James and Sirius were sweaty and sore as they trudged across the lawn toward the house. Snatches of conversation and music drifted out through the open windows. Bloody Celestina Warbeck, Sirius thought, but he didn't really mind. He would listen to every damn song the woman had ever recorded if it meant he never had to go back to Grimmauld Place again.

"I can't believe we ran Quidditch plays for six hours," Sirius said.

"It was brilliant, wasn't it?" James removed his glasses to wipe sweat from the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, brilliant." Sirius grimaced as he flexed his right hand. "I enjoyed the first few hours, but I don't think I'm going to be able to move tomorrow. My hand's all tense from gripping the broom all day."

James laughed and shoved his shoulder. "Oh no, what will you do without full use of your right hand tonight? Toughen up, princess. Being sore after a training session just means you did it right."

"You're mad, you know that? Absolutely bloody mad."

"If by absolutely bloody mad, you mean I win Quidditch Cups, then yeah, you're right." James slowed as they approached the back door and glanced sideways at Sirius. "I'm glad you're here."

Sirius smiled in spite of his heavy, aching limbs and sweat-soaked t-shirt. "Yeah, me too. Even if you did try to kill me on the Quidditch pitch."

The aroma of baking pie wafted from the oven as Sirius and James ambled into the house and found Fleamont and Euphemia seated at the kitchen table.

"Oh, good," Euphemia said, her face lighting up when she saw them enter the room. "I was about to send Twinkletoes out to get you. You've been out there for ages."

"Yeah, your son's a madman," Sirius said darkly.

Fleamont grinned. "Oh, we're well aware."

"Dinner's almost ready, but there's enough time if you want to change or take a quick shower…" Euphemia wrinkled her nose and cast a pointed look in their direction.

James laughed. "Subtle, Mum. Yeah, I'll go shower. Padfoot, you coming? You can use the guest bathroom down the hall."

"Yeah, I'll be up in a minute." He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the floor as James's footsteps receded. In between shooting drills and passing the Quaffle back and forth, Sirius had rehearsed this conversation in his head for hours. Yet now the words lodged in his throat, thick and unwieldy.

"I know earlier you said I could stay as long as I need to," he began, studying a knot in the polished wood floor. Celestina Warbeck was still playing in the background, and for once he wished the music was louder – loud enough to drown out his botched attempt at this conversation.

"Of course you can," Euphemia said, beaming at him. "We're happy to have you."

Sirius swallowed and cleared his throat. "Right, and I appreciate that, but I know I just sort of showed up without any warning, and didn't really give you a chance to think it over. So if you decide you don't want me here after all, just say so and I'll find somewhere else to go."

The last words sent a prickle of panic through him, because he had no idea where else he could go. He couldn't think about that now, though – he had to give Fleamont and Euphemia a chance to change their minds if they wanted to. He wouldn't be a burden, not after all they had already done for him over the years.

"Don't be silly," Fleamont said. "Of course you're not going anywhere else."

"But I don't want you to feel obligated–"

"Sirius." Euphemia rose and walked around the table to stand beside him. "You're staying. James is thrilled to have you here, and so are we. We don't feel obligated to let you stay here – we want you to."

"You've basically been an unofficial part of the family for ages," Fleamont said. "Euphemia tells you off the same way she tells off James, and I take the piss about you supporting the worst Quidditch team in the league."

A laugh bubbled up from Sirius's chest, heavy with emotions he didn't want to examine.

"Please don't feel like you need to go somewhere else," Euphemia said. "This is your home for as long as you want."

Sirius nodded; he didn't trust himself to speak.

"Do you want me to heal this so it doesn't scar?" She touched the cut above his eyebrow with warm, gentle fingers. "I'm pretty good at healing minor injuries. I sort of have to be with all the trouble James gets himself into."

"Leave, then, if you're so keen! Run off to your precious Potters, but don't you ever come back. If you walk out that door, you're no longer part of the family!" Walburga shouted.

Sirius let out a wry laugh. "Why the fuck would I ever come back? Blast me off the stupid fucking tapestry – I don't care! I've wanted out of this family for ages."

"You're so bloody ungrateful, Sirius. You're a disrespectful little blood traitor, gadding about with your Mudblood Gryffindor friends and bringing shame on the Black name–"

"I'm fucking ashamed to be a Black! Why should I be proud to be part of a family that thinks they're better than everyone else just because they've been marrying their cousins for hundreds of years?"

Walburga shrieked and hurled an ashtray in his direction. Ash and cigarette butts rained down on the oriental rug; Sirius felt a sharp sting as the ashtray caught him in the forehead. A piece of glass crunched under his boot as he picked up his trunk and stepped outside, shutting the door on Walburga's anger.

