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Chapter Text

The Room of Requirement breathed around them like some ancient beast asleep. Dust and shadows shifted with their footsteps, and piles of forgotten things rose up into the flickering torchlight: toppled bookshelves spilling loose parchment, broken suits of armor, trunks with cracked lids and yellowing robes spilling out. The air was thick with the sharp tang of metal and the sweet, stale scent of rotting parchment.

Ginny Weasley ducked beneath a dangling tapestry rod and muttered, “Lumos.” Her wand-tip blazed to life, painting gold across the clutter. Neville stumbled after her, brushing cobwebs from his sleeve.

“This is mad,” he whispered. His voice echoed softly among the ruins. “Even if the Sword’s in here, how are we supposed to—”

“We’ll find it,” Ginny cut in, her tone sharp with certainty. She wasn’t sure where the confidence came from, but something in her chest thrummed with it. The Sword of Gryffindor was meant for Gryffindors, and she was as Gryffindor as it got.

Neville gave her a weary look but kept following. His shoes scraped on stone as they wound between leaning towers of broken furniture. Every shadow seemed to lean closer, every object ready to spring to life. The torchlight caught on glass and silver, on cracked crystal balls, on the jaws of a dust-covered stuffed dragon.

“Over here,” Ginny hissed suddenly, her light falling across a toppled chest of silverware. And there, gleaming atop the heap as though it had been waiting for her, lay the Sword of Gryffindor.

Its blade caught the light, clear and cold, and the rubies in its hilt blazed as though they held fire inside. Ginny’s breath caught. She stepped forward, almost reverently, and lifted it. The balance was perfect. The weight of it seemed to steady her heartbeat.

Neville gave a low whistle. “You were right.”

Ginny grinned, the sword gleaming in her grip. “Told you. Now—” She slid it carefully into her bag, wrapping it in a torn bit of cloth from the chest. “—let’s get this back before—”

Something glinted beneath the chest. Ginny’s eyes narrowed. She crouched, pushing aside a tangle of quills and broken inkwells, and her fingers closed on a heavy golden object.

A watch.

Not an ordinary one. Its case was etched with runes that twisted if she looked too long. The glass face revealed no numbers, only delicate interlocking dials, each etched with strange symbols. The metal was warm against her palm, almost alive.

Neville leaned over her shoulder. “That doesn’t look safe.”

Ginny turned it slowly, fascinated. “It looks… powerful.”

“It looks cursed.” Neville’s voice had a nervous edge. “Come on, Ginny, we’ve got what we came for. Leave it.”

But she was already slipping it into her bag beside the sword. “Just in case,” she said briskly, brushing off the dust from her hands.

The corridors of Hogwarts were hushed and cavernous when they slipped from the Room. Their footsteps echoed faintly, swallowed quickly by the silence. Ginny’s heart was still hammering, half from triumph, half from the thrill of sneaking contraband through the castle.

She couldn’t resist. As they passed beneath the high windows, she tugged the strange watch out of her bag. The runes shimmered in the faint torchlight, the dials glimmering like stars caught in glass.

“Ginny,” Neville whispered urgently, “not here—”

“I just want to see—” She ran her finger over the dial. It clicked softly beneath her touch.

The world spun.

The floor lurched away. Air roared in her ears, hot and cold all at once, and Ginny’s lungs seized as though she were drowning. Neville’s hand slipped in hers, flickered like smoke.

Then the roaring stopped.

She hit the stone, hard, and the breath burst from her lungs.

For a moment she couldn’t move. She could only lie there, the watch clutched in her fist, heart slamming against her ribs. The air smelled wrong: smoke, wood, a faint sweetness of autumn.

Neville pushed himself upright, his face pale. “What—what happened?”

Ginny stared at the watch. The dials had shifted, pointing to places she didn’t understand. Her stomach turned cold.

“We’re not… here anymore,” she said hoarsely. “We’re not in our time.”

Neville’s panic sparked at once. “Then we can’t be seen. If we’re—if we’re in the past—what if Dumbledore sees us? Or—or McGonagall? What if we change something?”

Ginny forced herself to stand. Her knees shook. “Then we don’t let them see us. We get out. Honeydukes’ passage.”

Neville looked like he wanted to argue, but he swallowed it. Together, they hurried down the corridor, every torch flickering a threat, every shadow heavy with eyes.

The statue of the one-eyed witch groaned open under Ginny’s whispered charm, and they slipped inside. Dust choked the air. The narrow tunnel stretched ahead into blackness, far darker than Ginny remembered.

They crawled, knees scraping stone, the silence pressing on their backs. Their breath rasped, loud in the confined space. By the time Ginny’s hand found the trapdoor, her palms were raw. She pushed up. Sweet air drifted down: chocolate, sugar, warmth.

She hauled herself into Honeydukes’ basement and pulled Neville after her.

For a moment she just stood there, gulping the sweet air, feeling her lungs ease. Safe. Or almost safe.

Neville slumped against a crate of peppermint toads. His voice shook. “Now what? You—you can undo it, right?”

Ginny pulled the watch out again, brushing the dust from its glass. The runes glimmered faintly, mocking. Her throat tightened. “I can try.”

She turned the dial carefully, trying to remember the motion that had triggered it—

The door creaked.

Both of them froze.

Footsteps came down the stairs, casual but heavy, the sound of someone utterly at ease. A figure appeared in the lamplight: tall, lean, dark hair falling into storm-bright eyes. His wand spun lazily between his fingers, though his gaze was sharp, assessing.

“Well, well,” Sirius Black drawled. His voice was velvet over steel. “What have we here? Two little Hogwarts strays, skulking around a sweetshop basement.”

Ginny’s stomach dropped. He looked like a ghost from a story that came to life. Not the hollow-eyed man she’d seen briefly in the future, but young, brilliant, reckless — dangerous.

Neville stammered, “We—we were just—”

Sirius’s grin widened, wolfish. “Sneaking sweets? Breaking curfew? Don’t worry, I won’t tell. But…” His eyes narrowed, flicking to Ginny’s bag. A corner of parchment peeked out — the Marauder’s Map. His amusement vanished.

“That wouldn’t happen to be my map, would it?”

Before Ginny could hide it, Sirius lunged. He was faster than she expected, Quidditch-fast. In a blink he had Neville pinned to the floor, wand digging into his throat.

“Hand it over,” Sirius ordered, his voice low and sharp. “The map. The sword. And that shiny little bauble you’ve been fiddling with.”

Ginny froze. His gaze bored into hers, suspicion fierce and unrelenting. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the watch from her bag, holding it out.

Sirius snatched it. He turned it over in his hand, curiosity flickering across his face. “What’s this, then? A trinket from Filch’s office?”

“Don’t touch it—” Ginny gasped.

But Sirius had already pressed the dial.

The world shattered into light again. Chains of fire wrapped them together, Neville’s cry torn away in the rushing gold, Sirius’s curse cut short, Ginny’s scream burning in her throat—

And all three of them were gone.

Sirius

The night in Hogsmeade had been dull until Sirius Black decided to make it interesting.

He’d started at the Three Broomsticks with a few firewhiskies — Madam Rosmerta only half-heartedly refused him now, though she always rolled her eyes when he winked and tossed galleons on the counter. After that, he’d nicked a pack of contraband cigarettes from a Slytherin he’d hexed earlier in the week. The smoke curled now from his lips as he leaned against a lamppost, bottle swinging from his hand.

The war was tightening its grip on everything — but tonight he wanted to forget that. Forget the shadows lengthening in Diagon Alley, forget the whisper of names that would never come back. Tonight was for drinking, smoking, and maybe a bit of mischief.

He’d been debating whether to hex the trousers off some unsuspecting prefect when a faint sound drifted from Honeydukes. Not the clatter of shopkeepers shutting down, not the lazy hum of late-night stragglers. Something else. A thud. A muffled voice.

Sirius narrowed his eyes.

Most people wouldn’t notice. He wasn’t most people.

He slipped into the sweetshop’s alleyway, wand sliding easily into his hand. The back door creaked open under a charm, and he padded inside. The main shop was dark, but downstairs — the basement. Another sound, faint but clear.

Grinning now, Sirius took the stairs two at a time. Mischief had just found him.

The basement smelled of sugar and dust. His boots hit the stone floor softly as his wandlight cut through the gloom. And there — not rats, not shopkeepers — but two students.

Hogwarts robes, definitely. A redheaded girl and a nervous-looking boy.

Sirius stopped at the bottom of the stairs, taking them in with interest.

The girl was striking — small, sharp, flame-haired, wand clenched in one hand, eyes lit with a fierce stubbornness that didn’t match her size. She looked like trouble wrapped up in freckles. He almost liked her already.

The boy, on the other hand, was pale and awkward, glancing around like a rabbit waiting for a hawk. Solid build, though, and something steady under the nerves. The sort of kid who’d follow a Gryffindor into hell but mutter about it the whole way.

Neither of them he recognized. And Sirius prided himself on recognizing faces. Especially Gryffindor ones.

“Well, well,” he drawled, stepping closer. “What have we here? Two little runaways raiding the sweetshop basement?”

The boy jumped. The girl didn’t. She fixed him with a look as steady as if he were the intruder.

Sirius raised a brow. Bold.

“Names,” he said lightly, though his wand twitched in his hand. “Unless you’d rather I drag you back up the hill to McGonagall.”

The girl’s voice was steady. “Ginerva Granger.”

The boy swallowed hard, then blurted, “Neville—uh—Thomas.”

Ginerva Granger. Neville Thomas. Sirius smiled thinly. They were lying. The girl’s eyes gave her away — clever, calculating, daring him to call her bluff.

He might have played along, except his gaze drifted lower — to the edge of parchment poking from her bag. A corner of it, curling, with a line of ink that shifted faintly on its own.

His heart gave a jolt.

That wasn’t parchment. That was his map.

Before the girl could move, Sirius lunged. He moved like a wolf, fast, reckless, pinning the boy flat to the stone floor in a blink. His wand pressed hard against the boy’s throat.

“Hand it over,” Sirius said, his grin gone sharp and dangerous. “The map. The sword. And that shiny little trinket you’ve been fondling.”

The redhead froze. For a moment he saw her weighing her options, eyes flicking between Neville’s wide stare and his own wand. Brave little thing. Braver than was good for her.

At last, she reached into her bag. Fingers trembling, she pulled out a gleaming golden watch, etched with runes Sirius didn’t recognize. She held it out slowly.

Sirius snatched it from her hand. The weight was solid, strange. He turned it over, intrigued despite himself. “What’s this, then? A toy? Doesn’t look like anything Filch would confiscate…”

“Don’t touch it—!” the girl cried, sudden panic bursting from her throat.

Too late. Sirius’s thumb pressed one of the dials.

The world erupted in gold.

The chains of light wrapped them all, burning hot as firewhisky down his throat. Sirius cursed, but the sound was swallowed by the roar of magic. The boy screamed. The redhead lunged, her hand brushing his wrist and closing around the watch as the light tore them all apart.

And then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

The golden light collapsed like a wave snapping back into itself.

Ginny hit the stone floor with a hard thud that jarred every bone in her body. Her lungs seized, choking on the stale sweetness of sugar and cocoa dust. The cellar air of Honeydukes was thick with chocolate, dust, and faint mildew. She groaned, rolling to her side, clutching the strange pocket watch—the Time-Turner—still hot in her fist.

Beside her, Neville let out a sound that was not quite a scream and not quite a groan. Ginny twisted her head and froze. Sirius Black was still on top of him, one knee pressed hard into his spine, wrenching Neville’s arm backward in a grip so brutal Ginny could hear the bone creak.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Sirius snarled, his voice hoarse from smoke and drink but sharp with suspicion. His grey eyes glinted dangerously in the dim light, narrowed and feverish.

“Stop!” Ginny scrambled onto her knees, reaching out. “You’ll—”

The bone gave way with a horrible crack.

Neville screamed, thrashing once before collapsing, his face pale and sheened with sweat. His wand rolled away across the dusty stones.

Sirius leaned down, pressing Neville’s face against the ground, his grip iron. “What was that light? What did you just do to us?”

Ginny’s stomach flipped with panic and fury. “It—it was a Time-Turner!”

Sirius’s head snapped toward her. For a second there was stillness, only the sound of Neville’s ragged breathing. Then Sirius laughed, sharp and humorless. “A Time-Turner? Cute story. Try again.”

“I’m not lying!” Ginny shot back, her voice rising in desperation. “It’s the truth. That thing you touched—the pocket watch—it’s a Time-Turner. You pressed the dial. You dragged us through time!”

Sirius’s laugh came again, harsher, and he shoved Neville’s broken arm until another cry tore loose from him. “So what you’re telling me, sweetheart,” Sirius said, his words clipped and furious, “is that I’ve travelled through time and you guys are some time travellers. What? This is all some fairytale you expect me to swallow?”

Her throat was raw, but she forced the words out. “My name’s not Ginerva Granger.”

His eyes narrowed, dangerous, skeptical.

“My name is Ginny Weasley. And that—” she pointed with trembling fingers at Neville, who lay half-conscious against the stone— “is Neville Longbottom. You, Sirius Black, you’ve been pulled forward. This is our time. Not yours.”

The cellar’s silence felt cavernous.

For the first time, Sirius’s grip loosened. His eyes flicked between them, sharp and restless, like an animal sniffing for a trap. His lips curled in a sneer, but his voice cracked faintly.

“Weasley,” he repeated slowly. His gaze dragged over her hair, her face, her stubborn chin. “Red hair. That would make you one of Arthur’s brats.”

Ginny stiffened but nodded once.

“Arthur has a daughter?” Sirius demanded. His voice was mocking, but a crease had formed between his brows. “When I saw him at the Ministry last month, the man only had sons to his name. He had Molly at his side, yes, but no baby girl dangling from her robes. And you expect me to believe you’re his daughter?”

“I am,” Ginny said, her voice steady despite the hammering of her pulse.

“And Longbottom…” Sirius’s gaze cut to Neville, then back. His sneer faltered, replaced by something sharper. “I know Frank and Alice Longbottom. I’ve fought beside them. You’re telling me this boy is their son?”

“Yes,” Ginny whispered. “He is.”

Sirius’s eyes flickered. For an instant, something like horror cracked across his face. Then it vanished, buried beneath fury. He yanked Neville upright by his collar, ignoring the boy’s strangled groan.

“Frank doesn’t have children,” Sirius growled. “Alice doesn’t have children. So unless the pair of you crawled out of some cursed fairytale book, you’re lying through your teeth.”

“We’re not!” Ginny’s own voice broke now, anger bursting through. “We’re telling you the truth. It’s not just us you need to believe—it’s Harry Potter.”

Sirius froze.

The name slammed into the silence like a curse. Ginny could feel Neville trembling beside her, hearing his breath hitch, but her eyes were locked on Sirius’s.

His face twisted, raw disbelief flooding it, then rage, then something brittle and wounded she couldn’t read.

“What did you just say?” His voice was low, deadly.

“Harry Potter,” Ginny said again, her throat tight. “You don’t know him yet, but you will. You’ll know him better than anyone.”

Sirius’s mask cracked. For a moment, his fury faltered, his eyes darting wildly as if to banish what he’d just heard. “That’s not possible. Potter—Potter doesn’t even have a child yet—”

“He will,” Ginny said, desperation roughening her voice. “And Harry will be his son. And yours, Sirius—yours to protect.”

Sirius shoved Neville back to the ground as though burned. His chest rose and fell sharply, his eyes wild.

“Enough,” he snarled. “Enough of this nonsense. You’re coming with me. We’ll see what the Order makes of you.”

Ginny’s heart jumped into her throat. She knew what that meant. He'll drag us out unaware of the dangerous outside, he'll get us caught. It meant the Carrows, prowling Hogwarts under Snape’s reign. It meant disaster.

Her wand snapped up, her words flying out before she could think. “Expelliarmus!”

But Sirius was faster.

“Protego!” His shield charm flared instantly, blasting her spell aside in a burst of sparks. He surged forward, his movements fluid, vicious, practiced. Before she could blink, his hand closed around her wrist, twisting cruelly until her wand dropped from her fingers.

“No—” Ginny cried, lunging for it, but he shoved her down with a ferocity that stole her breath. His knee pressed into her shoulder, pinning her, his wand-tip cold against her throat.

“Nice try,” Sirius growled, his face inches from hers. His breath reeked of firewhisky and smoke. “But you’re not half as clever as you think.”

Ginny’s chest heaved. Her free hand clawed against his sleeve, but his strength was relentless, pressing her to the cold stone.

Neville groaned helplessly nearby, clutching his broken arm.

Sirius’s eyes were hard and grey, his lips twisted. “Do that again, and I’ll break your wand before you can blink.”

“Get off me,” Ginny spat, her voice trembling with fury.

“Not a chance.”

He dragged them up the cellar steps one by one, Neville half-dragged by the collar like a sack of grain, Ginny’s wrist clamped in his bruising grip. The trapdoor creaked open, and they stumbled into the silent sweetshop. The air smelled of sugar and dust. Sirius shoved them forward, muttering under his breath—“bloody liars—bloody spies—Dumbledore will sort you out—”

The front door banged open. Cold air slapped Ginny’s face, stinging her lungs. She stumbled into the street, Sirius’s grip unyielding.

But Hogsmeade was wrong.

Shops were boarded, windows shattered, signs torn and crooked. Posters fluttered against walls— Darkness clung to every corner. The very air felt heavy, poisoned.

Sirius stopped short. His grip tightened. His eyes darted, wide, unsettled. “What in Merlin’s—”

Then the temperature plummeted.

Ginny’s breath frosted white. The hair on her arms stood on end. She knew that feeling too well.

“No,” she whispered.

Shapes glided from the shadows—dark, robed, faceless. The air grew colder, deader, suffocating.

Sirius’s eyes widened. “Dementors.”

More emerged from alleys, circling, closing in.

“They’re not supposed to be—” His voice broke. He lifted his wand, but Ginny yanked against his grip.

“Give it to me!”

His head snapped toward her, furious. “Over my dead—”

She wrenched it free, spinning before he could stop her. Her heart thundered. Her voice cracked.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The silver burst weakly from the tip, flickering, unstable. A fox bounded forward, its shape wavering like a mirage. Still, it darted toward the nearest Dementors, scattering them back in jerks and flares of white.

The cold eased. The circle faltered.

Ginny gasped, her arm trembling. The wand wasn’t hers. The spell was weaker than it should be. But it was enough for now.

She grabbed Sirius’s sleeve, shoving him toward the trapdoor. “Down! All of us—now!”

Neville stumbled, Sirius cursing, but Ginny pushed them both, yanking the trapdoor open. They tumbled through a tangle of limbs.

The fall was hard. Neville hit with a choked cry, curling around his broken arm. Sirius rolled and swore. Ginny pitched headlong—

—and landed against him.

His arm caught her, twisted to shield her from the stone. Her cheek slammed into his chest, his breath huffing against her hair. For a moment the world was only their ragged breathing, their bodies pressed close.

Then Sirius shoved her off, his face thunderous.

“You’ve got two seconds to explain,” he snarled, his wand raised, his eyes burning with suspicion and fury, “before I decide you’re Death Eaters in disguise and end this now.”

Ginny pushed herself upright, trembling, defiance burning in her chest. “Then listen, Sirius. Trust me for five minutes, and I’ll explain everything. But we need to get out of here—before more Dementors arrive.”

His wand didn’t lower. His gaze was sharp and cutting, every muscle tight with tension.

“If you’re lying to me…” His voice was low, lethal. “…I’ll kill you myself.”

Ginny didn’t flinch. “Then you’d better hope I’m telling the truth.”

The cellar air was damp and cold, heavy with the muffled scrape of wings above. Neville whimpered faintly beside them.

And Sirius Black—nineteen years old, pulled from his war into theirs—finally lowered his wand.

Only slightly.

“Fine,” he said. “Talk.”

The cellar was silent except for Neville’s ragged breathing and the faint, echoing scrape of something moving above. Dust and the scent of sugar clung to the air, mingling with the sharp tang of Sirius’s smoke-stained clothes. Ginny’s wand was still in his hand, his knuckles white where he gripped it.

She sat back on her heels, heart hammering, and forced herself to breathe. “The year,” she began, her voice shaking at first, then gathering strength, “is 1997.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed, watching her like a hawk circling prey.

“Voldemort has returned,” Ginny continued, each word heavy. “The Dementors out there—they aren’t guarding Azkaban anymore. They’ve joined him. That’s why they’re here. That’s why we need to get out of this cellar before more come.”

For once, Sirius didn’t have a quick retort. He blinked, his lips parting as if she’d struck him. Slowly, like someone reeling from a blow, he shook his head. “That’s—no. That’s impossible. He’s—he’s not that strong"

“No,” Ginny cut in, fiercely, too fiercely. “You don’t understand, Sirius. He came back. Properly. He’s not a memory, or a shade. He’s flesh and blood, and half the wizarding world is under his thumb again.”

Sirius stared at her, his expression torn between fury and disbelief. “You expect me to swallow that?”

“I don’t care if you swallow it or not.” Ginny shoved a hand into her pocket, her fingers trembling. She pulled free the Time-Turner—its broken remnants glinting in the cellar’s dim light. The chain was snapped, the tiny dial cracked in two like shattered glass.

Sirius’s eyes fixed on it instantly.

“It broke,” Ginny said, holding it out for him to see. Her voice dropped, bitter and low. “When you pressed the dial, it burned itself out. One use. That’s all it had left in it.”

For a moment, the cellar seemed to shrink around them. Sirius’s stare bored into her, as though sheer fury might undo what she’d said. “So you’re telling me,” he said, his tone quiet, terrifyingly calm, “that I’m stuck here. In your time. With—this.”

“Yes.”

His laugh was hollow, sharp. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Dragged out of my war and thrown into yours. Tell me, do you and your little friend here make a hobby of destroying lives?”

Ginny’s temper snapped. “Don’t you dare blame Neville for this. You’re the one who grabbed the bloody thing! If you’d just listened for five seconds instead of acting like some reckless idiot, we might have been able to get home cleanly!”

The words echoed, and Sirius’s expression darkened into a thundercloud. “Reckless idiot?” He leaned closer, eyes burning. “Listen here, little girl—”

Neville whimpered.

Both of them froze.

Ginny’s head whipped toward him. Neville was curled on his side, his face chalk white, his arm dangling uselessly at an ugly angle. A fresh wave of guilt punched her in the gut.

“Merlin—Neville!” She scrambled to him, brushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead. His teeth were clenched, his breaths shallow and shaky. She winced at the sight of his shoulder, nearly dislocated from its socket, bruising already spreading beneath the skin.

Her anger surged hot again, but this time at Sirius. She snapped her gaze back to him. “Look what you did!”

He flinched, almost imperceptibly. Then his jaw tightened. “He was lying to me. Both of you were. I don’t go gentle on liars.”

“He’s not a liar,” Ginny shot back, fierce as a hex. “And if you’d stop posturing like a bloody troll for two minutes, you’d see he’s half-dead thanks to you.”

Sirius’s nostrils flared. For a second, it seemed he might lash out again. But then Neville groaned, and something in Sirius’s gaze flickered. He looked away.

“We don’t have time for this,” Neville rasped suddenly. His voice was weak, but it cut through the charged silence. He swallowed hard, blinking at them. “If we’re going back into the castle, we’ll have to be careful. The Carrows are everywhere. And Snape—”

Sirius’s head snapped toward him. “Snape?” The word was spat like venom. “Severus Snape?”

“Yes,” Neville whispered, his good hand pressed to his ribs.

Sirius’s lip curled. “Don’t tell me he’s still slithering around. Or hiding behind Dumbledore like the greasy little coward he is?”

Ginny hesitated. The weight in her chest grew heavy, almost unbearable. She glanced at Neville, but his eyes were closed, his mouth tight with pain. The truth pressed hot against her tongue.

“He’s the Headmaster.”

The words dropped into the cellar like stones.

For a long moment, Sirius didn’t move. His face was blank, unreadable. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward her. His eyes burned with a dangerous, storm-grey light.

“The Headmaster?”

Ginny forced herself to nod.

“And Dumbledore?” His voice cracked on the name. “Where is he?”

Her throat clenched. She wanted to look away, but she didn’t.

“He’s dead.”

The silence that followed was like the grave itself.

Killed by Snape, she thought. She hadn’t said it yet, but she knew she would have to.

Sirius’s face crumpled. The fury there sharpened into something molten, uncontainable. His whole body seemed to vibrate with it.

“How?” His voice was hoarse, dangerous.

Ginny’s lips trembled. She whispered it like a curse. “Snape killed him.”

The explosion came instantly. Sirius surged to his feet, the shadows of the cellar trembling with his shout.

“I’ll kill him.” His voice was thunder, raw and ragged. “I’ll tear his throat out with my own hands. Where is he? Point me to him—now!”

“Stop it!” Ginny shouted, leaping to her feet to block him. “Do you think charging at him will fix anything? You’ll get yourself killed!”

“I don’t care!” Sirius bellowed, pacing, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. “He killed Dumbledore! That greasy half-blood traitor—I’ll gut him where he stands—”

“You’ll only make things worse!” Ginny snapped, shoving at his chest, fury matching his. “We don’t need your temper right now. We need your help. Neville needs your help.”

Sirius glared down at her, chest heaving, teeth bared. For a second, she thought he might strike her, or hex her, or do something equally reckless.

Then Neville groaned again.

The sound broke through Sirius’s rage like a crack in glass. His breath caught, his shoulders trembling. He tore his eyes away, muttering a curse under his breath, raking both hands through his dark, tangled hair.

“Bloody hell,” he spat.

The sound above came again—a muffled thump, a scrape of boots against floorboards.

All three froze.

Ginny’s head jerked toward the trapdoor, her heart slamming. Someone was upstairs.

She turned back to Sirius, her voice sharp, urgent. “We don’t have time for this. Help me get him back to the castle before we’re discovered.”

Sirius hesitated, still trembling with fury.

Then, without a word, he crouched beside Neville. With surprising gentleness, he slipped an arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him as though he weighed nothing. Neville gasped, but Sirius steadied him, bracing his broken arm carefully against his chest.

“Lead the way,” Sirius growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Ginny exhaled, clutching her wand tight as she pushed open the cellar’s rear door, leading them out into the night.

Behind her, Sirius Black followed, Neville in his arms, his face thunderous and unreadable—nineteen years old, out of time, out of place, and carrying the weight of wars not yet his own.

Chapter Text

The passageway from Honeydukes was colder than Ginny remembered. Damp air clung to the rough stone, filling her lungs with the taste of earth and mildew. The tunnel stretched on before them like an endless throat, swallowing the thin glow of her wandlight.

Neville sagged heavily between her and Sirius, his face pale, lips pinched tight against the pain. Every few steps he let out a muffled groan, his breath catching whenever his shoulder shifted. Ginny’s arm burned with the effort of supporting his weight, but she kept her grip firm, jaw clenched.

Beside her, Sirius carried Neville’s other side. His expression was hard, lips pressed thin, but Ginny caught the tension in his jaw, the quick flicker of his eyes toward the boy each time he stumbled. He was furious still — she could feel it radiating off him — yet beneath the fury there was something else, something she hadn’t expected.

They moved in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing faintly against stone. Then Sirius’s low voice cut through the dark.

“You want to tell me,” he said, almost conversationally, though his eyes were sharp, “how in Merlin’s name you two got hold of the Marauders’ Map?”

Ginny froze for half a second before answering. “I—” She swallowed, her throat dry. “I got it from Harry.”

The name slipped before she could stop herself.

Sirius’s head snapped toward her. Even in the dim glow, she saw his eyes narrow. “Harry?” he repeated. “Harry Potter?”

Ginny’s heart thudded painfully. She stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes, focusing instead on the uneven ground beneath her boots. “Just… Harry. Doesn’t matter right now.”

Sirius barked a laugh — harsh, suspicious. “Oh, it bloody matters. You don’t just drop a name like that and—”

He broke off abruptly, his gaze flicking down to her arms. She was trembling with the strain of holding Neville upright. Sweat dampened her hairline, her wand-hand shaking slightly with the effort of keeping the passage lit.

Sirius slowed his pace, studying her with an unreadable expression. Then, without a word, he shifted Neville’s full weight onto himself.

“I’ve got him,” he muttered gruffly. “You’ll drop the both of you at this rate.”

Ginny blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden gentleness beneath his irritation. For a moment she wanted to argue, pride bristling — but the relief flooding her aching muscles was too sharp. She released Neville carefully, letting Sirius adjust the boy against his chest.

“Fine,” she said quietly, trying to keep the gratitude from her voice.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, as though daring her to protest further, then turned to her and held out his hand.

“My wand,” he demanded.

Ginny hesitated — then, after a long moment, pressed it into his palm. Sirius gave it a quick flick, his grip easy, natural. But then he surprised her again, handing it back almost instantly.

“You’ll need light,” he said simply.

Ginny took it, whispering, “Lumos.” The tip flared, casting the tunnel in pale, silvery glow. For a breath, it felt almost companionable — the three of them moving together through the dark.

The illusion shattered minutes later.

Neville groaned suddenly, his knees buckling. Sirius swore, lowering him awkwardly to the ground. The boy’s face was drenched with sweat, eyes screwed shut.

“Bloody hell,” Sirius muttered. “He’s useless like this. We’ll have to drag him.”

Ginny dropped to her knees beside Neville, panic clawing at her throat. “Don’t you dare,” she snapped. “He’s in pain, can’t you see? His arm—” She tugged gently at Neville’s shoulder and bit back her own gasp when she saw it, nearly wrenched from its socket, the joint grotesquely swollen.

Sirius crouched opposite her, jaw clenched. “And what do you suggest, then? Leave him here?”

“I can help,” Ginny shot back. “Not much, but—enough to keep him moving.”

Before he could argue, she raised her wand and murmured the incantation. Her magic was rough, unsteady — not the clean efficiency of a trained Healer — but the faint glow seeped into Neville’s shoulder, easing the angry twist of the joint back into place. Neville whimpered, then stilled, his breathing evening out slightly.

Ginny exhaled in relief, brushing sweat from her forehead. “There. That’ll hold for now.”

When she looked up, Sirius was watching her. Not mockery, not suspicion — just a flash of something like surprise, quickly masked beneath a crooked, sardonic smile.

