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It was fair to say things had got wildly out of hand.
In hindsight—not that it was much use now—it probably hadn’t been the most brilliant idea Harry’d ever had. There were, he supposed, other ways to deal with a long, dull afternoon and a twitchy sort of restlessness. Maybe chess. Or reading. Or literally anything that didn’t end with sirens—both magical and Muggle—and half a dozen furious officials waving clipboards and banging on about “airspace boundaries” and “inappropriate vehicular enchantments.”
But Ron had been there, and they’d started wandering around Grimmauld Place, looking for something remotely interesting. And, in their defence, Sirius’s motorbike had just been sitting there—gleaming, available, and, most importantly, able to bloody fly . Sirius was hung up at work, the summer evening was warm and cloudless and… well, all the other fancy words Hermione would’ve used if she’d been there.
Harry reckoned she’d have a few choice ones for what he and Ron had ended up doing, too. And even if she did still have that time turner, she definitely wouldn’t be lending it to either of them now. Which meant there was only one conclusion to draw:
He was stuffed.
He was dead .
“Harry James Potter!”
So. Bloody. Dead.
“Sirius, I can expl—”
Two hours earlier…
"I'm bored out of my bloody mind," Ron moaned, flinging the Exploding Snap cards skyward with a tragic sigh.
Harry, half-sprawled in the nearby armchair, watched listlessly as they rained down around them, a few of them hissing slightly, fizzling out mid-air, the rest scattering across the carpet. He sighed in quiet agreement.
Merlin, moments like this he missed Hogwarts. Even on its worst days, there was always something happening—some corridor to sneak down, some secret to uncover. Even pelting rocks at the Slytherins by the lake had a certain charm, especially when the giant squid decided to join in.
Being stuck in Grimmauld Place in the middle of summer was like being trapped inside a cupboard inside another cupboard, but with more mould and fewer snacks. Not because Sirius didn't buy snacks—in fact, he bought the best snacks—but he and Ron had already inhaled most of it, and only the boring, marginally healthier options were left. Harry’s eyes fell on the lone Chocolate Frog wrapper on the coffee table, watching it flutter sadly with hushed crinkling noises.
“Sirius said he’d take us to Diagon Alley when he gets back,” Harry mumbled, though his tone suggested he doubted that was in the cards anymore. The light filtering through the enchanted curtains had shifted to dusky purple, charmed to reflect the hour and Sirius had yet to get back, despite it being a good two hours later than the time he’d told Harry to expect him. Harry didn't worry. Sirius had checked in through the two-way mirror telling him he was running late and Harry knew it was a low-stakes case, the one he was trying to close.
“If we don’t spontaneously combust from boredom before then,” Ron muttered, dragging a cushion over his face like he was seriously contemplating suffocating himself.
Harry rolled his head to the side, squinting at him. “We could explore the house.”
Ron peeked out from under the cushion. “Again?”
“We haven’t in ages,” Harry pointed out. “There’s still that trapdoor in the attic we couldn’t open.”
That got Ron’s attention. He sat up properly now, hair sticking up at odd angles. “Yeah. D’you reckon we could get it open this time?”
Harry’s lips twitched. “Only one way to find out.”
They scurried up the two flights of stairs that led to the fourth floor landing and then up the spiral, creaky staircase to the attic. Last time they’d been there, it had been mostly empty—save from a few boxes, old suitcases, a busted armchair with its springs tearing through the cushions, a moth-eaten set of dress robes that chased Ron around, before they managed to trap it with a box, and that trapdoor.
Which is why they both stopped dead in their tracks and slack-jawed at the sight that met their eyes. Looked like Sirius had flooed to work today.
Sirius’s motorcycle, in all its gleaming glory. He’d named her Triumph—not exactly original, considering it was part of the model’s name, but Harry had to admit, it suited her. Shiny and massive, she looked equal parts dangerous and glorious, her black-and-chrome body polished to within an inch of her life. The sidecar sat slightly skewed beside it, a pair of dragon-hide gloves and two helmets resting on its spacious seat as though just waiting for a ride.
Harry walked towards it, the same kind of awe creeping up on him like it always did, even though he’d been around it more or less all his life. He ran his hands across the handlebars, wrapped in worn Thestral leather. His eyes landed on the speedometer—that he knew Sirius had tampered with. The numbers went far higher than was strictly legal, and the needle twitched like it was just itching to be set loose.
“I still remember that ride Sirius gave us last summer,” Ron said, his voice almost wistful.
“Yeah, but he didn’t drive it as fast as it goes,” Harry grumbled. He’d been on it a few times with Sirius, his godfather always riding like he was a grandfather when he had Harry on it. Careful, slow, and painfully boring. He’d told Harry once that the bike could fly faster than a broomstick when it was pushed to the limit, yet Harry couldn’t know whether that was true.
And right now, staring at it... he was sorely tempted to find out.
His gaze slid over to Ron, who was staring back at him with that look.
Harry laid a hand on the saddle and the motorbike purred like it was alive, its engine vibrating under his palm.
“Do you know how to ride it?” Ron asked innocently. A ridiculous question really. If Sirius had taught Harry how to ride it, Ron would have been the first to know. But both of them knew what hid behind that question.
“Technically, no. But then again, you didn’t know how to drive your dad’s flying car either…”
“Mate…” Ron’s voice trailed off.
“I mean, we could?” Harry shrugged, excitement bubbling up inside him like potion in a cauldron. He imagined himself on the saddle, the engine roaring beneath him, the wind rushing past as he sped over London. Just the thought of it made his chest expand in that hunger for adventure he could never quite shake.
But then he shook his head, squashing the thought. No . Even if he did try he wouldn't speed over London. That would be asking for trouble. He was merely entertaining the idea of a little spin. A quick circle around the block. Nice and careful and slow, just to see how it felt. Nothing bad about that, was there?
