When I Think About the Moments (That I Never Got to Spend With You)

“So, this is the boy you named Heir to the House of Black.”

Harry jumps and whips around expecting to see someone behind him. Instead, he sees a wall of portraits and stumbles back a few more steps so he can take them all in. Unlike in the headmaster's office, none of these portraits are sleeping.

Each and every one of them is staring at him with piercing eyes, all in similar shades of grey.

Harry hears Sirius stand up from the desk behind him. “Yes, Father. This is Harry James Potter. Heir to the House of Black.” His voice is steady, projecting calmness and surety, and Harry is grateful for it.

Focusing on the portrait just to the left of the door, which seemed to have spoken previously, Harry straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin.

This might be Sirius’s father, he might have been the former Lord Black…but Harry refuses to be intimidated by a portrait.

“And do you think you are deserving of this legacy, child? A legacy that goes back centuries. The Black family was already established when Merlin was a child. Our ancestors have been great warlocks, warriors, and politicians that have guided the course of Wixen history and culture. What will you contribute to the legacy of our family?” The portrait asks.

Harry thinks he can spot Sirius’s jawline and the distinctive high arch of his brows reflected back at him in Orion Black’s portrait.

“I don’t know if I’m deserving of it. I have already accomplished many things that others would call great. I was written about in history books before I saw my second birthday. I have fought great evil and won. I have killed a basilisk, faced a Cerberus, and driven off nearly a hundred dementors.”

Here, Harry paused and made eye contact with as many of the portraits as he could. He thought he could read surprise on some of their faces, maybe even approval at the listing of his accomplishments. He wondered how many would change their opinion when he continued,

“I am also the son of a muggle-born witch and a man some of you might call a blood traitor. I was raised by muggles, and had no idea magic was real until I received my Hogwarts letter. My two best friends are a pureblood and a muggle-born. I see no difference in value or worth between those muggle-raised and wixen-raised. So, when you ask if I am deserving of the legacy of the House of Black, if you’re really asking if I will uphold the bigotry and hatred towards muggles and muggle-born wixen that this house has earned a reputation for, then the answer is no.”

The portraits are silent, and Harry knows he’s not imagining some of the glares now aimed in his direction.

Harry spares a quick glance at Sirius and is pleased to see his godfather smiling down at him, the affection in his gaze easy to read. Harry grins back at him before facing forward again.

“What I will promise, is that I’m committed to this House. Sirius is the only family I have left, and he’s done so much for me. I know he’d never ask for it, or expect it, but I want to pay him back for all he’s given me this summer.”

Harry ignores the shuffling at his side and talks over the older man as Sirius tries to interrupt him.

“If helping Sirius improve the reputation of this House, and turning its legacy into something he can be proud of is within my power, then I will not stop until that is accomplished. I want to make an impact on our community. More than just because I’ve been a thorn in the side of a dark lord. I want to help people. I’m still trying to figure out how exactly… but I know that’s important to me.”

More silence, although Harry thinks he reads approval in the slight curve of Orion’s mouth.

And then, from the far left side of the room, the smallest portrait speaks.

“Well spoken.”

Harry hears Sirius breathe in rapidly next to him and many of the portraits lose their stoic expressions to ones of shock.

This painting looks like the oldest in the room, and as if it had survived a great deal of damage over the years. Harry thinks he can spot a charred edge, and there’s a scratch towards the top of the image that disrupts the background. The elderly wixen depicted in it has the distinctive grey eyes of the Black family, but that is the only familiar feature Harry can spot. His hair is white with age, his skin weathered with wrinkles. He looks at least as old as Dumbledore, but his eyes look harder and colder than Dumbledore’s have ever been.

His clothing in the portrait and the background painted behind him are also significantly more humble than many of the other portraits, whose subjects were decked out with jewels and expensive fabrics.

“The boy will make a good heir. What he does not yet know can easily be taught, but what he brings to the House cannot be trained.”

Sirius bows at the waist and Harry hurries to copy him. When he rises again, Sirius speaks to the portrait with deference, “Thank you, my Lord. Your approval means a great deal.”

The painting nods at Sirius, without looking away from Harry.

“Potter, you said?”

Taking his cue from Sirius, Harry replies as respectfully as he can, hoping that this Black ancestor isn’t going to take offense that the Heir to the family doesn’t have the Black family name. “Yes, sir. Son of James and Lily Potter. My father was the son of Dorea Potter nee Black.”

“Hmm. I believe I knew an ancestor of yours, although the main branch of their family died out some time ago. The Potters were a cadet branch. I see something of them in you. Perhaps you have more to live up to than just the Black legacy. But if you’re anything like my old friend, I’m confident you will do so admirably.”

Unsure of how to respond to this, Harry just nods at the painting who tips his head forward in response, and then promptly leans up against the side of the frame and by all appearances falls asleep immediately.

Sirius lets out a great breath that he seemed to have been holding throughout their entire conversation and turns to Harry with wide eyes. Behind him, the other portraits have begun to move frantically, speaking to each other and flitting from one frame to another.

“Harry, you did so well. That was…not what I was expecting to happen when you came in here.” Sirius sends a quick glare toward his father's portrait, who has remained still and is observing them. “But you held your own, and somehow got Lord Crux to speak, let alone actually approve of you.”

“Lord Crux?” Harry asks, glancing again at the old portrait.

“Yes, well. Technically he’s another Lord Black, but when there are this many all in one room we go by first names to differentiate. Lord Crux is my Grandfather. Or my many times removed Grandfather. He was the first Lord Black. The start of the family actually, we don’t have any records before him.” Sirius looks back quickly at the portrait as if to make sure it’s still asleep, before continuing at a lower volume, “Some theorize he was a bastard or a muggle-born, but we don’t discuss it, even among the family. The legend goes that it pisses him off, and just the memory of him is enough to activate the family magic.” Sirius imparts these words like something long memorized, and Harry wonders if this is what passed for bedtime stories in the Black household.

