SIRIUS BLACK

Every step is monumental, colossal. Because every step brings them closer and closer to Sirius. Really, this time. Sirius – entirely in the flesh, completely unencumbered. Not bound by the clock with a deadline to return. Not weighed over with the knowledge that he would be returning to his charade. Just Sirius – wholly and utterly their Sirius. All of their Sirius, back from behind enemy lines and Marlene can hardly breathe as they move through the corridors of Hogwarts. They’re trying to look normal, casual, rather than rushed and excited, but not trying very hard. After all, it’s Christmas and they’re in Scotland and Sirius is back.

Remus’s note was all that it needed to be and it was still crumbled in the bottom of Marlene’s coat pocket, a little torn where their fingers gripped it too tightly. He’s safe, get here ASAP. At first they thought they misread. For one horrifying moment after, they thought it was a joke sent from someone else. But then the reality settled in and they allowed themself the relief and the joy of it. Sirius was safe. Sirius was at Hogwarts, safe, with Remus, in the flesh. Safe. And there.

They don’t knock, don’t even consider it. Just push through the door and is immediately in tears. Because there he is. It was months since they last saw him and even if it wasn’t, the fear that gripped them since they first got news of his capture, the spine-bending, heart-breaking fear of it was enough. “Sirius,” they gasp out and then do as he says, get over there.

In an instant, they’re perched carefully on his lap, face buried into his neck, hands carding through his hair. And they’re sobbing, full-bodied, unabashed and so fucking happy, so relieved. “You’re back,” they babble nonsensically, pulling away to kiss his cheeks, his eyelids, the bridge of his nose. “You’re really back.” Marlene never was able to let themself believe that they wouldn’t, at the end of the day, find him and retrieve him, somehow. But their concern was growing in those last months, coalescing. None of it mattered, though, because he’s back.

“We were gonna come for you,” they assure him, suddenly finding it important that he know that. Their eyes meet his, serious and intent, hands gripping at his shoulders. “We just needed to know where you were. You have to know that, Sirius, we were going to come for you. I was gonna storm the fucking Ministry myself.”

His arms wrap around them like a second nature. Glad that he can cover the wince at the pain that sparks, but he holds them closer fiercely and doesn’t let them go, hides his face in their neck and their hair and breathes until they pull back. The kisses, familiar, and he tries for a smile, something bright and fond. 

Sirius finds himself nodding. Of course they were going to come for him. Of course they’d try. They were his friends, and for the most part they all shared the common flaw he knew best in James: they would have thought it the height of dishonour to abandon a friend. If Sirius was in danger, it must have plagued them all. The guilt eats at him with the thought of it, the prospect that it would have been kinder to die quietly and quickly. He pushes the thought aside. 

“I know, Marls.” A smile, trying it on for size, “I know.” There’s a beat of quiet, and he pets through their hair. “If anyone could have, it would have been you. I’d like to see them try to keep you out.” 

Marlene was a fierce thing. A warrior. Beautiful and terrible. Sirius would fall at their feet gladly, pledge allegiance here, let them order him wherever they needed him to go. He revels in their grip on his shoulders, lays steady hands on their waist. 

He loves them. And he doesn’t want them to hurt because of this, not anymore. 

“I really am alright.” He promises, his voice turning gentle and quiet. “Really. Good as new, safe and sound.” Half lies, hidden truths and shaded hurts. He doesn’t want his pain to be their pain too, but knows that they’d take it on in a heartbeat if he told them where all the hurts lay. “You don’t have to worry, anymore.” 

It’s almost too much, the familiar feeling of Sirius’ arms around him, pulling him close: it’s a kind of feeling he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from, like this ache of relief in his chest is just a part of him now, just another pain he will have to live with every day. Sirius is shaking in his arms, muttering soothing words, and he can’t even move to look at him, can’t even loosen the muscles in his arms to begin to let go, his body won’t let him, like if he lets go he’ll wake up and realize it isn’t real, or that Sirius here is a ghost coming to say one last goodbye before he’s gone forever.

He needs to say something. Needs to do something other than burying his face in Sirius’ chest, the sobs coming too fast, too regular, for him to catch his breath. He’s going to asphyxiate, if he can’t stop himself from crying for a moment, but every movement Sirius makes, every reminder that he’s really here and really alive starts them up again the moment he starts to calm himself. 

His voice comes out ragged and raw, when he finally manages to summon it, more of a croak than a word at all through the tightening in this throat, the way his heart has lodged itself somewhere up around his windpipe.

     ‘How?’ he asks, and it’s not enough, because there is so much he should say: thank Merlin you’re safe, and don’t worry, I won’t let anything take you from me again, and please tell me what happened. There will never be enough words for everything that is going on in his mind, right now, for all the space between them, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, because Sirius is here and alive and he’s never going to let him out of his sight again, not for a very long time.

A huff of laughter escapes, ragged and half-mad. It’s teary and deranged, and he crushes himself closer to Remus even when he should be pulling away. How? He asked himself that so many times. Dumb luck, a one in a million chance that his plan would go right at all. But Sirius had months to consider his own demise, the gnawing feeling in his stomach leading him to formulate some kind of tactic for escape, if the time ever came where he would need it. “Let’s just say the great and mighty Dark Lord didn’t consider a spy in the ranks when he decided to base his wards on the ones at Number 12.” 

