Chapter Text
Harry is home alone one blistery summer day. Home may be an ill-fitting word, but it works. Regardless, Uncle Vernon is out at work, Aunt Petunia out with her book club, and his cousin Dudley out running around doing whatever happy and wicked boys do when they’re unsupervised. He's weeding the garden while he mulls over this momentary freedom.
Between the incident at the zoo the week prior and the letters that have been coming since then, he’s been on his best behavior; but maybe he’ll try and eat something if he finishes his chores early enough. The sun starts to poke through the clouds, as if the gods were smiling down at the idea of him having some sort of hope. He sits back on his heels, tilts his head back to feel the warmth on his face. Maybe today won’t be so bad.
No sooner than he finishes wiping a bit of sweat off his brow does he hear the engine. It's unusual because they live in a peaceful sort of suburbia. If someone's car sounded like that it meant they were taking it to the shop. Harry turns, curious, and sees a very tall man in a helmet step off a motorbike. When he takes off the helmet, Harry sees that he has longer hair than he’s ever seen on a man. Then Harry sees the man turn his gaze on him. His eyes widen with shock as the man smiles at him. He's just about to walk onto the lawn when Harry shouts in what he deems, in hindsight, to be the weirdest sense of instinctual self preservation he’d ever had. “Wait! don’t walk on the grass please,” he yelps, throwing his hands up. the man stops mid-movement, his boot hovering above a hedge. Harry scurries over to the concrete walkway, wringing his hands.
“Sorry about that, kid.” the man says, still grinning. He walks up to Harry, who takes two steps back, and kneels down. “Your aunt and uncle home?” Harry frowns, not sure how the man knows the Dursleys aren’t his parents. He shakes his head anyway. The man looks a tad stumped about this, as if he doesn’t really know how to continue the conversation.
“Would you like some water?” Harry asks, all of his stranger danger lessons flying out into the street. “I-I’m not supposed to let you inside but you can drink it out here?” The man chuckles. “No thank you, but you’re kind to offer.”
There’s a pause. Harry's manners only win out over his curiosity for so long. “Who are you?” he asks. The man seems surprised by the question. “W- it’s just we don’t get many non-family visitors, and they wouldn’t have left if they invited someone over.” He elaborates, not wanting to offend. The man chuckles again and rests a hand on Harry's shoulder. “It's alright Harry. you can relax.” He says amusedly, and Harry is surprised that he knows his name. Before he can ask, however, the man answers his last question. “I’m Sirius Black. Your godfather.” Harry is surprised yet again.
Something like a dream floats into his head. A woman laughing as she clutches him close. A man cooing as he cradles his face. He can see himself holding his arms out to a blurred figure, as a woman speaks to him. “Say hi Harry,” she says, “say hi to Uncle Padfoot.”
When Harry blinks back into real life, the man— sirius black— is watching him patiently. He has to blink a few times to fully dislodge the fuzzy memory from his view. His eyebrows furrow against his will as he whispers softly, “Uncle… Padfoot?”
Now it’s Sirius’s turn to be surprised. His face brightens with glee then crumples into something that reminds him of a small dog. Then he is pulled into a warm embrace, and he almost panics before he realizes how gentle it is. His godfather presses his face into his neck, murmuring something that he can't really make out because of the way his mustache tickles his neck and his voice vibrates through his skin. But then the hug is over, much too soon for Harry’s liking. His godfather is warm, and seems to actually like him. Sirius holds him at arms length, his silver and teary eyes searching his face. Then Harry’s back in his arms, and this time he can actually understand his words. “You really remember.” He’s saying, “I’ll be the best uncle, I promise.” He doesn’t seem to want a response, so Harry stays quiet. A strange feeling defrosts the constant chill in his chest, the cold emptiness that’s followed him for as long as he can remember. It feels as though something warm blooms in its place, right inside his heart. He didn’t realize being held felt so nice.
Eventually Sirius gets his fill of hugging Harry, who insists on getting him something to drink. Then they sit on the porch as Sirius tells him about his new school, his lineage, and his magic. Harry finds himself very overwhelmed with this knowledge, lightheaded and in need of a lie down. Sirius seems to notice as much and pulls him in to rest his head against his side. “That must be a lot for a tiny baby like you huh? You have any questions?”
Harry thinks for a moment, and then remembers the things Aunt Petunia says to him when something strange happens. “Did people really think my mom was horrible?” Sirius makes a face at this, like the question itself was dumbfounding. He’s about to backtrack, apologize, when Sirus’ expression changes from confusion to a sort of pity.
“Oh Harry, your mother was an angel. Truly we didn’t deserve her, but she loved us so much anyway. There wasn’t a hateful bone in her body, not even for people that really deserved it.” Harry has never heard such nice words about anyone, and the bittersweet tone in his voice makes him wanna cry. Swallowing the lump in his throat he asks shakily, “And my father? Was he good too?” Sirius’ answer isn’t as fast as the one previous, and when he does find his words he still hesitates. “He… grew to be. But he was honest, and caring, and just. I think the world could use more people like him.” There was a certain shame to his eyes that made Harry think to ask more questions, but he held back.
