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Sirius Black had faced Death Eaters, Dementors, and twelve years of Azkaban, but none of it prepared him for taking care of a fifteen-year-old Harry Potter.

After his name was cleared, Sirius had wasted no time getting Harry out of the Dursleys’ house. The second the Ministry acknowledged their mistake, he had Apparated to Privet Drive with all the legal force of a newly vindicated man and taken Harry home—to the house at Grimmauld Place, which was hardly a home but would have to do for now.

Except Harry wasn’t acting the way Sirius had expected. The boy wasn’t jubilant. He didn’t settle in or relax like a kid who had just been freed from an abusive home. He simply... existed. Quiet, stiff, waiting for instructions.

At first, Sirius thought Harry was in shock. He’d just been yanked from the only life he’d ever known. But days passed, and Harry remained the same—silent, withdrawn, always hovering in the doorway of a room rather than entering it fully. Sirius tried to talk to him, but Harry’s responses were clipped, mechanical, like he was trying to say whatever was expected of him.

And the worst part? Harry acted like he had to earn his place.

Sirius would wake up to find the kitchen already cleaned, laundry folded, and Harry methodically scrubbing the floor as if he’d be thrown out if he stopped. If Sirius so much as hinted at something needing to be done, Harry was on it immediately. One morning, Sirius muttered about how he should probably dust the bookshelves, and an hour later, he found Harry on a chair, dust rag in hand, quietly working like his life depended on it.

"Harry, you don’t have to do that," Sirius had said, voice gentle.

Harry had flinched. "I don’t mind," he murmured, barely meeting Sirius’s eyes.

Sirius sat him down that evening. "Listen, kid. You’re not a guest here. This is your home. You don’t have to earn your keep."

Harry just looked at him blankly, like he couldn’t process the words.

It only got worse with food. Harry didn’t eat unless Sirius put a plate in front of him and practically ordered him to finish it. More than once, Sirius caught him skipping meals, his shoulders tense like he was expecting to be reprimanded but resigned to it. If Sirius pressed him, Harry would just say, "I’m not that hungry."

Sirius knew what it was. He wasn’t stupid. Harry had spent too many years with people who treated him like a burden. He wasn’t used to being cared for.

So Sirius took a different approach. He didn’t force conversations, didn’t expect Harry to respond to things the way a "normal" kid might. He started leaving plates of food out, never commenting when Harry eventually ate them. He let Harry clean if it made him feel better but made sure he never treated it like an obligation. He gave Harry space when he needed it, but he never let the boy disappear into himself completely.

Some nights, Harry sat in the living room with Sirius or out in the yard with Buckbeak, not saying a word, just existing in the same space. And that was enough.

One evening, weeks after Harry moved in, Sirius was in the kitchen when he felt a light touch at his sleeve. He turned to see Harry standing there, fidgeting with his sleeve, not quite meeting Sirius’s gaze.

"Can I—" Harry hesitated. "Can I have some tea?"

It was such a simple request, but Sirius felt something in his chest tighten. Harry had asked for something. For himself.

"Yeah, kid," Sirius said, keeping his voice even. "I’ll make us both some."

He turned to the kettle, swallowing the lump in his throat. It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

Sirius stirred at the telltale sound of Harry creeping through the hallways. It had become a familiar thing—Harry moving like a ghost through Grimmauld Place, quiet as he could be, like he didn’t want to be noticed. Sirius always noticed.

He threw on a robe and padded barefoot through the house, following the barely-there sounds of footsteps. The back door was slightly ajar, the night air curling in around the frame. Sirius stepped outside and found Harry in the yard, his hand resting gently against Buckbeak’s feathered head. The hippogriff stood still, allowing the touch, his keen eyes half-lidded.

Tears shone on Harry’s cheeks. He wasn’t making a sound, wasn’t shaking with sobs—just standing there, silent, tears slipping down his face like he didn’t even notice them.

Sirius’s heart clenched.

For a moment, he didn’t move, unsure if his presence would break whatever fragile moment this was. Then he slowly crossed the yard, careful not to startle Harry.

"You okay, kid?" he asked softly.

Harry stiffened but didn’t pull away. He kept his eyes on Buckbeak, fingers tangled in the creature’s feathers.

"Yeah," he said, but it wasn’t convincing.

Sirius let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t good at this. He could fight Death Eaters, raise hell, break out of Azkaban, but comforting a kid—his kid—was new territory.

He lowered himself to sit on the cool ground a few feet away, giving Harry space. "You know," he said casually, "I used to sneak out at night, too. When I was a kid. Couldn’t stand being inside this place."

Harry sniffed but didn’t respond.

"I’d go out flying. Sometimes just sit with my broom and stare at the stars. It felt less… heavy out here."

Harry exhaled slowly. "It’s quiet," he murmured. "Buckbeak doesn’t mind if I don’t talk."

Sirius nodded. "Yeah. He’s a good listener."

They sat there in silence. Sirius didn’t push. He let Harry be, let him cry if he needed to.

After a long while, Harry wiped his face on his sleeve and finally looked at Sirius. His eyes were red-rimmed but steady. "I don’t know how to—" He hesitated, biting his lip. "I don’t know how to be here."

Sirius’s throat tightened.

"You don’t have to know," he said simply. "You just have to be."

Harry nodded slowly, as if trying to believe it.

Sirius reached out then, slow and deliberate, and rested a hand on Harry’s shoulder. He expected Harry to flinch or pull away, but he didn’t. He stayed still, solid beneath Sirius’s touch.

They sat there in the dark, the quiet stretching between them, not uncomfortable but steady.

Buckbeak huffed, nudging Harry’s shoulder. Harry let out a tiny, shaky breath that was almost a laugh.

And Sirius thought—maybe, just maybe—they were getting somewhere.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had met very few wixen like Harry Potter. He had met survivors of war, victims of curses, those broken by Azkaban, and those who had lived through horrors that left them ghosts in their own skin. But Harry Potter was different.

The boy was near silent, hands that constantly shook only steady when gripping a broom or scrubbing a dish. He flinched at sudden noises but not in the way soldiers did—no, it was deeper than that. It was expectation, not reaction. Like he was waiting for the world to punish him for existing.

The Harry— Just Harry, sir —he met when he went to visit his old friend Sirius was anything but the golden child the world imagined.

