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It’s February of the year 2000 when Harry asks to speak with Sirius about something.
He’s just got back from another day at the Auror training program, snowflakes spread across his shoulders like powdered sugar. Sirius looks at Harry in his red trainee uniform and can’t help but smile, pride swelling in his chest.
His godson takes off the red robe overcoat and gives it a good shake, before hanging it at the coat rack near the foyer. There are still some leftovers that Harry cooked yesterday in the kitchen, under a stasis spell. Sirius has the fire going already, warming up the imposing drawing room of 12 Grimmauld Place. One of the benefits of staying home all day is that he can welcome Harry like this.
They managed to remove Walburga Black's portrait from the wall a couple of months ago, back when they invested in different renovation projects around the house. Right now, Grimmauld Place is not as forbidding as it used to be, much of the wallpaper and carpet replaced, the stain of decay dissipating with time, though there’s still a lot of work to do.
Some of the upstairs rooms haven't allowed themselves to be opened, there are moments when the house tries to ruin a perfectly good piece of new furniture for no other reason than to be difficult. Though the boggarts were all eliminated, a doxy comes out of its nest to play every now and then. The dreadful collection of dark artefacts the Blacks acquired throughout the years was given to the Ministry for safe disposal, but there's still the sombre cloak of Dark Magic around each corner, and the light from the windows doesn't always reach all the way into a room.
And, somehow, the scent of the Black family continues to linger in the hallways.
It catches Sirius off guard sometimes. He'll be going down the stairs in the morning to have breakfast with Harry only to stop in the middle of a step due to having the distinct impression of smelling his mother's perfume. And it's not always so obvious. Often he'll smell some type of aroma that he can't remember, but that feels like the Black family all the same. The best he can do in those situations is to cover his nose and cast a cleaning spell. It usually takes three or four times before the air is clear.
But the place is better. It's definitely better compared to when Sirius escaped from Azkaban and the Order made it its headquarters. And, even if it's not perfect, it's the house he's leaving Harry, which means he'll do whatever he can to manage it.
After the final battle, Sirius finally made good on his promise of becoming Harry's family and bringing him to his home. They did a trial test of living together for those four strange and tense months before September of 1998. It was a period of tying up loose-ends, initiating the necessary reforms at the Ministry under Shacklebolt's rule, investigating, chasing and putting to trial the Death Eaters who were still around.
It wasn't an easy time, neither to Harry nor to Sirius. But they had each other. Harry had the Weasleys and Hermione, while Sirius had Remus. There was so much to do anyway, that there was no time to stew in old and new hurts. That was for after, after Harry went back to his eight year.
The year Sirius spent alone when Harry left for Hogwarts was… not great, he thinks darkly. But, well. It's no time to reminisce about it.
Harry sits besides Sirius on the old sofa and lets himself be pulled over by an arm around the shoulder. The boy is still cold from the snow outside, so Sirius briefly flicks his wand to stoke the flames.
“How was your day, Padfoot?” Harry asks, settling into his godfather's hug.
“Ah, Harry, same old, same old. Stayed home, fought an imp that lived in the armoire, triumphed, nothing different. I’d much prefer to hear about your day.” He wouldn’t want to bore his godson with how empty his day has been.
Harry frowns a little, but soon smiles again.
“Well. Ron got stuck with a dummy following him around during training today,” he tells him.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. We were practising the encasing charm to protect civilians first thing in the morning, and I guess he was still nodding off a little, because his bubble nicked a bit of the dummy’s side. The dummy followed Ron around shaking its fist at him the whole day.” He shakes his head, chuckling.
Sirius raises his eyebrows. “And your head of training didn’t say anything?”
“Nah,” Harry answers. “Mrs. MacEvans said that if that had been a real person, Ron would have to tolerate much more than just an annoyed dummy.”
“Ah, the poor dummies from the DMLE,” Sirius laughs, imagining Ron’s face. “I bet they’re still using the same ones from when we were in training. Have I ever told you about the time James spelled all the dummies to play Limbo with the troll club they keep in the armoury?”
Harry smiles softly. “That was when you got suspended for two days, right?”
“Yeah,” Sirius lets out a hearty laugh. “Your mother was pissed. But soon enough we were back in action. Nothing could stop up for too long, not even the head of the training program.” The time Sirius and James had in the Auror program was limited but some of the most fun he can remember having. Of course, they left training early to join the Order. Some of the spells they learned there proved to be very useful during the First Wizarding War.
“Well, no suspensions this time, thankfully. Hermione is the one who’d be pissed at us. She’s always saying we can’t get into the same shit we used to back in Hogwarts.”
“Hermione is the sound mind in your trio as always, huh? How is she and Ron, by the way? Haven’t seen them since Christmas.”
“They’re fine. Still getting used to living together.”
“I see. And what about Ginny, Harry? Thought I’d be having baby scares about now,” Sirius jokes.
“Um,” Harry blushes, and Sirius sits up when he sees it. He truly was joking, but Harry’s reaction definitely gives him some fodder for teasing. He knows his godson and the youngest Weasley broke up before Harry went Horcrux hunting and, as far as Sirius knew, never got together afterwards. He wouldn’t mind the girl for Harry though. She had a fiery personality and looked so much like Lily besides. It was jarring seeing them together during dinners at The Burrow. But heartwarming as well. “About that,” Harry clears his throat. “I wanted to talk to you about something. I’m getting a glass of water first, though.”
“Oh, sure,” Sirius gestures at him to get up. “You don’t want me to call Kreacher for that?”
“I can manage it myself, promise,” he jokes.
Sirius relents. It’s still strange to think about some of the new regulations about house-elves. Hermione did her best to implement certain changes right in the wake of the Great Battle of Hogwarts. Using all of the goodwill passing around in the Wizarding World and the fear everybody now had of being lumped together with pureblood purists, she’d said. From what Harry told him the other week, the goodwill is apparently gone now and pushback against some of the polices are surfacing. While something doesn’t get written into Wizarding law, its foundations are shaky at best.
It took a while to get used to, and Sirius still struggles to not call on Kreacher for the cleaning, though he suspects the elf must be cleaning on his own without telling them. There are, after all, many spaces they have no access to and must be maintained.
Because of Kreacher’s age, he’s now technically considered retired. And since he’s part of the older generation of house-elves, per said regulations he’s allowed to live in Grimmauld Place without having to work. Sirius doesn’t really get it, especially since the elf is an absolute piece of work that he got saddled with, but his godson insisted, so there’s not much protesting he can do.
Harry comes back from the kitchen with his water and sits on the other side of the sofa, shoulders tense this time. It’s enough to make Sirius straighten up and look at him curiously.
“So, Prongslet, what is it? Please don’t tell me there’s an actual kid on the way, I was just kidding.”
“No, no,” Harry says quickly. “Believe me, we won’t be having any baby scares, uhm.” He flounders, drinking another sip and placing the glass at the coffee table. “Actually,” he takes a deep breath, “I wanted to tell you I’m dating someone.”
“Oh. That’s great, Harry. Sure took you longer than your father, but no shame in that,” he laughs.
“Uh, yeah,” Harry smiles nervously. “It’s… It’s a boy, though.”
“Oh.” Sirius says, at a loss for words. He notices Harry giving him an anxious look and makes sure to wipe any negative expression from his face. He wants to be a safe haven for Harry, someone he can trust to always support him no matter what. The exact opposite of everything his family was to him. And it’s easy enough, Sirius never had any problems with the same sex couples he saw at Hogwarts. Granted, there was only one he could think of. And they didn’t exactly advertise their relationship around. Still.
