Chapter Text
It was what Sirius liked to call an ‘easy morning’ at 12 Grimmauld Place. He had an opportunity to sleep in, and a restful sleep to wake from. Harry had set off at dawn to spend time at Diagon Alley with Ron and Hermione, so excited their schedules had finally coordinated. He’d be away all day, which gave Sirius plenty of alone time to spend with his husband.
Upon entering the kitchen to make breakfast, the sight of a sink devoid of dishes should’ve delighted Sirius, by all accounts.
However, upon crossing the linoleum, his brows drew together. Standing there in his flannels, a pit of dread opened in Sirius’ stomach.
It was a particular sinking feeling he’d come to recognize over the years: one, he often felt, gave him more trouble than it was worth.
Sirius quickly cleared his throat, and forced some lightness into his voice.
“Dear,” Sirius called out. “I’m going to give the Weasley’s a house call.”
Ever the early riser, Remus’ voice floated out from two rooms over. “What for?”
Drawing his wand from his pocket, Sirius prepared to apparate. “Just a social visit,” Sirius assured him, turning on his heel. “Be back soon.”
But Remus was already at the threshold, a dour, knowing look on his face.
“You’re not dressed for a social occasion,” Remus pointed out.
Sirius smiled tightly, caught in the trap. “No, I suppose not.”
Remus’ eyes flickered over to the sink, then back to Sirius.
“It’s about Harry, isn’t it?”
“As astute as ever, Remus,” Sirius said, nodding slowly. Then: “I’m worried about him.”
“I am too,” Remus replied, surprising Sirius. He winced, shutting his eyes tightly for a beat. “I meant to sit him down for a talk, but it’s been a week of terrible headaches. It’s gotten to the point where I can hardly sort one thought from the other.”
Sirius’ heart cracked. He hated to see Remus in pain from his lycanthropy.
And he hated it even more when Remus still tried to hide it from him.
“I know,” Sirius said, gentle as feathers. “I’d do anything to take it from you.”
Remus offered a half grin, passing a hand over his face. “It’s just in the week before the full moon. It’ll be over soon. And only this round of potions has a nasty side effect. I’ll not be using Madame Trisbane again.” Remus sighed longingly. “Almost makes me wish Severus were still here to bother us. His elixirs went down the smoothest.”
“Don’t inflate a dead man’s ego, now,” Sirius warned, rubbing some life into Remus’ arms. “His ghost might float up and really start bothering us.”
“I imagine you’re scared of that the most,” Remus replied, finding the energy to boop noses with Sirius. “Peace already made or not.”
Sirius pressed a quick kiss to Remus’ lips. “I think that’s all the Severus talk I can take for today,” he announced, sidestepping Remus. “I’ll change into something more appropriate and be off. Rest while I’m gone.”
“Oh, I need no coercion,” Remus said, waving Sirius off. He paused before adding: “I hope Molly and Arthur can help us fill in some of the blanks.”
“You and I both,” Sirius agreed.
But some deeper part of him wondered if he really wanted to know at all.
Or, if he already knew, and couldn’t stand the truth.
Sirius first noticed Harry’s odd behavior three months into his stay at 12 Grimmauld.
After the Battle of Hogwarts ended, Harry immediately wanted to move in with Sirius and Remus. He already had one foot out of the Burrow when Sirius and Remus had to break the bad news: 12 Grimmauld was not yet ready for visitors.
They asked for six weeks to complete renovations. Harry protested that he knew quite a bit about house maintenance and could help, but Sirius insisted on Harry having his proper goodbyes at the Burrow. Harry had been disappointed to not be included in the new construction, Sirius could tell, but this wasn’t a simple project.
Sirius clung to those six weeks, to get himself together.
In truth, he and Remus could have probably had Harry’s room ready by the Battle of Hogwarts, if not for the house’s effect on Sirius. He’d struggled to tear down multiple parts of his family home, feeling like he was injuring part of himself. He worked, half-terrified the apparition of his parents might glower at him from the mirror. The work was far more emotionally taxing than physical--much more than he’d anticipated, when he insisted on living with Harry here.
There were times when Sirius walked into a room and immediately turned around, overwhelmed by memories. Ghosts moaned his name at night, wandering the half-wrecked halls. Sadness and anger flooded him equally, at random times, and Sirius wondered if this was the right move. He knew Remus wondered it too, but was too polite to ask.
For hours, Sirius would sit in the decaying room of his family tree, his eyes roaming the dead and the wicked, and wonder why he was still here. Why his burnt-out image was the only one that had stayed. If he really deserved to be here at all.
Renovating that room had been the most liberating. Once Sirius’ ax struck the mural, a laugh bubbled out of him. Remus’ worried aura broke, and they both laughed until they choked, gasping for air.
