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The first thing that Harry notices when he opens the door is that Sirius has had a haircut.
Well, barely.
The long unkempt rat’s nest that Sirius had previously sported has been trimmed and now flows in thick waves around his face and down his shoulders. Harry is grinning before he knows he is, matching the identical one on his godfather’s face, who must know what he’s about to say.
“Mrs. Figg do that one for you, Sirius?” he says at once. Sirius tosses back his hair like an ingenue in a period drama.
“I’ll have you know I did it myself,” he replies, producing his wand from the sleeve of his coat, before it disappears just as quickly. “Do we have time for a cuppa before we go out, Prongslet?”
It’s a stupid nickname. It shouldn’t make Harry smile even wider as he leads his godfather into the sterile environs of 4 Privet Drive. Nor should the prospect of what’s to come. But Sirius insists, every single time.
Petunia is feverishly polishing a non-existent spot on the breakfast bar when Harry comes in. She looks up, face in its customary scowl at the sight of him, before she spots the looming figure of Sirius over his shoulder and the expression slides off her face like cold custard. “Vernon!” she hollers at once, eyeing Sirius like a live bomb as he sits down at the kitchen table affably, a fixed expression on his face that Harry is certain he developed for unpleasant family dinners with the Blacks back in the day.
“Tea, Mrs. D?” Sirius asks genially, managing to portray his customary pureblood manners while also putting on an accent that sounds something like a hooligan from the heart of London. Which is technically what he is, Harry thinks to himself, amused.
“I’m not making you any bloody tea –” Sirius makes a small, vaguely disapproving sound, and Petunia’s mouth shuts abruptly like a trap. “Vernon!” she howls again, and Harry’s uncle appears from the open French doors, huffing and puffing like he’s run a mile.
“You,” he growls as soon as he sees Sirius. “You’re not meant to come in here!” But it’s all bluster. Vernon is terrified of Sirius, mostly regarding the magic, but the hardened criminal act doesn’t hurt either. Sirius is fond of dropping Muggle prison movie cliches when he visits, mostly at least twenty years out of date but effective nevertheless, and gesturing animatedly with his hands, the better to show off the tattoos on his hands.
“Vernon,” Sirius says now, artificial sorrow plastered all over his face. “I thought we were really starting to build a connection.” Harry snickers audibly. His uncle turns to him at once, but some subtle move of Sirius’s, maybe an idle grab towards his sleeve or pocket, silences whatever rant Vernon was about to unleash.
“He wants tea,” Petunia says, sounding frightened. Harry almost feels sorry for her, before he remembers being locked in his room two summers ago like an animal.
“Well, give him tea, and he can be on his way,” Vernon barks. Harry can hear Petunia’s hands shaking as she puts the kettle on.
“Sit down, Vernon, we won’t be here much longer,” Sirius invites, except there’s iron in it. Vernon looks at the two available chairs at the round table– one next to Harry and one next to Sirius – and Harry can see the cogs turning as Vernon runs the maths. If he, Vernon, sits next to Harry selfishly, Vernon’s own wife, Petunia, would then have to sit next to Sirius. Vernon redeems himself the very slightest degree as he begrudgingly takes the chair next to Sirius, meaning that Petunia will be able to sit safely at his side, with only the less threatening Harry on her other.
The tray rattles when Petunia sets it down, breaking the silent staring contest that Sirius and Vernon have been engaged in. “The – the usual, Mr. Black?” Petunia asks timidly, and at Sirius’s nod puts three spoons of sugar into Sirius’s cup and fairly shoves it over to him.
“Thank you, Petunia,” Sirius says, and immediately launches into a story about a time Harry’s mother had made him tea. He does this every time, tells a story about Lily, and Harry had thought he was being deliberately cruel to Petunia until he’d noticed how his aunt had hung on every word.
Harry accepts his own cup (one sugar, a dash of milk, the barest of courtesies) and pours it straight down his throat. He’s accustomed to eating and drinking quickly by now. When he was younger, it was imperative to eat fast to keep Dudley from consuming everything in sight, and now he’s older, at Hogwarts, he’s always wanting to get away from breakfast or dinner fast, to soak up every tiny fraction of the place he loves best in the world.
Sirius, though, is nursing his cup like it’s the last thing he’ll ever be given to drink. About halfway through, he finishes his tale of Lily and smacks his lips ostentatiously. “No sugar in prison,” he announces blithely. Petunia and Vernon are cringing both at his manners and at the reminder that the man at their table was once a wanted felon. Sirius fixes Harry with a beady eye. “Now, are you getting enough to eat, young man?” he asks, managing to briefly transform his affect to that of a crotchety elderly woman checking up on the health of her ward. Harry nods, his lips twitching, but manages to keep from smiling.
