justanotheruser1

[justanotheruser1]

woke up to THREE ao3 updates, genuinely a sight for sore eyes. Banger after banger

[justanotheruser1]

[justanotheruser1]

me as a writer

[justanotheruser1]

when the fic is so good you need to exit out of the browser app and scroll on tumblr for a few minutes to process what you’re reading

[justanotheruser1]

AU where Sirius first meets Harry at the start of book 6

Sirius paces around the kitchen nervously.

“Sirius,” Tonks says, finally exasperated. “Come on. You’re worrying yourself over nothing.”

He barely hears her over the anxious thump of his heart. He’d been thinking about this moment - the moment he’d meet his godson - since the start of Summer. It hadn’t left his mind for more than a couple minutes at a time, the only thing to look forward to - and dread in equal amounts. 

“He’s old,” Sirius shakes his head, repeating the plethora of worries that have no doubt become familiar to the group with him in the kitchen. “He doesn’t need a godfather, he’ll hate me.”

“Come now,” It’s Molly this time, trying to comfort him. “Believe me when I tell you that boy is physically incapable of hating anyone - without an excellent reason to.”

Despite Sirius knowing that Molly is attempting to reassure him, he can’t help feeling bitter at the fact that she’s underhandedly rubbing it in his face that she knows his god son better than him.

So he doesn’t respond to her, in lieu of snapping and making it all the more stressful, and later, he’d come to thank himself largely for that action because at that very moment, the bell rings.

“That’ll be them!” Arthur says brightly, the only person apparently unaffected by the tenseness of the atmosphere.

He disappears and Sirius feels almost dizzy with nervousness. He clutches the back of a seat for support. In walks Dumbledore and closely behind him a shorter figure. 

The moment he looks, he knows he’ll never be able to look away. He looks so terribly like James, the same nose, the same jaw, the same eyebrows… but the eyes… 

They are the photocopy of Lily’s. Almond-shaped and a bright green. However, despite all this, there is something in the boys features that was distinctly his - perhaps the slight gauntness to his cheeks, or the darkness beneath his eyes that speak of many sleepless nights, a look he had never seen on James even during the height of the war.

“Hello everyone,” Dumbledore greets, smiling. “I hope we did not keep you up too late.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Molly says, despite the fact that it is 3AM. “It’s no worry at all. It’s great to see you both in good health.” She smiles warmly at Harry, who smiles back.

Sirius’ heart flops in his chest and it takes a second for him to realise that he’s actually feeling jealous . He’s trying to shake himself back to rationality when the bright green eyes suddenly land on him.

“Who are you?” He asks curiously and oh god, that’s his godsons voice. Dumbledore puts a hand on his shoulder and Sirius swallows. 

“Sirius Black,” he says, affecting a casual tone, hopefully sounding a lot more composed than he feels on the inside. “Ex-convict and escapee of Azkaban at your service.”

The boy doesn’t look scared, just curious.

Molly interrupts them to start setting the table and Harry ends up sitting to the left of him. Sirius physically cannot stop himself from continually glancing at him, taking in every aspect of his features that he couldn’t see from afar - every blemish, every scar. The kid has to notice but he does a remarkably good job in pretending not to. Realising that this is probably what he had to learn in face of his fame quickly stops Sirius. 

[justanotheruser1]

[justanotheruser1]

I was talking about how Harry has little to zero expectations from adults in one of the asks I had gotten, and is almost always pleasantly surprised by their expressions of care (and utterly desensitised to violent contact).

But here is the one exception that Harry is childish with. These entire set of paragraphs break my soul with how child-like Harry gets about Sirius - "He was angry at Sirius now for keeping him waiting" / "Sirius has never kept him waiting before". If you read these lines without context of who Harry is, you'd think this was Dudley with Petunia lol.

But because we do have context of how Harry is, this entitlement and ownership Harry feels with Sirius stands in stark contrast with any other dynamic in his life.

Of course, this is one powerful example of how child-like Harry gets - there are others littered through the books: him telling Sirius in detail how exactly he outwitted the Hungarian Horntail (so much so that Pigwidgeon had a hard time carrying the letter), him talking to Sirius about Ron during GOF...

[justanotheruser1]

Going Home

A/N: Bored of editing and not being able to write more than I can currently, so here's a snippet of a fic I've been writing.

Summary: Post-POA, Sirius is free. And now, so is Harry.

Harry drags his trunk out of Privet Drive and sets it on the pavement next to the street in front of the house. He takes a seat, tapping a tuneless rhythm against the side of the trunk as he lounges back, eyes fixed on the end of the long stretch of road in front of the Dursley home. 