“Not bad,” he said dryly. “For a schoolgirl.”

Ginny bristled, ready with a retort, but his tone wasn’t cruel. Almost — grudgingly impressed. She settled for rolling her eyes and muttering, “You’re welcome.”

Sirius chuckled under his breath, then leaned forward, lifting Neville with practiced ease. The boy groaned faintly but didn’t wake.

“Come on,” Sirius said. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

They pressed on, deeper into the tunnel. The air grew colder, damper, and Ginny’s wandlight trembled against the walls. Every sound seemed amplified — the shuffle of Sirius’s boots, the ragged breath of Neville, the faint dripping of water from unseen cracks.

Finally, the low ceiling widened, and the rough stone gave way to a opening overhead. Ginny’s pulse quickened. They were back beneath Hogwarts.

She held up a hand, halting Sirius. “Wait.”

He frowned, shifting Neville’s weight. “What now?”

Ginny turned to him, her voice low, urgent. “Things aren’t the same. The castle—it’s not safe. Death Eaters have taken it over. The Carrows—brother and sister—they run the punishments now. They use Cruciatus on students for disobedience. Snape’s the Headmaster and he's a death eater too”

The fury that broke across Sirius’s face was almost feral. He shifted Neville roughly in his arms, glaring up at the ceiling. “Point me to Snape,” he growled. “I’ll end this right now.”

Ginny caught his arm, her voice sharp. “Don’t be stupid. You’ll get us all killed. We need to hide you first. If anyone sees you, you’ll be exposed.”

He wrenched his arm free but didn’t move toward the door. His chest rose and fell with heavy, furious breaths.

“Hide me where?” he demanded.

“The Room of Requirement,” Ginny said firmly. “It can become anything we need. It’s safe, hidden. If we can get Neville there, we can plan.”

Sirius stared at her, conflict written across his face. Then, with a rough exhale, he nodded once.

“Fine. But the moment I see Snape—”

“Not now,” Ginny cut in. “Later. Maybe. But not now.”

A sudden thump echoed from above — muffled voices, footsteps. Ginny’s blood ran cold.

“They’re patrolling,” she whispered. “Quickly, help me with the trapdoor—”

But Sirius was already moving, shifting Neville carefully, his wand clenched tight in his free hand, his grey eyes glittering with something between fury and resolve.

And above them, the footsteps drew closer.

The footsteps above pressed down like a weight. Heavy, measured, echoing off stone. Ginny froze beneath the trapdoor, her wandlight guttering against the damp walls. Sirius stilled too, his body tensed like a sprung bow, every line of him humming with readiness. Even Neville, fevered and half-unconscious in his arms, seemed to hold his breath.

The voices were low, too muffled to make out, but the cadence was unmistakable: clipped, cruel, the way Death Eaters always seemed to speak, like they already owned the ground under their feet.

Ginny swallowed hard, straining to listen. If it was the Carrows—Merlin help them if it was the Carrows—

Sirius leaned slightly toward her, grey eyes glinting in the dim light. His whisper was sharp as a knife. “Who is it?”

“Shh,” she hissed, raising a finger.

He bristled but obeyed. The footsteps drew closer, pausing directly above. Dust sifted down through the cracks in the trapdoor. Ginny felt her stomach tighten into a painful knot.

For one terrible moment, she was sure the door would creak open and a wand tip would pierce the dark, exposing them like rats in a cage. Her grip on her wand tightened so hard her knuckles ached.

Then—slowly, mercifully—the footsteps moved on. The voices faded, swallowed by the castle’s endless, haunted silence.

Ginny let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Beside her, Sirius exhaled too, though his release sounded more like a growl.

“They’ve gone,” she whispered.

Sirius tilted his head toward the trapdoor. “Not far. This place reeks of patrols.”

Ginny nodded grimly. “That’s why we move now.”

She glanced back at Neville, his head lolling against Sirius’s shoulder, his breath shallow. “I’ll get you to the Room of Requirement first. It’s safe, hidden—you can lay low there. But Neville—” She hesitated, guilt rising hot in her chest. “I’ll have to take him to Madam Pomfrey. His shoulder’s too bad. He needs real healing.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll just stroll into the hospital wing with him like nothing’s wrong? You’ll be caught the moment someone asks what you were doing out of bed.”

Ginny set her jaw. “I’ll manage. I’m a prefect—I can make excuses. And it wouldn’t be the first time Neville and I got caught breaking rules.” Her voice turned bitter, her lips twisting. “Detention’s practically a hobby these days.”

Something in Sirius’s expression shifted. His mouth quirked, though his eyes stayed sharp. “Detention, eh? What’s one more scar for the collection?”

Ginny lifted her chin. “Exactly.”

For a moment, he studied her in silence. His gaze wasn’t mocking now—it was measuring, weighing, as if he were seeing her for the first time not as a reckless liar in a sweetshop cellar, but as someone who had grown up in the teeth of the war.

He opened his mouth, as though to say more—but the silence above was too fragile to waste. Ginny pressed a finger to her lips, then motioned for him to follow.

The door creaked as she pushed it open, slow and careful. Cold drafts swept down from the castle corridors above. She peeked through the gap—empty. For now.

“Come on,” she whispered.

Sirius climbed first, managing Neville’s limp weight with surprising ease. Ginny followed, shutting the door silently behind her. They found themselves in a narrow corridor lined with stone, dim torches guttering against the walls. The air here smelled faintly of dust and old magic.

Ginny led them quickly, pressing close to the wall whenever distant footsteps echoed. Sirius moved silently, his grip on Neville firm but careful. For all his earlier bravado, he was no fool; he followed her lead, his sharp eyes darting, absorbing every detail of this twisted version of Hogwarts.

At last, they reached the familiar blank stretch of wall on the seventh floor. Ginny slowed, heart hammering, and passed by three times, her mind focused desperately: We need safety. We need a place to hide him.

The door shimmered into being.

Sirius’s brows shot up, surprise breaking briefly through his scowl. “Now that’s new.”

“No time,” Ginny muttered, pushing the door open.

Inside, the Room had become a safehouse of sorts: soft armchairs, low-burning lanterns, shelves stacked with blankets. Ginny exhaled, tension easing as she guided Sirius in.

He laid Neville gently on a conjured cot, adjusting his bad arm carefully. For a moment, Sirius’s face softened—just a flicker—before he turned sharply back to Ginny.

“All right,” he said. “We’re here. Now explain. Properly this time.”

Ginny swallowed. Her throat felt tight, her body aching from the night’s strain. She wanted to sit, to breathe, to let her mind stop racing for just a second. But Neville stirred faintly, grimacing in pain, and she knew there was no time.

“I can’t,” she admitted. “Not yet. I need to get Neville to Pomfrey before his shoulder gets worse. If I leave him, it could—”

Sirius cut her off with a scowl. “You expect me to sit here twiddling my thumbs while you run off? You dragged me into—”

“Lay low,” Ginny snapped, sharper than she intended. “Please. Just for now. I’ll come back. I’ll explain everything. I’ll have a plan.”

For a long moment, they glared at each other—red-haired girl, nineteen-year-old man out of time, both too stubborn to back down.

At last Sirius let out a frustrated breath and dropped into a chair, running a hand through his dark hair. “Fine. But if you don’t come back—”

“I will,” Ginny said firmly.

She bent, brushing a strand of damp hair from Neville’s forehead, her expression softening. Then she straightened, meeting Sirius’s stormy gaze one last time.

“Stay hidden. Trust me.”

He didn’t answer, but his grey eyes followed her closely as she slipped her arm beneath Neville’s good shoulder, lifting him carefully.

With one last look back, Ginny opened the door. The shadows of the corridor stretched long and threatening. She tightened her grip on Neville, raised her wand, and stepped out—leaving Sirius Black, out of his own time, brooding in the flickering half-light of a room that was never supposed to exist.

Chapter Text

The Room of Requirement was quiet. Too quiet.

Sirius Black leaned back in the chair he’d claimed, legs sprawled, arms draped carelessly as though he owned the space. But his body was taut, his mind restless, every nerve thrumming with unease. He had never liked being still. Sitting still meant thinking, and thinking meant facing truths he’d rather bury beneath laughter and firewhisky.

But there was no laughter here. Only the sharp scent of conjured candles, the muted crackle of magical lanterns, and the echo of words he couldn’t forget.

It’s 1997.

Sirius rubbed at his jaw, feeling the faint rasp of stubble. The year rolled around his head like a curse. Nineteen-ninety-seven. Nearly eighteen years since the war he was fighting now. And Voldemort—still alive. Still winning, by the looks of it.

That meant one thing.

They hadn’t stopped him.

Not in Sirius’s time, not in the battles the Order was bleeding itself dry to fight. Not with Dumbledore leading them, not with James and Lily, with Remus, with himself—none of it had been enough.

His stomach churned. He thought of the nights spent planning, the maps spread across tables, Dumbledore’s voice sharp with strategy, James making reckless jokes to mask his nerves, Lily calmly poking holes in every plan until they patched them airtight. The Marauders, invincible in their youth, laughing at danger as though it were nothing.

And still, here they were. Decades later, and Voldemort hadn’t been vanquished.

“Bloody brilliant,” Sirius muttered to the empty room, his hand curling into a fist.

Dumbledore—dead.

Killed by Severus Snape.

His lip curled at the thought. Of all the names Ginny Weasley could have spoken, that was the one that had nearly driven him over the edge. Snape, the sneering half-blood Prince of Slytherin, Potions Master with a grudge the size of the castle. Sirius had hated him with the kind of fury that burned hot and fast, never cooling. And now, in the twisted timeline he’d landed in, Snape was Headmaster. Dumbledore was in the ground, and Snape had put him there.

A sharp laugh escaped Sirius’s throat, bitter and jagged. “Should’ve let me kill him when I had the chance.”

He could still see it—James pulling him back by the collar in their sixth year, Snape’s eyes blazing with hatred, his wand hand twitching. Sirius had been ready then, so ready to end it. James had stopped him, of course—James always did, because James saw more than Sirius wanted to.

And now James wasn’t here to stop him.

Sirius’s hand itched for his wand. If Snape really was upstairs, strutting around Hogwarts as if he belonged—oh, he would put an end to that. He’d see to it personally.

But not yet.

His gaze shifted to the cot near the wall, where Neville Longbottom had lain before Ginny half-dragged him away. Poor sod. Barely conscious, his shoulder mangled. Sirius hadn’t meant to hurt him that badly—well, maybe he had in the heat of the moment, but the guilt still sat sour in his stomach. The boy had fought, though. Fought with more courage than Sirius would’ve expected, considering he’d been trembling under his wand minutes earlier.

And then there was her.

Ginerva.

The name he knew wasn’t hers, not at first. Ginevra Granger, she’d called herself, all wide-eyed nerves and lies so thin he could poke holes through them with a word. But she hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t crumbled.

He leaned back further in the chair, tilting his head until it rested against the backrest, staring up at the enchanted ceiling of the Room. It shifted faintly, like candlelight through smoke.

Ginny Weasley. Sixteen, maybe? Seventeen at most. Too young, too fragile-looking—and yet she wasn’t. He’d seen her move through those tunnels, steady even while half-carrying her friend. He’d seen the fire in her eyes when she told him to trust her. He’d seen her wand arm steady against the swarm of dementors, Patronus bursting from her like silver fire.

Not fragile at all.

And that hair—Merlin’s beard, it was brighter than Lily’s had ever been. Red like fire, like fury, catching the lamplight in molten streaks.

Sirius ran a hand through his own dark hair, half-smirking to himself. “Sixteen and already braver than half the Order.”

He shouldn’t be thinking of her. Not like that. But here he was, nineteen himself, ripped from his war into theirs, and staring down the ugly truth of it: that this girl had grown up in a world where Voldemort had already won. And she hadn’t broken.

Intriguing. Maddening.

And when she’d snapped at him in the tunnel, voice sharp as a whip—Merlin, Sirius had almost laughed. No one talked to him like that. No one since… Lily, maybe.

His smirk faded into something quieter. The thought of Lily twisted at him, tightening his chest. Was she alive, here? James? Remus? Peter? And the others…

He didn’t know.

And the not knowing was worse than anything.

He’d have to ask. Ginny would know. She was a Weasley—Arthur’s daughter, unless Sirius’s memory had failed him. He’d known Arthur a little, respected him. If the girl was his, then maybe the others had survived too. Maybe there was hope.

His mind circled back, unbidden, to Ginny again. Her wand clenched in her hand. Her chin raised in defiance. The weight of her hand steadying Neville, refusing to falter even as her own body trembled from exhaustion.

Sirius found himself smiling faintly, though there was no one to see it.

“Redhead’s got grit,” he muttered to the silence.

And he realized, with a low hum in his chest, that he was looking forward to her return.

Sirius tipped the chair back on two legs, rocking it dangerously, his boots hooked against the table leg to keep from toppling. He’d never been good at waiting. Patience wasn’t one of his finer qualities; James had always said Sirius’s idea of patience was lasting five minutes without hexing Snivellus.

The Room stayed stubbornly quiet.

He drummed his fingers against the armrest, glanced at the door Ginny had vanished through, then back at the shifting walls. His throat was dry, his head buzzing with too many thoughts and too little to do with them.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “If I’m meant to sit here all night like some caged dog, at least give me something worth the wait.”

The words had hardly left his mouth when a glimmer caught his eye. He froze, chair legs thumping back down as he straightened.

On the far side of the room, a shelf that hadn’t been there before was brimming with bottles. Tall, green-glass ones with faded labels, squat amber ones that gleamed invitingly in the lantern-light. Firewhisky. Mead. Even a pack of contraband-looking cigarettes perched beside them like an afterthought.

Sirius stared, lips curving slowly into a grin.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, pushing up from his chair. “Now that’s more like it.”

He crossed the room with an eager stride, hands sliding into his pockets, grin widening with each step. The closer he got, the clearer it became—this wasn’t some illusion. The bottles were real, solid, catching the glow of the lanterns. His hand closed around one, and the cool glass pressed firm against his palm.

“Merlin’s balls, this place…” He gave a low whistle, examining the label. Ogden’s Old. Top shelf. “Where were you hiding when the Marauders were running amok, eh?”

He plucked up a cigarette too, rolling it between his fingers, the paper crinkling just right. It smelled faintly of spice and rebellion.

“The things we could’ve done with this room.”

His mind leapt unbidden to James’s wicked grin, the gleam in Remus’s tired but willing eyes, Peter’s nervous laugh. A room that gave you whatever you asked for, whenever you asked? They’d never have left. James would’ve turned it into their own private pitch, Remus into a library when he was pretending to keep them out of trouble, Sirius into—well, exactly this. A den for smoking and drinking and plotting their next grand disaster.

He chuckled under his breath, already uncorking the bottle with a pop that echoed faintly through the chamber.

“Resourceful little trick, this,” he said aloud, as though the room itself were listening—and maybe it was. “Pity we never stumbled on you back then. You would’ve loved us.”

He poured a measure into a conjured glass, the amber liquid catching fire in the lantern glow. One sip, and warmth flared down his throat, spreading through his chest, softening the jagged edges of his thoughts.

Sirius leaned back against the shelf, cigarette dangling between two fingers, and shook his head in amusement.

“Always said Hogwarts kept secrets even we hadn’t cracked. And I’ll be damned—looks like I was right.”

He smirked to himself, but behind the grin there was an ache, sharp and sudden. Because James wasn’t here to share the drink. Remus wasn’t here to complain half-heartedly before joining anyway. The laughter that should’ve filled this space was gone, replaced by the hollow sound of his own voice.

He tipped the glass back again, drowning the ache in fire.

“Here’s to you, Prongs,” he murmured, low and rough. “Wherever you are.”

The firewhisky burned pleasantly through his veins, chasing away the ache of dislocation, of being stranded in a time that didn’t belong to him. Cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, and Sirius exhaled with a sigh, the kind that carried both satisfaction and weariness.

The bottles dwindled. The room didn’t judge, didn’t stop him. It simply shifted, obliging, and when his eyes grew heavy, when the glass slipped from his hand and clinked softly against the floor, a bed appeared behind him. Deep green hangings, a mattress that looked sinfully soft, sheets that promised oblivion.

“Clever little place,” he muttered, dragging himself toward it with half a smirk. He collapsed onto the mattress, boots and all, the room tugging him down into its warmth. His last thought before sleep took him was that he could almost hear James’s laugh echoing in the quiet, Remus muttering in exasperation, Peter trying too hard to keep up. The Marauders would’ve made this their kingdom.

Sleep swallowed him whole.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out when the sound jolted him awake. A creak. The scrape of hinges. The door.

Sirius was upright in a heartbeat, wand in hand, instincts flaring. He melted into the shadows, shoulders coiled, muscles tense. Whoever came through that door would find themselves hexed before they could blink.

The footsteps were light, purposeful, familiar. The door swung fully open.

And in walked a small figure, red hair catching the light.

Ginny Weasley.

Sirius exhaled, lowering his wand with a grin that curled slowly across his face. “Well, good morning, sweetheart.”

Her head snapped up at the word, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” He tucked the wand away, sauntering out of the shadows like he’d been waiting just for her. “It suits you. Has a certain… ring.”

She shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass, but he only smirked wider.

In her hands was a plate, piled with food — bread, eggs, a few rashers of bacon wrapped in cloth to keep warm. She crossed the room, set it on the table with a thud. “I came straight from breakfast,” she said briskly, looking at the bottle on the table. “Figured you’d want something that isn’t firewhisky.”

“Kind of you, sweetheart,” he said again, deliberately, settling into the chair and dragging the plate closer. He picked up a slice of bacon, examining it like it was a prize. “Better than I expected, honestly. This place is spoiling me.”

“I’m not your sweetheart.”

“Mm.” He bit into the bacon, chewed with exaggerated appreciation. “If you say so.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue further, instead folding her arms. “I visited Neville before breakfast. He’s healing well — Madam Pomfrey’s working on his shoulder. He’ll be fine in a day or two.”

Sirius raised a brow, chewing leisurely. “You two spend a lot of time together?”

She blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, casual as you like. “He your boyfriend?”

The effect was immediate — Ginny sputtered, nearly choking on her own breath, color rising in her cheeks. “What— no! Absolutely not. That’s none of your business.”

Sirius grinned, savoring it more than the bacon. “Touchy subject, eh?”

“Drop it.”

“As you wish, sweetheart.”

She glared at him again, but her glare only seemed to feed his smirk. He leaned back in the chair, plate balanced on his knee, and gestured lazily with his fork. “All right, then. If it’s not him, I won’t pry. But what I will pry into is what the hell is going on here. You promised answers, and I’ve been waiting patiently — which, if you know anything about me, is a bloody miracle.”

Ginny sat across from him, her hands folded tightly in her lap, as though if she loosened her grip, the words would slip out in the wrong order. Sirius leaned back in the chair, still holding his fork, one eyebrow arched in expectation. The smirk lingered, but there was a sharpness under it now — a keen edge of interest.

“All right,” Ginny began, her voice steady though her fingers twisted against one another. “You’ve been patient. I owe you something of an explanation.”

“Something,” Sirius echoed, savoring the word. “Not everything?”

Her gaze flicked up to meet his, stubborn and unwavering. “Not everything. Because I don’t know if it’s safe.”

That pricked his curiosity further. He set the fork down, plate forgotten again. “Safe for me, or safe for you?”

“For both.” She took in a breath, pressing on before he could needle her further. “The truth is… Neville and I just wandered into your time by accident. We found a device. A time-turner.”

Sirius sat forward a little, frown creasing his brow. He knew the word — vaguely, at least. Ministry toys, restricted things, more rumor than fact during his school days. “A time-turner?”

“Yes.” Ginny nodded. “It pulled us back. To you. To… your time. And then somehow it brought you forward, with us. To now.”

Her face remained serious as she continued, “I don’t know how much more I should tell you. You’ll have to go back eventually. To where you came from. And carrying knowledge of things that haven’t happened yet…” She trailed off, biting her lip, willing him to understand. “It could ruin everything. Change it in ways none of us could predict. I hope you understand that.”

For a moment, Sirius only studied her. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, quickly covered. He was used to people spilling everything at once, especially when he pressed — this measured restraint was irritating and, he admitted grudgingly, clever.

“All right,” he said finally, leaning back again with a lazy shrug. “Keep your secrets, sweetheart. I’ll let you decide what I need to know. But don’t expect me to sit quiet if I smell a lie.”

She bristled at the nickname again but didn’t rise to it this time. Instead, she pressed on. “I don’t understand the mechanics of time travel. I don’t know how any of this works. And unfortunately, there isn’t anyone here I can trust to guide us through it. The one person who might have known…” her voice faltered for the briefest moment, “…he’s gone.”

Sirius caught the tremor, but she pushed past it quickly, squaring her shoulders. “What I can tell you is this: I’m on the side opposing Voldemort. Always have been. Inside this castle, there’s a group of us — students — who fight back. We call ourselves the DA. Dumbledore’s Army.”

At that, Sirius’s lips curled into something sharper than a smirk. “Students,” he repeated, with a low chuckle. “Children playing soldiers against Voldemort?”

“We’re not playing,” Ginny snapped, eyes flashing. “We’re surviving. Fighting. Resisting. Every single day. It’s the only reason Hogwarts hasn’t broken completely under him.”

The conviction in her voice silenced him, at least outwardly. He leaned back, studying her again, this time with something heavier than amusement. Sixteen, maybe, though she carried herself with the iron weight of someone twice that.

Her tone softened then, a glimmer of hope breaking through. “And… the time-turner Neville and I found? It was in this very room. The Room of Requirement. So maybe—” she glanced around at the shelves, the shifting corners, the magic that hummed faintly in the walls “—maybe if we search hard enough, focus properly, it’ll give us another. And then we can send you back. Fix this.”

Sirius tilted his head, watching the determined light in her eyes. She wanted him to believe it — not just because she believed it herself, but because she needed to.

He smirked faintly, though his voice was lower when he spoke. “So that’s your plan, sweetheart. Hope the magic gives us another miracle.”

Her jaw tightened. “It’s better than sitting around drinking yourself stupid.”

That actually made him laugh — a deep, genuine laugh this time, shaking his head as though she’d landed a blow he almost admired. “Merlin, you’ve got fire. No wonder you’re leading some underground student army. All right then, Ginny Weasley-not-my-sweetheart. Let’s see if your room can cough up another miracle.”

The next hour bled slowly away inside the strange, shifting chamber. Sirius had seen many curious places in his nineteen years, but none quite like this. The Room of Requirement, she’d called it. A room that gave you what you needed, so long as you asked hard enough. He couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or unsettled.

Ginny had moved about with fierce determination, scanning shelves, rifling through trunks, muttering half-formed pleas under her breath as though sheer willpower might make the elusive time-turner appear. Sirius, for his part, kept a wary eye on her and the restless walls of the room, though his mouth hardly stayed still.

“So,” he drawled at one point, leaning lazily against a shelf, arms folded as he watched her upend a battered box of quills. “Tell me about him.”

Her head jerked up. “Who?”

“You know who,” Sirius said, and there was an edge under the lazy tone. “Voldemort. The one you lot still haven’t managed to put in the ground, apparently.”

Ginny’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “He’s stronger than ever. He’s got Death Eaters everywhere — in the Ministry, in the castle. Even the Dementors are under his command now. The whole country’s choking on him.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed. “And your student army thinks it can stand against that?”

Her lips twitched in the faintest of smiles. “It’s not about standing against him. Not yet. It’s about surviving. Resisting. Reminding people not everyone has rolled over.” She straightened, dusting her hands. “There are more of us than you think.”

“Names,” Sirius pressed, voice suddenly sharp. “How many?”

Her chin lifted. “Enough. And I’m not about to hand you a list. You’ll just have to take my word.”

He gave a low laugh, though his eyes stayed hard. “You’re more like Dumbledore than I thought. Cryptic answers, stubborn silences. Must be a Gryffindor thing.”

She ignored the jab, turning back to a row of shelves. He kept circling, questions slipping from him like smoke — how many battles had they fought, what spells were they using, what allies they had outside the school. She answered only what she chose, nothing more. Every time he pressed too close, her silence flared into that unflinching stare, and he found himself oddly reluctant to break it.

By the time the hour had waned, the room was no closer to giving them what they wanted. Ginny sank back against a crate, brushing a hand across her forehead in frustration. “Nothing. Not a trace.”

Sirius smirked faintly. “Maybe the room doesn’t think you deserve another miracle yet.”

She shot him a look but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she exhaled and said, “I’ll have to go. I’ve already missed two classes this morning — Transfiguration and Charms. If I skip any more, it’ll look suspicious.” She adjusted her robes, clearly preparing to slip back into the routine of school as if none of this had happened. “But I’ll come back. I promise.”

Sirius watched her stride toward the door. Something sharp twisted in him — an old, familiar impatience. He had never liked waiting, never liked being caged. And this was a cage, however softly it presented itself: walls that shifted, shelves that mocked, a girl who told him half-truths and left him to rot.

Before she could touch the handle, he moved. Swift as a striking dog, his hand shot out, seizing her arm and pressing her back against the heavy wood of the door. His eyes burned down into hers, grey gone storm-dark.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, dangerously, “let’s get one thing clear.” His grip was firm, not cruel, but unyielding. “I don’t do well in cages. And right now, you’re holding the key. You give me half-answers, you feed me scraps, you walk away while I sit here like some dog waiting for its master…” His face dipped closer, voice lowering to a growl. “I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

Ginny’s breath caught, though her gaze did not waver. Her wand hand twitched, but she held it at her side.

“So,” Sirius finished, his smirk curling back, though it was colder now, “you’d better figure something out. And soon. Before I run out of patience.”

For a heartbeat, the room itself seemed to hush, the walls listening. Ginny stared up at him, fire in her eyes, caught between fury and something else she couldn’t quite name.

Chapter Text

The library was quiet that afternoon, hushed and still in a way that made Ginny’s pulse thunder louder in her ears than she liked. Outside, the castle was a nest of vipers — Carrows prowling the corridors, students muttering fearfully in corners, Snape’s shadow cast long and dark across every stone — but here, between the walls of dusty shelves and whispering scrolls, she could almost pretend the war was far away.

Almost.

The stack of books in front of her suggested otherwise. She’d raided the shelves for anything that so much as breathed of time travel: Magical Phenomena Beyond Comprehension, Temporal Charms and Their Consequences, Dangerous Relics of the Department of Mysteries. The texts loomed over her like judges, accusing her of something she already knew: she was in far deeper than she could handle.

Her hands moved mechanically, flipping through yellowed pages, eyes skimming diagrams and looping runes that made no sense. Time loops. Temporal paradoxes. Theories from wizards long dead about how time resisted being bent, about how the past had its own stubborn rules. None of it explained what had happened with Neville, with Sirius, with the broken time-turner still tucked uselessly in her pocket. None of it told her how to undo the damage.

And Merlin, there had been damage.

Her quill hovered over a blank scrap of parchment, her thoughts spilling faster than her ink could catch. What had she done? She hadn’t just stumbled into the past — she had dragged someone out of it, yanked Sirius Black forward nearly twenty years into a world that no longer knew him. And not just any someone. To most of wizarding Britain, Sirius Black was still a convicted murderer, the escaped madman whispered about in Prophet headlines.

To her, though—Ginny pressed her lips together hard—it wasn’t so simple.

To her, he was Harry’s godfather.

Harry’s anchor in the storm. Harry’s hope for a family. Harry’s loss.

The man she’d mourned alongside Harry last year — the man who had fallen through that cursed veil in the Department of Mysteries, gone before he’d even had the chance to live free. That was the Sirius she had known, or thought she had.

And yet…

Her mind wandered, unbidden, back to the cellar at Honeydukes, to the tunnel beneath the castle, to the Room of Requirement. To this Sirius — younger, sharper-edged, dangerous in ways she hadn’t expected. His grip crushing Neville’s arm. His fury when he thought she was lying. The way his grey eyes had burned when he pressed her against the door.

She shivered, though the library was warm.

This Sirius wasn’t the haunted man she remembered through Harry’s stories. This one hadn’t been broken by Azkaban, hadn’t been tempered by years of loss and regret. He was raw, reckless, teeth bared at the world. His temper flared quick as firewhisky; his threats weren’t empty. The Sirius she’d glimpsed through Harry’s grief had been protective, sometimes too much so, even gentle beneath his scars. This version? He was a blade unsheathed.

He had hurt Neville. She closed her eyes briefly, guilt twisting inside her. Neville’s face swam before her — pale, sweating, teeth gritted against pain while his shoulder dangled uselessly. Sirius had barely blinked before wrenching it, pinning him. That Sirius she remembered, Harry’s Sirius, would never have done that.

And yet…

Ginny bit the inside of her cheek, remembering the way his hand had closed around her arm earlier, the heat of his body pinning her to the door. The danger rolling off him like smoke. There had been a threat in his voice, yes, but there had been something else too. Not madness. Not malice. Control. Frustration.

The knowledge that he was cornered, caged, with only her holding the key.

She hated the way the memory lingered. Hated the way her pulse had leapt, not only from fear but from something that felt far too much like awareness. She was sixteen, and he was—Merlin, he was Sirius Black. Nineteen. Older. Sharper. And from a time not his own.

It was wrong. It was dangerous. And it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting him back.

Shaking herself, she dragged her quill back to parchment, scratching notes she barely registered. She had no luxury to dwell on the heat of his gaze or the menace in his voice. This was war. Every second Sirius stayed here was a second closer to catastrophe.

Somehow, some way, she had to find another time-turner. She had to undo this.

Her eyes flicked across the shelves again, scanning spines she had already checked. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a whisper of what she needed.

Her fingers tightened around the broken chain in her pocket. The one they’d found in the Room of Requirement. The one that had carried them both out of time and shattered with the effort.

She’d dragged Sirius here. She would have to be the one to fix it.

Ginny’s shoulders sagged, forehead dropping to rest briefly against the cool wood of the desk. She felt the weight of it pressing down on her — the war outside, the secret she carried, the man waiting in the Room of Requirement who could ruin everything if he slipped loose.

And still, her mind betrayed her, circling back to him. His eyes, storm-grey and sharp. The curve of his smirk as he called her “sweetheart.” The way he seemed to vibrate with dangerous energy, as though he could barely stand still.

