To Find a Home

Sirius never thought he’d end up here.

Never thought he’d end up in the back of a social worker’s car, staring out the window as the hospital shrinks behind him, getting smaller and smaller until it’s just another part of the city, just another place he’s been.

He honestly didn’t think he’d make it to this point—to the point where he could leave at all.

There were days he thought he might never walk out of that building. That he might stay trapped between those sterile white walls, tucked away in a too-small room with nothing but the steady beep of machines and the occasional murmur of nurses to remind him he still existed.

It’s a strange concept to even think about, really. The fact that he’s here. The fact that he can leave.

Relief washes over him like an unexpected gust of wind, cold and shocking, leaving him unsteady in its wake. It steals his breath for a second, makes his chest feel too tight, like something inside him is unspooling too fast for him to catch hold of.

The feeling is surreal.

Relief.

And yet… it feels wrong.

Like he’s leaving something behind. Like he shouldn’t be allowed to feel relief at all.

He shifts in his seat, his fingers tightening in the fabric of his worn-out sweatshirt, that he was gifted by the nurses, as his eyes stay fixed on the window. The world outside is dull and grey, the overcast sky pressing down on the city. The hospital stands stark against it, sterile and unfeeling, and yet, for the past few weeks, it was the only place he had.

The only place he had to be alone.

Sirius swallows hard, his mind flickering through memories he doesn’t want but can’t ignore. The loneliness of the hospital room. The way the other kids had their parents sitting by their beds, fussing over them, bringing them gifts, reading to them, laughing with them. He remembers lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the machines around him, wondering what it must feel like to be cared for like that.

The nurses had noticed, of course. They weren’t stupid. They had to have realized, after the first few weeks, that no one came for him. That no one even called. They had tried to compensate in their own small ways.

He remembers the way they would ask him what he wanted to eat, anything other than the bland, barely edible hospital food. He remembers one nurse in particular—a student, finishing her last year. She had been different.

She had stayed.

Every night, for an hour after her shift, she would sit by his bed and play cards with him. It wasn’t much, but it was something. She had been the one to sneak in real food, homemade things wrapped carefully in napkins. Sirius never asked if she had made them herself. He just ate, grateful for something that tasted real.

He remembers, as he was leaving, how she had pressed a stuffed black cat into his hands.

“You give off the vibe of someone who’s missing a black cat,” she had said with a teasing smile.

Sirius had scoffed at the time, but he’d kept it. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He thinks of one particular night, a storm raging outside, rain lashing against the windows, when she had finally asked him—What happened?

He had shut down instantly. His hands had clenched into fists, his throat closing up, and she had never pushed again.

He’s grateful for that.

But now, he’s here.

Waiting.

Waiting for the social worker, Janice—he thinks that’s her name—to come back. She had left him in the car while she sorted out paperwork, and he hadn’t argued. He didn’t want to go back inside anyway.

When she finally returns, she moves with stiff, tired motions, muttering something under her breath as she yanks the door open and slides into the driver’s seat. Sirius gets the sense that she’s not the warm and friendly type. Her hair is obviously dyed—probably to cover the grey, though she isn’t fooling anyone—and there’s a permanent crease between her brows, as if she’s constantly unimpressed.

She doesn’t say anything as she starts the car. Sirius doesn’t either.

The silence between them is heavy, but Sirius barely notices. His thoughts have already drifted elsewhere.

Regulus.

Where is he now? What has he been doing all this time? Has he been okay?

A painful knot forms in Sirius’ stomach, twisting tighter with every passing second. It should have never happened. He should have never let it happen.

Regulus has never been away from him before. Not for this long. Not like this.

Sirius clenches his fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms. He should have protected him. He was supposed to keep him safe, to shield him from all the things that lurked in the dark corners of their house, from the cold, sharp words their parents threw like knives. But he didn’t. He failed. And now, Regulus is out there somewhere, alone—because of him.

Sirius blames himself. He always has.

The car pulls away from the hospital, tires splashing against rain-slick pavement. The world outside blurs as Sirius watches it pass, but his mind stays fixed on one thing.

Regulus.

And the gnawing, crushing fear that he might never get the chance to fix what’s been broken.

***

His first official foster home.

The Smiths.

Sirius hadn’t expected them to be so… nice.

He’s heard horror stories about foster families—about how they treat their biological children better, how they demand perfection from kids who’ve already been through enough, how punishments can be doled out for the smallest mistakes. He’s braced himself for that. It’s easier to expect the worst.

But this… this isn’t like that.

The rain is coming down hard when they pull into the driveway. Fat drops splatter against the windshield, blurring the view of the cozy-looking house beyond. Sirius shifts uncomfortably, gripping the handles of his crutches. He’s not looking forward to the struggle of getting out of the car. His legs still ache, his ribs throb faintly with every movement, and the thought of slipping on the wet pavement sends a prickle of frustration through him.

Before he can even try, though, the man—Mr. Smith—steps out onto the porch, hurrying toward the car with an umbrella in one hand. He opens the car door for Sirius, offering a steadying hand without hesitation.

“Take your time, kid,” he says, his voice calm and warm. “We’re not in any rush.”

Sirius isn’t used to that. To people waiting for him. To people willing to help without expecting anything in return.

Still, he swallows down the instinct to refuse and lets Mr. Smith support him as he maneuvers out of the car, carefully avoiding the slick pavement. He keeps a firm grip on Sirius’ arm until they’re safely up the porch steps and inside, out of the rain. The house is warm, the scent of something faintly sweet lingering in the air—like cinnamon and vanilla.

