Chapter Text
Rain lashed down, soaking the garden and turning the stone walkway into a rushing river. Sirius Black sprinted through the downpour, water splashing up around his ankles, his broomstick clutched tightly in one hand. By the time he reached the Potters’ doorstep, he was soaked to the bone, his breath coming in quick, uneven gasps.
His dark, wavy hair clung to his pale face, damp curls sticking to his forehead, while his clothes hung off his thin frame, clinging like a second skin. Despite the thick summer humidity, a shiver ran through his body, as though a winter chill had settled deep in his bones.
He raised his hand and rapped the heavy brass knocker against the wooden door.
The door swung open a few moments later.
James Potter stood there, his wide smile fading the instant his eyes met Sirius’s. His expression shifted from joy to shock, and then to something Sirius couldn’t stand to see—concern, pity.
“Merlin, get inside,” James said, grabbing Sirius by the arm and pulling him into the warm glow of the entryway. He took the broomstick and tucked it in the front cupboard.
“I’m sorry for showing up unannounced,” Sirius said quietly. “I’ve—I’ve sort of… well, I’ve left home… for good.”
James gave a short nod before yelling over his shoulder, “Mum! Mum! Sirius is here!”
Euphemia Potter appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel. The moment she caught sight of Sirius, she froze. Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes widening as she took in the sight of him—dripping water onto the floor, trembling from head to toe.
“James, go fetch him a robe and some dry clothes,” she instructed. Then, softer, “Come here, dear. Let’s get you into a nice hot bath and something comfortable.”
James darted off, and before Sirius could protest, Euphemia was already ushering him toward the bathroom. The warmth of the house contrasted with the cold still gripping his skin, but he barely felt it. Everything was numb.
Euphemia busied herself drawing a bath, the rush of water filling the silence. She disappeared into the hall cupboard for fresh towels.
By the time James returned, arms full of clothes, the bath was nearly full, steam curling into the air. Euphemia turned off the taps and stood, smoothing her hands over the skirt of her dress.
“You take your time, dear,” she said softly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Get warm, get clean, get dressed. We can talk after.”
And then she was gone, closing the door behind her, leaving Sirius alone in the humid bathroom.
His fingers shook as he peeled off his wet clothes, the fabric clinging stubbornly to his skin. When he dragged his shirt over his head, he winced—hissing as the fabric tore at the half-healed wounds across his back. A fresh sting bloomed beneath his shoulder blade, but he grit his teeth and ignored it.
Lowering himself into the bath, Sirius exhaled shakily as warmth enveloped him, seeping into his frozen limbs. The water stung where it met broken skin, but he welcomed the pain. It was easier to focus on that than anything else.
When he finally stepped out, the clothes James had left for him were far too big—the sleeves of the shirt hung past his wrists, and the jeans brushed the floor. He tugged the robe around himself, pulling it tight. It hid how small he’d gotten, how his collarbones jutted sharply beneath the fabric.
He lingered for a moment, staring at his reflection in the fogged-up mirror. With a slow swipe, he cleared the condensation, only to frown at what he saw. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, shadowed hollows beneath them. His cheeks were gaunt, his skin drawn tight. He looked exactly how he felt—exhausted, fragile, and worn down to nothing.
Merlin, he looked like he’d been hit by the Knight Bus.
Taking a steadying breath, Sirius finally stepped out of the bathroom. He wasn’t surprised to find both Euphemia and James waiting for him.
“There, dear. Are you feeling better now?” Euphemia asked softly, stepping closer to brush his hair back from his forehead. The touch was so gentle, so unlike the cold indifference he was used to, that it almost made his knees buckle.
Sirius hugged himself tightly. “Yes, thank you.”
“Let me dry your hair.” She didn’t wait for a response before pulling her wand out and casting a drying charm.
Sirius avoided James’s concerned stare as Euphemia puttered around him, drying his hair as best she could. He leaned his head down so she didn’t have to stand on her toes to reach the top of his head.
“All done, dear. Now come, come. We were just sitting down for dinner,” Euphemia said, her hand settling on his back to guide him toward the dining room.
The contact sent a sharp jolt up Sirius’s spine. He flinched, letting out a yelp of pain as he stepped away from the touch.
Her hand withdrew instantly. “Oh, Sirius,” she murmured, her brows knitting together in worry.
A smile snapped into place on his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.”
Euphemia stared at him, her soft eyes flooding with concern. “Are you okay, dear?”
