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Chapter Text

After only two years of being at war—truly at war and on the front lines—Sirius Black decided that he knew what evil was.

It wasn’t exactly new to him, anyway. That’s what happens, he thought, when you grow up being beaten, tortured, starved, and humiliated by the two people who are supposed to protect you, love you, raise you. Even when he thought better of someone, he couldn’t really trust them.

He never considered it much deeper than that. Not even to wonder about whether he broke his own trust, too.

Of course he didn’t think about that.

(If James Potter could have heard him then, he may have found himself remembering that this was his pain speaking. Sirius had learned, because of James, that pain wants to win, and the only way it can is by preventing you from feeling anything else. From remembering there is beauty in the world, even when the clouds cover it up. That even, when the whole world is against you, the sun may find you.)

And even if he thought about it, even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t have figured it out back then. Not in those circumstances.

Remus was gone. Only had been for a week and a half, as of that moment, but Sirius had a nagging feeling, simmering in the pit of his stomach, that he wouldn’t be back anytime soon. He’d been leaving more regularly, his time away having gradually stretched longer and longer. He always said he was leaving on Order business, and that he was sworn to secrecy. The last time he left, he’d barely even said goodbye. Sirius didn’t know what to believe. He desperately tried to not think about it, but on the rare occasion he did, he couldn’t help but wonder if something evil was taking him, too.

James had been throwing himself into missions. Every time he left for one, Sirius lost a thread of his sanity. He had asked James many, many times about what was bothering him, only to be pushed away. James never pushed him away before. Sirius didn’t know what to do.

The Order was crumbling, bit by bit. They had lost five members in a month, and only gained one. They hadn’t had a win in weeks. Sirius had been watching his friends—his family—become colder, quieter, and lesser. He’d been lucky he hadn’t lost anyone close yet. At that rate, his luck wasn’t going to last. Sirius didn’t know how else to live but to push through.

(In only a few days, he would receive the worst news of his life. He would never expect it, but that wouldn’t change the result.)

Which is why, on a biting November day in the year of 1979, Sirius had expected the worst. He didn’t yet know how much would change, all because of a single night.

All because of a little black cat, torn to shreds under a flickering streetlamp.

Sirius is out on a walk, desperate for some fresh, albeit freezing, air after a miserable meeting (a muggleborn and their family butchered, the sixteenth this year that they know of, meanwhile there is nothing to show for the Order’s efforts) when he sees it.

At the end of the street—the Potters’ street, because he can’t possibly live in his and Remus’ flat right now, not when it’s so empty—a streetlamp flickers on and off, on and off. There’s something about it, the rhythm of it, the stuttering beacon against the dark clouds reflecting off the snow muffling all sounds, that calls to him. It lets him forget about the ache in his chest, even if for only a moment. So, he follows it to the corner upon which it stands.

When he’s below it, looking at something bright against an empty sky, Sirius wonders when the last time he saw the stars was. He never cared for them while he was in school, not after his first year or so. He was better without them, after all, so he never sought them out. But, in Scotland, with kilometers and more between Hogwarts and the nearest city, the stars were at least there. Now, he doesn’t even have a choice, does he?

The ache in his chest shudders, and grows, and spreads upward. Suddenly his shoulders ache, too. A gust of cold wind bites into him, and he sighs.

And something responds.

The noise is faint. With all the buzzing fatigue in his head, Sirius doubts his hearing for a moment. At least, until it sounds out again.

Curious, he thinks. There isn’t anyone else out here. He looks around, searching. Nothing. Except, maybe not, because within moments the noise comes a third time.

It sounds a little bit like a whine. Sirius thinks, in a bit of a daze, that it reminds him of the sound Moony makes when he’s just woken up from the transformation, after the full moon comes out. When he’s just stopped screaming, but he’s still in pain, and still feels the need to let it out.

This is the thought that makes him turn to the ground. He backs up from the on-and-off streetlamp, swiveling once to glance over his surroundings. He hears the sound again.

From below.

There is a shadow leant up against the base of the streetlamp. In each short instance when the light flickers on, Sirius makes out just a little bit more.

Black fur.

An animal, lying on its side. Unmoving.

Blood.

He rushes forward and crouches as close as he dares. The image he sees, as these sorts of things tend to do every mission he goes on, every time he comes close to losing someone, makes him want to cry.

There’s a cat under the streetlamp, covered in so much blood the fur is matted, barely holding on. He shakily reaches forward to hold his hand above the cat’s ribs.

It’s faint, but he feels it. Expansion, contraction.

Breath.

“Oh, oh fuck,” Sirius whispers. He looks up for only long enough to judge how far the house is. Close enough.

He can’t not do anything. He can’t, not now. Even the thought might kill him.

Damn the consequences.

“Alright, okay, come on,”

Split-second decision made, Sirius rips his jacket off and reaches forward, wrapping the cat’s body—tiny, so tiny—up with the soft inner layer as gently as he can. It scares him how little resistance there is, how the cat barely makes a sound even though it seemed to be vocal only moments ago, and when he cradles the body against his chest, supporting the little head with one hand, a sliver of its eyes glimmering in the light, all he can feel is fear.

He doesn’t know why, but he’s so fucking scared.

The first thing he does once he’s pushed his way into the house is scream for help. Considering their lives these days, everyone in the house comes running.

Monty, Lily, James.

Lily—who has been staying with them for the past year to avoid putting her family at risk—rushes to him first.

“What is—oh, is that…” She follows him as he bustles into the dining room, the others close behind, set for the large wood table. It isn’t the first time they care for an injured body here. When he’s laid the cat down upon the table, gently peeling the coat away, Monty nods once and turns to head out the back door. “I’m getting your mother.”

The three left behind barely pay attention to his words. They can’t, not really, busy staring down at the body before them, because, well…

This cat might be better off dead.

Effie storms in, pulling her wand from a snug pocket built neatly into her jeans. She takes one look at the body on the table and reaches in to shove the three of them aside. She’s quick, and it settles some instinctive panic festering inside Sirius.

“James, towels. Lily, muggle first aid kit, bathroom. Monty, the small potions box in your office. You know the one.” She looks at each of them. “Go.”

They do.

Sirius hovers, not knowing if he could walk away if he was forced. Effie grips his arm with her free hand, squeezes twice, and gets to work, narrating all the while.

First, a diagnostic. Spells and potions crafted for humans and by humans are funny with animals, she tells him, but she knows one that works with both. She flinches when the diagnostic comes back but doesn’t hesitate to start speaking.

Concussion. A punctured lung, steadily filling with blood. Covered face to paw-pad in scratches, some still sluggishly bleeding, some deep enough to hit bone. Poisoned. Early-stage multiple organ failure. A fractured back leg. A severed front leg.

James comes back first. Effie has him putting pressure on a few of the nastiest scratches. The first aid kit, when Lily returns, is opened and spread out. Under Effie’s direction, she begins opening gauze packets and antiseptic. Sirius wraps his arms around himself. Effie repeats the injuries to them, and both gasp.

“Where the hell did you find him?” James says, his eyes wide.

“Down—“ Sirius’ voice cracks, and he gulps to clear it. “Down the street. Below a light.”

“Sirius,” Effie says, as gentle as ever and yet somehow edged. “I need you to stop the blood from the front leg. As basic a spell as you can. Use it multiple times if you must.”

He rushes forward. There’s so little space around the table he ends up arm-to-arm with Effie. He’s able to center himself with something to do. While he focuses upon this one spell with all his might, Effie chants something complicated, her wand circling above the cat’s ribs.

It takes a minute or so more for Monty to come back, carrying a small, nondescript wooden box between his hands. He places it on the table as close as possible to Effie’s hands, then opens it.

“Bezoar first, cut up a smaller piece.” Effie says. Monty moves to do so. “We need to get this poison out. Sirius, hold the mouth open.”

Something in Sirius dies when the cat’s tongue lolls, the mouth opening so easily. The bezoar is passed down a line, from Monty, to Effie, to Sirius, who shoves it down the cat’s throat as far as he can.

For a few seconds, nothing happens. All five humans sit stock still, waiting.

Waiting.

And still, nothing.

Effie casts one spell, takes a sharp breath in, and reaches for the cat’s abdomen, one hand placed upon the other. “Hearts stopped.”

Sirius stops breathing, and stumbles back a step. Everything blurs. He thinks he can see Effie’s arms moving, Lily rushing forward and leaning down. Monty brings his wand out and casts something Sirius doesn’t understand. At some point, warmth pulls Sirius in, burying his head in a jumper. James.

From his place of safety, Sirius watches. His vision clears. A moment or an eternity later, Lily pushes herself back.

There.

The cat moves. Before any of them realize it, all three remaining legs have attempted to help the small body stand, only to flail faintly, one broken leg collapsing entirely. Out the cat’s mouth, accompanied by a slew of miserable noises and a curled back, comes a stream. It’s water at first, and then a congealed green liquid. Sirius’ jacket beneath begins to smoke and sizzle, as if the cat just vomited up pure acid.

Poison for sure.

Something in Sirius’ chest loosened as soon as the cat began to vomit the poison up. It’s as if there’s a coil in his stomach, or a rope tied around his ribs, his lungs, his heart, that tightened when Effie’s voice said hearts stopped only to suddenly release.

Except the stuff is never-ending. Effie pulls the cat back a little to prevent it from dropping its bloody, torn-up face into the puddle. Lily—sharp, clever Lily—vanishes the liquid with her wand while the rest of them are stuck gaping.

Then, it’s as if something gets stuck in the cat’s throat. Its little body tenses, and a choke sounds out.

He’s not sure why, but Sirius has a sudden urge. He returns to the table and reaches his hands to the cat’s back. Avoiding the scratches in the skin as best as possible, he finds himself rubbing circles into the wet fur and whispering small comforts. There’s no reason for it, he thinks, and yet the cat heaves one last time, and sags down into the jacket.

Sirius falls back into James’ arms behind him while the others keep going. Effie, continuing to lead, moves on to closing the open wounds, using disinfectant on as many as she can—cleaning spells, she says, are some of the trickiest with cats—before slowly healing them. Lily and Monty are right by her side, selecting safe potions and gently tipping them down the cat’s throat. Sirius and James stay a step away, constantly on call. Only once does Sirius reach forward again, to repeat the spell on the cat’s front leg and bandage it tightly. For the rest, he stands back.

It all goes by in an indistinct fog.

At the end of it, Effie bundles the cat up in clean blankets. Now with a frankly ridiculous number of bandages wrapped on, Lily and James begin to clean the blood out of whatever fur remained showing. It doesn’t keep the stains out of the blankets, but the attempt is made. They clean the table, throw away Sirius’ burnt-through jacket, and build a cat bed out of towels and pillows.

All Sirius notices is that the cat doesn’t wake up.

When the make-shift bed has been formed, he sits down in a chair beside the table and doesn’t move for hours. He thinks James stays. Effie comes around at some point during the night and sits with them. She doesn’t speak much, but she does hold Sirius’ hand for a while, and that seems to help a little.

But really, all Sirius can do is watch the cat breathe.

Five hours later, Sirius having still not slept, the sun has begun to climb into the sky. James went to sleep on the couch in the room over. Sirius had forced him to; James had been reluctant to leave him to his vigil, but he would not back down. It doesn’t make sense for them both to stay up with no sleep, after all.

Effie checks on him again. She sits by his side and asks if he wants to talk about it—what ‘it’ refers to goes unsaid, because she seems to know better than to question Sirius at this moment. When Sirius shakes his head, she lets him be. All Sirius can express is one thing.

“Thank you, Effie.”

She sighs.

“I’ve told you a thousand times. Call me mum, Sirius.”

In the steadily growing light of the dawn, Sirius wonders what it is he’s feeling.

When James will inevitably ask him the question, days later, why are you so protective of this cat, Sirius will meet his eyes and whisper something.

He needed me, and, something in my head told me to help him.

This is not going to be the whole truth, but that is all right. It will take him time to understand.

Over thirty-two hours have passed since Effie got the cat’s heart beating again, and still, the little bug has not woken up. To be completely honest, Sirius feels like he might break down at any moment.

The thought of it is hard for him while he leaves for a mission, assigned by Moody as always. It’s a guard assignment, as Sirius’ often are, because Moody has learned his strengths over the last year or so. With Dorcas Meadowes and Fabian Prewett by his side, Sirius isn’t worried about the extraordinarily high likelihood of death, because he knows that, if he does die today, he won’t go out without a fight. Yes, it’s a tad distracting while guarding a rather high-stakes transaction of various potion ingredients—all of which are imports strictly regulated by the ministry—but all he can think about is whether that little cat at home is fighting.

Dorcas sees him fidgeting about a minute in, while they’re walking up towards the rendezvous point, because she’s fucking observant like that. Sirius wonders, briefly, how Marlene is doing. Hopefully good as hell, all things considered. He would be, with someone like Dorcas by his side.

He would have that, if things were different. But he can’t contemplate that right now. It will break him.

“So, what is it?” Dorcas says from his side. “What’s got you moping?”

Sirius huffs and knocks into her shoulder. He remembers getting to know her in their seventh year. It feels so long ago, though rationally Sirius knows it has only been a year or two. Marlene brought her into the common room one day, sent an icy, possessive stare around the entire damn room, and introduced this intimidating Slytherin as her girlfriend. Mary, having been hanging over his shoulder at the time, whooped so hard Sirius swears to this day he’s got hearing damage. The rest of them were more than a little surprised, but it turns out that when you have this many queers as friends, that sort of announcement blows over rather quickly. The only shock they had to get over, really, was Marlene’s new, cool girlfriend being a Slytherin, and she integrated herself so well even that didn’t last long.

He had not known at the time how close Dorcas would end up with them. Now, he wouldn’t lose her for the world.

“Worried ‘bout home, is all,” he murmurs.

“What, your mistress can’t take care of himself?” She chuckles, referring, of course, to James.

(Most people call James and Sirius brothers these days, rather than making jokes about their obvious codependency. They’ve said it themselves so many times. He’s lived with the Potters for years, and Effie and Monty still chastise him for forgetting to call them mum and dad, so it figures. But Dorcas never, ever calls them brothers. Sirius hasn’t noticed it enough to consider why that might be.)

“No, it’s not him,” he says with a half-smile and a shake of the head. “It’s, er…” He wonders, for a split moment, why he is afraid of telling them this. He doesn’t produce an answer fast enough and plows through anyway. He trusts Dorcas and Fabian.

“I found an injured cat on the street the other night,” he says softly. “Just hoping he’s okay.”

Dorcas hums. “Bollocks. Healed alright?”

“Yeah, well. He was in a bad way. Hasn’t woken up yet.”

Fabian, from Dorcas’ other side, the tall fucker, leans down. “If you need anything for him, let me know. Gid loves stray cats, he might know a thing or two.” Dorcas just nods in agreement.

“Thanks,” he says. “Effie saved him, honest. I just stared. I couldn’t do much of anything.” He starts fidgeting again.

Dorcas hums. “Give him time, Sirius. He probably just needs the sleep. You boys haven’t seen Marlene when she’s truly exhausted, I doubt either of you could get her up.”

Fabian laughs. “How’d you do it, then?”

Her long braids fall from her shoulder as she tilts her head back, a smirk on her lips so wide that the stars in her eyes are nearly outshone. “You’re a smart one, Fab. Use your imagination.”

Sirius, as miserable as it makes him feel, is so happy for her he thinks he could burn the entire world down.

If only, if only.

That little gust of joy is all that gets him through the mission; the tiny, blooming feeling that even in all this hell, two people have found each other.

Dorcas was right, though. The cat did just need sleep, and they were all too happy to give it to him. Collectively, their little household of five (on behalf of Sirius’ sanity) decided to form a bit of a watch schedule. One of them was always there with him, and Effie taught them all how to keep him hydrated on their shifts, which Sirius is so, so grateful for.

