By late afternoon, it was clear Sirius was jittery.
He tried to hide it, pacing less, fidgeting more subtly. But his fingers kept drumming on every surface, his eyes flicked to the window every five minutes, and when the old Black family owl returned, feathers ruffled and eyes annoyed, but empty-taloned—he barely spoke for the next hour.
Hermione, who was finally starting to feel marginally more human, gave him space. She rested, read a bit, and even managed a shower to wash off the remnants of post-fever haze. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, she felt almost steady on her feet.
She made her way downstairs in soft socks and a fresh jumper, her damp hair in a loose braid, heading to the kitchen in search of something warm. Kreacher, ever observant, had left a pot of soup on the stove as if he knew she'd come down eventually.
She was ladling it into a bowl when the sharp tap of talons on glass startled her.
Hermione turned—and there she was.
Hedwig.
Snowy white, proud, and absolutely regal, she perched at the kitchen window like the Queen of All Owls, the faintest shimmer of twilight catching on her feathers.
Hermione set the ladle down and crossed the kitchen, her heart skipping.
"Hedwig," she whispered, opening the window.
The owl swept in with barely a sound, flapping once and settling on the back of a chair like she'd done it a hundred times before. A parchment was tied securely to her leg.
Hermione untied it with careful fingers, running a hand briefly down the owl's sleek back. "Thank you."
Hedwig clicked her beak softly, watching her with pale gold eyes that somehow managed to convey both judgement and affection.
Hermione didn't even call out—there was no need.
Sirius was already there.
He must've heard the flap of wings, or maybe he'd simply felt something shift. He appeared in the kitchen doorway like a ghost, eyes already fixed on Hedwig.
"She came?" he asked, voice low.
Hermione turned, parchment in hand. "She came."
He stepped forward slowly, like if he moved too fast she'd vanish.
Hermione handed him the letter without a word.
Sirius hesitated. His fingers trembled slightly as he took it.
He stared at his godson's messy, slanted handwriting on the front for a moment longer than necessary.
Then, quietly, he opened it.
Sirius was still holding the letter five minutes later like it might evaporate if he looked away.
"He wants to meet," he said at last, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. "Says tomorrow morning, at his room in the Leaky. Said Diagon would be too much, and he's not supposed to wander into Muggle London without supervision." He paused, brow furrowing. "Though I'm a bit concerned he invited a complete stranger to his lodgings. I mean—did no one teach this kid basic self-preservation?"
Hermione, spoon halfway to her mouth, snorted directly into her soup. She set the bowl down quickly, coughing with laughter. "Oh, Sirius. Stranger danger?"
"Well, yes!" he said, flinging the letter down on the counter. "He doesn't know me! For all he knows I'm some charismatic impostor posing as his long-lost godfather to gain his trust and—I don't know, kidnap him or sell him to a collector of celebrity children!"
Hermione gave him a flat look. "Bit elaborate, that last one."
"It's not not plausible," he grumbled.
Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed her soup aside. "First of all, the news of you being his godfather and having been exonerated is literally front-page material this week. I'm pretty sure even Rita Skeeter couldn't twist that around." She crossed her arms. "And second, who exactly did you think would have taught Harry about stranger danger?"
Sirius blinked at her. "Er… his aunt and uncle?"
"Petunia Dursley," Hermione said dryly, "is the sort of person who would've gleefully handed him over to a stranger if it meant she could go ten minutes without seeing something magical." She leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed. "Frankly, if someone had tried to snatch Harry off the street, I think the Dursleys would've celebrated with a roast dinner."
Sirius winced, the lines around his mouth deepening.
"And Hogwarts," Hermione continued, "has many strengths. Nurturing life skills and general safety awareness is not one of them. The staff is… shall we say, admirably hands-off."
"I take it that's sarcasm."
"Oh, deep, biting sarcasm." She tilted her head. "Honestly, I'm half-convinced Dumbledore encourages Harry to wander into danger. He's got a bit of a… 'sink or swim with a basilisk' attitude toward education."
Sirius ran a hand down his face. "Merlin's bloody beard. This boy's been raised by wolves."