“Here, let’s get you settled,” Mrs. Smith says, appearing from the hallway with a welcoming smile. She looks to be in her late thirties, her eyes kind but sharp in a way that makes Sirius think she doesn’t miss much. “I figured it’d be easier for you to sleep downstairs for now. No need to push yourself with those stairs.”

Sirius nods, surprised. Most places he’s been in over the last year have expected him to figure things out on his own. To not be a burden. But here… here, they’ve already thought about what he might need before he even asked.

Mrs. Smith leads him into a small but comfortable room on the first floor. The bed is already made, thick blankets folded neatly at the foot. There’s a nightstand with a lamp, a small dresser, and a chair tucked into the corner. It’s nothing fancy, but it feels… safe. Settled.

“You hungry?” she asks, and Sirius shakes his head, even though he is. He hasn’t had a proper meal in hours, but old habits die hard.

Mrs. Smith studies him for a moment, then nods like she understands anyway. “Well, if you change your mind, the kitchen’s always open.”

Another surprise.

He isn’t the only kid in the house. There are three others—each with their own story, their own wounds still healing.

The youngest, Emily, is five years old. She’s recovering from pneumonia, her tiny frame still a little frail. She clings to Mrs. Smith’s leg when Sirius first sees her, peering up at him with wide, curious eyes.

Then there’s Callum, who’s seven. He had spinal surgery not too long ago and still moves carefully, as if he’s afraid of jostling something the wrong way. He’s quiet but smiles at Sirius when they meet, something hesitant but genuine.

And then there’s Sophie, who’s ten. She’s already recovered from a car crash, waiting to be placed with a permanent family. Unlike the others, she doesn’t seem shy—she introduces herself confidently, then immediately starts asking Sirius questions about where he’s been, what he likes to do, what kind of music he listens to.

The Smiths, he learns, take in kids who still need time to heal—physically, emotionally—before they’re ready to move on to a more permanent home.

It’s a temporary place. A waystation. For all of them. 

But it’s a nice one.

A safe one, at least. 

That’s one thing Sirius has never been able to wrap his head around.

Safe.

The feeling of safe.

Because, really, he’s never been safe. Not truly.

Even here, in this warm house, in this quiet room, lying on a bed that doesn’t feel like it’s meant to swallow him whole—he still doesn’t feel safe. His body doesn’t quite know how to relax, his mind doesn’t know how to stop anticipating the worst.

Because he knows—deep down, he knows.

They’ll find him.

Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually. His parents always do. They have money, power, connections. It doesn’t matter how many foster homes he’s thrown into, how many new beds he’s made to sleep in. They’ll find him, and when they do—

Sirius exhales, turning onto his side, staring at the shadows stretching across the ceiling.

Callum’s soft snores fill the room, steady and even, like the ocean tide. Sirius wonders what it’s like—to sleep that deeply, that peacefully, to not be afraid of the dark or the things lurking in it.

His mind drifts.

Regulus.

Where is he right now? What is he doing? Is he in bed, too, staring at a different ceiling, thinking about him?

Sirius swallows, guilt curling in his stomach like a parasite, latching on, gnawing at him.

He knows the answer. He knows Regulus doesn’t feel safe. Not without him.

Regulus has never felt safe without him.

Not when they were kids hiding in the attic from their mother’s screaming, not when their father came home drunk and angry, not when they were forced to sit through hours of lessons on how to be perfect. Sirius was always there. Always. Whispering promises that it would be okay, that he would make sure Regulus was okay.

And then he left.

Abandoned him.

Sirius squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t have a choice—but that’s a lie, isn’t it? He left, and now Regulus is alone, afraid, unprotected.

Maybe… maybe Regulus is safer without him.

The thought twists something sharp in his chest.

Sirius is always in trouble. He’s reckless, too loud, too impulsive. He challenges everything, fights when he should stay quiet. And look where that’s gotten him. He’s poisonous.

If Regulus were here, he’d be dragged into that too.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe Regulus has a chance at a better life without him weighing him down.

But—

But Regulus doesn’t know how to be alone. He doesn’t know how to fight back, how to survive in a world that only chews up and spits out people like them.

Sirius presses a fist against his chest, as if that will stop the ache spreading inside him.

The worst part is the not knowing.

Not knowing where Regulus is. If he’s warm, if he’s eating enough, if he’s scared.

Sirius lets the shame eat at him, claw at his ribs and sit heavy in his throat. It’s his fault.

Regulus should feel safe.

And he doesn’t.

Because of Sirius.

And all Sirius can do is lay here, staring at the ceiling, drowning in the weight of everything he cannot fix.

***

Sirius wakes up tired.

He always wakes up tired.

It doesn’t seem to matter how many hours of sleep he technically gets—he’s always exhausted. It’s not even the kind of exhaustion that a nap can fix, or one that fades after a few minutes of being awake. No, this is something else. Something deeper. Something woven into his bones, into his very existence.

He knows why.

It’s his sleeping patterns. He can never fall asleep properly, not when he wants to. His mind never seems to shut off, always wired, always buzzing with thoughts that refuse to leave him alone. And when he does manage to sleep, it’s restless. He wakes up every hour, his body still on high alert, as if waiting for something bad to happen.

It’s always been like this.

Sirius assumes it’s because of how he grew up. Because when you grow up in a house like his, you learn quickly that sleep is a luxury, not a necessity. You never truly let your guard down. Not when someone could burst into your room at any second.

He blinks up at the ceiling, letting out a slow breath.

