"...fascinating magic, even if it's hideously complicated," Hermione said, "but I think— Harry!" She winced; her voice had come out somewhere between startled, nervous, and pleased, and mostly just sounded shrill.

"That didn't take long," Ron said. His hand closed around the wooden block he'd been playing with and he nodded behind Harry at Quirrell and Sirius heading downstairs; they'd seen Quirrell arrive not ten minutes ago. He glanced at Hermione as if expecting her to know better, but she only gave a tiny shrug.

"I'm not ready to have anyone in my head just yet," Harry said.

"Fair enough," Ron said. "Did you just have a chat, then, or…?"

"No. I asked him to copy my memories," Harry said.

"Of the graveyard?" Hermione asked quietly. Harry gave a small nod, hand tugging at the cuff of his other sleeve.

"For Padfoot." Harry loitered in the doorway, almost awkwardly.

Ron didn't jump in to break the silence, which was a bit unusual for him, but it was only the three of them, so maybe he didn't feel the need to. Or, maybe he was scared about being rebuffed again; they were all worried about Harry, but Ron seemed to be taking it personally, as if not being able to pull him out of his mood the last few weeks was a personal failing.

Hermione missed Draco. He was their friend and she enjoyed his company, of course, but right now she missed his directness, the way he could end any silence with a sarcastic comment or lofty order without it being taken the wrong way.

But Draco wasn't there, and Ron wasn't talking and Harry wasn't making any move to come into the room, but he also wasn't trying to leave and Hermione didn't know what the right thing to say was—

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted.

"Don't be silly," Hermione said instinctively, feeling something uncoil inside her.

"I don't think he's being silly," Ron said mildly. Harry's shoulders bunched, but he was watching Ron and obviously not too afraid of what he saw there, because he stayed put. "Not for apologising, anyway." Ron smiled, a little rueful. "Is this a general apology, mate, or—"

"For the last few weeks," Harry said. "I—you've all been on eggshells around me, and—I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted," Hermione said, trying not to make a big deal about it, or be too obvious in her relief. "Would you like to come and sit with us?"

Her heart nearly broke at the hopeful look that settled on Harry's face in response; he gave a tiny nod and stepped hesitantly into the room as if waiting for her to change her mind, or Ron to protest.

Ron only smiled though, relieved and grateful:

"Brilliant. You can keep me company," Ron said, patting the couch he was on. "Hermione's being boring again—had her nose in a book all morning, I swear."

This, at least, was familiar ground:

"You've been reading too," she said, rolling her eyes, and he had but not for as long as she had; Ron had been summoning and banishing one of Stella's toys for the last little while, like a stringless yo-yo.

Harry sat beside Ron, more straight-backed than Hermione thought she'd ever seen him sit on anything in all her years of knowing him.

But he was here, and he was trying.

That was something.

"What are you reading?" Harry asked.

"About Fidelius Charms," she said.

"Still?" Harry asked; it seemed he had noticed her book before dinner the night before. She nodded:

"Now that we're living inside one, I wanted to understand them a bit better."

"You've lived inside one before," Harry said. "When the secret was just about me and Padfoot living here, I mean." It was the most she thought she'd heard him say all in one go all summer.

"Yes," Hermione said, trying not to look too pleased. "But this time I'm protected by it… or at least that's what everyone's said. And with the way the Secret was worded when we were given it at Kings Cross, we—" She gestured between herself and Ron. "—think it must mean we're somehow counted or recognised as members of the Order."

"You are," Harry said. "There's a list of names around here somewhere."

"Seriously?" Ron asked. Harry shrugged and nodded:

"I was there when they undid and redid the charm. The list is tied to it, somehow."

"I knew it!" Ron said, so loudly he startled Harry, who half-stood as if ready to bolt, then slowly lowered himself back onto the couch. Hermione gave Ron a look, but she couldn't help her smile.

"Am I missing something?" Harry asked, glancing between them.

"If we're recognised as part of the Order and we know it, then they won't have an excuse for keeping us out of meetings anymore," Hermione said with satisfaction, and shut her book, setting it aside. "It's a bit ridiculous, really. Everyone else here is allowed to go, and we hear bits and pieces anyway, through you—" Though, truthfully, Harry hadn't been telling them much of anything lately. "—or Fred or George, or Fleur, or Sirius."

"From anyone but Mum, really," Ron muttered. He grinned. "But even she can't argue if we're on a list."

"Especially if taking you off the list means you won't be protected here," Hermione said.

