hello! we are *checks calendar* 13 days out from the last chapter and i've finally finished this absolute behemoth of a chapter (almost 7k lmao can u believe ! can u tell i was excited haha

the bit at the end, with sirius, has been written for a little over a year at this point. that's how long this has been in the making. i am...almost shaking in my seat right now haha so i hope you'll forgive the over-exuberance and giddiness practically spilling out across the ANs, as well as any glaring editing errors i've possibly left in.

now buckle up, friends, we've got some teenage angst, some nice lil confrontations, a bit of hurt/comfort-the whole shebang. i dearly, truly, really hope u guys like this. tell me what u thought?

After one dizzying and (literally) spine-chilling ride, Harry and his ragtag group of keepers were standing in front of the 'Headquarters' of the 'Order of the Phoenix', something he'd only found out because a piece of paper had been thrust in front of him to memorise. He was still no close to understanding anything, including where they were and why they were here.

With Lupin leading the way, they made their way into the house that appeared like, well, magic between nos. 11 and 13 (he doesn't think he'd forget that experience of seeing houses smushed flat like sandwiches anytime soon). The interior was…Harry blinked. His only other experience with a magical house had been the Burrow and that had, for all its structural oddities, been airy and open and at the very least, well lit. It looked like a house, for all intents and purposed.

No. 12 Grimmauld Place, on the other hand, looked like a shady tavern frequented by vampires and nothing else. He could only see vague shapes in front of him, there was a layer of dust on everything, and a thick, musky, slightly rotten smell hung suspended in the air, making him wrinkle his nose involuntarily. It was…an incredibly odd place and he wondered where they'd found it.

"Harry!" He heard the thundering footsteps before he saw them, just in time to step back from the over-exuberant hug Hermione had her arms opening for. Not today, not on his watch. "Harry-what-"

"Hi, Hermione," he said, voice flat, cold, without inflection. One of his hands had reached inside a pocket without him realising it. He turned to the mop of red hair coming up behind her. "Ron."

"Harry, mate…" A furrow between his friends' brows signified that they clearly realised this reunion wasn't going to go the way they were expecting it to.

"Had a good summer?" He asked casually, eyes fixed on the wand twirling between his fingers. He didn't notice the looks exchanged above his head.

"Yeah…not too great, being locked up here…" Ron trailed off. Harry looked up to see an elbow retreating from his side and Hermione taking over. "It was fine! What about you, Harry?"

"Wonderful, as I'm sure you've heard." He smiled thinly. "First the Dursleys, then the Dementors, and now this. Everything I could've ever wished for."

"Surely we're not worse than the Dursleys, mate," Ron laughed nervously, shooting looks at the people around as if asking for help. Pity he wouldn't find any, because none of them had seen Harry this way. Harry hadn't ever seen himself this way.

"Ehh," he tilted his hand this way and that. "Bit debatable." He thoroughly enjoyed the expressions elicited by that comment.

"Now, look, Harry, that's not fair-" Hermione puffed up in outrage, hair following suit. He straightened, instinctively, at the tone. "We're not-how can you even compare us to the Dursleys?" "Oh, I'm sorry," Harry smiled mockingly. "They at least gave me enough food and water to keep me alive-I even got a nod if I was lucky enough. You…couldn't even bother sending me a proper letter, could you?" "Oh, that's not true-you know we did-"

"You're telling me 'Everything's going great!' is proper now?" "Harry Potter!" Hermione finally shouted. "Why are you being like this?" At those words-at the willful ignorance of how Harry's been living so far, the immediate denial of his concerns, the righteous posturing that they were in the right-that's when Harry lost his cool as well. Everything he'd been bottling up so far just came gushing out in a torrential wave of anger and hurt.

"BECAUSE I WAS TORTURED BY VOLDE-FUCKING-MORT NOT TWO MONTHS AGO AND I WAS HOPING AT LEAST MY BEST FRIENDS WOULD CARE ENOUGH ABOUT THAT."

The room was shocked into silence at his words, at the verbal acknowledgement of something very few people had known so far, at him being the one to bring it up.

