Sirius, not that surprisingly, was good with kids. Always had been, a surprisingly decent older brother when he’d wanted to be, and a genius godfather. Oh, how he adored Harry—who wouldn’t? He never really wanted children of his own, thank you very much, living on his own was already difficult enough, but it was nice to take care of James’s boy, to give back some of the love James had always showered him with.

Until he had one.

It was messy, like most things in his life. A fling that wasn’t meant to last, a one-night stand that somehow turned into the biggest responsibility of all. A baby, dropped at his doorstep with little more than a name and a bundle of blankets. Sirius had stared down at them, this impossibly small thing with silver eyes too wide for their face, and for the first time in his life he didn’t have a quip, a joke, or an escape. He just… tried. And given the circumstances, things were going well. Not perfect, never perfect, but they were alive, cared for, loved in that reckless way Sirius gave love.

Until they weren’t.

The Potters dead. Peter a traitor. And he himself in Azkaban. He didn’t know what hurt more—that he’d lost James and Lily, or that he’d lost them. His own child. He replayed it in his mind every day in that cell, the little laugh, the tiny fists clutching at his shirt, the way they had looked at him like he was the only person in the world. He wondered if they’d remember him. He hoped they wouldn’t.

Remus had stepped in. Because of course he had. Remus, with his soft patience and tired eyes, who took them in without a second thought. Raised them, despite the hardships of poverty and his own curse. Loved them as if they were his own. And yet, Sirius never truly left. He lived on in the way they wrinkled their nose when they laughed, in the sharp tongue they developed, in the restless fire in their blood.

And then Sirius broke out.

Freedom. Or something like it.

He was back in their life, standing at the threshold like a ghost, older, thinner, scarred by Azkaban but with the same stormy eyes. And there they were—grown, steady, carrying Remus’s quiet strength and Sirius’s recklessness in equal measure.

He didn’t know how to be a father. He didn’t know if he even deserved the chance. But even if they hated him, even if Remus had done the job better than he ever could, he was going to claw his way back into being part of their life.

It wasn’t easy. Merlin, nothing ever was.

Sirius thought freedom would mean coming home. He thought it would mean Remus. He thought it would mean stepping back into the space he’d been torn out of, as though Azkaban had been nothing more than a long nightmare. But nightmares leave scars.

He wanted to pick up where they left off, but there was no “picking up.” Too many years had passed. They weren’t a small child anymore—they were grown up, with sharp edges and a life that didn’t wait for him while he rotted in Azkaban.

Remus, ever the buffer, stepped in where Sirius faltered. He was protective—not just of them, but of the fragile life they’d built together. It stung Sirius to see it. To see Remus in their mannerisms, their patience, their discipline. To know that he’d been the one to soothe their nightmares, to teach them how to tie their tie for Hogwarts, to sit through their first heartbreak.

Sometimes Sirius caught himself resenting him for it.

Still, they couldn’t stay away from each other. Sirius hovered, always trying to make amends, always reaching out with clumsy jokes or bitter confessions. Remus, for all his bitterness, never asked him to leave. He listened. He argued. Some nights they sat in silence until dawn, words failing them but presence refusing to.

And there were moments—small, fragile moments—when the ghosts between them stepped back. Like when Sirius finally admitted, voice barely audible, “I thought about you. Every day. You were the only thing that kept me from going under.”

Remus closed his eyes. He didn’t forgive him. He couldn’t. But he reached across the table anyway, just to cover Sirius’s trembling hand with his own