“I’m fine,” Sirius insisted, waving his hands in a half-hearted attempt to brush off her concern. “Really, I’m fine.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “I would really like food, though. I haven’t eaten in a few days…”
That would definitely distract her from his back. She was always so determined to make sure her son’s mates were well-fed that a confession like that would be impossible to ignore.
“Well, we’ll fix that right up,” she said then, the smile on her face not quite reaching her caring eyes. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
Sirius followed her to the kitchen, where Fleamont was busy at the stove.
“Sirius, my boy,” Fleamont greeted with a kind smile. “It’s good to see you again. How about a cup of tea?”
“Yes, please,” Sirius replied.
A warm drink was almost more tempting than food. Though the charm had dried him, and the robe around him provided a comforting warmth, a persistent chill clung to his bones, freezing him from the inside out.
“Sit. Eat. Leave the rest to me,” Fleamont said, already setting the kettle on the stove.
Sirius settled in at the table as Euphemia grabbed him a plate and started dishing him food. He swallowed against the lump in his throat as he took in the piles of potatoes, vegetables, and roast that seemed to be growing at an alarming rate.
It was too much, an overwhelming amount, but he grabbed his fork and started eating. It sat in his stomach no better than the mouldy scraps his family threw at him, but he ate until he could no longer force another mouthful down. He was still starving but his brain convinced him that what he was eating was rotting with each bite, and he couldn’t get the taste out of his mouth long enough to keep eating.
It took every bit of willpower to hold back the bile rising in his throat as the food slowly started to rot before his eyes. He breathed easier when Euphemia took his plate away.
“I’m sorry to show up unannounced,” Sirius said quietly. “I didn’t know where else to go…”
“You’re always welcome here, dear,” Euphemia said warmly.
“Our home is your home,” Fleamont said, reaching over to ruffle Sirius’s hair.
James nodded along to the comments.
“Thanks,” Sirius said, holding back the emotions that raced through his body.
The comfortable atmosphere gradually slowed his racing heart as he engaged James in conversation about other topics. He forced himself to laugh, to smile, to act as though nothing was wrong. But he couldn’t ignore the worry woven into their every gesture—the way their eyes lingered a second too long on his thin wrists and hollow cheeks.
He hated it. Hated worrying them. It made him feel like a burden.
Still, he reasoned, if they saw him as a burden, they would have shown it by now. There were no signs of disapproval, no hesitation in their welcome—only concern in their glances and gestures, and a warmth in their voices that made him feel safe and cared for.
The conversation shifted from stories of the summer to talks of recent Quidditch games. Sirius tried to join in, but the words felt heavy on his tongue as he realised how much he’d missed in such a short period of time.
James launched into an animated retelling of the games, exaggerating every goal and snitch catch with theatrical flair. The effort wasn’t lost on Sirius—it made him feel less like an outsider. Neither Euphemia nor Fleamont seemed to mind the extra detail, adding comments when they saw fit.
For the first time in weeks Sirius found himself offering a genuine smile as James made a fool of himself acting out a particularly dramatic snitch catch where he dove to the ground and then leapt to his feet, triumphantly holding an imaginary snitch above his head.
After dinner, Euphemia handed Sirius a pair of James’s pyjamas, which draped over him just as awkwardly as the borrowed robe had.
“Go get changed. I’ve set up the room across from James’s as yours.”
When he came downstairs to say goodnight, she took one look at him, shook her head, and tutted softly.
“Tomorrow, we’ll get you some clothes that actually fit,” she said, fussing over his hair as she gently tucked a few strands behind his ear.
“That’s really not necessary,” Sirius mumbled, his hands fidgeting at his sides.
“Nonsense, you need clothes that fit,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Defeated, but grateful, Sirius nodded.
“Goodnight, boys,” Fleamont called from his armchair in the parlour, a book resting on his lap.
“Goodnight, Dad!” James called back, tugging Sirius towards the stairs. “Let’s talk for a bit.”
Sirius tensed as James guided him toward the bedroom, his limbs stiff, his chest tight.
When the door clicked shut, a wave of panic coiled in his stomach, cold and sharp. His body, already too thin, felt even smaller than ever as he backed away from James. He knew it was James, he knew that, but a shut door was scary. A shut door meant bad things were going to happen.
“Can you—can you open the door?” Sirius rasped, pointing with a shaky hand.