“Yes, sir.” Sirius’s own mouth jerks up at the corner, but otherwise his act holds.
“Very good. And are you being allowed enough time to do your homework for school?” he continues briskly, folding his hands over his skinny stomach.
“Yes, Uncle Sirius.” There’s a twinkle in Sirius’s eyes now.
“I only ask,” he says, returning to his usual mannerisms, “because Moony will be joining us any moment, and he’ll nag me later if I don’t ask.”
Harry doesn’t bolt out of the chair in excitement, but it’s a near thing. “Professor Lupin’s coming?” Sirius shakes his head.
“Just call him Remus, Harry,” he chides. “Hell, or even Moony. He’s not your professor anymore.” To the Dursleys, almost as an aside, Sirius adds: “We call him Moony because he’s a werewolf.”
It’s hard to process what follows. Petunia screams piercingly enough to make Harry’s head hurt, Vernon makes a futile and furious grab in Sirius’s direction with one hand while stretching out in a protective manner towards Petunia with the other, Sirius sits back satisfied with all the chaos he’s caused, and Professor Lupin, who had no doubt heard the commotion from outside, bursts into the room with his wand drawn.
This only causes more havoc. By the time Harry ushes his godfathers out – one mortified, one chortling – the previously immaculate kitchen is a mess of tea, chairs, and furious uncles. “Padfoot,” Professor Lupin is scolding as they head out into the warm July morning. “I could just wring your scrawny neck.” Sirius puts on an abashed face, although it doesn’t last long.
“Aw, Moony, don’t be like that,” he whines as they start down the street. “They had it coming.” A shadow darkens his face for a moment, and Harry remembers what it was like to be afraid of him. “Don’t you remember how Lily cried when she got that letter from that horrible bitch telling her not to bother inviting her to the wedding –” Harry feels a surge of anger of his own, but Lupin is shaking his head.
“James and Lily are gone, Sirius,” he reminds gently, and Sirius flinches, just like he always does. “There’s no point in punishing Petunia over something that Lily herself forgave long before she died.”
“They put bars on the boy’s window,” Sirius protests. Harry was looking right at Lupin or he would have missed it; there was a sudden spark of something in Lupin’s tired eyes that suddenly reminded him that Lupin is, after all, a werewolf. Still, his voice is just as tired and resigned as usual when he speaks.
“You will only make things more difficult for Harry in the long run,” he says, and that shuts Sirius up, albeit not for long.
“Where are we going?” Harry asks, to cover the sudden unpleasant silence. Sirius regains his good humour, and even Lupin manages a trace of a smile.
“I want to buy a broom,” Sirius announces. “For when we go to the Burrow before the Cup. I want to show those Weasley boys how a real Beater hits a Bludger.” Harry grins, thrilled at the prospect. “And I want to get one for Moony, too. He would have made a decent Chaser if he’d ever have left his books alone for long enough.”
“Cool,” Harry replies, thrilled even further at the notion of yet another person to play Quidditch with. Lupin however is less pleased.
“Padfoot,” he says quietly. “You’ve done enough. You really don’t need to –”
“Remus, don’t argue with me,” Sirius orders, and then does the strangest thing; he links his hand with Lupin’s, just for a moment. Lupin blushes scarlet and pulls his hand away at once.
“Here we are, then,” he says, and leads them into a small but densely wooded area. “Harry, take my arm,” he instructs, and Harry does as told and braces himself for the unpleasant swirl of Side-Along Apparition.
They come out just down the street from the Leaky Cauldron, in a grimy but empty alley. A moment later, there is an audible ‘pop’ as Sirius appears. He staggers but keeps his feet, and offers his hand to Harry, who had not landed so gracefully. “Thanks,” Harry says, and lets himself be hauled up.
Lupin is already several steps ahead of them. Harry frowns at his worn-jumpered back before glancing back at his godfather, who is also frowning. “What’s wrong?” he asks. Sirius shrugs one elegant, bony shoulder.
“No idea,” he says, before taking Harry by the elbow and shepherding him in Lupin’s wake. “But we’d better not keep him waiting.”
Inside the Leaky Cauldron there is the usual mix of witches, wizards, and beings that defy description. Harry follows Lupin and Sirius as they walk quickly through, feeling the itch of people staring on the back of his neck. A recently exonerated convict, a known werewolf, and the Boy Who Lived, he thinks to himself, frustration spiking at the thought of the moniker that he hates.
Still, when the bricks shift out of the way, Harry’s mood brightens. The sun is shining, Diagon Alley is bustling, and both Lupin and Sirius have relaxed enough to joke around with one another. “If you’re good at the broom place, I’ll take you to the bookshop when we’re done,” Sirius is cajoling. There is a smile lurking in Lupin’s voice when he replies.
