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Freedom, Sirius discovered, was much louder than prison.
Azkaban had been simple. Horrible, but simple. There had been cold and darkness and hunger and the endless scraping of Dementors against the edges of his mind, and there had been James. Not James himself, of course. James was dead. James had been dead for years. But the memory of James had remained stubbornly alive, tucked away in a corner of Sirius's mind the Dementors had never quite managed to reach. A laugh. A grin. A hand tangled in his hair. A voice saying his name. Those memories had become his meals when food wasn't enough, his blankets when the cold became unbearable, his prayers when he had forgotten how to believe in anything else. Survive today because James existed yesterday. Survive tomorrow because Harry exists somewhere today. That had been enough. It had to be enough.
But now there were no Dementors.
No bars.
No walls.
No purpose.
The Ministry had released him with money he didn't want, apologies he didn't believe, and a set of keys to a flat that felt less like a home and more like a waiting room. The wallpaper was yellowing. The plumbing rattled. The mattress sagged in the middle. None of that bothered him. What bothered him was the silence. The endless, suffocating silence. There was nobody screaming. Nobody crying. Nobody begging. Nobody dying. There was only Sirius and the sound of his own thoughts, and after twelve years of surviving, he found he hated them.
He drifted through days without understanding how they worked. Sometimes he ate. Sometimes he forgot. Sometimes he slept for fourteen hours. Sometimes he sat in the same chair watching shadows crawl across the walls until sunrise. He bought newspapers and never read them. Bought groceries and let them rot. Bought books and couldn't focus on a single word. Every morning he woke up and remembered he was free. Every night he went to bed wondering why that felt so awful.
The worst moments came when he caught himself reaching for memories. Not because they hurt. Because they didn't hurt enough.
James, sprawled across a Gryffindor sofa with Remus tucked against one side and Sirius against the other, all three of them arguing over absolutely nothing.
James asleep between them after a full moon, one hand hanging off the bed and the other tangled somewhere in Remus's jumper.
James laughing so hard he nearly fell off a broom. James kissing Remus first because Sirius had dared him to. James kissing Sirius second because it turned out he wanted to. Those memories should have broken him. Instead they felt safe. Safer than reality. Safer than freedom.
Safer than the knowledge that James was dead, Peter was dead, twelve years had vanished, and somewhere out there Harry Potter was growing up without him.
So Sirius started walking.
That was how it began.
Long walks through parts of London he didn't recognize anymore. Long walks through crowds that made him nervous and alleyways that made him feel alive. He drifted further every night, gravitating toward places sensible people avoided. Dark streets. Shuttered shops. Men with hard eyes and harder hands. Places where danger sat openly in the air like a challenge.
Part of him knew what he was doing.
The larger part didn't care.
If he was honest, there was something comforting about danger. Pain made sense. Fear made sense. Survival made sense. A knife was easier to understand than a future.
The first time someone tried to rob him, Sirius laughed.
The second time, he handed over his wallet. Screw the ministry money anyway.
The third time went badly. There were three of them. Young. Desperate. One of them scared. The scared one was the dangerous one. Sirius knew that from experience. He should have left when he saw them. Instead he stayed.
He didn't know why. Maybe because James would've walked away. Maybe because James would've fought. Maybe because James would've known what to do. Sirius wasn't James anymore. The knife appeared so quickly he barely saw it. A flash of silver. A sharp impact. Then warmth.
Far too much warmth.
For a second he didn't understand.
Then he looked down.
Blood.
Quite a lot of it.
"Huh."
The word escaped him before he could stop it.
One of the boys swore.
Another turned pale.
The third grabbed the others and ran.
Just like that.
Gone.
Leaving Sirius alone.
Again.
Always alone.
He pressed a hand against the wound automatically. Blood slipped through his fingers immediately. The sight should have alarmed him. Instead he found himself oddly detached.
That seemed like a problem.
Probably. He should go somewhere. A hospital. A healer. Anywhere. Instead he started walking. Because movement was easier than stopping. Because stopping meant thinking. Because if he stopped he might realize how tired he was.
Streetlights blurred together. The city tilted strangely around him. Twice he nearly fell. Once he actually did, catching himself against a brick wall slick with rain and grime. His breathing had become difficult somewhere along the way. Every inhale felt sharp. Every exhale felt wet.