James tilted his head in confusion, but complied. “Are you okay?” James asked, his voice softer now. “You look… you look awful.”
Sirius kept his gaze fixed on the floor, unwilling to meet James’s eyes. “I’m fine,” he murmured, the lie sitting heavy on his tongue. “Just tired. I’d really like to sleep.”
James exhaled, long and weary, but didn’t press. “Alright. I’ll let you sleep. But we’re talking tomorrow, okay?”
Sirius didn’t want to talk tomorrow. He didn’t want to talk ever. But if agreeing would make James leave it alone for now, then he’d agree. “Okay,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t mean it when the morning came.
As Sirius climbed into bed, a mix of emotions swirled inside him. The Potters’ kindness was overwhelming, almost too much to bear. A small, dark part of him whispered that he didn’t deserve it.
He clenched his jaw, pressing his hands over his ears as if that could silence the thoughts.
* * *
Sirius’s own scream ripped him from sleep, and for a moment, he didn’t know where he was. His body burned with fear, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps as the shadows of his nightmare lingered on the edges. He curled in on himself, arms wrapped tightly around his middle, as if he could hold himself together through sheer force of will.
Then—footsteps.
A door opening.
Sirius flinched, instinct screaming at him to prepare for something worse. He curled into himself, bracing himself for what was to come, but instead of a harsh voice or a stinging hand, there were arms. Soft, warm arms that wrapped around him carefully, gently. He didn’t fight them. Couldn’t. His body melted into the touch before his mind even caught up.
“Shh, sweetheart, shh,” Euphemia murmured, her hand smoothing his damp hair away from his face. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe here.”
Safe. The word hardly felt real.
His body trembled violently against her, the harsh edges of his bones sharp beneath his too-thin skin. He clenched his teeth, but the sobs kept forcing their way out, shuddering and uneven. He hated this—hated feeling so small, so weak—but he couldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t stop anything.
The door creaked again, and a figure appeared in the dim light of the hallway. Sirius squinted past the blur of tears, just enough to recognize James—his hair a wild mess, glasses slipping down his nose, concern written all over his tired face.
“Mum? Sirius?” James whispered. “Can I do anything…?”
Euphemia shook her head, offering James a gentle, reassuring smile. “Go back to sleep, dear. I’ve got this.”
James hesitated, gaze flickering between them, lips pressed into a thin line. Sirius ducked his head against Euphemia’s shoulder, embarrassment creeping in through the exhaustion. He wanted James to go. He didn’t want his best friend to see him like this—pathetic and shaking, barely holding himself together.
His fingers twisted tightly into Euphemia’s blue nightshirt, gripping the fabric. Too many emotions fought for space inside him—shame, exhaustion, relief—and he couldn’t sort through them fast enough. He risked another glance at James.
James opened his mouth, like he might argue, but then he must have decided against it. After another glance at Sirius, he gave a small, reluctant nod and stepped back, closing the door quietly behind him.
The room was quiet again, save for Sirius’s uneven breaths.
“Shh, Sirius,” Euphemia whispered, rocking him slightly, her hands moving in slow, soothing motions along his arms. He wanted to lean into her touch, to believe in it—but a part of him still braced for the moment it would turn cold.
Her hand drifted lower, moving to rub his back, and before he could stop himself, Sirius flinched, jerking away. The movement was immediate, ingrained, automatic. He pulled back just enough to escape the touch, but not enough to leave her arms entirely.
Euphemia stilled, her grip loosening, but not disappearing. She didn’t press. Didn’t demand an explanation. She only held him gently, like he was something fragile to be handled with care.
Sirius’s throat ached. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the burning behind them to go away.
Euphemia stroked his hair, shushing him in a calm manner. “You’re safe now,” she murmured, and he could hear the thickness in her voice, the emotion she tried to hide for his sake. “No one will hurt you here, I promise.”
He wanted to believe her. More than anything, he wanted to believe her.
He didn’t know if he ever truly could.
But she kept saying it, over and over, whispering the words into the quiet of the room like a promise she refused to break. Sirius let himself listen, let himself be rocked in her arms, let himself, just for a moment, believe that maybe—maybe—she was telling the truth.
Eventually, exhaustion won. His body sagged against her, and his eyes fluttered shut, the last thing he heard before slipping into sleep was the soft sound of her voice lulling him to sleep.
