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Patria Potestas: Blood Ties	By : JBankai89 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Sirius Views: 17596 -:- 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
- 3
- 4
- 5
A/N: There are a couple French terms in this chapter, see the end notes for a glossary.
Chapter Four – A Change In the Wind

8^th September, 2004

“Remind me again why I need another pair of dress robes? Sirius knows what I look like, and my other ones are still in good condition,” Harry grumbled as he shook off the aftereffects of the Side-Along Apparition. Hermione glared at him, and saw right through his feeble excuse at his attempt to avoid leaving the house.

Since Rita had published her charming article, Harry (and Sirius, according to Hermione) had been flooded with letters from well-meaning 'fans' pleading with him to end the courtship, or wedding proposals from people Harry had never even heard of in a bid for Harry to choose them over Sirius. It had been beyond exhausting, and Harry had avoided going out in public ever since, given that the few times that he had, he was swarmed by people the moment that they noticed him. As a result, Hermione stood with Harry on that rainy Wednesday afternoon outside The Leaky Cauldron, with his features transfigured just enough that people passed him by without even a second glance.

“Because everyone has more than one pair of dress robes Harry,” Hermione replied with an impatient huff as she steered him into the pub. “You and Ron, I swear, are you afraid you'll get hives if you go into a robes shop? Come on.”

Harry grunted a little as she forcibly dragged him forward, and he staggered along behind her as she led him to the entrance to Diagon Alley. Harry grimaced, but finally fell into step with her, if nothing else to keep her from tugging him around like a ragdoll. He didn't want to look good for Sirius—not like this. After Hermione's little announcement that Harry was expected to kiss Sirius—far sooner than he had expected—he had been thrown back to a state of mind similar to how he'd felt when this whole mess had started. That is to say, something close to blind panic.

“This is so stupid,” Hermione hissed as they walked, “do you really need to disguise yourself to go to Diagon Alley? Surely you're overreacting...just a bit?”

“Don't be so sure,” Harry muttered, “look to your left.”

Hermione turned, and standing off to one side talking with a squat man that Harry recognized as a Prophet photographer, his beady eyes roving over the crowd intently. Harry saw Hermione's hand tense in the pocket of her robes where Harry knew her wand was hidden, and swallowed his reluctance in being here at all in favour of keeping Hermione out of Azkaban, and quickly steered her into Madam Malkin's.

“Good afternoon my dears,” Madam Malkin herself greeted the moment they crossed the threshold into the shop. “What are we looking for today?”

“H—” Harry elbowed Hermione sharply to shut her up, and after shooting him a glare, she tried again. “My, er, friend needs some new dress robes,” she said, and the elderly woman's eyes shifted from Hermione to Harry.

“All right dear, come along, I believe I have a space for you. Do you have any preference to cut, style, or colour?” She asked while she ushered him towards the back of the shop, and Harry stared at her as though she had suddenly begun to speak Urdu.

“He looks best in dark colours, and something tight across the chest—but not constrictive, mind you—would look best,” Hermione offered while she followed them. “Black and green are his go-to colours, but a deep blue would not go amiss, either.”

“Hmm...” Madam Malkin hummed while she charmed a measuring tape to take his measurements, then both she and Hermione walked away towards a massive stack of fabric, talking softly with one another.

So began three hours of torture.

Harry had never pegged Hermione as particularly effeminate, given that most of her friends were men and she was never one to get overly dressed up for no reason, but like with everything else in the universe, she seemed to know everything about fashion. She debated colour schemes and patterns with the older woman, she was incredibly particular about showing his body off—which made Harry very uncomfortable—and she nitpicked every single tiny detail on Harry's behalf. While part of him was grateful that Hermione was there, given that he knew nothing about this stuff, another, stronger part of him just wanted it to be over.

Harry walked out of the shop at the end of it with his new robes tucked under one arm. While Hermione looked utterly unaffected by their afternoon activities, Harry felt positively knackered.

“Never make me do that again, Hermione,” Harry muttered, and she rolled her eyes.

“Don't be such a drama queen,” she replied impatiently, “it wasn't that bad.”

