192Chapter 28
"We don't have to go…"
At the mumbled statement, Sirius lifted his eyes up from the fraying rug below his feet. Harry sat next to him, slumped against the sofa's backrest, his chin hanging on his chest as he picked absently at his cuticles. They'd been sitting this way for a quarter of an hour, even though it was well after two o'clock in the morning.
"Go where?" Sirius wondered.
Harry drew his feet up to tuck under his thighs, still worrying at his thumbnail, his eyes glazed over. "To the Cup…"
"Now, what's all this?" Sirius piped up as he draped his forearm on the sofa above Harry's head. "Three days ago, you nearly bounced off of the ceiling when you saw those tickets."
Harry gave a weak, one-shouldered shrug. "You said we shouldn't put a Quidditch match over our safety—"
"No," Sirius corrected, "I said I wouldn't prioritize a Quidditch tournament over your well-being."
Harry glanced up slightly, furrowing his brow. "That's the same thing, Sirius."
"No it isn't…"
"I don't get it," Harry frowned. "How is that different?"
"It's different," Sirius replied, turning a bit to lean against the armrest, "because I was concerned about how you were feeling—you looked awfully ill."
Harry's chin sank. "We shouldn't go."
"Hey…"
Harry let the back of his head fall against the couch; he sighed.
"Come on, look at me."
Lazily rolling his head toward his godfather, Harry focused, rather bleakly, on Sirius' nose.
"What did I just say the other night?"
"Which night?" Harry wondered as he poked his fingers underneath his glasses to rub the tightness out of his eyes.
"The night you told me about Snape—you're in your bed in five minutes, by the way…"
"I will be," Harry agreed, adjusting his specs to rights. "You mean the night I told you about Snape at Grimmauld Place?"
"Yes, that night," Sirius affirmed. "Do you remember what I told you?"
"That you were the biggest wally in the world?" Harry guessed. He gave Sirius a groggy half-smile and leaned his head into the backrest again.
Sirius rolled his eyes. "No, what else did I say—before that?"
"That I'm not to worry about anything?"
Sirius nodded. "That you're not to worry," he echoed, "about anything. And I meant it."
Harry straightened up, loosely hugging his knees. "I know you meant it, but I still can't help being scared about some things," he muttered. "I know it's stupid, 'cause it was a dream, but my scar burning really worried me."
"Being scared over that is not stupid one bit," Sirius assured him. "It's a very normal reaction." He expelled a heavy breath. "Now, going to Hogwarts was stupid on my part. I acted on impulse…it was foolish—"
"I don't think it was."
Sirius gave him an appraising look, watching as Harry picked at a piece of fuzz sticking to his pajama bottoms.
"I mean," Harry shrugged, considering, "Snape told you what you wanted to hear, didn't he?"
Sirius pressed his lips together; they sat in silence for a moment.
"Snape's bile was directed at no one but me, Harry," he began. "He didn't mean what he said—"
"Yeah, he did," Harry interrupted, his voice becoming a bit croaky. He glanced up now so they were eye-to-eye. "Voldemort wants me dead, Sirius—he's always wanted me dead since I was a baby—but he still wants that now…I heard him say it."
"In your dream, you heard him?"
Sliding his knees closer to his chest, Harry nodded weakly. "Yeah…"
"You saw him as a person in your dream?" Sirius pressed, leaning in.
Harry shook his head, squinting behind his glasses. "No," he said. "It was like I told you before…"
"Just a figure, then?"
"A small one. Kind of distorted, really. I can't describe it. It freaked me out enough to wake me up, though…"
"But it had Voldemort's voice?"
Harry nodded.
Sirius shifted against the stuffed arm behind him.
"Going to Hogwarts wasn't all that stupid, then, was it?" Harry mumbled tiredly.
"Dragging you along with me was very stupid," Sirius admitted. "I made a mistake."
"It's all right…"
"No," Sirius said resolutely, still shaking his head. "It's not. I've made too many of them…"
Harry stared at him.