"YOU TWO, OF ALL PEOPLE, KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE AT THAT PLACE FOR ME BUT OH NO-WHY SHOULD I KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON? WHY SHOULD ANYONE BOTHER TO TELL ME WHAT'S BEEN HAPPENING? ITS NOT LIKE ITS MY LIFE OR ANYTHING, IS IT?"

"Harry-" Ron tried to interrupt but he was going at full steam now. He could see other people crowding around the door, spilling into the hallway, but damned if he could bring himself to care right then. He had a piece to say and he was going to see it through.

"VOLDEMORT, THE DURSLEYS, DEMENTORS RUNNING LOOSE, PADFOOT BEING GOD KNOWS WHERE-DID YOU EVEN ONCE, EVEN FOR A SECOND, THINK ABOUT HOW I'D BE FEELING?"

That was when his voice finally gave out, breaking on the last word. He dropped his gaze to the ground, unable to look at the horrified looks on his friends' faces. He'd never blown up on them, on anyone, like that before and he wasn't sure he wouldn't do it again with how the rage was flowing through his veins still.

"Mr. Shacklebolt," he turned to the one person in the crowd who seemed like the best option in that moment. The man seemed like nothing could faze him, nor did it feel like he'd make unnecessary comments aimed at Harry-two things he really needed right now. "If it's not too much to ask for, would you please show me to my room?" He could see Shacklebolt looking at him appraisingly, eyes quickly running over the hand fisted against his thigh. Harry hadn't even realised he was clutching his wand so tightly but it seemed like the Auror had seen it before him. It was after a few tense moments that he nodded, just slightly.

"This way," he inclined his head towards the staircase everywhere had come from just a few minutes ago-minutes that felt like an entire lifetime with all that had happened. Harry looked at everyone else for a second, realising that no one was ready, or willing, to even address what he said, let alone apologise, and promptly hightailed it out of there.

It was only after they'd crossed one and a half flights of stairs that Shacklebolt said anything.

"Do you want anything, Harry?" The wave of emotion that crashed into him at those words were enough to make him stagger and hold onto the bannister, needing to stop for a second. He couldn't, not for the life of him, remember the last time someone asked him that. (Perhaps Sirius, after the Graveyard? But Sirius left, just like everyone)

"I'm-I'm good, thanks," he managed to say, "Just need a bit of rest, I think."

"Of course." And even that was said in such a neutral tone, free of any judgement, that Harry wanted to weep with relief. Wanted to stay here, curled up against the staircase, with this stoic, unmoving man beside him, and just not…think. Where he could just be.

It was perhaps the most peaceful three minutes he'd had in a long time, and one that was much needed too after the madness of the day. Slowly, Harry straightened, and with a voice that felt like sandpaper rubbing against this throat, said, "Thank you, Mr. Shacklebolt."

His tone made it quite clear that he was thanking him for much more than just waiting for him, or taking him to his bedroom. Judging by the small smile on the man's face, it seemed like he got it too.

The next morning, Harry cautiously made his way downstairs, not wanting to face anyone but knowing he needed to, if only for the sake of his rumbling stomach.

He entered the dining room to an abrupt silence; the artificial kind that happens when you're the subject of conversation and there's a need to shut it down, quick.

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, rushing forward with her arms raised. His shoulders tightened just as she wrapped him in her signature embrace. "Oh, it's so nice to see you, honey. We've all missed you so much around here." He had to bite his tongue to keep the scathing remark in at that comment. "It's good to see you, Mrs. Weasley." "You look so worn down, Harry dear, it must be that terrible business with the Dementors, isn't it?" She pulled back, cupping his cheek with one hand and tsking at what she found. The uncomfortable smile was fixed on his face by this point. From experience, he knew that the only way out was through. "Come, I'll fix you some breakfast." And with her other hand wrapped around his shoulders, she guided him straight into the nearest empty chair which was, coincidentally, right in between Ron and Hermione, opposite to the twins who were smirking at him, various degrees of mischief lurking underneath.

