The house breathed.
Even when no one spoke, Number Twelve had a way of reminding its inhabitants that it was alive — creaking, sighing, whispering under its own weight. The old wards pulsed faintly through the walls like a second heartbeat.
Cassian didn't mind. Silence suited him.
His room had changed since early summer. The once-bare walls now held a scattered collage of photographs — some magical, others still.
A blurred shot of all of them in Mickey ears, Arya mid-laugh.
One of Talora, caught mid-spin, scarf fluttering like wings.
Another of Shya, sunlit and smirking, paint on her cheek.
The still photos — muggle ones — came from the camera Padma had gifted Talora, now shared across their group. He liked the way they stayed still. It made the memories easier to study, less alive, more his.
The house was empty tonight. His aunt was in Wiltshire with her son; Kreacher had long since gone to sulk in the kitchen. The air smelled faintly of parchment and lemon polish.
Cassian sat in the library, the fire dim, a stack of ancient volumes beside him. The Black Family Library wasn't organized by subject — it was organized by legacy. Shelves of law, politics, and bloodline history stood beside tomes on obscure charms and advanced magical theory.
At the far wall, the portrait of a sharp-eyed man in dark robes regarded him with quiet pride. Arcturus Black — his great-grandfather, the previous Lord of the House.
"Your handwriting is improving," the portrait remarked dryly.
Cassian didn't look up. "It's legible, at least."
"Legible isn't good enough," Arcturus said. "Your name carries weight. Every signature is a spell in itself."
Cassian smirked faintly, scratching another line into the parchment. "You sound like my aunt."
"She's a capable woman," Arcturus allowed, "but too sentimental. You must learn not only what to say — but when to remain silent."
Cassian set his quill down, leaning back. "I'm thirteen."
"And already more disciplined than most men twice your age," the portrait replied. "Don't waste it."
For a moment, Cassian didn't answer. His gaze drifted toward the fire — small, flickering, fragile.
The room felt larger at night. Too large.
He turned back to his notes — a careful transcription of wizarding laws and treaties — and forced himself to focus.
Still, his mind wandered.
To Disneyland.
To the sound of Shya's laugh echoing off the rides.
To Talora's voice during the fireworks, soft and steady.
To the strange peace of being seen not as a Black, but simply as Cassian.
Arcturus watched him, expression unreadable. "You've changed since I last saw you."
Cassian glanced up. "I went outside."
The old man's lips curved faintly. "Ah. The sunlight got to you, then."
"Maybe."
A pause. Then, almost softly, Arcturus said, "Keep them close — those who make you better. Our bloodline thrived because it learned too late that power without warmth turns hollow."
Cassian stilled, meeting the portrait's gaze. "You sound almost human."
"I was once," the portrait said, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
The fire burned lower. Shadows stretched across the spines of centuries-old books.
Cassian gathered his notes, extinguished his wandlight, and left the room quietly — pausing only once to glance back at the flickering faces on his wall.
In the dark, the pictures moved — faintly, like breathing.
Laughter trapped in silver and light.
A reminder of a summer that felt like it might last forever.
And then, as the clock struck midnight, he disappeared into the quiet heartbeat of the house.
The Nott estate glowed under the soft wash of moonlight — all marble columns, trimmed hedges, and the kind of symmetry that made even the night look orderly.
Inside, the drawing room was awash in warm lamplight. Crystal decanters glittered, and an old grandfather clock ticked steadily in the corner.
Roman Nott sat curled in one of the leather chairs, long legs folded, a book open in his lap — A Modern History of Magical Politics, 1849–Present.
He wasn't reading, not really. His eyes kept sliding to the photo album resting beside him.
The pages were filled with the summer — Disneyland rides, shared meals, the trip's chaos made still.
There was one of Shya pulling a face, another of Talora laughing mid-spin, Luna's hair tangled by wind, and the boys grinning behind her.
He hadn't told anyone he'd developed the muggle photos himself.
"Roman," came his mother's voice, smooth and even. "Still awake?"
He looked up. Eugenia Nott stood in the doorway, wrapped in a soft silk robe, her expression a mix of affection and faint disapproval. Behind her, his father appeared — Adrian Nott, sharp as ever, his posture an unspoken critique.
"It's nearly midnight," she said gently, crossing to him. "You've been in here for hours."
"I was reading," Roman said, closing the book.
His father's eyes flicked to the cover. "Politics?"