"Worse. He's been raised by Petunia and then half-raised by chaos incarnate." She lifted her spoon again. "It's a miracle he hasn't started referring to every near-death experience as a 'Tuesday'."
Sirius rubbed his chest like her words had left a mark there. "I should've been there."
"I know," Hermione said softly.
He looked down at the letter again, rereading the line near the bottom for what had to be the fifth time. "I'd really like to meet you."
It hit different when it was written in the scrawl of a boy who had no reason to trust and every reason to want to.
Hermione nudged her bowl closer. "Eat something. You'll need it."
He sank into the chair across from her, brow still furrowed, but a flicker of something softer in his eyes now. "He's really not afraid?"
"Harry?" She arched an eyebrow. "Harry once followed a trail of spiders into the Forbidden Forest just because Hagrid suggested answers would be found at the end. Spoiler alert, it was a giant Acromantula. He has a slightly different baseline for 'stranger danger' than most people."
Sirius shook his head slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "He's James's kid, alright."
Hermione hummed. "And Lily's. All the best parts of both of them. You'll see."
He picked up a spoon, finally. "I can't believe I'm meeting him tomorrow."
"And he can't wait to meet you."
For a long moment, they just sat in the quiet, the smell of soup in the air, the letter on the table between them like a bridge across time.
Sirius Black had never really been one for subtlety.
He'd left Grimmauld Place at an obscenely early hour, shrugging into the slightly-too-tight set of black dress robes he'd found stuffed in the back of his old wardrobe—the kind with embroidered silver runes along the cuffs that had once screamed rebellious teen attending his cousin's betrothal banquet under duress. Now, thanks to twelve years of starvation chic, they fit like a tailored glove. Which was both depressing and convenient.
He didn't linger.
No sulking in front of Walburga's portrait. No second-guessing at the threshold.
He was going to meet Harry.
And nothing—not even a Black family curse or Kreacher accidentally poisoning the tea—was going to get in the way.
Diagon Alley was only just waking when he stepped out of the Floo, all soot-streaked confidence and dishevelled charm. It was the height of back-to-school season, and he had no interest in being mobbed by last-minute Hogwarts shoppers or gawkers murmuring about that Sirius Black.
So, priorities:
Gringotts.
He ducked into the great marble bank expecting a five-minute withdrawal. Instead, the goblins swarmed with polite-but-predatory grins the moment his name was confirmed, offering hushed conference rooms and muttering about scheduled vault audits, heir responsibilities, and something about estate portfolios and Black ancestral holdings that had been gathering dust for over a decade.
"I'll come back in September," Sirius said firmly, eyeing a goblin who looked ready to physically drag him into a meeting chamber. "I've got an appointment."
"A social one?" the goblin sneered, unimpressed.
"A divine one," Sirius said cheerfully. "With my godson."
He made his exit before they could throw more scrolls at him.
Next stop: Quality Quidditch Supplies.
He didn't even hesitate. The moment he spotted the gleaming display of the newest Firebolt, he marched up to the counter and said, "I'll take one."
The clerk blinked. "Er, sir, this is the Firebolt—state of the art—very few in stock—"
"Yes. I'm aware." He tossed a pouch of galleons onto the counter. "And I'm also aware that I've missed twelve birthdays and a matching number of Christmases, so unless you have a time-turner and a personality charm, this is the next best option."
To his credit, the clerk didn't argue further.
Sirius left with not only the Firebolt, but a handful of smaller things—a broom kit, a limited edition Quidditch card set, some sweets, a couple of bottled Butterbeers, and a Gryffindor scarf so absurdly bright it could flag down Muggle aircraft. The kind of gifts that shouted, Please like me. I'm the cool godfather with emotional baggage and no understanding of restraint!
By the time the hour crept near, he was hovering around the Leaky Cauldron like a suspiciously well-dressed stray dog, pacing, fidgeting, rehearsing casual greetings and discarding each one immediately.
At 8:59 and thirty-five seconds, he strode down the corridor like a man on a mission.
