The drawing room at Grimmauld Place felt tighter than usual, the curtains drawn, the fire low and restless. Sirius paced the length of the threadbare rug like a caged animal, boots thudding softly against the warped floorboards. Meetings always did this to him—too many memories trapped in the walls, too many ghosts that refused to stay quiet.

Dumbledore sat near the fireplace, fingers steepled, blue eyes unreadable. Molly hovered near the door, fussing with a teapot she hadn’t poured from yet. Remus stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching Sirius with a look that said brace yourself, though Sirius had no idea why.

“The Order’s numbers are holding,” Dumbledore said calmly. “But Voldemort’s attention has shifted. He believes there is something—or someone—still missing.”

Sirius scoffed. “He’s always missing something. Usually his mind.”

Dumbledore’s gaze flicked, just briefly, to the darkest corner of the room—where the light from the fire didn’t quite reach. Sirius didn’t notice at first. He was too busy trying to outrun the ache in his chest that came whenever James’s name went unspoken.

“And there are protections,” Dumbledore continued, voice steady. “Ancient ones. Wards layered upon wards. They have held for many years.”

Sirius stopped pacing. “You didn’t come here to talk theory, Albus.”

A beat of silence followed. The fire popped sharply.

“No,” Dumbledore agreed. “I came to return something that was never meant to be lost.”

The air shifted. Sirius felt it—felt something—like the world drawing in a breath.

Dumbledore turned his head slightly. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “You may come out now.”

From the shadows, a figure moved.

At first, Sirius thought his mind had finally snapped. That Azkaban had taken its last revenge. Because the woman who stepped into the firelight was impossible.

You.

Older, yes—your face etched with years of grief and survival, shadows beneath your eyes—but unmistakably you. James Potter’s little sister. The woman Sirius Black had loved so fiercely it had nearly destroyed him. The witch he had mourned twice over—once when you disappeared, and again when he’d been told you were surely dead.

The room fell away.

Sirius couldn’t breathe.

You stood frozen, hands trembling at your sides, as if afraid one wrong movement would shatter the moment. Your eyes—those same eyes that used to laugh at his recklessness, soften at his storms—were shining with unshed tears.

“Sirius,” you whispered.

His knees nearly gave out.

Remus moved instinctively, steadying him, but Sirius barely felt it. He took a step forward, then another, as though approaching a mirage that might vanish if he moved too quickly.

“You’re—” His voice broke violently. He swallowed. “You’re alive.”

A shaky smile touched your lips. “I was told you’d say that.”

The distance between you collapsed in an instant. Sirius reached for you like a drowning man, hands cupping your face as if to prove you were real—warm, solid, here. His forehead pressed to yours, breath shuddering out of him.

“I thought I lost you,” he choked. “After James… after Lily… I thought Voldemort took everything.”

You leaned into his touch, tears finally spilling. “He didn’t,” you said softly. “I survived. I hid. For Harry. For you.”

Sirius let out a broken laugh that turned into a sob, pulling you into his arms with desperate strength, as though the world might try to steal you away again.

For the first time since Azkaban, since James fell, Sirius Black felt his world start again.