He brings a smile to his face, clapping Harry on the shoulder.
“Alright, then. You know I don’t mind, right? Merlin's pants, bring him along for dinner some day, I’d love to meet him.”
He expected Harry to relax after his reassurances, but he tenses even more.
“About that…” Harry takes a deep breath, “I want to, but I need to warn you who it is beforehand.”
“Okay. Who is this mysterious person?”
“Draco Malfoy.”
Sirius snorts. “That’s a good one, Harry. I mean it, I don’t care that it’s a guy.”
“It’s not a joke,” Harry says. “I’m dating Draco Malfoy.”
Sirius’ good humour falls away. He doesn’t mean to. His hand around Harry’s shoulder tightens instinctively. Alarm bells in his brain are telling him to not let his reaction show, but they're buried under Harry’s voice repeating that name over and over.
“Draco Malfoy,” Sirius states slowly. “The Death Eater?” As if there were another Draco Malfoy anywhere in Britain, but there might as well be. Harry couldn’t possibly be dating Lucius Malfoy’s son. It doesn’t make any sense.
Harry’s mouth twitches almost imperceptibly. His shoulders feel rigid under Sirius’ hand.
“Ex-Death Eater, technically.”
It takes all of Sirius’ strength to not snap at his godson. But come the fuck on. The boy willingly took the Dark Mark, he wants to scream, there’s no “ex” in that. However he can see that Harry looks closer and closer to withdrawing, he breaks eye contact and looks at the floor, and he knows Harry’s about to give him some excuse and leave for his room. And Sirius doesn’t want that. He wants his godson to always trust him.
That thought is the only thing convincing him to take a deep breath and release Harry’s shoulder. The boy looks at him through his lashes, hopeful.
“When did this happen?” Sirius tries for levity, but he can tell his voice is too severe for that.
“At the end of eighth year.”
“So, what,” Sirius says, “You’ve been dating for around eight months?”
“Yeah,” Harry has the decency to look bashful. “I didn’t want to tell you before I was sure it was going somewhere.”
Sirius swallows his first response to that. And then the next five. Finally, he settles for, “And is it?”
“What?”
“Going anywhere?”
“Yeah,” Harry breathes, giving him a shy smile.
He’s trying so hard to relax and be happy for Harry, but not even seeing that obviously besotted face is enough to calm him down. Harry is making such a big mistake and he won’t even realise it. Sirius is suddenly hit with the murderous urge to march to Malfoy Manor, take that prat by the neck and hold his blond head under a river’s current. If that boy is doing anything strange to his godson, Sirius will kill him personally. He won’t even use a wand for it.
“Harry, have you really thought this through? Are you really sure of what you’re doing?”
“I am, Sirius.” Harry replies solemnly. “He doesn’t believe in the same things as before. We’ve already talked about it a dozen times. He’s disillusioned with his old beliefs and he’s trying to think for himself. Really trying.”
“But why in the world would you want that, Harry? You know he comes from that rotten family. What kind of love can he possibly give you?”
“We can't choose the families we're born in.” Harry’s voice is firm. We can choose to leave them, Sirius thinks, but doesn't say. “I gave him a chance to show me, in any case. I just…” Now, his godson retracts, finally hunching in on himself as if trying to hide. “I just want you to… I wanted to share it with you.”
The sight of his nineteen-year-old godson holding himself on the sofa is enough to break into Sirius spiralling doom thoughts. He softens his features, looking at Harry up and down. It hits him sometimes, just how much he’s grown. James’ boy is an adult now. Almost the same age James was when he and Lily died. Harry looks so much like him, it can be suffocating for Sirius in his worst days. The same way of speaking, the same messy hair, the same mischievous twitch of a smile. Except for the eyes, of course.
“Harry, I’m… glad you shared it with me, even if I don’t…” Sirius sighs. “You have to understand it’s going to take me a while to get used to the idea.”
“Obviously, Padfoot,” Harry says, “It’s not like I expected you to celebrate my announcement by inviting the Malfoys for dinner or something.”
“Please, tell me we don’t have to do that.” Sirius feels sick to his stomach.
“Don’t worry,” Harry laughs. “My boyfriend doesn’t expect me to meet them any time soon. Much less you.”
One good news from this whole evening, Sirius thinks. If Harry’d had to meet the Malfoys in these last six months in their own house without Sirius even knowing, he’d throw a fit.
“I have to shower, I’m still feeling a little drained from training.” Harry says, “But we’re cool, right?”
Sirius gives him a tired smile. “We’ll always be cool, Prongslet.”
“Cool, cool,” Harry grins. “If that’s the case, he’s visiting next week, so please don’t scream bloody murder when you come home to see us together. Good night.”
With that, Harry gets up and leaves the room in hurried steps. Sirius follows him with his eyes and mouth wide open, then slumps against the sofa. Merlin, he thinks, running his hands through his hair. He deserves a couple of doses of firewhiskey after that.
Well, Sirius tries to comfort himself, every teenager makes a romantic mistake here and there. And Harry didn’t have the chance to be a normal teenager, so it makes sense he’d want to try some weird things before settling down. At least he knows that whatever this is won’t last long. It’s Draco Malfoy, fuck’s sake. He and Harry will never last.
***
Sirius is able to put the news out of his mind for the next few days. Their routine continues like usual. Harry goes to Auror training, Sirius stays mostly at home, sometimes leaving to give a half-hearted attempt at getting a job. Everything is as usual.
It was difficult to settle into normalcy after the battle. He was acquitted of his crimes and could suddenly rejoin Wizarding society again, something he longed for but never expected to get. However, due to his passage through Azkaban, he wasn't allowed a job at certain institutions like the Ministry or the DMLE. His inheritance left by Alphard was enough to support him and Harry while they lived together, but it’d still be good to find a job and have something to do.
During Harry’s eighth year, Sirius was hired as help by Tom at the Leaky Cauldron. It wasn’t glamorous work by any means, mostly serving and cleaning the tables. It did stung his pride a little, he couldn’t deny it, to be doing such menial work when he could have been a prestigious Auror in another lifetime. But it was good enough for the moment and it served to occupy his time.
The problem was his temper. After his imprisonment, his mood swings, which already used to be extreme before, became even worse. He couldn’t follow a schedule and he snapped at Tom’s clientele for the most minor of things. It came to no surprise when Tom told him he couldn’t keep him any longer. He lasted more than expected at least, fired after a little under seven months.
Now that Harry’s back, Sirius has decided to try again. He takes walks in Diagon Alley, window shopping for job offers. But he has really no skill besides the little Auror training he got and a twenty-year-long blank space in his records when it comes to work experience. His participation in the war wasn’t widely publicised due to Sirius still being a hunted man at the time. Even if he lucks out and the person at the counter somehow doesn't know the name Sirius Black, he can't exactly explain the blanks with a “oh, yeah, I was stuck in Azkaban during a good portion of that time”.
He'd tried gauging whether Hogwarts had space for him after Moony was called back to his DADA professor position, but no such luck. Perhaps he could send the Headmistress a letter asking, but he's got his pride too, damn it. He knows McGonagall would give him a job as a favour more than anything else.
So mostly he wanders through the alleyways in dog form when he needs fresh air. It's relaxing to not have to be a human for some hours.
He’s able to convince himself that Harry telling him about his boyfriend Draco Malfoy was just a particularly nightmarish hallucination until the next Tuesday evening, when he gets home to the sound of teasing voices.
