This is a tumbr prompt that's been living in my head rent free so i finally decided to flesh it out (and fleshed out it is huh)

(Why is james here? uhhhhh to neatly sidestep the guilty angst coming from feelings of replacement that would never be resolved if he was dead? because i love him? because i needed him to be both harry and sirius' rock? choose ur pick)

also, title is from 'to build a home'

important note: sirius & james are queerplatonic best friends because u dont need romance for ur life to be fulfilling and full of love.

hope u guys like it, concrit is always welcome, reviews are even more appreciated!

Harry wrung his hands nervously in front of the large, imposing door. It had never looked this way before, not to him. The grey color was always a deterrent, yes, but he knew his dad was behind it so it could've never been anything bad either.

But now, all reason was bowled over by his nerves. He raised a hand to knock—for the fourth time at least—before stepping back. No, he couldn't. It was too—

"Your tea's getting cold, Harry," a voice called out from the room, startling him.

Confused, he forgot about his previous dawdling and opened the door to find his dad sitting on the chair the way he usually did—turned around, legs wrapped around the back of it, crossed arms resting on top of the chair.

He had a small smile playing on the corner of his lips, and—true to his word—there was a teapot and two cups of tea on the table beside him.

"Er, Dad?" Harry asked, hesitantly, one hand still gripping the doorknob tightly.

"I'd be surprised if there isn't a hole in the carpet from all your vigorous pacing out there," Dad teased.

"Oh, come on, I wasn't that bad," Harry protested. Finally realising he wasn't in trouble—not that there was any reason for that to happen—made his fingers unclench from the doorknob, and he went to sit on the chair next to his dad's.

"Go on," he tilted his head towards the steaming cup of tea. "That one's yours. Any longer and it wouldn't have been fit to pour into the plants."

"Tea is never fit to be poured into the plants, Dad," Harry grumbled but obediently took the drink regardless. Instead of drinking it, though, he merely wrapped his fingers around it, letting the heat warm his hands.

"Now, will you tell me what's got you all worked up?"

Harry bit his lip, staring at the almost-too-light drink in his cup. Everyone who'd ever seen him drink tea had made fun of his preferences at one point or the other but chai just tasted better with more milk in it and he would stand by that statement with everything in him.

"Harry?" Dad asked again and this time he caught the undercurrent of worry running through it.

Harry sighed. He needed to come right out and say it if he had any hope of getting what he wanted. And wasn't he a Gryffindor? Some bravery he was showing right now.

"You know how—Christmas is coming up, right?" he asked, deciding to stretch this out just a little longer.

"Er…yes?"

"Have you decided on gifts yet?"

"Harry," Dad squinted. "Is this a way to get me to spill my secrets to you?"

"No!" He protested, rapidly shaking his head, "Definitely not."

"You're remarkably defensive for someone who's 'definitely not' engaging in espionage right now."

"Daaa aaaaad ," Harry groaned, slumping over his mug in the process. Was it too much to ask for to have certain thoughts picked up straight from his brain without having to speak them out loud?

"Haaa aarryyy ," Dad mimicked, grin growing wider at the pout on Harry's face. Harry just waved a hand in his face, shooing him away.

"Now that we've done that whole routine, will you give up all this tip-toeing around and tell me what's bothering you?" he asked after a few seconds had passed, voice much more somber now.

Harry subconsciously reacted to that tone, back straightening and shoulders tensing.

"I— wantedtoaskyousomething ."

Dad blinked. "Let's try that once again, but slower this time, yeah?"

"I said. I wanted—to ask you something."

His dad merely lifted a brow in question.

Harry took a deep breath, held it, and slowly released it. This was it.

"Can I—That is—For Christmas, I wanted to—You know what?" Harry gave up at that. He had tried . He'd done his best but was it really his fault if the words refused to come out of his mouth? "Never mind. Sorry I disturbed you, Dad, thanks for the tea."

And he made to get off the chair, cheeks burning red at the knowledge that he couldn't even ask his own father a simple question, when the man himself got up from his seat in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it move. He gently grabbed one of Harry's wrists, bringing him to a stop.

"Harry," He said gently. "I don't know why you're so nervous but nothing can be bad enough for you to be afraid of talking to me, okay?"

"It's—It's not that," Harry tried to explain, still looking away from his Dad's knowing hazel eyes. "I just—I don't know how to say it."