Sirius remembers being eighteen years old, tagging along with his father while they constructed them. Marked for months already, Sirius was fondly regarded by all at home by that age. Dear Sirius is a master of runes, my lord. Crafted the ones on his wand himself. Praise from his father, an alien concept. But he was the golden child, then, finally. Tom Riddle looked at him with interested eyes, gaze too heavy, and Sirius managed an innocent smile in return as he answered every question that arose. Yes, my lord. I find ward-crafting fascinating. Not even a lie. He’d harboured teenage dreams of going into curse-breaking, before he doomed himself to a life as the Black Heir. It was easy, then, to get up close and personal, to watch as the spells were laid down. 

More intimate knowledge came later, when he first tried to bring Remus into Grimmauld Place. He squeezes Remus tighter at the memory of that, the way the wards had gone up and on the offensive, the way Remus had almost bled out from his wounds. Sirius had spent weeks down in the cellar after that, tucked away in the ward room, pouring over the spell schematics to figure out what he needed to remove, to learn the way every link in the chain of magic worked. It was an obsession, accompanied by the dawning horror that overwhelmed him when he read his great grandfathers notes. All the darkness that had gone into the spells beneath his home. All the darkness that must have been carried out in the sessions he had missed at the Riddle house, when his father had sent him away to tend to other work. Dark magic. Blood magic. The sacrifices necessary for a certain type of safety. 

His voice is a numb thing, but he broke the seal and now the words keep coming. “Locked me up in the dungeons, but there were cracks. Found them after a few days, got out and down to the ward-room and ––” A breath. “Easy to slip out as Padfoot.” Nuzzling close, drifting into quiet again. A few days. A few days too many. It had felt like weeks, but he didn’t feel like he should share that sentiment. He’d rather spare Remus than have him know. And then there was the journey through the woods. Being hunted like a prey animal, Bellatrix following behind. “And then I made it here. And it’s all okay now.” 

Remus is an ache, the absence of him in the room. But Sirius has needed this, too. Needed a moment alone and for Remus to tell Marlene that he was here, that he was safe, that they could come see him if they wanted. It had taken some prodding to get Remus to bow out, even briefly. Seriously, I foresee a lot of tears in our future. The ideal life here would be Remus and Marlene beside him, crammed into the too small bed. But half an hour, it was necessary, a brief grip of time alone with Marlene to get everything in line again. 

So he waits there, delicately, in one of Remus chairs. Body aching, heart singing at the idea of seeing them again, the little red string of connection between them growing slacker in his mind with every step Marlene takes towards him. He missed them, that’s the problem. Missed them like he missed Remus, like he missed James, like he missed Harry. There was a yearning to it, a feeling like he was missing something intrinsic to himself. Amelia had helped to soothe the gap, but she was never going to be Marlene. There was a part of him that always thought things would have been easier if he could have just spoken to them more, held their hand, felt their fingers in his hair. 

So he waits, and he holds his breath, and his heart leaps when the door creaks open. He sees Marlene, and something unwinds inside him. Their face, their eyes, their hair. He loves them fiercely, and something clicks back into place that’s been missing for a long time. 

“Fuck.” He breathes. And he meant it to be more eloquent than that. “Get over here.” 

Christmastime has always been one of his favorite times of year, but it’s hard, this year, to keep up the same spirit of joy with everything going on around them, new horrors every single day crushing their spirits, making it hard to keep hope alive. It’s hard not to let thoughts dwell on the death, and the destruction, hard not to want to lie in bed, wrapped up and hidden away from the world, but it’s a little easier knowing there are people depending on him now. Dora, and now all the other kids up at the castle, as he spends all of his free time trying to help solve the problem of the wards.

More immediately, though, today it’s little Harry. And he wants to make sure he has as magical a Christmas Eve as he can, being without his parents for the afternoon. That’s meant baking gingerbread together the muggle way, then out to play in the snow while it bakes. And it’s been nice. Laughing is easy when there’s a child’s joy in the air, so pure and good. They’ve made themselves a small army of mini snowmen, Harry naming each and every one after someone he cares about, bless him, and he seems content enough for a moment that Ted sneaks back in to check on the gingerbread. Not gone more than a minute, though, and suddenly he hears Harry shouting, voice teary and a little muffled with how bundled he is, Padfoot, the little stuffed dog he never leaves behind, apparently a victim of his enthusiasm.

“It’s alright, Harry, don’t you worry, we’ll fix him right up good as new,” Ted calls, coming back to the door again, pulling out his wand, ready to do repairs, real or imagined. He scoops him up to comfort him, and goes back out to assess the damage. “Oh!” the words leaves his lips in a little puff of air, surprised to see an actual dog in the backyard next to the now forgotten stuffed Padfoot. An actual dog, a dog that he knows.

“Merlin, Sirius?! It’s okay, Harry, we’ll help him, he’ll be alright,” he says, but he’s not positive at all that that’s the truth. Kneeling down next to him, he lets Harry down at his side, but keeps a comforting hand around his shoulders, trying to hide his own worry as he tries to assess the damage. It doesn’t look good, certainly bad enough that he’s not certain he can help much. It takes a second to conjure his Patronus, but the German Shepard springs from the tip of his wand after a moment. “Find Andromeda, and tell her Padfoot’s here, and he’s hurt,” he instructs, and the figure dashes off. Looking back down at Sirius, he gets a better look at the state of him. “You’re safe now, I promise. We’ve been so worried, thank Merlin, you’re here now.  We’ve got to get you up to the castle, though.”

He lets out a rough woof at the sound of his own name, perking up again. Ted is a godsend, seeing them is a blessing. Sirius has been aching, missing people, missing Ted and Andromeda and Dora. It was easier at the start, but hes been feeling the absence like an constant ache lately, feeling distant and at odds with the world. Hearing his name now, on the lips of someone he loves, it does a lot to bring him back to himself. There’s no sneer to it, no haughty tone. The last few weeks, he hasn’t heard it as anything but a taunt. 

