Chapter 71: Whiplash
Harry could feel the anger rolling off Sirius as they stalked thorough the halls toward the headmaster's office. It was a constant prickle on his skin that made the hairs of his arm stand on end and would occasionally intensify into a visible spark of electricity between them. Through it all, Sirius's face remained set in a mask of stony nothingness.
As the gargoyle leapt aside to make way for them, Professor McGonagall gestured for them to ascend the stairs. "I'm sure the Headmaster is expecting us by now."
Sirius and their head of house climbed the stairs, leaving Harry alone to wonder just how true her words were. Over the years and through the decades, he had come to understand precisely how well-informed of the goings-on inside Hogwarts Albus Dumbledore truly was. He had spent most of fifth year avoiding Harry, knowing the boy had part of Lord Voldemort fused to his soul; he had realised the true danger the Philosopher's Stone was in when no one else believed Harry, Ron and Hermione; he knew how deeply involved he and Hermione had become with people they never should have met. He knew all that. Did he know what Sirius had done? Did it matter?
Sirius hadn't spoken a word to him since shouting his disapproval. Perhaps he had decided Harry wasn't worth the bother.
"You coming?" the boy barked from the landing, only reaffirming his fears that his love had been doused in the cold waters of Harry's inaction.
He managed to avoid scrambling up the stairs, but only just. Sirius offered nothing on his arrival, not even looking at him as the woman pushed the door open.
Dumbledore was behind his desk nursing a cup of strong tea when McGonagall ushered them hurriedly into the office like some dirty little secret she didn't want anyone catching wind of. He rose without offering a greeting, his dressing gown swished noisily in the anxious silence of the room. Harry didn't dare breathe for fear of disturbing the pensive quiet. Even the paintings were holding their tongues in anticipation or apprehension.
When at last he spoke, his voice was not hard or unkind. "My, Sirius, you have been busy."
"Keeps me out of trouble," the boy offered, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
"Is it time travel again, do you think, Albus?" McGonagall questioned tightly, considering the boy next to her.
"If that were the case, how would we know Sirius died at the hands of his cousin just three months ago? Unless, at the end of this discussion, it is decided that we send the boy back where he belongs," the man pondered aloud.
Harry's heart stuttered in his chest at the thought. He didn't want to leave Sirius again. He loved him. It took him months to realise it. It took losing him twice to make that truth plain. Now that he understood just how much the boy meant to him, he didn't think he could take another breath without him nearby. But he had mucked it up. He had let his parents die. He had lost Sirius's faith and trust and love, and the boy wanted nothing more to do with him. He wouldn't want to stay now.
It was in the midst of this depressing spiral of self-loathing and blame that Sirius finally replied. "I'm exactly where I belong."
"What?" Harry breathed, hardly daring to believe his ears.
"You twat, I love you. Even cross, I still love you. I'm not going to give you up just because you did something daft like try to keep the timeline as it was," he offered with a snort and slap to his arm. "Why do you think I went through all this" – he gestured to his chest – "instead of simply climbing into your trunk? Would have been a lot easier, and, believe me, I thought about it. But I knew you'd never forgive me if I mucked up history."
Dumbledore cleared his throat, saving Harry from gaping at him in wonder. "You seem quite confident that things will remain as they ought. If we allow you to stay here with us, how will the past continue as it needs to?" There was a glint in his eye and a tone in his voice that Harry had come to know well; he heard it in the voice of most teachers at some point, though few were able to use it to the same level and affect as the headmaster. That look and that tone implied he knew perfectly well what the correct answer was, but he wanted to hear his student say it for the benefit of the whole class.
"I've already arranged it," the boy said.
"Oh?" the man said, gesturing for him to sit. "I do so enjoy hearing about one of your plans, though I do hope you haven't given it an official name."
He mumbled a reply into the cup of tea the man offered him. "Operation Keep Your Fucking Promises."
Dumbledore gave a sad shake of his head as he sighed, "And I thought nothing could be worse than the title for Mr Gillespie. Regardless of its name, would you kindly share the purpose and details?"
"I promised not to leave Harry," Sirius said, holding the boy's eye as he said it.
"A very noble pledge but one you had to have known was impossible to keep once learning the true origin of your friend. Surely, once you understood Harry's parentage and home, you realised you couldn't stay together."
"I realised no such thing. I love him, and I am staying with him. I didn't put myself through that much pain just to be sent back to where there's already a Sirius living and being a general prat," he insisted.
"You are very certain you've taken care of everything. Tell me of this other Sirius you left in your place. Where did you come by him?"
He pulled the parchment from his pocket, opening it and placing it on the desk. "Harry's curse. I took it."
The man was silent as he considered the spell before him. His eyes darted across the text quickly and hovered over the woodblock image, twinkling not with delight but with intrigue. The same intrigue that filled his voice when he said, "A clever and apt choice, Mr Black. Though a rather dangerous one. How did you manage to keep from tearing yourself to shreds?"
