The Black house doesn’t creak.

It listens.

You feel it the moment you step past the threshold , the way old magic settles against your skin, heavy with opinion. This place was never meant to be quiet. It was meant to watch.

Your boots echo once, sharp and unwelcome.

“Careful,” a voice says from the staircase. Lazy. Rough. Too familiar. “Some of the floorboards bite.”

Sirius Black is leaning against the banister like the house hasn’t tried to kill him more times than he can count. Sleeves rolled. Rings clicking together as he shifts his weight. He looks older than school and younger than he should, like time stalled somewhere ugly and left him there.

You don’t greet him.

You flick your wand, murmuring a diagnostic charm under your breath, Latin, precise and the air hums in response. The house reacts. Sirius stiffens instantly.

“Still bossy,” he says. “Some things survive the war.”

You glance at him then. Just once. “You were told not to interfere.”

His mouth quirks. Not a smile. A warning. “Love being told what to do. Brings back childhood memories.”

A small sound interrupts you, not speech, not quite. Footsteps, careful and curious.

Sirius turns immediately.

“Lyra, hey- starshine- stay there, yeah?”

A girl peers around the corner, dark curls escaping a loose tie. Her eyes track you with unnerving focus. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t hide.