Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Patria Potestas: Blood Ties	By : JBankai89 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Sirius Views: 17579 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, I gain nothing from this but a way to pass the time.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
A/N: Thank you so much everyone for all the lovely comments! It's even more rewarding to see a few of you who don't ship this ship giving this little fic a chance. At this point I have the first draft of 7 chapters out of 9 complete, and so I'll be posting every Tuesday in order to give myself time to properly edit before I update this. Thanks again for reading, and I hope you guys enjoy this instalment! :)
Chapter Two – Rites and Rituals

13^th August, 2004

Harry did not know what he expected when he agreed to go forward with the courtship, but in hindsight, he felt like he should have anticipated some sort of press response—even if they didn't know that it involved Harry Freaking Potter.

Harry sat curled up on one end of the sofa while he stared down at the article, frowning as he regarded at the wizarding photograph of a large, towering oak, and blowing innocently in the breeze were the tassels of Sirius's silver cord. Harry felt his stomach twist uncomfortably at the sight of it; even after a week of bracing himself for the Rite of Intent, he still felt no more ready to do it.

The fact that his symptoms had cleared up the moment Sirius had enacted the Rite was further proof that that absolutely needed to proceed with the courtship in order to keep Potestas in check. Despite Harry's best efforts to not think about what that would eventually lead to—marriage, in particular consummating the marriage—it was never far from his mind, and it never failed to send Harry spiralling into a dizzying panic. Harry shook his head as he felt his anxiety once more begin to build, and he refocused his attention upon the newspaper in his hands.

Below the photograph was a lengthy, sickeningly romantic article detailing the history of wizarding courtship rituals, the last time it was known to have been enacted, and a few words on the marriages themselves. It seemed at least that the people who took part in these rituals got their Happily Ever After, but given his history with Sirius, Harry found it incredibly difficult to imagine doing anything remotely romantic—much less sexual—with him—his godfather. It felt so deeply wrong on so many levels, and even picturing what would be expected of him over the coming weeks was enough to make Harry shudder.

A soft knock on the front door drew Harry from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Hermione letting herself into his flat, her face a little flushed as though she had been running. In her arms, she held a package wrapped in brown paper.

“I have your robes,” she said as she kicked her trainers off and walked over to him, setting the package down on the edge of the coffee table.

“Thanks,” he muttered as she sat down at the opposite end of the sofa from him, and he fixed his gaze upon the package.

“Explain to me again why Ron isn't helping me with all this?” Harry asked abruptly in an effort to keep the silence that had begun to settle between them from getting too awkward. “It's kind of weird that it has to be a girl—”

“—I told you Harry,” Hermione cut in impatiently, “until you're married, you're not allowed to be alone with any unattached men. Since Ron and I aren't even engaged yet, he would qualify. This courtship isn't just a simple matter of dates, gifts, and what have you. It's interwoven with magic, and it shares many attributes with magical contracts. Like those, the punishments this courtship will mete out are harsh and very unpredictable.”

Harry sighed heavily and nodded. She'd told him all this multiple times over the last fortnight, but Harry still didn't like it. He wasn't some fair maiden whose virtue was at risk, after all, it was just so stupid. However, he wasn't keen to test the repercussions for breaking any of the courtship rules, and reluctantly he scooped up the package and retired to his bedroom to change.

The ceremonial garb Harry was to wear for the Rite of Acceptance looked nothing like the robes he was used to. The shirt was white, with white ties instead of buttons trailing up the front to close securely at his throat, while the sleeves and high collar were adorned with silver twisting patterns that looked similar to sprigs of ivy.

The trousers were similarly styled, though without the silver patterns. They were white, and fastened at the waist with another tie in place of a button and zip. He was supposed to go barefoot (there was some sort of symbolism to it, but after listening to Hermione lecture him on the history of the courtship ritual for the last fourteen days, he'd begun to tune her out) though he couldn't remember why. He thanked his lucky stars that it was August at least—and not February.

“How's it look?” Harry asked as he stepped back out, tugging self-consciously at the sleeves, which were much shorter than what he was used to. He was also not used to wearing so much white all at once, and he felt almost as though he was walking around under a spotlight, even though it was only Hermione looking at him.

