Harry reached out in front of him, tracing the tapestry's linework, the embroidery and cloth rough with age underneath his fingertips. It was faded and looked as though doxies had gnawed it in places; nevertheless, a golden thread still glinted brightly enough to show them a sprawling family tree dating back (as far as Harry could tell) to the Middle Ages. Large words at the very top of the tapestry read:

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

"Toujours Pur"

And from that banner, the golden lines spread into branches that bore fruit of more names on flying banners; caricatures of each family head, of each daughter and son pandering to the tree with their sequined eyes and white-threaded skin.

Two particular banners caught Harry's eye, "You're related to the Malfoys? To the Weasley's, even!"

"The pure-blood families are all interrelated," said Sirius. "If you're only going to let your sons and daughters marry purebloods your choice is very limited, there are hardly any of us left. Molly and I are cousins by marriage and Arthur's something like my second cousin once removed. But there's no point looking for them on here—if ever a family was a bunch of 'blood traitors' it's the Weasleys."

Sirius tapped a branch labeled 'Black' and trailed down.

"I haven't looked at this for years. There's Phineas Nigellus… my great-great-grandfather, see? Least popular headmaster Hogwarts ever had… and Araminta Meliflua… cousin of my mother's… tried to force through a Ministry Bill to make Muggle-hunting legal… and dear Aunt Elladora… she started the family tradition of beheading house-elves when they got too old to carry tea trays… of course, anytime the family produced someone halfway decent they were disowned. I see Tonks isn't on here. Maybe that's why Kreacher won't take orders from her—he's supposed to do whatever anyone in the family asks him…"

"You and Tonks are related?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Oh yeah her mother, Andromeda, was my favorite cousin," said Sirius, examining the tapestry carefully. "Andromeda's not on here either, look—they must've removed her after she married Ted Tonks," he pointed to another small round burn mark between two names, Bellatrix and Narcissa.

"He was a Muggleborn you see, and our family were humiliated by their union! Her sisters however, and as you might have figured out, made lovely and respectable pure-blood marriages… Narcissa to Lucius Malfoy," Sirius said, his finger hovering at 'Malfoy', "And Bellatrix to Rodolphus Lestrange."

"Lestrange…" said Harry aloud. The name had stirred something in his memory; he knew it from somewhere, but for a moment he couldn't think where, though it gave him an odd, creeping sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"They're in Azkaban," said Sirius shortly. Harry looked at him curiously.

"Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus came in with Barty Crouch, Junior," said Sirius in the same brusque voice. "Rodolphus's brother, Rabastan, was with them too."

And Harry remembered: He had seen Bellatrix Lestrange inside Dumbledore's Pensieve, the strange device in which thoughts and memories could be stored: a tall dark woman with heavy-lidded eyes, who had stood at her trial and proclaimed her continuing allegiance to Lord Voldemort, her pride that she had tried to find him after his downfall and her conviction that she would one day be rewarded for her loyalty.

"You never said she was your—"

"Does it matter if she's my cousin?" snapped Sirius. "As far as I'm concerned, they're not my family—she's certainly not my family. I haven't seen her since I was your age, unless you count a glimpse of her coming in to Azkaban. D'you think I'm proud of having relatives like her?"

"Sorry," said Harry quickly, "I didn't mean—I was just surprised, that's all—"

"It doesn't matter, don't apologize," Sirius mumbled at once. He crossed his arms and dug his nails underside, but Harry didn't seem offended. He didn't even notice Sirius's obvious discomfort, as eyes took to tapestry and scanned the bottom of the tree.

"Hold on… you're not on here!" he said and it roused Sirius, making him bend towards the tapestry's end.

"I used to be there," said Sirius , showing Harry. But his finger pointed at a small, round, charred hole in the tapestry, looking rather similar to the effect of someone that had pressed their cigar to the cloth with much conviction and deliberation.

For some reason the entirety of Harry's chest clenched when he saw it. It felt as if he was the who was the one who had been burned away

"Did they-.. Did they disown you?" he asked.

"Well, I was about your age when I ran away from home, " said Sirius. He looked over at Harry's eyes. They were wide, staring very blatantly at the hole, his hands clutching at the hem of his hoodie. It made Sirius soften. "I'd had enough, and I didn't want to give that pleasure," he said, but gently, as if it was just another piece of history; another family story to the tapestry.

"Where did you go?" asked Harry, staring at him.

