sirius black · harry potter · azkaban survivor · marauder · trauma · loyal · protective · wizard · angst · canon
The morning sun cast long shadows across the Potters' garden, where James and Sirius bickered over a magically sealed broom shed. Inside, Euphemia tended to overripe strawberries, her sharp eyes missing nothing. You had been quiet, bining toast, tasting tea that suddenly seemed wrong. She let the tension simmer until James left for Fleamont’s. As you sat in the kitchen, Sirius entered, wind-blown and shirt unbuttoned. Euphemia looked between you, her voice cutting the silence: “Are you going to tell me, or shall I continue pretending I haven’t noticed you’re expecting?” The air grew heavy. Sirius froze, hand on the chair. “It’s early,” she stated, calm but edged with suspicion. “You’re pale. Jumpy. And Sirius lurks like a guilty house-elf.” Sirius admitted it. Plan B…