James would've called him an idiot.
Remus would've called him worse.
The thought made him smile despite himself.
A foolish thing to smile about.
A foolish thing to think about.
Remus.
He hadn't seen Remus since before Azkaban. Before accusations. Before funerals. Before prison. Before everything. Twelve years. Twelve years was enough time for entire lives to happen. Remus probably hated him. The thought hurt less than it should have. Most things did these days.
By the time Sirius reached his building, he was shaking badly enough that fitting the key into the lock became a genuine challenge. He missed twice. Three times. On the fourth attempt the door finally opened.
Victory.
Wonderful.
He managed three steps inside before his legs gave out. The floor rushed up to meet him. Hard. Cold. Not entirely unpleasant. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. The cracks in the plaster looked vaguely familiar. That didn't seem right. His eyelids felt heavy.
Just for a minute, then. He though.
Just for a minute.
A knock sounded somewhere far away. Then another. Louder. Persistent. Sirius ignored it. Another knock. Then a voice. Muffled through wood and distance and blood loss. A voice he hadn't heard in twelve years.
"Sirius?"
Everything inside him froze. Impossible. The voice came again. Closer this time. Worried.
"Sirius!"
Remus.
For one bewildering moment Sirius wondered if he'd finally died. It seemed as likely an explanation as any. Then the knocking became pounding. The door rattled violently.
And Sirius, bleeding out on the floor of his miserable little flat, found himself thinking only one thing.
Oh, this is going to be a disaster.
The pounding continued long enough that Sirius began considering whether dying might actually be less irritating. His entire body felt heavy. The blood loss had left him cold and vaguely detached from reality, as though he were watching someone else's life from very far away. The knocks rattled through the flat anyway, insistent and stubborn and impossible to ignore. Then came the sound of a lock clicking open, followed by hurried footsteps crossing the threshold.
For a brief moment, Sirius simply stared at the ceiling. The cracks in the plaster swam above him. He thought he might be hallucinating. That would have been understandable. Twelve years around Dementors had hardly improved his relationship with reality. Then a familiar voice cut through the haze.
"Oh, for God's sake."
The irritation in it was unmistakable.
Remus.
Not a dream, then.
Not a memory.
Not a Dementor-fed fantasy dredged up from the better parts of his life.
Just Remus Lupin standing over him while he bled across a dusty apartment floor.
The thought was so profoundly humiliating that Sirius nearly laughed.
A shadow fell across him. There was a long silence as Remus took in the situation, and Sirius had the distinct impression he was being judged. Not dramatically judged. Not angrily judged. The sort of weary judgment one reserved for finding an old friend attempting to expire in an especially inconvenient location.
Finally Remus pinched the bridge of his nose and asked, with remarkable restraint, "How long were you planning on bleeding out in front of me without saying a word?"
Sirius considered the question. It seemed polite to give it genuine thought.
"Depends," he said eventually.
The response was met with complete silence.
"On what?"
"Whether it worked."
Remus closed his eyes.
Sirius watched him carefully. Time had altered him. There was more grey than he remembered, more lines around his eyes, more evidence of long years spent carrying burdens he had never been meant to bear alone. Yet somehow the expression remained familiar. Remus had always looked like this when James and Sirius had done something particularly idiotic. Back then it usually involved broomsticks, explosions, or both. Now it involved a knife wound and a floor.
"I see prison did absolutely nothing for your sense of self-preservation."
The accusation stirred something sharp inside Sirius. Not anger exactly. Something older. Something tired.
"Prison did quite a lot for my sense of self-preservation," he replied. "That's rather the point. If it hadn't, I'd still be there."
Remus stared at him for a moment before producing his wand. "Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"That's because you collapsed."
"Still counts."
For the first time, Sirius thought he saw the corner of Remus's mouth twitch. It vanished immediately. A second later warm light spilled from the tip of the wand and pain ripped through Sirius's side hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth. The healing magic worked quickly, knitting together torn flesh and sealing damage that would otherwise have killed him before morning. It was not a pleasant process. Sirius suspected Remus knew this and derived at least some satisfaction from it.
