Christmas at Malfoy Manor was... 'Stunning' wasn't a strong enough word. Indescribable, perhaps. Certainly incomparable. Even Hogwarts, with her golden glowing candles and tens of glorious trees, appeared gaudy in the face of the Manor. No wonder Draco had never seemed impressed, Harry mused. Anyone who had, unlike Harry, seen the Manor in her full glory might never have been impressed by anything ever again.

Of course, Harry had briefly popped into the Manor throughout the War and then the Purges. The place had been an instrumental strategic point during both. Once merely unplottable, almost a thousand years of unrestrained magic had made the Malfoy lands something of a quirk in reality. Without an invitation, the wards could not be breached. This made the place a wonderful bolthole. The halls had quickly filled with orphaned children, hunted families, and the terribly wounded. The ballroom had become a dormitory, the guest suites converted to operating rooms. The ornamental gardens had been uprooted and replaced by vegetables, herbs, and potions ingredients. Many fallen found graves in what was once an abraxan paddock. A miasma of devastation had clung to the walls, itching at Harry's sanity when he'd remained too long.

This Manor was very different from the one he'd known.

Peaking from the wilds and weeping mists was an abode at least half Hogwarts' size, spectral and fey. Composed of gleaming white marble, the building sprawled out in two great wings, with an imposing tower at each corner. The three storeys rose in lines of decadent windows, the second-floor balcony upheld by seven proud white columns. Just barely, Harry could make out the glitter of the glass ceiling over the ballroom. These details were familiar to Harry, though the gilded gargoyles and statues of famous warriors no longer moved on patrols around the property but instead stood still, waiting. Now, though, wondrous garlands of vibrant green leaves and metallic flowers wound around the columns and balconies, glittering invitingly with crystals of light. Wreaths of traditional protection plants hung at the doors and in windows, decorated with extravagant ribbons and jewels. Inside, the elegant halls and floors were charmed with frosty designs that changed when you looked away. And the trees, oh, Harry thought, the trees. Harry had never seen such wonderful trees. All of them bore the lighted crystals and metallic flowers, but that was where the commonalities ended. Some were covered in icicles, others appeared decorated by wisps of cloud, and still more were cloaked in gems. Each was more awe-inspiring and fantastic than the last, each one purely magical.

Harry took in these fabulous details distantly, mostly when Neville grabbed at his hand and pointed them out. Ron stood at his side with an equally muted smile, a guardian in a boy's body. It was lost on neither of them how difficult the night that was fast approaching would be. Neville, who was of a more optimistic disposition, had taken a more mellow attitude. Susan, Parvati, Theo, Seamus, Dean, and Oliver all followed Neville in that, openly enjoying the wonderful beauty of Malfoy Manor. Harry and Ron, on the other hand, had spent the train ride and subsequent portkey sharing tense glances with Draco, Lavender, Daphne, Marcus, and Blaise. Percy worried at his lip but would say nothing, while the twins had spent the trip bent into each other like a pair of weeping willows.

Harry grimaced. The secrecy demanded by their time traveling had not just been hard on Harry. Right up to their deaths, the twins had been as brothers with Lee Jordan. There had never been a secret between them. Even as third years their bond was breathtaking, Lee following the twins into Slytherin without hesitation nor explaination. However, that camaraderie had become strained within Slytherin House. The twins, unable to lie convincingly to their best friend, had distanced themselves from Lee, afraid of letting something slip. Lee, understandably frustrated at giving up Gryffindor only to be isolated in Slytherin, had grown cold in return. That all of the Slytherin First Year Elite were holidaying at Malfoy Manor with the Weasleys had only set Lee and the twins farther apart. There had been a terse exchange of words in the Slytherin common room before the train had loaded. Harry had watched, heart heavy, as Lee stocked away from the twins to join Cassius Warrington and depart down the hall.