No. She shoved the thoughts away, shaking her head fiercely, red hair spilling across her shoulders. No. That way lay disaster. He was a complication she couldn’t afford.

She had to get him back.

And soon.

Ginny straightened, forcing her attention back to the pages in front of her. She would not think about the way his voice had curled against her ear like smoke. She would not think about the strength of his hand pinning her, the threat alive in his gaze.

He was not hers to think about.

He didn’t belong here at all.

Another hour slipped through her fingers like sand. Ginny’s eyes blurred over the curling ink of yet another book — “Time’s Unforgiving Tapestry: Why It Cannot Be Unraveled” — before she finally slammed it shut, the sound echoing harshly in the stillness of the library.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Every text said the same thing: meddling with time was catastrophic, time-turners were tightly regulated by the Ministry, and anything beyond an hourglass charm was impossible.

Except she had done it.

They had done it.

And now she had Sirius Black stranded twenty years ahead of his life with no way back.

Her shoulders slumped as she pushed the books aside, muttering under her breath. “Enough.” If she stayed any longer, she’d draw attention — and the Carrows weren’t the sort who ignored students lingering where they shouldn’t be. The thought of Alecto’s pudgy hand tightening around her wand or Amycus’ lazy, cruel grin was enough to drive her from her seat. She couldn’t afford another detention. Not tonight.

Gathering her things, Ginny slipped out of the library, her footsteps light and careful, echoing down the dark corridor. The castle was quieter now, shadows curling thick along the walls. Her heart picked up its pace with each corner turned, half-expecting to run into Snape himself.

By the time she reached Gryffindor Tower, her nerves felt stretched taut. She murmured the password, slipped past the Fat Lady’s frame, and climbed inside, exhaling in relief at the sight of familiar crimson hangings and the warm fire still burning low in the grate.

She wasn’t alone.

“Ginny.” Seamus Finnigan looked up from an armchair, his expression caught somewhere between relief and concern. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, the firelight catching in his tousled hair. “I’ve been waiting. What the hell happened last night?”

Ginny froze, her stomach lurching. She had known the questions would come — of course they would. Seamus, Neville, Luna, Michael… the DA wasn’t the sort to leave each other in the dark. Still, she hadn’t prepared an answer that didn’t involve time-turners, Sirius Black, and disasters too big to explain.

He frowned at her silence, lowering his voice. “Neville’s in the hospital wing with his shoulder in a sling. No one’s told me how he got hurt. All I’ve heard is the two of you went after the sword of Gryffindor. So…” His eyes searched hers, sharp and worried. “Did you find it?”

Ginny’s throat tightened.

The image came back to her with cruel clarity — the gleam of the sword as Neville lifted it, triumph blazing across his face, only for it to vanish into nothing, like smoke, like it had never been. She remembered her own frantic hands searching her bag where it had been wrapped in cloth, the hollow sound of her voice crying out in the dark outside the infirmary as she pulled out only the cloth and no sword.

“It… it disappeared,” she said finally, forcing the words out steady and low. “Right out of Neville’s hands. We lost it.”

Seamus swore under his breath, sinking back into the chair.

“And Neville—” Ginny’s voice faltered. The image of Sirius pinning him down, the crack of bone, Neville’s gasp of pain—it all stabbed at her chest like glass. She swallowed hard, guilt knotting her throat. “He got hurt because of me. I wasn’t careful enough. The mission was a failure, Seamus. My mistake.”

He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head fiercely. “Don’t you dare do that, Ginny. You’ve carried enough already. Neville knew the risks, same as all of us. He’ll be fine.” He leaned forward again, softer now. “We’ll get the sword. Just… not this time. Don’t put it all on yourself.”

The warmth in his tone, the steady certainty in his eyes, loosened something in her chest. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding it in until now — the failure, the guilt, the crushing knowledge of what she had done. For one brief moment, she let herself breathe.

“Thanks, Seamus,” she said quietly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

He grinned crookedly back. “You look like you need sleep more than anything else. Go on. We’ll sort the rest later.”

Ginny nodded, the exhaustion she’d been holding at bay crashing over her in full. She climbed the stairs to the girls’ dormitory, each step heavier than the last, until she finally collapsed into her bed, tugging the curtains shut around her.

As her head hit the pillow, her mind flickered once more to Sirius — restless, caged, waiting in the Room of Requirement. His eyes like a storm, his voice curling with threat.

She turned over sharply, willing herself not to think of him. Not tonight.

Within minutes, sleep claimed her, heavy and deep, as the fire in the common room burned low.

The morning came too quickly. Ginny blinked against the watery light spilling into the dormitory, her body heavy and reluctant to move. Her chest still carried the weight of last night’s failure — row upon row of useless books, Seamus’ quiet concern, and Sirius, waiting in the shadows of the Room of Requirement with eyes that promised danger if she didn’t find a solution.

She sat up slowly, running a hand through her tangled hair, and pressed her lips together. She couldn’t face him. Not yet. Not without answers. He’d see it on her face — the failure, the fear, the lack of control — and she couldn’t bear that look of scorn again.

Better to buy herself more time. A day, perhaps. Just one more day to think.

So she dressed quickly and went down to breakfast, blending into the flow of Gryffindors spilling into the corridor. She forced herself into the rhythm of the day: toast and pumpkin juice, chatter she barely registered, the scrape of chairs against stone. Then she moved with the tide toward her first class, clutching her bag as though it could anchor her to something solid.

That was when she saw him.

“Neville!”

He was just stepping into the corridor from the direction of the hospital wing, his arm no longer bound, his face lit up with relief. Ginny darted toward him, her bag bouncing at her side, and threw her arms around him. The sheer joy of seeing him whole and upright after the night they’d endured nearly undid her.

“You’re all right,” she breathed, pulling back to look at him. “I’m so sorry, Neville. I—”

But he spluttered, shaking his head quickly. “No, Ginny. Don’t. It’s fine. Really. You don’t need to—”

His words cut off as a drawling voice rang out from behind them.

“Well, well. Isn’t this sweet?”

Ginny stiffened, her stomach sinking. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Draco Malfoy strolled toward them, Crabbe lumbering at his side, both of them smirking as if they’d stumbled across a gift from the gods.

“Look at this, Crabbe,” Malfoy drawled, his grey eyes gleaming with cruelty. “First Thomas, then Potter, and now Longbottom? You’d think Weasley’s standards couldn’t sink any lower, but clearly, we were wrong.”

Crabbe snorted, delighted at the performance. “A regular little whore, isn’t she?”

Ginny’s breath left her in a hiss. The humiliation of the past days, the gnawing guilt, the restless nights and Sirius’ furious voice in her head — it all roared together into a single hot wave of rage. Before she had time to think, her wand was in her hand, and she shouted the words with all the venom she could muster.

“Bat-Bogey Hex!”

Malfoy’s smirk vanished as his own nostrils betrayed him, great bat-like creatures of mucus bursting from his nose and attacking his face. He shrieked, clawing at them, stumbling back into Crabbe, who tried to help and only got a faceful of flapping bogeys for his trouble.

The corridor erupted in laughter. Students doubled over, clutching their sides, some cheering Ginny on. The sound rang in her ears, sweet and sharp — until it didn’t.

Because suddenly the laughter stopped.

The silence was heavier than any cheer. Ginny’s wand hand trembled, the satisfaction draining from her body as she turned and saw them.

Amycus and Alecto Carrow stood at the far end of the corridor, their fat, greedy faces curling into twin smiles.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Amycus drawled, his voice sticky with delight. “Little Ginny Weasley, hexing her classmates in the middle of the school day.”

Alecto clucked her tongue, mock sympathy dripping from the sound. “Naughty, naughty. You’ll be joining us tonight, girl. Detention.”

Ginny’s jaw clenched. She refused to let them see fear. So she lifted her chin, meeting their eyes without flinching. “Fine,” she said, her voice steady.

Beside her, Neville made a horrified sound. “Ginny—”

But she cut him off, still holding the Carrows’ gaze. “It’s all right, Neville.” She turned to him then, her voice dropping low, hurried but firm. “Listen to me. Since I can’t, I need you to go to the Room tonight. After dinner. Take food with you. Sirius will be waiting.”

Neville’s face went pale. “What? Ginny, I—I can’t—”

“You can,” she said, gripping his good arm tight. “Please. Don’t let him think he’s been abandoned. He doesn’t trust me as it is. If you don’t go, he’ll…” She trailed off, unwilling to say what Sirius might do in his temper. “He needs food. And he needs to know he hasn’t been forgotten. Can you do that for me?”

Neville swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously toward the Carrows, who were watching with sick delight at his panic. “But Ginny, what if he—what if he’s dangerous?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. He is dangerous, she thought, the memory of Sirius pinning her against the door burning in her mind. Dangerous, unpredictable, infuriating. And yet, she couldn’t leave him starving, caged in the shadows.

“He is,” she admitted softly. “But leaving him would be worse. Please, Neville. For me.”

For a long moment, Neville hesitated, torn between fear and loyalty. Then he nodded once, quick and jerky, the movement of someone who knew they were in over their head but couldn’t bear to let a friend down.

“All right,” he whispered.

“Good,” Ginny said, her grip loosening. Relief washed through her, but only for a heartbeat before Amycus barked, “Move along, girl. Don’t keep us waiting.”

Ginny squared her shoulders, gave Neville the smallest of reassuring smiles, and walked toward the Carrows, her steps steady though her stomach churned. Tonight would be hell. She knew it. But at least Sirius wouldn’t be left alone.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

The Room of Requirement was silent save for the faint crackle of the cigarette Sirius had conjured hours ago. Smoke curled lazily toward the enchanted ceiling, which had obliged him with a star-flecked sky, faintly shimmering and oddly comforting.

Still, Sirius paced. He’d been pacing all bloody day.

The redhead hadn’t come back.

He hadn’t expected her to disappear, not really. Ginny Weasley wasn’t the type to scare easily — he’d seen it in her eyes, that stubborn fire. And yet, the hours had dragged on without so much as a creak of the door, leaving him to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he’d pushed her too far.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends restlessly. Too rough? he thought. He hadn’t exactly gone easy on her, cornering her against the door the night before, letting her see just how dangerous he could be. But she needed to know he wasn’t some tame beast she could lock up in a gilded cage. He was Sirius Black. He didn’t take orders.

And yet, he hadn’t meant to break her. He just wanted to rattle her, test her steel. He smirked faintly to himself. She had steel, no doubt about it. More than most. He didn’t believe for a second that one sharp shove and a few threats would send her running for good.

Still, the silence was beginning to gnaw at him.

With nothing else to do, Sirius turned to the shelves, the trunks, the endless clutter the Room seemed willing to cough up. Somewhere, Ginny had said, she’d found the blasted time turner. Maybe another one lingered here, hidden in the mess.

It was worth a try.

So he searched. For hours, he pried open boxes, shoved aside tapestries, dug through piles of old books and broken wands. He found a singing teapot, three cracked Sneakoscopes, and what looked suspiciously like one of Filch’s confiscated dungbomb stashes, but no time turner.

By late afternoon, he gave up, collapsing into one of the overstuffed armchairs with a groan. “Typical,” he muttered to himself, blowing smoke at the ceiling. “Trust fate to dump me in the middle of a war eighteen years in the future and then leave me no way out.”

His lips twisted into a smirk. He could break out, of course. He wasn’t trapped here. Not really. The Room of Requirement was clever, but it did what he wanted and should he wants to go out, he could just walk out. If he decided he wanted to walk, nothing would stop him.

The only reason he stayed was the redhead. Ginny Weasley. She’d promised answers, promised a plan. He’d give her one more day. One. If she didn’t come back by then… well, he’d find his own way.

It would take more than a bit of intimidation to scare off that Weasley. He was sure of it.

By dinner time, Sirius had settled into a rhythm of waiting — cigarette in one hand, boots up on the arm of the chair, smoke curling through the dim-lit air. The Room had provided him with a decent bottle of firewhisky, and he’d been making steady work of it, the familiar warmth spreading through his veins. He was just beginning to enjoy himself when the door creaked open.

At once, his smirk spread. He straightened in his chair, tapping ash into an empty goblet, and angled his head toward the sound. “About bloody time, sweetheart,” he drawled, the grin tugging at his mouth.

But it wasn’t her.

Standing in the doorway was the boy — Longbottom. Nervous, pale, clutching a tray of food like it might shield him from attack.

Sirius’ smirk faltered for half a beat, disappointment tugging at his chest, but he masked it quickly. He leaned back again, casual, smoke drifting lazily from his lips. “Well, well,” he said lightly. “She sent her not-boyfriend instead.”

The boy blinked at him, startled, and Sirius chuckled low in his throat, hiding the sting of letdown beneath amusement.

So, he thought, swirling the firewhisky in his glass, she didn’t forget me after all. Just decided I wasn’t worth the risk today.

He could live with that. For now.

The boy’s steps were unsteady, his face pale in the glow of the torchlight, and Sirius watched him come closer, tray rattling faintly in his hands. Every few seconds Neville Longbottom darted a glance at Sirius, like a rabbit half-certain it had wandered into a wolf’s den.

Sirius arched a brow, smoke curling from his lips. “Relax, kid. I don’t bite… unless I’m bored.”

Neville flinched, nearly dropping the tray. He set it quickly on the low table by Sirius’ chair. “G–Ginny said to bring you food,” he stammered, voice wobbling.

Sirius studied him in silence for a moment, then ground his cigarette out in the goblet and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. For once, the smirk softened, his voice dropping into something steadier. “How’s the arm?”

Neville blinked at him.

“Your shoulder,” Sirius clarified. “I gave it a bit too much of a twist last night. Sorry for that.” The words tasted strange in his mouth — apologies never came easily — but he felt he owed the boy that much.

Neville nodded once, stiffly.

Sirius tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as memories stirred. Longbottom. He knew that name well. “Your parents,” Sirius said after a pause, “Frank and Alice — they’re good people. Brave. They fought with us in the Order. How are they these days?”

For the first time since he’d walked into the room, Neville’s gaze steadied. His voice, though quiet, carried an edge that cut sharper than Sirius expected. “Don’t talk about them. Especially not you.”

Sirius sat back, caught off guard by the venom in his voice. “What? Why not?” His brows drew together, genuine confusion threading through his tone. “Something happen? Are they all right?”

It hadn’t been that long since he'd seen Frank or Alice, like a week or so ago at an Order meeting. Although… Merlin, what year was it here? Nineteen ninety-seven. Seventeen years since his own time. Still, he’d expected them to be alive, fighting. The idea that they weren’t sent a flicker of unease through his chest.

Neville’s jaw tightened. He met Sirius’ gaze with a steadiness that belied the nervousness of moments ago. “They’re alive,” he said flatly. “Alive, but not… not themselves. They’ve been in St. Mungo’s for seventeen years. The Janus Thickey Ward for Magical Maladies and Injuries.”

The name struck Sirius like a blow. His throat went dry. “What… what happened?”

Neville’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Your cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange happened.”

The name, his cousin’s name, landed like poison. Sirius froze, every muscle in his body taut.

Neville’s voice shook but didn’t falter. “She tortured them. With the Cruciatus. Over and over. Until their minds broke. They don’t even know who I am. Haven’t for as long as I’ve been alive.”

The words settled into Sirius like knives, each sharper than the last. Bellatrix. His own blood. He could see her face so clearly — dark eyes alight with that manic fire, laughing as she cast curses. Of course it was her. Of course.

His mouth was dry, his voice rough when it came. “Merlin’s beard… Neville… I’m—”

“Don’t.” Neville’s interruption was sudden, steady. He lifted his chin, surprising Sirius again with the steel in him. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Because from where I’m standing, after what you did to me last night, you’re just as dangerous.”

The words hung between them like smoke.

Sirius opened his mouth, shut it again. The boy’s gaze didn’t waver, and for the first time in a long time Sirius Black found himself without a ready retort.

Dangerous. Yes. The boy wasn’t wrong.

He leaned back slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw, exhaling long and hard. Dangerous. Maybe that was all he’d ever been.

Sirius finally broke the silence, eyes narrowing, voice edged with that lazy drawl he used when he wanted answers. “If I’m such a monster in your eyes — dangerous, frightening — why’d you come at all, kid? Why not let the redhead face me herself?”

Neville shifted, shoulders hunched. His bravado faltered, the steadiness from moments ago slipping back into that nervous awkwardness. He looked down at his shoes, then mumbled, “She… she was going to. But she couldn’t. So… she sent me. Said you wouldn’t like to be left alone.”

For a heartbeat Sirius just stared. His brows lifted, smoke forgotten between his fingers. She couldn’t… so she sent him?

Despite himself, he felt a small flare of something warm curl through his chest. Not relief exactly, but something close. So she hasn’t run off, then. She hasn’t washed her hands of me. The girl had spine, he’d seen that — but to hear she worried about him being left alone, it stirred something that made Sirius’ smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.

“She’s thoughtful, your redhead,” he said dryly, but his mind was already racing ahead. “Why couldn’t she come? She scared of me after all?”

Neville shook his head quickly, and his voice dropped lower, heavier. “She couldn’t because… she’s got detention. With the Carrows.”

The name hit Sirius like a lash. He froze, every muscle tensing as he stared at the boy. The Carrows. Amycus and Alecto Carrow. He remembered their faces from whispers in the Order — cruel, pitiless Death Eaters. But this boy wasn’t talking about them in vague terms. No — the way he said it… Sirius felt his stomach twist.

The Carrows, who used the Cruciatus on children, Ginny had told him on the way from Honeydukes to here. Children.

His hand tightened into a fist against his knee. The idea of Ginny Weasley — sixteen years old, fire-haired, sharp-tongued — writhing under that curse because of some sadistic Death Eaters was almost too much to bear. Rage flooded through him hot and fast, burning away his earlier smoke-haze.

“Why,” Sirius said slowly, voice dangerously low, “is she in detention with those bastards at all?”

Neville hesitated. Then, in a quiet voice, he explained. “Two boys — Slytherins — Malfoy and Crabbe. They… they called her a whore. Because she was hugging me.”

Sirius’ nostrils flared. Malfoy. Must be Narcissa's brat. His family really was the worst

Neville swallowed and pressed on. “They said she’d already dated Dean Thomas. And Harry. And now me. Said her taste just kept falling.”

Sirius’ jaw worked, molars grinding. A flash of James’ voice came to him, sneering in some corridor years ago, ready to hex a Slytherin who dared insult Lily. And now here was Ginny — Lily’s temper in her eyes, if Sirius wasn’t mistaken — being dragged through the dirt by scum like Malfoy’s brat.

He narrowed his eyes, voice sharp. “So the redhead’s dated this Harry fellow, did she? And who the hell is he?” He remembers Ginny mentioning him twice, saying he's James' son although he finds that hard to believe so he asks this Neville kid, to confirm.

Neville froze, color creeping up his neck. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally forced it out. “Harry’s… Harry’s last name is Potter.”

For a second Sirius didn’t move. Then his eyes narrowed. A shocked laugh escaped him, rough and disbelieving. “Potter? Did you just say Potter?”

Neville nodded once.

Excitement shot through Sirius, a jolt of electricity running under his skin. So the redhead wasn't lying. His godson? James’ son? The name thrummed in his chest, filling him with questions — endless questions. Who was he? Was he alive? Did he look like James? Did he laugh like him? Did he have Lily’s fire? Neville could tell him everything, Sirius realized, absolutely everything he wanted to know about the years he had yet to live.

But the boy’s words about Ginny echoed louder than his own racing thoughts.

Detention. With the Carrows.

His cousin Bellatrix’s voice rang in his ears, cruel laughter layered with screams of poor Alice and Frank. The thought of that happening to Ginny — to any of them — made his vision blur at the edges.

Sirius leaned forward, his voice low, deadly calm. “Where would they take her?”

Neville swallowed again, nervous but answering. “Sometimes… sometimes the Defense classroom. Sometimes the Slytherin dungeons.”

Sirius’ hand flexed around his wand. He could feel the fury thrumming in his veins, urging him to move, to storm out and find her, to burn the Carrows to ash before they ever laid a hand on her.

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Silence fell between them, heavy and taut. Neville looked like he wanted to say more but thought better of it. After a long moment he simply gathered himself, tray empty, and muttered that he should go.

Sirius didn’t stop him. He only sat there in the smoke-thick air of the Room of Requirement, watching the boy leave, his thoughts roaring louder than fire.

The door clicked shut.

Ginny.

The Carrows.

Potter’s son.

Sirius leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, fury simmering just beneath his skin. He’d never been good at patience. And tonight, he wasn’t sure he could summon any at all.

Chapter Text

The door had barely clicked shut behind the Longbottom boy when Sirius started pacing. Long strides across the shifting, obliging floorboards of the Room, smoke curling still from the half-burned fag in his fingers. His mind was a storm, impossible to still.

He’d promised her. Told the Weasley girl he’d keep himself tucked away here like some well-behaved mutt while she scurried about, looking for answers.

He gave a sharp laugh under his breath. Promises. Rules. Obedience. None of it had ever fit him well.

His boots scraped the floor as he pivoted again, hair falling across his face. He could still see Neville Longbottom’s pale, stricken face when he’d said it — she’s with the Carrows. And in that moment Sirius had felt something coil tight and vicious inside him.

“They’re cruciating kids,” he muttered to the empty room. “And she’s in there. Even with all her braveness and guts, still just a kid. And I’m meant to sit here with my thumb up my arse?”

A smirk tugged at his mouth, sharp and humorless. “Not bloody likely.”

He flicked the fag away, ground it under his heel, then crossed to the shelf where he’d stowed the things he’d taken off the redhead that first night. His wand — he twirled it once between his fingers, familiar weight easing something restless inside him. And the map.

The Marauder’s Map. His and James’ and Remus’ and Peter’s masterpiece, still alive and breathing with the footsteps of Hogwarts itself. He spread it out on a table, tapped it with his wand.

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good.” he says and he knows her missed this

Ink blossomed across the parchment like veins of smoke. Corridors and stairwells unfurled beneath his eyes, each dot named, shifting. He scanned fast, impatient, searching.

There. In the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, exactly where Longbottom had said. Two names burned against the pale paper: Alecto Carrow. Amycus Carrow. And a smaller dot. Ginevra Weasley.

His jaw clenched. He could almost hear her voice in the cellar, sharp and urgent: We don’t have time for this. And now here she was — time she didn’t have, pain she shouldn’t bear — locked in a room with those sadistic bastards.

Sirius dragged a hand through his hair, eyes darting across the map for the rest of the castle. He tracked Filch slouching along the third-floor corridor, muttering to himself. Easy enough to avoid. A few prefects loitered near Gryffindor Tower, nothing he couldn’t slip past.

Then his eyes caught on a name that stopped his breath cold.

Severus Snape.

Pacing the Headmaster’s office.

For a moment Sirius forgot to breathe. His chest rattled with something half a laugh, half a growl. “Headmaster, are you?” he whispered at the parchment. “You greasy, conniving half-blood bastard.”

The urge hit him like fire in his veins — to storm up there, wand blazing, to finish what he should have finished years ago if James hadn’t pulled him off. He could see it, almost taste it: Snape crumpling to the floor, lifeless. One clean stroke and he’d avenge Dumbledore. Avenge every betrayal.

His knuckles whitened against the table.

But then his eyes slid back to the classroom. Ginevra Weasley. Still there. Still under their hands.

Sirius’ breath shuddered out. He closed his eyes, forced the fury to bend, to narrow into something sharp, controlled. Snape could wait. The greasy git wasn’t going anywhere tonight.

But the redhead — she was enduring something right now, and Sirius Black had never been one to let cruelty stand. Not when he could break it apart with his own two hands.

He rolled up the map, tucking it into his jacket. His wand slipped into his palm as naturally as breath. His mouth curved into that dangerous grin that had gotten him into and out of more trouble than he could count.

“Guess it’s time to stretch my legs,” he murmured to the room. “Let’s break a few rules.”

And with that, Sirius Black strode for the door — nineteen years old, reckless, furious, and ready to bring hell to anyone who dared lay a hand on her.

The castle at night was never silent — not to Sirius. The walls breathed. Stone remembered. Every stair creak, every shifting suit of armor, every restless ghost’s sigh carried weight. And tonight, under his boots, Hogwarts felt heavier than it ever had in his time.

He takes the Marauder’s Map out of him pocket and it glowed faintly in his hand, wand-light hidden beneath his palm. He moved quick, but careful, eyes darting from the parchment to the halls before him.

Filch—third floor. Easy to dodge.

Alecto and Amycus—still in the DADA classroom.

Ginevra Weasley—with them.

He ground his teeth at the sight of her name penned there. His boots took him faster down the stairwell, cloak brushing against the walls.

The corridors tugged at his memory even as he skulked through them — here was where he and James had hexed Mulciber so badly he’d croaked like a frog for a week. There, the corner where Lily had once yanked them both by the ear, furious at their latest “harmless” prank. For a second, the echoes of laughter brushed against him.

But the laughter died quick. Because in the air now — not memory, but real — was a sound that made Sirius’ stomach turn.

Screams.

High, raw, broken screams.

His steps faltered. His hand curled so hard around his wand the knuckles ached. He forced himself on, chest burning, until the map confirmed it: just ahead. The Defense classroom.

He crept up the hall, heart pounding, breath thin, and pressed himself against the cold stone of a pillar at the doorway. From the shadows, he looked.

Alecto Carrow’s squat form loomed, wand aimed down at the floor. Amycus, his piggish face twisted with glee, stood beside her.

And on the flagstones between them — Ginny.

The redhead was sprawled half on her side, barely conscious, her limbs trembling. Even from here Sirius could see the sweat plastering her hair to her temple, the way her breath rasped shallow. Her wand lay useless just out of reach.

Sirius’ chest filled with something darker than fury. Something more primal. His vision narrowed on the two Death Eaters like prey in his crosshairs.

“Had enough, little blood traitor?” Amycus crooned, raising his wand again. “Or shall we—”

“Stupefy!”

The red bolt shot from Sirius’ wand before the words left Amycus’ mouth. It hit him square in the chest, and he flew backward with a crash, crumpling against a desk. Alecto shrieked, spinning around, but Sirius was already moving.

“Expelliarmus!”

Her wand flew from her grip before she could even react. His second curse dropped her before she’d drawn breath. Both Carrows lay slumped, unconscious.

The classroom fell into ringing silence, except for the ragged sound of Ginny’s breathing.

Sirius’ chest heaved. He lowered his wand slowly, eyes dragging to the girl on the floor.

“Sweetheart…” His voice came rough, almost breaking as he crouched beside her. He touched her shoulder, shaking lightly. “Come on. Wake up, sweetheart.”

Her lashes fluttered, lips parted. But no words came. Only a weak, pained sound before her eyes slid shut again.

Something twisted in Sirius’ gut. Without another thought, he slid his arms beneath her — one behind her knees, one beneath her shoulders — and lifted her effortlessly. She felt too light in his hold, far too fragile.

He bent, grabbed her wand from the flagstones, and slipped it into his pocket alongside the map.

Then, with Ginny Weasley unconscious against his chest and two Death Eaters sprawled at his back, Sirius Black turned toward the door. His jaw was set, eyes burning with the promise of violence to anyone who tried to stop him.

No one laid hands on his own. Not while he breathed.

For one wild second Sirius thought about hauling her straight back to the Room of Requirement. He could bar the door, set wards, let her rest. But then reality struck cold in his chest: she’d been taken once, she could be taken again. The Carrows would notice her gone. They’d start asking questions, prowling through the castle like the rats they were. And Ginny Weasley, stubborn as she was, would never stay hidden forever.

No, he decided, jaw clenched. Not Hogwarts. Not tonight. Not while every corridor here is poisoned.

He glanced at the Map again, wand-tip lighting the delicate sprawl of lines. Clear halls. No names close. Perfect.

With a slow breath, he adjusted her weight against his chest, pulling her closer, and began to move. His boots made barely a sound as he slipped out of the DADA corridor, down staircases he knew by heart. Every turn was muscle memory, each shortcut once burned into him by laughter, pranks, freedom. Tonight it was something else entirely: survival.

The castle doors gave way to the night. Sirius ducked into the shadows, clutching her tighter against him, and strode fast across the grounds. The sky was heavy and black, stars smothered by rolling clouds. The air tasted of damp earth and something colder, darker—he didn’t need to see them to know Dementors were out there, drifting near the edges of the grounds like vultures circling a carcass.

He didn’t slow. His eyes locked on the Whomping Willow, the great gnarled beast still thrashing gently even in its sleep. Memories slammed into him—James laughing, Remus rolling his eyes, Peter panting to keep up—as the four of them had slipped beneath its roots a hundred times.

With Ginny balanced in one arm, Sirius found the knot in the bark with his wand and jabbed it. The tree froze, its writhing limbs stiff as stone.

“Good old secret,” he muttered under his breath, ducking low and carrying her into the opening. The tunnel yawned ahead, dark and damp.

By the time they emerged in the Shrieking Shack, Sirius’ shoulders ached, but he didn’t care. The place smelled the same: dust, rot, faint tang of blood in the wood from nights gone by. But to him, it felt like safety. The one place the world had always feared to tread.

He laid her down gently on the creaking floorboards of the upstairs room. Her hair spilled across the dust like fire against ash. Sirius frowned, crouching beside her. There was blood at the corner of her mouth, a vivid smear that had dried dark. His chest twisted at the sight. Carefully, he brushed his thumb against her jaw, then drew his wand.

“Muffliato,” he muttered first, and the hum of protective silence sealed them in. Then he murmured a cooling charm, soft and steady, letting the magic wash across her face and bruised skin. The heat eased from her forehead.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered again, voice low, almost desperate. But she didn’t stir.

He sat back on his heels, raking a hand through his hair. His mind wouldn’t still. What now? Hogwarts was a snake pit, Death Eaters and traitors at every corner. Outside—he knew—was worse. Dementors swarmed the countryside like shadows let loose.

But I can’t stay put. Not when I don’t know who’s watching. Not when she’s like this.

For a long moment he sat there, staring at her pale face, her breathing shallow but steady. Then he made the choice.

His bones shifted, cracked, remade themselves. The wand slid from his fingers as fur rippled across his body, muscles reshaping. In an instant, Padfoot stood where Sirius had crouched.

