HP: Monochrome

The Hogwarts Library.

The sharp sound of something slapping against the hard wooden desk jolted him out of sleep. Harry looked up, his eyes groggy and eardrums ringing.

And found a half-irate Snape standing in front of him.

Just peachy.

Had he fallen asleep during Potions again? Harry pushed himself off the desk, rummaging around the empty desk for his book and cauldron implements, but found nothing. Instead, there was a large and unhealthy-sized tome about wizarding traditions. Great! He'd lose even more points. Why didn't Ron—

His jumbled mess of thoughts screeched to a halt as his eyes fell upon the tome once more.

Wizarding Britain. An Incomplete And Unreliable Guide.

Then it hit him. He wasn't in Potions. The school term was over, and he had dozed off while reading a book written by some uninspired sod about wizarding traditions.

"Are you done making a fool out of yourself, Potter?"

Oh, right. Snape. He'd nearly forgotten about him.

Harry looked at the rolled-up newspaper that Snape had slapped against his desk.

Then he looked back up at the dour professor.

Then back at the newspaper.

"Potter!" the professor barked, jolting out of his repetitive actions.

"Uh— yes, professor?"

"I was told you were comatose the night of the Third Task. I wasn't aware the event left your mind addled."

And just like that, every ounce of confusion vanished from Harry's face, leaving behind nothing but a mutinous expression.

Snape's lips twisted into a victorious smirk.

"Did you need something?" Harry grunted.

"Did you need something, sir," Snape corrected.

"There's no need to call me sir, Professor."

Before he knew it, the newspaper had been lifted off the desk, and something large and papery slammed against Harry's head. He stared at the greasy-haired man with immense loathing, rubbing the top of his head.

"The Headmaster has summoned you to his office."

"Professor Dumbledore?"

"There has been no change in Headmasters, Potter. But I'm glad to see you're trying to keep up."

"Gee, thanks, Professor. It was nice to banter like a five-year-old."

Crap. This was really becoming a problem. Harry wondered if casting a partial Impediment jinx on his lips would help. Not a very bright idea, but he was beginning to get rather desperate.

The man's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Harry hoped he didn't know of a spell that could evaporate someone on the spot. Snape was supposed to be scarily good with the Dark Arts, after all. Even so, this meaningless antagonistic banter with the professor was something he was used to over the years. A dance of sorts that felt strangely normal and cathartic.

…That right there said a lot about the kind of life he'd been living thus far.

Come to think of it, he couldn't really think of any other kind of day. This was still far better than staying with the Dursleys, or hiding in unused classrooms when he wanted to avoid Ron and Hermione's attention.

On the other hand, he wasn't really sure what he'd even do if he had any other kind of day. Because franky, he was built— by both experience and inclination —for turmoil and mayhem. Things going south, and then some more. Having everyone stare at him like he was some sort of criminal. Evil cackling madmen involving him in overcomplicated plans and esoteric magics to screw with his life.

As his thoughts progressed from one scenario to the next, Harry found himself feeling increasingly gloomy.

I think… I've made some bad choices in life.

He wondered if the Wizarding World offered career counselors, before remembering that he was supposed to attend one this very year. The year before his OWL examinations. His eyes refocused back onto Snape, realizing that the man was still just standing there.

"…Do you wish to say something to me?" he asked cautiously, before quickly adding a 'sir'.

Snape glanced at the title of his time and shot him a not-smile. "Wizarding Traditions. Finally wising up, I see."

"Mc— Professor McGonagall gave me the idea," Harry admitted, "Amelia Bones also mentioned something about the Ancient House of Potter and Sacred Twenty-Eight business."

Turns out there was more to the wizarding world than just pureblood politics. Fifteen Ancient Houses, and thirteen Ancient and Noble ones. Together, the Sacred 'Twenty-Eight' formed the Wizengamot, a body of twenty-eight individuals, and some more folk that acted as the Legislature for Wizarding Britain. House Potter was classified as 'Ancient' given its existence before the days of the Norman Conquest. Malfoy was also part of the set, as was, surprisingly enough, House Weasley. He had never heard Ron say anything about it, or about this Wizengamot seat that they supposedly had.

