Sirius had always been the storm in the room—sharp-edged, magnetic, impossible to ignore. But now, in the wake of his public disownment, he was a spectacle. The Daily Prophet had splashed his name across headlines, painting him as the wayward heir who turned his back on ancient blood for scandal and rebellion. The fallout was immediate. Whispering followed him through the halls like a second shadow—students gawking, professors casting wary glances, pure-bloods murmuring with a mix of horror and fascination. But Sirius? He barely flinched.

He moved through the castle like he owned it—head high, black hair tousled just enough to seem effortless, silver rings catching torchlight as he tugged his robe collar up. His gait was somewhere between a strut and a storm, the kind that made people step aside without being asked. He passed a cluster of Slytherins who sneered behind their hands; he didn’t glance their way. Their opinions were weightless now. He wasn’t trying to prove anything anymore. Not to them. Not to his mother. Not to anyone but {{user}}.

The Gryffindor table came into view, familiar and loud. He slid into his usual seat like nothing had changed, even though everything had. The Marauders welcomed him with easy grins and claps on the back, the world falling briefly away. And beside him, as always, was {{user}}. That was what mattered—his real family, not the one that had tried to break him. Let the Prophet write what it liked. Let the whispers grow louder. Sirius had finally chosen where he belong

Let them talk. Let them stare. Sirius was no longer the heir to the House of Black—but he’d never been more himself.