"Harry?" Neville called, leaning out from the ensuite door. Harry pulled himself from his thoughts, happy to distract himself with his future husband. Neville wore a smile and tailored trousers, his grey tunic unbuttoned still at the throat. He had a brow arched, his sharp brown eyes ticking over Harry's underdressed form with amusement. "I suppose I should have known better than to ask if you were ready to go."

From across the room, Ron chuckled. His own royal blue doublet fit him squarely, cut to draw attention to his height and promising shoulders. With the sooty trousers and tall boots, Harry could nearly see the man he had married. Neville, too, showed hints: the delicate green leaves stitched at the hems of his tunic, the soundless suede boots. All that was missing was Gryffindor's sword at his hip and another decade of years.

Pausing for a moment, Harry gave a little prayer of gratitude to the newly named Lady Black Malfoy. The woman had intuition like Merlin had magic. Using information mined from Draco, she had the Hogwarts returned sharing rooms with their future spouses. Those who had been unmarried were in threes, sharing with friends or family. No one was roomed alone, left to the untender mercies of nightmares and paranoia. Those who, like Harry, Ron, and Neville, hadn't had a chance to purchase suitable clothing had also found chests holding the basics. Or what the Malfoys thought of as 'basic'. Harry was certain he had never possessed such fine clothing even after the War. All of the pieces, though, were the sort of style his older self would have worn. Harry felt confident that Draco had also meddled in that.

Knowing that any attempt to insist the gift was too much would be seen as an insult by pureblood tradition, Harry made a mental note to thank Narcissa the moment he had the chance. He was particularly appreciative of the selection of training wear, all of it darkly coloured, durable, lightweight, and flexible. He veritably ached to don the muggle combat boots stashed almost shamefully at the back of the closet and disappear into the Malfoys' duelling room. However, dinner came before such joys.

And conversation, of course. He couldn't forget the conversation.

Walking over from his side of the room, Ron pressed a kiss to his hair. "You'll get wrinkles worrying like that, mate," Ron grinned.

"What, afraid you'll be left with a hag for a spouse?" Harry smirked back. "Besides, you're just as bad as I am."

Ron shrugged, "Guilty." Crawling up on the bed to join Harry in sitting cross-legged, Ron slung an arm over his shoulders. "You'd never be a hag to me, though."

"That better count for me, too," Neville called. His tone was arch but his grin betrayed his amusement. He joined Harry and Ron's cuddle pile without hesitation, settling himself in Ron's lap. The line of his throat was bared by his still-undone buttons. He smiled at Ron and Harry's curious expressions.

"It's so strange, isn't it?" Neville mused, "Being too young to really feel it but knowing exactly what you would normally want."

Ron hummed, tracing a finger along Neville's cheek. "I don't think we've ever counted as young."

"I think I may have," Neville said. He stretched languidly, reaching up to kiss Ron's cheek. "Before the War, at least."

Harry reached for Neville's hand, twining his other with Ron's. Neville's fingers slotted perfectly with Harry's, just as Ron's did. "We were a lot of things before the War. Frankly, I'm more concerned about what we became after."

Neville snorted, eyes bright and teasing. "And that, gentlemen, is why we'll never be Dark Lords. Harry's conscience wouldn't let us."

Harry put on a lofty tone. "I honestly don't think you'd care for it, having been dubbed one myself. Quite a lot of bother, really."

"I don't know," Neville mused, "The world at my feet, my lovers at my side, my enemies screaming in my dungeon. Sounds fine by me."

Ron snorted. "Let's get one Dark Lord out of the way before we start setting up a new regime, eh, love?"

Neville heaved a put-upon sigh. "If you insist."

"I'm afraid I must," Ron said mildly. He poked at Harry's side, delighting in Harry's surprised snicker. "Now, you need to get dressed or Narcissa will do it herself. Or worse, Draco."

Harry sighed, the last of his laughter dying away. "Fine. But remember, this is under protest."

"Of course, love," Neville replied. "We'll make a note of it in our memoirs."