The issue now is that none of them are quite prepared for the reaction the little one has when he wakes up.

Sirius, when it finally happens, is in the kitchen making tea with Monty. It’s been another day or so, and they’re all still on missions. Lily, on Monty’s permission, has turned his entire potions lab into a mini war zone. For months, she’s been up day and night making potions for the Order—almost half of that ingredients transaction Sirius, Dorcas, and Fabian oversaw came straight to the Potters’. James has left the house twice since, both of which he spent on a broom. Sirius trusts him when he flies, but he doesn’t trust the Death Eaters he sometimes fights won’t put a killing curse in his back. Effie and Monty do political and administrative work from home, especially with Monty’s seat on the Wizengamot. They also run a lot of underground favors for Moody and Dumbledore, though they never quite share details. The result of this is that they’re all exhausted. So, when James shouts, “oh, fucking shit!” from the dining room, it takes both Monty and Sirius a moment to react.

Monty is out the door first, with Sirius close behind. Once they round the threshold of the dining room, Sirius stops.

James is on his feet a few steps away from the table, holding one hand to his chest, steadily cursing away at what must be blood. Monty goes to him first and promptly starts working on the wounds in his son’s hand. Sirius moves in that direction as well, wanting to know why his best friend, his brother, is hurting.

“James, are you—”

Then, he sees.

The cat is awake.

Sirius stands stock still and watches as this tiny, thin, battered-to-hell cat slips on the smooth wood with his remaining front paw, clearly unused to being tripedal, especially with one back leg in a splint of its own. The tight bandages around his abdomen strain with the curved shape his back takes, and Sirius bets his fur would be all spiked up if it weren’t almost entirely covered. What sends chills down Sirius’ spine is the sound he makes. Hissing, mostly. Very loud, very scary hissing, the three deep scratches cut across the cat’s small face splitting horribly open with every movement. But the other sounds—Sirius is hesitant to call them meows—are ear-splitting, and long, and clearly show absolute fucking terror.

Sirius cannot move.

Lily comes in next. Her hair is a little disheveled, like she was just in the middle of a kip. She takes one look at the cat, gasps, and steps forward, entirely unafraid.

“Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” she says, palms up and flat, trying so hard to be comforting. “You’re safe, you’re okay.”

The cat doesn’t exactly take it well.

Sirius makes an aborted movement forward when the little thing jumps right off the table, landing poorly on only two good legs, and promptly buries itself into the far corner of the room, as far away from Lily as possible. Still hissing. Still crying.

Effie finally finds them, and it takes her no time at all to grab Lily’s arm. “Everyone out,” she says. “He doesn’t know that we’re safe. We’re only scaring him.” She makes sure the others are out before turning back to Sirius. “Love, it’s okay, I’ll calm him down.”

Sirius barely even hears her. He lowers to his knees instead and starts doing exactly what Lily just tried.

“Hey, little one,” he starts. His voice cracks so hard he clears his throat.

The cat startles and looks in his direction.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you. None of us did.”

The cat is staring right at him. He thinks he’s heard, once before, that cats don’t like eye contact, that it makes them scared. Sirius wonders if that’s wrong, because this one is staring directly into his soul.

“We’re sorry. We just wanted to help you live.”

The cat meows again. Yowls, really. But, this time, it’s noticeably softer.

“I know, I know. I wouldn’t like getting saved by strangers, either. I’ve got too much pride for that, if you can believe it. But we don’t have to be strangers, yeah?” He lifts one hand, palm up, just like Lily’s was. He moves slowly but confidently, hoping his movements are easy enough to see. “We just want to help you. Only that, I promise.”

He has no reason at all to believe this will work. Truly, it really, really shouldn’t. There is no good reason for this cat to trust him.

Yet, for some ungraspable reason, he tries.

Sirius gasps when the cat lifts himself from his curled position in the corner. He even holds himself back from rushing forward when the little thing takes his first step, because he almost ends up face-planting again, his bandaged stump swinging with phantom movements. But after the second and third steps, he seems to figure out how to walk, albeit quite slowly.

In a span of time that feels like it could be an age or a single second, the cat stands less than a meter from Sirius’ extended hand. His fingers shake with the effort needed to remain still.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

Those two words seem to do it.

With caution in every slow step, the cat reaches Sirius’ hand. Sirius, having overestimated the cat’s height and hoping to make it easier for him, lowers his hand just a little. The cat flinches back at the small movement, and Sirius winces, but he regains confidence quickly. And finally, finally, the little cat gets close enough to sniff Sirius’ fingers. With bated breath, Sirius waits, and waits, and waits, prepared for the worst. Only for his heart to absolutely melt when the cat before him releases a soft cry and pushes into his hand.

Sirius laughs, so relieved he thinks he might cry himself, as he scratches gently around the base of the cat’s torn-up ear. The little thing closes his eyes and leans into it a little, and even that tiny movement relays so much trust it scares Sirius.

“He must know you saved him,” Sirius hears from his side. He turns and sees Effie looking down at them with a soft smile. Behind her, he catches the eyes of James, Monty, and Lily peeking around the corner. “He knows you won’t hurt him.”

Sirius smiles something small and sad. The cat notices when Effie gets close and moves to hunch into himself again, becoming small so he can hide beside Sirius’ knees. “Not enough to save him from the pain he must have been in.”

“You found him,” she reminds him. “He would have died if you hadn’t. We can’t change the past, Sirius.”

He knows this, because she says it so often it’s carved into his memory. Doesn’t stop him from wishing he could.

He wishes he could change so many things. This is just the newest one he’s added to the list. But the cat nuzzles once more into his hand, and Sirius finds himself being able to forget about all of that, even if only for a moment.

It is snowing outside when Sirius receives the worst news of his life.

(He wouldn’t call it that now. He is going, at this moment, to call it retribution. Justice that has been served. But, well. It’s complicated.)

After the little cat woke up and decided Sirius was the only one in the house he could trust (he hasn’t quite stopped hissing at the rest, especially James), they’ve been inseparable; everywhere Sirius goes, a little shadow limps behind. Once the cat’s initial sickbed was put in the wash, Sirius transfigured a better one out of a few blankets from his room. It’s been placed on the floor in front of the sitting room fireplace—the one lit to battle the cold while the dining room is connected to the floo—because it didn’t take Sirius finding him shivering more than once to figure out that the cat has been getting cold easily. Even after days of resting, the cat hasn’t been able to stay up long. Effie thinks that the initial fear tired him out, on top of all the injuries, and Sirius is both inclined to agree and deeply disinclined to leave the cat’s side anyway. This is how he ends up spending a whopping five hours on the floor beside the little cat, curled up in his new bed.

He’s watching the snow fall in the darkness, building upon the layer already resting on the ground, when he hears someone come in through the floo. When they walk into the sitting room, he turns to greet them, only to stop before he can get a single word out.

It’s Monty, standing scarily still with some sort of parchment held tightly in his hands, looking at him with an expression made carefully blank.

“Hey,” Sirius says, feeling a little useless. “What is it, Monty?”

Monty just takes a deep breath in. “I’m sorry, Sirius.” He doesn’t even correct Sirius on using Monty instead of dad, like he usually would. He just steps forward, and hands Sirius the parchment—a copy of what looks to be the Daily Prophet. He must have gotten it from work, and Sirius wonders briefly why he’s only seeing today’s copy now.

“Oh—er,” Sirius stutters out as he takes it. “Cheers?”

Monty shakes his head and looks pointedly at the newspaper.

Sirius looks down. At the front page. The headline.

BLACK HEIR MISSING, DECLARED DEAD

Oh.

It’s the portrait that does it. Sirius has never seen it before. It’s of—him. Him.

He sits on a high-backed, ostentatious wooden chair, posture perfect, feet squarely planted, hands held neatly in his lap. On one side, her hand on his shoulder, stands Walburga, dressed in what Sirius recognizes as some of her best robes. On his other side, in an equally gaudy chair, is Orion. He doesn’t really notice them, though. He knows who they are, and he doesn’t really care anymore. But the one in the middle, he, him, him.

Him. The little arsehole Death Eater that Sirius has gone weeks without thinking of. Him. Him!

Dead.

Oh.

Sirius laughs. “Of course the fucker’s death made it to the front page.”

He reads the first few lines of the article. It’s all fake bullshit, quite frankly. There’s not even a funeral date listed. Survived by Lord Black and his wife, bullshit. A great loss to Wizard Britain, bullshit. A loving son and dedicated student, absolute, utter bullshit. He’s a fucking monster, that’s what he is. It’s obvious that he’s a bloody Death Eater, isn’t it? His left sleeve may as well have been rolled up for the portrait. The Prophet should have said that, instead.

Was. Was a Death Eater.

Oh.

James chooses this moment to find them in front of the fire. He takes one look at Monty’s sullen posture, the smile on Sirius’ face that feels dazed, crazed, and then speaks.

“Er. Hey, dad, Sirius,“ he says. “What’s happened?”

Sirius turns up to look at him. His smile widens a bit. “My good-for-nothing brother is dead.”

James stares at him. “W—what?” Sirius just shrugs and hands him the Prophet. He doesn’t want to hold it anymore, anyway. The paper feels dirty to him, for some reason. He can feel his heart beating, in his wrists, in his throat.

It takes James a few moments to look down at the damn thing. He blinks rapidly, his gaze running around the paper, as if he’s trying to figure out what the hell he’s looking at. Fair, Sirius thinks. Good news is hard to believe, right?

Right.

Except, as moments pass, Sirius finds himself increasingly confused about James’ reaction. His hands are shaking, meanwhile his eyes are so distant Sirius wonders if he’s even reading what he’s looking at. It’s when his eyes start getting a bit watery that Sirius starts getting worried.

“Prongs? You okay?”

James looks right back up at him. When he blinks, the first tear slips out, but he doesn’t even seem to notice it. “Oh, yeah—yes. I’m fine.” He steps forward, hands the paper back to Sirius. “I’ll be upstairs,” he says, and then he goes.

Sirius frowns, and turns back to Monty, wondering if he should ask what that was about. Except Monty just looks even worse than he did before, like the lines and shadows on his face have only sunk deeper, and Sirius decides it’s probably best if he just keeps his mouth shut. He can ask later. He turns back to the cat by his side, who he had briefly forgotten about with the news in his hands, and puts the paper down to scratch behind his ears. “Sorry about that, little bug. I got distracted, huh.”

The next thing that confuses Sirius is the way the cat looks. He is staring into Sirius’ eyes again, but this time, it doesn’t feel trusting. It feels—shocked. As if the cat is seeing him for the first time.

Huh?

He lifts his hands away from the cat’s head once it’s clear the little thing is having no reaction to his touch. He wonders if the cat even feels it. So far, it’s been obvious, because the cat loves ear scratches. Sirius is so, so confused.

The cat doesn’t move for a long, long time.

When Sirius walks upstairs later that night, wondering where James is, he finds his bedroom door locked and the tell-tale static feeling of a silencing charm around the room. He frowns again, still confused, and decides not to do anything about it. James only does this when he really, really needs to be alone. So, Sirius walks away and resolves to ask him if he’s okay at breakfast tomorrow morning.

James isn’t at breakfast the next morning. In fact, he doesn’t leave his room until Effie drags him out so that he eats dinner that night. To make it worse, he’s practically non-verbal, only speaking when spoken to, and only ever in monosyllabic answers. But when Sirius asks, and squeezes his hand, all James responds with is a smile and an I’m fine, Pads. Just tired.

Sure, Sirius thinks, seeing the bags under James’ eyes. Except you look like you’ve been crying. But he doesn’t say this out loud, because he thinks, more than ever before, James seems… what’s the word. Fragile. And Sirius has no fucking clue how to help a fragile James. None.

Effie pulls Sirius aside while they’re cleaning after dinner. Lily, James, and Monty are in the kitchen. James is still unnaturally quiet, with Lily and Monty talking softly around him. Sirius and Effie watch the three of them move about each other, natural as always after over a year of living all together. It’s peaceful, really.

“Are you alright, Sirius?”

Sirius turns to her with a frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Effie’s head tilts a little, her eyebrows pinched. Her mouth opens and closes once, twice. “Your brother passed.”

Sirius’ jaw drops a little, but he picks it up quickly. “Yes… And?”

She just looks at him, searching. She just stares at him for a full minute before speaking again.

“And… you’re alright?”

Sirius turns back to the scene in the kitchen and shrugs. “Wasn’t much of a brother, was he?” He says. “Shouldn’t’ve become a Death Eater, miserable sod. Maybe then, I’d give a shit.”

They stand there for a bit longer. Effie doesn’t look away from him for a while. It reminds him, uncomfortably so, of the way the cat had looked at him yesterday.

Afterwards, he’s sitting on the floor beside the cat again. He’s starting to get a little worried; the cat hasn’t moved since yesterday. He isn’t sure when exactly, to be honest, but he checked with the rest of the house at dinner, and no one had seen him out of his bed by the fire. He hasn’t been following Sirius around everywhere, either. Effie had lifted him out to change his bandages, and he hadn’t even fought back like the times before. She did say he got up on his own to use the loo, though. She found him a box the day before, just to be safe, and though he’d been funny about using it at first (especially in that he needed help to even get in the thing; Sirius quickly conjured him a little ramp, and that seemed to be working), he had clearly known what it was and used it. This made Effie think he was probably a house cat before. This absolutely destroys Sirius inside, because now there’s a chance someone out there is missing him.

But, if he’s being honest, he has a feeling his previous owners were the ones who hurt him. Not just because of his injuries—he could perhaps have earned those in a street fight, albeit a severe one. Really, it’s just a nagging feeling Sirius has.

Time keeps passing by, and still, the cat doesn’t move.
About once a day, Sirius sees him change positions. Effie has started to change his bandages more often, just to have an excuse to lift him out of his bed. She says he still gets up to use the litter, but this doesn’t ease his nerves much. Everyone’s getting worried, especially Sirius. He keeps desperately trying to figure out what’s wrong, but none of his possible answers make sense, because he saw the cat move the first and second days, and Effie says he’s healing quickly, and he is so, so worried.

If he thought that first mission was hard to get through, the one immediately after he found the little cat in the first place, the ones he leaves for across this week are much worse.

One night, six days after that day, which is Sirius’ only time reference considering he doesn’t know exactly when the cat stopped moving, he and James are sitting side by side on the couch. James has gotten slowly more vocal over the week and seems back to normal now. Sirius never got an answer for why he was so down, and he doesn’t want to make any assumptions, but he’s likely reassured James of his never-ending support about fifteen times in the last few days.

On the floor before them, staring at the fire from his place in his little bed, is the cat. His matted black fur is out; Effie took the bandages off his abdomen, finally, saying that the slices across his skin have healed enough to warrant some air. Issue is, the poor thing hasn't cleaned himself at all, and they're all too scared to risk a bath with how unresponsive he is.

Monty and Lily are in the lab, working hard on the next batch of potions for the Order. They haven’t been leaving the house much lately, except for missions or, in Monty’s case, for Wizengamot matters he cannot push back. Everyone is feeling down, it seems.

Sirius misses Remus more than anything in the world.

Effie is in the armchair to their right with a book held in her hands. She hasn’t been reading much; Sirius keeps noticing her looking up at the cat. It’s become obvious to them all that she’s equally stressed about him as Sirius is.

Which—speaking of. Sirius has been curious.

“Hey, Effie?” He starts. He waits for her to look at him before continuing. “How is it that you knew what spells to use? And—“ he gulps. “And how to bring him back? After his heart stopped?”

Her eyes soften at the questions. She looks back to the little cat by the fire and smiles. “I grew up with cats,” she says. Sirius blinks at the sudden information, having never heard about this before. “We always had at least one with us, my whole childhood. When I was just out of school, my older sister found a litter of very sick kittens in our backyard. Our grandmother helped us care for them and taught us most of what I know now.” Her soft, nostalgic smile fades suddenly. “Yet I can’t explain this.”

