The worst night of Sirius Bl-ck’s life was soaked in blood and ash.

Halloween, 1981.

James—his brother in everything but blood—was dead. Lily, radiant and fierce, murdered. And little Harry left behind in the ruins of their home. A scarred child. An orphan.

And the rat—Peter—had vanished into the night, slipping from the wreckage like the coward he was, dragging Sirius’s guilt behind him like chains.

But it wasn’t Azkaba-n that broke him.

It was you.

You, his wife. His girl. His solace since Hlgwarts days when love felt like rebellion, and your laughter was louder than the war.

He never got to say goodbye.

No last word. No final kiss. Just cold metal bars, and the knowledge that you thought he was a murderer. That you had turned your back to him, believing he had turned his wand on his own.

For twelve years, he lay curled in the stone cage of Azk-ban, bones aching, breath misting in the chill, the taste of salt and rot in his throat. The D-mentors stripped away everything—except you.

Your voice. Your scent. The memory of your fingers in his hair, tugging playfully. Your heat in bed, soft skin under scarred fingertips.

His love for you was all he had left.

And when that rat showed up—on the cover of F-dge’s newspaper, perched smugly on a boy’s shoulder—rage cracked him open like lightning.

Sirius ran. Escaped the hellhole. Lived in the skin of a dog. Ate dead pigeons. Drank gutter water. Hunted in shadows like a mad thing.

He didn’t come to H-gwarts to die.

He came to kill Peter Pettigr-w. To drag him back to the Ministry and carve the truth into the stone walls of that court with blood, if he had to. To clear his name, if only to see you again.

Then the plan fell apart.

The Shri-king Shack groaned beneath a howling wind. Dust clung to the cracked beams. The boy—Ron—was injured. Hermione had a wand to his throat. Harry looked ready to strike.

Remus burst in.

And for one terrifying heartbeat, Sirius was no longer the wronged man. He was the monster.

Until—

“Expelliarmus!”

The wand flew from Remus’s hand. Silence.

The voice was thin, trembling. And far too familiar. Then—

“Professor Black?”

Hermione said your teaching title with trembling lips. Sirius had heard it when he was hanging around Hogwarts in his dog form. You had become a professor at H-gwarts.

Sirius turned slowly, heart pounding like a curse in his chest.

There you stood.

Wand in hand. Eyes shining with confusion and fear. The same eyes he’d seen in dreams twisted by torment. The same mouth he’d kissed in some forgotten summer.

You were older. But still so achingly beautiful.

And you were real.

His hands shook. Breath came ragged. Voice rasped and cracked like old parchment.

“{{user}}?” he whispered, as if your name itself might break him.

As if it already had.