Kingsley had come by under the pretense of discussing Order matters, but really, he had wanted to check in. Sirius was cleared now, free in name, if not entirely in spirit. He was rebuilding, trying to reclaim a life stolen from him. And part of that meant taking in the boy who had been stolen from him, too.

When Sirius greeted him at the door, he looked more tired than Kingsley expected, but his grin was still as sharp as ever.

"Kingsley, come in. Ignore the mess—Harry’s got a system, apparently, and I’m not meant to disrupt it."

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "Harry’s been keeping house?"

Sirius’s jaw tightened slightly, and he stepped aside to let him in. "You’ll see."

He did.

Harry was in the kitchen, standing at the sink with a rag in one hand, scrubbing at an already-clean plate with a focus that made Kingsley uneasy. His hands weren’t shaking. They were controlled, precise. The rest of him, though—

The boy was too thin. His shoulders were rigid. He hadn’t even looked up when they entered.

"Harry," Sirius said carefully, like he was approaching a wounded animal, "take a break, yeah?"

Harry froze for a second before setting the plate aside. He wiped his hands on a dish towel, then turned to Kingsley, standing stiff and uncertain.

"Hello, sir," he said. His voice was quiet, polite. Not the way a child should sound when greeting an old friend of his guardian, but the way someone speaks when they’ve been taught to measure their words carefully.

Kingsley inclined his head. "Hello, Harry."

He saw it now, clear as day—the way Harry stood, the way his hands twitched as if resisting the urge to fidget, the way his shoulders hunched just slightly inward, like he was making himself smaller.

He was waiting. Waiting for instruction. Waiting for permission to be.

Kingsley flicked his eyes to Sirius, who was watching Harry with barely concealed frustration. Not at him , but at whatever had made him this way.

Sirius took a breath. "Harry, you don’t have to stand there. You’re not a soldier at roll call, for Merlin’s sake. Sit down. Or don’t. You don’t have to—I don’t expect you to—" He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair.

Harry hesitated, then carefully perched on the edge of a chair, hands clenched in his lap. Kingsley took the seat across from him, watching as the boy’s fingers twitched slightly against the fabric of his trousers.

"How have you been?" he asked, keeping his voice calm.

Harry blinked at him. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally settled on, "Fine, sir."

Sirius made a small, exasperated noise. "Harry—"

Kingsley held up a hand. "It’s alright, Sirius." He turned back to the boy. "You can call me Kingsley."

Harry glanced at Sirius, like he needed confirmation that was allowed. Sirius nodded.

"Kingsley," Harry echoed softly.

Kingsley studied him for a moment. He was used to reading people—it was part of the job. And Harry was easy to read, not because he was expressive, but because he was trying so hard not to be .

He wasn’t fine. He wasn’t even close. But he was surviving. And sometimes, that was all you could do.

Kingsley leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together. "I hear you’ve been keeping Sirius in line," he said, aiming for lightness.

Something flickered across Harry’s face—confusion, maybe. "I—no, sir, I mean—I just help out."

"You don’t have to help out," Sirius muttered.

Harry looked down at his hands. "I don’t mind."

Kingsley exhaled slowly. He knew that tone. He had heard it in people who had spent years in places they never should have been, people who had been told they had to earn every breath they took.

Sirius was right to be worried.

Kingsley gave Harry a long look, then met Sirius’s eyes. " This ," he said, "is going to take time."

Sirius nodded, his hands clenched into fists. "I know."

Harry just sat there, silent, waiting.

The first time Harry sought out something other than tea from Sirius, the sky was splitting apart.

Thunder crashed outside, pitifully muffled by the house’s charms. The storm had rolled in fast, the rain hammering against the windows, and though Grimmauld Place was solid, ancient, thick-walled, the sound still crept in. The house itself seemed to groan with the weight of it, the old pipes clanking, the wind slipping through unseen cracks.

Sirius had holed up in the library, an old habit of his. He wasn’t really reading, just flipping through a book, letting the familiar scent of parchment and dust settle around him. He never used to be one for solitude, but after Azkaban, he had learned to sit with it, to endure it.

The door creaked open, soft as a breath. Sirius didn’t look up immediately—Harry had a way of drifting through the house like a shadow, and if he acknowledged him too quickly, sometimes he disappeared again.

Carefully, oh-so-carefully, Harry slipped into the room and settled down beside Sirius on the old, worn-out couch.

Sirius froze.

Harry never did this. He never sought out contact, never lingered close unless he had a reason. Even when they shared space, there was always a careful distance, like Harry was afraid of taking up too much of it.

But now—he was here.

Not speaking. Not asking for anything. Just there .

Sirius didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe too hard in case he scared him off. He kept his eyes on the book in his lap, pretending this was normal, that Harry curling up beside him like this was an everyday occurrence.

For a long while, they sat in silence. The only sound was the steady drum of rain against the windows and the occasional crack of thunder.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, Harry shifted. He didn’t touch Sirius directly, but he leaned in just slightly, enough that Sirius could feel the warmth of him. His breathing was steady, but Sirius could tell—this was taking effort.

Sirius turned a page in his book, careful, deliberate. "Storm keeping you up?" he asked, voice quiet.

A pause. Then—softer than a whisper—"Yeah."

Sirius nodded. "Used to keep me up, too, when I was a kid. This house always felt louder when it stormed."

Harry hummed, a tiny sound of acknowledgement. He didn’t pull away.

Sirius let the silence stretch again, let Harry sit there on his own terms. He wouldn’t push, wouldn’t question it, wouldn’t ruin it by acting like this was something extraordinary.

Because, really, it wasn’t .

This was just Harry .

And for the first time, maybe, he was starting to believe that being here—taking up space, existing without expectation—was allowed.

Harry noticed. Of course, he noticed.

Kingsley stopped by a lot. Sometimes it was for Order business, sometimes it was to check in on him , but just as often, it was to check on Sirius. And every time, Kingsley had this soft expression on his face—one Harry had only ever seen in the pages of books or in stolen glimpses of couples at the Hogwarts Yule Ball. Like Sirius had hung the sun, like he was something rare and precious.

His godfather, of course, seemed completely oblivious.