Heart heavy, Sirius turns back to watch the cat. Voice small, he whispers. “What do we do?”

“Can—“ James starts. Sirius and Effie both look at him. “Can cats be… depressed?”

“Yes,” Effie says. “And he’s showing signs of it. But this is a very…” She pauses and thinks for a moment, pursing her lips a little. “A very human expression of it. A severe one. Often, depressed cats will stop eating and grooming themselves. They’ll start sleeping more, might even become aggressive. But he isn’t always sleeping. And he never vocalizes anymore, even to express sadness or pain. He still uses the litter, when depression is a reason cats can fail to. He’s physically getting healthier by the day. I’ve never heard of a case where they became… entirely immobile for days on end, especially if there isn’t anything physically wrong.”

“It couldn’t be—his legs?” Sirius says, miserable. Effie just shakes her head.

“No. Cats are resilient, in that way. Some can even be quite mobile with only two legs, and his fracture is healing well.”

Sirius hums. At his side, James brings his knees up on the couch and hugs them. He sighs.

“You alright, Prongs?” Sirius asks. James seems to startle at this.

“Yeah, fine, just—“ he wipes a hand across his face. Sirius moves closer to him, bringing an arm around his best friend’s—his brother’s—shoulders and pulling him close. “He reminds me of someone, is all.”

Sirius blinks. “You’ve known someone who has been this depressed?”

“It wasn’t—” James starts, closes his mouth so fast his teeth click, and huffs. Mournfully, he says: “Yeah. I have.”

“Who was it?” Sirius asks. “Wait, wrong question. Do you know what helped them?”

James laughs. It’s such a visceral sound that Sirius jumps a little. “No,” James says. “Nothing helped.” He buries his head in his knees. “Nothing ever helped. Even when—even when I knew what helped, what should have. It wasn’t enough in the end.”

Shocked, Sirius half lets go of James’ shoulders. “James,” he starts, gently. “Was it—punch me if I’m overstepping. Was it the boy you were seeing while we were still in school?”

He doesn’t look up from his knees, but Sirius feels James’ shoulders tense up. He was always tense when the other Marauders brought up his boy. They never found out who he was and always pestered him about it. But he remembers, sometime after winter break in their seventh year, that James came back to the dorm crying one night, and shared that they’d broken up. Sirius remembers thinking that James was never the same after that day.

James grips his arms tighter. “… Yes.”

Sirius moves back in to hold James, bringing him as close as possible. “Shit. I’m sorry, Prongs. I’m so sorry.”

They hold, for a moment, in this position.

And then it all goes to shit.

James pulls out of his embrace, sharp. He looks up at Sirius, a blaze in his eyes Sirius has never seen before.

“Are you?”

Sirius blinks. “Huh?”

Immediately, James is on his feet. He starts pacing in the middle of the room, runs his hands through his hair. Sirius stands too.

“Prongs, what’s wrong?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. James whirls on him.

“What’s wrong?” His words come hard, from the back of his throat. He laughs, brittle. Sirius wonders when the last time he saw James this angry was. “What—You want to know what’s wrong? Fine. I can’t keep doing this for you, Sirius.”

“Doing what for me?”

“I never wanted to lie about it, you know?” James paces again, arms flailing. “I never wanted to keep it from you. But he knew you would blow up if you found out, and he was so fucking scared of that happening. So, we kept it quiet. But I guess it doesn’t matter now anyway, does it?”

“James,” Sirius grits out, jaw clenching involuntarily. “What are you on about?”

“What am I on about?” James asks, veering on a shout. What is happening, Sirius thinks. James has never yelled at me. Not since— “Better question is what the hell is up with you? It’s been a week since you found out your brother died, and you simply don’t feel a thing? I don’t buy it, Sirius, I don’t fucking buy it.”

“What in the world does that have to do with—“

“It was him!”.

Sirius is so confused. He can only shake his head. Something dark and tense swirls in the air and behind his ribcage. “What?”

A hoarse sound rips its way from James’ throat. “You’re sorry, yeah? That my boy in school was depressed—was out of his fucking mind. That I tried so hard to help him, whenever I could, and that it didn’t matter anyway. Well, you know what, Sirius? Yeah. You should be sorry. Because he was your little brother, and I was the one taking care of him.”

Sirius gapes. His brain stutters. He doesn’t register Effie standing from the armchair, book still in hand, looking between them both. Neither does he see the cat, having shifted his position to watch them, eyes wide, back curved.

“You—“ Sirius grinds his teeth. “Say that again.”

James takes a step forward. “My boy, Sirius, was Regulus Arcturus Black.” The words come out in a whisper, broken with effort. It’s the first time Sirius has heard his name in a long, long time. Sirius’ can’t think, can’t breathe. “He was your brother. I loved him. And he’s dead.”

No one moves. For a moment, only the crackling fire can be heard in the sitting room. Effie puts her book down.

Sirius punches James. Right across his jaw.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” Sirius roars. James reels back, clutching the side of his face with one hand. “I told you! I always fucking told you, he was just like them! A stupid, evil little blood purist, who never, ever fought back! You’re telling me you dated him!?”

“You were wrong, Sirius,” James groans out. His jaw is bruising. “You were wrong. He wasn’t. He never agreed with your parents’ values when he was with me.”

“When he was with you? That means fuck-all, Prongs. I knew him before you did.”

“Believe what you will, Sirius. You say that, but I knew the boy I loved. And I know that you were never willing to see him as anything besides your parents’ pawn. But don’t you dare give me bullshit platitudes for me when you can’t even accept that he’s gone.”

“Oh, I know he’s dead, I don’t doubt the Prophet. Is that really what you think I’m on about?” He barks out a laugh. “Oh fuck, James, seriously? I couldn’t give a monkey’s arse. A Death Eater is dead, that’s all that matters. He probably died happy and satisfied, obeying his oh-so-lovely Master’s orders.”

James lunges for him. With a wave of her wand, Effie casts a shield between the two of them. James never reaches Sirius.

“Stop it,” she barks. “Now.”

It’s at this moment that Monty and Lily come running in, probably having heard the shouting. Monty looks around. “What is it?”

Sirius turns, dramatic as can be, and says in his best tattle-tale voice: “James dated a Death Eater.”

“He was a child!”

“So were we!” Sirius shouts. “So were all the muggleborn children that have died with their families! Hundreds already dead, James, because of them! And you think still being in school excuses what he did? What he became?”

James doesn’t respond. Sirius laughs.

“Figures. Just so you know, then. He stopped being my brother the moment he chose them.” Sirius turns to leave. “Keep deluding yourself about who he was. Frankly? It doesn’t matter to me.”

They all watch him leave. He doesn’t see it, but the cat, still curled in his small bed, has his torn ears flattened back.

Sirius puts a silencing charm up around his room before he starts to scream.

Effie is the one who dares to find him the next morning.

He never removed the silencing charm, and Effie must feel it when she knocks.

“Sirius, love?” She calls in. “I’ve brought you breakfast.”

Honestly, Sirius doesn’t want to see her. Thing is, though…

It’s Effie. Sirius knows, so, so deeply, that he would kill for her. She would hate that he did it, he knows this too, and yet he would do it anyway. She has never, ever made him feel unsafe, or unloved, or as though it’s preferred he stay silent, as though he’s done something wrong. So, as much as his brain pushes back and tries to get him to snap at her to just leave him be, Sirius waves his hand, and the door opens.

Remus was the one who made them work on non-verbal and wandless magic while they were in school. Fuck, what the hell is Sirius doing? Moony isn’t here. He can’t help Sirius now.

Effie walks in slowly and closes the door behind her. She sets a tray down on his desk and then makes her way over to sit on the edge of the bed. Sirius brings himself up to sit with her.

“Here to lecture me about shouting at James?”

Effie sighs. “No, sweetheart. I’m here to check on you.”

Well. Sirius feels like such, utter, shit.

He lowers his head a little. “I’m sorry, Effie. For blowing up.” He tenses up a bit at this admission, because he thinks he had a damn good reason to. But if Sirius has learned anything, over the last few years, it’s that sometimes he needs to apologize anyway, and he needs to mean it. So, he does.

“Mum,” she says, exasperated yet warm. She tucks a long curl behind his ear. “Apology accepted, Sirius, but I’m not the one you need to be saying it to.”

Sirius groans. “I will not apologize for what I said to him, Effie. No way in hell. He trusts too easily, and it’s going to get him hurt.” Effie just gives him a look, and he acquiesces in an instant. “But I will apologize for fighting him. And punching him. Shit, his jaw, is he okay?”

Effie shakes her head and places a hand over his back. “You should ask him that. But don’t fret, Monty’s looked at it already.”

Sirius nods. They sit in silence for a minute or two, Sirius staring off into the distance. With Effie by his side, he feels like he can let out something he’s been thinking, over the last night. “He should’ve expected it. Should’ve known better.”

“Maybe,” Effie says, magnanimous. “But do you think that would have saved him the pain?”

Sirius narrows his eyes at her. “You’re the one always saying we can’t change the past.”

She rolls her eyes. “Humor me.”

He does. He thinks about it, for a minute, and considers everything he knows about James. His best friend. His brother. And he knows the answer.

“No. It wouldn’t have.”

She hums, and nods. “And you?” His head snaps up. “What did you expect, Sirius?”

“I expected exactly what happened,” he scoffs. “That’s the whole reason I punched him in the first place.”

“Is it?”

He tries so damn hard to figure out the underlying question behind those words, because he can feel it, that there’s something she isn’t saying, but he has no damn idea what it is. She must see the confusion on his face, because she carries on.

“You know, I’m not so old that my memory is failing.” She laughs a little when Sirius pinches her arm and complains you’re not old, Effie, what the hell are you on about? “Do you remember when we first met?” Sirius’ face pinches up in confusion, trying hard to remember. Effie just smiles at him. “You were twelve. You just got off the train at King’s Cross after your first year. I remember watching James drag you over to Monty and me as soon as he could, and he was talking so fast it took me a bit to put two-and-two together and recognize you as the boy he became best friends with and sent us dozens of letters about.”

Sirius remembers now, vaguely. James had been all over him that day, he was so excited to introduce Sirius to his parents. Meanwhile Sirius was nervous, terrified really, because James had said so many good things about them, and all he could think was what’s the catch?

It took a long time for him to realize that there might not be one.

Effie’s eyes go a little distant for a moment, like she’s seeing her memory in real time. “I remember you all fidgety, like you still are when you’re anxious. You were so polite, sort of quiet, qualities I almost never see from you these days.” Sirius chuckles, and Effie follows. “I remember you were constantly looking around. At first, I wondered if you were looking for your parents, you know? We hadn’t quite known how horrible they were yet, so I asked if you needed help looking for them. Do you remember what you said to me?”

Sirius just shakes his head. He doesn’t. He doesn’t remember this interaction happening at all.
Effie smiles, small, sad. “You shook your little head and said, I’m looking for my baby brother, Reggie.” Sirius’ stomach curdles. “I need to see him, you said. And when Walburga and Orion finally showed up without him, your little face fell.”

Sirius shrinks inward a little and stares up at her. His voice is colder than he wants it to be. “So…?”

“Sirius,” Her voice is warmer than ever. “That wasn’t the last time. You lied to your parents in your second year, remember? You spent your first Christmas with us, instead of at home, because you’d somehow managed to convince them you were staying at school, working hard on improving your grades. Monty and I thought they knew.” Sirius laughs a little. That was when his rebellion really kicked off, wasn’t it? “You were quiet the whole time, and your eyes were perpetually blown wide. When we took you both back to King’s Cross, you asked if you could bring your brother next time.”

Sirius frowns. “Why are you mentioning this? I didn’t understand back then. And that doesn’t change how I feel now.”

“Oh, I know, love. I believe you,” she says. “But I also believed that boy I had just met who told me that he needed his baby brother.”

He tenses up again. There’s something beating around in his head, and it makes him want to snap. He holds it in as best as he can, wanting to wait until Effie leaves before he lets it out. “Things changed. That little boy is gone. He grew up.”

Effie’s hand squeezes his knee. He watches it, traces with his eyes the pretty wrinkles across her brown skin, and wonders if he should reach out. “Love, that boy is still a part of you. He may be gone now, but the pain that you felt then was still real. And if you’re still carrying that pain with you, the little boy who felt it might still be here.” Sirius, confused and frustrated, grits his teeth and meets her eyes. She just smiles. “Food for thought, I’d think. I won’t tell you how to feel. But, if that little boy is still with you, maybe you need to let him feel, too.”

They sit with that for a minute, Sirius contemplating, Effie watching him. Eventually, she squeezes his knee one more time and stands. “I’ll leave you be,” she says. “Eat your food, please, or I’ll have to come back up and force-feed you.” As tense as he feels, Sirius finds himself chuckling lightly. Sometimes, he feels like Effie still treats him like a child. Sometimes, he thinks he should hate it. Honestly, it’s just relieving.

Effie moves to the door, opens it, and stops. “Oh, and Sirius?”

He looks up and meets her eyes. “Yeah?”

She smiles. “I love you.”

And his heart burns.

“Love you, too.”

With no assigned missions waiting for him that day, Sirius honestly planned on just holing up in his room until dinner. But, as soon as he finishes the tray of food Effie left him, he realizes that the cat is still downstairs, and refuses to let him out of his sight any longer.

When he reaches the sitting room, dirty dish tray held in one hand, James is in Sirius’ usual spot on the floor beside the cat bed. James, his hair even messier than usual and glasses held in one hand, looks up when he hears Sirius coming. The first thing that Sirius notices is that he’s been crying again. Second, that the bruise on his jaw is already yellowing. Good.

Neither of them move. Sirius watches as James simply sits there, half a pace away from the cat, sharing unmoving silence. The despairing cordiality of it creates an itch in Sirius’ chest, and he tenses up. He feels himself wanting to snap again, so he walks past them both, without saying a thing, to wash his dishes.

When he was younger, he was confused about why James’ parents always washed the dishes by hand. They had magic, after all, so why wouldn’t they use it? It took him a few years to realize that it wasn’t the act of it that they wanted to do. Rather, it was the repetition. Something mindless, that always had to be done by hand. It helps clear his head now, before he goes back to the sitting room. To James.

They’re in the same position they were before, James focused on the fire now. Sirius doesn’t let himself stand and stare again.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For shouting. And for punching you.”

James doesn’t look at him. “Anything else?”

“No.”

He just nods. “Thought so.” James stands and leaves the room without looking at Sirius again. Sirius sighs and takes his place in front of the fire. His back will hurt if he stays sitting here again, but he’ll take it if it’s what he must suffer to stay near the little black cat in the bed.

Said little black cat is staring at him. When Sirius reaches over to pet him, the little thing flinches back. Sirius huffs. “You’re both mad at me, huh? Alright, then.” He lays back, not daring overstep this, and stares up at the ceiling. “That’s okay. I don’t blame you, really.”

Sirius remembers that time. Fifth year. After he told… Told Snape. He thinks that time might never leave him, the guilt of it still with him always. He’s so, so lucky Remus still…
Sirius shoves the thought away and sighs. He stays there on the floor for a while, considering taking over the couch for a kip, but finds himself unable to move.

He ends up watching the sun set over the snow, cat beside him, neither of them moving all day.

A week and a half have passed since the fight. James hasn't spoken to him since, and Sirius hasn’t bothered doing anything about it. Years ago, when this same thing happened after… After. Sirius knew, then, that he deserved it. Now? He doesn’t really know what to think.

James has always been optimistic. A bit of an idealist. It’s something that Sirius loves about him. He doesn’t think he’s ever told him that, but it’s true. Even when Sirius is at rock bottom, when he feels like everything is falling apart around him, when he thinks it’s all about to be over, James is the one who picks them both up and keeps them moving.