He reaches into his pocket to re-read the note Sirius had sent him earlier that week, eyes roving over the neat ink scrawl that occasionally bled through the cream parchment. 

Harry— 

Trial over. Wormtail was sentenced to life in Azkaban last night. Will be picking you up on Wednesday at noon. Be ready. The trunk in my car has an Extension Charm, so there’s lots of space for all your belongings — I’ll help you with the boxes. 

See you soon, 

Padfoot. 

“He’ll be coming by car.” 

Harry had told the Dursleys as soon as he got the owl, taking care not to let them know that Sirius was actually innocent. He hoped that the threat of a soon-to-be-visiting, violent criminal godfather would buy him a bit of good behavior during his last few days in this house, not to mention a mercifully calm exit. 

Harry often thought that for someone who loathed him more than Draco Malfoy and Lord Voldemort combined (although perhaps a bit less than Snape), Uncle Vernon had been quite prone to histrionics at their parting, never failing to make a scene in the past three summers since Harry got his Hogwarts letter. 

Aunt Petunia had merely pursed her lips before grudgingly swapping Harry’s pitiful breakfast of half a grapefruit and a scrap of toast for a portion of the full English she had made for the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon grunted as he continued to studiously ignore Harry, choosing to burn small holes into a picture of Tony Blair in the newspaper instead. 

(Of course, the animosity directed towards Blair was likely genuine — a proud Tory, Uncle Vernon loved nothing more than to engage in long rants against the Labour Party, a jewel among other cherished topics such as: the homeless, the arts, Harry, gay people, Harry, the BBC, the EU, Harry, anyone who didn’t look like him or share his values, Harry, and a few others. Harry couldn’t recall all of them, given his habit of tuning Uncle Vernon out whenever he got on a roll, but he had a general policy of approving of anything or anyone that his uncle hated. Obviously, they were doing something right.)

“So this is it, then?” Harry hears a voice behind him, accompanied by thundering footsteps, as he turns back to see Dudley slowly inching his way out the door, keeping both hands on his bottom as his watery-blue eyes dart across the street. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. “S’pose it is.” 

“Will you be coming back next summer?” Dudley asks, face a tortured cross between a sneer and genuine curiosity as he stops a few paces from the pavement bordering No. 4 Privet Drive. In the corner of Harry’s eyes, he sees a flash of thin blonde hair whip away from the kitchen window. 

“Hopefully not.” 

“Oh,” Dudley says, eyes dropping to his feet as he wiggles uncomfortably, his body rippling with fat from the effort. He opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can, a gleaming black sedan slows down in front of Harry. 

The man who jumps out of the car is vaguely recognizable as Sirius, but not the Sirius Harry had gotten familiar with in the last week of term. This Sirius has clean, wavy hair neatly put in a short ponytail, and a well-trimmed beard. He’s wearing a smart, three-piece suit — it looks expensive, along with his matching, shiny black shoes, but Harry wouldn’t know. All the clothes he has are Dudley’s practically unusable hand-me-downs (although the few old blouses of Aunt Petunia’s thrown in the mix honestly fit him quite well) he had half-heartedly charmed to fit his size. 

“I hope I’m not too late. Traffic was horrible,” Sirius says, rounding the short distance between them to stand in front of Harry. He grins widely, betraying a row of sharp, sparkling teeth. “Well, traffic, and me re-learning how to drive a car. Your mum taught me, you know. But it’s been ages.” 

Harry offers him a small smile as he gets up off of his trunk. A small squeak from Dudley leads both of them to stare at him. Sirius has a bit of a bemused look on his face as he watches Dudley scurry back into the safety of his house, hands tightly clutching his bottom as if it might fall off. 

“Is he alright?” 

“No, not really. Shall we leave?” 

“Don’t you want to say goodbye?” He asks Harry, although Sirius’ tone suggests he doesn’t care either way. 

“I’ve already said goodbye. And trust me when I say that they wouldn’t want to meet you,” Harry says brusquely. 

“But I— no,” Sirius pauses, looking a bit lost as his gray eyes darken with confusion. “I suppose I should thank them for taking you in all these years. I don’t think it’d be right to leave without at least a chat.” 

“Sirius,” Harry protests. “No.” But Sirius doesn’t hear him, shoes smartly tapping against the hot concrete path leading to the front of the house. 

A pressed doorbell later, Aunt Petunia whips open the door with a harried expression on her pinched, thin face. 

“You are taking him, aren’t you?” She asks, cutting Sirius off as he attempts to say hello. Harry creeps up behind Sirius, body tensed as he prepares to intervene if necessary. He’d prefer Sirius not find out about his… embellishment of Sirius’ character, the way he led the Dursleys to believe that he was a violent criminal who meant to kill all those Muggles; that might make things awkward. 