The black dog padded to the doorway, ears twitching. He cast one long look back at Ginny—small, fragile, red hair like fire even in sleep—before slipping outside into the night.

The world smelled different this way. Sharper, richer. The tang of Dementors hung thick, sour and cold, but distant enough that they didn’t crowd the Shack. Beyond that: earth, damp grass, the faint rustle of small creatures in the underbrush.

He slunk through shadows, nose to the ground, senses drinking everything in. Recon first, then food. The instincts came back quick, same as always. Survival. Stealth. Protect the pack.

When he returned—food clenched between his teeth from the abandoned storerooms at the edge of Hogsmeade—his paws left no trace.

Padfoot nosed the door open, shifted back into Sirius, and dropped the bundle beside the cracked wall. His chest heaved, more from nerves than the run. He sat down again beside her, brushing dust from his trousers, watching her sleep.

“What the hell are we going to do, sweetheart?” he muttered, voice rough. “Because right now, it feels like the whole bloody world’s against us.”

Sirius didn’t sleep. Not really. He sat with his back to the wall of the Shrieking Shack, wand balanced loosely across his knees, eyes on the girl stretched across the dusty boards.

Ginny Weasley breathed shallow but steady, strands of her hair sticking damply to her forehead. Every once in a while she twitched, a low sound catching in her throat, and Sirius’ chest tightened. He knew that sound. He’d made it himself once or twice, alone in Grimmauld Place, thrashing through dreams he couldn’t bear. Torture left marks that no charm could soothe.

So he kept his watch.

Smoke curled from the cigarette pinched between his fingers, its ember a dim glow in the dark. He thought too much—about James, about Lily, about whether they were still alive in this twisted version of the future. About Remus, poor, steady Moony, and whether he’d made it this far.

And Snape. Always bloody Snape.

Sirius’ jaw clenched as he pictured the Map—the thin name pacing circles in the Headmaster’s office. Headmaster Snape. The title itself felt like an obscenity. He could still feel the way James had yanked him back that night when he’d nearly had his wand at Snivellus’ throat. He should’ve done it then. Merlin help him, he should have.

He glanced at Ginny again. Even in sleep she seemed stubborn, her fists curled as if she’d hex someone in her dreams. A girl of sixteen, maybe and not much older. And yet she’d stood up to Death Eaters with nothing but a schoolgirl’s wand and a lion’s courage. No wonder she fascinated him.

“Sweetheart,” he muttered, voice low, “you’ve got more fire in you than half the Order ever did.”

The hours crawled. At some point his eyes drifted shut despite himself, sleep dragging him under on the hard floor.

Ginny woke to light. Faint, gray morning light, seeping through the cracked boards of the Shack.

Her head throbbed. Her mouth tasted of iron. She groaned softly, rolled onto her side, and blinked blearily around her.

This wasn’t her dormitory. It wasn’t even the Room of Requirement. The air smelled of dust and rot, and the floor creaked beneath her as she shifted.

Panic pricked up her spine.

Her eyes darted across the room—then froze.

Sirius Black lay slumped beside her, his back to the wall, wand loose in his hand. His head had tilted forward slightly, black hair spilling across his face. He was asleep.

Memory surged back in fragments. The Carrows. Alecto’s hand slamming across her face, the copper sting of blood in her mouth. The Cruciatus, burning her nerves until she thought she’d shatter apart. Someone shouting, curses flying, a voice—rough, furious—yelling “Stupefy.” And then… Sirius’ face. His voice, low and desperate, calling her sweetheart before the world went black.

Her confusion hardened into sharp panic.

She pushed herself upright, wincing at the pain in her ribs, and reached across to shake him hard. “Sirius!” Her voice was sharp, ragged. “Wake up. What the hell happened?”

His eyes snapped open instantly, blue-gray and alert as if he hadn’t truly been asleep at all. His wand was in his hand before he even registered her face. Then he relaxed, running a hand back through his tangled hair.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice rough from smoke and too little rest. “Good. I was beginning to think—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, panic sharpening into anger. Her eyes were wide, wild. “Where are we? Why am I here? Why aren’t you in the Room of Requirement like I told you?”

Sirius smirked faintly, but there was no humor in it. He stretched his long legs, leaned back against the wall as if he had all the time in the world, though his eyes never left hers.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, “you didn’t exactly leave me many options. They were tearing you apart in there. You think I was just going to sit in my cage and wait for you to come back bloodied to the bone?”

Ginny’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, her breath coming quick. “I told you to stay put! The castle isn’t safe for you. If anyone sees you—”

“If anyone sees me,” Sirius cut in sharply, his voice hard now, “they’ll be unconscious before they can draw breath. I don’t take orders from schoolgirls, no matter how fiery they are.”

Her cheeks flushed, more from fury than embarrassment. She struggled to her feet, swaying slightly but refusing to let him see her weakness. “You don’t understand,” she bit out. “If they find out you’re here—if they find out you helped me—they’ll kill you. And they’ll kill me, too.”

Sirius pushed himself up in one fluid motion, suddenly too close, his height towering over her. His blue-gray eyes burned, fierce and unyielding.

“They already tried to kill you,” he said, low and dangerous. “And if I hadn’t been there, they would have. So forgive me if I don’t feel like apologizing for keeping you alive.”

The words hung between them, sharp and electric, neither willing to back down.

Ginny’s pulse thundered in her ears, but she forced her voice steady.

“This isn’t your timeline,” she said, her tone sharp, controlled. “It’s mine. And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop messing with it.”

Sirius gave a humorless laugh, one brow arching, his eyes glittering with something dangerous. “Is that so, sweetheart?” He tilted his head, gaze pinning her in place. “And whose fault is it that I’m here in the first place?”

The words hit her like a slap. She faltered, taken aback, lips parting but no answer coming. Because he was right. Her stomach twisted, guilt worming its way through the cracks in her anger.

“I…” She shook her head quickly, forcing her voice calmer, less brittle. “Fine. Forget it. Just—tell me where we are.”

Sirius studied her a moment longer, then finally pushed back, pacing toward the cracked window. “Shrieking Shack. Thought it fitting, really. No one comes here but ghosts and memories.” His mouth twisted, as though recalling too many of both.

Ginny glanced around, frowning faintly. She knew the stories—Harry had told her enough about this place. Her heart thudded harder in her chest.

“I went out last night,” Sirius went on, his tone flat, like he was reciting a report. “The grounds are crawling. Dementors everywhere. Must be at least a hundred sweeping the forest, maybe more. Castle’s worse. Whatever war you lot are fighting—it’s not subtle.”

Her breath caught. “You went out? Alone?”

He glanced back at her, the faintest smirk ghosting across his mouth. “You think I’d leave you here without eyes on the outside?”

“Merlin’s beard, Sirius—” Ginny’s voice cut off suddenly, realization crashing over her. “You didn’t go out there as yourself… you went as Padfoot, didn’t you?”

The room stilled.

Sirius froze mid-step, his body taut, his smirk evaporating. Slowly, he turned back to her, and there was nothing amused in his eyes now.

“What did you just call me?” His voice was quiet, too quiet.

Ginny swallowed, but kept her chin lifted. She cursed herself for letting it slip.

In two strides he was in front of her, close enough she could feel the heat rolling off him. His breath brushed her cheek as he stared her down, wild fury sparking in his eyes.

“How do you know that name?” he demanded, voice low and lethal. “Answer me.”

Ginny pressed her lips together, refusing.

“Don’t,” he snarled, his hand slamming into the wall beside her head as he caged her in. “Don’t play games with me, sweetheart. You’ll lose.”

Her heart hammered, but she refused to flinch. She met his storm-grey eyes, fire sparking in her own. “I don’t owe you any answers. Not anymore. You already went and fucked it all up.”

His jaw clenched, fury flashing. “Fucked it up?” He leaned closer, voice rough, furious. “You’d be thanking me if you had an ounce of sense. I saved your life!”

Ginny let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Thankful? You’ve turned me into a fugitive! We’re on the run because of you!”

Her voice cracked, the full weight of it slamming down on her at last. She dragged a trembling hand through her hair, muttering bitterly under her breath, “Although I suppose it’s nothing new for you.”

Sirius stilled. His nostrils flared, and for the first time since he’d stepped out of the shadows last night, there was something wounded in his gaze.

But Ginny barely saw it. Because even as the words left her lips, her mind sparked with sudden, sharp clarity.

Her breath caught.

“There’s somewhere else,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Sirius frowned. “What?”

She looked up at him, eyes alight now, the fire back. “There’s somewhere we can go. Somewhere safer than this, safer than the castle. A place that’s hidden. Protected.”

He narrowed his eyes, suspicion warring with curiosity. “And where exactly is that?”

Her voice dropped, reverent and certain.

“Number Twelve. Grimmauld Place.”

Chapter Text

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

The words rang in his head like a spell, sharp and invasive. She had said it. The redhead. Sweetheart. Ginny Weasley.

How in Merlin’s name did she know about his home? How did she know about Padfoot, about him? She was only sixteen by the looks of her, barely grown, but she carried knowledge she shouldn’t—knowledge about his life, about his family. And she refused to explain.

He clenched his jaw. He’d get it out of her eventually. He had ways. For now, though, she looked so damn serious, staring at him with those bright, defiant eyes.

Outwardly, Sirius laughed, a short, barking sound that echoed through the shack’s rotting beams. “Sweetheart, I don’t think you understand. My mother isn’t just going to welcome us with open arms.”

He could almost hear Walburga Black now, shrieking so loud whenever he was around, her voice shrill enough to peel stone from walls: Blood traitor! Shame of my house!

Ginny bit her lip, looking suddenly younger, smaller. She seemed to hesitate, weighing something heavy in her chest. Then she lifted her gaze, eyes locking with his, steady and unnervingly full of sympathy.

“Your mother passed away a long time ago,” she said quietly. “Your house—it was being used last year as the hideout for the Order.”

The words struck him like a slap.

For a moment, Sirius just stood there, rigid, silent. His lips parted, but nothing came out. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel. Rage? Relief? Grief?

Finally, a cold laugh escaped him. “So the bitch finally bit the dust.” He tilted his head back, grinning without humor. “Good for her.”

Ginny flinched at his tone but said nothing.

He dragged a hand through his hair, the world tilting slightly. The house without Walburga shrieking through its halls? It was almost unthinkable.

“What about my brother?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Ginny frowned faintly, caught off guard. “Your brother?”

“Regulus,” Sirius pressed, sharper now, his stomach twisting. “What happened to him?”

She looked uncertain, biting down on her lip again before answering slowly. “I think… he was killed. During his time as a Death Eater.”

The words hit harder than he expected. He felt his chest constrict, his breath catching. Regulus—dead.

He nodded once, curt, like it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t spent years pretending he hated his brother more than he truly had.

Turning abruptly, Sirius sank down onto the cold, dusty floorboards of the shack. His elbows rested on his knees, his head bowed as he tried to process it all—the absence of his mother’s shrieking presence, the finality of Regulus’s fate, the way this girl delivered truths about his life as though she were recounting history already written.

And maybe she was.

The silence stretched.

Sirius let out a low breath, running his hands over his face.

So much had changed. And yet, somehow, nothing had.

Ginny lowered herself down beside him, the floorboards creaking under her weight. For a moment she didn’t say anything, just sat there, her presence calm but insistent, refusing to let him sit alone in silence. Finally, she turned her head toward him.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

Sirius smirked, the expression sharp and crooked, meant to cover too much. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I was never that close to my family anyway.”

Her eyes softened, and she said quietly, “I know.”

That made his smirk falter, just a fraction. Of course she knows. She always seems to know.

His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping back in. “Is there anything else I should know?”

Ginny looked down, fingers knotting in her lap. A pause stretched between them before she admitted, “Yes. But I can’t tell you everything. Not now.”

Sirius studied her, that flicker of guilt in her face, the way she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. Every instinct screamed at him to press, to shake the truth out of her if he had to. But he didn’t. Not yet. He leaned back instead, lips curling into another smirk. “Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

She gave the smallest, almost wary smile at that, then pressed forward briskly, as if she didn’t want to linger there. “We should go to Grimmauld Place. Even if it’s empty, there might still be your house-elf living there. Kreacher.”

Sirius clicked his tongue and made a face like he’d just swallowed something rancid. “Tch. So that little bastard’s still alive, is he?”

Ginny laughed. A real laugh—light, sharp, startling in the gloom of the shack. Sirius blinked at her, momentarily taken aback. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made someone laugh without meaning to.

“Yeah,” she said, shaking her head, still grinning. “He’s a real pain in the ass. Used to say vile things about us right to our faces, like we couldn’t hear.”

Sirius let out a sharp huff. “Sounds about right.”

“And Hermione—my friend—she asked you loads of times to set him free. But you never did. Though,” Ginny tilted her head at him, almost teasing now, “you always looked like you wanted to.”

Something in him stilled. His eyes fixed on her, unblinking, sharp. You. Me. Always past tense with you, isn’t it?

“Me, huh?” Sirius asked carefully, his voice quieter now. “And where am I in your time?”

Ginny froze. The color drained from her face. Fear flickered there—not fear of him this time, but of the truth she carried.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Sirius saw it written all over her.

He let out a low exhale, lips twitching into something almost like a smile, though it never reached his eyes. “I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Ginny’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. She looked like she might cry, her jaw tight as she tried not to let the tears fall.

Sirius turned away, sparing her the burden of saying it. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. Then, with forced cheer, he pushed himself up to his feet, brushing the dust off his trousers. “Come on, sweetheart. We’ll need food if we’re going to make it all the way to London.”

They sat cross-legged on the dusty floorboards of the shack, their meal spread between them—a sorry excuse for dinner, but Sirius had managed it well enough in Padfoot’s skin. A bit of bread, some apples, and smoked meat he’d lifted from the edge of the village. He tore into the meat with his teeth, chewing noisily, but his eyes never quite left the redhead across from him.

Ginny wasn’t really eating. She was worrying her crust of bread, picking it apart bit by bit, her gaze unfocused, lips pressed thin. Still thinking about what she’d let slip.

Sirius leaned back against the wall, one knee drawn up, and smirked. “You look like you’re plotting someone’s murder, sweetheart. Bread that offensive?”

Her head snapped up, startled. He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Go on. Tell me who it is. I’ll duel ’em for you. Or bite their ankles as Padfoot, whichever you prefer.”

That startled laugh came again, quick and unwilling, and Sirius grinned. Better. Much better. She should laugh more. Bloody hell, it suits her.

Ginny shook her head, exasperated, but the corner of her mouth softened. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm,” Sirius said, smug. “So I’ve been told. Frequently.” He raised his chunk of bread in a mock-toast. “Glad to know I’m still keeping up appearances.”

Her eyes lingered on him longer than before, curious, measuring, but she didn’t speak. They ate in silence for a little while after that, the crackle of the wind outside filling the room.

It was Ginny who broke it. “You know…” she began carefully, “even if we’ve got a destination in mind, it won’t be simple. There are dementors everywhere.”

Sirius swallowed, then ran his tongue along his teeth, thoughtful. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Her brow furrowed. She hesitated, then said, “Can you Apparate? I mean—properly Apparate?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, I’ve been Apparating since before you were out of nappies. I’m good at it. Why?”

“Because I can’t,” she admitted. “Not yet. I’m underage. If we’re going to Grimmauld, I’d need you to take me with you.A Side-Along Apparition.”

Sirius stilled.

He could Apparate, and yes, he knew Grimmauld Place like the back of his hand. But side-along? He’d never done it. Splinching—hell, splinching could be lethal, and the idea of Ginny bleeding or missing half an arm because of him—

His jaw tightened. When did I start weighing risks like this? Since when do I care enough to stop and think before leaping?

He shoved the thought away. Better not to dwell. He let his grin return, sharp and reckless. “If that’s the only way, then we’ll do it. And don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m bloody brilliant at Apparition. You’ll be in one piece.”

Her eyes narrowed like she half-suspected he was just saying it to soothe her, but she didn’t argue. She simply nodded.

“Good.”

They finished the rest of the meal without much more talk, both lost in their thoughts of dementors and cursed houses. When the last of the apple cores were tossed aside, Ginny rose and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Sirius flicked his wand lazily, conjuring a second blanket from the air—it landed in her lap, and she blinked down at it before glancing at him.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he muttered, already stretching himself out on the floor. “I can be useful when I want to.”

She didn’t reply, but she spread the blanket over herself.

Sirius lay on his back, hands folded behind his head, staring up at the beams of the shack. His thoughts were a mess—death eaters, dementors, Grimmauld, the way she’d looked like she’d break when he guessed he was dead in her time.

He shut his eyes. Smirked faintly to himself. Well. Tomorrow will be interesting.

For tonight, they slept.

Morning came gray and bitter, pale light sneaking through the cracks of the old shack. Sirius woke first. Years of restless nights had carved that habit deep—never sleeping long, never fully at ease.

He sat up, ran a hand through his tangled hair, and with a flick of his fingers produced a cigarette from the battered pack he’d nicked while he was out. A muttered Incendio lit the end, smoke curling lazily as he leaned back against the wall, staring at nothing.

Yesterday’s revelations still gnawed at him. His mother—dead. Regulus—gone. Grimmauld, the house of Black, turned into a hideout for the Order—whoever that contained. And Ginny, that fiery redhead who somehow knew too much about him, about Padfoot, about things she clearly wasn’t ready to say.

The smoke burned his lungs in the way he liked, heavy and grounding. He exhaled slowly, letting the thoughts scatter with the haze.

Beside him, she stirred. Sirius glanced over in time to see her stretch and rub the sleep from her eyes, hair tangled, cheeks still flushed from sleep. She blinked blearily at him—then narrowed her eyes the second she noticed the cigarette.

“Seriously?” she muttered, voice thick with sleep. “You wake up and the first thing you do is poison yourself?”

Sirius smirked around the cigarette, taking a slow drag. “No way am I taking orders from you, sweetheart. Not about this.”

Her mouth tightened. She got that look again—like she was about to hex him into next week—but instead she turned away, muttering under her breath, too low for him to catch. Sirius smirked wider. She’s going to blow one of these days. Merlin, it’ll be fun to watch.

He leaned his head back against the wall, forcing his thoughts toward the task ahead. Grimmauld Place. He had to picture it exactly—the cracks in the front steps, the peeling black paint, the iron knocker shaped like a serpent. If his memory faltered, if he wasn’t precise—

He shook it off. Couldn’t afford hesitation.

By then Ginny had started cleaning up. She folded the spare blanket neatly, tucked away crumbs, and gathered what little food they had left. She set a half apple and a slice of bread down in front of him with an almost brusque gesture.

“You’ll need your strength,” she said simply.

Sirius studied her longer than necessary—long enough for her to fidget under his gaze. Finally, with a slow grin, he plucked up the apple. “Bossy,” he said. “But fair.”

They ate quickly, no more words wasted. When it was done, Ginny brushed her hands on her robes and looked at him, serious now.

“So… how do we do this? Do we just… hold hands?” Her brow furrowed. “I’ve never done it before. I don’t want to—” She cut herself off, biting her lip.

Sirius rose, brushing the dust off his coat. He smirked, deliberately wicked. “You’ll have to hold me, sweetheart. As tightly as you can.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Is that absolutely necessary?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said smoothly, with a mock-grave nod. “Life or death, in fact. I’d never joke about something this dangerous.”

She glared at him, clearly unconvinced, but finally stepped closer and looped her arms around his torso, awkward but firm. He let his grin slip for just a second, because the warmth of her against him sent a jolt through his chest he wasn’t expecting. He quickly covered it with his usual swagger.

“Ready?”

“No,” she muttered darkly.

“Good,” Sirius said, tightening his grip around her waist. “Means you’ll hold on tighter.”

And with a sharp crack, the world twisted, darkness pressing in, his lungs crushed as though they were being forced through the eye of a needle—

Then they landed, hard, in the cold London street.

Sirius staggered, caught his breath, and straightened. He turned his head, and there it was: wedged between the familiar grim Georgian houses, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, black and foreboding.

Home.

Chapter Text

The street was quiet, a damp London chill hanging in the air. The row of houses loomed, uniform and cold, with nothing but a gap of shadows where Number Twelve should have been. Sirius exhaled, forcing the memory into place—blackened stone, shuttered windows, the serpent knocker.

And just like that, with the faintest shudder in the air, Grimmauld Place forced itself into being, bulging into existence between Eleven and Thirteen as though it had always been there.

Ginny watched with wide eyes. Sirius only sneered. Home, bloody home.

“Quick,” he muttered, tugging her forward. They slipped up the steps, the door groaning as it swung open to swallow them whole, slamming shut behind with a heavy finality.

Inside, the air hit him like a wall. Dust. Damp. That same suffocating weight of too many secrets buried in the walls. Sirius froze in the hall, his chest tightening. Memories slammed against him—his mother shrieking, Regulus’s quiet eyes, the smell of polish and cold stone.

Merlin, he hated this place.

But it looked different now. The clutter had been stripped back, cobwebs banished. Cleaner. Tidier. But not warm. Never warm.

Behind him Ginny shifted, about to follow deeper. He spun, hand to her shoulder, stopping her.

“No,” he said, tone sharp. “Stay here.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because if we got in this easily, sweetheart, anyone could. I’ll check the place first.”

Her jaw set stubbornly. “I’ll come.”

He shook his head, steel in his voice. “You’re underage. You can’t use magic, and if something comes at us you’ll be cornered. Stay by the door. If anything happens—if I yell—you run. Got it?”

Her lips pressed thin, clearly furious at being dismissed. But after a long moment she gave a short, reluctant nod. Sirius brushed past her without another word, wand tight in hand.

The house creaked as he moved. Floorboards groaning under his boots. Every door he pushed open carried another stab of memory—the drawing room where his mother’s portrait had screamed reminding him of a time before he ran away from home, the kitchen where Kreacher used to mutter to the shadows. By the time he climbed to the second floor, he was raw inside, his grip on his wand white-knuckled.

He opened the door to his parents’ bedroom, the smell of mildew and mothballs making his stomach turn—

And then a scream split the silence.

Ginny.

Sirius’s heart slammed against his ribs. He tore out of the room, barreling toward the stairs. He didn’t bother running—he practically launched himself down, two floors in a mad leap, hitting the ground hard and sprinting toward the hall.

What he saw made his vision go red.

Ginny dangled in midair, ropes binding her tight, struggling as she twisted. And below her, shriveled and furious, stood Kreacher, shrieking in that cracked voice:

“Blood traitor! Filth in the Noble House of Black! How dare you defile—”

Sirius didn’t hesitate. He stormed forward and kicked Kreacher hard, sending the elf stumbling back.

“PUT HER DOWN. NOW!” Sirius roared, wand raised.

Kreacher spun, fury twisting into shock. His eyes bulged. “M-master Sirius? Is— Is it you?”

“Damn right it is.” Sirius’s voice was ice. “And if you don’t release her this instant, I’ll beat you into the wall.”

The elf whimpered, his grip faltering. With a snap, the ropes released, Ginny falling—Sirius lunged forward, catching her against his chest before she hit the ground.

He lowered her carefully, muttering a curse as he flicked his wand, dissolving the last of the bindings. Ginny gasped, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with fury. Sirius kept one hand steady on her shoulder, his own rage boiling hot.

“Touch her again,” Sirius hissed at Kreacher, voice low, dangerous, “and I swear you’ll regret it.”

The elf stared at him, trembling, torn between fear and devotion.

Kreacher blinked up at him, watery eyes wide, voice rasping.

“Master? … But this is young Master… too young… Kreacher must be—must be hallucinating, yes…” He clutched his head, rocking back and forth. “Kreacher is seeing ghosts again.”

Sirius’s patience snapped.

“Get a grip, you miserable excuse for an elf. I’m here, flesh and blood. And if you don’t come to your senses right now, I’ll beat you till you’re competent.” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and merciless.

Kreacher froze, cowed by the familiar fury.

“Now,” Sirius barked, “answer me. Is there anyone else in this house?”

“No, Master,” the elf croaked. “Kreacher has kept it safe, always safe, against filthy intruders—” His beady eyes slid toward Ginny, narrowing into pure venom.

That was all it took.

Sirius stepped forward, eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare. From this moment on, you will address her as Mistress.”

Kreacher’s face went slack with horror. “M-Mistress? This blood traitor? Never! Kreacher will never—”

“Listen closely.” Sirius’s voice dropped, lethal quiet. “If you so much as breathe another insult at her, I’ll hand you clothes and kick you out into the streets. You’ll be nothing, Kreacher. Nothing. This house isn’t yours. It is mine. You’re here to serve, and you’ll do it properly. Now go. Prepare food. And remember your place.” He snapped the last bit.

Kreacher’s mouth trembled, fury and grief twisting his face. But when Sirius’s glare didn’t waver, the elf bowed low with trembling hands. “As you wish, Master.” With a sharp crack, he vanished.

The silence left behind was thick, charged.

Sirius turned to Ginny. She was pale, shaken, her breaths coming too fast. He softened, stepping close. “You alright, sweetheart?”

Her eyes snapped to his, fire returning. “Do I look alright? You left me, Sirius. You told me to wait by the door and Kreacher nearly strung me up like a trophy.”

His gut clenched. He didn’t bother with excuses. “You’re right. I should’ve stayed close.” He reached out, steady hands cupping her shoulders. His voice was low, rough. “I’m sorry. I won’t leave you vulnerable again.”

And before he could think better of it, he pulled her against him. She stiffened, startled, but he wrapped her close, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head—gentle, protective, almost instinctual.

“Not again,” he murmured. “Not ever.”

Then he pulled back abruptly, masking the moment with his usual swagger, and headed toward the dining room. “Come on. Food should be ready soon.”

Behind him, Ginny stood frozen in the hall, eyes wide, pulse hammering. Her mind reeled, trying to process what had just happened—Sirius’s command, his unexpected softness, the warmth of his lips against her hair.

For the first time, she wasn’t sure if she was more unsettled by Kreacher’s fury… or Sirius Black’s embrace.

By the time Sirius reached the dining room, Kreacher was already there. The elf had laid out food on the long, dark table—bread, some cold meats, and a stew that smelled edible enough, though the dishes clattered hard enough to make the plates jump. Every motion Kreacher made screamed defiance, but Sirius didn’t rise to the bait. Not tonight.

Instead, he sprawled into one of the high-backed chairs, throwing his boots up on the table. “Careful, Kreacher, wouldn’t want you to pull a muscle serving your Mistress.”

The elf hissed low under his breath, glaring daggers at Ginny as she slipped quietly into the room.

“Mistress,” Sirius reminded, his grin all teeth. “Say it. Out loud. Might stick faster that way.”

Kreacher’s face twisted like he’d swallowed poison. “Food is served, Mistress,” he spat, bowing mockingly low before vanishing with a sharp crack.

Sirius barked a laugh. “See? He warms up to people quick. Give it a week, he’ll be knitting you socks.”

But Ginny didn’t laugh. She slid into a chair opposite him, eyes down, silent. Her hands moved automatically, breaking bread, spooning stew, but she didn’t so much as glance his way.

Sirius twirled his spoon, tapping it against the edge of the bowl. He tried a few quips, even exaggerated a sigh about how dreadful the company was, but nothing stuck. The girl’s mind was elsewhere—somewhere he couldn’t reach.

So they ate in silence, the only sound the scrape of cutlery against dishes and the faint creak of the old house around them.

When Ginny finally set her spoon down, she stood. “I’ll… go to bed.”

“Want me to show you around first?” Sirius drawled, smirk playing at his lips. “Could get lost in this old mausoleum.”

Her eyes lifted then, sharp and wary. “I know the place well enough.”

“Ahhh.” His grin widened. “When you were here with the Order, wasn’t it, sweetheart?”

She froze. He could see the flicker of alarm in her eyes before she masked it, but it was too late. He’d caught it.

“Well,” he said, voice turning lazy, but his gaze didn’t soften. “When you wake up well rested and fed, you and I are going to have ourselves a little chat about that. The Order. And how exactly you know so damn much about me.”

Her jaw tightened. Sirius thought she was going to snap at him—but instead she only muttered, “Yeah. Fine,” in a half-hearted tone, before retreating toward the stairs.

He watched her go, red hair disappearing up the shadowed hall. The door shut softly behind her, leaving him alone at the table with his half-finished stew and too many questions burning holes in his head.

Upstairs, Ginny slipped into the same room she remembered sharing with Hermione. Only this time, the bed across from hers was empty. The silence pressed heavy around her, and for the first time since this whole mess began, she almost wished she wasn’t alone.

The dining room had emptied, but Sirius stayed. The flickering candle on the table burned low, casting long shadows across the grim wood paneling. Kreacher had vanished, Ginny had locked herself away upstairs, and the house groaned as if it resented them both being back.

Sirius poured himself another glass. Firewhisky this time—sharp, stolen, and exactly what he needed. He downed it in one swallow, grimacing at the familiar burn, then leaned back in the chair, staring up at the cracked ceiling.

From finally escaping the damned Room of Requirement, and now here. Another prison, dressed differently, but a prison all the same. Walls that held him, expectations that bound him, and the gnawing truth that he was never free—not really.

But now he wasn’t alone in it. He’d dragged the redhead along, tied her fate to his whether she wanted it or not. Sirius smirked bitterly, rolling the glass between his fingers. No, he didn’t regret it. Not for a second. Better she was stuck here with him than writhing under the Carrows’ wands, screaming until her throat broke. He could still hear that sound, tearing through him like claws.

A protective instinct. That was what it was. He’d always had it—toward James, toward Remus and Peter, his dear Marauders back then. But this… this was sharper. Rawer. He remembered the way his chest had seized when Ginny screamed, how his vision had tunneled, how he’d moved without thought, desperate to tear her free. With his friends, it had been loyalty. With her… it was something else. Something he didn’t dare name.

His glass emptied again, he poured another.

James. Remus. Peter. His throat tightened as he thought of them. Were they alive right now, back in his own time? Did they ever worry about him, wonder what happened? Did they think he’d abandoned them? Hell, he’d give anything just to see them alive and whole, to hear James’s laugh or Remus’s dry voice again.

And everything else he didn't know. It all sat in his gut like a weight, an itch he hadn’t scratched. Ginny knew more than she’d admitted. Too much. But he couldn’t untangle it now, not tonight.

