The Dawn of a New Era
The chalet was indeed a paradise, but the people inside it carried the weight of unresolved tensions—none more so than Sirius. Tensions lingered between him and his aunt, between him and Remus, but most painfully, between him and Harry.
Before addressing his issues with the others, Sirius knew that his first priority had to be Harry. His godson’s happiness would always come before anything else, today, tomorrow, and forever. There was nothing more important to Sirius than making sure Harry felt loved and secure.
After he and Remus had fed Harry some of the baby food Twilly had prepared with the utensils they’d bought the day before, Remus excused himself to the library for some afternoon reading. Sirius was grateful for the privacy. He needed this moment alone with Harry, a chance to speak heart-to-heart.
Gently lifting Harry into his arms, Sirius carried him over to a soft armchair by the fireplace and settled down, preparing himself for what felt like a serious conversation—one that Harry, remarkably, seemed to sense was coming. As Sirius gazed at his godson, he marveled at how much wisdom already shone in those bright green eyes, far beyond what was typical for a child just over a year old.
"Harry, my darling boy," Sirius began, his voice soft but tinged with nervousness. "You know I love you, right?"
Sirius wasn’t sure what he’d do if Harry said no, so he held his breath. But Harry, in his quiet brilliance, looked at Sirius for a moment and nodded with a simple, "Yeah, I know."
The relief that flooded Sirius was immense, but he couldn’t relax yet. He had to know more. He swallowed hard and continued, "Then please tell me—why have you been distant with me? You’re so open with Remus and Severus. Have I done something to make you uncomfortable? If I have, I’m truly sorry, Harry."
Harry’s gaze remained steady, and after a pause, he spoke, his words clear and straightforward—no hesitation, no sugarcoating. "Uncle Siri left me. Mum said you hurt Uncle Sevvie and Uncle Moony."
Sirius felt as though the air had been knocked out of him. It was as if Harry had delivered a blow straight to his gut. He had suspected Harry’s distance might be tied to his past treatment of Severus, but hearing it confirmed by Harry—by Lily’s son—was a painful reminder of the mistakes he had made. There were no excuses, no justifications.
Sirius lowered his head, his voice barely a whisper. "I’m truly sorry, Harry. You’re right—there’s no excuse for what I did. Your father and I, we were foolish. We targeted Severus because it was easy, because we were chasing the thrill of it. But it was wrong, and I regret it every single day. I’ve already apologized to Severus and Remus for the harm I caused them. And I promise you, Harry, I will never again put someone else’s life in danger."
Sirius looked into Harry’s eyes, hoping with all his heart that his godson could see the sincerity in him.
Harry studied Sirius’s face, as if searching for any hint of deceit. Finding none, he smiled—a small, genuine smile that made Sirius’s heart lift. "You said sorry? To Uncle Sevvie?" Harry asked.
Sirius nodded vigorously, relief washing over him. "Yes, I did. And I meant it."
Harry’s smile widened, the tension between them beginning to dissolve. But Sirius wasn’t done. He had to get everything off his chest, had to explain his deepest regret. His voice grew rough as he continued, "And Harry, I’m so, so sorry for leaving you that night—entrusting you to Hagrid and Dumbledore. It was the worst mistake of my life. I sat in Azkaban for that week, haunted by how stupid I’d been, terrified that I’d never see you again. I thought you’d hate me."
Tears filled Sirius’s eyes, and despite his best efforts, a few slipped down his face.
Harry, sensing his godfather’s anguish, wrapped his tiny arms around Sirius’s neck in a tight hug. "It’s okay, Uncle Siri. You got me back now." His voice, though young, was full of reassurance.
Sirius held onto Harry like he was a lifeline, his emotions pouring out in waves of grief, regret, and love. "I’m so sorry, Harry. I’m sorry for everything. For your mum and dad, for leaving you, for making you feel alone. I’m sorry for Severus, for Remus—for all the mistakes I’ve made. I’m just so, so sorry."
It took a while for Sirius to calm down, but even as he did, he realized Harry was crying too. The boy’s face was streaked with tears, but he clung to Sirius as tightly as Sirius clung to him. In that moment, they were bound by their shared grief and love, each holding on to the only family they had left. Sirius knew that, no matter what happened, Harry was his world now. And for Harry, Sirius, Remus, and Severus were all the family he had left in the world.
Things between Harry and Sirius brightened noticeably after their heartfelt conversation, a shift that did not go unnoticed by the other two residents of Chamonix-Mont-Blanc. The tension that had once weighed down Sirius’s shoulders seemed to have lifted, and he moved with an ease that hadn’t been there before. Harry, for his part, now giggled more openly around Sirius, their bond stronger and more visible with each passing day.
Remus watched the transformation with quiet satisfaction, pleased to see his old friend and nephew getting along so well. Yet, both Sirius and Remus observed something interesting—Harry’s affection for them was expressed in distinctly different ways. With Sirius, Harry’s love was loud and exuberant. He was rough and playful, seeking attention in a way that was bold and energetic. With Remus, however, Harry’s love was softer, quieter—almost reverent in its gentleness. It wasn’t that he loved one more than the other; it was as though Harry instinctively understood that life had been especially hard on Remus, and so he showered him with the kind of tenderness that came from deep compassion.
Remus couldn't help but marvel at how perceptive Harry was for someone so young. The boy seemed to grasp, on an emotional level, what many adults could not—that Remus, marked by years of isolation and hardship, needed kindness in a way that was different from others. Harry, in his quiet wisdom, gave it to him without hesitation.
Sirius, on the other hand, had led a life marked by its own complexities. He had endured difficulties, no doubt—his strained relationship with his parents and the emotional scars left by their relentless expectations had taken a toll. But Sirius had also been the heir to one of the most powerful and wealthy families in the magical world, and for all the torment his mother, in particular, had put him through, he had never faced physical abuse. His traumas were of a different nature, more psychological, more deeply embedded in his sense of self.
Remus, who knew suffering of a different kind—both physically and emotionally—could see that while Sirius’s scars might not be visible, they were no less real. In some ways, they might even be more profound. And Harry, in his own way, seemed to sense this too. Perhaps, Remus thought, it would do Sirius some good to see a mind-healer. All that unaddressed trauma—the weight of his past, the psychological wounds left from his upbringing and his time in Azkaban—needed to be healed, especially now that Sirius was one of the guardians responsible for raising Harry. It was something to consider, if Sirius was to fully embrace the responsibility of helping to shape Harry’s future.