At 8:59 and forty-nine seconds, he smoothed his hair in the cracked mirror on the stairwell.
At 9:00 and zero seconds, he knocked on Room Four.
Three short raps.
Then he held his breath.
He didn't realise how badly he wanted this until that very moment.
Until the silence on the other side of the door felt longer than it should.
Until his fingers curled reflexively tighter around the Firebolt he held like a peace offering.
Please let him open the door.
Please let him smile.
Please let him look at me and not see the wanted man from the Prophet. Just… see me.
Sirius Black, infamous escapee, freshly-cleared wizarding citizen, stood at the door of a thirteen-year-old boy and felt more nervous than he had in his entire goddamn life.
Harry opened the door, and Sirius froze.
It was like the past and present collided, hitting him square in the chest with the force of a Bludger.
That hair. That mad, unrepentant, untamable mop of black hair that stuck out like it was actively trying to escape the confines of his skull. The round glasses perched on a nose that had probably been broken once already. The way he stood slightly off-centre, like he didn't know what to do with himself.
James.
Except—no. Not quite.
Because those eyes…
Lily's eyes. Vivid, impossible green. The kind that had made professors pause mid-sentence and young men rethink every dumb thing they were about to say.
Sirius's throat went tight.
He saw the faint edge of the lightning-shaped scar under the boy's fringe, and something inside him twisted. He didn't let himself dwell on it—on what it meant, what Hermione had said. Not now. Not here.
Harry blinked up at him, eyes wide and searching, and then, with a voice that was hesitant but unmistakably hopeful, said, "Hi."
Sirius had to physically restrain himself from reaching out and wrapping the kid in a hug so tight it'd make headlines.
So instead, naturally, he blurted the stupidest thing possible.
"You've grown so much," he said, blinking rapidly. "Last time I saw you, I could fit you in one arm."
Harry glanced at the broom in his hand, then at the gift bag looped over Sirius's wrist. "I mean, I could jump into your arms, but they're kind of full."
Sirius let out a bark of laughter. Actual, involuntary bark.
Merlin's shaggy tail—he already loved this kid.
"Alright, alright," he said, shifting the Firebolt to his other arm. "Fair enough. Still, it's weird, you know? You go twelve years picturing someone frozen in time and then suddenly—boom. He's a sarcastic teenager with elbows and a jawline."
Harry stepped back and gestured him in. "You're late, by the way. I was convinced you'd changed your mind."
"Please, I was right on time," Sirius said, slipping inside. " And if I'd changed my mind, I wouldn't have spent half the morning dodging goblins and mad salesclerks to get you this." He held out the Firebolt like it was a sacred artefact.
Harry's eyes went wide. "Is that—?"
Sirius grinned. "Yep."
"You got me a Firebolt?"
"Yep."
Harry stared at it like it might vanish if he looked too hard.
"Why?" he asked, breathless.
Sirius shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant but his voice still too soft around the edges. "Because I missed about a dozen birthdays and Christmases. And also because I'm trying to buy your love."
Harry's mouth twitched. "It's working."
Sirius laughed again and something warm settled under his ribs—an anchor in a life that had, until now, felt like driftwood on a stormy sea.
"Good," he said, more serious now. "Because I've waited a long time for this."
"Oh—we should probably go in," Harry said, scratching the back of his neck as he stepped aside to finally let Sirius into the room. "We've sort of been… standing in the doorway this whole time."
"Blame the dramatics," Sirius muttered, brushing past him with the Firebolt still in hand. "Also, bit of friendly advice? Maybe next time don't just open your hotel door to a possibly unstable stranger."
Harry closed the door with a soft click and turned around, brows raised. "But you're not a stranger, are you? Not really. If the Prophet's got it right—and it usually doesn't, but let's give it a point this time—you're my godfather."
Sirius blinked at that. The matter-of-fact delivery. The complete lack of fear. "Well, yes, but—"
"So what did you want me to do?" Harry said, tilting his head. "Greet you with a drawn wand? Ask for three forms of ID and a character reference from someone not in Azkaban?"