He doesn’t want Sirius to think he’s a liar on their very first day of living together. 

“Of… course I am,” Sirius says slowly. “I just wanted to thank you—” 

“Take him and leave. Before the neighbors see. Vernon’s already gone to work, and he was very specific about not wanting the boy to be here when he gets back. We’ve had more than enough of him.” 

“Now, look here— ” Sirius’ face is slightly flushed as he stares Aunt Petunia down. Sirius is a very tall man, and despite his slightly-emaciated frame and thin figure, with his suit and shiny shoes, he cuts an imposing figure. But it’s not enough in the face of Aunt Petunia’s withering hatred of anything magic, or not-normal, or Harry. 

“No,” Aunt Petunia hissed. “We have had enough of his freakishness, and we don’t need any of yours. I don’t care who you are, just take him and go. And don’t come back.” She slams the door in Sirius’ face. 

Harry is so close to Sirius, almost hiding behind him, that he can feel Sirius trembling as he turns around to look at Harry. 

Harry immediately feels ashamed — he wanted so much to keep Sirius from meeting the Dursleys, from realizing how much they hated him. And now he failed. 

What if Sirius sees this as a bad omen? What if he decides he doesn’t want Harry anymore? 

No, Harry reassures himself. Sirius won’t leave him sitting on his trunk on the pavement. Sure, Aunt Petunia hadn’t exactly given Harry a ringing endorsement, but the question was, would Sirius believe her? Even if he does, Sirius is a good man. He’ll probably take Harry in for a few days as he tries to figure out where to place him. And Harry could use the time with Sirius to make another plan. Maybe he’ll live with Ron and his family for a bit. Mrs. Weasley loves him; she had even expressed her extreme disapproval at Harry’s plans to move in with Sirius. Surely they’d let him stay with them if Sirius decided he didn’t want Harry. It’s not like he’s homeless. He has options. He can— 

“Harry?” Harry’s head shoots up as he hears Sirius tentatively call out his name. 

“Can we just go?” His voice is tight as he attempts to reduce the lump in his throat. It’s embarrassing. Of course, he doesn’t care what the Dursleys might think of him, but to have their opinion of him poison Sirius — it’s so unfair. 

Why can’t things ever go right for him? 

“Of course,” Sirius’ voice is heartbreakingly gentle as he puts an arm around Harry’s shoulder, steering him out of the Dursleys’ nauseatingly-perfect, factory-form front garden. 

Sirius frowns as Harry picks up his large trunk, rolling it over to the trunk of the sedan. It’s a Peugeot 405 — Harry knows this from the years he spent stealing Uncle Vernon’s old car mags from the garden shed. Dudley would rip up any books he tried to borrow from the library, and it got boring, being shut up in his cupboard for hours at a time. They practically taught him how to read. 

A French car. Interesting. 

“Is that it?” Sirius asks as he fishes a key out of his pocket and opens the boot, helping Harry dump his large trunk inside the roomy interior. 

“Yeah, it’s all I’ve got,” Harry says, heading towards the passenger side of the car. 

“But— these are your school things. Don’t you need your other things— clothes, knicknacks…” Sirius trails off as Harry looks at him blankly, eyes darkening with anger. 

“Can you—” Harry gestures to the car door. 

Sirius clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, here.” He clicks the car key and Harry opens the door with a bit of unnecessary force, he realizes belatedly. He takes care to shut it gently, hoping that Sirius didn't notice.

Sirius shuts the car door on the other side and puts the sedan into drive, looking in the rearview mirror as he pulls the car onto the street. Harry makes the mistake of meeting Sirius’ eyes in the mirror. He looks… Confused, sad, angry. Harry wishes Sirius would tell him what he did wrong. He hopes that they can recover the rest of the day from here, because it was a pretty bad start. 

“So,” Sirius says, injecting a false note of brightness into his voice as they get on the motorway. “Do you want to know what I have planned?” He asks Harry. 

“Er— sure, I’d love to.” 

“Well, I’ve bought a house in Knightsbridge. Really, I just contacted the nearest real estate agent I could find and told them I wanted some place with sun, but still, you know, in central London, and they recommended this gorgeous four-bed, three-bath. It’s right in the city, really nice location. Near Diagon Alley and King’s Cross, and close enough to Islington if I need to go to the family home. But hopefully, I won’t need to do that.” Sirius speaks in a rush, barely keeping himself from babbling as he continues to check the rearview mirror. “I think you’ll really like it, Harry.” Sirius smiles as he turns to look at him. Harry’s cheeks flame up as he breaks eye-contact, turning to look outside the window.