"How about you tell me what it's about and we can work up to the question in a minute, okay?"

Harry chewed on the side of his lip—part of him wanted to be annoyed at the obvious infantilisation, but a larger part of him was glad that he didn't have to keep making the decisions—and eventually nodded.

"It's about Christmas gifts."

"Yours?"

"No—for, uh, for Padfoot," Harry admitted shyly. His hands, now free of the tea cup, were twisting the hem of his shirt pretty roughly.

"Alright," Dad replied in an equally soft voice, "Is there something specific you had in mind, baby?"

Okay, here it was. Take…2? 3? Harry sucked in a breath and nodded again.

"You know how—Sirius keeps saying he can't have kids?"

From the corner of his eye, he could see the way his Dad's eyebrows furrowed at that non-sequitur. He hastily continued before he could say something.

"Well, I was—You don't have to say yes, it's just a thought!—I was thinking what if I took his name?"

As he finally said it out loud, instead of feeling like a weight had lifted off his shoulders, the ball of anxiety in his chest only tightened. It was made worse when he saw the pinched expression on his Dad's face and immediately jumped to the—in his mind—obvious conclusion.

Stupid, stupid, stupid . Why did he ever think this was a good idea? Why did he go to his dad? Of course it would hurt him—he was talking about changing the name he was given at birth. Trying to make things better, he started rambling, thinking if only he explained where he was coming from, then his dad wouldn't feel bad about this entire thing.

"It's just that I—You know how Padfoot has always been there, right? And I wanted to- to show him what that means to me. And I couldn't think of anything better. But I'm so sorry, Dad, I didn't mean to hurt you. I wasn't going to drop the Potter or anything, promise, just add Black to it. Hyphenate, like Potter-Black. It didn't even sound that bad in my head but I absolutely don't have to since you don't like it, I swear, I was just—I couldn't stop thinking about how Padfoot says he can't have kids and he looks so sad every time he does, even if he tries to make a joke out of it and I know what you must be thinking—why would he even want someone like me as his son, he's already stuck being my godfather— oof ."

He was abruptly cut off by his dad shoving a biscuit— where did that even come from? —into his mouth and Harry had to shut up and chew lest he get choked by the dry, crumbly mess.

"Wh…'Ow cu'd 'oo," he tried to say but his voice came out muffled and almost indistinguishable.

"I want you to carefully chew that, take a deep breath, and listen to me," Dad instructed, hazel boring into green, no trace of the previous expression on his face anymore.

He didn't wait for a response from Harry before continuing.

"There's—a lot to unpack with what you just said, and there's so many things I want to start with but I'll say this: If you ever repeat that in front of Sirius—that little bit about him 'being stuck as your godfather'—then I promise you he's going to turn your hair platinum blonde and have you walking around like a little Malfoy."

Harry's eyes bugged out at that, half with horror at just the thought of such a thing happening, and half with bemusement that this is what his dad decided to tackle first.

"Second, Harry, you had to have known what kind of a bombshell you were dropping on me. Give me a second before you go running after the worst case scenario. I wasn't hurt , I just hadn't expected something like that. I was still processing."

By this point, Harry had thoroughly obliterated the biscuit and could speak normally again.

"Does that mean you're—?"

"Done processing?" Dad finished. "Not exactly, but honey, I'm also not hurt or upset like you seem to think I am."

"But I—I'm talking about changing my name ," Harry said, hesitantly, "You've always told me about our lineage, how I should be proud of being a Potter."

"And I don't think adding Black to your name is going to change that, is it?"

"Well no, but—."

"But nothing, then," Dad cut in firmly, "You want to honor a parent—and that's what Sirius is to you, isn't he? It would be an insult to say otherwise—and this was the way you chose to do it. While I'm really happy you came to ask me, you could've done it behind my back and I still wouldn't be mad at you."

As Harry was trying to figure out how to answer that, his dad stepped closer and cupped his cheek, stroking gently with his thumb.

"You've grown into such a wonderful boy, Harry." He smiled, eyes glistening. "I'm so lucky to have someone as thoughtful, as lovely as you as my son. And I know Sirius feels the exact same way. He's so bloody proud of who you are, and I know for a fact that he couldn't have asked for a better child."