"Not… all that," Sirius muttered. "But maybe just, I don't know—some suspicion. What if I wasn't me?"
Harry shrugged and dropped onto the small armchair by the fireplace. "I have a good hunch about people. Comes with the territory of growing up around the worst sort."
Sirius opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn't have a response to that. Not one that wouldn't either start an argument or a full-blown breakdown. Neither seemed appropriate for a first reunion.
He cleared his throat instead, sat on the edge of the bed, and opted for neutral ground.
"So… uh… tell me everything," he said.
Harry blinked. "Everything?"
"Yeah. You know—about you. Start from the top. Favourite colour, most hated class, owl's name, friends' weirdest habits, worst teacher, favourite Quidditch team, thoughts on jelly slugs—give me the full Hogwarts experience."
Harry looked momentarily stunned, then let out a breath of laughter. "That's… a lot."
"I've got time," Sirius said with a half-grin. "You've got twelve years to catch me up on. Better get started."
"Well," Harry said, sitting up straighter, "my owl's name is Hedwig, and she's amazing. Very judgey though. Stares like she knows exactly how much homework I've skipped."
"Smart girl."
"And I like Defence Against the Dark Arts best, but I've had a new teacher every year so far. First one tried to kill me. Second one was a narcissistic fraud. Third one… well, jury's out. Hopefully better than the last two."
Sirius blinked. "You've had three teachers in three years?"
Harry snorted. "Yeah, they don't tend to last. It's cursed or something. You know. Typical school stuff."
"Right. Remind me to burn Hogwarts to the ground later."
Harry grinned.
Sirius leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of that smile settle over him. For now, he wouldn't ask about the darker stuff. Not the scar. Not the prophecy. Not the other thing Hermione had told him.
Just this. A kid on a too-small armchair, talking about his owl and his classes like he hadn't already faced death three times before thirteen. Sirius didn't feel like talking about himself. Not even a little.
Sirius could work with that.
"So," he said, trying for casual, "tell me about your friends. I assume you have friends?"
Harry rolled his eyes, but there was a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "No, I've spent the last two years in a broom cupboard writing sonnets to my loneliness."
Sirius chuckled. "Excellent. Sarcasm intact. You really are James's kid."
Harry gave him a flat look. "What, did you think I was just sitting in a corner somewhere feeding spiders?"
Sirius grinned. "Well, I was hoping you had some social life. Being raised in a cupboard doesn't exactly scream thriving extrovert."
Sirius realised a moment too late that he revealed something he shouldn't know, but Harry didn't seem to notice, probably on account of thinking Sirius was just running with what Harry had tried to pass off as a gag.
Harry laughed, but it was quiet. "Yeah, fair. I do, though. I've got Ron—Ron Weasley—and Hermione Granger."
Sirius nodded slowly, pretending to file the names away for the first time. "Weasley, I know the family. Big brood. Red hair. Good people. What's he like?"
"He's… brilliant. Loud, a bit thick sometimes, but he's got my back. Always has." Harry smiled faintly. "Bit rubbish at keeping his cool when he's angry, though. Or hungry."
"So a Gryffindor through and through," Sirius said with a grin.
Harry nodded. "Exactly."
"And Hermione?"
"Top of the class," Harry said at once, his expression softening. "She's… something else. Knows every rule in every book—and every time we break one. Which is often."
Sirius snorted. "Sounds terrifying."
"She can be," Harry admitted. "But she's also really kind. Always has a plan. I wouldn't have made it past first year without her."
Sirius raised a brow. "Really?"
"She stopped Snape from jinxing my broom when I didn't even know what was going on," Harry said. "And that was like—our second week of flying. She's always saving us. Even when she's mad at us."
Sirius hummed thoughtfully, hiding how deeply the words struck him. Hermione had already begun protecting Harry from the very beginning, then.
"And this Hermione…" he said carefully, "she's Muggleborn, isn't she?"
"Yeah." Harry tilted his head. "How'd you know?"
Sirius shrugged. "Just a hunch. You said she memorises every rulebook—classic sign of someone trying to prove they belong. Lily, your mum, had been a bit like that."