The fire is lit and there’s the smell of food coming from the drawing room. Sirius hangs his cloak in the coat rack and approaches silently.
The first thing he can see is that shock of white-blond hair, a beacon contrasting with the room cast in shadows. Harry’s sitting by his side with a bright smile, head resting on his hand. Malfoy does something with his face that Sirius can’t see, which prompts a small chuckle from Harry.
“You’re having me on. She didn’t look like that.” Harry says playfully.
“I swear, Potter. You turned your back, you didn’t see her face. She looked like she was going to offer to chew your food to make sure there were no choking hazards.”
“Yuck, Draco,” Harry pushes him. “Is that why you started talking about all of those poisonous ingredients? Afraid I was going to accept such a tempting proposition?”
“Of course,” he scoffs. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I let other people chew your food for you. Now, open wide, Potter.”
He starts leaning closer, but Harry pushes him away again, laughing all the while. “Get away from me, you wanker.”
It doesn’t seem like they’re likely to notice him soon. Sirius decides to be the adult that he is and clears his throat.
Both boys jump and turn around quickly. Harry has a surprised smile on his face despite the blush on his cheeks. But Sirius is more interested in the other boy sitting on the sofa.
Draco Malfoy closes his mouth and straightens his robe, standing up in a graceful motion that screams pureblood upbringing. It has Sirius grinding his teeth. The boy makes his way around the sofa with his back upright, shoulders relaxed, offering his right hand for Sirius to shake, while he uses the left to smooth the fabric over his stomach. The way he moves is so posh, just how he expected Cissa’s kid to be.
Sirius raises his eyes to examine the kid’s face. The boy has grey eyes and a long nose that ends in a pointy tip. His hair is arranged in a flawlessly positioned wave. At first all Sirius can see is a carbon copy of a young Lucius Malfoy, the same line at the side of his nose, byproduct of too much sneering. However, when he looks closer, he can see traces of Narcissa underneath, in the shape of his eyes especially.
“Hello, cousin,” Malfoy greets cordially. He still has a hand out. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sirius answers sarcastically. “I’m sure it’s a pleasure for you.”
He takes the offered hand and grips it far too tightly. If Malfoy notices it, he doesn’t let it show. Simply shakes their clasped hands.
“Hi, Padfoot,” Harry says from the sofa. “We didn’t know what time you were coming home, but we got you some food too.”
Sirius breaks his fixed eye contact with Malfoy to look at the centre table. There are three bowls on top, only one of them filled with fish and chips, a side plate of salad and two cups of tea placed near the edge. Harry probably got it at the pub near the Ministry building. He usually gets food there when he’s not up to cooking.
“Thanks, Harry.” Sirius sits on the armchair and leans over to take some chips. Lucius’ boy follows him back to where he was sat before.
The pleasant and light air in the room plummeted with his arrival. Malfoy is keeping a careful stance, like he’s the one hosting guests, while Harry is fidgeting where he sits. Sirius gets a bite or two and then clears his throat again.
“Well, boys, don’t let me disturb you. What were you talking about?”
“Oh, nothing much, cousin.” Malfoy says. Sirius feels his eye twitching at the casual address. “Only recounting some of Harry’s many fan interactions.” He smirks at Harry. “He’s so well-loved by the wizarding community after all.”
Harry blushes and whispers at him to shut up, but Sirius takes the hook.
“As he should be,” he states, sitting back and crossing his arms. “All wizards in Britain better know just how much they owe him.”
“Yes, naturally,” Malfoy replies simply. He takes one of the cups and drinks a small sip, picture perfect, no flustering.
“We agree on that, I imagine.”
“Of course,” Malfoy replies. He dabs at the corner of his mouth with a serviette. It makes Sirius think about the guests Walburga used to bring to Grimmauld Place when he was a kid. He remembers watching from a crack in the door because he wasn’t allowed to enter during tea time. His brother was usually right by Walburga’s side, perfect little angel.
“You especially must feel very grateful, considering your current status of incarceration.”
“Sirius,” Harry mutters, looking at him. Malfoy stops him by placing a hand on his forearm.
It’s not like what he’s saying is a lie. Harry was the one to testify for the Malfoys. Harry’s testimony mentioned both Narcissa’s lie about his death during the Battle and her son’s lie in Malfoy Manor months earlier, when he claimed not being able to recognize Harry.
Sirius doesn’t really understand why he felt the need to help them. One moment of decency after committing some of the most heinous crimes known to wizards isn’t enough to redeem them in his eyes. Draco Malfoy made his bed when he took the Dark Mark, when he Imperiused Madam Rosmerta, when he brought Death Eaters into Hogwarts. His moment of indecision in Malfoy Manor after things had already gone to shit isn’t anything noteworthy in his books.
But it was Harry’s choice to talk in their trials. Sirius knows the two of them got let out with a probationary period, though he never bothered learning what that entailed. What mattered to him the most was that Lucius Malfoy only got two years in Azkaban after making a deal with the Ministry to snitch on other Death Eaters and pay a generous sum of money in reparations. That bit of news had Sirius incensed for weeks.
The boy places his cup back on the table and slides his hand until he can take Harry’s.
“I know things could have gone much worse for me after the battle. Harry’s testimony allowed me the freedom to figure things out and I’ll forever be grateful for it.”
Harry rolls his eyes, though in a fond way, and grips Malfoy’s hand tight.
“And believe me, cousin, I make sure to show him my gratitude very regularly.”
Sirius chokes on a piece of chip at the innuendo. Harry groans and buries his face in his hands, while the Malfoy boy chuckles.
When Sirius’ coughs finally ease, he looks at the couple on the sofa. Harry has a red face, but it’s Malfoy's expression that makes him freeze. He’s looking at Harry with raised eyebrows and a self-satisfied smile, like the cat that got the canary, and the sight of it has Sirius’ blood boiling.
Of course the boy was able to be the perfect polite guest. Of course he knows how to answer in all the perfect ways as to not feel flustered or ashamed of his actions. That’s a pureblood Slytherin for you. They’re conniving little snakes, capable of charming their way out of any situation.
He still remembers when Regulus and he were playing upstairs in the state room, running after each other in the middle of the rows of furniture while the portraits screamed at them in horror for such uncivilised behaviour. He’d been laughing along with his brother, all the way until Regulus bumped into a wooden pedestal and the vase on top tumbled to the ground with a big crash.
Sirius and Regulus had frozen, looking at each other with wide eyes and fast paced hearts. One of the portraits must have left immediately to warn the mistress of the house, because not even five minutes later, Walburga was slamming the doors to the state room open and marching towards them with unimaginable wrath.
Sirius tried to take his brother’s hand, but the boy refused to give it to him. Walburga stopped with all her imposing might in front of the broken pieces of the vase and swished her wand in a wide arc, putting the vase together in ten seconds flat. Then she turned to them, so tall her shadow seemed to stretch the whole floor.
“Who did that?” She screeched.
Sirius pressed his lips together, holding back tears as best as he could and refusing to speak. Regulus looked at him with wide eyes.
“I’ll ask again,” she leaned closer, eyes shifting from one brother to the other. “Tell me who did it or I’ll punish you both.”
Sirius felt his brother take a deep breath and felt it too when he looked at the floor, all demure, and when he pulled on his robes with both hands, innocent and gullible, and he felt the exact moment his brother chose to throw him under the carriage.
“It was Sirius,” Regulus said, nodding at him with his chin.
“Of course it was,” Walburga sneered.
