Harry climbs up the little set of steps after Black, and he watches with fascination as Black morphs into a human form. He stands up straight, and he smiles at Harry, putting out his arms, but Harry steps back.

"Sorry, not quite at the hugging point yet," Harry says, and Black looks hurt. Harry doesn't think pointing out they've only met three times will make much difference to him, given that he's obviously crazed, so he says, "You should have a shower first." Black seems to accept this as reason not to hug him, and Harry looks curiously around the room around them. The room around them looks as if someone had released a hundred kneazles into it: the wallpaper is cracked and ripped, parts of the wood panelling torn from the wall, and there are pieces of damaged furniture strewn all around, each covered with a layer of dust.

Black begins to walk up the stairs, and Harry follows him, watching from the doorway as he enters a room and clambers onto a magnificently red, four poster bed. Its curtains are ripped and torn, and some of the mattress' stuffing bulges from tears in its surface, but it too is thickly blanketed with dust. Black lies like a dog, Harry sees, folding his body in on itself.

"Where are we?" Harry asks, sitting slowly down on the edge of the bed, and Black peers up at him.

"Shrieking Shack," he says, as if it's obvious.

"The Shrieking Shack?" Harry repeats blankly.

"Yeah," Black replies simply. "You good, Harry?"

"I'm fine," Harry answers, frowning down at Black. Could this man have killed thirteen people? Probably. But had he? "What about you?"

"I'm good. It's nice here." Harry glances around the room, at the splintering floors and ripped doorframes.

"Well," Harry says. "Compared to Azkaban, I guess." Black laughs, the sound as grating and ugly as before, and Harry offers him an awkward smile. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do with Black, but he definitely can't report him to anyone on the staff - he'll be brought before the dementors immediately, and Harry doesn't want to see that happen. "Are you staying here?"

"Mmm," Black says distractedly, playing over his lip with the knuckle of his index finger. "'Til I get the rat."

"What does the rat look like?" Harry asks, and Black leans back, peering at Harry.

"Brown. Fat. Missing a finger."

"Which one?" Black holds up his left hand, holding up his pinky finger, and Harry nods his head. Do rats even have fingers? Is that what they're called? Black looks so small, curled into the sad little ball he is, but what can Harry do? It's not like he can bring Black a house-

"Where're you going?" Black demands anxiously.

"I'll be right back, okay? I'm just gonna head up to the castle."

"Harry-"

"I'll be back in just a few minutes, I promise," Harry says, and he runs down to the tunnel again.

---

"Hey, Draco," Harry catches the other boy by the arm before he can go into the Great Hall, and the other boy frowns at him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just need you to cover for me, okay? Tell Frank I'm not feeling too great, and that I'm down in the dorms." Draco's blond brows furrow, and he stares at Harry suspiciously.

"Why?"

"I'll pay you back," Harry promises. "Come on, Draco, just tell him."

"You'll pay me back threefold," Draco says firmly, but then he gives a nod of his head, and Harry runs as fast as he can down to the Slytherin common room.

---

"Mr Black?" he calls as he enters into the Shack, and he makes his way up the stairs. Black is in the same position as he was when Harry left, and Harry gestures for him to come downstairs. Black follows him cautiously, his lips pressed together, and he flinches when Harry steps too hard on one of the stairs - but then, Harry's only spent five minutes around dementors, and if he'd spent twelve years of the same, he probably wouldn't even be alive right now. "Come on, help me." Harry drops the tent's bag on the ground, beginning to set out its poles and pegs, slamming the pegs hard between the boards of the floor.

Black doesn't help. He stands to the side, watching Harry with perplexity and a little fear on his features, until the whole tent is set up. Harry gestures for him to follow, and he steps inside the tent. Black hovers in the tent's doorway, peering in. His bare feet touch the carpet, and he lets out a soft, quiet sigh.

"Look, I just used this in the summer, but you can have it, okay? Look, there's a bath through here-" Harry pushes open the door, and Black almost creeps forwards, as if he's terrified a dementor is going to jump out of the enchanted shower head. "Have a shower, okay? There are towels in there, and this bath-robe that came with the tent, it's too big for me. I can get your clothes back to the castle, wash them - you can't keep wearing them like that."

Black is staring down at him, his lip quivering, and then he stumbles forwards, grabbing Harry and pulling him tightly against his body. He stinks of filth and sweat and dried blood, but he holds Harry as if Harry's the only thing anchoring him to the world: Harry hears the man let out a sob against his hair, and he stays still, awkwardly patting Black's back.