“Oh yes, it was,” he replied, and Hermione shook her head a little. She gave up on the argument, and they fell into comfortable silence. Hermione bid him goodbye at the Apparition point just outside The Leaky Cauldron, and Harry Apparated home.

The moment he stepped inside Harry tossed aside the package, all but threw himself into his favourite armchair, and summoned his bottle of scotch and a glass. It wasn't his usual drink of choice, but tonight he felt as though he needed something a little stronger to unwind with.

Harry swirled the contents of his glass and stared into the extinguished fire grate. In two days I have to kiss Sirius, he thought, and took a sip of the drink. The idea didn't exactly disgust him, but it didn't fill him with warm butterflies, either. It had only been a scant few weeks since this whole thing had started, after all, and once more Harry felt cornered by the expected intimacy with a man who was practically his father. It just felt so wrong.

He tilted his head back against the faux suede upholstery, and groaned softly. Part of him almost wished that he could erase Sirius's relation to him from his memory, if nothing else to make this whole thing a little easier to deal with.

As Harry sat there, he tried to picture kissing Sirius, but he simply couldn't manage it. It was too strange, too outlandish to even imagine. Though he dreaded the moment he had to kiss Sirius arriving, at the same time the waiting was driving him mad. Harry almost wished that Hermione hadn't told him, because at least then he wouldn't be spending half his time fretting over it.

Harry drained his glass; it was going to be a long two days.

10^th September, 2004

Harry stood in front of his full-body mirror, looking over himself with an uncertain grimace. He hadn't paid as much attention in the robes shop as he probably should have, and now he was paying for that mistake.

He stood there dressed in the robes Hermione had picked out for him, and while he had to concede that he looked good, he was a little concerned at the fact that he looked almost too good. He didn't want to give Sirius the wrong idea that he was actually approving of this courtship thing by dressing up for the occasion.

The robes were black with red lining, and the cuffs had been sewn with golden thread, lending the design to his former house affiliation, without it being overt and tacky. Overall they were fitted, though they flared out slightly at the wrist. The high collar and long trail of buttons down his front reminded Harry of Snape's robes back when he had been nothing more than his bad-tempered Potions professor, and he wasn't certain how he felt about that.

Harry wasn't given very long to dwell on this however, as at that same moment his Floo flared to life, and Hermione tumbled out of his fireplace. As she stood up and brushed herself off, Harry took in the sight of what she was wearing, and found himself caught between irritation and amusement.

“You bitch,” he said with a short laugh and Hermione's gaze met his with confusion. Harry put on a high false tone as he mimicked her words from two days earlier, “everyone has more than one pair of dress robes Harry, you can't wear the same outfit at your next meeting...”

“Oh shut up Harry,” she said with a giggle, and used her wand to get rid of the last of the ash that clung to her dress—the same one she'd worn at his first meeting with Sirius. “This courtship isn't about me, I can get away with wearing the same thing twice. You can't, so suck it up.”

“So where are we going tonight?” Harry asked to change the subject, while his mouth twitched into a half smile at her words. It was six-thirty according to his watch, and they were scheduled to meet Andromeda and Sirius at seven. Harry didn't know where—he'd been given a set of Apparition coordinates, but no hint to where they were actually going. He knew it was a dinner, but beyond that Harry was completely at sea.

“No idea,” she replied, and sauntered over to the mirror Harry had been using to straighten out her dress and fix her hair, while Harry stepped out of the way to let her go to it. “The Second Meeting is supposed to be a little more formal, so it's probably going to be some sort of high-end restaurant or something. I've read of some people taking their Intended abroad for a night, but I don't think Sirius is that extravagant.”

“And you and Andromeda will still be there?” Harry asked, but he felt his stomach turn over when Hermione didn't answer straightaway. “Hermione?”

“We'll still be there,” Hermione replied, and she went a little pink as she continued, “but at this stage things are intended to progress a little, so you and Sirius are given a little more privacy. You're still barred from discussing anything super intimate, but it's basically a second date, and these things do...progress.” Her voice dropped to a mumble, and Harry shifted from foot to foot uneasily.