The house is awake. He can hear the faint sounds of voices coming from down the hall—the clinking of dishes, the laughter of kids. It’s warm, lively.

It’s so different from what he’s used to.

Sirius turns his head slightly, eyes flicking toward the crutches leaning against the wall. Mrs. Smith told him not to get up. Said he should just stay in bed, that she would bring him breakfast.

But Sirius can’t do that.

It feels rude.

He pushes himself up with his arms, grimacing as he shifts, his two leg casts making it nearly impossible to move properly. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, grabbing for the crutches, but as soon as he tries to stand, his balance gives out, and he flops right back onto the mattress with an annoyed huff.

Alright. That didn’t work.

He tries again. And again.

By the fifth attempt, Sirius finally manages to stay upright, gripping the crutches tightly as he catches his breath. His pride is the only thing that keeps him from collapsing back onto the bed.

Slowly, he makes his way toward the kitchen.

The scene inside is chaotic, but in a way that’s almost… comforting. The other kids are gathered around the table, eating, talking, laughing. The space feels small, but warm—sunlight streams in through the window, making everything glow a soft gold. The smell of fresh pancakes fills the air, and Sirius blinks at the sight of Mrs. Smith bustling around, making sure each kid has what they need.

“You shouldn’t’ve gotten up, dear,” Mrs. Smith says as soon as she spots him, shaking her head. “I could’ve brought you breakfast.”

Sirius mumbles, “Thank you, but I’m alright.”

She doesn’t argue, just gives him a kind smile as he makes his way toward the empty seat at the end of the table.

“Good morning,” Mr. Smith greets, glancing up from his coffee.

Sirius nods, mumbling a quiet, “Morning.”

The loud chatter continues around him.

Sirius watches as Mr. and Mrs. Smith give each kid something different for breakfast—oatmeal for the youngest, toast with jam for another, scrambled eggs for the one with the cast on her arm. When it’s his turn, Mrs. Smith asks, “What would you like, dear?”

He shrugs. “Whatever’s fine.”

She places a plate of pancakes in front of him, along with a small dish of syrup and some fruit on the side.

Sirius hesitates for a second before picking up his fork. The noise at the table is overwhelming. He isn’t used to breakfast being like this. Loud, messy, filled with conversation.

It’s different.

He tells himself he should get used to it.

As he eats, the younger kids finish up and scamper off to watch cartoons in the living room. The noise dulls slightly, leaving just him and the Smiths at the table.

Mr. Smith takes a sip of his coffee before glancing at Sirius. “I’ll be taking you to get your casts removed later today.”

Sirius nods, finishing the last bite of his pancake.

It’ll be nice to walk again.

Even if, deep down, Sirius isn’t sure where he’s supposed to go.

The waiting room is too bright. Too sterile.

Sirius slouches in the uncomfortable plastic chair, arms crossed, trying to ignore the way the fluorescent lights hum overhead. The air smells like antiseptic and something vaguely metallic, the kind of smell that clings to the back of your throat no matter how much you try to ignore it.

He hates it here.

It was different when the hospital was helpful—when it meant getting stitched up or treated for whatever damage had been done. Back then, it had been a relief, a necessary evil. Now, it’s just a reminder.

A reminder of what happened.

Sirius swallows hard, shifting in his seat, but the casts make it difficult. He shudders, forcing himself to focus on something else. The dull murmur of conversations. The distant beep of monitors. The ticking clock on the wall, each second dragging on longer than the last.

Beside him, Mr. Smith sits with his hands clasped together, calm and patient as ever. Sirius doesn’t know how he does it—just sitting there, unbothered, like this doesn’t feel like torture.

Sirius bounces his knee—the one not wrapped in plaster—before remembering that it’s rude. He stops, grips the armrest instead.

He just wants this to be over with.

“Sirius Black?”

His name being called makes him flinch.

A male doctor, dressed in light blue scrubs, stands in the doorway with a clipboard. Mr. Smith is already on his feet, moving to help Sirius stand before Sirius can even attempt it himself.

Sirius clenches his jaw, irritation bubbling under his skin. He hates this. Hates being so dependent on someone else. But the alternative is struggling like an idiot in front of a room full of people, so he swallows his pride and lets Mr. Smith steady him.

They follow the doctor down a hallway, the scent of disinfectant stronger here. The walls are lined with posters about proper handwashing techniques and flu season warnings, all of them too bright, too cheery.

The examination room is small, with an adjustable hospital bed in the center and a tray of medical tools off to the side. Dr. Brown gestures for Sirius to get onto the bed.

Sirius hesitates.

Mr. Smith, of course, doesn’t. He steps forward, offering his arm, and Sirius bites back the automatic refusal on the tip of his tongue. He hates this—hates needing help—but it’s better than making an idiot of himself.

He lets Mr. Smith lift him onto the bed.

Dr. Brown pulls over a stool, flipping open his clipboard. “Before we get started, I need to ask you a few questions. Any pain or discomfort?”

Sirius shifts slightly, testing his legs. “There’s a pin in my right leg,” he mutters.

Dr. Brown nods, making a note. “That’s expected. We’ll take a look at it after the casts are off.”

There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse steps in. She’s younger, maybe in her mid-twenties, and she gives Sirius a polite but distant smile as she wheels over a small cart.

“Alright,” Dr. Brown says. “Let’s get those casts off.”

Sirius braces himself.

The process isn’t painful, but it’s uncomfortable. The cast saw is loud, vibrating against his skin as it cuts through the layers of plaster. It takes longer than Sirius expects, and by the time both casts are removed, his legs feel weird. Lighter. Too exposed.

