased you could make it on such short notice. Please, come in." He made a sweeping gesture with his free arm, motioning for Harry to enter the office.

All his well-wishers and enthusiastic devotees melted away from around him as Harry quickly closed the distance between them and hurried into the office of the new Minister for Magic.

"Well," said Kingsley, as soon as the door was firmly closed between them, "that was a proper welcome, I should think." But he did not smile. Instead, he drew his wand and began to weave a complicated pattern of wards around them. Harry recognised a few as being identical to the ones he and Ron and Hermione had surrounded themselves with on the Horcrux hunt, but there were several he failed to identify, though the point of them was crystal clear.

Only when he was done, Kingsley's face softened a little and he motioned for Harry to take a seat. The office was round and sparsely decorated and furnished, and it was vaguely reminiscent of a dungeon. Though much more elegant. A large fireplace was situated to his left; its mantelpiece bore curious markings, runic in shape, that Hermione surely would have been able to read but which Harry was fairly certain he had never seen the likes of before. The floor was polished black stone, as were the walls and the high ceiling. Kingsley's desk was of a dark wood and despite the fact that it was nothing short of enormous, it still managed to drown under a heavy load of parchments. In sconces a dozen torches were burning and they cast a warm, flickering glow over the room. Together with the light of the fire they made the walls shimmer and gave Harry the impression of standing in a waterfall at midnight.

Kingsley settled down behind his desk, lifted some parchments out of the way and carefully placed his wand at his elbow. He was wearing a set of deep burgundy robes and a matching fez. "This is quite a surprise, Harry."

"Is this a bad time, sir?"

"I have a meeting with the head of the Department of Intoxicating Substances in twenty minutes," said Kingsley. "But until then..." He spread his hands. "What can I do for you?"

"I..." Harry hesitated. It had been mostly impulse that had led him to Kingsley's office in the first place. He was not here because he had some terribly important business with the Minister or some elaborate plan of action thought out that would save the world a second time around. And possibly the Malfoys, too. "I was at Lucius Malfoy's trial..." he began, unsure both of what he wanted to say and what answers he was looking for.

"Ah, yes. So I heard." At Harry's obvious surprise, a small, tired smile flitted across Kingsley's lips. "News travel fast at the Ministry," he explained. And added with a sigh, "Sometimes I think that word of my decisions gets out even before I have made them." He sat back in his chair. "Anyway, what did you think of the trial?"

"Strange," Harry admitted.

"Rather well-orchestrated, I should imagine," said Kingsley. "Pod is quite the enchanter of his audience." He nodded softly. "But he is a decent judge. And he is fair."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me," said Harry, "but..."

Kingsley's eyebrows rose in curiosity. "But...? You do not trust him to be fair, Harry?"

"I... I don't know." Harry bit his lip. "I mean, he just seemed so..."

"Full of himself? So terribly fond of his own person?" Kingsley laid two fingers on his wand and rolled it against the desktop, back and forth, an inch or two in each direction. "I dare say he is," he continued after a thoughtful pause. "But he has always supported our cause against Voldemort and well, to be honest, there is no one better, at the moment. There simply is no one else who can lead the Wizengamot."

Harry frowned. "How is that?"

"It is..." Kingsley's deep dark eyes were serious. "The war left scars, Harry. Deep scars. Not only in us," he made a curious little gesture with his hand, over his heart, "but in this administration as well. It is my ambition, and that of many others, to heal the wizarding world and restore the Ministry's reputation, but it will take time. And we must make use of whatever assets are available to us, be they galleons or human resources."

"So Pod is one of those assets?" Harry asked.

"Yes," said Kingsley simply. "We need him. And he knows as much. Something which makes him powerful, naturally. But, Harry... we are trying to build a better world."

Looking into his grim face and those bottomless eyes, Harry could only nod. He did not doubt Kingsley's good intentions but what he had seen so far of the Ministry in its post-war state did not serve to impress him much.

When he did not reply at once, Kingsley took the opportunity to change the subject. "So, tell me, Harry, how are you doing? I spoke with Arthur the other day and he told me that Molly worries about you."

"Well," Harry gave a somewhat awkward shrug, "with all due respect, sir, she always worries about me..."