“How dangerous could it really be, right?” Ron said, clearly getting caught up in it too. He hopped into the sidecar with a grin that looked a little too eager. “How do you even get it out of here?”
“Magic, obviously,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “The attic opens up when someone rides it and revs it up."
“Right,” Ron nodded.
Their eyes met again.
“I mean, just a quick spin, yeah? What’s the worst thing that could happen?” Harry said, his voice a little higher than usual.
Sirius had promised he’d start teaching Harry to ride once he turned sixteen, but that didn’t mean it was completely off-limits now. His birthday was only a fortnight away, after all. Technically close enough, wasn’t it? Yes, alright, Sirius had also said—more than once, actually—that even after that day came, Harry wasn’t to so much as touch the thing alone, let alone take it for a spin. But seeing as Sirius hadn’t started teaching him yet, maybe those particular rules weren’t quite in effect yet either, were they?
Seemed perfectly logical.
Still, his stomach did an uneasy flip at the memory of how clear Sirius had been about the consequences of ignoring said not-yet-in-effect rules. The slipper, for starters. The same bloody slipper Harry knew far too well by now. It tended to make its grand appearance whenever Sirius decided he’d ‘recklessly endangered his life again’—which, apparently, happened more often than Harry thought was strictly fair.
But this wasn’t that sort of thing, was it? It wasn’t dangerous, not really. Just a quick spin. Round the block and back. Nothing mental.
And anyway, Sirius was still off on Auror business, so if you thought about it, it was sort of his fault for leaving the bike out in plain sight, unattended. Practically asking for it.
And odds were, he’d never even know.
Right?
Harry couldn’t keep pretending to weigh it up. “Oh, sod it—let’s do it.”
Ron let out a whoop, tossing him one of the helmets, his grin stretching nearly ear to ear. He was already buckling the other on as Harry dragged his over his untameable hair, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
He swung a leg over, stomach somewhere near his trainers. His feet didn’t quite reach the ground—not that it mattered. The motorbike was charmed to balance on its own, standing upright as if waiting for him. Perched on top, it felt massive. Like it had a heartbeat of its own.
Triumph gave a low, eager purr beneath him. Sleek, and coiled like a muscle—magic coursing through it. She gave a tiny shiver, like she was just as keen to take off as he was. He glanced down at the kick-starter, trying to picture Sirius’s foot going through the motion. Right foot. Sharp jab. Nothing half-hearted.
“Ready?” he called to Ron, glancing to the side-car.
Ron gave a double thumbs-up, wide-eyed but beaming, equal parts excitement and panic. Harry swallowed, pressed down on the kick-starter.
Cough. Sputter. Then a deafening growl as Triumph roared to life beneath him, the vibrations rattling straight through his spine.
“Bloody hell,” Ron breathed, gripping the sides of the sidecar. “She’s loud.”
Overhead, the enchanted roof of Grimmauld Place groaned into motion, panels creaking open with a sound like a sleepy dragon stretching. A gust of warm and humid evening air rushed in, brushing Harry’s cheeks.
“Nice and steady,” he muttered to himself.
He twisted the throttle with cautious fingers. The bike gave a sudden jolt forward and Ron yelped, nearly tipping sideways.
“Smoothly,” Harry hissed to himself under his breath, adjusting his grip.
This time, Triumph rose gently, the ground sliding away beneath them. Harry’s breath caught as they hovered—just for a moment—and then they were off.
The rooftops of London unfurled beneath them in soft orange and deepening grey. The wind whipped around them, tugging at his sleeves and collar. It wasn’t like flying a broom—she was heavier, more stubborn—but she had this surging strength that filled Harry’s chest with a wild ache-like feeling.
Ron let out a whoop, barely heard over the engine. “We’re bloody flying!”
Once they were high enough—high enough not to be spotted, he hoped—Harry gave the throttle another twist. The wind howled in his ears, and the city below blurred into a scatter of colorful threads. Streetlights twinkled and Harry grinned, exhilaration coursing through him like lightning.
“This is brilliant !” Harry shouted, and Ron whooped in agreement.
“Where even are we?”
Harry glanced down. “London, you git!”
“Go left!”
“What’s left?”
“No clue!”
Harry laughed and yanked the handles left.
Which was a mistake.
The turn came too sharp, too fast, and the bike lurched violently, the engine roaring. Harry’s stomach slammed against his spine. Ron yelped, wobbling in the sidecar, greening at the gills.
“I think—maybe—slow down!” Ron gasped.
“I am ! I’m—wait—no I’m not—!”
Harry scrambled at the throttle, trying to ease back, but he must’ve twisted it further instead, because Triumph surged forward with a growl. The needle on the speedometer was already in illegal territory, twitching like mad.
He looked down to check the panel and in that second the front wheel dipped.
“ PULL UP! ” Ron screamed. “ PULL HER UP! ”
“I’M BLOODY TRYING! ” Harry yelled right back, wrenching the handles upward with every bit of strength he had. Triumph groaned under the effort.
The buildings, the cars, the streets, rushed toward them. Honking horns, startled screams, a red double-decker barely missed as they zipped just above it. Harry’s heart clawed its way into his throat.
And then came the sirens.
Shit.
They weren’t just coming from the streets below—but also from above and behind, growing louder. And brighter.
A booming voice rang out from the air above them, magically amplified:
“STOP THE MOTORBIKE! This is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement! I REPEAT, STOP THE MOTORBIKE”
Harry twisted his head—four brooms, Aurors in uniform, robes whipping in the wind, bearing down fast. He gulped.
“I CAN’T!” Harry yelled back. “HELP!”
Then it all happened faster than a vanishing snitch.
The bike jolted suddenly—slowed by a charm. Harry felt the weight vanish beneath him as he was levitated clean off Triumph. The bike was caught mid-air, spinning slightly, then steadied by an Auror flying alongside it.
