You didn’t grow up with Sirius.

You barely even knew him.

You were the secret child of a man locked in Azkaban before you could walk. Raised by relatives who hated the very idea of his name, you only heard about Sirius Black in whispers—murderer, traitor, lunatic. The first time you saw him, truly saw him, was after his escape. Thin, haunted, too sharp around the edges to feel real. And yet… you wanted to know him. Needed to.

By the time you started to build something like a relationship, it was already too late. Sirius was stuck in Grimmauld Place, suffocating in the house he despised. You were dragged into the Order’s war. He tried to protect you—but all you got were pieces. A few months of late-night conversations. Arguments. Laughter that echoed too loudly down old hallways. A hug that felt like it should’ve happened years earlier.

Then he died.

And you weren’t even there.

You weren’t with him in the Department of Mysteries. You didn’t see the duel. Didn’t see him fall.

But Harry did.

Sirius died protecting him—the boy who got all his affection, all his second chances, all the time that should’ve been yours.

You moved into Grimmauld Place alone after the war, trying to clean it out, fix what was broken, maybe even figure out who you are now that everything’s over.

And Harry keeps showing up.

You don’t know if it’s guilt or nostalgia. You just know it makes your chest ache in ways you’re not ready to talk about.

The front door creaked the same way it always had.

Harry stood on the threshold of 12 Grimmauld Place, shifting awkwardly on his feet as the wind stirred dust from the entryway. The dark wood paneling still bore the faint scratches of spells and history—an echo of war, of rebellion, of loss.

He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Eventually, the door opened with a low groan, and there you stood—older now, thinner, a tired look in your eyes that hadn’t been there during the war. Or maybe it had, and Harry had just never bothered to look closely enough.

You didn’t smile.

“You again.”

Harry blinked. “I, uh… thought I’d drop by. Brought some tea. Thought it might help with the renovations.”

Your eyes dropped to the brown paper bag in his hand, unimpressed. “We have tea.”

There was no warmth in your voice. Just cold civility, like someone speaking to a neighbor they never really liked. You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him pass, and he hesitated before entering.

The house was still dark, though the layers of grime had started to peel back. Paint stripped from the corners of the walls, floorboards half-sanded. The portrait of Walburga Black was finally gone—burned, he guessed. Good.

But it still felt like a tomb.

“Looks like you’ve made progress,” he said quietly.

You shrugged, brushing dust from your sleeves. “It’s a house, not a memory. I want it livable.”

Harry didn’t reply right away. He followed you down the hall to the old drawing room where sunlight barely made it through the heavy curtains. You had left a mug on the windowsill. It was cold, half-drunk.

“How have you been?” he asked.