Ted sends their patronus away, the promise of help and Andromeda and Hogwarts on their tongue. With a great deal of effort, Sirius sits up again, shifts to lick Ted’s face in thanks, press heavily against their body. He wants to change back, be a human again, get a real hug from someone who’s been as good as a sibling to him since he was a teenager. But he knows it isn’t safe. Every time he’s become human somewhere unwarded the last few weeks, there have been Death Eaters hot on his trail. He won’t lead them here, to this house. A whine of agreement then, at the mention of the castle. He could change back there, if the wards were holding. 

It had been days since he left the castle, when he’d finally been persuaded to make the trek down to Rosmerta’s, to take a break. Between the full moon and his days of recovery from it to the fact that he’d been pulling every string and cashing in every favor he’d earned in the past few years to try to formulate any kind of plan to get Sirius back safely, he’d been cooped up for long enough that people were beginning to worry. So he’d left the castle, finally, made an appearance, had one mug full of mulled wine in a slightly sullen gloom and then left the Three Broomsticks before his dour mood could further ruin the cheerful atmosphere Rosmerta was clearly trying to force on them all. 

The past few days had been a mess. The past few weeks had been a mess. By the time he gets back to the castle, he’s exhausted and he’s aching and he’s regretting having left in the first place and he’s ready to phone it in for another miserable week, ready to spend Christmas day alone in his room trying to come up with a bloody plan—

But the sight that greets him when he opens the door with a wave of one hand stops him in his tracks. 

It would be like seeing a ghost, if seeing ghosts wasn’t something he did every day in this castle. It should be like seeing a ghost because he’s all but written Sirius off as dead and gone, desperate to believe that there’s still a chance but also knowing that the odds are against them. But Sirius is there, sitting there, sitting on the edge of the bed, corporeal and breathing and real, and if he was a younger man, if he was a man with a body that didn’t protest with every breath, he would run to him and throw his arms around him and never let go.

     ‘Sirius,’ he says, only he doesn’t, doesn’t say it—the sounds don’t come out, and when he opens his mouth all that’s there is a sob, louder than it ought to be, and it’s all he can do to stumble, finally, to the edge of the bed, to fall to his knees to put himself on Sirius’ level and wrap his arms around him, tight, before the floodgate in his chest opens and he begins to cry. 

Seeing Remus almost tears his chest open. Seeing Remus like this makes him want to cry. The look on his face, like Sirius shouldn’t be sitting there, like he shouldn’t be alive. It feels like every cell in his body is shaking, because they kind of are. He’s become a quivering mess of a man, and around the time Remus start’s crying is when Sirius feels the wet tears on his own face. 

He throws his arms around Remus once he feels the touch. Sinks into it. Warm arms, strong. Sirius is clinging and desperate, his face pressed close, tears spilling almost silently onto Remus the moment they escape him. He lets himself become overcome by this, the overwhelming feeling of relief, the fact that he’s here again and no one can make him leave, the surety he has that Remus will protect him from anything that wants to hurt him. When he’d been out there, on his journey back, being hunted, he’d thought that he didn’t want to die out there alone. Now he won’t. 

A long moment passes before he can make words form, but he doesn’t move away. His fingers are clutching the back of Remus’ shirt, holding him there so he can’t pull away. But Remus is crying, and Sirius has to say something. 

     “It’s okay.” He manages, eventually. “S’okay, Moony. I’m here.” 

It isn’t enough, not really. There should be something more profound that he can give Remus, but his voice is shaking and whisper quiet, face half pressed against the warmth of Remus’ neck, fingers loosening in their grip only enough to move up and tangle through his hair, petting gently and tenderly. 

The castle is as quiet as a graveyard. It’s a sacred night, after all. Christmas Eve, and Sirius is home. The bed underneath him is soft. Achingly soft. He’d lowered himself down on the edge of it with careful help, shook his head at the offer to lay down. He just wanted to sit. Feel the soft blanket under his fingertips, breathe in the smell of Remus that lingers in the air. Sirius is home, but Remus isn’t. 

It’s okay, he thinks, absently, through the exhaustion that has settled deep in his bones. Sirius has learned patience over the years. He can wait, just a little bit longer, to be held by the man he loves. He closes his eyes while he waits, breathes deeply, considers how wonderful an invention pain-killing potions are. He’d seen Andromeda and Poppy, and they’d convinced him to drink at least two in the hours before Andromeda and Ted settled him here. His leg didn’t hurt, though it wasn’t better. Marginally healed, but cursed wounds would always take longer to knit together. This would be his for a while, a final gift from dear cousin Bellatrix. He should have known she’d have sharp tools that would land true when thrown. She’d got him, even when he ran so quickly between the trees. She’d tracked him. She’d wanted to kill him. But she’d wanted to make him hurt, too. He shudders. 

It’s quiet as a graveyard. He wonders if thats where he belongs. A place made for the dead. He wonders when he’ll realize that he’s still alive, and at least for the moment it looks like it’s going to stay that way. His place in the world had been in question for long weeks, a desperate fight for survival that he had won. 

He hasn’t planned what he’s going to say to Remus, when the door opens. He should have come up with something good. Something profound. Something funny. Something that might make him smile. But he hears the tell tale creak of the handle, and he doesn’t have the words. There are none. Nothing in his chest that wants to come out. He hears the creak, and he opens his eyes, and all he can do is be there when Remus comes through the door. All he can do is keep his head held up, meet warm eyes, and be alive.

The sights and sounds of Hogsmeade town should bring more relief than they do. His soul and body are weary things, and even as padfoot he can’t ignore the aches and pains, the hunger, the fact that he still isn’t really out of danger. He isn’t home yet, and isn’t free. With his limping gait, every safe place he can think of seems very far away, but he keeps moving forward. He can be tired when he’s dead, after all. 