When the final spell faded, the room seemed oddly quiet. Neither of them moved immediately. Remus remained kneeling beside him, one hand still loosely wrapped around his wand, while Sirius stared at the stained ceiling and tried not to think about how strange it felt to have another person in the flat.
Eventually Remus sat back against the wall with a tired sigh and looked around properly. His gaze moved over the empty shelves, the unopened boxes, the dust gathering in corners, and the complete absence of anything resembling a life. The flat looked less like a home than a place someone had paused halfway through moving into and never returned to finish.
"It looks completely different now."
The words settled heavily between them.
Sirius laughed.
The sound surprised even him. There was no humour in it. Only exhaustion sharpened into something cruel.
"Really?" he asked. "I hadn't noticed."
Remus didn't respond.
Something about that irritated Sirius further.
"No, genuinely. Thank you for pointing it out. I'd spent the last several months under the impression London had remained frozen in time specifically for my convenience. It's comforting to learn things changed while I was in prison."
Still nothing.
The silence stretched.
Sirius hated it.
He hated that Remus wouldn't rise to the bait. Hated that he wouldn't shout. Hated that he wouldn't accuse him of anything. A fight would have been easier. Anger would have been familiar. Anger could be survived.
Instead Remus simply sat there, looking older than Sirius remembered and infinitely sadder.
The realization dug unexpectedly deep.
"I suppose you'll tell me James is dead next."
The words escaped before Sirius could stop them.
Immediately he wished they hadn't.
The room went still.
Outside, somewhere beyond the grimy windows, traffic rolled through the city. A siren wailed in the distance. Life continued. Inside the flat, however, there was only silence.
When Remus finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that Sirius almost missed it.
"I know."
Two words.
No anger.
No accusation.
No attempt to comfort.
Just understanding.
And somehow that hurt far more than any argument could have.
For a long time neither man spoke again. They simply sat together on the dusty floor of a half-empty apartment, surrounded by twelve years of absence and the ghost of someone they had both loved, while afternoon sunlight drifted slowly across the room. Sirius found himself staring at the opposite wall and becoming uncomfortably aware that, for the first time since leaving Azkaban, he was not alone.
The realization was terrifying.
Naturally, he immediately decided it was Remus's fault.
-
Three days later, Sirius found himself wandering the streets again.
The wound in his side had mostly healed. Remus's magic had seen to that. The skin still pulled unpleasantly whenever he twisted too quickly, and there would undoubtedly be a scar, but the sharp agony had faded into something dull and manageable. Unfortunately, healing had only succeeded in removing one problem and revealing several others beneath it.
Pain, Sirius discovered, had been useful.
Pain occupied space.
Pain gave him something to focus on.
Without it, there was only thinking.
Thinking was dangerous.
Thinking led to James.
Thinking led to Harry.
Thinking led to twelve years of memories that felt simultaneously vivid and impossibly distant, like photographs left too long in sunlight.
The city had changed. Everyone kept saying that. Remus had said it. Newspapers said it. Strangers said it. London had changed, the world had changed, life had changed. Yet every time Sirius walked through the darker corners of the city, he found something comfortingly familiar lurking beneath the surface. Fear had not changed. Violence had not changed. Desperate men with desperate eyes had not changed. There were still alleys where people watched each other too carefully. Still corners where money exchanged hands quickly. Still places where trouble lingered in the air like a scent.
Sirius gravitated toward those places instinctively.
Perhaps because they made sense.
Azkaban had stripped many things from him, but not his understanding of danger.
Danger was simple.
Danger announced itself.
Danger didn't require him to imagine a future.
The man appeared near midnight.
Broad shoulders. Broken nose. The sort of face that suggested violence came naturally. He was bothering a younger wizard near the entrance to a shuttered shop, backing him into a wall while demanding something Sirius couldn't quite hear.
The younger man looked frightened.
The older one looked pleased about it.
Sirius felt something inside him awaken immediately.
Not anger.
Not righteousness.
Something worse.
Relief.
Finally.
Something to do.
The younger wizard spotted him first. Hope flashed briefly across his face. The thug turned a moment later and frowned.
Sirius smiled.
The reaction was immediate.
The man's confidence wavered.
Not because Sirius looked threatening. Quite the opposite. Sirius looked thin. Underfed. Slightly unhinged. His coat hung awkwardly from his frame. His hair needed cutting. There was still bruising visible near his collar where the knife attack had happened.