From there, 12 Grimmauld Place started to feel more like their own. Knocking walls down and painting fresh ones; removing the faint scent of mold and putting up bright lights--every positive action took Sirius one step further away from his insecurity.
He had finally made something of himself. He could stand in his foyer, in his own home, proud to be a husband and a father. Sirius would be able to give Harry everything that hadn’t been given to him, and the thought sent a rush of happy, nervous energy through him.
Harry had been blown away, upon arrival. He marveled at everything Sirius and Remus had accomplished. He grinned and cheered, excitedly pointing out every new fixture and faucet. He offered endless compliments, walking through the first floor and up the stairs. He was a positive chatterbox, up until Sirius directed him to a door with his name on it.
Harry’s voice failed him, and his step faltered. He stood outside the threshold, eyes fixed on the thin, brass letters of his own name. A mix of reverence and confusion swirled in his misty gaze, like he couldn’t trust what he was seeing.
“Is this mine?” he finally asked, nearly too quiet for Sirius to hear.
“Of course you’d have your own room,” Remus said, hands clasped behind his back. He looked proudly down at Harry, quirking an eyebrow. “You didn’t expect us to have you sleep in the bathtub, did you?”
Harry flushed, turning his head.
“No,” he said, just as quiet. His hand tightened on the strap of his bookbag: his only other piece of luggage, besides the one downstairs. “I just--I’ve never had my own. The dorms at Hogwarts; sharing a room with Ron, at the Burrow; I’m not--” Harry’s eyes widened as he peeked through the crack.
“That is a huge bed.”
With that comment, Sirius considered their efforts a success.
At first, Sirius was blinded by his elation at getting to spend more than a night or two with Harry. Here, they could really get to know one another, and grow together. In the next few months, Sirius became well acquainted with all the little mannerisms Remus had already picked up on, working with Harry at Hogwarts.
Sirius knew about how Harry bit his lip before a touchy question. How he could sleep anywhere, in any position, and how the end of his laugh often curled upward into a childlike giggle. He even noticed that Harry, without fail, preferred to put his left shoe on before his right.
But, once the newness wore off, Sirius picked up on something else.
Harry didn’t take food without permission.
There was a day when Sirius rounded the corner to the kitchen, and found Harry already there, taking an apple from the counter.
When Sirius’ gaze landed on him, Harry dropped the apple like it was on fire. He froze, and a shiver went down Sirius’ spine at the glassy, fearful look in Harry’s eyes.
The sight of it made Sirius’ stomach lurch.
“I was just about to make lunch,” Sirius announced, pushing through the sensation. He approached Harry and drew him into a one-armed hug, smiling warmly. “You can still have the apple as a snack, though, if you want.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” Harry said, the fear melting from his eyes. He returned Sirius’ grin and asked: “Do you need any help?”
And Sirius had accepted, because he found Harry to be a well-trained cooking partner. He liked the time they spent together, working in tandem. Harry was quick with a knife, anticipated directions, and put together most meals in less than thirty minutes. In truth, Harry seemed content to spend more time in the kitchen than anywhere else.
Whenever Sirius and Remus had business that took them away from the house, without fail, they would return to a thoughtful dinner prepared by Harry. If Remus didn’t get to it first, Harry would be up making breakfast for the three of them. As long as Sirius and Remus provided the ingredients, Harry cooked the day away.
But then, Sirius started to notice, it wasn’t just cooking.
Harry’s culinary expertise could’ve certainly been excused as a hobby, if not for the other behaviors.
Remus had sneezed once in Harry’s presence, idly complaining of the dust in the living room. Since then, the shelves and bookcases were always clean to the touch. The hardwood was swept and shining, the stairs notably glossy when the daylight hit them.
Unlike when Sirius and Remus lived alone, the trash cans never reached above capacity. The windows lost their smudges and dirt; the house smelling perpetually of lemon and cleanser. The bathrooms stayed neatly stocked and tidy, to the point where Sirius was genuinely starting to wonder if a house elf had snuck in.
Coming home to find his and Remus’ clothes folded on their bed was the final straw.
Sirius knocked on Harry’s door, even though it was half open already. Sirius had yet to see it fully shut, and he didn’t quite know what to make of that.
Hearing him approach, Harry lifted his head from his desk, a smile automatically filling his face. “Hey, Sirius,” he greeted him, standing and abandoning his project.
Another thing Sirius had picked up on. Whenever someone addressed him, Harry gave them his full attention. At first, Sirius had chalked it up to politeness.
Now? Now he could hardly be sure of anything.
“Hello, Harry,” Sirius said, stepping inside. He clasped his hands together, keeping his tone light. “I noticed you did the laundry.”
