Sitting on the curb outside Milkim's, a dress robe packaged safely lying between them, Harry and Malfoy sit in a rough silence. Dracos' nose is bleeding and when he opens his mouth to release, periodically, quiet moans, his teeth are gleamed with blood.

Harry himself is wearing one blackeye, swollen to the point it hinders his vision completely, and his lip, busted in two places. Blood drips down his chin and into his mouth. We're matching, thinks Harry, hysterically. What a pair we make, huh, Malfoy?

Just like old times.

Silently, Draco hands him a handkerchief, holding one of his own to his nose and sniffing.

Harry takes it.

"You got me banned from my favorite clothing shop," says Draco, blankly, eyes staring dead at the road.

Harry rolls his eyes. Draco and his melodrama. "She said if Tom needed you there, you'd be allowed."

"That's code for 'banned in all other instances.'"

Pureblood acting, Pureblood passivity. Why do these people never say what they mean? "And it wasn't just me that got you banned."

"No?"

"I'm sure they call fights like these joint efforts. "

Draco snorts, then hacks up blood. Harry grins a little. "Little fucked up there, aren't we?" mocks Harry.

"Says you."

"Well, you're fucked up more."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." He adds, quietly, "You're a good punch." Harry blinks slowly, unsure if he heard that right, but before he has time to ask for clarification, Draco places a finger on his head. A cool rush rolls over his body and Harry shudders.

He touches his lip tentatively and blinks when only blood comes away. "You healed me," notes Harry.

Draco tilts his head up at him, his own injuries disappearing. He casts a cleaning charm over them both. "Of course," he says. "Wouldn't do either of us any good from Tom finding out about this little spat, would it?"

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Really?" He gets how it would be bad for Malfoy -- damaging the Dark Lord's... newest 'possession' (Harry almost gags at the thought) is not a position Harry'd like to be in. He can, however, see no downside to the pattern of Harry beating people up being upheld. "How's that?"

Malfoy adjusts his robes. "When a dog almost runs into the road, it's customary to lock the gate. Isn't it?"

"I'm not a dog." Tom owns everything in this world (the ground he sits on, the food he eats -- isn't that what Malfoy said? He and his people) so it is a good thing, perhaps a great one, that Harry isn't from this world.

"Try telling that to Tom."

Harry grits his teeth. He's right. He and Tom had made a deal, but if he thinks Harry's a danger to himself (not an unfair assumption but a bastardly one to make), then Tom... Well, Tom might not find it a deal worth keeping.

And Harry likes his freedom. He's hoping to get more of it. Besides, the less Tom knows about him, the better.

Draco holds out his hand to help him up and Harry buries his grimace, taking it. "Alright, then," says Harry. "Deal."

"They'll send the rest of the clothes Tom wants for you to your room in Hogwarts, using the measurements gathered here. In short, our business together is done." Draco looks relieved to say so. It is shared. "So I'll bring you back to your cell and--"

"Wait," says Harry quickly. "Can..."

"Can what? Spit it out, Potter."

Harry lets out a deep breath. Control yourself. Needless violence is needless. "Can we get something to eat before we go?" He's sad to be separated from Sirius more than necessary -- especially considering how well he takes imprisonment -- but Harry figures he can snag him some food to bring back and earn forgiveness.

He is not keen on returning to that place so soon, with its thin mattress and small portions. (It is awfully familiar. Sirius is not the only claustrophobic one.)

Malfoy looks like he wants to say no. It'd be fair if he did. It's Mafloy's money, Maflyos' time, both better spent not on this adolescent raging ball of fuck you.

But, just as Harry is losing hope and resigning himself to another lunch of Kraft cheese and Wonder bread, he says, "I really did like the other Harry." Treating that as his explanation (and it might as well be... like Harry cannot let go of his expectations of these people he almost-but-doesn't-know, he figures Draco can't, either), he teleports them to The Leaky Cauldron for chicken wings and salad.

If Malfoy wasn't such an elitist prat, thinks Harry, I could almost like him.

...

For some reason, Harry doesn't mention the tiny bit of Voldemort's soul attached to him when he arrives back in his cell. Well. Not for some reason -- he knows exactly why he's not telling Sirius the truth. Sirius is ... (kind, his father, too uptight in his Lightness) ... not as open minded as he is. He might not understand. Right now, he has no one else, so he cannot afford to lose him.

