Dumbledore sank into the high-backed chair behind his desk, the weight of the recent events settling upon his shoulders like a thousand tons of stone. The flickering candlelight in his office cast long shadows across the room, a reflection of the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. His fingers were trembling, betraying the calm facade he usually managed to maintain. The decision of the Wizengamot to distance itself from him, combined with the letter he had just received from the International Confederation of Wizards, had shaken him to his very core.
He stared at the wax seal of the letter for a long moment, as if hoping it would somehow dissolve into nothingness if he simply willed it. But, of course, it didn't. With a resigned sigh, Dumbledore slowly lifted the letter, breaking the seal with the care of someone handling something fragile, something dangerous. The contents of the letter were damning, each word like a dagger to his chest.
His eyes stopped on the name—Jean-Claude Delacour. The name was an anchor that dragged him into the dark waters of the past, to a time when the Black Dragon Legion held sway over the magical world in ways few could comprehend. Dumbledore had always known that the Delacour family was no ordinary bloodline, but this… this was something far more dangerous than he had ever imagined. The knowledge that his removal from the post of Supreme Mugwump had been orchestrated by such a family was a bitter pill to swallow.
The silent weight of the letter seemed to press on him like an invisible force. Dumbledore's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing as he read the final sentence. It is with regret that the International Confederation of Wizards must inform you of your removal from the position of Supreme Mugwump, effective immediately. We trust that you will use your time wisely in these troubled times.
The irony of the statement wasn't lost on him. Troubled times, indeed. The very ones he had dedicated his life to preparing for.
"Blast," Dumbledore muttered under his breath, crumpling the letter in his hand. His voice, usually so warm and comforting, was now edged with frustration. He opened his hand, letting the letter fall into a pile of discarded parchment.
A faint sound of a clock ticking filled the silence, though it felt like a deafening reminder of how little time he had left. Time for what, exactly? To recover his reputation? To fight against the inevitable tide of change that had swept over the wizarding world?
He leaned back in his chair, staring into the dimming light outside the window, his mind swirling. The Greater Good, he thought again, as he always did in moments of crisis. The mantra that had guided his every action for decades, even when those actions were in the shadows, veiled by necessity and the quiet whispers of destiny. But had he, too, been led astray by his own ideology? Could the Greater Good really justify all the compromises, all the secrets, all the lives ruined along the way? Was his obsession with controlling the outcome worth the price he had paid?
He could almost hear the voice of Gellert Grindelwald in his ear, the dreamer who had once stood beside him in their youth. "We will shape the world as it should be, Albus. Together, we will bring peace. No more wars, no more suffering." The words had been spoken with such passion, such certainty, that Dumbledore had believed in them.
But now, as he sat in the dimly lit office of Hogwarts, the weight of those years felt too much to bear. The fire of his past ambitions flickered weakly, its flame not extinguished but dying, leaving only the ash of regret.
He had always prided himself on his belief that there was no problem that couldn't be solved, no obstacle too great. But for the first time, Dumbledore wondered if he had made a grave mistake.
"Where did it all go wrong?" he whispered to the empty room, though no answer came.
A sharp knock on the door broke the silence, and before Dumbledore could speak, the door creaked open, revealing a familiar figure.
"Professor Dumbledore," said a voice, quiet yet firm. It was Minerva McGonagall, her face lined with concern.
"Ah, Minerva," Dumbledore said, his voice softening, though his eyes were still distant. "You should not be here. Not with the way the winds are blowing." He gestured to the letter that now lay discarded on his desk.
Minerva stepped forward, her eyes flicking to the crumpled paper, then to his tired face. "I was worried," she said, her tone no less worried despite the sternness it always held. "About the session, about... well, about you."
Dumbledore offered her a smile that did not reach his eyes. "It appears the world has decided to change, Minerva. Faster than I can keep up with."
She studied him closely, then crossed the room to stand beside him, her eyes softening. "You've been fighting for this world for so long, Albus. But no one can carry the weight of it forever. You mustn't forget that."