The corners of Kingsley's mouth turned upwards in a small, reluctant smile. "Yes, I suppose you are right. And how is Sirius?"

Perhaps if Harry had been able to foresee the question, he would not have needed to feel heat collect in his cheeks, but as it was, he now fervently prayed that the flickering light and the remaining shadows that coiled around him were enough to hide his sudden unease from Kingsley. "Um, he's... OK. He wasn't very happy after we came back from the re-registration centre."

"Ah, no." Judging by Kingsley's perfectly neutral tone of voice, he found nothing suspicious about Harry's new-found desire to not meet his eyes. "Your visit caused quite the commotion, I've been told."

"Yeah..." Harry shifted in his seat. "But it's completely illogical." Some of the anger he had felt when Sirius was proclaimed dead all over again – even though he was obviously extremely alive – found its way back to him and gave him the courage to look up. "He's not dead. They can't keep arguing that he is. That's just... Forgive me, but that's just stupid. Sir."

He could not tell what emotion passed over Kingsley's face but the Minister inclined his head. "I do see your point, Harry. And it will be looked into. I promise you that."

"It will?"

"Yes. Not by myself but by someone I trust. You may tell Sirius that, if you wish. I know he nurtures a disgust for the Ministry's work and policies."

"With good reason," Harry muttered, before thinking. As soon as the words had left his mouth, though, he blushed, deeper this time. "I'm sorry."

But Kingsley held up a hand. "Things are what they are. Some will change while others will not." He pushed his chair back, his robes falling smoothly into place around him. "Now, I am afraid, I must attend to other matters."

Harry was quick to rise. "Thanks for seeing me."

This time, Kingsley did smile. "Take care, Harry. I will see you again on Friday." And with that he raised his wand and sweepingly unmade the wards and the shielding charms and Harry was left with no other option but to take his leave.

He made it up to the Atrium in one piece, if a bit ruffled, and was indescribably relieved when he finally reached the gilded fireplaces. Right now, there was nothing he wanted more than to let the heavy silence of Grimmauld Place enfold him, and for once he was happy of the fact that Kreacher had his own opinion on who were the true heroes of the wizarding world and would never bother Harry about how many of his children would be named after him. Which really was an incredibly disturbing thought but which nevertheless gave Harry's mind the opportunity to conjure images of the grumpy house-elf with squealing miniature Kreachers in his bony arms. Shaking off these visions as best he could, he quickly grabbed a handful of Floo powder and cast it onto the flames.

He would think more on the Malfoys and how he might help Draco later, he resolved as he stepped in among the emerald flames. He was not sure that the talk with Kingsley had done much to allay his worries but something had come out of that discussion that he had not anticipated: the matter of Sirius' status would be dealt with. And that, at least, was good news.

o.O.o

The drawing room lay swathed in an uninspired midday gloom when Harry stumbled out of the fireplace and sprinkled soot all over the thick carpet. But it was blessedly quiet. He had taken no more than three steps, however, when a loud crack made him jump and Kreacher himself appeared not five feet away.

Today the house-elf wore an old pillowcase, frayed at the edges and with unidentifiable faded stains decorating it. His eyes were even more bloodshot than usual and there were deep lines of tension around his mouth. "Master Harry Potter," he croaked in welcome, and jutted his shoulders forwards in some type of additional acknowledgement of Harry's arrival.

"Kreacher."

The house-elf's long snout-like nose scrunched up and he let out a harsh hiss. "Harry Potter stinks of magic."

"I do?" Harry looked down at himself, quite pointlessly.

"Stinks and stinks he does," Kreacher muttered under his breath. In the poor light his sagging skin had an ashen hue. "Of wizards and traitors... No honour left..."

Deeming it wisest to not add any fuel to the budding rant, Harry cut across him in a pre-emptive strike. "Yeah, um, I promise I'll wash. Have you seen Sirius?"

But Kreacher was still mumbling hoarsely to himself, his fingers curling into fists by his sides. His grumbling was too low for Harry to understand and so he asked again, a little louder this time.

"...the dog," Kreacher spat. Narrowed eyes, brimming with repugnance, shot to Harry's face. "Betrayed them all... and the mistress wept..."