Yet something about the smile clearly unsettled him.
Good.
Sirius had spent twelve years perfecting unsettling smiles.
"Evening," Sirius said pleasantly.
The thug straightened.
"This doesn't concern you."
"No?"
"No."
Sirius considered this.
Then smiled wider.
"What unfortunate news."
The younger wizard slipped away while neither of them were paying attention. Sirius barely noticed. His attention remained fixed entirely on the man in front of him.
The man's hand drifted toward his wand.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
For the first time all week, Sirius felt genuinely awake.
"You should leave," the man warned.
Sirius laughed.
The sound echoed strangely in the empty street.
"You know," he said conversationally, "when people tell me that, I find myself wondering what exactly they'll do if I don't."
The man finally drew his wand.
There it was.
The moment.
The sharp rush of anticipation.
The familiar certainty that something was about to happen.
Sirius felt his pulse quicken.
Felt his thoughts quiet.
Felt, for the first time since leaving Azkaban, almost comfortable.
The realization should have horrified him.
Instead he took a step forward.
The thug took a step back.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
"You're smiling," the man said.
"I know."
"You shouldn't be smiling."
"I've received that feedback before."
Another step.
Another retreat.
The imbalance was becoming noticeable.
Sirius tilted his head slightly.
"You know what's funny?"
The man looked increasingly uncertain.
"No."
"I think you're afraid of me."
The words came out softly.
Almost gently.
And somehow that made them worse.
The man's grip tightened around his wand.
Sirius's smile widened.
There was something deeply satisfying about watching fear change direction.
About watching a predator realize it had made a mistake.
About watching someone understand they were standing across from a man who had spent twelve years in hell and survived.
A voice interrupted before anything further could happen.
"Sirius."
Everything stopped.
The smile vanished instantly.
The thug blinked.
Sirius closed his eyes.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Because he knew that voice.
Of course he knew that voice.
For one ridiculous second he considered pretending he hadn't heard it.
Then came the sound of footsteps approaching from behind.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Infuriatingly calm.
"Sirius."
The second time somehow sounded worse.
The thug looked between them.
Then at Remus.
Then back at Sirius.
His survival instincts finally chose a side.
Without another word, he turned and fled.
Sirius watched him disappear around a corner.
A genuine disappointment settled over him.
"What a shame."
Remus stopped beside him.
Neither looked at the other immediately.
They simply stood there in the middle of the empty street while the opportunity for violence vanished into the night.
Finally Sirius spoke.
"Have you been following me?"
Remus was silent long enough to become suspicious.
Then:
"Yes."
Sirius stared.
The immediate honesty caught him completely off guard.
"You admitted that remarkably quickly."
"You asked."
"Most people lie."
"Most people don't have to repeatedly stop you from getting stabbed." Remus sighed. "What did you do?
"I didn't do anything! It was an accident!"
Sirius looked away with a huff.
The sound carried an exhaustion that seemed years old.
Possibly twelve years old.
When Remus spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"You weren't going to help that boy."
Sirius frowned.
"What?"
"You already knew he'd escaped."
Remus's eyes lifted toward the alley where the younger wizard had disappeared.
Then back to Sirius.
"You stayed because you wanted the fight."
The observation landed with uncomfortable precision.
Sirius hated that.
He hated it because it was true.
And because Remus had seen it.
For a long moment neither spoke.
The city hummed around them.
Cars in the distance.
Wind between buildings.
The ordinary sounds of ordinary people living ordinary lives.
Finally Remus rubbed a hand across his face.
"You can't keep doing this."
The words were tired.
Not angry.
Not judgmental.
Just worried.
Which was somehow far worse.
Sirius looked toward the dark street ahead.
Toward the places where trouble still waited.
Toward the places that felt familiar.
Toward the places that made sense.
Then he laughed softly.
A humourless sound.
"Watch me."
Beside him, Remus closed his eyes.
And for the first time Sirius wondered how many nights he had already spent following from a distance.
Watching.
Waiting.
Making sure Sirius survived long enough to be angry with him tomorrow.
-
A month later, Sirius had become very good at doing absolutely nothing.
At first it had begun as spite.