He ran a hand over his face. He should be planning, finding a way back. Every second here was a stolen second, a crack in time he had no right to widen. And yet… he wasn’t in a rush. Not anymore. Not when the thought of leaving her here twisted him up worse than staying.

“Bloody hell,” Sirius muttered, and knocked the drink back hard. The glass clinked against the bottle as he refilled it, then abandoned it altogether, taking the whole thing with him.

Enough brooding. Enough damn walls pressing down. He pushed away from the table, boots thudding softly against the floorboards, and climbed the stairs. Past the portraits that hissed at him, past the places he swore he’d never return to.

By the time he reached the room he’d chosen for himself, the whisky was heavy in hishand, his thoughts heavier still. He collapsed onto the old bed, bottle resting on his chest, and let his eyes close.

Sleep, at least, might dull the noise.

Chapter Text

Ginny woke slowly, the morning light bleeding pale and gray through the grimy curtains. She lay still beneath the heavy blankets, staring up at the cracked ceiling and listening to the faint creaks of the house. Grimmauld Place felt alive in a way she didn’t like, like it was watching, breathing, waiting for her to slip.

Everything was a mess.

She’d left Hogwarts. Just—gone. No note, no explanation, no trail. The DA would wake to find her vanished. Neville would look for her, Seamus would wonder, and Luna… Merlin, Luna would just know something had happened. And who would lead them now? Who would take care of Neville, who would stand up when the Carrows tried to crush them again?

Her throat tightened. Had she abandoned them?

And what about Hogwarts itself? Did this mean she’d never finish? No N.E.W.T.s, no walking the corridors one last time as a student. No graduation. She’d defected without meaning to, and she could already hear her parents’ voices in her head—her mother’s shrill worry, her father’s quiet disappointment. They’d be sick with fear when they realized she was missing, and with Ron already gone, it would feel like their family was splintering apart.

Ginny rolled onto her side, pressing her face into the pillow. She had to send them word somehow, an owl at least, let them know she was alive and hiding. But how could she explain this? Explain that she was holed up in London with a younger Sirius Black, plucked out of time like a ghost wearing skin?

Him.

Her stomach twisted. She was supposed to be fixing this—finding a way to send him back—but every day that passed, the chances grew smaller, slimmer, until the idea of undoing this felt impossible. And Sirius wasn’t helping. No, he was fixated on her, on answers, on pulling truth out of her until she had nothing left to hide.

And last night—Merlin, last night. The way he’d hugged her, pulled her close like she was something precious, kissed her head like she mattered. Like he cared.

Ginny sat bolt upright, heat rushing to her face. What was that about?!

He wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the reckless, dangerous boy she’d dragged here, not the Sirius who made her feel things she didn’t have the time—or the luxury—to feel.

Her hands clenched in the blanket. Enough lying here, enough letting her thoughts spin circles around him. If she didn’t move, she’d drown in them.

With a sharp breath, Ginny threw back the covers, swung her legs to the floor, and stood. She grabbed her clothes and headed for the bath, determined to scrub the confusion off her skin. When she was done, she’d face him in the dining room, and she’d have breakfast like nothing had happened.

Even if her chest still burned from the memory of his arms around her.

Ginny padded into the kitchen, her stomach twisting from hunger and nerves. She’d decided—stupidly—that she would make breakfast. That maybe, after everything, she could start the day by doing something useful.

But as she looked around the shelves and cupboards, reality hit her like a bludger. She didn’t actually… know how to cook. Not properly. Not without her mum at her side, guiding her hand, finishing the bits she fumbled, tasting and adjusting until everything was perfect.

Ginny stared at the pan in her hand, cheeks burning. She could hex Malfoy into next week but couldn’t so much as fry an egg.

She set the pan down too hard and muttered, “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant, Ginny.”

Embarrassment prickled through her as she did the only thing left to do. She cleared her throat and called out, “Er—Kreacher?”

With a crack, the elf appeared at her elbow. She jumped.

“You called, Mistress?” he rasped, spitting the last word like it was poison in his mouth.

Ginny’s face flooded scarlet. Mistress. Why in Merlin’s name had Sirius asked him to call her that?

She shifted uncomfortably and muttered, “Breakfast.”

Kreacher bowed low, muttering under his breath in a stream of words she couldn’t quite catch, and disappeared again with another crack. Ginny let out a shaky breath and backed out of the kitchen.

She went to the dining room and sat down, staring at the long, quiet table. Grimmauld Place without the Weasleys felt like a mausoleum. No Fred and George tearing through with half-baked inventions, no Harry, Ron, and Hermione whispering fiercely over maps and notes. No Mum fussing, no clatter, no noise.

Just silence.

Ginny swallowed, her heart squeezing. She almost missed the sound of Sirius—older Sirius—being scolded by her mum, sulking in his chair with a drink.

Her head dropped into her hand. What was she even doing here?

A sharp crack split the quiet. Ginny’s head snapped up—her wand already half out—only to see Sirius had Apparated directly to the bottom of the stairs.

Her wand slipped back into her sleeve as her mouth went dry.

He was… disheveled. Barefoot, hair a wild, tangled mess, eyes half-closed with sleep. And his torso—bare, inked in curling black tattoos she hadn’t seen before—was lean and scarred, every inch of him shouting dangerous.

Ginny stared, frozen, heat crawling all the way to her ears.

He cleared his throat deliberately. When her eyes snapped to his, he was already smirking, the corner of his mouth curling in wicked amusement.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Sirius drawled, voice still thick with sleep. “If you keep staring like that, I might start thinking breakfast isn’t the only thing you’ve got an appetite for.”

Ginny’s whole body went rigid, her face erupting into red hot flames at his words. Her freckles might as well have been glowing like sparks.

“How—how dare you—!” she sputtered, snapping upright in her chair. “You’re absolutely insufferable, you know that? You think you’re so clever, walking around half-dressed, smirking like—like—”

Her words tripped over themselves, fury battling mortification.

Sirius didn’t even blink. He just leaned lazily against the doorframe, smirk deepening, his eyes glittering with wicked delight.

“Mm. You’re blushing, sweetheart. Wonder how far that blush goes.”

Ginny’s mind emptied so completely it might’ve been Obliviated. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. Words—any words—completely abandoned her.

The silence stretched. His smirk widened.

“Oye,” Sirius teased, tilting his head with mock concern. “Did I break you, sweetheart?”

That snapped her back, like a splash of cold water. Ginny shot to her feet, fists clenched, ready to fire back with something—anything—but the air cracked sharply, and Kreacher appeared right between them with a tray balanced on his spindly arms.

“Breakfast,” the elf croaked, his voice as bitter as the expression twisting his face.

Ginny nearly sagged in relief. Saved. Thank Merlin.

Sirius, of course, just chuckled darkly under his breath, clearly enjoying every second of her humiliation.

They sat across from each other at the long, empty table, Kreacher’s resentful clattering fading as the elf stalked off to wherever he sulked these days. The silence was thick, filled only with the sound of cutlery and the faint tick of the old Black family clock in the hall.

Then Sirius leaned back in his chair, fork dangling loosely between his fingers, and with a wolfish curve of his mouth asked,

“So. How’d you sleep, sweetheart? Anything missing?”

The glint in his eye made it impossible to mistake the double edge in the question.

Ginny’s ears went pink, but she lifted her chin, determined not to let him win this round. “Quite peacefully, thank you,” she replied smoothly. She paused deliberately, then added, “But there are a few things I do need.”

That eyebrow of his shot up. “Oh? And what might those be?”

“An owl,” she said firmly. Then, quieter—almost too low, as though the words embarrassed her out of their own accord—“…and a cookbook.”

Sirius stilled for a beat before the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “A cookbook?”

Ginny fidgeted with her fork, glaring at her plate rather than at him. “Yes. A cookbook. I’d like to cook… to keep myself busy.” Her cheeks warmed more as she spoke. “Otherwise I’ll go mad, rattling about in this place.”

She fell silent after that, but her thoughts pressed in fast and heavy. Who knows how long we’ll have to stay here? Days? Weeks? Longer? She glanced up at him, sharp again. “You’ll have to have patience, you know. Not get bored. Not do something… reckless.”

Inwardly she bit back a sigh. He hated being caged even when he was older, wiser. Merlin help me if this young, brash version decides to start climbing the walls.

Sirius only tilted his head, studying her with unreadable amusement. Then, with a shrug as casual as if she’d asked for a glass of water, he said, “Alright. Understood. I’ll send Kreacher to fetch you some cookbooks.”

Ginny blinked. The easy compliance almost startled her more than his teasing.

Sirius leaned forward now, his smirk gone, his tone deceptively casual.

“And what’s the owl for, sweetheart? Who d’you need to write?”

Ginny set her fork down, bracing herself. “I need to write to Neville. Let him know I’m alright. He’ll go crazy, worrying about what happened to me and…” she glanced at him, “…and you.”

She pressed on quickly, before he could argue. “And I need to write to my—”

“No.”

The word landed sharp and hard, cutting her off like a blade.

Ginny blinked, stunned. “No? What do you mean no?”

His eyes narrowed, dark with anger—or maybe something else she couldn’t name. “I’m not risking our location just because you need to make sure your boyfriend isn’t losing sleep.”

Her face burned, shock giving way to fury. “He’s not my boyfriend, I already told you! He’s my friend—and he deserves to know I’m okay.”

Sirius scoffed, jaw tight, fury coiling off him now. “Friend?” He practically spat the word. “Do you hug all your friends in ways that get you landed in detention?” He leaned across the table, eyes blazing. “Maybe if you kept your friendship under control, sweetheart, you wouldn’t be suffering the effects of an Unforgivable.”

Ginny froze. The sting of his words cut deep—anger still sparking in her chest, but something else, too. Shame. Hurt.

“How—” her voice confused, then steadied into something sharp, “—how do you know that?”

Sirius leaned back, lips curling in a humorless smile. “Because your friend Neville told me.” He almost spat Neville’s name, like it was poison on his tongue.

Ginny drew in a slow breath, forcing her voice calmer this time, though her hands still trembled against the table. “I need to write to my family. They’ll be beside themselves with worry.”

Sirius’s jaw clenched, his face a mask of control stretched too tight. “And wouldn’t they want to know where you are?” His voice was low, dangerous. “You think they won’t try to find you? Drag you back with them?”

Her temper snapped, her patience shredded. “Well, I won’t tell them my whereabouts,” she shot back, eyes flashing. “Just that I’m okay. And you can read the damn letter yourself, you absolute asshole. But I’m not taking no for an answer.”

The room went quiet, the only sound the faint clink of silverware Kreacher had left behind. Ginny’s chest rose and fell quickly as she glared at him across the table, daring him to keep fighting her.

And then, something in Sirius shifted. The hard, furious edge in his expression softened—not gone, but retreating like a wave. He leaned back in his chair, lips curving into that cocky smirk she had come to both loathe and expect.

“Fine,” he drawled, eyes glinting. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart, that’s what you’ll get.”

Relief and suspicion twisted in Ginny’s chest all at once.

But Sirius didn’t let the silence linger. He leaned forward again, forearms braced on the table, the smirk fading into something sharper, more dangerous.

“Now,” he said softly, eyes narrowing, “since you’re getting what you want…” A pause. “It’s about damn time I get some answers out of you.”

Ginny’s stomach dropped.

“Tell me,” Sirius continued, voice low but edged with steel, “what happened to the old Order members?”

The glint in his gray eyes was unmistakable—a challenge, daring her to defy him.

Ginny swallowed hard. She could feel the corner she had painted herself into, the trap snapping shut. There wasn’t anywhere left to run.

“All right,” she said finally, her voice softer than she intended. “I’ll tell you. But…” She held his gaze, trying to steady the tremor in her voice. “You can’t ask me any follow-up questions. Not about the how. Not about the why. Just—just let me say it. Please.”

Sirius tilted his head, considering her. That smirk of his ghosted across his mouth, mocking and dangerous in the same breath. “I’ll decide that,” he said smoothly. Then, after a beat: “But for now… okay. Only because you said please, sweetheart.”

Her chest tightened.

She forced herself to begin. “Albus Dumbledore… he’s dead.”

Sirius’s gray eyes narrowed. He knew exactly what she was doing—skirting, rationing truths—but for once he didn’t interrupt.

“McGonagall’s alive,” Ginny continued, her voice growing steadier. “She’s at Hogwarts. Still teaching Transfiguration. She—she’s holding it together as best she can.”

Sirius said nothing, only watched her with those piercing eyes.

“There’s Mad-Eye,” Ginny went on. “He… passed recently.”

His jaw flexed, but still he didn’t speak.

“Hagrid’s alive. Still at Hogwarts. But…” She faltered, eyes falling to the table. “Recently, he’s gone missing. No one’s sure where.”

Her throat tightened. She pushed past it. “Mundungus Fletcher… he’s alive. A coward. Missing too.”

She drew a breath. “Alice and Frank Longbottom—”

Sirius cut her off sharply. “I already know. That Neville boy told me.”

His voice had hardened again, every word deliberate. He leaned closer across the table, his stare burning through her.

“Tell me about the Marauders,” Sirius said, low and sharp. “Tell me what happened to them.”

Her breath came unsteady, shallow. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Sirius Black—” she began, voice small, “dead.”

She flinched as if she’d struck him herself, but pushed on, softer now. “You died valiantly. Protecting your godson… protecting us.” A tremor flickered through her lips before she managed a tiny, wistful smile.

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

“P–Peter Pettigrew…” Her voice curdled. “We don’t know if he’s alive or dead, but… let’s just say he isn’t a friend of ours. Especially not yours.”

At that, she lifted her eyes, met his for a fleeting moment. His brows pinched together, confusion sharpening his expression, but for once he didn’t cut across her words.

“And then there’s Remus Lupin.” Her tone shifted, brightened despite herself. She smiled, and Sirius noticed—it was the first genuine smile she’d worn since Grimmauld. “He’s alive. Doing quite well for himself, actually. Married. And…” she hesitated, warmth spilling into her voice, “about to be a father.”

Sirius’s eyes widened, disbelief written plain. He gawked, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “Father? Remus? Bloody hell—I thought that one would die a virgin.”

Ginny chuckled despite herself, shaking her head. “Never. He was the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher we ever had. Everybody loved him.”

Sirius blinked, then threw back his head with a bark of laughter. “A teacher? Merlin’s balls—Remus is full of surprises.”

But then his eyes sobered, sharpened. “And what about James and Lily?”

The air in the room shifted. Her smile faltered, vanished. Her throat closed up tight, but she forced herself to look at him.

For the first time, he didn’t call her sweetheart. He leaned forward, voice like glass about to shatter.

“Go on, Ginny. Tell me.”

The sound of her name on his tongue froze her, burned her. She couldn’t hold his gaze anymore. Her eyes dropped to her lap, and when she spoke her voice cracked.

“They died.”

A silence, heavy and cold.

“They died fighting Voldemort.”

Chapter Text

The house was too big, too cold, too quiet.

The days blurred together in Grimmauld Place, oppressive silence seeping through the halls like damp. Ginny felt swallowed by it. Even in the Room of Requirement or in Hogwards with Carrows lurking, the DA felt alive—like resistance breathing. Here, there was nothing but shadows and the creak of old floorboards.

And Sirius’s absence.

He’d kept his promise, sure. No questions about how or why. But the moment she’d told him about James and Lily, his face had gone white and stormy, and then he’d simply… left. Up to the fourth floor. He hadn’t come down since.

On the second day, she worked up her nerve and climbed the stairs, only to be stopped on the third landing. Kreacher had appeared, bowing so low his nose nearly scraped the floor, voice dripping venom.

“Master does not wish to be disturbed… especially not by the likes of you.”

She hadn’t known if that was Sirius’s message or the elf’s spite. Either way, she’d retreated, cheeks burning.

By day three, she found something unexpected on the dining table. A cookbook. It lay there neatly, as though placed deliberately. No note, but she understood who it must have been from. Her chest tightened.

So she tried.

Cooking wasn’t her strength—Mum had always been there, guiding hands, filling in gaps. Ginny wrestled with recipes, burned her fingers twice, and filled the kitchen with more smoke than fragrance. Still, she managed something simple, edible, and stubbornly kept at it. By the time the dish was done, lunch had long passed, but she didn’t care. She cast a warming charm over the plate, placed it neatly, and called Kreacher.

“You can take this up to Sirius.”

The elf sneered, yellowed eyes flashing. “Master will only send it back. As he has with all the other food.”

Her brows furrowed. “He hasn’t eaten?”

Kreacher gave an exaggerated shrug. “If alcohol and fags are considered food…”

Ginny went still. Then her blood boiled.

“You mean to tell me,” she snapped, marching toward the elf with her fists clenched, “that he hasn’t eaten a proper meal in three days—and you’ve just stood by?”

Kreacher sneered, but her fury came fast and sharp, filling the kitchen.

“How dare you call yourself loyal and let your master drink himself sick and starve like that! You rotten little—”

Her voice cracked. She slammed the cookbook shut, shaking.

If Sirius thought he could drink himself into the grave, fine. But she would not stand by and let him.

She’d had enough.

Her fury carried her up the staircase two at a time, past the whispering wallpaper, past Kreacher who hissed warnings like a snake. She shoved him aside. “Don’t you dare try me right now!” Her voice shook the walls.

The fourth floor. Sirius’s door. She pounded with her fists, voice hoarse from shouting his name. “Sirius! Open the bloody door!”

Silence.

Her wand snapped into her hand. “Alohomora!” Nothing. Not even a twitch. Old Black family wards mocked her from the wood. She kicked the frame, hard enough to sting her foot.

“Fine!” she shouted, chest heaving. “I’ll sit right here, you git! I don’t care if it takes all night!”

And she did. Afternoon bled into evening, then into night. The dish she’d made sat beside her, charms fading, steam long gone. The corridor dimmed into shadows. Still, she stayed.

Until Kreacher appeared, arms straining around five bottles of firewhisky.

Ginny’s stomach dropped. She stared as the elf vanished—only to return a minute later, tray empty, eyes glittering with malicious satisfaction.

Her blood boiled hot enough to scorch.

“So that’s it, is it?” she screamed at the door, fists hammering the wood. “That disgusting elf can come in and drown you, but not me?”

Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop, slamming her fists harder. “Sirius Black, if you don’t open this goddamn door right now I swear I’ll set this cursed house on fire—and believe me, I mean it!”

The lock clicked.

Before she could react, the door swung open and a rough hand caught her face, smothering her mid-word. She gasped as she was yanked inside, dragged out of the hallway shadows.

The door slammed shut behind them.

And there he was. Sirius.

Eyes bloodshot, hair wild, his chest bare and littered with ink and scars, reeking of smoke and whisky. He looked feral, haunted, as if he’d been clawing the walls for days.

“Finally shut you up,” he muttered, voice low, raw. His thumb still pressed at her jaw, his breath hot with alcohol.

Ginny froze. Heart hammering.

She’d come to drag him back to life. But now, standing in the dim wreckage of his room, she wasn’t sure who was the one needing saving.

The whole room reeked of smoke. Ash and stale firewhisky clung to every surface, to his skin, to the air itself.

His hand still pressed hard against her face when she tried to shove it away. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she shouted, voice cracking with rage and fear. “Why are you ignoring me? Why haven’t you eaten anything?”

For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered with something human. Then they hardened.

Slowly, deliberately, his hand slid from her jaw to her throat.

Her back hit the door as he squeezed, pressing the air out of her lungs. His body loomed too close, his breath sour with drink, his grip merciless.

“Maybe because I’ve been too nice to you,” Sirius growled, voice low, venomous. “Maybe you’ve forgotten who I am. That I’m Sirius Black—and no one tells me what to do.”

The words slithered in her ear, terrifying in their steadiness.

The pressure built. Her nails clawed at his wrist, chest heaving as her lungs burned. His eyes—grey, dangerous, utterly gone—bored into hers, and she thought for one sickening moment he might not stop.

Then, just as suddenly, he did.

Her body crumpled forward as she gasped and coughed, hand flying to her throat. Her skin still pulsed with the phantom heat of his grip.

He turned away without a word, stumbling to the bed. Sitting heavily, he pulled out another cigarette, lit it with a careless flick, and exhaled smoke into the stale air.

“Leave.” His voice was flat, dead. He didn’t even look at her.

It would’ve been the smart thing to do. The only thing to do.

But Ginny Weasley had never been good at running.

She swallowed against the raw ache in her throat, her voice small—maybe from fear, maybe from the damage. “I made food,” she whispered. “For the first time today.”

Her eyes burned, but she kept her chin up. “I wouldn’t like it if you wasted it.”

The silence between them stretched, filled only by the scratch of his lighter and the crackle of burning tobacco.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even flick his eyes toward her when she spoke.

It was as if she wasn’t there at all.

Unsure what else to do, Ginny slid down the door until she was sitting on the cold floorboards, knees tucked close. She whispered another warming charm over the untouched food, watching the faint shimmer of magic fade. Waiting—for him to sober, for him to rage, for him to throw her out. She wasn’t sure.

Hours bled together.

She watched him knock back another bottle, his throat moving as the amber liquid drained. She remembered the Prophet photograph of him, all wild hair and mad eyes, the gauntness of Azkaban carved into his face. She remembered the stories Harry told of how Sirius had supposedly slaughtered Peter Pettigrew—how dangerous, how violent he could be.

And how his hand had just now been wrapped around her throat.

But she also remembered the way his voice had broken when she told him about James and Lily. The way his laugh had lit up the night in the forest. How he had stayed awake to watch over her the first night after the Carrows.

Dangerous. Yes. But not just that.

A grieving man. A broken man.

Ginny stood before she could lose her nerve. She walked toward the bed, Sirius’s sharp grey eyes following her the entire way. They tracked every step, hard and warning, daring her to get closer.

She sat down on the edge of the mattress. Close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

Without a word, she reached for one of the unopened bottles of firewhisky from the floor. His eyes widened briefly, surprised, before narrowing again into something unreadable.

She broke the seal, tipped it back.

The fire burned down her throat, scorching hot, making her cough once, but she didn’t stop. Another swallow, then another.

If company was what he needed, then company was what she would give.

Even if it burned her from the inside out.

They sat in complete silence, the only sounds the occasional clink of glass against wood and the faint crackle of Sirius’s lighter. He was already two bottles down, his movements steady in a way that told her this wasn’t new to him. Ginny, meanwhile, was only halfway through her first and already feeling lightheaded, the room tilting gently whenever she blinked too slow.

Her throat burned, inside from the whisky and outside where his hand had gripped her earlier, the phantom pressure still ghosting her skin. But the alcohol was working its way through her, numbing, blurring, muting everything that should have sent her running from this room. Instead, it softened the edges until she couldn’t tell where her fear ended and something else began.

She glanced sideways at him. Sirius sat slouched against the headboard, shirtless, cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. His dark hair fell into his face, his tattoos stark in the low light. Every so often, his lips parted just enough to exhale a ribbon of smoke, the glow of the ember briefly lighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

Ginny caught herself staring. Not just staring—studying. Tracing. He was infuriating, dangerous, unpredictable… and yet he wore it all like armor, like some untouchable rebel king. He had the whole bad-boy aura down to perfection, and she wondered, not for the first time, how he was single.

Or maybe that was obvious. Maybe the world didn’t know what to do with Sirius Black.

Her head buzzed, the firewhisky dissolving whatever inhibitions she’d been holding onto. The thought slid unbidden through her mind—yeah, I’d definitely hop into bed with him. Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she didn’t shove the thought away. Not this time.

Instead, she giggled.

The sound startled even her, bubbling up in the silence. Sirius turned his head slowly at the noise, impassive as ever, though his brow ticked up in curiosity.

“What’s so funny?” His voice was rough, smoke-laced.

She shook her head, still half-laughing, half-dizzy. “Just… technically, I already am in your bed.”

For the first time since she’d barged in here, something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe. Or maybe he was just humoring her. He didn’t smile, but the look in his eyes was enough to make her pulse trip.

Feeling bold, reckless even, Ginny shifted closer to him. Their knees nearly brushed as she leaned in, her voice dropping lower, quieter, though it felt impossibly loud in the charged silence.

“Can I take a drag of that?”

For a long moment, Sirius just looked at her. His gaze searched her face like he was waiting for her to back down, waiting for her to realize what she’d just asked. But she held it, refusing to look away.

Finally, without a word, he turned the cigarette in his hand and offered it out.

Her fingers brushed his when she took it, a tiny spark jumping at the contact. She lifted it to her lips, imitating the way he did it, and inhaled.

The result was immediate and brutal. The smoke scorched down her throat, her chest locked tight, and she doubled over hacking and coughing so hard her eyes watered. She shoved the cigarette back into his hand like it had betrayed her.

Sirius took it back effortlessly, drew in a slow drag, and exhaled a perfect stream of smoke toward the ceiling. His face barely shifted—except for the smallest, smug curl at the corner of his mouth.

“Amateur,” he muttered.

Ginny glared at him through watery eyes, cheeks flaming. “Oh, shut up,” she rasped, voice raw from both the whisky and the smoke.

Ginny kept staring. She knew she should stop—that it wasn’t wise, not with him, not after everything that had already happened. But she didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Not fair,” she muttered, her tongue loose with drink, her thoughts spilling out before she could cage them. “You’ve got all the bad habits… smoking, drinking, brooding.”

Her lips quirked into a smile, crooked and reckless. “And somehow you still make it look—” She cut herself off, biting the word back, but it was too late. Attractive. She hadn’t said it, but she might as well have.

Sirius’s eyes fixed on her, heavy and unreadable, pinning her in place. The air thickened, charged. Slowly, deliberately, he reached forward, his hand rising toward her throat.

Ginny froze. Half fear, half… something else. Was he going to do it again? Tighten his grip and remind her what he’d said about being dangerous?

But no. His fingers ghosted over the bruised skin, brushing the very place his hand had been before. The bruises still lingered there, faint shadows against her pale skin.

His gaze dropped to her throat, then flicked back to her eyes. Lower, husky, almost detached, he asked, “Does it hurt?”

Her breath caught, but she shook her head. “I’m fine.” And before she could think better of it, she reached up and closed her hand over his, holding it there, warm against her skin.

Something flickered in his eyes then—something dangerous, yes, but not in the way she feared. He stared at her too long, long enough for her pulse to trip and stutter.

Then he pulled back, his voice sharp, clipped. “You’ve had enough. Go back to your room.”

The words stung. Disappointment carved deep into her chest. “No,” she whispered, then firmer, “No. I won’t leave you like this. I won’t leave you alone.” Her throat burned with the admission. “I feel responsible… for the pain I caused you.”

His eyes narrowed, flaring with something she couldn’t name. Anger, yes. But there was more under it, a storm she couldn’t quite reach.

“Responsible?” he snapped, ripping his hand from hers. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. My pain isn’t something you caused. It’s something you’ll drown in if you stay too close.”

The sudden distance between them was worse than the sting in his words.

His voice dropped, rough and final. “Leave. Before I actually end up hurting you.”

The threat hung in the air, dark and heavy. And yet Ginny couldn’t tell if it was meant to drive her out… or to protect her.

Ginny sat stubbornly at the edge of his bed, the firewhisky buzzing through her veins, her cheeks flushed, her throat still raw from where his hand had been. He told her again to leave, his voice like iron.

She didn’t move.

“No,” she said, sharper than she meant to. “I’m not leaving you alone, Sirius. Not like this.”

His eyes cut to her, glinting in the dark.

“You think this is noble?” His voice was low, rough. “Sitting here, trying to fix me? You don’t know what you’ve walked into, Ginny.”

She lifted her chin, reckless. “Maybe I do. Maybe I know better than you think. You’re not as terrifying as you like to pretend.”

That did it.

He moved—sudden, violent, fast.

The mattress dipped as he climbed over her, pinning her down flat. His weight pressed her into the sheets, heavy, unrelenting. One leg shoved between hers, caging her. His breath was hot at her ear as he growled:

“You don’t have the faintest idea how dangerous I am.”

She froze, heart hammering, but her mouth still betrayed her. “You keep saying that. And yet here I am. Still breathing.”

His head snapped down, lips brushing the shell of her ear. His voice was molten now, half threat, half promise.

“Not for lack of trying.”

Then he buried his face in her neck.

Ginny’s breath caught, the air strangled out of her lungs. He wasn’t gentle—his lips pressed hard, rough, bruising. A scrape of teeth. The heat of his mouth sank into her skin, making her shudder.

“You shouldn’t have come here tonight,” he muttered against her, his words broken by the press of his lips. “Shouldn’t have looked at me like that. Shouldn’t have dared me.”

He sucked hard on the soft skin just below her jaw, a mark blooming under his mouth. Ginny gasped—too loud, too sharp, and before she could stop it, a small, strangled moan slipped free.

That sound undid him.

He stilled, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes blazed in the dim light, full of something raw and feral. She lay beneath him, face red, chest heaving, staring up at him like she didn’t know whether to run or stay frozen.

For one dangerous heartbeat, Sirius hovered—caught between restraint and surrender.

Then with a guttural curse, he pushed himself away from her, rolling onto his side, turning his back. The loss of his weight left her gasping, her skin still burning where his mouth had been.

He dragged the blanket over them both, rough and final. His wand flicked, plunging the room into darkness.

“Sleep,” he ordered, voice ragged.

Nothing more.

Ginny lay trembling in the dark, her neck throbbing with the ghost of his mouth, her mind spinning too fast to keep up. She had won nothing, lost nothing—only come far, far too close.

Chapter Text

Sirius woke with his mouth dry and his skull pounding, the sort of headache only firewhisky and regret could conjure. His tongue felt like ash, his lungs still raw from smoke. For a moment, he kept his eyes closed, wishing the world away.

But the silence pressed in. Heavy. Too heavy.

He opened his eyes.

The curtains were drawn tight, the room reeking of alcohol, cigarettes, and something else that hit him low in his gut—her.

And then he saw her.

Ginny Weasley.

Curled up in his bed. On his pillow. In his space.

His gut twisted.

Last night slammed back into him with brutal clarity—her pounding on his door, her voice sharp and unyielding, her refusal to leave him to drown. Then her sitting on the edge of his bed, red hair glowing in the lamplight, drinking his whisky with stubborn determination like she had every right.

And then—Merlin save him—the way she looked beneath him when he’d lost his temper.

