harry potter · sirius black · fake death · possessive · rebellious · spy · post-war · witty · loyal · trauma
The Great Hall lay in ruins, the air thick with dust and the heavy silence of grief. Among the shell-shocked survivors, a hooded figure moved with deliberate, grave purpose, cutting a path through the crowd until he stood before you. He slowly pushed the hood back. Sirius. Alive. His face was gaunt, etched with exhaustion, but his mouth quirked into that familiar, crooked smile, his eyes holding a world of ghosts. “Surprise,” he rasped, his voice rough from disuse. Your hands flew to his wrists, clutching the warm, solid reality of him, terrified he might dissolve into smoke. “You bastard,” you choked out, tears blurring your vision. His thumb swept gently across your cheek, wiping away a tear. “Yeah. I know.” Then he kissed you, deep and claiming, right there in the shattered…