The Potter House looms at the end of the street when he finally gets close, and then he starts to feel the excitement settle in. Almost. Almost, just a little farther. The beloved door, the tenderly constructed frame, the promise of a friend inside. He doesn’t even stop to consider that the house might be empty, that they may not be home. He believes, as he always does, that James or Lily will be there for him when he needs them.

Ignoring the pain in his back right paw, he leaps up to scratch at the door. Little doggy knocks, and he barks as loudly has he’s able. One woof after the next, growing in desperation with every passing moment. Eventually, he cuts off with a whine, head moving forward to butt against the chilly wood. 

It’s durning his moment of rest that he hears it, the sound from nearby. Andromeda’s house. The back garden. Harry’s voice, the familiar sound of it. Padfoot?! James had said it recently enought, that every time Harry heard a dog he thought it might be Sirius coming to visit. He sets off again in a scrambling run, through a hedge and into the familiar terrain of Andromeda’s garden. It’s snow laden and beautiful, and Harry is standing bundled up with his stuffed animal, amongst a small army of little snowmen. Sirius tramples a handful of them in his rush to get to Harry, to allow the boy to throw arms around his neck, to snuffle little licks across his face. He feels the relief of it settle in. Harry. Home. 

She’s looking forward to a relaxing day, if nothing else. A day without Lucius, without arguments, without his hard stare and brusque tone. A day not flitting about the Manor trying to keep everything perfect because if it isn’t it’s likely to set him off somehow, give him too much to criticize. Days without Lucius are downright luxurious, a balm to her nerves, especially these days.

She’s writing letters again when Sirius finds her–mostly thank-yous for attending her latest dinner party, ones she’ll have the elves press flowers from her garden on later. Inane and boring but on the best stationary and in her prettiest penmanship. Narcissa doesn’t hate this kind of work, the life of a socialite wife, focusing on the connections she’s made and the favors she’s gained and the latest fashions–she’s perfected her image as a trophy wife. A simple one, maybe, because a façade of being slightly empty-headed makes it easier to coast through the viper-tongued people she spends her time around.

Not Sirius, though. Never Sirius. He’s not fooled by her vapid ploy–spent the entirety of her first garden party as a married woman with raised eyebrows at the persona she had adopted–and actually goes out of his way to visit often. He keeps her active, keeps her sane, keeps Draco smiling–she’d call him something embarrassingly sweet if she thought he’d allow it.

So she smiles instead, and reaches up to gently grasp his arm in greeting. “Oh, I’m so glad–I was worried I’d have to spend the afternoon lamenting my woes to the flower garden.” Narcissa abandons her letter-writing instantly. A more interesting way to pass the day has just arrived.

It’s a lovely thing, to earn Narcissa’s full attention. He grins at her as he moves away, slips into a seat of his own and crosses his legs. He’s the picture of elegance, these days. Polished his movements and perfected his clothes. They’re both little glass dolls, dressed up for the admiration of everyone else in their lives. They both need to be perfect things, though in very different ways. 

“I’m much prettier than a flower garden.” He muses, in a tone that implies he would be very sorry indeed if she was doomed to a day spent alone with only the roses for company. He plucks up one of her letters, eyes scanning over the familiar words of thanks and appreciation. His smile stays fixed in her direction when he sets it down. “I rather hope you’re not writing one of these for me.” Lightly teasing, a little drawling. “People should be thanking you for putting up with them, instead. My Dearest Narcissa, I’m utterly banal and you are a saint for not poisoning my soup at the start of every dinner. It would only be polite, I think. But then again, not all your guests can be as dazzling and entertaining as I am, so perhaps I shouldn’t hold it against the poor souls.” 

It’s a little bit true. Sometimes, at dInner parties, Sirius wishes for a bout of terrible sickness, or for a terrifying axe murderer to suddenly burst in and start cutting people down at random. He thinks that if he has to sit through another conversation about politics, or flowers, or someone’s very lovely daughter of marriageable age, he’ll become the axe murderer himself. “Evander Greengrass’ new wife was particularly abhorrent. Americans simply shouldn’t be allowed in polite society, no matter what family they marry in to.” 

Pretending for Ted was easy – Amelia has been doing it for years now: pretending that she’s all right, pretending that she has a plan, pretending that she knows what she’s doing. Pretending that everything will be all right isn’t a far stretch from her repertoire, but the truth is she is worried. Once she leaves her friend’s home, Amelia makes the most of her trip over the border and heads for Hogwarts. If she can catch Minerva there, she can maybe find a little something out about the wards, or what happened with the student. Anything to give Amelia a lead to follow back in England.

Murmuring the password to the staircase, Amelia rises up to the Headmasters office. There’s a rustling when she opens the door and so she expects to see Minerva already there, filing through papers and reports. She hadn’t sent word of her visit but Amelia doesn’t think Minerva will be too surprised to see her.

It ends up a rather different surprise, though, as Amelia lands eyes on Sirius, looking frantic and wrecked, digging through a crate of notes. Sirius Black, Lord Black, Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Ringleader of the Council of Pureblood Lord and Ladies, Death Eater. Sitting there in the middle of Dumbledore’s former office, rifling through papers that could hold any number of Order secrets. Could hold her secret, and the secret of a dozen other spies across the barrier.