Remus took immense pleasure in discovering that Harry shared his love for learning. It was likely a trait passed down from his mother, as the Marauders had often remarked that if you couldn’t find Lily or Remus, there was a high chance they were tucked away in the library.
With that in mind, Remus would spend hours in the nursery, sitting in the most comfortable rocking chair with Harry in his lap, reading aloud from children’s storybooks. The little boy never tired of these stories, and Remus brought them to life with such vivid interaction that it felt as though Harry were part of the adventure. The joy on Harry’s face during these moments was unmistakable, and more often than not, Remus had to be dragged away by Sirius for meals or a bit of fresh air.
One particular day, when Remus opened The Tales of Beedle the Bard, Harry was entranced from the first page and refused to let him stop. It became immediately clear that Harry had inherited his mother's love for stories and his father’s stubborn streak. Remus couldn’t help but smile at the determination in those bright eyes.
The first story they read was The Fountain of Fair Fortune, about three witches and a knight in search of a magical fountain that promised good fortune. Along their journey, they discovered that the true source of their strength and luck lay within themselves. It was a tale about self-reliance and the power of overcoming one’s inner demons—a lesson Remus found particularly poignant, considering Harry’s future.
The second story, The Warlock’s Hairy Heart, was much darker. It told of a warlock who, fearing love, used dark magic to hide his heart away, only to become a monster when he attempted to reclaim it. It was a cautionary tale about the dangers of emotional isolation and relying too much on magic to control natural human experiences. Remus wondered, as he read, if the message resonated on some level with Harry, who had already known so much loss.
When Remus tried to stop after those two stories, Harry, however, had other plans. His stubbornness was on full display, and with a look of determination that mirrored both his mother’s and father’s, he insisted they continue. Remus chuckled to himself, recognizing the strong will that could rival even the Marauders, and agreed to finish the remaining tales.
Next came Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump, a clever story about a king who foolishly tried to control magic, only to be outwitted by the wise witch, Babbitty Rabbitty. The tale taught the importance of understanding magic, respecting its power, and the consequences of ignorance and arrogance. Harry’s eyes widened with fascination as Remus read, clearly enthralled by Babbitty’s cunning.
Finally, they arrived at the last and most famous story—The Tale of the Three Brothers. This tale spoke of three brothers who outwitted Death and were each rewarded with magical gifts: the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak. Each brother’s fate offered a different lesson about pride, greed, and wisdom. The youngest brother, who used his cloak wisely and humbly, evaded Death until he was ready to meet him, imparting the idea that choice and humility are among the greatest powers of all.
Harry’s reaction to the final story was immediate. His eyes lit up, glowing with an excitement that took Remus by surprise. He seemed almost as if he knew something, a secret that Remus wasn’t yet privy to. The boy practically vibrated with enthusiasm, squirming with barely contained energy in Remus’s lap.
Bemused, Remus couldn’t help but chuckle and asked, "What’s got you so excited, cub? You look like an excitable puppy."
Harry gave Remus a wide, mischievous grin, his eyes twinkling with hidden knowledge. "I’ll tell you later, maybe," he said with a cheeky tone that was far beyond his young age.
Remus laughed outright at the sass from his fifteen-month-old nephew. "Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?" he teased, his heart warmed by the boy’s cleverness and the bond they were forming.
While Remus and Harry bonded over their shared love of books and sweets, Sirius and Cassiopeia Black were engaged in a far more… heated conversation.
Cassiopeia, in all her wisdom and formidable presence, had decided it was time to "educate" Sirius on matters of Black family legacy. What she seemed to have forgotten, however, was that while Sirius may have been a Gryffindor—reckless, impulsive, and defiant—he had also been raised as a Black. And Blacks did not take kindly to being one-upped, even by family. Especially by family.
They sat once more in the elegant family room, the air thick with the weight of their conversation. The room’s understated luxury, with its plush sofas and rich wood paneling, offered a stark contrast to the sharp tension between them. Cassiopeia, cool and collected, sipped her tea with the grace of someone who had never allowed the world to rattle her. Sirius, on the other hand, sat opposite her, every muscle in his body coiled with a mixture of frustration and defiance.
Cassiopeia broke the silence, her voice smooth but laced with patronizing undertones. "As the new Head and Lord of House Black, I believe it is time for you to start making amends, Sirius."
The words were like a match struck against dry kindling, and Sirius’s eyes immediately flashed with irritation. He knew that tone—had heard it all his life from relatives who thought they could dictate his every move, control his every thought. He had escaped it once when he ran away, but here it was again, dressed in the velvet gloves of familial wisdom.
Sirius set down his teacup with deliberate slowness, his jaw tightening as he measured his response. "Amends?" he echoed, his voice deceptively calm, though there was an edge beneath it. "And what exactly do you think I need to make amends for, Aunt Cassiopeia?"
Cassiopeia arched one finely shaped brow, her expression unbothered by his growing frustration. "Oh, where shall I start?" she mused, her tone lightly mocking. "Your defection from the family, for one. The way you’ve dismissed our traditions, our legacy—thrown away centuries of pride and power for what? For some misguided sense of rebellion?" She shook her head, her lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "It’s time to rebuild what you've broken."
Sirius felt his pulse quicken, the heat of anger rising in his chest. He leaned forward, his eyes locking with hers, unflinching. "I didn’t break anything, Cassiopeia. The family was rotting long before I ever walked away. You all just refused to see it."
Cassiopeia's smile faltered slightly, but she recovered quickly, her expression as composed as ever. "Rotting? Is that what you call strength? The Black family is one of the oldest, most powerful in the magical world. That power doesn’t come from running away, Sirius. It comes from claiming what is rightfully yours—by honoring your ancestors, not scorning them."
Sirius let out a short, bitter laugh. "Honoring them?" he scoffed. "By perpetuating their obsession with blood purity? By turning a blind eye to the suffering of others just because they aren’t ‘pure’ enough for us? No, thank you."