Before Harry could even say anything, or move, or disappear on the spot, something landed roughly in front of him. His eyes bulged at the plate, no, the platter-for it was too big to be anything but-filled to the brim with every possible breakfast food available in the UK, and then some. It was enough to feed a family of four easily, and Harry had no idea how he was even going to put a dent in the thing, let alone finish it.

"Er-Mrs. Weasley, I can't finish all this-," he tried but was waved off by a careless flap of her hand.

"Nonsense. Young, strapping lads like you need proper food and it seems like you need even more of it. So dig in, it's all your favorites." Looking down at the sausages, fried eggs, and waffles drenched in syrup, among other things, Harry wondered if she'd mistaken him for one of her other kids. When had he ever been known to eat anything so heavy, save for his occasional indulgence of treacle tart (which he often ended up paying for in the toilet after hours)?

Gingerly, he parted through the grease on the plate to reach the relatively lighter items, poking at a piece of asparagus with not much enthusiasm. Mrs. Weasley's cooking was wonderful, there was no doubt about it, but he couldn't stomach most of it on a good day, let alone one day after he'd left the Dursleys. An entire month of eating nothing but dry toast, crackers, stale tea, and any leftovers his relatives deigned to throw at him had shrunk his stomach to a horrifying degree. He'd learnt his lesson the hard way about eating too much, too fast the first few times he'd come to Hogwarts and gorged himself on the massive Welcome feasts. Neither his front nor his behind had thanked him for the next few days.

And unless he did something about this situation right here, he was gonna get a nice, fun case of deja vu.

He was nibbling on a piece of grilled tomato when salvation in the form of Ginny Weasley arrived.

"Harry, you don't eat sausages, do you?" She winked at him slyly. "Can you pass those over, please?" "Oh Ginny, there's plenty in the kitchen, why-"

"Yes, please, here," Harry cut Mrs. Weasley off with no regret as he lifted his plate for Ginny to scrape the sausages, and some bacon, off it into hers. "It's really no issue, Mrs. Weasley. I'm not a big meat eater."

The look on her face was as if he confessed to torturing babies in his free time instead of simply being a picky eater.

He went back to his plate much happier after that. Of course, it was still too much, but with most of the meat off, it seemed less overwhelming. A cough from the space in front of him, however, made him look straight up into the smirking faces of the Weasley twins. Harry's brow scrunched in question, to which Fred tilted his head towards their mother who was facing the other way. George, in the meantime, had made quick work of levitating a good chunk of the fried egg and mushrooms from Harry's to their plates.

Harry's eyes goggled at their brazen audacity. He didn't realise they were of age now, nor so comfortable in using magic out of school under their mum's nose. It seemed like he'd also forgotten about their tendencies to look after him. This summer had done nothing except plaster a veil across his eyes, distancing him from every one of his friends, leaving a sour taste in his mouth at the thought of them. He'd been living in a bubble, no-a cage. One that didn't just contain him physically, but mentally as well. Harry was unable to look past the hunger pangs in his stomach, the stress weighing every part of him down, couldn't think of anything except the nightmares and the Final Task and the Resurrection and his friends keeping him in the dark.

Somehow, out of everything else, it was the last bit that really got to him. He didn't know how to get over the fact that his friends had chosen to deliberately ice him out, knowing what that did to him, than find a way to communicate. Hell, at this point, he feels like not writing him a letter would've been better than the condescending crap they'd sent.

But in getting caught up with all of this…it seems like he'd forgotten about the others who cared for him too. And, looking at Fred, George, Ginny and their similarly conspiratorial smiles-Harry, for the first time that summer, felt like he wasn't entirely abandoned.

The realisation was enough to slowly lift his lips in a smile, one he tried to hide by ducking his head and shoveling a forkful of waffles into his mouth. With an emptier plate, and a lighter heart, he didn't find it nearly as hard to finish most of what he had.

"Thank you for breakfast, Mrs. Weasley," he said, carrying his plate to the sink. "It was delicious." "Oh, it was nothing, but you barely ate anything, Harry," she said, brows dipping in concern.