Like he told Tom, all parents lie to their gaurdians sometimes. (Though not about this and not like this. Not usually.)

Harry slides Sirius his lunch try and the extra food he pocketed from The Leaky Cauldron. "I'm sorry you couldn't come with," says Harry. "It wasn't much fun... but I figure it was better than being locked up in here."

Sirius hums, sounds of chewing coming from his cell. "No kidding. Anyone give you any trouble?"

"Not as much as I gave them."

Sirius laughs. "Good on you for sticking up for yourself, kid. You can never be too careful. 'Specially here."

You are assuming again that I do not start trouble. I finish fights whether I am merely provoked or assaulted -- the fact you do not see this makes you blind. But if it allows for you to love me, you can believe what you want. I encourage it. "You're starting to sound like Moody," quips Harry.

"Oh, no, don't say that."

Harry smiles. "They're letting me teach. At Hogwarts, I assume, though it's impossible to know."

"Oh my GOD, Harry!" he exlcaims, overjoyed.

"Yeah?"

" THINK of all the shenanigans you could do," says Sirius. In the stupidest situations, pranks are still on his mind. He's not one to grow up. Harry respects (loves, appreciates) his earnesty. "Literally just lie to them. Or -- or -- oh, man, it depends on what position you'll be getting. Think of the possibilities. "

"Oh, I am already." Harry's thinking more indoctrination. Presidents do not get elected without public approval and Harry is dead set on changing Tom's. "They'll regret hiring me without training, just you wait."

Sirius chuckles, but it is obviously strained. He's noticed the obvious special treatment toward Harry. Him getting new robes, getting a good meal without him... and now, being hired without training. He knows the reason behind this and although it is usfeful, it is not nice to think about. "They're sending me off to be an Auror. Three months internship."

"Oh," says Harry. "Well -- uh, that'll be nice, won't it? To be back on the field." And, because he knows Sirius is just as alone here as he is, "We'll probably see each other, whenever I work under Tom part time. Because our counterparts worked together too, you know."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," says Harry, tentatively. "And I'll get an owl -- the school might have free to use ones, if it's like it was at ours -- and we can keep in contact."

"Okay. But promise me something?"

"Anything." I am a kind man and a liar and a kind man for my lies.

"Don't get yourself into too much trouble."

An obedient dog is freer than a rowdy one. "Of course, Sirius. Who do you think I am?"

...

Tom wakes him in the morning. "Put on your robe," he demands.

Harry grumbles, sitting up, glaring at him.

"And fix your hair," adds Tom.

Harry rolls his eyes, standing slowly. "You're really pushing my patience, you know, tugging me around. What if I want to stay in these robes, huh? They're good. Classics. Mine. What if I don't want to parade around like some Slytheirn oaf?"

Tom eyes Harry's school robes -- the ones he'd arrived in -- and wrinkles his nose. "Then you have less taste than I'd thought."

"Thinking lower of me? Why, I hadn't thought it possible."

"You are remarkable," says Tom. "In the worst of ways at time."

"For someone supposed to be charming me, you do like insulting me." Harry turns his back to Tom and peels his frankly disgusting school robes off his body.

"All in good fun, Harry."

Harry pulls his new robes over his head. They feel weird. He is dressed like a rich person and Harry, for all his Potter wealth, has never cared to act like it. "What's got you waking me up so early?"

"It's hardly early. It's five."

"I will peel your eyes like grapes and force feed them to you."

Tom allows himself to grin a little, amused. "Creative. What a vivid image."

"Thanks," says Harry. He messes his hair up more, just to be petty, and grins when he sees Tom's frown in the mirror. He turns toward him. "I learn from the best."

"For your information, you'll be starting your career at Hogwarts today."

Harry pauses at the buttons on the cuffs of his robes, glancing up at Tom. "Today?" he asks. "Like... right now? We're leaving now?"

Tom tilts his head. "Obviously. Hogwarts has been without its Defense teacher for far too long -- it's safe to say the castle is aching in your absence."

"You mean his absence." Harry grasps onto the information anyway. He will be teaching Defense -- not all that different from what he was doing back home... though, there, the class was called Defense Against The Dark Arts. The wording might not mean something, though Harry doubts it.

Tom shrugs. "Tomato, tomato, my love."