“You look fine, Harry,” Hermione said while she offered him a sad sort of smile. They both knew that once this was done, there was no turning back—he would be expected to marry his godfather. Not that he had much of a choice to begin with, thanks to the curse woven into his blood by his dear departed ancestors, but participating in the Rite carried a strange sense of finality to it that made Harry even more uneasy about the whole thing.

“When do I have to do this again?” he asked, standing awkwardly in the centre of his flat. He felt like one wrong move might stain the clothing, which were at present so white that they practically shone.

“It's ten now,” Hermione replied as she consulted her watch, “you could do it now, but it may be better to do it at midnight, that's the most magically powerful time of night, after all.”

“The Witching Hour,” Harry said, and she nodded. “So two hours to kill...” Harry trailed off with a frustrated groan and raked his hands through his hair. “I wish you could come with me, I feel like I might be braver if I had someone to help me with this.”

“You do have people helping you, Harry,” Hermione said, her voice laced with hurt, “but the magic at work here will read intentions, and it will likely perceive my presence as coercion, and I have no idea what it will do to you or me if we do that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry replied with a heavy sigh, “I was just thinking out loud.” He fell heavily onto the sofa, and flicked his wand once, summoning his game of muggle backgammon to him, in no mood for mouthy wizarding game pieces. “Fancy a game? I can't sit here for two hours just waiting.”

“Not Scrabble?” She asked innocently, and Harry snorted. When he'd bought it, he, Ron, and Hermione broke it in together, and it wasn't much of a surprise that she'd utterly slaughtered both of them.

“A bit of uneven odds when you're playing against someone who's swallowed a dictionary,” Harry replied dryly, and she giggled.

“Well, it's not my fault that you have the vocabulary of a nematode...” she said, smiling innocently as Harry began to unbox the game.

“My vocabulary is a little better than a worm's, thank you,” Harry replied with a snort, and she giggled again as she helped him set up the game.

“So, um,” Harry began an hour later, a red playing piece balanced between his fingers as he tried to think of how to best phrase the question. Hermione looked up, a glass of wine halfway to her mouth, the bottle itself having gradually inched away from the centre of the coffee table and closer to Hermione's side with every new game that they started.

“What?”

“How is, um,” Harry broke off as he felt himself go red, “...how is Sirius dealing with all this? I mean, you've seen him more lately than I have.”

“About as well as you,” Hermione replied, and sipped her wine before she continued. “He's really disturbed about the whole thing, but he's more upset for you than for himself, I think—”

“—yeah what's he got to complain about?” Harry groused, “he gets a young man for the rest of his life, meanwhile I get to marry someone who's practically—”

“—that's not that I mean and you know it,” Hermione interrupted with a snap. “Sirius is just as upset as you are, but he's trying to be mature about this, and make it easier on you. Harry, you're like a son to him, just as much as he's like a father to you. He just doesn't want to make it any more stressful and awkward than it already is, so he's trying to act like a grownup about it, which, let me tell you, is really weird coming from Sirius.”

Harry fell silent; he had no idea what to say to that, and though it was obvious that Sirius would be just as distressed as he was, Harry still had a hard time completely believing it.

“Come on, Harry,” Hermione said, dragging him from his thoughts, “let's just...let's just get back to the game.”

“All right,” Harry replied, and pushed his anxieties surrounding the courtship to the back of his mind again as he made his move.

Four games later at twelve minuted to midnight, Harry headed outside and stopped just beyond the Anti-Apparition wards of his flat's building. His stomach was in knots, and he really, really wanted to do anything but agree to marry his godfather, but what choice did he have, really? Harry's mantra of, at least it's Sirius, he won't take advantage of the situation, repeated over and over in his mind as he stood there. Hermione had followed him out, and she offered him one last smile of reassurance before he took a breath to steady himself, and Disapparated.

Harry reappeared on the edge of Hogsmeade, as out-of-the-way as he could get without bouncing against Hogwarts' Anti-Apparition wards. He hoped that this would ensure that as few people as possible spotted him on his trek to the Courtship Tree.

It took Harry a moment to get his bearings, and he was momentarily distracted by the uncomfortable sensation of standing barefoot on cold cobblestone. He was in an area of Hogsmeade he hadn't visited before, and he stood before a line of cottages that faced the very edge of the Forbidden Forest. He could feel a twinge of jealousy settle in his stomach as he stared at the houses, their occupants warm and safe in their beds, not a care in the world. Harry shook his head to get rid of the intrusive thought, and he refocused his attention on the line of trees that served as the border of the forest, and began to look for the Courtship Tree, which he spotted almost at once.