Harry dressed while his lovers cackled in the background.

Dinner was lovely, just as everything was ceaselessly lovely at Malfoy Manor. Nothing would dare be anything but lovely while existing under Narcissa's reign. Even when Sirius had been at his most bitter towards his family he'd known better than to cause chaos at one of Little Cousin Cissa's soirees.

Though no longer Lucius' wife, she had been adopted as his sister and was still obviously the Lady of the House. Sirius wondered how that would work once Narcissa took up with Kingsley again. Remus, once he married Lucius, would take the title of Lord-Consort, which held the same duties as a lady, but Morgana knew Remus had little patience for society life. Remus could do diplomacy, having been Dumbledore's werewolf liaison for so long, but wizards and witches were a different kind of opponent. In their last life they hadn't lived long enough past the War for small details like that to matter.

Taking a sip of wine to hide his sour expression, Sirius swept his eyes around the table. Lucius sat at the head with Remus on his right and Narcissa on his left. Draco sat with his mother and Blaise Zabini. A slew of Hogwarts students that Sirius could barely put names to filled the rest of that side. Amelia Bones sat at the opposite end, with Susan at the left and Rita Skeeter on her right. Kingsley sat beside Skeeter, then Arthur and his gaggle of sons. More people, more returned, filled the spaces between. More than twenty of them, Sirius thought. However, Sirius didn't much care beyond the one who sat at his side: Harry James Potter. His pup, hisgodson. Hisson, in all the ways that mattered.

The boy—man? Yes, man; Morgana knew physical age meant little these days—could barely meet Sirius' eyes. Not that Sirius blamed him. Sirius had failed him, after all. Not just once either, but again and again and again. How could Sirius expect anything but tolerance? How could he want more? He didn't even deserve what Harry gave him.

The moment James had placed the boy in his arms, Sirius had known that he would love Harry like his own. How could he not? Harry had been so small, a tiny wriggling bundle of peace and happiness. Or, well, maybe not peace. The baby had cried for hours after being born, only calming once Sirius had a hold of him. Lily had told him once that it was that moment she knew she'd been right in naming Sirius Harry's godfather.

Oh, Lily, Sirius thought miserably. You were so, so wrong.

Sirius was going to be on his second goblet if he kept up this train of thought but he couldn't resist. The thoughts chased themselves around in his head, vicious and damning. Below his skin Sirius seethed with rage, an immoral, immortal, Black thing. It lived in his stomach and set him craving blood. Remus, Lucius, and Cissa had done their best to feed him bits of information about the future he didn't know as he'd adjusted from Azkaban and the picture was a painful one. Sirius had thought Harry had been through the worst as a child. Apparently not. And again Sirius had been worthless in defending him.

Because he'd fucking died.

Sirius could remember his death. In Azkaban, after returning (as the phenomenon was apparently dubbed among them), he'd spent countless hours reliving the event. The future memories blurred the before and the after, what was and what had been and what wasn't yet. Sirius' memory had become like a child's story, with no timeline or plot. Yet, the memories themselves were cuttingly precise.

He lay face-down, body-bound, cursed so by three wands. Had to be three, he knew. He had heard three high voices, felt three points of contact, one left, one right, one behind. No way to duck or dodge, but he hadn't thought he'd need to, anyway. He was in the Burrow, for Merlin's sake. But he wasn't anymore. A portkey? Had to be. He was in a garden, lovingly maintained plants abound—Black Hall? He thought he recognized the stones. Who else used marble tile for garden paths?

Oh, Merlin. Severus was just inside, sleeping, probably with his hands over their unborn child as he'd taken to. Sirius had left him there, deciding to answer Molly's emergency patronus himself. He hadn't wanted to put Severus in danger. Oh, the irony shoved a poker in his heart. Sirius couldn't speak, though, couldn't fight. Couldn't warn Severus, 'Darling, there's a traitor in your garden!'