Now Sirius reached up to prod the broken skin, recalling how he had sat on the Knight Bus, blinking away the blood trickling into his eye for the entire ride to the Potter's house. The bleeding had given him something to focus on other than the insults Walburga had hurled at him along with the ashtray. It was a battlescar, proof that he had lived through the hell that was Grimmauld Place and had come out on the other side.

"Nah, that's okay. I'll just keep it like that." He attempted a casual smile. "I think it makes me look tough."

"You are tough." She smiled and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead.

It was such a simple, maternal gesture, yet it took Sirius by surprise. He couldn't remember Walburga ever touching him like that – she had rarely touched him at all, unless she was punishing him. The moment hung there as he hesitated, torn between a desire both to lean into her touch and to shy away from the contact. Euphemia made the decision for him by wrapping her arms around him.

"As far as we're concerned, you're family now." Her wispy silver hair tickled his face, and her embrace was stronger than he would have expected. "We love you, Sirius."

Her hands rested against his back as he tensed and tried to force words from his lips. The words echoed in his head and formed on his tongue, but he couldn't speak them aloud. Why is this so bloody difficult? It's a perfectly normal thing to say to your family. Except Sirius knew his family was far from normal. He couldn't remember anyone ever telling him they loved him, besides James when he threw his arms around the four of them and announced, "I love you tossers" after drinking too much Ogden's. Yet here was Euphemia, standing in the kitchen while Celestina fucking Warbeck played in the background, saying "I love you" like it was the most natural thing in the world – like it didn't make Sirius squirm with feelings he had no idea what to do with.

"I–" One syllable was all he could manage. He cleared his throat and tried again, but the words refused to budge.

"It's okay." Euphemia released him and patted his shoulder. It was another simple gesture of affection, yet it conveyed more understanding than any words could have. "Now go and have a shower before dinner, because you do smell a bit ripe – no offense."

He nodded and stumbled out of the room, blinking furiously until the prickling behind his eyes abated.

Morning sunlight streamed in through the windows as Sirius helped himself to another piece of bacon. He glanced at James and frowned.

"Aren't you eating?"

James shook his head. "Nah, unless you want me to be sick the second we get to Diagon Alley. I fucking hate Floo Powder."

"Language," Euphemia said without looking up from the crossword.

"Poor Jamesie Wamesie – too delicate to travel by Floo Powder." Sirius rolled his eyes. "And you call me a fucking princess?"

Euphemia tossed down her crossword and glared across the table at them. "Language."

"Sorry," Sirius said quickly.

She picked up her quill again and peered back down at the crossword. "I'll bet Remus and Peter don't talk like this at the breakfast table."

James and Sirius exchanged looks. "Yes they do," Sirius said.

"Especially Remus," James added. "You wouldn't believe the filthy things that come out of his mouth."

"I don't believe that," Euphemia said, scribbling something out. "He would never."

"Yeah, that's what you think," James said, laughing. "He's got the teachers fooled, too."

Sirius waved his half-eaten bacon for emphasis as he spoke. "He looks all innocent with those cardigans, but I bet he's already said five 'fucks' before he finished eating breakfast. Maybe six, if…"

He trailed off when he saw a familiar owl tapping at the window, a red envelope clamped in its beak.

"Don't–" he began, but James was already opening the window to admit the owl. It dropped the letter in front of Sirius, stole the rest of the bacon from his hand, and flew away. The red envelope lay there beside the butter dish, taunting him.

"Oh, no." James gazed at the envelope in horror. "They've sent you a fucking Howler?"

Sirius nodded grimly. "It's Walburga's favorite sort of correspondence." He rose and began to head toward the door. "I'm not listening to it. I'll be back in a minute."

He strode outside before either of them could say a word. His hand was on the doorknob as Walburga's voice rent the air, but the shouts faded to a garbled murmur as he pulled the door shut behind him with a snap. The morning sun warmed his face, and a light breeze ruffled his hair. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the house, trying not to imagine what lovely sentiments his parents had included in their letter.

When he could no longer make out the faint buzz of Walburga's voice, he put out his cigarette and returned to his seat at the kitchen table. James and Euphemia gaped at him as he took a sip of tea, a placid smile pasted on his face.

"Sorry." He set down his mug and spattered the table with droplets of tea. "Did I miss anything important?"

James looked at Euphemia, then ran a hand through his hair. "Well, depends what you consider important, I guess. There were a lot of the usual, er, terms of endearments…"

"Blood traitor, disappointment, ungrateful scum?"

James grimaced. "I think she also might've referred to you as 'shame of my flesh.'"

Sirius slouched down in his chair. "Oh, that's a new one. Anything else?"

James traced his finger around a condensation ring on the table. "She's cut off your access to the family vault."

