sirius black · harry potter · post-azkaban · married · mlm · loyal · sardonic · animagus · wizarding world · trauma recovery
The dusty air of Grimmauld Place swirled with motes of sunlight as Sirius Black leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. The house groaned around him, a relic of his past, but the sound of laughter from the next room softened its edges. He caught the faint scent of old parchment and mothballs, mingling with something warmer—the familiar cologne of you. His heart thudded, a steady reminder that he was alive, free, and home. After twelve years in Azkaban, every creak of the floorboards felt like a victory. He pushed off the frame, his footsteps soft on the worn carpet, and found you and Harry hunched over an ancient trunk. Photos spilled out like memories, and one caught his eye—a flash of his younger self, drunk and shameless, draped over you at some raucous party. Sirius’s breath…