"Your dad's place," said Sirius. "Your grandparents were really good about it; they sort of adopted me as a second son. I camped out at your dad's during the school holidays, and then when I was seventeen, I got a place of my own, my Uncle Alphard had left me a decent bit of gold—he's been wiped off here too, that's probably why—anyway, after that I looked after myself. I was always welcome at Mr. and Mrs. Potter's for Sunday lunch, though."

"But… why did you…?"

"Leave?" Sirius smiled bitterly and ran a hand through his long hair.

"Because I hated the whole lot of them: my parents with their pure-blood mania, convinced that being a Black made you practically royal… They used to pander to me, hold me up as their prodigal son, trying to feed me their ideals since I was a child—but my idiot brother! He was soft enough to believe them… that's him." Sirius jabbed a finger at the very bottom of the tree, at the name 'Regulus Black'. A date of death (some fifteen years previously) followed the date of birth.

"He was younger than me," said Sirius, "and a much better son as I was constantly reminded. Quiet and obedient. Very unlike his rebellious older brother. "

"But he died," said Harry. He found it hard to swallow.

"Yeah," said Sirius. He shook his head and sighed, "Stupid idiot… he went off to join the Death Eaters."

"The Death Eaters! So he—… Did your parents...?"

"No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea and were all for the purification of the Wizarding race, getting rid of Muggle-borns and having purebloods in charge. They weren't alone either, there were quite a few people, before Voldemort showed his true colors, who thought he had the right idea about things… They got cold feet when they saw what he was prepared to do to get power, though. But I bet my parents thought Regulus was a right little hero for joining up, at first."

"Was he killed by an Auror?" Harry asked tentatively.

"Oh no," said Sirius. "No, he was murdered by Voldemort. Or on Voldemort's orders, more likely, I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person.

"What?!"

"From what I found out, he had gotten in far but then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out and, well—you don't just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It's a lifetime of service or death."

Harry stared at Sirius. There was something sardonic and bitter curdling his mouth, as if what he had recalled was stupid, almost trivial; but Harry could tell otherwise, in fact, he knew better.

"I can't really picture what it was like… living with your family," he said, and Sirius gave a small and sad chuckle.

"Harry, I would not want for you to be able to." he said. But Harry shook his head.

Sirius's composure was fragile. Delicately carved into his demeanor, like a reflex of some sort that—after talking to Cedric—Harry was all too familiar with. His eyebrows were knitted, not in anger or disgust; but frustration. Eyes staring hard but crumpled, words mocking but more than enough of a testament to a pain that Harry could only imagine.

"I know how it feels though." he said, quietly. "Being so different from the people that you live with… having them dislike... you."

Sirius turned his head, a new light dawned on his face.

"That's right," he whispered. "You do."

"I know that it can be…" and Harry sighed, "..hard and difficult to explain so I don't need you to if you don't want to but—"

"No! No, I'm sorry. I've been rather appalling today, haven't I?" Sirius laughed, nervous. He suddenly reached for Harry's hem-clutched hand and carefully pried his fingers away, holding them and then placing his own palm on top before he gave a large sigh; an exhalation that squeezed the lungs behind his chest, that deflated his shoulders and turned him solemn, thoughtful.

"My past… I do not wish to dwell on it, and I do not wish for you to know details about how my family treated me—you can absolutely guess of course, but you do not deserve such information." Sirius said. "I will, however, answer as many questions that I can, instead of being a tour guide for my lineage."

Harry grinned at his joke, "Is it really okay?"

"Yes. I did promise you a conversation. And besides—" Sirius said, the glint back in his eye, "Talking about myself used to be one of my favourite past times."

"Alright!" Harry said, laughing, distilling the room as he held firmly onto Sirius's hand.

"Okay." Sirius said and while he smiled to the floor, he took a deep breath.

"Fire away." Harry looked up at the top of the tapestry, and followed the lines that lead to 'Walburga & Orion Black'.

"Well first, when did you know?" he asked. "That it was all codswallop, everything your parents were saying?"

Sirius gave a wry laugh, "Starting in the deep end eh?"

"Oh erm-"

"Don't worry, it's quite alright. But well.. let's see." Sirius took a moment before a cynical, but almost strangely fond smile reached his face.

"I think I always hated it, Harry, but if there was a moment… It'd have to be the first day I came back to this house—after spending that entire first term in the Gryffindor tower."

"Really?"

"Well, that moment with the Sorting itself had confirmed everything that I've been conflicted over for years. I was so surprised when I didn't get a Howler the next morning that I became used to it, not hearing a single thing from my parents all that time — I had hoped that maybe they weren't so angry — but I was wrong. When I came back…" Sirius let out a shaky sigh, "I knew that I could never get along with my family, not if I wanted to be myself."

