The dining room was dimly lit, the chandelier above the long table shedding a warm, flickering glow. Sirius was already seated, leaning back in his chair with a bottle of butterbeer in one hand and his sleeves rolled to the elbow.
He looked… oddly nervous.
"Hey," Sirius said, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Didn't think I'd have to shout to drag you away from a book. You and Remus really are cut from the same cloth."
Harry gave a slight smile and sat down. "Sorry. Lost track of time."
Plates appeared with a clink—simple roast chicken, vegetables, and mashed potatoes. Comfort food. A bit too normal for the setting.
They began to eat in silence, the clink of forks and knives echoing more loudly than it should've.
Harry glanced up once and saw Sirius watching him, then quickly looking away.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Sirius cleared his throat. "So… what do you do for fun?"
Harry blinked. "Fun?"
Sirius gave an awkward laugh. "Yeah. You know. Hobbies. What do you like doing when you're not holed up in a cursed library?"
Harry hesitated, then shrugged. "Flying, mostly. Working out a bit. Practicing magic. Learning new spells."
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Practicing magic. For fun."
Harry met his gaze. "It's the only thing that makes me feel… focused. In control."
That seemed to sober Sirius slightly. He nodded slowly, fiddling with the edge of his fork. "Yeah. That makes sense. Same for me, back in the day. Flying, dueling. Stuff that shut out the noise."
He looked up again. "You any good on a broom?"
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. "You haven't seen me fly?"
Sirius grinned. "Once. This year. Dementors. You shot out after the Snitch like a bloody arrow ."
Harry smirked. "I am the youngest seeker in a century, and made the team in my first year."
Sirius shook his head. "You're James's son, all right."
Then the grin faded a little.
"You don't have to be, though," he added softly. "You know that, right?"
Harry looked down at his plate. "I know."
Another pause.
"You don't talk like a kid," Sirius said eventually.
Harry glanced up. "You don't look like someone who spent twelve years in Azkaban."
That earned a genuine laugh. "Touché."
The tension cracked, just slightly.
Sirius leaned back, pushing his plate away. "You know, when I imagined getting you out of that house, I pictured taking you to Quidditch games, teaching you how to flirt, maybe a few terrible motorbike rides."
Harry's brow lifted. "You have a motorbike?"
"Had. It's probably still rotting in Hagrid's shed."
They both chuckled and for a moment, it felt almost… normal.
Sirius tilted his bottle and took the last sip. Then he gave Harry a slightly more serious look—still casual, but with a hint of something thoughtful behind it.
"You know," he said, setting the bottle down with a soft clink, "if you're spending your time practicing spells and keeping sharp… we could start dueling together."
Harry looked up, surprised.
Sirius shrugged. "I'm rusty, but I could use the practice. And you… well, you're clearly not sitting around waiting for trouble to find you."
Harry hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. That'd be… good."
Sirius grinned. "Just try not to humiliate your old godfather too badly."
"I'll hold back," Harry said, smiling faintly.
"Please don't," Sirius said, standing. "It's been a long time since someone challenged me. Might be good for both of us."
As Sirius started clearing the plates, Harry lingered a moment longer.
It wasn't trust. Not yet. But it wasn't distance either.
It was something in between.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.
The next morning came with pale sunlight filtering through the dusty curtains of Regulus's old room. The Black family crest on the far wall was still cloaked in shadow, and the silence in the house was absolute.
Harry sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His muscles ached faintly—but it was the kind of soreness that came with familiarity, not strain. The daily grind had become routine, almost meditative.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Squats. The ten-kilometer run.
He dressed quickly in a worn T-shirt and track pants, tied his trainers, and paused at his desk to scrawl a brief note. He slipped out of the room and padded down the hall, stopping at Sirius's door just long enough to leave it on the bedside table.
Gone for a run. Be back soon.
—H
Outside, the morning was cool and gray, the fog still lingering around the wrought iron gates of Number Twelve. Harry stretched his arms, rolled his shoulders once, then started running—feet pounding steadily against the uneven stone of the London street.
The route came naturally now. His breath stayed even. His stride was sure. He didn't feel winded, not really, even by the sixth kilometer.
As he turned a corner, pushing through the last stretch of his run, a thought tickled the back of his mind.
I should up the intensity.
His body wasn't protesting anymore. If anything, it felt like it was waiting for more. He could tack on weight. Add reps. Work in sprints. Something to push the edge again. He wasn't doing this just to stay fit—he needed to be faster, stronger, sharper.
Ready.
When he returned, sweat clung to his skin, but his breathing was steady, and his mind felt sharp. Centered.
He slipped back into the house, taking off his shoes at the door. The faint sound of a pan clinking reached him from the kitchen.
Sirius was standing at the stove in a loose black jumper, hair messily tied back, wand in one hand as he levitated two plates onto the table. He glanced up as Harry entered, raising an eyebrow.
"You run off to fight something already?"
Harry smirked and brushed sweat from his brow. "Just went for a run."
"The whole morning passed before I heard a sound. Thought Kreacher might've cursed you in your sleep."