He should have spoken up. He should have said it was Regulus instead. It probably wouldn’t have been of much help, considering Walburga’s predilection for him, but it would’ve been easier to swallow the punishment at the very least. Walburga gripped Sirius’ arm in her hand and started dragging him out of the room. The last thing he remembers seeing before his punishment was Regulus’ self-satisfied smile when he noticed nothing would happen to him. The first of many, but they were eight and six when it first showed itself.
There’s a crash somewhere and Sirius snaps his head up. He feels the pain of the rod against the back of his thighs, charmed to hit until the skin opened, while Walburga supervisioned from the other side of the room. But he’s not under her eyes anymore. He’s sitting on the armchair, and there’s a broken plate on the ground and Harry and Malfoy are looking at him, surprised.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, using his wand to vanish the mess.
He stands up and refuses to look at the Malfoy boy’s face. He knows he won’t be able to control the increasing urge to punch him, so he opts for telling them he'll go to bed.
“Ah, okay,” Harry answers. “But, Sirius, I wanted to ask… if Draco could stay with us this week before his Potion apprenticeship starts.”
Sirius closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. It’s his godson asking. He can do this for his godson.
“Sure, Prongslet. Can you make up a room for him? I’m really feeling tired.”
“Uh,” Harry blushes. “I mean, he can stay in my room. Er, right?”
Sirius hadn’t even thought of that. But, Merlin, Harry is nineteen. Of course he can have his boyfriend in his room. Sirius waves a hand to show him he doesn’t care and starts to make his way to his old bedroom. He never bothered to take the Master’s, it’d be too much trouble.
He falls into bed, exhausted, and only just spares a groan when he realises he’ll have to tolerate the Malfoy boy for the next few days. Great.
***
The following day, Sirius was able to avoid the other residents of the house entirely. He left early in the morning to wander around as a dog, ate dinner with Remus, where he could vent all of his frustration, and then spent the next few hours in a random pub. By the time he flooed home, the house was just as silent as when he left.
He considered repeating the same schedule for the remaining week, but he'd be damned if he let that boy chase him out of his own house. He still kept to himself in his bedroom, but he was not going to furtively leave as if he were somebody's dirty secret.
At some point he has to pee, so he tries to do it as quietly as possible, to not catch their guest's attention. Turns out he needn't have bothered with silence. While he's crossing the hallway on his way back, he hears the piano coming from the music room.
He approaches cautiously. The music room was one such place the house had refused to open for Sirius. Not that it bothered him. Harry didn’t play any instruments as far as he knew and he promised himself to never touch a piano again after he went to Hogwarts. But now the room is open and being used, quite masterfully, from what Sirius can hear.
He pushes the door all the way open and leans against the frame.
The Malfoy boy is playing Sigmund Tonnisfort, a british composer who became quite popular after the spelled pianos of different wizarding pubs all over Britain became temperamental and refused to play anything but his compositions. That’s usually the first composer pureblood parents introduce to their children. Sirius could never forget a single symphony of his, after spending so many hours mindlessly bored by them.
The boy doesn’t seem to have noticed Sirius standing there. Pale fingers glide on the keys with unwavering focus, no mistakes or hesitation. He finishes his glissando with a dramatic and slightly nostalgic flair of the wrist.
When the song finally stops, it leaves a ringing in Sirius’ ear. It’s been a good while since he’s heard Tonnisfort, and especially since he’s heard it played on this piano, echoing through these walls. He’s about to say something when Kreacher pops into the room with a loud crack.
“Master Malfoy is needing something from Kreacher?” the elf asks. “Refreshments, someone to be fanning him while he is playing?”
“I don’t require anything, Kreacher,” the boy answers.
“As you wish, Master, please be calling Kreacher if you need something.”
Kreacher pops away again and Sirius sees red. He marches into the room before he can think better of it. The boy finally notices him and turns with raised eyebrows.
“Oh, hello, cousin.”
“Don’t call me that,” Sirius snaps. “What do you think you’re doing?! You’re not supposed to order Kreacher around. He’s a retired elf.” The words sound strange in his mouth, like there’s something inherently embarrassing about them, but he’s not backing down. Harry’d be so disappointed if he saw his supposedly reformed boyfriend doing this.
“Yes.” Malfoy sneers, the famous sneer that only serves to make Sirius even angrier. “I’m aware of that. That’s why I told him I don’t require anything. If I said I’m not supposed to give him orders, he’d stay here and beg for hours.”
“Oh, he would, would he?”
“He would. Which you’d know if you had bothered to leave your room since Tuesday.”
Sirius clenches his fists. He should’ve expected this rotten boy to know exactly which scab to pick in order to piss Sirius off the most. It’s a talent he’s probably been honing since he was out of the womb and looking down on the people around him from up his pointy nose.
“What I do in my own house doesn’t concern you.”
Malfoy takes in a deep breath, and Sirius can tell he’s biting his tongue to not reply.
“You’re right,” he says after a long moment, through clenched teeth. “My apologies.”
He still feels coiled tight with the sudden rage that assailed him, but he has experience tampering it down until it goes back to manageable levels. If he stops looking at the boy and pretends he doesn’t exist, it becomes ten times easier.
Sirius looks around the room. The piano is the main instrument, settled in the centre with chairs laid around it for the comfort of any spectators, but there's also a pipe organ in the back, abandoned. Pipe organs fell out of style with wizards after they became objects of muggle adoration, he remembers his uncle saying. ‘Muggles’, he'd snorted, sounding both amused and disgusted at the same time, a classical Black inflection, 'I heard they create massive temples just to play such a primitive instrument!’. And then he’d laughed an obnoxiously arrogant little laugh.
The walls are dusty and thick cobwebs litter the corners. As usual, despite the curtains being drawn, the light doesn’t spill inwards and the room looks dark and dim. But it’s open. It hadn’t been opened in many, many years.
“Of course the room opened for you,” Sirius mutters.
“I was looking for something to entertain myself, your house gladly provided,” says the boy, probably unaware that his house has never done anything gladly at all after the death of his mother. Malfoy looks back to the piano, running his fingers reverently over the yellowed ivory. “It’s a beautiful instrument. Do you play?”
He feels a twitch on his fingers at the question, almost like an atrophied muscle put under too much stress. How many hours did he have to spend glued to that bench? It had a spell on it. It kept his butt firmly sat for the full hour of his lesson, no matter how much he whined and complained. In fact, his instructor had clear permission to send a stinging hex on his fingers any time he did so. After so many hours and so many calluses formed on his knuckles, the stinging hexes lost their effect.
“I was forced to learn, as I’m sure you were too.”
“Yes,” Malfoy says. He looks at Sirius briefly, some kind of reluctance twisting his features, but then he smooths them out and continues, “I remember having to practise for hours while all I wanted was to go outside and fly my broom. At the end of the year, I was supposed to play a small concert for my parents. Thought if I made a bunch of mistakes, I could convince them to stop the lessons.”
Sirius frowns. Many of his lessons went by watching the blue skies outside the window, longing for a broom as well.
“What happened then?”
Malfoy shrugs. “Father fired the old instructor and got me a new one.”
The urge to throttle him comes back with a vengeance. “Why, isn’t your family so fucking pleasant?”
“What would you like me to do?” Malfoy scoffs. “Hunt down a time turner and go back so I can ask him not to go through with it?”
He takes the lid of the piano angrily, but slows down his movements and closes it gently at the last minute. Sirius stares at the motion with a bitter twist to his mouth.