His skin is pale, covered in patches of dry skin and faint imprints from where the cast pressed against him.

Dr. Brown presses lightly along Sirius’ shin. “Can you feel that?”

Sirius nods.

“Good. We’ll do a quick x-ray to make sure everything’s healed properly, and then we’ll see where we’re at.”

Sirius exhales sharply but doesn’t argue. He just wants this to be done.

The x-ray is quick, and Sirius barely listens as the technician tells him to hold still. When they return to the examination room, Dr. Brown studies the images on his screen, nodding to himself.

“Everything looks good,” he finally says. “Your bones have healed well. You’ll need to come back in two weeks so we can check on the pin in your right leg, but for now, you’re clear.”

Relief floods Sirius’ chest.

He still has to use crutches, but at least now he doesn’t feel as useless. He can move better, do things for himself. It’s a step in the right direction.

As he follows Mr. Smith out of the hospital, Sirius exhales, feeling lighter than he has in weeks.

Sirius stares at the ceiling, wide awake.

He’s given up on trying to sleep. He always does. His body is tired—aching in ways he’s grown used to—but his mind won’t shut off. It never does. There’s always something, some thought gnawing at the edges of his consciousness, refusing to let him rest.

It feels like he’s wired differently, like his brain wasn’t built for sleep. Maybe it’s because of how he grew up, always on edge, always waiting for the next outburst, the next cruel remark, the next slap across the face. He was trained to be alert, to never let his guard down.

That kind of thing doesn’t just go away.

He exhales sharply, shifting onto his side, when he hears it.

A soft whimper.

Sirius freezes, ears straining in the dark. For a moment, he wonders if he imagined it, but then—there it is again. A small, pitiful sound coming from the bed next to his.

Callum.

Sirius turns his head and squints in the dim light. The kid is curled in on himself, clutching his blanket in a tight grip. His face is twisted in distress, small whimpers turning into soft, broken cries.

Sirius knows exactly what’s happening.

He recognizes the way Callum’s fingers twitch against the sheets, the way his breaths come out short and uneven. He knows the signs—the telltale markers of a nightmare.

For a second, Sirius hesitates.

Should he wake him? Would that make it worse?

He thinks about all the times he woke up from nightmares alone, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, with no one there to remind him that it was just a dream.

Yeah. He should wake him.

Sirius pushes himself up, careful to move quietly so he doesn’t startle Callum too much. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing his crutches, and makes his way over.

“Callum,” Sirius murmurs, placing a light hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Hey, wake up.”

Callum startles awake with a sharp inhale. His small body jerks violently, his wide eyes darting around the room as if searching for the danger that isn’t there. His breathing is ragged, erratic. Then, his lip trembles, and he bursts into tears.

Sirius barely has a second to react before Callum throws himself at him, clinging to him like a lifeline.

Sirius stumbles slightly under the sudden weight but catches himself, settling onto the bed as Callum buries his face against his chest. He hesitates for only a moment before wrapping his arms around the kid, rubbing slow circles on his back.

“Hey, hey,” Sirius soothes, his voice quiet. “It’s alright. It was just a nightmare.”

Callum lets out a shaky sob, gripping the fabric of Sirius’ shirt in tiny, desperate fists.

Sirius isn’t used to this—to comforting someone like this. But he remembers. He remembers how it felt to be small, to wake up shaking with fear and have no one there to tell him it was okay.

So he holds Callum a little tighter.

Slowly, the boy’s sobs begin to subside into hiccups, then sniffles. His breathing evens out, and after a long moment of silence, Sirius asks, “You alright now?”

Callum nods against his chest.

Sirius waits a beat before asking, “Wanna talk about it?”

A tiny shake of the head.

Sirius huffs lightly. “Fair enough. I probably wouldn’t want to talk about it either.”

That earns him a small smile. Barely there, but it’s something.

For a while, they just sit there, Callum curled into him like a cat, Sirius absentmindedly rubbing his back. Then, in a small, hesitant voice, Callum asks, “Can you stay with me?”

Sirius doesn’t even have to think about it.

“Yeah,” he says, shifting so they’re both lying down. “I can stay.”

Callum immediately snuggles into his side, tucking his head under Sirius’ chin.

Sirius stiffens for a second, caught off guard by how easily Callum trusts him. Then, slowly, he relaxes, letting out a quiet breath as he wraps an arm around the kid.

It hits him all at once.

This is what he and Regulus used to do. When they were younger, before things got bad, Regulus would sneak into his bed after a nightmare. He’d curl up against him just like this, small and trembling, and Sirius would hold him until he fell asleep.

Regulus.

The thought is like a knife to the gut.

Where is he now? Is he safe? Does he feel safe?

Sirius doubts it. Regulus never felt safe without him. And now—now Sirius isn’t there.

Guilt coils in his chest, thick and suffocating.

But Callum’s soft, even breaths pull him back to the present.

Sirius glances down at the kid curled up beside him. He’s already asleep, his face peaceful, his tiny fingers still clinging to Sirius’ shirt.

Sirius sighs, shutting his eyes. Maybe—just maybe—sleep will come for him too.

Again, sleep does not come. Why should he except it to come otherwise?

Sirius grits his teeth, forcing his legs to move the way Sam and Kathy are telling him to.

His muscles ache, trembling under his weight, and his balance is completely off. He feels like a newborn foal—legs too long, too weak, too unsteady. It’s frustrating. Beyond frustrating. He knows this is necessary, that this is what needs to happen if he ever wants to walk properly again, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating.