It was a towering oak so thick around that Harry was certain his arms would not even reach halfway around it, and Harry felt his insides squirm uneasily as his gaze fell on the silver cord coiled around it. Harry approached it on unsteady legs, and drew his wand.

“Incarcerous rubre,” Harry muttered with a short flick before he could rethink the action, and he watched a thin red rope snake from his wand tip and wind itself through Sirius's rope.

There was no going back now.

20^th August, 2004

The last week had been less stressful than Harry had expected it to be, but also significantly more lonely than Harry was used to.

With no proper job to speak of, Harry spent a lot of his time alternating between lounging about at home, and spending his afternoons on the sunlit terrace of his favourite café in Diagon Alley, a newer establishment called Greenleaf Café, while he drank his body weight in Turkish coffee and worked on his writing project.

He wasn't certain if he would ever attempt to publish it, but if nothing else it was a way to pass the time. In addition, the fact that he was working essentially on a set of really long essays thrilled Hermione to no end. It wasn't exactly academic, but it was close enough that Hermione was all too happy to encourage him to continue.

Normally, Harry would not work on them so frequently, but his usual routine was interrupted, once more, by the damn courtship.

“Hi Harry, I—where are you going?” Hermione asked as she stepped into his flat on the eighteenth, drawing off her rain jacket as she watched Harry pull on his trainers.

“What's it look like, Hermione?” Harry asked rhetorically, “I'm going to see Teddy. I haven't seen him in ages.” Harry's neutral expression darkened when Hermione's face fell. “What now?”

“You can't see Teddy right now,” she said in a rush, as though hearing it quickly would somehow lessen the blow.

“Why the hell not? He's my godson. I want to see him.”

“But he's Sirius's cousin,” Hermione explained gently, “the courtship bars the Intended from meeting anyone from the Suitor's family at this point, because of the risk of them swaying the Intended's decision on whether or not to continue the suit. But...but you'll be able to see in in October at the Engagement Banquet.”

After two days the memory still stung, and he hated not seeing Teddy. After the war, Harry had been determined to be a constant fixture in Teddy's life, and not seeing him—even if it was only for a couple of weeks—felt like a lifetime.

Thankfully, the day had arrived when he was due to receive the First Gift of the courtship, and his stress over what he might receive, paired with the strange feeling of guilt at being given a gift for absolutely no reason. Harry found himself entirely incapable of doing anything productive, and instead he spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon pacing in his sitting room, cradling cup after cup of tea in his hands and eating any junk food he could get his hands on.

Close to teatime, a soft tapping on the sitting room window drew Harry from his panicked thoughts, and he felt his insides twist with that all-too familiar feeling of unease as he recognized Sirius's ill-tempered tawny owl perched just outside.

Harry shuffled over to the window and opened the latch. The owl soared in with a large square package clutched in its talons. The owl, Archimedes, dropped the package on Harry's coffee table, then he flew back out at once without stopping. Harry shook his head at the owl's standoffish behaviour, and closed the window before he returned his attention to the parcel now resting innocently upon his coffee table.

It was entirely nondescript, almost cube-shaped, with a parchment envelope resting on top of the lot. Harry reached out reluctantly, pulled the envelope off the package, and slit it open. The letter inside was short, and the sight of Sirius's handwriting made Harry's stomach turn over. Pushing through his various panic-induced bodily reactions, he forced himself to read the letter in his hand.

Harry,

In line with the traditions we need to follow, enclosed is the First Gift.

The First Gift is supposed to be something that is considered useful, to show the you that I am able to meet your needs. I had Hermione help me decide on something, and I hope you enjoy it.

Sirius

Harry set aside the letter and turned to the package, pulling it towards him as the first tendrils of curiosity began to overlay his unease. He pulled open the side flaps as he carefully unwrapped it, and an amused chuckle escaped him when the brown paper fell away he saw the contents of the box.

The item on top was an elegant quill made from the feather of a gyrfalcon, with several bottles of special inks—grammar and spelling-checking ink, ink that adjusted messy handwriting, no-spill ink that only appeared on parchment, as well as half a dozen normal ink pots in a variety of colours.

Paired with it was a stack of acid-free parchment, its label guaranteeing that the ink would not fade over time, and included at the bottom of the box was a small book with tips on writing nonfiction.

