Chapter Text
Sirius was deep in sleep. His body was sprawled across the mattress, one arm flung over his head, the other wrapped loosely around Margaret's waist. His breathing was slow, even.
The room was dark. The curtains were drawn, but a sliver of moonlight slipped through the gap, silvering the carpet like a frozen river. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the faintest orange glow across the ceiling.
Crookshanks was curled at the foot of the bed, a ginger ball of fur, his tail twitching in his sleep.
And then—a whisper.
"Sirius."
His eyes opened.
The whisper came again, soft as a breath, insistent as a tug on his sleeve. "Sirius."
He knew that voice. He knew where it was coming from. He knew whom it belonged to.
Sirius extracted himself from Margaret's arms with the practiced care of a man who had spent years moving silently. His hand slipped from her waist. His body rolled to the edge of the bed. His feet found the floor without a sound.
Margaret did not stir. Her breathing did not change. Her dark hair was spread across the pillow, her face peaceful in sleep.
Sirius stood. He walked to the door, opened it, and slipped into the corridor.
The house was dark. The portraits were sleeping, their painted eyes closed, their painted chests rising and falling. The floorboards did not creak beneath his bare feet—he knew where to step, how to shift his weight, how to move like the ghost his mother had always accused him of being.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor.
Aurora's door was slightly ajar.
Sirius pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was bathed in soft blue light—the nightlight Margaret had installed, shaped like a crescent moon, casting gentle shadows across the walls.
Aurora was not sleeping peacefully.
She was thrashing—her small body twisting, her legs kicking at the duvet, her arms reaching for something that was not there. Her dark hair was spread across the pillow in a tangled mess. Her face was scrunched, her brow furrowed, her lips moving in silent, desperate words.
Sirius crossed the room in three strides.
He sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He gathered her into his arms—gently, carefully, lifting her small body from the pillows. He settled her against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin, her legs draped across his thighs.
"Shh, little star," he murmured. "I am here. Sirius is here."
His hand found her hair. His fingers moved in slow, gentle circles, stroking from her forehead to the nape of her neck, over and over, the same rhythm he had used a hundred times before.
Aurora stopped thrashing.
Her body relaxed. Her breathing slowed. Her hands, which had been clutching the air, found his chest and fisted in the fabric of his shirt. Her face smoothed, the furrow between her brows easing, the tension in her jaw releasing.
Whatever bad dream she had been seeing—whatever monster had been chasing her, whatever darkness had been pressing against her—it was gone. Sirius's presence had chased it away.
He held her for a long time.
The clock on her nightstand ticked. The mobile spun slowly overhead. The blue light of the crescent moon bathed them both in its soft glow.
Sirius did not rush. He was not going anywhere. He had learned, in the weeks since becoming a father, that holding a sleeping child was not a task to be completed. It was a gift to be savored.
He had never thought he would be a parent. In Azkaban, he had dreamed of revenge, of freedom, of seeing Harry's face again. He had not dreamed of this—of a small body curled against his chest, of small hands fisted in his clothes, of a child who slept better because he was there.
He looked down at Aurora. Her mouth was slightly open, a small O of peaceful sleep. A thin line of drool was making its way from her lips to his chest.
He chuckled softly.
He kissed her forehead—once, twice, three times. Because he could. Because she was his daughter. Because he had spent twelve years in a place where love was not permitted, and now he was making up for lost time.
He adjusted her pillows, fluffing them, arranging them so her head would be comfortable when he laid her down. He pulled the duvet up to her chin, tucking the edges around her shoulders. He touched her face again—the curve of her cheek, the softness of her skin.
He kissed her forehead one more time.
Then he rose from the bed, his movements slow and careful, and walked to the door. He looked back. Aurora had not stirred. She was curled on her side, her dragon tucked under her arm, her face peaceful.
Sirius smiled. He closed the door softly behind him.
He did not go back to the stairs.
His feet carried him down the corridor, past the closed doors of guest rooms and storage closets and rooms he had not yet explored. He knew where he was going. He had been going there every night, for the past two weeks, to check on Harry. To make sure he was there. To make sure this was not a dream. Not a fragment of his imagination.
But something stopped him.
A door was open. Not Harry's—one of the others, one of the small sitting rooms that dotted the third floor. Light spilled from it, soft and golden, the light of a fire that had not yet died.