Harry eyes the words on his hand -- I must not tell lies -- and frowns when he notices how revealed they are. Really, Tom couldn't have picked out a suit with longer sleeves? He runs the dates in his head. "School should be all but out by now," he says, frowning.

"Is that so?" Tom inquiries, that same possessive glint in his eyes whenever he tacks on the word my to nouns that obviously do not need it. "What months mark a term in your world?"

"We go September first to the second week of July."

"Interesting. Ours is May to February. So--"

"We're still in the middle of term," Harry finishes lamely.

He doesn't, honestly, get how this country is not falling apart -- what with their teenage President and almost-sixteen year old teacher... but that's not say that he won't hep unravel whatever is crumbling here. If Harry Potter is anything, he's trouble.

Tom unlocks the door to his cell and holds out his hand to Harry. "Come. If we want time to stop at the banks before we go, we best be hurrying."

Harry doesn't take it. "Without saying goodbye to Sirius? If I didn't know any better -- and I don't -- I might say you're trying to isolate me."

"And you have a problem with that?"

"I'm either senile or you seriously did just ask that."

Tom sticks up his nose. His arms cross over his chest. "I am under no obligation to let you do anything. "

"Would be pretty nice if you did, though."

"What would I get in return?"

Harry's jaw shuts with a clink. He knows very well what Tom wants from him -- .. and, with a glance at Sirius's sleeping form and guilt hovering over his shoulder, he knows what Tom will get. (Harry has nothing else to offer.) He turns back to Tom, sets his jaw, and offers, "A kiss. You'll get a kiss."

Tom smiles like a child of Christmas -- and yet Harry's the juvenile one -- and clasps his hands together. "Where?"

Harry gives him a sly expression. He taps his own left cheek. An odd callback. "Right here," he says.

"And you won't punch me this time?"

"Do you think I'm in any position to?"

"You'd know a thing or two about positions, wouldn't you?" Tom mutters and before Harry can respond to that mess of an innuendo, Tom leans forward quickly and plants a kiss, light and almost (if Harry didn't know any better) innocent. He pulls back with a satisfied expression. "Alright then, Harry Potter. Say your goodbyes."

Harry lets his disgust show on his face. Tom is all take. Whatever end goal he has in mind, it is no goal of Harry's. Harry knows how to take, too.

He bangs his fist against the cell door. "Sirius! Get up."

Sirius groans and rolls over off the bed. He grumbles something unintelligible then curls closer into himself. "Get off the floor, dude," says Harry. "Shit's gross. Feels like I got dysentery just from doing sit ups on it."

"Your new room will be in much better condition," assures Tom behind him.

Harry does not even look at him. You want me to appreciate privileges that you revoke from me? That's not charming, Tom; that's Stockholm Syndrome. "Didn't think I asked, Tom." He hits the bars again. " Sirius!"

Sirius sits up. His hair sticks up all around him. He stares at Harry, confused. "The fuck are you wearing?" he blurts, too drowsy to watch his tongue. "Not that it, uh, doesn't suit you -- if that's what you're going for--"

Harry rolls his eyes. "It's not my choice. Tom over here," he jerks his thumb behind him, "is doing some weird mating ritual."

"Courting's the word, I'd think," says Sirius. Harry shrugs. "You look like Walburga dressed you. A Slytherin's wetdream."

Harry shudders. "Don't give Tom any ideas."

"Two minutes, Harry," says Tom.

Harry whips he head to him. "You didn't say shit about a timelimit." Tom merely grins and Harry glares. Slytherin deals never are complete. "They're sending me off to Hogwarts."

"What?" asks Sirius, sounding way more awake. "What -- today?"

Harry smiles sheepishly. "I'll tell you more about it later."

Sirius shrugs the blankets off him and rises to meet Harry at the bars. He places his hands on Harry's. "But... it's too soon..."

Harry intertwines their fingers, squeezing them. "It can't be helped." Or it can, but a certain someone doesn't want it to be.

"I'll miss you," whispers Harry.

"I'll find some way out of here."

So you keep saying. "I know."

"And then -- and then, I'll come and get you."

"I know, Sirius."

"I..." He looks like he wants to say something more. He settles on, "I love you."