"Kreacher."

The elf jerked at the sharp address but his lips remained curled in disgust. Harry exhaled slowly, doing his best to keep from shouting. "Where is Sirius?"

There was a moment of tension before Kreacher grunted, "Lunch."

"You mean he's in the kitchen?"

Kreacher bobbed his head in a way that made Harry think he might just have broken his own neck. His voice was a mere hiss, "The dog is in the kitchen."

"You will stop calling him the dog," Harry told him, sternly. "His name is Sirius."

The house-elf looked at him, and for a heartbeat or two the ugly face was blank, but then he sneered, his mouth twisting into a malicious curve, "And he is a dog."

With another crack he was gone.

Harry could not entirely shake the feeling of unease as he hastened up the stairs to the first floor landing with the intention of making a quick dive into the bathroom and check his appearance in the mirror there. It was not as if he was vain, but he did not trust Kreacher to tell him if he unwittingly had stuck his head into a puddle of mud (or worse) and was now quite repulsive to human eyes.

A thorough, but certainly subjective (and definitely hopeful), investigation proved that he was not. In fact, he was looking pretty much the same as he had that morning, which Harry, in the end, could only interpret as a good thing. After all, Sirius had not shown any sign of finding Harry despicable yet when he looked like this: his, well... his usual self.

But while trudging down the stairs on his way to the kitchen, Harry shook his head at his own folly. This was a wholly new thing to him. Or, if it was not completely new, at least he was operating on a much higher level now; of course he had wanted both Cho and Ginny to find him attractive but with Sirius it was... different. Harry could not deny that he wanted Sirius to find him very attractive.

Very, very attractive.

So attractive that his godfather would have no problem with them engaging in some more of that kissing Harry was steadily growing very accustomed to like.

And remembering their shared kisses made him remember other things, too, and therefore it was with slightly flushed cheeks that he made it into the kitchen and smiled when he spotted Sirius at the table, idly flipping through today's Prophet, with the remnants of his lunch cooling beside him on a plate.

It lasted for no more than a second, but Harry was so sure that he saw relief flash in Sirius' grey eyes when the older man looked up that he could have staked his life on it. Then Sirius grinned and Harry's heart performed a little stutter of irregular beats.

"Hey, Harry!" Sirius laid down the Prophet. "You're back."

"Yeah..."

"Are you OK? You look a bit flustered." Eagerly, Sirius pushed out the chair next to him and patted the seat. "Come, sit. Have you eaten?"

"I'm fine." Harry took a step closer, but then he stopped and narrowed his eyes at his godfather. "Sirius, why are you suddenly behaving like Mrs Weasley?" A horrible thought struck him, then. "She didn't drop by, did she?" Not that he minded Mrs Weasley visiting, but as things currently stood he could not imagine her having anything particularly kind whatsoever to say to Sirius.

"What? No! I'm just..." he shrugged, his grin fading into a more of a grimace. "I was... I might have been a tad – just a tad – worried... about you. That's all."

"Ah." Harry had to smile at that. Sliding into the seat next to Sirius, he was rewarded with a new grin and the gentle brush of his godfather's knuckles over his cheek. The touch was brief and yet it sent a rush of sudden expectation that was hard to quell through Harry's breast.

If Sirius had not pulled back a little, he might have tried his luck and attempted to instigate a kiss. But Sirius raised his eyebrows in inquiry: "So? How did it go? How was it?"

And Harry figured he really had no choice but to pull himself together and tell him. So he did. He told Sirius about Algernon Pod, the new Chief Warlock, and the trial he had so masterfully put together, and of the verdict; and he told Sirius what Lucius and Draco had looked like and what the former had said, even if his words had been scarce. But even while speaking, he was acutely aware of the fact that he was not saying one word about Faith – just as he had refrained from mentioning her during his talk with Kingsley. Why it was so Harry could not figure out, but she felt like... like a secret. It made no sense, he knew, and leaving her out of his account left him feeling rather guilty, but, even so, he seemed incapable of telling Sirius about her. He did mention Mr Windyfield, though, but Sirius did not appear to harbour any deep fascination for him so Harry ended his tale soon afterwards.