He had pinned her down, his weight trapping her, his leg wedged between her thighs. He could still feel the heat of her body under him, still hear that sound she made when his mouth had found her neck. Not fear. Not only fear. Something else.

Something that had nearly destroyed what little control he had left.

Sirius sat up sharply, running both hands through his tangled hair.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

Because the truth was raw and ugly: if he hadn’t stopped, he would have taken her. Right there. On his bed. He wouldn’t have cared about lines or rules or the fact that she was sixteen. He’d have fucked her until she couldn’t remember her own name.

His cock stirred at the thought, thickening against the front of his trousers, and he gritted his teeth.

She shifted in her sleep then, a quiet murmur escaping her lips, and Sirius glanced over.

And that was worse.

Because she didn’t look defiant or reckless now. She looked… peaceful. Soft. Almost innocent. Her red hair spilled across his pillow like wildfire, a contrast so sharp it nearly winded him.

Bloody hell. He’d had girls in his bed before—back at Hogwarts, after. Pretty faces, quick fucks, good distractions. But none of them had looked like they belonged there.

Ginny Weasley did. And that terrified him more than fucking Voldemort ever had.

He turned away, searching for something to do with his hands, his eyes catching on a plate set carefully on the nightstand.

The food.

His stomach clenched.

He remembered the way her voice had cracked when she’d said it—“I made it.” As if it had cost her something. As if she was offering more than food.

Sirius dragged the plate into his lap and took a bite. Cold. Bland. Overcooked. But he ate it all. Every last bite. And only then did he realise how long it had been since he’d eaten properly.

He set the empty plate aside and exhaled heavily. His head still pounded, but the ache in his chest was worse.

He looked at her again.

And fuck, she was beautiful.

Too beautiful.

He pushed himself up, moved to the side of the bed, and carefully slid his arms beneath her. She was small in his hold, lighter than he expected, but warm—so bloody warm. She sighed softly and curled into him without waking, her head fitting against his shoulder like she belonged there too.

It undid him.

She smelled like him now. Firewhisky, smoke, his sheets. The thought made his cock twitch hard, heat pooling low in his stomach again.

And then he saw it.

His mark.

The bruising outline of his hand wrapped around her throat. Darker still, just beside it, the place where he’d sucked her skin until she moaned. His mark. His claim.

The sight jolted through him, sharp and dangerous, and he had to bite back a groan. He adjusted her in his arms quickly, almost desperately, because if he lingered another second, he’d drag her back into his bed and ruin everything.

“Shit,” he hissed, moving faster now.

He carried her down the hall, into her own room, and laid her gently on her bed. She didn’t stir, only murmured something unintelligible and rolled onto her side.

Sirius lingered a moment, staring down at her. He brushed a strand of hair from her face before catching himself, jerking his hand back as if burned.

He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

He backed away, fast, and Apparated with a sharp crack back into his own room.

The smell of her still clung to him, stronger than the smoke, heavier than the whisky. He ripped off his clothes and stalked into the shower, twisting the tap until the water blasted freezing cold.

The shock made him hiss, but he stayed beneath it, letting the ice bite into his skin. He needed to cool down, to scrub her from his body, from his head, from everywhere she had seeped in.

But even with the water pelting him, her face burned behind his eyes.

Her mouth. Her moan. Her fire.

And he knew—

No matter how much he fought it—

She was already under his skin.

The freezing water had done its work—numbed him from head to toe, washed away the stench of whisky and smoke, and dulled the frantic pulse of memory that had threatened to choke him. By the time Sirius shut the tap off and stepped out, his skin was raw and suffering from cold shivers, his hair dripping cold down his back.

He toweled himself off and glanced around his room.

It looked like a battlefield.

Empty bottles littered the floor, ashtrays spilled over, the curtains yellowed from smoke. His wand lay crooked on the nightstand where he’d dropped it, the air still carrying the acrid sting of cigarettes. Sirius’s jaw tightened.

No wonder he’d lost control.

He dragged a hand down his face, the sting of water still fresh on his skin. That wasn’t him last night—well, it was, but it was the worst of him. The Black family version. The version fueled by grief, anger, desperation.

James. Lily.

The names carved through him like knives, even now. He squeezed his eyes shut, saw James laughing on the Gryffindor common room sofa, Lily scolding him with a grin tugging her lips. Saw their faces in firelight, in memory, and then saw them lifeless.

Sirius inhaled sharply and shook himself, jaw clenching. He couldn’t go there. Not now. Not when the ache still burned too hot.

Because it wasn’t just grief gnawing at him anymore—it was rage.

Rage at himself.

At Ginny barging in and him nearly… Merlin.

He had left her vulnerable. Exposed. Not just to him—though that was bad enough—but to anyone, anything, if they had come. He hadn’t even put up wards on the bloody house last night, too busy drowning himself in bottles and smoke.

He slammed his fist against the dresser once, a growl tearing out of him.

Never again.

He’d lost James and Lily, atleast in this time. He would not—would not—be so take peace granted again.

The anger still burned, but he forced it down, channelled it into something else. He flicked his wand and called, voice gruff:

“Kreacher.”

The elf appeared instantly, bowing, muttering under his breath about “filthy master and his filthier habits.” Sirius didn’t even snap at him this time.

“Clean this room,” Sirius said curtly. “Scrub it. Air it out. I don’t want a trace of this shit left.”

Kreacher blinked, muttered, but nodded.

“And then,” Sirius added, softer but still sharp, “prepare breakfast. Proper breakfast. For two.”

The elf bowed again and vanished with a pop, leaving Sirius standing in the wreckage of himself.

He pulled on fresh clothes, raking his fingers through his wet hair, and left the room. His boots thudded softly against the old wooden floors as he descended the hall, each step steady, measured.

He stopped outside one particular door.

Her door.

Ginny Weasley.

He stood there a moment, listening. The faint shuffle of sheets. The steady rise and fall of her breathing.

He almost turned away. He should. Let her sleep, let her wake without the weight of him looming over her.

But Sirius’s hand lifted anyway, resting lightly against the frame.

He didn’t open it. Not yet.

Just listened, head bowed, a strange tightness clawing at his chest.

For the first time in years, Sirius Black wasn’t just thinking about himself, his pain, his ghosts.

He was thinking about her.

Then he walked past, down the corridor, and into the drawing room.

The table was strewn with old Daily Prophets, the headlines like bloodstains across the yellowing pages. Sirius gathered a few, carried them to the dining table, and sat down to read.

For the first time in years, he tried to catch up with the world he’d been thrown into.

An hour slipped past in silence. His boots were propped on a chair, his elbows on the table as he scanned headline after headline.

The Ministry had fallen. Death Eaters ruled unchecked. The list of the dead stretched long enough to fill pages. Familiar names leapt out at him, names he remembered from Order meetings, comrades who had once fought at his side. All gone.

His stomach clenched, but he forced himself to keep reading. He couldn’t look away.

And then—Harry.

James’s son. Lily’s son. Written about like a bloody criminal. The Prophet couldn’t decide whether to worship or damn him, so it did both. But every line Sirius read left his chest tighter.

Harry Potter—his godson. And not just that. Orphaned, growing up without James and Lily. Ginny Weasley had been close to him. Neville had told him enough to piece the rest together. More than close.

Sirius folded the paper with a sharp snap, running a hand down his face.

The creak of the stairs pulled his head up.

And then she appeared.

Ginny descended quietly, her damp hair curling around her face, darker from her shower. She wore a bathrobe tied at the waist, clinging in places it had no business clinging, the pale skin of her collarbone and throat exposed. The faint marks he’d left on her neck last night peeked from beneath the fold of fabric.

His eyes followed her without shame.

Merlin, she looked… soft. Clean. Beautiful.

And she smelled faintly of soap, of something floral that didn’t belong in this grim old house. His jaw tightened as heat curled low in his gut.

She crossed the room without looking at him, though the pink in her cheeks betrayed her awareness of his stare. She didn’t meet his eyes once, as if the very act might burn her.

Sirius leaned back in his chair, tossing the paper aside with deliberate laziness.

“Well,” he drawled, voice still rough with smoke and sleep, “look who decided to join the land of the living.”

She froze for half a second, then kept moving, pulling out the chair opposite him. Still, she didn’t look at him.

He smirked.

“You’re blushing,” he said softly, almost like an accusation.

Her eyes snapped up at that, fiery and sharp in a way that made his blood hum. But she didn’t deny it.

“You are,” he said easily, eyes raking over her face. “All pink. Not a bad look on you, sweetheart.”

Her head jerked up at that, fire lighting in her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

Sirius only grinned wider, wolfish, pleased to see the spark back in her. “Why not? You let me call you Ginny last night.”

Her blush deepened at that, spreading down her neck where—if he tilted his head just right—he could see the faint purpling of the mark he’d left. His gaze lingered there.

Ginny noticed. Of course she did. Her hand shot up to cover her throat, eyes narrowing. “Don’t stare.”

“Don’t give me something worth staring at,” he shot back smoothly, reaching for another Prophet and pretending to be casual about it.

She sputtered, then glared. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” he said, dropping the paper onto the table again, “look far too good in my robe for me to care.”

Her mouth fell open, scandalized. “This is not your robe, it’s—”

“Sweetheart,” he cut in, his smirk pure sin, “I know what’s mine when I see it.”

Her cheeks went scarlet. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you,” he countered lazily, “keep sitting there in my robe, hair damp, cheeks all flushed… making it very hard for me to be a gentleman.”

Ginny’s forked tongue failed her then. She snapped her mouth shut and focused on the table, fists clenched in her lap. Her throat still burned—half from the firewhisky, half from the reminder of his mouth there last night.

To cover her fluster, she shot back, “At least I don’t reek of firewhisky. Or smoke. Honestly, how many bottles does it take before you pass out? Three? Five?”

Sirius’s grin slipped into a half-scowl, but the amusement didn’t leave his eyes. “Tch. Careful, sweetheart. Keep talking like that, and I might remind you exactly how sharp my teeth are.”

Ginny flushed even harder at the not-so-veiled threat. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still here,” he said, leaning forward now, elbows on the table, grin slow and dangerous. “After last night. After all my… warnings. Makes me wonder if you’re brave or just stupid.”

Her jaw clenched. “Maybe I just don’t scare as easily as you’d like me to.”

His laugh was low and rough. “Merlin, you sound like James when you say things like that. He never knew when to shut up either.”

Ginny blinked, surprised by the shift. Sirius noticed, shrugged it off, and leaned back again, feigning nonchalance. But his eyes—dark and hooded—never left hers.

Before she could fire back, a sharp crack broke the tension.

Kreacher appeared, balancing a tray piled with food. The smell hit both of them at once—eggs, sausages, toast, roasted tomatoes—and Sirius realized, belatedly, how empty his stomach was after three days of nothing but firewhisky.

The elf muttered sourly as he set the dishes down. “Master and his little blood-traitor guest,” he sneered under his breath.

Ginny bristled, about to snap, but Sirius beat her to it. His voice went low, sharp as a whip. “Kreacher. Not another word.”

The elf scowled, bowed stiffly, and vanished with another crack.

Silence hung for a beat, broken only by the rich scent of food between them. Sirius dragged a plate toward himself, then shoved another across to Ginny.

“Eat,” he said simply.

For once, she didn’t argue.

Both of them dug in with something close to desperation, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. Forks scraped plates, the table filled with the sound of chewing, swallowing, reaching for more.

Sirius was the first to break it, glancing up at her between mouthfuls, his grin returning. “Careful, sweetheart. Keep eating like that and I’ll think you were starving.”

She swallowed her bite, leveled him with a glare. “Better than drinking myself stupid.”

He smirked, pointed his fork at her. “Touché.”

But the way his eyes lingered on her—sharp, amused, hungry in more ways than one—made it very clear this battle was only just beginning.

Ginny set her fork down with a sharp clink and leaned forward, eyes narrowed like she was about to hex him across the table.

“So what then? You going to go back up to your room, drink yourself stupid again, and pretend the world doesn’t exist?”

The bite in her voice made Sirius’s brows lift. For a heartbeat, the old temper surged—the one that wanted to snarl back that it was his bloody house, his bloody life, and he’d do as he pleased. But instead, something softer, slyer curled at his lips.

“Why?” he drawled, leaning back lazily. “Did you enjoy my company last night, sweetheart? Can’t get enough of me drunk and dangerous?”

Her cheeks flushed instantly, and Sirius bit back a laugh. Merlin, she was easy to rile. But then, before she could snap again, he let his smirk slip into something smaller, more genuine.

“No,” he admitted, voice low but steady. “I’m not planning on wasting the day like that. I’ll be putting up wards. Just to be sure. This house may be protected by old magic, but…” His jaw ticked. “I don’t like leaving things to chance.”

Ginny’s fire simmered down a little at that. She nodded, almost approving, before tilting her chin stubbornly. “Fine. I’ll be cooking dinner tonight.”

That earned her an outright bark of laughter from Sirius. “Cooking? Why in Merlin’s name would you bother with that when we’ve got a house-elf tripping over himself to do it for us?”

“Because,” Ginny shot back, nose wrinkling, “you can afford to have a house-elf. You’re rich. The rest of us—we cook for ourselves. We don’t all get born into Black family vaults.”

Sirius stilled, fork halfway to his mouth. For the first time that morning, he really looked at her—this fiery, stubborn girl who had thrown herself into his orbit without hesitation. And it hit him: he knew almost nothing about her.

He knew her last name. He knew she’d dated Harry bloody Potter. He knew she had a temper that rivaled his mother’s portrait and eyes that didn’t flinch away from him even when they should.

But beyond that? Nothing.

Something in his chest twisted, almost guiltily, but he pushed it down the way he always did.

Instead, he smirked. “Well,” he drawled, eyes glinting, “if money’s a problem, you could always marry rich. Save yourself the trouble of scrubbing pots and pans.”

Ginny choked on her tea. Her eyes flew to his, wide and furious and red as a tomato. “What—what is wrong with you?”

The sight of her utterly scandalized was too much. Sirius threw his head back and roared with laughter, deep and unrestrained, the kind he hadn’t felt in years.

“You should see your face!” he wheezed between laughs. “Merlin, sweetheart, I was joking—though, honestly, you’d have suitors lined up round the block if you wanted them.”

Ginny gaped at him like he’d gone mad. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and for a second, Sirius thought she might actually hex him right off his chair

But she didn’t. She snapped her mouth shut, cheeks scarlet, and muttered something into her plate that sounded suspiciously like “absolute prat.”

Grinning, Sirius finally let her off the hook. They finished the rest of breakfast in relative peace, the scraping of cutlery and clink of mugs filling the silence between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though. Not really.

When they both pushed back from the table, Sirius stood, stretching with a lazy roll of his shoulders. “I’ll do the wards first,” he said, voice casual, “and after that, I’ll come find you in the kitchen.”

Ginny arched a brow. “Do you even know where the kitchen is?”

He gave her a long look, then shrugged with infuriating nonchalance. “No. But I know where the wine cellar is.” A wolfish grin. “It’s right next to the kitchen, sweetheart.”

He had already turned, smirk firmly in place, when her voice called after him.

“Sirius.”

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. One brow arched. “Yes?”

She wasn’t looking at him directly. She was squirming, fingers tugging nervously at the belt of the robe she wore. When she finally lifted her head, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Could you… maybe… transfigure me some clothes?”

Sirius blinked, caught off guard for once. “Clothes?”

She nodded quickly, cheeks blazing. “Yes. Just… pajamas to sleep in. And maybe some dresses. To wear around the house.” Her voice dipped even lower, almost inaudible. “And… underthings.”

For a moment, Sirius just stared at her. Then his lips curved into the slowest, dirtiest smirk he’d worn all morning. He stepped closer, lowering his voice until it was almost a purr.

“Sure, sweetheart,” he murmured. “What colour would you prefer?”

Ginny’s face went scarlet. She shoved at his chest, sputtering, “You are insufferable!” and then after promising she didn't need his help she storms toward the kitchen in a flurry of robes and damp red hair.

Sirius stood where she left him, laughter rolling out of his chest, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe her.

Merlin help him, this was going to be fun.

Sirius stalked up the stairs, boots heavy on the old wood, his jaw set like granite. He’d laughed with her at breakfast, teased her until she’d flushed red as a Weasley jumper, but the moment he turned away and left her in the kitchen, the weight of reality came back to him like a punch to the gut.

The wards.

Merlin’s balls, he should have put them up days ago. The thought had his lips curling into a snarl at himself. What kind of fool leaves a girl—leaves anyone—in a house that could be breached by anyone with enough determination? Complacency had rotted his caution, dulled his instincts. And last night—Merlin, last night he’d been so far gone into the bottle he probably wouldn’t have noticed if Death Eaters had danced right into his bedroom.

No more of that.

With practiced movements, he drew his wand and began the work. Strong, silent layers of magic hummed out from his fingertips, spreading into the stone and bone of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Blood wards, binding wards, alarm wards so sharp they would slice through the skull of anyone stupid enough to try and force their way in. The house groaned under the new protections, a deep, thrumming acknowledgment of its master’s command.

By the time he was done, sweat lined his brow, and his hand trembled only slightly when he lowered his wand. Sirius exhaled, long and slow, chest heaving.

Finally.

The Black family home was no safe haven—but it was now a fortress.

He made his way back to his room, pushing the door open with a sharp kick. The stench of smoke and stale whiskey still clung to the air, and he wrinkled his nose at it. He’d told Kreacher to clean, and the little bastard had half-assed it, as always. But Sirius wasn’t in the mood to scream at the elf today.

Instead, he went to the wardrobe, dragging it open. Rows of black and grey stared back at him—robes he hadn’t worn since Azkaban, trousers and shirts that hung on him looser than they used to. With a flick of his wand, he began to shrink and reshape them.

He didn’t even need to think about her size. He knew it. From how closely he’d watched her the past few days—the way her hips curved under those hand-me-down jeans, the way her shoulders squared when she lifted her chin to argue with him. Sirius Black prided himself on being observant, and Ginny Weasley had caught far too much of his attention.

Shirts, simple trousers, soft pajamas. He laid them out neatly on the bed. Then, smirking to himself, he turned to the more… intimate details.

A flick of his wand, and soft cotton knickers appeared, delicate lace trimming the edges. He let his gaze linger on them, lips quirking. But when he thought of a bra, he chuckled darkly and waved his hand dismissively.

“No need for that,” he muttered under his breath. “Not with what I saw this morning. Nothing that needs holding up—nothing that needs hiding.”

The memory of her came back sharp and hot: hair still damp from her shower, drowning in his robe, the soft line of her collarbone just visible, her throat blotched with the mark he’d left.

And then it struck him like a damn curse.

She hadn’t been wearing anything under that robe.

Sirius froze, wand halfway raised. His throat worked around a hard swallow, and then, slowly, a vicious grin spread across his face.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice rough. His trousers tightened, traitorous. He shut his eyes briefly, dragging a hand through his hair.

He should’ve bent her over that bloody table this morning. The way she’d squirmed under his stare, the blush blooming across her cheeks—Merlin, she’d have let him. Or at least, she wouldn’t have fought nearly as hard as her temper made it seem.

The thought made his gut twist with heat, shame and want warring inside him.

“Get it together,” he growled at himself, shoving the neatly folded clothes into his arms before the fantasy could take root any deeper. She was sixteen. Young. Reckless. Dangerous, because she made him reckless too.

Still, as he carried the bundle to her room and laid it carefully across her bed, Sirius couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at his lips. He could almost picture her face when she saw them—the outrage, the blush, the way she’d snap at him to stop being such a bastard even as her hands lingered too long on the fabric.

With that satisfying image in his head, Sirius turned sharply on his heel and strode back downstairs, heading toward the kitchen.

If Ginny was planning to play house witch tonight, the least he could do was show up and watch her burn the bloody stew.

Sirius padded down the stairs with a wolfish grin tugging at his mouth, hair still damp from his shower, his mood lighter than it had been in weeks. Breakfast with Ginny had been—Merlin—fun. He hadn’t had fun in too long, and teasing her until her freckles practically glowed scarlet had become his new favorite pastime. If he played his cards right, he might even get another blush or two out of her before supper.

But halfway down the staircase, he froze.

A sound cut through the air, faint at first, then sharp enough to twist his stomach.

Sobs.

Broken, desperate sobs.

And a voice—pleading, raw.

“No—stop! Please—no!”

Sirius’s blood went cold. His wand was in his hand before he could think.

“Ginny!” he roared, vaulting down the last steps two at a time. His boots slammed into the floorboards, his heart hammering hard enough to drown out reason. The sound was coming from the kitchen, no—below it. The cellar.

He flung the door open so hard it rebounded against the wall with a crack. The sobs grew louder, sharper, cutting into his chest. He thundered down into the dim, musty cellar, the smell of earth and old wine barrels heavy in the air.

And then he saw her.

Ginny, crumpled on the stone floor. Her face blotched red from crying, hands pressed uselessly against the ground as if to crawl away. Her whole body shook, her lips parted in a soundless plea.

Standing over her was a boy.

Tall, pale, with sharp features twisted into something cruel. His Slytherin robes hung neat and perfect, his green-and-silver tie knotted tight at his throat. But it was the smile—that eerie, hungry smile—that sent Sirius’s stomach lurching.

Something inside Sirius snapped.

His vision tunneled red. His magic surged like a storm in his veins.

“You bastard!” he roared, hurling his wand up. “Stupefy!”

The spell shot like lightning, bright and furious—

—and passed straight through the boy as if he were smoke.

“What the—” Sirius staggered, fury sharpening into confusion. The boy didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He only smiled wider, lowering himself as though to whisper into Ginny’s ear.

“No!” Sirius snarled. He lunged forward, putting himself between Ginny and the figure, his body shielding hers completely. He could feel her trembling against his legs, small and fragile in a way he had never seen her. His chest constricted with a mix of terror and rage he couldn’t untangle.

And then the boy’s face… shifted. His form warped, twisting like oil in water. The robes shredded away, the cruel smile stretching too wide until it became no mouth at all. A towering figure rose, cloaked and hooded, skeletal hands reaching.

A dementor.

The air went icy in a heartbeat. Sirius’s breath fogged in front of him, his heart lurching with a hollow thud. He knew the chill, knew the hopeless weight that tried to crush his chest.

But it wasn’t real.

A snarl ripped through his teeth.

“Boggart,” he spat, and raised his wand. “Riddikulus!”

With a whip-crack, the dementor shrieked—high and metallic—before collapsing in on itself. The twisted figure shot backward, curling like smoke, and vanished under the dark cabinet where Sirius’s family had hidden some of their most expensive liquor.

Silence fell, broken only by Ginny’s ragged sobs.

Sirius’s chest heaved. He lowered his wand slowly, still standing guard in front of her. The echo of his own fury pulsed hot through his veins, but underneath it—Merlin, underneath it was fear.

She had been on the floor. Crying. Begging.

And whatever she’d seen in that boggart—it had gutted her.

He turned, crouching down in front of her, careful not to startle. Her hair clung damp to her cheeks, her eyes swollen, her hands trembling against the stone.

“Ginny,” he said, voice low, rough with leftover adrenaline. “It’s gone. You’re safe.”

But even as he said it, Sirius Black knew that for her, the danger had been very, very real.

“Sweetheart—please, stop. He’s gone,” Sirius murmured, his voice raw, trying for gentle even though his pulse still thundered like war drums in his ears. He reached for her, brushing a strand of fiery hair from her damp face, but it was useless—her sobs tore through the air, wrenching, unstoppable.

And then she broke.

Ginny hurled herself against him, burying her face in his chest. Her small fists curled into the fabric of his shirt as though she could anchor herself there, as though letting go meant drowning. Her sobs vibrated through his ribcage, and Sirius froze for half a heartbeat, staring down at the girl clutching him like he was the last solid thing in the world.

“Ginny…” His throat tightened, but he wrapped his arms around her, firm, steady. One broad hand smoothed down her back, the other cupped the back of her head. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. I promise, I’ve got you.”

But inside, Sirius was a storm.

Who was that boy? The smug Slytherin with the smile like a knife. He hadn’t recognized him, but Ginny’s reaction—Merlin, it had gutted her. He had seen her under the Cruciatus curse and she hadn’t broken like this. She had screamed, she had endured, but she hadn’t sobbed. Not like this.

What had that bastard done to her?

The worst possibilities clawed their way up Sirius’s mind—ugly, vile thoughts that made his hands shake with rage. He wanted to dig the little snake out of the ground, whoever he was, and tear him limb from limb.

But that was for later.

Right now, Ginny needed him.

He slid an arm under her knees and, without asking, scooped her up. She clung tighter, as if afraid he’d vanish too. Sirius held her close as he strode out of the cellar, up the steps two at a time, through the hall and into his bedroom. He wanted her near. Close enough to keep watch.

He tried to lower her onto the bed, to give her some space—but her arms only tightened around his neck, her body refusing to let go. Sirius huffed a shaky breath and gave in, crawling onto the mattress with her still in his hold. He settled back against the pillows, Ginny curled against his chest like she’d been made to fit there.

She was still crying—soft, broken sounds muffled into his shirt—but the storm was easing. Sirius adjusted the blanket over them, then tightened his arms around her, protective and unyielding.

“Don’t worry, love,” he whispered, dropping a kiss into her tangled hair. “I’m here. You don’t need to be scared anymore. Not while I’m with you.”

She hiccuped against him, breath ragged, but her sobs slowed. Slowly, the tremors in her body dulled. Sirius stroked her hair, murmuring half-words of comfort, promising safety he would damn well make true.

Her breathing grew heavier.

Finally, exhaustion dragged her under, and she went slack in his arms. Sirius lay still, one hand stroking her back, the other curled protectively at her hip, staring at the ceiling with eyes sharp and burning.

Even as Ginny slept, Sirius Black swore to himself that whoever had put that look of terror on her face would pay for it.

And until then, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight.

After what felt like hours of holding her—stroking her hair, pressing soft kisses against her crown, whispering reassurances until her breathing evened—Sirius finally allowed himself to believe she was in a deep enough sleep. Carefully, slowly, he untangled himself from her arms. She stirred once, murmured something broken against his shirt, but didn’t wake.

He lingered a moment, standing over her, just to be sure. Her small frame curled against his sheets, her face damp and flushed, the tracks of tears still on her cheeks—it made something inside him ache in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

Sirius pulled the blanket higher over her shoulders, then slipped out of the bed. He left the door cracked just slightly, enough for him to hear her if she stirred. He needed eyes on her. Always.

The hall outside was dim, but he wasn’t alone for long.

“Kreacher.”

The house-elf appeared instantly with a crack, his bulbous eyes peering up, sharp and hateful as ever.

Sirius didn’t waste a second. He stalked forward, seized the elf by the scruff of his neck, and slammed him against the wall. His wand pressed under the creature’s chin, and his grip was iron. His voice was low, guttural, shaking with barely-contained fury.

“Where the hell were you,” Sirius snarled, “when Ginny was in the kitchen?”

Kreacher squirmed, his spindly fingers twitching at Sirius’s wrist. His words came out in a high, nervous squeak. “M–Mistress told Kreacher to stay out, Master. Mistress ordered it.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed, his wand pressing harder into the elf’s throat. “And why the fuck would she do that?”

Kreacher’s gaze darted side to side, like a rat cornered. He gulped, ears twitching. “B–Because Kreacher… Kreacher called her names. Mistress said Kreacher was not to enter the kitchen again.”

For a heartbeat, the silence was deadly. Sirius’s jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Then, with a roar of rage, he shoved Kreacher away, releasing him only to drive his boot hard into the elf’s side. Kreacher yelped, crumpling against the floorboards.

Sirius loomed over him, chest heaving. “You listen to me,” he said, his voice low and lethal. “You are going to scour this house from top to bottom. Every cursed trinket, every foul remnant of your mistress’s bloodline—you find it, you destroy it. Do you understand me?”

Kreacher whimpered, clutching his side, but nodded quickly.

“And after that,” Sirius growled, lowering his wand but not his glare, “you’re going to bring soup and dinner. For me and Ginny. Delivered to my room. And you don’t breathe a word. Not to her, not to anyone. If she doesn’t want to see your face, she doesn’t see it. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher croaked, bowing low before scuttling away, muttering under his breath but not daring to linger.

The hallway fell silent again, but Sirius’s blood still boiled hot in his veins. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, before returning to his room.

Ginny hadn’t moved. She was still asleep, fragile and small beneath his blanket. Sirius’s chest loosened a fraction at the sight.

He dragged a chair to the window, sat heavily, and lit himself a cigarette. The first drag burned down his throat, smoke curling through the quiet.

This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. He’d meant for teasing, for banter, for that smile of hers that set his chest alight. Not this—Ginny sobbing brokenly on the floor, terror painted across her face. Not some phantom in his own damned house making her break like that.

The day had turned on its head, and Sirius Black wasn’t going to let it happen again.

Not to her.

Sirius sat by the window, the last of his cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers, smoke curling into the dusky light of the room. His thoughts were running circles—anger, confusion, flashes of Ginny’s terrified face, the boggart’s sneer, and the name he hadn’t heard but desperately needed to know.

The faintest rustle behind him pulled him from his haze. He crushed the cigarette hard into the sill, grinding it to ash, and was on his feet in an instant.

Ginny stirred against his sheets, red hair spilling wild over the pillow. She blinked slowly, groggy, her lashes still clumped from tears.

Sirius sat on the edge of the bed, his hand automatically reaching to brush gently through her hair, pushing strands off her face. “Easy, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low, softer now.

Her eyes finally opened, dazed and confused. “Why… why am I in your room?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. Sleep, or crying—he couldn’t tell.

“Brought you here to calm you down,” Sirius answered simply. He tapped his wand against the empty glass ashtray on the nightstand, transfiguring it into a cup, then flicked again to fill it with cool, clear water. He pressed it into her hands. “You fell asleep before I could get a word out of you.”

She sat up slowly, taking the glass in both hands. She sipped, then longer gulps, her throat working, and Sirius watched her with an intensity that made her shift in place.

“How do you feel now?” he asked.

Her eyes dropped to the water. “Fine,” she said quietly.

Liar. He could hear it in the crack of her voice, see it in the way her hands trembled against the glass.

Sirius wasn’t one to play gentle games or let silence stretch where it didn’t belong. His voice hardened as he leaned closer, eyes locked on hers. “Who was that boy? And what the hell did he do to you that left you looking like that?” His jaw tightened, that dangerous edge creeping back into his tone. “Tell me, Ginny.”