Sirius swallowed and flicked his eyes away until Harry cleared his throat, drawing back his attention.
"Should I tell you about the dream again?"
The second hand of the hanging clock ticked like a heartbeat over their heads.
"Sirius?"
Clearing his own throat, Sirius shook his head. "No."
Harry scrunched up his nose. "How come?"
"Because," Sirius told him, "it's well past your bedtime, and you need your sleep." He gave a commanding twitch of his head. "Come on; I'll go up as well." He made to stand, but Harry grabbed a handful of his sleeve.
"Wait!" Harry's voice cracked. "You're leaving it at that?"
Settling again, Sirius tilted his head. "Leaving what?"
Harry gave him a skeptical squint. "Oh, come on, Sirius…"
"No," Sirius countered, pushing against the sofa with one hand and reaching for Harry with the other, "you come on…literally."
"People want me dead," Harry said, hunching up his shoulder to tug his arm away, "and you're sending me to bed as if nothing's wrong?"
"Now just listen a moment—"
"We can't just blow it off and act like everything's all right!" Harry exclaimed. "That's what Dumbledore always does…and McGonagall…and even Hagrid sometimes. And he wants you to do exactly what everyone else does. Don't you see?"
"Alright," Sirius interrupted smoothly, "that's enough."
Harry pressed his teeth together and sighed, flopping his back against the cushion.
"No," Sirius said, snaking a hand behind Harry's shoulders to straighten him up, "none of that, now, I want you to listen to me. Please."
"I'm listening…"
"You're absolutely not."
"I'm—" Harry began, but at the elevation of his Sirius' 'told you so' eyebrow, he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a few fingers against his forehead. "Okay, sorry, I'm listening now."
Sirius raised his other eyebrow.
"Really," Harry promised, softening his expression. "I am. I'm just…frustrated."
"Which is exactly why I need you to listen to me," Sirius reasoned. "Alright?"
Drawing in a deep, silent breath, and releasing it just as slowly, Harry nodded.
A loose smile crept crookedly across Sirius' face. "You've just turned fourteen."
Harry tilted his head, giving his godfather a look.
"And, yes," Sirius said quickly, "you're right; we've established many times that you're only fourteen…"
Harry knitted his brows together at the utterance of "only," but he kept quiet.
"So you're fourteen, and I'm…" Sirius glanced up at the ceiling, "…thirty-five?" He peered back down at Harry. "Really?"
In spite of himself, Harry strained his lips against a grin.
"Alright, then," Sirius continued. "So that means I'm twenty years older than you—"
"Twenty-one…"
"Oi," Sirius quipped in mock-annoyance, his index finger hovering above his godson's nose. "You're listening, remember?"
Harry's nostrils flared with subtle amusement. "Go on, then."
Nodding once, Sirius glanced down at his hands; he smoothed the pad of his thumb along one of his own knuckles; his smile faded. "I've seen quite a lot in those twenty years." Sirius peeked up. "Do you believe me when I say that?"
Harry nodded slowly.
"I've seen Voldemort at his worst," Sirius continued, looking soberly at Harry. "I've seen Dementors suck the lives out of wizards who might not have even deserved it…who might have had wives and children."
Clutching the fabric of his pajama bottoms, Harry sat very still.
"I've seen…" Sirius bowed his head again, picking at the knee of his own trousers now. "…I've seen more than I want you to know about, really." Sirius gave a short, almost silent chuckle to himself, but he kept his eyes downcast. "I know what it's like to feel as though everyone knows your life inside and out…even more than you know yourself."
Harry squirmed a bit next to him.
"I also know," Sirius went on, "how it feels to be scared…or confused. Or frustrated," he added just for Harry, "when you feel like no one understands or cares…like no one's on your side." Once again, Sirius' gray eyes impaled Harry without intention. "But there are a lot of people on your side, love. I'm on your side. And Remus is on your side…and whether you believe it or not, Dumbledore wants only what's best for you," Sirius told him, elevating a reassuring eyebrow when Harry started to make a face. "He wants you to be happy. He's worked very hard to keep the both of us happy…and together."