By the time he was done, Sirius' earlier eagerness had melted away in favour of a more thoughtful look. There was a moment of complete silence before he nodded slowly. "Ten years... I suppose I should be... rejoicing...?"

Harry gave a somewhat awkward one-shouldered shrug. "I don't know."

"Hm." Sirius scratched at his chin. He had not shaved that morning and so there was a bit of a stubble covering it. It made him look even wilder, but not that Harry was complaining. "Do you know what I realised this morning? After you had Flooed to the Ministry?"

"No?"

"I realised that I am heartily sick of it all," said Sirius. "Of the war, of the Malfoys, of being angry... Of being angry with the Malfoys. Of the Malfoys being scared of Voldemort. Of us being scared of Voldemort and the Malfoys. Of you being scared of Voldemort. Of Voldemort being angry with you and with the Malfoys – for being scared of you. In fact, I'm bloody tired of everyone that was ever even remotely connected to anything that had something to do with either Voldemort or the Malfoys."

"Well, to be fair..." Harry had to bite down on his lower lip to keep from smiling. "Voldemort is dead and the Malfoys are being tried by the Wizengamot, and I am not scared anymore."

Sirius made a sort of non-committal grunt in response. "Still," he said.

"So, you'll be pleased to know that I didn't say a word during the trial."

Sirius' eyes widened in surprise. "What? You just sat there?" He leaned forwards a little. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Harry confirmed, but failed rather miserably in working up much sarcasm with Sirius' face so close to his own. "I was there, you know."

"You didn't get involved? At all? Harry, are you feeling quite all right?" Sirius' hand darted out to press against Harry's brow, pretending to check him for fever.

Harry swatted away the hand but was unable to keep from laughing. "Yes! I'm perfectly fine."

"I don't know..." Sirius regarded him with mock concern, a deep furrow between his brows. "It must be unheard of... I mean, Harry Potter present in a courtroom and not..."

"Very funny." Harry cut across him, but still his smile would not go away. "I'm not Hermione, you know," he remarked.

At this, Sirius broke into a wide grin. "And thank Merlin for that!" His hands flew up in a defensive position, though. "Not that there's anything wrong with her, but," his grin transformed into a smirk, "between you and me, Harry, I never did feel particularly inclined to kiss her."

Something performed a sudden, and terribly nervous, somersault in Harry's stomach, but he tried to keep his smile steady and confident. "No?"

Sirius shook his head, with a soul-searching expression on his face. "No, can't say I ever did. Besides," he shrugged, "I reckon she's got Ronald to do that for her these days."

Harry felt ridiculously relieved. Never before his Return had Sirius' love life (or lack thereof) been a concern of Harry's, but now... And it was absolutely irrational given Sirius' clear proclamation of his sexual orientation, yet Harry was pleased to hear his godfather state explicitly that he had no romantic feelings for Hermione. But no sooner had he come to this conclusion, than he realised that what he really ought to worry about was male competition and suddenly his head was filled with images of Bill and Charlie and George and even Ron prancing around shirtless before his godfather. But this was all too confusing (not to mention extremely unsettling) and he brutally forced his thoughts back in line. "Right," he managed, at last, somewhat weakly. "I guess she does."

Sirius' eyes lingered on his face and several long seconds of a dense silence followed, during which Harry had absolutely no idea what to say. He rather hoped Sirius would continue this discussion in some appropriate way, or perhaps steer it into territories that Harry was fairly certain neither Ron nor Hermione had ever desired to visit. But most of all he wished he were bold enough to reach for his godfather and kiss him like he had done that morning.

He was still desperately trying to unearth some courage when Sirius finally sat back and picked up the Prophet and made to resume his reading.

"I saw Kingsley, too," Harry blurted out.

Sirius' eyes shot to his face. "You did?"

"Yes." Harry nodded, and produced a very self-conscious grimace that surely had nothing in common with a proper smile. "I didn't think there'd be that many people around when I went to see him, but... Anyway, I saw him and he promised he would have someone look into the issue of your recorded status."

Sirius made another one of those grunts and looked very unconvinced. And when he spoke, he made no attempt to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice, "Well... we'll see, won't we?"