Three sets of clicking shoes approached, accompanied by three high voices chittering lightly. There—a flash of red hair? No, couldn't be. The only witch Sirius knew with such hair was Ginny Potter, she couldn't—but there she was, smiling glibly at him as her features shifted, becoming canine. Claws tore into Sirius' chest. Body-bound, unable to scream, Sirius watched bits of him be eaten, be torn away, his blood no doubt tainting Severus' lovely herbs and poisons…

Severus Prince-Black did not die that night. The wards on Black Hall itself were more ancient than those on the property, and wiser for the experience. The Lord of the House couldn't deem someone safe; the wards had to judge them so. They had revealed that someone with ill intent had tried to break into the house and that those persons had been deemed trespassers. Thanks to those house wards, Severus and their child had survived to bury Sirius. However, Severus had quietly confessed, neither he nor their child had survived much longer than that.

Severus Snape had never been a vulnerable person. Even as the Marauders tormented him, even as his father beat him, he remained strong. Severus Prince had been even less breakable, hardened by two magical wars and too much blood. Severus Prince Black had been so calculated, so vicious, that he had made the whole world bow to the Black name once more. This was a man who saw no line between Light and Dark, who gave and took with a stunning efficiency. A half-blood who had managed to impress the line that banished his mother so much that the dying Lord Prince had made Severus his heir. This was not a man who ever showed pain.

Severus had wept into Sirius' chest for hours that first night back together, only sleeping when exhaustion took him down. Sirius, his heart crushed as fine as icing sugar, had held him tightly, hiding his own grief in Severus' dark hair. The next morning, neither of them could find any words to say. Perhaps if Harry hadn't been attacked that same day they might have, but the new crisis had taken precedence.

Sirius knew Severus blamed himself for the attack. For choosing that day to visit Sirius, for forgetting about Quirrell's curse on the broom in the first place. Severus hadn't said so and likely never would, but Sirius knew. Severus had nearly worked himself to death the week Harry had been unconscious. He'd lived in his potions room, concocting such potent remedies that Harry's injuries—which Poppy Pomfrey had sworn would be life-altering, if not fatal—had healed without so much as a scar.

'You're not the only one who cares about that boy, Black,' Severus had hissed. Sirius had come to coax him out of his lab, himself exhausted after spending the day with Goblins and Malfoys, fighting Dumbledore for guardianship of Harry. 'I refuse to be the reason he dies. Now, out!'

Sirius also knew better than to step in Severus' way. He could shout all he wanted, argue until he ran out of air. He could use every scrap of logic and reasoning he had. All Blacks were educated in the art of debate and Sirius had excelled despite being the type to prefer a duel. Still, such efforts would do no good. Sirius had, of course, fallen in love with the one man who was as stubborn as he was. So, Sirius had put his head down and wrangled a joint-custody agreement between the Black and Malfoy families over Harry, completely blocking Dumbledore out. Severus had worked miracles and healed their boy. Harry had woken up. Sirius and Severus had managed to hold it together for that first visit but by the time they had returned to the Manor, there hadn't been much left of them. They had collapsed into bed together, exhausted.

'You've made up for something that wasn't your fault, now,' Sirius had murmured, running his fingers through Severus' vale of hair. It was silky against his skin, free of the oil from potions fumes for the first time in a week. 'Will you let yourself rest now, Sevy-love?'

Severus had snorted, his black eyes dulled by sleeplessness and guilt. He'd tangled his free hand with Sirius'. 'When you stop beating yourself for events that will not again transpire, most certainly.'

'...I suppose we'll both be martyrs forever, then,' Sirius had replied, unable to meet Severus' knowing gaze.

Severus had hummed, low and tenor and familiar. He had gathered Sirius against his chest, letting Sirius listen to his heartbeat. He could feel the comforting rhythm of Severus' breath, of his pulse. Sirius had been asleep before he'd known it.