Sirius tightened his grip on his mug of tea.

"And…" James shot Sirius an apologetic look. "And she says you can stop wasting your time sending Regulus letters, because he's torn them all up without opening them."

A stab of hurt shot through Sirius's chest. He stared down into his tepid tea, willing himself not to react. I don't fucking care. I knew Reg probably wouldn't read my letters. Why would I want to hear from him, anyway, when he's too weak and spineless to realize the Black pureblood ideology is bullshit?

He took several deep breaths and set down his tea again. There was a beat of silence, then he flung his arm out and knocked the mug onto the floor. Shards of ceramic scattered across the floor, mingling with the pool of tea beneath it. James and Euphemia stared at the mess, eyes wide.

"Fuck!" He balled his hands into fists; he had the urge to knock the butter dish onto the floor as well, but he dug his nails into his palms to stop himself. Euphemia probably thought he was a lunatic already – there was no need to make it worse by breaking more of her dishes.

"Sorry." He rubbed his temples, longing for a cigarette even though his last one had been only minutes ago. "I just – I knew she was going to cut me off from the Gringotts vault, but I thought I might have more time, and now I don't know how I'm supposed to buy my Hogwarts stuff. And my brother…" He imagined Regulus tearing his letters into neat, even pieces while Walburga looked on and smirked. Taking a deep breath, he shoved the thought from his mind. The sudden rush of anger had faded, leaving behind a vague feeling of foolishness.

"Anyway, sorry about the mug, and sorry for swearing." A flicker of guilt washed over him as he looked at Euphemia's stricken face. "I guess we swear about as much as Remus after all."

"We'll buy your books and things," James offered, his face earnest and concerned. "Won't we, Mum?"

"Of course we will." Euphemia's mouth formed a tight line. "Don't worry about money, Sirius. We'll cover anything you need. And I never liked those mugs anyway. But…" Her hand shook as she Vanished the broken mug and spilled tea.

Sirius waited for her to shout at him. Any moment she would tell him off for his impulsive, erratic behavior. He could already hear the apologetic note in her voice as she asked him to leave the house. You can't stay here any longer, Sirius, she would say, shaking her head as though she wished things could be different.

"I just can't believe any parent could be so cruel," she said, the heat in her voice surprising Sirius. "It makes me…" She lowered her voice and added, "It makes me really fucking angry, to tell you the truth."

"Mum!"

Sirius gaped at her, torn between shock and admiration. He had never heard her swear like that, and judging by James's reaction, he hadn't either.

She waved away her son's reproach. "Oh, relax. We were still one away from reaching Remus's usual breakfast time limit." She rose from her chair and bent to wrap her arms around Sirius. "You are not a disappointment, or ungrateful scum, or any of that rubbish. And if James ever tore up one of your letters without reading it, I'd send him a Howler."

Sirius grinned at James over Euphemia's shoulder.

"Don't take any of that to heart," she murmured before releasing him and resting both hands on his shoulders. "We love you, and you don't deserve that. Alright?"

Sirius gazed back at her, scrambling to come up with an appropriate response.

"Fuck," was what came out of his mouth.

"Oh, no," she said, chuckling softly. "We're over the Remus Lupin limit for swearing before the end of breakfast." She touched his shoulder, infusing more tenderness and warmth into the light touch than should have been possible, then returned to her seat. None of them spoke for a minute; the only sound was the clink of cutlery as Twinkletoes put away silverware. Then Fleamont strode into the room and paused beside Sirius's chair.

"Did I miss some commotion? I heard shouting."

James grinned. "Yeah, but guess what else? Mum swore right at the table, the hypocrite. And not just any swear, mind you. It was 'fucking.'"

"James!" Euphemia covered her face with her hand and sighed. "Now we're two swears over the limit…"

A giant wreath hung from the Potter's front door, and garlands of holly adorned the staircase and lined the mantle in the parlor.

"We got impatient and did a bit of decorating without you," Euphemia admitted, a sheepish smile flitting across her face. "I hope you don't mind."
James shrugged. "Nah, I'd get impatient, too. It's alright – there's still plenty of decorating left."

"This seems pretty festive to me." Sirius gestured at the garland beside them. "I don't think you need to do any more."

James, Euphemia, and Fleamont exchanged knowing grins.

"Nice try, Padfoot. You're going to enjoy Christmas whether you want to or not, because we're Christmas people, and now so are you."

"Oh, we got you something." Fleamont handed Sirius a wrapped parcel, then watched with interest as he opened it to reveal a green and red Christmas jumper identical to the one James owned.

Sirius examined the jumper, his eyes smarting from the garish design. He traced the gold thread on the sleeve that spelled out his name in curly script. Fucking hell, it's personalized.