His gaze… it was too warm. Harry doesn’t know how to respond to that. 

“That sounds nice,” he offers lamely. “London’s fun.” 

“I also thought, if you’re amenable, we could go on vacation. Maybe someplace with a beach. It’s been so long since I’ve been on a beach,” Sirius says, looking almost wistful as he grips his hands on the steering wheel. “Your grandparents used to take your dad and I on a seaside holiday to Brighton, every summer. There’s a hidden magical island off the coast. Your dad insisted on participating in this sandcastle-making contest they used to have there. He and Fleamont were awfully intense about it.” 

Harry frowns, a small ache piercing him between the ribs. “Who’s Fleamont?” 

Sirius huffs, the start of a laugh bubbling in his throat. “Who’s Fleamont? Harry,” he breathes, looking over to take in Harry’s utterly serious expression of confusion. “Who’s…” Sirius’ voice fades away as he stares at Harry, eyes welling up in pain. Harry grips his arm as the car begins to steer to the right. 

“Watch the road!” 

Sirius blanches as he turns his attention to the motorway. He grips the wheel tightly and gets the car back in the left lane, raising a hand in apology to the car behind him. 

“Harry…” Sirius’ voice is soft with confusion, soft with anger and a thousand other heavy emotions. “Fleamont was your grandfather.” 

Harry frowns as he picks at the threads pulling from his shirt. It’s stained in several places, primarily from Dudley’s relentless attempts at eating his parents out of house and home. He studies a small patch of what most likely used to be mustard as he tamps down on the urge to sit and cry. 

How was he to know who Fleamont was? It’s not like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon kept pictures of anything but their darling Dudley on the walls of their home. Aunt Petunia didn’t even like talking about her own family. 

He had no chance. 

“Did no one ever tell you their names?” 

“People are often more concerned with keeping information from me than the opposite, I’ve found,” Harry says, trying for a nonchalant tone but landing right on something bitter and whinging. “It’s fine,” he mutters. “Not like I tried all that hard to learn all about them.” 

“But someone should have told you!” Sirius bursts out, slamming the steering wheel with his hands as his face blooms with fury. “Why did no one contact you? And those— awful relatives of yours…” He impatiently rubs his nose, returning his hands to the steering wheel, knuckles going white from the intensity of his grip. 

He had meant to, Harry thinks, as he remembers the photo album Hagrid had given him at the end of first year. During the beginning of that summer between first and second year, Harry had impatiently flipped through the album, absorbing all the pictures of his parents and friends from cover to cover. Hagrid didn’t mention what pictures came from which people, so Harry had meticulously removed each photo from its smooth, plastic covering, looking for marks or handwriting on the back to see if someone had indicated who had taken the photo, or to whom it belonged. A good majority of them had the acronym “RJL” on the back, along with the date of when the photo was taken and who was in it in faded, loopy handwriting. Harry had grand plans of talking to Hagrid in the fall and contacting all the people who gave the photos, seeing if he could find some close friend or unknown relative of his father or mother. If he was really lucky, maybe they would’ve wanted to talk to him, too. 

He didn’t have a lot of time to do this in the beginning of that summer, busy as he was with re-painting the fence and cleaning the house and weeding the garden and watching Dudley loll about, stuffing ice lollies into his fat face that came alive with an unholy glee whenever he saw Harry sizzling out in the sun. Dudley especially chortled whenever he saw Harry working in the garden, crowing all the time about how “dirt belonged with dirt.” 

As the summer wore on, Harry’s mood had plunged from bad to worse. His friends weren’t writing to him and life at the Dursleys seemed to be extra miserable, as if they were compensating for all the fun he’d had at Hogwarts. He stopped thumbing through the glossy, faded pictures, feeling bitter as he watched his father laugh himself silly with his friends and wander around the castle, hand-in-hand with his mother. How pathetic was he, to feel jealous of someone dead and gone? Someone who’d given his life for him. 

But it hurt. It hurt because sometimes, late at night when he didn’t have to answer to anyone, deep in the safety of his own mind, he’d have these fantasies. That if his parents had lived, he wouldn’t be crouched in the Dursley garden hunting for weeds as the back of his neck burned from the heat of the sun or desperately scrounging for the last dregs of cold soup pushed through the catflap (a catflap!) attached to his bedroom door because he had to give all the vegetable, solid bits to Hedwig. He’d probably be included in those photos, laughing with those mystery men and women as his mother hugged him from around the waist and kissed his cheek and his father put a comforting arm around his shoulder and ruffled his hair. 