Harry blinked. "Huh. Yeah, I guess."
"Bet she's brilliant, though."
Harry grinned. "She really is."
Sirius didn't let any of what he was actually thinking show. He kept his expression neutral, his tone light. But inwardly, he was reeling. Hearing about Hermione from Harry's perspective—unfiltered, genuine—only made Sirius trust her more.
"She sounds like a good one," he said finally.
"She is." Harry hesitated, then asked, "You'll meet them, right? Ron and Hermione?"
Sirius's throat tightened. "Yeah. I'd like that. Soon."
He hoped it was true. That they really had time for things like this now.
That this time, they might get it right.
"Uhm, Harry," Sirius said, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to scrub the nerves out through his skin. "I want to run something by you."
Harry, who had just taken a sip of butterbeer, looked up curiously from where he was lounging in the armchair of his Leaky Cauldron room. "Yeah?"
Sirius shifted in his seat. "And this is completely hypothetical at this point, alright? Completely. There are… a lot of legal hoops to jump through first. Bureaucracy. The fun kind. Plus, the house—my house—is currently one broken stair away from being declared a health hazard by the Department of Magical Catastrophes."
Harry blinked. "Okay…"
"I'm not promising anything," Sirius said quickly. "I don't want to get your hopes up for something that might not even happen. But—if it did… would you be open to living with me?"
The silence stretched.
Harry blinked once. Then again.
"You mean like—with you?" he asked, clearly trying to process it. "Like… permanently?"
"Eventually," Sirius said, hands raised in placation. "Once we get it cleaned up. Once I can legally apply for guardianship and your school term is done. Like I said—there's a mountain of red tape. And Andromeda would probably have to vouch for me, and I have been reliable informed that the study has a boggart in it—"
"You want me to live with you?" Harry asked again, very softly.
Sirius froze. "Only if you want to."
Harry stared at him. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, stunned and uncertain and impossibly young all at once.
Sirius felt his stomach knot.
"I just—after everything," he said, voice quieter now, "I thought maybe… if you didn't want to go back to the Dursleys…"
"I don't," Harry blurted out, fast and a bit too loud.
Sirius blinked.
Harry's hands curled into the fabric of his trousers. "I mean… I don't want to go back there. Not if there's another option. Not if—" He looked up, hesitant. "You really want me?"
Sirius's breath caught in his throat.
"Harry," he said, and the name came out a little rough. "I'm your godfather. That means something to me. I've wanted to be part of your life since the day you were born."
Harry's face twisted for a moment—relief, disbelief, hope, all fighting for space. "Even after all these years?"
"Especially after all these years."
There was a beat of silence before Harry gave a crooked smile. "Well… yeah. I'd be open to that. Definitely."
Sirius's grin returned—slow, wide, and slightly disbelieving.
"Brilliant," he said. "But remember, hypothetical."
"Right," Harry agreed, but his smile didn't fade.
They both sat there for a moment, letting the quiet settle—lighter now, warmer.
Then Sirius added, "Also, you may be morally obligated to help me clean out a cursed attic full of cursed Black family heirlooms."
Harry shrugged. "That's fair."
"Good lad," Sirius said, and for once, he really felt like one.
"Do you want to go for some ice cream?" Sirius asked, a bit too casually, like he hadn't just offered to share the most sacred bonding ritual known to wizardkind.
Harry blinked. "I mean I would, but I'm pretty sure Mr. Fortescue would faint from the number of reporters that would show up. You haven't heard the gossip in Diagon these last two days. Everyone's vying to get a glimpse of you."
Sirius smirked. "And here I thought you were the resident celebrity."
"Please do not mention that," Harry groaned, sinking deeper into the worn chair by the window. "Seriously."
"I'm always Sirius."
Harry let out a soft snort. "That's an awful pun."
"Hey!" Sirius clutched his chest like he'd been wounded. "You wound me. And here I thought we had a rapport."
"I call it like I see it, sorry."
"Don't ever apologise for your truth, Harry," Sirius said, mock solemn, placing a hand on his shoulder like he was about to deliver an inspirational speech. "Speak your truth. Even if your truth is that I'm a menace with a charming smile."