"We know you're going to complain about it, but we don't give a toss," James said, clapping Sirius on the back. "You're part of this family, and that means wearing a Christmas jumper, damnit."

"Try it on," Euphemia urged. "I want to make sure it fits."

"I'm sure it fits fine," Sirius grumbled, but James was already forcing it over his head.

"Alright, alright, I can do it myself." Sirius stuffed his arms into the sleeves and glowered around at them. "Are you happy?"

James grinned and toyed with the puffball snowman that adorned Sirius's chest. "Yup, this is probably the happiest day of my life. I'm going to go and put mine on, and then let's take a picture to send to Pete and Moony. They'll die laughing. Oh, and we should send one to Mary, too."

Euphemia raised her eyebrows. "Who's Mary?"

"A girlfriend?" Fleamont asked.

"She's a friend," Sirius muttered, glaring at James.

"Well, she's a bit more than a friend, though." James smirked and nudged him. "Because Pete's your friend, but you don't do the same sort of, er, activities with Pete."

Sirius sighed. "Go get your stupid jumper."

"I'll come with you, James," Euphemia said, after tugging at the sleeves of Sirius's new jumper and giving a satisfied nod. "I think Twinkletoes may have moved them when he was taking out the other decorations."

"Dad, make sure he doesn't take it off before I get back," James called over his shoulder as he followed Euphemia toward the staircase.

Sirius scowled at Fleamont's gleeful expression. "I will take it off if you keep laughing at me."

Fleamont clapped him on the back. "Sorry. It's not the jumper I'm laughing at – the jumper looks excellent. It's your expression that's funny. I haven't seen you look so grumpy since the Cannons botched that last match against Ballycastle."

Sirius's scowl deepened. "You know, you're always taking the piss, yet you claim I'm your favorite son."

"I take the piss because I love you," Fleamont said, chuckling.

The words jarred Sirius so that he almost missed the rest of Fleamont's words.

"–the same way I tease Euphemia about being a Hufflepuff, or I take the piss out of James about his hair."

Sirius recovered himself enough to reply, "At least he has hair." He cast a pointed look at the shiny bald patch on top of Fleamont's head.

"Yes, well, you do have me there. You clearly have the best hair in the family."

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, grinning and hoping Fleamont couldn't tell how much the word 'family' affected him. They had been casually referring to him as part of the family since he had moved in over the summer, and every time it filled with a warm, happy glow. He hid how pleased he was, in case they changed their minds, or it was just a throwaway comment that they didn't mean at all. Instead, he stored their comments away to examine when he was alone, so he could savor the joy he felt when they made that joke about him being the favorite child.

"But that's what I mean," Fleamont continued. "You're the same as me. Why else would you call me old and out of touch all the time?"

Sirius shook his head and shot him a reproachful look. "I played 'Bohemian Rhapsody' and you asked if it was The Beatles."

Fleamont gave a helpless shrug. "Well, I can't keep track of all the music you listen to."

"A sure sign of being old and out of touch."

Fleamont waved away the insult. "Like I said, we take the piss as an expression of love, so I love you too."

The wool jumper was suddenly itchy and stifling. Sirius had the urge to bolt from the room, because of course Fleamont was right, but it was one thing to think it and another to just come out and say it. Heat flooded his face, and panic constricted his chest. It should be so simple, speaking the words aloud – people did it every day. Yet he couldn't form the words, no matter how much he wanted to.

"We really do, Sirius." Fleamont's smile didn't falter in the face of Sirius's silence. "Even if you never come around to the Christmas jumper."

Sirius forced back the emotion that choked his throat and plucked at the sleeve of his jumper. "The jumper is, er, alright," he muttered. "Just a bit much."

Fleamont grinned. "It is. We're a bit much, honestly. We're mad about Christmas, and we're more sentimental than most families, and I know that's not exactly what you're used to. So it's alright if you think we're ridiculous, as long as you can put up with us."

Sirius's eyes drifted down to the jumper, and a reluctant grin spread across his face. "Yeah, I suppose I can."

Fleamont narrowed his eyes and studied the jumper. "Don't tell James, but I think yours is a bit nicer than the one he has. You're the only one who has the gold embroidering – his is only white."

Sirius's grin widened. "I guess that's because I'm the favorite son."

"You know…" Fleamont hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Euphemia and I were thinking, if you wanted to call us 'Mum' and 'Dad,' you're welcome to."

Sirius stared at him, his mouth slightly open.

"We understand if that's too weird, and you'd rather not," Fleamont added. "But we really do think of you as part of the family, so..."