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the horizon outside the window, his mind still reeling. "The Greater Good," he said, almost to himself. "I believed in it once. I still do. But at what cost?"
Minerva sighed, her voice thick with emotion. "Maybe it's not about the world, Albus. Maybe it's about what you're willing to sacrifice for it."
Dumbledore closed his eyes, feeling the weight of her words settle into him. Sacrifice. The word echoed in his mind, as it always had. How much more could he give?
He stood suddenly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I must continue," he said, his voice now steel, despite the cracks beneath. "For the Greater Good. No matter the cost."
Minerva nodded but didn't argue. She knew him too well.
As the last traces of daylight faded and the stars began to pierce the night sky, Dumbledore remained at his desk, staring into the abyss of the unknown. His journey was far from over—though the road ahead seemed darker than it ever had before. And yet, as always, he would walk it. Because in the end, it was not about the power he held or the position he lost—it was about the choices he made, and the vision he still held for a world that had, in its own way, failed him.
With a final glance at Minerva, Dumbledore straightened, pushing the shadows of doubt aside. "Tomorrow, we fight again."
And with that, the old wizard turned away, ready to face the next battle, even if he didn't yet know how it would be won.
—
The cold, damp walls of Azkaban pressed in on Sirius Black as he sat on the hard stone floor of his cell, his once-vibrant eyes now shadowed by years of unjust confinement. The memories of happier days—James and Lily, the Marauders' antics, the roaring laughter of the good old days—flickered through his mind like distant stars. They were fleeting, quickly snatched away by the unyielding darkness of his surroundings. It had been so long since he'd felt the warmth of their presence, since he'd heard the sound of life, of joy.
But Sirius wasn't one to easily surrender to despair. No, not him. With a sardonic chuckle, he muttered to himself, "Well, I'm still breathing, aren't I? That counts for something, I suppose." His voice was rough, as if years of bitterness and silence had weathered it into something darker, more gravelly.
As he leaned back against the cold stone wall, his mind wandered back to the good times, to the laughter shared with his friends, those reckless, brilliant days before betrayal had torn it all apart. James, with his unshakeable confidence. Lily, always the calming influence amidst their chaos. He had never gotten over their deaths, nor would he ever. But as much as he ached for them, he refused to let the weight of his grief crush him entirely. He wasn't that man. Not anymore.
And don't think for a second that I've gone soft, he thought with a smirk, trying to chase away the clouds of despair. He wasn't going to let this place—this miserable hole of a prison—be the end of him. Not while there was still air in his lungs. "Screw it," he muttered. "I've been a prisoner long enough. Let them try to break me."
Outside the cell, footsteps echoed in the long, shadowy corridors. Sirius raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Another one of these Aurors. They think they can just waltz in here and tell me what to do?
But the footsteps didn't stop. They were coming closer. Sirius, ever the skeptic, stood up slowly, his movements deliberate and measured. The sound of a wand being drawn—soft but clear—reached his ears. Well, well. A bold one, are we?
The door creaked open, and a lone figure in Auror robes stepped into the dim light of his cell. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and his face was set in a neutral expression, but there was something in his eyes—determination, maybe? Or perhaps a hint of anxiety.
Sirius tilted his head, eyeing the figure up and down. "You know, you're not exactly my type, but I can appreciate a good entrance," he said with a dry grin, voice still rough from years of neglect.
The Auror blinked, clearly taken aback by the comment. Sirius was quick to add, "But hey, you're a bit tall for my liking, mate. Bit too much muscle—people are starting to talk." He let out a small, mocking chuckle.
The Auror wasn't amused, but he didn't seem entirely rattled either. "Sirius Black," he said, his voice steady but firm. "You've been cleared of all charges. The Wizengamot has seen fit to release you. You're free."
Sirius paused. He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process the words. Wait, what? Free?