Cassiopeia’s eyes hardened, her voice cold and unyielding. "You need only look at the company you keep, Sirius. A half-breed and a child with a target as large and dangerous as the Dark Lord are hardly in the best interest of the family. And to top it all off, you’ve now blood-adopted the boy, making him as much a Black as a Potter. Honestly, what were you thinking?"
Sirius, who had already felt his anger rising at the insinuation that his rebellion against his parents' values was nothing more than teenage petulance, felt his rage boil over at the insult to both his friend and, worst of all, his godson. He knew there were many things about himself and his life that he could overlook, but Harry was not one of them. Neither was Remus. This, he would not let pass.
Sirius drew in a breath, reining in his temper with a precision that shocked even Cassiopeia, who had always known him as emotional and impulsive. His face went blank, an expressionless mask that rattled her in a way she hadn’t expected. His voice, when he spoke, was calm but as cold and sharp as ice.
"You seem to be forgetting," he began, his tone lethally quiet, "that I am the Lord of the Most Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Cassiopeia. And I could, and will—gladly—disown you for your sheer disrespect. I might have been tolerant if it were only about me, but you crossed the line when you brought my godson, my son, into this." His eyes darkened, and the magic crackling around him, tightly controlled, hinted at the storm beneath. "There are many things even your oh-so-intricate spy network couldn’t begin to uncover about Harrison. Things I do not trust you enough to share. So, if I were you, I would be wise enough to keep your opinions to yourself."
Cassiopeia’s lips parted slightly in shock, but Sirius was not finished.
"And as for Remus," he continued, his voice a whip in the silence, "the man you so casually referred to as a ‘half-breed,’ he has more integrity than the entire Black family combined. So, here is your first and last warning: any further insult directed toward me or mine, and you’ll find yourself without the Black name or title. There will be no second chances."
Cassiopeia, stunned to her core, found herself speechless. She had never imagined being threatened with disownment from Sirius, of all people. And for the first time since their reunion, she truly looked at him—really looked at him. The boy she had once known was gone, replaced by a man whose fierce determination burned brightly within him, a man who no longer wore his emotions on his sleeve. Sirius had always been passionate, impulsive even, but now… now there was something else. A terrifying calm that came from knowing exactly what he stood for, and an ironclad resolve that showed in the hard line of his jaw and the controlled aura of his magic, held in such tight restraint that she feared what might happen should that leash ever snap.
"And," Sirius added, his voice like a blade cutting through the tension, "while I will take my responsibility as Lord Black seriously, I will not continue the bigotry this family has clung to for centuries. We’ve spent far too long tearing ourselves apart over ridiculous notions of blood superiority. I refuse to let us fall into that again. The Blacks will be better than that, and I won’t allow anyone—least of all, a member of this family—to drag us back into those dark, twisted traditions."
Cassiopeia, for once, had forgotten to maintain her usual poise. She stared at Sirius, wide-eyed, her elegant mask slipping. When had he changed so much? This was not the boy who had once defiantly turned his back on the family. This was a man, fully in control of himself, of his power, of his legacy.
And, for perhaps the first time, Cassiopeia found herself at a loss for words.
Cassiopeia embodied everything the old guard of the Black family stood for—tradition, power, and an unwavering commitment to the pure-blood ideals that had shaped their legacy for generations. Sirius, on the other hand, symbolized a new direction—a delicate balance between the knowledge of their dark magical heritage and the rejection of the toxic ideologies that had fractured the family and led to its downfall.
"So," Sirius began, his voice steady and commanding, "I’m going to have to ask you to make a choice. As Lord Black, I need to know if you will stand with me as I take the family in a new direction—one that strikes a balance between the values that uphold the Black legacy and those that must be discarded if we are to turn a new leaf. You are either with me or against me, and I’ve already told you the consequences of your rejection."
Cassiopeia’s throat went dry. For the first time in years, she felt uncertainty gnawing at her. Could she simply abandon the values that had been ingrained in her since birth? She had lived her entire life according to those principles, guiding her decisions, her loyalties, and her view of the world. She struggled to find the right words, but when she finally spoke, her voice was subdued. "I cannot simply cast aside everything I’ve known, Sirius."
Sirius nodded, his face softening slightly though his tone remained firm. "I understand. And if it weren’t for some of the more vile ideals our family held, I would almost admire the loyalty to those values. But as it stands, we need to evolve if we’re to survive. Let me offer you a few assurances that might help you make your decision." He paused, collecting his thoughts before continuing. "As much as I resented my family, you and Grandfather were the two people I respected and still respect. Because of that, I’m willing to rekindle the old alliances with other pure-blood families—but not at the cost of progress. I will also reach out to those who once held the Black name, as well as those who currently bear Black blood. I suspect the Black lineage touches many, considering there’s hardly an old family without some connection to ours—whether political or through marriage."
He exhaled quietly, steeling himself. Though his words carried weight, there was a part of him that wanted to keep this conversation from feeling too personal. He was Lord Black now, and this was business. "So, there you have it," he said, his voice colder, more distant. "Something for you to consider. But I will need an answer from you before the end of the week. That’s enough time for you to decide whether you want to be part of the Black family’s future—my future."
With that, Sirius gave his aunt a pointed look, his eyes narrowing as if to emphasize the gravity of his ultimatum. Then, without another word, he turned and made his way toward the nursery. He needed to hold Harry, to immerse himself in the warmth and joy his son brought him, to wash away the frustration and tension that had filled his conversation with Cassiopeia.
Cassiopeia watched him go, still reeling from the exchange. What had begun as her attempt to impart wisdom and steer him had somehow shifted into an ultimatum that left her grappling with choices she had never imagined she’d have to make. She sat there, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. The future of the Black family was at a crossroads, and she had a great deal to think about.
Time seemed to pass more swiftly after that. Sirius and Remus spent their days bonding with Harry, filling the chalet with the sounds of laughter and play, yet both men avoided each other, sidestepping the inevitable conversation that lingered between them. Cassiopeia, too, seemed to be keeping her distance from Sirius, their prior confrontation still fresh in both their minds. The trio reveled in the beauty of the snowy Alps, enjoying the breathtaking views, yet the unspoken tension between them hung in the air.