Despite Sirius’ annoyance with the lessons, Regulus took to them like a fish to water. His brother continued playing up until Sirius left for Hogwarts and then afterwards too, during those boring summers in between school years.
He remembers coming back to this house and hearing the music echoing through the staircase. Coming upstairs to see his brother playing and giving him a noogie just to mess his playing up, snickering and calling him a fucking ponce. He’d glare at Sirius with his cold dark eyes and gently close the lid, as if protecting the piano from impending damage.
Sirius blinks when he hears the boy calling for him.
“Cousin?” he asks, tilting his head. It’s enough to snap him back from the memory.
“I told you not to call me that!” Sirius snarls. “I was removed from the tapestry, didn’t you know?”
He thinks he sees Malfoy rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t bother to confirm it. He turns around and leaves the music room for good. If this house has any compassion for him at all, it will close it up again, hopefully with the blond still inside.
Kreacher is standing in the hallway, looking at Sirius with disapproving eyes and a hunched back.
“What?!” he barks.
“Shameful blood traitor…” mutters Kreacher, pulling on his ears. “Treating the resplendent Master Malfoy like that…”
Merlin, of course Kreacher is grovelling for the prat. He doesn’t even realise people like the Malfoys would be eager to treat him like dirt under their shoes. Actually, he’d probably thank them for it. That's what he used to do with his mother. She’d be absolutely despicable in all ways possible, and all the elf did was lower his head in reverence.
But it was not like that with everybody from his family, was it?, the thought suddenly comes to his mind and makes him stop. He remembers what Harry told him, of the sight of the elf sobbing when telling them about the locket. It was not the same type of obedient veneration he showed the rest of the Blacks, it was about true devotion, Kreacher’s care for Regulus.
He can’t believe this, but he actually feels the smallest hint of pity for Kreacher in that moment. He looks back at the elf, who’s gazing in the direction of the music room with something that almost looks like grief. It has been just as long that Kreacher heard the piano being played.
“Shut it, Kreacher.” Sirius says without much bite and goes back to his room. He doesn’t leave it for the entire day after that.
***
The next morning, when he gets up ready to spend another full day outside the house, wandering the streets in his Animagus form, he notices voices coming from the kitchen. It’s around six a.m., the earliest Sirius could force himself to wake up. Harry is usually still asleep by this time. His Auror training begins at eight thirty, so it gave Sirius ample time to eat something light and avoid breakfast with Harry and his guest the other days.
Therefore he's not expecting to see the two bright and early. Instead of greeting the boys like he would if one of them weren’t a Malfoy, Sirius decides to stand outside the kitchen, back to the wall, to see what they’re doing. He gives a quick glance inside the room.
“C’mon, Potter, let’s add some rosemary to the mix. Be a little adventurous,” Malfoy teases.
“It’s a pancake recipe, Draco, not one of your experiments. It’s been perfected for centuries.”
“You’re so boring.”
The boys are standing in front of the marble countertop, a strange muggle contraption between them. One of the renovations Harry insisted on back when they were trying to figure out what changes they wanted in the house was muggle electricity in the kitchen. They had to hire a specialist in “eletromagical interaction”, whatever that entailed, to set up the different muggle appliances in a way that wouldn’t damage then. The only reason it was possible, said the specialist, was because of the muggle neighbourhood they lived in and placement of the kitchen in a corner of the house, that could easily be excluded from the wards. Even then, Harry often complained about one thing or another turning off in the middle of his cooking.
They’re using something Harry taught Sirius was called a blender. The Malfoy boy pushes a button in the middle and then growls when nothing happens. He turns to Harry menacingly.
“Remind me again, whose idea was it to do this?” He crosses his arms, huffing. “You hate cooking!”
“Yeah,” Harry smirks. “But I love to see you struggle.”
“Ugh!” Malfoy drops his arms. Sirius rolls his eyes at the tantrum. “Why is it not doing its thing?”
Harry gives him another shit-eating grin, pulling on a black cord lying loose behind the appliance.
“I told you this before, you have to put in the plug.”
Malfoy heaves a great sigh, exaggerated and grating, and leans his taller body on Harry’s side. His godson stumbles back a step, taken by surprise by the sudden weight.
“There are so many things to keep track of,” he whines. “How can muggles live like this?”
Sirius almost pops a vein and is about to come inside to scream at him, a speech about all the problematic ways the Malfoys live at the ready, when Harry interrupts.
“Didn’t you spend six hours in front of a cauldron the other day making that potion? That prissy one you use on your hair,” he adds.
The blond straightens up, looking down at Harry from up his nose. “Potioneering is an artform, I’ll have you know.”
Despite his arrogant reply, he snatches the black cord from Harry’s hand and positions it in one of the ‘plug's they had installed all over the room. It takes him three or four tries to get it, which he loudly and dramatically proclaims to be the fault of a Confundus charm used in 1808 which set muggles on their current path of “teknogical” doom. Harry hides his face in the corner of his elbow to hide how much he’s laughing.
Finally, after everything seems to be in order, Malfoy breathes in as preparation and goes to push the button, only for Harry to quickly take his hand.
“Wait, wait. You have to put the lid on first.”
“Potter, I’m this close to breaking the Statute,” Malfoy says seriously. “I just need one second to ask, what were they thinking? I’m aware they don’t have magic to enchant it, but who decided this was more practical than a whisk.”
“Shut up and press the button, you berk,” Harry chuckles.
Malfoy sighs and leans on Harry once more, fluttering grey eyes from his place on his shoulder.
“Must I? It’ll make that dreadful noise again.”
“I think you’ll survive for a few seconds.” Harry leans down to give him a soft kiss and Sirius can’t watch it anymore, shouldn’t have been watching in the first place.
He goes back to pressing his back against the wall. They were sweet on each other, no doubt about it, and something dark and ugly inside Sirius, reminiscent of the festering rage that kept him sane in Azkaban, trashes in chest at the idea of it. It’s a wound that refuses to close, that refuses to believe in the “ex” Death Eater in his house, joking about muggle inventions and making Harry smile. It’s a tangled knot that tells him this boy is using Harry to look better, that a Malfoy, a Death Eater, a well-bred pureblood, from a big name family, from old money, old magic, can’t change, won’t change and it’s easier to accept that than facing the very real possibility that Sirius could have—
A horrid, loud noise interrupts Sirius’ thinking, and he quickly raises his hand to cover his ears. It goes on for a couple of minutes and then stops.
He hears a sigh.
“Fuck, I hate that. This is the first and only time I try to make pancakes. Dear cousin had better appreciate it.”
Sirius cringes, flattening himself as much as possible.
“Speaking of, you know what I noticed?” Harry remarks lightly. “You and Sirius have the same eyebrows. Like, I can definitely see the family resemblance when you raise them, all pompous and sceptical.”
“Really,” drawls a flat voice.
“Yep,” Harry chuckles. “There it is. Sometimes when you smile it looks like him too.”
“Well,” Malfoy says, with a tone just a little too bitter. “Can’t say I’ve seen many of my cousin’s smiles to be able to compare.”
“He just needs more time,” Harry says softly. “He’ll come around… won’t he?”
It’s the sound of Harry’s insecure question that finally bursts the bubble of shame growing in Sirius’ chest. It doesn’t matter that Harry started this venture seemingly optimistic about the relationship Sirius could have with Malfoy. His little add-on at the end shows him there’s enough doubt in his mind to be unsure.
“Of course he will,” Malfoy replies indignantly. “The exposure method never failed me before. Practically all my friendships started after a period of worn down annoyance. It's all part of the plan.”