James has only not been this way twice. The first was when Sirius fucked up, really, truly fucked up, and he understands that. The second was sometime was in seventh year that Sirius hardly remembers. This?

What is he supposed to do about this?

After a week and a half of silence, though, Sirius finds himself wondering, for the very first time, if being that way hurts him. He remembers something James said, before their fight: I tried so hard to help him, and, it didn’t matter anyway. When Sirius thinks about it, putting aside who “him” was…

That must have really, really fucking hurt.

Sirius is on the couch again when he fully contemplates this for the first time. Everyone else is out for the night, Sirius being the only one who isn’t on an assignment, though Lily is just spending the night with the girls. Below him, still in front of the fire as he has been, growing thinner and thinner with the more days he passes without eating, is the cat, who goes still unnamed. At first, Sirius avoided naming him because he wasn’t sure he would survive. Then, because he hadn’t come up with the right name. And now, he still doesn’t, because he’s terrified it would come too late. Effie is still trying her best, and so is Sirius, but…

They know the inevitable is going to happen, and it will probably be soon.

Sirius’ chest aches. It spreads up to his shoulders. The last time that happened was right before he found the cat under that streetlamp, what feels like years ago now. He’s confused, because that was such an odd occurrence. And Sirius has felt fear before, felt pain, felt grief, but he doesn’t think his shoulders have ever hurt like that. Like the pain in his chest, his lungs, his heart, was so intense that it began to spread. Like a disease, weighing him down. It felt like, if it was allowed to spread any further, any further upward, to his head, it would kill him.

Last time this happened, it went away when he found the cat. And since he’s all alone with nothing to do, plus his best friend is still icing him out (so he can't just talk about it), Sirius finds himself trying to explore why he’s feeling it. He doesn’t think he’s ever really done that, either. Seems like Effie’s words last week really did hit him. Belatedly, at least.

He retraces his steps. Remus taught him this; he thinks it was in their first year. He lost his wand once, right before they were supposed to leave for an exam, and Sirius fully panicked. He was still adjusting, after all, to being away from home. To being without—

Anyway.

Remus taught him to work backwards. It only works when Sirius isn’t distracted, by stress or by pain, because he just ends up spiraling in those cases. But in that moment, way back when, Remus got him to calm down somehow. And he retraced his steps around the room, quickly and efficiently, all the way to the night before, and found his wand within minutes.

Merlin’s balls, Sirius thinks. I miss him.

With him in mind, as close as he can be right now, Sirius retraces. He works backwards, through his thoughts. It’s hard, because he so innately wants to spiral. He’s lucky he’s sitting, and alone, and relatively calm. It wouldn’t work at all otherwise.

Remus, of course. It’s been too, too long, frankly. They haven’t heard from him in over a month, and with every day that passes, Sirius finds himself itching more. Like something is wrong. Because something is.

Spiraling. Redirect.

First Year. Being away from—

No. Spiral. Redirect.

The pain in his shoulders. The whole point of this. What started it?

The night he found the cat. He doesn’t remember why his shoulders started aching back then. Too overpowered by seeing blood, and the flickering streetlamp, and the stress that followed—seeing the cat’s injuries for the first time, Effie listing off the list from the diagnostic spell, trying to heal the cat’s stump, his heart stopping—

NO. Stop. Spiraling. Redirect.

James icing him out. Sirius is still confused about it, to be honest, because his only reference point is fifth year, and he doesn’t feel like he’s at fault for this one. Is he? No. He knew best, he knew, he knew all along—

But did he? The thought nags him. Yes, he thinks. He absolutely did. He knew years before it happened, didn’t he? He did, he did.

Spiraling. Redirect?

He’s lost, for a second, thinking, because now he doesn’t remember what made his chest ache, and then his shoulders, and the effort it takes to go through it all is weighing him down as it always has. James grew up in-tune with his emotions, didn’t he? Sirius thinks, does it always hurt this bad? Maybe it does. Sirius wouldn’t know. He’s spent most of his life jumping between incredibly powerful emotions with no control, sometimes with no understanding it’s even happening. It’s only been since he’s lived with the Potters that he’s even started to realize it’s possible.

That was because of Effie. Effie probably taught James to do that, huh? What would Effie say, now?

Nothing I know helps explain this.

Huh?

James’ voice. He reminds me of someone.

Sirius’ shoulders ache.

… Fuck. That’s it, isn’t it? He looks back down, at the cat’s form. With his head turned towards the fire, Sirius can’t tell whether the little bug is sleeping. He hopes he is. He doesn’t deserve this, whatever he’s feeling. Whatever it is that’s making him stay like this, immobile, cold, empty. Sirius hopes, above everything, that this little cat passes easy.

An image comes to his mind, entirely unbidden and unwanted. It’s the portrait, from the Prophet. For his obituary. Sirius remembers the way he looked in that picture. Posh, prim, stock-still and staring.

Immobile. Cold. Empty.

His shoulders hurt. The feeling becomes so intense he almost groans.

In a desperate attempt to make the pain go away, Sirius searches for a memory that he feels like is the absolute opposite of that day, of the obituary. Not something simple, not something that feels like watching trash pass by as it flows down a river and thinking good riddance, but something that—that made him happy. There are far too few, but he tries, and—

He sees him again. Except he’s young, remarkably so. Hair shorter and with less curl, dressed in ridiculous formal clothes, even as a little kid. Smiling. A bit faded at that, though Sirius doesn’t remember why now. As weak as it is, it’s a smile. And Sirius thinks: I hope that he got to pass easily.

Suddenly, Sirius is crying. There’s no warning for it. All he can think of, everything else just gone, is that little boy in his head. The one who doesn’t exist anymore, because he’s dead. He, just like the boy Sirius once was, died a long time ago.

I tried so hard to help him, and it didn’t matter anyway.

Sirius remembers trying. The memories of it flood his brain like a tidal wave. Taking his punishments, distracting him from the pain, and holding him close when the nightmares came. It feels like he’s on fire, like he’s burning up from the inside. Too many, all at once, all so painful, it hurts, it hurts—

He remembers feeling so, so protective of that little kid. Like he was ready to take on the fucking world, if it meant he got to go unharmed. That, even when the “world” was his parents, was Walburga, he would stand up and scream and fight and even when he never did, even when Sirius hated him for it, Sirius still… He still…

He still stood up. He still screamed. He still fought. Until he stopped, because he decided it wasn’t worth it anymore.

He wasn’t worth it anymore.

Would anything have been different, if he hadn’t stopped? No, probably not. Some people are just doomed. Others are simply too weak to make their own way in life. No one can be saved unless they want to be. And Sirius would have died if he hadn’t made the choice he did. He knows this. He knows. But Sirius sees that little boy in his head. With his wide, blue-gray eyes, and the curly fringe that Sirius remembers tucking back for him, and the little half-smile he would give Sirius, the one that never reached his eyes, when he was in pain, when they were sad and miserable and knew nothing would ever get better.

And Sirius cries, because he has only just realized that James isn’t the only one who saw the cat and thought of someone else. Thought of him. Sirius remembers now. He was thinking of the stars when he found the cat under that streetlamp. And, through his tears, he looks at the cat now, still curled up, thinks I hope he gets to pass easy, and wonders when he noticed that the cat’s eyes were the same color as his.

All at once, a shocked sob rips from his chest. This one was loud. He curls up on himself, bringing his whole upper body down and into his legs, like if he hides his stomach away everything will be fine. It won’t, it wouldn’t be. He doesn’t know what else to do.

He misses him. He hasn’t felt it in years, but he does. He does.

A whine comes from somewhere in the room.

Sirius looks up and immediately makes eye contact with the cat, who just looks at him. The cat meows, low and drawn out, and it reminds Sirius of the cries of pain and fear he gave on that first day awake, so long ago now. He thinks passes easy and cries harder.

“I’m—sorry,” he gets out, somehow. “I’m so—so…”

Because as much as he says he doesn’t care, and honestly truly doesn’t care about the man he became, all Sirius has is that shitty obituary, and the shitty Prophet article saying he was missing, and if there’s a grave, it’s probably empty, and if anyone, anyone in this world, knew that kid, the one who died a long, long time ago, it was Sirius. That little boy is gone, now, and Sirius very well might be the only one who remembers him.

It takes him a while before he can speak again. For what feels like a long, long time, he just cries.

When it’s mostly over, and he’s still heaving in breath, knowing it could start again at any moment, the cat meows again. And Sirius tries to let out a smile, even though he knows the cat probably doesn’t even know what a smile is, really, and starts to talk.

“Fuck… I’m sorry, little bug, I—I didn’t mean to wake you.” He sniffs. “Don’t mind me, go back to sleep.” The cat just meows again, sounding as sad as before. Sirius smiles softly. “I’m just crying, ‘is all. No biggie. Sleep, little one.” But saying this makes him cry again, and when the cat meows again, still sad, still pained, and Sirius is suddenly so, so tired of holding it all in, and all he can do is talk.

“I just—James said. He said that you remind him of someone he once knew, yeah? And I knew him. The person you reminded James of. And I—“ Sirius puts his hands over his eyes. “I miss him. We grew up together. We were attached at the hip. He wouldn’t go anywhere without me, because he knew he was only safe with me, he knew, and I knew, and I—I left him.” Sirius looks back up and makes eye contact with the cat in the bed, tears falling from his eyes. “I left him. And now he’s gone. And Merlin I hated him, so, so bloody much. But he’s gone, and I never got to tell him. I never—I never got to…”

He buries his face in his hands again, and cries, and cries, and cries. And with his eyes covered, and his ears filled with the sound of his own sobs, he doesn’t notice the slow but steady movement of three paws on hardwood, on the rug, on hardwood again. Beside him.

Meow.

Sirius opens his eyes, looks down. He looks, and looks, and genuinely thinks he’s fucking dying for a second, because the cat is right there, beside his feet. Sitting on his back legs beside Sirius’ socked feet, with one paw stretched up, pawing gently at his leg, claws retracted. He pauses once, with his little paw still in the air, all his toe-pads visible, and then prods at Sirius’ leg again, and meows, and it’s—

The sound isn’t as pained as the ones that came before. It sounds, for the first time, like a normal vocalization. Like he’s just trying to get Sirius’ attention. And that’s when it hits him.

The cat moved.

Sirius almost falls off the couch with the speed at which he reaches down. He wraps his hands around the little cat’s ribs, as gently as he possibly can, and meets no resistance. And when, finally, finally, he brings him onto his lap, where the weightless little thing curls up, scarred nose digging into Sirius’ thigh, sharp claws meeting skin a bit as a paw kneads into the inside of his knee, that Sirius breaks down, fully, uncontrollably, curled over warm fur.

Maybe, he thinks. Just maybe, what was once inevitable may not come. Not for this one.

Chapter Text

The news that the cat has moved from his bed is, quite literally, the spark that lights the house up for the entirety of December.

James and Lily find Sirius on the couch that night, covered in tear stains and with a lap full of cat, and only after Sirius confirms that the cat moved on his own does James burst into teary laughter. He even breaks the current status quo of silence to give the cat—who, for once, doesn’t protest James’ presence—a few scratches behind the ears. By the end of the night, Monty has cried the most (second to Sirius, of course) while Effie and Lily were teary eyed but mostly composed. Effie's reaction sticks with Sirius, though; she smiled so fondly it looked like it ached, and sat beside Sirius just to give the cat a big smooch on the forehead. The poor thing seemed surprised by it, but ended up kneading one paw into her knees, so all must be well.

It's such a drastic change, with seemingly no prompting (unless Sirius having an absolute meltdown counts) however, that makes Sirius think what's the catch? Whatever it is, it hasn't made itself clear yet, but he's dreading the moment it does, as he is sure it must.

Luckily for him, the joy the cat manages to bring to everyone lets him push that fear down, more often than not.

Firstly, Christmas is nearing fast. This means that the Potters have already begun planning their celebrations. The house is decorated, with colored lights hanging outside the house, wreaths on the front door, and mistletoe under every doorway—one of which he caught Effie and Monty kissing under, and Effie smacked him when he pretended to gag. Every room in the house is now filled with various festive trinkets, little snow globes, and an assortment of random household objects newly replaced with red-green-gold versions of themselves.

When he considers it, Sirius thinks that this Christmas was absurdly close to becoming one of the most miserable ones he’s ever experienced. If the cat hadn’t appeared to make a recovery beforehand…

No. He’s not considering that.

There’s a hint of underlying nerves in every Order meeting. Some of the older members, including Moody, are hyperaware of the chance of an attack over the holidays. A few of these people are quite happy to make it known that they judge the Potters for still choosing to celebrate. Their argument is that any celebration either takes away from time spent fighting (which is fair) or that trying to have something to celebrate in the middle of the war means that you are deliberately neglecting the cause (which… hmm).

Sirius, at least, thinks that they all need something to keep them going. And if that thing is a few days with family and friends, giving gifts and kissing under the mistletoe, then so be it. It means that, even when so many are suffering, someone who is fighting is still alive. They are carrying the message on, in both pain and love.

In the end, though, Sirius thinks it’s really the new member of the household that keeps them going, these days. It most definitely helps that the cat absolutely loves the tree that Monty raised in the sitting room, held upright with precarious magic and wrapped in snowy tinsel. On more than one occasion, Sirius has come home from a mission to find the little thing buried in the branches, nearly drowning in tree sap, needles, and flickering strings of light, content as ever.

Then, there are the few times the little bug ends up playing with an ornament—being up and about for weeks has ridiculously increased how well-adjusted he is to being mobile on three paws—or meow-ing at the top of his lungs whenever decorating prevents a nearby human—Sirius or Effie, because anyone else gets swatted when they try—from giving him their attention. Truly, for as small as this feline is, he has a lot more personality than any of them really expected.

It did take him time to grow into it. The first week of returning to mobility was rough, to say the least. The little bug was so thin when Sirius found him, but several weeks of barely eating put a massive dampener on his stamina, and it took time for him to be active again. Effie lectured the whole household on keeping him as relaxed as possible to avoid irritating any of his injuries. They had to walk a fine line between keeping the cat active enough to avoid another relapse and making sure he never overexerted himself.

The kicker, really, is how damn petty the little thing can be. Unsurprisingly, it was the inevitable bath that made them see it.

This was the first time the cat had both clearly declared boundaries, and then deemed it fit to punish them when these boundaries were crossed. Before the bath, he seemed at the very least curious, and perhaps slightly interested in finally having the blood from his fur removed (at least, the dried stuff that he hadn’t managed to get off on his own). Effie used a couple cleaning charms first, light ones considering they’re still a bit tricky when used on cats, just to try and make the bath as quick as possible. (Effie told him and Lily, that day, that cats’ tendency to groom themselves has some effect on most cleaning spells—cat saliva is magical, who knew.)

This attempt didn’t much change the fact that the cat got into an absolute strop about it as soon as he was placed in the tub. It took both Effie and James to keep him from sending himself straight out the bathroom window. He scratched them a few times each for good measure.

(Sirius was nearly crying for every time the little one complained. His meows weren’t quite the pained howls they were once familiar with, but each one still sent what felt like a knife into Sirius’ heart. He was useless for the whole process.)

It took them six hours to convince the cat they didn’t mean to hurt him, and for him to finally give in and accept treats.

The treats were fish. Six hours. To accept fish. Fish! Sirius was borderline hysterical. (The little one loved the fish.)

After that, Sirius started noticing signs that he has found mean do not touch me or I will bite your eyeballs out. These were, usually, as follows: if he moves his head away and stares daggers into your skin when you try to pet him (often); if he doesn’t sniff your fingers the moment the option becomes available to him (also often, usually to James); if he is literally anywhere that is not easily accessible for humans (especially, Sirius finds, under the couch); if he is even remotely hungry (every early morning and afternoon, so far); if he doesn’t wrap himself around your ankles to greet you; if he’s sleeping, looks your way for a moment when waking up, and immediately goes back to sleeping; and, honestly? So many more.

