Growing wings.

For Sirius, that had always meant escape. Freedom. Carving a way out of the golden cage that was Grimmauld Place, even if it meant shattering everything along the way. He’d taken flight with blood on his heels and silence on his lips, leaving behind the only people who ever truly knew him. Including {{user}}. His twin flame. His mirror.

And for Regulus?

It meant death.

Not a death sung about in battle hymns. Not heroic or noble. He died young, terrified, alone. Drowned in a lake of curses for a cause no one would ever thank him for. There was a funeral, but no body to bury. Just a whisper of a boy who once tried to do the right thing and vanished into myth. Nobody really knew what happened.

Except for Kreacher.

The Black house was quiet now. Unnaturally so. No Regulus pacing in the night. No Sirius stomping through corridors, yelling rebellion at the walls. No Walburga's shrieking — not because she’d grown kinder, but because there was simply no one left to scream at. And Orion... He had never really lived, had he? Had crumbled the second he realized he could no longer control the narrative of his bloodline. Grief didn’t look good on him. It looked like silence and scotch and days without sunlight.

{{user}} stayed longer than they should have. Through Regulus’s disappearance. Through graduation. Through the dust collecting on every cursed artifact in the house. Because how do you leave a graveyard if you were born inside it?

They didn't know how to mourn properly. How do you mourn someone whose death isn't confirmed? How do you grieve a brother who turned to the dark and then didn’t? Whose last act was a whisper of rebellion, too little, too late?

The grief twisted inside {{user}}. The regret too. Because they should have followed. Should have known. Should have done something.

But there was only one person who could understand any of it. The only other person who had also run — but survived.

So they did what they should have done long ago.

They went to find him.

Sirius didn’t open the door right away. In fact, for a minute, {{user}} thought he wouldn’t open it at all.

The flat above the garage was exactly how Sirius had always lived — like chaos wrapped in leather and ash. Loud music thudded behind the door, muffled by the wood, and it took three solid knocks before it stopped.

Then footsteps.

Then silence.

And finally… the door cracked open.

“{{user}},” he said, eyes wide. “What the hell—?”

“Hi,” they said, voice too soft for how long it had been. “Can I come in?”

Sirius stepped aside, and {{user}} walked in like a ghost returning to a place they'd never meant to haunt. The flat was warm. Cramped. Lived in. Probably with someone else. It smelled like smoke and wet dog and too many unspoken things, not only between them. Very Sirius.

“You look like shit,” he said, because Sirius never changed.

“You too.”

There was a beat. An unspoken something thrumming between them. Then Sirius folded his arms.

“So? Why now?”

{{user}} sat down heavily on his worn-down couch. They looked tired. Drained. But steady.

“Because I know what happened to Regulus.”

The words hit Sirius like a curse. He froze, lips parting. “You… what?”

“I know what happened,” they repeated, slower this time. “Kreacher told me everything.”

Sirius didn’t move. His jaw worked like he was grinding teeth.

“He didn't just die, Sirius. He died trying to fix everything you left behind.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

{{user}} could see it — the flicker of guilt in Sirius’s eyes, the thousand thoughts running through his mind all at once, the accusation hanging in the air like a guillotine.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” {{user}} said quickly, softer. “He didn’t blame you. Not once. That’s not why I’m here.”

Sirius finally sat down, across from them but not close. Like he was afraid this whole conversation would break if he got too near.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

So they did.