"Brilliant," Ron said smiling at the ceiling. "We might even be able to train with them—"

"Your mum'll argue about that one," Hermione said, and Ron wordlessly, wandlessly banished the wooden block in her direction. It bounced off her foot. She pulled a face at him. "She's less concerned about safety and more about underage magic, I think." Ron twitched a finger and the block shot back through the air towards him. He smiled, pointed. "Yes, well done," she said, rolling her eyes, "but underage magic isn't defined as wand-magic. It incorporates wandless too—"

"It won't matter here, though," Harry said, a little uncertain. It was not about what he was saying—Hermione knew the Trace didn't work properly in wizarding households, especially when there were so many adult witches and wizards around, and they were as wrapped in protective enchantments as Grimmauld—but more about whether his opinion would be welcome or not.

"Be a mate and tell Mum that, would you?" Ron asked, in a tone of long suffering.

Harry's mouth quirked and though he didn't quite smile, it was something.

It was progress.

Sirius lurched out of the pensieve and sucked in a desperate breath of air. He tried to settle himself with the warm, bright, familiarity of the kitchen; the steady chop of knives under Kreacher's direction, the smell of the things going into the sandwiches he was preparing for lunch. The house was awake; upstairs he could hear faint laughter, the bustle of people moving around, Stella's nonsensical babbling…

But he could also hear the tremble in Peter's voice as he carved into Harry, hear the awful coldness of Voldemort's voice, hear the words for the killing curse on Harry's lips, see him flung out that window and land hard and limp as one of Stella's dolls, hear him screaming beneath Voldemort's wand, see Lily's pretty face smiling sadly at her battered, broken, brave son.

He could see James.

Sirius shoved himself away from the kitchen table and barely made it to the sink in time to vomit. When his stomach was empty, he wiped at his eyes and then turned on the tap to wash away the mess and rinse his mouth.

Kreacher patted his leg, giving the pensieve a troubled look.

"Thanks," Sirius said, putting a hand on Kreacher's bony shoulder. The elf pressed a little closer. "And thank you for going to—" His voice cracked. "—get him." Kreacher, to his credit, seemed to understand what Sirius was talking about, though Sirius wasn't sure he knew exactly what the pensieve contained.

"Kreacher takes care of his family," Kreacher said gruffly, as if it was no big deal, as if Sirius hadn't caught him wandering around wet-eyed, or standing before Harry's shut door wringing his hands several times this summer. "Kreacher knows his duty, oh yes." Sirius gave his shoulder a squeeze, and Kreacher gave Sirius' leg another pat. Sirius sniffed and wiped his eyes again. "Can Kreacher be getting anything else for Master Sirius?" Sirius shook his head. "Perhaps Kreacher could get Master Sirius the same as last time," Kreacher said slyly, "fetch the brat—"

"Leave him alone," Sirius said, with a wet laugh.

"He's had enough time alone, Kreacher thinks," Kreacher said, pursing his lips.

"Last I saw, he was with Hermione and Ron," Sirius said, and Kreacher looked surprised and pleased.

"Oh? Much better than lurking upstairs," Kreacher said approvingly, and returned to his lunch preparations with a spring in his step.

It was, but after what Sirius had just seen, he couldn't find it in himself to blame Harry in the slightest for keeping to himself. Maybe it was because he needed space and time to himself, because he couldn't shake the memories, or was struggling to adjust.

But maybe it was that he couldn't stand to be around everyone who'd let him down, who'd not been there to help him.

Sirius had known he was missing bits of the story, known there was more to it than Harry had told him and Dumbledore in the Hospital Wing, but not realised just how much he hadn't known, how much Harry hadn't told them. Obviously there were some things he hadn't wanted them to know, but Sirius now suspected that another factor was that Harry hadn't been able to find words. How could anyone put into words what he'd been through; skim the detail and people would have no way to fathom the horror that was the night of the fourth task. Sirius knew full well what Voldemort was capable of, had seen Harry's injuries, had heard the bits of the story Harry had shared, and still his worst imaginings hadn't even come close. But telling it in full would be impossible—Sirius didn't think he'd be able to get the words out even though he'd only witnessed it in a memory.

Harry had lived it.

Harry had lived it with no one to help him except Lily and James, and Voldemort was so wrong about so much of what he'd said, but he'd also been very right about all the worst parts; they hadn't been able to protect Harry, hadn't been able to heal him though he knew Dumbledore and Bill had been researching the Mark, and they couldn't actually offer him a choice—a true choice—the way Voldemort had. Certainly if Harry decided he wanted out, didn't want to fight, then Sirius would walk away with him, would hide him as best he could. But Voldemort was back now, was sure to come for them eventually as he had come for Lily and James thirteen years ago. Sirius hadn't been enough then, and wouldn't be enough now.

