Another Cheese Sandwich

Harry sleeps the entire way to London, only waking up when he feels himself being scooped up into someone’s arms.

He presses his eyes tighter, trying to hold onto the warmth inside himself. Hoping with everything in him that this is real. 

“We should really talk some more,” a voice says- Remus, Harry thinks.

“Little tyke’s exhausted, let’s just get him to bed,” Sirius replies, holding Harry tighter.

They don’t walk very far, though they do climb a set of stairs so Harry supposes they don’t have a cupboard for him like he’d had at the Dursleys.

Pressing his eyes even tighter he tries not to think of what his life might look like with these new people. Practical strangers.

And then he is laid down on a soft mattress, a soft hand brushing back his hair and then taking his glasses off.

“Sweet dreams,” Sirius whispers.

Harry turns on his side, hoping that neither man spots the tears leaking from his eyes.

A door shuts a moment later and Harry waits, listening. He’d gotten very good at identifying the footsteps, the cadence, the breathing of his family.

He listens for a sign that there is still someone in the room.

But after a moment there are two pairs of footsteps on the other side.

He pushes back the blankets and looks around.

He’s in bed. In a bedroom. A big bed with the softest blankets and fluffiest pillows he’s ever seen, let alone been in.

It’s dark, thick black curtains blocking out the sun. Harry isn’t sure how long they had driven, but it can’t be nighttime yet.

He isn’t very tired anymore either.

What he is, is nervous.

Sure, he is very grateful that Remus and Sirius want to look after him, but what if he does something to upset them? Or something to make them change their minds?

Surely Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have him back now.

He is sure he can do as they ask though.

If there is anything that Harry is confident that he is capable of, it is following directions.

Except they haven’t given him any orders. They left him to sleep.

But he isn’t tired.

Well, he is a bit tired. But surely he should be doing something. 

He can’t make out much of the room, but he doesn’t dare get out of bed either. He doesn’t want to get caught.

So he lays back down and stares at the ceiling, which as far as he can tell without his glasses is covered in some kind of fabric.

Harry falls back asleep faster than he’d have thought possible. It seemed that he really was tired. 

The next morning, Remus and Sirius let him sleep for hours past the sunrise. It is disorienting, waking up in so much light. No aunt rapping on the door.

He lays there for a while until his stomach growls and he remembers that he should help with cooking breakfast.

Climbing out of bed, he pads down to the kitchen.

Sirius, who Harry had been cautious of, is standing across the large kitchen, his back to him.

Harry steps forwards and accidentally steps on a squeaky floorboard.

Sirius spins and smiles. A big bright, completely confusing smile.

“Morning,” Sirius greets him, the teapot in front of him filling a new teacup. “Breakfast is all set. Take a seat.”

Harry stares at the floating teapot and tries not to appear too gobsmacked.

“Thank you,” he replies, sliding into a seat and eyeing a lovely looking plate of lemon scones.

“I did not make these. Kreacher did. He’s a house elf. You’ll meet him later,” Sirius informs him, sliding the plate closer and sitting opposite him.

Harry doesn’t ask what a house elf is, but assumes it is something he should already know. And he doesn’t want to bother Sirius. Aunt Petunia hates when he peppers her with questions. 

Still, Sirius had pushed the plate towards him with a smile. Aunt Petunia never would have done that.

Harry takes that as invitation enough and reaches for one, pleased to find them still warm. Though Harry thinks magic may be part of the reason why.

“Remus has gone to the store this morning for a few things. Toothpaste and shampoo. Don’t need that mane to get any longer. You won’t be able to see past those luscious locks soon enough,” Sirius says, teasingly.

Harry finds he quite enjoys it. They have treated him so well, but at the same time they don’t treat him too carefully. He doesn’t feel like they worry about him falling apart.

Though he wonders if he should tell Sirius what happens when he gets a haircut. Would he be as upset as Aunt Petunia was when he’d woken up with it grown back?

“Want something else to eat? There’s some fruit in the refrigerator and a bit of ham left over I think,” Sirius offers.

“Just the scone for now, thank you. I’m not sure I can eat much more than that,” he admits.

Sirius doesn’t chastise him or ask any questions, he just nods.

“I thought we could spend some time talking about things this morning. Before Moony- er, Remus gets home.”

“Why do you call him that? Moony?”

“It’s a nickname from school. Your dad came up with it actually. He was obsessed with nicknames. Came up with all of them.”

“Have you got one?” 