Sirius stepped closer. He peered inside.
The lounging room.
The fire was low, the logs glowing orange, casting long shadows across the ceiling. The four sofas were arranged around the hearth, their cushions soft, their fabrics worn. And on those sofas, in various states of disarray, were three teenagers.
Ron was sprawled on his back, his long legs hanging over the arm of the sofa, his head dangling off the edge. His mouth was open. A soft snore escaped him every few seconds. His red hair was spread across the cushion like a flame.
Hermione was curled into a tight ball, her knees drawn up to her chest, her bushy hair covering her face. She was hugging a cushion, her fingers curled around its edges, her breathing slow and even.
And Harry—
Harry was sleeping in a position that looked deeply uncomfortable. He was on his side, his arm twisted beneath him, his face pressed into the cushion. His glasses were still on, askew, digging into his cheek. There was a smear of chocolate on his chin.
The low table between the sofas was littered with food trays—half-eaten sandwiches, crumbs, three empty cups that had once held French hot chocolate. A plate of chips had been knocked over, the salty sticks scattered across the wood.
Sirius stood in the doorway, and the years fell away.
He was sixteen again. He was at the Potter's house, in the small sitting room that Euphemia had decorated with floral curtains and too many cushions. James was sprawled on the floor, his glasses askew, his mouth open. Remus was curled in the armchair, a book still open on his chest. Peter was on the sofa, his feet hanging over the arm.
They had stayed up too late. They had eaten too much. They had talked about Quidditch and pranks and the future, a future that none of them could have imagined.
Sirius's throat tightened.
He missed James. He missed his best friend. He would miss him forever.
He shook his head, pushing the memory aside, and stepped into the room.
Sirius moved quietly.
He raised his wand and flicked it toward the table. The food trays lifted into the air, stacked themselves neatly, and floated toward the door. The crumbs vanished. The spilled chips disappeared. The cups cleaned themselves and joined the stack. The table was bare, the wood gleaming in the firelight.
He flicked his wand again, this time toward the sofas. The cushions shifted, expanded, softened. He conjured three blankets—soft, warm, the color of deep blue—and let them drift down onto the sleeping teenagers.
Ron's head was still hanging off the sofa. Sirius crossed to him, gently lifted his head, and repositioned it on the cushion. Ron mumbled something in his sleep—something that sounded like "Mum, not the potatoes"—and settled deeper into the blankets.
Hermione had not moved. She was still curled in her tight ball, the cushion clutched to her chest. Sirius pulled the blanket up to her chin, tucking it around her shoulders. She sighed, a small, soft sound, and her fingers relaxed around the cushion.
And then Harry.
Sirius knelt beside him. The firelight caught the planes of his face, the curve of his cheek, the dark lashes that rested against his pale skin. He looked like a child. His child.
There was chocolate on his face.
Sirius smiled. He pulled out his wand—no, he did not need magic for this. He reached out, his thumb brushing against Harry's cheek, wiping away the smear of chocolate. His skin was warm, soft, the skin of a boy who had finally started eating enough.
He removed Harry's glasses—gently, carefully, the way he had learned to do over the past weeks. He folded them and set them on the low table.
He adjusted the blanket, pulling it higher, tucking the edges around Harry's shoulders. His hand lingered on Harry's head, his fingers threading through the dark, messy hair.
He began to move his hand in slow circles. Harry relaxed. His body, which had been tense even in sleep, softened. His breathing deepened. His face smoothed.
Sirius leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"Sirius," Harry mumbled. The word was soft, slurred, barely audible.
Sirius smiled. "Yes, Harry. I am here."
Harry made a sound—something between a hum and a purr, the sound of a cat being stroked. His lips moved again, forming words that Sirius could not quite catch. But he heard something that might have been love you.
Or maybe that was what Sirius assumed. Maybe that was what he wanted to hear.
He said it anyway. "I love you too, Harry. Very much."
He kissed Harry's forehead again. His hand stayed in Harry's hair for a long moment, the slow circles continuing, the rhythm soothing them both.
Then he pulled back. He stood.
He looked at the fire. The logs were low, nearly burned out. He waved his wand, and fresh logs appeared, settling onto the grate, catching the flames. The room grew warmer.