Sirius can hear the smile in Harry's voice.
“So that's the tactic you used on me, huh?”
“And look at where we are now,” Malfoy comments, pleased.
“Yeah, about that, I don't know if that'll get you very far in Sirius’ case.”
“Then I'll simply change strategies and initiate plan B: sucking up to him.”
“You'll do that?” Harry sounds doubtful.
“Sure,” he answers. “As a true Malfoy, I'm an expert at sucking up to people when there's something to be gained.”
“I know, I've seen you in action.” Despite the playful words, the tone of his voice is tired.
“Harry, believe me, dear old cousin is not the type of person who'd stop loving you over something as silly as dating a war criminal. It's all about the Black blood, you see? Once they give you their loyalty, it's yours forever.”
Harry huffs. “If you say so.”
Sirius forces himself to step away from the wall, feeling the sweat on his back stick to his robes like oil. He takes one step after another, feeling numb from head to toe. He's still shaken by the hint of insecurity in Harry's tiny “won't he?”, by how small he sounded with that simple question.
Suddenly, a hundred different moments rush into his head. Times when he and Harry were together and his godson seemed to want to say something, only to stop himself and smile hesitantly. Questions he never thought to ask because he assumed Harry would say something if he disagreed with Sirius on a subject. All the meals Harry cooked for him in this very kitchen, coming home after spending a day not really doing anything and eating the food Harry prepared for him without much thought.
They never talked directly about it, the abuse Harry suffered under those horrid Dursleys. Not even in those months after the battle, where they’d spent countless sleepless nights in front of the fireplace. All Sirius can be sure of is that it wasn't anything good. Harry didn't feel comfortable sharing something so vulnerable and Sirius wasn't the type to prod. But maybe he should have. He should have talked to him about his feelings. He should have made it clear to Harry that his care and affection for him are unconditional and not even wanting to date a Death Eater could change that.
But how would Harry know if all Sirius has done this whole week is close himself off due to the very thing he’s saying wouldn’t matter?
He hurries to the door, feeling short of breath despite the small distance between the kitchen and the entrance. He wants to crawl out of his skin, he needs to transform, he doesn’t want to have to feel this guilt.
He has enough wits to close the door quietly on his way out, because soon enough he's feeling the shift in his bones. Sirius proceeds to spend the entire day running through different streets, chasing after birds in parks, getting pets and coos from the occasional friendly stranger. He allows his mind to sink into a baser instinct and forget about the conflict happening inside.
And he could almost convince himself it worked too, if it weren't for one single thought plaguing his mind over and over.
Harry hates cooking.
***
Saturday finally arrives, and Sirius is ready for this shitty week to end.
He feels strung tight after a night spent nitpicking every interaction he's ever had with Harry. And when he finally fell asleep, he was assailed by the typical nightmares that come for him every other night.
Dreams of Lily and James dying, of opening the door to their house only to find James’ corpse by the staircase. The Battle of Hogwarts, Moony getting hit by the spell before Sirius could throw up a shield. Falling through the veil in the Department of Mysteries, becoming one more whisper in the wind.
And, of course, his time in Azkaban. The salty, oppressive air from his cell, the cold and darkness he couldn’t escape from. Screams from the other prisoners, screams from the memories the dementors sucked out of him, screams from his own throat he didn’t even realise were leaking out. He’s so used to these it’s almost tedious.
Only, this time, a different nightmare joined the mix.
He was roaming the labyrinthine hallways of the prison as a dog. He could feel the heaviness of the water from the crashing waves weighing down his black coat. Twisting and turning, he couldn’t find the exit, no matter where he went. So far nothing new, his escape from Azkaban featured often in his subconscious, usually culminating in a swift capture and consequent punishment.
But this time, he turns left in a hallway just like the others and finds himself face to face with a dead end. He approaches cautiously, a cell deep in the dark, his cell specifically. He remembers each and every inch of stone, could describe the shape of the chip on the metal bar and remember the smell of rust flaking off the bottom like it had happened only yesterday.
His heart is hammering inside his chest, telling him to go, to get out, that he’s going to get caught and he’ll lose his chance. But his legs won’t obey him. He takes step after step closer to the cell, until he can see a crouching person inside.
The boy raises his head and glares at Sirius.
It’s Regulus, curled up and shivering in his Slytherin uniform.
“It was Sirius,” he says in a tinny, childish voice. Sirius takes his arm and pulls it through the bars of the cell, raising the sleeve to see the stain of the Dark Mark on his brother’s skin.
He drops the arm as if it burned.
“It was Sirius,” Regulus says again. And then he tumbles down, dementors circling them, sucking any leftover joy out of his brother and leaving him weak on the floor. And Sirius watches, watches, either can’t or won’t do anything to stop it. If the dementors catch him here, it’s over.
His mother’s voice rings in his ears.
“Tell me who did it or I’ll punish you both.”
For a brief moment, he's certain he'll hear his brother accusing him again, playing his predestined role in that cursed memory, but Regulus opens his mouth and says instead, “Brother, please help me.”
Sirius sits up with a gasp. And he continues gasping for breath for a good thirty minutes. Afterwards, he can't fall back to sleep.
When he looks at the watch, it’s already late in the afternoon. A very tempting part of him tries to convince himself to just stay inside. But Remus comes from Hogwarts to have dinner with them on Saturdays. And Harry deserves to have him try at least once before the Malfoy boy goes back to his precious Manor.
He gets dressed and quickly washes up in the bathroom. From downstairs, he can hear people talking, and he knows there’s no avoiding things anymore. His head pounds with the beginning signs of a migraine.
Sirius sees Moony first from the doorway to the dining room. They make eye contact and Moony’s face tells him everything he needs to know about just how bad he looks. Before he can utter a word, Malfoy and Harry come from the kitchen, holding steaming dishes and placing them on the table.
When Harry notices him standing there, he widens his eyes briefly, a quiet “oh” leaving his mouth. Then he smiles, small and uncertain, and Sirius wants to transform and run so bad he can feel the change trying to take in his fingertips.
“Padfoot,” Harry greets, lingering by the table, as if not sure whether he should approach or not.
Sirius opens his mouth to say something, but Malfoy interrupts.
“Mr. Black!” It takes Sirius a whole forty seconds to realise he’s referring to him. Nobody’s called him “Mr. Black” ever since he was a child, and even then only in that tone of voice adults use specifically to humour children. “Please, sit.” He pulls a chair for him and makes a grand gesture.
Sirius raises an eyebrow, profoundly weirded out. He resists the urge to remind the boy he’s the owner of the house and therefore host, but what would that accomplish? It’s not like Sirius had attempted to be a good host in any shape or form. Slowly, he sits. Moony gives him an encouraging smile, but Sirius doesn’t feel capable of smiling back.
He observes Harry and Malfoy setting up the table, especially the blond, the way he comfortably moves through his dining room as if it were his own. He looks more at ease after a couple of days in his house than Sirius has felt his whole life. There’s an extra plate set up for Kreacher, but so far Harry hasn’t been able to convince him to eat with them and it seems like today’s not going to be the day either.
“Okay, feel free to tuck in,” Harry says, sitting down as well and spooning a serving of casserole onto his plate.
Sirius stares at the food and can’t help replaying Malfoy’s words in his mind. You hate cooking. Yet, here Harry is preparing dinner for him and Remus, despite apparently never having enjoyed the chore at all.
“Thank you, Harry, it looks delicious,” Remus replies cordially.
