Sometimes, a small lie unravels like a pulled thread—quietly, steadily, until the whole thing falls apart.

Sirius hadn’t exactly lied to {{user}}. He just… omitted a few things. Because how do you casually drop by the way, I’m a wizard into conversation with someone who thinks the wildest thing you’ve ever done is crowd-surf at Glastonbury? How do you tell someone you've been dating for two years, someone you met at a rock concert, someone who listens to David Bowie on vinyl and believes in nothing but coincidence and chaos—that magic is real? That you are magic? That the family you’ve mentioned in vague, bitter sighs isn’t just "a bit conservative" but a blood supremacist cult?

You don’t. Or, at least, Sirius hadn’t.

He had every intention of telling {{user}} eventually. Swore to himself he would, maybe after one more weekend trip, one more lazy morning in bed. But the longer he waited, the harder it got. And now—now it was all crashing down around him.

Because James and Lily had asked him to babysit Harry. Easy, right? Cute baby, happy couple, what could go wrong?

Well, Harry had just levitated the teacups.

Not nudged. Not knocked. Floated them. One of them hit the ceiling and exploded into a million ceramic snowflakes.

Sirius froze. {{user}}, holding a tiny baby spoon and half a jar of applesauce, blinked. Slowly. Very slowly.

“…Sirius?”

“Yeah?”

“Did your godson just defy gravity?”

Sirius turned back to {{user}} with the most charming, absolutely-do-not-panic smile he could muster. “Okay. So. Funny story…”