Tell that to the cramp forming in his stomach, he thinks with a mental snort, but out loud, the only thing he said was, "No no, it was more than enough, I promise." Without giving her any more chances to point out another problem in his habits, he moved towards the exit, fully intending to hole up in his assigned room for the day. He had absolutely no intentions of interacting with anyone-though, after breakfast, he wasn't entirely opposed to some people but he knew he still needed some time there.

However, the universe was, once again, opposed to letting him fulfill his wish because not five minutes later, he heard a knock on his door. Whoever was on the other side clearly had no intention of leaving anytime soon, because his attempts to ignore them went ignored by the numerous knocks that came after it.

With a sigh, Harry made himself comfortable on the bed, kept his wand far out of reach and called out, "Come in."

Ron and Hermione shuffled in, eyes darting around the room as they came to a stop in front of him.

"Harry…"

He took a deep breath, looking at their faces and wondering how he should go about this. After their little…altercation last night, Harry had gone straight to his room and fallen into a dead sleep. He knew if he spent even a minute thinking about what had happened, he'd likely not get a wink of sleep the whole night. Considering the average number of hours he usually got, that was not even in the question. This morning, however, was fair game. He'd spent the whole time wondering if he did the right thing, if he should've taken the high road and stayed quiet or at least, not screamed like he had. He wondered a lot, actually, about what he really wanted from his two best friends.

So, with all of that in mind, he inclined his head towards the bed. "Sit down, won't you?" The look of relief on both their faces would've been amusing at any other time, as would the rapid shuffling. Once they're all seated, he looked at them steadily, waiting for them to say what he hadn't allowed them to the previous night.

"Harry, we, er, that is, what you said-we don't-" Ron started it off in a series of bumbling sentences that didn't lead anywhere. Hermione, on the other hand, seemed to have a better grasp of things.

"What he's trying to say, Harry, is that we think it's a bit unfair for you to say everything you did."

Harry blinked, one hand immediately clenching underneath the sheets. "Unfair how?"

"Well, it's not like we did it on purpose, you know?" she pursed her lips, almost looking down her nose at him. "Professor Dumbledore told us that it would be best to-"

"Dumbledore?!" Only his shock at what she'd said kept him from screaming the word out loud, though it was still loud enough to make both of them jump. "Where did he come from?" "I-It's just, he said that you'd gone through so much already and it'd be best if you got some time alone to deal with this-and oh Harry, we really wanted to write to you about everything but then, he kept making us promise we wouldn't and it's just-"

"Hermione," Harry cut in, voice hard, "Are you telling me you guys sent me the driest letters known to mankind this entire month because our Headmaster told you so? What right did he have to do that?"

That seemed to stump both of them, eyes growing wide at his tone and, presumably, impudence. It was Ron who answered. "Er-mate, it's Dumbledore, you know? He seemed to think it was safe for you at the Dursleys-"

"As if that's ever been true," Harry muttered under his breath.

"-and us writing anything too, you know, detailed could get in the wrong hands. You know what it's like."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do know what it's like, actually, and it's pretty useless to say, at this point, that anything would've been better than the crap you guys were feeding but I just-" Here, he turns to Hermione, who'd just started looking relieved, as if his admission meant immediate acceptance, and asks, incredulity coating his tone, "I can understand Ron and Dumbledore and everyone else, but you? You're Muggleborn, Hermione! You couldn't have sent me one letter through the post? You know better than me that none of those idiots could've tracked that, at least."

Hermione's jaw dropped open a little at that, as if the thought had never even occurred to her. It's sad, because Harry knows that that's at least partially true. Sometimes, she tended to swing so hard on the authority scale that she developed a single track mind. In this case, it was at his expense.

"Do you guys have any idea how bad it was for me this summer?" he asked, voice cracking a little as he continued, "All I needed was my friends, goddamit, not space or time or whatever the hell Dumbledore thought, and you couldn't even give me that."