"But he promised he would," said Harry, entreatingly. He hated to see his godfather like this: disappointed, disillusioned and dejected, and with just a hint of an ancient anger flickering in his grey gaze. "If we don't hear from him before the next trial..."

But Sirius was shaking his head, and he sighed. "Harry..." He briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they had softened.

"What?"

Sirius' smile was bleak. "Thank you."

Harry frowned, confused now. "For what?"

"For... fighting my battle for me – even though I'm not sure I like it. And for fighting for the Malfoys." He shook his head. "They certainly won't be thanking you so I'll do it now, on their behalf."

"But I haven't done anything yet."

"Oh, but you will. You will Floo to the Ministry and attend Narcissa's trial, and Draco's, and at some point you won't be able to stay silent and you'll save their sorry arses. But they won't be thanking you."

"You don't know that..."

But Sirius snorted. "I'd say it's a qualified guess."

Harry dared a tiny, appeasing smile. "But only a guess."

Sirius' lips twisted into an answering smile, but his was much more reluctant and almost held at bay. "Fine." He gestured at the stove. "Now: lunch. There should be some pie left, I think. I ordered Kreacher to put it under some heat preservation spell or other."

Wishing to avoid an argument, Harry obediently slid from his seat to investigate whatever was left for him to eat. He did turn a concerned expression to Sirius, though, before he began examining his findings. "Sirius, did you fight with Kreacher today?"

His godfather's face betrayed no shift in emotion. "Why would you think I had?"

"Because he referred to you as 'the dog' again, when I met him in the drawing room just now."

"He always calls me that," said Sirius offhandedly. "Forget it, Harry. Personally, I've stopped caring."

Harry was not convinced but he held his tongue, deeming it wisest to not launch into a new, most likely pointless, Kreacher-related debate. There were still too many sensitive issues around, he reflected silently, but poking at them seemed less than clever. He found a plate and cut himself a piece of the chicken and mushroom pie that was left on stove for him. A faint trail of steam rose towards the ceiling and Harry's stomach growled appreciatively.

Sirius had picked up the newspaper again and only threw Harry a glance over his shoulder. "Still warm?"

"Yeah."

"Good. It was scorching hot when Kreacher served it to me... I reckon he hoped I'd catch fire."

Grinning in spite of himself, Harry went in search of cutlery. It seemed the old house-elf had taken it upon himself to reorganise the whole kitchen. Unfortunately, he seemed to be employing a somewhat questionable strategy. Harry was digging his way through the third drawer when Sirius spoke up again, in a very casual, almost impersonal, voice that drifted airily through the kitchen:

"Oh, by the way, Harry... Do you know what else was hot?"

He found a crooked fork that looked as though it had been used to bend open something immensely heavy and stubborn. "No...?" he asked, momentarily distracted.

There was a rustle of paper as Sirius turned a page. "That kiss of yours. This morning, in the fire."

Harry's heart missed a beat before it promptly crouched and leapt for his throat. Heat flooded his cheeks.

Sirius was not even looking at him; his godfather was frowning down intently at a picture of a shaking white blob that Harry could not care less about. "Mhm," Sirius continued, loftily. "I know I promised to take things slow and I will stand by that promise, but..." He paused. And looked up. His eyes were gleaming. "But I have to tell you... Another few seconds and I would have seriously considered pinning you to the floor and having my way with you right then and there."

"Oh," Harry choked out. Sirius' smirk was making his knees go weak.

"Oh indeed. And you would have forgotten all about trials and Malfoys and Warlocks because I would have fucked you into perfect oblivion."

Harry did not manage much more than a strangled groan. The floor was wobbling a bit under his feet and his mind was curiously blank. But his pulse was picking up a speed that was swiftly turning dangerous.

Sirius was watching him with his head cocked to one side, his smile perfectly devilish – and just about the sexiest thing Harry had ever seen. And that realisation made him blush even further. Sirius held his gaze for another agonising, bone-melting, frighteningly brilliant moment before he brutally severed the connection between them and turned back to his paper:

"Now, would you look at this: they've found a pot near Birmingham that brews its own tea!"

TBC