"I know," Harry finally murmured, his voice sounding young, almost sheepish.
"That's all I want…"
Harry swallowed noisily.
"Taking you to Hogwarts tonight was irresponsible," Sirius reemphasized. "I made a mistake, and I'm sorry for that."
Harry scratched at his fringe. "But why was it a mistake?"
"It just was," Sirius said gently. "Between the two of us, I'm the one who will take care of anything worrisome. And this was one of those things."
"That doesn't make sense."
Shrugging in an offhand style very much like Harry's, Sirius gave his godson a flicker of a grin. "It does to me."
Harry gazed ahead in thought. "So what am I supposed to do, then?"
"Do what you always do…"
"Like what?"
"Like drive me completely mad with your questions…"
Harry smiled. "I don't either, Sirius." He yawned through clenched teeth.
"Here's something you can do," Sirius said as he stood, pulling Harry up with him. "Go to bed. We'll talk more about this in the morning."
"Can I sleep down here?"
Sirius gave him a funny look. "What for?"
"I like how the fire sounds…"
"Your blankets are upstairs."
"I'll go get them—"
"No, it's all right," Sirius cut in, his palm splayed against Harry's chest to keep him from bolting into the kitchen. "Settle in." He summoned a pillow and quilt from Harry's bedroom while his godson stretched out on the sofa.
Harry promptly squirmed onto his side once the blanket was tucked up under his armpits. He burrowed his head into his pillow. Squatting down beside him, Sirius rested his hand on Harry's hip for a moment.
"Let me keep your glasses on the kitchen table so you don't accidentally step on them if you have to go to the loo," his godfather offered, folding down the frames with his thumb when Harry immediately handed them off. "I'll be up in a few hours to make coffee; do you want to sleep for a bit longer or do you want to get up with me?"
Harry pulled a squishy clump of pillow away from beneath his cheek. "We're still going, then?"
"Of course," Sirius said quickly. "I said we were, didn't I?"
"Yeah, but—"
"But what?"
Blinking sleepily into his pillow, Harry shrugged. "Nothing," he muttered after a pause. "What time do we have to meet Ron's family?"
Sirius pulled the covers a bit more snugly under Harry's arm, and twisted around on his toes to dim the lanterns with a quick flick of his wand. "You and I can just Apparate to the check-in point instead of meeting everyone at the Burrow to hike to the portkey, so…later than we'd planned, I reckon. You could use a bit of a lie-in."
"What's a portkey?" Harry yawned.
"Something that'll transport all of them to the campsite at the same time," Sirius explained. "Arthur thought it'd be easier that way."
"A'right. What time did you say you're waking up?"
"In a few hours…if I manage to doze off, that is."
"I'll just wake up with you, then…"
"The smell of coffee brewing will probably be what wakes you up." Another flick of Sirius' wand, and a small log floated over to the fire, sending up a shower of sparks into the chimney as it nestled between the burning sticks of wood.
"You know what we should've done?"
"What?" Sirius tucked his wand away, and shifted in his crouch position, listening.
"We should've dyed our hair ginger," Harry mumbled groggily, sleep threatening to smother him. "Then we would've looked like Ron's cousins or something. No one would stare at us…"
Chuckling softly, Sirius reached over to brush a lock of dark hair away from Harry's ear. "You'd really look like your mum then, wouldn't you?"
Harry's lips tilted at the comment; pressing his nose into his pillow, his eyes slipped closed. The pile of dead wood hissed and crackled behind them in the fireplace.
The sky was rosy with the thick stretch of orange sun blazing over the tops of the trees and bleeding into the clouds; the air was warmer now as well, heavy with dew. Harry's skin was beginning to feel clammy underneath his jacket, but he was too busy scanning the hundreds of carts and vendors scattered along the grass to care.