And now here he was, some weeks later, having a fancy dinner. Or, well, having consumed a fancy dinner. Sirius still found losing time to be a treasonably easy thing. These phase-outs worried Severus and so Sirius did what he could to keep a lid on them. Regardless, everyone had finished the amazingly sophisticated take on treacle tart set out for dessert. Now, the diners stared awkwardly at each other, unwilling to be the one to rip the bandage off the wound.

Good thing Sirius had never had an inclination for tact.

"So," Sirius grinned, "Do we want to go around the circle and state names and how we died?"

Beside him, Harry choked on his juice. "Sirius!"

Without missing a beat, Severus smacked Sirius sharply upside the head. "I apologize," Severus growled to the table. "He is an oaf."

Across the table, the Weasley twins grinned wickedly.

"Well, that's not such a bad idea, really," said the twin on the right.

"No, not in the least," the left twin agreed.

"Anyway, I'm sure you know—"

"This is Gred—"

"And he is Forge—"

"And we are Weasleys—"

The twins joined hands, speaking in tandem, "And we went kablooie in Diagon Alley!" They burst apart with an enthusiastic display of jazz hands.

Several people flinched, all adults. Sirius thought that these were the ones who had died around the same time as him. Probably they had only been aware that the twins had survived the War, as had Sirius. Among that number was Arthur Weasley.

"What?" Arthur gasped. His face was as white as the Malfoys' marble statues. "What the hell do you mean 'kaplooie!?' You were blown up?"

The twins shared a wince. Sirius felt sympathetic. Obviously, the twins hadn't quite thought their little display through. Against his will, Sirius felt a smirk coming on, which he hid with his wine. Severus elbowed him discreetly.

"We were cornered, Dad," the left twin, who Sirius suspected was Fred, said softly.

"We'd have died if we'd been caught, anyway," the other twin, who then must be George, finished. "We might as well have taken them out with us."

"Probably would have died more painfully if we hadn't," Fred said. "Aurors weren't known for their tender mercies."

"Say that again," Lavender Brown chipped in. She was more child-like in appearance than Sirius could ever remember her. However, there was a very adult bitterness to her face. Sirius was reminded of Mad-Eye Moody caustically snapping anecdotes from his many misadventures, expecting his auror trainees to learn something from his scars. With building dread, Sirius and the other adults noticed that all of the children bore such expressions.

"Perhaps," Narcissa cut in primly, "This is not the place for such talks." Rising elegantly, she straightened her dress—an enchanting purple, not unlike the color featured on the Shacklebolt crest, Sirius couldn't help but notice—and gestured to the door. "If you would follow me to the drawing room, I can promise rather more appropriate comforts."

Without a pause, the Slytherins and purebloods rose to follow Narcissa. One simply did not turn down an invitation from the Lady of the House; such was to be terribly rude. Sirius turned to explain this to the kids, who were mostly half-blood or Light-raised, only to find them striding after Narcissa.

Right, Sirius thought as Harry fell into step with Draco Malfoy. They had all made it into Slytherin. Still, such fine details couldn't have been learned so quickly…

"It is a brave new world, I am afraid," Severus murmured, quietly slipping his hand into Sirius'.

Sirius glanced at their hands, both pale, Severus' bearing callouses from various potions-related tasks. Both were in need of rings, in Sirius' opinion. In their last life, they had gone with simple golden bands, leery of anything that cut too close to the Dark pasts of the Prince and Black families. Now, as Arthur Weasley laughed with Lucius Malfoy and Fenrir Greyback spoke quietly with Amelia Bones, the world was quite different.

"Maybe we could all use a little more bravery," Sirius murmured back. He smiled at Severus' surprise and squeezed his hand once more before letting Severus go.

Time to put my money where my mouth is, Sirius thought, and wrapped an arm around his godson.

Harry started as a firm weight settled across his shoulders. Immediately he knew it was Sirius, the warm scent of leather tipping him off. His stomach went into knots. He hadn't been able to look Sirius in the eye since coming to the Manor. With his injuries healed, with Sirius safe, the guilt Harry felt was insurmountable. He had barely managed dinner without running away.

