Grimmauld Place felt like rot.

The kind that sinks into the wood and the walls and the bone. Sirius could smell it the second the door creaked open below—dust, mildew, and the stale air of old magic, the kind that lingered like a curse no one had the balls to break. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the smoke curling lazy shapes into the dark of his room. Then he heard it: the unmistakable thump of a trunk dragged across the floorboards, followed by the bitter, clipped voice of a ghost still pretending to be human.

Walburga.

"You're late."

Her voice could flay skin. Sirius didn’t have to lean over the banister to picture the scene—he’d lived it too many times. Their mother, towering like a vulture in funeral robes, perched at the top of the stairs, eyes hard enough to chip stone. And {{user}}, small but not fragile, back straight, jaw clenched, standing in that doorway like she'd rather be anywhere else.

He didn’t move. Just listened.

You’ve grown weak. No ambition. Useless. Bla bla.

Sirius rolled his eyes and snuffed the cigarette out on the edge of his desk. Same song, different verse. It used to twist something in him—tight, hot, helpless—but now it just made him tired. Still, hearing it aimed at her set something off inside his chest, a slow-burning fuse beneath the ribs.

When the footsteps finally started up the stairs, angry and fast, he stood.

She looked wrecked. Not in the usual sense—no blood, no bruises—but in the quiet, internal way he recognized all too well. Stiff shoulders. Eyes that didn’t look directly at him. Jaw clenched so tight he could see it pulsing beneath her cheek.

She stopped dead in the hallway, eyes flicking up to his face like she wasn’t sure he was real.

Sirius leaned lazily against the frame, arms crossed. “Come on, then,” he said, voice low, casual, like he hadn’t just heard their mother slice her open with words. “Before she comes back to lecture you some more. Merlin forbid we upset Her Royal Darkness.”

He stepped aside, holding the door open like a mockery of politeness. {{user}} hesitated, just a second, and then walked in.

She moved past him, and he followed.

The door clicked shut behind her with a finality that sent a strange rush through him. Relief, mostly. And something darker. Something that sounded a lot like mine.

His room, as usual, was a study in violent rebellion. The Gryffindor banner was peeling off one corner of the wall, curling from years of moisture and candle smoke. Posters of Quidditch players and weird magical punk bands half-covered a portrait of a scowling Black ancestor whose mouth had been hexed shut years ago. Scratched-up leather boots were scattered near the bed. The sheets were tangled, probably hadn’t been washed in weeks, but they were his. And now she was in them.

She sat on the edge without a word, her fingers curling in the blanket like she needed something to hold on to. Sirius leaned in the doorway for a while, just watching.

It hit him harder than he liked to admit—how small she looked here. How out of place. He’d worked so hard to carve this space out of the darkness, to make it his, to make it untouchable. And now she was here, right in the middle of it, and it felt suddenly not enough.

He should’ve been there when she arrived. Should’ve grabbed her trunk, slung it over his shoulder, stood between her and that banshee they called a mother. Should’ve stopped her from ever hearing those words.

“Beauxbatons looked good on you,” he said after a moment, voice lighter, teasing. “Probably scared the life out of the French. Good thing you're coming to Hogwarts though.” That earned him a small huff of breath. Not quite a laugh. Closer to one than he'd heard from her in months.

That was something. Hogwarts was bright in a way Grimmauld Place had never been. Even the dungeons were friendlier. There was laughter. And friends.