Ron reared back at that, as if he'd slapped him instead of laid the truth out between them. "Now, look, that's not fair, mate. We weren't off having a blast without you or anything—you can't act like that. We were also stuck in this house, couldn't even go to the Order meetings because we're too young. It hasn't been great for us either, okay?"

Harry resisted the urge to get up and scream at them once more; it had been incredibly cathartic but hadn't really solved anything in the end. Instead, he spoke through gritted teeth, "You realise, Ron, that there's a difference between not great and absolutely fucking miserable?" It wouldn't be until later that he realised he'd taken Oscar's way, and tone, of dealing with incompetent idiots in that moment. "At the very least, you were together, does that not count for anything?" He could see that, for Ron, it didn't. That just made him fall back onto the headboard with a rough exhale.

Looking at both of them, it was with a slow trickle of icy sadness filling him that Harry realised that they didn't get it. Perhaps it was unfair of him to expect them to, considering they've never really been in his situation, couldn't even fathom what life with the Dursleys or constantly on Voldemort's radar might be like-but was it really so much? The three of them have been through…gosh, so many things together. So many life or death situations, each incident strengthening their bond like none other, but at the end of the day-it still wasn't enough, was it?

(On some level, Harry's glad for it. He doesn't ever want his friends to know what it's like, because he's realising it's bad enough it's happening to him, but at the same, he wishes. He wishes in vain.)

"I think," he started, eyes fixed on fisted sheets, voice remarkably steady considering the violence swirling inside him, the ugliness threatening to burst out. "I'd like you to leave now."

Two sets of eyes widened.

"But Harry—"

"We've said we're sorry, what more—"

"You haven't, actually," Harry cut in, before looking up at them with a sardonic smile. "And really, that wouldn't have made a difference anyway. Now please, leave."

He turned away then, not bothering to actually follow their steps to the door, not even turning back when it was slammed shut. He only slid down until his head was resting on the pillow and his eyes were determinedly dry, fists rhythmically clenching and unclenching.

(A few days later)

Harry was sitting on the floor, back against the couch, head tilted so he could look at the ceiling. The wallpaper was a mottled, peeling grey, cracked in certain places, looking exceptionally ugly. The rest of the room wasn't any better—the wallpaper was in a similar state, the furniture all creaking and rundown.

It was some random room he'd found in his exploration of the house. Grimmauld Place, number 12. The Order's safe house, though he still wasn't sure what the Order really was.

Of course, that probably had to do with how he actively went out of his way to avoid all contact with others ever since that day. He came down for meals when needed, smiled stiffly once or twice, and promptly left. Though he'd thawed quite a bit towards the twins and Ginny, it wasn't enough to make him sit there and play house with them, definitely not when he knew it would seem like an invitation for all the others he had no interest in talking to.

But now he was here, in a house he had no idea what to make of, with people he had no idea how to deal with. Every time he looked at his friends, or any one of the well meaning adults, he was filled with this uncontrollable wave of disgust and rage. To think that all of them were just—chilling here, together, when he was stuck with the Dursleys, receiving the most useless communication known to man—he didn't know how to act around them, just yet. He felt like screaming his head off every time he so much as stood in the same room as them. Something he'd already done, thank you very much, and it had done nothing but make the others wary of him.

So he wandered around the house. Peeking into rooms, comparing it to the only other magical house he knew—the Burrow— trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. To be honest, it only generated more questions in his mind because some of the things he'd seen-there was an entire wall with pictures of his godfather and father-he couldn't understand at all. His explorations also served two purposes. One, gave him a legitimate reason to avoid others (which, he didn't need one—he could very well just ignore everyone—but it was easier this way) but more importantly, kept his mind off Sirius.

Sirius, who he was looking forward to the most, wasn't here. Harry couldn't lie, he wasn't pleased to be taken away from the Dursleys—if only because he at least had a system and a measure of independence going for him there, for once—but he'd thought he would get to see his godfather, if nothing else. He might be miffed with Sirius, but that didn't mean he didn't want to see him, hug him, just- get to be around him. He was looking forward to that, to being able to talk freely with him.