That wasn't an option with Sirius' arm around him.

"Sirius?" Harry managed, looking up at his godfather. The man looked younger than Harry could remember, without the Second War and an additional three years in Azkaban weighing on him. No doubt Narcissa and Severus had forced a healing regiment on him, too. However, there was a desolation in Sirius' eyes that hadn't been there before. Harry's heart jumped into his throat, his mind full of funerals and blood and the tiny little girl no one had ever had the chance to meet.

"Harry," Sirius said. His fingers tightened on Harry's shoulder. "I just, before we get into this, I just want you to know—Merlin, I am so sorry."

Distantly, Harry noticed that the rest of the returned had shuffled away into the drawing room. Narcissa stood at the ornate double doors for a moment, her face impassive, and then pulled them softly shut behind her. This talk had her blessing, obviously, and so they would not be disturbed. Yet that had little impact on Harry.

"You're sorry?" Harry repeated, uncomprehending.

Sirius nodded, fast and emphatic. "I am, Merlin, I am. And I understand if you, if you hate me, or—"

"Hate you?" Harry gaped.

"For everything I've done," Sirius said. "For not being there, for leaving you alone in this mess. Merlin, I never meant to but I always did. You didn't deserve this, none of this, and I should have protected you better—"

Harry threw himself at Sirius, his eleven-year-old arms catching the man around the middle. Sirius staggered, surprised, but tentatively he returned the hug.

"Hate you?" Harry asked again, stunned, his face buried in Sirius' chest. "How did you ever think I could hate you? Sirius, I mourned you. I didn't blame you. Not for anything!"

Sirius' hold tightened, his fingers winding in Harry's hair. His voice was strangled. "You should have. Dammit, Harry. You wouldn't be wrong to. I failed you. I failed you."

"No!" Harry snapped, looking up. "You were there for me more than any other adult in my life. You did as much as you could, you… you gave me family again." Harry said, his voice soft. "How could I ever hate you? How did you think I could ever hate my family? Please, Sirius. Don't ever think that." Harry's face was a mask of horror.

Sirius sighed; a long, slow exhale. "I'm sorry, Harry. I just—well, never mind," Sirius halted, wincing. This shouldn't be about his problems. Not when Harry was still obviously upset by something, though not Sirius, which Sirius didn't think would ever fully set in for him. Not when Harry would be so justified in hating him.

Giving a mental shake, Sirius tucked that away to agonize over some other time. Reconsidering his words, Sirius tried again from a different angle. "Harry, you can barely look at me. I didn't need to be all-there to know something was wrong." Sirius eyed Harry. His slate gaze made Harry feel open—exposed. "I think I just assumed the wrong thing," Sirius said. He gently titled Harry's face up. "What's wrong, pup?"

What's wrong? Harry felt hysteria bubble up in his stomach. What's wrong? Harry was wrong, that was what. He was twisted and broken and burned up inside, blood-slick and bleeding and bad. He had done bad things, killed or maimed a hundred or more. He had made competent killers out of children and teenagers. He had set fire and curse and weapon against anyone who stumbled in his way. Worst of all, when he thought on it, Harry didn't regret it. Not if doing what he had done meant his people lived.

Suddenly, Harry thought he understood the Dark very well indeed.

"I changed after you died, Sirius," Harry said at last. "The whole world changed. It wasn't just Ginny and Molly and Hermione hurting us. It was the Ministry, normal people, the whole of the Light." Harry took a strangled breath, realizing vaguely that his face was wet. At some point he'd started crying. "They were picking us off. You, Sev, Lucius—that was just the start. Soon, hunting werewolves was legal. Remus and Teddy were hung. We were powerless to stop the Ministry. And then, vampires, veela, giants, half-breeds, they were all fair game. Most of us who lived, we were all labeled Dark. We were hunted."

