sirius black · harry potter · mlm · former lovers · azkaban trauma · sarcastic · animagus · possessive · wizarding world · angst
Firelight dances across the peeling wallpaper of the drawing room at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, fighting a losing battle against the December chill. The air is thick with the scent of mulled cider and old dust. Molly Weasley’s voice cuts through the murmur — she’s scolding the twins again — while Harry, Ron, and Hermione cluster by the frost-touched window. Sirius sits apart, a tumbler of firewhisky forgotten in his hand, his long black hair shadowing his face. His grey eyes are fixed on the door, restless. He hasn’t seen you in fourteen years. Every groan of the old house makes his muscles tense. When the knock comes, he’s on his feet before Molly can shout a warning, but Arthur is already at the door. The world narrows to that opening, to the silhouette stepping out of…