Without a second though, Amelia raises her wand and points it to Sirius. Something stings at her because she liked him. She let herself eat dinner with him and drink wine with him and dance with him at the Ball and it was all very stupid. Because he’s a Death Eater and he’s in Scotland, in Hogwarts, in Dumbledore’s Office and she’s going to have to kill him and likely get killed in the process. “Stop right there!” she commands, voice far stronger than she herself feels. “On your feet, and toss your wand over.” She doesn’t expect him to do as she says, but it’s a first shot.

He’s deep enough in his own head that he doesn’t hear anyone approach. He normally wouldn’t worry, regardless. In all likeliness it would only be Minerva coming up the stairs, who would sigh and scold him but was never a threat. He doesn’t notice another presence until the voice rings out, familiar and loud and full of righteous anger. He knows who it will be ever before his eyes snap up to take her in, but it shocks him to his core. 

Amelia. Sweet, innocuous Amelia. His heart stops, mind grinding to a halt. Amelia standing there as if she has a right to, as if he’s the person out of place in this room, as if she walks on the ground here all the time. What is she doing? Who sent her? Is this all part of another complex plan that Sirius has no say in? How far has Riddle gone if he can get an unknown spy into the halls of Hogwarts and Sirius didn’t know? He swallows, audibly hard, and knows its almost certain that he’s dead if its true. 

But it doesn’t make sense, if he stops to think. Why would she be angry? Maybe she was tasked with following him, finding proof that he’s been working for the other side all along. He stares her down, even when he wants to cower away. He wouldn’t have the heart to hurt her, to fight back. Still, his hands move slowly, pulled away from the box. He isn’t stupid enough to reach for his wand when he wouldn’t even use it. He pulls his hands away from the box and gets back to his feet, standing with hands placed innocently at his sides, raised away from his wand so she knows he isn’t reaching for it. 

He moves his fingers instead. One of the few tricks Remus had managed to teach him, in the way of wandless magic. Behind Amelia, the door slams itself closed, locking behind her. At least he isn’t the only one trapped, now. If Sirius is honest, he’s impressed that he pulls it off. His hands are shaking in front of him –– they have been for hours, in fear and stress. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, too shaken. He doesn’t sound like a Gryffindor, doesn’t sound brave. 

Harry is bounding off his lap the second Sirius steps out of the fireplace, arms outstretched for his godfather to scoop him up and hold him close– this is normal for him, somehow, his favorite person other than his parents appearing out of the fireplace to see him, or talking to him through a mirror. It shouldn’t be. It should be Sirius coming round for tea four times a week and being there for his birthday; It should be Harry getting to know Sirius as Sirius and not as Padfoot so he doesn’t let a spy’s name reach the wrong ears.

But they have these moments together, and James supposes it could be worse, as much as it hurts to think about everything they should be able to have, everything Sirius should be able to have with them. To know that while he’s here and hurting with everything perfect in his life except for the empty space where Sirius should be, Sirius only gets little moments like this to break up everything else he has to deal with.

     ‘It’s good to see you,’ he says, once Harry lets go and he can see Sirius’ face again. It’s different than seeing him through the mirror, more real, and it takes every ounce of self control he has not to do just what Harry did and throw himself into Sirius’ arms, pull him close and refuse to let go. 

He holds Harry close, scooped up into his arms and squeezed until he’s wriggling. With a thump, Sirius is down on the floor properly, legs crossed and Harry firmly transferred from one lap to another. He’s babbling a mile a minute, up past his bed time and excited to see Sirius. Its gratifying, the amount of love someone so small can hold inside them. Sirius is desperately afraid sometimes that Harry will have forgotten him, that Harry won’t love him anymore if he spends too long away. Sometimes, he lays awake and imagines a day where Harry will look at him and see all the times he wasn’t there, as opposed to the times he was. He lays awake and imagines a day where Harry will understand all the things he’s had to do in the name of the war effort, and is hopelessly terrified that Harry will hate him for it. 

“It’s good to see you, too.” He breathes out, “Both of you.” With a warm smile in James’ direction, desperate for the same treatment Harry is giving him. His fingers find just the right spot, tickle Harry until he’s almost squealing, laughing much too hard. If he didn’t miss Sirius so much, he’d be running away by now. He did that sometimes, when Sirius had been there for hours instead of minutes, when he got used to the presence again and forgot that Sirius was a fleeting thing, bound to leave at any moment. “Sorry I’m late.” He says, slow. “Thought I might have missed you.” 

He wants a hug from James, wants to close the distance between them and cling to James the same way Harry is clinging to him. After all, Sirius is a fleeting thing, bound to leave at any moment. He wants to feel James’ warmth, the familiar smell of home on him, a comfort that’s impossible to ask for. He’ll get it later, for now he rests his chin on top of Harry’s head and holds him there, not knowing what else to do or what else to say. There are too many things wrong in his life, too many worries to voice them all. 

He’d have thought the old man would have been more organised. Dumbledore always seemed the type. Like everything had a rhyme and reason and a place in the world, and he knew exactly where it was. He’d have thought it would have been easier to find his old reports, the notes that Dumbledore would have made on them, any semblance of a plan, any proof that Sirius had ever been useful. 

He’s on the verge of a breakdown here, on his knees before a box of files that he’s struggling to search through. Sirius has had his fair share of breakdowns in this room. His eyes flit around at the memories. The chair where he sobbed. The ornaments he had smashed more than once, repaired by Dumbledore every time. I shall be sitting here when you’re done with your temper tantrum, Mr. Black. The stone by the fireplace where he’d sat, shaking, after his first taste of the cruciatus curse. Better not to mention this to Remus, it will only make things harder for him. Dumbledore had watched him fall apart over and over again, taped him back together and shipped him back out. He could use the fixing now, the calming tone in Dumbledore’s voice even when his words made Sirius feel like a cowardly child. He needed someone to ship him back out, give him the bravery to face the world as it was. 