"What happened?"

"As soon as I stepped through the door, my mother grabbed my arm and dragged me into my room, locking me in for some time; telling Kreacher that he was only to bring up bread and water until I started 'behaving like a proper Black,'" Sirius paused, "I don't think she even looked at me."

"That's terrible!" Harry said, aghast.

"It didn't last long." Sirius said, reassuring him. "But that certainly set the tone for the next few years. Despite me being a Gryffindor, Mother was intent on trying to change my mind, saying that Dumbledore and the Sorting Hat had made some a grievous mistake—No son of hers would deviate from bloodline tradition."

"I suppose you didn't like that."

Sirius lips curled into a familiar smirk.

"Well I certainly did my best to rebel against it. It was tiring, you see, because before that, they were always so proud of me; always saying how much I meant to them." Sirius gave a bitter bark of laughter before he shook his head. "Course, what really mattered was who they thought I could be. They never really loved me… So I got back at them, as much as I could before I ran away—I started voluntarily staying in my room and stopped eating or going to the main family events that sprinkled throughout the year. I made sure to wear and own all sorts of Muggle things in my room and—" he turned suddenly to Harry and for the second time since he had arrived—the first being when he first saw Harry—Sirius's face warmed, and his grin stretched, fond.

"I would always ask your mother to get me things." he said, hands rapt with a new animation. "Like those automatic quills? The plastic ones, where you can just press a button and, voila!"

"Pens?" Harry asked, incredulously. Sirius clapped his hands.

"Yes! Pens! Wonderful things, I drove my family half-mad by just clicking and oh, I could never forget when Lily brought me those tapes. The amount of songs and movies I played at ridiculous hours!" Sirius grinned, his eyes at the ceiling, reminiscent. "I collected posters, clothes and accessories, records, tapes and all sorts of Muggle inventions—put a Permanent Sticking Charm on them whenever I left for school. And when I ran away, I brought it all with me— everything. Moony was interested in Muggle things as well you see, especially the music, we'd always listen to something different in the evening…"

"Moony… Did you mean Lupin?"

"Ah yes," Sirius coughed into his hand, embarrassed. "Sorry, the nicknames we gave each other at Hogwarts are.. very stuck, even now."

"Did Lupin live with you? After you left my Dad's?"

Sirius looked up from his hand. He was caught a little off-guard, but there was something a little more undecipherable there, something Harry couldn't quite read.

"He did." said Sirius and he opened and closed his mouth several times, as if trying to figure out what to say. "Of course it was after we left school, but… yes. For a time, we rented out this dinky flat on the outskirts of London, a bit before you were just born."

"Dinky?"

"It was a cheap apartment, so it was cramped and a little shoddy—we never had a proper warm bath but," Sirius's eyes gleamed, "It was cosy… a home,"

Harry blinked, "I didn't know you two were so close."

Sirius paused, but then he smiled again. Still undecipherable.

"We w-.. are, yes. It went downhill for a bit, when I was framed for murder and such but now… erm .." Sirius shook his head and then waved his hand , "Anyway! Do you- do you have any more questions?"

Harry swallowed.

He had many, really.

He wanted to ask what he was like at school, how it felt to be the first ones to form the new Order. He wanted to ask about Peter Pettigrew, wanted know about the Marauders and how they became Animagi, how they created the map, and what his father and mother were like. And finally, there was this nagging within Harry, a sense of tugging that felt like Sirius was holding back on Lupin—like there was some kind of boundary that Harry had yet to touch on.

But while there was so much to ask Sirius, so much to unravel and understand and to see; for now…

"I have one."

"Alright," Sirius said. He crossed his arms, eager.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to." said Harry, hesitantly.

Sirius tilted his head, "I know." he said, intrigued. Harry paused a moment, rethinking about whether he should say it, his tongue caught between his teeth for good measure.

"Did you love your brother, Regulus?" he asked.

Sirius's body slowly straightened in quiet revelation, his eyebrow arched and eyes darting as he tried to process the question in his head, "What made you…?"

"You just react so differently to his name." Harry hurriedly explained. "I was wondering whether you had a soft spot for him before he—... you know."

"Well I did. Of course I did, everyone did! He was… a people pleaser before he became such a bigot—a quiet bigot, mind you but still a purebred, brainwashed bigot." Sirius said and he threw his hand up. "Hell, even before that, he was trying to please all the other bigots! I hated it."

"But?" Harry asked. Sirius sighed.

He was sighing a lot today.