So he stopped looking at the album, fishing out a photo of his parents just before they got married and sticking it to the wall behind his bed and leaving it at that. 

He didn’t need the rest. 

They stay silent for the rest of the trip. Occasionally, Sirius would open his mouth, looking at Harry as if he were on the verge of confessing something, but Harry steadfastly avoids his gaze, staring out the window and watching as the gray road and light blue sky and blazing sun above blur together, his glasses fogging over, his face wet and salty with tears.

[justanotheruser1]

im rusty. so rusty. and also extremely late for christmas. i may as well have waited 350 days until the holidays came around again, but im trying to write more this year, so hear you go? eek im nervous. please pardon any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes. enjoy! also tumblr doesn't seem to have line breaks so sorry if any time jumps are confusing.

also a warning for language and mentions of wanting to step in front of a bus as an extreme response to being embarrassed. i swear this is all fluff otherwise.

Harry doesn't know what to get Sirius for Christmas.

Well, to clarify, Harry doesn't know if he can get Sirius anything adequately worth a damn. Because how can a game (magical or not) or piece of art or trinket or any sort of anything say hey Merry Christmas and by the way, thanks for saving me from my horrible abusive household where I lived in a cupboard and for wrangling a fucked up wizarding judicial system so that it both exonerates you from a murder you didn't commit and lets you adopt a kid you only properly met six months ago.

Harry would also like the gift (if he ever manages to find something) to say also thank you for giving me my own bedroom and for making pancakes every Saturday morning and for letting me visit my friends and for playing two-man Quidditch with me and for ruffling my hair and for always letting me pick the film that we watch and for telling me stories about my parents and for always being just enough and for not pushing me when I have nothing to say and for calling me by my name instead of shouting boy angrily-

Harry figures that he should cut himself off there. Any more gratitudes and the gift will literally be impossible to find, lest it be the size of Hogwarts in an effort to cram any and all unspoken messages Harry doesn't have the courage to voice out loud.

So Harry does what he usually does in a sticky situation. He turns to his friends.

No clue mate, Ron writes. I normally get Mum perfume and Dad whatever Muggle trinket he's been obsessing over. So unless Sirius wants a rubber duck, I probably won't be much help. But you could probably give him one and he'd be ecstatic. You're pretty much his favorite person right now.

Ah bloody hell. Do you think I should get Sirius something as a thanks for Pig?

Even though he's sure Ron's right (although Padfoot might enjoy a rubber duck more than Sirius), Harry doesn't have time to add Ron's own gift conundrum to his list of problems, so he turns to Hermione, who ends up being a bit more helpful.

I know you said that Sirius was interested in curse-breaking and how it can be used to help with cleaning up Grimmauld Place, so maybe something pertaining to that? A book or starter kit? Or perhaps something a bit more personal, something he couldn't just buy in a shop. Don't worry too much, Harry. He'll love whatever it is you give him because it's you.

Harry disregards the book suggestion immediately. Sirius does read; over the holiday break the two of them have taken to sitting quietly on opposite sides of the couch in the sitting room, reading books from the Black family library and munching on the latest treat Mrs. Weasley has sent them while flames blaze in the fireplace, only breaking the peaceful quiet occasionally to share whatever interesting passage has just been read. But Harry doesn't want to give a present that reminds Sirius of the exhausting work they do every day trying to make Grimmauld Place a habitable home.

Hermione's other suggestion, however, gets Harry thinking. Something he couldn't just buy in a shop. That obviously eliminates all of the last-resort items Harry had on his mental list, as they were dumb things he had planned to frantically order by mail once he gave up on the idea of finding something good enough for Sirius. But it also opens up a new idea, something that Harry himself had appreciated when he had received it a few years ago.

He begins firing off letters and mail-in order forms with an efficiency Hermione would admire. The owls return in quick fashion, up to three or four a day. Sirius doesn't notice anything at first, but when Hedwig taps on the kitchen window for the second time that day during breakfast, he gets up and lets her in with a raised eyebrow at Harry.

"Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment?" he asks, somewhat incredulously, peering at the label on the package. "Harry, love, you know we can just go to Diagon Alley whenever you'd like. No need to rely on owl post if you're running low on supplies."

Harry flushes and snatches the small, soft package from Hedwig, stuffing it under his armpit and looking determinedly at his porridge. He hopes he doesn't have ACTUALLY IT'S PART OF YOUR CHRISTMAS PRESENT written all over his face.

"It's fine," he shrugs, aiming for casual nonchalance with his tone. "It's just a small thing. No point in going all the way down to Diagon Alley. Besides, the crowds would drive you crazy. They'd probably give you a concussion trying to get a picture."