It wasn’t until the second-to-last day of their stay, after another long reading session with Harry, that the tension finally reached its peak. Remus was gently placing Harry into his crib for an afternoon nap when Sirius entered the nursery, intending to play with his godson. Seeing Harry fast asleep and the moment too heavy to avoid, they both knew it was time.
Sirius sat across from Remus, on the opposite side of Harry’s cradle, both men gazing down at the sleeping child—the most important person in their lives. The weight of their unresolved past lay between them like a specter. Remus was the first to break the silence, his voice barely above a whisper so as not to disturb Harry.
"I'm sorry, Sirius," Remus began, his words thick with remorse. "Truly sorry that I didn’t fight for you. That I believed, without question, that you could betray the people we loved. That you could betray James, Lily, Harry—" his voice faltered, "and me."
Sirius studied Remus’s face, seeing the guilt etched in every line. His own voice, when he spoke, was laced with the raw hurt he hadn’t fully acknowledged. "How could you believe it so easily?" he asked, his tone harsher than he intended. "James was my brother in every way that mattered, and I would have died before I let any harm come to him, to Lily, to Harry." He hesitated, his voice dropping. "To you."
Remus was quiet for a long time, his gaze fixed on Harry, as if drawing strength from the innocent child. When he finally spoke, his words were careful, deliberate. "Sirius, I’ve spent the past week asking myself that very question. And I am truly sorry for believing the worst of you. But you have to understand… when Dumbledore told us about the prophecy—James, Lily, Peter, and I—there were only six people who knew the Potters were going into hiding. And when James and Lily chose you as their Secret Keeper, they did it without hesitation." His voice softened. "I was never jealous of that, Sirius. I never questioned why they chose you. But when it all fell apart, when they were killed, no one told me there had been a switch. For all I knew, you were still the Secret Keeper."
Sirius opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. There was nothing he could say to that—Remus had been left in the dark. As Lily had mentioned in her letter, even she wasn’t sure whether Dumbledore had known about the switch. The only people who had known for certain were James, Lily, Peter, and Sirius himself. He realized with a sinking feeling that it had been his responsibility to inform Remus, and he hadn’t.
Remus, watching Sirius’s expression shift, felt the truth hit him like a blow to the gut. His voice was hollow when he spoke again. "You didn’t tell me… because you thought I was the spy, didn’t you?"
Sirius winced, shame crashing over him like a tidal wave. Remus’s words were like a knife twisting in his chest. He had distrusted Remus, just as Remus had distrusted him. It was a vicious, cyclical betrayal, born out of fear and suspicion. And now, sitting there, he realized the depth of his hypocrisy. He had condemned Remus for doubting him, but he had done the very same thing—believed the worst because it was easy. Because Remus was a werewolf, and even without saying it out loud, Sirius had let that cloud his judgment. The shame burned deep within him.
Both men sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, the weight of their shared guilt and regret heavy between them. And then, in a moment of dark irony, they both spoke at once.
"We’re pathetic, aren’t we?"
They looked at each other, and the gravity of it all hit them at once. The people who had kept them grounded—James, the brother Sirius had never truly appreciated, and Lily, the friend who had been Remus’s steady anchor—were both gone. There was nothing left but the shattered pieces of what they had been. And now, they saw Harry, the child who had lost the most, trying to stitch together what remained. Even as a child, Harry was doing what neither of them had been able to—keeping them together, filling the void left by his parents.
It was heartbreaking. Harry should never have had to fill those shoes, should never have had to carry the weight of their grief and guilt. He was not a stand-in for James and Lily. He was Harry. He deserved to be loved for who he was, not as a replacement for the past.
And in that moment, they silently vowed to give Harry what he deserved. He was not just their obligation or the child of their fallen friends. He was their son, godson, nephew—everything that mattered to them now. And they would go to war, they would die a thousand deaths, to protect him from any harm that might come his way.
They owed him that much.
After what felt like a lifetime, Sirius broke the silence, his voice hoarse and raw with emotion. "I'm really sorry too, Remus. I seemed to have forgotten that you lost them as well. I forgot that Lily meant as much to you as James did to me. I’m not trying to undermine your friendship with James, or mine with Lily. But we both know we had our preferences—just as they did." He paused, his gaze falling to the floor. "Lily told me in her letter that she always saw me as childish, and she was livid with what I did to you and Severus. She had every right to be." Sirius swallowed, his throat tight. "But I made a promise to myself that day—to be better. For me, for Harry… and for you."
He looked up, his grey eyes heavy with the weight of his words. "Our friendship has never been easy, and I know it’ll only be more complicated moving forward, with all the betrayals between us. But I can’t lose anyone else, Remus. I can’t lose you. So, wherever you're going… please come back. Harry needs you. I need you. I’m sorry for all the mistakes I made, for ever doubting you."
Remus absorbed the words, letting them sink deep. He glanced from Harry’s sleeping form to Sirius, seeing the man behind the recklessness. They were both so young—barely more than boys, really—and had been thrust into a war long before they were ready. At 21 and 22, they were now the caretakers of a child, shouldering the weight of a world that had gone to hell. The war had made trusting others nearly impossible, and they’d both faltered under its strain. But now, standing on the other side of their grief, Remus realized that they weren’t beyond repair.
"We were only twenty-one when everything fell apart," Remus said softly, his voice tinged with the quiet understanding of shared sorrow. "We should have been stronger. But we were so young, Sirius. I should have known better. I should have fought for you." He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "But I’ll try. I’ll try to forgive you, just as you’ll have to forgive me. I understand that things between us might never be easy… but you’ve always been too important to cast aside."
Remus turned toward the window, his gaze distant, lost in thought. "I don’t know where I’m going either," he admitted. "But I need to get my life together. Lily hinted at things I need to learn, and I will. But I promise you this—I will come back. I won’t leave Harry or you. He deserves both his uncles, and I’ll do whatever I can to make sure that happens." Remus’s voice grew quieter, more vulnerable. "Just promise me, Sirius. Don’t let Harry forget me."
Sirius’s heart ached at the rawness in Remus’s voice, but relief slowly settled over him. They both had healing to do, wounds that time and space might help mend. Maybe this time apart would allow them to grow and flourish as individuals, so that when Remus returned, they could start fresh—unburdened by the weight of their past mistakes.