Harry gulped hard, the emotions hitting him right in the heart. Per usual, with only a few words, his dad had managed to cut straight to the issue and reassure him all at the same time.

"But you're sure about that?" He asked, slightly desperately, needing to know- to confirm. "He won't be— mad or anything, right? Or just pretend to like it? I don't want to pressure him into anything, Dad."

Because he knew Sirius. He had the best poker face Harry's ever seen and would never tell him to his face if he didn't like a gift. His entire childhood, Harry had grown up believing he was the world's best gift-giver because of the exuberance with which his godfather reacted to every thing he gave him, no matter how silly or nonsensical.

("What's this, Harry?"

"A worm! It's for you!"

"Me? Oh, how wonderful, thank you, love.")

He wasn't a child anymore, though, and he knew there were things Sirius was sensitive about, even if he didn't show it. And there was no one who knew him better than his dad. So he'd rather find out now if this was something that would—hurt him, or cause him any problems, so he could find an alternative gift and give up on the entire thing altogether.

"I think you'd trigger the fabled Sirius Black breakdown," Dad said, unconcerned.

"That—That's a good thing?"

"When it's your godfather who pretends to be all emotionless and have a black hole for a heart, sure."

Harry blinked. That…wasn't far off. Even on a good day, Sirius was definitely the more level headed of his two parents (two. parents. ) and where his dad usually got teary eyed at the smallest of things and had no shame in crying all over the place, Sirius was often much more restrained—especially in front of others.

"Er—just to be clear, I can do this, right? You don't think it's a stupid idea?" He asked, needing to hear it just one more time.

"Yes, Harry." Dad's hands slid down from his cheeks to his shoulders, cupping them firmly and looking him straight in the eye. "I'd argue it's one of your better ideas so far. Remember the Levitating Dil—"

Harry jerked forward to press his palm against his dad's smirking mouth. "Okay, that's enough, I think. You're going wildly off-script now."

His dad just snickered behind his palm in response, and Harry couldn't help his answering grin at his unfiltered mirth.

He should've known this wouldn't be so bad. It was Dad , after all.

As far back as Harry could remember, Sirius had always been there in his life. From every skinned knee to the most irrelevant milestones like winning the 'Best Milkshake Competition' in Muggle Primary. He'd, arguably, been the most steady presence in his life- like an unmoving rock- even when his own dad hasn't. Sirius was always there. Even dad had to leave for work, or there were times when he got into one of his brooding moods that he basically made him unavailable, but never Sirius. His godfather was always available.

And that's not to even mention Padfoot—Harry's oldest confidante, since the day in his first week of Primary school when someone had stuck a pencil up his nose and made him cry. Til date, Harry preferred curling up next to the giant Animagus when something was bothering him.

To him, Sirius was just as much a parent as Dad was, and no matter what it looked like on paper—that he was only a godfather—he knew how deep their bond was.

And he wanted to show it to the man himself. Harry was so deeply grateful to Sirius for everything he'd done for him—he wasn't blind to the way the man had basically put his life on hold for first his dad, and then him. Sirius could've done anything , been anywhere in the world if he hadn't held himself back for their sakes but he did , without a single complaint or any resentment—and Harry really wanted to show his gratitude, his love, in some meaningful way.

And so the idea had come to him, when he was contemplating their relationship one day—how Sirius had no legal claim to him. How Sirius often joked that Harry was as good as his child because it wasn't like he could ever have children of his own. How sometimes, despite his flippancy regarding the fact, Harry caught traces of grief in him for a future that couldn't be.

Maybe Harry wouldn't be enough, not the way an actual son would be, but he'd be damned if he didn't atleast try. Sirius deserved to be honoured and this was the only way that would do him justice, at least in Harry's eyes.

Sirius' morning didn't start off any different than how it usually did. He was curled up on the left side of his large King bed, the sheets thrown off to the side per usual. The curtains were half parted, and he could feel the sunshine streaming in, thoroughly warming his back.

From the kitchen, the familiar smell of eggs, bacon, and toast was tantalising, waking him up faster than anything else. If he strained his ears, he could hear James' voice butchering the Weird Sisters' discography.

Everything was as it was.

So why, then, did he feel a sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach? Like something was about to happen—and he had no control over it?

And as if attracted by his thoughts, the biggest factor beyond his control in life, the apple of his eye, the light of his life—one Harry James Potter ran into his room and jumped straight onto him with all the force he could muster.

