[Sirius POV]
The soft clink of dishes and low murmur of conversation drifted in from the sitting room, where Harry sat cross-legged on the carpet with Tonks and Ted. Laughter came and went like waves—sometimes loud, sometimes just the quiet rhythm of comfort. The kind that could only live in homes that had stood through storms.
Sirius stood by the kitchen window, a half-empty teacup cooling in his hands. The glass fogged faintly with each exhale, and outside, the garden lay still under its frost. He watched a gnome shuffle past the shed, dragging something shiny. Probably another spoon.
Behind him, Andromeda leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned carelessly back. She was drying the last dish with a flick of her wand, and though her movements were easy, there was a practiced sort of grace to it. The kind you picked up when you'd spent years making a house feel like a refuge.
"You're quieter than usual," she said without looking up.
Sirius let out a soft breath. "Just thinking."
"That's always dangerous."
He smirked faintly, then sobered. "It's... been a strange few months."
Andromeda turned, propping her hip against the counter. "You mean the part where you broke out of Azkaban, cleared your name, and suddenly became a parent?"
Sirius made a face. "Godparent."
"Same difference, when the kid moves in with you."
He didn't argue. Couldn't.
"I don't know what I'm doing, Andy." The words escaped before he'd fully formed them. Honest and raw. "Harry's... he's brilliant. Brave. But also stubborn, secretive, and half the time I feel like I'm chasing a shadow. He doesn't tell me things. Not the real ones. I think he still expects me to vanish."
Andromeda was quiet for a moment. Then she stepped forward, took the cup from his hands, and set it aside.
"He's fifteen," she said. "Which is another way of saying 'terrified and pretending he isn't.'"
Sirius gave a tired huff of a laugh. "So I shouldn't take it personally when he lies to my face about things?"
"You should take it as a compliment," she said dryly. "Means he thinks you care enough to worry."
He turned to her, brow furrowed. "How did you do it? With your daughter? How did you know when to push and when to let go?"
Andromeda tilted her head, considering. "I didn't. I got it wrong a lot. But I listened. Gave her room to fall, but stayed close enough to catch her."
Sirius looked away, jaw tight. "He's already fallen. More than once."
"And he got back up," she said gently. "That wasn't just luck. He's got fire in him. But even fire needs something steady nearby, or it burns out. Or worse—burns everything around it."
He was quiet, staring at the window again.
"I'm not James," he said finally.
"No," Andromeda agreed. "You're not. And thank Merlin for that, because Harry doesn't need another James. He needs you."
Sirius blinked. "Even when I'm a mess?"
"Especially then," she said. "Show him it's okay not to have all the answers. Let him know you're in it with him—even when he pushes you away."
Sirius scrubbed a hand through his hair, half-frustrated. "He's too grown up for his own good."
"Then remind him he's still a kid. But gently. He'll trust you more if he thinks it's his idea."
That pulled a real laugh from him—low, rough, but genuine. "Manipulating my godson. How very Slytherin of you."
"I'm a Black," Andromeda said with a wicked smile. "We come by it honestly."
They stood in companionable silence for a moment. The quiet hum of the house settled around them like a soft charm. From the other room, Harry's voice rose—teasing, amused. A note of real happiness threaded through it, fragile and fleeting but unmistakably there.
Sirius smiled, almost despite himself.
"Thanks, Andy."
She handed him back his tea. "Anytime."
She hesitated then, letting her gaze linger on him a moment longer. "And you? How's your health?"
Sirius took a long sip, mostly to buy time. "Better. Doctors said I've gained a bit of weight since… well, since I got out. Appetite's back. Sleep's still a bit cursed, but I'm managing."
He leaned against the window frame, fingers drumming absently against the porcelain. "Physically, I'll be fine. Another few months and I'll be back to my best. Or close enough."
Andromeda arched a brow. "But?"
Sirius looked away, jaw tightening slightly. "The Black line ends with me. Whatever hope there was for carrying it forward ended in that damn prison."
Andy didn't interrupt, just listened.
"I'm not saying I wanted to settle down and breed like a proper pure-blood heir. Merlin, no." He huffed a dry laugh. "But it's strange. When you're a kid, you think there's time. Then suddenly… it's gone."
There was a pause. A softer breath.
"Harry may be the only child I ever raise," he said quietly. "And he's not even mine. But I love him. Fiercely. Like he is. Maybe that's enough."
"It is," Andromeda said, her voice low and certain.
Another silence passed between them. Comfortable, but weighty.
Then she asked, "And mentally?"
He flinched—just slightly—but didn't pretend he hadn't heard.
"Some days are better," he said. "Some days, I wake up and feel like myself again. Then something small—a noise, a shadow, a bloody cold draft—pulls me right back to that cell."
His hand curled loosely around the mug, knuckles pale. "But I fight it. I go outside. I talk to Harry. I'm clawing my way back, Andy. Every day. I won't let that place have the last word."
Andromeda reached across and laid a hand gently over his. "You don't have to do it alone."