“But I don't want things to progress,” Harry grumbled, “hell, I don't want this at all.”

“I know, Harry,” Hermione replied sadly, while she turned from her reflection to look at him. Harry crossed his arms and leant against the wall, glaring miserably at the hardwood floor. “But...we're all doing the best we can. It's a difficult and awkward situation for Sirius too, I hope you realize that.”

“I know,” he muttered, but still didn't look up. “I'm not trying to make this harder, it's just...” Harry trailed off and shook his head; he didn't know what it was. He checked his watch again, and saw that almost twenty minutes had passed since Hermione's arrival, and he reluctantly pushed himself off the wall. “We better get going, it's ten to.”

Hermione nodded, they joined hands as they walked from his flat, down the stairs, and to the nearest Apparition point. Harry withdrew the small slip of parchment from his pocket to check the location one more time, and with one last deep breath to steady himself, he closed his eyes and spun on the spot, dragging Hermione with him.

The pair reappeared instantly on the steps of a restaurant called Verre Doré and Harry found himself momentarily stunned by the glamour of the place. It was as though they'd suddenly transported themselves to the heart of Paris, and the haute couture of the place was a little intimidating. Hermione seemed to feel it too as they ascended the marble steps into the building, and instantly a tall, thin man in a tailored suit Apparated right in front of them, and the pair jumped a little in surprise.

“Welcome to Verre Doré, Monsieur et Madamoiselle, my name is Michel Cuillère, and I will be you 'ost for the evening. 'Ow may I be of seirvece?” he said as he bowed to both Harry and Hermione in turn, and they exchanged a bewildered look at the formality of such a greeting.

“Er, we have a reservation under Black?” Harry said, wincing at how uncouth he sounded, at least compared to this man. At his words, a thin leather-bound book materialized in the air before the host, and he regarded it once before it vanished again.

“Monsieur Potteur, Madamoiselle Grangeur, suivez-moi,” he said, turning on his heel smoothly to lead them away from the entryway. Harry didn't immediately move, and Hermione gave his hand a sharp tug, and he stumbled after her a little before he righted himself and followed the host through the restaurant. As they went, more than one head swivelled in their direction, and Harry felt his face burn a little as the hissing whispers began to follow their progression through the restaurant.

The host led them to a private parlour where two round tables covered in white linens had been set up about six feet apart. Andromeda and Sirius were already there talking quietly with one another, and the sight of the older man made Harry's stomach flip-flop nervously when he remembered what Hermione had told him a few days earlier. He did his best to appear calm and collected, but when the pair looked up at them, he knew by the look of concern in Sirius's eyes that he didn't manage it very well.

The host bowed his way out, and Sirius stood stiffly, and Andromeda followed suit. Like last time, they looked every part the aristocrat, and Harry felt like some sort of street urchin by comparison. Sirius's hair was loose, with the long strands towards the front pulled away from his face with a thin black tie, and he was dressed in fitted dress robes of black velvet. Andromeda was dressed just as elegantly, her robes a deep cranberry colour, and her hair was piled high on her head and woven with strings of pearls.

Both Andromeda and Hermione stepped back from their charges, and Harry suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable, and swallowed thickly as Sirius closed the distance between them in one stride. He bowed once, then took Harry's hand in his and brushed his lips lightly over the back of his knuckles. Harry felt himself go very red at the contact, then Sirius straightened up, his gaze as apologetic as it had been at their first meeting, and placed a hand at the small of Harry's back and led him to their table.

Harry's sensation of distinct strangeness became more pronounced when Sirius pulled out his chair for him, and only when Sirius had taken his seat across from Harry did Hermione and Andromeda sit down.

“This is...posh,” Harry remarked awkwardly, and Sirius chuckled a little.

“That's putting it mildly,” he replied while he drew his wand. He tapped the table twice, and a spread of red wine, cheese, and a fresh French baguette materialized on the table between them. Like in the first restaurant, Harry felt completely out of his depth, while Sirius looked completely at home, as though he'd eaten at such a place hundreds of times.