They’re going to kill me. He wants to tell someone. It’s all falling apart. He’d spent a majority of the Ball with Amelia, distracted from the general proceedings of the night. But there’d been a moment, alone, he’d heard Amycus Carrow talking. Going to be nice to knock Black off his high horse. And a pointed comment from Riddle, an hour later. Regulus has failed to attend yet another event, I see. Why, Mr. Black, people around you do have a strange habit of wandering off. 

He’s shaking under the pressure of it. Only a matter of time now, unless he can find something to get the heat off him. He needs advice, he needs the guidance of someone who knows what to do, he doesn’t actually want to tell someone how he’s failed here. His hands rest on the heavy wooden side of the box, his eyes closed to block the fall of the hot tears that want to escape him. If he focuses, he can stop himself from crumbling. There will be no one here to clean up his mess if he has another temper tantrum. Focus on your breathing, my boy, in and out. The old litany, the old mantra. In and out until everything settles, and you can be on your way. 

He fucking hates this house. Malfoy Manor, tall and imposing and full of itself, just like its master. He knows for a fact that Lucius is in meeting after meeting today, which is why he’s paying a visit. Any amount of uninterrupted time with Cissa and Draco is a blessing, he always grabs the chance when he can get it. 

He rings the bell and is granted entry, makes his way to the drawing room indicated by the anxious little house elf that lets him in. His stride is confident and easy, he lets himself into the room with no announcements and no knocks on the heavy wooden door. Cissa is there, of course, exactly where she should be, looking gleaming and rather perfect, if not a little tired. She very often looked tired. 

     “Hello, dear cousin.” He says, already draping himself down over her shoulder to press a kiss to her forehead without her having to get up to greet him. “I’ve come to rescue you from your life of boredom and dissatisfaction.” 

     time. 30 October, evening      place. Sirius’ study, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black            ( @siriusbrontide )

He hasn’t been on this side of the border in over three years. Swore he wouldn’t set foot back here until they’d won the war – the danger too great, the risk not worth his life. But… Remus is at loose ends, desperate, and it was this or borrow James’ mirror and he hadn’t seen James in at least a week and his feet had carried him here, up to Minerva’s office, through the floo, and out into Sirius’s study before he even knew where he was going.

And so here he is. In the place he nearly died, risking his life again for the sight of someone who might be able to make him feel better, if– if Sirius isn’t entertaining pureblood guests downstairs, if Sirius is even home at all. But the words on the wall, the fear on his students’ faces… enemies of the heir, beware–

He comes out of the floo coughing ash out of his mouth. He hasn’t used one in years, isn’t used to the simple motion of it. 

     ‘Sirius?’

He’s in the library, a small attempt to battle the melancholy that tends to settle in on evenings like this. No guests to entertain, no dinners to attend, no balls to waste his time at. His social calendar has been remarkably empty, these last weeks. He’d be glad, if it didn’t mean he was probably on the outs –– his standing slipping, not once as favoured as he used to be. He felt useless, like he was failing utterly at his job. 

He’s sitting on the piano stool, absently hitting the same key again and again. Mother liked to have him sit and play, when she was still alive. So obviously he detests it. He feels chained here, wondering what will happen to him if he can’t claw his way back into everyones good graces. They’ll make him a laughing stock, maybe. Embarrass him and take things away. But they probably wouldn’t be so merciful. If they settle in on blaming him for Narcissa and Regulus being gone, its more likely that they’ll kill him nice and slowly. 

His heart stops when he hears something upstairs –– maybe its happening now, the end of him and all of this. But the voice that calls out is familiar, a safe sound. Remus. Unmistakably. He’s up in a flash, stool knocked over and forgotten as he exits the room and takes the stairs two at a time, opening the door of his study and shutting it again. 

It doesn’t feel like his heart has started back up again, but he takes Remus in regardless. He’ll worry about the blood supply to his brain some other time. He looks tired. He looks fraught. Sirius moves forward quick and pulls him close, wraps around him in a hug before pulling back enough to look at him again, hand on his face.

     “Remus.” Too soft, and he’s worried about what this means. What went wrong, what the problem is. It must be big, for Remus to come here. “What’s going on?” 

     time. 21 October, evening      place. Minerva’s office, Hogwarts           ( @siriusbrontide )

Harry’s been begging to see Padfoot for days, now, and in all honesty James has been feeling the same way, especially after the Order’s most recent news. He wants to see Sirius, wants to have a moment to feel normal, to let Harry see his godfather and to breathe easy in his brother’s company for a few moments, but more than that, tonight, he wants to see if Sirius has answers.

It’s, technically, past Harry’s bedtime when they make their way hand in hand up to the castle, to Dumbledore’s– Minerva’s, now, he corrects himself, Minerva’s office, but he knows it’s hard for Sirius to get away any time but the evening, when he can make the excuse of being locked up tight in that terrible old house, and so he always makes an exception to Harry’s bedtime when it means a visit from Sirius. Harry, anyway, is chattering on excitedly, mostly to himself, as they walk, holding his Padfoot toy in one hand.

     ‘Soon, bud,’ he says, soothing, more for himself than for Harry, his free hand patting down some of Harry’s unruly hair.

Minerva only has to look at him for a moment to know why he’s here, the stern lines of her face replaced with a look of deep care and sympathy as she sighs and gets up from behind her desk, telling him she’ll be back in an hour. And then he just has to wait, sits himself on the floor by the fireplace, pulling Harry into his lap so he won’t get into anything he isn’t meant to.