Sirius couldn't speak. Ever since the summer after first year, when Fleamont and Euphemia had welcomed Sirius into their home with open arms and warm smiles and a marked absence of shouting, he had secretly wished they were his parents, too. It had been a silly daydream – no more than wishful thinking to escape the bleak reality of his own life – until he had left Grimmauld place and the Potters became his escape. They had been surrogate parents for months, yet the suggestion to call them Mum and Dad made it official somehow. He swallowed several times and gripped the packet of Marlboros in his pocket for strength before he managed to choke out a response.

"Yeah, I'd like that." He stared at the ground, determined to avoid Fleamont's eyes, because he didn't know what would happen if he looked at him while he spoke the next word. "Dad."

Sirius chanced a glance up and saw Fleamont's entire face light up. They stood there grinning like idiots, listening to Celestina Warbeck warble from the wireless until James bounded in wearing his Christmas jumper.

"Sorry, we had a bit of trouble finding it. It smells sort of funny, but it'll be fine for a picture." He tapped the embroidery on Sirius's jumper and raised his eyebrows. "Don't think I didn't notice this jumper is nicer than mine, by the way, but I suppose that's the sort of favoritism I should be used to by now." Draping his arm around Sirius, he handed Fleamont a camera. "Here, will you take our picture? And make sure your thumb doesn't get in the way like last time."

Sirius cut the motorbike's engine and parked it in the front of the house before letting himself in. He found Fleamont in front of the fire in the living room, fiddling with the knobs of a wireless.

"Sirius!" Fleamont broke into a wide grin as he beckoned for Sirius to join him on the sofa. "I'm glad you came — I was worried you might have to do some last minute Order business. Maybe you can get this stupid thing to work."

Sirius stooped to adjust the knobs, and a moment later the sound of a Quidditch announcer's voice boomed out.

"What was wrong with it?" Fleamont asked, astounded.

Sirius shrugged and plopped down onto the sofa. "You were doing it wrong. It's not your fault, though. I know the wireless hadn't been invented yet when you were a kid."

"I'm surprised you haven't beaten the Death Eaters through sheer snark alone." Fleamont offered him an open bag of crisps and fell silent as the match began.

"What's wrong?" he asked a few minutes later, when Sirius failed to react to a shocking foul. "Usually that would be worth at least an expletive or two."

Sirius sank lower into his seat and stared into the fire. "It's nothing."

"Hmm." Fleamont rose and left the room. Sirius scowled into the fire until Fleamont returned a minute later with two glasses of firewhisky.

"Getting me drunk doesn't mean I'll tell you what's wrong," Sirius grumbled before taking a big sip.

"No, but it'll increase the chances." Fleamont sipped his own drink and waited. After finishing half the glass, Sirius set it down on the floor and leaned his head against the back of the sofa.

"Macdonald and I had a big row." He directed this statement to a glowing log in the fire rather than to Fleamont. "She left the flat — hasn't been back in two days."

Sirius half-expected Fleamont to tease him for calling her by her surname after they'd been together for years, but he didn't. Instead, he swirled the whisky around his glass and frowned.

"What was the row about?"

Sirius thought back to the screaming match that had ended with Mary storming off to stay with Peter. He couldn't remember how it had started, only that it had ended with the door slamming behind her. "I don't even fucking know."

"Hmm. Have you tried talking to her about it?"

Sirius reached for his drink and tossed back the rest in one gulp. "That's the problem — she was going on about how I don't talk to her about my bloody feelings, but one of the things I've always liked best about her is she hates talking about her feelings as much as I do." He rubbed his temples, debating whether to go get the bottle to refill his glass, but he smiled when he saw Fleamont already Summoning the Ogden's from the other room. "There's just everything with the Order, and I dunno — my head's a mess. It's nothing to do with her, mostly, but you know me — I get drunk and broody, and I say things I shouldn't, and I think this time I really fucked up."

"Drunk and broody? You?" Fleamont grinned and refilled both of their glasses. "No. You're a ray of sunshine." When Sirius didn't smile, he crossed his arms and sighed. "You know, Euphemia and I split up once."

"You did?" Sirius couldn't imagine the two of them not being together. "Why?"

Fleamont laughed, the firelight illuminating the lines in his face. "I forget. It was ages ago — I'm old, remember? Anyway, I thought it was a lost cause, but it worked out in the end. If you both want it badly enough, you'll find a way."

Sirius stared at the blue flames at the heart of the fire as he remembered Mary's face screwed up in anger. He had woken up the next morning and reached for her, only to find cold, empty sheets.

Fleamont touched Sirius's shoulder. "You love her, don't you?"

"Yeah." Sirius kept his gaze fixed on the fire as he muttered the reluctant syllable.

"Do you tell her?"

He couldn't remember the last time he had told her. He thought it all the time, but speaking it aloud was a different story. "Sometimes," he mumbled.

