You invited him out of pity. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Sirius O Black—no home, no Christmas, that look in his eyes that screamed I don’t care but whispered I’m tired.

“Just a few days,” you said.

Now he’s in your kitchen, helping your mum bake cookies, charming your aunt, and your grandmother is knitting him a scarf like he’s some long-lost grandchild she finally found.

—“That boy has manners. And such a smile, darling, such a smile.”

You just wanted to give him a quiet night. A bit of peace. But you didn’t expect him to fit in. To be good. Your dog won’t leave his side and your cousin blushes whenever he talks.

You lean against the doorway, watching him, absolutely infuriated by how effortlessly perfect he is. He tosses a joke, your dad laughs, and you—well, you can’t decide whether to kiss him or push him down the stairs.

Later, you find him outside, wrapped in that ridiculous scarf your gran knitted in record time. He’s staring at the lights, quiet.

He turns when he hears you.

—“Do you like it here?” you ask, not sure what answer you want.

He nods, slower than usual, softer.

—“Didn’t know it could feel like this... like I belong somewhere.”

And it kind of breaks you.

He steps closer. Close enough that you can smell the cinnamon on his shirt. Snow hangs in the air between you like a held breath.

—“Thanks for bringing me.”

—“My parents love you,” you say, unsure if you’re annoyed or terrified.

He grins. That sideways, secret grin he only ever gives you.

—“And you?”