Children, nearly two heads shorter than Harry, darted around the legs of grown-ups who were standing around in clusters, laughing and clapping hands on friends' shoulders; the high-pitched squeals of four-year-olds mingled with the clashing sound of Irish flutes and several brassy-sounding instruments. All the noise was an unintelligible blur to Harry, like the dull roar of his primary school lunchroom, but he wasn't bothered in the least; he was too excited. And there were too many new things to gawk at.
Smoke curling off of burning logs seeped into Harry's nose, but it wasn't unpleasant, as it mixed with the scent of roasting meats stabbed on skewers and the sweet smell of fresh butterbeer sloshing over the rims of sticky, finger-printed mugs.
He was a bit hungry, but he wasn't ready to eat yet. Besides, Harry knew that Sirius would be steering him toward a reliable-looking food vendor before the match started whether he wanted to order lunch or not. After all, he'd barely gotten down his oatmeal and cream this morning, thanks to the overactive butterflies swarming around in his stomach.
But there was still plenty of time for that. The music, laughter, and the smell of sizzling food and sugar-sprinkled sweets wafting about the air were intoxicating.
Suddenly catching sight of the bundles of glimmering, color-changing streamers attached to the outside of a wooden booth, Harry smiled to himself. He moved closer to see the sign hanging slantways underneath the jutting tabletop; he bent down to read it:
Can't decide where your loyalty lies?
The paint glittered and faded, a new message bleeding onto the wood; Harry blinked in surprise and then squinted, reading:
Chudley Cannons this week… Appleby Arrows, next?
Harry's eyes widened a bit; he remembered reading about the Appleby Arrows in Quidditch through the Ages. It had been ages since he'd read that book, but he couldn't forget the small paragraph he'd read about the game that had gone on in 1932, when the Arrows defeated the Vrasta Vultures in a sixteen-day match. Bloody exhausting, it must have been…
The message was fading again and a new one appeared:
For only 15 sickles, you can root for all your favorite teams!
Someone was prodding Harry between his shoulder blades, but he shrugged the sensation away, squinting again at the new set of letters fading in:
Buy a jar of Jemima Cristoff's Color-Changing Face Paint today!
"Brilliant…" Harry muttered through a small grin as his eyes traveled over the small jars full of peculiarly clear, gelatin-like paint; he dug his hand into his jeans pocket for the leather coin purse Sirius had given him.
Harry and his godfather had Apparated to the site over an hour ago, and, thankfully, the dizziness from that first experience had diminished almost completely; he had been too keyed-up to give it much thought, even though Sirius had insisted that he take a minute to sit and clear his head before they hiked the rest of the way to the Weaselys tent.
Before they had left the cabin, Sirius had given Harry fifteen galleons-worth of spending money to buy anything he wanted from the vendors—well, almost anything. According to Sirius, the firewhiskey cart was off-limits. In his giddy, rather daring state, Harry had made certain to mention such a purchase. In return, Sirius had made certain to guarantee a complimentary arse-warming with each tumbler Harry tried to order.
Giddiness waning, Harry had abandoned the prospect quite swiftly.
"C'mon, Harry, I'm hungry," an impatient voice shook his concentration.
"Hold up," Harry barely mumbled, recounting the handful of galleons spread across his palm. "One galleon will buy a jar of this plus a couple of those rosettes, won't it?" He could feel Ron fidgeting behind him. A hefty sigh from his friend fluttered the locks at the base of Harry's neck.
"One galleon'll buy a whole basket of fish and chips…"
Still going over the arithmetic in his head, Harry jutted an elbow towards Ron's knuckle which was poking at him again. "Get off," Harry complained with a frown. "I'm trying to figure this out."
"You're trying to starve me to death, that's what you're doing," Ron huffed.
"It's not even ten o'clock yet!"
"So?" Ron retorted. "What of it? That's only two hours away from lunch…"
"I said I'd come with you," Harry reiterated. "Just hold on—damn!" One of the golden disks had slipped through his fingers while he was trying to count and fell into the grass below; Harry stooped to get it, bumping into Ron's legs as he crouched down, combing his fingers through the damp grass to search for the galleon.