Returning to a normal volume, Sirius says “Lord Crux started it all - he performed a service to the King and was elevated to a Lord. By all accounts, he ruled the family with an iron fist, but it was in large part due to his efforts that the Black family remained as powerful as they have. He started the fortune and reputation that we’re still benefitting from today. Actually, he er - well, he’s credited with developing the Cruciatus Curse.”

“I’ve never heard him speak before. I don’t think anyone in the last century or two has, but we were always told he would wake when the family needed his guidance.”

At this, Sirius looks at Harry with something like awe, “For him to wake and approve of you - to seemingly wake just to give you his approval. And right after you give a very anti-blood purity speech….That's huge, Harry.”

Harry shuffles awkwardly, uncomfortable with the praise.

“So a portrait approves of me. You already approved of me,” Harry says with a shrug, “so other than sticking up for me to a bunch of other portraits, what does that matter?”

Sirius’s smile grows with a hint of an edge to it, “Word of this will spread, Harry. There might not be many remaining with the last name of Black, but those of Black blood are spread far and wide. Lord Crux has spoken, and the rest of the Black Lords are already informing members of the family.” Sirius tilts his head to the wall of portraits, which Harry is surprised to see is nearly empty.

Sirius’s father and a few others remain watching them, as well as Lord Crux who is still sleeping, but the rest of the paintings are vacant.

“Huh. And this will help us? For people to know what the portrait said to me.” Harry was still skeptical about how this would actually benefit them.

“Oh, yes. Because the Black family is one of the oldest in our society, our founder is viewed as one of the patriarchs of all of British Wixen. Everyone will sit up and take notice, and they’ll be very curious about the young man that got such a reaction from Lord Crux. It’ll be enough of a reason for them to question what the Ministry and the rumour mill has said about you. I expect I’ll start hearing from them within a few days asking about setting up meetings.” Sirius said with a smug expression. “I’ll make them wait a bit of course. Can’t look too desperate, so we’ll hold them off until their curiosity is driving them mad.”

Sirius looked positively cheerful at the thought of irritating the various distant relatives who would be contacting him before eventually giving in to their requests to meet.

“Come on then, what I originally brought you up for can wait. I think this is deserving of some of Florean Fortescue's finest. I had Kreacher hide a gallon of it last time I was here, and the little demon had better have saved it.

Harry let Sirius walk out of the study first and then glanced back at Lord Crux’s painting just in time to see the portrait open his eyes again, the appearance of sleep falling away as he made immediate eye contact with Harry.

Originally, Harry hadn’t seen much familiarity in Lord Crux’s face. But when the painting sent him a devilish grin and a faint wink before closing his eyes again, the resemblance to Sirius on the painting's older face was much more apparent.

*

Harry had almost forgotten what it was like to fall asleep to the sound of someone else’s breathing.

At Aquarius House, his open window let in the sounds of waves, and his room was too far away from Sirius’s, the soundproofing charms on the bedrooms too strong, for him to pick up any hint of his housemate’s noises after they went to bed.

But Ron’s deep breaths were nearly as familiar to Harry as his own. They had been the soundtrack to Harry’s nights for the last four years, along with Neville’s snores and Seamus’s occasional quiet murmurs.

Harry hadn’t realized he’d actually missed the sounds of his sleeping dorm mates until now, when he was stretched out beneath the covers in Ron’s room at Grimmauld.

After dinner Sirius had offered to clean up a room just for him so they didn’t have to share, but Harry didn’t mind. This wasn’t his real home, after all - that was Aquarius House. So it didn’t bother him to crash on the extra bed in Ron’s room. Especially when it meant the two of them were able to stay up long after Mrs. Weasley sent everyone to bed.

Eventually, Ron’s whispers about the Chudley Cannons’ prospects of winning the final this year petered out, to be replaced with the slow, regular breaths that Harry remembers from the dorm.

Despite the exhaustion weighing down his limbs, Harry’s mind is whirring. Sirius’s prediction of people taking a few days to send invitations to meet had proved wrong. The first letter was delivered to Sirius just an hour after dinner, meaning the Fawley family had to have put quill to parchment nearly as soon as a portrait told them about what occurred.

Another two letters followed shortly after.

It was mind-boggling to Harry that the opinion of a portrait of a man long dead was enough to potentially change the minds of people, and make them more willing to believe Harry about Voldemort’s return.

But most things about Wixen had seemed illogical since he learned about magic, what with people flip-flopping their opinion at the drop of a hat.

Like Percy, he thought. Percy Weasley, who had sat across from him at the Weasley’s table for years, shared a common room with him, and even helped Harry with his homework. Percy Weasley, who was now firmly on the ministry's side and considered Harry a liar.

George had filled Harry in on the fight between Percy and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley earlier in the summer, and the subsequent cold shoulder he’d been giving the family ever since.

For the first time in his life, Harry was tempted to send someone a howler. To throw away a family, even one as chaotic and sometimes overbearing as the Weasleys was just incomprehensible to Harry.

Deciding to give up on sleep for now, Harry quietly folds back the covers and stands. Reaching into the overnight bag he packed, the invisibility cloak shimmers faintly in the dim light from the window as he pulls it out and swings it over him.

He probably doesn’t need the cloak. As Sirius said when they first entered Grimmauld Place - it’s his house. Even if Mrs. Weasley, the strictest of the grown-ups currently in residence were to find him wandering around after midnight, she’d be more likely to make him some hot cocoa and bundle him back to bed than give him a lecture.

Still. Call it a habit. If Harry goes wandering late at night - or early in the morning as the case may be - he takes his cloak.