* * *
The smell of bacon and eggs filled the Potter kitchen, but Sirius wasn’t really paying attention. His body ached in that deep, exhausted way it always did after a night like that, the kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix. He focused on his plate instead, mechanically stabbing his fork into a piece of bacon, pretending he didn’t notice the way his hands trembled slightly.
It all looked rotten before him. He didn’t want to eat it. But Euphemia encouraged him in a sweet way and he took a big bite to make her happy. It tasted fuzzy on his tongue and he nearly retched onto the table. He forced it down with a big gulp of water.
Fleamont and Euphemia talked about their plans for the day as she busied herself cooking and he drank his tea. Sirius thought he was safe from everyone bringing up what happened the night before. But then James went and ruined everything.
“Mate, what was that last night?”
Sirius’s grip tightened on his fork.
Euphemia’s head snapped toward James. Sirius saw it out of the corner of his eye—the sharp look, the small shake of her head, the silent don’t.
James, completely missing the warning, frowned in that stupid, clueless way he did when he didn’t understand something but plowed ahead anyway. “You screamed really loud… were you okay?”
Everything in Sirius went still. His fork froze just above his plate. For a brief, panicked second, he thought about ignoring it. Letting the moment pass. Letting James drop it and move on.
But James was still looking at him.
Sirius forced himself to move, setting his fork down carefully—too carefully, because if he wasn’t careful, his hands would shake, and James would see. He exhaled, turned back, and pulled a smile onto his face like armour.
“Oh,” he said, light, casual, trying to act like this wasn’t anything serious, that it was all okay, that he was okay. “Just a bad nightmare. Sorry I woke you. Won’t happen again.”
James shrugged, already losing interest. “No, well, it’s fine if it happens again.” He bit into his bacon like it was just another morning, like Sirius hadn’t woken up gasping for air, clawing at phantom hands. “You ready to go to Diagon today?”
Sirius hesitated. “Ah, um… I don’t have any money… so, it’s fine. I’m good with just the clothes I came in…”
Before James could say something stupid again, Euphemia swept in, dropping more eggs onto his plate. “We’ve got money for you, dear.”
Sirius stared at his plate, at the eggs piled onto it, at the generosity that felt more like an obligation than kindness. His stomach twisted. He looked away from the food at Euphemia and then Fleamont. “I can’t accept your money…”
James snorted, waving his fork at him. “You can and you will. My parents are loaded, remember? Let them spoil you a little. Merlin knows your parents never have.”
Sirius’s chest hurt, the bit of food in his stomach rose up his throat.
“You deserve to know what it’s like to have parents actually give a damn about you for once.”
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Sirius went rigid, fingers curling around the edge of the table, gripping it so hard he swore he felt the wood crack under his hands.
Across the room, Euphemia inhaled sharply. “James!”
Fleamont clicked his tongue loudly, giving James a disapproving look.
“What?” James said, oblivious, chewing his bacon.
“Sirius, dear,” Euphemia started, but Sirius was already moving.
His chair scraped against the floor with an awful screech as he pushed back from the table. “I need to use the toilet,” he muttered.
He didn’t look at James. Didn’t look at Euphemia or Fleamont. Didn’t look at anything except the floor as he walked out of the room, head down, hands clenched, trying not to let his breathing shake.
Because if he let it shake, that would mean James was right, and Sirius wasn’t sure he was ready to face that yet.
Sirius hadn’t meant to linger outside the room.
When he left the kitchen, he’d fully intended to head straight to the toilet and lock himself inside and not think about anything. Not about what had been said, not about the burning in his chest, not about the way his hands still curled into fists, shaking slightly.
But his feet had stopped moving, and then he’d heard his name.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop—truly, he didn’t. But when you’ve spent your entire childhood learning how to listen through walls, how to gauge the atmosphere of a room before stepping inside, how to brace yourself for whatever’s coming—well, it’s a hard habit to break.
So Sirius stood, silent, just outside the door. Listening.
“What were you thinking, bringing up his parents like that? Can’t you see he’s in pain?” Euphemia’s voice was sharper than he was used to hearing it, and it made something twist in his stomach.
“What’s the problem?” James asked defensively. “They’re horrible people.”
Sirius swallowed.
True. Objectively, completely, undeniably true. Horrible didn’t even touch the tip of the iceberg on how awful they were.
“That may be true,” Euphemia said. “But Sirius is still their son. He’s been hurt by them, James. Hurt in ways you can’t even imagine. You can’t just throw their cruelty in his face like that.”