Harry had spent weeks watching, cataloging every glance, every lingering touch on the shoulder, every quiet laugh that left Kingsley looking just a little lighter. And Sirius? He acted as if none of it was unusual, as if Kingsley looking at him like that was just a normal thing.

Harry had no idea what to do with it.

But when Kingsley stopped by that evening, handing Sirius a bottle of firewhiskey with a smirk and ruffling Harry’s hair in greeting, he thought—maybe it wasn’t so complicated after all.

Sirius noticed. Of course, he did.

Harry was seeking out touch more. Not a lot, not in ways most people would notice, but Sirius wasn’t most people. He saw it.

It started small. Harry sitting just a little closer on the couch. Lingering in the doorway before finally stepping into a room instead of hovering on the threshold. The way his shoulder brushed against Sirius’s in passing, light and fleeting, like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed.

And then there were the nights when Kingsley stopped by. Sirius had always known Kingsley had a steady presence, but apparently, Harry had figured it out too. Because sometimes, when Kingsley was here, Harry would settle near him—close enough that his sleeve might brush against Kingsley’s arm, or his knee would barely bump Sirius’s. Just there , sharing space in a way Sirius wasn’t sure Harry even realized he was doing.

The first time it happened, Sirius had frozen, expecting Harry to pull away if he noticed what he was doing. But he hadn’t. He had just sat there, tucked into the corner of the couch, eyes flicking between Sirius and Kingsley as they talked, hands twisting in his lap.

And Sirius had understood.

Harry wasn’t asking for attention. He wasn’t seeking comfort in the way people usually did. He was just… existing near them, testing the waters, learning what it meant to belong without earning it.

So Sirius didn’t say anything. Didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t make a big deal of it. He just let Harry be.

Because this?

This was progress .

Everything came crashing down all at once, believe it or not, because of a jumper.

One moment, the house was quiet—morning light filtering through the windows, the rare stillness of a day where Harry wasn’t already up before Sirius. The next, there was a dull thump from upstairs, followed by something worse.

Near-silent crying.

Sirius was moving before he could think. He took the stairs two at a time, heart hammering. The door to Harry’s room was slightly open, just enough for Sirius to see him on the floor, hunched over something in his hands. His breath hitched with barely-there sobs, shoulders shaking like he was trying to stop —like he didn’t think he was allowed to cry at all.

"Harry?" Sirius stepped inside carefully, voice softer than he meant it to be.

Harry jolted but didn’t look up. He was gripping something tightly, fingers twisted in fabric.

Sirius knelt beside him. "What happened?"

For a long moment, Harry didn’t answer. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper—

"I didn’t mean to ruin it."

Sirius frowned, glancing down at Harry’s hands. It was a jumper. The one Mrs. Weasley had knit for him last Christmas. The one Harry always folded carefully in his dresser, rarely wearing but never discarding. The stitches had unraveled at the sleeve, a small hole where the fabric had come apart.

Sirius exhaled. " Harry ."

Harry flinched. "I—I can fix it," he rushed out, voice tight. "I just need—if I can find a needle, I can—"

"Harry, stop." Sirius reached out, covering Harry’s shaking hands with his own. "It’s a jumper, not the end of the world."

Harry swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. "But she made it for me." His voice wavered, like the words themselves were fragile. "And I broke it."

Sirius stared at him, realization hitting like a curse to the chest.

This wasn’t about the jumper.

This was about everything —every too-tight thread holding Harry together, every unspoken fear, every piece of him that believed he only got to keep things if he deserved them. That breaking something—needing something—meant he’d lose it forever.

Sirius squeezed his hands. "It’s not ruined. And even if it was, it wouldn’t matter."

Harry shook his head, but Sirius didn’t let go.

"Listen to me," Sirius said, steady and certain. "You don’t lose people because of things like this. Molly wouldn’t care about the jumper. I don’t care about the jumper. You’re not something that breaks and gets thrown away, alright?"

Harry’s breath hitched, and for the first time, he looked at Sirius—really looked, like he was trying to figure out if he meant it.

Sirius held his gaze, unwavering.

Then, in a motion so small it might have been unintentional, Harry leaned forward. Just slightly. Just enough that Sirius could pull him in.

So he did.

Harry didn’t sob, didn’t shake apart in his arms. He just pressed his forehead against Sirius’s shoulder, hands still curled tight in the ruined sleeve, breath uneven.

And Sirius just held him.

Kingsley didn’t outwardly react when he stopped by, like usual, and saw Harry James Potter curled up in his godfather’s lap, watching him silently with owl-wide eyes.

He simply took in the sight—Harry small but not quite tense, Sirius absently running a hand through the boy’s perpetually messy hair, both of them looking at him like they’d been caught doing something they weren’t sure they were allowed to do.

Kingsley closed the door behind him, setting his coat on the rack with the same calm, steady movements he always used. "Morning."

Harry didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Sirius, on the other hand, huffed. "Not a word, Kings."

"Didn’t say anything," Kingsley replied, his voice as even as ever, though his lips twitched slightly.

Sirius scowled half-heartedly. "You thought something."

"That so?" Kingsley crossed his arms. "And what, exactly, did I think?"

Sirius opened his mouth, then seemed to realize he didn’t actually have an answer. He settled for grumbling under his breath and pointedly not looking at Kingsley.

Harry still hadn’t moved. He was watching , though. Not warily, not nervously—just observing, as if waiting to see what this moment would turn into.

Kingsley met his gaze and, after a long pause, inclined his head in greeting.

Something in Harry’s posture eased, the smallest shift in his shoulders.

Kingsley didn’t comment on it. He simply walked over to his usual chair, sat down, and picked up the book Sirius had abandoned on the table.

"Don’t let me interrupt," he said mildly, flipping it open.

Harry blinked at him, then—after another long, considering moment—relaxed back against Sirius, his fingers curling into the fabric of Sirius’s shirt.

Sirius sighed, resting his chin on top of Harry’s head. "You’re insufferable, Kings."

Kingsley turned a page. "So I’ve been told."

Harry was trying not to freak out.

He was having his first therapy session today. Sirius had talked to him about it for weeks— just a chat, Harry, no pressure, just someone to talk to —but now that it was actually happening, his chest felt tight, and his hands wouldn’t stay still.

And the jumper .