Creeping out of Ron’s bedroom, he gently closes the door behind him. At dinner, Harry had finally learned of the “something” that he was to avoid waking up when the twins made a ruckus and Sirius’s mum’s portrait woke and began screaming vile things at anyone close enough to gain her attention.

Until she spotted Harry that is.

Then she promptly shut her mouth and stared at him until Sirius and Mr. Weasley dragged the curtains back across her.

So word of Harry’s encounter with Lord Crux had evidently spread quickly amongst the portraits as well.

Harry passes Walburga’s portrait on the stairs, doing his best to tread quietly. Scones along the wall lit up as he approached and then dimmed again once he was a few steps past them. Beneath his feet, rugs straightened out before he could trip over uneven surfaces. When he passed by, tilted portraits leaned in the other direction until they were hanging at a precise 90-degree angle to the ceiling.

With no real destination in mind, and conscious of the fact that the house was apparently full of cursed objects, Harry began to wander. Whenever he’d hesitate longer than a few seconds outside of a door, it would softly snick open to allow him entry. Occasionally, he’d stop and stare at a painting or an artifact he didn’t recognize, pausing whenever he saw something that caught his attention.

After dinner, Sirius and he had returned to the study and Sirius took him through the hidden entryway to the ritual room. They hadn’t performed any rituals, but the room was the magical center of the house and Sirius told him it was the best way to become familiar with the wards. They had sat there peacefully for nearly an hour, just letting the magic flow around and through them.

It had been unlike anything Harry had experienced before, and his connection to Grimmauld and the family magic contained there had intensified.

Walking through the hallways and empty rooms of Grimmauld Place now, Harry would swear he could feel the magic reaching out from the walls, stretching to meet him. Maybe that’s why he was feeling so restless tonight.

Eventually, Harry finds himself in a drawing room that looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. Harry avoids the faintly buzzing curtains and wanders over to a glass curios case that pulls his attention. It’s crammed full of things. He spots a jewel-encrusted snuff box, some perfume bottles with contents tinted yellow with age, and some ancient-looking jewelry. Pulling the invisibility cloak off and shoving it in his pocket, Harry steps closer.

He’s just reaching for the door to the cabinet to get a closer look when there’s a thump behind him as the door swings open.

“Master Harry should not be in this room.”

Glancing behind him, Harry sees Kreacher standing with his hands on his hips, a fierce glower on his face as he stares at Harry…no. As he stares at the case behind Harry.

“Sorry Kreacher, I couldn’t sleep. Was just going for a walk, and wanted to see what was in here.”

“Hpmf. Is Master Harry being blind? The case being clear glass. One can be seeing what is in there without opening the cabinet and disturbing things. Master Harry be coming out now, and Kreacher will be making warm milk. Then Heir Black be going to bed!”

For a split second, Harry wants to argue. Wants to ignore Kreacher and turn back to the cabinet and open the door to take what he wants.

Why? Why do I want to look at what’s in there so bad?

Harry takes a stumbling step away from the case and shakes his head a little to clear it. If anyone would know what’s cursed in this house it’s Kreacher.

If he says not to touch something, probably best to avoid it.

Harry looks back to Kreacher. Despite looking more relaxed now that Harry has stepped away from it, the elf still has his eyes fastened on the cabinet.

“Master Harry be leaving this room now.”

Hurrying to obey, Harry abandons the cabinet and its contents behind him.

When Harry follows Kreacher down to the kitchen, the elf busies himself with getting a pan of milk on the stove and fishing out a package of homemade biscuits.

Watching the elf work, Harry spots a slight smile on Kreacher's face, causing Harry to think of the other house elves he’d encountered, Dobby and Winky; and of course all the Hogwarts Elves.

“Kreacher, may I ask you a question? It might be upsetting, but I don’t mean any offense. I just haven’t had a lot of experience with house elves, but I’d like to understand.”

The elf glances back from where he’s hovering over the stove top, “Master Harry may ask. Kreacher may not answer.”

“That’s fair.” Harry tells him. “You certainly don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I was just wondering if you like being in service to the House of Black?” Harry hurries to explain when he sees Kreacher start to puff up in indignation. “It’s just I’ve met another House Elf who really disliked his family, and is very happy to be a Free Elf now. He was the first House Elf I ever met and I supposed his opinions were all I really had to go off of for a long time.”

Kreacher turns back to the stove and stirs the pot of milk for long enough that Harry thinks he won’t be getting an answer after all. It’s only when Kreacher is decanting the milk into a mug that he finally speaks.

“Kreacher liked being in service to the House of Black. Kreacher is not knowing this free elf you speak of, but Kreacher finds him very silly indeed. House elves is needing their family’s magic. The stronger the magic of the bonded witches or wizards, the stronger the elf. When House of Black being mighty and formidable, so is being Kreacher. When House of Black dwindled, with many members of the family dying or abandoning the Family, Kreacher becoming weaker.”

Placing the mug of milk in front of Harry, Kreacher watches him solemnly as Harry lifts it and takes a sip. He hadn’t noticed, but Kreacher must have slipped some spices in it - cinnamon, and turmeric, and a hint of sweetness from honey and vanilla. It wasn’t a potion Harry would find taught in Snape’s class, but it was another kind of magic. Just one sip had him relaxing.

“For many years Kreacher having next to no magic at all. Make Kreachers work very difficult. Then Lord Sirius returns, and names you Heir. Lord Sirius was a nasty boy, always upsetting my mistress and making Little Master cry. He was not being a good Heir to the House of Black. Kreacher was happy when he ran away.”

