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Mrs. Potter said they were nothing to be ashamed of.
She said that other people had scars too.
But Sirius didn’t believe her, not really, not till James’ mother came in carrying it and smiling.
She had held it up, and Sirius ran a finger over the lace, remembering another dress, another mother, with a whip.
“Well, come on then,” Mrs. Potter conjured a mirror, rattling off a few cosmetic charms.
“James will be waiting.”
She kissed Sirius’ cheek. Then, she stepped out.
Sirius needed a moment, eyes wide, relieved, finally comfortable with the image that appeared in the glass.
Walburga had tortured her son; the magic left Sirius shaking long after the pain stopped, and the whips still marked Sirius’ back.
But now, that son no longer existed.
Now, Sirius stood tall, black curls cascading down her back, soft, wispy. Her grey eyes shone in the evening light, highlighted by kohl and shadow. A smile spread across lips painted rebel red.
Her dress blazed fiery and golden. The open back exposed the scars, and Sirius wasn’t ashamed.
She raised her head and stepped out of the room, her heart soaring like a phoenix.
James was waiting. With a kiss.