“And if you’re good in the bookshop I might take you to get your fleas treated.” Sirius feigns outrage.
“Padfoot is as clean as a whistle, thank you very much,” he retorts haughtily. Lupin smirks.
“And it’s all thanks to Mrs. Figg, who so very kindly lets you stay at her home.” Sirius smirks back.
“Nice old bird,” he says appreciatively. “But don’t worry, Remus, I’m paying her back.” Harry, hurrying to keep up with their longer legs, raises an eyebrow at his godfather’s tone.
“How? By dusting the shelves?” Lupin’s words are as dry as a desert.
“Nah,” Sirius says blithely. “I’ve been doing the gardening for her. She likes me to wear this little pair of shorts and a straw hat, nothing else –” Lupin swings around and lands a well-aimed punch on Sirius’s upper arm.
“You’re such an arse,” he says, with no small amount of affection. “Like you’re anything to look at, all bones and no meat.” He jabs Sirius in the ribs playfully, and suddenly Harry sees them differently. Sirius and Lupin have always been adults to him, but the years seem to fall away like dust and he can see them as they were at his age. It’s like his father could appear any moment from around a corner –
“Harry?” Sirius looks concerned. “Are you all right?” Harry shakes off the image.
“Yeah,” he says. “Look, we’re here.”
Quality Quidditch Supplies is cooler and darker inside than Harry expected. He follows along with Lupin as Sirius strides through the door, projecting a cheerfulness and somehow managing to look twice the size he usually does. The few customers shopping on a Wednesday morning give the three of them a wide berth as Sirius heads straight over to the broomsticks.
“So pretty,” he says longingly, his fingers twitching in the direction of the Firebolt up on display. Harry thinks of his own, safely locked in his trunk at the Dursleys’. “Prongs would have knocked old You-Know-Who off himself to play Quidditch on that thing.”
“Sirius,” Lupin protests, his eyes darting to Harry.
“It’s all right, Professor,” Harry says without thinking. Lupin looks crushed for a moment before his usual weariness smooths it away. He’s told Harry to call him by his first name a dozen times now. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Lupin murmurs, and turns away. Harry’s heart aches. If it were Sirius, he would go over and bump elbows with him, or let his godfather muss his hair. But Lupin keeps himself at a distance. Technically Harry has known him longer than Sirius, almost a whole year longer, but despite that, Harry knows Sirius better.
“Look at the brooms,” Sirius urges. Harry shoves his thoughts aside and turns his focus to the array of broomsticks.
“The Nimbus 2002 looks good,” he says. Sirius nods.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. But the Cleansweep Eight has nice lines –”
“Fred and George have Sevens,” Harry says. “I’ve tried them. They fly all right.” A glint appears in Sirius’s eyes.
“Does your friend Ron like Quidditch?” he asks, almost too casually. Harry blinks.
“Yeah, he does. But his Shooting Star –” Sirius winces. “Yeah,” Harry concludes, thinking of how the poor old Star lurches through the air.
“And his sister?” Harry squints at Sirius. His tone is now far too relaxed. Harry knows Sirius well enough to know that he is at his most mischievous when at his most blasé.
“Ginny? I don’t know,” he says doubtfully.
“She was nice to me.” Sirius’s voice has changed. It is colder, remote, almost like he’s talking to someone else.
“Ginny?” Harry asks. Sirius is still turned away from him, looking at the brooms, but something is different in the set of his shoulders.
“When I was Padfoot. I would see her when she walked around the grounds. Sometimes she would bring me food –” Sirius’s voice dies in a wet click. Harry doesn’t know what to do. Sirius puts a brave face on it, the terrible damage done to him by Azkaban and Dementors and awful privation, but it leaks out over the top sometimes, and Harry never knows what to say.
“Sirius.” Lupin has appeared out of nowhere, holding a book on Quidditch history. Without saying anything else, he lays a hand on Sirius’s back, right between his shoulder blades. “I’m here, Padfoot.” The hand moves up to Sirius’s shoulder, and like lightning one of Sirius’s own shoots up to hold it. Scarred hand on scarred tattooed hand, Harry finds himself thinking, and that’s what gets his feet moving, until he’s standing next to Sirius to bump Sirius’s elbow with his own.
Sirius exhales slowly. Harry doesn’t dare look up at his face, but slowly the tension leaks out of Sirius’s thin frame. “Right, then,” he says, and wipes the sleeve of his coat over his eyes. “Cleansweep Eights for me, Remus, Ron, and Ginny. Did you get that?” he directs to the floating parchment and quill nearby, which has been following them since they entered the shop.