Before Harry can take offense on Sirius’s behalf, the elf says with a decisive head nod, “Lord Sirius may not being a good Heir, but he is being a good Lord. Bringing power back into the family. Bringing you into the family. Kreacher is getting more magic again since Lord Sirius claimed his title. Kreacher has more magic than he has had in many, many years.”

“I see.” Harry said slowly, “So you don’t feel as if you’re being forced into anything. You’re happy as you are?”

The elf nods again in response, “Kreacher not knowing why your free elf is happy without the magic from bonded family, but Kreacher not be willing to go back to that again. Kreacher did not like being alone, with no magic shared. Kreacher is being happy now. Kreacher knows I is being very happy in future, when you and Lord Sirius make House of Black stronger than ever.”

Harry isn’t sure he understands Kreacher’s position. He would never be happy in Kreacher’s place - wasn’t in fact, when he fit the role of a House Elf for the Dursleys. But maybe caring about the family, and being cared for in return changed things. Harry had never felt like he was part of the Dursley family, and they had certainly not considered him anything but an unfortunate and unwelcome interloper in their home. But Kreacher clearly cared about the well-being of the Black family and seemed to benefit personally when the Blacks were strong.

Maybe Harry didn’t have to understand it.

“Alright then, but if that ever changes will you let me know? I’d like for you to continue to be happy.”

Something like a smile graces Kreacher’s face, and he reaches up to pat Harry’s hand where it rests on the table. “Heir is a good boy. But Heir should be finishing his milk and going back to bed. Weasley Mother wakes the household up early.”

As the elf putters back to the stove to clean up, Harry swallows down the last of the spiced milk before standing and handing over the empty mug with a murmured thanks.

On his return back to Ron’s bedroom upstairs, Harry pauses outside the drawing room Kreacher had found him in. The door creaks open to invite him in, but Harry finds himself untempted to explore the room again.

He thought that if Kreacher found him investigating whatever was to be found in there, he might be disappointed in Harry.

And Harry found himself strangely reluctant to disappoint the crotchety elf.

*

In the morning, Harry was indeed woken early by Mrs. Weasley, just as Kreacher warned him.

Ron’s mum knocked on the door loudly, jolting both of the room's inhabitants from sleep, then swung it open and cheerfully called out, “Good morning, boys! Breakfast is on the table, get dressed and come on down, dears. You’ll need to be done eating and out within the hour I’m afraid, there’s an Order meeting this morning.”

Harry was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when she bundled off and began knocking on the bedroom three doors down to wake Ginny and Hermione up.

“Uh. Blimey, I’m tired mate.” Ron said, still face down in his pillow, “Why’d we reckon it’d be a good idea to stay up so late?”

Harry laughs quietly, more of huff of breath than true laughter, and refrains from reminding Ron that he was the one that kept them up talking Quidditch long past the rest of the House had fallen asleep.

By the time the two of them shuffle downstairs, the girls and Sirius are already sat at the table, but Fred and George have yet to come down. Snagging the seat next to Padfoot, who is frowning over a letter that must have been delivered that morning, Harry greets both the girls who look barely more awake then he and Ron. When he asks, Mrs. Weasley tells Harry that Mr. Weasley and Bill, whom Harry had enjoyed catching up with the night before, had both left for work hours early to ensure they’d be able to take an early “lunch” to attend the Order meeting.

Just as Harry is about to reach for the plate of sausages, a plate loaded with a full English breakfast pops into place in front of him, followed a second later by a cup of tea. Glancing at the dish in front of Sirius, Harry sees the same fancy china that his breakfast was served on. The rest of Grimmauld’s inhabitants were making do with a plainer set of dishes. Still fancy by most people’s standards, but they lacked the gilded edges and detailed crest of the House of Black that Sirius and Harry’s plates displayed.

For all that Kreacher had been kind to him last night, Harry got the sense that was a side rarely, if ever shown to those outside the House of Black. Using different dishes for Harry and Sirius might be a bit petty, but if that’s what Kreacher needed to do to tolerate guests he disliked in the house, then Harry wouldn’t argue.

As Harry begins eating, Sirius folds up the letter, still frowning.

“Everything alright, Sirius?” Harry asks, a bit worried about whatever was in the letter.

His godfather's eyes close for just a moment, as his shoulders straighten and he takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry Harry, I received word from Saint Mungos this morning.” And Harry knows what the letter was about, even before Sirius finishes, “Petunia passed away last night. The healers said it was peaceful.”

Well it would be peaceful, wouldn’t it? The body that died was just a shell now. There wasn’t a person in there to feel pain anymore.

Ignoring the rest of the table's reactions for the moment - soft gasps, and an exclamation of “Oh dear!” from Mrs. Weasley, Harry asks, “Dudley?”

“Still living, but…well they said his condition is worsening. They expect him to pass within the next few days. We haven’t discussed it again, but if you were interested in visiting, you might not have the chance to visit for much longer.”

Harry’s nodding - not saying yes to visiting Dudley, he’s still considering that, but nodding to show he understands that whatever his decision is, it likely needs to be made now, or it will quickly become a moot point.

“Of course, he can’t go visit, Sirius! It’s unsafe. You-Know-Who could be watching for his arrival.” Mrs. Weasley interjected, “He needs to stay here!”

Harry feels his brows scrunch together in confusion. Isn’t Saint Mungos a pretty well-attended place? Sirius said Voldemort was trying to keep a low profile, it seems unlikely he’d blow that and show up at the largest hospital in Great Britain to kill Harry. It’s like the Quidditch game - as long as Harry is around other people, the witnesses should be a deterrent for any attacks, as long as the Death Eaters are still trying to stay under the radar.

Harry won’t be taking any solo strolls through London, but as long as he’s with others and stays alert, he doesn’t see the issue with being in public.

Barely flicking a glance at her before focusing back on Harry, Sirius replies “That’s not up to you, Molly. It’s Harry’s decision, and if it’s what he wants then I’ll make it happen.”