Harry dangled for a second in sheer humiliation before he was gently lowered onto a broom. Cold static circled around his wrists.
Magical cuffs.
Ron landed on the broom of another Auror right beside him, similarly shackled, and shot him a look that said, we’re screwed.
“Central London, M.L.E. Patrol R15,” one of the Aurors was barking into a magical mirror. “We’ve got two underage fliers, a magically modified vehicle, multiple Muggle sightings. Calling in Muggle Exposure Response Team immediately.”
Harry swallowed. He wondered if one of the Aurors getting this message was his godfather. Or how long it would take for someone to recognize him and call Sirius anyway.
The answer to that question came in the form of another Auror, turning slightly on her broom’s saddle and fixing Harry with a death glare that made Professor McGonagall look positively cuddly. “You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?”
“…Sort of.”
Ron’s Auror snorted. “He’s going to love explaining this to Black.”
So bloody dead.
Sirius Black’s boots echoed down the corridor with the weary thud of a wizard who’d been upright for far too many hours, most of them spent in mid-air, mid-chase, or mid-duel. The Auror Department had cleared out long ago, but that did sod-all for the knot between his shoulders or the irritation simmering somewhere above his stomach.
He shoved the office door open, trudged to his desk and slumped into the battered chair behind it—more collapse than sit, really—and threw his feet up onto the cluttered surface with a graceless thud. Twelve bleeding hours of broom, sprinting, and spellfire, and not one minute of it quiet.
He ran both hands down his face, sighing into his palms. “Long bloody day.”
The Rookwood case, at last, was done. New evidence had dropped like a gift from Merlin, and he'd done what needed doing. No one’s fault, really—it came with the territory. He knew it, Harry knew it, even that surly little menace Kreacher knew it. Still didn’t make it sting any less, missing the promised butterbeers with the boys in favour of legging it across half of Knockturn and wrestling Rookwood into submission. And now? Now it was him and a stack of paperwork thick enough to build a bloody house out of.
Brilliant. Absolutely flaming brilliant.
He exhaled through his nose and let his eyes drift shut, drinking in the moment of silence like a man starved.
That's when he heard the footsteps. Quick ones. Sharp. Bugger.
His whole body groaned in protest.
He cracked one eye open to glare at the half-open door, already mentally preparing to hex the poor sod who thought now was the moment to bother him.
Until he saw Kingsley. He sighed. No hexing the boss.
Sirius blinked. Straightened a fraction. Didn’t move his feet.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Boss?” he drawled, voice still scratchy with exhaustion.
Kingsley didn’t smile. That was never a good sign.
The man approached, hands tucked neatly behind his back. Then, with the sort of theatrical pause Sirius had never appreciated, he reached into his robes, pulled something out, and dropped it with a clink onto the desk.
Sirius stared. Half a heartbeat passed before he recognised it: a knackered, scratched metal plate that had no business being anywhere but bolted to the arse-end of his motorbike.
Triumph .
Sirius shot upright, boots thudding to the floor hard enough to rattle the desk. “Someone nicked her?” His heart launched into his throat. His brain leapt straight to Harry—Harry, home alone. With Ron. Merlin. “Was Harry—was he—he was at home—did something happen? Is he alright?”
Kingsley raised one eyebrow, maddeningly unbothered. “He’s fine.”
Sirius didn’t breathe.
“He’s also the one who took the bloody bike.”
Kingsley's words hit like a rogue Bludger straight to the ribs.
“What?”
Kingsley folded his arms, every inch the Head of Department. “Harry Potter. Your godson. Caught flying your illegally fast, illegally modified death trap at full pelt—over Central London—like he was aiming for a Harpies tryout. Ron Weasley in the sidecar.”
Sirius opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
“They nearly clipped a double-decker. A double-decker, Sirius,” Kingsley said flatly. “Muggles all over the place. We had to send in two full Muggle Exposure Response Units. Dozens of memory wipes. We’ll be patching this up for weeks.”
Sirius sat there, frozen. Somewhere in the fog of his mind, words like Harry, Triumph, Ron, and crashed were rattling around, failing to connect in any sort of sane order.
Kingsley wasn’t done. “They lost control. Our Aurors barely managed to stop the bike before Harry and Ron dived it straight in the Thames or impaled it on St. Paul’s. Frankly, it’s a bloody miracle they didn’t get seriously injured. Or worse.”
A cold, horrible weight curled in Sirius’s chest. He could see it—clear as anything—Harry hunched over the bike, too small for the saddle, white-knuckled hands on the bars, pale-faced as wind screamed past. Barely flying. Barely not falling. One slip, one gust too strong, one wrong tilt and—
His mouth was dry. “Where is he?”
“In Detainment,” said Kingsley, voice clipped. “With Ron. Waiting for you and Arthur to collect them.”
Sirius nodded. Slowly. The motion barely reached his neck. His insides felt hollow, like someone had scooped him out and filled the empty space with fire instead.
It didn’t take long for the numbness to burn off.
The anger followed quick—hot, sharp, and well-earned.
Kingsley reached into his robes once more, producing a folded bit of parchment and tossing it onto the desk. “The bike’s been impounded,” he added. “Pending removal of the illegal enchantments. And a fine. Substantial one. It’ll singe your eyebrows.”
Sirius nodded again, jaw tight. He didn’t give a toss about the fine. Or the impounding. Triumph could sit in that bloody evidence locker until she rusted. His thoughts were already barrelling toward Harry—his Harry. His godson. His brilliant, reckless, infuriating, impossible boy.
What the hell had he been thinking? And how in Merlin’s name was Sirius going to handle this without either throttling him or breaking down completely?
“I’m going to kill him,” Sirius muttered, jaw grinding.
Kingsley gave him a long, knowing look. “You’re not.”
“I am. I’m going to kill him, bring him back, and kill him again. Slowly. No magic. Just a slipper and righteous fury. Death by slipper—it’ll be the first of its kind.”