“Yep. Padfoot. Something about my wild spirit I think,” he smirks.

“And my dad, did he have a nickname?” Harry asks, risking upsetting Sirius if it means he learns more about his Dad.

“Sure did. Prongs. That one’s a bit harder to explain. Moony would probably jinx me silly for telling you the whole story. Needless to say, he was very deer to all of us.”

Harry doesn’t quite understand the emphasis on the word dear but he grins anyways.

“And my Mum?”

“Lily. Lils, I guess. And uh, Evans. Though neither are exactly nicknames. Us gentlemen were quite exclusive about our nicknames.”

Harry tries to picture his mom. 

All he can grasp is red hair, which he’s not sure if he remembers or if his aunt had said it once.

A door opens and Sirius and Harry wait for Remus to appear in the kitchen.

He’s got a small bag in his arms which he sets down on the long counter.

“Morning, gents. How’d you sleep, Harry?” Remus asks, sliding into the seat to his left.

“Good, thanks.”

Harry watches as Remus eats two scones in quick succession.

“Prongslet and I were just talking about nicknames, Moony,” Sirius says, leaning over to press a kiss to Remus’s cheek.

Harry can’t help the small gasp that escapes him.

Both men look at him and he stammers out an apology.

“I- I didn’t mean to- sorry.”

“It’s alright, Harry. We are sorry. Should have thought you might not be used to…,” Remus sort of fades out there at the end, heat rising in his face.

“No!” Harry shouts, not wanting them to think he was upset by the short kiss. “I don’t mind. At all. Really. I just- I’ve never- my uncle… I thought it was really lovely actually.”

Sirius smiles and Harry wonders how he’d ever thought he was like his uncle.

“Remus and I have been together since school. Longer than your parents actually,” he says, throwing his arm over Remus’s shoulder.

Remus looks a bit uncomfortable still, but he cracks a smile all the same.

“How old were they?” Harry asks.

“Sixth year at Hogwarts. Of course, your Da was in love with Lily for years before that. Always knew they were meant to be,” Remus tells him.

Harry doesn’t ask how old they were in their sixth year. He doesn’t want to be seen as pestering them.

Besides, he’s got a much more important question.

“Do you- do you have any pictures of them?” He asks, voice small.

Remus and Sirius seem to share a long moment and then Sirius stands up, disappearing from the kitchen, his heavy tread on the stairs.

“Have you not seen a picture of them, Harry?” Remus asks, gentle.

Harry shakes his head, afraid he might cry if he answers aloud.

“Oh, Godric. Well we’ve got loads,” Remus reassures him.

Sirius comes back down, a big box in his arms.

He sets it right there on the kitchen table, pushing aside the dishes and pulling out stacks of photos.

Stacks.

Harry’s never seen even one.

“This is your Mum and Dad,” Sirius whispers, handing a photo to Harry. It’s old, with a bent corner and a smudge across the print image, but Harry takes hold of it with precious care.

There they are. Harry is struck first by his dad and the likeness they share. He’s always been the odd one out, but he could be the twin of the boy in the photo. And that is all he is. A boy. He looks to be maybe fifteen, with a tie loosely around his neck and his arm thrown around Lily.

“Mum,” Harry whispers, his finger tracing over the faded red of her hair.

“She’d be so incredibly proud of you,” Sirius says.

“They both would,” Remus chimes in, his voice thick.

Harry isn’t sure why, but his own eyes are moist and his throat feels like there is something in it, preventing him from swallowing down all of his feelings.

“I’ve got about a hundred of them in here,” Sirius pulls the box across the table, pulling out another stack of photos.

Some of them move, while others are frozen, the moments they capture all beautiful. Harry doesn’t question it.

Each one is like a gold bar, giving Harry something immeasurable. Something he has never had before.

“You’re in this one,” Remus pulls one from a stack he is flipping through and hands it to Harry.

In the arms of his mum, a small swaddled baby giggles up at them.

He can’t quite believe that it is him. That someone’s arms had held him so tightly, so warmly.

That before the pinching rebukes of his aunt and the swift blows of his uncle, there had been someone who thought of him as precious. Someone who wanted to hold him and never let go.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers.

A sigh beside him makes him look away from the photos. There, Sirius is looking at him as though his heart has broken.

“I wish you could know them. I’d give anything for it,” Sirius says, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

He doesn’t let it linger, sensing Harry’s aversion, but Harry almost wishes he had.