House Black on the other hand, was just as Ancient but also Noble, for reasons he wasn't quite sure he understood yet.

"What even is this Wizengamot anyway?" He couldn't help but express his frustration. "It's like these people love complicating things. Just calling it the Ministry would have been enough."

Snape smirked at him. "Our society has two sets of laws, Potter. The laws of the people, and the laws of Magic. The former is authored, debated, authorized and enforced by those in power. The latter, is the way Magic itself behaves, and is held constant by the cumulative power of the Wizengamot."

Harry narrowed his eyes. He had never heard of such a thing before.

"Not all forms of magic are taught at Hogwarts, Potter. There are several, you'll find, that were banished from the curriculum, their texts burnt to dust, all to ensure that the society continues to thrive. Magic is a powerful tool, but a terrible master."

An image of dead bodies, all of them decaying to husk, came to mind.

"And this Wizengamot keeps it in check?"

"Yes."

Harry frowned, but said nothing.

"Magic warps reality, Potter. Our world is shaped by our perceptions, thoughts, emotions and beliefs. A single grain of sand on the beach is inconsequential, but collect enough to build a moon, and it can cause tides in the ocean. Individual witches and wizards are like those tiny grains of sand. The Wizengamot, and through it, the collective Magical Britain, is the Moon."

Snape squarely met his eyes. "Two of the twelve dead purebloods were Lords of Ancient Houses, and one, of an Ancient and Noble House. The others held minor seats on the Wizengamot. Do you understand why the deaths are a big deal?"

Harry swallowed. No mouthing off this time.

Snape might not have said it outright, but he, The Boy-Who-Murdered, had become a sink for public resentment. And something told him that it'd be bigger than the Heir of Slytherin gig.

"I'm surprised though," said Snape, "One would have thought you knew all of this, Potter, given how proud you are of your father."

"You'd think so," said Harry, "all I knew was that my dad was a Chaser in the Gryffindor Quidditch team and he was a…" he paused, realizing who it was he was talking to.

"A… what?"

"Marauder," Harry quickly said. "A marauder."

The inquisitive expression on Snape's face was instantly replaced by a scowl. Harry was almost sad to see that his one decent conversation with the Potions Professor was about to come to an end.

"That may be," The man huffed, "The Headmaster has asked me to inform you that you'll be having remedial potions with me this coming year, Potter. With me."

"Huh? Why?"

Snape shot him a dark stare.

"I mean—" Harry backpedaled, "I scored an EE in Potions, Professor."

"Because the Dark Lord," Snape's voice went several decibels lower, "is back, and the Headmaster assures me that you have some modicum of talent in Defense against the Dark Arts. It is his wish that I train you into becoming a passable wizard that can survive being ambushed by Death Eaters."

Harry felt a little elated at having someone— anyone —teach him something that was useful in a fight. Between Lockart's little dueling club and the random spells he'd learned practicing for the Triwizard Tournament, his own arsenal of spells was not only limited in nature, but also incredibly easy to figure out.

He was no expert duelist, but even he knew that being predictable in a fight wasn't a great idea.

"Why can't Professor Dumbledore teach me himself?"

It was a logical question. After all, Dumbledore was the one wizard Voldemort ever feared. Not that he'd say no to Snape— the man supposedly knew an awful lot on the subject.

"Albus Dumbledore has more important things to do than teach a fourteen-year-old how to properly hold his wand," Snape scoffed. "It is time for you to have a healthy grounding in the Dark Arts, specifically in counter-curses."

"Counter-curses…." Harry trailed off. He knew what the term meant. Spells designed to undo the effects of dark charms, hexes and curses.

Snape pulled out a worn-out copy of Extreme Incantations and dropped it on his desk.

"Sir?"

"You may have the precocious ability to escape the Dark Lord over and over, but nothing stops one of his followers from casting something nasty at you. That," he pointed at the book, "is my own copy of the fifth-year DADA textbook. You'll find spells and techniques scribbled along the pages."

Harry stared at him blankly, and then at the battered book. Then he glanced back at the man.

Did Snape just….

He blinked.

Nope. The illusion was still intact.