He knew it, and Harry had to know it too.

He drew his wand and sent a blasting curse at the table, the corner of which exploded with a spray of splinters. There was a startled scream that made Sirius jump—it seemed he'd been too caught up in his own thoughts to hear whoever it was approach—and the blossoming of a fiery shield at the very top of the stairs.

It was only that that stopped Sirius blasting the table a second time.

"Sorry," he said, as Fleur lowered her shield with a wince. She pressed her hand to her temple and waved her other one at him. She looked about as rough as Sirius had ever known her to, hair tied back sloppily and still wearing her pyjamas.

"You just startled me," she said hoarsely, then tilted her head, eyes flicking to the damaged table. "Are you all right, Auror Black?" As she descended into the kitchen, Kreacher scurried over with a cup of tea. Fleur beamed, bent to kiss him on the cheek, and then settled herself on the other end of the table, watching Sirius over the rim of her cup.

"Fine," Sirius said, as Harry had to him so many times this summer, when he was very obviously not. Cautious footsteps announced a wary-looking Bill, who glanced at Sirius and then the table, and said:

"So that's where Harry gets it from." He pocketed his wand and came to join them in the kitchen, helping himself to a glass of water. Sirius huffed a laugh and fixed the table with a wave of his wand. "Is that a pensieve?" Bill asked, leaning against the counter. Sirius grunted. "Yours?"

"Snape's," Sirius said. "Borrowed it." Bill studied him, then nodded slowly:

"Right." He gave the pensieve a troubled look; it didn't take a genius to work out that Sirius hadn't been reviewing patronus material.

"What does eet do?" Fleur asked. "Zis… pensieve."

"Pensieves store memories," Bill said, when Sirius didn't immediately reply. "Let you review them, too." Bill was clearly curious but even more clear was that he was not going to pry or say any more than that. "Want a duel?"

"Non," Fleur said, looking a bit queasy at the thought, but Bill was looking at Sirius.

"You look a bit like you want to hex something."

"So you're offering?" Sirius asked.

"I'm offering to let you try," Bill said, with a grin that Sirius had seen on Ron quite a few times.

"I'm not going to be gentle," Sirius said, glancing at the table.

"Good practice then," Bill said, pushing away from the sink with a shrug. "Because the Death Eaters certainly won't be." Sirius glanced at the pensieve, wand sparking, then nodded and followed him upstairs into the Order's meeting room.

Ginny, Molly, Arthur, Percy, Hestia, Remus, and Stella were already in there, using the small padded area between the table and the bunks; Remus—looking pale and a bit stiff post-moon—seemed to be directing a lesson on patronuses from a conjured beanbag for everyone except Ginny, who was watching on with a scowl, and cheeks that looked pink with what might be the beginning of sunburn.

Hestia and Arthur seemed to be making the best progress. Where the others had silvery mist, Arthur looked to have some sort of small, long mammal—a ferret, perhaps, or even a weasel. Sirius grinned a little at the thought. Hestia's was less distinct, but it was small and bright, and looked like it might be something with wings.

"Time for a break, I think," Remus said hoarsely. He was looking at Sirius rather than his 'students', brow furrowed with obvious concern.

"Later," Sirius murmured, too low for anyone else to catch, and he gave a small nod. Bill flicked his wand and the enormous meeting table and its chairs leaped up to stick to the high ceiling where they'd be out of the way.

"Are you duelling?" Ginny asked, brightening immediately.

"Oui." Fleur had followed them up, and went to sit between Remus and Ginny, hands still wrapped around her steaming cup. Percy sat beside her, and Arthur conjured a large beanbag for himself and Molly.

"Oh, this'll be excellent," Hestia said. "You don't mind if we stay and watch, do you?"

"No," Sirius said, and glanced at Bill, who shrugged. "But be ready with Shield Charms in case things get past us."

Percy made a concerned sound, but Sirius didn't look back at him; Bill had backed up into the space the table had occupied, wand held loosely in his hand.

"We bowing in?" Bill asked, half-bending.

"Can't ignore the formalities," Sirius said, and bowed with all the pureblooded pomp he could muster. Bill huffed a laugh and bowed in a far less elaborate fashion.

In his head Sirius heard Bow to me, Harry. You know the formalities, I'm sure. His hand tightened on the grip of his wand.