“Absolutely not!” Harry winces at the shrillness of Mrs. Weasley’s voice. “It’s a tragedy what happened to Harry’s relatives, but we don’t need anyone else getting injured this summer - certainly not Harry.”

Sirius ignored her and continued to watch Harry expectantly. Sensing she wouldn’t be convincing Sirius of anything, Mrs. Weasley looked to Harry.

“Harry, dear, your safety is the most important thing. You mustn’t go out where you’re not protected, and I’m sure Professor Dumbledore would agree with me.”

Well, that sold it then. Harry was still irritated enough with Dumbledore that he thought he’d do quite a few things that Dumbledore wouldn’t approve of, just out of spite.

Harry nods once decisively at Sirius, who stands and reaches across the table to squeeze Harry’s shoulder. “Can you be ready to go in an hour?” When Harry nods again, Sirius excuses himself from the room, once again ignoring Mrs. Weasley’s continuing diatribe.

*

Saint Mungo’s is deceptively calm. Harry always assumed that hospitals were frantic places, with doctors rushing from room to room, having to keep people from crossing that final threshold of death.

And Harry’s first impression of the Wixen hospital was close to that. The waiting room was a series of people rushing in with various injuries and ailments, and Harry had been half disgusted, half fascinated to watch while they waited for the Healer to collect them. But like a dam in a river, the frantic wixen met the ever-placid receptionist, who calmly directed each of them to the correct ward, barely blinking an eye at even the most gruesome injuries.

Once Healer Smithesson, the head healer for the Janus Thickey Ward, came down to guide them further into Saint Mungos, Harry found the mazelike hallways and smaller waiting rooms outside each ward to be nearly silent.

Sunlight flooded in through the windows, illuminating the hallways with pale morning light. Healers bustled along in simple robes, and most of the other visitors they encountered were preoccupied with worrying over their own loved ones, so no one seemed to notice that Harry Potter and Sirius Black were passing by.

Healer Smithesson spoke quietly as they walked the halls, telling them the history of the Ward, mostly for Harry’s benefit he assumes. Surely a healer would be able to read the anxiety that Harry’s exuding. Smithesson’s voice serenely describes the way Janus Thickey tried to fake his own death via Lethifold attack. Somehow that resulted in the Ward being named after him, but Harry tunes out most of Smithesson’s explanation.

As they approach the end of the hallway, passing the main doors into the Janus Thickey Ward, Harry feels Sirius reach up and extend his arm out to hold Harry by the shoulder. The private rooms are past the entrance, and Healer Smithesson stops next to a wooden door that’s been engraved with D. Dursley.

“Mr. Potter, while I’m sure you don’t have much experience with victims of a dementors kiss, you might be more familiar with the concept of a coma?” At Harry’s nod, the healer continues, “Your cousin will appear very similar to someone suffering from a coma. He is breathing on his own, and he might occasionally twitch or move his hands, but these are bodily reflexes. They are not in response to eternal stimuli.”

Harry nods in understanding and picks at the skin around his thumbnail, wishing the healer would stop speaking and just let him go in.

“I’m very sorry Mr. Potter, but your cousin has started to fade quite rapidly. His overall appearance might be quite different than the last time you saw him. I just want you to prepare yourself for this.” Here, the healer glances at Sirius and Harry sees Sirius nod slightly out of the corner of his eye, while the hand on his shoulder tightens to give Harry a comforting squeeze.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Visiting hours for the private rooms end at 9 o’clock tonight. There’s a cafeteria one floor down if you need refreshments, and on the nightstand in the room you’ll find a two way communication device. If you need anything, just touch your wand to it and you’ll be connected to myself or another healer on duty.”

Sirius thanks the older man, who nods graciously and sends one more sympathetic look at Harry, before opening the door to Dudley’s room. “I’ll leave you here with your family. Please don’t hesitate to use the communication device if you need anything or have any questions about Mr. Dursley.”

As the healer slips past them and into the main ward, Harry and Sirius remain outside of Dudley’s room.

For all that Harry wanted the healer to hurry it up a few moments ago, now that he's faced with the door in front of him Harry doesn’t want to go in.

He’s trying to “prepare himself” for Dudley’s changed appearance, but the Healer hadn’t given any more details as to what to expect. Just to expect something different than the Dudley in his memories.

Sirius takes a deep breath, and Harry just knows he’s going to offer to leave. Offer to swoop Harry back to Grimmauld or Aquarius House so he doesn’t have to face this, and Harry is so tempted to allow it. But then Dudley would die, and Harry would have lost all opportunity to see him.

Before Sirius can vocalize the offer, Harry forces himself to step forward into the room. There’s a hanging curtain between the door and the rest of the space, blocking the view from the hallway, and Harry cautiously pulls it back.

A “different appearance” is certainly right, is Harry’s first thought.

In the short time since the Dementor attack, Dudley has lost what has to be close to three stones. Although he’s still larger than the average fifteen year old, the rapid weight loss gives him the appearance of gauntness. His cheeks have hollowed, his hair thinned, and his skin is a grey tone that Harry thinks corpses must take on.

But still, his chest rises steadily, and the expression on his face, although mostly blank, doesn’t display any pain.

Harry takes the seat closest to the bed, and Sirius settles in on the chair beside him.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Harry asks, “What am I supposed to do?”

“What do you mean prongslet?”

“I mean I…I’m at his deathbed. Literally the only one who can, his parents are already dead, his friends won’t ever really know what happened to him. I’m the only one who can visit him like this and I…I hated him. He was awful to me. I can’t cry over him, I can’t sit here and say how much I’m going to miss him.” Harry can’t look away from the slowly dying boy on the bed, can’t stop counting Dudley’s breaths knowing that each one is taking his cousin closer and closer to when his breaths will stop. “But he’s still a person, people out there cared out him. And none of them can come and sit here with him before he dies. It’s just me.”