Mrs. Weasley’s jumper, the one Sirius had helped him fix, the one that was his , the only thing that fit him just right. He wanted to wear it. Needed to wear it. But there was mud on the sleeves—just a little, barely anything, but it was there , and it wasn’t washed , and he couldn’t wear something dirty, but if he didn’t wear it, he wouldn’t feel right, and—

And—

His breath hitched. His hands twisted in the fabric, fingers gripping too tight. He could feel himself spiraling, the way his thoughts tangled into knots, pulling too tight, too fast.

"Harry?"

Sirius’s voice was careful, too careful, and Harry realized belatedly that he must have said something out loud. Or maybe it was the way he was breathing, sharp and uneven.

The floor shifted as Sirius crouched in front of him. "Talk to me, kid."

Harry couldn’t .

His eyes were locked on the jumper, his brain stuck in a loop— dirty, can’t wear it, but need it, but can’t, but—

"Okay," Sirius said, like he was making a decision. "The jumper. What about it?"

Harry clenched his jaw. " It’s dirty ." His voice came out thin and tight, like a stretched wire.

Sirius looked at the jumper, at the barely visible smudge of mud near the cuffs, then back at Harry. "And it has to be clean before you wear it?"

Harry nodded sharply, shoulders tight.

"Alright," Sirius said. No argument, no telling him it didn’t matter. Just alright . "We’ve got time. Let’s wash it now."

Harry blinked at him. "But—"

"It’s a jumper, not a bomb, kid," Sirius said lightly, but his voice was gentle, steady. "Come on, I’ll help."

And just like that , the worst of the knot in Harry’s chest loosened. Not completely. Not gone . But—enough.

Sirius stood, holding out a hand. After a beat, Harry took it.

They could fix this.

Harry’s therapist was nice.

Her name was Dr. Elaine Moore, and she was a Muggle-born who had gotten her degree in a Muggle school before working in a mixed practice—half Muggle, half wixen. She spoke calmly, never too fast, never too loud, and didn’t look at him like she was expecting something.

There was drawing paper on the table in front of her and a small basket of little fidget-y things—smooth stones, stretchy bands, a tiny wooden puzzle. Harry didn’t reach for any of them, but he liked that they were there.

"You don’t have to talk right away," she said after they sat down. "Or at all, if you don’t want to today."

Harry swallowed, his fingers twitching in his lap.

She didn’t rush him, didn’t push. She just sat, quiet and patient, like they had all the time in the world. Like she meant it when she said it was his choice.

Harry wasn’t sure what he had expected—someone prying, asking him how he felt about things he didn’t know how to explain? But Dr. Moore just picked up a pencil and started doodling on the edge of the paper, casual as anything.

He watched for a moment before hesitantly reaching for a smooth stone from the basket. It fit in his palm just right.

Dr. Moore smiled, but she didn’t say anything about it.

For the first time, Harry thought—maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

"So, you live with your godfather?"

Harry nodded.

It was their fourth session, and Dr. Moore had officially joined his Nice (Adult) People List . The list itself was short— very short—but she was on it now. (Sirius was always going to be number one. That wasn’t even a question.)

"How’s that going?" she asked, her tone light. She wasn’t prying, not really. Just opening the door in case he wanted to walk through it.

Harry considered.

He glanced down at the smooth stone in his hand—the same one he had picked up in the first session. It was his now, she had told him, and he brought it with him every time. He traced the edge with his thumb.

"Sirius is... good," he said finally. It felt like an understatement. "He lets me—" He hesitated, trying to find the words. " Be ."

Dr. Moore nodded, like that made perfect sense.

"He gets frustrated, though," Harry added, voice quieter. "Not at me —just. When he doesn’t know what to do."

"That sounds like he cares a lot."

Harry exhaled. "Yeah."

Dr. Moore smiled. "Sounds like he made your list."

Harry blinked at her, startled.

She tapped the corner of her notepad. "Nice (Adult) People List, right?"

Harry felt his ears go pink. "Sirius is always number one," he muttered.

Dr. Moore chuckled. "Good choice."

Harry didn’t say it, but—he thought Sirius would be pleased to know that.

Harry fiddled with his sleeves, staring firmly at the ground. His fingers twisted the fabric, rubbing over the threads that had started to fray again. He swallowed hard.

"I... I think I would like to get some new clothes today," he whispered.

Sirius, who had been lounging on the couch reading some ridiculous conspiracy magazine Remus had left behind, barely missed a beat. "Awesome," he said, flipping the page as if Harry had just suggested getting lunch, not something that made his chest feel tight with uncertainty. "We thinkin’ Muggle thrift stores or some department ones?"

Harry blinked up at him, startled by the lack of fuss. He had braced himself for Sirius to make it A Thing —some grand Of course, Harry! You can have anything you want! declaration that would make his skin crawl. But Sirius was just... asking.

He hesitated. "Um. Thrift stores?"

Sirius grinned, tossing the magazine aside. "Excellent choice. Those places have all sorts of weird, fantastic things. Once I found a t-shirt with a goblin riding a skateboard. No idea what it meant, but I respected the energy."

Harry let out a quiet, surprised huff of laughter.

Sirius ruffled his hair in response. "C’mon then, kid. Let’s get you some clothes that actually fit."

And just like that, it wasn’t so scary anymore.

Harry found three shirts, two pairs of jeans, some sweats, and—most importantly—a very soft, worn charcoal-used-to-be-black faux leather jacket.

It had caught his eye the moment they stepped into the shop, tucked between a too-bright red coat and something covered in sequins. It wasn’t fancy, wasn’t new, but it felt right when he ran his fingers over it. The fabric was broken in, the kind of soft that only came from years of wear, and when he slipped it on, it fit just well enough to be comfortable without swallowing him whole.

Sirius, standing a few feet away, didn’t say a word. He just smirked in that way that meant he saw something, but he wasn’t about to ruin it by pointing it out.

"That the one?" he asked instead, casual as anything.

Harry nodded, tugging at the sleeves. "Yeah."

Sirius clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Solid choice, kid. Now, let’s see if we can find one of those ridiculous t-shirts I was telling you about."

Harry ducked his head to hide his smile.

For the first time, maybe ever, shopping didn’t feel like a chore.

Sirius noticed it the second Hermione Jean Granger stepped into the house.

Harry lifted .

