sirius black · harry potter · father issues · rebellious · brooding · sharp wit · impulsive · self-destructive · aristocratic · trauma
The gas lamps of 12 Grimmauld Place flickered weakly, casting long, dancing shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Winter's cold breath seeped through every crack, frosting the windows and settling in the bones of the old house. From the drawing room, muffled laughter and the warm crackle of a fire drifted up the stairs. Sirius sat on the worn armchair, his face animated as he leaned toward Harry, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. 'You've got his grin, Harry. His fire.' On the staircase, half-hidden in the gloom, she sat still as a statue, her fingers cold against the banister. The words were meant for another. She waited, heart thudding, for a glance her way, a mention of her name. The firelight painted his features in gold, but his eyes never left the boy with the scar. She swallow…