Harry smiles. He hopes it is reassuring but guesses, in all likelihood, it's not. Sirius will be left without Harry, in prison until they decide to send him off, further away, to Auror work. They will be separated. He will be alone. And, unlike Harry, there will be no special treatment.

Dressed in expensive green robes, ready to eat the Hogwarts' feasts daily, with the dead prophecy in his coat pocket, allowed to keep it for no reason other than misconstrued compassion... Harry is the very picture of free. It is not fair.

"Time's up," says Tom. He grabs Harry's arm and teleports them out of there before Harry has time to say I love you back.

(Harry wonders if that was intention. He cannot buy that it wasn't.)

...

Harry told Hermione first that he loved her in second year. He's the renowned Mudblood Heir of Slytherin and it seems only Draco Malfoy can see the stupidity in the assumption. Draco Malfoy and Harry's growing group of friends -- and even then, only some of them.

Ron does not like his parseltongue. He doesn't say anything, tries not to act like it, but Harry's familiar with subtle bigotry. His voice wobbles and he tells Harry that he's afraid of snakes. He would appreciate it -- he stresses these words, trying to make it out like a simple request and not the demand it's wanting to be -- if Harry wouldn't do it around him.

If it was anyone else, he'd break the nose that turns up at him. He cannot help his parseltongue but Ron can help his response to it.

But so can Harry. And Harry has a rule. His anger does not discriminate, but his violence does. (He's seen bullies and abusers alike and refuses to become one. Friends -- the family he actually considers family... the Durselys are free game and always will be -- are off limits. So are children too young to know better. He fights only equal footing.

He is not Professor Snape. He is not the Durselys. By god, he is not Voldemort. )

When Ron says in hushed tones that parseltongue is a Slytheirn ability, mate, isn't it a bit... weird that you have it?, it's Hermione that takes action in the calm way that Harry finds he cannot. She scoffs. "Do you hear yourself, Ronald?"

He goes red in that signature way Weasleys do, embarrassed and self-justifying. "Of course I do! I'm just saying--"

"What? That Harry's a secret Slythin?"

"No! Just that--"

"He's the one who opened the Chamber?"

" No! "

"Then I'm not sure I follow the point you're trying to make here, Ronald." She shuts the book in front of her. "Don't we have better things to worry about? People are getting petrified, Ron, it's very serious."

Ron puffs out his cheeks and mumbles, "Alright, alright, I get it."

... And then, just like that, he'd stop bringing it up. His obvious discomfort becomes either repressed too much to notice outwardly or disperse completely -- either way, he is now fine with parseltongue. Harry knows why and it is on the forefront of his mind everytime he speaks to her.

Harry had never felt gratitude like he had then. Where Harry is lacking, Hermione has it all. The Brain and the Brawns. When intelligence is not enough to get something done, she turns to him. When intelligence is needed to get something done, he turns to her. There is an equilibrium here.

Not long after that, he tells her he loves her. She says it back. It was the best day he'd had in a long, long while.

...

Harry's decided he doesn't like holding hands with Tom Riddle, if only for the fact that Tom's hand holding... is not actual hand holding. For someone so obsessed with body shaming him, he's awfully content to grip his upper arm muscle. The memory of Tom's quiet, flushed I like this one surfaces in Harry's head.

"Stop that," Harry says, under his breath. They walk down Diagon Alley. People gawk at Tom, whisper to each other, Oh, the President! Did you see him? Who was that boy he was with? Harry Potter? But he doesn't really look like it...

Previously an object of the public's constant idolatry, he is now a stranger, a face they can't quite place.

"Stop what?" asks Tom, acting like his death grip on Harry's tricep is a normal walking arrangement and it is Harry who's the weird one.

" This. " Harry shakes his arm but Tom's hand, too firm not to be intentional, refuses to move.

"Why?"

He asks like, thinks Harry, disbelieving, it's a real question and not common FUCKING sense.

And you know what? If he asks stupid questions, he will get a stupid answer. "Because people will think it weird," answers Harry, like he's talking to a three year old. "Won't they? Don't you got an image to uphold?"

"Maybe."

"But you still won't budge?"

"No."

"How endearing. Valuing me over your reputation, it's sweet, really."

Tom stops in his track. He looks at him. "By more than you know, Harry."

Harry frowns deeply. Tom's expression switches, brightly, into a grin too large for his face. "We're here!" he chirps, He gestures with his free hand to the stairs of Gringotts.

