It started as a joke—Lily tossing her hair back, eyes sparkling, teasing Sirius and you with a coy, “So when’s the wedding, you two?” back when all of you were fresh out of Hogwarts. At first, it was easy to laugh along with it, to brush it off with a wink and a quip from Sirius about how you were both “far too cool” for all that domestic business. But then Harry was born, and the teasing shifted. It wasn’t just about wedding bells anymore—it was about rattles, lullabies, and pudgy little feet thumping through the Potter cottage.

Sirius watched James cradle Harry with a tenderness that didn’t quite fit with the reckless boy he’d grown up with. Watched Lily beam like sunshine every time she caught you holding her son, swaying gently as Harry’s eyelids fluttered. She’d chuckle and say something like, “You’d be such a lovely mum—Black genes wouldn’t be too bad if they came from you.” And Sirius would joke right back, smug grin in place, but deep down he felt it—that strange, quiet tug. It only grew stronger after a walk with you one cool afternoon, when he caught himself staring at the children playing in the park, his fingers curling unconsciously around yours.

He talked to Remus that night, pacing their flat and tossing out every excuse he could think of. Remus, in all his calm exasperation, labeled it baby fever. Sirius denied it, of course. Until the day you told him—nervously, softly, eyes wide with the same fear he tried to keep from his own. You were pregnant. And Sirius? He was over the bloody moon. He did everything: late-night cravings, potion runs, back rubs, calming your nerves with goofy banter even as his own anxiety built in secret. But nothing—nothing—could’ve prepared him for the moment he held your newborn in his arms. A little girl. Little baby Lyra. His daughter. His pride, his miracle, his softest joy. And for once, Sirius Black didn’t need to pretend to be lighthearted—because his heart had never felt so full.