But no. Sirius was out on Order business, and no one was willing to say anything else on the matter. Harry didn't even know how an escaped convict whose face was still plastered across both the muggle and Wizarding worlds could be useful out in society, but okay. What did he know anyway, he was just a child, wasn't he?

"I guess they were right, you do look like someone stole your kneazle." Harry jerked up at the voice, turning to face the door, not daring to believe—

Oh.

It was.

He'd just been thinking of Sirius, and now he was standing right here, in front of him, looking achingly familiar. Harry stood up, not taking his eyes off the man for a second.

Sirius looked—the same. A little better, perhaps, not like he was on the run anymore. He'd filled out a bit—though not as much as Harry would have liked, to be honest—his hair wasn't lank and stringy anymore, cut to just around his jaw, looking more like what Harry had seen in his photo album. His face was—not so hollowed, like he'd been having proper meals, but his eyes were…they were still as Harry remembered. A warm grey, filled with love and affection, looking at Harry like nothing else mattered in the world.

In that moment, Harry felt a longing more intense than anything else and he forgot all about being angry—the hurt he'd been harbouring for so long pushed aside in favor of rushing towards the one person he'd needed this whole time.

"Sirius," he whispered as he crashed into the man, who immediately wrapped his arms around him, pulling him tight against him.

"Hello, Harry." He felt a soft kiss being placed on his head and almost broke down in the moment. God. It's been so long since he felt this- this safe, comforted. He'd only been in Sirius' arms for a few moments, surrounded by the familiar scent of cloves and tobacco, and it was already working better than anything else he'd tried.

After an indeterminate amount of some desperate clutching, Harry could feel himself coming back to his senses, remembering where he was, and everything he'd been thinking of. With that, the previous hurt came rushing back and he had to step back, stand away so he could think straight.

He needed to know—he needed answers, from everything starting from why Sirius just—left him after the Third Task to why he didn't send him any proper letters to- to the last few days in this mausoleum of a house. He needed to know what the hell was happening.

Wrapping his arms around himself so he didn't throw himself at Sirius again, Harry took a deep breath and looked at Sirius' collarbone (not his eyes—he'd fold faster than a lawn chair if he did).

"Where were you?"

"Harry, I—," Sirius started towards him, but he quickly scrambled back, needing to maintain that distance between them if he was to have this conversation.

"No. You need to—you left, after the Task. And then- the letters, you might as well have not sent them for all the good they did. You couldn't even…It was like you were copying off fortune cookies, Sirius! You could've said something, anything, that wasn't- that had more—why would you shut me out like that? Didn't you think I would have liked to—would it have killed you to send me one proper letter?"

The words burst out of him, uncontrollable, trembling. He'd been keeping this in for the better part of a month, trying - and failing - to understand why he'd been kept in the dark the way he was.

Sirius, for his part, looked stricken. Like he hadn't expected to be ambushed this way as soon as he'd walked in. A small part of Harry wanted to take it all back, throw himself back into Sirius' arms and not bring this up ever again. It was all in the past, what did it matter anyway? But no. He knew—if he did that, it would keep niggling in the back of his mind, like it was with everyone else in this godforsaken house right now. And he could keep avoiding Hermione and Ron but he didn't- he couldn't do that with Sirius, not when he already had limited time with him.

So confrontation conversation it was.

As Harry kept looking expectantly at Sirius, he saw the way he visibly shifted. Took a deep breath. Squared his shoulders. Looked like he was going to war rather than talking to his godson. Harry wondered if he'd made a mistake- if this was the moment he became too much to deal with and Sirius would throw his hands up and leave.

But he didn't do that. Instead, he opened his mouth and—

"I'm so, so sorry, Harry."

—apologised?

Harry blinked. Did he hear that right? Sorry?

"The last two months have been—Merlin, a right mess," Sirius ran a hand roughly through his hair, "That's not an excuse, I'm not saying I was in the right or you deserved any of what I put you through. I'm just—I just want you to know why I've been such a shitty godfather. I couldn't tell you where I was or what I was going. I wanted to—I really did—but it was- a safety risk. I wasn't to tell anyone what I was up to. Well, I couldn't until now. If you're willing to hear me out?"