He dimmed the lights—not extinguishing them, just softening them, so the room was bathed in a gentle, golden glow.
He checked the windows. They were closed, the locks secure. He checked the door. It was open—he left it that way, in case any of them needed to find the bathroom in the night.
He looked back at the three teenagers. Ron, snoring softly. Hermione, curled in her ball. Harry, his face peaceful, his hand resting on the edge of the blanket.
Sirius smiled.
"Good night, brave children," he said softly.
He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
The master bedroom was dark when Sirius returned.
He closed the door softly behind him, the click of the latch barely audible in the quiet room. The fire had died completely, leaving only the faint glow of the embers and the silver moonlight filtering through the curtains.
Margaret was awake.
She was sitting up against the headboard, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, her blue eyes fixed on him. Her hands were folded in her lap. She was waiting.
Sirius smiled. He walked to the bed, pulled back the covers, and climbed in beside her.
"Why are you awake?" he asked.
Margaret's voice was urgent, low. "Where were you?"
Sirius settled against the pillows, his body sinking into the mattress. "Little star was having a bad dream. She called."
Margaret's expression shifted—the fear in her eyes replaced by concern. "Is she alright?"
Sirius opened his arms. Margaret came to him without hesitation, her body curving against his, her head finding its place on his chest. His arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close.
"Yes," he said. "Asleep. Peaceful now."
Margaret relaxed against him. Her hand rested on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. "And Harry? And his friends?"
Sirius's hand found her hair. His fingers threaded through the dark strands, playing with them, twisting them, letting them fall. It was a habit that had grown on him automatically—like his fingers could not stop obsessing over her hair.
Margaret never shooed him away. So why stop?
"They were having a midnight feast in the lounging room," Sirius said. "They fell asleep on the sofas."
Margaret smiled. "Kids are enjoying their summer."
Sirius nodded. His hand continued its slow, idle play in her hair.
Margaret's voice was soft, teasing. "You know, Sirius, it is quite creepy."
His fingers froze. "What?"
"How you can hear anyone calling you from anywhere in the house."
Sirius relaxed. His fingers resumed their motion. "Well, I am the Lord. What can I say? The house wants me to be aware when anyone needs me."
Margaret opened her mouth to reply—
A huge, furry, orange ball launched itself onto the bed.
Crookshanks landed directly between Sirius and Margaret, his paws sinking into Sirius's shirt, his weight jostling them both. He was enormous—all fur and attitude, his golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
Margaret screamed. Not a loud scream—a startled one, the kind that escaped before she could stop it. She sat up, her hand flying to her chest, her eyes wide.
Sirius laughed.
He reached out and scratched the half-kneazle behind his ears. "Bad boy," he said. "Do not do that. You scared My Darling."
Margaret's voice was sharp. "Move him out of my bed, Sirius."
Sirius pleaded the animal's case. "Let him stay. He is here for a week, only. I missed him."
Margaret's eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps you would like to sleep on the couch with him."
Sirius looked at her. His expression was half heartbroken for himself and half heartbroken for the animal. He scratched Crookshanks's chin.
"That is rude," he said.
Margaret was still sitting up, her arms crossed over her chest. "I do not want an animal on my bed when I am trying to sleep." She looked at the comfort with which Crookshanks was sitting on Sirius's chest—like he owned him. "I certainly do not want to share my husband."
Sirius smiled despite himself. He liked being claimed. He liked being her husband.
He looked at Crookshanks and made a soft, clicking sound—not words, exactly, but something the cat seemed to understand. A language Sirius had invented years ago, for Padfoot, for talking to animals who understood more than humans gave them credit for.
Crookshanks hissed at Margaret.
The sound was loud, sharp, clearly offended.
Sirius laughed. He moved the cat to the other side of the bed—still on the mattress, still within reach, but no longer between them.
"You have to compromise," Sirius said, opening his arms to Margaret. "He stays on the other side. But he is not leaving."
Margaret wanted to simply push the cat out of the bed. But that would be rude. That would be inhospitable. That would be killing a guest's pet.
She groaned loudly and went to Sirius's arms.
She settled against him, her body curving into his. His arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek—steady, strong, alive.
He turned, shifting his body until they were facing each other. His arm was still around her waist, pulling her close, eliminating the space between them.