"I promise," Sirius said, his voice steady and full of sincerity. "But, honestly, I doubt Harry could ever forget you. He’s far too clever for that. He understands more than any child his age should, the cheeky brat." Sirius smiled, a fondness lighting up his features as he glanced at his sleeping godson.
Remus chuckled, the tension in the room easing as the shared understanding between them grew. "He really does. When I read to him, he responds with so much sass that I’m left speechless most of the time. Watching him grow into himself is going to be a gift. And I, for one, am looking forward to every moment of it."
Sirius nodded, and they both sat in comfortable silence, their gazes fixed on Harry, who slept peacefully in his crib, unaware of the monumental step his two uncles had just taken. It wasn’t perfect—there was still so much left unsaid, still so much healing to be done. But it was a start. And as they sat together, the weight of past betrayals slowly lifting, they knew that they would emerge victorious in the end.
For Harry, for themselves, and for each other.
Sirius and Remus woke up on their last day at the chalet in a much lighter mood than they'd had all week. Sirius, eager to begin a new chapter of his life at the Black townhouse with Harry, was filled with hope and excitement. Despite the ache of knowing he would soon part from Harry for a time, Remus found solace in the prospect of self-discovery and the path ahead.
Once he was ready for the day, Remus made his way to Harry’s nursery. Unsurprisingly, the child was already awake, gazing out the window with that familiar air of quiet contemplation. Harry truly was a wonder—an enigma that Remus doubted he or anyone else would ever fully understand. “Good morning, my dear, sweet nephew,” Remus greeted him warmly, making his presence known.
Harry turned toward him with a beaming smile, his emerald eyes lighting up. "G'oo Morn', Uncle Moony," he babbled in his small, sweet voice.
Hearing Harry call him "Uncle Moony" was a privilege Remus would never take for granted. Every accolade he had earned—though they felt few and far between—paled in comparison to this simple title. It was both the highest compliment and the greatest honor of his life.
“So, cub,” Remus said, smiling as he scooped the little boy into his arms, “ready for your last day here? Are you excited to go back to London?”
Harry giggled in response, a sound so pure and joyful that Remus committed it to memory. He knew it would be the sound to pull him through dark times, a reminder of hope even on the bleakest days. “Yes!” Harry exclaimed enthusiastically, as though he fully understood where they were headed.
But as Remus's smile faded, so did Harry’s, as if sensing the gravity of the moment. For all his tender age, Harry was astoundingly perceptive. Remus sighed softly, feeling the weight of his own words. “I’m sure you already know—or at least you’ve guessed—I won’t be going back to London with you and Sirius.” He tried to keep his tone light, giving Harry a gentle tickle to coax another laugh. “I have some things to learn, about myself and the world. Things I’ll need to teach you someday.”
Harry’s giggle echoed again, but it was brief. Remus continued, his voice more serious now. “But I’ll return to you, as quickly as I can. I want to be the best version of myself, for both of us. Your very clever and kind mother left me with this task, and I don’t intend to disappoint her.”
Harry looked up at him with wide, sorrowful eyes, a sadness far beyond his years. But with a small, hopeful voice, he asked, “You’ll come back? Pinky promise?” Like the child he was, Harry lifted his tiny pinky toward Remus, and Remus’s heart swelled with such emotion that he found it hard to breathe. The simple gesture—something so small, so innocent—tied him to this boy in a way nothing else could. Lily had clearly taught him well, even the little muggle traditions.
With a tender smile, Remus hooked his own pinky around Harry’s. “Pinky promise. There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be than right here with you. I’ll be back before you even know it.”
Harry wrinkled his nose as Remus playfully flicked it, but he smiled all the same, his tiny face glowing with trust. “In the meantime, be a good boy for Sirius, yeah?” Remus added with a chuckle. “Don’t let him spoil you too much. I’m sure Severus will try to balance out Sirius’s childishness with some much-needed adult attention. But, knowing Sirius and Severus… you might end up having to be the adult between them.”
Harry’s laughter rang out again, as if he truly understood the humor behind Remus’s words. And perhaps, Remus thought, he really did. This child, so young, already seemed to grasp far more than he should.
“I’ll miss you, Uncle Moony,” Harry mumbled into Remus’s chest, his small voice muffled but unmistakable. And Remus felt a deep ache in his heart. It was painful to hear, but also filled him with an overwhelming sense of relief, knowing how much Harry cared for him.
Remus held Harry close, pressing a kiss to his soft hair. "I’ll miss you too, cub. More than you’ll ever know."
Unbeknownst to Remus and Harry, Sirius had been a silent observer to their tender, intimate moment. A fond smile played on his lips as he watched the bond between his friend and godson. Harry was always the softest with Remus, and Remus, in turn, returned that gentleness while imparting wisdom in every interaction. Sirius couldn’t help but imagine Harry turning into a bookish swot like Lily, Remus, or even Severus in time. It was amusing to think about, but Sirius resolved to balance out Harry’s growing intellectual curiosity with a healthy dose of fun—harmless pranks, of course. Harry needed to have some spirit, some mischief to match all that studiousness.
Satisfied to leave the two to their bonding for a few more moments, Sirius decided to handle something more pressing: his aunt. Cassiopeia had been avoiding him since their last conversation, but Sirius needed answers. He had made it clear that the Black family would take a new direction under his leadership, and anyone opposing that vision would face the consequences. The decline of the Black family should have been a lesson enough that their old ways were wrong. If Sirius had to be the one to force that realization upon them, then so be it.
He summoned Twilly, the house-elf, who appeared instantly with a soft crack.
"Hello, Twilly. Where is my dear great-aunt this fine morning?" Sirius asked with polite warmth. It was still unusual for the house-elves to be treated with kindness. While Cassiopeia wasn’t overtly cruel, she was not one to show affection. Twilly and the other house-elves had already come to adore Sirius and Harry, hoping to accompany them to London when the Lord and Heir left the chalet.
"Mistress Cassiopeia be in the back garden, Master Sirius. Twilly suggests warm jacket and casting warming charms," the elf advised with a bow before disappearing with another sharp crack.
Sirius took Twilly’s advice and, after donning his jacket and casting the appropriate charms, walked through the chalet’s elegant halls until he reached the backyard. The garden, now covered in a light dusting of snow, had transformed into a winter wonderland. The stone pathway led to a wrought-iron bench, frosted from the cold, while the barren trees stood adorned in delicate layers of snow. The central fountain was frozen in time, a still monument to the biting cold. The entire scene was peaceful, quiet—save for the soft flutter of snowflakes in the air.
