The first time you step into Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, it smells like dust, ancient grief, and something darker buried beneath both. The walls feel like they’re watching you. Or maybe that’s just the haunted portrait screeching curses from the hall. You hear Remus mutter under his breath—something about patience, about how you shouldn’t be here.

You ignore him.

You’re here because you should be.

Because you can help.

Because no one else seems to be doing enough.

And then you hear it—the laugh. Rich, low, almost feral. It slides down the staircase like spilled ink, curling in the corners of the hall before its source even steps into view.

Sirius Black.

He doesn’t say your name, not at first. He just watches you from the shadows of the stairwell, one hand trailing the banister, the other loosely holding a cigarette he isn’t allowed to smoke indoors—but no one’s going to stop him. His hair is long, unkempt, like it forgot what a comb is. His eyes are too sharp for someone half-drunk on nostalgia and half-collapsing under trauma.

And then he speaks.

❝So the baby Lupin’s finally been let out of the nursery.❞

The words are smooth, slick with sarcasm, but his voice is hoarse—like he hasn’t spoken in days. Or like he has, but only to ghosts.

He grins. It’s not a nice grin.

❝Tell me, did Remus finally break down and say, ‘You know what this war needs? Another grumpy bookworm with better hair than mine’?❞

You open your mouth to respond—witty, sharp, maybe even venomous—but he’s already crossing the hall. Boots echoing, wand carelessly tucked behind his belt, coat hanging off his shoulders like a cape he forgot to take off from childhood. He stops inches from you, looking you up and down with the lazy arrogance of someone who’s always on edge but too proud to show it.

❝Nah, you don’t look like Remus. You’ve got fire in your face. Dangerous stuff.❞

His eyes drop to the wand in your hand, the clenched fist at your side, the slight tremble in your jaw you’re trying to hide. He tilts his head.

❝Tell me, do you know what you’re doing here, little Lupin? Or are you planning to die before you can prove whatever ridiculous point you dragged yourself in for?❞

Remus calls from the kitchen doorway—low, warning, irritated.

❝Sirius. Leave them alone.❞

Sirius doesn’t turn.

❝I’m just introducing myself.❞ He leans in. His breath smells like firewhisky and midnight. ❝Aren’t I, love?❞

You could hex him. You think about it. You really think about it.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

He smiles wider, and something flickers behind his eyes. Something not quite human. Or maybe just too human, stripped raw and bloodied by the things he’s seen and the people he’s lost.

❝You should’ve stayed out of this,❞ he says softly now. The bravado slips a little. Just a crack. ❝You’re not ready for what’s coming. None of us are.❞

He turns before you can answer, disappearing into the shadows of Grimmauld Place like a man sinking into his own grave.

And you? You stand there. Still. Heart pounding.

This is your welcome.

This is Sirius Black.

This is war.