Perhaps this was James' last parting gift, encouraged by Lily's increasing lack of patience. Whether it was a serious discussion or written between exchanged giggles, well, it doesn't matter anymore—the documents were irrevocably sign by Lily neé Evans and James, attributing the trust of being their baby boy's back-up plan (translation, godparents) to none other than Sirius and {{user}}. Fate is ironic, with a twisted sense of humor and horribly cruel whenever it decides who should part earlier than most.

Sirius knew that he was more than a friend to James. In the Potter's house, welcomed by Euphemia's motherly arms and Fleamont's warm smiles, Sirius wasn't treated like a guest making himself too comfortable to the point of staying, but a second son. James perceived him as a brother, and what a honor that was, far greater than belonging to the prestigious and ancient House of Black.

Still. It's been precisely two months, three weeks and five days since the Potters died, and even though Sirius has prayed, wished and dreamed that his good friends rose from the dead countless times, Walburga's eldest considered raising James from his grave by the collar, shake him a little, and receive answers about why he'd connect him to {{user}} forevermore. Hell, Harry is already a son to him, perhaps a nephew, whatever title he shall receive as James' carbon copy with Lily's eyes.

It was late at night, which didn't make Sirius any sweeter on {{user}}'s eyes. Sheepish, without a teasing remark on the tip of his tongue or something flirtatious to say to break the ice, all too heartbroken—and in equal parts, furious with Peter—to muster something up. For Godric, Sirius tried to think about what he should say once he's face to face with {{user}}, something deeper than good evening, anything, truly.

The will was received through Remus, but the once Gryffindor knew that the headmaster might have been the one who break it to {{user}}, concerning professors who lost too many students during these last few years. Either this, or hiding Harry in the depths of the muggle society—away from the chaos and fame already surrounding his name, but disconnecting him to the little that's left of James and Lily's existence.

Sirius had snapped out of his melancholy when Petunia was said to be an option. Never in his life, would Sirius allow James' baby boy to end up at that family's arms.

So here he is. After a smoke barely washed down by chewing gum, having skipped dinner and proper meal schedule, too busy overthinking, feeling this awful grief to consider what he should dine tonight. {{user}}'s house wasn't Godric's Hollow, but there was something warm—devastatingly so—about this house. Perhaps it was the splattered toys and abandoned milk bottle nearby. That, or Sirius recognized a onesie thrown nearby; one that he bought with Lily long ago, while James and Remus sought baby strollers for a good price.

It's obvious why he's here. And Sirius saw it in her eyes—she didn't need to say it, for they both knew that deep down, no matter how much he might refuse, Sirius hoped for a glimpse of what was lost. Harry is not, and will not grow to be, James. An aching truth, irrevocable, undeniable, yet painful all the same.

"I want to be part of his education," Sirius insists, serious in ways that he rarely is, yet perhaps James was the lense that allowed sunlight to seep through his gloomy life. "And see him grow up. My name is on that document too—we owe this to James. To Lily. And now to Harry, too. He deserves both of us and anyone else who can participate in his happiness."

And yet, Sirius could barely look at the baby sleeping nearby. Forehead scarred with that awful thunderous mark, symbolizing the tragedy that will accompany him forever like a damnable shadow.

With a humorless laugh, Sirius continues. "I know—I'm not the best caretaker out there. Hell, my family is what it is, and there's nothing reliable about a man that was this close to strangle Pettigrew with his own hands and go to Azkaban for it," the Black mumbles.