“Ahh.” Sirius nods in understanding, and thinks for a moment. “You know I read something once, or maybe someone told it to me, I can’t remember. But I believe that funerals, well, they’re not really for the dead. They’re for those of us left behind. We organize funerals, and write eulogies, and leave flowers, not for those who we’re missing, but for us. So we can express the grief, and pain, and love that we feel. And so that we can regonize that grief and love in others, and come together.

“And although this isn’t much of a funeral Harry, this visit, and what you say during it…it’s not for Dudley. For all intents and purposes, he’s already gone. He can’t hear what you say.” Sirius says with a little shrug, “ So, you don’t have to comfort him, you don’t have to forgive him, or memoralize him. You can say or do whatever you want that is going to help you.”

Harry considers this. He’s not sure what would help him. Part of him wants to scream and yell at his cousin, ask him why they had such a contentious relationship. Dudley didn’t have to fall in line with his parents thinking. Didn’t have to bully him, or beat him up, or treat him with such disdain. They could have been family. They were supposed to have been family.

The other part of Harry is so tired of being angry with so many people. Tired of people letting him down at all, but moreso tired of his own emotional responses to it. Yelling at Dudley might make him feel better in the moment, but he thinks eventually he’d regret it.

So for the time being, Harry says nothing at all.

*

They had been sitting quietly for some time - approximately 341 of Dudley’s steady breaths - before Harry broke the silence that they had lapsed into. “Do Wixen believe in Heaven? I mean, I haven’t exactly heard about churches that people are going to, but what do we believe about dying, and what comes after?”

“Well, just like with muggles there’s quite a lot of theories, and no one can agree on one thing.” Sirius tells him, “After much of the witch burnings and persecution of our kind was religion-based, our culture took a sharp turn away from any of the existing muggle religions. So you won’t find many wixen attending church. Unless they’re muggle-born of course. I was good friends with a boy in the year above who would step out for Salah.

“As for death…hmm. I guess most of us are pretty influenced by The Tale of the Three Brothers. We hear it growing up often enough anyways.” Sirius says with a shrug, “We see Death as a personification - similar to the Christian God, or the Greek Hades, and Death rules over a realm that we will all eventually travel to.”

“The Tale of Three Brothers? What’s that?”

Sirius looks a bit sheepish at Harry’s question, no doubt remembering that Harry wouldn’t have heard any Wixen stories growing up.

“Err, right. Of course. Well, there are a few different versions. I’ll track down a copy of the Tales of Beedle the Bard for you, so you can read the original. I’m sure there’s an heirloom copy in your vault somewhere. But the other kids in my family and I used to act out the Tale of Three Brothers, or, actually, it was the Tale of Three Sisters for us. We had to change things to better suit our playing.” Sirius’s voice has gone softer, and there’s a small smile on his face as he stares out the small window above Dudley’s bed.

“In our version, three sisters come across a seemingly unbeatable foe. Luckily for them, the sisters all have magic, and they are able to beat their enemy. But this wasn’t an ordinary foe, this was a trap set by Death itself, who had watched the sisters for some time, and wanted them for its realm. When they manage to escape the trap, Death is angered and confronts them. But instead of showing its rage at being beaten, the clever Death lays more traps.

“Death offers a boon to each sister. The oldest asks for an unbeatable weapon, so Death takes a branch from a nearby elder tree and turns it into a wand that cannot be defeated. The second sister requests a way to speak to those already in Death's realm, so Death picks up a simple stone from the ground and imbues it with the power to call forth the spirits of the dead. The final sister, the smartest of the lot, asks for a way to hide from Death. So Death takes off its own cloak and gives it to the last sister.”

“Of course, the wand and the stone eventually drove the two oldest siblings to their deaths. The wand was stolen, and the first sister was killed through trickery and deceit instead of a duel. The second sister went mad with grief when she could not feel the touch of her departed one-true-love, and she threw herself into the river to join him.”

“Only the youngest sibling truly outsmarted Death, and even that was only for a lifetime. Once she had reached an old age, she took off Death’s cloak and gave it to her eldest daughter, and then greeted Death like an old friend.”

At some point during the story, Sirius’s voice had taken on the tone of something oft-repeated, and Harry thought this must have been a recitation he had said so many times as a child that even three decades later he was still able to say it from memory.

“And thus Death was victorious in the end, with all three sisters joining it’s realm.”

“Sorry, but this is a children’s story?” Harry asks incredulously

Shaking his head slightly to clear it, Sirius starts to laugh at Harry’s question, “Hey now, Lily told me about some of the Brothers Grimm stories, and those are just as bad.”

Harry can’t exactly argue. When he was younger and hiding in the library he found the Grimms Fairy Tales and opened it curiously. He still gets creeped out when he thinks of the stepsisters in the original version of Cinderella cutting off parts of their feet to fit into the glass slippers.

“It was our favorite story, both to hear and to act out. Bella was always the oldest sister, she liked the dramatics of it. Fighting duels and then being killed by a jealous rival for the source of her power. Dromeda was the middle sister, she thought that was the most romantic, even with the tragic end. Which left Cissy to be the youngest. She claimed it suited her, as even then what she wanted most was to have children – children to carry on her legacy.

We had to change the story up so Regulus could be the danger they defeated – it couldn’t be something as simple as a river like what the original Brothers faced. Sometimes he was a troll or a dark wizard. Once he was a rampaging dragon, which he loved, but we were banned from that rendition when he broke some antiques. Mother was furious.”

Sirius’s voice petered out, and his gaze was still distant. Harry thought that despite only still being on speaking terms with one of the family members he mentioned, these memories were still good ones.