“Er, I want to thank you,” Harry said awkwardly as his wineglass filled on its own, and he picked it up for something to do with his hands. Sirius looked up, a question in his eyes, and Harry felt his face grow uncomfortably warm. “For the album, I mean. I—I mean, I've heard all about my mum and dad from you and—everyone,” Harry broke off with a minor wince. Even after so long, thinking of Remus was painful. The hurt in Sirius's eyes told Harry that he, too, was likely thinking of his lost friend, and Harry quickly pushed forward to keep from dwelling on it for too long. “I mean, I know all about them, but I never felt like I knew them, you know? I just—thank you.”

“You're welcome, Harry,” Sirius replied with a faint smile and picked up his own wineglass. “I thought you might like it.”

“I did, thank you,” Harry felt himself flush a little, realizing too late that he was repeating himself, but Sirius merely smiled again as he reached for the bread. He split it open, and they began to eat.

It amazed Harry how much more relaxed he felt than he had at their first meeting—he had yet to bring himself to refer to it as a 'date', even though that was what it was—it wasn't exactly comfortable, but certainly less awkward. Harry wondered if it had something to do with the steady application of expensive wine in front of him, but either way it was a relief—at least until the menus for their main course appeared upon their empty plates, and Harry stared incredulously at it, for it was entirely in French.

“We're in the heart of London and they couldn't be bothered to write the menu in English?” Harry grumbled, and Sirius smirked a little.

“What, you don't speak French?”

“I was a bit busy being hunted down by Voldemort to pick up a second language,” Harry replied dryly, and Sirius chuckled a bit.

“Fair enough. Here,” he leant in to look at the menu with Harry, and Harry felt his stomach somersault again at the close proximity of the older man. Harry knew that it was something that he had to learn to get used to, but it didn't make it feel any less strange. Slowly, Sirius went through the menu with Harry, and it took a great deal of self control to focus on the menu and not the man, who spoke smoothly in a perfect French accent, something Harry had never expected, given what he knew of his godfather.

Harry chose something called, lièvre en saugrenée, and Sirius, boeuf bourguignon. As far as fancy French food went, it seemed a bit like high end jugged hare and beef stew to him.

“I didn't know you spoke French,” Harry said conversationally as they ate, and Sirius smiled faintly.

“My dear mother was, among other things, obsessed with producing two perfect, pureblooded, aristocratic heirs to the Black line,” Sirius said with a cold edge to his words. Harry grimaced at the expression he saw there, and began to regret even asking. “Piano, language lessons, etiquette...it was maddening.” Sirius shook his head and stabbed sullenly at a piece of beef on his plate.

“Um, sorry,” Harry said, wincing a little at the awkward tone to his voice. Sirius looked back up, question in his eyes, and Harry quickly elaborated, “for bringing it up, I mean. I know you don't—”

“—You don't need to apologize, Harry,” Sirius interrupted, his expression softening a little. “We're getting to know each other in a whole new way, and you don't need to be shy about asking me about my delightfully screwed-up childhood. If there was something I wasn't keen to discuss, I'd tell you so, all right?”

“Yeah, all right,” Harry replied, and Sirius offered him a small smile. For the first time that day, Harry's returning smile didn't feel at all forced.

The meal progressed, and slowly the pair fell into easy conversation. Harry was marvelled at how easy it was to fall back into safe subjects like Quidditch, the latest Ministry scandal, and the latest goings-on at Hogwarts.

The familiar topics helped Harry to forget what was coming, but over a shared portion of mille-feuille and sweet apple ice wine(which surprisingly was Canadian and not French, according to the label), the thought once more invaded Harry's senses, and he struggled to keep his face neutral as Sirius conversationally told Harry about finally taking his motorbike back from Hagrid, and the work he was doing on it. Thankfully, Sirius was so caught up in his monologue that he didn't seem to notice Harry's resurgence of panic.

Harry drew out the dessert and after-dinner coffee for as long as he could, and Sirius seemed to be doing the same. He grasped at any topic that crossed his mind as he talked at Harry, rather than with him, which dissolved into a nervous babble as the dinner wound down. If nothing else, Harry was relieved that Sirius seemed to be as anxious about this as he was.