Fleamont laughed, exasperated. "Well, you've got to tell her more often. Euphemia and I have said 'I love you' every day since — well, I won't tell you, since you'll just call me old."

Sirius didn't laugh. He sank his head into his hands and fought off a wave of sadness. Missing Mary caused him physical pain: a constant, nagging ache in his chest.

"I'm not like you," he said. "I can't just say that. I try, but it's like the words get stuck or something. But that doesn't mean I don't."

"I know. And she knows that, too, but I think maybe she needs a reminder. All of this has to be tough on her, too."

Sirius lifted his head from his hands to look at Fleamont. His face bore no judgment, just affection and concern. Mary had developed a grim, strained manner lately, emphasized by the dark circles under her eyes, but Sirius hadn't had the energy to ask her about it. What a fucking day, she had murmured as she sank into bed one night, and Sirius had echoed the sentiment, but they had both fallen asleep without elaborating.

"I don't want to lose her." Sirius's voice was raw with emotion; he took a sip of his drink to wash away the sharp edges of his pain. "That's part of the reason I've been…" He made a vague gesture.

"She doesn't want to lose you either. She loves you."

The Quidditch commentator exclaimed over an unexpected save as Sirius remembered the tears spilling down Mary's face just before she had walked out of the flat. How many nights had he dulled his worries with a bottle of Ogden's rather than allowing Mary to see him struggling?

"You think so?" Tracing the rim of his glass, he recalled shrinking away from her touch the night after he had killed his first Death Eater. He didn't deserve her comforting embrace, not when that Death Eater's crumpled body was still etched in his mind. "Even when I'm, you know, like this?"

Unlovable was what he meant, but he couldn't bring himself to speak the word aloud.

"Of course." He shifted in his seat and scrutinized Sirius with kind eyes, as though reading the unspoken word in the restless movements of his fingers and the tight clench of his jaw. "When you love someone, you love all of them – flaws included. Except me." He grinned and took a sip of his drink. "I'm perfect – no flaws to speak of."

Sirius managed a weak laugh.

"Talk to her," Fleamont urged. "Don't let her get away. She's good for you, and I like her." He nudged Sirius and added, "She never calls me old."

Sirius shrugged. "Give her time." He stared at the dregs of his drink, then drained the glass and straightened. "I'll talk to her."

"Good." Fleamont finished his own drink, and Sirius noticed the alcohol had made his movements languid. "I know this isn't easy on you. You and James try to keep things from us so we won't worry, but I know things aren't going as well as you'd hoped, and it's scary and dangerous and bloody exhausting. But what you're doing is important. We're so proud of you, and we love you." He held up his hand when he saw Sirius's expression change. "It's okay, you don't have to say anything. I'm just being sentimental because you convinced me to drink more firewhisky than I usually would."

Sirius grinned. "The firewhisky was your idea."

Fleamont waved away his comment. "Anyway, I just thought maybe you needed to hear that."

"Thanks. You give alright advice, you know."

"It's because I'm old and wise." He eyed their empty glasses. "Want a bit more, and we'll listen and see if there's any hope for the rest of this match?"

Sirius held out his glass for Fleamont to refill it and stretched out his legs in front of him, relieved to discover the hard knot in his chest had eased. He turned over Fleamont's words about loving someone regardless of flaws, then settled in to listen to the rest of the match and enjoy his third glass of firewhisky.

Sirius groaned as the band struck up a slow, old-fashioned song. He took a step toward his seat, but Mary grabbed his hand and pulled him back.

"Go and dance with your mum." She nodded at Euphemia, who stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching James and Lily turn slowly on the spot. "I'll go keep Peter company – he looks a bit lonely."

"Yeah, alright." Sirius watched her maneuver around the other guests until she reached Peter and joined him at the otherwise empty table, then made his way over to Euphemia. "Macdonald thought it would be nice if I danced with you."

Euphemia smiled and led the way onto the dance floor. "She's a smart girl. I was just about to find you and tell you the same thing."

They began to move together in a slow, graceful rhythm. Euphemia looked at him in surprise when he dipped her low, then guided her back up and spun her in one smooth motion.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd be one for dancing," she mused. "Not traditional dancing, anyway."

A wry smile flitted across Sirius's lips. "I was forced to take years of lessons until I put Dungbombs in the dance teacher's shoes and she quit."

She threw back her head and laughed; the fairy lights illuminated the delicate lines around her eyes. "You and James really are brothers. He once filled his tutor's briefcase with crickets. Must've spent ages catching them outside." She shook her head, her expression a combination of exasperation and affection.

"You should tell Lily that story."

"Yeah, I should."

They watched James and Lily gaze at each other, oblivious to everything else going on around them. Someone had stepped on the end of Lily's white dress and left behind a faint footprint, but she was too radiant with happiness to care.

