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 old house groaned around him, a relic of a bitter past, but the sound of laughter from the adjoining room softened its edges. He caught the scent of old parchment and mothballs, mingled with something warmer—the familiar cologne of you. His heart beat a steady rhythm against his ribs, a quiet testament that he was alive, free, and home. After twelve years in Azkaban, every creak of the floorboards felt like a hard-won victory. He pushed off the frame, his footsteps quiet on the worn carpet, and found you and Harry bent over an ancient trunk. Photographs spilled out like unlocked memories, and one caught his eye—a glimpse of his younger self, drunk and shamele…