It was subtle at first—just the way his posture changed, the way he stood a little taller, a little lighter. But then he started talking , words spilling out in quick, excited bursts, hands moving in a way Sirius had seen before but never really seen . Sharp, precise gestures, like his thoughts were too big for words alone. Hermione never looked confused or caught off guard. She just— got it . Matched his energy, matched his pace.

And Harry got better when she was around.

Not in some dramatic, overnight way, but in the way he existed. He took up space differently, like he didn’t have to think about whether or not he was allowed to. Meals were easier. Sleeping was easier. Hell, existing was easier.

So Sirius told Dr. Moore about it.

She listened, nodding thoughtfully as he talked. Then she smiled.

"Sounds like Hermione is a safe person for him," she said. "Someone who understands him without making him work for it."

Sirius exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right."

Dr. Moore tilted her head. "Has Harry ever mentioned if he’s comfortable around her in ways he isn’t with others?"

Sirius thought about it. "Not in so many words. But—I don’t think he has to. It’s just there ."

Dr. Moore smiled again. "That’s important. Let him have that."

Sirius already planned to.

Harry caught Dr. Moore’s eye as Sirius and Kingsley left—damn near arm-in-arm, standing slightly too close for normal friendship.

She slowly raised an eyebrow.

Harry, still watching them disappear down the hall, stifled a smile and shrugged one shoulder.

Dr. Moore hummed, tapping her pen against her notepad. "So," she said, tone light, "has anyone told Sirius yet, or is he still blissfully unaware?"

Harry let out a quiet huff. "He’s completely oblivious."

Dr. Moore chuckled. "And Kingsley?"

Harry smirked. "Kingsley knows exactly what he’s doing."

She shook her head, amused. "Well. That’ll be fun to watch unfold."

Harry just nodded. It would be.

"So. Sirius said that you two were talking about an autism assessment."

Harry swallowed jerkily and nodded, already reaching for the smooth worry-stone in his pocket. He ran his thumb over the familiar surface, grounding himself in the motion.

Dr. Moore didn’t push. She let him sit with it, let him take his time. When he didn’t immediately speak, she nodded once, like that was answer enough.

"How are you feeling about it?" she asked gently.

Harry licked his lips. "I don’t—" He exhaled sharply. "I don’t know."

"That’s okay," she said simply. "It’s a lot to think about."

Harry nodded, his grip on the stone tightening. "I just—what if it changes things?"

Dr. Moore tilted her head. "In what way?"

Harry shrugged, but it was tense, uncertain. "I don’t know. Just. People already treat me like I’m different. Like I’m... wrong ." His throat felt tight. "What if this just makes it worse?"

Dr. Moore was quiet for a moment, then she said, "Getting a name for something doesn’t change you , Harry. It just helps explain why the world might feel different to you than it does to other people."

Harry let the words sink in, rolling the stone between his fingers.

"It won’t make you more or less you ," she continued. "And it won’t change the way the people who care about you see you. It just gives you more tools to understand yourself."

Harry swallowed again, slower this time. "Sirius said... he said that it wouldn’t matter to him either way."

Dr. Moore smiled. "That sounds about right."

Harry stared at the stone in his hand, the edges worn smooth from weeks of anxious fidgeting.

"Okay," he said finally. "I think I want to do it."

Dr. Moore nodded, like she had known he would get there in his own time. "Alright, Harry. Let’s make a plan."

Harry was nervous.

Fifth year was starting, and everything felt different. He was back at Hogwarts, back where things were supposed to be familiar, but instead, there was this constant undercurrent of wrongness in his chest. His room at Grimmauld had become home in a way Privet Drive never had, and now he was away from it—away from Sirius, away from the quiet routines he’d built over the summer.

And there were new things to deal with.

He would still have sessions with Dr. Moore— legally required , now that he had an official diagnosis, not just for autism but for PTSD too—but since she couldn’t exactly pop into the castle, she’d have to come to Hogsmeade bi-weekly instead. Harry felt bad about that. It wasn’t fair that she had to go out of her way for him.

Sirius had snorted when he said as much. "Kid, it’s literally her job . She’s not doing you a favor—she’s doing what she wants to do."

Harry still wasn’t sure he believed that, but he nodded anyway.

Now, as he sat in the Hogwarts Express, fidgeting with his sleeves, he glanced across the compartment at Hermione. She was flipping through a book, but he could tell she was keeping an eye on him.

"You’ll be okay, Harry," she said softly, not looking up. "It’s just another adjustment."

Harry exhaled. Yeah . Another adjustment. Another new thing to learn how to handle.

But he wasn’t alone in it. And that—that helped.

The best part about being back at Hogwarts was that Ron was right there .

At Grimmauld Place, Harry had spent weeks getting used to the quiet hum of Sirius’s presence, the knowledge that someone was always nearby. But Hogwarts was different —louder, sharper, filled with too many voices and too many shifting routines. It made his skin itch.

But Ron slept maybe five feet away.

And, just like always, he didn’t bat an eye when he woke up to find Harry in his bed, curled up at the very edge of the mattress.

It had started first year—Harry slipping out of his own bed when the nightmares got bad, Ron grumbling sleepily before shoving over to make space. It wasn’t a thing , not really. It was just them .

Now, nearly five years later, nothing had changed.

Ron cracked one eye open, squinting blearily at Harry before yawning and shifting to make more room. "Y’know, if you’re gonna steal my bed, you could at least bring a blanket next time," he mumbled.

Harry huffed, pulling the corner of Ron’s blanket over his legs. "Yours is closer."

Ron snorted. "Lazy git." But his voice was warm, sleep-soft, and he was already dozing off again.

Harry stared at the ceiling, listening to the even rhythm of Ron’s breathing. He still felt the ever-present weight of the castle pressing in on him, but here— here , in this tiny bubble of space—he could breathe.

He closed his eyes and let himself rest.

Harry didn’t like Umbridge.

The second she had given him that weird, near-pitiful look and called him “such a brave boy!” after reading his file, his skin had crawled .

He knew that look. He’d seen it before—on teachers who had learned about the Dursleys and done nothing, on Ministry officials who talked about him instead of to him. It was the look of someone who had already decided who he was before he even opened his mouth.

And the way she said it— brave boy —like he was some fragile thing to be spoken down to.

He hated it.

