Disclaimer: I own none of it.

A/N: I wanted to write some bittersweet angst. Thus, I wrote some bittersweet angst.


Requirements

Comfort


Harry stared at the door in front of him, the last tears stinging in his eyes when he had ages ago cried himself drained of them. He knew what would await him behind the door, and yet, he did not. How could he, any more than he could really know what he'd see in the Mirror of Erised before looking into it? Who could ever know what they truly wanted, what they truly needed?

The Room of Requirement. It was supposed to contain anything a person might need. Anything.

And yet, it could not give him what he needed. He needed a shoulder to cry on, a warm hug, a familiar voice telling him that he was doing fine and should go on. That somebody was proud of him.

They told him that often enough, true. Told him that they were proud of him, of his powers, of his ability to get over even the greatest fears and sorrows life would throw to his way. But it was not enough, it was not right. They thanked him for all the wrong things. Was it his own doing that he had great powers? Had he somehow earned the way he could close everything out of himself and still fight? No, he hadn't. So why were they proud of him because of those?

One person had not been proud of him for those reasons. He'd been glad that Harry had powers, yes. He'd been delighted that Harry was a great flyer, yes, that too. But most of all, he'd been proud of Harry because Harry had dared to be himself, to be something nobody else could be, because it was him. That one person had been proud of him just because he lived, because he existed, like every time he drew air to his lungs was a reason to celebrate and rejoice. It'd been the pride of a loving parent -- or something very, very similar to it.

Sirius.

That thought still stung. Sirius was there no more, no more would he be, not ever. Now that Harry needed him most, he was not there.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door in front of him. Through the doorway he saw darkness.

Harry took one tentative step into the room, letting the door slide shut behind himself. Just then he saw that it was not darkness there -- no, it was the night sky, with millions and billions of stars twinkling everywhere, above him, in front of him, below him. He was on the sky, and one star twinkled even brighter than the others.

"Sirius..." Harry sighed, more a quiet breath than a true word, not even as strong as a lone whisper. And at that quiet sigh the star seemed to come nearer, until it was all he saw -- until it enveloped him.

And yet it wasn't a star, not really. Harry felt warm, strong arms wrapping around himself, calming hands caressing his back, petting his unruly hair. He bent his head forward, felt a shoulder against his face and cried, cried against the shoulder that was now forever gone. And yet at the same time he felt other -- a shoulder was what he had pressed his face against, yet there were a few strands of hair tickling his cheek, fingertips touching slightly his forehead while they also petted his hair, his cheek, his back, his arm. A steadying arm both supported him and held him close, led him to the right direction and welcomed him as he was.

Sirius. Sirius. And not just one part of him, but everything he had been, everything he had done.

And then there was other than the touch. The sight -- candlelight flickering on the shiny midnight-black hair, sweaty tangles of dirty hair, pale eyes in the face of a black dog, eyes so dark they seemed fathomless, deep grey eyes watching him with such caring he'd never experience it from anybody, everything. And his voice -- warm, comforting words whispered to his ear, a joyous voice calling his name from afar, quiet breath breathing a comfortable silence, whispered words of longing from a distance so great he couldn't even begin to understand it. Harry also smelled Sirius -- the mix of a motorbike and brisk air he always connected with the teenager Sirius in his imagination, as well as the closed air of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, slight hint of mint, and a flicker of smoke from a fireplace that he had got accustomed to as the scent of the older Sirius.

It was not Sirius, not in his old form. Not a ghost, or an illusional image -- that wouldn't have helped him any. No, what he found in the room was just what he needed: The very existence of his beloved godfather.

For the one time in his life, his requirements were answered. His needs were fulfilled.

And for one, very short moment, Harry felt happy.


Don't tell me that it sucks. Just tell how much it sucks.

Next chapter (probably): Company

Harry needs company. The Room gives that to him, in its own, unique way.