At the far end of the garden, Cassiopeia stood, regal and commanding as ever. Even in her age, she still demanded respect with her very presence. But Sirius was not approaching her as a mere great-nephew today. He was Lord Black, and he would be recognized as such.
Straightening his posture and raising his chin with the poise befitting his status, Sirius made his way toward her with measured steps. "Good morning, Aunt Cassiopeia. I trust you slept well? It’s a lovely day, though a bit brisk," he said, his tone casual yet carrying the weight of his new title.
Cassiopeia turned to face him fully. She had often wondered what her brother, Arcturus, had seen in Sirius to name him heir over his own son, Orion. When the family had nearly demanded—respectfully, of course—that Sirius be disowned, Arcturus had made it clear that his decision was final: Sirius would remain the heir. And now, as she looked at him, standing tall and resolute, Cassiopeia saw a spark of her brother in her nephew—the same fire and determination that had made Arcturus one of the most formidable Lords in Black family history.
"It is indeed a lovely day," she replied coolly, her voice crisp in the cold air. "And I would like to inform the Head of our House that I stand with him. I will follow wherever you lead the Most Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." Her words were clear, firm, and left no room for doubt. With a respectful dip of her head, she signaled her loyalty.
Sirius felt a surge of relief but masked it with a dignified nod. "A wise choice, Aunt Cassiopeia. I am pleased to hear it."
With the formalities out of the way, Cassiopeia waved her wand to clear the snow from a nearby bench and gracefully sat down. "So, you’re leaving today? Returning to the house you once ran from? Are you ready for that?"
Sirius chuckled, though he wasn’t sure if it was from amusement or the sting of painful memories. The thought of returning to the Black townhouse—an imposing structure that had never felt like home—was difficult. The Potters’ home had always been a warmer, more welcoming place, but the Black townhouse… it was cold, distant, like his parents had been. Yet, the house was also one of the grandest in Britain, with a library so vast that Harry would want for nothing in terms of learning. And for Harry, there was nothing Sirius wouldn’t do. "Yes, I’m going back today. There’s still so much chaos in Wizarding Britain, and I’m certain I’ll have to play a role in whatever new drama is already brewing."
Cassiopeia was about to probe deeper into his views on the current state of the Wizarding world, but Sirius preempted her. "I’m not as naive as I once was, Aunt Cassie. And, as I’ve said, there are Black family traditions and values I will uphold. But I’m no longer the boy who viewed the world in black and white. I now understand that dark magic isn’t inherently evil, just as light magic isn’t inherently good. Azkaban helped me come to terms with the fact that I am a Dark Wizard, and I’ve accepted that. I’ll live in the shades of gray, considering each choice carefully. I’ll decide based on reason, not blind loyalty or prejudice."
Cassiopeia couldn’t suppress the pride that swelled within her. "I am pleased to hear this, Sirius. You’ve proven me wrong, and I’m happy to admit it. I had my reservations, but you’ve shown me that you are fit to lead our family."
Sirius gave her a sly wink, easing the tension between them. "Shall we head to breakfast, then? I’m starving," he said, offering her his arm.
Cassiopeia, regaining her composure, accepted his arm with a small smile, and together, they made their way back into the warmth of the chalet for breakfast.
Remus and Harry were already seated at the breakfast table when Sirius and Cassiopeia entered. The pair stopped in their tracks, their gazes immediately drawn to the young heir who looked particularly striking that morning.
Fifteen-month-old Harry, with his vivid emerald green eyes and unruly, pitch-black hair, bore the unmistakable aristocratic Black features that blended seamlessly with the softer innocence of his youth. Dressed in a smart, tiny black buttoned vest over a crisp white dress shirt, paired with dark gray trousers and polished little shoes, he exuded an air of pure-blood elegance that contrasted sweetly with the playful wildness of his messy hair. The soft, magical light in the room gave his look an almost ethereal quality, emphasizing both his sophistication and undeniable adorableness.
Remus, it seemed, had outdone himself in preparing Harry for this final, more formal breakfast meeting with Cassiopeia. Sirius, who usually found it difficult to contain himself around his godson, struggled even more now. If not for the decorum expected of him, he would have scooped Harry up into his arms and spun him around until the room echoed with his joyful giggles. Even Cassiopeia, known for her iron restraint and emotionally distant demeanor, looked like she wanted to gather the child into her arms and cover him in kisses. Sirius couldn't help but think ruefully, My godson will be a heartbreaker one day.
The meal commenced with quiet elegance. A traditional English breakfast was served, accompanied by a spread of freshly baked croissants, pain au chocolat, and almond pastries. The table also featured classic English scones with thick clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam.
They were all eating peacefully, exchanging light conversation, when suddenly, the platter of fresh fruits zoomed across the table from the far corner, landing smoothly in front of Harry. Without any fuss, Harry reached out and took a berry from the hovering platter, calmly chewing on it, his little face showing nothing but contentment. The dish remained levitating in the air, held aloft by Harry's magic as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The adults froze, wide-eyed, their silverware suspended mid-air. Sirius, who had witnessed Harry’s first accidental magic—summoning a toy broom—had chalked it up to a fluke. But this? This was intentional control, a display of deliberate, practiced magic that no child his age should be capable of. It dawned on him that Harry’s powers might be more than just an accident of birth—they could be tied to something deeper. The Greys, Sirius thought, his mind racing. I need to understand the power of the Greys.
Cassiopeia’s gaze sharpened as she took in the scene. The fruit platter hovered steadily in the air, responding to the child’s unspoken command with remarkable precision. Her nephew had mentioned mysteries surrounding Harry, things even she couldn’t fathom, but witnessing this firsthand solidified her growing realization. This child was no ordinary wizard. If anything, he could be a force far greater than even she had anticipated. She made a mental note to watch Harry closely from now on.