Spotting it, Harry picked it up, slowly straightening as he blew off a few bits of grass and dirt. All of a sudden, Harry felt a kneecap nudge him in the backside, nearly sending him toppling. "Hey!" he cried, leaping forward a bit to catch his balance.
As Harry got his bearings straight, Ron grinned at him. "Whoops. Sorry, mate."
"Yeah," Harry muttered, frowning; he gripped the galleon in his palm. "No problem…"
Ron's smile instantly fell when he caught the vengeful gleam in Harry's eyes, but before he could slink away, Harry thrust his arm toward Ron's chest and shoved him.
"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed as he stumbled.
"Goodness me!" a chalky voice squealed in alarm.
This time, Harry's eyes grew as round as overcoat buttons, his own mischievous grin on the immediate fade. He swallowed, grimacing guiltily when he noticed the elderly woman clutching her husband's arm as she straightened her green robes with a huff, smoothing a piece of hair back into her silvery bun.
Ron stood frozen, gaping at the old man and woman who were now gliding in the opposite direction, muttering indignantly about the blatant naughtiness of young wizards these days.
"Sorry," Harry mumbled, even though he knew they couldn't hear him. He scratched at his hair, still squinting.
Making a rather quick recovery, Ron smirked as he watched Harry tangle his fingers into his fringe. "You look really strange like that, you know."
"You are strange…"
"No, I mean, your hair—"
"Ron," Mr. Weasley called from behind. He was standing between Sirius and the twins, who were grinning rather derisively. Ginny and Hermione trailed behind, sipping bottles of butterbeer and pointing out to each other every other booth that they passed.
Ron flipped his head around at the summons. "Yeah?"
"Come here for a moment," Mr. Weasley said. Harry pressed his lips together, hoping against hope that no one had seen the old bat nearly fall face-first into the grass. But Mr. Weasley looked neither angry nor jovial.
Sighing, Ron obeyed, jogging back to where his father stood; Harry watched closely, sinking his teeth into the insides of his lips when Arthur gently pulled Ron aside; Ron's eyes quickly trailed to the ground. The twins snorted with glee and ran forward, almost clouting Harry across the forehead; good thing he'd ducked.
"Now, Ronnie," Mr. Weasley began, speaking softly into his son's ear, who had tucked his chin to his chest, his hands stuffed into his pockets, "you know what we talked about…"
Harry smiled to himself. Ronnie. He couldn't wait to pull that one out when Ron least expected it. His amusement was short-lived, however, when hardly a second later he caught sight of Sirius' expression. His godfather began to move forward, past the Weasley clan.
"Oi! Fergus!"
Shit, Harry thought, cramming his fists, galleons and all, into his own pockets. But then, suddenly, he glanced up, making a face. Fergus? he mouthed in disgust. Harry glanced around both shoulders, certain that Sirius was speaking to someone else.
There was no one.
Sirius raised an innocent eyebrow as he strode over to where Harry was standing, looking very different with a shortened crop of dark ginger hair on his head, but Harry noticed right away that Sirius' eyes were still the same. Gray and tranquil, like kitten's fur.
"What's with the face?" Sirius queried, his nostrils flaring in silent hilarity.
"What's with the face?" Harry breathed incredulously. "More like what's up with that name!"
Sirius' shoulders gave a subtle bob as he bit back a chuckle. "What, no good?"
Mouth hanging half-open now, Harry nearly snorted. "You're joking, right?"
"Am I?" Sirius said with a shrug, rocking back on his heels as he peeked over his shoulder at a small child who'd just brushed against his knee hollows as he ran past squealing. The boy's mother caught him with a Levitation spell, holding him against her chest and speaking sternly in his ear while his little legs kicked.
"Sirius…"
"Hm?"
"Of all the names you could've chosen for me, you chose Fergus?" Harry complained in a hushed voice, wrinkling his nose. "Fergus Weasley? It's bloody foul—"
"It's my own godfather's name…" Sirius glanced over his shoulder again.
Harry's mouth froze mid-whinge. A hawker's scratchy drawl bellowed from behind, filling up the stretch of conversational silence.