Sirius grimaces, probably thinking of their last attempt to go for an ice cream at Fortescue's shortly before Harry had left for the fall term. They'd returned to Grimmauld Place ice cream-less and with a giant tear down the front of Harry's robes.

"Nothing a Glamour Charm wouldn't fix," he responds, grabbing his own empty bowl and bringing it to the sink. "Anyway, it's not fair for us to be shut up in this damned house because some people can't behave themselves in public. You just let me know whenever you want to go out, alright? I promise I won't breathe down your neck while you look at potions ingredients and whatnot. Even if they all suspiciously happen to be ingredients for an Enlarging Potion."

He manages to ruffle Harry's hair before the boy squawks out a "Sirius!" and darts out the kitchen, cackling in response to Harry's sputtered "I'm not... I wouldn't... SIRIUS!"

As Christmas approaches, Harry begins to stay up later and later into the night, working frantically to finish Sirius' present. One late night (or early morning, really), he hears a gentle knock on his door. He jumps and shoves the half completed project under his comforter.

"Come in!"

Sirius peeks his head through the cracked open door. "Are you alright? I was getting a glass of water and noticed your light was still on."

Harry nods, trying to convey a casualness he doesn't feel beneath the stress of wanting to have the present ready by Christmas morning. "Yes. Fine. I was just... reading." He reaches for his nightstand and holds up the latest book he's knicked from the Black family library for this exact purpose.

Sirius raises an eyebrow. "You sure? I've read that one before. Couldn't last more than thirty seconds at a time without falling asleep."

Harry glances at the cover. He hasn't even cracked it open yet. "It's actually quite interesting. I've always been fascinated by... the evolution of wizarding legalese from 1500 to 1800." He internally winces as the subject matter is finally made apparent to his sleep-deprived brain.

Sirius pauses, clearly sensing that something's up. He must decide that now's not the time to probe further because he says, "Alright. You're stronger than me, then. Let me know if you need anything though." He begins to retreat and close the bedroom door but stops right before he actually does. "I forgot, " he murmurs, opening the door wide and stepping fully into Harry's bedroom. He approaches Harry where he's sitting on his bed. Harry tries to discretely shove the half-finished present further under the covers. "You had a letter downstairs. We must have missed it earlier. I only saw it when I was getting water." He hands over a rather thick envelope to Harry, who flips it over, notes the name of the sender, and smiles, relieved.

Sirius lets out a small puff of air, and Harry looks up at the sound. Sirius pastes on a rather strained smile. "Do you often write to Mrs. Weasley?"

Harry's brain scrambles for a response. "Erm. Not really."

He doesn't say anything else, unsure how to explain away the situation convincingly. A rather awkward silence settles between them. Sirius looks as if he's summoning the courage to say something.

Sirius takes a deep breath. "I'm here if you ever want to talk, Harry. I know the Weasley's have always been great to you, and I never want to feel like you're getting that taken away. But, I just want you to know that I'm also here, in addition to them. For anything. No questions asked or judgement cast. Alright?"

The letter slips out of Harry's grip, as he frantically waves his hands in front of him, desperate to correct Sirius' perception of the situation. "Oh, no, Sirius, I know! I swear it. We were just... planning Ron's birthday present this year. They wanted to throw him a party." The fib comes easily.

Sirius visibly relaxes. "Oh. Ron's birthday's not until April though."

"Yes," Harry's brain scrambles for an explanation. "But you know how Mrs. Weasley is. Always trying to stay ahead. She's already starting to plan the menu. Fretting between bacon sandwiches or chicken legs for the main course."

Sirius shakes his head, a genuine smile starting to form on his face. "Well you know my vote is always for chicken legs. Assuming I'm invited of course."

"You know you're always invited. Mrs. Weasley always wants an opportunity to make sure you're feeding me properly," Harry rolls his eyes. "And Ron thinks you're pretty cool too. Even though you broke his leg."

Sirius gives him a mock scowl. "Hey now! I wasn't in my right mind that night. And I gave him an owl to make up for it! Even though I was probably doing myself more of a favor than him. That damned owl was driving me mad."

Harry giggles, and Sirius' smile grows wider at the sound. He lets out a dramatic sigh and leans over to ruffle Harry's hair, ignoring the sounds of protest that come in response to the action.

"Alright then, love. I'm off to bed. Shout if you need anything, and I'll be here in faster than you can say chicken legs. You hear me?"

Harry nods. "Yes sir."

Sirius scowls for real this time. "None of that now, remember?"

