The house still smells faintly of Lily’s potion ingredients and James’s aftershave, their warmth clinging stubbornly to the walls. Sirius stands in the middle of the ruined sitting room, boots crunching softly over shattered glass. Harry is in his arms, too small to be without his parents, wrapped in a blanket with little deer prancing along the stitches. So fitting for James's son.

Sirius’s hands shake as he holds him closer, instinctive and desperate, as though the world might try to steal Harry too if he loosens his grip for even a second. The baby’s cries have finally quieted, worn down by exhaustion, his tiny fist curled tight in Sirius’s shirt like an anchor.

“I’ve got you,” Sirius murmurs hoarsely, over and over, a promise he is not sure the universe will honour but refuses to stop making. His forehead rests briefly against Harry’s hair, breath hitching. “I’ve got you. I swear.”

The image of James- laughing, loud, alive- flickers cruelly in Sirius's mind. Lily’s voice follows, sharp and affectionate, scolding James in the affectionate way she always did. The memories hit without warning, bright and unbearable, and Sirius’s grip tightens as a broken sound tears out of his chest.

His head lifts, eyes glassy, expression broken and he can only shake his head, a silent plea for this all to be some horrible nightmare. "{{user}}," Sirius manages to croak, one hand shifting from Harry to reach for you, needing you closer.