Bill moved first with a spell that exploded like a flare, bright, noisy, and smoky and only inches from Sirius' nose, dazzling him. He blinked and stepped to the side, flicking his wand to swat away another spell.

Levicorpus, Sirius thought, and Bill was hoisted into the air by his ankle. Unperturbed, he turned the air in front of him to stone, and by the time Sirius had blasted through it, Bill had traced a quick rune into the air to cancel the spell and free himself; with one hand wrapped around what must have been an invisible rope, he landed on his feet.

Impressive, Sirius thought.

I confess myself impressed, Voldemort had said to Harry. And Lord Voldemort does not give praise lightly.

Sirius bared his teeth and lunged forward.

Bill had quicker reflexes than most Aurors Sirius knew—he supposed raiding booby-trapped pyramids'd help with that—and his time overseas had left him with a magical repertoire that was unfamiliar to Sirius and therefore hard to counter; a conjured sandstorm didn't respond to the usual countercharms and had to be transfigured into water drops, then evaporated.

But, when it came down to it, Bill's magical repertoire was more suited to dispelling magic, and problem solving than offence, and while his defensive spells were stronger, they faltered when pressed, and Sirius, as he settled into it, did press:

He launched a series of Stunners, Disarmers, and Body-Binds, spiced up here and there by conjured ropes or animated furniture, or tricky bits of transfiguration. Bill did well dodging and deflecting what he could, but the pressure kept him from having the time to cast anything offensive back, to shift the balance of the duel and put Sirius on the back-foot.

Bill was beginning to look a little overwhelmed, just as Harry had before his wand had connected with Voldemort's and bought him time. And yet, Bill also did not look like Harry at all; he knew he was in no real danger even if Sirius wasn't holding back.

Sirius fired off a Knockback jinx and knew Bill wouldn't get his wand up in time to block it—

But then it was hitting an invisible barrier and bouncing back at Sirius, who swatted it aside. Bill looked just as surprised as Sirius did, but didn't waste the opportunity; the padded floor turned to air and then stone in quick succession; Sirius dropped about a foot into nothing then found himself trapped from his shins down. He folded into Padfoot, back legs now thinner and able to step right out. He lunged forward, rolling back into his human form and brought up his wand to transfigure one of the chairs he'd pulled down earlier into a near-identical dog, that he sent running at Bill.

Bill flung up a shield charm but needn't have worried; mid-stride, the dog changed, grew leaner, its hair thicker and shorter, and then it was wheeling around to run at Sirius instead, ignoring his mental instructions to go for Bill. Sirius worked out why just as the dog-turned-wolf leaped, planting two paws on his chest to knock him to the ground. Sirius landed with a huff and turned the wolf to smoke, rolling to the side and then to his feet as its weight vanished.

"That's cheating," he said, speaking not to Bill but rather to Harry; he was standing in the doorway with Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George, wand in hand.

And Harry grinned. A genuine, amused smile.

"You want to swap in?" Bill asked, glancing between them.

Give Potter his wand, Wormtail.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Sirius said, and Harry's smile vanished in an instant. His jaw set in a stubborn sort of way and his frown seemed equal parts hurt and angry. With how the summer'd been so far, Sirius expected him to snap something back, or maybe just storm off, but he didn't; Harry hexed him.

Or tried to; Sirius deflected it, and raised an eyebrow.

"Expelliarmus," he said, intending to end it before Harry got carried away, but a shield blossomed out of Harry's wand and then Sirius' had to move to avoid his own reflected spell.

And now we duel, Voldemort murmured.

Sirius tried to disarm him again, but Harry had a chair drop from the ceiling to take the spell for him. Sirius brought it to life, had it try to trip him, but Harry turned it to splinters with a well-placed Reducto and then sent them his way with a strong Ventus.

Sirius conjured a fiery shield to deal with them, then—recognising the golden sparks building at the tip of Harry's wand—sent his own, quicker stinging jinx over.

Harry yelped as it hit. Sirius felt immediately guilty for hurting him (even if it was only a little) when he'd been hurt enough already, but a part of him—an even guiltier part—found the sound cathartic; Harry had every reason to have been surly and difficult this summer, but just because he'd earned the right hadn't made it easy. Sirius had seen Ron's face fall, heard Hermione crying herself to sleep, watched Molly's helplessness, Remus and Dora's quiet worry, and had, himself, lain awake miserably listening to the unnatural quiet from Harry's silenced bedroom, trying to work out how to get through to him.

A stinging charm was petty, ridiculous, harmless revenge.