"There," he said. "He is away. You cannot see him now. Happy?"
Margaret would have replied, but she was too flustered.
Her body was pressed against his. Her hands were flat on his chest. His hand was on the small of her back, warm and solid. Their faces were inches apart.
They had come much closer now. Closer than she had ever thought this marriage would come. But they still maintained their space—not rushing, not pushing, letting the relationship progress at its own slow, careful pace.
Margaret watched Sirius. His grey eyes reflected the lights from the street, soft and warm. His stubble had grown in the time since he had last shaved. His nose was perfect—she had always thought so, though she would never say it.
She moved her hand from his chest to his neck, her fingers resting against the pulse point. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm—faster now, matching her own.
Sirius was looking at her. Not just looking—drinking her in. He had memorized her face in the past weeks, and yet he found something new every time. The curve of her lips. The sweep of her lashes. The small mole on the left side of her nose.
Crookshanks purred loudly.
The moment broke. Both of them smiled.
"I can still hear him," Margaret said. "I know he is present."
Sirius cut her off.
He captured her lips with his.
His lips were warm, gentle, asking for permission rather than demanding it. Margaret's words died in her mouth. Her thoughts scattered. Her hands, which had been resting on his neck, tightened.
She responded.
Sirius moved his hand from her waist to her face, his fingers cupping her jaw, tilting her head, deepening the angle. Margaret moved her hand from his neck to his hair, her fingers threading through the dark curls, holding on.
Their tongues met. They knew how to kiss each other now—it was still new, still unfamiliar in some ways, but not unknown. Sirius knew her soft spots—the way she melted when he touched the small of her back, the way her breath hitched when he pulled her closer. Margaret knew how to move her tongue against his, how to match his rhythm, how to make him groan.
His hands were on either side of her face, his fingers tangled in her hair. She was still kissing him, her lips moving against his, her hands pulling him closer.
They broke apart only when the need for air became unbearable.
Sirius kissed her cheek. Soft. Lingering.
"Go to sleep, darling," he said.
Margaret was breathless. Her chest rose and fell. Her lips were parted, swollen, pink. She opened her eyes.
He was looking at her. Grey eyes, soft and warm and full of something she was still learning to name.
She smiled. A small smile, shy and real.
She leaned up and kissed him—a soft peck, brief and sweet.
"Good night, Sirius."
She turned in his arms, her body curving away from him, her back pressing against his chest. He spooned her, his body fitting against hers like he had been made to fill the spaces she left empty.
His head found the curve of her shoulder. He nuzzled into her neck, his breath warm against her skin. His arm was around her waist, holding her close.
Margaret closed her eyes.
The room was dark. The fire was dead. The moonlight had shifted, silvering a different corner of the carpet. Crookshanks was still at the edge of the bed, his purr a low, rumbling hum.
Margaret let sleep capture her.
And Sirius held her, and listened to her breathe, and stayed awake just a little longer, just to feel her in his arms.
-----
Harry woke with a shake.
It was not a familiar sensation—not the gentle hand on his shoulder that he had grown used to, Sirius's quiet voice murmuring "Harry, love, time to wake up." Or the warm wet tongue of Padfoot. This was rougher, more insistent, the kind of shake that meant someone had been trying for a while and was losing patience.
He opened his eyes.
Red hair. Freckles. A familiar, freckled face hovering inches from his own.
Oh. Ron and Hermione. They were here. Visiting.
Harry sat up so fast his head spun. He blinked, his vision blurry, and reached for the table beside the sofa. His fingers found his glasses. He put them on, and the world snapped into focus.
The lounging room was bright with morning light. The fire had died completely, leaving only gray ash in the grate. The food trays were gone, the table bare, the only evidence of their late-night feast the faint smell of chocolate that lingered in the air.
Ron was standing over him, his hands on his hips, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. His red hair was even more disheveled than usual—sticking up in the back, flattened on one side. His Chudley Cannons t-shirt was wrinkled, and his jeans were twisted from sleeping in them.
"You sleep like a pig," Ron said. "I tried to wake you up three times."
Harry rubbed his eyes. "Well, you do the same. I have to name breakfast dishes to get you out of bed."
Ron grinned. Harry grinned back. They laughed—the easy, familiar laugh of friends who had spent three years sharing a dormitory, who knew each other's sleeping habits and morning moods.