She froze, her mouth opening and closing once, like the words caught in her throat. Then she turned away, eyes staring at the wall instead of him. “It doesn’t matter now,” she said, her voice suddenly flat, steely. “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

A low chuckle escaped him, sharp and humorless. He leaned back, lips twisting into a dangerous smirk. “Try me, love. Just tell me his name, tell me what he did, and I’ll find him. And when I do…” His eyes darkened, that Black-family cruelty bleeding through his grin. “I’ll give him a world of hurt he won’t crawl away from.”

Ginny laughed bitterly, hollow and sharp, her shoulders trembling with it. “You can’t.”

“Try me,” Sirius repeated, voice low, deadly serious.

She turned her gaze back to him finally, her eyes burning, but not with tears this time—with something like defiance, like pain so old it had hardened into steel. She parted her lips, and the name came out like poison.

“Well,” she said bitterly, “his name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. Or, as you might know him better… Lord Voldemort.”

The silence that followed cracked through the room like thunder.

Chapter Text

Ginny woke to the pounding in her skull, her throat as dry as a desert, her stomach clawing at itself. A groan escaped before she even sat up, hand flying to her head. Brilliant. She’d had hangovers before—courtesy of Fred and George’s illicit stash during summers—but never like this.

She blinked against the light. This wasn’t Sirius’s room. It was hers. Her stomach dropped.

Which meant… he must’ve carried her here. Heat flamed across her face at the thought—him picking her up, laying her down, probably seeing just how tightly she had clung to him before sleep claimed her.

Mortification made her bury her face in her hands. Bloody hell, Ginny. Not only had she fallen asleep in his bed, she’d crawled into it with him in the first place. With Sirius Black.

Her dry throat demanded water, so she fumbled for her wand, casting Aguamenti. She drank greedily, but as soon as the coolness soothed her, another realization hit her like a Bludger.

She smelled.

Not of herself—no. Of him. Smoke. Firewhisky. Sirius Black.

She froze, nose buried in the collar of her nightshirt—or rather, her Hogwards robe, since she hadn’t actually had time to pack clothes when she’d stumbled out of Hogwards and into this house. She'd had to use Scourgify for her clothes these past days but she think these will have to go to wash only. Fury shot through her, sharp and hot.

Fury at him.

Fury at herself.

For drinking with him, after he’d grabbed her throat like that. For sitting there like she belonged in his bed. For taking a drag of his cigarette—Merlin, what had possessed her?

And then—her mind tried to slide further. Tried to recall the heat of his mouth against her skin, the weight of his body pinning her down, the sound she had made.

“Nope.” Ginny shook her head fiercely, cutting the memory off before it could root itself deeper. Absolutely not.

She stripped out of her robe and practically fled into the washroom, shoving the door closed behind her. The shower hissed to life and she stepped under the stream, scrubbing hard at her skin, as if she could wash him off—the smoke, the firewhisky, the memory of his touch.

But hot water couldn’t erase the past.

When she finally turned off the taps, steam curling thick around her, she wrapped herself in a towel and faced the mirror.

And that was when she saw them.

The faint bruising along her throat where his fingers had gripped her. And just above, darker, unmistakable—the mark of his mouth.

Her reflection betrayed her—cheeks blooming red, lips parting with the ghost of that remembered sound.

She had moaned.

Ginny clutched the edge of the sink, groaning into her hands. “Merlin’s saggy pants, what is wrong with me?”

How in the name of all things sane was she supposed to look him in the eyes again? Sirius. Harry’s godfather. Harry. Guilt twisted deep, but shame burned hotter.

She blew out a breath, forced herself to pull on her bath robe. But when she stepped out that when it hit her— Right. She had no clothes.

She froze in the middle of her room, robe tied tight, face burning hotter than ever. The only option was to… ask him. Ask Sirius Black to transfigure her some. Pajamas. Dresses. Underthings. The thought alone made her want to sink through the floor.

Ginny straightened her shoulders. She wasn’t going to hide. She wasn’t going to cower. She was a Weasley. A Gryffindor. And she would walk down there, face him, and pretend nothing had happened.

Resolute, she marched out of her room, her hair still damp, robe tied close, chin lifted high—even as her stomach twisted knots inside her. She crossed the hall, descended the stairs, and stepped into the dining hall, pulse thrumming as though she were walking into battle.

Ginny padded into the dining hall, chin lifted, robe cinched tightly around her waist. Her damp hair clung to the back of her neck, and her stomach twisted with hunger so sharp it almost hurt. Not that it helped with the nerves rattling her insides.

Of course, he was there.

Sirius Black sprawled at the long table like he had been born into the chair, the newspaper stretched casually in one hand, a cigarette burning in the other. The faint haze of smoke curled above his head, mingling with the morning light streaming through the curtains. He looked too casual, like he hadn’t nearly devoured her with his eyes—and mouth—last night.

The moment she stepped into the room, his gaze lifted.

His lips twitched. Those dark grey eyes flicked to her neck, lingered there in a way that made her skin prickle, then swept down the robe she wore before dragging lazily back to meet her own.

Heat flared across Ginny’s cheeks and ears.

She walked anyway, steps brisk, posture stiff, eyes trained anywhere but on him. She pulled out a chair across from him and sat, her silence sharp and deliberate.

“Look who decided to join the land of the living.” His voice was smooth, dripping with humor, filling every corner of the room.

Ginny froze for just a fraction of a second, then kept moving as though she hadn’t heard.

Maybe, she thought, if she stayed quiet, he’d lose interest. Maybe if she didn’t feed his smugness, he’d let her eat in peace.

But of course, Sirius Black was many things—predictable was not one of them.

“You’re blushing.”

Her head snapped up despite herself, and the smirk waiting for her nearly set her off right there.

Bloody hell, she knew she was blushing. She could feel the heat burning her skin. And it was his fault, sitting there with his smoke and his grin and his damned eyes that couldn’t stop tracking her every movement.

She clenched her jaw, tried to ignore him, tried to reach for some dignity in the silence.

“Sweetheart.” The word rolled lazily from his mouth, teasing and intimate all at once. His gaze dropped again—to her throat this time, unmistakably fixated on the marks she had seen in the mirror that morning. His smirk curved wider, satisfied. “That shade of red suits you.”

That did it.

Ginny slammed her palms down on the table. “Quit it. Stop—staring.

He didn’t even flinch. If anything, the bastard looked pleased. His eyes glittered, lips quirking like she’d just given him exactly what he wanted.

“Don’t give me something worth staring at,” he drawled, leaning forward slightly, smoke curling around his features. “You look positively sinful in my robe. Far too good for me to care and…” His grin widened, wicked. “…wonder what’s under it.”

Ginny’s whole face burned. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she nearly tasted blood. The urge to shout at him, hex him, something, clawed at her throat.

But she swallowed it down.

No way. No chance she’d let him know how close he was to cracking her composure.

Thankfully, salvation arrived just then in the form of Kreacher, who shuffled in carrying a tray.

“Breakfast for Master Black,” the elf croaked sourly, setting dishes on the table. His bulbous eyes flicked to Ginny, and his lip curled. “And… for the blood-traitor girl, I suppose.”

Ginny’s temper snapped. She opened her mouth, ready to lash out—

“Watch your mouth, Kreacher.” Sirius’s voice cut through, hard and sharp in a way Ginny hadn’t heard yet. He didn’t even look away from her as he spoke, but the elf flinched all the same.

Kreacher muttered something under his breath, bowed stiffly, and vanished with a crack.

Ginny blinked at Sirius, startled despite herself.

“Don’t let him get to you, sweetheart,” he said smoothly, picking up his cigarette again. “He’s too old to change.”

Ginny pressed her lips together, unsure how to answer, so she said nothing. She was too hungry, anyway.

The scent of food hit her—eggs, toast, sausages—and she dug in without a second thought. For a while, the only sounds in the room were the clink of cutlery against plates, the occasional drag of Sirius’s smoke, and Ginny’s determined chewing.

She hated how much better she felt with food in her belly. Hated how comfortable it felt to eat across from him, even with his maddening smirk always tugging at the corners of his mouth.

She kept her eyes on her plate, willing herself not to give him the satisfaction of another blush.

By the end of the meal, when she was pushing the last of her toast around her plate, he stood and stretched, long and lean and smug. “After I’ve done with the wards, I’ll come find you in the kitchen.”

She snorted. “Do you even know the way to the kitchen?”

He shrugged, lips curling. “I know the wine cellar. Right next door. Close enough.”

And with that maddening smirk, he started to leave.

Her mouth opened before her mind caught up. “Sirius—”

He stopped, turned, one brow arched.

Ginny instantly regretted speaking. Her fingers twisted in her robe’s sash, her cheeks burning. “I… I don’t have any clothes.”

A pause. Then—oh, Merlin—his grin spread, slow and wicked. He sauntered closer, voice dropping low. “Ah. So that’s why you’ve been strutting around in my robe, hm?”

Her ears burned. “Could you just—” She muttered quickly, “Transfigure me some pajamas. Maybe a couple dresses. And… underthings.” The last word barely audible.

Sirius’s smirk was positively sinful. “Underthings, sweetheart? Any particular color you’d like me to imagine you in?”

Mortification flared so sharp it tipped into anger. Ginny shoved at his chest with both hands, glaring through the heat on her cheeks. “Forget it! I’ll—figure it out myself!”

And she spun on her heel, storming toward the kitchen before he could get another word in.

Behind her, his laughter followed, low and delighted, echoing in the hall.

Ginny made her way down the creaking staircase, one hand holding her robe closed, the other running along the banister. Her stomach was already growling despite the heavy breakfast, and she’d promised herself—out loud, no less—that she’d cook dinner tonight.

Cooking. Merlin help her. She wasn’t her mother, but she could follow a recipe, and she wasn’t about to let Sirius smirk at her for giving up.

The kitchen was cool and faintly musty, though far tidier than it had been when she and Sirius first stepped into Grimmauld Place. She crossed straight to the bookshelf, fingers grazing the old, leather-bound cookbook she’d left there. She pulled it open, flipping past pies and puddings until a familiar page stopped her: Roast chicken with mashed potatoes and vegetables.

Her lips twitched into a smile. That was safe. Familiar. Comforting.

“Right. Roast chicken it is.”

She rolled up her sleeves, went to the pantry—and froze.

It was full. Shelves upon shelves of food, from sacks of potatoes to jars of dried peas to a neatly strung line of carrots, all arranged like someone had been quietly maintaining it for years. She blinked. When had Kreacher stocked this?

As if summoned by her thought, there was a sharp crack of air beside her.

The elf appeared, hunched and sour-faced, eyes gleaming with resentment.

“What is the blood-traitor girl doing here? In Kreacher’s kitchen, poking about, doing work that isn’t hers? Useless girl. Filthy girl. Just like her blood—”

Ginny snapped, slamming the pantry door shut. “Shut it, Kreacher. I’m making dinner. You don’t like it? Too bad.”

His lip curled. He muttered, voice rising with venom, “Kitchen is mine. Mistress should not dirty it—”

“If you don’t go away right now,” Ginny cut in, stepping forward, anger flaring hot enough to override the simmering unease in her chest, “I’ll have Sirius give you his clothes. Do you want that? To be free? Because I’ll tell him. Don’t think I won’t.”

The elf’s face contorted, throat working with fury, but he said nothing. Instead, with one last poisonous glare, he vanished.

Ginny exhaled, long and shaky, before turning back to her task.

The next hour and a half blurred into the clatter of pans, the hiss of roasting chicken, the steady rhythm of peeling and chopping. She moved between the cookbook and the stove, seasoning with careful pinches, tasting cautiously. Her arms ached from whisking the potatoes, and sweat dampened her temples.

Merlin, how had her mum managed this every single day for nine people?

By the time she shoved the pan of carrots and peas onto the stove, Ginny collapsed against the counter, breathless. Her thoughts—unbidden—slid to her mother’s hands working tirelessly, to her father’s gentle smile at the dinner table, to the twins’ laughter ringing through the Burrow.

A lump rose in her throat. Were they safe? Alive?

Her chest clenched tight. She wanted—so badly—to see them again, to hear her mum nagging her, to hear Fred and George tease her until she shouted. She pressed her knuckles against her eyes, forcing back tears.

She needed a drink. Something strong.

Sirius had said there was a wine cellar.

The stairway to the cellar was narrow and cool, the walls damp stone that smelled faintly of earth and dust. Ginny held the railing, eyes adjusting to the dim torchlight flickering along the descent.

The cellar was massive. Rows upon rows of dark oak racks stretched across the room, bottles gleaming green and brown in the half-light, each labeled with dust-covered tags. At the far end, barrels were stacked, and an old cabinet leaned against the wall, its wood warped and blackened with age. The air was heavy with the sharp tang of alcohol and the faint moldy undertone of forgotten years.

Ginny stepped slowly, eyes scanning the collection. Merlin, Sirius hadn’t been lying—this was practically an underground vault.

She was just about to turn back when she heard it.

A rattle.

Sharp, metallic. Coming from the far corner.

Her breath caught.

“Kreacher?” she called, trying to sound annoyed instead of uneasy. Silence answered.

Her hand twitched to reach for her wand—except she’d left it upstairs. Stupid. Stupid.

The rattle came again, louder this time. The warped cabinet at the far end trembled against the wall.

Ginny swallowed hard and edged forward, muttering under her breath, “It’s probably a bloody doxy. Or pixies. We had to clean them last time…”

She rounded the corner.

The cabinet shuddered violently once, then—

Something burst out from underneath.

Ginny stumbled back, hand flying to her chest—then froze.

He stood there.

Tom Riddle.

Exactly as she remembered him at twelve: tall, pale, handsome in a way that had lured her in once upon a time. His eyes gleamed with cold amusement, his smile cruel.

“Ginny,” he said softly.

Her knees gave out. She backed against the wall, heart hammering, lungs seizing tight. No sound came when she tried to scream.

“No… no, you’re not real. You’re not—”

But he stepped closer, deliberate, savoring every inch of her terror.

“Ginny,” he murmured again, voice silk and poison, the way it had been in her head for months her first year.

Her body shook. Her throat burned. “Please—please, no—” She slid down the wall, curling into herself, arms wrapping tight. Her vision blurred with tears.

Memories crashed into her: the Chamber, the diary, Harry’s frantic voice calling her name—Harry saving her. But Harry wasn’t here now. He’d left her.

There was no one.

Her sobs tore out ragged, hopeless. She pressed her forehead to her knees, wishing she could disappear.

And then—

A shout. A rush of warmth and light.

The voice was fierce, furious, and not Tom’s at all.

“RIDDIKULUS!”

The figure before her warped, twisted—and with a screech, vanished, sucked back into the rattling cabinet.

Everything blurred. The cellar, the sound of her own sobs, even her pounding heart—all of it dimmed into haze as strong arms swept her up.

“Sweetheart, it’s gone. I’ve got you,” Sirius’s voice murmured against her hair, sharp with anger but steady against her ear.

Her body trembled helplessly, sobs wracking her chest, but she clung to him as he carried her out of the cellar. She buried her face against him, too broken to speak, too afraid to believe she was safe.

The world became a blur of stone and shadow until she felt herself laid gently against sheets, Sirius’s warmth curling around her, his voice steady and low.

“Don’t worry, love. I’m here. You don’t need to be scared.”

Her tears kept coming until exhaustion dragged her under, slipping her into unconsciousness in the safety of his arms.

Ginny woke to warmth.

Not the comforting kind, but the suffocating sort that left her throat tight, her body heavy, her head pounding. For a heartbeat she didn’t remember where she was. Then the smell hit her—smoke and leather and faint firewhiskey—and her eyes fluttered open to see dark curtains and heavy wallpaper she definitely didn’t recognize.

Her stomach dipped.

Sirius’s room.

She sat up too quickly, heart lurching, only for a strong hand to steady her shoulder.

“Easy, love,” his voice said softly, too close.

She turned, and there he was, sitting on the edge of the mattress, cigarette stubbed out in the ashtray by the window, his grey eyes locked on her like he hadn’t looked away since she fell asleep. His hand lingered against her hair, brushing lightly as if he were afraid she’d break.

Ginny swallowed, throat raw. “Why—why am I in your room?” she asked, voice rough, either from crying or screaming, she couldn’t tell.

“Brought you here to calm you down,” Sirius said. He gave the faintest shrug, though his eyes stayed sharp on her. “But you passed out before I could.”

Her lips pressed tight. Heat crawled up her cheeks. Merlin, she’d clung to him like a child.

He reached to the side table, pulled something out of thin air with a flick of his wand. A glass. He transfigured it, then filled it smoothly with water, passing it to her.

She blinked, took it with shaky fingers, and sipped. The water was cool, soothing her cracked throat.

“How do you feel?” he asked, voice low, careful.

Ginny set the empty glass aside and stared down at her hands. “Fine.”

The lie tasted bitter. She wasn’t fine. Her chest still hurt, her stomach twisted, and the memory of Tom’s voice saying her name clung like poison ivy.

Sirius didn’t let her off the hook. “No, you’re not.”

She glanced at him sharply. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white where he gripped the mattress.

He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “Who was that boy, Ginny? The one you saw down there. What did he do to you that made you that scared?”

His voice rose, sharp edges cutting through his composure. “Because I’ve seen you under the Cruciatus, sweetheart, and you didn’t cry like that. So don’t tell me it’s nothing. What the hell did he do to you?”

Her breath caught.

His fury wasn’t directed at her, but it still pressed against her ribs, threatening to shatter her. She looked at him once, then away, voice steady in defiance even as her hands trembled.

“It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

The silence stretched, heavy, burning.

Then Sirius gave a humorless smirk, leaning back just slightly. “Try me, love. Just tell me who he is, and I’ll find him. I’ll give him a world of hurt.”

The conviction in his voice was terrifying, beautiful, and utterly useless. Ginny felt a laugh bubble up, broken and sharp, before she could stop it.

Her lips twisted. “Well, his name is Tom Marvolo Riddle.” Her eyes cut to him, daring him to dismiss her. “Or, as you might know him—Lord Voldemort.”

The air between them froze.

For a moment, Sirius didn’t breathe. His smirk faltered, wiped clean, replaced with something darker, something jagged.

Ginny sat straighter, shoulders squared despite the tremor in her voice. “So unless you’ve suddenly found a way to kill the Dark Lord that no one else has, there’s nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do.”

Her laugh was brittle, echoing in the stillness of the room. She stared down at her hands, nails biting into her palms.

“And that,” she whispered, more to herself than him, “is why it doesn’t matter.”

Sirius didn’t move. For once, there was no clever retort on his tongue, no smirk curling his lips. Just silence, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, he spoke, voice low, almost dangerous.

“Voldemort?” His hand dragged down his face, and then his eyes cut back to her. “Sweetheart, if that was him… why didn’t it look like him? The boggart—it looked like some boy.”

Ginny’s throat tightened. She looked at him, at the sharp concern in his eyes. Part of her wanted to brush it off again, to say nothing, to push him away the way she pushed away everyone when it came to this.

But he had been there. He’d seen her fall apart. He’d fought the thing off for her when she couldn’t even breathe.

And for the first time in a long time, she realized—she did trust him.

She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them, and her voice came soft at first.

“It wasn’t him—not the way you know him. Not the snake-faced monster everyone’s terrified of now.” She drew in a shaky breath. “It was Tom. The boy he used to be.”

Sirius’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

Ginny licked her lips, eyes flickering to the floor as the words poured out.

“My first year at Hogwarts… someone slipped a diary into my cauldron at Flourish and Blotts. That someone was Lucius Malfoy.” Her hands clenched tighter around her legs. “I didn’t know what it was. Just thought it was an old blank diary. Until it started writing back.”

She laughed bitterly, no humor in the sound. “I was eleven. Lonely. Scared. Who wouldn’t want a friend who listened? Who understood?”

Her voice cracked. “He said his name was Tom Riddle.”

Sirius swore under his breath, a sharp sound, but Ginny kept going. The dam had already broken.

“I told him everything. My fears, my secrets, how I felt invisible in my own family. And he listened—Merlin, he always listened. Until… until he didn’t.”

Her nails dug into her knees. “The diary… it took me over. Possessed me. Made me do things—awful things. Attacking Muggle-borns. Writing messages in blood. I didn’t even remember half of it until it was too late. Just—waking up with red on my hands, or missing hours of the day.”

She shivered. Sirius’s jaw tightened, but still he stayed silent, letting her speak.

“He grew stronger the more I poured into him. Till one day he took me down into the Chamber of Secrets. Said my soul would make him whole again. And it—it nearly did.”

Her eyes stung, but she forced herself to look at Sirius. “He drained me, piece by piece, until I could barely breathe. Until I felt myself slipping away. I almost died. And then Harry came.”

Her voice faltered on the name, but she pushed through. “Harry fought him. Fought the basilisk— he's an enormous poisoned-fanged serpent which lived in the Chambers. Destroyed the diary. Saved me.”

The silence stretched again, suffocating, but Ginny wasn’t finished. She lifted a hand, her wand trembling in her grip as she wrote in the air:

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

Then, with a flick, the letters rearranged themselves:

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

Her breath came hard and fast as the words hung glowing between them. Then she banished them with a sharp wave, as if she couldn’t bear to see them anymore.

Sirius stared at the empty space where the letters had been, then at her. His expression was unreadable—shock, fury, something darker beneath.

Finally, his voice broke the silence, rough and quiet.

“That’s what he did to you.” His eyes softened just slightly, though the storm still raged behind them. “That’s why you’re so bloody terrified of him.”

Ginny bit her lip, hard, and gave the smallest nod.

For once, Sirius Black didn’t tease, didn’t smirk, didn’t needle her with that wicked grin. He just reached out, his hand brushing through her hair, steady and grounding.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low, deadly sure, “I don’t care if he’s Voldemort or Merlin himself. He ever tries anything again—he’ll regret it.”

Chapter Text

Sirius couldn’t breathe.

Not properly.

He’d thought he’d seen it all. Death Eaters, torture, dementors, war. He thought nothing could shock him anymore. But sitting here, hearing Ginny’s voice shake as she laid her soul bare, as she confessed to carrying Voldemort inside her—Merlin’s balls, it was worse than anything he’d imagined.

She’d been eleven. Eleven bloody years old, and Lucius Malfoy had handed her over to Voldemort like she was a pawn on a chessboard.

The image slammed into his mind and wouldn’t leave: tiny Ginny, wide-eyed, clutching that cursed diary, confiding in it, pouring her heart into it because she thought she’d found a friend. And the bastard—Tom Riddle, Voldemort, whatever name he wore—had listened. Twisted her. Used her.

His hand curled into a fist against his knee. He wanted blood.

Lucius Malfoy. The elegant sneer, the cane, the arrogance. Sirius could already see himself storming into Malfoy Manor, blasting through the gilded doors, his wand pressed to Lucius’s pale throat. Did you enjoy it? Did you laugh, knowing what you were doing to her? He’d hex him until he screamed. Curse him until he begged.

And Voldemort—Merlin, Sirius had half a mind to hunt him himself if he knew where the bastard was. The thought of Riddle’s ghostly shade whispering into Ginny’s mind, draining her soul, leaving her body cold in some snake-infested chamber… Sirius nearly snarled aloud.

But what gutted him more than the rage was the look on her face.

She hadn’t cried when she told him. She’d sounded resigned. Bitter. Like she’d carried this shame for years, burying it so deep it had poisoned her. Like she truly believed it didn’t matter anymore because nothing could change what happened.

Sweetheart, he thought, his chest aching, you were a child. You didn’t stand a chance against him.

And still… she’d blamed herself.

He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand that no one had protected her, that no one had shielded her from it—not her parents, not her teachers, not Dumbledore bloody “all-knowing” himself. And Potter—he had saved her, yes, but that was already too late. Because here she was, broken, still haunted by the shadow of a boy who never truly existed.

Sirius lit another cigarette, his hands shaking just enough to make him curse. Smoke filled his lungs, steadied him. But the fury didn’t leave.

He wanted to promise her the world. To swear he’d tear apart anyone who so much as looked at her wrong. To hunt down Malfoy and Voldermort and his followers and burn them to ash.

But all he could do, all he let himself do, was reach out and brush his fingers through her hair.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, softer than he thought himself capable of. “I don’t care if it was Voldemort or Merlin himself. He’ll never touch you again. Not while I’m breathing.”

And he meant it. With every blackened piece of his soul, he meant it.

But inside, he was still seething. Plotting. Because if he ever got his hands on Lucius Malfoy—well, family or not, Sirius knew he’d make damn sure the bastard never drew breath again.

Ginny let out a short, broken laugh, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. “Thanks,” she murmured, voice still husky from crying. “For protecting me. And… for comforting me. You’re not all bad, Sirius Black.”

His lips curved in that familiar smirk, the one that always made her stomach do inconvenient things. “Not all bad?” he drawled. “Sweetheart, you wound me. I was going for an irresistible rogue with a heart of gold.”

Ginny actually laughed, the sound easing some of the tightness in her chest. She shook her head. “More like reckless pain in the arse.”

He chuckled low, leaning back against the headboard. “Fair enough. But reckless or not, I’m still the one keeping you alive, yeah? And right now, you need to eat something.”

“Oh—” Ginny’s eyes went wide, horror flooding her. “Merlin. Dinner! I never finished cooking, I—” She broke off mid-panic, then let out a groan as if in resignation and collapsed back against the pillows. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. I am never cooking again after today.”

Sirius barked a laugh, full and genuine. “That’s the spirit. See, that’s why we’ve got loyal elf slaves.”

The temperature of his voice changed suddenly, cold and commanding, as he snapped, “Kreacher.”

The elf appeared with a crack, bowing low, eyes darting between Ginny and his master. Sirius’s wand-hand flexed lazily at his side, but his tone was like iron. “Bring us dinner. We’ll be having it in my room.”

Kreacher’s ears twitched. He bowed again. “Yes, master.”

As he scuttled off, Ginny turned her head, brows raised. “You do know if one of my friends heard you call house-elves slaves, you’d be trapped in a lecture long enough to make your ears bleed. And an invitation to join her little free the elves cult on top of it.”

Sirius’s grin came back, slow and sharp. “Well, sweetheart, if a pretty girl like you asked me to join a cult, I’d probably sign up before knowing what I was in for.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes, fighting the heat climbing into her cheeks. Two could play at that game. Her gaze flicked around the room—her lips twitching as they landed on the ridiculous posters stuck to the walls by a lazy Sticking Charm. Half-naked muggle women in absurdly impractical poses, all smirking down at her.

“Please,” she said dryly, turning back to him with an arch look. “From the state of this room, I’d say you’ve had more than your fill of pretty girls. And then some.” Her tone went razor-sharp as her eyes flicked deliberately to the stage of undress of the nearest poster.

For a beat, Sirius just blinked at her. Then he laughed—loud, unbothered, like she’d handed him a gift instead of an insult. He tilted his head, studying her, that damned smirk tugging again at the corner of his mouth. There was something new in his expression, though, something thoughtful.

Was that… amusement? Or… did he catch that flicker of jealousy she hadn’t meant to show?

Before she could decide, Kreacher reappeared with a tray balanced on his spindly arms. Roast chicken, potatoes, carrots, and a bottle of wine. The smell hit Ginny’s empty stomach like a punch, and she realized suddenly how hungry she still was.

“Leave it,” Sirius said curtly, his entire posture shifting cold and sharp again. “And get out.”

“Yes, master,” Kreacher rasped, shooting Ginny a lingering, venomous look before vanishing with a crack.

The room was quiet again, save for the clink of plates as Sirius began to serve. Ginny smoothed her robe over her knees, stealing one last glance at him.

Merlin help her, but she didn’t know if she wanted to slap him or kiss him.

The food vanished quickly—Ginny tearing through hers like she hadn’t eaten in days, him taking his time just to watch her enjoy it. By the time she set her fork down, cheeks flushed and hair tumbling in damp waves, Sirius felt something strange settle in his chest.

Comfort. Almost domestic. Bloody dangerous.

“Well,” she said at last, brushing her hands on her robe, “I’m off to bed. Goodnight, Sirius.”

She slid to the edge of the mattress, bare toes brushing the floorboards. But before she could stand, his hand shot out, catching her wrist.

She froze, wide-eyed, and turned to him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Stopping you.” With one sharp tug, he pulled her back onto the bed, satisfaction curling in his gut when she landed with a little gasp.

“Excuse me?” Her freckles stood out against the pink blooming in her cheeks. “And why do you get to decide that? Do I not even have a say in where I sleep?”

Her outrage would’ve been adorable if he weren’t so bloody furious underneath. He held her gaze, his tone cutting all amusement.

“Love, I don’t plan on taking my eyes off you again. Because the moment I do, you either end up under Cruciatus, strung up in some bloody nightmare, or—” his jaw clenched, eyes narrowing, “—cowering in a dark corner, sobbing.”

Her lips parted, caught between retort and shock. For a flicker, she seemed more undone by the care than the lecture, and Sirius almost smirked at the thought. But then she sat straighter, chin lifting, fire flashing in her eyes.

“So that’s what I am to you?” she snapped. “Some helpless little princess who needs saving?”

He leaned closer, grip on her hand tightening, not enough to hurt—but enough to anchor her there. Enough to remind her he wasn’t joking.

“You don’t get it,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “I’ll Stun you with my wand or tie you to this bed myself if I have to. You’re not leaving this room, or my side, again. Not if I can bloody help it. That’s the only way I can keep you safe.”

Her mouth opened, then closed, a sigh slipping past her lips. For all her fire, he could see the weariness in her shoulders, the small way she deflated. “Fine,” she muttered. “But—” her eyes snapped back to his, sharp as ever, “—hands to yourself, Black.”

The corner of his mouth curled slow, wicked.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purred, leaning in close enough for his breath to stir her hair, “you really shouldn’t ask me to make promises you don’t want me to keep.”

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut, yanked the covers over herself, and turned her back to him without a word. Within moments, her breathing steadied, sleep pulling her under.

Sirius lingered, watching the curve of her shoulders in the dim light. Only when he was certain — certain she was here, safe, within reach — did he let his own eyes close.

Because whatever else the world had become, Ginny Weasley was safest when she slept beside him.