Sirius had to bite his tongue to keep from making a sound.
“I didn’t mean to upset him…”
“I know you didn’t.” Euphemia’s voice was gentle now. “But you have to be careful. He’s fragile right now, and he needs your kindness.”
Sirius flinched.
Fragile.
Was he?
He supposed he must be. Because wasn’t that what this was—standing here, barely breathing, heart pounding, just because someone was talking about him like he mattered? Like he wasn’t just something pathetic and stupid and altogether terrible?
James sighed. “I’ll apologise.”
“Good.”
Sirius didn’t stay to hear the rest. He slipped away, down the hallway into the toilet. He leaned back against the door and sunk his nails into his thighs, just until the stinging pain blossomed, just until his mind started to calm.
He was okay.
He was okay.
* * *
Sirius was good at avoiding conversations.
Whenever James tried to ask about what had happened at his parents’ house, Sirius would shake his head, brush it off with a flippant, “Not worth talking about.” And if James pressed, Sirius would simply change the subject—so frequently, so seamlessly, that he made it an art.
He perfected the strategy. If he sensed James was about to corner him with more questions, he’d slip away, find Euphemia or Fleamont, and offer to help with chores. James, predictably allergic to housework, would make a quick escape, leaving Sirius alone.
Eventually, James tired of hitting a brick wall. The questions stopped. The concern remained, but the interrogation faded.
Sirius thought he was in the clear. Until James locked them in the bedroom together.
Panic flared instantly in Sirius’s chest. His pulse hammered as his gaze flickered around the room, searching for an escape.
“Sirius, what happened to you?”
His throat felt tight. “Nothing,” he said.
But even as he spoke, his eyes darted to the window, calculating—could he open it fast enough? Could he climb out before James stopped him?
No. The latches were too tight. And James was too fast.
“You’re lying,” James said patiently. “I know something happened. Look at you, you’re acting like your life is about to end because a door is shut.”
Sirius met James’s eyes, then looked away with a soft click of his tongue. “So what?”
“So what?” James sighed. “I’m worried about you. My parents are worried about you. We just want to help you, Sirius.”
“I don’t need help.”
James didn’t budge. “You clearly do, or you wouldn’t have come here.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I don’t need more help. This is enough. You’ve done—you’ve done more than enough.” His voice wavered, just slightly, and he swallowed hard, but it did nothing to dislodge the growing lump in his throat.
James took a step forward, reaching for him.
Sirius flinched back on instinct. His own body betrayed him before he even knew what he was doing.
James froze, hand falling to his side. His face darkened, not with anger, but with something worse—concern. “Right, because that is a normal reaction.”
Sirius forced himself to stand straighter, to breathe past the way his pulse was thundering in his ears. “I’m fine,” he insisted, hating the way it sounded like a plea. “Please drop it.”
James studied him for a long moment before exhaling through his nose, shaking his head. “Just for now, Sirius. But you will tell me eventually.”
“...Okay.”
He didn’t mean it. He could tell James knew that. But he still let him go.
* * *
It was hot.
The afternoon sun beat down on the river behind the Potters’ house, making the water glisten, inviting and cool. Sirius floated lazily on his back, letting the current lull him, his soaked shirt clinging to his skin. He couldn’t take it off. He wouldn’t take it off.
A sudden whoosh of air was his only warning before James launched himself off his broomstick, crashing into the water with a dramatic splash. A wave rocked Sirius, drenching him all over again.
“Oi, be careful,” he said as James surfaced, sputtering and grinning. “You got me wet.”
James snorted, pushing dripping hair from his face. “Mate, we’re swimming. You’re supposed to get wet.” He eyed Sirius’s shirt, now practically weighing him down. “You know, you should really just swim in your shorts. That thing looks like it’s trying to drown you.”
“Piss off,” Sirius muttered before slipping beneath the surface, letting the water swallow him whole. Down here, it was quiet. Peaceful. If he stayed long enough, maybe James would let it go.
But, of course, when he finally came up for air, James was still there—because James was nothing if not persistent.
“I won’t say anything,” James said, treading water beside him. His voice was softer now, less teasing. “I know your parents did something to you. It’s not like I can even see without my glasses, so it doesn’t matter if you take off your shirt.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened. He slicked back his wet hair, forcing his face into something neutral. “No.”
James sighed. “Fine. If you insist. Do you want to talk about what happened at your parents’ yet?”
“No.”