Harry looked around. Hermione's sofa was empty. The blanket was folded neatly, set on the cushion, the pillow fluffed. She had been awake for a while.
"Where is Hermione?" Harry asked.
Ron shrugged. "That is what I wanted to ask you."
"How would I know? I just woke up."
Ron gestured at the room, at the house beyond. "It is your house."
Harry blinked. Your house. The words still felt strange in his ears. He had been living here for two weeks, but he still expected someone to tap him on the shoulder and tell him there had been a mistake. That he was supposed to go back to the Dursleys, back to the cupboard, back to being unwanted.
He pushed the thought aside.
"Kreacher," he called.
The elf appeared with a soft crack. His bulbous eyes swept the room, taking in the two teenagers, the disheveled sofas, the morning light. His expression was sour—sourer than usual, if that was possible. He was clearly irritated with his friends.
"Where is Hermione?", Harry asked.
Harry could see it. The way Kreacher's lips pressed together. The way his hands clenched at his sides. The way his eyes lingered on Hermione's abandoned blanket.
He was dying to say something. Harry knew what. The word was right there, on the tip of Kreacher's tongue, waiting to be spat out like a curse.
But he would not dare. Sirius had made that clear. The house listened to Sirius now. The elves listened to Sirius. And Sirius had made it very clear that there would be no more slurs in this house.
Kreacher's voice was strained, each word dragged out of him against his will. "The girl guest is in the library."
He disappeared before Harry could thank him.
Ron stared at the empty space where Kreacher had been. "We could have guessed that," he said.
Harry smiled. "Come on."
They ran to the stairs.
The first floor was quiet.
The portraits were awake now, their painted eyes following the boys as they passed. Some muttered. Some watched in silence. One—a severe-looking witch with hair piled high—sniffed audibly and turned her back.
Harry ignored them. He had learned, over the past two weeks, that the portraits were all talk. They had no power. They could not touch him. They could not hurt him.
The library door was half open.
Harry pushed it open wider and stepped inside. Ron followed close behind.
The library was vast—rows and rows of shelves, stretching into shadows that seemed to shift and move. The morning light filtered through the tall windows, catching the dust motes that drifted lazily through the air. The smell was old, comforting—paper and leather and something else, something that might have been centuries of knowledge pressed into every page.
Hermione was lost.
She was standing in the middle of an aisle, surrounded by books on all sides. Her wand was in her hand—not raised, just held loosely at her side—and her eyes were moving across the spines, her lips moving silently. She was not reading. She was cataloging. Her mind was already sorting, organizing, picking out the ten different research projects she would start the moment she had time.
She was, as Ron would say, being Hermione.
Harry and Ron exchanged a look. The knowing look. The here we go again look.
They walked behind her silently, their footsteps soft on the old carpet. Hermione did not notice. She was too absorbed, too lost in the endless possibilities of the shelves.
She reached the end of the aisle. She turned.
And saw them.
Hermione screamed.
The sound was high, sharp, piercing. It echoed off the high ceiling, bounced off the shelves, filled the room with the force of her surprise. Her wand flew up—not in defense, just in instinct—and her other hand pressed against her chest, right over her heart.
Harry and Ron both had to cover their ears.
Then they laughed.
"You both scared me!" Hermione's voice was shrill, indignant. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide. "I almost—you could have—"
"Mione," Ron said, still grinning, "we have been following you for ten minutes."
"Ten minutes?"
"At least," Harry said.
"You have no survival skills," Ron added. "If a killer found you in a library, you would just stand there and let him murder you while you finished your chapter."
Harry laughed loud.
Hermione was not offended. She was too occupied with the books to pay them any real attention. Her eyes kept drifting back to the shelves, to the spines she had not yet examined, to the volumes she was already planning to read.
"This place is so good," she said. The words came out fast, too fast, tumbling over each other in her excitement. "There are books on so many topics. Some of them are centuries old. Can you believe it? Real ones. Preserved. Everything you could ever want to learn."
She gestured wildly at the shelves.
"I never want to leave this place. Oh, Harry. Thank you for having me. I cannot wait to start reading. I have already marked up the books I want to begin with."
