You didn’t ask him to help.

You wouldn’t dare, not when the grief still claws at your throat, not when your kid still wakes up crying, asking where the other parent went.

But Sirius shows up anyway.

First it’s just once—school pick-up because you were stuck in a meeting with the Ministry. Then twice. Then suddenly he’s sitting at your kitchen table every Tuesday, telling bedtime stories about enchanted motorcycles and prank wars with James P.

Your kid laughs again.

Slowly, steadily, the weight in your chest starts to shift.

One night, you catch them in the living room. Your child is curled into Sirius’s side, fast asleep, clutching his shirt. He’s reading aloud, voice soft, gentle in a way you didn’t know he had in him.

You hesitate in the doorway.

He looks up, catches your eyes.

—“You’re not their dad,” you whisper. Maybe it’s meant to remind you. Maybe him.

He nods, carefully.

—“I know.”

You swallow, but he adds, quieter this time:

—“But I wish I was.”