Sirius swam away before James could ask again.
* * *
Weeks later, an owl arrived early in the morning, wings fluttering in the hot summer air, carrying two letters stamped with the Hogwarts crest.
Sirius had barely rubbed the sleep from his eyes before James was already tearing into his, the parchment crinkling as he scanned the contents. Sirius followed suit, fingers slightly hesitant as they broke the seal.
He stared at the letter for a long moment, as if it might disappear if he blinked.
He knew it would come, of course—there was no reason it wouldn’t. But a small, treacherous part of him had still wondered if the Hogwarts letters would only come for James. If his name had been quietly erased from the list, like his mother always threatened it would be.
Worthless, she’d sneered at him before he left. You are nothing. Not even Hogwarts would want you back.
But the letter was here. His name was on it. He was still something.
Sirius swallowed past the lump in his throat. “How’d they know I was here…?”
Fleamont didn’t even look up from his paper. “Dumbledore always knows. He’s a smart man.”
Sirius glanced at Fleamont, then back at the letter, and something in him melted just a bit. Slowly, a smile bloomed across his face. A real smile. Not the sharp-edged grin he wore like armour, not the cocky smirk that kept people at arm’s length. A proper, quiet, relieved kind of smile.
He was going back to Hogwarts. His mother had been wrong. He still had a place there. He deserved to be there.
James’s voice pulled Sirius from his thoughts. “Mum, Dad, can we go shopping tomorrow? Sirius and I have plans today.”
Euphemia raised an eyebrow, giving them both a knowing look. “Oh? And what plans do you have today? Should I be worried?”
James grinned, mischief sparking in his eyes. “Nothing bad, Mum. We’re just going to swing by downtown and check out the Muggle shops. They’ve got some new records in. Was thinking of buying one.”
Fleamont folded a corner of his paper down, peering over it. “With what money?”
“I’ve still got some from last time!” James insisted, looking mildly offended at the accusation. “Promise!”
“Me too,” Sirius added quickly, sitting up straighter. He needed to join in, to act normal, or they’d stare at him with those concerned expressions again. “I made sure not to spend as much as James did last time, so I have loads leftover. Three times as much as James, even.”
Fleamont smirked, reaching out to ruffle Sirius’s hair. “That’s why you’re my favourite.”
James let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest. “Oi! I’m your son!”
Fleamont flipped his paper back open. “I believe I have two sons. And you, my dear boy, are currently not winning any awards for top spot. Your room is still a disaster, despite me telling you five times to clean it.”
Two sons.
Two sons.
Sirius couldn’t stop the slow smile that crept onto his face as the words settled in. The only time his father had ever acknowledged him as his son was in the moments he was disowning him—spitting the words you are no son of mine like a curse, like a wound meant to scar.
But Fleamont, with no blood relation, was happily claiming Sirius as his own like it was only natural, like he’d been his since the beginning.
Sirius almost choked on a sob as he thought of it, but he sniffed it back and reminded himself to act normal, to not fall apart in front of them.
So he threw himself back into the conversation.
“My room is clean,” Sirius said, voice dripping with exaggerated innocence as he flashed a smug grin at James.
“Only because I helped you clean it!” James threw his hands in the air, looking thoroughly exasperated.
The conversation carried on around him, but Sirius barely heard it, too wrapped up in the words he’d said without meaning to.
His room.
Not the guest room, not the room he was using—his room.
The words sounded almost unfamiliar in his mind.
At Grimmauld Place, his ‘room’ had never really been his. It had been a space where he was expected to be silent, where everything from the furniture to the colours on the walls had been chosen for him. A place where he had existed, but never belonged. Even when he stuck pictures and Gryffindor decorations on the wall, all he received in return was the backside of his father’s hand and a curse that made him throw up in pain.
But here… here, he had a space that was his, where he could decorate as he saw fit without fear of repercussions.
The thought made something tighten in his throat. He swallowed it down, tapping his fingers idly against his Hogwarts letter as James bickered with Fleamont about his messy bedroom.
Across the table, Euphemia was watching him. She didn’t say anything—just took a slow sip of her tea, a quiet sort of fondness in her gaze.
Sirius didn’t know what to do with it.
So he just grinned at James again, making sure to look as unbearably smug as possible.
James groaned. “I hate you.”
Sirius forced a laugh and a grin, doing his best to seem normal in the hopes that he might actually start feeling that way if he pretended long enough.