"I'm so happy for them," Euphemia murmured. "And for you, too. I see you and Mary have made up."

Sirius frowned. "I don't remember telling you we had a row. Did James tell you?"

She shook her head. "It was Fleamont. He was a bit drunk after you two listened to the Ballycastle match the other night."

"The firewhisky was all his idea." Sirius grinned, then glanced over at Mary. Her hair fell into her face as she leaned over to murmur something to Peter. "But yeah, we worked it out, I guess."

"Good. Was it Fleamont's sage advice that convinced you?"

"Yeah, that and…" He tensed as he remembered the way she had crumpled onto the ground, her dark curls fanned out around her head and a tiny stream of blood dripping from a scratch on her cheek. "During that battle that landed James in St. Mungo's, she got hit with a Stunner, and for a second I thought…"

The happiness drained from her face. "Oh, Sirius–"

"It's fine," he said firmly. "She's fine. It knocked some sense into me, though." He looked at Mary over Euphemia's shoulder. She and Peter were both laughing, and her hair was already starting to frizz despite the entire bottle of Sleekeazy's she had used earlier. He was so overcome with affection for her that he had to tear his gaze away before he blurted out something sentimental.

"Well I'm glad," she said, squeezing his shoulder as the song came to an end. "Both of my boys are happy. That's all I ever wanted in life, really."

"What about some peace and quiet to do the crossword?"

She chuckled. "Well, that too." She brushed a bit of lint from his dress robes, then pulled him into a hug. "I love you, Sirius."

The band started into a faster, upbeat song, and his limbs were pleasantly loose from champagne and the palpable joy of the day. I love you too, Mum, he thought, urging his lips to form the words. It should be easy. This day was practically dripping with the sort of sentimental bollocks the Potters loved. He should be able to absorb enough to choke out the response she deserved to hear.

"Yeah," was what he finally said. He swallowed, determined to try again, but Euphemia released him and patted his shoulder. Somehow she seemed to understand the intended meaning behind his gruff mumbling. She always did – Fleamont and James, too. Those damn Potters, Sirius thought, smiling with relief. They're too perceptive for their own good. Too perceptive, and too bloody sentimental.

"Hey." He scanned the room, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Where's Dad? I'm going to request a Queen song, and if he correctly identifies the band the first time, I'll do a solo demonstration of my dancing skills for everyone here."

He set off across the dancefloor, smiling to himself and feeling impossibly light.

Rain coated the grass and hung heavy in the air as Sirius parked his motorbike beside the cemetery. He hadn't been back since the burial, and it took him a while to find the simple marble headstones. When he spotted them, he saw that someone had planted cheerful yellow flowers around them. He lit a cigarette and stood in front of the graves, gathering up the words he had been longing to say for ages.

"Hi, Mum and Dad," he said once he had smoked the cigarette down to the filter. "Sorry it's been a while. I guess James has been by a lot." His eyes returned to the flowers decorating both graves. "He tried to get me to come with him, but I couldn't do it. Too bloody depressing."

He sighed and sat down cross-legged in front of Fleamont's grave. The damp grass seeped through the seat of his trousers, but Sirius was glad to have something to distract himself from how bloody stupid he felt talking to two slabs of marble.

"I miss you." It hurt to admit it, but he plowed on. He had dragged himself all the way out here – he might as well get it all out. "I know James has more of a right to miss you, since you were his actual parents by blood, but you meant a lot to me. Your house was my escape every summer, and you took me in without thinking twice when I left for good, and you accepted me as part of the family. I never even felt accepted like that by my actual fucking family. And I… Fuck."

His voice broke. He pulled his flask from his pocket and took a long pull. The burn of the liquor dulled the pain enough to allow him to keep going.

"Sorry. I told myself I would do this sober, but…" He shook his head, then took another sip from the flask. "I've been trying to reduce my 'unhealthy coping mechanisms' to get everyone to stop nagging me, so I've been doing the crossword like you told me, Mum, except sometimes the fucking crossword doesn't cut it. Sometimes, the situation calls for firewhisky, and I'd say talking to your dead parents is one of those situations."

He drank more firewhisky until the alcohol began to loosen his limbs and ease the heaviness that weighed on his chest.

"Anyway, sometimes I read about a really good Ballycastle Bats match and think, 'I bet Dad was thrilled about that,' or I get stuck on a tough crossword clue and wonder if Mum figured it out – and then I remember, and I get so fucking sad, because I miss talking to you. I miss going over to your house for dinner. I miss going to the beach house or in the pool, and Mum yelling at me and James when we jumped from our brooms into the water. I miss just sitting around doing nothing. Just, I dunno, being a family."

He rubbed his eyes and sighed.