Sirius ran a soothing hand over Harry's back, hushing him gently. Harry was tangentially aware that he was choking on his words, having lost any hint of composure. He couldn't bring himself to mind. Sirius was looking at him calmly, without a hint of judgement or rebuke. Harry felt as though he were looking into the Mirror of Erised.

"So you fought back," Sirius murmured. "You protected yourselves. There's nothing wrong with that."

"We did more than fight back, Sirius!" Harry cried. "We took revenge. For every auror unit sent after us, we sent them back in pieces. I sent them back in pieces." Harry fought for a breath, centering himself on Sirius' even caresses. "They called me a Dark Lord. We used to laugh about it, mock the propaganda machine, all that. But now… I don't think they were wrong."

Sirius' hands stilled for a moment and Harry felt himself freeze. Was this it? The point of what Sirius could accept? Sure, he had laughed it off in the Medical Wing when Harry had mentioned the title, but that had been in a very different context. Harry had laughed it off, too. Harry wasn't laughing now. He was accepting it.

"Do you remember how I told you that there was Light and Dark in all of us, and that we were the choices we made?" Sirius asked after a moment of silence.

"Yes," Harry replied, uncertain of where this was going.

"My mother was the one who told me that."

Harry gaped. "What?"

Sirius hummed. "Yup. Despite being sadistic and psychotic, dear Mummy was a wealth of lines like that. Of course, in her world the Light represent weakness and stupidity, but the moral stands. We are the choices we make." Sirius inhaled deeply, as though he needed the time to find the right words. "Still, the right choice isn't always the easy one."

Harry's stomach bottomed out. Here it came. The condemnation he knew was waiting for him.

Sirius smiled at him. "Sometimes, the right choice is the one that leaves your hands bloody."

Harry's world froze, becoming still and delicate. "I'm sorry," he said after a beat, "I don't follow."

Sirius laughed, but not his usual grinning chuckle. This was a sharper, deadlier thing, Black in nature. "We are our choices. But our circumstances, our priorities, those dictate our choices, Harry. You were set up, pup, from cradle to grave. The Light cultured this loyalty in you, this protective compulsion. It was useful for them, in the War. But then they hunted you down, and worse, they hunted down your friends. You went rabid in return." Sirius brushed a gentle thumb over his cheek. "No one blames a beaten dog for biting back."

Harry felt numb. "But Mum and Dad, and you and Rem, you were all Light."

"Yes," Sirius agreed. "But we weren't saints, Harry. We did the best we could with the choices we had. Merlin knows we didn't mourn the Death Eaters we cut up into little bits. Not after they slaughtered the McKinnons and broke Frank and Alice. The difference, as far as I'm concerned, is that our cutting had media approval and yours didn't."

Harry didn't know how to feel. He was pins and needles, emotionally. In the end he flopped fully against Sirius' chest, using his tiny eleven-year-old frame to his advantage.

"You can't be serious," Harry said, at last, unthinkingly, when the quiet stretched longer than he could bare. And then what he'd said sunk in with a kind of stunned disbelief.

"Actually," Sirius crowed brightly, "I most definitely can be Sirius! I have the papers to prove it, swear to Merlin, just ask Mooney—"

And Harry, confused and sad and unbelievably happy, gave into such a hysterical cackle that Narcissa herself came blustering the drawing room doors to find out what the hell was going on in her hallway.

Harry wrapped protectively in his arms, Sirius Black grinned merrily.

Hello, all! How did you like this one? I really hope you did, seeing as this was unexpectedly hard to write. Also, this chapter is entirely from scratch, as nothing from the old story really fit, so I feel like I'm writing without training wheels for the first time! Please tell me how you like it! As always, I look forward eagerly to hearing what you think! Your reviews are really what keep me writing! Speaking of which, off I go to go reply to last chapter's lovely reviews! Thank you so much for your support! Edited as of 8/20/2022.

Sincerely,

BlackRoseGirl666