So when she smiled at him in class, voice syrupy-sweet as she asked a question he knew wasn’t really a question, he just stared back, silent, fingers clenched under his desk.

He had dealt with people like her before. He knew better than to trust kindness that came with condescension.

And when she turned on him later—when her smiles faded into sharp reprimands and cruel punishments—he wasn’t surprised. Just sickly, quietly furious .

Dr. Moore noticed the change the second Harry curled up on the couch in her rented room at the inn.

He didn’t sit the way he usually did, balanced on the edge of the cushion with his hands in his lap. Instead, he tucked his knees up, curling into himself, his fingers buried in his pocket.

And the worry bead—he wasn’t rolling it over his fingers like he normally did. He was just holding it, gripping it too tightly, like he needed to keep it hidden .

Dr. Moore didn’t ask right away. She let the silence stretch, let Harry settle as much as he could before tilting her head slightly.

"Rough week?"

Harry let out a sharp exhale, something that wasn’t quite a laugh.

Dr. Moore nodded, as if that was answer enough. "Want to start with what happened or how you’re feeling about it?"

Harry hesitated. Then, quietly—" Umbridge. "

Dr. Moore hummed like that was exactly what she expected. "Ah."

Harry swallowed. "She read my file. And now she looks at me like I’m—I don’t know. Something to be handled ." His fingers twitched in his pocket. " Brave boy , she called me. But she doesn’t mean it. She just—she doesn’t see me."

Dr. Moore nodded slowly, her expression steady, thoughtful. "She sees the version of you she’s already decided on."

Harry swallowed hard, staring down at his knees.

"That’s frustrating," she said simply.

Harry huffed, sharp and bitter. "Yeah."

Dr. Moore studied him for a moment. "Is that all it is?"

Harry’s jaw tightened. " No ."

She nodded again, patient as always. "What else?"

Harry curled his fingers around the bead, heart pounding. "She’s dangerous."

Dr. Moore didn’t argue. Didn’t tell him he was overreacting. Just met his eyes and said, "Tell me why."

And Harry did.

Umbridge was removed from her position as a teacher within four days .

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what exactly had happened behind the scenes—only that one moment, she was there, and the next, she was gone , her office cleaned out as if she’d never stepped foot in the castle.

The students of Hogwarts were thrilled . There were actual cheers at breakfast when the announcement was made, followed by widespread speculation on what had finally done her in. Some said McGonagall had hexed her into next week. Others claimed Peeves had dropped an entire suit of armor on her head.

Harry had a feeling it had something to do with Kingsley showing up at the castle looking entirely too pleased with himself and Sirius practically preening in the latest letter he’d sent.

But none of that mattered nearly as much as the replacement .

Remus Lupin was back.

Harry had barely made it through his afternoon classes before tracking him down—though, really, he hadn’t needed to. Moony had found him , greeting him with a warm, knowing smile and a ruffling of his hair that made Harry feel about ten years younger in the best way.

The rest of the castle was happy to have Professor Lupin back.

But Harry — Harry was just happy to have Uncle Moony back.

For the first time ever , Harry went home for Christmas.

Not back to Hogwarts. Not back to the Dursleys. Home .

The second he stepped through the door of Grimmauld Place, Sirius pulled him into a bone-crushing bear hug, lifting him slightly off the ground like he hadn’t just seen him a few months ago. Harry let himself be held, let himself exist in that moment, his arms wrapped tight around Sirius’s back.

And, of course, Kingsley was already there. He leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking like he had known Sirius would be too impatient to wait for Harry to fully step inside before tackling him.

"Welcome home, kid," he said warmly, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder once Sirius finally let go.

Remus arrived not long after, bundled in a too-thin coat, shaking snow from his sleeves. They had dinner together, all of them crammed around the table, and for once, the house felt alive . Full .

And then, later that evening, Remus pulled out the Hanukkah candles. Harry hesitated when he saw them, unsure if he should be there for it, but Remus just smiled and nudged him toward the menorah. "Help me light them?" he asked, voice gentle.

Harry nodded, something warm settling in his chest.

So he stood beside Remus, watching the soft glow of the candles flicker, listening to Remus recite the blessings.

And for the first time in his entire life , Christmas wasn’t something to endure.

Harry and Remus spent half the holiday break side-eying each other every time Kingsley and Sirius looked at each other fondly .

And it happened a lot .

It wasn’t even subtle. Kingsley would hand Sirius a drink, their fingers brushing just a little too long, and Sirius would grin at him in that stupid, ridiculously charmed way, all soft eyes and easy laughter. Or they’d sit next to each other on the couch, way too close for just friends , and Kingsley would murmur something low enough that Sirius had to lean in to hear, his face lighting up like Kingsley had just paid him the highest compliment in the world.

Harry caught Remus’s eye more than once.

Remus, who had known Sirius the longest. Remus, who could read him better than anyone.

Every time, Harry would flick his gaze toward Sirius and Kingsley, then back at Remus.

Remus would do the same.

Neither of them said anything. They didn’t have to.

Sirius and Kingsley were Sirius and Kingsley , and apparently, that meant years of mutual pining and being incredibly obvious about it while thinking they were being subtle .

Harry was almost impressed. Almost .

"You’d think one of them would say something," he muttered one evening as he and Remus sat across the room, watching Sirius and Kingsley argue over who got the last of the firewhiskey like it was some great, flirtatious battle.

Remus sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You’d think."

They clinked their teacups in resigned agreement.

Harry shuffled from foot to foot, then made his rounds.

A suspiciously book-shaped gift for Uncle Remus—who accepted it with an amused, knowing smile.

A simple box for Sirius, containing a totally-not-charmed-for-easy-sleep pendant—because someone still refused to take care of himself properly. Sirius opened it, paused, then gave Harry a look so soft that Harry had to turn away before he combusted on the spot.

And for Kingsley, a Muggle writing set—simple but elegant, something Harry had spent way too much time picking out in the shop before deciding it felt right . Kingsley ran his fingers over the pens thoughtfully, then caught Harry’s gaze with a small nod.

Harry exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders.

Gifts done . Now he could retreat.

He settled down in his usual spot on the floor, pressing his head against Sirius’s knee and pointedly not making eye contact with anyone. He half expected someone to comment— Good gifts, Harry, or You didn’t have to, kid —but no one did.