Harry couldn't help but laugh a little as he looked over everything. Hermione was one of the few people who knew about his writing project—his memoirs, she called them—given that not long after the war she had been the one to suggest it in the first place as a way to get everything out of his system.

Harry was drawn from his musings by a soft knock on his door, and he set down the quill that he'd been examining before he stood up to answer it. He wasn't surprised in the least when he found Hermione standing on the other side of the door. He stepped aside to let her in.

“Did you get his gift?” She asked the moment Harry had shut the door, and he chuckled a little at her lack of preamble. Despite her attempt to act nonchalant, her curiosity was all but coming off her in waves.

“Yeah,” Harry replied with a short nod, “I just finished opening it actually.” He led her over to the sitting room and sat down on the sofa to show her what he'd been given.

“I only suggested to him what to get, I didn't pick it out for him but...wow, Harry, Sirius has great taste,” Hermione said, her voice a little breathy as she picked up the quill he'd been handling not five seconds earlier and turned it in her hands.

“I feel like I should be getting him something in return, or...I dunno, send a thank you note or something,” Harry said, still feeling somewhat uncomfortable at the idea of receiving a gift for no reason.

“That's not the way that it's done, Harry,” she said simply as she set the quill down to pick up the book and began to flip through it, “you accepting the gift is gratitude enough. You're the Intended, you're not expected to reciprocate like that.”

“I know,” Harry replied while he cradled his chin in his hand, “it just...it feels weird. I'm not some fair damsel, or...or Victorian aristocrat whose only job is finding a husband...”

“I know, Harry,” Hermione said patiently, cutting across his words, “I know it's strange, and if I were in your position, I would feel uncomfortable about it too. But these rituals aren't equal, they're meant to show that you can depend on your Suitor to take care of you, especially when at some point in the future you'll be more or less indisposed when you—”

“—Hermione,” Harry interrupted with a warning tone, and at once her mouth snapped shut. Neither of them needed to say it to know that she was referring to the fact that he was expected to bear Sirius's child at some point, which was just too weird to even begin to contemplate. Hermione had offered more than once to give him information on how the procedure that he was expected to go through was done, but Harry was quite happy to live in ignorance for as long as he could.

Hermione cleared her throat nervously, and pressed on as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, though her cheeks were still more than a little pink with embarrassment.

“I just mean...it at least shows that they're able and willing to take care of you when you need it, you know?” She asked, her voice had softened a little with uncertainty as she regarded Harry. “I know you have your toxic masculinity working against you, but, Harry, it's no bad thing for a man to be taken care of...or provided for.”

Harry frowned at her, uncertain what she meant by toxic masculinity, but he decided that for the moment it wasn't important, and he reached forward to pick the quill back up. He twirled it between his fingers while he moved on to more relevant questions.

“So after this is the First Meeting thing, right?” he asked, his insides squirming uncomfortably as he spoke. Despite all of Hermione's reassurances, it still felt very wrong to him.

“Yes,” Hermione replied while she smiled at him sympathetically. “It's nothing overly complicated, just a Luncheon designed for you and the Suitor to get to know one another better. It lasts three hours and you need to be seated with a chaperone each,” she rattled off at once, sounding, as ever, as though she'd swallowed a textbook on the subject.

“And we'll have so much to talk about,” Harry said sarcastically, while Hermione frowned at him. He sighed heavily, and forced himself to answer properly, though he still had a burning urge to run for the hills and never return. “I pick you for my chaperone, obviously. Is there anything else I need to know?”

“I don't think so, I'll check with Ron though, and he can ask Molly, but from what I've read, you just sort of have to show up. Sirius is the one who's expected to organize it and pay for everything.” Hermione paused, her thumb and forefinger resting against her chin thoughtfully, “there's a few, um, restrictions, I guess is the best way to put it, on physical contact as well as conversation,” she said, and Harry felt himself relax a little. That should keep it from feeling even more awkward, at least. “If I remember correctly, it's things like no heavy discussions like sex or babies or anything, and he's not allowed to physically touch you beyond simple brushes of the hand and things like that.”

Harry had no idea what to say to that; he couldn't even imagine discussing those things with Sirius under normal circumstances, so he wasn't worried that he'd be tempted to bring it up now. He felt slightly guilty at the reassurance that he wasn't allowed to be touched—not that he'd expect Sirius to take advantage of him in any capacity, but nevertheless, the reassurance that, for the moment, he didn't have to worry about that made him feel much better about the impending date.