The morning was quieter than Sirius expected. He was used to waking up with his nerves wired, half-expecting trouble lurking around the corners of Grimmauld Place. But when he rolled onto his side, all he saw was Ginny, curled against him, her hair spilling across his pillow in fiery tangles.

Merlin help him. She was trouble enough on her own.

She stirred when he brushed a stray lock out of her face, groaning as she pulled the blanket over her head. Sirius grinned.

“Oi, sleepyhead. You promised you’d cook for me again.”

Her muffled voice came from beneath the covers. “I promised no such thing.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. I suppose I’ll just have to keep Kreacher slaving away to feed us. Don’t think he likes you, though.”

That got her to peek out, eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t like anyone.”

Sirius smirked. “He adores me. I’m irresistible.”

She lets out a groan, shoving the blanket back and sitting up. “You’re impossible.”

Sirius only grinned wider at her exasperation, lounging back against the headboard like he owned the place.

“You know,” he drawled lazily, “you’re a lot less terrifying when you’re half-asleep. Almost cute, actually.”

Ginny threw him a withering look as she shoved the blanket off her legs. “Call me cute again and I’ll hex your eyebrows clean off.”

He chuckled lowly, the sound annoyingly pleased. “Fiery in the mornings. Remind me to invest in protective charms.”

She rolled her eyes and swung her legs off the bed, grabbing her wand from the nightstand. “Remind me to invest in earplugs so I don’t have to hear you talk.”

Sirius pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “You wound me, sweetheart.”

“You’ll live,” she muttered, already heading for the door.

He watched her go, leaning forward just enough to rest his forearms on his knees, and called after her, “Try not to die in my bathroom this time, Weasley!”

Her voice floated back, dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes, Black — try not to pine. Or should I send Kreacher to hold your hand?”

Sirius laughed, shaking his head as he finally dragged himself up. “Can’t believe I voluntarily signed up for this abuse. Should've known better than to let a Weasley under my roof”

By the time they regrouped downstairs for breakfast, the scent of Kreacher’s cooking drifted through Grimmauld Place. Sirius was already leaning against the table when Ginny walked in, wearing the simple set of clothes he’d transfigured for her the day before — soft grey jumper, fitted trousers, and boots that looked far better on her than he’d intended.

His smirk was instant. “Well, well. Don’t you clean up nice. Almost makes me look shabby.”

Ginny arched a brow, brushing past him to grab a plate. “You’re always that shabby. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughs a little, enjoying his current company a little too much . “Harsh. I gift you transfigured couture, and this is the thanks I get?”

“You turned one of your old rags into a jumper,” she shot back, sliding into her chair. “Good thing I can make anything look decent.”

Sirius barked out a laugh, the warm, unguarded kind that always seemed to surprise her a little. “You’re bloody impossible, you know that?”

“And yet,” she said sweetly, pouring herself tea, “you keep talking to me.”

He grinned wider, shaking his head as he slid into the seat opposite hers. “What can I say? Trouble’s always been my type.”

A faint blush threatened to give her away, but she ignored him, busying herself with her breakfast as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

They spent the late morning in the drawing room with a dusty deck of wizarding cards Sirius had dug out. The table was littered with cigarette ash and half-finished cups of tea, the atmosphere surprisingly light for once. Ginny was sharp, competitive, and not above smacking his arm when he smirked too much.

“You cheat,” she accused as he laid down a winning hand.

“Sweetheart, I don’t cheat. I strategize.”

She flicked a card at his forehead. “Strategize my arse.”

He barked a laugh. Merlin, it felt good to laugh like this. To see her laugh like this.

It was when they were both sprawled on the sofa after their fourth round, the air warm with tea and the soft crackle of the fire, that Sirius glanced at her and asked quietly, “Tell me about them.”

She blinked. “About who?”

“Your family.” His voice softened, almost cautious. “You’ve mentioned them here and there, but never properly.”

Ginny sat cross-legged, cradling her cup. For a moment, she looked younger, almost like the girl she must have been before the war pressed down. Then she sighed.

“Mum first, I suppose. You’d like her, or maybe you wouldn’t—she’s terrifying when she wants to be. Always fussing, always feeding everyone, but… she holds us together. And Dad—” Ginny’s lips quirked. “Dad’s obsessed with Muggles. He collects plugs and batteries, can’t resist tinkering with things he doesn’t understand. Drives Mum spare.”

Sirius found himself smiling despite the ache in her voice. “Can’t say I don’t get it. Muggle things are fascinating. Plugs, though? Really?”

Ginny laughed, a real laugh. “You should see him when Harry shows him how the telly works. His eyes go wide like a kid at Christmas. Then there’s Bill—curse-breaker with Gringotts, living out in Egypt. Coolest brother by far. Charlie’s in Romania with dragons—”

“Dragons?” Sirius cut in, brows rising.

“Dragons,” Ginny confirmed, pride shining in her voice. “He loves them more than people. Mum hates it, says it’s too dangerous, but Charlie wouldn’t do anything else.”

Sirius leaned back, picturing it. A bloke who wrangled dragons for a living—he had to admire the sheer madness of it. “I’d like to meet him. Sounds like my kind of reckless.”

Ginny’s eyes hardened a bit, almost in anger. “Then there’s Percy. He works at the Ministry—always thought he was better than the rest of us, though. We don’t… talk much.” Her voice softened. “The twins—Fred and George—they’re brilliant. Always inventing things, causing mayhem. They made Hogwarts bearable half the time. I miss them the most, I think. They could make me laugh even when I didn’t want to.”

Her face shifted, shadowed. “And Ron…” She trailed off, fingers tightening on her cup. “He’s out there somewhere. I don’t even know where. I just… hope he’s alive.”

Sirius said nothing, letting the silence sit. He could see the longing in her, the fear she tried to bury. It pulled at something deep in his chest.

When he finally broke the quiet, he asked, “And your friends? You mentioned a resistance.”

That earned him a flash of fire in her eyes. “Dumbledore’s Army. Neville, Luna, me—we kept it going even when the Carrows tried to crush us. We fought back any way we could. It was hard, but… it gave us something to hold onto.”

Sirius tilted his head. “An underground resistance, right under their noses,” he murmured, lips tilting up in an almost smile. “I have to admit… I’m impressed.”

She smirked, pride slipping through. “Of course. Neville was brilliant—braver than anyone gave him credit for. And Luna—she’s mad, but in the best way. I miss them both.”

“You were a hell of a lot braver than most adults,” Sirius said, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice.

Her cheeks pinked, but she met his gaze. “We didn’t have a choice.”

It was then she turned the question back on him, sharp and curious.

“And what about you?” she shot back. “What would Sirius Black have done after Hogwarts, if he hadn’t been too busy—” her eyes flickered, “—getting himself tangled in war?”

The smirk on his lips softened. He leaned back, looking at the ceiling as if the answer were written there. “Honestly? I was obsessed with Muggle things. Technology, machines, motorbikes—”

Her brows rose. “Motorbikes?”

“Big, loud, beautiful things. I built one myself once. Wanted to travel the world on it. See the places wizards always ignore. Live among Muggles for a while, no rules, no family breathing down my neck. Just freedom on two wheels.”

Ginny smiled, her mind painting the picture: Sirius Black in a leather jacket, wind tearing through his hair, grinning against the sun. No war. No darkness. Just him, free.

“Sounds… perfect, actually.”

“Would’ve been.” He shot her a sidelong grin. “Maybe it still could be. Could even take a certain fiery redhead along.”

Her cheeks burned. She rolled her eyes. “In your dreams, Black.”

“You’d make it interesting, at least,” he murmured, smirk curling.

The fire crackled between them, warm and steady. Ginny tucked her legs under herself, sipping her tea, and Sirius found he didn’t want to look away. Listening to her talk about her family, her friends, her dreams—Merlin, he hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed to hear someone speak of love and laughter and life.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he thought maybe the future could hold more than war.

And all the while, Ginny’s laughter still lingered in his ears.

The fire had burned low in the grate, logs collapsed into glowing embers. Sirius leaned back in his chair, firewhiskey warm in his blood, a pleasant hum buzzing through his veins. He wasn’t drunk—Merlin, he knew better than to do that—but he was loose, easy in a way he almost didn’t recognize.

Ginny Weasley was sprawled on his couch in the clothes he transfigured for her, hair losely tied, cheeks flushed with laughter. She’d spent half the night sniping at him, daring him, meeting his barbs with her own until his sides hurt from grinning. He couldn’t remember the last time a night had felt this—interesting. Happy.

He tipped the glass toward her. “Bedtime.”

Her brows arched. “Oh? Shall I scuttle off to my little room and let you brood in peace?”

He smirked. “Wrong. My bed. My room.” His eyes held hers, unflinching. “Don’t act like you don’t prefer it.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath, but she rose anyway, bare feet padding across the floor. Sirius followed her upstairs, fighting a wolfish grin.

She claimed the bed like it had always been hers, curling against the pillows with an indignant huff. Sirius shrugged out of his outer robes and sat beside her, watching the stubborn lift of her chin, the spark in her eyes.

Something inside him cracked.

Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe the intimacy of the day they’d shared, or maybe it was that she made him feel… human again. Whatever it was, Sirius didn’t hesitate. He reached for her, dragging her flush against him like he’d claimed her already. His hand fisted in her damp hair, holding her still, and he buried his nose there, inhaling her like smoke.

Ginny froze, breath snagging in her throat.

He tilted his head, his mouth at her ear, voice low and rough enough to scrape. “I don’t play games, Ginny. You’re under my skin, and I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”

Her pulse leapt. The air between them burned. She looked up at him—eyes wide, caught, trembling—and then she kissed him.

Hard.

The world tilted. Sirius groaned into her mouth after overcoming the initial shock, answering her ferocity with his own, biting at her lips as if to prove she belonged there. His grip tightened in her hair, tilting her head back, taking control of the kiss until she could only gasp against him.

Her soft sound broke out, unbidden—a moan—and it went straight to his blood.

“That’s it,” he rasped against her mouth, teeth grazing. “Make that sound for me again.”

His hand slid down her back, dragging her closer until she was straddling his thigh. She was fire and tremor and defiance under his touch, but her body leaned into him, betraying her. He swallowed every shaky breath, every muffled whimper.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured between kisses, voice dark and deliberate, “I’m not stopping until I’ve taken you. Nod if you understand, Ginny.”

She blinked, heat rushing through her, caught between desire and fear. Her lips parted slightly, trembling, and she gave the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod.

His grin widened, wicked and possessive. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and rough, teeth grazing her earlobe. “Good girl. You’re mine, and I won’t let anything stop me.”

Ginny shivered at the possessiveness, a flush creeping up her neck. After a long, shuddering breath, she whispered, hesitant, almost too shy to say it aloud: “I… I’ve never… done this before.”

Sirius froze for only a heartbeat, then captured her mouth again, hands gripping her waist like he might never let go. “Doesn’t matter,” he growled, voice a dangerous rasp. “You’ll only do this with me, Ginny. Every first, every last… mine. Understand?”

She shuddered, and the sound she made—low, desperate—made his lips curl into a wicked grin.

His palm slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, rough fingertips pressing against her stomach. Warm. Soft. Alive. She gasped at the contact, arching into him despite herself, another moan slipping free. Sirius groaned in answer, his hand pushing higher, greedy for more—

The house shook.

The bed lurched under them. Dust rained from the ceiling.

They broke apart, breathless, wide-eyed.

Another impact rattled the walls. A sharp crack split the air outside—the wards were being tested.

Sirius was on his feet instantly, wand in hand, every muscle thrumming with battle-readiness. “Ginny. Wand. Now.” His voice was sharp, clipped, no trace of the playful man she’d sparred with minutes before.

Her stomach dropped. Panic clawed up her throat. She fumbled for her wand, heart hammering.

Outside the window, three black-robed figures stalked the lawn, hurling curses that made the wards ripple weakly, the air vibrating with strain. They wouldn’t hold. Not for long.

“Kreacher!” Sirius barked.

The elf appeared, sneering.

“How did they know someone was here?” Sirius snarled, fury scorching his words.

Kreacher’s lip curled. “Kreacher told Mistress Bellatrix the house was full of blood traitors. Kreacher cannot betray Master. Kreacher gave no names.”

White-hot rage lit Sirius’s chest. His fingers twitched with the urge to strangle the creature where he stood. He stepped forward, teeth bared—

Another blast rocked the walls. The wards shattered with a scream of magic.

They were inside.

Ginny’s breath came fast and shallow. Desperate, she flicked her wand at him, whispering a Disillusionment Charm. “We have to go. Now—”

Too late. Shadows filled the doorway. Death Eaters. Three of them.

And one stench Sirius knew too well.

Fenrir Greyback.

The werewolf’s eyes gleamed yellow under his hood, teeth bared in a feral grin. His gaze locked on Sirius, then slid slowly, hungrily, to Ginny.

“Well, well.” His voice was a growl, thick with anticipation. “What have we here?”

His gaze crawled over her, heavy as hands. He licked his lips. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you? Fresh. Red hair. Bet you scream sweet. Bet you break.”

Ginny’s stomach turned. Her skin crawled. She wanted to retch, to scrub herself clean of the way he looked at her.

Greyback chuckled darkly. “I’ll take my time with this one. Rip her open slow, make her beg—”

Something inside Sirius snapped.

Fear and fury collided in his chest, white-hot and suffocating. He couldn’t breathe past it. The image of Greyback’s filthy hands on Ginny, his teeth—Merlin, his teeth—

"Get the hell away from her!” he roared, voice raw, unhinged, carrying the weight of every protective instinct, every claim of possession, every madness he had ever buried. Greyback faltered under the intensity, but Sirius didn’t hesitate—he was hunger, wrath, and obsession incarnate, moving faster than thought, closer than instinct.

Sirius didn’t think. He moved.

He seized Ginny’s hand, yanking her close, his wand raised.

Every movement screamed: She is mine. She belongs to me. Touch her and die.

“Confringo!”

The explosion ripped the room apart, fire and smoke swallowing Greyback’s leer.

Sirius twisted, Apparition magic tearing at his chest, pulling them out—

But just before the crack swallowed them, a voice howled from behind, vicious and gleeful:

“Crucio!”

Chapter Text

Ginny’s whole body felt like it had been ripped apart and pieced back together. The world was spinning, her lungs clawing for air as she opened her eyes to cobblestones and brick walls.

An alley. Narrow, damp, smelling of stale beer and rubbish.

She blinked, tried to focus—and then heard it. A sharp breath, a hiss.

“Sirius?” Her voice cracked, thin with dread. She turned—and her stomach plummeted.

He was leaning against the wall, pale as parchment, sweat dripping from his brow. His left arm—Merlin, his arm—looked wrong. Mangled, twisted, a dark patch soaking through his sleeve. Splinched.

Ginny’s heart seized.

“Oh God—no—no—” She scrambled closer, reaching for him, her hands hovering uselessly over the blood. “What happened? Sirius—what—what did you—”

He clenched his teeth, every muscle straining against pain, but his voice stayed steady. “Cruciatus clipped me. Threw me off. Apparition didn’t… didn’t land clean.”

Her throat closed. Her chest felt hollow. “You—you’re bleeding everywhere—”

She fumbled for her wand, desperate to do something—but his hand snapped up, catching her wrist in a grip still frighteningly strong.

“No.” His voice was rough, commanding. “Not here. Not outside the wards. They’ll catch the trace in minutes.”

She froze. Her wand trembled in her grip. His eyes, when they finally met hers, were sharp despite the agony. Unyielding.

Then, with a practiced flick of his own wand, he muttered, “Ferula.” Bandages snaked from thin air, wrapping tight around the ruin of his arm. The bleeding slowed, but Ginny could still see it—seeping, staining white to crimson.

Her stomach churned.

“That’s not enough,” she whispered, hating how small her voice sounded.

“It’ll hold,” he rasped, adjusting his back against the wall. His jaw was clenched so tight she thought it might snap. “It has to.”

The silence between them thickened, filled only by the faint hum of late-night Muggle life beyond the alley. Distant music. Laughter. Completely ignorant of the blood war spilling into their shadows.

Ginny swallowed hard. “Where are we?”

Sirius dragged in a breath through his teeth. “Little Muggle town. Just outside London. Came to one of the bars here years ago. Remembered it.” His lips curled faintly, but it wasn’t amusement. “Lucky me.”

She glanced around the alley. Cold. Empty. Exposed. Her nerves screamed at her. “We can’t stay here. It’s not safe—and you—you can’t Apparate like this again—”

His laugh was low, humorless. “You don’t say.”

“Then what?” she pressed, almost pleading. “What do we do?”

He shifted, finally pushing off the wall with his good arm. His face was still pale, but his eyes were steady now. Calculated.

“Above the bar,” he said. “There’s lodging. Old rooms, cheap, no questions asked.”

Ginny blinked. “How—how do you even know that?”

A pause. His smirk—weak, but still there—was answer enough. “You could say I’ve… entertained myself here before. Once or twice.”

She wanted to ask more. Wanted to demand more answers, demand he let her fix him properly. But looking at him—bandaged arm cradled close, jaw tight, refusing to let her see how much he was hurting—she bit back the words.

Too much. Too raw. For now, she let it go.

But she noticed—how his voice hadn’t softened once since they landed. How he hadn’t quite looked her in the eye.

And for the first time since the Death Eaters appeared, Ginny felt fear not just of them—but of what came next.

Sirius pushed off the wall, teeth clenched, arm cradled against his ribs. To anyone else, he looked like he’d just finished a duel and won—shoulders squared, stride steady, chin lifted. But Ginny saw through it. She saw the tightness around his mouth, the stiffness in every step. He was holding himself together by sheer bloody will.

She hurried to his side, hovering, wanting to help him walk, but too aware he would never let her. Sirius Black didn’t lean. Not even when his arm was half gone.

The alley spat them into the back street. Neon lights flickered on the corner, spilling from a doorway where music throbbed low and smoky. The bar.

“Tergeo,” Sirius muttered, flicking his wand before entering the establishment.

Inside, it was dim, thick with the stink of ale and sweat. Muggles hunched over their drinks, too lost in their own nights to notice two strangers slip through. Sirius moved with the same casual arrogance he’d carried in Grimmauld, as if his shirt wasn’t just covered with blood a few seconds ago, as if nothing was wrong. Ginny trailed behind, every nerve screaming.

At the bar, the owner—a broad man with thinning hair and a pint halfway to his mouth—looked up. His eyes narrowed. “We’re full up, mate. Try the—”

Sirius slid his wand from his sleeve before Ginny even realized what he was doing. His voice dropped, smooth and low. “Confundus.”

The man’s gaze went glassy. His pint wobbled.

“You’ve got a spare room upstairs for us,” Sirius said. “Free of charge. And meals. If anyone comes asking, you’ll swear you’ve never seen us. Not a man, not a girl. Understand?”

The owner blinked, slow. “Right… never seen you. Room upstairs. Meals…”

“Good lad.” Sirius pocketed his wand and turned without a hitch, striding toward the narrow stairwell at the back.

Ginny followed, her heart a knot of fear and—something else. Something that twisted deeper watching him like this: bleeding, splinched, cursed, but still standing as though nothing could touch him.

The stairs creaked under their weight. At the top, a narrow corridor with three doors, all paint peeling and numbers faded. Sirius picked one at random, shoved it open, and swept inside.

The room was small, shabby—a single bed, a crooked wardrobe, a cracked mirror. Dust lay thick on the sill. It reeked faintly of smoke and damp, but it was shelter.

Ginny shut the door behind them. “Sirius—you need to lie down.”

He didn’t even look at her. He was already moving, wand raised, murmuring low, sharp words. Wards. Layers upon layers of them, each flick of his wrist costing him more than he’d admit. Sweat beaded along his temple.

She stood frozen, hands fisting in her sweater, throat tight. Wanted to scream at him, beg him, force him to stop before he collapsed. But she didn’t. She knew better. He needed this done—needed the room sealed, secured—before he’d let himself rest.

The last ward snapped into place with a faint shimmer. Sirius’s arm dropped. His wand clattered to the floorboards.

Only then did he stumble toward the bed. He sank onto it heavily, back hitting the mattress, face pale and contorted with pain. His bandaged arm pressed tight against his chest, his eyes closing as though holding them open had finally become too much.

Ginny crept closer, her chest twisting.

Here he was—Sirius Black, infamous, untouchable—undone by blood and exhaustion. And for the first time all day, she realized just how close she’d come to losing him.

Ginny lowered herself onto the floor beside the bed, knees tucked under her, the boards cool against her legs. Sirius lay half-sprawled before her, his breath shallow, skin ashen. The makeshift bandages he’d conjured were soaked through, sticky with blood. Too much blood.

Her chest clenched. She reached carefully, fingers brushing the wrappings at his arm. If she could just undo them, get a clear look, she could—

A hand shot out, clamping around her wrist.

She startled. His grip was firm despite the tremor in his fingers, his dark eyes flat, unreadable. “Leave it,” he said, voice low, scraped raw.

Ginny blinked. “Sirius—”

“Leave it,” he repeated, more sharply this time, and pushed her hand away.

For a moment she just stared at him, stunned. Anger sparked quickly on the heels of hurt. “The wound needs tending to,” she snapped. “You’re losing blood."

“Mind your own business.” The words came out like a snarl, rough and cutting. “Stay away from me.”

Her breath hitched, sharp in her chest. For half a heartbeat, the sting landed—hard and ugly. But then fire rose to meet it. If he thought for one second she was going to back down because he was too stubborn to accept help, he was bloody well mistaken.

“Get over yourself,” she hissed, eyes flashing. “Nobody cares what you want. You need healing, and you’re damn well going to get it.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t—”

“No.” She cut him off, fury boiling over. “You can keep up your childish, noble, self-destructive attitude all you like, but I’m not going to sit here and watch you bleed because your pride’s bigger than your brains!”

Before he could shove her away again, she climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips, pressing her palms hard to his shoulders. He jerked under her, hissing as pain lanced through him.

“Ginny—” His voice broke on the edge of a growl.

“Shut up.” She leaned over him, face inches from his, her hair falling like a curtain around them. “You can glower, you can sneer, you can call me whatever cruel thing you want—but you’re not stopping me. I’m healing you. With or without your permission.”

For a long moment, their eyes locked. His gaze burned into her, hard, unyielding. Testing her. Daring her.

Then, slowly, Sirius turned his face away.

Ginny let out the breath she’d been holding, shoulders sagging with the smallest release of tension. She took it as her win. Quietly, firmly, she murmured, “Vulnera Sanentur.”

Magic poured from her wand in a soft, steady glow. The blood slowed, then stilled. Torn flesh knitted, angry red fading to pink, then pale. Bit by bit, the ruin of his arm began to mend beneath her hands.

Ginny kept working, biting her lip to keep steady, even as her chest ached at the stubborn man beneath her.

He could push her away all he wanted—but she wasn’t going anywhere.

The spell was almost complete now. Ginny’s wand moved with practiced steadiness, coaxing the last of the wound closed. Sirius lay still beneath her, jaw tight, his face carved with tension. He hadn’t said a word since yielding to her, hadn’t even looked at her. Just stared at the cracked ceiling as if it could hold back the world.

She noticed. Merlin, how could she not? His silence pressed against her as heavily as his body beneath hers.

So, in her best attempt at casual, Ginny asked, “Going to tell me why you’ve suddenly gone all broody and quiet? Or should I just get used to doing all the talking in this arrangement?”

At first, nothing. He didn’t so much as twitch, eyes still fixed away from hers. But then, low and rough, he said, “It could’ve been you.”

Her wand faltered for a fraction of a second.

He shifted beneath her, not in pain this time but in something heavier—fear, maybe, or anger. His hand came up, settling on her hips, firm. His fingers slid beneath the hem of her shirt, stopping just at her skin. Not wandering. Not teasing. Just… needing the contact, the grounding.

When he finally turned his head, their eyes locked. His own burned, dark and unguarded. “It could’ve been you splinched,” he rasped. “Only—luckily—it was me.”

“Lucky?” Ginny’s voice cracked sharp with disbelief. “There’s nothing lucky about you bleeding all over the place, Sirius!”

But he didn’t even flinch at her protest. His jaw stayed tight, his eyes never leaving hers. As though he hadn’t heard her at all, he pressed on.

“When they cornered us… logic said I should’ve gone for the one directly in front of me. Any of them. Would’ve given us a clean escape.”

His mouth twisted, fury flashing across his face. “But no. I went for him.” His teeth clicked around the name. “Fenrir.”

At the sound of it, a shiver bolted down Ginny’s spine. She couldn’t stop it—the memory of the way Greyback had looked at her, the promise in his eyes, vile and leering. Her stomach turned. Sirius noticed the flicker of horror across her face; his own softened, briefly, protectively, before hardening again.

“I acted in anger,” he continued, voice rough, breaking on itself. “In fear. I didn’t think—I just wanted him gone. And it nearly cost us both our lives.”

His grip on her hips tightened as if to anchor himself. His chest rose and fell sharply beneath her, every breath a battle.

Ginny held his gaze, heart pounding, wand hand trembling though the spell still glowed faintly at his arm. He looked raw, stripped bare—not the cocky, reckless Sirius Black she’d known until now, but a man consumed by guilt, by fear of losing something he hadn’t even admitted aloud yet.

And it made her ache.

“There,” she whispered at last, lowering her wand. The glow faded from his arm, the wound sealed as best as she could manage. “All done.”

She swallowed, brushing back a loose strand of hair. “I’m not as good as Madam Pomfrey, but the bleeding’s stopped. You’ll want to take it easy or it’ll tear open again. And the pain—well, there’s nothing I can do about that, sorry…”

She knew she was rambling, words spilling in nervous bursts, but his earlier confession still rang in her ears. Fear. He’d said fear.

For what? His life? Hers? Both? Or of the Death Eaters themselves? She didn’t know, but the thought of Sirius Black—reckless, sharp-tongued Sirius—admitting to fear shook her. And in that tremor, she realized just how close they had come. Captured. Tortured. Dead.

The weight of it left her dizzy.

She suddenly became acutely aware of where she was—straddling him, her thighs tight against his hips, her palms pressed to his bare chest, his hand on her hips. Heat rushed up her neck and across her cheeks. Merlin’s beard, what had she been thinking sitting on him like that?

The position. Their position.

Her mind jolted back to before—when they’d been on his bed, when his mouth had been on hers and his hand had been sliding higher, higher—until the walls had shaken and the world had broken apart around them.

Her blush deepened furiously.

Ginny scrambled to move, muttering a clumsy, “Sorry—sorry,” as she tried to climb off him, eyes everywhere but his face.

Ginny slid across the mattress, putting distance between them, and pulled the covers over herself. She didn’t need the warmth, not really, but she needed something to do, some buffer between herself and the whirlwind that was Sirius Black.

The silence stretched. Heavy. Unsettling. She thought maybe he’d drifted into a restless sleep, maybe the pain had finally dragged him under.

Then his voice cut the dark.

“How did I die?”

Ginny froze.

The words hung there like smoke, curling through the air, impossible to ignore.

She stared at the ceiling, willing her heart to slow. He said it so plainly, but the weight behind it—Merlin, it nearly broke her. She knew that after their talk about James and Lily… he’d stopped searching for answers. What truth was left to find, when the world had already taken everything from him?

She bit her lip hard, unsure if she should speak. What was the point of hiding anymore? The hope of sending him back—of undoing any of this—was fading like mist at dawn. She wasn’t even sure they would survive the war.

Her chest tightened. She was so tired of holding it in.

So she told him.

“Harry Potter—your godson—” the word made Sirius stiffen, “—he had a dream. Or maybe a vision, a warning, I don’t know. But in it, you were captured by Voldemort. At the Ministry. He thought you were being tortured.”

She swallowed, but once the dam had cracked, she couldn’t stop.

“He wanted to go alone, but… we couldn’t let him. Not Hermione—she’s the brightest witch I know—or Ron, my brother. Neville came too, even though he barely knew what he was getting into—he was just caught trying to protect me. And Luna Lovegood—she’s a Ravenclaw, a little odd but… good. Strong. And me.”

Her voice wavered. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “I knew you. I’d spent that summer with you at Grimmauld Place. If you were in trouble, if you needed saving—I wasn’t about to stay behind.”

Her cheeks flushed hot even in the dark, but she forced herself on.

“We broke into the Ministry. Foolish, really. It was a trap. The Death Eaters were waiting, and they… they tore us apart. Hermione fainted after being hit with a spell. Ron went delirious. Luna and Neville were both badly hurt. My ankle was shattered. We—” She stopped, throat tightening, but pushed through. “We barely held on.”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “And then the Order came. You came. You fought like hell to save us. And then—”

The word snagged in her chest, but she made herself finish. “Bellatrix. She hit you with the Killing Curse. And you… disappeared. Into the Veil.”

Silence swallowed the room.

Ginny turned her head, staring at him through the half-light. His face was unreadable—blank, but not empty. His jaw clenched hard enough to tremble, his eyes burning with a storm of emotion he hadn’t yet let loose.

He was quiet for so long that Ginny thought maybe he wouldn’t answer at all. Maybe he’d just turn his face into the pillow and shut her out again.

But then his voice cut through the dark, low and sharp:

“So James’s son just decided to rush in—break into the bloody Ministry—because he thought I was in trouble? Why would he do that?”

The bite in his words made her flinch. Not at him, but at the pain she heard under the anger.

She swallowed. “Because… you’re all he has. You’re family. He thinks of you that way. And so did you—you left him everything. Grimmauld Place, your fortune… You mattered to him. More than anyone.”

Sirius’s head turned slowly. His eyes caught hers in the dim light, unreadable and dark, and then—suddenly—he barked out half a laugh. Bitter, incredulous, but real.

“Just like James,” he muttered. His mouth twisted, something almost like a smile ghosting there. “Reckless. Stupid. Brave. I’d like to meet him someday.”

Ginny let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

But the softness didn’t last. His face shuttered again, hardening like stone. “Well, so are all of you. Risking your lives to save me. Foolish is correct.”

The quiet that followed was heavier than before.

Then Sirius pushed himself up on his elbows, grimacing with the effort, and his eyes locked on hers with a sharpness that brooked no argument.

“Go to sleep, Ginny. We leave tomorrow.” His voice was final, clipped. “I’m taking you home.”