Sirius just rested a hand on his head, ruffling his hair once before settling it there, steady and present .

And that was enough.

Harry was more than a little overwhelmed by the sheer amount of presents he got in the mail.

It had started small—just a few owls swooping in at breakfast, nothing too unusual. But then more came, and then more , until there was a veritable pile in front of him, and Harry sat there blinking at it like it might disappear if he ignored it long enough.

Hermione had sent him a very nice set of worry beads, ones that felt just right in his hands, the weight and texture perfect .

Ron had sent specially made chocolate frogs that didn’t try to hop away—because Ron knew . Harry always felt horrible about eating the regular ones.

The twins had sent a miniature joke set, complete with notes on how best to use everything for maximum mischief ( For emergencies only, dear investor was scrawled at the bottom).

Luna’s gift was a small, hand-carved thestral figurine—smooth, detailed, clearly made with care. He turned it over in his fingers, warmth curling in his chest.

Mrs. Weasley had sent a jumper, of course—deep green this time, and much softer than usual, like she’d picked out something extra gentle on purpose.

And that didn’t even include the gifts from his people.

Remus had given him a beautifully bound notebook, the kind with thick parchment and a sturdy cover. "For whatever you need," he had said softly. "Not just notes, but thoughts. Feelings, if you ever want to put them somewhere safe."

Kingsley’s gift had been oddly practical —a sleek, enchanted watch that adjusted itself across time zones and always pointed him toward home.

And Sirius—Sirius had shoved a small, wrapped box into his hands and looked entirely too pleased with himself as Harry opened it. Inside was a key, simple and unmarked.

"For your room," Sirius had said, grinning. "At home."

Harry had swallowed hard, fingers curling around the key, something warm and certain settling in his chest.

Later, when all the gifts were unwrapped and the initial wave of overwhelm had passed, Harry sat curled up on the couch, worry beads in one hand and thestral figurine in the other, his new jumper wrapped around him.

Sirius glanced over from where he was sprawled in an armchair. "Alright there, kid?"

Harry nodded, pressing his thumb against the smooth wood of the figurine.

Yeah. He was alright.

"I, uh. I have another gift for you if you want it," Sirius mumbled, shuffling in a very awkward, not-Sirius-like way.

Harry blinked. The rest of the house had gone quiet, Kingsley and Remus having filtered out to their guest rooms, leaving just the two of them in the dim glow of the sitting room fireplace. Sirius was fidgeting —not his usual restless energy, but the kind of nervous shifting Harry wasn’t used to seeing.

"Only if you want it, though," Sirius added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck like he was bracing for something.

Harry sat up a little straighter as Sirius reached between two books on the shelf and pulled out a small slip of paper. He hesitated for half a second before handing it over.

Harry took it carefully, unfolding it with steady fingers.

‘Formal Letter of Legal Adoption’ was scrawled across the top in neat, official script. Underneath, there were several notes of approval—Ministry seals, signatures… and in the margins, small handwritten notes in Dr. Moore’s familiar, looping script.

Completely Harry’s choice. No pressure. But legally sound if he wants it.

Harry stared. His brain felt stuck , like it couldn’t quite process what he was seeing.

Sirius shifted again, more awkward than ever. "I know you’re already— mine , I mean. My kid, my responsibility, my family ." His voice was rough, uncertain in a way that made Harry’s stomach twist. "But this makes it real. Official. Legal . If you want it."

Harry’s chest felt too tight, his throat closing up around the words he couldn’t quite form.

Sirius must have mistaken his silence for hesitation, because he quickly backpedaled. "But if you don’t want it, that’s fine, too. You don’t have to—I mean, nothing has to change, it’s just—"

"Yes."

It came out shaky, barely above a whisper, but it stopped Sirius mid-ramble.

Harry swallowed hard, gripping the paper tightly. " Yes ," he repeated, firmer this time.

Sirius let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours . " Yeah? "

Harry nodded, because words still weren’t coming easily.

And then Sirius moved, crossing the space between them in two steps, pulling Harry into the kind of hug that made him feel small in a way that wasn’t bad. In a way that meant safe .

Harry buried his face in Sirius’s shoulder, gripping the back of his shirt with one hand, the adoption papers still clutched in the other.

"Welcome home, kid," Sirius murmured, voice thick. "For real this time."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Yeah.

For real this time.

The adoption process was going great. Sirius had every legal document in order, Kingsley had pulled every possible string, and Dr. Moore had assured Harry that everything was moving smoothly.

There was just one problem.

The Dursleys had to be there.

Apparently, since they were still Harry’s legal guardians on paper, they had to be present to formally sign away their rights. Which meant sitting in a room with them. Again .

Sirius was livid .

"You’re telling me," he said, voice dangerously calm as Kingsley delivered the news, "that the people who locked Harry in a cupboard for years have to sit in a room and pretend they ever gave a damn before they can officially let him go?"

Kingsley exhaled. "Yes."

Sirius dragged a hand down his face. " Brilliant. "

Harry didn’t say anything. He just focused on the weight of the adoption papers in his lap, running his thumb over the edge.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of the Dursleys. Not anymore. He had lived under their roof, endured their rules, spent years making himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. But now—now, he wasn’t theirs anymore. Not really. And the idea of having to see them one last time, to sit in a sterile Ministry office while they signed their names away like he was just another burden to discard—

Harry swallowed hard.

Sirius must have noticed, because his voice softened. "You don’t have to say anything to them, kid."

Harry nodded stiffly. "I know."

Sirius leaned forward, catching his eye. "And if they so much as look at you wrong, I’m hexing them into next week."

Kingsley sighed. "No, you’re not."

"Fine," Sirius muttered. "But only because I really want to get this done."

Harry exhaled slowly, gripping the papers a little tighter. He just nodded. They understood.

The Dursleys hardly batted an eye before signing the papers.

Vernon barely glanced at the document before scrawling his name at the bottom, his face set in deep, impatient disinterest. Petunia pursed her lips but said nothing, signing her name in stiff, precise strokes. Dudley shifted uncomfortably in his chair, staring at his hands, but didn’t protest.

It was just paperwork to them. A final, legal severing of something that had never truly existed in the first place.

Harry knew that. He knew they wouldn’t fight it, knew they’d probably prefer it this way. And still—his hand trembled where it was locked in Sirius’s.

