Harry tugged on the collar of his black shirt and checked the mirror one last time. The jacket—charcoal grey, warm, and just formal enough—rested neatly on his shoulders. He ran a hand through his hair, which, of course, only made it worse. Some battles weren't meant to be won.
Grimmauld Place's stairwell creaked beneath his steps as he made his way down.
Sirius was already waiting by the front door, dressed in a dark coat that looked suspiciously tailored and entirely too dramatic. His hair was tied back, and he wore enchanted sunglasses indoors like it was perfectly reasonable behavior.
He looked Harry over with a slow, approving nod.
"Well, don't you clean up nicely."
Harry smirked. "You're not bad yourself. Bit overdressed for a family dinner, though. Planning to duel someone halfway through dessert?"
Sirius grinned, adjusting his coat with theatrical flair. "Always be prepared. Besides, I've got a reputation to uphold."
"Oh no," Harry muttered. "Here we go."
"I was legendary at parties," Sirius continued, ignoring him. "Once showed up to a Yule Ball on a broomstick wearing dragonhide trousers and a live enchanted scarf. People still talk about it."
"I'm sure they do," Harry said dryly. "Probably in therapy."
Sirius clutched his chest, mock-wounded. "You wound me. And after I spent all morning rehearsing my compliments."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "That was rehearsed?"
"Please," Sirius scoffed. "This doesn't just happen." He gestured broadly to himself.
"Modesty. Look it up sometime."
"I tried once," Sirius said thoughtfully. "The book burst into flames."
Harry shook his head, trying—and failing—not to smile. "Are we actually leaving, or do I have to sit through your autobiography first?"
"Autobiography?" Sirius gasped. "Harry, memoirs. Sounds classier. Black: The Untamed Years."
Harry gave him a dry look. "I'm not reading that."
"Oh, you will. There's a chapter about you titled The Godson Who Ruined My Rug with His Workouts. Very moving."
Harry rolled his eyes and reached for the door. "Come on, Narcissus, let's go before you start quoting your own reviews."
Sirius followed, still grinning. "If I weren't so proud, I'd say you're getting better at this whole 'wit' thing."
Harry smirked over his shoulder. "Must run in the family."
The wind outside Grimmauld Place cut through the quiet street, carrying the scent of snow and chimney smoke. Harry pulled his jacket tighter as Sirius locked the door with a flick of his wand.
"Ready?" Sirius asked.
Harry nodded.
They stepped into the shadowed alley between the railings and, with a sharp crack—the world folded in.
The disorientation of Apparition passed in a blink. The cold hit again, but this time it smelled of pine and garden soil instead of soot and stone.
They stood at the end of a quiet lane flanked by frost-laced hedgerows and old trees. The house before them was neat and modest—a two-storey stone cottage tucked behind a black wrought-iron gate. Ivy curled up the chimney, and warm light glowed from its windows. A dusting of snow lined the roof, and smoke rose gently from the flue.
Harry straightened his jacket and blinked the fuzz from his vision.
"You've got to teach me that," he said, still a little breathless.
Sirius glanced over, lips twitching. "Side-Along's the easy part. Solo's... trickier. Mess it up, and you might leave your eyebrows behind."
Harry gave him a dry look.
Sirius snorted. "Fine. We'll start practicing after Christmas—if you don't mind a bit of splinching."
"Deal."
The garden path curved toward a green-painted door with a brass knocker shaped like a badger. Wind chimes tinkled softly above, enchanted to hum in harmony rather than clash.
Sirius strode up and rang the bell.
It echoed once.
Then the door flung open.
"About time," said a familiar, mischievous voice.
Nymphadora Tonks stood framed in the doorway, her hair peppermint green and braided down one side. She wore a fuzzy jumper with a blinking Christmas tree charmed into the fabric, and mismatched socks peeked from beneath rolled-up jeans. Her grin was wide and wicked.
She looked Sirius up and down. "You clean up alright for an escaped convict."
Sirius bowed low. "Nymphadora, always a pleasure."
"Still not my name," she replied, flicking him on the forehead before turning to Harry.
"And you," she said, tone softening, "look entirely too respectable. Very un-Potter of you. Where's the windblown hair and tragic brooding?"
Harry smirked. "Saving it for after dinner."
She laughed, then stepped aside. "Come in before Mum starts checking the time and assumes you've been captured by Death Eaters—or worse, cornered by Molly Weasley."
They stepped into warmth and the scent of spiced apples, woodsmoke, and something gently floral—like enchanted laundry hung near a potion shelf.
The hallway was lined with framed photographs—some magical, some still. A young Tonks grinned from one, hair bright purple, levitating her dinner plate just out of reach of a giggling baby in a bib. Another showed a smiling couple at their wedding—Andromeda and a tall, curly-haired man Harry guessed was Ted Tonks. A few old Black family portraits sat tucked to the side, charmed to dim themselves when Sirius walked by.
Tonks waved her wand, floating their jackets onto a peg by the door.
"Go on through," she said. "Mum's been cooking all afternoon and won't admit she's nervous."
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Nervous?"
"She hasn't seen you since you were, what—twenty? And not covered in Azkaban weight loss. Cut her some slack."