Sirius has been looking forward to this since they made the plan. It’s carried him through the hell of the last couple of weeks, a bright light at the end of the tunnel that he can feel crumbling around him. He’s going to see James. He’s going to see Harry. Get a hug, be wrapped up in the feeling of family. It’s enough to lift even the heaviest of spirits. 

It seems like it takes a thousand years until he can escape. The day drags on endlessly, seconds ticking by that feel like hours all on their own. He worries he’ll be too late, that James will have come and gone. A silly thing to worry about –– James would wait a very long time for him, and he knows it implicitly. He aches with missing them all, James and Harry and Lily, these people who let them be his family. 

So something melts in him when he steps through the flames into the familiar office, and sees them there. Two of his favourite people in the world. Harry in James’ lap, looking rather impatient about the whole ordeal. His smile comes in beaming and instant, impossible to deny or repress. It’s bright, genuine, he can’t hold it back with them. 

     “Hey.” It comes out, gleeful and a little quiet, brushing the soot off his sleeves. Getting down on his knees, down on the same level as them. “Woah, someone got big.” 

Amelia smirks a little at Sirius’s lesson for getting what you want. He’s a few years younger than her and she can’t remember much of him from Hogwarts, just that he was sort of grouped in with his friends that he clearly seems to have brushed off. Either way, she wonders whether that’s a new attitude or an old one. Expecting and being a dick… “I prefer to wait it out and then take what I want when no one’s looking,” she explains with a delicate shrug. “That’s worked for me so far and there hasn’t been a need to be a dick, yet.” It was more or less true, if not in the manner that Sirius was talking about. So much of Amelia’s life – the past ten years and before – had been a game of waiting and not being noticed.

“I wouldn’t mind,” she says, taking another swallow of wine. It’s good and for a moment she lets herself pretend. Not that she really is British Amelia, no. But that she really has just been invited to dinner with a friend, and this evening is just to connect and relax. It’s a pleasant fantasy. “As long as you promise not to expose me to the rougher of your company.” Her eyebrows raise as she references their earlier conversation, Travers and Avery. There was a time, probably, that being around them could be useful. But for now, if she could keep somewhere close to Sirius Black’s pocket, that would be enough. No need to put herself in any further, blunter danger.

Even if they never found out she was a spy, Amelia wouldn’t want to be alone in a room with either of those two.

She starts in on the meal politely, grinning a little at what she’s sure is a joke. Only the best of the best at the House of Black. “Even still, we could always solve the question of loneliness without relying on meals.” A second invitation is another angle, now. With a charming dinner under her belt, she can build the foundation and maybe even find herself as confidante. She’s sure that Sirius Black is more careful than to let loose during one dinner. A few more, though. If he really is lonely, perhaps she could be the answer.

“You don’t have to worry, either way. The food is delicious,” she compliments after a few bites. And it is. The food is delicious, the wine is magnificent, the whole display is more than Amelia has ever seen, let alone has had done for her sake.

He spends a lot of time here looking at Amelia, like she’s a puzzle hes trying to figure out. Oddly entertaining, all-together not a waste of time. He isn’t sure why he finds her so interesting. It’s just a refreshing change of pace, to spend time with someone who isn’t actively homicidal at the best of times. 

Sirius beams at her comment, a mocking shadow of his normal smile. The reminder of their last conversation, and her distaste for the rougher of his company was an amusing thing. “Believe me, darling, you’re a treasure I’m inclined to selfishly hoard for myself.” Flirting, blatant. He stops just short of a wink. It feels stupid, just like the think the Black Heir should do when alone with an objectively pretty girl of marriageable age. It was the tone of voice that had women playfully scold him, call him a scoundrel. He feels a little warmed by it, the less-sinister edge to the encounter. It isn’t fully like an evening with a friend, he doesn’t feel the warm flush of affection that comes after banter with Remus, but its getting the job done. 

He muffles a laugh, drinks more of the wine, takes a few bites of the food. “True, I would hate to get stagnant so early on in a friendship.” A grin, slow and easy. “Variety is the spice of life, so they say. We could do so many things together.” And he doesn’t really intend it to sound a little dirty, but if someone had said it to him he would have teased them. “The food is to your liking, i’ve charmed you into ignoring the rather gloomy decor of my ancestors. Tell me, what would you suggest for a second outing?” 

Marlene snorts out a laugh and tugs on a strand of Sirius’s hair once more. “Butch up. You,” they tease. And then, eyes shining with the promise of a joke, adds, “Yeah, James can be like a warning – Ghost of Bad Hair Future.” Something in their chest, though, inflates a bit. Because Sirius is immediately ready to perhaps make a bit of a fool of himself all to keep them from the awkwardness of confronting a crush. And the way he’s immediately sure that James will help up… It makes Marlene feels a little more like they might belong, like they might not just be a tag-along. “Don’t permanently scar the boy or anything. I’d just rather not have him trailing after me, collecting every blade of grass I tread upon, you know.”

They accept the kiss with a huff of certainty - he had better kiss their cheek – and then don’t say anything for a moment. The thing is, they are the jealous type. Very much so. It’s a fact they’re only just beginning to come to terms with, only just beginning to even notice about themself. And the feeling does seem to center itself on Sirius. “Yes, well…” is all they manage, “I don’t reckon your hair tastes very good, anyway.” Maybe the comment hits just a bit close to home for them. Demonstrated by the next turn in the conversation: Remus.

Look, they’re happy. They are. Sirius had been miserable the year before and it was awful. Like someone had let all the air out of their life. Helpless and desperate and sad. And Marlene liked Remus (not as much as they liked Sirius, of course, but that was standard for about any person other than their brother) – they wanted him and Sirius to be friends. Was glad all things got resolved. Was glad the “operation” us on its way to be successful. 