For a long moment, Sirius didn't say anything. He just stared at the man, his lips curling into an almost disbelieving smile. "So, what, did someone finally get a clue and realize I was framed? Or did someone just fancy a change in scenery? Because trust me, this place isn't exactly a five-star resort. It's more like a particularly nasty cave with lousy food."
The Auror's face remained unreadable, but Sirius could see the faintest flicker of annoyance. Good. It wasn't often he could provoke these sorts of people. But this was his moment, and he wasn't going to let it slip by without a bit of fun.
"You're telling me that after all this time, the Ministry is just going to waltz in and poof—I'm free?" Sirius continued, his tone now dripping with sarcasm. "How charming. Do you get a medal for this? I imagine you've earned yourself a nice bonus, haven't you?"
The Auror finally broke his stoic demeanor, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. "I'm just here to do my job, Black. Whether or not you're grateful is your business." He made a slight movement with his wand, the cell door swinging open with a soft creak.
Sirius' grin didn't waver. "Grateful? Oh, I'm absolutely thrilled. Never thought I'd see the day when the Ministry decided I was worth saving. But hey, better late than never, right?"
With a shake of his head, the Auror stepped aside, gesturing for Sirius to leave the cell. "Come on, then. Time to go."
Sirius pushed past him, stepping into the long, winding corridor of the prison. The cold stone walls seemed to close in around him once more, but there was something different in the air now—freedom. The oppressive weight of Azkaban was lifting, if only slightly.
As they made their way to the prison's exit, Sirius couldn't help but pause. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt the warmth of the sun on his skin. The breeze on his face was like nothing he had ever felt before, a wild rush of life and liberty.
He blinked against the sunlight, squinting up at the sky. "Bloody hell, I forgot how bright it is out here. Don't tell me it's always this nice. I might just get used to this."
The Auror didn't respond, but Sirius didn't care. The world outside Azkaban was waiting for him, and he would be damned if he let anything or anyone spoil this moment.
As he took his first step out of the shadows, his lips curled into a wry grin. "Well, that was certainly an experience I won't forget. But don't get any ideas, lads. This isn't the end. Far from it."
And with that, Sirius Black walked into the light, his heart burning with a fire that no prison could ever extinguish.
—
In the cold, shadowy interior of Blackmoor Estate, the flickering firelight cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, and the faint scent of aged wood filled the air. The estate, an imposing gothic structure, felt like a relic of a bygone era, much like the men and women seated around the heavy oak table.
Arcturus Black, tall and unyielding with a regal presence that seemed to demand the respect of the very room, took a long sip from his glass of firewhisky. His voice, deep and deliberate, echoed softly through the chamber. "Sirius will be here soon," he said, eyes narrowing with a cool, calculating gaze. "We must ensure his transition back into society is as seamless as possible."
Charlus Potter, seated opposite him, chuckled softly, a dry, cutting sound. His eyes were sharp and unwavering, his expression as cold and measured as the hard-edged words that fell from his lips. "Oh, seamless, you say?" He raised an eyebrow, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a thick fog. "That's a charming sentiment, Arcturus. But I daresay, Sirius's charm may have frayed at the edges after a little time in Azkaban. He'll need more than a quick brush-up on social niceties."
Arcturus's lips twitched, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Indeed, but the boy is resilient. Even in the face of that wretched place, he's never lacked for... spirit."
Alastor Moody, sitting at the far end of the table, grunted in agreement, his magical eye swiveling wildly in its socket, casting an unsettling glance in every direction. His voice, low and gravelly, cut through the tension in the room like a blade. "Aye, resilient, sure. But Azkaban doesn't just break a man's spirit. It shreds it, chews it up, and spits it back out. And trust me, it doesn't leave a pretty picture." He paused, giving the group a hard look with his good eye. "We'll need to keep a close watch on him. Even the strongest of us don't come out of that hellhole without a few cracks."
Charlus snorted, leaning forward, his fingers steepled as he regarded Moody with a calculating look. "Oh, we'll watch him, Alastor. Just be sure not to stare too hard. You don't want to miss the meaning behind the cracks, do you?"