She was talking and talking, giving them no chance to speak. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, her hands moving in excited arcs. She was clearly too excited to notice that neither of them was listening.
Ron interrupted her. "How did you even get here?"
Hermione stopped. She blinked, as if surfacing from deep water.
"Well, I woke up half an hour ago. You were both still asleep, so I went downstairs." She paused, and a faint blush crept into her cheeks. "I found Sirius. He showed me the library. He said I could read any of them, as I pleased. He said the library is open. Always."
Harry nodded. That sounded like Sirius.
"He was awake?" Ron asked. "At—what time was it?"
"I do not know. Early." Hermione's blush deepened. "He was in the kitchen. Making tea. He said he does not sleep much."
Harry's chest tightened. He knew that. He had found Sirius in the kitchen at odd hours, standing by the window, staring out at the dark garden. He never asked what Sirius was thinking about. He was not sure he wanted to know.
"Come on," Harry said. "I have to show you both something."
Hermione's face fell. "I am not coming. I want to read."
Ron grabbed her hand. "Come on, Mione. You are here for a week. You can read all you want. Harry says Sirius gave him a gift. He wants to show us."
Harry nodded. "Come, Hermione."
Hermione looked at the books longingly—a final, lingering glance—and then sighed. "Fine."
Ron pulled her forward. She followed, her hand still in his, a small blush still on her cheeks.
Harry led the way out of the library.
The back garden was beautiful.
The morning light caught the dew on the flowers, turning the petals into tiny, glittering jewels. The lavender was in full bloom, its scent sweet and calming. The roses were deep red, climbing the trellis that Sirius had built. The small blue flowers whose names Harry could never remember were scattered along the path like fallen stars.
Hermione stopped at the edge of the garden. Her eyes widened.
"Oh, Harry," she said. "That is so pretty. I did not know you had a liking for flowers."
Harry shook his head. "No. It is for Margaret. Not my gift."
Ron was impatient. "Harry, show us your gift."
Harry smiled. He ran.
His bare feet were wet with dew, the grass cool and soft beneath them. He ran across the lawn, past the flower beds, past the small tree with Aurora's swing, toward the edge of the property.
Ron and Hermione followed. Ron was shouting something—Harry could not hear what—and Hermione was laughing, her breath coming in short gasps.
Harry stopped at the edge of the Quidditch pitch.
The goal posts gleamed in the morning sun, their gold hoops catching the light. The grass was perfect, smooth and green, cut to the exact length of a professional pitch. The stands were small, enough for a family, their wooden seats still wet with dew.
Ron stopped beside him.
He stared.
His mouth fell open. His eyes went wide. His hands dropped to his sides.
"Harry," he said. His voice was barely a whisper. "A Quidditch pitch. Your godfather gave you a QUIDDITCH PITCH."
He shouted the last words. The sound echoed across the pitch, bounced off the goal posts, filled the morning air.
Harry laughed. He had known Ron would react like that. Ron was the only person who would mirror Harry's own excitement—the only one who understood what it meant to have a place to fly whenever you wanted, without waiting for practice, without sneaking out after dark.
Hermione smiled too. But clearly, nothing about a Quidditch pitch excited her. Her mind was still in the library, still cataloging the books she had left behind.
Ron started running. He ran across the grass, his arms spread wide, his face turned up to the sky. He looked like a small child who had just been given permission to stay up past his bedtime.
"This is bloody brilliant!" he shouted. "You must be having a hell of a summer!"
Harry jogged after him. Hermione followed at a walk, her arms crossed over her chest.
"Sirius also got me a Quidditch practice set," Harry said. "I play with the snitch every morning."
Ron stopped running. He turned. His eyes were so wide Harry thought they might pop out of his head.
"Merlin's balls, Harry." His voice was reverent. "You are living my fantasy. A Quidditch pitch. A practice set. A Firebolt. Bloody hell."
Harry's smile faltered.
He knew how much Ron wanted to play Quidditch. He knew how much Ron wanted a broom of his own, a chance to prove himself, a place on the team. Ron had been waiting for years—waiting for his parents to have enough money, waiting for his turn, waiting for someone to notice that he was good enough.
Harry was not showing off. He was not trying to make Ron feel bad. He just wanted to share. He wanted Ron to be part of it.