Remus had told him to stop prowling through dark alleys looking for trouble, so Sirius had. Remus had told him he couldn't keep throwing himself into danger, so Sirius hadn't. Remus had all but accused him of seeking out violence because it felt familiar, and Sirius, naturally, had decided to prove him wrong.
The problem was that proving Remus wrong turned out to be remarkably similar to proving him right.
The flat had become smaller somehow. Dust gathered in corners untouched. Dirty dishes accumulated in the sink. Entire days vanished without Sirius remembering what he'd done with them. Sometimes he sat by the window. Sometimes he slept. Sometimes he stared at the opposite wall for hours while old memories drifted through his mind like ghosts refusing to leave.
James laughing across a crowded common room.
James stealing food from his plate.
James asleep with his head in Remus's lap while Sirius pretended not to be jealous.
James.
Always James.
Then Harry.
Harry at one year old.
Harry reaching for his glasses.
Harry crying.
Harry laughing.
Harry's tiny hand wrapped around Sirius's finger.
The memories were old enough to ache. The problem with memories was that they never changed. They stayed exactly as you left them while everything else moved on. Sirius found that comforting.
Terrifying.
Comforting again.
The knock came shortly after noon.
Sirius ignored it.
The second knock was louder.
The third suggested genuine irritation.
By the fourth, Sirius knew exactly who it was.
Unfortunately.
The door opened a moment later.
Sirius didn't bother looking up.
"Nice to see you've developed respect for private property."
The silence that followed was ominous.
Not Remus's usual silence.
A different sort.
A dangerous sort.
Eventually Sirius glanced toward the doorway.
Immediately regretted it.
Remus looked furious.
Not mildly annoyed.
Not exasperated.
Actually furious.
His coat was still on. His hair was damp from rain. His jaw was set so tightly Sirius briefly wondered whether something terrible had happened.
"Well," Sirius said carefully. "That's new."
Remus shut the door behind him.
Hard.
The sound echoed through the flat.
Still no response.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Sirius felt the first flicker of unease.
Remus crossed the room in several long strides and stopped beside the sofa.
For a moment he simply stared.
Taking everything in.
The untouched food.
The unwashed dishes.
The curtains that hadn't been opened properly in days.
The gauntness Sirius suspected had become difficult to ignore.
When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet.
"What are you doing?"
Sirius frowned.
"At this exact moment?"
"You know what I mean."
"Not particularly."
Remus laughed.
A sharp, unpleasant sound.
That worried Sirius more than shouting would have.
"What are you doing?" Remus repeated. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks remarkably like you're wasting away."
Sirius looked away first.
The observation landed closer to home than he wanted.
"That's dramatic."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"You're thinner."
"So are you."
"You look exhausted."
"I am exhausted."
"You're barely eating."
Sirius shrugged.
Immediately.
Automatically.
As though none of it mattered.
Perhaps it didn't.
Remus stared at him for a long moment.
Then something shifted.
Not anger.
Something beneath anger.
Something sadder.
"Were you doing this before I showed up?"
The question caught Sirius off guard.
"What?"
"The alleys. The fights. The knife wound."
Remus's voice had become strangely careful.
"Or did it start after?"
The answer arrived immediately.
Far too quickly.
Which meant it was probably true.
"After."
The admission settled heavily between them.
Remus closed his eyes.
For one brief moment he looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
As though a puzzle he'd been hoping to solve had finally revealed an answer he didn't want.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
"Why?"
Sirius laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
Because there it was.
The question.
The impossible question.
Why.
Why the fights.
Why the wandering.
Why the isolation.
Why any of it.
Sirius looked around the flat.
At the walls.
At the dust.
At the life he'd failed to build.
Then he looked back at Remus.
And for the first time in weeks, something honest escaped.
"I will not rely on anyone or anything. I will not be vulnerable."
For a moment Remus simply stared.
As though he couldn't quite believe what he'd heard.
Then the fury returned.
Not hot.
Not explosive.
Cold.
Far colder.
"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."
Sirius blinked.
"What?"
"The stupidest."
"That's a competitive category."
"I don't care."
Remus stepped forward.
For the first time since Azkaban, Sirius found himself wanting to retreat. There was something terrifying about seeing Remus angry. Not because it happened often. Because it didn't. Because when Remus finally snapped, it meant something had gone very wrong.