There was no way Harry was going to say no to that, and that was before he saw the extremely hopeful look on Sirius' face. He would've been an idiot if he turned down the chance to know something, anything, just for the sake of some wounded pride.

Sirius must have seen the answer on his face, because he continued without waiting for a verbal response.

"I promise you, I wanted to tell you everything in a letter. Well, everything I knew. I promise I didn't see anything about the Daily Prophet and it's bullshit," he quickly amended, "Dumbledore had me scoping our allies, so I was- all over the continent. Any sort of communication was a risk, and putting in details even more so. I didn't want to completely fall off the face of Earth but I also couldn't- there wasn't a whole lot I could talk about what I was doing either."

He took a step closer to Harry but taking care not to crowd into his space.

"But I am—so sorry, Harry. You're my first priority, always have been, even if I don't act like it. I shouldn't have run off like that, especially not without making sure you knew what was going on. I didn't think about how it must be for you…after everything that happened. I promise you I'll do better, be better."

"I still don't know why your letters were so shitty," Harry said in a small voice, reeling from everything he'd just heard but not knowing how to respond. He just couldn't-he only wanted to understand.

Sirius winced. "That-I'm afraid that's on me dealing with some difficult instructions very badly. Like I said, too much information was a safety risk. I should've been upfront about it and just told you that bit-that I was out for some work and wouldn't be able to contact you. It would've been fine but instead I-," he shrugged helplessly, palms spread out in front of him, "I was selfish, Harry. I don't have anything else to say for myself. I couldn't bear to lose touch with you, not in any way. And if that meant sending you letters that weren't worth the parchment they were written on-well, getting your replies were always the highlights of my week."

Harry bit his lip, looking away as he remembered the last letter he sent him. "Even the-?"

"Even that one, yes," his godfather grinned before his smile slowly died out. "If I'd only been a little less selfish, if I'd just thought of how it must've been for you-I know it's not enough but I just, I'm sorry, pup, I hate that you were hurt because of me."

Harry looked at Sirius- chewing on his lower lip, his hands wringing together, the deep, measured breaths. He thought about what he'd just been told.

"You know, that's all I wanted," he said.

Sirius cocked his head in question.

"An actual apology. That's all I ever needed to hear," Harry rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, "Since I came here, not one person has listened to me. They keep talking about Dumbledore and how they 'can't have done anything' and I 'should be more understanding'. But none of them have once thought about what it was like being locked up in a house where not one person gives a shite about you but also not being told anything by people who do. I just- needed them to listen, that's it."

"Harry," Sirius whispered, taking another - tiny - step towards him, projecting his actions, letting him decide. Harry decided he'd had enough of this distance. He'd wanted his godfather for weeks now, and he finally had him.

So he went with his gut. Took Sirius' hand, dragged him to the couch, and pushed him onto one side. Ignoring the bemused look on his face, he instantly dropped down on his other side and cuddled into him.

"Um. Harry?"

"Yes?"

"I thought you were—Weren't you mad at me?"

"Yes. Well, only a little. But you apologised, didn't you?" Harry shrugged. "And you explained."

"I heard so did the others, but you're not talking to them," Sirius pointed out.

"Er, I told you, I don't know if I'd call what they said an apology," Harry leaned back to look at Sirius, "It was more like..an apology wank."

He could see Sirius splutter in surprise. "An apology wank? What on earth is that?"

"It's kind of like, you know when someone says sorry but not for your sake but theirs? Because they think they ought to, or the other person wants to hear it, but not because they think they've done anything wrong," he tried to explain, "Ron and Hermione don't think they messed up. In their eyes, it was perfectly reasonable to have sent me the sort of letters they did and I should be more understanding of the situation they were in. They really only said sorry because I shouted, and even that was a bit of a roundabout way of saying it."

"Huh." He could see Sirius didn't fully understand but he also didn't press it further.