It was only the years of experiences he had with this unique kind of Harry-pouncing that the only thought that ran through his mind was 'Ah, Christmas, then, isn't it?' before he flipped the two of them over, trapping his giggling godson under one arm.

Unbidden, a smile rose to his lips, the last of the sleep dissipating from his body.

This early-morning-Christmas-pounce had started as a tradition back when Harry was an itty-bitty toddler. He'd come waddling in, clumsily push his door open—left cracked open for that very reason—while his dad watched indulgently from a few steps behind.

He'd then make a very adorable attempt to climb up the bed, with loads of wiggling and grunting before finally giving up and turning to his father with a pout and raised arms. James, who gave in way too easily to that formidable combination even on his best days, had no hope of resisting and immediately picked him up to deposit him right on top of Sirius' stomach.

Throughout this entire thing, from the first pitter-patter of tiny feet on carpeted floors, Sirius would lay awake, tamping down on the huge grin threatening to take over his face. The illusion needed to be maintained, after all.

So, as soon as Harry 'pounced' on him, he'd snatch him right away and attack him with loads of kisses, blowing raspberries anywhere he could. Harry, reduced to an incoherent giggly mess a few seconds in, would always call out for his dad 'Pong, Pong, Pong 'elp!' until James relented and joined the cuddle pile.

It was his favorite kind of start to the morning.

Of course, as Harry started getting older, the pounces dwindled from most days to only reserved for special occasions, like Christmas.

Like today.

"It's that time of the year, huh?" he said with mock-annoyance.

Harry grinned. "Of course it is, old man. Couldn't let you get complacent now, could I?"

"Watch who you're calling old there." Sirius wrapped an arm around his neck in a loose chokehold, pressing him into the mattress with his knuckles running over his head.

Harry tried to get out of the grip—twisting this way and that—but he was still a skinny little twig where Sirius was a fully grown adult. And thank Morgana for that too—he didn't think his pride could take it if Harry started being able to throw him off, so they struggled for a while, with Sirius not relenting in the slightest, until Harry finally slumped back into the mattress with a pout forming on his lips.

"Giving up already?" Sirius smirked, ruffling Harry's hair with the hand still on top of his head.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Harry grumbled, "Just wait until I get you back."

"I'm positively shivering in my boots."

Harry stuck his tongue out in response, even as he rolled out of bed smoothly. "Dad's made breakfast. You gotta hurry if you don't want to eat cold eggs and bacon."

"You got it," Sirius said with a small salute in his godson's direction.

Harry, who had reached the door by now, hesitated with his hand on the handle.

"Also, I-uh, can we do presents after breakfast today?" He asked without turning around.

Sirius' brow furrowed at the uncharacteristic request. Usually they waited until after dinner, when they were sated and lazy and all tuckered out, to exchange gifts. The day itself was used for walking around their little town; looking at all the ice figurines and ranking them on a multi-tiered scale; getting hot chocolate and pastries from the nearby bakery; and eating at their favorite Indian joint before coming back home to sit in front of the fireplace, decked out in their warmest pyjamas.

But, he could sense that this was important to Harry, could see the white knuckled grip on the door.

"Of course we can, love. Any reason in particular?" he probed gently.

"No, just, I'm excited to see what you guys got me, s'all."

Sirius immediately knew that was a lie and his frown deepened. Harry knew he could never successfully hide the truth from him, so why did he even bother…? This must be really important, he thought, and stopped himself from poking further. He didn't want to upset him this early in the morning. Besides, if it was related to the gifts, then he'd find out soon enough won't he?

"Okay, I'll just freshen up and see you downstairs, yeah?" Is what he said instead. Harry made a sound of agreement and hurried out of the room.

He kept thinking about it—as he was shaving, brushing his teeth, sitting on the toilet, taking a shower—trying to figure out what could've made his godson so nervous on Christmas morning of all days. Harry loved the holiday and even in the midst of all his teenage angst, it was one day where he couldn't stop smiling, didn't have a single glare on his face. Usually. This was—very uncharacteristic.

But of course, by the time he'd dressed in his customary ugly sweater and jeans, he'd come no closer to an answer that made sense. He wasn't prone to hysterics—that was more James' arena—but his mind had strayed to a few…outrageous theories for lack of sensible ideas.