The two men exchanged a look, one thick with unspoken understanding. Moody didn't flinch, but his expression hardened.
Augusta Longbottom, ever the picture of dignified composure, cleared her throat. Her voice, calm yet firm, held an undertone of quiet wisdom. "And we must also consider the larger implications of Sirius's exoneration," she interjected, her gaze flicking between the men in the room. "There are those who will see his release as a sign of weakness. An opportunity to sow discord within the wizarding community. We must be prepared."
Charlus's lips curled into a thin smile, but there was nothing warm about it. "Oh, I'm not worried about that. Let them think what they want. They've been wrong about Sirius for years. What's one more time?"
Arcturus, his eyes gleaming with a predatory sharpness, gave a short, dry laugh. "We can hardly let them believe we're weak. In fact, I quite relish the thought of making them regret their assumptions."
But it was Augusta's next question that broke through the banter. "Charlus," she asked, her voice soft yet earnest, "will you be grooming Harry to become a general too?"
The room fell still. All eyes turned toward Charlus, who sat back in his chair, his fingers curling around his glass as he gave a contemplative look. A long pause stretched out, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost thoughtful. "It's a possibility," he said evenly. "But Harry is still young. Five years old, for Merlin's sake. We cannot rush things. I'll guide him... properly," he added, a sharp edge to his words, "but only when the time is right. The real work starts when he's older. Only then will we begin to train him for the responsibilities of power."
Augusta's gaze softened as she nodded, her voice filled with a quiet plea. "And Neville? When the time comes, could you also train him?"
Charlus met her gaze with an almost imperceptible nod. The weight of his promise hung heavy in the air, and his voice softened ever so slightly. "Of course, Augusta. Neville's potential is... considerable. I'll make sure he receives the same guidance, the same sharp-edged training Harry will. They'll both be ready, in time. Not a day before."
Augusta smiled, a rare warmth radiating from her otherwise stern expression. "Thank you, Charlus," she said, her voice thick with gratitude. "I trust in your wisdom and expertise to prepare them for what's to come. For the future, as it were."
Charlus's expression remained serious, but a flicker of pride gleamed in his eyes. He didn't speak again, letting his words settle in the air, but his mind was already on the future, on the steps he'd need to take to prepare Harry and Neville for the turbulent world that awaited them.
Then, as though the weight of the conversation had not quite lifted, Arcturus broke the silence with his dry, gravelly voice. "I must say, Charlus," he began, his tone almost... too composed. "I'm quite looking forward to seeing how you handle those two. After all, they will have to surpass their predecessors, won't they?"
Charlus's lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile. "I've always believed that the future is shaped by those who are bold enough to make it. And I'm sure Harry and Neville will surprise us both."
With that, the room fell into a thoughtful silence, the weight of their words settling over them. Outside, the wind howled against the ancient windows, and the flickering fire cast eerie shadows on the walls. But inside Blackmoor Estate, the future was already taking shape, one decision, one promise at a time.
—
The room fell into a tense silence as the air crackled with anticipation. The moment was broken by the sound of the door creaking open, revealing Amelia Bones. Her tall, slender frame carried an aura of quiet authority, though her face betrayed the gravity of the message she carried. With a nod to the room, she turned her gaze directly to Charlus, her voice cutting through the stillness.
"Sirius Black has been released from Azkaban," she announced, her tone firm, yet with an underlying sense of urgency. "He's on his way for processing. Once that's done, he'll be sent to St. Mungo's for treatment of prolonged Dementor exposure."
A slight twitch in Arcturus's expression signaled the beginning of his characteristic icy resolve. He immediately interjected, his voice smooth as molten steel. "Make sure Sirius's Healer on record is Andromeda Tonks. She's the best we have for treating long-term Dementor exposure. I'll not have any fool thinking otherwise." His eyes flickered to Amelia, calculating. "If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with my daughter-in-law, but be warned—she is not known for her patience."