“Charming,” Kingsley drawled. “Do save me the paperwork, would you?”
Sirius dragged in a breath so sharp it hurt. “Better call in forensics. We’ll need three teams to clean the crime scene.” And without another word, he stalked out the office, cloak snapping at his heels.
The walk to Detainment blurred into a symphony of stomping boots and low, venomous muttering. He was vaguely aware of people clearing the hall ahead of him, likely sensing murder in the air. By the time he shoved the door open, the detainment office went quiet.
Tonks looked up from behind the desk and smiled sympathetically. She twirled a parchment in the air. “Deep breaths, cous,” she said. “Release forms are ready.”
Sirius didn’t answer. His eyes had already snapped to the enchanted glass on the far wall—showing the holding room beyond. And there they were.
Harry. Helmet still on—small mercy—and posture hunched. Ron beside him, looking pale, sweaty, and vaguely seasick. Both wore matching expressions of doomed teenage guilt.
Sirius exhaled through his nose and pressed a hand hard to his forehead. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, statue-still, trying to get a hold of his temper, his fear, his worry.
It didn’t work.
“Tell me you’re not about to have a stroke,” Tonks said, only half-joking.
“Not yet,” Sirius muttered. “Ask me again after I’ve committed a double homicide.”
She snorted and slid the parchment over to him. “You’ll want this, then. Parental signature required.” She tapped the box marked Responsible Guardian.
Sirius signed it blindly, not once taking his eyes off the glass.
Ron noticed him first. The ginger gave a tentative little wave that died halfway through when Sirius didn’t return it. Just stared.
Then Harry turned. And the way he straightened and paled was almost enough to break Sirius’s heart. Almost.
But not quite.
Not when he was imagining all the ways this could’ve ended—with a crash, a fall, a news headline.
He pushed through the door.
His cloak flared behind him with each agitated stride as he entered the holding room like a summoned storm.
“Harry James Potter.”
His voice cracked across the room, sharp enough to make Tonks wince, and Harry flinched like he’d been hit with a spell. His eyes—too green, too wide—snapped up, already brimming with guilt, as Sirius came to a stop in front of him.
“Sirius, I can expl—” Harry began, voice tight, but Sirius cut him off with a hand in the air.
“Not. A. Word.”
Harry closed his mouth immediately, gaze dropping to the floor.
The magical cuffs vanished with a soft pop—Tonks, ever efficient, working from behind the desk—and Sirius stepped forward. He didn’t speak, didn’t scold, didn’t lecture. Just reached out, took Harry by the arm, and hauled him up to his feet.
Harry looked up at him then, worry etched across every inch of his face, like he half-expected to be smacked on the spot.
But Sirius didn’t raise his hand. Didn’t raise his voice. He’d never disciplined Harry in public, and he wasn’t about to start now.
Instead, he pulled the boy in—tight. One arm slung around his shoulders, the other cupped over the nape of his neck, fingers slipping under the helmet.
Harry froze for a moment, stiff with surprise, with shame. Then, slowly, he leaned in—pressed his forehead into Sirius’s shoulder and clutched at the sides of his robes.
Sirius held on tighter. Harry felt so small in his arms and his eyes shut against the image still stuck in his head—Harry, flying through the clouds, wobbling off-course, no help. Just a gust of wind or one wrong tilt away from—
“Bloody hell, Harry,” he muttered hoarsely, voice barely audible. “You could’ve…”
He couldn’t finish. His throat closed around it.
Harry didn’t say anything at first. Just held on. Small and still and far, far too young for the kind of recklessness he’d shown tonight.
Then, so quiet Sirius almost missed it: “I’m sorry.”
Sirius turned his face slightly, his chin resting on the top of the helmet. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know you are.”
But he didn’t say I forgive you. Not yet. That wasn’t the sort of thing you said in the heat of it all, not when your hands were still shaking and your mind was still stuck replaying what might’ve happened. That came later. After tea. After calm. After the slipper had had its say.
In the next room, Tonks could be heard talking softly, and Ron let out a low, pitiful whimper. Sirius glanced up in time to see Arthur Weasley step through the doorway, grim-looking and a far-cry from his usual sweet and pleasant self.
“Sirius,” Arthur greeted with a tired nod, eyes sweeping from his son to Sirius, then back again. Ron shrank in his seat.
One hand still resting on Harry’s shoulder, Sirius gave a grimace that could maybe pass for a smile. “Arthur. I don’t even know where to start—”
“Don’t,” Arthur sighed, lifting a hand. “Your motorbike now, my car three years ago. Between these two, we’re lucky neither of us owns a dragon.”
Arthur looked positively spent. Glasses askew, tie half-loosened, hair mussed like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. “You alright?” he asked Sirius quietly.
Sirius gave a dry little laugh. “More or less. You?”
“Less,” Arthur muttered darkly, then turned to his son with a look so sharp it could've sliced through dragonhide. “We’re going to have a very long conversation, young man.”
Ron made a strangled noise in his throat. “Yes, sir.”
Arthur turned back to Sirius, muttering, “Can’t believe we were nearly on the Muggle news. I’ll be glued to the telly for weeks.”
“Two Muggle Exposure Units,” Sirius said, rubbing at his face. “Nearly collided with a bloody double-decker.”
Arthur winced. “Sorry, Dad,” Ron piped in, voice barely a whisper.
Arthur gave him another long look. “ You will be . Because after our little chat tonight, you’ll be up at six sharp. You’re coming to the Ministry with me, and you’re spending the entire day in the Magical Misuse evidence archives. With Perkins.”
Ron blinked. “You mean—?”
“Shifting boxes until your arms fall off. And then we’ll stitch them back on so you can shift more.”
“Dad!” Ron squeaked.
“And you’re grounded until further notice.”
Sirius let out a quiet whistle. “Mind if I borrow that speech for later?”