Was Harry worried that they'd forgotten about his gifts and would leave him empty-handed?

Had he accidentally gotten someone pregnant?

Did he come across a baby manticore that he was raising in his room?

…Yeah. No . Clearly, his hunger was affecting him more than he realised so he put a pin in that line of thought and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

James was sitting down with the paper in hand, cup of chai next to him and glasses pushed up to the top of his head. He had a neglected plate of probably-cold breakfast in front of him, engrossed as he was in his reading. On his other side, Harry was the exact opposite, shovelling eggs into his mouth with single-minded determination.

Sirius' heart swelled with affection at the sight of his boys, almost identical but not. He loved mornings especially because of moments like this, when they were all unbothered and unhurried, living in the moment, enjoying time with each other. He treasured every such moment he got.

"Morning," he greeted, walking towards the table. He leant down to place a kiss first on Harry's forehead, then another on James, who'd instinctively raised his cheek towards him.

'Mo'ing," Harry replied with his mouth full, giving them a wonderful view of his masticated food.

"Harry," James said in a pained voice.

"Wha'?" It was a testament to how often this scene played out exactly like this that Harry didn't even look up.

"Jamie, you know as well as I do where he got it from," Sirius teased, dodging the newspaper swat aimed at him as he made his way over to the counter to fix his own plate.

"You're supposed to be on my side," James grumbled.

" I'm his favorite godson!" Harry, who'd finally, thankfully , swallowed before speaking, piped up.

"I thought you were my only godson?"

"All the more reason why I'm your favorite, then," he said with a cheeky grin.

Sirius ruffled his hair in response as he passed by him, before shooting a subtle Heating charm at James' plate and nudging it towards him.

"Eat," he said, sitting down opposite the two Potters, "It'll get cold again and you know once-reheated eggs are already on thin ice. You don't want to fully kill them off, do you?"

"Yeah, yeah." James made a face at him but obediently set his paper down. He knew Sirius was right, after all. Not two seconds later, Sirius was treated to the exact same display of disturbing eating habits for the second time in as many minutes.

Having become used to the sight over the last two decades, though, his only reaction was a sigh before he, with much more decorum, started in on his own food. For the next few minutes, the only sounds were those of the cutlery clinking, tea swishing, and the occasional paper-rustling here and there.

Once they were all done, Harry got up to collect their plates, scraping the leftovers into the bin and stacking the rest in sink.

"Thanks, kiddo," James blew him a kiss. "Gifts now?"

Ah. There it was. The first mention of their swapped schedule.

It was only because of how closely Sirius was watching the two of them that he noticed the way Harry's eyes immediately darted to him before moving away. And the look of quiet encouragement on James' face. Hm. Interesting .

"Yes, please," Harry said quietly before turning around to wash the plates. Sirius took that moment to turn to James, sure that his confusion would be written across his face.

James darted a look at Harry's back before mouthing 'Just give it time'.

Sirius furrowed his brows. Scrunched his nose.

James shrugged, smiled ruefully. A 'Kids. What can ya do?' look on his face.

Sirius stared at him for a second longer, half hoping he'd crack but also knowing he won't. Not when it was Harry. Sirius couldn't blame him for that either.

Finally, he sighed, and gave him a resigned nod.

"If you guys are done with your-your secret conversation, can we go to the living room now?" Harry asked. Sirius turned took at him in alarm but he was still washing the dishes. How then…?

"You assume I didn't grow up with you two and don't know your habits," he answered the unasked question.

"Okay, Sherlock Holmes, calm down there." James clapped him on the shoulder lightly. "We'll meet you with the gifts, okay?"

Harry gave a clipped nod but didn't say anything. James clearly wasn't bothered by it because he dropped a quick kiss on his temple before catching hold of Sirius' wrist and dragging him out.

"W—" was all Sirius could manage to get out before James covered his mouth with his hand.

"Just some more time, okay?"

Sirius really wanted to argue then—he hated things being kept from him—but one glance at the entreating look in James' hazel eyes had him swallowing any protest he could've made with a grudging nod.

"Thank you. Now shoo, it's presents time." James physically pushed him away, making impatient motions with his arms.

Sirius looked at him with a raised eyebrow but he never stopped flapping his hands.

"Fine."