“You’re doing a great job, Sirius,” Kathy says, her voice warm and encouraging.

He barely stops himself from scoffing. Sure. A great job. He’s standing here, wobbling like an idiot, barely able to take two steps without feeling like he’s about to collapse. Yeah. He’s doing amazing.

“Try shifting your weight forward a little,” Sam suggests, standing a few feet away, hands on his hips. “Remember, we want even pressure between both legs.”

Sirius exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t want to do this. Doesn’t want to be here, struggling like this in front of people. But he has to. He doesn’t have a choice.

Because this is his fault.

Of course, it’s his fault. If he had just done a better job at—

He stumbles.

His balance wavers beneath him, and for a moment, he thinks he’s going down, but then—

He isn’t.

He’s balancing.

It’s wobbly, unsteady, but he’s actually balancing.

For a split second, pride flickers in his chest. But just as quickly as it comes, it’s gone.

His legs buckle, and he tips forward.

Strong hands catch him before he can hit the ground. Sam steadies him, firm but gentle, and Sirius clenches his jaw in frustration.

“Well, I think that’s all for today,” Sam says lightly, as if Sirius isn’t burning with irritation at himself. “Don’t want to overdo it, right?”

Sirius swallows hard and nods, even though every part of him is screaming to keep going. He has to keep going. He has to prove to himself that he isn’t useless, that he isn’t weak, that he can do this.

But he knows they’re right. If he keeps going, he’ll only hurt himself, and then he’ll be right back where he started.

And he refuses to go backward.

So he forces himself to nod again, gripping his crutches tightly as he turns toward where Mrs. Smith is sitting with Callum. The little boy looks just as exhausted as he feels, but there’s a stubborn set to his mouth as he practices his own walking exercises.

Sirius exhales, starting toward them on his crutches, and can’t help but think about how much easier this would all be if he didn’t have the damn pin in his leg.

Only a couple more days.

He just has to hold out for a couple more days.

***

Sirius swings his legs over the side of the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath him as he waits. His right leg feels lighter now, stronger, but there’s still a lingering stiffness. He exhales sharply, bouncing his good leg to release some of the nervous energy building in his chest.

Dr. Brown finally enters, flipping through Sirius’ chart with an easy familiarity. “Alright, Sirius,” he says, looking up with a small smile. “Let’s take a look.”

Sirius watches as Dr. Brown examines his leg, pressing carefully along the skin, rotating his ankle slightly. The touch is clinical, detached, but Sirius still braces himself. He’s used to pain by now.

But this time, there isn’t any.

Dr. Brown nods approvingly. “Everything looks good. I’m confident we can move forward with removing the pins.”

Sirius lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He doesn’t like medical procedures, but the idea of finally getting this over with outweighs his nerves. He just nods. “Okay.”

The process is uncomfortable but not unbearable, and when it’s done, Sirius flexes his foot experimentally, marveling at the lack of restriction.

“You’ll need a couple more physical therapy sessions to make sure everything’s back to full strength,” Dr. Brown says. “But after that? You’re medically cleared.”

Sirius nods again, quieter this time. Cleared. It feels like an ending.

And, maybe, a beginning.

The last couple of physical therapy appointments are grueling, but Sirius pushes through. He wants to walk properly again, to not rely on crutches or other people. Sam and Kathy praise his progress, telling him how well he’s doing, but Sirius still feels like he should be better.

By the time his final session is over, exhaustion settles deep in his bones, but there’s something else there, too. A strange sort of relief.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith meet him outside the therapy room, smiling warmly. Sirius hesitates, shifting awkwardly on his feet before blurting out, “Thank you.”

Mrs. Smith blinks, tilting her head. “For what?”

Sirius shrugs, feeling exposed. “For taking me in,” he says, voice quieter now. “For— I don’t know. Not making me feel like a problem.”

Mr. Smith claps a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a problem, Sirius.”

Mrs. Smith nods in agreement. “You’re always welcome here.”

Sirius swallows past the lump in his throat. He isn’t used to this—this kindness, this understanding. But it means something. It means everything.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak, before stepping away.

Greg, his new social worker, is waiting for him near the doors. He’s older, mid-sixties maybe, with a graying beard and kind eyes.

“Ready to go?” Greg asks.

Sirius glances back at the Smiths one last time before nodding.

And then, with steady steps, he walks toward his new foster family.

His second foster family is cold. 

Sirius notices it the second he steps through the front door of the home. Immediately, a cold sensation creeps down his spine. The house itself is beautiful—gleaming floors, expensive furniture, everything pristine and in its proper place—but it feels hollow, like a showroom. There’s no warmth, no comfort. Just a rigid, artificial perfection.

Mr. and Mrs. Miller stand before him, stiff and professional. Mr. Miller, tall and sharp-featured, adjusts his cufflinks as if Sirius is nothing more than an inconvenience. Mrs. Miller barely glances at him, her thin lips pursed in disapproval.

He doesn’t need to be told—he already knows exactly what kind of people they are.

His eyes drift to the five other kids standing nearby, their small faces turned up at him with something like hope. That look twists something in his chest. It’s not fair. They don’t realize yet, but Sirius does. These people aren’t saviors. They don’t want these kids.

They just want to look like they do.

Mrs. Miller gestures toward the hallway. “Your sleeping arrangements are in here.”

Sirius follows, his stomach twisting as he steps inside the room. It’s cramped, barely enough space for all of them. Two thin mattresses rest on the floor—one a double, one a single—while two cribs lean against opposite walls. The blankets are old and worn, the air stale.

“They didn’t even bother with proper beds,” Sirius mutters under his breath.