Roman nodded. "I figured it wouldn't hurt."
"It never does," his father said, though his tone made it sound like an obligation rather than encouragement. "You'll be expected to understand the currents that shape our world."
Mrs. Nott settled into the chair opposite him, hands folded neatly in her lap. "He's thirteen, Ad."
"And he's a Nott," his father replied simply.
Roman smiled faintly, resting his chin on his knuckles. "Sometimes I forget which part is supposed to come first."
That earned him a sharp look from his father — but his mother hid a soft laugh behind her hand.
"You're growing up too quickly," she said, eyes warm. "You used to stay up late reading fairy tales."
"Maybe I still do," Roman said.
His father's gaze softened, though only slightly. "I saw your practice essays. Sharp work. Keep your head clear, and you'll do well at Hogwarts."
There it was again — the pride that always came filtered through performance.
"Thank you, Father."
Mr. Nott lingered for a moment, then nodded to both of them before retreating upstairs.
When the sound of his footsteps faded, his mother leaned forward slightly. "He means well, you know. He just doesn't always know how to say it."
Roman smiled, small but real. "I know. I think I've just spent too much time with people who do know how to say it."
Her eyes flicked to the photos. "Your friends?"
He nodded. "They're… different."
She tilted her head, studying him — her clever son, half her warmth and half his father's steel. "Different is good. The world changes, Roman. It always has. I'd rather you lead it than chase it."
He blinked, startled by the weight of her words. "That sounds like something Grandfather would've said."
Her smile was wistful. "He'd approve."
Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable but layered — the way it often did in this house.
Finally, she stood, brushing his hair gently out of his eyes. "Get some sleep, love. You'll make yourself sick staying up this late."
"I will," he promised.
When she was gone, Roman lingered a little longer, turning back to the photo album.
The fire crackled softly, throwing gold across the pictures — their laughter frozen midair, their joy out of place in this perfect, polished world.
He traced a finger along one — the group in front of the castle, sunlight spilling across them.
Different is good, his mother had said.
Roman leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time that night, allowed himself to imagine a future where different didn't mean dangerous — just free.
The clock chimed softly.
Somewhere far away, London slept.
And above the faint rustle of the Wiltshire wind, Roman smiled — small, quiet, secret.
The scream tore through the house like a curse splitting the air.
Cassian sat bolt upright, heart pounding. Kreacher's shrill voice echoed through the old corridors, warped by fury and grief.
Then came another — shrieking, venomous, unmistakably his grandmother's portrait, the drapery thrashing as if alive.
"FILTH! TRAITOR! BLOOD BETRAYER! YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED WITH THEM—!"
Cassian's wand was in his hand before he could think.
He tore from his room, bare feet silent on the steps, his pulse hammering like spellfire. The air was thick with dust and memory — the kind that clung to your skin, that never quite died.
"Kreacher!" he barked, rounding the landing. "What's going on—"
He stopped.
There, at the base of the stairs, stood a man — gaunt, hollow-eyed, half-wild. His cloak hung in tatters. His face was leaner, sharper, but the resemblance was undeniable.
Those eyes — silver-grey, storm-tossed — were the same as his own.
Cassian froze. "Who are you?"
Kreacher was trembling beside the hearth, spitting venom. "The traitor! The blood disgrace! The Master's shame—"
The man's voice cut through the noise, hoarse and rough, but steady.
"Cassian."
The sound of his name broke something inside him.
"I—" Cassian's throat closed. "You can't be real."
"I'm real enough," Sirius said. "And I shouldn't be here. But I had to see you."
Cassian's wand trembled in his hand. "You're— you're supposed to be in Azkaban. You—"
"I escaped," Sirius said simply. "Last week."
Cassian shook his head. "No, that's impossible."
A bitter half-smile flickered across Sirius's lips. "So was surviving thirteen years of Dementors. But here I am."
The portrait of Walburga Black screamed again, her words shattering against the walls. "DISGRACE! YOU KILLED YOUR BROTHER! YOU BROKE OUR BLOOD!"
"ENOUGH!" Cassian roared, blasting a silencing charm so powerful it cracked the glass sconces.
The house fell into stunned quiet. Only the faint crackle of the dying fire remained.
Sirius's gaze softened. "You've got my temper."
Cassian glared at him. "Don't— don't do that. Don't stand there and talk like we're family. You don't get to."
Sirius's expression faltered. "You're right. I don't. But I need you to listen."