As for Remus, the sight left him flabbergasted. He had always known Harry was special—Lily’s son, after all—but this was beyond even his wildest expectations. Control of accidental magic was one thing, but this… this was beyond anything he had learned or experienced. His thoughts from earlier that morning returned, and the truth of them now felt even more profound: He truly is a wonder. Will any of us ever fully understand him? Resigned to a life full of surprises, Remus sighed softly and, with a slight smile, acknowledged that living with Harry was bound to be a journey of constant awe and impossibilities.
The three adults exchanged glances, still too stunned to speak, but they all shared a sense of reverence for the small boy before them—one who, at just over a year old, already wielded magic with the grace and power of someone far beyond his years.
After the remarkable display of magic at breakfast, Sirius and Remus began gathering their things, preparing to part ways and embark on their respective journeys. The air between them, though filled with anticipation for what lay ahead, carried the heaviness of separation. Remus, with Harry in his arms for the last time before his departure, was savoring these precious moments, while Sirius took the opportunity to say his goodbyes to Cassiopeia.
"It truly has been a pleasure seeing you again, Aunt Cassie," Sirius said, his voice respectful yet affectionate. "I would like to extend an invitation for you to visit the Black townhouse in London. I’m planning to reconnect with the remaining members of our family, especially the daughters of the House of Black, both old and young. You’re, of course, welcome to stay here, but I believe it would be beneficial for us all if you moved to London. Harry would flourish under your guidance, and I, too, could learn a great deal from you."
Cassiopeia, who had grown increasingly thoughtful throughout their time together, regarded him with a measured gaze. "I will certainly consider it, Sirius," she replied, her tone laced with genuine contemplation. "I believe a move to London may indeed be in order once I’ve tied up a few loose ends here. In the meantime, take care of yourself—and more importantly, the young heir. I expect to see great things from him." Her words were laced with a rare warmth, and her sharp eyes softened momentarily as they shifted to Harry.
Remus, standing quietly beside them, took the moment to offer his own farewell. He cradled Harry gently, his voice calm and respectful. "Lady Cassiopeia, I would like to extend my deepest gratitude for your hospitality during my stay. It has been an honor to walk within the walls of Chamonix-Mont-Blanc and to share in the legacy that you so graciously uphold. I leave with the highest respect for you and this house."
He bowed slightly, an old-fashioned gesture, but one filled with sincerity. "May your days be long and prosperous, Lady Cassiopeia. I look forward to the day our paths cross again, and when they do, I hope to greet you as not just an acquaintance but someone bound by mutual respect."
Sirius, ever quick to make his opinions clear, cast a sidelong glance at his aunt, his expression saying, And this is the half-breed you spoke so poorly of? Cassiopeia, to her credit, remained composed, but even she could not deny the dignity and grace with which Remus carried himself. It was a day full of revelations, and she found herself reconsidering certain preconceptions. The man standing before her, regardless of blood status, had the decorum of an ancient wizarding house—and the power to back it.
Her sharp gaze softened again, though only slightly. "Mr. Lupin," she said, her voice tinged with unexpected respect, "the pleasure has been mine. You have conducted yourself with honor and grace. Know that the doors of this house will always be open to you, should you seek counsel or find yourself at a crossroads."
There was a brief pause, a silent exchange of understanding between them, before she added, “I wish you well on your journey. May it provide you with the clarity and strength you seek. Until we meet again, wherever fate deems it.”
With that, Cassiopeia inclined her head ever so slightly, marking the moment with a rare gesture of acceptance. Remus, Sirius, and Harry made their final preparations, the weight of their respective journeys ahead heavy in the air. But as they stepped toward the future, there was a sense of resolve—a belief that, despite the challenges, they were each stronger for what they had shared during this week at the chalet.
Sirius had already shrunk all of his and Harry's belongings into neat bundles that fit inside his enchanted pockets, preparing for their departure. Remus, too, had packed the few things he needed, knowing his path would take him away from the family he had come to cherish so deeply. The finality of their impending separation weighed heavily, though none of them spoke it aloud.
For the journey back to London, Sirius would use the enchanted gold coin the goblins at Gringotts had provided him, a portkey that would transport him and Harry directly to the Diagon Alley branch. Meanwhile, Remus would apparate to the outskirts of Les Praz, a small, serene village just outside Chamonix. The village’s dense forests and babbling streams made it the perfect spot for Remus to either walk further into the wilderness or discreetly apparate once again. It would serve as a peaceful waypoint on his journey of self-discovery.
The moment had come. Sirius and Remus exchanged a brotherly hug, the kind that spoke of years of shared battles and unspoken emotions. It was their way of holding on, of reassuring each other that despite the distance, their bond would remain unbroken.
Remus then knelt to scoop Harry into his arms one final time before he left. The boy, sensing the gravity of the moment, clung to his uncle with the fierceness only a child can muster. "I will miss you, Uncle Moony. Come back soon," Harry whispered, his voice hoarse, small arms locked around Remus’s neck.
Remus closed his eyes, willing himself to keep his emotions in check. "I will miss you too, cub. More than you know. I love you so much, my darling nephew," he said, his voice thick with emotion as he kissed Harry’s unruly hair. He held Harry close for just a moment longer, as if imprinting the boy's warmth into his very soul.
Sirius stood nearby, his gaze soft as he watched his best friend with his godson. When Remus finally released Harry, Sirius stepped forward. "Good luck, Remus. I hope you find the answers you're searching for," Sirius said, clasping Remus’s shoulder firmly, though his voice carried an unspoken promise of solidarity. He would miss Remus’s calm presence, the quiet wisdom he had come to rely on.
"Thank you, Sirius. I wish you all the best with Harry. Take care of yourself too—don’t lose yourself in all of this," Remus replied, his words carrying a weight of sincerity. "I will see you soon. Until then, mate."
There were no more words left to be said. They all shared a final look—each acknowledging the road ahead, each silently vowing to meet again. And then, with a quick activation of the portkey, Sirius and Harry vanished into thin air, leaving Remus standing in the snowy landscape alone. With a heavy heart, he gathered his focus and disappeared with a crack.
They were heading in different directions now, but each held onto the hope that the paths they walked would bring them back together—wiser, stronger, and more whole.
While Sirius and Harry were enjoying a peaceful time, bonding with one another in their quiet retreat, the state of Wizarding Britain was rapidly deteriorating. The world they had momentarily escaped from was in turmoil. First came the shocking defeat of the Darkest wizard in history at the hands of a mere 15-month-old child. Then, in the days that followed, the nation was rocked by the accusation that Sirius Black, one of the Potters’ closest friends, had been the ’traitor’ responsible for their deaths.