“Be my guest.” Arthur’s disappointed gaze shifted to Harry. Then back at Sirius, the question unspoken but clear.
“I’ve got him,” Sirius said resolutely. “And he’s not getting off easy either.”
Arthur nodded once, approving. “Good.”
He turned back to Ron, jerking his head toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get home before your mother hears it from someone else.”
Ron looked positively ill as he followed, dragging his feet like a man on his way to Azkaban.
Arthur lingered just a second longer, voice low. “They’re alright. That’s what matters.”
Sirius looked down at Harry—still glued to his side, red-faced and quiet. He nodded. “Yeah. They are.”
Arthur gave his shoulder a firm squeeze before disappearing after his son, the door swinging shut behind him.
The room fell quiet.
Sirius took a long breath, then looked at Harry. “Come on,” he said, voice quieter now. “Let’s go home.”
Harry stepped out of the Floo with his stomach in knots and his heart trying to crawl up his throat. The helmet felt heavier now than it had going on. He unsnapped it with stiff fingers and ran a hand through his hair before nudging his glasses back up his nose.
A sideways glance told him Sirius was dusting soot off his coat, jaw tight, eyes distant in that dangerous I’m-not-shouting-because-I’m-plotting-your-demise kind of way.
“Sirius—”
“Corner.”
Harry blinked. “What? No! Sirius, come on, I’m nearly sixteen—”
But the look Sirius sent him over one shoulder was enough to turn his blood cold.
“Harry James,” his godfather said, low and razor-sharp, “you do not want to test me right now. Nose to the wall. You’ll stay there until I say, and you’ll think— properly think —about why you’re in that corner and why your arse is about to get blistered. Are we clear?”
Harry flushed a shade of red that could’ve rivaled the philosopher's stone. His fists clenched, his pride bristled, but somewhere deep down, survival instinct –drenched in guilt– kicked in. He knew that tone. Knew it meant Sirius was hanging on by a thread. And Harry wasn’t daft enough to snap it.
With all the grace of a condemned man, he shuffled over to the corner near the fireplace and glared furiously at the wall. He could pick his battles, and this one wasn’t worth dying on. But he didn’t have to look pleased about it.
Sirius left the room, boots retreating down the hall.
Harry sighed and pressed his forehead to the wall, muttering something uncharitable under his breath. This was bloody mortifying. He hadn’t been put in the corner since—well, not in a while. And the slipper? That hadn’t come out in months. Not since before Easter. And yet here he was: scolded, cornered, and absolutely dreading what was coming next.
From somewhere down the hall came the clink of a kettle, and Harry very nearly groaned aloud.
Tea.
He was making tea.
That meant he was fuming.
That meant he was actively trying to calm himself down so that he could, in a thoroughly civilised manner, reduce Harry’s backside to ash like a phoenix on a particularly nasty burning day.
Harry whimpered. Just a tiny one. And if anyone asked, it was the floorboards.
He waited. And waited. And waited. Kicked the baseboard lightly. Folded and unfolded his arms. Stretched one leg behind him like that would somehow make him less cornered. Huffed. Pushed his glasses up. Chewed his cheek. Peeked over his shoulder exactly twice before catching himself and swearing quietly.
Corner time sucked.
At least until the familiar sound of booted footsteps returned and he suddenly wished it would have lasted longer.
A creak as someone sank into the old sofa.
A quiet, drawn-out sigh.
“Come join me, Harry.”
Well. How gracious of you, Your Wrathfulness.
Harry made a face at the wall where Sirius couldn’t see it. He rolled his eyes dramatically for no audience but the bricks, trying to get the last of his defiance out of his system and invoking his very real guilt. That would serve him much better under the current rather grim circumstances. Then he turned, sullen and slow, and dragged himself across the room to the armchair across from Sirius, every step pure doom.
He sat down with a flop, arms crossed, doing his best to keep his bottom lip from pushing out.
Almost-sixteen-year-olds did not pout.
Sirius leaned back on the sofa, back straight. He eyed Harry for a moment before taking his wand out and wordlessly twirled it.
Harry barely had a second to wonder, before he heard the familiar thud of something dislodging from upstairs.
He gulped.
Seconds later, it came flying down the hallway, turning once mid-air like a bird of prey, right above Harry's head, before landing on the arm of the sofa – right next to Sirius' hand– with a soft, ominous thwap .
The slipper.
It was old—properly old—with a dark brown leather top polished smooth from years of wear. And not its originally intended kind of wear. It had a thick , flexible sole, just soft enough to not mark, just hard and heavy enough to make you wish it would leave marks, so you had something to show for it.
Harry scowled at it as though it might lunge at him. His stomach dropped somewhere near his knees, and he sank a little further into the armchair.
“Well?” Sirius said curtly. “Would you care to explain what in Merlin’s name you were thinking?”
Harry swallowed, mouth parchment dry. His gaze shifted to the slipper, then back to his godfather's face, which was taut and gravely serious.
“I—” Harry started, then stopped, because ‘I don’t know ’ didn’t seem like a particularly strong opening argument.
Sirius tapped a finger on the sofa’s armrest, right next to the slipper, like a warning bell.
“It's not like it was planned,” Harry said a little hastily. “I swear, we were just sitting here, bored out of our minds and thought we could explore the attic, and the bike was there… ”
“That’s your reason?” Sirius asked, now his tone dangerously calm. “You were bored ? The bike was there ?”
“I wanted to fly it,” Harry blurted out, face heating up. “I thought I could handle it. I remembered how you did it and you always made it look so easy.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, hand tapping again, harder. “So naturally, you thought you’d take it for a joyride over central London ?”
“I didn’t mean to go over central London,” Harry mumbled, ears going hot. “We were just gonna take it for a quick spin around the block. I swear, Sirius. The London bit… sort of… happened.”