"Right," says Harry faintly.

They walk up the stairs and through the doors -- Harry drinking in the environment, spotting the stark differences and the warm familiarities alike -- and, with Harry's utter surprise, past the long waiting line. Harry tugs his arm futily toward him. "What are you doing? There's a line. "

Tom doesn't answer. When you're the President, they let you do anything. Yeah, well. Harry'd rather be a peasant.

The goblins are the same short and squant men he's always know. Tom and one of them -- who is a shade of green so vibrant he's hard to look at -- exchange pleasantries. "... and this is my new associate, Harry Potter," explains Tom.

He raises an eyebrow. "New, you say?"

Tom's eyes sparkle with mirth. "A replacement."

Harry huffs. "I'm the OG, dude."

"An OG."

"Whatever."

"... and," says the goblin, obviously confused by Tom's behavior but in no social ranking to question it, "you two are here because...?"

"Oh, yes, I'd almost forgotten. Since my previous copy has been damaged, and this is what we're working with now--" Harry thinks Tom's wording things to intentionally anger him now; there's no way that came out of his organically, "-- I'd like to add him to the former Harry Potter's bank account."

"The legality of that is and should be in question."

"I promise to compensate fairly -- above fairly -- the goblins for their time, labor, and any financial or legal risk that should be involved."

The goblin eyes him warily. At last, he utters a wary, "Follow me," and begins trudging down the halls.

Tom follows without hesitation, dragging Harry along. "Are you seriously in shady business with all of Gringotts?" he hisses. "I mean, I knew you were bad, but this is just unbelievable--"

"Not all," protests Tom lightly. "Rather, just enough."

"What difference does that make?"

"You're the one making unfair accusations."

"Oh, shove a sock in it, would you?"

"My shady business is getting you access to the Potter vault which, mind you, is no small feat." He raises and eyebrow. "By and large, it's you who should -- no offense meant -- how do you say... shove a sock in it?"

"I don't need access to a vault."

"Oh, so you'll be saying now."

"It's true," snaps Harry, glaring. "I lasted the last five -- no, really, fourteen -- years of my life without consistent access to money and I turned out just fine."

" Fourteen years without consistent access to money?" Tom looks affronted... though, at what, Harry isn't sure. (Harry's situation, in a protective sense? Or poverty?) "No wonder you dress and, rather bluntly, act the way you do."

"That's some elitist bullshit right there."

"No matter," says Tom, brushing over his comment. "That's all to change. Soon. You'll see."

"I'm sorry, but I'm already rich. If giving me money was going to make me like you, it'd have done so already."

Tom looks like he was not expecting this answer. "Well," he says. "It will be good for you to have, at any rate."

Harry scans the walls, looking at open doors while they walk past them. "Can you not, though?"

"Why? There's no real loss for you here, Harry."

"You're putting money into me." Harry turns his eyes back ahead. "I don't like being treated like an investment."

Tom hums in response but says nothing. Typical. Voldemort was such a monologuer. Hard to ever get him to shut up...

"Oh," says Harry. "That reminds me -- I was wondering something. You... you had mentioned that Voldemort was your father."

There is no audible shift in his voice, but he squares his voice and breaths out a little too harshly. Defensive. "And what of it?"

"Is he crazy? Like he is in my world?" he asks. "Though," he adds, muttering, "I don't know how crazy you guys would call him, considering..."

Tom states, "My father is dead."

Before Harry can respond to that -- there's something about his posture, his sentence structure, the idea of a wizard dying when their son is still so young that is awfully suspicious and Harry wants to dig deeper. Even if it is a sore spot for Tom, Tom's never cared to respect any of Harry's boundaries so far. You reap what you sow. -- the goblin leads them into a room lit solely with candles. The walls are made from dirt and in the middle of this cave (Harry cna't put a better word to it), there is a singular desk with locked drawers.

The goblin beings rummaging through it. He uses spells Harry doens't recognize -- goblin magic is in all ways arcana -- and, after a solid two minutes, places a quill and a piece of parchment on the desk. "Sign here and the rights to the vault are yours," says the goblin, sounding already over it.

'But," says Harry, the words spilling out of his mouth sounding awfully (horribly) familiar. "There's no ink."

"You won't need ink for this type of quill."