Even with all their stalling, the moment had come regardless of their twin efforts.

Harry could feel his heart beating so hard and fast in his chest that it came as something of a shock that he wasn't visibly vibrating because of it. Sirius stood slowly, every movement expressed his clear reluctance for what was about to transpire. Harry followed his lead, Hermione and Andromeda followed suit, but they stayed back as Sirius circled the table and stopped before Harry.

At such a close proximity, Harry could smell the wine on Sirius's breath, the sharp tang of his aftershave, and the heady, masculine scent that was simply Sirius. His eyes, like molten silver in the low light, carried a silent apology in them, and Harry knew that it was not just for what was about to transpire, but for the whole mess of this courtship. Harry knew it wasn't his fault, and he opened his mouth to say something, anything to reassure him, but his voice refused to work properly. Instead, he nodded his head a little and offered Sirius a small smile, and the older man seemed to understand the sentiment.

Sirius reached for Harry, and brushed his fingers across his forehead to push the fringe of messy hair out of his eyes. Harry's breath caught, and slowly Sirius's hand dropped to cup his cheek, and the rough, callused fingerpads tickled Harry's clean-shaven skin, but not unpleasantly. Sirius's opposite hand dropped to Harry's hip, and he very gently coaxed Harry forward. An involuntary gasp escaped him as they pressed chest-to-chest, and Sirius regarded Harry one last time with that same look of apology. Harry held his breath as he nodded, giving Sirius leave to continue, and the older man began to lean in.

Practised lips ghosted over Harry's inexperienced ones tentatively. It was so light that Harry wasn't certain it counted as a real kiss, as it felt more like Sirius was testing the waters before jumping in. The thought had barely finished crossing his mind before Sirius moved to kiss him properly.

His lips moulded to Harry's, the hand at his cheek stroked the skin lightly; reassuringly. Harry reached up tentatively as he returned the kiss while his fingers twisted in the front of Sirius's robes, and he felt Sirius start, clearly surprised by Harry's actions. The hand at his hip moved to the small of his back and Sirius held Harry in a gentle embrace, drawing out the kiss for a moment longer before he finally pulled back.

Harry knew his face was likely beet-red, and the couple stood staring at each other in quiet shock. Harry was uncertain about Sirius, but Harry found himself shocked not at how distasteful the kiss was, but rather, how much he liked it.

“I—er—” Harry tried to break the silence, and his awkward stammer was met with a soft chuckle. Sirius was still holding him close, and he leant in to kiss Harry again, though it was much more brief and chaste than the first one had been.

“That was considerably better than I had been expecting,” Sirius murmured, and Harry felt himself go red again, uncertain whether the comment was complimentary or not.

“Er...thanks, I think?” Harry raised an eyebrow, and Sirius laughed softly.

“I didn't mean it that way, I just meant...” he trailed off, and his face tinted a faint pink of embarrassment, and he shook his head. “Never mind.” With clear reluctance—though a different kind of reluctance—he let Harry go, and Harry immediately stepped back from Sirius. He felt a little weak-kneed, as though he'd been hit with a particularly powerful jelly-legs jinx. If nothing else, the man could certainly kiss like the devil. Sirius caught one of Harry's hands in both of his before he got very far, and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

Without another word, he dropped the appendage, moved to join Andromeda, and the pair swept from the restaurant. Harry watched them go, his head spinning as he tried to work out exactly what he was feeling.

Harry realized quite suddenly that he'd liked the kiss—more than liked it.

Part of his mind balked at this. He didn't want to like it.

...But he did.
A/N: I am more or less bilingual, so I'm fairly certain that I didn't fuck up on the grammar here, but if any French-speakers notice any mistakes, please feel free to point them out so that I can fix them :) (I'm from Quebec, so our French is a little wonky compared to Parisian French to begin with, haha)

Glossary: Verre Doré = Golden Goblet Madamoiselle = Miss Suivez-moi = follow me
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Patria Potestas: Blood Ties