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Harry wasn’t sure what made him enter the tapestry room. He was wandering aimlessly around 12 Grimmauld Place, trying to distract himself from thoughts of how Sirius’ trial was going. The Ministry had wanted to make it a ‘private’ affair, which Harry didn’t mind at the time - he preferred to stay away from the buzzing crowds and reporters trying to get a glimpse at The-Boy-Who-Defeated-Voldemort - but now he felt sick with nerves and anticipation. They were all packed and ready to move into their new house and begin their new life, free from the stresses of war and imprisonment, and Harry couldn’t bear the idea of something else going wrong and taking Sirius’ freedom away again.
Harry’s gaze wandered over the tapestry, pausing at the names of Bellatrix Lestrange, who had caused so much suffering before her death, and of Narcissa Malfoy, who had lied to Voldemort to save her son. He touched the burnt fabric above Sirius’ name, where his mother had disowned him. Then he stopped. There was a new line connected to Sirius’.
Harry’s breathing hitched as he took in the new portrait.
‘Harry James Potter-Black’ it read in italic script. His name since Sirius had blood-adopted him.
Harry’s fingers traced over the line connecting them. He traced them across the family tree, to Andromeda, Tonks, and his own godson Teddy. His tongue felt thick in his throat and he swallowed and blinked. A warm glow seemed to spread from his chest through his limbs. He had already known that he was loved by his friends and... family. But here it was in writing. This was a web of family connections, linking them all together. And Harry was part of it.
He belonged.