“Draco helped, so if you taste any weird ingredients that weren’t supposed to be there, that’s his fault.”
“Yes, if you find the dish particularly delicious today, you know who to thank,” the blond says, sitting and opening a serviette over his lap.
Sirius’ head is trying to kill him. Usually he would have a shot of Firewhiskey to ease the pain, but he doesn’t think he can leave this table. His body feels rigid, like he turned into a statue while he slept, turned into the hard rock surface of Azkaban’s walls.
“Ah,” Malfoy exclaims and Sirius startles. The boy quickly leaves the dining room and comes back with a bottle in hand. “I brought this Firewhiskey from the Manor’s cellar, it’s from a lovely scott distillery my f— family,” he corrects quickly, “used to visit. Mr. Black, you take yours on the rocks, correct?”
The boy turns his wide, innocent eyes at Sirius, and he’s about to demand what the fuck is going on until he remembers part of the conversation he overheard in the kitchen. He was so busy having a meltdown over Harry that he forgot Malfoy’s supposed plan B, but it comes back to him vividly now. So this is how he acts when sucking up to somebody. Sirius tightens his grip on the glass.
“Yeah,” he replies roughly. Malfoy serves him first and the sight of it ignites a spark of anger. Incredible to think he preferred the blond when he was being a little shit.
“So, Draco,” Remus asks after a few bites, and he actually manages to make his voice sound natural, a skill Sirius didn’t use to envy until now. “Out of curiosity, why have you been spending the week here?”
“Well,” Malfoy drawls in his posh accent. “We wanted to spend some time together before my apprenticeship starts and time becomes an issue. Obviously I don’t expect nor want Harry staying in the Manor, but now that Mr. Black is aware of our relationship, we had the chance to stay here for a couple of days.”
He knows they’re looking at him, he can feel it, but the nastiness swirling in his chest tells him that, if he looks at any of them now, all the rage he's feeling, at Malfoy, at his family, at himself will spill out like bile. It's one of the anger fits he used to have on the daily back during Harry's eighth year, fits that Sirius thought himself beyond now, yet clearly isn’t.
It’s bubbling, crawling up his throat and he honestly doesn’t know if he’ll win the fight waging between letting it all out and suppressing it for Harry’s sake.
“I’m glad to hear you were accepted for the apprenticeship. You were so sure they would refuse you.”
“Yeah, well,” Malfoy lets out a bitter chuckle. “Who would have thought taking the Dark Mark would come back to bite me, huh?”
He loses.
Sirius stands, slamming his fists on the table.
“Why, aren’t you a precious, innocent, little lamb.” Sirius breaks into a venomous, mirthless laugh that rings out in the whole first floor of the house. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Remus fidgeting and gesturing at him to sit down, but he’s too enraged to stop. “Let me tell you one thing, Malfoy, it doesn’t matter what you do now, you still made the choice of becoming a Death Eater when it mattered the most, and that’s your own fault!” he shouts, “Don’t give me that bullshit about not having any other options, there are people raised in pureblood families that were able to choose differently, and it’s fucking unfair that you think you can come here and act as if it wasn’t your choice in the first place that led you to where you are because that’s not how it fucking works!”
Harry stands up so abruptly his chair topples back.
“He’s not Regulus, Sirius!”
Sirius stops.
Everybody is quiet. All he can hear are his panting breaths.
“Excuse me,” Malfoy says quietly, standing up with his picture perfect posture and leaving the room. Harry throws him a murderous look and goes after his boyfriend, to comfort him or whatever it is he needs after suffering through Sirius’ outburst.
He’s seen that look on Harry’s face before, but never directed at him, and that only makes him feel worse, because now he knows that the reason he’s never seen that face is due to Harry wanting his approval. Merlin.
Sirius sits, defeated.
“You really messed it up this time,” Remus says quietly.
“I know,” Sirius replies.
“It’s fine that you didn’t want to keep up with news of the Death Eaters after everything, Padfoot, but you should have at least read about Draco when Harry told you of their relationship,” he continues. It dawns on Sirius right then that Remus already knew about the two of them dating, probably saw it happen in eighth year and never thought to tell Sirius about it, despite his very clear complaining of it not even three days ago. Great, just another thing to weigh on his conscience. “He really is trying to be better. Still a Slytherin at his core, of course, but he’s shown great signs of progress. I don’t know if you remember me telling you, but they changed the Muggle Studies class at Hogwarts into a Muggle Integration Program, and Draco was forced to attend due to his probation sentence. All things you would know if you had actually bothered to talk to the boy.”
He listens to the lecture with his head down.
The thing is, Remus is mistaken.
Sirius already realised that Malfoy has changed, that he isn’t with Harry out of some self preservation instinct to make himself look better. He realised this the day he eavesdropped on them in the kitchen and saw just how in love they seem to be.
Truthfully it’s not that Sirius still thinks Malfoy is evil, it’s that… that…
That Malfoy is like his brother. In so many ways it hurts.
He can at last admit to himself what the real problem is, after having it thrown in his face not-so-gently by Harry. It’s that both Malfoy and his brother were so young. And that he’s here while his brother isn’t; most importantly, while his brother could have been. And maybe Sirius hasn’t dealt with the circumstances of Regulus’ death as well as he thought he had, maybe he only buried it under layers and layers of anger and thought it done. But it really, really wasn’t.
He pushes himself off the chair, determined to apologise and explain his behaviour. It'll be humiliating and possibly one of the most embarrassing things he's ever had to do, but Malfoy doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of all the things Sirius didn't have the opportunity to say to Regulus.
Moony looks at him and steps closer, reaching to stop him. “Whoa, wait a second. What are you thinking of doing, Sirius.”
“I'm just going to apologise, Moony.”
“I don't think it's a good idea to do that now,” he says. “Take your time to cool down your head, let the boys sleep on it too. Actually think about what you want to say, don't just go all in with your usual hotheadedness.”
Sirius snorts, but accepts. It's a good idea, his body still feels agitated and his head is pounding with no mercy. If he goes now, he might accidentally lose his temper even more.
“So,” Sirius clears his throat, finishing the last of Malfoy's fancy firewhiskey from his glass. Damn, it actually tastes much better than the shite they used to sneak into the common room. “You've known for quite awhile, huh?”
Remus winces. “I wouldn't go behind Harry's back, Padfoot. Besides, I knew it'd take you some time to… digest the idea.”
He nods weakly, thinking back to the past week and just how badly he reacted to his godson's boyfriend. He truly couldn't blame Moony for not having wanted to be the bearer of this news.
Remus clears his throat and gives him a look when Sirius raises his head.
“Padfoot,” he starts. “If there's one thing this whole situation with Draco showed me is that it's never too late to work on our baggage. You're already forty, Sirius. Don't wait any more than this or you'll regret it.”
Something bitter overtakes the wooden taste of the firewhiskey in his mouth. It'd be good to be able to throw a tantrum over having pretty much lost twenty of those forty years of life. But he's never been the type to whinge and moan about a problem.
He's a man of action. And it's time to act.
In the morning, he takes over the kitchen before the boys come down to eat. He puts away the leftover casserole for lunch and takes the necessary ingredients from the pantry to make toasted bread with cheese and jam. He doesn’t know any cooking spells and it takes him a good while to understand how to use the muggle toaster and coffee machine. But a couple of tries, some burns on his fingers and a mug of dirty water later, he finally has a modest breakfast spread on the kitchen counter.