Amelia blinked, caught slightly off-guard by the order. "But... isn't Andromeda still... you know... exiled from the family for marrying a Muggleborn?" Her confusion was evident as her brow furrowed.
Moody let out a chuckle from the corner of the room, his magical eye swiveling to lock onto Arcturus. "Ah, classic Black family drama, eh? Never a dull moment." His gravelly voice resonated in the dim room, though his tone carried a sharpness that matched his ever-watchful gaze.
Arcturus's lips curled into a thin smile, the sort that sent a chill down the spine of anyone unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end. "That was a decision made by my... 'foolish' son, Cygnus," he said, the word dripping from his tongue like poison. "It was not made by me. And as I am the head of House Black, it is my authority that counts." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Andromeda is still family. No matter how misguided those who are too blind to see it may be."
Augusta Longbottom, ever the steady presence in the room, arched an eyebrow, her voice like warm honey, but with the bite of a whip. "Oh, don't mind him, Amelia. He's just upset because Cygnus still hasn't managed to break the curse of being a 'black sheep.'" Her smile was one of knowing humor, as though Arcturus's sharp tongue had been a part of her life for far too long.
"Quite right, Augusta," Arcturus agreed, giving her a wry glance. "Not everyone has the gift of vision. Some are cursed to only see the walls of their own narrow world."
Charlus, ever the one to bring things back to the matter at hand, cleared his throat and leaned forward, his voice cutting through the banter like a well-honed blade. "Amelia," he began, his tone as cool and measured as an executioner's hand, "this is more than a matter of healing. We need to consider the broader implications of Sirius's release. There will be those who see this as a sign of weakness. And we can't afford weakness. Not now."
Amelia nodded, her lips tightening into a thin line as she absorbed the weight of Charlus's words. Her sharp eyes darted to the others in the room before she spoke again. "And what do you propose we do, Charlus? The Ministry is already on edge. This is... this is going to stir the pot."
Charlus's eyes glinted with the brilliance of a man who'd been playing this game far longer than most could fathom. "We keep our heads. We continue to move with precision. The Black Dragon Legion may not concern itself with the petty squabbles of Light and Dark factions, but there are factions that will. There are those who would see the entire system burn down to ash to claim the ashes as their own." His eyes hardened, the weight of his experience evident. "The rest of the world will follow in time, but for now, we keep control."
Arcturus snorted, his deep, resonant voice carrying a cutting edge. "Control is an illusion, Charlus, one we've both managed to maintain better than anyone else in this godforsaken realm." His voice dripped sarcasm as he glanced at Amelia. "The 'great' Voldemort, for instance, has his own illusions, does he not?"
Amelia's expression shifted to one of intense curiosity as she caught the mention of Voldemort. "You... you know something about him?"
Charlus met her gaze with the weight of a man who carried not only secrets but truths that could topple nations. "Voldemort is not the pureblood savior of wizardkind he would have us believe," he said quietly, the weight of his words like a storm gathering on the horizon. "His true name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. Born of Merope Gaunt, a descendant of Slytherin, and a Muggle named Tom Riddle. This, Amelia, is the man who claims to be the heir of our greatest wizarding heritage." He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "A half-blood, born of lies, yet he wants the world to burn for his cause. Tell me, Amelia, how does that sit with you?"
Amelia's mouth opened as she processed the revelation. The shock on her face was unmistakable as the pieces clicked into place. The air in the room seemed to grow denser as the implications sank in.
"Voldemort... a half-blood," she murmured, her voice tinged with disbelief. "And all this time—"
Moody let out a low growl, his magical eye swiveling to Amelia, interrupting her thoughts. "That's not all. You should know," he said gruffly, "it's not just his heritage. It's his obsession. The man is consumed by it. It'll be his undoing." His voice dropped to a murmur, "One way or another, it always is."
Amelia was silent for a moment, her eyes clouded with thoughts that raced faster than she could process. She shook her head, pulling herself back to the present. "Right. But now isn't the time for this discussion. We've got Sirius to manage."