And then Harry took his own: he shot a thin stream of water at Sirius, weak enough that Sirius didn't bother to block it; he realised he should have when Harry followed it up with a crackle of static that sent a sharp jolt through Sirius and made him bite his tongue.

Sirius flicked a bludgeoning jinx back and watched Harry hunch his shoulders as the invisible force gave him a light smack over the back of the head, but cancelled it after that, before Harry had to; the spell had left his wand instinctively, but Voldemort had used a bludgeoning curse in the graveyard and Sirius didn't want Harry's mind going back there.

But it didn't seem like it had; rather than distant or panicky, Harry's eyes were bright and focused in a way that they hadn't been in a while. Sirius wasn't out to hurt him, but he wasn't pulling his punches—or spells, rather—either, and when they slipped through or overpowered Harry's guard and stung him or knocked him or tripped him, Harry didn't seem to mind. Rather than getting tense or anxious, he seemed to relax, settling into things and certainly gave as good as he got; when Sirius doused him in green slime and turned it to stone, Harry reduced it to gravel and then pelted Sirius with the pieces. And when Sirius let off a barrage of spells in quick succession—the same way he had when he'd been trying to overwhelm Bill—Harry threw himself to the side in a roll, wand snapping up; Sirius shot into the air and towards the ceiling caught in a too-quick levitation charm. He ducked his head and cancelled it as his shoulders thudded into the ceiling, then dropped into a hastily placed Mollis Impulsum in time to see Harry pushing to his feet—a little awkwardly thanks to his missing hand. Seeing that, Sirius hesitated and Harry noticed, scowled, and muttered something under his breath.

Sirius thought it was a complaint until an impossibly strong scent blasted up his nose, choking him, making his sniff and snort and sneeze and making his eyes water.

"Finite," he muttered, and then, breathing through his mouth while his nose readjusted, sent a Stupefy at Harry.

He knew the moment it left his wand that he'd put too much power into it.

Three things happened in quick succession; the first was that the padded mat beneath Sirius' feet yanked itself free and went soaring towards Harry—a silent summoning charm, perhaps? The second was that Sirius—uprooted by the mat—landed flat on his back with a winded huff. The third was that the mat slid into place between Harry and Sirius' spell, but then the force of the spell knocked the mat back into Harry, who was knocked backwards off his feet with an, "Oof!"

Sirius pushed himself up onto his elbows as Harry shoved the mat off and sat up, glasses askew.

"I'm sorry," Sirius said, stricken, into the silence that followed. "That was harder than I meant for it to be, I just—"

But Harry's face cracked into a grin, and there was a loud snort from behind Sirius; Remus. Sirius had forgotten he was there—forgotten about all of them, actually.

"I s'pose that's one way to get it out of your system," Sirius heard Ron mutter to Hermione, who hid a laugh behind her hand.

Harry had to have heard them too, but he didn't look over, or make a comment back; instead, his head swivelled towards Ginny, though she hadn't said anything, or—best Sirius could tell, anyway—done anything to warrant his attention other than look over. Harry's scent turned apprehensive and a little defiant and Sirius glanced between them, not sure if he ought to make a distraction, or perhaps or be ready to break up another duel; Ginny's expression was hard to read. After a moment, she crooked an eyebrow and the apprehension drained out of Harry's scent, but he'd set his jaw and looked annoyed.

Sirius grimaced, ready to intervene, but Harry didn't move from his place on the floor, and neither did Ginny.

After several long moments—and undoubtedly a silent conversation that Sirius didn't have the first clue how to get in on without understanding—the corner of Ginny's mouth curled up, just a little bit, and the scent of approval or perhaps satisfaction drifted over to Sirius, with a strong undercurrent of guilty relief.

He looked at Harry and saw the relief mirrored on his face, as well as something that might have been gratitude. Some sort of closure on whatever had happened between them the night before, maybe.

"We're all right, then?" Sirius asked, looking pointedly between them. Molly cleared her throat, eyes on Ginny; it seemed she'd noticed the exchange as well, and she seemed equally nervous and ready to start scolding if Ginny didn't respond appropriately.

"Yep," Ginny said. "It's just really nice to see Harry out and about today." She smiled, almost dangerously cheerful. Sirius winced and looked at Harry as Molly opened her mouth, but Harry spoke first:

"Thought I'd try," he muttered.

"Try what, dear?" Molly asked, but Ginny pushed herself to her feet.

"Good," she said, eyes gleaming. She went to stand over Harry, offering him her hand. He took it a wry look on his face, and let her tug him to his feet.

Molly released a breath she must have been holding and looked at Sirius, eyes full of cautious hope.