"Oh…" Harry murmured after a moment, his eyes finding a dirt patch; he swallowed slowly, feeling a bit stupid as he peeked up. "Is it, really?"
"No." A slow smile spread across Sirius face; he winked and then chuckled for real this time.
Harry rolled his eyes, hardly amused.
"Although," Sirius continued, scrunching up his face and digging into his pockets as he spoke, "your friend Seamus has a grandfather with that name…on his mum's side. He went to Hogwarts with your granddad, I think."
"Doesn't make it any more brilliant."
"Oi," Sirius muttered through gritted teeth, reaching his arm around Harry's neck and pulling him forward for a good-natured poke in the side. "Quite the mouth you've got today..."
"Only today?"
"Good point," Sirius commented through a half-grin as he pulled out his own coin purse out of the front pocket of his trousers and began wiggling his fingers into it. "You still look like a 'Fergus' with that hair…"
"Yeah, well, you look like—"
Sirius cut him off, calling out to Ron who was sauntering over in slow motion. Harry turned as well; he gave a slight sigh of defeat, carefully nudging his Disillusioned glasses back up on his nose so that the gesture wouldn't appear noticeable. Sirius had taken some time to get that particular spell just right…
"What were you two getting ready to buy?" Sirius wondered, as he stared down into his own palm to count a small pile of coins. "You know…before that poor lady nearly died of fright from being plowed over."
"Dunno," Ron shrugged, his hands still buried in his pockets. "Harry was the one who wanted to buy that cold cream—" He expertly dodged a forearm to the chest, laughing.
Harry scowled at his friend, wiggling his wrist free of Sirius' rescuing grasp. "It's color-changing face paint to root for a bunch of different teams, you tosspot…"
"Hey, now," Sirius interrupted in a rather strained voice, as if he were holding in a laugh; he planted his palm on the top of Harry's head, who was still glaring at Ron, as he continued to jiggle-count his money, one-handed. "You've nearly cashed in your blasphemy bank for the rest of the year, you know…"
Ron sniffed amusedly.
"I don't even know what that means," Harry mumbled. "Don't act like you do, Ron."
"Sounds good, though," Ron said through a chuckle.
"Alright," Sirius interjected, giving Harry's mop a fond ruffle. "You two still have enough money?"
"Yep."
"Good, then. Go get your paint. Look," he nodded toward the motley booth, "it's almost sold out."
"We can share one," Harry suddenly piped up, as if the small tiff never occurred. "C'mon, Ron." He stuffed the rest of his coins back into the miniature leather satchel as he moved forward.
"And then we'll get a bite to eat," Sirius called after them. "You barely swallowed your oatmeal this morning…"
Harry rolled his eyes but nodded anyway as he and Ron queued up behind a girl with dark-brown braids hanging down her back.
He'd known that was coming.
"If I see one more thing knocked over from a bludger…" Mr. Weasley sputtered as he stood from the camp table, slapping awkwardly at the baggy front pockets of his jeans; he glanced this way and that, as though he were expecting Mrs. Weasley to pop round the corner and take over.
"You hear that, Ronnie?" George teased. "Enough with your roughhousing."
"What would Mum say?" Fred chimed in.
"I'm just standing here, you wankers!"
"Oi!" George again. "Wash your mouth out."
"Alright, boys." Mr. Weasley rubbed at his brow as he returned to his place at the table across from Sirius. "Settle down."
The sound of laughter and bagpipes drifted in from the half-open tent flap. Only an hour before, Ireland had won the match against Bulgaria, much to Ron's disappointment, but he was trying his best not to show it, even though Fred and George continued to take the mickey out of him. Currently, Ginny and Hermione were waiting for the kettle to boil and Harry was showing Ron how to spear marshmallows onto a stick so that they could roast them over the fire like he'd seen people do on the telly. The three oldest Weasleys were visiting others in tents close by—much to Percy's delight, he had located Penelope Clearwater only three tents down the row.
