And that's why you'll never be his guardian!

The words echoed in Sirius's mind over and over again, stinging and burning. He didn't think he had been in this much pain and distress since Azkaban. As Sirius paced in his room, he tried to put his finger on what bothered him the most.

He felt betrayed and rejected, that part was obvious. Harry had gone to Remus rather than to Sirius. Sirius wracked his brain to try to figure out if he'd done something wrong, something to upset Harry, something to lose his trust. Harry had always come to him when his scar was hurting, and Sirius liked to think they were developing a father-son relationship. What else might Harry be hiding from?

Deception was the common thread that ran through everything that had happened, and Sirius couldn't deny that that dishonesty hurt. Harry had not only refused to tell Sirius the truth all those months ago; he had lied outright about where the injury on his wrist came from. Remus had asked him to do so. They had both hidden the truth about Umbridge's abuse for months.

Meanwhile, Remus had also withheld his true feelings about Sirius's chances of adopting Harry. Remus had clearly been sitting on this opinion—that Sirius would never be Harry's guardian—for some time. Sirius knew all about making an outburst in a moment of anger. The words that came out might be exaggerations, and they might be harsher than deserved, but at their core, those outbursts were always honest.

So maybe dishonesty wasn't the problem. Honesty was.

But that couldn't be what was bothering Sirius the most. Certainly, the honesty hurt more than the dishonesty, but could he really be this angry, this broken, because his best living friend had been honest with him?

Maybe he was. Remus had essentially said that he considered Sirius to be a child. He'd implied that Sirius didn't care about Harry. How dare he? All the while, Remus was allowing Harry to be abused. Sirius would have put a stop to it. He'd have killed the toad. And then Harry would have been safe, and . . .

Remus's line of thinking crept into Sirius's thoughts, despite his internal resistance. Harry would have been safe from Umbridge, and meanwhile, Sirius wouldn't have been arrested and probably sent to Azkaban.

But that didn't matter. Sirius didn't care about that. Who cared what happened to him? As long as Harry was safe and unharmed, nothing else mattered.

You should care. Because Harry cares. What would it do to him if something happened to you?

Sirius paced, running a hand through his hair. "Safe" was such a relative term. The night the Potters were killed, Sirius had been "safe" from Lord Voldemort, but he'd spent years wishing he hadn't been. Wishing he could take their place, willing to give anything to do so. No, he hadn't been safe. In many ways, James and Lilly gotten the easier fate that night. They'd passed into the next world, while Sirius was left in this one, crippled by the pain of losing them.

Harry was all Sirius had left of them. That made him desperate to protect his godson . . . but maybe Harry felt the same way about Sirius.

He'd rather have his hand sliced open night after night than even risk putting you in danger.

The thought of that made Sirius sick to his stomach. He and Harry made quite the pair—each willing to sacrifice so much of themselves for so little benefit to the other. Harry must have known how Sirius would react; Sirius wasn't exactly subtle. If the thought of Harry allowing himself to be hurt made Sirius sick to his stomach, he couldn't imagine how Harry had felt. Maybe Harry wasn't upset with Sirius; maybe he really just couldn't trust him not to do something reckless and leave Harry alone to mourn his death or imprisonment.

That's when it hit him. Sirius wasn't upset with Remus for being honest. He was upset because Remus was right.

Molly Weasley had once tried to say the same thing to him, he realized now. She'd said it in a way he never could have interpreted without Remus's translation. She had asked whether Sirius was clear on the fact that Harry wasn't James. But if Sirius had seen Harry as James, the pain of losing James would have lessened. But it never did. Sirius was quite clear that Harry wasn't James—that wasn't the problem. The problem was that when James and Lilly asked him to be Harry's godfather, he'd been too young to have any idea in his mind about what parenting meant. At the time, he knew how to be a friend to a peer, and he hadn't learned anything else since.

Sirius had made no mistake about who Harry was. What Sirius was still trying to figure out was who he was.

Remus had a point about the time Sirius had spent in Azkaban. He hadn't helped to raise Harry as a two-year-old, as a five-year-old, as an eight-year-old, and so on. He had never been in a position of authority over a young person, and he had never practiced relating to someone who wasn't a peer. He saw Harry as a friend, or maybe as a younger brother.

Harry had friends, like Sirius had had friends at his age. But the people who were the age Sirius had reached now weren't the people who had encouraged their recklessness and Marauder-like behavior. The adults had held firm boundaries, forced them to think about rules and consequences, which, if Sirius was honest with himself, had probably saved their lives on a few occasions. That's who Sirius had to be to Harry.

A rustling came from the living room. Sirius opened the door to his own room just a crack, listening in on the conversation.

"Ah, Harry. Good to see you at a reasonable hour."

A light laugh. "Yeah. McGonagall let me use the Floo in her office so I didn't have to wait for everyone to leave the common room."

"Well, that's good. Why don't you have a seat? . . . How are you doing, Harry?"

"Alright. Did McGonagall tell you what happened? With Lee Jordan?"

"Yes, she did. I was so sorry to hear about it."

"He's a great guy, he didn't deserve that."

"Neither did you, Harry."

A short silence.

"Now, about that testimony. I think the best thing for us to do . . ."

Sirius closed the door. His heart pounded hard against his chest. He wanted to storm out there and give both Harry and Remus a piece of his mind about their having deceived him. He wanted to throw himself at their feet and apologize. He wanted to swear to do better. He wanted to demand what they wanted from him.

But that was what Sirius wanted. None of that was what Harry needed. And if Sirius was ever going to be Harry's guardian—however doubtful it might be that he would mature to the point of earning his trust before Harry was of age—he needed to start asking that question first. Not What do I want to do?, or even, How do I need to handle this?, but What does Harry need from me?

Sirius took a deep breath and left his room, heading toward the living room. Both Harry and Remus looked up, their conversation halting abruptly and awkwardly.

Sirius approached his godson, who seemed to cringe just slightly as Sirius tapped his arm, signaling for him to stand. Sirius pulled Harry into a hug, which Harry returned.

"Good to see you, Harry." Sirius patted his back, then took his shoulders and held him at arm's length, looking him in the eye. "I heard about what happened with Umbridge. You're sure you're okay?"

He nodded. "I-I'm fine."

"You're sure you don't want me to go over there and kill her? Because just say the word, and I will."

Harry smiled wryly. "I'd rather have you around to see me graduate."

Sirius nodded and let go with one last clap to Harry's shoulder. "Can I help with your testimony?"

His eyes widened for just a second. "Yeah. I'll take all the help I can get."

Harry sat back down on the couch, and Sirius went over to sit beside Remus, who gave him a half smile and a nod.

As silently as he could, Sirius let out his breath.