Harry nods again, this time rather sheepishly. Sirius bends over to kiss his forehead before heading out of the bedroom, shouting a "Good night!" over his shoulder before he closes the door behind him.

Harry sighs in relief, pulls the present out from underneath the comforter, tears open Mrs. Weasley's letter, and gets back to work.

The morning of the 25th is bright and cold.

Harry is a ball of nerves as the breakfast plates get cleared away and the two of them prepare to go to the sitting room to open presents. Padfoot had barged into Harry's room at half past seven, barking loudly and leaping onto the bed, nearly giving Harry a heart attack in the process. He'd only finished Sirius' present in the wee hours of the morning and had barely managed to shove it into his desk drawer before he'd fallen asleep.

Sirius had dragged Harry into the kitchen for special Christmas chocolate chip pancakes and hot chocolate but had only allowed Harry to start eating once he agreed to don a ridiculously oversized Santa hat that matched the one Sirius had on his own head.

"If I'd known you liked Christmas so much, I'd have taken you to the Muggle mall to get a picture with Santa," Harry grumbles only half-heartedly as he watches the milk heat up on the hob. Sirius was adamant about making hot chocolate the old-fashioned way.

Sirius laughs loudly and hooks his arm around Harry's neck, pulling him close and planting a kiss on his forehead with a loud smack. "It's our first Christmas together, kiddo! First of many. You can get past your anti-morning attitude for that, can't you?"

"I gueeeeeeees," Harry mock-whines, drawing out the word as he adds the chopped chocolate to the steaming milk. He's secretly pleased that Sirius seems to somewhat enjoy his company. It shows he's not such a terrible charge.

"Thank you for your sacrifice," Sirius states dramatically. He gives Harry one last squeeze before releasing him. "Now come on, let's get to presents. I call going first!" He darts off to the sitting room where, overnight, a large pile of presents has piled in front of the eight-foot tall tree Sirius had dragged home one afternoon (with lots of swearing).

Harry gulps nervously as he pours hot chocolate into two mugs and tops them both with a handful of marshmallows. His hands are slightly shaking as he brings them both to the sitting room. Sirius is poking around the heap of gifts as he enters the room, and Harry spots the hastily wrapped, lumpy package he completed only a few hours ago.

Please like it, please like it, please like it, he silently begs as he sets the mugs on the coffee table. The sight of the gift is almost nauseating, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the hot chocolate.

Sirius turns at the sound to spot Harry and grins. "Alrighty, kiddo, what do you want to unwrap first? I did go a bit overboard this year, you'll have to forgive me. But there's plenty here from your friends!" He's practically vibrating with excitement.

Harry straightens his back and clears his throat. "Actually, do you mind if you do the opening first?"

Sirius pauses. "Are you sure? I swear mine are quite good."

Harry nods vigorously. "Yes. You can start with mine. It's right on top. The green wrapping." Let's just get this over with, he thinks.

Sirius picks up the package and shakes it gently. It makes no noise, and Harry can't help but let out a chuckle despite the knots in his stomach. Sirius grins at him and begins to carefully unwrap the gift.

Harry's legs suddenly feel like treacle tart filling. He lowers himself onto the couch so he doesn't pass out.

The wrapper paper gently falls to the ground, revealing a mound of knit material. Sirius unravels the pile to reveal a rather lumpy, oversized navy blue sweater with a slightly misshapen black dog woven onto the front.

Sirius doesn't say anything.

Harry's heart drops to his stomach. He opens his mouth, desperate to explain away the situation. "It's uh... it's... erm... it's a sweater? I made it?" As if that wasn't fucking obvious, he internally snarls at himself. He shakes his head, trying to organize his thoughts. "Yes, I, um, I made it. That's uh... that's Padfoot. On the front of it. I knitted it."

Sirius doesn't say anything.

Harry's words start coming out faster and faster, hoping something comes out that remedies this clusterfuck of an event. "Mrs. Weasley helped me. She sent me instructions. And the patterns? That 's why she was sending me so many letters. I didn't know how to do it. They aren't throwing a party for Ron."

Sirius still doesn't say anything.

Oh fuck! Harry thinks wildly. He's probably livid I lied. Oh fuck fuck fuck. "I'm sorry I lied to you! I just wanted it to be a surprise," he manages to get out. "That's why I was ordering so much through owl post. I had to get the yarn and the needles. And I kept having to order more yarn because I kept getting frustrated and messing up a lot. I didn't want you to know. Until now, that is. Obviously."

Sirius. Still. Doesn't. Say. Anything.