This was it. What the entire morning was leading up to. Sirius knew that because he could practically see Harry vibrating out of his seat, progressively getting more and more jittery as the time passed. He'd insisted on getting his gifts first but hadn't spared more than a few cursory glances and a couple 'Thank You's before moving on. (So much for being excited to see what he got) His next step was to toss a box towards his Dad, not even checking to see if he caught it—he did—before turning to stare almost unnervingly at Sirius.

"Er, Harry?"

James setting his gift to the side without even bothering to open it was ignored.

"So, I, uh, I wanted to do something a little different this year," Harry said, eyes darting about, not staying in one place too long—not looking at Sirius too long.

" Harry ."

"And I don't know if you'll like it—you'll probably hate it, let's be honest—but I want you to be honest with me, okay?"

Instead of repeating himself again, Sirius got up from his armchair and made his way to Harry, who was still speaking.

"I know you have a habit of lying to spare my feelings, and that was fine when I was a kid bringing you dead animals, but I don't want that today. Please , Siri, you need to be honest with me."

He kneeled in front of Harry, hands cupping his knees, and looking straight up into his wide green eyes.

"What's this about, honey? A Christmas present shouldn't get you this worked up."

"Not until you promise," Harry said stubbornly.

He sighed. Truth be told, he really didn't want to make that promise—because Harry was right, he had a tendency of…bending the truth when it came to things like this but only because he couldn't bear hurting Harry's feelings. On the other hand, he had never broken a promise to his godson before and he didn't intend to start now, not over holiday gifting of all things, something Harry had probably known and accounted for.

There was only one way to go about this, then, wasn't there?

"I promise."

Harry studied him for a second, and only when he'd found what he was looking for did he nod decisively. Immediately, he reached behind him and handed him a…folder.

"Okay," Harry took a deep breath. "This one's yours. Merry Christmas, Siri."

Confused, Sirius took the folder before settling down cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch Harry was sitting on.

He carefully opened the flap and pulled out…two…sets of…documents? He looked at first Harry, then James in question.

The latter made an impatient clicking noise. "You'll know if you actually read it, Si!"

Good advice, that. Sirius still flipped him the finger before following it, though. Just before he could read the first page, Harry spoke up.

"I have a backup gift if you don't like this one."

"Let me see this one first, yeah, babe?" Sirius replied absently, eyes roving over the words in front of him without entirely processing it.

As if someone else was in control of his body, he could see his hand bringing up the second set, and if the first one had jolted him into shock, this one brought him right back out of it.

Because in front of him were two papers- one for 'ADOPTION OF A MINOR' and the other for 'CHANGE OF NAME'. Not just legally, but magically binding papers.

And though a part of him knew what he'd find, he still read the next few lines with bated breath.

Harry James Potter, child of James Fleamont Potter and Lily Elizabeth Potter neè Evans…with parental permission…in the eyes of the law and Magic…Harry James Potter-Black, blood-adopted child of Sirius Orion Black.

Potter-Black.

As in, Potter and Black.

Before he could even begin to process that, the implications behind the name, a slightly shaky finger entered his vision to point at a passage right at the bottom.

"If, uh, if you're- you know, okay - with it, then that's where you've to sign. Not here, obviously, it has to be done with a Blood Quill so the Ministry, but just. Yeah. You don't have to but if you do—"

But Sirius barely heard that. For the first time ever, he was completely unable to pay attention to his godson, mind still stuck on the words playing on a goddamned loop in his brain.

Harry James Potter- Black . Child of Sirius Orion Black.

Him .

He was Sirius Orion Black.

With trembling fingers, he smoothed out the papers in his hand, reading the words once again, convinced this was his aging vision playing tricks on him.

(How many times had he looked at Harry—mind guiltily casting back to the tattoo on his ribs- and thought 'my child. mine '?)

(Had he not broken down in front of James when he realised he couldn't ever have children—he didn't want them, not at fifteen, but the choice being taken out of his hands, being forced to bend to someone else's curse—it was- it was a kind of pain he wouldn't wish on anyone)

Sirius had never regretted the direction his life had taken him in. He didn't have any particular ambition in life when he graduated Hogwarts, to everyone's unending concern. To that end, it was almost a relief moving in with James to take care of his best mate and his godson. It gave him purpose - meaning - in life, in a way that he'd never had before. Every day he woke up to Harry's giggles, to his James' bright smile beaming at him with unfiltered joy- it healed a part of him that never quite fit right.