"Kreacher wouldn't dare," Harry said lightly, turning toward the stairs. "I'll be back down after a shower."
Sirius raised his wand in a lazy salute. "Breakfast will still be hot. Mostly."
"You cook now?" Harry asked.
Sirius made a face. "Not by choice. The elf refuses to make breakfast for me unless I act like a proper Black, and I'd rather starve. Forcing him would work but I still wouldn't trust him."
Harry barked a laugh. "So pride wins over hunger."
"Always," Sirius said, mock-dignified. "It's a Black family tradition."
"You should try running," Harry offered, sly. "Might help with the dueling form."
Sirius snorted. "You trying to say I'm out of shape?"
Harry gave him an innocent look. "Didn't say anything."
Sirius narrowed his eyes. "You little—"
"I'm just saying," Harry cut in, deadpan, "you wheezed walking up the stairs yesterday."
"I had a jacket on!"
"Right."
Sirius shook his head, laughing, and for a moment there was something bright and unburdened in his expression.
"I forgot what it's like," he said, quieter now. "Having someone to trade jabs with over breakfast."
Harry hesitated. "I could insult you more often if it helps."
Sirius gave a mock sniffle. "You're a good lad."
Harry smirked and jogged upstairs.
By the time Harry returned, hair damp and fresh clothes clinging to his still-warm skin, Sirius had claimed his seat at the table, a mug of tea in one hand and the Daily Prophet open in front of him—frowning at something, probably the politics section.
Harry dropped into the seat across from him.
"Smell better," Sirius said, taking a sip of tea.
Harry dropped into the seat and grabbed a fork. "Smell your cooking."
"Still cheeky, I see," Sirius muttered, though his lips twitched upward.
They ate in companionable silence at first. The only sound was the soft rustle of newspaper and the scrape of cutlery.
Harry glanced at a moving photo on the front page—Fudge waving pompously outside the Ministry, a new article about 'ongoing security threats' printed beside his face.
"Wonder if he even believes half the rubbish he says," Harry murmured.
Sirius snorted. "If Fudge ever had a single original thought, I'd fall over dead. He's too busy trying to look like he's in charge."
Harry gave a quiet laugh and returned to his food.
Sirius stood and stretched with a groan, cracking his neck.
"Right," he said, tossing his napkin onto the table. "Enough lounging. You said you're practicing. Let's see it."
Harry blinked. "Now?"
Sirius grinned. "No time like the present. Backyard's clear. Unless you're scared of your poor old godfather collapsing mid-duel."
Harry snorted. "You sure you're up for this?"
"Absolutely not," Sirius said, already heading toward the door. "But I'll manage."
The sun had climbed higher by the time they stepped into the back courtyard, wands in hand. The cobbled ground was uneven, framed by a mossy wall and long-forgotten flowerbeds. A faint wind stirred Sirius's hair.
"No curses," Sirius said, twirling his wand once. "But don't be gentle."
Harry tilted his head. "Wasn't planning to be."
They bowed—half-formal, half-grinning—and then, in a blink, spells flew.
"Stupefy!"
"Protego!"
Harry ducked sideways as Sirius launched two jinxes in rapid succession. His movements were fluid, practiced—not fast, not yet—but efficient. Precise. Harry's shield caught one, but the second spell clipped his shoulder with a sting.
He hissed and countered. "Expelliarmus!"
Sirius deflected it with a sharp twist of his wand. "Too direct," he called. "Don't advertise!"
They circled, tension simmering just below the surface. Sirius aimed low next, forcing Harry to leap back—and the older man smirked when Harry landed awkwardly.
"Not bad for an old man," Sirius teased.
Harry grinned, narrowed his eyes, and shifted his footing. He flicked his wand—not at Sirius, but at the cracked stone planter beside him.
It shivered, groaned, then burst upward—transfigured mid-motion into a spinning wheel of vines and wooden spokes.
Sirius blocked it with a barked "Depulso!"—but as he staggered a step to the side, Harry was already moving.
He feinted left, twisted around behind the transfigured debris—and from the cover of its arc, cast again.
"Expelliarmus!"
Sirius's wand flew into the air and landed on the cobblestones with a clatter.
Silence stretched for a beat, both of them breathing hard.
Then Sirius chuckled. "Sneaky. I like it."
Harry lowered his wand. "You almost got me with that footwork trick. Would've if you were just a bit quicker."
"I'll take the compliment," Sirius said, bending to pick up his wand. "But bloody hell—you've got some moves."
He turned back to Harry, brushing off dust. "That planter transfiguration—James used to do that sort of thing in duels. Big, flashy distractions. But you—" He jabbed a finger toward Harry's chest. "You used it as cover. That's Lily. Clean, efficient, ruthless."
Harry looked down, slightly flushed.
"I have to be ready," Harry said quietly.
Sirius nodded, more solemn now. "Then next time, I'll try harder to make you earn it."
He clapped Harry's shoulder, then winced. "Also, ow. My everything hurts."
Harry smirked. "Stretch more."
"Cheeky," Sirius muttered. "You're lucky I like you."