"Why?" Cassian snapped. "So you can tell me you betrayed your best friend? My aunt told me everything — how you killed Peter Pettigrew, how you— how you murdered those Muggles—"
"I didn't," Sirius said sharply, the words slicing through the air. "Merlin's bones, Cass, do you really think I could have done that? That I would have sold James and Lily to Voldemort?"
Cassian's breath hitched. He had rehearsed this confrontation in his head since he was old enough to understand what his name meant — but he hadn't expected to be shaken.
Sirius's voice cracked with anger and exhaustion. "It was that rat! Peter Pettigrew. He was the Secret Keeper, not me. I would have died before giving them up."
Cassian's mind reeled. "You— you mean—"
"I begged them," Sirius said, his voice raw. "Begged them to let me be the Keeper. But Peter— he was harmless. Or so we thought." He gave a hollow laugh. "I trusted him. And he killed them."
The words slammed into Cassian like a blow.
He felt sick. "You're saying the Ministry—"
"Locked up the wrong man."
Silence.
Kreacher whimpered in the corner. Sirius ignored him, eyes fixed on his son. "I went after Pettigrew. Found him on the street. He blew up half the block — killed twelve Muggles — and left his own finger behind. He framed me and vanished. They caught me before I could speak a word."
Cassian swallowed hard. "And no trial."
"None."
His voice was cold, steady, a confession sharpened by years of pain. "They threw me in a cell and called it justice."
Cassian's hand fell to his side, wand forgotten. His mind spun. "And my mother?"
Sirius's jaw tightened. "She fought. When they came for you."
Cassian's breath stuttered. "I was just a baby."
Sirius nodded slowly. "They thought killing you would make a point. Olivia—"
He stopped, his voice breaking. "She stood between you and them. She took the Killing Curse meant for her son."
Cassian's knees nearly gave out. He gripped the banister like an anchor. "And no one— no one told me that?"
"I told Andromeda," Sirius said. "She kept you safe. She made them believe you'd been taken in by the Black estate as an heir, not a child they needed to kill."
Cassian's chest ached. "So she died protecting me. And you— rotted in a cell for something you didn't do."
Sirius smiled — thin, ghostly, and devastating. "Seems like a family tradition, doesn't it?"
Cassian blinked back tears. "Why come back now?"
Sirius reached into his pocket and withdrew a photograph — creased and weather-worn, edges softened by years.
In it, a younger Sirius was holding a baby wrapped in blue blankets, his smile wild and unguarded. Olivia sat beside him, radiant, brushing her son's hair off his forehead.
Sirius's voice was barely a whisper. "Because I couldn't die without seeing you again."
Cassian took the photo, his fingers trembling. His reflection in the glass — the same grey eyes, the same shape of jaw.
He looked up. "You can't leave."
Sirius blinked. "Cassian—"
"No." His voice sharpened, desperate. "This is your house. You're a BLACK! The wards will protect you. No one will know."
Sirius shook his head. "It's too dangerous. If they find me here—"
"Let them try." Cassian's eyes blazed. "You think I care what the Ministry wants? I've lived my whole life under their lies. I'm not losing you too."
Sirius's mouth parted, words failing him.
Cassian stepped closer, holding the photo between them. "You said this house is cursed? Then let's uncurse it."
The silence that followed was heavy — not fearful, not empty, but full of something Cassian hadn't felt in years. Hope.
Sirius reached out — slow, uncertain — and cupped the back of his son's head. His thumb brushed a strand of hair from Cassian's face, the same way Olivia once had.
"You really are hers," he murmured.
Cassian swallowed hard. "And yours."
Sirius let out a shaky laugh. "Merlin help me."
They both sank onto the old sofa by the fire. The embers burned low, shadows flickering across the walls — but for the first time in decades, the house didn't feel dead.
Kreacher hovered in the doorway, muttering under his breath, but even he didn't dare disturb the quiet.
Sirius turned the photograph in his hands one last time. "She would have loved to see this."
Cassian leaned back, exhaustion finally catching up to him. "Then we'll make her proud."
Sirius looked over at him — at the boy who carried both his fire and her grace — and for the first time since Azkaban, he smiled.
"Together," he said.
The clock struck four. The old house creaked, settling into silence.
And for the first time in years, Sirius Black was home.
The fire had burned low, painting the walls in exhausted gold.
For the first time since childhood, Cassian felt the house breathe — slower, quieter, alive.