Harry nodded awkwardly, but his lips twitched at the corners.
"We could always go into Muggle London," Sirius offered, shrugging as he leaned back. "I went by Gringotts this morning, had some galleons exchanged. Figured it might be smart to have some of their paper money in case I needed to bribe a bouncer or buy a really overpriced sandwich."
Harry hesitated. "I'm… technically not supposed to."
Sirius raised a brow. "Minister's orders?"
"Yeah. Fudge said it's too dangerous because of…" He trailed off.
"My escape?" Sirius finished flatly. "Pretty sure that's been sorted. You're looking at one thoroughly exonerated and freshly papered man. Got the documents to prove it."
Harry looked at him for a beat. Then his expression shifted into something unreadable—neutral, almost suspiciously so. He leaned forward slowly, hands clasped between his knees.
"Yeah… about that," he said, voice dry. "How do I know all this—the supposed exoneration and everything—wasn't just a very elaborate, clever ruse to lure me into Muggle London so you could kidnap me?"
Sirius blinked.
Harry's face remained perfectly serious.
Sirius blinked again.
"…You're joking," he said eventually.
Harry broke into a grin.
"Oh, you little—" Sirius let out a bark of laughter, tossing a cushion at him, which Harry caught with far too much smugness for someone his size. "You actually had me for a second. I was about to launch into a whole 'trust is the foundation of all relationships' speech."
"Dodged a Howler there," Harry said, grinning.
Sirius shook his head, still laughing. "You've got a real evil streak in you, you know that?"
"I've been told."
Sirius ruffled his hair. "That's my boy."
Harry grinned, cheeks flushing faintly.
"Right then," Sirius said, standing with a stretch and an exaggerated crack of his shoulders. "Come on, partner in crime. Let's see what Muggle London has to offer."
Harry eyed him warily. "You're really going to wear wizard robes into London, aren't you?"
Sirius gave him a look of deep offence, hand to heart. "Are we wizards or not, Harry?"
"Exactly my point," Harry said, crossing his arms. "You're going to stand out like a sore thumb. A very dramatic, possibly dangerous sore thumb."
Sirius just huffed in mock indignation, then drew his wand with a casual flick. "Oh ye of little faith."
He gave a small, precise wave, and the rich dark robes shimmered—folded and retracted in on themselves like water down a drain—and reformed into black jeans, scuffed boots, and a battered leather jacket that looked like it had last seen action at a punk gig in 1980. Underneath, a soft grey Henley peeked through. He tousled his hair—because of course he did—and raised an eyebrow at Harry like ta-da.
Harry gaped. "You look like someone who'd sell illegal dragon parts in a Camden back alley."
"Thank you," Sirius said proudly. "This was very fashionable in my day."
"I—no, I mean—I think I saw a bloke wearing that outside the Leaky just this week."
Sirius grinned. "See? Timeless."
Harry shook his head, laughing. "I still can't believe you just… changed your entire outfit with one spell."
"You'll get there. In the meantime, bask in the glory of my superior wardrobe transfiguration."
Harry rolled his eyes. "You do realise you're going to get looks, right? That hair, those clothes—people are going to think I'm being dragged into a very questionable mentorship programme."
Sirius clapped him on the back. "Exactly. Helps with the whole 'cool godfather' image."
"I thought you said you weren't trying to buy my affection."
"I said I wasn't only trying to buy your affection. There's a difference."
Harry snorted, pulling on his jacket. "You're completely mad."
"And you're just now figuring that out? Merlin's trousers, they really don't teach critical thinking at Hogwarts anymore."
Harry tried and failed to smother a laugh. "Come on then. I want ice cream before we get mobbed by Muggle pigeons or wizarding paparazzi."
"Ah yes," Sirius said dramatically, heading for the door. "The noble quest for sweets. Our first father-son bonding adventure."
"Godfather."
"Technicality."
And just like that, they stepped out into the bustle of London—an ex-con, a boy hero, and all the space between them narrowing by the minute.