There was a long pause. Sirius’ eyes didn’t leave his, he just grilled Harry with that upset and disappointed and ominous look, until Harry began to shift in his seat. He hated this part. The silence was worse than yelling. Worse than the bloody slipper.
“You could’ve died,” Sirius said at last, quiet and low. “You and Ron both. You could’ve crashed into a building, gone through a Muggle’s window, hit a car, exposed the entire bloody magical world, killed yourselves—or someone else. All because you were bored. And the bike was there. And London just sort of happened.”
Harry flinched, stomach lurching. “I didn’t think—”
“No,” Sirius snapped, and there it was—the snap. Like a wand finally cracking under pressure. “You didn’t think. Which, frankly is an ongoing problem. And riding a flying vehicle without knowing how to and without permission is not something that happened for the first time, might I add, is it?”
Harry blinked up at him, startled.
“Let me jog your memory,” Sirius went on, voice rising a fraction. “Second year. You and Ron. Arthur’s flying car. The bloody Whomping Willow. You nearly got expelled! You’d think, maybe, maybe, nearly dying flying an enchanted car straight into a magical tree would’ve knocked some sense into you both—but no. Here we are. Again. Same thrill-seeking, brain-off, full-speed-ahead idiocy. Just add altitude.”
Harry’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His ears were ringing. The worst part was, Sirius wasn’t wrong.
“You didn’t think about the danger,” Sirius went on, quieter now, but no less fierce. “Didn’t think about what it meant to take something enchanted and unwarded. Didn’t think about Muggle safety. Or your own. Or Ron’s."
That last part landed like a blow.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, voice barely a whisper.
“I know you’re sorry,” Sirius leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, piercing Harry with that disappointed look of his. “But sorry doesn’t rewind time. It doesn’t fix broken bones or unmake disasters or raise the dead.”
His voice cracked slightly, and Harry’s stomach twisted, a lump forming in his throat.
“You’re not a little kid anymore,” Sirius said at last, quieter now. “But that doesn’t mean you’re grown. You’re still learning. And if I’ve got to spank it into your stubborn skull to keep you alive, Harry James, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
Harry dropped his gaze, cheeks flaming. He didn’t dare say a word.
Sirius nodded toward the slipper. “So. First part of your sentence: a long trip over my knee. Don’t give me that look. You earned every bit of what’s coming to you.”
Harry felt his face burning hotter, but didn’t dare argue.
“Second part,” Sirius went on, “You’re grounded. Two weeks. No flying, no visits, no Diagon Alley, and Merlin help you if I even think you’ve set foot near the attic. Your days, young man, will be filled with an endless supply of chores and the kind of mind-numbing boredom that makes you question your life choices.”
Harry swallowed. Hard.
“You can also forget about me teaching you to ride the bike. You’ve shown me you’re nowhere near ready or mature enough for something like that. We’ll revisit after you come of age.”
Harry lowered his eyes. That bit hurt worse than the slipper.
“And third,” Sirius added, eyes narrowing just slightly, “you’ll be writing apology letters.”
Harry blinked. “Letters?”
“Letters,” Sirius confirmed, like it was a death sentence. “One to Kingsley. One to the Muggle Exposure Unit. One to Mr and Mrs Weasley, since their son ended up being in danger because of your thoughtless actions."
Harry winced. Fair enough.
"And lastly one to me," Sirius concluded.
Harry’s eyes snapped up. “What?”
“You heard me. You’ll be writing me an apology as well. You stole my bike, Harry. The Triumph. You broke rules, you risked your life, and Ron’s, and caused a public incident so messy I’m still expecting a Howler from the Minister’s office. You got the bike impounded and a hefty fine on top of it. I think I more than deserve an apology letter, too.”
Harry looked down, ears hot. “Yes, sir.”
“They won't just be ‘sorry I nicked the bike’ either. I expect details. I want an account of what you did, why you thought it was even remotely a good idea, why it absolutely wasn’t, and a proper apology to each and every person affected. And you'll get started on them right after your spanking.”
Harry gave a miserable nod.
Sirius gave him a long look. "Right. To me, then, Harry James."
Harry didn’t move at first. He stared down at the rug, patterned in those faded swirls Sirius always insisted were "characterful" rather than worn out. He wanted to obey Sirius, but his legs felt like they were made of lead, and his brain had gone oddly blank, despite having been in this position more times than he cared to recount.
"Harry," Sirius prompted again. Tone even, but warning edging it.
Harry’s feet finally shuffled forward, slow and dragging, like they weren’t particularly thrilled with the destination. His face was burning, ears so hot they might’ve been steaming.
“Come on then,” Sirius said quietly, patting his leg once. “Let’s get this over with.”
Harry swallowed again. Merlin, this was awful. His heart was hammering in his chest, thudding louder than the ticking clock on the mantel. Then, awkwardly, he placed himself beside Sirius, his limbs stiff and uncertain.
“I really am sorry,” Harry muttered.
Sirius’s expression softened by a fraction, and he reached up to rest a hand against the back of Harry’s neck, warm and solid. “I know you are,” he said. “And we’ll talk more about all of it after. But right now, you will face the consequences you knew to expect, Harry."
Harry nodded, resigned and crimson-faced, and then, mortified beyond words, let his godfather guide him firmly across his lap. Harry reached for one of the throw pillows the second he felt Sirius’ thighs below him, and took his glasses off, before burying his face in it.
Sirius adjusted him slightly, raising his left knee just so. The new position left Harry’s backside higher, entirely at his Godfather’s mercy, like some sort of offering. Brilliant.
He shifted his weight slightly, trying not to wriggle too obviously, heart thudding a lively rhythm in his ears. He could already feel the blood rushing to his face as he pressed it harder into the pillow.
Then his jeans got yanked down, followed by his pants, to just below his knees. Harry tensed, mortified, even though he'd known it was coming. The brush of cool air over his bare skin made him flinch. His face burned hotter, the prickling shame crawling down his neck and he clenched his teeth, doing his absolute best not to kick his feet like a child.