"You think this is strength?"
The words landed like punches.
"You think starving yourself is independence?"
"I didn't say—"
"You think pushing everyone away makes you invulnerable?"
Sirius opened his mouth. Nothing emerged. Remus was breathing hard now. Years of frustration suddenly visible. Years of grief. Years of watching people disappear.
"I spent twelve years believing you were dead."
The confession hit harder than Sirius expected.
"I buried you."
The room felt smaller.
"I mourned you."
Remus laughed once.
A horrible sound.
"And now I finally get you back and you're trying to finish the job yourself."
Sirius looked away.
Immediately.
Coward.
The word settled heavily in his chest. Because part of him knew Remus was right. The worst part was how much he hated that. Silence stretched between them. Then Remus delivered the final blow.
The one Sirius never saw coming.
"Harry's waiting on you to get your shit together."
Everything stopped. Every thought. Every defense. Every argument, gone. Just gone. The name hit with brutal precision.
Harry.
Not James.
Not Azkaban.
Not Remus.
Harry.
A fourteen-year-old boy who had no idea Sirius spent entire afternoons staring at walls. A boy who still thought Sirius Black was brave. A boy who deserved better than this. The silence that followed seemed endless. When Sirius finally spoke, his voice sounded strange. Smaller.
"What if he hates me?"
The question escaped before he could stop it. The first honest thing he'd said all month. Remus's anger vanished immediately. Not completely. But enough. Enough for something gentler to emerge beneath it. Something Sirius remembered. Something dangerous.
"He won't."
The certainty hurt.
"What if I'm not what he needs?"
Remus looked at him for a long moment. Then sat down heavily on the opposite end of the sofa. Not leaving. Never leaving, apparently.
"What if," he said quietly, "you let him decide that for himself?"
For the first time in weeks, Sirius had no sarcastic response.
And somehow that terrified him more than anything else.
-
The first therapist lasted exactly twenty-three minutes.
Sirius knew because he spent most of the session staring at the clock.
The woman had kind eyes, which he immediately disliked. She spoke gently, which he disliked even more. By the time she asked him how Azkaban had made him feel, Sirius had stood up, informed her that twelve years of psychological torture had been "suboptimal," and walked directly out the door.
He expected Remus to be angry.
Instead Remus merely sighed.
The sound carried all the disappointment of a man who had expected exactly this outcome.
"Well," Remus said as they stood outside the building, "that went better than anticipated."
Sirius stared at him.
"What exactly were you anticipating?"
"A fire."
The worst part was that Sirius couldn't tell if he was joking.
The second therapist lasted forty minutes.
The third managed nearly an hour.
The fourth asked fewer questions and listened more.
Sirius hated her immediately. But stuck with her.
Then, several weeks later, he accidentally found himself discussing James. This was deeply unfortunate. Afterward he spent an entire afternoon sulking about it. Remus seemed insufferably pleased.
The cleaning came next. Not all at once. Not dramatically. A single plate washed one day. A window opened the next. A pile of old newspapers disappearing when Sirius wasn't looking. The apartment slowly transformed from a place someone had survived in to a place someone might actually live.
The process was made considerably more irritating by the fact that Remus kept showing up. Sometimes with groceries. Sometimes with cleaning supplies. Sometimes with absolutely no excuse whatsoever. Sirius suspected he was being monitored. Remus claimed he was visiting.
The distinction felt largely academic.
Then came the flat. The argument lasted three days. Sirius maintained that his current apartment was perfectly acceptable. Remus maintained that the mold growing behind the sink had likely achieved sentience. Sirius argued that moving was unnecessary.
Remus argued that the neighborhood contained three separate crime scenes within walking distance.
Sirius argued that crime scenes were convenient landmarks.
Remus developed a headache.
In the end, Sirius moved.
Mostly because Remus had somehow managed to weaponize common sense.
The new flat was smaller.
Brighter.
Cleaner.
The windows actually opened.
There was a tiny balcony overlooking a street lined with trees and a kitchen that didn't appear to be actively plotting murder.
Sirius hated it on principle.
Privately, he loved it. Naturally, he told no one.
Months passed.
The changes accumulated quietly.
A haircut.