Sirius also finds that he’s learning to read the cat’s needs on command, and sometimes in direct contradiction of these patterns. On more than one occasion, Sirius has ignored signs of the cat wanting to be left alone and has instead found that the cat was… sulking, in a way. He doesn’t quite know how to describe it. He simply has feelings, sometimes, that make him think the cat is… Looking for something.

He’s always right.

The last Order meeting before the Holidays hits seven days before Christmas. Meetings cycle through various safe-houses—most Order members with a tightly secured house have offered their largest room for a meeting at least once—and, on this lovely occasion, it is the Potters that end up hosting.

It’s a short meeting, given the circumstances. Death Eater activity has started to decrease over the past couple weeks, at least, according to Dumbledore. In fact, it’s one of the biggest causes of concern, because the lack of movement probably means they’re planning something big. It wouldn’t be abnormal for You-Know-Who to set an attack for Christmas or New Years, and there are mass stakeouts being assigned for the nights of. Out of the Potters, only Lily and James are left out of the holiday-night assignments: Lily, because she’s rarely on the field, her potions skills are too important to lose; and James, because he has an assignment only two days prior to Christmas, and again on New Years Day.

Usually, when James or Sirius is assigned to a mission that the other won’t be there for, they reach under the table and squeeze each other's hands.

They don’t, this time.

After the meeting ends, Sirius corners Moody and Dumbledore and begs for information on Remus. They tell him nothing, as always. When everyone has left, and after he’s helped the others clean, he locks himself in his room for the rest of the evening, and doesn’t leave until Lily knocks on his door the next morning to tell him the cat is laying at the bottom of the stairs, looking lonely.

He remembers the endless days in which he was terrified the cat wouldn’t ever move again. This is the first time he wonders: if he stopped getting out of bed, would the cat feel the same?

The moment he sees the cat, curled up at the bottom of the stairs just as Lily says he would be, Sirius realizes that he didn’t see the little one for the entirety of the meeting. Not even, surprisingly, after everyone left.

Three days before the Potters host their Christmas party, Sirius is setting the dining table for dinner when the cat finds him. The little bug rubs his fluffy, scarred side against Sirius' legs, as he often does, before slipping across the room to the sliding glass doors that lead to the Potters' back yard. After over a month of life here, Sirius can count on one hand the number of times he's seen the cat ponder the outdoors—though, that number may or may not be heavily influenced by the almost three weeks that the little thing spent bedridden. He can say with absolute surety, however, that the cat has never scratched at the door, meowed, and then turned his head just enough to make bright and yet equally desperate eyes at Sirius.

It takes a few moments of deliberation for Sirius to even consider opening the door for him. He hasn't been outside since Sirius found him, all those weeks ago, and to say that Sirius has grown easily into a certain set of protective instincts would be an understatement. He’s not sure what he's more afraid of: The cat being harmed by being outside, or the cat running away, preferring the freedom of it over the safety of being a house cat.

Unfortunately for Sirius’ sanity, one more meow—which sounds scarily like a please—is all Sirius needs to slide the door open.

Sirius follows him out, staying under the warm lights and the house awning to avoid stepping into the snow himself, and ends up watching, honest to Godric shocked, as the cat just... plays.

At first, Sirius thinks the little one seems uncomfortable with the cold wetness of the snow. Then, out of nowhere, the three-legged cat dives right in and buries himself underneath it. Sirius can't help but laugh when the cat reemerges, shaking himself off and licking some snow right off his paw.

"Enjoying yourself, are you?" Sirius can't say he's surprised when the cat turns right to him and meows in absolute joy and satisfaction. "I thought you got cold easily, eh? We'll have to go in before long."

The cat ignores him and plays for another few minutes. Sirius watches, fond.

When the cat inevitably returns to him, it's to sit at his feet and ask politely to be held. This is becoming common, too, and Sirius can’t help but indulge him every time he asks. He leans down, picks the ball of fluff up, and wants to cry a little when he notices that he's gotten heavier.

The little cat’s fur is cold and wet, and Sirius wraps his arms around him, holding him more like a baby than a cat, and pets him to warm him up. ”You’re doing better, yeah?" The smile is obvious in his tone. "If you'd told me a month back I'd be watching you play in cold snow, I think I'd've had a heart attack."

At the thought, he remembers that night. The things he'd realized... Well, he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t think about it. Him. It’s moments like these, though, that make him feel like...

Maybe it's okay. To acknowledge the contradictions that he finds in so many things, now.

He looks up at the sky and finds that there are more lights in the sky than usual. And, as many things have been doing these days, Sirius finds that looking at them makes him a bit emotional.

"Have you ever gotten to appreciate the stars, little bug? I don't know how interesting they really are to you. What are pretty things according to cats? Fish? A warm fire? Ear scratches?” The cat meows softly, and Sirius chuckles. "Yeah, I could have figured that one out."

His smile turns slightly wistful. "I used to really love constellations. When I was a kid, I thought they were just pretty pictures in the sky, or I liked the stories that came with them. Their legacies, I suppose. Some of the muggle versions of the stories are so crazy, though. They’re all about sex, power, and murder. See..." He points into the sky. "...There's Ursa Major, or the Big Dipper. In muggle Greek mythology the constellation is named the Big Bear after Callisto, who was turned into bear when the goddess Hera found out she had slept with Zeus, Hera's husband. And if you look there, that sideways ‘w’ is Cassiopeia. I have an aunt named after this one, actually... Cassiopeia, to avoid punishment for proclaiming she was more beautiful than the sea nymphs, sent her own daughter Andromeda as sacrifice to a monster. Andromeda's constellation is just nearby, see?" He smiles. "Andromeda is the best of us. She's far away though—she's the farthest object in the sky we mere humans can see.

"And then there's..." Sirius trails off, because he hadn't quite realized what constellation he was looking at until the last second. Even though he hesitates, he finds himself wanting to put words to it, even when it confuses him. Even when it... hurts. "That's the Leo constellation."

The cats faint purring which had seemed to be a constant, stops. Sirius, being quite overwhelmed now, doesn't really notice it.

"The constellation is of a lion, if that wasn't already obvious." He swipes his hand down the cat's back, then chuckles. "I bet lions would be scared of you, little one. All those scars.

"Remember, how I told you that... That you remind me of someone I once knew? Well, he was named after a star, like me. I always thought it was funny, because our... Ugh, our parents... They named him after the star at the heart of the lion, which is a ridiculous choice for snakes to make. He never ended up being much of a lion anyway, he was always too scared." Sirius sighs. "When I was sorted into Gryffindor, I hoped his name was the sign that he would be sorted with me. That we'd have each other. I think that’s where it all fell apart, really. He was weak, easily corruptible, and he stuck with the choices he made while young and deluded. He found something he could sink his teeth into. A snake through and through.

"I don't think he really deserved that star, you know? But I remember really, really hoping he would. And now, here I am, with a Potter as a brother. Mother would be so proud," he laughs.

The cat still isn't purring. He still doesn’t quite notice.

"But... fuck, I don’t know. I wish he could've, you know?" He frowns. "Effie tells me we can't change the past, but sometimes I wonder what we would have been if this war hadn't happened, or if we'd been born a decade earlier. Would anything have been different? I don’t think so, but..."

He pauses, thinks about it for a moment, and decided it's best if he doesn't continue.

"Here I am, a disowned blood-traitor,” he says. "And, I… I still love that constellation."

I still—

The cat is purring again, a bit softer than before, and Sirius laughs.

"You like it too? Fuckin' hell, I should've known. Cats. Arrogant little twats.” His worst memories and angriest thoughts drift away, and in the moment of peace left behind by the quiet of the snow, and the cold wind, and the purring cat in his arms, Sirius has a revelation.

"Maybe it's..." he whispers. "Time that I... honor him. With... something small, at least, to remember the boy I once knew. Hey, little one..." his voice comes out a little broken. "Would you like to be named after the constellation of the lion?"

The little cat squirms and meows brightly. Sirius smiles, soft but strong, and pulls the cat in closer.

"Well, then." The cat only purrs louder. "In that case... i can't just name you Leo, that's too boring, isn't it?

He looks down, finds the cat watching him, and it clicks.

"Welcome home, Léonie, my little lion."

James looks at him funny when Sirius tells the others over dinner that he's finally named the cat Léonie. It’s a look that Sirius has learned, over the near decade of being James’ best friend, says are you fucking kidding me?

It makes sense, at least. James is the only other person who has any idea what that constellation means. Or, Sirius assumes so, anyway.

They don't get to talk about it, though, because James heads straight to bed afterward, and leaves for his assignment early in the morning.

Later that afternoon—with James gone, Monty at work, Lily busy in the lab, and Effie running errands—Sirius lays on the couch covered in blankets. Léonie is asleep on his ribs, having found it a comfortable place to nap a few days back. If Sirius felt he had any sort of attention span these days, he might be reading a book, or doodling. He really wants more muggle tattoos—he only has a few so far. His favorite is on his bicep, of the four of them: The Marauders, drawn across his skin as a set of hooves and three sets of paw prints in varying sizes and shapes. Unfortunately, he can hardly focus on anything these days, even though he has ideas in his head of things he thinks he might want on his skin, especially some runes he’s always found fascinating. Instead, he just lays there, fluffy cat atop him, with a record playing.

It’s Remus’ record player, in truth. They each have one, back at the flat, but when Sirius came back to live here, he couldn’t convince himself to bring his own. This one came instead.

The album Sirius ended up selecting at random was Queen’s News of the World; All Dead, All Dead is playing. The sound of it sends a shoot of burning pain into his heart. After all, the last time Sirius heard it, he and Remus had been slow dancing in their kitchen, late at night. Sirius remembers crying into Remus’ shoulder when the instrumental came, because he couldn’t stop thinking about all the people they were going to lose. All the people they had already lost. Remus held him through it.

He’s always been afraid of losing people. After fifth year especially, because of how close he was to—rightfully—losing everyone he cared for. And then, only months later, he ran away from home, and lost someone else.

He hadn’t even realized until recently how much he had lost, then. He had just thought…

Retribution. Justice, because he was being wronged, and couldn’t survive another second of it.

But now…

Of course, I don’t believe you’re dead and gone, Freddie Mercury sings, melancholy and quiet. All dead and gone.

The obituary flashes into his mind. His breath hitches.

He wonders if Remus is dead. The concept of it is so unbelievable that it almost doesn’t hurt. At the very least, it would explain why he’s still missing. But what if—what if he has left them? What if he—

Léonie stretches long, the claws from his remaining paw grazing Sirius’ collarbone slightly. The slight pain of it is just enough to shock Sirius out of his head and bring his focus back. Spread Your Wings is playing now and is about halfway through, and Sirius hadn’t even noticed. He reaches a hand up to scratch Léonie’s back, eliciting soft purrs in response.

“How nice it must be, huh?” Sirius whispers. Léonie’s ear twitches a little. “Just… sleeping. Having someone pet you whenever you want. Fed twice a day. No work, no responsibilities, no war…”

Léonie lets out a soft whine that would be a meow if he’d even bothered to open his mouth. Sirius just huffs a soft laugh, careful not to dislodge the fussy cat on his chest. He brings his hand higher to scratch Léonie’s jaw, his chin, just a little up his cheek.

“I’m glad you’re with us, little one,” he says. “I hope you stick around for a long time.” Léonie’s only response is to purr louder.

They stay like that for a while longer, Sirius’ mind thankfully blank. His chest still hurts, though. There’s something he needs to say, he thinks, but he just can’t quite figure out what it is. Maybe it will come to him on its own.

There’s a crash at the front door. Léonie looks up first, startled, and Sirius follows right after. The moment he hears a groan, in what sounds like James’ voice, both are up and moving. Fast.

Léonie, amazingly enough, makes it first. The second he’s around the corner into the foyer, he starts meowing, low and worried like he often did all those weeks ago. Sirius makes it too, and stops dead, because fuck no.

James is on the floor, leaning up against the wall, breathing hard. His jacket and shoes have been haphazardly discarded by the door. He’s gripping his leg between both hands. There’s blood on the floor and in between his fingers.

Fuck. No.

Sirius rushes forward. His knees hurt when he slams himself to the floor, but he barely feels it. His wand is out from his sleeve in seconds, and he wastes no time before getting to work, casting spell after spell in quick succession.

It could be worse, he thinks once he’s gotten a section cut from the fabric of James’ trousers, revealing the wound in its entirety. It’s just a puncture wound, albeit a nasty one. There’s no curse. A curse would be bad. Very fucking bad.

He’s not cursed, he’s not cursed, he’s not cursed—

“Sirius,” James whispers out. “Pads—I’m okay.”

It’s only then that Sirius realizes he’s crying. He’s cried more in the last few weeks than he thinks he did in his last two years at Hogwarts.

“No, you are not, you stupid, bloody arsehole,” Sirius blurts out. He’s successfully gotten the bleeding to stop, but he’s shaking too much to properly conjure a bandage. “I should—should’ve been with you. I could have stopped it, I know I could have, I just—“

“Stop, Pads, just stop.”

It’s this that gets him to pause his frantic, useless wand movements and to look up at James’ face.

James just smiles at him, weak and tired. He’s seen that smile on so many faces in these past couple of years, and he can’t stand it, he can’t! “It’s okay,” he says. “I don’t blame you, Pads.”

Sirius just cries harder. James holds him.

It's just—Sirius has just fucking missed him. And now he comes back, a hole in his leg, and Sirius realizes that he could’ve died today, and it would have happened again. Sirius would never have gotten to say—

At some point, he feels warm fur against his legs and looks down to see Léonie bringing himself between them, nuzzling into them both. James lets go of Sirius with one hand to pet him, and Sirius thinks distantly that it’s the second time Léonie has ever let James touch him, and somehow this is what helps Sirius calm down

“Fuck—I’m sorry,” Sirius repeats. Before James can respond, Sirius has lifted his wand again and successfully cast a disinfecting spell and conjured a bandage to wrap around the wound. “Would’ve finished that, if I hadn’t started weeping.”

James laughs a little, and Sirius has never felt more proud of himself. “That’s okay—really,” he says when Sirius gives him a look. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Sirius just squints at him. “’s that true, or are you just playing it down again?” He shoves the other boy, his best friend, his brother, when James’ only response is to grimace. “Knew it.”

James smacks him. Gently. Sirius doesn’t laugh.

“I deserved that, huh.” James frowns. “Go ahead and say it, Prongs. Might as well, since I’ve already cried on you. Can’t be any more embarrassing than that, huh?”

He sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “You did.”

Sirius just nods. “Anything else?”

James laughs. “Yeah. Don’t say that shit to me again. I can handle when you’re yelling at me for doing something stupid, because I do know you want me to be safe, but not about this. Not about him, not when—not in front of me.” Sirius goes to say something (though he doesn’t know what he wants to say) and James cuts him off. “I know it’s—complicated for you, Sirius, but you don’t know who he—who he was.”

Sirius wants to growl back. He wants to rip James to shreds, a little bit, because how dare he say that, when—“I was the only one who knew him.”

“Sirius,” James says. “No, you weren’t.”

They stare at each other, both tensed. Sirius only backs down, leaning backward and looking down, because Léonie squirms between them, and he suddenly remembers he’s supposed to be… bridging a gap, here.

“I don’t—“ Sirius coughs to clear his tightening throat. “I don’t believe you.”

“I need you to,” James says. “I need you to hear me on this.”