"Harry," Black whispers in the tiniest, softest, hoarsest voice.

"Yeah?"

"You're a good boy." Black's hand cups the back of Harry's head, clutching at him, and he draws away, rubbing roughly over his eyes with his filthy, filthy sleeve. "You're a good boy." He staggers into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and Harry hears the water start to run. There's a loud howl from the room, and for a second Harry grabs his wand, wondering if Black had got a shock, but the howl devolves into crazed laughter, and then sobs, and Harry connects the dots. He realizes.

It's probably the first time he's had a hot shower in over a decade.

---

Black looks utterly ridiculous in the bright yellow bathrobe that had come free with Harry's tent, but who wouldn't? He slips slowly into the main room of the tent, and Harry stares at him. Black's hair comes down to his mid-back, wet and unbrushed, and with the dirt washed away from his face he looks- Well. He doesn't look all that much younger, in truth, but he certainly looks better.

"The bath," Black says, and he laughs. "It's- uh-" He trails off, gaze focusing on the floor.

"Dirty?" Harry offers.

"Ha! Yes. Very." Black touches his face, feeling the thick hair of his beard, and Harry holds out his own wand for the other to take. Black stares down at it, uncomprehending, but Harry had decided while Black was in the shower that he'd trust him.

"I can't do it," Harry says quietly, "I've got the Trace, and we're out of the castle's boundaries, right?" Black nods, slowly, and he takes Harry's wand, stepping outside of the tent. Harry watches him from his seat beside the coffee table, as Black trims his hair and beard with a shaking hand. The hair that falls slowly to the ground is thin, dry and unhealthy looking, but when Black is clean-shaven he looks like a new man.

He shakes his head like a dog, throwing off the hair that clings to him and the yellow fabric of the robe, and then he moves into tent again, holding Harry's wand out to him. Harry takes it back, and he looks up at Black for a few long moments.

"I need to go back to the castle," he says. "They'll miss me if I'm gone too long, but I'll come see you tomorrow night. I'll bring you some clothes, some real clothes. You'll be warm in here, and I can bring you some food - there's a half bag of pasta in the kitchen, and a few cans of stuff-"

"Pasta?" Black repeats, as if Harry's just offered him a whole Christmas banquet.

"Yeah, but you'll have to cook it yourself. Is that okay?" Black hesitates, looking back towards the simple stove in the kitchen. "Uh, don't worry, don't worry. I can stay another half an hour - I haven't eaten yet, anyway." Black sags in obvious relief, and it hurts just to look at him. Harry doesn't think this man betrayed his parents, just can't believe it as he looks at the sad and broken person Sirius Black seems to be, and Harry can't help the heavy sympathy that weighs him down.

"Thank you," Black whispers. "Thank you, Harry."

---

It's nearing midnight when Harry creeps back into castle. Harry had eaten a little of the pasta he'd cooked, but Sirius had wolfed down two plates of it despite it being plain, and after that Black had crawled into bed, on top of the covers. He'd laid there, told Harry to go back to the castle, but Harry had begun to talk. He hadn't wanted to leave the man alone and awake, and so he'd talked - he'd told him all about being Sorted, about his fear when he came to the castle, about everything that happened when Harry was in his first year at Hogwarts.

Black had slowly drifted off, then, and Harry had taken his leave.

The castle is obscenely quiet as he makes his way into the castle, and unfortunately the common room is well-populated - it's a Friday night, after all, and a few of the seventh years are up. Harry has no chance of creeping past them, so he elbows a decorative shield on the wall, making it fall to the floor with a clatter. "Shit!" he hisses, and he pretends to be surprised when Francois Richelieu grabs him by the collar.

"Frank, come on!" Harry complains, but he doesn't try and pull himself away, letting the older boy drag him to the dormitory corridor.

"If you skip dinner, Potter, it's down to you. You're not sneaking down to the kitchens at this time of night." Frank shoves him into his and Draco's room, shutting the door behind him, and Harry breathes out a sigh of relief. The curtains are still drawn around his bed.

"Harry?" Draco asks sleepily, shifting in bed.

"It's alright, Draco, go back to sleep," Harry murmurs in a soothing voice, and he pushes back the curtains on his bed, stripping off his clothes and sliding under the covers. He can't stop his mind from reeling as he settles down under the covers, as he tries to think - where can he get food for Black? Clothes? Stuff for him to do? He falls asleep quickly, exhausted as he is, and he doesn't dream of Sirius Black.

He dreams of dementors, and women screaming, and green, green light.