But it had taken Harry thirteen years to finally have something of his own. He still remembered the hand-me-downs. The chores. The cupboard. The abuses.
Ron had not noticed Harry's expression. He was still staring at the pitch.
"Blimey, mate," Ron said. "You should have shown this to us yesterday."
Harry pushed the guilt aside. "Yeah. I forgot."
"How can you forget to show something like this?" Ron's face matched his hair.
Harry shrugged. "I mean—I saw you guys after so long. We talked. I forgot. I was happy to see you both."
Hermione, who had been watching them both, spoke. "We get it, Harry. Do not worry."
Harry looked at her. She was smiling. She was happy for him—even if she did not care about Quidditch, even if her mind was still in the library. She understood.
Ron was already planning. "Can we play?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah, of course."
Ron's face fell. "I do not have a broom."
Harry knew that. He had known it before Ron said it. "I can ask Sirius if he has any broom here. I am sure he must have."
Ron's face lit up again. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Ron looked at the pitch, then at Harry, then at the pitch again.
"Come on," Harry said. "I will show you something else as well."
The pool was warm.
The air was thick with humidity, the smell of chlorine and something else—something clean, mineral, like the rain after a long drought. The water was pale blue, shimmering under the enchanted lights that lined the ceiling. The tiles were white, the edges smooth, the steps leading down into the water gentle and shallow.
Hermione squealed.
"A private pool," she said. "That is great, Harry. Can we swim?"
Ron looked at the water. His brow was furrowed. "Can you swim?"
Hermione's chin lifted. "Yes. Of course."
Ron's eyebrows rose. "Why am I not shocked? Is there anything you cannot do?"
Hermione's face went red. She opened her mouth—to argue, probably, or to list the many things she could not do, because Hermione was nothing if not precise—but Harry spoke first.
"Ron, can you swim?"
Ron's face fell. "No."
Harry had expected that. "Do not worry. Sirius is teaching me and Aurora in the late afternoons. We can all swim together. He will teach you too. He is good."
Ron's face brightened. "Your godfather is great, Harry. I would love to swim."
Harry smiled. He knew Sirius was great. Sirius was fun and cool. But much more than that, he was loving. He loved Harry. He cared for Harry. He fought for Harry like nobody ever had.
"Come on," Harry said. "We have to get dressed. It is time for breakfast."
Ron and Hermione looked at him. Their expressions were quizzical. Shocked.
Harry stopped. "What?"
Ron spoke first. "Since when do you care about dressing up and taking breakfast on time?"
Harry did not hesitate. "Margaret wants everyone at the table on time, properly dressed, for meals."
He did not wait for a reply. He turned around and started walking toward the house.
His bare feet were wet on the grass. He walked slowly, comfortably, unbothered by the two sets of eyes watching him from behind.
Ron and Hermione walked behind him.
Ron's voice was low, meant only for Hermione. "Is it weird that Harry is so okay with rules? He was never like that at school."
Hermione's voice was thoughtful. "It is a good thing. He follows rules."
"It is weird." Ron shook his head. "He seems different. He never walked so slowly at school."
Harry could not hear them. He did not turn around.
"Ron," Hermione said, "that is because he was always stressed at school. He anticipated danger. He is relaxed now. Look at him."
Ron looked.
Harry's shoulders were loose. His steps were unhurried. His bare feet left prints in the dew-covered grass. He looked like he belonged here—like this house, this garden, this life, was exactly where he was supposed to be.
"He is at home," Hermione said. "He follows rules because it is not forced on him. It is for structure."
Ron was quiet for a moment. "I never thought I would see Harry like this. He does everything with Sirius. The flying. The swimming. The meals." He paused. "Does Sirius not work?"
Hermione's voice was sharp. "Honestly, Ronald. Sirius is giving him time. That is good. Harry has wanted it for so long. Now he has it. We should be happy for him."
Ron was not convinced. He had seen the rule-breaker, the rebel, the boy who snuck out at night and fought trolls and faced basilisks. The homely Harry—the one who woke up on time and dressed for breakfast and walked slowly through the garden—did not fit the image in his head.
It was strange.
Harry called over his shoulder. "Are you two coming?"
Ron and Hermione looked at each other. They shrugged. They walked.
The three of them moved inside, the morning light warm on their backs, the house waiting for them with its open doors and its endless rooms.