He met her eyes. For a moment, there was no mask. Just weariness. And strength. And something rawer beneath—grief, maybe, or the stubborn remnants of hope.
"I know," he said softly. "That's the hardest part."
[MC POV]
Harry leaned back in the overstuffed sitting room armchair, a half-drained butterbeer bottle warming in his hand. Tonks sat sprawled across the rug in front of the fireplace, wand in one hand, conjuring sparks that popped into shapes of animals—first a lion, then a badger, then something suspiciously like a goat doing a cartwheel. Ted chuckled every time one landed on his slipper.
"You've improved," Ted said, nudging the latest flaming figure away with his foot. "Used to be your sparks just spelled rude words when you sneezed."
"Still do," Tonks muttered, "just more subtle now."
Harry smiled, but his eyes drifted to the archway leading back into the kitchen. He could just make out voices—low, not quite strained, but full of something heavier than the easy banter in this room.
Sirius and Andromeda.
He didn't mean to eavesdrop. He couldn't hear words—just tones, breaks in rhythm, the way Sirius's voice dropped softer than usual. Not theatrical or flippant. Just real.
Harry looked down at the floorboards, then back at the fire. The warmth on his face didn't quite reach his chest.
"He's doing better, you know," Ted said gently, as if catching his thoughts mid-flight.
Harry blinked. "Sirius?"
Ted nodded. "Tense, maybe. Jumpy, sometimes. But he's got color again. Laughs easier. Doesn't look over his shoulder so much."
Tonks glanced up from her spellwork. "He watches you, you know. Not in a weird way," she added quickly. "Just… like he's making sure he's doing it right."
"I don't even know what 'right' is," Harry admitted. "He's not—he's not like anyone else I've lived with. But it's good. He tries."
"That counts for more than most things," Ted said. "Trying."
Harry nodded, quietly.
The truth was—Sirius didn't always get it right. He hovered too much sometimes, then disappeared for a whole afternoon without warning. He cooked strange meals and forgot appointments and once gave Harry a lecture on wand etiquette that turned into a story about setting Snape's robes on fire.
But then he'd find Harry's favorite chocolate bar in some tucked-away grocer's and bring it home without a word. Or leave books outside his room that had nothing to do with school, but everything to do with what Harry liked. Or lean in to listen when Harry rambled, even if he didn't fully understand the topic.
Harry hadn't realized how much he needed that. Someone trying.
And sometimes, Sirius didn't have to try at all—he just was. A warm presence in the next room. A voice calling his name.
Later, outside, the stars were sharp and cold above the frost-dusted rooftops. Sirius adjusted his collar with a flick of his wand while Harry tugged his cloak tighter.
Warm light still spilled from the Tonks' front windows, casting long, golden shapes across the snow. Sirius turned at the doorway, one hand on the gate, the other lifting in a casual salute toward
Andromeda, who stood on the porch with a dish towel still in one hand. Ted had one arm slung loosely around her waist, and Tonks was somewhere inside, shouting after a missing boot.
"Dinner at Grimmauld Place next week," Sirius said. "You're all invited."
Andromeda arched an eyebrow. "You sure that house won't try to eat us?"
"Not if I feed it first," Sirius deadpanned. "It's… better than it was. I've been working on it."
"Is the library still cursed?"
"Yes."
"Still smells like mothballs and death?"
"Also yes."
Andromeda smiled faintly. "Charming."
"But there's food, and the fire works," Sirius added. "And it would mean a lot. To me."
Her expression softened just slightly. "Then we'll come."
Sirius nodded. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a scrap of parchment. He held it between two fingers, a bit reluctantly, and stepped closer.
"This is for all of you," he said, quieter now. "So you can find the place. I've had it Fidelius-protected."
Andromeda's brows lifted, just a fraction.
"You're the first person to know."
She took the parchment slowly. "That's… a lot of trust."
"I know," Sirius said. "I wouldn't offer it if I didn't mean it."
She didn't respond right away—just folded the paper and tucked it safely away. Then she stepped forward and gave him a quick, firm hug that left Sirius blinking against her shoulder.
"Don't wait so long next time," she murmured.
He gave a tight nod, voice catching in his throat. "I won't."
Harry stood by the gate, watching it all, hands in his pockets. When Sirius finally turned and joined him, the two of them fell into step without needing to say anything. Just two figures walking side by side through the quiet cold of the night, sharing the kind of silence that only ever grows between people who've fought hard for it.
After a minute, Harry said, "You invited them to the house?"
"Figured it was time," Sirius said. "We could use a few more voices that don't scream about blood purity or my disgrace to the family name."
Harry huffed. "You mean they don't all yell that at dinner?"
Sirius smirked. "Only the portrait. But I've got plans for that."
They walked on in silence for a while longer, their breaths misting in the air.
Then Harry added, "I'm glad you told them. I think… I think it'll be good."
Sirius glanced down at him. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Sirius gave a short nod. "Me too."
And they walked together, not just through the streets, but through something quieter, steadier—something beginning to feel a little like family.