Mrs. Miller, standing behind him, huffs. “We requested a teenage girl,” she says sharply, arms crossed. “And instead, we were dumped with an incompetent boy.”

Sirius stiffens, anger flaring hot in his chest. He turns, expression carefully blank, and meets her gaze head-on. “With all due respect, ma’am, I raised my younger brother. I think I know what I’m doing.”

Mr. Miller snorts. “We’ll see about that.” And with that, the couple turns and leaves, shutting the door behind them.

Sirius exhales sharply through his nose, trying to smother his anger. It doesn’t matter. They don’t matter.

The kids, though… they do.

He surveys the room, quickly deciding to rearrange things. The cribs need to be closer to the mattresses for easy access, and the single bed needs to be against the farthest wall so the oldest kid—whoever that is—can have some space. He gets to work, shifting things around until the setup makes sense.

Before long, the door opens again, and Mrs. Miller steps inside, a one-year-old girl balanced on her hip. Without a word, she hands the baby off to him, then thrusts a crumpled piece of paper into his free hand.

“Those are your chores,” she says flatly. “You better get them done.”

And then she’s gone again, the door closing behind her with a decisive click.

Sirius sighs, glancing down at the baby in his arms. Her tiny fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, her big eyes staring up at him with quiet trust.

Well, Sirius thinks. Guess I’m in charge now.

He turns to the rest of the kids—four pairs of wide, expectant eyes watching him.

There’s a two-year-old boy, a four-year-old girl, a five-year-old boy, and a seven-year-old girl. The seven-year-old, Sirius assumes, must be the one closest to understanding what’s actually happening here.

“So,” he says, shifting the baby in his arms. “Who’s ready for bath time?”

It takes some effort—okay, a lot of effort—but eventually, all the kids are bathed, dressed in their worn pajamas, and settled in bed. The five-year-old and four-year-old instinctively curl up against him on the double mattress, tiny hands gripping onto him like a lifeline. Sirius lets them. He doesn’t mind.

Before turning in for the night, he looks to Amelia, the seven-year-old, and gestures to the single bed. “It’s up to you,” he tells her. “If you want, you can take that one. Or you can stay here with us.”

Amelia hesitates, her fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt. Then, after a moment, she nods and climbs into the single bed.

Sirius exhales, shifting carefully so as not to disturb the younger kids nestled against him.

They don’t say much as they drift off to sleep, but Sirius doesn’t miss the way the little ones relax into him. They’re seeking something. Protection, maybe. Safety. Comfort.

And Sirius feels something, too.

A quiet, undeniable need to protect them.

***

Sirius wakes up early, before the rest of the house stirs, his eyes blinking against the dull morning light. The room is quiet, save for the soft sound of the other kids' breathing. Amelia, the seven-year-old, is curled up in the single bed, her hands tucked under her chin like she’s still in a dream. The four-year-old and five-year-old are pressed up close to him, their small bodies warm against his side.

He lays still for a moment, his heart heavy in his chest, but not with sorrow—more with the weight of responsibility. He can’t help them all the time, but right now, this morning, he can give them one thing they need most: care.

He slips out of bed quietly, careful not to wake them. The floor creaks beneath his feet as he makes his way to the kitchen. The fridge is half-stocked, and the pantry is only a little better, but there’s enough for breakfast. Cereal. He can make cereal. It’s simple enough.

Sirius gets the bowls out, places them on the table, and pours the cereal. His hands move efficiently—he’s done this before, even when it wasn’t his job. Even when it wasn’t his responsibility. But this time, it’s different. He’s the one in charge. He’s the one who has to take care of them.

By the time the kids begin to stir, their sleepy eyes blinking open, the milk is poured, and the cereal is ready. The smell of it fills the room, and one by one, they shuffle into the kitchen. Amelia, rubbing her eyes, sits at the table first, followed by the others.

“Morning,” Sirius says softly as he slides a bowl in front of each of them, taking a seat at the end of the table.

The two-year-old stares at the spoon, unsure of how to use it, and Sirius watches with a faint smile as the boy struggles. Gently, he takes the spoon and shows him how to scoop up the cereal, guiding his hand. “Like this,” he murmurs. The boy giggles when he finally gets it right, a small victory.

Sirius makes sure they all eat, not taking a single bite himself. His stomach growls, but he ignores it. They need it more than he does. When they’re finished, he clears the table, wiping the crumbs away, then turns to the dishes. There’s always more to do, always something to clean.

Later that evening, Sirius rounds all the kids up for their baths. The younger kids are always a challenge, but Sirius handles them with practiced patience. He runs the warm water, makes sure the bubbles are just right, and starts with the two-year-old. He’s tiny, barely speaking, but Sirius knows he needs to be treated with care. He hums softly as he washes the boy, making sure the water doesn’t get too high, gently scrubbing his skin as the boy giggles, splashing water over the sides of the tub.

When the other kids are waiting their turn, Sirius wraps the two-year-old in a towel and carries him to the bedroom, where he dresses him in clean clothes. The seven-year-old, Amelia, stands by the door, clutching a stuffed bunny to her chest, already dressed for bed. She doesn’t need his help—she’s independent like that—but she lingers, watching over the younger ones like a quiet protector.

The five-year-old tugs at Sirius’ sleeve, looking up at him with expectant eyes. Sirius doesn’t mind—he’s used to being followed, being needed. He ruffles the kid’s hair and leads him into the bathroom, setting the water just right before helping him into the tub.