Harry glanced at him. "You sure this is a good idea?"
Sirius gave a one-shouldered shrug. "We're already here. Might as well eat."
The kitchen was cozy, humming with quiet magic. Pots stirred themselves on the stove, a floating spoon batted gently at a rising bubble in a copper cauldron of stew, and a teapot whistled from inside a woolly cozy shaped like a sleeping Kneazle.
Andromeda Tonks stood at the counter, arranging slices of warm bread. Her robes were plain but elegant, and a streak of flour ran unnoticed across her cheek. She turned at the sound of footsteps—and froze.
Her eyes swept over Sirius: sharper cheekbones, tired but alert eyes, hair tied back with studied carelessness. Then her gaze softened.
"Sirius," she said. Her voice was calm but measured—as if testing the moment's reality.
"Andy," he replied.
No warmth, no defensiveness. Just the quiet recognition of two people who had once shared childhoods and now stood in the after.
Andromeda set the plate down and walked over. She hugged him without hesitation—brief and firm.
"You look well," she said.
Sirius offered a wry smile. "That's a generous lie. But thank you."
She pulled back with a faint smile and turned to Harry. "And this must be your godson."
Harry nodded politely. "Harry Potter, ma'am."
"Oh no you don't. I'm Andromeda. Call me ma'am again and I'll hex you."
Harry blinked, then grinned. "Alright, Andromeda."
"Good lad."
A new voice piped up, cheerful and lightly sarcastic.
"If you're threatening guests already, love, it must be Christmas."
Ted Tonks strode in from the hall, drying his hands with a towel, smiling like he'd just stepped out of a sunbeam. He had curly hair greying at the temples and laugh lines deep enough to hold whole conversations.
"Harry, right? Welcome. Hope you're hungry. And Sirius—" He looked him over, mock-critical. "Still brooding like you're auditioning for a tragic romance."
Sirius snorted. "Says the man who married a Black."
"Guilty," Ted said proudly. "And very smug about it."
Then he turned to Tonks and clapped her on the shoulder. "And you, Nymphadora, could've warned us your cousin was a model."
Tonks groaned. "Dad."
"What?" Ted said innocently. "Look at that jawline."
"I will set the table with exploding plates."
"Language, Nymphadora," Andromeda said mildly, not looking up from levitating the cutlery.
Tonks flopped into a chair. "I'll never escape it, will I?"
Harry sat beside her, amused. "Honestly? I think you make it look cool."
She gave him a sideways look. "You've never had to write 'Nymphadora' on a Ministry form twenty times in one day."
Ted leaned in to Harry. "She once signed it 'Nym-T' in frustration. Her report got flagged for possible gang activity."
Sirius choked on a laugh.
"You're all the worst," Tonks muttered, but she was smiling.
Andromeda set down a steaming dish of vegetables and kissed the top of Tonks's head. "We say it with love."
"Love, huh," Tonks said flatly.
Dinner was still minutes away, but the air was warm and easy. Harry leaned back, letting it all wash over him. It was quieter than the Weasleys, but just as alive.
Sirius had gone still, watching Ted and Andromeda bicker over carrots. Then he looked at Harry.
"Still think it's a bad idea?" he murmured.
Harry shook his head.
"Good," Sirius said. "Neither do I."
A soft chime echoed through the room.
"Timer charm," Andromeda said, wiping her hands. "Dinner's ready."
Tonks sprang up. "I'll get the dishes."
"Carefully," Ted warned as the roast soared across the room like a Quaffle on a dare.
Sirius reached out just in time to steady it.
The rest of the food floated into place: bowls of golden potatoes, thick stew in a stone basin, a basket of buttered rolls that hummed to stay warm. Chairs scooted back politely. Harry sat between Tonks and Sirius, with Ted across and Andromeda at the head.
"Right," Ted said. "Now that we've all been emotionally destabilized and reunited—let's eat."
"I'll carve," Andromeda offered.
Sirius interrupted gently. "Let me."
She paused, considered him, and nodded.
He took the old carving knife and began to slice, slow and deliberate. A hush fell—not awkward, just reverent.
Ted broke it. "Well, this is nice. A Black doing something useful with a knife."
Andromeda stifled a snort. Sirius rolled his eyes and passed the first plate.
Conversation resumed, rich and lively: Tonks's latest Auror case ("Don't exaggerate," she muttered), Ted's failed attempt to train the gnomes ("They unionized"), and a heated pudding debate.
Harry mostly listened. It felt strange and good. He wasn't a guest, or the Boy Who Lived—just part of something.
At one point, Andromeda caught his eye and smiled softly. "You're always welcome here, Harry."
"Especially," she added with a playful glare at Sirius, "if you stop him teaching gnomes Latin swear words."
"I was expanding their education," Sirius said. "It's not my fault they're fast learners."
Laughter. Warmth. Hours slipped by.
Treacle tart appeared with clotted cream. Harry was full, content, and half-asleep.
As Ted and Sirius debated enchanted spoons, Andromeda stood to gather plates. She paused behind Sirius.
Gently, she laid a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm glad you're here," she said softly, meant only for him—and perhaps Harry.
Sirius stilled, then reached up and covered her hand with his own.
"Me too," he said.
And that was enough.