That scandal, however, was quickly and dramatically overturned with the sudden appearance of Lily Potter’s magical orb. The revelation from the orb had exonerated Black of all charges, revealing truths that the Ministry had been either blind to or had willfully ignored. His innocence was further confirmed by the belated but much-needed “actual trial” that took place a week after his unjust imprisonment. With Black cleared of all wrongdoing, the public’s already fragile trust in the Ministry collapsed entirely.
No one knew the full details of what had happened on the fateful night of October 31, 1981, nor did they know where the Potter child was now, or if he was safe. The Ministry’s vague reassurances offered no real comfort to the frightened and disillusioned wizarding populace. The botched handling of Black’s case had sparked widespread outrage, and many began to wonder if other individuals imprisoned in Azkaban had ever received a fair trial at all. Dark whispers circulated—had the Ministry been condemning witches and wizards without proper evidence? Was the justice system even functioning?
The public's ire was no longer confined to the Ministry of Magic alone. They held several key figures accountable for the gross mishandling of not only Sirius Black’s case but also potentially many others. First, there was the Minister for Magic herself, Millicent Bagnold, whose leadership was now under heavy scrutiny. Then, there was Barty Crouch Sr., the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Rufus Scrimgeour, the Head Auror, both of whom were seen as responsible for the rushed imprisonment of so many without due process. Finally, and perhaps most controversially, the public turned their eyes on Albus Dumbledore, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, questioning how he could have allowed such injustice to occur under his watch.
The demands from the Wizarding populace grew louder and more insistent with each passing day. They called for transparency, for accountability, and for justice. There were calls for public hearings, where all those imprisoned during the war would receive full trials in front of the Wizengamot, where their fates could be properly adjudicated.
For the first time in years, the Magical Government of Britain found itself teetering on the edge of collapse—not because of the threat of Voldemort, but because of the festering corruption and incompetence that had been allowed to grow unchecked in its very heart. The people demanded change, and it was unclear whether those in power would be able to survive the storm that was coming.
It was a well-known fact that the Ministry of Magic was formally established in 1707, during the early 18th century. However, prior to the Ministry’s creation, a "Wizarding Council" had governed magical Britain for several centuries. This council was a less formal governing body composed of prominent witches and wizards from the magical community, likely those with strong political, magical, and social standing. The Ministry, upon its formation, replaced this earlier system and became the central authority for magical law and governance.
The Wizengamot, the highest judicial and legislative body in magical Britain, likely originated from the same roots as the Wizarding Council. Ancient and venerable, the Wizengamot predates the Ministry and had already established itself as a powerful institution by the time the Statute of Secrecy was enacted in 1692. When the Ministry was officially founded, the Wizengamot had become a formalized body dominated by old, pure-blood families, whose influence over magical law and governance would extend for centuries.
Now, with public trust in the Ministry rapidly eroding, calls to reinstate the Wizarding Council in a prominent role were growing louder. The populace, disillusioned by the Ministry's mishandling of key events, viewed the council as a more trustworthy, time-honored alternative. The Ministry, still grappling with its own failures, had little choice but to concede to the public’s demands.
For the purpose of conducting clean and fair trials for all those imprisoned during and after the war and the fall of the Dark Lord, it was decided that both the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE), Barty Crouch Sr., and the Head Auror, Rufus Scrimgeour, would be politely asked to step aside. Their temporary removal from office was necessary to ensure impartiality and restore public faith in the justice system. A neutral replacement was appointed in their stead, tasked with collecting and verifying evidence for each prisoner before bringing them forward for a full hearing before the Wizengamot.
Over the past decades, the composition of the Wizengamot had evolved into a blend of wizarding aristocracy and merit-based appointments. The judicial board consisted of a total of 50 seats, with a significant portion held by members of ancient pure-blood families, who had historically maintained considerable influence in both magical law and governance. The remaining seats were reserved for witches and wizards who had achieved their positions through merit or Ministry-based appointments, allowing for some degree of balance between tradition and competence.
This blend of bloodline and meritocracy within the Wizengamot had long been a subject of debate, with critics arguing that the pure-blood families often skewed the balance of power in their favor. Yet, this new wave of scrutiny over the Ministry’s actions—particularly in relation to the wrongful imprisonment of several individuals—was expected to reshape the dynamics within the Wizengamot. All evidence collected for the trials would be meticulously reviewed, ensuring that the judicial process was transparent, and that justice was served fairly, without the undue influence of outdated prejudices or unchecked authority.
With these changes, the Wizarding World hoped to see the long-overdue reform of its legal system, ensuring justice for both the wrongly accused and the public who had lost faith in their leadership.
Of course, it wasn’t to say that those in positions of authority—such as the Minister for Magic, the Head of the DMLE, the Head Auror, or even the Chief Warlock—would lose their influence entirely, nor was there any talk of a complete dissolution of the Ministry. That would be an absurd and impractical course of action. However, the major shift was that these figures of power would no longer have exclusive control over the flow of information. They would no longer have a say in how evidence was handled or what was deemed relevant before it reached the rest of the Wizengamot, as had been the case in the past.
Instead, they would be given access to the same vetted information, at the same time, as the other members of the Wizengamot. This restructuring was designed to curb any undue influence these high-ranking officials might have once had in shaping the outcome of investigations or trials. It was a necessary measure to ensure transparency and impartiality in a process that had been marred by secrecy and bias for far too long.
This meant that even individuals like the Chief Warlock, Albus Dumbledore, who had previously wielded immense authority within the Wizengamot, would no longer be able to influence proceedings behind closed doors. All evidence, testimonies, and case details would now be made available to the entire judicial body, creating a system of checks and balances to prevent any one person or group from holding disproportionate sway over matters of justice.
This shift wasn’t just about rectifying past mistakes; it was about rebuilding the Wizarding World's trust in its leadership and legal system, a trust that had been deeply eroded by the mishandling of cases like Sirius Black’s wrongful imprisonment. The public had made it clear: no more secrets, no more closed-door decisions. Every case, every verdict, would be a collective decision based on verified facts, not the whims of a few powerful individuals.