"But it was harder to hate Regulus despite it all. I knew that he just wanted to make our parents happy—there was more pressure on him when I showed my 'true' colors," Sirius shook his head. "Suddenly he was expected to succeed the Black name, he was expected to inherit everything which meant he had to be perfect… the perfect, little pureblood son."

Harry nodded "Were you protective?"

"Very. But eventually he stopped needing it, he… he became friends with more like-minded people, you see, people that Mother and Father approved of; narrow-minded and stupid gits, but powerful ones at the very least, people whose name held weight in our world. Bred to be just like their parents stuck in their own pureblood fantasies," Sirius looked like he was about to spit on the floor,. "I knew he didn't like it or them very much, but he thought it was where he belonged. And when I left, well... he stuck himself firmly, in... their world."

"It's not your fault," Harry said suddenly. It felt like he was being pricked, as he watched Sirius blame himself; the bittersweet smile, the shake of his head all pricking and binding Harry to a new surge of something that flowed, sad and frustrated in his chest.

"I should've been more persistent," Sirius said.

"But you had to leave!"

Sirius chuckled.

"That was always what Remus and James would say. And even now, I still try to convince myself that but," Sirius traced the tapestry's embroidered outline of Regulus Black. He thumbed the threaded cheek and sighed, small, once more. "When you get older, you become less and less certain."

"Aren't you overthinking it? It wasn't your fault for running away! All the things your parents did... they basically made you!"

"Did they? I was able to bear with their treatment for five years… maybe if I stuck around, one more could've made the difference."

"But you're your own person Sirius," said Harry helplessly, "You had things that you needed as well, and you're much more than the guiding buff for your brother's moral compass!"

Sirius paused, face blank for one second before suddenly, it creased—as if his eyes and his smile were laced with something old and kind. Harry suddenly realized how many years Azkaban had put onto Sirius's face, and how many more must've been etched, like tally marks, onto his own soul. He saw how the frown lines and gauntness had formed in his face which—while full-cheeked and less obvious in bruise or tear—still hung, haggard and worn. A mark of the trauma, of the experiences that Sirius had the misfortune to endure.

Harry knew that no matter what he said, Sirius's mind would be set on the way he saw this part of his life. The guilt. The anguish. Did Sirius twinge whenever he laughed in his flat with Lupin? Imagining where Regulus would've been at the same moment, wondering if he deserved to even be happy when he had left his brother to the cold luxury of a deadly world and even more deadly people? Did Sirius ever fight Death Eaters and hesitate, wondering whether it was his own brother underneath the hood? Did he take a breath each time they unmasked someone they captured, injured or even killed? Did he pray or thank some higher power in his head when he made sure that Regulus was never ever one of the Order's victims?

Harry did not know what Sirius was feeling, he did not know what trials Sirius suffered or endured, but he could imagine it. He knew what it felt to have the presence of a person burned into the back of your mind, to have the feeling course through your bloodstream with the same kind of fire and raze every single time. In the way Harry knew he hated Voldemort, Sirius knew that he loved Regulus; without question. Barred only by the lines of fate and circumstance, of choice and influence that ran far beyond his own control. Because-

"You're right Harry," Sirius said. "You're absolutely right, no doubt that if I had stayed, perhaps I would've been worse off…" And Harry swallowed, because he knew what sort of words would be said next. He knew what slept underneath Sirius's seeming agreement.

"But?" he still asked.

And Sirius smiled again. Stubborn, proud. Sad.

"I was his older brother. And I don't know if you can understand, or if many other siblings have the same feelings but; for Regulus and I… what we had was an unspoken oath. My parent's beliefs and convictions made it necessary."

Sirius then dropped his voice, mild in tone.

Gentle.

"Like my duty to you, the Order, and to R—my friends; it was less of an obligation and more of a commitment," Sirius smiled, recalling the childish memories of playing Knights and Dragons, hiding under blanket-bunkers and dining table trenches; "The commitment I had to my brother… that will be the one that I will always regret not taking seriously," Sirius said, and he let go of the tapestry and stood up straight, looking ahead.

Abruptly, he squeezed Harry's hand,
"Please don't feel bad on my behalf," he said. And Harry didn't realize it, but there were a stream of tears that ran down his cheeks, the gaping pain of his chest now ripped open to full exposure, pricking behind his eyes as he wept, silent. He could see how the sadness pooled in the crescent of Sirius's eyes, and he watched how that confident back and swagger, hunched over the tapestry; decimated and blighted by regret.

Harry had always been familiar with pain. It was an old friend. Something that lingered and slept in the crevices of his mind.