As the kids finish up, Sirius dresses the five-year-old in fresh clothes, brushing his hair with careful strokes. The boy grins up at him before running off to play, his energy seemingly endless. When the room finally quiets, with the last of the laundry folded and the lingering scent of soap in the air, Sirius sits back against the wall and lets out a breath.

It’s a lot. It’s so much. But it’s his responsibility now. He promised he would take care of them, and he’s going to keep that promise.

That night, after he’s tucked the kids into bed—giving them kisses on their foreheads, pulling blankets up to their chins—he stands by the door, just watching them sleep. The house is still, peaceful even. He doesn’t hear any shouting or yelling, and the weight in his chest, the tightness in his heart, eases just a little.

He can do this.

He knows it’s not easy, and that they may never be a family, not in the traditional sense, but right now, in this small space, they’re his. They’ve got him. And for once, Sirius doesn’t feel so alone. 

Sirius tucks the last of the kids into bed, smoothing the blankets over the tiny, curled-up forms. The room is dimly lit by the weak glow of the streetlamp outside, filtering in through the slatted blinds. The air smells faintly of the baby powder he used after the youngest’s bath, mixing with the lingering scent of soap from their hurried bedtime routine. The house is unnervingly silent, the way it always is when the Millers have retreated to their own world, ignoring everything outside of it.

Just as Sirius exhales, thinking he might finally get a moment to himself, the sudden crash of a door being forced open shatters the quiet.

Shouts echo through the house.

Banging—so much banging, like the walls themselves are being shaken apart.

The kids jolt awake, eyes wide and glistening with fear.

Sirius reacts instantly, heart pounding, instincts from years of self-preservation kicking in. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but he knows he needs to protect them.

“Come on,” he whispers sharply, already moving. He pulls Amelia, the oldest at seven, off the bed and urges her toward the closet. She’s trembling, but she listens. The younger ones follow suit, still half-asleep but wide-eyed with confusion and fear. The one-year-old whimpers softly as Sirius lifts her into his arms. He quickly shoves aside the few scattered clothes and blankets in the closet, making space.

More shouting. Boots stomping. Heavy, hurried footsteps moving toward their room.

Sirius curses under his breath, then looks at Amelia. “Help me,” he says, voice urgent but steady.

Amelia nods, her small hands gripping the arms of the two-year-old and the five-year-old, guiding them into the closet as quickly as she can. Sirius shifts the one-year-old into Amelia’s lap, pressing a finger to his lips in a silent plea for her to keep the little one quiet. She nods, clutching the baby close, rocking slightly to soothe her.

Sirius turns toward the door. It doesn’t have a lock. Of course, it doesn’t.

Thinking fast, he yanks the rickety dresser a few inches in front of the door. It won’t hold for long, but it’ll buy them time. He shoves a chair beneath the doorknob, his hands shaking but determined. The boots in the hallway are getting closer.

His heart pounds as he scrambles back to the closet and shuts the door behind him, pressing the kids deeper into the shadows. His breath is shallow, his pulse hammering so loudly he’s sure it’ll give them away.

Then he hears it—“Search warrant!”—bellowed through the house. A police raid.

Shit.

The dresser scrapes against the floor as someone tries to shove the door open.

A hard slam. Then another.

Sirius clenches his teeth, shifting so his body is in front of the kids, shielding them with whatever little protection he can offer. He doesn’t care if he gets hurt. But if they touch the kids—

Another bang, and the door finally gives way.

Sirius holds his breath as heavy footsteps enter the room. The closet door rattles.

Then the closet door swings open.

Sirius flinches on instinct, throwing an arm out protectively in front of the kids, his body braced for something—he doesn’t know what, but something bad. His heart pounds in his ears, drowning out all other sound. But instead of a blow, instead of rough hands yanking him away, he’s met with the sight of a police officer lowering his gun.

The officer—middle-aged, dark uniform creased with tension—assesses the situation quickly. His eyes soften, if only slightly, when he registers what’s in front of him.

“Kids,” he mutters into his radio. “I need assistance in the back room. I’ve got five of them, all under the age of seven, plus a teen.”

Sirius meets the man’s gaze warily, still shielding the younger ones as much as he can. The officer kneels to his level, hands open, not reaching for him, not making any sudden movements.

“How many?” the officer asks, voice lower this time.

“Five,” Sirius croaks. “All under seven.”

The officer nods, speaking into his radio again before turning his full attention back to Sirius. “Alright, kid. We’re not here to hurt you. You did good, keeping them safe. Can you help me get them out?”

Sirius hesitates, but something about the way the officer looks at him—no pity, no annoyance, just understanding—makes him nod. He turns to the kids, whispering reassurances, coaxing them out one by one. He carries the one-year-old himself, keeping a steadying hand on the others.

When they step out, the house is a mess of movement. Police officers flood every room, voices overlapping, radio chatter buzzing in the air. Red and blue lights flash through the windows, painting the walls in flickering color. The front door is wide open, revealing a dozen police cars parked in the driveway, their headlights illuminating the dark night.

A sharp wave of nausea rolls through Sirius. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen now, doesn’t know where they’re all going to end up. But at least they’re not here anymore. At least the Millers are nowhere to be seen.

He starts listing off which kids are siblings, making sure none of them get separated. He watches as the younger ones are guided toward waiting social workers, tiny hands gripping the sleeves of unfamiliar adults, their faces still filled with the remnants of fear.

And then Sirius realizes—his social worker isn’t here.

Panic stirs in his chest. He doesn’t want to be left alone. Doesn’t want to be stuck waiting, unsure of where he’s going next.