Almost sixteen year olds didn't make a fuss about being spanked.
Sirius didn’t give him a second to stew in it.
Smack .
The first one landed hard, splitting the quiet of the living room.
Harry jolted with a gasp, eyes squeezing tight. That hurt. Proper sting, right across the right cheek. There and gone in a flash—just in time for the next one.
Smack .
Other side. Just as hard. He let out a soft, strangled sound—something between a muffled grunt and a whine.
Right. Okay. So apparently Sirius had decided warm-ups were for people who weren’t already in a mountain of trouble.
The swats kept coming. Methodical, alternating sides. Sirius didn’t rush through it, nor spoke yet. Harry knew the scolding would be coming later. Right now, Sirius just kept going, each smack kindling the fire that was slowly spreading across his cheeks and upper thighs.
Harry winced as another set of slaps landed, heat blooming after them. The sting wasn’t just sharp anymore—it was building, merging into a steady, hot ache and Harry wished the pillow would somehow become a portkey so that he could disappear.
He'd been spanked by Sirius before, of course—but this time it felt worse. Maybe because he knew how badly he'd messed up. Or maybe because his godfather was properly cross and Harry could feel his disappointment in every well-aimed swat.
He sniffed, blinking fast as another stingy smack made his leg twitch.
This was ridiculous. It wasn’t even a proper spanking yet and already he wanted to cry and yell and squirm. Which—he did. He did start squirming, just slightly, pained sounds escaping his gritted teeth.
If this was still the warm-up, then yeah—he was absolutely done for.
Right on cue with that thought, Sirius decided to change things up a bit, now landing two or even three smacks on the same spot before moving to the next. It was like Fire Whiskey sprayed on fire— fast, and spreading and intensifying everything tenfold. The burn deepened so rapidly that Harry’s body jolted and twisted on its own accord.
The first proper tears spilled over his lashes.
“Sirius,” Harry whined, voice cracking as his legs jerked. “I’m sorry! Please, not so hard!”
His godfather didn’t answer. Not with words. The punishment did all the talking for a few more seconds, each smack falling with precise, frustrating regularity—right over the lower curve of his arse now, the dreaded sit-spots, and even his upper thighs. And then again all over for good measure.
By the time Sirius eventually paused, Harry was crying real tears, his breathing ragged and uneven, legs kicking and catching against the sofa cushion. The sting burned, deep and unrelenting, and his face felt just as hot as his bottom.
And still, Sirius wasn’t done.
His godfather didn’t say anything for a moment and Harry tried to catch his breath—if you could call it that— before the man asked, his voice quiet, but firmer than Harry had ever heard it before, “Why am I spanking you, Harry?”
Harry hated this part. The questions. The ones he couldn’t ignore. “I—” he hiccupped, shifting miserably in place. “Because I was stupid.”
Sirius’ hand landed again—one blistering smack to the underside of his right cheek.
“Try again,” he said firmly. “Tell me what you did.”
Harry squeezed his eyes tighter. He hated having to say it out loud. But Sirius wasn’t going to let him off with vague answers.
“I—” he swallowed, sniffling. “I took your bike. I didn’t even know how to ride it, and I—” he stopped, breath hitching. “I took Ron with me. flew over the city. And I—I lost control.”
Sirius didn’t speak, but another set of scorching smacks met his sit spots, two on each side, making him cry harder.
“Keep going,” Sirius said. “All of it.”
Harry was outright sobbing now, voice wobbly. “The Aurors caught us, they impounded your bike. You—you had to come and get me. Muggles saw us. You'll pay a fine. I—I could’ve gotten us both killed,” he finished, voice collapsing into a broken whisper.
Sirius finally exhaled. A long, low sound that said more than his words did. “Yes. You bloody well could’ve.”
Harry felt another couple of swats land—harder now, echoing Sirius’ fear.
“You didn’t just break my trust,” his godfather continued, his tone heavy. “You endangered your life, Ron’s life, and anyone who happened to be in that part of the city. Because what, you thought it’d be fun ?”
Harry flinched at the words. “I—I wasn’t thinking.”
“No,” Sirius agreed, more solid smack landing, now targeting his thighs. “You weren’t. And someone else could’ve paid for that mistake. Not just you.”
Tears flooded his vision, snot blocked his nose, pain throbbed in his arse and thighs and Harry hated hearing it. Because it was true. All of it. And no amount of ‘sorry’ could undo how bad it could’ve gone.
“I am sorry,” Harry choked out, “I swear I am. I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t mean to,” Sirius interrupted, his voice softening only slightly. “But you did . And you’re damn lucky this,” he punctuated his words with a blazing swat, “ is the worst of what you're getting.”
Then, there was a pause and a shift behind him.
Harry tensed. His head snapped up from the pillow and he peeked behind his shoulder, even though he already knew what he’d see.
No. No, not already—
Sirius’ voice, calm and measured, broke the silence as the slipper tapped his already burning buttocks. “Right. That’s the warm-up over. Now we get to the part you’ll remember next time you even think about doing something so mindless.”
Harry squirmed, glancing over his shoulder again, vision blurring with fresh tears. “Sirius—no, wait—can’t we just—"
“No,” Sirius said, somberly. And with that, the first crack of the slipper rang out, louder and sharper than anything that had come before it.
Harry bucked over Sirius’ lap, a cry tearing out of him.
Bloody hell.
He didn’t even have the breath to yell properly—just a strangled sound that died in his throat. The sting was different now, stingy and thuddy and burning all at once, and reverberating straight through muscle, searing hot and heavy.
He buried his face in the pillow, squeezing it like it might absorb some of the pain for him.
It did not.