Sirius expected Harry to brush him off, in that kind way of his that showed he still didn’t know how to take a compliment. Humble Harry, uninterested in being praised for “just doing the right thing.” Sirius thought he knew his godson so well.
But, like the apple had proven, some deeper instinct ran through Harry: one which occasionally made him a stranger wearing a loved one’s face.
Harry’s smile vanished. His posture straightened, at the same time his head lowered. The fear was back, shimmering behind his irises, as he guiltily asked:
“Did I do something wrong?”
Sirius faltered, caught off guard. “What?”
“I can fold it differently,” Harry insisted. “Just let me know. I would press your clothes, too, but we don’t have an iron, and--” Harry blinked rapidly, mouth falling open slightly. “I’m an idiot. I could just buy one.”
Rolling his eyes, Harry pulled on a jacket and moved to walk past Sirius.
“So stupid. How can I still not be used to having money? I’ll be back soon, okay?”
Sirius caught Harry’s arm, bringing him back around. He opened his mouth, but whatever he wanted to say never came out.
Because, under Sirius’ hand, Harry flinched.
Sirius immediately let go of Harry, insisting “It’s okay, it’s okay” at the same time Harry was saying “Sorry, I’m sorry”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Sirius said. “It was my fault for moving so quickly. I shouldn’t have startled you.”
“It’s nothing,” Harry replied, clearly wanting to avoid the issue.
Sirius paused for a beat, then pressed his luck.
“Harry, you’re not an idiot,” he stated. “You don’t have to--do all this. It has been you, hasn’t it? Doing all the chores?”
Embarrassed, Harry nodded once. He worked at a muscle in his jaw, dropping eye contact as he muttered:
“Didn’t want to make a big deal about it. It’s not that much work to have to get done.”
“Remus and I are adults,” Sirius said patiently. “We can take care of ourselves.”
“I know,” Harry said quickly. “I wasn’t saying you can’t. But--but it’s just what I should do, right? Help out?”
“It’s a kind gesture, yes,” Sirius agreed. “But even though Remus and I may be old dogs, we can still handle fetching our own laundry.”
Harry relaxed slightly at the awful joke. However, his hands still twisted the hem of his shirt as he spoke.
“You don’t need rent money from me,” he pointed out. “You said I don’t need to pay for utilities or groceries. I feel like I’m here for free, and that’s...” Harry blew out a frustrated breath. “That’s not okay.”
“Why not?” Sirius asked.
As far as Sirius was concerned, this was supposed to be their paradise. Spending time together as a family, in a clean, safe, house. Eating as much food as they wanted. Freedom to go wherever they wanted; freedom to have friends over, and be as loud as they liked. No poverty, no violence, no enemies--against all odds, they’d turned a pipe dream into reality.
So why didn’t Harry look happy?
But Harry’s lips twisted shut, and Sirius knew a losing battle when he saw one. This wasn’t the time or the circumstance to have a conversation like this.
Burying his need to settle this now, Sirius smiled and took Harry’s hand in his. He patted the back of it, waiting until Harry met his eyes.
“Why don’t I go to the store with you?” Sirius suggested. “You’re right: we don’t have an iron, and I know nothing about them. I think there’s a lot you could teach me.”
A slow, hesitant smile broke Harry’s lips.
“Alright.”
Sirius thought that was the end of it. Ironing the folds of Remus’ cloaks and ties, they had a short conversation about responsibilities. Namely, Harry taking on less of them. Sirius encouraged Harry to sit back and spend time with friends, or find new hobbies. If he needed to keep his hands busy, there were other methods.
And Harry had nodded. Harry had listened. He had talked to Ron and Hermione, and discussed learning to bake with Ginny.
But several times over the next week, Sirius’ eyes shot open to those old ghost-steps haunting the hallways.
At first, he chalked it up to his old insecurities returning, feeling like a failure of a guardian. But, after the third instance, Sirius realized the feet were neither heeled nor booted. Someone was tip-toeing around in socks.
Someone who had very nearly memorized all the creaks in the hall.
Sirius waited 15 minutes, then left his bed. He skulked around his own home, following the sound of movement down the stairs.
Harry was quiet, but Sirius had the hearing of a hunting dog.
And there he found Harry, knelt in front of the bookshelf, dusting knick knacks at two in the morning.
Two days later, Sirius found the dishes he’d expressly ordered Harry to leave undone vanished from the sink. Washed, dried, and tucked into their places. The floor beneath his feet freshly waxed and shining, sun streaming through the previously-dirty kitchen window.
And that was when Sirius knew he was missing something critical--something necessary--because this wasn’t normal.
And so, on pins on needles, he turned his feet to the Burrow.