"You will study them during the summer, and come next term, we will be reviewing the spells one by one. I'd sleep better knowing the person the Headmaster is betting everything on can actually cross a road without getting his head blown off."

That, Harry decided, was probably the nicest thing Snape had ever said or done to him. Which said everything about their relationship.

"Oh, and avail yourself of a wand. Preferably one that isn't dead."

And just like that, all hope for mutual cooperation and a non-antagonistic relationship between them withered away.

"I will," Harry threw back.

The man shot him another not-smile "Good to know. And for your information, Potter, the Headmaster doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Whatever you say, Professor."

The Headmaster's office.

"I have to say," said Sirius Black, "this wasn't what I was expecting. No mad rush to prove Pettigrew as the real betrayer. No going to the ends of the world and back to see justice prevail in front of those purple-robed, hard-hearted sons of bitches, nothing. Just one neat little conversation with dearest Amelia and I'm a free man."

Dumbledore's mouth twitched in amusement. "Just that?"

"There might have been a beef sandwich and firewhiskey involved," Sirius quipped. "They also gave me compensation and backpay, and a paid trip to the Bahamas. Not exactly a tale of gallantry, love, and loss, but those veela massage parlors have to count for something, right?"

The Headmaster's eyes twinkled. "Have you thought about what you wish to do in the future?"

The grin fell off his face. A part of him wanted to simply take his godson with him to this Bahamas trip, get him to experience the nice things in life. Pranks, dates, girls— he had thirteen years to make up for with Harry. But that would be acting too much like a Gryffindor.

It was his job to protect Harry, and to do that, he needed to start thinking and stop was a niggle at the back of his back to leave Britain, maybe travel the continent, and get himself healed.

That thought arrested him for a long moment.

Going away would mean leaving Britain, and by extension, leaving Harry. Why would he want to do that? He was Harry's godfather.

The moment he was filled with the new resolve, the desire to leave Britain vanished abruptly. He had shaken off a compulsion spell, Sirius realized, and with that came the shocking discovery about the source of the compulsion.

His fists clenched.

His years at Azkaban had left him an empty shell of a man, but it had also forced him to recede into his animagus self for twelve long years. Somewhere in that torment, Azkaban had forged his mind into a psychic bulwark so powerful that it had withstood twelve years of constant dementor exposure and yet retained his sanity.

It made him question. Just why was Dumbledore compelling him to leave? Was he worried about Sirius getting too close to Harry? Sirius had already seen how Harry had been treated by the Dursleys, and yet, Albus kept sending him back to those despicable muggles. Why? Because he thought the muggles could provide a safer environment than him?

Or was it because Dumbledore couldn't trust him?

Which sounded more likely because Dumbledore had always had trouble seeing beyond the Black name Sirius carried.

Wasn't that why he hadn't even rated a visit from the leader of the Order of the Phoenix after being imprisoned? Everybody got a second chance with Dumbledore except for Sirius it seemed. Sirius wondered if Dumbledore would have stood by and let him be kissed. Certainly it seemed like the kids had gained some kind of approval from the Headmaster to save him but…but just why was it that the kids had needed to save him? Why couldn't Dumbledore guarantee him a fair trial? Wasn't he the Chief Warlock? Sirius was aware that the old wizard didn't like to wield the power the wizarding world had given him too often but he had power.

Power was something that the House of Potter and the House of Black had once enjoyed; magical power aplenty certainly, but both families had also built financial and political alliances. And it was that kind of power that Sirius truly needed if he was going to protect Harry; from the Death Eaters, from Peter, from Voldemort. It was that kind of power which would get Harry protection from Fudge's attempt to turn Harry into a scapegoat, and ensure his godson had everything he needed – love, happiness, fun, security.

And he evidently needed that same power to ensure that Albus Dumbledore couldn't stop Sirius from being with Harry, if that was Dumbledore's plan.

"Sirius?"

The canine animagus lifted his head and met Dumbledore's piercing gaze.

"Yes?"

"I was wondering… what do you intend to do next?"

"Get Harry's custody of course," he said, a false cheer pasted on his face. "I'm his godfather after all."