"I dunno if you can see what's going on here from wherever you are – I assume it's something like wherever Vanished things go, except I hope it's separate from the actual place Vanished things go, because that must be filled with cigarette butts and rubbish and other things I don't want to think about – but anyway, I won't waste your time telling you how things are going with the war, because, well, it's shit, to tell you the truth."

His mind flashed back to the depressing headlines in the Prophet today, and he took another pull from the flask.

"But we're all getting through it just fine. James was on about naming his kids after you – don't get too excited, they're just hypothetical kids at the moment – but I told him Dad wouldn't stand for his grandson being named anything as silly as Fleamont. I hope I wasn't out of line. Evans has been great. Her parents died not that long ago, you know, so she gets it. She got us takeaways, and got people to cover our Order duty, and drank an entire bottle of Ogden's with me one night." He flicked a bit of ash onto the grass and blinked several times. "James picked a good one. He's doing much better now – he's better at coping than I am. I – well, I dunno how I would get through without Macdonald."

He rubbed his eyes again as he thought about the past few months. The night after the funeral, Mary had spent hours rubbing his back and running her fingers through his hair. The morning after he and Lily had split a bottle of firewhisky, he had been sick all over the bedroom floor, and Mary had Vanished the mess and brought him a glass of water without a single word of complaint. She kept up with the cleaning and the shopping on top of her Order duties, and even sat with him to listen to several Cannons matches even though she thought Quidditch was a waste of time when she couldn't ogle the attractive players in their little uniforms. I don't fucking deserve her.

"She's been amazing, honestly, so I wanted to say thanks, Dad. If you hadn't talked me round after we had that big row, we might never have worked it out. And I also wanted to say…"

His voice broke again. He cleared his throat, then poured a good portion of the flask into his mouth. It burned his throat and made him cough, but did nothing to dispel the prickling sensation behind his eyes.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry for all the times you told me you loved me and I just fucking stood there like an ungrateful arsehole. It wasn't that I didn't feel the same, but I didn't know how to take it. Nobody had ever fucking said that to me! I dunno what's wrong with me – don't asked me to explain the fucked up workings of my own brain – but I couldn't get the words out. And now–"

His vision blurred as tears filled his eyes. They spilled out, rolling down his cheeks and splashing onto his leather jacket. What did it matter? He was already talking to a couple of gravestones like a lunatic – he may as well blubber like a sentimental sod, too.

"And now it's too late. I thought I had more fucking time. I always joked about you being old, but I didn't actually think you were that old, you know? I never thought…" He drained the rest of the flask and tossed it aside. It hit Euphemia's gravestone with a soft clunk and landed on top of the yellow flowers.

"Fuck. Sorry." His shoulders shook with sobs; for a minute, he lost track of everything but his own grief. When his tears abated, he wiped his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Now that I've already made myself look like a complete prat… If you can hear me from wherever the fuck you are, I wanted to say…" He picked up the flask, taking comfort from the smooth, metal surface even though the contents were long gone. "I wanted to say I love you."

Tears filled his eyes again, but he didn't bother wiping them away.

"I'm sorry that took so long. And also, I wanted to say thank you for… Well, for fucking everything, really. You were the best parents anyone could ask for, even if you were a bit old and out of touch. And fucking hell, I really miss you."

He rested his head in his hands as tears leaked out of his eyes and dropped on the grass below him. For once, he didn't try to repress his emotions. He let them all pour out, here in the deserted cemetery, with nobody to hear except the two headstones engraved with his parents' names in curly script.

When his tears petered out, a few raindrops pattered on his head and onto the back of his jacket. Sirius looked up in time to see the sky open up. Rain poured down, drenching his hair and soaking his clothes. He smiled and lifted his face to the sky, closing his eyes as rain pelted his skin. It ran in rivulets down his chin and dripped down his collar; it pooled on the grass beneath him.

He sat there until the downpour ended, then retrieved the flask and got to his feet. His clothes stuck to his skin, and the ground squelched when he took a step. Most of the yellow flowers had washed away, but he had a feeling Fleamont and Euphemia wouldn't mind.

"I love you," he said again, touching each gravestone in turn before he walked away. As he headed for his motorbike, he felt lighter than he had in months. After years of those three words tumbling around his head and catching in his throat, he had finally spoken them aloud. It had been too late, but somehow, in that Potter way of theirs, they had known all along without him having to say the words. Saying them now was just a formality.

When he reached the edge of the cemetery, he turned and looked at the gravestones one last time. He lifted his hand and waved, then hopped onto his motorbike and took off into the air with a roar. The gravestones remained there in the quiet solitude of the cemetery, glistening with raindrops as a few stray yellow petals floated in the puddles left behind by the rain.