“And I can’t do it,” Sirius says. “James, I can’t… I almost died trying to get out of taking that bloody fucking mark. And he could have come with me, but he didn’t. He could have tried to stop them from hurting me, and he didn’t. So, I can’t just…”

“He couldn’t have, Pads, can’t you see that? They would’ve—”

Sirius shakes his head. Just shakes, and shakes, and drowns everything out for a moment. His ears are ringing, his temples pounding.

James is looking at him funny when he next meets his eyes. “If you want to… ask, you can. I’ll answer any questions that don’t…” James hesitates. “That don’t condemn him.”

Sirius ponders this. There’s a lot that he’s confused about, but when he thinks about it, most of it is still just… how the fuck could James date someone he knew was going to end up on that side? How did he not see it coming?

But James asked specifically for questions ‘that don’t condemn him’, and even though Sirius itches at the thought, he’s still trying to fix this, because he doesn’t think he can go another day without him. No matter the cost.

War has changed him, it seems.

“Why him?” Sirius asks first. “Of… of all people.”

James glares at him. “Are you asking why he was worth it? Do I really need to prove that to you, Sirius?”

Something in Sirius’ chest flares. “Yes. What the hell did you see in him?”

James scoffs. “You might as well ask what I saw in you.” Sirius rears back, offended and—and hurt. Also, what the fuck, Sirius wouldn’t date James?

“Don’t compare me to—we were not similar.”

“You were so similar, Sirius,” James whispers. He seems far away, suddenly, looking into the distance like there’s something there. “And so different. He—” James hesitates and then struggles. “I don’t think I can… explain it.”

Sirius fidgets, heart feeling like it’s beating out of his chest. “Try to?”

It takes a few minutes for James to speak again. Léonie starts kneading his paw into an uninjured part of James’ thigh. “It wasn’t really anything in particular at first,” he starts. “S’pose he just—caught my eye. So, I started bothering him and trying to get to know him, and he never really pushed me away, and… I don’t know. We ended up talking.” James purses his lips, thinking hard for a moment. “Do you know that feeling, when you find someone that you, just… you really like? And suddenly, you start noticing where they are? Or that they aren’t with you, and every time you notice you wish they were?”

Sirius frowns and sinks into himself a little bit, because he does. He knows exactly that feeling, because he realized in third year he felt like that with Moony. A long time passed before he’d realized what it meant. Sirius, head now turned away, whispers, “yes.”

James nods and drops his head back against the wall. His eyes are glazed over, and his voice is little more than air. “That’s how I feel when I think about him.”

There’s silence between them while Sirius takes this in. It takes him a while, because he simply cannot imagine this feeling in the context of it being for… him.

Sirius takes his time picking his next question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

This time, James doesn’t hesitate long at all. It’s like he’s been thinking about this for a while. To be fair, he probably has been. Just like Sirius has.

“It wasn’t you. He didn’t want us to tell anyone, because…” With the hand not being used to pet Léonie, James fidgets with his dirty glasses, his hair. “If anyone had found out, and it got back to his parents…”

Oh.

But—

“What about me, though?” Sirius vaguely remembers James saying something about it, in their first fight, when Sirius… found out. “What made me different? I’m your best friend, Prongs, I was his—“ he cuts off. His next word comes out rasping. “Why?”

“Pads,” James says, his loose hand coming to rest on Sirius’ knee. “He was afraid of telling you. He asked me not to, so I didn’t.”

“He was afraid of me blowing up the same way I ended up doing anyway, you mean.”

“No, it…” James drifts off and thinks for a minute or two. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t that. Not then, at least.” Sirius frowns at him. “He wasn’t… Sirius, he hadn’t taken the mark yet. You hadn’t even left yet.”

Oh. Sirius forgot he found out about James’ boy in the middle of fifth year. Even before Snape and… that… happened. So, Sirius wouldn’t have blown up because James dated a Death Eater?

“He was just… afraid. Of you.”

“Why?” Sirius asks. “If not about the inevitability of him becoming a Death Eater, then what was it?” When James lifts one eyebrow at him, Sirius shakes his head, so bloody confused. “What else would I have possibly gotten mad about?”

James scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know, dating your little brother?” Sirius just laughs.

“Doubt it,” he says.

“That’s all it was,” James says. “Back then… that’s really all it was. But then, you left and came here, and… Well. It changed after that.” When Sirius looks at him questioningly, James hesitates again. “He thought you didn’t… that he didn’t matter to you. It became more out of spite after that, I think.”

“Well, he was right, wasn’t he?” James hits him again. “Sorry—“

“He did, you prat,” James says. “Don’t tell me he didn’t, not now.”

Sirius blinks. “What are you talking about, James? I already knew it was over by then.”

James just stares at him. Under his breath, he whispers: Mum was right.

“Huh?” James doesn’t answer though, just shakes his head instead.

“Sirius…” James’ voice comes out like he’s about to say something dangerous. “How much do you remember from after you ran away?”

To be honest, Sirius has to think about it a bit. It’s sort of… hazy, in his memory. He just remembers being in a lot of pain, and James crying.

“Not much… Why?”

“You—fuck, you don’t?” James says. “Pads, you… you were devastated. You kept crying because you were worried about him, that they would hurt him.” James looks like he’s about to cry himself. “The whole time, I was so stressed because I was worried about both of you, at the same time, and I was comforting you even when I was just as scared. For him."

Sirius doesn’t know what to say to that.

This is the second time one of the Potters have told him something that he did without him remembering it. That’s twice too many, and now, even more than before, it makes Sirius really fucking uncomfortable. Sirius himself hadn’t even realized he missed him—hadn’t even realized that, in leaving, he left him—and James is here, telling him, that he understood this years ago? And then he, what, just forgot?

What the fuck. How is he supposed to respond to that?

James reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Pads, but… Part of the reason I started that fight was because I remembered that, and I was just so… angry.” Sirius reaches up to hold his hand back. “I don’t know why but, I thought you were just fucking with me. I knew you were angry with him, but you smiled when you saw that—that newspaper, and you probably just went right back to petting a stray cat you had saved, that you had cried over—“

From below them, Léonie hisses. James looks down and is petting him fondly again in an instant. Sirius does as well. “Sorry, sorry, we know, Le… Léonie.” Sirius huffs a little at James butchering the pronunciation. “I just. I didn’t get your reaction at all. I still don’t.” James shakes his head. “You aren’t the only one who blew up. I’m sorry.”

Sirius doesn’t remember the last time they had a conversation like this. Maybe there’s a reason for that. How much has he forgotten? What is he missing? He doesn’t know.

It’s hard to reach out to some things, he’s starting to realize. It’s true that he doesn’t really remember the time immediately after he ran away. Honestly, he doesn’t really remember that day, either. Instead of having true memory of it, he just remembers it in… facts. Events. As if it hadn’t happened to him, but he was told afterwards what happened. Maybe that’s exactly what it was.

He knows Walburga and Orion told him he was expected to take the Dark Mark, to join You-Know-Who’s followers. He knows he refused. He knows Bellatrix and her husband were there, too, and that the four of them took their disappointment out on him. He knows he was in the room the whole time and didn’t do a thing. He knows that they left him there, at some point, but he stayed, and Sirius asked him for help, told him that he was going to run away, but all he got back was silence.

Not for the first time, he wishes that this just… hadn’t happened this way. That none of this had happened this way. That maybe, if he had just done something differently, if he had just been a little bit different (if he had just been a little bit stronger), things would be different. They’d still be…

We can’t change the past, he thinks, and he still wishes, really wishes, that it wasn’t true.

There’s still something bothering him, though. As much as he tells himself, we can’t change the past, we can’t change the past, he can’t figure it out.

“That time that I don’t really remember,” Sirius starts. “Did I tell you what happened? That night?”

James looks at him, openly concerned. “You did.”

“Can you—“ Sirius swallows back his fear. “Can you repeat it to me? What I told you?”

He just looks even more concerned now. “Everything?”

Sirius nods, so James does. Goes through the whole story. And Sirius still doesn’t really remember it, at all, but everything James says corroborates what he knows. Though, he does end up including graphic detail about what Sirius’ injuries were, and what he looked like when he turned up on the Potters’ doorstep in the middle of the night, drenched in both rain and blood, in only his socks and with nothing but his wand. Sirius winces at that. He doesn’t really remember that either, so the image of it hurts now.

“I haven’t said thank you enough,” Sirius says. James starts shaking his head, but Sirius just carries on. “For taking me in. Even after I had been so horrible to you, to Pete, to…”

He can’t say Moony’s name out loud. He hasn’t in weeks. He’s only just realized that.

“Sirius, look at me. Look at me.” Sirius, who had just been focused very intently on the floor, looks up. “You have nothing to thank me for,” James says. “I will always, always, help you, do you hear me? No matter what. Always.”

Sirius laughs to cover up the fact that he might cry again. “You trust too easily, Prongs.”

James smiles. “Never with you, Pads.”

It feels—easier, now. Like a weight has lifted off Sirius’ chest, one he feels like he’s been carrying for so long and hadn’t realized was even there. He’s been realizing a lot of things, these days. He’s so tired of it all.

There’s still something missing, something from that night that’s bothering him, and he just can’t figure it out.

James shifts. “Oh, ow—“

“Shit, we should probably get off the floor.” Sirius reaches for him and wraps James’ arm over his own shoulder, supporting him as best as he can while he stands, but not before he picks up Léonie with his free hand. “You okay?”

“Ugh—” James says. “Yeah, I’m fine, just sat too long.”

With James in one arm and Léonie in the other, Sirius walks them back to the couch. James plops down with a huff and starts massaging his leg. Léonie slips out of Sirius’ arm and sits beside James.

“Pain’s back?” Sirius asks with a sly grin. “Want a potion?”

“Yes, fuck, please,” James says.

It only takes a minute for Sirius to grab one from Lily’s lab. Their resident potioneer herself, when Sirius tells her, offers to doublecheck his work on James’ leg as soon as she can leave the cauldrons alone, and he’s desperately grateful for it. He knows what he’s doing, after all this time—after so many full moons—but Lily is a goddamned genius, and they all know it. Luckily for James, this also means that they have a ridiculous amount of pain potions.

When Sirius gets back to the sitting room, James has a blanket over his lap and a little black cat curled into his side. James is smiling down at Léonie, that stupid little grin that Sirius loves seeing, because he knows James is just fucking happy about something. He’s really, really glad that the something is Léonie.

He walks over and sinks down on the other side of the cat. James downs the pain potion in a few gulps as soon as Sirius hands it over. Sirius brings his legs up, getting comfortable, and together they sit in silence for a while.

It’s nice. He feels like he hasn’t just had this, with James, in a while—because he hasn’t, not after that last fight, not after these past weeks in silence.

He doesn’t feel like he’s about to fall apart anymore.

“Sirius?” James says. Sirius just hums to show he’s listening. “Why—Why did you name him Léonie? That’s a French name for Leo, right?”

The ache in Sirius’ chest and shoulders comes back. He thought maybe it would be gone for a while, now that Léonie is named and James is back, but apparently not.

“I…” Sirius goes to start talking and realizes again that he has no fucking idea what he wants to say, so he sits back for a minute and thinks about it. Honestly, why did he name the cat after Leo? He hadn’t even connected the little cat to him until…

Maybe he can start there.

“Something you said, back then, it, ah… it stuck with me,” Sirius says. “You said that he reminded you of him, and I… when you were all gone, the night you found me with him on my lap for the first time, I saw it, suddenly? I understood why. And he still wasn’t moving, even after weeks of rest and healing, and I just started wishing I could help him, just like I used to wish with…”

Sirius trails off. James seems to understand anyway, because he reaches to pull Sirius in. Léonie pulls himself up onto their laps when he almost gets squished between them.

“I think I—forgot,” Sirius says hoarsely. “It’s been so long, I forgot what he was like before all of this. When it was just the two of us, he was different, y’know? Before I had ever even met you, we were both different. I forgot that. In my head, the image of him… was overlayed with who he became.

“Then, last night, Léonie went out to play in the snow. It’s—it’s funny, I was so worried at first, because I was afraid that the cold would hurt him, he’s stillhim again. When he was younger. Before all this shit happened to us. So, the stars were out, and Leo was right there, and it just… I don’t know. It just made sense to me. And…”

There’s silence between them for a moment. They both just pet the cat between them, who purrs, and rolls, and shows his fluffy stomach riddled in scars.

“I thought,” Sirius whispers, “that I don’t ever want to forget him again.”

Beside him, James is sobbing. Sirius leans his head on his brother’s shoulder and lets him cry, knowing, in a way, that they’re mourning the same person. Even after the fight and over a week of silence, they can mourn together.

“Léonie,” James says through tears.

“Léonie,” Sirius repeats, enunciating to get the pronunciation across.

“…Léonie,” James tries again, slower, still wrong but marginally better. Sirius laughs.

He’ll get there.

Finally, the day of the Potters’ Christmas party arrives.

It’s not that extravagant, really. With their time always so taken by other things, everyone has to split just a few days of the Holidays into time spent with everyone they know. Parents, friends, partners… it’s hard to divide. This means that, for the Potters’, the “party" is just a lunch with their closest friends, all together.

It still ends up being quite small, though. Out of the few people they invited, the twins, the Longbottoms, and Mary had to decline, all having other people they needed to be with at the time. No one is bothered by this at all.

Mary especially has been hard to pin down lately. She and her family moved to the States to get away from the war (with the Potters’ supporting them) and though Mary did eventually decide she wanted to help the Order, she’s done so almost entirely from abroad. MACUSA wants nothing to do with the war (which Sirius fucking laughed at when he found out—all that horseshit about freedom, and the Americans can’t even give them support on this?), and even though Mary did try to get them to reconsider (she had a hearing with the American Minister and everything, which, honestly, Mary earned that Gryffindor sorting), it didn’t work out well (America has still done, absolutely, fucking, nothing, just like everyone else).

Mostly, this means that Mary getting here from across an ocean is hard. Not to mention dangerous.

(Lily was heartbreakingly sad when they found out that she wasn’t going to see Mary this year. James and Sirius, and Léonie too, comforted her that whole afternoon.)

Regardless, Dorcas and Marlene are still coming. Peter is as well, which is amazing, because Sirius and James haven’t seen him since the last Order meeting. Peter, too, is always super busy with work—he’s been working at St. Mungo’s since graduation, working in a ward that focuses specifically on magical plant-based injuries. He said, before he started, that it was a combination of three passions: charms, plants, and hospital gossip. They threw a party for him the day he got the job, over a year ago now. Sirius still remembers the smile he had on his face, back then, sandwiched between the other Marauders, all four of them sloshed beyond reason.

Sirius misses those days. It won’t be the same now, with only three, but…

It’s something. And hopefully, Remus will be back soon.

Hopefully.

Sirius helps Effie, Monty, and James cook lunch that morning. Effie is making a whole feast, all of it straight from her and Monty’s families’ best recipes, and the entire house smells of spice. There’s music playing the whole time, with James and Sirius switching off in picking records. Lily spends a lot of her time consoling Léonie, who is clearly interested in what’s happening and seems to prefer the company rather than hiding somewhere as he often does when uncomfortable, yet is also entirely unamused by the strong smells of the food. Sirius finds it funny, honestly, every time the little thing winces and closes his little eyes, their dark gray color—with just a pinch of blue—hiding behind his fur. He’s clearly overstimulated, but Sirius is proud to see him here anyways.

Lily runs to the door as soon as the doorbell rings. Sirius and James chuckle together when they hear screeching from down the hall. It’s clearly Marlene and Dorcas who have arrived first.

The girls come into the kitchen only a few moments later, with—miraculously—Peter with them. James and Sirius holler and rush him, squeezing him between them as they love to do. Peter just laughs and hugs them both back.

Fuck, Sirius has missed him.

“Pete, my darling, my light, the love of my life,” Sirius whines. “I missed you!”