Sirius noticed. Of course, he did.

Without a word, he tightened his grip, his thumb brushing over Harry’s knuckles. A quiet, steady reminder: You’re not alone. You don’t belong to them. You never did.

Harry focused on that instead of the sound of the quill scratching against parchment.

It was over in minutes.

"That’s it, then?" Vernon grumbled, already standing, eager to leave.

"That’s it," Kingsley said coolly, taking the signed papers and slipping them into a folder.

The Dursleys left without another word, not even a glance back.

Harry exhaled shakily, feeling like he should say something—to Kingsley, to Sirius, to himself—but nothing came.

Sirius, still holding his hand, bumped their shoulders together lightly. "C’mon, kid. Let’s go home ."

Harry nodded, swallowing past the tightness in his throat.

Home.

Harry stared.

Kingsley and Sirius stared back.

Sirius was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs casually wrapped around Kingsley’s waist like it was the most normal thing in the world. Kingsley had a steady hand on Sirius’s side, his other resting on the counter beside him. They were close— very close—and clearly not just in a friendly, casual sort of way.

Sirius blinked at Harry, wide-eyed, looking shockingly guilty for someone who had spent most of his life being unapologetically himself. Kingsley, on the other hand, just raised an eyebrow, looking mildly amused at the whole thing.

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. " About bloody time. "

He stepped forward, swiped a scone off the plate on the counter, and promptly turned on his heel, heading straight upstairs without another word.

Behind him, he could hear Sirius sputtering. " What—what do you mean ‘about bloody time’?! "

Kingsley chuckled. " Told you he knew. "

It was nice to be back at Hogwarts.

Even nicer for his name on file to read Harry James Potter-Black .

He had noticed it on his class schedule first—printed neatly across the top like it had always been that way. It was on the dormitory list, too, and in the roll call McGonagall read on the first day of term.

She didn’t hesitate when she said it, didn’t stumble or glance at him like it was strange. Just " Potter-Black ," like it was normal .

Like it was his .

Hermione had beamed when she saw it, and Ron had grinned, clapping him on the back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Harry had just breathed , sitting with it, letting it settle in his chest.

He wasn’t just Harry Potter anymore. He wasn’t a ward of the Ministry, or the unwanted burden of the Dursleys.

He was Harry Potter-Black . Sirius’s kid, legally and officially , in every way that mattered.

And it felt right .

Voldemort was killed— mostly accidentally —by a very angry and done-with-this-shit Kingsley.

The details were hazy, but from what Harry gathered later, it involved a badly timed duel, a ricocheting Killing Curse, and Kingsley sighing heavily before blasting Voldemort straight through a crumbling wall for good measure .

When the news reached Hogwarts, chaos erupted.

There were cheers, celebrations, people running through the halls shouting the Dark Lord was dead . Professors tried to maintain order, but even McGonagall looked suspiciously close to a relieved smile.

Harry, however, just laid down . Right there, in the middle of the common room, on the rug in front of the fireplace.

And decided that would be the perfect moment to take a long nap.

Ron, standing over him, raised an eyebrow. "Mate?"

"Wake me up in a week," Harry mumbled into the carpet.

No one questioned him.

Harry didn’t go back to Hogwarts for his sixth year.

Sirius— Papa , as Harry had started to call him without really thinking about it—was more than okay with it.

" You’ve done enough ," he had said when Harry first brought it up, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. " You don’t owe Hogwarts anything. If you want to stay home, you stay home. "

And that was that. No arguments, no Are you sure? , no disappointed lectures about how he needed to finish his education. Just okay .

Kingsley had pulled some strings to arrange for private tutors, and Remus had eagerly offered to teach him anything he needed. Hermione had definitely written up a study plan for him, even if she understood why he wasn’t going back.

Ron had just shrugged and said, "Lucky git. At least you won’t have to deal with Snape."

So, for the first time in his life, Harry stayed home .

He woke up in his own bed. Had breakfast with his family . Studied in the library instead of a crowded classroom. Walked through the house knowing he belonged there .

And for the first time, maybe ever , he wasn’t just waiting for the next bad thing to happen.

Harry graduated with all his wizarding credits a year early .

Remus—now the permanent Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—had hand-delivered the letter himself.

He had shown up at Grimmauld Place one afternoon, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he held out the official parchment. "Congratulations, Harry," he said warmly. "You’re officially done."

Harry blinked at the letter in his hands. He had known he was ahead in his studies—his tutors had said as much—but seeing it in writing, stamped with the official Hogwarts seal, made it feel real .

Sirius, who had been lounging dramatically on the couch, immediately perked up. " That’s my kid!" he declared, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and shaking him slightly before pulling him into a tight hug.

Kingsley, watching from the armchair, smirked. "Are we celebrating this, or are we pretending we’re not at all surprised?"

" Both ," Sirius said, beaming. "Obviously."

Remus chuckled, ruffling Harry’s hair. "I’ll admit, I’m quite proud of you."

Harry, still staring at the letter, let out a breath.

He had done it. No prophecy, no war hanging over his head. He had finished because he chose to .

That part was his favorite part.

Kingsley Black-Shacklebolt and Sirius Black-Shacklebolt got married that summer.

It was a small ceremony—just family, close friends, and a highly amused McGonagall officiating. Sirius had insisted on something dramatic, of course, but Kingsley had balanced him out, keeping things just this side of respectable.

Harry had stood beside them, watching as Sirius grinned like a madman and Kingsley gave him the softest look he had ever seen on the man’s face. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.

And then came the paperwork .

Harry had already gotten used to signing his name as Harry James Potter-Black , but now—now, Sirius and Kingsley were officially family. And Sirius had offhandedly mentioned that if Harry wanted to, he could adjust his name accordingly. No pressure. Just an option.

Harry had grumbled about it—about how he’d barely gotten used to the last change, about how at this rate, he’d need an entire roll of parchment just to fit his full name.

And then he changed it anyway.

Because they were his . His family.

So, with only mild amounts of grumbling, Harry signed the papers, his new legal name settled once and for all:

Harry James Potter Black-Shacklebolt.

Sirius ruffled his hair. Kingsley smirked. Remus laughed.

And Harry?

Harry just rolled his eyes, but he didn’t stop smiling.