A hand lands on his shoulder. He flinches, spinning around, but it’s just the officer from earlier.

“I got you, kid,” the man—Charlie, according to his badge—says, voice steady. “Come on. We’ll figure this out.”

Sirius swallows hard, the weight of exhaustion settling in. He glances at the house one last time, at the crumbling illusion of a home, and then lets himself be led away.

He doesn’t know what’s waiting for him next. But whatever it is, it has to be better than this.

***

His third foster home is—well, strict.

Strict is an understatement, if Sirius is being completely honest.

When he first arrived, he was introduced to his new foster mother, Agatha. Sirius got the impression that she wasn’t very fond of kids. Or teenagers. Or people in general. Her mouth was set in a permanent thin line, her sharp, assessing gaze raking over him like he was an inconvenience from the start. She wasted no time in listing her rules—stern, rigid, unreasonable rules that left no room for error.

“Curfew is at eight sharp,” she had said that first night, arms crossed as she stared down at him. “I don’t care if you’re in the middle of a phone call, in the middle of dinner—I expect you in your room by then. No exceptions. You will keep your area clean, no loitering in the hallways, no locking doors, and absolutely no stealing. If I catch you with something that isn’t yours, and you’ll regret it.”

Sirius hadn’t responded, just nodded stiffly, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

That was two weeks ago.

In that time, he’s come to realize just how serious Agatha is about her rules. How much power she wields over the teens in this house. And how quickly she turns them into criminals.

The first time, it was Caleb.

Sirius hadn’t spoken much to him—he was older, maybe sixteen, always keeping his head down. He had lasted four months in the house, which, from what Sirius gathered, was longer than most. One afternoon, Caleb had been running late, barely making it back before curfew. Five minutes past eight, Agatha had thrown open his bedroom door and found a pack of cigarettes tucked under his mattress.

“Those aren’t mine!” Caleb had protested, his voice sharp with panic. “I swear, I don’t even smoke!”

Agatha wasn’t listening. Her expression was already set, cold and unyielding. The police were called. The officers barely looked at him before slapping handcuffs on his wrists. Possession of illegal substances.

Sirius had stood at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles ached, watching as Caleb was dragged out the front door.

He never came back.

The second time, it was Olivia.

She was fifteen, small and quiet. Sirius had seen her flinch whenever Agatha raised her voice, had caught the way her hands trembled when she passed her plate at dinner. She never caused trouble. Never spoke unless spoken to. But that didn’t matter.

One night, Agatha stormed into the dining room, a furious glint in her eye, waving a twenty-pound note in the air. “Who took this from my purse?”

No one answered.

Agatha’s gaze zeroed in on Olivia. “You,” she hissed. “You were in my office today.”

Olivia’s eyes went wide, shaking her head so quickly her dark curls bounced around her face. “No, I wasn’t! I—”

“I saw you.”

The denial didn’t matter. Agatha called the police. The charge was theft. Olivia was taken away in less than an hour.

The third time, it was Lewis.

It happened fast. Too fast.

One morning, before school, Agatha cornered him in the hallway, her mouth twisted in disgust as she held up a small plastic bag. “Drugs, Lewis? In my house?”

Lewis had stared, eyes wide, his hands shaking as he took a step back. “I—I don’t know what that is. I swear—”

But Agatha was already shaking her head. Already dialing the police. Already setting the story in stone before he even had a chance to fight it.

That night, Sirius lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Three gone in two weeks. Framed for crimes they didn’t commit. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew Agatha was behind it.

He had to get out before he was next.

Sirius keeps his voice low as he explains the math problem to Daniel, tapping his pencil against the worksheet as he walks the younger boy through the steps. Daniel, who only arrived two days ago, furrows his brows in concentration.

Sirius has been in enough foster homes to recognize the look—uncertainty, nerves, the overwhelming urge to do everything right. He doesn’t blame him. In a house like this, stepping out of line is dangerous.

Daniel sighs, slumping against the table. “I’m hungry.”

Sirius stills. The rule echoes in his mind: No food after 4 PM. No exceptions. He glances at the clock. It’s just past six.

“You ate dinner, didn’t you?” Sirius asks, already knowing the answer.

Daniel shrugs. “Wasn’t enough.”

Sirius hesitates, jaw tightening. He knows the risks, knows Agatha has eyes everywhere, but Daniel is just a kid. A kid who shouldn’t have to go to bed hungry.

“Stay here,” Sirius mutters, rising from his seat. He moves quickly and quietly to the kitchen, scanning the room to make sure Agatha isn’t lurking. The fruit basket sits on the counter, untouched since breakfast. An apple. That’s all he needs. One apple.

His fingers brush the smooth skin of the fruit when—

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Sirius freezes.

Agatha stands in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes cold with accusation.

“I—” Sirius starts, but she doesn’t give him a chance.

“You were stealing from me.” Her voice is sharp, final.

Sirius shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t—I was just getting something for Daniel. He’s hungry. It’s just an apple.”

Agatha’s lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Stealing is stealing.”

Before Sirius can protest again, she reaches for the phone, dialing with deliberate precision.

Sirius’ heart pounds as she lifts it to her ear.

“Yes, hello, I just caught my foster son stealing from me. I would like the police to arrest him.”

A cold weight settles in Sirius’ stomach.

Daniel peeks around the corner, eyes wide with fear, and Sirius meets his gaze for only a moment before he’s yanked back into the suffocating reality of what’s happening.

He should have known. He should have been more careful.

Because in Agatha’s house, the rules are never about right or wrong. They’re about power.

And Sirius is about to pay the price.