Peter shoves him. “What the hell are you talking about, love of your life,” he says. Sirius tenses, expecting it to go to… “Your hair’s right there, you arrogant sod.”

Sirius relaxes in an instant. “You know me so well, Wormy!”

James just laughs.

Suddenly a slew of cooing comes from behind them. When they turn around, they find all three girls surrounding Léonie, who’s trapped on the small breakfast table the Potters have up against the kitchen wall. Sirius, suddenly worried they're overwhelming him, goes into ‘save the cat’ mode—except, before he makes it, he notices that Léonie is licking Dorcas’ hand.

“What the hell?” Sirius shouts. “He never licks me!”

James and Peter burst out laughing. “Maybe you don’t taste as good as you think you do,” James says, literally wheezing between words, Peter doubled over beside him.

Dorcas turns to look at him. She has golden jewelry woven into her braids that match the patterned accents in her dark green blouse, and Sirius thinks she is the most ethereal person alive. “Only I deserve kitty-kisses, Sirius,” she says, smug as hell. “Sounds like I taste better, anyway.” When she winks, Marlene laughs and wraps her arm around her girlfriend’s waist. James and Peter keep laughing behind Sirius.

“Not a competition, ‘Cas,” Marlene says. She leaves a kiss on Dorcas’ cheek. “They don’t need to hear about what they’re missing.”

“Yes, no dick-sizing, please,” Lily says. There’s a smile on her face, though. “It’s unnecessary. We all know Dorcas’ is bigger.”

And there’s the ‘ooh’s’ that Sirius expected. Effie is laughing along at the chaos from where she stands by the stove. He just grins.

“Happy to lose to you, Dorcas.”

Dorcas smiles back.

Lunch goes well. By the time they’ve eaten their hearts out, it’s been a couple hours, and everyone is bloody exhausted. They all have limited reserves, these days. Their guests will have to leave soon, but it seems they’re loathe to leave too early.

Léonie, for his part, refused to leave the table until they fed him. Compared to the weeks of endless worry, Sirius can’t help but feel so, so grateful that he’s eating well now. After he was fed, he ended up passing out on the sitting room armchair that sits closest to the dining room. After lunch, they all sort of settle in around him.

It’s then that Marlene asks what the cat’s name is. He thinks he might have been hallucinating, because when he explains the origins of the name—the reference to the Leo constellation, without including any reference to the stars within said constellation—Dorcas looks genuinely upset. He doesn’t really know what to do about it, but luckily Marlene steps in at some point, having noticed, and ends up squeezing Dorcas in support.

He’s glad they have each other.

Léonie tends to stick to Dorcas, actually. He asks to be lifted into her lap only a few minutes in. Dorcas and Marlene play with his ears and scratch him until he’s purring up a storm.

Peter interrupts then (not that he’s interrupting much, because James and Sirius got into another one of their overly dramatized-spats, with Monty moderating fondly and Effie egging them on). “Have you considered getting him a prosthetic?”

When everyone turns to him, one by one, he continues. “For his leg.”

Sirius’ chest hurts. He turns to Effie, because she always seems to know cat things.

Effie shrugs and leans a little more into Monty’s side. “He does alright without it, and they’re hard to make,” she says. “I don’t have time to make it perfect for him.”

Marlene and Peter glance at each other.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Petey?” Marlene says.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Of course I am, Marls.” He turns back to Effie. “We can make him one.”

Effie, as gracious as she can be, tries to get them to see reason—surely, they don’t have that kind of space in their lives, right now—but they insist. She acquiesces abnormally quickly.

“I have an idea for the material, anyway!” Peter says.

Marlene pitches in, “and I can cut it to size.”

Dorcas, from Marlene’s side, smiles and shakes her head. “How are you going to keep it from falling off his leg? Neither of you are clever enough to get those spells to work. Let me help.”

Peter starts whining loud complaints, while Marlene gasps in mock-offense at Dorcas’ words. She breaks out into a grin, though, when Dorcas kisses the pout off her lips.

When Sirius turns to her, he sees Effie smiling gratefully. As he listens to his friends argue over all the best ways to make a tiny leg for a tiny cat, Effie cutting in with advice at every place she can, he can’t help but feel grateful as well.

It isn’t quite happiness, but, in this moment, he feels like he might not be too far off.

Dorcas, of course, ends up being the only reason Marlene and Peter manage to measure Léonie’s legs. He likes her too much to refuse her, it seems.

(Afterward, though, he curls up in Sirius’ lap, and refuses pets from anyone else, and Sirius can’t help the warmth that curls in his chest.)

It’s just after the holiday has passed that they return to missions for the Order.

They find, quite quickly, that Léonie gets stressed now, whenever someone is out of the house. This seems particularly true for James and Sirius.

Only one day after Christmas, (his leg’s puncture-wound having fully healed, as declared by Effie), James leaves for a last-minute assignment. Sirius sees him off, worried out of his mind himself, and is surprised afterwards to see Léonie pacing, pacing!!, on the sitting room floor. It shocks Sirius. Cats pace?

“You okay, Léonie?”

The little cat looks up at him from the floor and meows, in that long, painful way he does when he’s stressed or scared. Sirius immediately moves to pick him up and curl him up against his chest. “I know, I know,” he soothes, feeling a little unstable himself.

Léonie doesn’t start acting normal again until James is back, safe and unharmed.

The next day, Sirius has an assignment of his own. Léonie almost doesn’t let him out the door.

When he gets back home, exhausted and drained but overall, in one piece, Léonie comes running. Sirius so rarely sees him move that fast (missing one leg, another broken, and all), and so it shocks him to hear the racing paws. He crouches and reaches for Léonie as he approaches, lifting him up into his arms as usual. Léonie immediately starts nuzzling his throat.

James follows Léonie into the foyer. He smiles when he sees Sirius is okay, and shrugs when Sirius looks between him and Léonie questioningly.

“He was worried about you.”

Only two days later, Lily, James, and Monty leave to deliver a batch of potions for the Order, accompanied by several others, including the twins. With no designated headquarters (nowhere being quite safe enough), they spend the whole morning jumping between different locations. It’s dangerous for them to do, but unfortunately necessary.

Effie and Sirius spend the morning in the sitting room, both trying to calm down an immensely anxious Léonie between them.

“Is he—Is he okay?” Sirius asks, about an hour into their little waiting game.

Effie looks down at the cat between them. Léonie, at the moment, is sitting on all three paws, barely moving and not acknowledging the pets he’s receiving. He just stares at the hall leading to the foyer. She sighs.

“He’s worried that someone else will come home injured,” she says.

Sirius hums and digs a finger into the spot behind Léonie’s left ear that always itches. Sirius noticed a couple weeks ago that, without a left front leg, it’s hard for him to clean the left side of his face. Sometimes, when Sirius can easily tell that it’s bothering him (there’s this little motion he does with his stump that Sirius thinks no one else has noticed, but he sees it every time), Sirius will let Léonie lick his finger and will do it for him. The first time he offered, Léonie clearly had no idea what he was trying to do—Sirius had to lick his own finger to get the message across. It was ridiculous. Regardless, Sirius thinks that the less consistent grooming on this side makes it itchier, and he always pays attention to that ear when he can.

“Are cats… usually able to sense that?” He asks. “When someone might be in danger?”

“They can be,” Effie says. She smiles wistfully, a little mournfully. “I mentioned before that my grandmother taught us how to heal cats, because my sister found sick kittens.”

Sirius nods.

“Well… I didn’t tell you before, because it was too sad, and we didn’t know how this one would fare…” she says quietly. Her voice is warm and comforting, even when she is clearly sad. “Most of those kittens ended up dying. They were left sick for too long, and our magic wasn’t enough to help them.”

She’s right. If she had told this story before, Sirius would have fallen apart, right then and there.

“We found the mother’s body, too, out in the woods. My sister led us to where she found the kittens, and the mum was only a few paces away. Those kittens were close enough to know their mother had died.” Effie’s frown becomes a little softer. “One of them did survive. She was the runt of the litter. But she was hardy, and didn’t give up, and she stayed with us for a long, long time. Almost until James was born.”

Sirius smiles at the image of a lazy senior cat, curled into Effie, guarding over an unborn baby. Knowing it was James…

“She would have loved you both, I think. Especially you, Sirius.”

He looks up at her. “Why me?”

Effie’s smile is pained again. “She had a… sense of pain to her. Especially when it was accompanied by grief or loss. We had a theory that it was because of her time as a kitten, but we never really had an answer.” She moves her hand across Léonie’s back. “When our grandmother was dying, only a few years after we found her, this sweetheart of a cat just… knew. She started acting different, always sleeping beside our grandmother, always comforting her, things like that. They were inseparable.<

“After our grandmother passed, she kept doing it. It wasn’t like we had so many family members die, but with a big family like mine, it happened often enough to notice. Even if we had no reason to believe they would pass soon, she just knew.”

A tear slides down Effie’s face. Sirius, shocked, stares, unable to do anything. Léonie looks up, seems to comprehend that Effie is upset, and climbs into her lap.

Effie chuckles and holds him close. “A few years before James came, my sister passed on, too.” Sirius feels himself slipping. “She seemed perfectly healthy at the time. We never even got answers as to what took her. About two weeks before it happened, our cat started obsessing over her, just as she had always done for people who were moving on.” Effie wipes her eyes. “I couldn’t stop thinking that maybe if we had just paid more attention, we would have noticed that she was telling us something was wrong. Maybe my sister would have lived.”

Oh.

Effie meets his eyes, smiles, and reaches for his hand. She squeezes it tighter than she ever has.

“Right before she died herself, this very, very old cat suddenly started acting like a kitten again. She had been losing her hearing and her vision for years, and was only a few steps away from being bedridden, but one day she just… started playing again. Like nothing had changed.”

Sirius sees Léonie, jumping in the snow.

“Not a week later, she was gone.”

Sirius asks, as softly as he can, like he’s afraid to fill the silence, “what was her name?”

“Our cat?” Effie asks.

Sirius shakes his head. “Your sister.”

Effie smiles. “Kari,” she says. “Her name was Euphrasia Karishma.

Sirius squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back.

On the morning of New Years Eve, Peter, Marlene, and Dorcas show up at the Potters’ door unannounced.

It’s just Effie, James, and Lily in the house at the time. Both Monty and Sirius are out on assignment; the same one, which rarely happens. It’s more relaxed than expected, and they make it back home in just under an hour.

The second Sirius walks in, he hears loud shouts of joy from the sitting room.

When they turn the corner, drawn to the happiness like moths to a flame, Monty and Sirius come across a scene Sirius never thought he’d see in his life.

Walking across the floor, slow and cautious, is Léonie. Which isn’t unusual, except for the fact that he’s walking on four paws instead of three.

Sirius’ jaw drops. He doesn’t pick it up until after James tackles him, nearly sending them both to the floor. Léonie comes up to them, too, and Sirius kneels. Léonie, the little shit, starts showing off his new leg as soon as he can.

Sirius starts fucking crying again.

The next morning, they wake up to another few centimeters of snow, having arrived just in time for the new year.

Effie and Monty spend the morning at the Ministry. Monty has things to clear up, and Effie goes with him for company, which leaves the younger ones at home.

Sirius has been feeling a little restless, seeing all the snow falling. For some reason, he keeps thinking of how happy Léonie looked to be playing in the snow. He hasn’t been able to figure out why that image keeps coming to mind, other than the usual… reasons. Then, he remembers that tonight is the full moon, and. Well.

That clears that up.

He ends up opening the sliding glass door, leaving it open even though the cold starts seeping into the house, and promptly transforming into Padfoot. It’s almost a relief, being in his animagus form after so long. He didn’t even realize that, after so many years transforming once a month, he was starting to get frustrated.

Being Padfoot, though, doesn’t much help with the feeling of missing Moony. In fact, it brings it all up right away, all the pain and loneliness he’s been feeling for months now, and it hurts.

Padfoot curls into the snow, digging and trying to hide his nose underneath. It’s only when he hears a meow from inside that he looks up and meets eyes with Léonie across the threshold.

From a dog’s eyes, Léonie is hardly different. He’s bigger, for sure, and Padfoot is distracted from his loneliness by the sudden urge to play. He stands up, shakes the snow off, and lowers himself into a deep crouch, his tail wagging. The closer he moves, the more clearly nervous Léonie gets, but Padfoot doesn’t stop. When he’s close enough, Léonie having moved back into the house a bit, analyzing his every movement with absolute caution, Padfoot throws himself onto his side and rolls. He comes to a stop on his back, belly up and tongue out.

Léonie just watches him. Five seconds. Ten.

Padfoot turns back onto his belly, lowers his nose to the ground, and whines.

That does it.

Léonie steps out into the snow, on four paws this time, and hesitatingly sniffs Padfoot's nose.

He should’ve waited longer, but Padfoot is nothing if not impatient, and so he licks a stripe across Léonie’s face, right over the scars. Léonie gags. If Padfoot had been in his human form, he’d be dying laughing. Instead, he gets attacked by this tiny, fluffy black cat, and they sprint into the snow.

James, on a hunt to find the cold draft in the house, finds them inside the dining room. Black dog, black cat, covered in rapidly melting snow, in front of the open sliding door. Curled around each other, fast asleep.

A little over two weeks pass. For this short time, the Potters continue riding the high of Léonie’s new leg. After Sirius finds out it was enchanted by Dorcas—to move like a real one, joints and all—there’s nothing that can bring him down.

Or, he thinks so, at least.

Reality doesn’t take long to kick in.

Two weeks into January, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his Death Eaters attack the Ministry. In total, the attack lasts about thirteen minutes. The Order is not notified fast enough to provide support. In defending the civilians and Ministry workers present at the time, including the Minister for Magic, ambushed, alone, and with no support from the Order, the Aurors are easily halved. Over one hundred Ministry Officials die anyway, including sitting members of the Wizengamot, along with an extra thirty-seven civilians visiting for personal business.

Two hundred people, dead. Killed in a matter of minutes. More would have died had the Death Eaters not left as quickly as they came. No one has an explanation for this.

The Minister himself lives. From what the remaining Aurors can tell, nothing was planted, moved, or taken. The Department of Mysteries, which is notoriously private and well-protected but equally desired, had stayed entirely unbothered. Even Dumbledore seemed stumped. He has been in a meeting with the Minister ever since the Death Eaters ran. There is no information on how they made it in, or how they left so quickly.

The Potters were not there for the attack. Monty was at home at the time, having no Wizengamot business to be present for. The fear of it settles into the Potters bone-deep, because any other day could’ve been different.

The day was different, for many, many people.

With most of the Order uninjured, they end up spending the aftermath healing those who were. St. Mungo’s is full and understaffed for such an occasion. By the time the Potters arrive, Moody has already been treated for his missing eye, courtesy of a Death Eater now long dead. Moody is quite confident he killed them immediately after it happened and seems to also know who they were. The name, when mentioned, itches Sirius’ brain, like he recognizes it but can’t quite tell why. Unfortunately, there were no bodies left behind by the Death Eaters during the attack. This is also unusual for them. Any deaths, therefore, are treated as entirely speculation.

No one is willing to risk that small victory. Not if it’s untrue.

(Not if they lose more good people to a Death Eater previously believed dead.)

The whole thing, as nonsensical as it is, leaves the Ministry, the Aurors, the Order, and the public entirely disoriented. All precautionary measures the Order planted in worry of an attack over the Holidays slipped through the cracks by the time mid-January came, which has caused backlash from the public, especially the families of those who were killed. As the Order itself remains relatively secret to the public, the Aurors take most of the fallout. Yet with so many dead, members of the Order end up being required to step in. Some more active Order members closer to Moody become unofficial fill-in Aurors. Even members who are rarely on the front lines, including Lily, Effie, and Monty, now end up being called for more intense assignments out of sheer necessity, even when the possibility of them getting killed would cause major repercussions for the Order.