Before anyone could respond, a silvery Patronus flickered into the room. It was Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice that followed, quick and urgent.
"Sirius is done with processing. We need to get to St. Mungo's now, Amelia."
Amelia nodded sharply, her face becoming a mask of determination. "Right. No time to waste."
Charlus turned to Arcturus, his face grim with the weight of responsibility. "Arcturus, you and Melania go ahead to St. Mungo's. Dorea and I will inform Harry of Sirius's exoneration before we join you."
Arcturus gave a short, sharp nod, his dark eyes gleaming with resolve. "Understood." His voice was calm, but the fire behind it was unmistakable. "We'll handle this."
As Arcturus and Melania hurried off to take charge of the next phase, the room seemed to exhale collectively, as if the tension that had built up finally found its release. Amelia, however, remained with Charlus, the weight of the next few hours pressing heavily on both their shoulders.
"Let's see this through, then," Amelia said quietly, her voice resolute as she turned to face the task ahead.
"Indeed," Charlus replied, his voice like a cold wind against the warmth of the room. "It's only just beginning."
—
Sirius Black lay on the pristine white sheets of the hospital bed, still trying to process the shock of his sudden release from Azkaban. His body, sore and bruised from years of torment, ached as he slowly shifted beneath the covers. The isolation of the prison had left its marks on him, but now, as he adjusted to the warmth of this new reality, he couldn't help but feel like he was still in some twisted dream. Just when he thought he had adjusted to his surroundings, a familiar voice called out to him.
"Andi?"
Sirius's voice, rough and hoarse, rasped through the room. His eyes, still clouded with disbelief, focused on the figure entering.
It was a healer, but there was something about her that he couldn't quite place, until she stepped fully into view. A flash of recognition hit him like a freight train, and suddenly, everything from his past came rushing back.
"Andromeda," she corrected, her voice soft but resolute, the warmth in her tone a stark contrast to the professional air she carried. "While I'm on duty, it's Healer Andromeda Tonks. But, you can call me Andi when we're not in the hospital."
Her gaze lingered on him, concern evident beneath her calm demeanor. "How are you feeling?"
Sirius couldn't help but give her a grin, the sardonic humor he was known for creeping into his voice. "Oh, you know, like I just spent five years in Azkaban. Five-star treatment. I was treated like royalty." He paused and raised an eyebrow. "Of course, 'royalty' in this case was more 'filthy prison scum' than anything resembling a royal."
Andromeda stifled a laugh, her lips twitching with the hint of a smile, but her eyes remained gentle. "Well, you certainly don't look like you've been living the high life. But don't worry, Sirius. We'll get you patched up. Now, sit tight. I'll be right back."
As she turned to leave, her voice softened, and a hint of something unspoken lingered in her words. "Our grandparents are waiting outside for you, Sirius. I know things have been... complicated, but they're here because they care."
Sirius's face faltered for a moment. He hadn't expected them—his grandparents—after everything that had happened. The Black family had always been a tempestuous mess, torn apart by old bloodlines, dark ideals, and all the bullshit that came with it. But despite all that, a small flicker of something—relief, or perhaps regret—began to swell in his chest.
"Thank you, Andi," Sirius said softly. "Could you... could you call them in?"
Andromeda nodded before slipping out of the room, leaving him to settle his thoughts. Sirius's gaze drifted over the sterile white walls of St. Mungo's, each breath coming slower than the last. He let the memories of his childhood come back unbidden.
He thought of his mother's icy disdain, of his father's inability to see past the demands of the Black family, of the suffocating environment that had driven him to flee at just fifteen years old. The Potters had been his salvation, a refuge from the darkness of the Black estate. James Potter had been more than just a friend—he had been the brother Sirius never had, a bond forged in laughter and the occasional prank that ended with a few new bruises.