"I was hoping you'd consider allowing him to return to the Dursleys."

"Why?"

"Several reasons," Albus prevaricated, taking a lemon drop, "but mostly security. The blood wards surrounding that place can provide him protection on par with Hogwarts itself."

"Come now, Albus." Sirius scoffed.

"I've been to the Dursley home. The intent-based wards are powerful, but you know as well as I how easy it's to break them. Prongs and I could have gotten past them in a week."

"It's the best protection I can—"

"Bollocks!" He banged the table, "Harry's been through hell and back. You really think leaving him alone with that bunch of dullards is a bright idea?"

"I have often found that solitude is a balm to my sufferings, Sirius."

"And you don't look a year older than a hundred and five. Harry's fifteen."

"And a grieving student who has gone through too much," Dumbledore countered. " He's not the type of young man you can tempt into gallivanting away on this Bahamas trip you've been going on about. He's not James, Sirius."

Sirius froze for a moment, his mask of excitement fading. A dark, blank stare took its place. Even so, it was far better. Showing the old man his true self— the betrayed, paranoid, untrusting man behind his excitable face was simply bad for business.

But sometimes… sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

"I'm perfectly aware of who he is, thank you."

"Are you?" Dumbledore questioned. "Because what Harry needs right now is time to grieve."

"No," Sirius all but growled. "What he needs is a familiar face. His godfather. His sole family. You want him protected and that's great, but it isn't everything. He deserves to be happy too."

"I don't disagree with your reasoning," Albus said, "But you've just gotten free. You need to get your life back. Buy a house. Reconnect with old friends. As soon as you are settled somewhere, I'm certain young Harry would be very happy to join you."

"I already have a house, Dumbledore, in case you forgot. The Black Townhouse."

"The one in…." Albus's brows furrowed. "I… can't seem to recall where exactly, which is…"

Sirius watched him. It was always fun to watch someone trying to remember the exact location of the House of Black. That it was so without incorporating the Fidelius only made it that much entertaining.

"I… I can't remember it. I know it's in.."

Sirius smirked. "You're still gonna argue about protective wards? The House of Black can give him protection like nothing else."

For once, the Headmaster seemed to actually be considering the idea.

This was his make-or-break moment.

He pushed forward. "Come on, Albus. You know it's a good deal. Maybe we can even use the House as the Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix."

That got the man's attention. "You'd do that?"

Sirius shrugged. "I was a part of the Order, remember? And besides, Harry can even invite his friends to stay with him. For James and Lily's sake, Albus, let the boy enjoy some freedom for once."

"And let me guess," the man sighed. "A trip to a foreign beach is part of that package?"

Sirius's devious grin did nothing to satiate the old wizard's fears.

"Look Albus—" he began, but the sudden knock on the door got his attention.

"Come in, Harry." Dumbledore intoned.

The oak door automatically swung open, and his godson, Harry Potter entered the room.

Sirius didn't wait a second. Getting off the chair, he leaped at him, embracing his godson in a bear hug. He did his best to ignore the way Harry flinched upon sudden contact. Ruffling the boy's locks fondly, he beamed.

"Sirius!" said Harry, "you're—"

"Free!" Sirius sang, "I'm a free man now. All thanks to you. In fact, me and Albus were just planning on where I'm headed next."

The shadow of disappointment that flickered past his godson's face was enough to break Sirius's heart in a thousand pieces. It only proved how wrong Albus was.

"I… I see," said Harry, doing his best not to sound dejected, "well, I'm happy for you."

"Well Prongslet," Sirius beamed, "what do you say about spending the summer with me?"

Harry perked up at that. "Live… with you?"

Sirius did his best to ignore the disbelief in the boy's voice. Protection his ass! He knew what kind of filthy muggles Dumbledore had saddled his godson with. He needed Harry out of that place. Nothing was more important than his godson's happiness. Not Petunia Dursley's blood, not Arabella Figg's presence and certainly not Albus Dumbledore's good intentions.

"Why yes!" He claimed. "We talked about this, remember? And now that I'm free, we could live together, just as I promised. So… what do you say?"

The smile that spread on his godson's face was enough to conjure a thousand patronuses.