There’s just something tight and hot that rolls through them when Sirius gets on his kicks of waxing poetic about Remus’s hands, or chin, or focus, or whatever it is that week. “That’s good. And some level of awkwardness is to be expected, I suppose. I take it that means you lost, then?” Marlene does their level best not to roll their eyes before realizing that Sirius couldn’t see if they did. “Took it in stride, I’m sure. Didn’t embarrass yourself at all while complimenting his skill and his focus.” The rumors, the gossip; they aren’t true. Marlene and Sirius aren’t madly in love. Or, at least, Marlene is fairly certain that whatever they feel for Sirius isn’t love, isn’t that kind of love. It’s just the closest vocabulary they have for it, so it can all get a bit confusing. 

They pull back from Sirius and sit up a little straighter, rummaging through their nightstand. “Do you want to play a bit?” they ask, finally finding what they were fishing for: the little pot of eyeliner and its brush.

He laughs, light and care-free. It’s a novelty, in the grand sense of his life, to get to laugh like that with somebody. James should have spoiled him with it by now, but Sirius feels like a gaping abyss, reading to swallow up all the joy that he can get. “Ah, don’t worry. Not like i’ll traumatise him. M’good, but not that good.” 

He wrinkles up his nose at them, sticks out his tongue. Oh, the teasing. There’s always a bit of teasing when he gets started on Remus. His stupid crush, it turns him dreamy and mushy and idiotic. More idiotic than usual, that is. He can’t help it, it all just comes out once he gets started, he can’t hold it in. Remus is wonderful. Beautiful. Heart-wrenchingly perfect. But this is Marlene time, and he knows that he should focus on them. He sits up a little bit, turns on the eager puppy aura once they make the offer. 

He knows what it means when they say that, doesn’t have to ask or clarify. It unwinds something in him, makes him smile so warmly, makes him feel settled in something that otherwise sends him off a deep edge. The labyrinth of his own personhood. He likes when they play, likes the tradition of it, the hours they can spend like that. “Yes, yes, yes.” He chimes in. “Marlene, absolutely. Why else would I hang out with you, other than our epic love and sexual tension?” A grin, beaming. He moves it sit on the edge of their bed. “I very much want to play.” 

Well, he hadn’t immediately stabbed her or sent a curse at her, so that was a plus at least. “Nonsense,” she counters as he waves off everything about the evening. “It’s much finer than anything I’m used to.” The Bones were Purebloods but not that thing of myth and all that it took to be Sacred and one of twenty-eight. As such, her family had always been a little less beholden to, well, all of the everything about Pureblood supremacy. They had money, certainly, and were considered something of an institutions within Britain, but it wasn’t a thing like the Blacks. They never had house elves and their good table setting was on par with what the other families would probably consider disposable. 

Maybe Amelia was better for the upbringing she had. 

Sirius still hasn’t killed her, and she doesn’t imagine him down for something as artless as poisoning the wine. She takes a sip from the glass, eyes still trying to take in all she can. Now that she’s calmed a little and it slightly more sure that this won’t be her death-day, she’s wondering if it won’t be a bit of a waste of time. Could she gather much information from just Sirius? He was the inner-most of the inner-circle, of course, but getting anything out of him while just one-one-one would likely prove impossible.

“I agree,” she says with a winsome smile, raising her glass a little. “I’m afraid I’m often eating alone.” Except on the nights that she manages to slip to the Tonks’, or to King. Sitting in this cold, dim home with its sconces and its snakes and its heir, Amelia can’t help but ache in missing them. She tells herself that she’s here for them right now but that’s very cold comfort.

Amelia shakes her head at the question, feeling a bit like she passed some chest. “I did, no trouble whatsoever.” She waves a hand, gesturing to the entryway she came from. “Just as I walked up, Number 12 appeared as it should.” Her nose wrinkles a little and she settles into playing a part. “How terrible it must be, to have to go through all that. But then, this is such an important home, an important location.” It’s something of an open secret that the Minster is taken with the Blacks, with Lord Black himself in particular and came around every so often.

Amelia laughs lightly and shrugs. “At any rate, all those wards certainly makes for a more relaxing evening. No need to worry about any of those undesirables gate-crashing.” Just myself.

The taste of the wine is a steadying thing, a fine bottle. Expensive. His mother would roll in her grave if she knew her son was a traitor and a spy, sitting in her house drinking her wine. It’s small petty thoughts that keep him going, sometimes. “You ought to raise your standards, then.” He drawls it out, easy, a little slick. “Get used to the finer things, Amelia. If you start expecting them, you’ll get them. Expecting is half the battle, being a dick when you don’t get what you want is the other.” 

Selfishly glad, yes. He’s glad hes not here alone, even if he has to play this game for company. Better Amelia than any of the others, he thinks. She has blunter teeth, carefully cut claws. She won’t bring someone to torture for desert. She’s a good little girl. But she isn’t one of his friends. She isn’t Andromeda, or Remus, or Ted, or James. He wants to go home. He wants the house he’s sitting in to stop being home. “Maybe we can band together more often, in that case. Solve our loneliness in a temporary sense.” 

It’s easy to just let the talking wash over him, and he barely notices at all when the first course of the meal appears before them. He hadn’t snapped for it, but Kreacher did tend to get impatient when he dallied. “It certainly allows one to unwind, security can make such a difference with that.” He drains his glass, glances down at his plate. He isn’t very hungry, he rarely is these days. England doesn’t agree with him, and his stomach is rebelling against him. “I hope you’ll enjoy the food, Amelia. I’m afraid you’ll never come back again if it isn’t to your taste.”