But there had been consequences. Sirius had fought tooth and nail for what he believed in—freedom, justice, and a break from the oppressive traditions of his family. His connection to his grandparents had frayed over the years, strained by his departure from the Black legacy and his decision to fight for the Light. Even his connection to James, once a shared vision of rebellion, had been torn asunder by betrayals—some intentional, others not.
The quiet rustling of the door broke his reverie.
Arcturus Black strode in first, his tall frame exuding the air of a man who had weathered countless storms with dignity. His sharp features were framed by his white hair, but the most striking thing about him was his presence—intense, commanding, and unyielding. Sirius could see the years in the lines of his grandfather's face, but there was no mistaking the fire still burning in those dark eyes.
"Sirius," Arcturus said, his voice deep and gravelly, every syllable wrapped in authority. "It's been too long."
Melania Black, ever poised, stepped in behind him. She was a vision of grace and elegance, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. Her gaze, always sharp and full of emotion, softened the moment it met Sirius's. There was a flicker of something—love, perhaps, or the weight of everything unspoken—before she closed the distance between them and took his hand, holding it with a gentle but firm grip.
"Grandson," she said quietly, her voice a soothing melody that carried with it the weight of years of unexpressed sorrow. "It is good to see you."
Sirius blinked, a lump forming in his throat. For all the pain, for all the years that had passed, he was still, undeniably, their blood. His chest tightened, but he forced a smile.
"Can't say the same for you two," he quipped, voice tinged with a touch of dark humor. "Didn't expect to be getting a visit from the Black family's finest. You know, considering I'm still a bit of a pariah."
Arcturus raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching. "Still the same, I see. A master of the savage burn, as always."
Melania, not missing a beat, smirked and leaned in closer to Sirius. "You've certainly managed to perfect the art of self-deprecation over the years. Though, I would say that's one of your more charming qualities."
Sirius snorted, his smirk widening. "Oh, believe me, I'm all charm. You've both raised the bar too high, though. Now, every other family gathering feels like a disappointment."
"You always did have a knack for turning every situation into something… interesting," Arcturus observed dryly, giving his grandson a pointed look.
Melania's gaze softened, though her words were no less direct. "Sirius, there is much that has been left unsaid. But we are here, now, and we will find a way forward, if you're willing."
Sirius's heart gave a pang, but he quickly masked it with a shrug. "Yeah, I'm all about the 'moving forward' thing. Let's just hope it's not too late to fix all the damage I've caused."
As he finished speaking, Andromeda reentered, her sharp, calculating eyes assessing the room before landing on Sirius. She adjusted her healer's robes, the professional aura firmly back in place.
"Mr. and Mrs. Black, I'll need to conduct a thorough examination. The effects of Dementor exposure have taken a toll on Sirius's health. I'm afraid we'll have to ask you to step outside while I complete my assessment."
Arcturus gave Andromeda a long, measuring look, then nodded with a gruff, "Of course."
"Take care of him, granddaughter," he added softly as he turned toward the door.
Melania, squeezing Sirius's hand one last time, offered a smile full of meaning. "We'll be right outside, Sirius. Just remember, we're here for you."
Sirius nodded, watching them leave, his thoughts swirling with the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future. Andromeda's gaze lingered on him as the door closed.
"Alright, Sirius," she began, her voice taking on a more gentle, clinical tone. "Let's see what we're dealing with, shall we?"
Sirius leaned back against the pillows, his sharp features still maintaining that irreverent edge, but there was a flicker of gratitude beneath it all. "I've been through a lot, Andi. Just… don't make me have to do any more bloody tests. I've had enough needles to last a lifetime."
Andromeda smirked, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "You're lucky you're still alive, Black. I think you can handle a few more tests."
Sirius gave her a wink, his voice dripping with mockery. "I'm not sure I can handle you trying to be all professional, Healer Tonks. You're ruining the mystique."
She snorted, rolling her eyes. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you've turned surviving Azkaban into an art form. Now, let's see if you can survive my diagnostic spell."
Sirius grinned wickedly. "Survival's my thing, Andi. You just might learn a thing or two."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!