A few seconds later, something flew past Hermione's head and almost belted Ron in the shoulder, but Harry was faster. Dropping his stick on the bed, he lurched around and caught the quaffle in one hand, nearly toppling forward.
"Fred!"
"It was George!"
"And nothing was knocked over, was it?" George reminded his father, who had gone rather red in the face. He grinned. "Nice catch, Harry."
"And, besides, it wasn't a bludger, Dad," Fred added.
Sirius' eyes scanned the width of the tent as Arthur lowered himself into his chair with a sigh. Grinning, Sirius held out his half-drunk tumbler of mead.
"To half-baked logic," he offered up in cheers, clinking glasses with Arthur.
"To nightcaps."
"To nightcaps," Sirius agreed with a chuckle. He took a quick sip of his mead and then pushed away from the table. Holding a palm straight up in the air, he whistled through his teeth to get Harry's attention.
"What?" Harry paused, glancing over at him; he'd been jiggling the quaffle back and forth between his hands.
"Toss it here, eh?"
Harry did. Sirius caught it, though he had to lean back on the legs of his chair and use both hands instead of one.
Sirius' eyes widened. "Blimey, are you sure you're playing the right position? Shall we start calling you 'James the Second'?"
Retrieving his speared marshmallows from the camp bed, Harry smiled. "Nope," he said easily. "Playing Seeker is loads better."
"Hear what he said, George?" Fred piped up.
"He's forgotten about that bludger you belted that knocked Flint sideways and nearly made Malfoy wet himself," George teased. "Shall we demonstrate the technique again?"
Arthur choked into his tumbler.
"Oi," Sirius spoke up, reaching into his trousers pocket for his coin purse as he stood, "you two pop down the path and buy enough Butterbeer for the lot of you, yeah?" He handed George a few galleons. "And whatever else this buys—some pasties and sausage rolls…anything you want."
Arthur reached into his own pocket, but Sirius shook his head. "No need."
The twins shared the twitch of glance. They settled down.
"Thanks, Sirius," Fred said.
"Yeah, cheers, Sirius," George followed up, pocketing the coins. "Do you want anything? More mead, Dad?" The sly grin returned. "I can look seventeen."
"If you sit on Fred's shoulders, perhaps," Arthur jibed. He jerked his thumb toward the bit of mead still left in the bottle. "We're all set, boys." He turned toward Sirius as the two of them scampered out of the tent. "Thanks very much. That was kind."
Sirius waved away the gratitude, but his eyes shone with warmth.
Suddenly, Fred popped his head back in. "Oi, Ginny. Want to come?"
Ginny glanced up from the stove.
George's head appeared next to Fred's. He grinned innocently. "Nah…she said she wanted to help Harry build a fire."
Ginny's cheeks turned pink. "I didn't say that!" But Fred and George had already disappeared, their laughter melding into the noise and music outside.
Harry shrugged, giving her a half-smile. "You can help me."
Her whole face burned red now, even her forehead.
Ron slowly pushed another marshmallow onto his stick, his eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them.
"C'mon, you lot," Sirius called out, handing Arthur the quaffle that was still in his hands, "if you gather some kindling for me in the woods, I'll light a fire for you."
"Go ahead, girls," Arthur encouraged, rising from the table with a renewed energy. "I'll mind your tea."
"Honestly, Ron," Hermione commented, shaking her head in amusement as she joined them over by the camp beds, Ginny trailing behind her, "you don't have to roast them all at once…"
Ron studied his marshmallow kabob. "It's only four."
"Here," Harry said, reaching behind him for two more sticks, "You just need to whittle these ends down so they're sharp…and so you don't get bits of bark in the marshmallows. I can show you. Hey, Sirius, can I use your pocket knife again?"
"I'll sharpen Ginny's," Ron offered.
Ginny pushed back a few strands of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. "I can sharpen my own, Ron, thank you very much," she huffed, holding out her hand. "I'm not wearing nappies, you know."
"Let's get this fire built first, alright?" Sirius grinned, patting Ginny's shoulder; he raised both eyebrows at Harry over her head. "And then you can work on those sticks."