“Thank you for telling me that. And for visiting me at all, but you should probably be going now. Aunt Petunia will be home soon and I don’t want you to startle her.” Harry says meekly and gently. Sirius turns to look at him.
“Shouldn’t I stay? Talk to them about taking you to Hogwarts?”
“Oh I’m not sure if that's a good idea. They’ll be pretty cross. They don’t really like freak-ish stuff and I don’t want you to have to see them cross.”
Something strange flashes across his godfather’s face, something like anger but different. “What do you mean ‘freak-ish stuff?’” Part of Harry, the braver, larger part of Harry, knows he shouldn’t feel fear in this moment. But there’s a smaller weaker part of him that raises his hackles and makes him want to run away.
“Oh- I didn’t mean that you were freak-ish, just that I am. Like, when I set the snake at the zoo free? That’s something freak-ish.” The look on Sirius’ face deepens into a sneer, before he schools his face into that of compassion. Harry thinks the unknown of the latter is scarier than the survivable former.
“Harry,” he starts, holding his face in his hands, “You are not a freak. Magic is not freak-ish. You are an amazing person, and if anyone ever tries to tell you otherwise you need to tell me as soon as you can, okay?” Sirius stares intently into the boy’s eyes. Harry hesitates, deliberating in his mind on whether he should ask for materials to write a letter with instead of risking getting caught stealing some. Sirius frowns at his silence. “I’m serious. I need you to promise me.”
Harry bites his lip trying not to snicker at the almost joke there, and nods. “I promise. But I'm not really supposed to send letters, or get them, or anything.” Sirius’ hands fall from his face and he moves backwards on the porch some, so he has room to turn his body more towards Harry.
“What do you mean you aren’t supposed to?
“Well mostly I’m not really supposed to remind anyone that I exist more than I have to.” Sirius stares into Harry's eyes with an intensity that nearly frightens him. Then he takes a deep breath and the intensity melts into compassion.
“Harry, do you like living here? With these people?” he asks, confusing Harry a little. Not because the question is hard to answer, (Of course he doesn’t. Who would?) but because its a pointless question. When has it ever mattered what he likes? What he wants? Even if he did get fed up with the Dursleys and decided to move out, where would he go? Who would want him? He shakes his head no, shoulders tense in wariness.
“Would you like to stay with me for a while? Even if it’s just for the rest of the summer, I don’t know if I’d be able to sleep at night knowing I left you in a house you hated.” Harry’s eyes widen, then narrow in suspicion.
“Do you mean it?” Sirius nods. “Really? You want me to live with you?” Sirius nods again, and smiles teasingly.
“Harry, you're my godson. I want nothing more in the world than to take care of you.” He smoothes Harry’s hair out of his face and tears well up in the boy’s eyes. He can’t remember ever being wanted for anything more than a cleaning service or a punching bag. He can’t remember ever being looked at or touched so gently, like he was something precious. The unknown of the situation terrified him.
“I’d love to live with you.” He mumbles, and looks down to where his hands rest in his lap. Then Sirius wraps his arms around his shoulders again and the dam breaks. Harry is crying softly into the nice leather of his godfather's jacket as he rubs his back comfortingly. They sit like that for a long while, even after Harry’s tears run dry and his head has started to hurt from the hunger, heat, and dehydration.
But alas, all good things must come to an end. Sirius pulls back from Harry slowly, and wipes his thumb under the boys eyes. “When would you like to move in?”
Despite his desire to be held for longer (as long as possible. Until the end of time if he had it his way), Harry’s face breaks into a slow grin. “Right now,” he says. “I don’t want to be here any longer. If that’s alright.” Sirius smiles and kisses his forehead. The intimate action startles Harry, and the flower of warmth spreads through his chest.
“Do you think you’ll need help packing?” He asks, and it makes Harry laugh. The only things he “owns” are Dudley’s old hand-me-downs and he hates those, only wears them at all because no one will give him anything else. Sirius seems the type to give him anything else.
“I don’t have anything to pack unfortunately. So we can just leave right now right?” Harry stands and grabs their forgotten glasses to take them back inside. Sirius follows him in a confused daze.
“What do you mean?” He asks as Harry moves on autopilot around the house, checking that everything is in order before he leaves. He straightens the shoes in the shoe rack, wipes down the kitchen counter, fluffs the couch cushions, refills the ice cube tray, and is about to start sweeping when Sirius takes him by the shoulders. “Harry, are you feeling okay?” He asks, face twisted in genuine concern. Harry looks startled at the contact, before his cheeks tinge pink ever so slightly.
“I-I’m sorry. I just thought I’d make sure everything was in order, so I wouldn’t get in trouble for not doing my chores.” Sirius’ looks at him playfully and pinches his cheek.
“Not your chores to worry about if you don’t live here anymore are they?” Harry cocks his head as he considers this and Sirius chuckles at him. “Well if you’re sure there’s nothing you want to take, let's get a move on then yeah? We’ll be home in time for lunch and you can fill us in on how your life’s been this past decade.” He says as he ushers his godson through the door. As Harry locks it behind them and Sirius fits a helmet on him, he wonders what Sirius will get out of letting Harry live with him.
It isn’t until they’re in the sky and the rush of wind would drown out his voice that he registers Sirius’ odd use of the word “us.”