Harry's heart stops in his chest. Tom, by his side, frowns. Asks him something. But the words do not reach Harry's ears and he'd say his breathing was shallow if he was breathing at all.

Harry is... not good with blood quills. The circumstances don't change that. Umrbidge is one weakness of his that he set Neville on, but has yet to conquer.

But Harry Potter is not a Gryffindor for nothing. He grabs the quill -- steadies his shaking hand, forces his lungs to contract, in and out, in and out -- and signs his singature on the line indicated.

The back of his hand gleams red. And then it smooths over; his name disappearing into his skin and Harry can relax again.

Tom's voice is still in his ear.

"...are you alright? I should have known, Harry, dear, I--"

"Shut up," says Harry.

The goblin looks downright shocked. No one talks to the President like that and he knows it. This impostor -- copycat? -- of Harry Potter is not only privileged. He's special.

Tom just looks relieved. "It looked I lost you for a second. I was starting to worry."

Harry forces out a laugh. "You think some quill could stop me? I'm Harry fucking Potter. I've killed flies more daunting."

"... You kinda stopped breathing there for a while--"

"Nonesense," says Harry. "Anyway, what about Sirius?"

Tom blinks at him. "What?"

"Sirius. Vaults. Does Sirius get access to one?"

"Are we just going to ignore your anxiety attack?"

"Are we just going to ignore your mistreatment of my godfather?"

Tom's face changes from annoyed to enlightened -- like he's gotten an idea. And any good idea of Tom's is a bad idea of Harry's. "I'll give Sirius vault access on one condition--"

" --No--"

"A kiss."

And though Tom's face is so punchable -- maybe he could make up the other cheek; give him a purple yellow blush -- ... he knows that violence against him will not get him what he wants.

Harry -- feeling like he is possessed by Hermione -- practically leaps over the table and grabs the head of the goblin by his head like it's a football. He holds him out and Tom narrows his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not going to kiss you. My affection is not a currency." And Sirius needs money. Tom's people have proven themselves not to be the kindest to him. Money is the one and only guarantee that he will be able to thrive in this world.

He will not let Sirius get thrown to the sharks without a life raft. Otherwise, it'd be just like Draco'd said. (Alone, sick, poor, and stupid.)

"Well, I offered my deal."

"It's a right shite deal."

"You seem to have a better one," he says, eyeing the goblin, which is currently spitting protests and curses. Harry's hands are blistering, but he holds on tighter. "Though I must advise against it. Your hands were just healed yesterday, weren't they?"

"I've got a childhood worth of high pain tolerance," says Harry, grinning with gritted teeth. "This is nothing."

"Get on with it, then. Lay your terms."

"I'll kill him."

Tom hides his surprise with carefully constructed expressions... but Harry can see it, the panic in his eyes. "I didn't take you for the Dark sort."

I'm bluffing. Not that you can see that, though. Claiming to be intuitive but can't see through the simplest of guises. "It'd be pinned on you. His death would."

"A mere goblin accident is no trouble of Grinogotts. They've happened before. They will happen again."

"No trouble to Gringotts, sure," says Harry, rolling his eyes. "I urge you to consider yourself, though -- which you so often do."

Tom tilts up his chin. "I wouldn't be the one killing him. The goblins would know that."

"Would they care?"

"Of course. There's not a universe that exists where I'd be barred from Gringotts."

"But they wound't trust you to go alone with one of these suckers," he raises the goblin in his hands. "Which I'm assuming would cut down on half of your shady deals."

Tom, in lue of responding, sticks out his hand. " Expelliarmus."

Harry feels it whipped out of his hand. He jumps forward quickly, wrapping his entire torso around the goblin, sticking his heels into the dirt. "Oh no you don't," he grits out.

Tom's nose wrinkles. "You're the kind referred to as problem aren't often, aren't you?"

"You don't know the half of it."

"If I add Sirius to your vault, will you cease your tantrum?"

"Those are the terms I laid."

"Fine," relents Tom.

Harry lets the goblin fall from his grip and kicks him midair. He adjusts his robes and says, expectantly, "Well? Aren't you going to obliviate him?"

(The things Harry would do for the ones he loves and the things he would do to undermine those he hates are often overlapped.)

He'd like to think Mione would be proud of his tack but knows that, even so, this is something he'd never be tell Sirius.