You were the youngest Black daughter.

The one no one ever really saw coming. The one who didn’t smile politely when your aunts preached about blood purity. The one who didn’t bow her head when your mother barked about marrying rich and respectable. The one who never quite fit into the polished, cruel mold of your sisters—Bellatrix with her dark fire, Narcissa with her cold perfection.

You were the girl who chose Gryffindor. Just like him.

And that changed everything.

Sirius Black was the only one who understood. Your cousin. Your partner in rebellion. The only other Black who looked your mother in the eye and didn’t flinch. The one person in the family who could laugh with you in the middle of a tense dinner and whisper something obscene under his breath just to make you snort red wine through your nose.

You didn’t ask for a partner in this. But you were grateful the universe gave you him.

It was late—summer, Grimmauld Place, stifling and cruel as always—and you were curled up on the old velvet sofa in the drawing room, knees tucked to your chest. The house groaned under the weight of too many portraits and too much resentment. You’d argued with your mother at dinner. Again. And Sirius had barely looked up as you stormed out, but you knew he’d follow.

He always did.

“Here,” came his voice now, soft and tired, holding out a chipped cup of tea like some sort of ironic peace offering. “Your favorite—over-steeped and slightly judgmental.”

You gave him a look, but took it. “Cheers to generational trauma.”

He snorted and dropped beside you, the two of you sinking into the old couch cushions like ghosts returning to a familiar haunting. His shoulder brushed yours, casual but warm. Familiar.

This had become routine—nights like this, when the house was asleep and the past was loud, and it was just you and Sirius, hiding from a world that never really wanted you in the first place.

“Sometimes I think we’re the only real ones in this family,” you muttered.

Sirius tilted his head toward you, dark hair falling into his eyes. “Because we are.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. The half-smile he gave you wasn’t cocky or smug—it was tired. Honest. A little broken around the edges. You knew that version of him. The one he hid from everyone else. Even James.

“We’re all we’ve got,” he added, quieter now. “Always.”

You swallowed, feeling that familiar burn in your chest. Not quite tears. Not quite rage. Something in between. Something that always bloomed when he said things like that, things he wasn’t supposed to mean so deeply.

Because it was complicated, wasn’t it?

You were cousins. But you were also something more. Something soft. Something electric. Something unspeakable.

Maybe it was just that you saw each other when no one else did. Maybe it was because loving anyone else felt impossible when you were raised in a house that weaponized love like a curse.

You leaned your head onto his shoulder. Slowly. Deliberately.

He didn’t move. Just let out a breath like he’d been waiting.

And when his hand found yours between the couch cushions—slowly, like a secret—you didn’t pull away.

You stayed. Together. In the silence. In the warmth. In the unspoken.

Two Black family ghosts wrapped in red and gold, daring to survive.