“Who were you? If they were the siblings and the danger that was faced. What were you pretending to be?” Harry asks quietly, although he could already guess at the answer.

Sirius’s eyes flick back to Harry, and with a rueful smile he says, “I was always Death. Ironic really, considering my eventual Animagus form. I’ve always wondered if that somehow influenced my form. If maybe I would have been some other kind of dog if I hadn’t had such a soft spot for Death.”

*

Harry’s still thinking about Sirius’s story when they leave Saint Mungos a while later. Sirius had received a patronus from Remus, asking if they could meet up so Remus could “update him on recent events.”

Sirius thought it was probably something out of the Order meeting that must have wrapped up while they were still visiting Dudley. He had sent a return patronus offering to meet at a pub they had passed down the street from the hospital for a late lunch.

They had spent more time in Dudley’s room than Harry expected, they had arrived late morning and it was already nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. Most of their time in Saint Mungos was spent in silence, with Sirius leaving Harry to work through his thoughts on Dudley and what happened to him.

In fact, every conversation they had - brief as most of them were, was initiated by Harry. Sirius had always replied when Harry said something, and at one point stepped out to fetch them both tea and a plate of scones, but otherwise, he let Harry be.

At the end of their visit, Harry had finally found the words he wanted to say to his cousin. When Sirius stepped out to speak to his patronus, Harry had scooted his chair closer to Dudley’s bedside and reached out to grasp Dudley’s cool hand in his.

Harry had whispered to his cousin that while he wasn’t quite ready to forgive the years of tormenting, Harry thought that one day he might be able to, and he hoped Dudley would forgive Harry for landing Dudley in the danger that cost him his life. Harry decided that he would mourn the Dudley that could-have-been. The cousin and friend Dudley should have been when they were younger, and the adult he should have grown to be.

Harry still felt the burden of the Dursleys' deaths, but it was a lighter weight than when he had entered Saint Mungos that morning.

Harry’s just a few steps behind Sirius, thoughts preoccupied with the thought of Dudley’s inevitable death, when it happens. He’s not paying nearly enough attention to where he’s walking and completely misses that there’s a step-down.

He feels that awful sense of the ground dropping beneath him, as his foot continues past where he thinks there will be pavement, and he begins to topple over directly into the intersection where cars are whizzing past.

Before he can fall face forward into oncoming traffic, a hand wraps around his arm and there’s a sharp yank pulling him back onto the pavement.

Harry looks up, ready to thank Sirius for the near save, only to meet an unfamiliar face. Warm brown eyes, tight curls, and a kind smile greet him instead.

“Careful there, Harry. I know we’re close to the hospital, but that’s no reason to take a swan dive into the road.” The strangers voice is gentle, a contrast to the firm grip she still has on his arm.

Immediately, Harry feels another hand - Sirius this time - come up and rest on his shoulder, gripping him tight, and he can practically feel the suspicious glare that’s being leveled over his head. If the woman who caught him is at all intimidated by Sirius’s unspoken threats, she gives no indication of it, and just continues to smile down at Harry fondly.

“Err, of course. Thanks for that, wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Ahh, well there’s your problem then! You’ve got to keep your chin up. So you can see where you’re headed.” She tells him cheerfully. She looks briefly up at Sirius, and sends him a serene smile as well, before looking back to Harry.

“Have a good day, Harry.” And without another word, she turns and walks in the direction they came from.

“Did you know her, Harry?” Sirius asks, still staring after the woman with mistrust clear in his expression.

“No. Never seen her before. But look - she’s going into Saint Mungos. She must know me from the paper or something,” Harry offers as a reason as to why she knew his name, “At least she was friendly, and didn’t call me a nutter.”

“Hmm.” Sirius still seems skeptical but drops it as the crossing is finally clear and they continue along the last stretch before the pub.

Remus isn’t there yet, so they seat themselves and order drinks from the bored waitress who wanders over after a few minutes. Once she returns and drops off their cokes, Sirius throws up a privacy ward to keep anyone nearby from overhearing.

“How are you really doing, Harry? The past few weeks - since last October really, when your name came out of the damned cup, has been a lot to deal with.”

“I’m..alright I guess.” Harry takes a sip of his drink to try and avoid Sirius’s knowing gaze, “Or maybe not alright, but more just…trying to get through it all, you know. This summer has been great, and I’ve loved all the stories you told me about mum and dad, but seeing Dudley like that…well, it reminded me they were only a few years older than me when they died.”

“They’ve always seemed so..larger than life, I guess.” Harry struggles to put his thoughts into words that Sirius would understand, “Thinking about the fact that I’m only a few years away from…from being older than they ever were. That’s hard. I’ll be older than Dudley soon. And…and Cedric within a couple of years. It just makes me wonder is all, what they would have done with more time.”

“Yeah, I think about that a lot too,” Sirius says quietly, his turn to avoid eye contact.

“You do?”

“Yeah, of course, kiddo. Mostly when I’m trying to figure out how to take care of you. I try and think about what your mum and dad would have done if they had been able to raise you.”

Harry’s not sure why this surprises him. Sirius has said he wasn’t sure what he was doing in this newly acquired parent role before, but in action, he had always seemed so sure of himself.

“Well, I can’t speak as to what Dudley and Cedric would have done. But as to your parents, before they went into hiding, James was halfway through Auror training and your mum was studying for the entrance exams to be a healer. Sometimes, when I’m missing them the most, I like to pretend that’s where they are. James is just off tracking down a potions smuggler or something, and Lily is pulling an all-nighter to heal someone. I think they would have devoted their lives to helping others, and it’s terrible that we were robbed of them. Not just those of us who love them best, but the world lost two people that would have been forces for good.”