"So, will you tell me about this ally gathering thing you were doing?" Harry asked, "On that note, how can an escaped convict even be helpful in that situation?"

"Ouch," Sirius clutched his heart dramatically. "Going right for the jugular, huh, babe?"

Harry only poked him in the ribs, startling him. He tried to avoid showing how the nickname affected him, though his cheeks did feel a bit suspiciously warm.

"Okay, okay, I get it," Sirius grumbled, rubbing his side. "I'll tell you. Jeez, no sense of humor in the youth these days, huh?"

"Alright, so, you're not wrong. I can't do a whole lot, and I honestly think Dumbledore forgot about that in the beginning because before scouting, I was asked to inform people about the, er, Dark Lord's return. Like, face-to-face."

Harry was shocked. "How would that even work? You'd've been hexed on sight, Siri!"

"Yeah, that's what I told him. So I got taken off communication and put on scouting duty. Basically had to go skulking around, often as Padfoot, and find the most sympathetic people or groups. Report back to the Order so they could take further action."

Harry exhaled, still slightly stunned. "That still feels like a serious oversight, honestly. How did he not think about that before you reminded him you're wanted by the entire DMLE?"

Sirius looked at him thoughtfully for a second before shrugging. "He's just one man, and it was a ridiculous time. Just after the Third Task. Lots needed to be done, not enough people. Slipped his mind, I reckon."

"Slipped his m-," Harry cut himself off before he could go off on a tangent about how utterly ridiculous the entire thing was. How could you just forget something like that?

Instead he changed the subject to something else he'd been wondering about. He didn't want to shout about Dumbledore to his godfather's face just yet.

"Sirius, what exactly is the Order? Everyone keeps mentioning it but I don't- no one's told me what it is." He didn't mention he wasn't around anyone long enough to be told, but from the look on Sirius' face, he probably knew that already.

"The Order of the Phoenix," Sirius pursed his lips in thought, "It was a—I guess the most accurate way to put it is—vigilante organisation during the first war. Dumbledore set up the whole thing. Right now, there's not many people in it because, well, the Dark Lord's been presumed dead all this time, right? No need for it anymore. It was unofficially disbanded, I think. But back then, it was quite a large group. All sorts of people, in various positions of power and otherwise, were a part of it. You had everything from the fighters to the planners to the medics, even the undercover folks. It was—a whole thing, and Dumbledore was right at the helm of it."

"And you, and mum and dad, were part of it, too?" Harry asked, curious.

"Of course we were. Straight out of Hogwarts, which seems a bit- dodgy, in hindsight, but everyone was involved in the war in some capacity back then. It was very in-your-face by the time we were in seventh year, and most people were visibly taking sides. Most of us signed up as fighters, though Lily also doubled as a medic. Her potions skills were too good not to. Your dad and I were also working on Runes on the side, and James brewed potions whenever needed. Worm-Pettigrew took up undercover work. No one else realised it but his animagus was perfect for the job," he spit out the last part like it burned him. Harry understood.

"So what - exactly - is it doing now? Most of what you mentioned is, like, active battlefield stuff right?"

"Yes. So the important thing to do right now is gathering both information and allies, until things change. Which—we have no way to predict. But enough about the boring stuff," Sirius waved a hand, "Tell me about what you've been up to."

Well. That was a loaded question and a half.

"Can I take a rain check on that?" Harry asked—no, he did not whine—while burrowing back under Sirius' arm. He really wasn't in the mood to talk about his summer yet.

"Only if you promise to talk to me about it at some point," Sirius bargained, tightening his hold on Harry's shoulder.

"Done."

For the rest of the afternoon, they just sat there on the moth-eaten couch, pressed against each other, not talking a lot but just- taking in the other's presence.

It was the best day Harry had in ages.

you didnt think i was gonna take capslock harry out, did ya? he's changed, but not THAT much and besides, it's only the most iconic part of ootp ;)

thank you so much for each and every one of your comments; it means the world to me. i havent said this here in a while, but i go by the same name on tumblr and always welcome asks of all kind! i'll adore u for eternity if u want to talk about this fic ;)