New clothes.
Regular meals.
Sleeping through the night occasionally.
The first time Sirius laughed without immediately feeling guilty afterward, it startled him badly enough that he nearly dropped his tea.
The second time, Remus was there to witness it.
The look on his face lingered for days.
There were setbacks.
Many of them.
Bad nights.
Bad memories.
Entire weeks where Sirius felt as though he were climbing a mountain only to discover he had been walking in circles.
Recovery, it turned out, was profoundly inefficient.
No one had warned him.
Through all of it, however, Remus remained.
Sometimes close.
Sometimes distant.
Always present.
A constant in a life that had once been defined by loss. Sirius tried not to think about that too much. Thinking about it usually led somewhere dangerous.
One evening, nearly six months after the knife wound, they found themselves sitting on the balcony of the new flat. Summer had settled over London, warm and golden. The city stretched out before them in a patchwork of rooftops and lights. Somewhere below, someone was playing music. Somewhere farther away, people laughed as they passed beneath streetlamps.
For a long time neither spoke. The silence between them had changed over the months. It no longer felt sharp. No longer felt like a wound.
Now it felt familiar.
Comfortable.
The sort of silence built by years of knowing someone. Sirius leaned back in his chair and watched the sky darken. The evening air carried the scent of rain.
Beside him, Remus looked tired. Not exhausted. Not burdened. Simply tired in the ordinary way people became after long days. The sight felt strangely precious. For years Sirius had survived on memories. Now here was something new. Something real.
A future unfolding one unremarkable day at a time.
The thought frightened him more than Azkaban ever had.
Without really thinking about it, he let his hand drift across the space between their chairs.
For a moment he expected nothing to happen.
Then Remus's fingers found his.
Simple as that.
No hesitation.
No surprise.
As though some part of him had been waiting.
The contact settled heavily beneath Sirius's ribs.
Warm.
Familiar.
Dangerous.
Neither of them looked at the other. The city continued around them. Cars moved through distant streets. Windows glowed softly against the approaching night. Life carried on. Sirius stared at the skyline and felt something inside him loosen. Not heal.
Not entirely.
Perhaps it never would.
But loosen.
Enough.
After a long silence, he heard himself speak.
"I can't tell if we're moving forward or backward."
The words disappeared into the evening air. For a moment Remus didn't answer. When he finally did, his voice was quiet.
"Does it matter?"
Sirius considered that. Thought about James. Thought about Harry. Thought about the boy he had been and the man he was becoming. Thought about the hand still holding his. Then, for the first time in a very long while, he realized he didn't know the answer.
And somehow that felt less frightening than it used to.
-
Almost 19 months after his release, Sirius found himself sitting on his sofa, eyes on the muggle telly he had bought. He had been watching it half heartedly, but now some French opera had come on, and it was getting juicy. And then the knock came shortly after six.
Sirius almost didn't answer it.
Not because he wasn't expecting company. Remus had developed the deeply irritating habit of appearing whenever he pleased, usually carrying groceries, criticism, or both. The knock itself felt familiar enough that Sirius automatically assumed it was him.
The realization should have prompted him to open the door immediately. Instead he found himself hesitating. Three years ago he would have blamed instinct. Today his therapist would have called it anxiety. Sirius preferred instinct.
It sounded cooler.
The second knock arrived a few moments later. Impatient. Definitely Remus. Rolling his eyes, Sirius crossed the flat and pulled the door open. The sarcastic greeting waiting on his tongue vanished immediately. Remus stood exactly where Sirius expected him to be. The boy standing beside him did not.
For one impossible second Sirius forgot how to breathe. The world narrowed. Everything else disappeared. The hallway. The walls. The sound of distant traffic drifting through an open window. Gone.
There was only Harry.
Fourteen years old. Far too tall. Far too thin. Messy black hair. Round glasses. James's face staring back at him from the other side of twelve lost years. The resemblance hit with physical force. Not because Harry was identical. He wasn't. His face was narrower. His expression quieter. There was something watchful in him that James had never possessed. Something cautious. Something learned.
Yet all Sirius could see at first was James. James at fourteen. James laughing in the Great Hall. James grinning before a Quidditch match. James asleep between Sirius and Remus after studying too late. The sight hurt so much Sirius almost staggered. For years he had survived on memories.