One-by-one they filed out into the chilly late-summer breeze, leaving Mr. Weasley to let the tea leaves steep in the kettle and to enjoy a few quiet moments in an empty family-size tent. After they had gathered enough dry kindling to build a fire and surround it with rocks the size of grapefruits, they watched Sirius use his wand to ignite the pile.
"Brilliant," Ron muttered, transfixed, the flames reflecting against his blue eyes, as though he'd just witnessed the invention of fire.
"Ah, yeah," Harry joked, plopping down on one of the logs Sirius had Summoned for them to sit, his own eyes twinkling with mirth. "A real miracle, that."
"Elemental, isn't it?" Sirius played along. "Your old godfather is a miracle worker, and don't you forget it." He reached into his pocket to retrieve his knife, carefully pulling out the short blade from its compartment. "So we'll have less of that cheek, won't we?" Taking a seat next to Harry, he picked up one of the sticks with a blunt, knobby end and slowly scraped the knife against the bark.
"Hey," Harry protested, "you let me do the other two."
Preparing to pass over both stick and knife, Sirius held Harry's eyes for a long instant. "Be careful. You hear me?"
"I was careful the first time…"
"So be careful the second time. That thing is sharper than it looks."
"I've been chopping vegetables with a butcher knife since I was eight, you know," Harry added. "Aunt Petunia made me."
"Do I look like your Aunt Petunia?" Sirius raised his brow. "Actually…you're still a bit sensitive over the whole Fergus thing…don't answer that."
Harry laughed.
"Be careful," Sirius said again, though he was smiling this time.
"Okay," Harry humored him, reaching to take the handle. "I will."
Sirius handed the other stick to Ginny, who had been watching the two of them, and winked at her.
Ducking his head to clear the tent flap, Mr. Weasley emerged holding two steaming mugs of tea. He handed one to Ginny and the other to Hermione, who was currently rolling her eyes at Ron's newfound marshmallow-roasting expertise.
"Poke it straight through the middle," Ron advised her, as he watched Harry hand her a whittled stick. "That way, it won't fall into the fire."
"I know how to do it, Ron," Hermione snipped. "I was in Brownies for three years." She smiled her thanks at Harry before turning toward Ron again. "Here, hold my tea, will you?"
Ron took her cup. "What's Brownies?"
"A level of Girl Scouts," Hermione clarified without looking up from her marshmallow and stick.
"Hang on, what are—"
"Muggle thing," Harry and Hermione interrupted him at the same time. They shared a small smile.
"Were you in the Scouts, Harry?"
He scratched at the back of his neck; he could feel Sirius looking at him. "No," Harry said dismissively. He twitched his chin towards Ron. "Your stick is on fire, mate."
Hermione's tea sloshed onto Ron's hand as he jolted in surprise; handing her back the mug, he started blowing on the flames until he was left with four charred-black blobs. He gazed forlornly down at the smoke.
"I heard they're best that way," Sirius commented from his place on the log.
Harry snorted. "Says the miracle worker…"
Sirius gave him a poke under the ribs.
Suddenly, a scream rang out from the distance, slicing through the music and laughter. The Harry and Sirius flipped around and so did Mr. Weasley. A few people from nearby tents stood very still, listening, but the music and chatter continued. An instant later, Fred and George came jogging back to their campsite, their arms full of bottles of butterbeer and bags of sweets. Even in the twilight, their faces appeared paler than usual; their eyes were round and haunted.
"Boys, what is it?" Mr. Weasley demanded. "What's happened?"
"We were queued up to buy some pasties," Fred began in a choked voice that didn't sound like him at all, "and we saw that a tent was on fire…"
"...way off, it seemed," George added, his own voice just as strained.
"And then we thought we saw people floating upside-down…"
"—Levitated…"
The screams multiplied, rippling closer. The music faded and the laughter stopped.
Sirius gripped Harry's shoulder as the two of them stood; Harry's stick slipped from his hand as he watched great flames thrash against the sky.
TBC…