“Sirius!” Lupin says, sounding horrified. “You can’t! Molly and Arthur won’t like it –”
“Without the kits, you’re right, of course they won’t,” Sirius says, steamrolling right over him. “We’d better get two for the twins, as well. So that’s six Broomstick Servicing Kits as well. Now, I wonder where they keep the Bludgers?” Sirius wanders off, leaving a stunned Harry and a stunned and dismayed Lupin behind him.
“Is he having a breakdown?” Harry whispers to Lupin, who runs a hand through his dishevelled hair and makes a sound like a disbelieving cough.
“I don’t know,” he says, and trots after Sirius as though he’s afraid of what he might do when left to his own devices. By the time Harry catches up to them, feigning interest in a stack of robes, there is a fight going on.
“You’re going to run out of money at this rate,” he hears Lupin mutter darkly.
“No, I won’t!” Sirius replies cheerfully. “Harry, come and look at this set, what do you think?” Obligingly Harry comes over (pretending he hadn’t been shamelessly eavesdropping) to admire the dark wooden box where a set of Quidditch balls rests, complete with restraints for the Bludgers, which currently lie dormant, awaiting the activation spell that will turn them into lethal weapons.
“Nice,” he comments, and Sirius beams.
“One of those, then,” he says to the floating quill and parchment, and the quill jots down a note as they continue down the shelves.
“Sirius, I mean it,” Lupin continues in an undertone. Harry pretends it’s not happening as he examines a broom compass intently. “You’re out of control, spending money like water. Only last week, two hundred Galleons to Spell Damage research at St. Mungo’s like it was only Knuts –”
“Frank and Alice deserve the best chance we can give them and don’t you try and tell me otherwise,” Sirius cuts in, a warning note in his voice. “That gold has been sitting there for years accruing interest. Forgive me for wanting to scrub a little of that pureblood mania filth off it –”
“Oh, Sirius.” Remus sounds so sad. “You don’t need to atone. Not like this.”
“Remus, I broke the boy’s leg,” Sirius says. He sounds both crotchety and remorseful. “And the girl was nice to me when I was almost on death’s door. Don’t worry,” he says, humour leaking into his voice. “I’m not going to forget the little bookworm. After this we’ll go to Flourish and Blotts and order Hermione a Buckbeak’s weight in parchment.” Harry hears Remus blow out a frustrated breath.
“And a diamond-encrusted collar for Crookshanks as well, I suppose?” he asks, in a tone that in a lesser mane could have been called snide. Sirius grins.
“Now you’re getting into the pureblood spirit of things, Remus,” he says exuberantly, and goes to pay for their goods.
They leave only with Remus’s book, because Sirius had ordered the rest to be delivered to the appropriate locations (the Burrow, Mrs. Figg’s, and wherever Remus lives). In Flourish and Blotts, Sirius lives up to his promise by deferring to Remus’s superior book knowledge, and the stack that he pays extra to be delivered to Hermione’s address is taller than Harry by about three feet. Then he relents in his spending spree by allowing Remus to buy them ice-creams at Fortescue’s, and has Harry back to the Dursleys just as the sun is setting.
Padfoot is bounding ahead cheerfully, chasing the last rays of sunlight, as Harry walks by Remus’s side. “Have you heard anything about Pettigrew?” he asks Remus in an undertone. Remus glances down at him.
“Nothing’s changed, Harry,” he says, as if in reassurance. “The Wizengamot tried Peter in full court and found him guilty. He’s in Azkaban, where he belongs.” Harry nods.
“I know,” he replies, and wilts under Remus’s teacher expression, which could pry misdeeds out of even the most hardened soul. “I do know. It just could have all gone so wrong, you know…”
“It could have,” Remus agrees softly. The orange light of the sunset gives his silvering hair a crown of gold and evens out the line on his face. “I hope Sirius is behaving himself as your neighbour,” he says, a touch of humour coming into his voice. Harry allows the change of subject with relief. “After he was exonerated, the first thing he said was that he wanted you to come live with him. And when Dumbledore said that you had to stay with your aunt, at least for some of the time…” Remus trails off. “Well, all I can say is thank Merlin for Mrs. Figg.” Harry laughs.
“Thank God for Mrs. Figg,” he agrees. “Do you know, I didn’t even know she was a Squib?” Remus looks amused. “I thought she was just an old lady that the Dursleys used to leave me with sometimes.”
“She’s a dear,” Remus says. “Even if she does make Sirius do the gardening with his shirt off.” Harry grins.
“He probably enjoys it, the peacock. Yes, you,” he calls out to Padfoot, who is gleefully rolling in a puddle of mud left over from someone watering their roses. Up ahead, 4 Privet Drive looms, but the sun hasn’t set yet, and Harry has learned from Sirius that a prison is much less a prison when you can see through the bars of the cage.
Sirius barks, and the world travels on.