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You stood in the doorway to the Burrow, looking ahead at the dark silhouettes of Buckbeak and Sirius. The simple fact that he was here with you, alive and breathing the same air, was something you still couldn’t quite grasp.
Harry’s retrieval from Little Whinging had been bumpy, and Moody was gone – as was George’s ear – but Sirius was alive. Everyone was shaken, sad, and scared, trying to collect themselves inside, with Molly bustling around, pretending all was well.
But Sirius was alive.
He. Was. Here.
Two months ago, if someone had told you that your presumed dead husband would be standing in the Weasleys’ field feeding his Hippogriff while actively avoiding you, you would have laughed maniacally, then drowned yourself in any escape you could snort, smoke, or swallow to dissociate, pronto.
Now, you just didn’t know what to do.
Leaning against the doorframe, you looked from the luminescent moon to the man below it, pondering everything that had happened in his absence, everything you had done.
Behind you, the Burrow was alive with hushed voices and urgent discussions of what to do next. You heard Remus and Tonks whispering about Sirius and you. Fucking busybodies. You couldn’t blame them, though, not really. The hell Remus went through trying to care for you during those first months, while grappling with his own grief no less, entitled him to it all.
And the past year really was a descent into hell. Your world crumbled the moment Sirius was swallowed by the Veil, and in its wake, you embraced self-destruction.
You went off the deep end. You sought oblivion in bottles, powders, and the warmth of strangers, chasing numbness that remained elusive. The summer after Sirius’s death was the worst - it was a haze of forgettable faces, places drowned in alcohol, fleeting pleasures, and – eventually - the sterile white of a hospital room at St. Mungo’s.
Friends, or those shadows of people who tried to anchor you to life, blurred past in your spiral towards self-annihilation.
Nothing was ever enough.
You ended up at St Mungo’s twice that summer. The first time was because of mixing certain substances that weren’t supposed to be mixed; you were treated in their Poisoning Department then.
The second time... Well.
The second time was thought to have been more premeditated. The healers from the Poisoning Department moved you to Merilda Mindwell's Centre for the Mentally Afflicted Witches and Wizards when you became stable enough.
And, between then and now, so many things had happened, induced by your subsequent rage, your thirst for revenge, for violence, that you no longer knew how to be the woman you were before all of it.
Now, you were reckless and relentless. You had glued yourself back into this version of yourself that felt more like a wraith than anything else, but you were still here. You were a survivor. A fighter. Tainted as you were.
“Shouldn't you be out there, Professor?”
You flinched and turned to Harry with a small frown. “I’m not your professor, not anymore. I told you to call me Y/N.”
“Yeah, sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess.” You turned away and again leaned on the doorframe, crossing your arms. You stared ahead, waiting for him to leave you alone, but you knew he wouldn’t. That kid was as undeterred as they came.
“I thought you’d be... all over each other, you know,” he said quietly, a little sheepish.
Yeah. You thought you’d be all over each other, too.
You thought of this very scenario often – of Sirius coming back to you. You wished for it in your dreams, and every waking hour. Most of your actual dreams though often turned into nightmares; he never came back to you in those. Your daydreams, on the other hand – a reality your awake brain crafted for you to ensure your survival – those were amazing.
In those, you pretended that Sirius hadn’t hit the Veil at all, that his cousin’s Killing Curse hadn’t hit him either. In that one, you just continued your joint existence, loving and protecting each other as you should. In that version of reality, you never overdosed, you never fixated on the Veil to the point of unhealthy and dangerous obsession, you never went after each Death Eater you could, and you never killed those who were unlucky enough to fall into your hands.
That version of Y/N was a version Sirius expected to find back in the living plane, but she was long gone.
In the first month after you were released from Merilda Mindwell's Centre into Remus’s care, you thought often about Sirius’s return. You liked to imagine that it would be a tearful reunion, that heated kisses and frantic lovemaking would ensue not long after. How everything would go back to normal instantly, how you would be a family of two again, fighting against evil side by side. How you would become Y/N Black again - the wife, not the premature widow.
The reality of it couldn’t be any different.
“It’s complicated,” you murmured instead of admitting out loud any of what was coursing through your mind.
"Uncomplicate it then," Harry's voice was a little impatient, almost harsh. You blinked at him in surprise. "I mean..." he paused. "Just go and talk to him, Y/N. You're both being stupidly stubborn when all either of you wants is to be together." He stuffed his hands into his pockets, his face hardening. "I won't even pretend to understand what brought him back to us. Smarter people than me have tried and failed, but I think... No – I KNOW - that it had a lot to do with you, actually."
No pressure then, you thought but remained silent. What were you supposed to say, anyway? Were you supposed to confess all your sins to this boy – a teenager - and wait for his absolution? He had his own demons to fight; he didn’t need more burdens.
"We lost Moody tonight," his voice went hoarse, choked. He cleared his throat and continued, "We almost lost George. Whatever issues you and Sirius have, you've got a chance to work them out. You should go and do that, before it's too late."
"Is that so?" you said with a raised brow, amused by his directness. You loved this kid for it. He cut through the chase to the core of the issue with no scruples.
"Yeah. You know, Remus said that my godfather had never been truly happy in his entire life, even when all his best friends were alive. Until he met you, that is."
You laughed and shook your head. "Alright, kid. I get it. You want us to make up.”
"Well, it would be stupid if you wouldn’t, you’re the best thing that has ever happened to him," he shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. You couldn’t take it any longer; something broke. You turned and crushed him in a hug, your eyes wet, squeezing the air out of his lungs. “Ouch,” he grunted at first, and then, after a beat, “Yeah, ok.” And he squeezed the life out of you back.