But this was different.

It was coppered in an older mold, a proof that suffering can never really be more than just suffering; that it doesn't necessitate strength or growth in the bodies that it affects—it can stay and squirm and play dead but in the end it lay just plain, unkiltered and simple, pain.
To an extent, Harry knew it could change someone. In the way his scar etched onto his forehead, it was something so presently forgettable in his life that he often could not fully appreciate or understand, the absolute barbarity of a raw and aged hurt; something that drowned your conscience like another layer of skin, a thick hide that broke into spikes from the inside, only scabbing so it could break and bleed again and again and again and again.

He turned to Sirius, who stood beside him, ever so strong… and remembered the shell he was two years ago. A wispy husk of the young man he was before, empty of romanticism, grandiosity and reckless; full of a youth gone bad, of a venture that had staled.
Here he was, clutching Harry's hand. His face strained, and in the small catches of whatever heart he poured out; soul, strained. Here was Sirius. Someone who stood straight and became taller than he would ever usually feel, just so he could tell the torment that racked inside, to shove off.

And this thought, this sight, this moment; burned into Harry's heart, rolling and broiling, seeping in cracks and webbing into something ravenous; digging itself a crater until finally,

"Sirius? I'm glad to have you," Harry said, voice firm but bent under emotion, "In whatever shape or form, or circumstance. No matter how you may have clawed your way through— I am glad that you are here."

He took a quick breath and wiped at his face, eyes hurting and his heart hurting and everything hurting after hearing everything that could be confessed but, once again—Sirius smiled at him, the purest sort of joy that Harry had ever seen, before he felt himself be pulled into his arms; Sirius's right hand reaching up and stroking the back of his hair, while he held the rest of Harry tight—his godfather unable to know any other way to explain what love, what happiness ran through his heart, stroked by the gentle and shaky whisper of Harry's honesty.

"Are these affectionate words just another ploy to get me to answer more questions?" he teased.

"—not the time for jokes!" Harry croaked in reply, and Sirius shook with laughter.

"Sorry, I'm sorry" he said but Harry noticed that his voice, too, was... wonky, in a muffled sort of way. It made him pull back from the hug and stare at his godfather,

"Are you crying?" he asked, incredulously.

"No, I've just got something in my eyes is all." Sirius said but then he sniffed, and Harry saw that his eyes were going red and beginning to brim to the edge. Sirius began to look around him with mock annoyance.

"I thought you cleaned this room! All this dust getting into people's eyes—bloody awful job you've done!" he huffed. Eventually, they broke into a fit of giggles unable to resist this strange and tearful mix of something between dry and genuine laughter, as if they didn't have quite the energy to do either wholeheartedly.

When they settled down, they returned to a silent embrace until eventually, time passed and Sirius pulled away; but not before, placing his hands on Harry's shoulders. The mirth gone, but still a light in present in his gaze, his dark eyes looking up, down, and then square in the face.

"Don't worry, Harry. That mistake of duty with Regulus… it will not happen a second time," he said. But Harry only shook his head, he took Sirius's hand and tried very hard to muster as much conviction in his voice as he could.

"Sirius, your only duty is to yourself, please. If you really want to do something, then… be better to yourself," Harry scratched his head, bashful but indignant. "You you deserve that much, I know that Lupin and even my dad, would agree—wouldn't you think so?"

Sirius looked at Harry. He looked and felt his heart lift, unseized. Felt it rest on its side, full, as he swelled and smiled and swelled.
The dust that had settled onto his bones fell away. And the age that he felt tightening his face and words began to cease, his head singing and filling with a song that once echoed in castle hallways; one of sunlight and green leaves, of sneaking bread-rolls and biscuits out of the kitchen while James tried to hide his Head Boy badge from the house-elves. One that reminded him of how many books he had poured over in the library, turning the pages of old tomes while Remus knitted in the seat beside him. And one that made him acutely recall the sensation of an itchy, wool rug - how it felt underneath when he lay eagle-spread on the Common Room floor, Lily sitting up beside him, humming melodies and tunes .. while the rest of Marauders dozed off in the armchairs.

In that moment of silence, Harry watched as for the umpteenth time today (he could hardly keep count) Sirius had the most pleasantly surprised expression on his face. A tender and small, closed smile —as if he was trying not to do it — lighting up his face.

He turned to Harry.

"Did I ever tell you how alike, you and your mother are?" he asked. Harry shook his head.

"Is it my eyes?"

"No," Sirius said, and he placed his palm against Harry's chest,

"It's your heart."