Another swat landed—then another— Sirius keeping the pattern of two on the same spot, quick and merciless. The slipper covered more skin than his palm had and the cracking sound filled the living room, only now it was layered with Harry’s loud, uneven sobs and the pained noises he couldn’t keep in anymore.
“It hurts,” he sobbed out, legs kicking frantically, but Sirius kept him firmly in place.
“Lesson’s not meant to feel nice, young man,” his godfather said sternly. “You’re meant to remember it.”
Harry was remembering it. In vivid, blistering detail. His backside felt like it was on fire—deep, biting heat that pulsed with every breath, every twitch.
Sirius didn’t rush it. He had this awful knack for finding the rhythm that gave each swat time to fully register before the next came in. Two on the left, then two on the right, then again—lower this time, catching the very tops of Harry’s thighs.
Harry howled. His legs kicked instinctively, but Sirius’ arm around his waist didn’t budge. He was well and truly trapped, no escaping the pain, the punishment, and the worst part was that somewhere, in the haze of pain and embarrassment, Harry knew he deserved it. He hated it— every second of it —but he knew.
“I could’ve lost you,” Sirius said, his voice suddenly choked and tight. “Could have got a call saying you’d crashed—not even sixteen years old and gone, just like that. You and Ron both.”
The slipper cracked down again, and Harry sobbed. Not just from pain now—but from guilt. His stomach turned. His chest ached with it.
“I know,” he sobbed. “I know, I’m sorry—Sirius, please—!”
Another volley of swats, another shockwave of fiery pain in his skin.
“You should never have put yourself—or anyone else—in that kind of danger.”
“I won’t! I won’t ever again, I promise—I swear I won’t!”
The next swat landed, marginally less harsh. Then another. Harry couldn’t tell from the pain, because the throbbing was too intense for any slight difference to register, but the sound wasn’t as loud. Sirius was easing off. Not stopping—but letting up slightly. His grip on Harry’s waist loosened, just enough to let Harry shift without wriggling free.
Harry kept crying it all out—hot, snotty, ridiculous tears. “I didn’t think it’d go that bad,” he managed through hitched breaths, voice hoarse.
His godfather didn’t respond at first. A couple more smacks landed, like punctuation marks at the end of a long, awful sentence.
Then finally, the slipper stopped.
The silence that followed was thick. Only Harry’s breathing broke it—gasping, hiccupping sobs as he lay limp over Sirius’ lap, every inch of him aching and sore and spent.
Sirius set the slipper down, then started rubbing firm soothing circles on his back. “It’s over, lad. All done now.”
Harry somehow cried even harder, the throbbing pain still raging.
“You scared the hell out of me, Harry James.”
“I know,” Harry sobbed out. “I’m sorry. I was scared, too.”
Sirius sighed, the sound deeper and softer now. “Good. You should’ve been.”
His hand stayed on Harry’s back, comforting, while Harry tried to catch his breath and sort through the blur of guilt and pain and something almost like relief.
Because despite everything—despite the shame and the pain and the tears—there was something weirdly comforting in it. The fact that Sirius was there to hold him. To help him. To make this right. To make damn sure he wouldn’t make that kind of mistake again. Because Harry wouldn’t. Never ever again.
Sirius gave him a light pat on his hip. “Alright. That’s your hide properly tanned.”
Harry nodded into the pillow, voice muffled. “Felt that, yeah.”
“You’ll feel it for a few days yet,” Sirius said matter-of-factly, then patted him again. “Now come on. Up you get.”
Harry peeled himself off his lap slowly, wincing and red-faced and sore to the bone. But somehow, he felt a bit lighter. Like maybe this had knocked some sense into him after all.
Sirius enveloped Harry in a tight hug, pulling him close, arms wrapped firm around his back, and Harry didn’t resist. He let himself melt into it, burying his face in Sirius’s shoulder, the familiar scent grounding him like nothing else could. It was warmth, it was safety, it was the quiet promise that—even when things went sideways—Sirius would still be there.
“I’ve got you, pup” Sirius murmured into his hair, one hand cradling the back of Harry’s head, the other rubbing slow, steady circles across his shoulder blades. “You’re alright.”
Harry didn’t answer at first. He just stood there, then his arms wrapped around his godfather, breath still hitching, throat still thick.
“I messed up,” he mumbled. “Really bad.”
Sirius gave a low hum, not letting go. “Yeah. You did.” The words weren’t angry, just honest. “And you’ve faced up to it. And you learned from it and that's what matters.”
Harry’s fingers curled tighter around Sirius' cloak. He hated how small his voice sounded when he asked, “You’re not... you’re not too mad?”
Sirius leaned back just enough to look him in the face. His eyes were tired, but the tension in his face was gone. “Harry, I was scared out of my wits. I still am. But, no, I'm not mad."
“I just wanted to see what it felt like,” he muttered, then winced. “Which is a rubbish reason.”
“It’s a very fifteen-year-old reason,” Sirius said with a small smile. “But it’s not unforgivable. And it doesn’t mean I love you any less. There's nothing you could ever do that would make me love you any less, Harry James.”
Something tight and aching in Harry’s chest loosened at that.
After a long moment, Sirius pressed a kiss to his hair and gave him a final squeeze before letting go. “Right. I believe you’ve got a few letters to write.”
Harry pulled a face. “Yeah,” he muttered, with all the enthusiasm of a Flobberworm.
He didn't miss the way Sirius' lips twitched a bit. “Come on, then. I’ll put the kettle on, and we can sit at the kitchen table together. You write, I’ll supervise—maybe offer editorial feedback."
Harry let out a huff and didn't bother hiding his pout. He trailed after Sirius into the kitchen, a hand snaking behind him to attempt and rub some sting out.
It didn't work.
Before he knew it he was sat at the table. The wooden chair was as unforgiving as he remembered on a freshly tanned arse—but the tea was hot, Sirius’s presence comforting beside him, and the worst was over now.
He picked up the quill, and began to write.