"I practiced on pumpkins and chickens from the kitchen, then on mice once I'd sorted out how to make it do what I needed."
The man's brows pulled together. "I do recall Argus complaining of a proliferation of mice around the time of the Grangers' departure. I thought nothing of it. How many practice mice did you make?"
"Two hundred or so." He shrugged. "Didn't want to kill myself, did I?"
"A wise decision," Dumbledore agreed. "Harry does not do well in your absence."
Harry flushed and ducked his head when the old wizard turned his knowing eye on him. It was true. He was a wreck without Sirius.
"Then you wouldn't send me away, would you?" Sirius all but begged. Until now, he had offered a calm assurance that bordered on detachment, showing only the logic and intelligence behind the plan and not the emotions that had brought it about. With his question, the truth was out. He was as desperate to stay as Harry was to have him stay. He may be cross, but Sirius loved him. "Please, Professor, don't make me go back. Harry needs me."
Second after painfully long second ticked past without the man giving the slightest inkling as to what his decision would be. He looked over the top of his spectacles, past his folded hands and at the boys before him. Finally, what felt like hours later, he sighed, and Harry was certain what was left of his heart shattered. The look on his face said that Sirius felt the same.
"Sirius, you have broken more laws than I care to count to bring yourself here, not to mention the danger you have put yourself through. What was it all for?" He didn't pause long enough for either to provide an answer; he continued on, telling the boys what they already knew, "For love. I cannot think of a motivation more selfless than that."
"I can stay?" he barely breathed the question.
"Even if I had the ability – which I do not – I would not. With your passing, I have been forced to watch Harry wither into a ghost of the boy I had once known. He returned stronger than I have ever known him, but I can see what your loss would do to him. You have healed Harry, and I would not dare rend you from him when stronger magic than mine deemed your presence necessary."
"Stronger magic?" Harry questioned.
"Split-Apart," Sirius muttered smugly.
"Quite correct, Mr Black," Dumbledore agreed. "There is a simple idea that most witches and wizards never grasp but one that is vital to the work we do: Magic is alive. It has means and methods all its own. And, on occasion, it will use those methods for its own goals. Magic kept you safe, Harry, sent you where you needed to be, sent you to your other half. Unorthodox as it might be, I cannot alter what magic has deigned necessary."
Sirius said nothing, but the I-told-you-so glimmer in his eyes was more than enough to have Harry slouching in his chair.
The headmaster smiled. "Now, where shall we put you?"
The glimmer in the boy's eye turned suggestive. Harry could all but hear his cheeky suggestion that he simply stay in Harry's bed for the next two years.
"Here we are," he said, dropping the tattered Sorting Hat onto Sirius's head without pause.
Harry had been through this before, months ago; he remembered watching Hermione's face contort as she argued the hat into submission. Sirius did the same. His jaw clenched and mouth pulled down in a scowl of determination, but finally the hat cried:
"Gryffindor!"
"Well, that's settled. Can I go now?" Sirius grinned.
"To the hospital wing, yes," the headmaster said in a tone that would take no argument. "You performed terrifying magic on yourself, Sirius. We must ensure you are healthy and whole. I will also need to make certain the spell has not had any lingering effects on your person. To that end, I will call an expert on such matters, and you will return this afternoon. These are the conditions of your staying here."
He offered a shrug. "Small sacrifice."
"As I thought you might say." The man's eyes twinkled with pleasure as he nodded toward the door.
"You coming?"
The words were not barked with cold indifference as they had been before. Harry looked up at Sirius, at his offered hand, his half smile and wide, hopeful eyes.
"Yeah," he muttered, taking the hand and letting Sirius pull him to his feet. "So are you not angry with me anymore?"
"'Course I am," he replied as if the question were a stupid one. "You let my best mate die."
"I—"
"We've been through this. I know why you did it, but I'm still cross. I loved James more than my own brother. It's going to take me time to accept it."
Harry could only blink stupidly in reply. He didn't think he could be so composed if someone he knew had failed to warn Ron he was about to be horribly killed. He would shout about it for days, marinade in his grief and fury for weeks, and then, maybe, would he reach Sirius's level of understanding.
"I think I knew something was going to happen to them," the boy contemplated as they walked. "James would have been as doting as old Charlie. There's no way you'd have that many scars, secrets and strange turns if James had raised you."
"What was he like? My grandfather, I mean," Harry asked.
"Best man I've ever met," Sirius replied without pause. "Used to tell me some wild stories about when he was young – travels, adventures and dangerous beauties. I'm not sure how much of it was true, but they were great stories. You would've liked him."
Though he had no response, Harry didn't mind. He tried to imagine the man Sirius was describing. He had never seen any pictures of his grandparents, so he could only assume Charlus Potter looked rather like James and himself – short and knobby-kneed with hair too unruly to be allowed. Based on the boy's description, he certainly seemed to be as full of life and character as James had been.
"What are you smiling about?"
He looked at Sirius, the smile still on his face. "Just thinking that I finally have someone who can tell me about my family."