But this— this was a desire that he'd kept locked up in the tightest cell in his mind, pushed into the darkest corner, never to see the light of day.

Because it was dangerous. It gave him—hope for something that never could've been. That wasn't his to want for.

Until now. Until he was looking at papers that promised him something he'd been desperately wishing for since the day he'd held a tiny bundle of blankets in his arms, feeling his lifeline align to match this newborn baby's.

As soon as it finally - finally - registered in his mind, the first thing Sirius did was look for James, needing to- to know this was- that it wasn't-

(Sometimes, Sirius would be hit with crippling doubt about his place in the Potter household. He wasn't—no matter how much he wanted it—Harry's dad. That title belonged to James, who was hale and hearty and alive , thank Merlin. Sirius was supposed to be the godfather- the goofy uncle-like figure, lending a helping hand here and there at most. He wasn't—He hadn't planned for this level of attachment—for his life to be so intimately intertwined with James' and Harry's and sometimes he felt lost, like he wasn't sure who he was supposed to be.)

As grey eyes met hazel, however, the first thought that hit Sirius was ' of course .'

Because James wasn't looking at him in disgust or pity or—anger, no, he had this ridiculously understanding look on his face.

Which meant he knew . He knew what Harry was going to do. And why wouldn't he? Harry, angel child that he was, probably prepared a whole speech to ask for his permission and help in planning this.

James had approved this. He knew his kid, his only son and his heir, wanted to change his name by taking on someone else's and he was okay with it.

That shouldn't surprise him, should it? James Potter was the kindest soul Sirius had ever known. Hadn't he opened up his house, his family, his heart to Sirius right from the very beginning? Had he not created a safe haven for Sirius in his arms—a special time out zone for when things were too loud and too much and he needed an escape from reality?

Why shouldn't he be okay with this, then?

" Jamie ," he croaked, throat dry as could be.

James smiled at him, fond and understanding. Sirius has never needed to say anything more than his name for him to know what was going through his mind, and this was no different.

"He's your child as much as he's mine, Si," he said simply. Nothing more was needed.

With that assurance firmly cemented in his brain ( and his heart ), Sirius finally turned to look at his godson, who'd been sitting quietly, painfully still, on the couch—giving him time to process, to understand.

Through blurry eyes, Sirius could make out the clenched fists, the tightly strung posture, the stiff back.

Slowly, carefully as if handling precious metals, he placed the papers to the side, getting up and sitting beside Harry, facing him.

Before he said anything, before he signed (and was there any question he wouldn't?) he needed to know that Harry had fully, completely, thought this through.

"Harry, my love." He gently cupped his godson's face, eyes carefully roving over every square inch of the child he'd brought up from infancy itself. He could identify every single mark, every freckle—there was nothing about Harry, his kid, that he didn't know, that he couldn't tell.

"Magical bindings are irreversible. Are you— absolutely sure about this?"

Harry blinked at him, as if he wasn't expecting that question. (Instead, he looked like something who'd been sentenced to the gallows. Sirius' heart hurt at the thought of his godson preparing himself for rejection. Didn't he know that he was the greatest joy of his life?)

" Am I— Of course I'm sure about this, Sirius! How could I not be?" His tone was indignant, and Sirius was helplessagainst the wave of warmth that suffused his entire being.

"You've always been my child, Harry, and I would be—so, so honoured for you to take my name," he whispered, squeezing gently with his palms, finally losing the battle against the moisture building in his eyes.

Harry's smile was equally tremulous, but blinding nonetheless, like nothing could make him happier—like it was Sirius ' answer that was ever in question.

Sirius leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his godson— no . His child , in more than just the emotional sense. This was now his son in magic, in blood, in law.

Harry James Potter-Black .

A perfect name for a perfect child.

He felt arms wrap encircle him and Harry from above, and leaned back to meet James' similarly-misty eyes—that man could never control his waterworks, could he—hoping his face conveyed all the emotions that felt too big for his body to handle. He felt untethered , like he'd float away if given the chance and it was only the feeling of his godson in his arms, of his James' heat seeping in through his back that kept him grounded.

"I've got you, Si," James murmured, pressing a firm kiss to his hair, " We've got you."