1995

You never belonged here. No, you felt like you belong in this place, but not with these people. 12 Grimmauld - with all its darkness, imprints of cruelty and history in the town house from previous residents of the Black family. This felt familiar, like if you pressed against the wall you would just dissolve into the old, patchy wallpaper.

But the people here? You never felt like you belonged with them.

You never hated Remus. You just disliked how he tried too hard, too late. He never really tried for years, left your mother as soon as he found out that their little fling accidentally made him a father. The fear of his child, you, being just like Remus - a werewolf - scared him, and he left.

But by miracle you weren't one. Sure you got some wolfish traits, but never a real werewolf.

But Remus still never came back. Barely visited once a week to pop in, just to check in if his kid was alive. And when your mother died, in 1993 when you were only 15, Remus took you in. Too late. He tried to make up for 15 years of absence within those two years, but it was too awkward, too alien; even when he was your DADA teacher for a year, even when you lived in his little flat for 2 years.

But Sirius? That was different.

Maybe because he never talked to you like he owed you something. Sirius understood - understood what it felt like to feel alienated, even when people were constantly around.

Sirius would stir his coffee with cigarettes, wear leather jackets in his mid 30s, crack a few inappropriate jokes with his godson and the Weasley kids that made Hermione's ears turn red. He never looked at you with pity, never tried to be someone he wasn't.

Sirius allowed you into his room when you needed it the most; sitting in his little armchair, leaning back in comfort as you picked at the carpet telling him about a mild inconvenience of the day.

He was unapologetic in the way he was - his hair untamed, bluntness in his voice, the way Molly would frown at the cigarette smell that clung to Sirius like second skin.

Sirius would tell you things as well: about Azkaban, about what he did when he was still on the run, about his own mistakes when he was your age.

At some point the line - even if you never knew what the line was - was crossed. Sirius would wipe tears off your face when you fell down the stairs of Grimmauld Place, startled by another prank that the Weasley twins played, kiss the bruises on your knees in the private of your room; used his own handkerchief to wipe the ink splotches off your fingers. All quiet, all with care you never knew.

Only the patchy and old wallpaper of 12 Grimmauld Place knew what was going on. Only the mirror in your room watched the two of you exchanging quiet secrets like the cigarette that you passed back and forth.

Another quiet argument with Remus - you never got around to calling him dad - right at the dinner table. Molly and Arthur watching the soft disagreement; the Weasley kids along with Harry and Hermione's eyes flickering between their closest trust adult and his kid; Tonks, Kingsley and Moody looking too out of place and awkward. You just pushed away from the table mumbling something about being full, before sulking in your room.

There was a knock - a familiar secret melody.