Harry considers the idea of it. His parents, an auror and a healer raising him. James teaching him basic defense spells before he goes to Hogwarts. His mum healing the typical bumps and bruises that come in childhood. Maybe Lily would have made up with her sister at some point, and Dudley would have been a true cousin - someone he saw at holidays and family reunions and would share eye rolls with when their parents would drink a little too much eggnog.

It’s a fantasy, but a comforting one.

He’s still imagining it when Remus plops down in the chair next to him, immediately reaching out and stealing Sirius’s glass of soda and taking a drink.

“You should have spiked that, Pads. I think I need some alcohol after the Order meeting.” Remus says, after shoving the now half empty glass back across the table.

“Yes, hello to you too, old friend. Feel free to help yourself.”

Remus rolls his eyes at Sirius’s exasperated tone, and gives Harry a one armed hug. “And how are you Harry. Molly said you were visiting your cousin today.”

Remus’s amber eyes are warm as he looks at Harry, his expression light, but the concern in his voice is clear.

“I’m alright, Remus.” Harry doesn’t want to keep talking about Dudley. He feels wrung out, and anyway the only person he would be comfortable enough with to discuss it is Sirius. “Tell us about the Order meeting?”

“Yes, it was quite an interesting meeting. The highlights are, we still don’t have much clue what You-Know-Who is up to, besides recruiting and trying to get some laws pushed through the Wizengamot. More of the same really.”

They pause here as the Waitress returns to take Remus’s drink order - scotch, neat - and their lunch requests.

Once she’s left the perimeter of the privacy ward, Remus continues, “The big news is on our end. Dumbledore is pulling back all guard rotations at the ministry. Says they’re not needed.”

Sirius frowns, “That makes no sense. You said all summer he was insisting protecting the ministry was one of the most crucial things we could do to prevent his return to power, and now Albus has just…changed his mind? Has the ministry already fallen to him?”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t really give much explanation - you know how he is, he just bloody twinkled at all of us and smiled that damn annoyingly secretive grin, and then guided the discussion on to other things. We’re to focus on recruiting as well. With an emphasis on aurors and politicians, but I think he’ll take anyone.”

“Huh. It’s quite the reversal of his plans from earlier in summer.” For Harry’s benefit, Sirius explained, “Other than keeping watch at the ministry - er, and at Privet Drive - we were to keep a low profile. Recruiting efforts were going to be pretty minimal. I believe Albus described it as a “quality over quantity” strategy.”

“Yes, most of the Order was surprised as well. One more thing…” Remus glances apologetically at Harry when he says, “Albus seemed a bit…disinterested in Harry. Molly raised her concerns again about you being his guardian, specifically referencing your trip to the hospital today. And Albus, well, he wasn’t uncaring, but he seemed much more laissez-faire about Harry than he ever has in the past.”

Harry feels a vicious kind of joy fill him and he has to restrain himself from smiling. For once, Dumbledore was leaving him alone and not sticking his big old beard into Harry’s business.

Maybe the Obliviate failed, and he’s furious and decided to wash his hands of me. Maybe I did it wrong and he’s forgotten all about me. Whatever the case may be, I’m going to enjoy it for as long as it lasts.

Harry ignores the troubled look Sirius is struggling to hide. Padfoot can be worried about the potential repercussions and meanings of this, Harry’s not going to question it.

By the time their food is delivered, Remus has finished catching them up on the Order business, although there wasn’t much else that was discussed that day. Before the two men can devolve into examining everything said at the meeting further, Harry shifts the conversation to Defense Against the Dark Arts books that Remus recommends, which devolves into other books that Harry would find useful but aren’t typically recommended on the Hogwarts Reading List.

Remus declines dessert, as Dumbledore has a few errands for him to run for the Order before the end of the day, but Harry and Sirius linger over fresh peach cobbler.

Harry is savoring the last bite of sweet peaches and creamy vanilla ice cream when he catches another searching look from Sirius.

Putting his spoon down, Harry meets his gaze, “I’m okay Padfoot. Really,” he promises.

“Today was hard. And, I dunno, I’ll probably be upset about Dudley for a while. But going today, and having the chance to see and talk to him. You were right, it was for me. And I feel, better, I guess. It’s like I took a bottle of skelegrow. It hurts, but I think it’s a healing hurt.”

Sirius reaches across the table and grips Harry’s hand for a moment. “Sounds like you got some closure, and I’m glad. It’s a powerful thing.”

Harry thinks about closure, and other losses he’s experienced without any closure, and asks “Can we go to Godric’s Hollow?” Sirius looks startled at the thought, and Harry continues, “I’d like to see the house, and the - the graves. I think that might give me closure too.” Sirius’s expression melts into one of understanding and shared grief.
“Of course, kiddo. I can’t believe I haven’t offered to take you there yet. Of course, I’ll take you there.”

“Thanks Pads. Not today, I think I’ve met my limit for emotions today, to be honest. Maybe not even before I go back to school. I’d just like to go there at some point.”

“I get it Prongslet. We’ll go whenever you’re ready.”

Sirius returns to his dessert, and Harry picks up his spoon to play with the melted ice cream and peach juices left on his empty plate.

This whole summer was a bit like downing a bottle of skelegrow, he thinks. Painful as hell, and at times it felt like Harry was outgrowing his own skin. But even with so much up in the air, with the deaths of the Dursleys, and Dumbledore up to who knows what, and Voldemort running around being his evil self…Harry still thinks he’s better off now than he was before this whole mess.

He’s got his Godfather, who currently has chocolate frosting smeared on his mouth. He has his friends back at Grimmauld, who have always been by his side through all the messes he finds himself in.

And Harry has himself. And Harry may be a bit lost sometimes, but if this summer has taught him anything it’s that he’ll always pull through.