All the while, he vows to himself to learn how to use all of the muggle appliances Harry had installed so he can start helping him with the chores. If Draco Malfoy of all people can help Harry cook, he doesn’t understand why he wouldn’t be able to.
He’s squeezing the last orange into a jar of juice when the two boys enter the kitchen. Sirius turns around, coming face to face with Harry and Malfoy, both looking at the prepared breakfast with wide eyes. Malfoy’s eyes meet his and then he raises his eyebrows and Sirius has to concede. They do look alike when he does that.
“Huh,” the blond says, pulling a stool and sitting. “So this is what remorse personified looks like.”
“Morning, Padfoot,” Harry starts awkwardly. “So, about yesterday…”
“Harry, wait,” Sirius interrupts. He takes a deep breath. Now comes the absolutely excruciating part. All the times Lily and James joked about his cast-iron pride come to mind, as Sirius is standing in front of Draco Malfoy with the certainty that he was in the wrong and will have to say sorry, and worst of all, sorry for not being able to separate him from his brother in his head. If there’s one way to prove to Harry just how encompassing his love for him is, this will be it. “Before you say anything, let me just… well, that is…”
“Don’t hurt yourself, cousin.”
He looks at Malfoy, who’s leaning back on the stool with the biggest little shit smirk he’s ever seen. The git is so pleased with this turn of events he’s practically vibrating. Sirius takes a quick glance at Harry and sees him trying to hold back a smile. He sighs.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, brat?”
“Immensely.” Malfoy grins. “Do go on, cousin, I believe you were trying to apologise?”
Sirius can feel his headache coming back.
“You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?”
He shrugs, “Did you make it easy for me?”
Sirius presses his lips together.
“Fair enough.”
“Draco,” Harry says, taking his boyfriend’s hand and patting it. “Play nice.”
The Malfoy boy turns to him and nuzzles the side of Harry’s head, leaning on his thigh.
“I thought you liked it when I got a little cocky…”
“Okay, you two!” Sirius cuts in. “I get it, you’re two healthy nineteen-year-old boys who’d love nothing more than some alone time. I’ll quickly apologise and get out of your way.”
He places his hands on the counter and uses it as additional support. Time to muster some of that famous Gryffindor bravery and chivalry he used to have in loads.
“Malfoy, I’m sorry,” he starts. “I’m sorry for the things I said last night, but also for how I treated you this week.” So far, so good. But it’s the next part that will take all of Sirius’ strength, that’ll break him in half and leave all of his ugliness exposed. His very core is recoiling at the thought of being vulnerable in front of the blond git, but maybe that’s part of the ‘baggage’ Remus mentioned and now’s the most decisive time to work on it. “When I saw you around the house and with your history and role in the war…” He clears his throat, noticing the way Malfoy’s face closes off just like it did last night. “I couldn’t help but think about my brother. You strongly reminded me of him and of” he closes his eyes, “of all the ways I failed him. It was hard, having to confront how it could have been if he hadn’t died after changing sides. But that’s not your wound to deal with, it’s mine. So. Sorry.”
There’s a couple of moments of silence, agonising moments in which Sirius has to stop his usual anger from festering. However, when he’s about to say something else, Malfoy replies.
“Apologies accepted, cousin,” he says simply, as though he knows that any more will make Sirius break out in hives. He probably does, what, with being raised in a very similar way.
Public displays of vulnerability are instilled very early on to be considered even worse than death. Despite having faced death many times, along with incarceration, hunger and a bunch of other things, a part of Sirius still baulks at the mere concept of talking about feelings. Malfoy, having similarly lived through things no nineteen-year-old should, strikes him as just as reluctant to tread in this area.
Malfoy turns to Harry with a shit-eating grin.
“Told you the exposure method always worked.”
Harry huffs out a laugh, but that only reminds Sirius that he isn’t done with apologies yet. This one, thankfully, is much easier to swallow.
“Prongslet,” he says, looking at Harry, at the man he is becoming, and feeling shaken by how much pride he feels for him. If Harry only knew the way Sirius sees him right now, even just a fraction of it, he’d never doubt his affection again. “Sorry for making you feel like you couldn’t be completely yourself with me.”
“That’s okay, Padfoot,” he says awkwardly, picking at the elbow of his pyjamas shirt. “Both of us should’ve talked about it way before this.”
It dawns on Sirius just how terrible all three of them are with being vulnerable. It’d be funny if it weren’t simply tragic.
“Yeah, well,” he coughs, gesturing to the food, hoping it can convey his effort better than his words, and taking a seat across from the boys. “Let’s eat, the food’s getting cold.”
He can see that Harry is feeling just as awkward, but Malfoy, pampered little heir that he is, dives right in, taking a piece of toast and spreading jam on top with a motion that’s fit for a king.
“I admit,” he states haughtily. “I don’t really know what it’s like to have a brother, but I must say you didn’t give me a very good impression. I’m more thankful than ever for being an only child.”
He doesn’t know what comes over him right that moment, possibly the deeply buried fraternal instinct he hasn’t exercised in decades, but he leans over the counter, puts his hand in Malfoy’s head and ruffles his perfectly styled hair until it’s sticking up like Harry’s. The boy looks at him like he’s lost his mind, such a priceless expression that Sirius almost laughs.
“It’s a shame I did such a shit job this week, though I guess I have all of today to compensate and show you what an older brother is really like.”
Malfoy looks at him slack-jawed and then to Harry, who’s muffling his chuckles with a cough.
“What in the world did I just unleash?”
Sirius winks. This could be fun, actually.
“Prepare yourself, Draco Malfoy, because I’m going to be an absolute menace.”
The blond smacks his forehead on the counter and groans.
***
“Did you check to see if you got everything?” Sirius calls from the front door.
“Yeah.”
Harry hurries downstairs, giving a final cursory look around. Although the house was very important to him during the final year of the war and the Order meetings before that, there’s no great sentiment between Harry and 12 Grimmauld Place.
Not like Sirius, who looks from the walls to the staircase overcome with the strangest feeling of melancholy.
Two years after Harry started the Auror training program, his graduation and following promotion is just around the corner. With such a big change coming, they finally decided it was time to move from Grimmauld Place. Too many memories that still haunted Sirius, too much blood and tears staining the floorboards. They talked to Kreacher and arranged a compromise. The elf could stay with the house and live however he wanted. Sirius and Harry would come visit from time to time and use Alphard’s inheritance to keep it maintained. But with the money Sirius saved from his new job, they bought another house, a new one, much smaller and integrated with wards and muggle technology.
Sirius stands in the foyer, feeling both elated and surprisingly dismayed to be saying goodbye to Grimmauld Place. But it’s time to leave the past behind. He knows he won’t be able to move forward if he continues living here.
He takes in a deep breath. The characteristic smell of the Black family hits his nose one final time and he smiles, closing the door.
Harry is waiting for him on the sidewalk. When Sirius reaches him, he pulls him to his side by the shoulder, shaking him slightly.
“So, what now? Wanna go directly home or stop somewhere in the way?”
“I guess you must be tired, right?” Harry says, tilting his head.
“Whatever you want, Prongslet. You decide.”
Harry thinks for a second and then suggests, “Let’s eat something before going home.”
“Hey, how about having Draco over next weekend?” Sirius muses while they’re walking to the Apparition point closest to the old townhouse. He gives his godson a final squeeze and steps away, not before remarking that Harry is a couple of centimetres taller than him. He hopes it takes the boy a good while to notice that, otherwise the teasing will be endless.
“I’d like that,” says Harry, smiling.