“A week, you said?” Harry asked, and Hermione nodded. “Great. Seven whole days to psych myself up to see Sirius for the first time since all this insanity started...”

“It'll be fine Harry,” Hermione said gently, “just wait and see.”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry muttered, wishing that he could believe it.

27^th August, 2004

Harry stood in his bedroom, stepping from foot to foot nervously while he regarded himself in his full-length mirror.

All things considered, he didn't look awful, which was much more a confusing thought than a reassuring one. Harry didn't want to look too good and give Sirius the idea that he was all for this, but at the same time, he didn't want to look like he hadn't at least tried to pull himself together. This wasn't a death sentence after all, and like Hermione had told him at least a hundred times, it could have been a lot worse.

The robes he'd chosen to wear were the same ones he'd worn in his fourth year; bottle green, almost black, with some adjustments so that they would fit properly again. Harry had applied liberal amounts of hair potion to his perpetually misbehaving locks, but already it was wearing off, and a few strands of hair were curling back to their normal, untidy state. Harry could feel his heart in his throat, his palms were clammy from nerves, and it was a small miracle that he wasn't hyperventilating.

It'll be fine, Harry thought, though he didn't believe it, everything will be fine. No matter how many times he repeated the thought, it felt no more true to him, and instead he refocused his attention on going over his physical appearance with a critical eye. Once he was sure that he didn't look awful, he headed from his bedroom and into the sitting room to wait for his so-called chaperone.

Almost the same instant that Harry sat down on his sofa, his Floo flared to life and Hermione tumbled out of the fire grate. She stood up, a lilac clutch purse in one hand, while she wore a pretty cocktail dress in the same shade with matching heels. Her hair was pulled away from her face and cascaded down her back in a number of elaborate curls, and Harry felt his breath catch a little. He was caught somewhere between shock at how good she looked, well beyond how she'd looked at the Yule Ball in their fourth year, and amazement at the fact that the Floo trip had not tousled her beautifully styled hair in the slightest.

“Wow Hermione,” Harry breathed, “you look...amazing.”

“Thanks, so do you,” Hermione replied with a warm smile, her face a little pink from the compliment, “very posh.” Harry took his turn to blush, and she reached for his hand. “Come on, we better go or we're going to be late.” Harry's heart rate tripled in an instant when he remembered why they were so dressed up in the middle of the afternoon, and after he nodded once. Hermione turned and led him out of his flat and down to the street.

“Think you could take me by Side-Along?” Harry asked the moment they'd reached the Apparition point, “I'm really nervous and I don't fancy splinching myself right now.” Hermione nodded without comment, and immediately tightened her grip on his hand before she spun on the spot.

They appeared on one of the newer side-streets along Diagon Alley, and they walked hand-in-hand up the street in silence. Harry's throat seemed to have sealed itself in his nervousness over this meeting, and he found that it was something of a miracle that he hadn't stopped breathing—or fainted.

The restaurant Sirius had chosen was posh—the kind that one couldn't get into without wearing dress robes. It was also discreet however, and Harry didn't feel like he was standing under a stage light as he walked in and stopped in front of the hostess, who appeared momentarily starstruck by Harry's sudden appearance.

“Um,” Harry coughed once to clear his throat when his voice escaped him as barely a hoarse whisper, “sorry, er...table reserved under Black?” He asked, his voice devolving into a nervous squeak when he spoke the surname.

“Of course, Mr Potter,” she said at once, “right this way.” She picked up two menus from the booth she'd been standing at, turned in a swirl of stylish black robes, and led them farther inside. She walked them through the dining area and into a back room, where a solitary booth had been set up. It still carried the ambience of the main area of the restaurant, but with a great deal more privacy. Harry felt himself relax a little.

Sirius was already there with his own chaperone—who turned out to be Andromeda. They were both dressed as smartly as Harry and Hermione were, with Sirius in fitted black and silver robes, and Andromeda in robes of a deep royal blue.