Now one of them was standing on his doorstep.
Alive. Breathing. Looking terrified. No one spoke. Sirius couldn't. Every speech he had rehearsed vanished instantly. There had been dozens. Hundreds, perhaps. Things he wanted to say. Things he needed Harry to know. Explanations. Apologies. Promises.
Not a single one remained.
The only thought left in his head was an increasingly panicked repetition of:
*James.*
*James.*
*James.*
Then Harry's lower lip trembled. The movement was tiny. Almost invisible. Sirius noticed anyway. And suddenly the resemblance disappeared. Not entirely. Never entirely. But enough. Enough for Sirius to finally see him. Not James.
Harry.
Just Harry.
A boy standing awkwardly in an oversized jumper. A boy who looked exhausted. A boy who had spent fourteen years being shuffled between people who didn't want him. A boy who had probably built this moment into something enormous. Something impossible. Something neither of them could ever live up to.
For a brief second Harry looked like he was about to say something. Then his face crumpled. Violently, and without warning. One moment he was standing there, the next tears were spilling down his cheeks.
Sirius froze.
Because this possibility had never occurred to him. Not once. Not in any of the scenarios he'd imagined. Harry wasn't supposed to cry. Harry was supposed to be angry. Or nervous. Or suspicious. Not this. Anything but this.
"Oh God."
The words escaped before Sirius could stop them. Harry immediately tried to wipe the tears away, which only made more appear. His shoulders shook once. Twice. Then he gave up entirely. Years of loneliness seemed to pour out of him all at once.
The sight was horrifying.
Not because Harry was crying, but because it was immediately obvious this wasn't about Sirius. Not entirely. This was bigger. Older. The sort of crying that happened when something had been hurting for far too long. Sirius looked helplessly toward Remus.
Remus looked equally helpless. Which was deeply unhelpful. For a man who usually had answers, he appeared to have misplaced all of them.
Harry made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
Then, with the complete absence of dignity characteristic of fourteen-year-olds everywhere, he burst into tears properly.
Sirius utterly panicked. His mind emptied. Every coherent thought fled. Years in Azkaban. Dementors. Knife wounds. Therapy. Recovery. Nothing had prepared him for this. Instinct took over. Before he could think better of it, he crossed the distance between them.
Harry collided with him a second later.
The impact nearly knocked Sirius backward.
For one absurd moment he found himself clutching a crying teenager who seemed determined to bury himself directly into his chest. Sirius stared over Harry's shoulder.
At the wall.
At Remus.
At absolutely anything except the situation currently unfolding.
"Oh no."
Harry laughed through his tears. Which somehow made everything worse. Sirius tightened his grip automatically. The boy felt frighteningly light.
"You're crying."
An excellent observation. Brilliant work. Months of therapy clearly paying off. Harry laughed again. Another wet, miserable sound.
"I know."
"Right." Sirius swallowed. His throat felt suspiciously tight. "Just checking."
Behind Harry, Remus pressed a hand against his mouth. The traitor appeared to be trying not to laugh. Sirius made a mental note to hold this against him forever. Harry's grip tightened. The movement was small. Instinctive.
As though he were afraid Sirius might disappear if he let go.
The realization landed like a punch.
Suddenly Sirius wasn't seeing James anymore. He wasn't seeing Lily. He wasn't seeing the war. He wasn't seeing the years he'd lost. He was seeing a child who had grown up without them. A child who had carried that absence every day.
And who, despite everything, had still shown up.
Something inside Sirius broke quietly, like ice finally giving way after a very long winter.
His eyes burned. Extremely annoying. He ignored it. After a long moment he rested his chin lightly against Harry's hair. The gesture felt impossibly familiar. As though some part of him had been waiting fourteen years to do exactly this.
When he finally spoke, his voice came out rough.
"Hi, Harry."
Harry laughed one more time. A shaky, tearful sound. Then answered with a single word.
"Hi."
And standing in the doorway of a flat that finally felt like a home, with Harry clinging to him and Remus watching from a few feet away, Sirius realized something extraordinary.
For the first time since James had died. For the first time since Azkaban. For the first time in fourteen years. The future had finally arrived.
And it wasn't nearly as frightening as he'd imagined.