To put it simply, the weeks following the attack are tense. Sirius believes the easiest way to put it is this: even in the weeks following James’ injury, and even when he was bedridden himself, Léonie wasn’t as visibly miserable as he is now, every day, waiting for the Potters to come home.

This strange, stressful time goes about like this:

First, Dumbledore requests that the Potters host the Order meeting immediately following the attack. Considering Effie and Monty have chosen to maintain old family blood-wards over the house, which can be harder to dismantle than most wards, the Potters are quickly becoming the most reliable hosts for meetings, though it’s a tense decision. Monty and Effie don’t love doing it, because having a haven for all of them is more important to them than anything else, but are willing for the sake of the cause. Moody seems to believe it would take You-Know-Who himself to take the wards down. So, the Potters host.

It’s a relatively short meeting, all things considered. With so little information at hand, Dumbledore wraps it up after about forty minutes of debrief and speculation. It’s also the first time Sirius has gotten a chance to sit down since the attack, having been in St. Mungo’s with James overnight helping. He thinks this is the reason why, when they go over the names of Death Eaters they believe to be dead, Sirius is finally capable of recognizing the name of the Death Eater that Moody killed.

It isn’t even a full name.

Rosier.

Moody says it was the twin boy, though. Sirius recognizes that one, at least.

One of his friends. Evan Rosier.

Quite frankly, Sirius doesn’t give a shit. It wouldn’t even matter if he did, because following the meeting, Sirius is thoroughly, terrifyingly distracted when Léonie all but disappears. They search the house with a fine-toothed comb, including the use of spells. Eleven hours after the meeting ends, Léonie turns up on the back porch, drenched in snow and shaking. Sirius, having been nearly despondent, dries him off and tucks extra blankets into his bed by the fire. Léonie stays in that bed so long they’re afraid he’s relapsing.

He doesn’t move until the assignments begin.

The first time Effie leaves is for a recon assignment on a supposed Death Eater hideout. She returns two hours later than expected nursing four nasty hex wounds. Had she not always been particularly talented in self-healing magic, she could have died on the field. The others with her weren’t as lucky

The hide-out itself was a set-up. Effie returns with nothing.

Similarly, Monty and James are sent on a guard assignment. It’s for a potion ingredients shipment, like the one Sirius remembers going on months ago with Dorcas and Fabian. Unfortunately, this one doesn’t go nearly as well. No one dies, but it’s a close call. Monty almost loses a leg. The twins and James end up in St. Mungo’s—the twins with a cruel set of curses that can and will kill them without interference, while James gets a nasty concussion that leaves him bedridden for days.

Léonie doesn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time until both Monty and James have returned.

Lily, meanwhile, would be dead three times over if not for Dorcas and Marlene, who teamed up to keep her alive when an Order safe house was attacked during a smaller meeting. It’s unclear how the safe house itself was discovered. The family who owned it, family friends of the McKinnon’s, were captured during the attack. The Order doesn’t expect to see them again. The Death Eaters don’t tend to leave bodies, their own or otherwise. After making sure Lily made it home safely, Marlene and Dorcas left to be with Marlene’s family. Léonie curled up on Lily’s lap that evening and fidgeted whenever anyone mentioned Dorcas’ name.

Sirius makes it through the week relatively unscathed. This is by no means entirely on his own; he simply happens to be put on missions alongside people like Dorcas and Fabian, who repeatedly save his arse and are saved by him in return. But after the twins end up in the hospital, and considering many others are dropping like flies, there are several times Sirius feels like he’s barely made it out alive.

Unrest in the Order grows. Three weeks after the Ministry attack, the Potters host another Order-wide meeting, again at Dumbledore’s request; just a day before, another safe-house was targeted. Six members dead. The Prewetts. Only the twins and one of their sisters still live. The twins themselves are still in St. Mungo’s when they find out. Sirius imagines they, like Sirius himself often does, might be wondering if things could’ve been different. If they’d been at home, too.

There are rumors of a rat in the Order. Effie and Monty aren’t nearly as gracious hosts as they can be. It will be dark out soon, and both clearly want this to end as quickly as possible. The meeting starts on time, tense and quiet. There are only thirty-five of them present, including Dumbledore and Moody; even with new recruits, the Order has been almost halved in the last year. About a third are Sirius’ friends and family. Sirius, James, and Peter stick closer together than ever. Lily and Dorcas are both stuck to Marlene’s sides.

Everyone present is becoming increasingly resigned to the fear that the results of this war are on the horizon. The Ministry can barely stand another attack. There’s no good reason the Ministry hasn’t been taken already. At least, not one they know of, or understand. The Aurors are now so stretched out that they’ve had to abandon several points of the war effort just to consolidate power.

No one expects this one meeting to change the course of the war. Yet, it does. Drastically. In a way no one expected.

It’s Dorcas who suggests it.

“We need to hit back,” she says, her voice almost a growl. “They keep taking our safe houses, our shipments, killing our people. It’s time we return the favor.”

“What do you suggest, Miss Meadowes?” Dumbledore says. He sits at the head of the table closest to the backyard door, with Moody at his right hand. Sirius and James sit a few seats down on Dumbledore’s left side with Peter, Dorcas, and the other girls beside them.

Dorcas puts her elbows on the table and leans forward. “We flush them out. Same as they’re doing to us. We know enough big Death Eater names to target particular people. No more waiting to meet them on the field. They aren't the only ones who can fight dirty."

There’s silence following her words. It takes a few moments for anyone to gather the courage to counter.

At the end of the long table, someone shifts in their seat. They’re a newer member, someone who Sirius has yet to learn the name of. On one hand, he simply doesn’t have the brainpower for it. On the other, the likelihood this person dies before he ever learns it is so high that he might as well just… Not. As much as even thinking that way makes him feel like shit.

“We’re better than that,” they say. This is the first sign they are new, really. Most people at this table have fought beside Dorcas at least once. The rest know others who survive because of her. If anyone else wanted to question Dorcas, they’d at the very least be smarter about it. “If we do what they’re doing, we’d be the same as all the rest of them.”

Beside Dorcas, Marlene’s eyes glint. Sirius immediately knows the two have been talking about this. “And if we lose because we did jack shit?” Marlene says.

From directly across James, Frank Longbottom leans his arms on the table. Alice would be beside him, had she not been assigned duty at the Ministry. “Yes, we know Death Eater names. But most are powerful people. We can’t just target them with no evidence.”

“We have evidence!” Dorcas snaps. “We’ve fought them! Order members and innocents alike, dead to names we know, to people we have seen with our own eyes, people we work with, some we went to school with, and you’re telling me we can’t fight back because it would be immoral?”

“Whether it’s immoral or not, we’ll be the ones facing the repercussions for it,” Frank says. “The strongest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight will act. They’ll strengthen their connections and hit us politically.” He leans back. “At that point, we might as well cede the Ministry outright.”

From beside Sirius, James speaks. “If we had better intel, we could be smart about it. Focus on easier targets first and work up.”

His voice is cold, Sirius thinks.

Frank shrugs. “You find someone willing to give that intel, you let us know.”

James’ hands clench into fists on his lap. Sirius reaches over and holds one of them, interlacing their fingers and squeezing tight.

Dumbledore shifts his robes. “Miss Meadowes,” he starts, his voice only just louder than a whisper. “I understand, and I applaud your conviction. However, Mister Longbottom is correct. We cannot risk the ground we already have.”

James tenses. “If we can’t risk it, then what do we do?”

Dumbledore continues. “There are several witches and wizards still brave enough to relay information directly to me. I am waiting on the arrival of a few of them. Until then, this Order’s priorities will be to—“

From the back of Moody’s throat comes a growl nearly ear-splitting in volume. It sends a shock of tension around the room; Sirius sees everyone in his eyesight lifting their shoulders, if not their wands too, at the exact same moment. Sirius, confused to what has caused Moody’s reaction, follows his eyesight to the end of the table. And there, standing tall, is—

Léonie?

Sirius has never seen the cat standing so still before. He’s also never been seen in a room this populated. The little, fluffy thing is as upright as can be, his tail pointing to the ceiling, steel blue eyes sharp and, seemingly, making eye contact with Dumbledore. Regal as the lion he’s named for. A shiver runs down Sirius’ spine, shaking him to his core.

The abrupt moment of silence is shattered when Moody stands, wand raised.

“Don’t!” Sirius shouts, not having noticed he stood as well, wand in hand. “Don’t you fucking touch him.”

Wand and single eye still raised and directed to the cat, Moody doesn’t a muscle. “That is no cat, Black. Who is it?”

Sirius shakes. He lifts his wand, pointing at another member of the Order for the very first time. At Moody. “Don’t.”

There’s a general outcry rising all around him. Sirius can barely hear it, because that is no cat is bouncing around his head like a damn bludger.

Dumbledore stands as well. He steadies Moody’s arm at the same time as he raises a hand, palm forward, to Sirius. “Hold, both of you,” he says. The moment Sirius lifted his wand, Moody turned his eye to him. Dumbledore’s, though, never moved away from Léonie. Moody lowers his wand, just slightly. Sirius, though still shaking, doesn’t move except to look at Léonie once more.

Léonie meets Sirius’ eyes once, for a breathless, stilted moment, and then he moves. Sirius can only watch as the little black cat, slow and silent, the metallic sheen of one prosthetic paw reflecting the room’s light, walks down the long table towards Dumbledore.

If he weren’t so stressed, Sirius could laugh at the drama of it.

Léonie stops the moment he stands before Dumbledore and Moody. His eyes are a challenge, like he’s waiting for the two wizards to pull their wands on him and is daring them to try it. When neither of them moves for long enough, Léonie turns away and comes quickly to stand before Sirius.

Meow.

He starts pacing, walking in tight circles around the table. Sirius just stares, having unconsciously dropped his wand arm, confused out of his damn mind. He shakes his head. “What?”

With an air of visceral exasperation, Léonie vocalizes something short and low, almost like a huff. His long, fluffy tail lashes from side to side. He paces once more, closer to a square now than a circle, and then sits just before Sirius and starts making smaller movements with both front paws. Sirius, still confused, follows the motions desperately.

That is no cat, Black.

On a human, Sirius feels like he would recognize the motions. Not that it helps much, but he thinks it looks sort of like Léonie is trying to draw something. Or map something? But why would—

Oh.

“Get a map out,” Sirius says. The rest of the Order just stares at him. “A map of Britain. Now!”

Someone digs one out, or conjures one. Sirius doesn’t follow it at all, focused entirely on Léonie, who is visibly impatient while the map is laid on the table. The instant it’s flattened down, Léonie steps right onto it, eyes tracking the lines and rivers of the map with an intelligence Sirius has both never seen from him and feels, innately, aware of anyway. A feeling bubbles up inside him, something anticipatory, something scared, that he can’t quite place, and yet finds so familiar.

Léonie circles the map once and then stops at the bottom, like he’s thinking.

Quietly, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, Frank says, “when I said intel, I didn’t mean from a bloody cat.”

In an instant, Léonie is moving again. He stands over the Scottish Highlands first, and with a claw from his still-remaining paw, pokes a hole in the map just a few centimeters east from Loch Ness. He pokes two more holes in Scotland (one being uncomfortably close to Hogwarts) before moving south, first to poke a hole in Northern Ireland just outside of Belfast, then across the sea to make another hole on the coast beside Holyhead. Around the map he goes, carefully poking small but quite visible holes with his claws. Only when he’s made about fifteen of them, scattered around the map, even making two on the French mainland, does he stop and start pacing around again. All throughout, the Order holds their breath and watches.

When he starts again, Léonie moves considerably slower than he did before. The fur across his shoulders spikes a bit, and his head hunches lower. Sirius holds himself back from trying to soothe him, because he knows, knows in this instant, that it wouldn’t be appreciated.

This time, instead of poking holes, Léonie turns to Sirius and meows once more. Léonie huffs again when Sirius, his thoughts simultaneously empty and racing like mad, responds by shaking his head and gaping. Again, Léonie begins motioning to the map, now maintaining intense eye contact with Sirius while pressing the dull curve of a claw, as gently as he possibly can, into the parchment under him. It leaves behind a nearly miniscule indent, and Sirius understands.

He turns abruptly, looking for a quill, and it takes several seconds of painful, useless searching before Effie leans across the table and simply hands him one. The instant Sirius has the quill in his hand, Léonie is looking between him and the map with one claw resting, without breaking through the parchment itself. Sirius leans forward and draws an X across the spot under Léonie’s claw, who lifts and waits. And when Léonie moves to another spot, he does the same.

Around the map they go, from Leeds, to just north of Cardiff, and again a few centimeters west of Exeter. James and Sirius gasp simultaneously; that last X is approximately where the Potters’ House is. It’s that realization that makes Marlene shriek that the X on Leeds is close to her family’s ancestral home, and that’s when it clicks for everyone.

Léonie, and in turn Sirius’ quill, is marking safe houses. Which means the holes, from before, would be…

The ensuing meow brings Sirius out of his thoughts. Léonie is looking at him again, anxiously pawing his way around the map. He comes to a stop with one paw placed flat, directly on top of London, and meows again.

By now, Sirius isn’t the only one who understands that Léonie is telling them something. “Get a map of London, too,” James says, his words rushed. Again, someone does, and Léonie stands now upon a map of London.

He first pokes holes again, the most notable one being in Knockturn Alley. He and Sirius mark an X or two in between, one of which is claimed as a safe house by a member of the Order Sirius doesn’t immediately place the voice of. After what feels like an hour, Léonie stops moving. He stares down at the map, standing in the dead-middle, staring, staring. His hesitation is so palpable that everyone is minutely, irrationally tracking his movements. So, when his claw reaches to poke a big hole in a residential part of Islington, Sirius jumps.

He knows that street.

“Léonie—“

The cat runs. In an instant, he’s off the table and banking for the door. Sirius isn’t fast enough to stop Moody from sending a spell out with him. From outside the door, where Sirius can no longer see, comes a loud thump and a groan.

Moody, along with Effie, Frank, and two others, shoot out the door too. Sirius and James follow, ignoring Dumbledore’s voice ordering them to remain seated, but they must round the table first and end up behind a small crowd. They aren’t the only ones who want to understand more than they want to listen to Dumbledore.

On his way to the sitting room, Sirius sees Léonie’s prosthetic, lost and left behind on the hardwood floor. His breath hitches, but he keeps going without picking it up.

James is ahead of him, and tall enough to see over the tallest heads of the others, so Sirius can’t see what makes him cry out and rush forward. James works his way to Effie’s side through Frank and other Auror-adjacent members, even shoving Frank himself aside to get closer to whatever—whoever—Sirius can just barely make out kneeling on the sitting room floor. Effie is already in a lightning-quick quarrel with Moody, having placed herself in between him and the person on the floor. Dumbledore pushes his way through and inserts himself easily into whatever argument they are having. But Sirius is struck dumb, doesn’t understand, can’t understand, because he'd recognize the sounds of James crying anywhere, and his thoughts are running too slow to take in anything, and only when he finally makes it forward and sees James holding what looks like a head of black curls to his chest, just to pull back and look down at the face between his hands, does Sirius see.

The world pauses. Sirius can’t hear a thing, and his peripheral vision blacks out. Something buried deep inside of him starts screaming when the face between James’ hands meets his eyes.

No. It can’t be.

"Regulus?"

And this man—this, creature, this being with his face, looks back at him. Angular features, sharp cheekbones, intense blue-gray eyes, only a few shades off from Sirius’ own. Across his face run the same three scars that Sirius got so comfortable seeing across Léonie’s, and with a pang of hurt, Sirius, for just a moment, thinks of Remus.

He looks… terrified.

James follows the path of his gaze to look up at Sirius. He has tears in his eyes. But all Sirius can think is:

That is not him.

The face’s mouth moves.

”... Hi, Sirius."