Harry wants to crawl into a hole and die. But for some stupid, idiotic reason, he keeps speaking. "I wasn't sure if you'd like the color? I actually realized that I don't know what your favorite color is. But whenever Mrs. Weasley makes one for me or for the Weasley kids, she usually does our favorite color. Or house colors. But I figured you have lots of things in Gryffindor colors? Like your wand holster. And then I noticed that you wear a lot of navy. So I thought that might be nice."

If Sirius doesn't say anything, Harry just might call the Knight Bus so he can step in front of it. He decides to get everything off of his chest before he has to do so.

"Mrs... uh... Mrs. Weasley made me one," he explains softly. "My first year. And every year after that. It means a lot to me. I think it was probably the first gift I ever got. And it kind of made me feel like part of their family? A little bit at least. So... so I wanted to give you one. Not from her, of course. But from me. So you could feel like a part of... our family?" His sentence embarrassingly ends like a question, so he hastily tacks on, "If you want to, of course."

Sirius finally moves, and Harry shuts his mouth. He gently sets the sweater down on the armchair next to him, walks over to where Harry is sitting, and pulls him up into the tightest, fiercest hug Harry has ever experienced.

Neither say anything for a few moments. Until Harry can't deal with not being able to breathe and squeaks out, "Uh? Sirius? I can't really inhale."

Sirius releases him quickly and takes a step back. "Sorry."

Harry feels awkward again. He clears his throat, hoping to fill the silence with something. "I hope you like it. But I know it's not done very well. So I can take it apart if you'd rather that. The shop said they'd take the yarn back as long as it wasn't too worn."

Sirius' head snaps up. "What? Harry, my love, I don't not like it. I love it."

Harry's mouth goes dry. "What?"

Sirius gives him a small smile. His eyes look suspiciously glassy. "Harry. You made this for me. You made this for me! It's my favorite color, and it's got me on it! Of course I love it. Not just because you took the time and the effort to make something for me. Because, my goodness, how do you even start with something like this? It must have taken you ages. But also because, well, you said it yourself. I mean, I already felt like part of the same family with the whole adoption bit and knowing you since you were a baby and whatnot, but it's always nice to know you feel the same. And I'm so honored to be a part of your family. Always will be. You have to know that, alright?" Sirius presses their foreheads together. "Alright?"

Harry nods, feeling a little something catch in his throat. He nods.

"Thank you for my gift," Sirius says softly. "I love it. No talk about talking it apart. I'll be proper mad if you do, you hear me?"

Harry nods again. Sirius releases him. He grabs the sweater from the armchair and pulls it over his head. The hem is uneven and the dog looks more like a cat once the sweater settles on his body, but Sirius only looks down at it and grins.

"Now come on, it's your turn to open presents. I don't think any of mine are as good as a handmade sweater, but I hope you like them anyway. And that's got me thinking, we ought to do a Christmas card no? Especially now that I've got a nice sweater on. Mrs. Weasley might tear up at the sight of a photo of the two us. Come on, come on, pick a present."

Harry rolls his eyes without any real heat behind the action. And he doesn't say anything later when he feels a burst of pride when he sees the photo they take in front of the Christmas tree that afternoon, Sirius wearing the sweater with the biggest, proudest smile Harry has ever seen.

He just bottles the feeling and hopes to remember it forever.

[justanotheruser1]

I really want a good Harry & Sirius relationship fic. Something similar to canon, with their relationship developing further and Sirius really acting like a godfather (becoming more responsible etc). I’ve recently read The Unforgiveables series (https://archiveofourown.org/series/333199) which was outstanding in showing the true care and love of their relationship. I’ve been itching for more like this for the longest time.

[justanotheruser1]

here’s to a good year

[justanotheruser1]

one thing i adore about fandom is the “[bad parent]’s A+ parenting” tag on ao3. it’s so universal and so sarcastic and it makes me giggle every time i see it

[justanotheruser1]

“Bye, Harry!” said Hermione, and she did something she had never done before, and kissed him on the cheek. ~ Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire 

Illustration of this adorable cheek kiss from GOF that I did for the fic Awakening by SweetShireen.

[justanotheruser1]

almost 2025 gosh

[justanotheruser1]

need some good James/sirius. like a rlly rlly good one

[justanotheruser1]

my screen time is 12 hours a day. it’s a hard fact to reckon with. idk what to do.

[justanotheruser1]

Plant of the Day

Friday 6 January 2023

These winter hardy cultivars of Brassica oleracea (cabbage) show the value of this plant as a year round food supply. For winter cabbages the seeds are sown in April/May and are transplanted in late June/July to the final growing site. Here winter hardy cabbages are ready for harvest and thriving in a vegetable garden in Orkney, Scotland.

Jill Raggett