Hermione let go of Harry's hand the moment they'd stepped up to the table, and Hermione held up a hand to stop him from sitting down straightaway. They all waited in dead silence for the hostess to leave their private room before Hermione took a small step back and Sirius stood up. He offered Harry an apologetic look as he lifted his right arm, placed the ridge of his hand over his heart so that his palm was facing upward, and bowed to Harry. Harry felt his face flame, but he did not move a muscle while he felt a tendril of frustration at Hermione—she had failed to mention this bit.

Sirius straightened up, and with the same apologetic look in his eye he closed both of his hands over one of Harry's as he said, “I am deeply honoured that you have chosen to accept my suit, and I do hope that today's First Meeting will be the first of many meals I will share with you, Harry Potter.”

He rattled the words off as though he was reading from a script, and Harry assumed that it was some sort of formal custom, and nodded a little. That did not seem to be enough as Hermione elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“Er, thank you,” Harry said, feeling his face go, if possible, even redder. Sirius smiled weakly and retracted his hands quickly before he led Harry to the table. Hermione sat next to Andromeda a few feet from them, far enough away that it gave them the illusion of a private meal, but close enough to put a stop to any 'inappropriate' behaviour.

“All right Harry?” Sirius asked softly once they were seated, and a bottle of red wine appeared in the centre of the table. Their wineglasses filled of their own accord, and Harry could see the liquid in the bottle drain away at the same time.

“I guess,” Harry mumbled as he picked up his own glass to have something to do with his hands, “I mean, this is just...I'm a little out of my depth.” Harry sipped his wine, and found that it was his favourite kind that he always had at home, and he wondered if Hermione had mentioned this to Sirius, or if it was a lucky coincidence. Despite the presence of his preferred vintage, it didn't stop Harry from feeling terribly uncomfortable. He knew Sirius was trying to make this as easy on him as possible, and it seemed unfair to not try and return the favour in any way he could. Because of this, he did his best to keep his complaints to a bare minimum, though that didn't stop Harry from feeling incredibly uneasy.

“I know, Harry,” Sirius said gently, his eyes telling Harry more than his words how guilty he felt about the entire situation. “I would never...” he trailed off and shook his head as he lifted his own wineglass and took a fortifying sip. “We have our ancestors to thank for this...mess.”

“I know,” Harry replied, his voice just barely above a mumble, while he stared into the contents of his glass. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I appreciate that it's you and not...um, Malfoy, or someone, but it's still a bit...” he trailed off and looked up, and Sirius offered him a weak smile of understanding.

“...strange.”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, his eyes flicking up to his godfather, and Sirius smiled weakly at him again.

Ever so slowly the meal progressed, but Harry found that no matter how hard they tried, they both seemed to be at a loss for words. Their previous relationship was utterly shattered, and flashes of what would be expected of him in the near future kept jumping into the forefront of Harry's mind. Harry tried a variety of methods in an effort to engage Sirius in conversation, from trying to pretend that Sirius was a stranger that we was meeting for the first time, to focusing solely on Sirius's physical appearance (Harry couldn't deny that Sirius looked good for a man in his forties) but no matter what he did, he could not shake the mental reminder that this was his godfather.

His godfather, whom he would be expected to have sex with.

His godfather, whom he was expected to bear a child of.

His godfather, whom he was expected to marry.

Harry shook himself in an effort to dispel the morose thoughts. There was no use dwelling on it; like so many other moments in his life, this was just another thing outside his control that he would have to do whether he liked it or not. He prodded at his meal, some sort of fancy steak, but it tasted like ash in his mouth.

“Harry.” Sirius's guilt-ridden tone dragged Harry from his thoughts, and the warmth of the older man's hand brushing over his caused his head to snap up in alarm. They had hardly exchanged more than a few words since the meal had started, and aside from when Sirius had taken Harry's hand at the beginning of the date, he had not touched Harry at all.

“Er, yeah?” He asked, wincing at how hoarse—how scared he sounded.

“I know this isn't ideal, but we'll work it out, all right?” Sirius pulled his hand back, and offered him yet another weak smile. “I'll...things will be okay.”

Harry wished that he could believe him.

The meal was rounded off with a cloyingly sweet crème brûlée that Harry couldn't finish, and it was with great relief that they stood, and Sirius offered Harry another proper bow, which brought a cherry red flush to his cheeks.

He turned to offer Andromeda a quick goodbye while Hermione spoke softly to Sirius, and unfortunately, they were all too busy with their farewells to notice a fat black beetle scuttle silently from the room.
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Patria Potestas: Blood Ties