Sirius leaned back in the old armchair, eyes half-lidded, staring into nothing. His hands trembled where they rested on his knees.
"Thirteen years," he murmured, voice ragged. "You start counting the cracks on the wall. The screams of the other prisoners. You try to remember what your own voice sounds like."
He looked up at his son, eyes fever-bright. "You were the only thing that didn't fade."
Cassian's throat tightened. "You survived for me."
Sirius gave a hollow laugh. "I survived for revenge. But you kept me human."
Then his words trailed off.
He blinked once, slow. His shoulders slumped.
"Sirius?"
No answer.
Cassian's heart stuttered. "Dad?"
Sirius swayed forward — and collapsed.
Cassian caught him before he hit the floor. The weight was shockingly light, the bones sharp beneath the torn fabric. His father's skin was burning and cold at once, his breath shallow.
"Dad!" Cassian's voice cracked. "Merlin, no— Kreacher! KREACHER!"
The elf appeared instantly, eyes wide. "Master calls—"
"Get Andromeda Tonks," Cassian snapped. "Now!"
Kreacher flinched. "She is a blood traitor, she—"
"Now!" Cassian roared. His magic flared, rippling through the room — the air itself humming with command. The ancient wards stirred, recognizing a master's order.
"And listen to me, Kreacher." Cassian's voice dropped, low and dangerous. "From this moment, you will never repeat a single word of what happens in this house — not to another Black, not to anyone. Not even under oath. I command it."
The air shuddered. The binding magic wrapped around the elf like iron.
Kreacher bowed, trembling. "As Master commands."
"Go!"
With a crack, the elf vanished.
Cassian knelt, supporting Sirius's head in his lap. His father's breath came in shallow, stuttering gasps. The tattoo on his arm — the faded Black crest — seemed to pulse faintly, the magic of his lineage flickering weakly in the candlelight.
Cassian whispered, "Stay with me. You're safe. Please—"
The fire guttered out.
And then, with another soft crack, Andromeda Tonks appeared — still in her dressing gown, wand drawn, eyes widening at the sight before her.
"Oh, stars above," she breathed, rushing forward. "Cassian, what have you done?"
"He collapsed," Cassian said, voice breaking. "He— he's here, he's alive—"
"I can see that," she said, already kneeling beside him. She pressed two fingers to Sirius's throat, then flicked her wand. Dozens of softly glowing vials appeared around them, rolling to a halt on the rug.
"Help me lift him."
Cassian obeyed. Together, they levitated Sirius onto the couch. Andromeda began her work — whispered incantations, green-gold light blooming from her wand, potions measured with precise, trembling fingers.
Each one hissed and sparked against Sirius's lips before sinking in.
"He's dehydrated. Starved. Magical depletion at dangerous levels," she muttered. "Typical of Azkaban exposure. Thirteen years of it, I can't— Merlin, I thought—"
Her voice faltered, but she didn't stop.
Cassian stood motionless, shaking, useless. "Is he—"
"He's alive," Andromeda said firmly. "Barely. But alive."
A faint pulse of light rippled across Sirius's skin — his magic stabilizing under her spells. His breathing evened, still ragged but steady.
Andromeda exhaled. "That's the worst of it for now."
Cassian blinked rapidly. "He— he said it was Pettigrew. That he was the traitor."
Her eyes flicked up, sharp. "He's telling the truth. I always believed that. The Ministry never wanted proof, only closure."
Cassian swallowed hard, emotion catching in his throat. "He's all I have left."
Andromeda's gaze softened. "And you're all he has left. Which means you need to rest if you want to help him."
"I can't leave—"
She raised her wand. "You can and you will. Sleep charm, Cassian. Don't fight it."
The world went soft around the edges. Cassian tried to protest, but his knees gave way. The last thing he saw was Andromeda's silhouette over Sirius, her wand glowing like a heartbeat in the dark.
Sunlight streamed through the tall, grimy windows of the Black library, catching dust motes that floated like flecks of gold.
Cassian stirred awake on the chaise, throat dry, limbs heavy. The scent of antiseptic potions lingered in the air.
"Good morning, nephew," Andromeda's voice said from the doorway.
Cassian pushed himself up. "Is he—?"
"Stable," she said, crossing the room with a small tray. "Eat something before you fall over. Tea, eggs, toast. I'm not arguing."
He blinked, and for once, obeyed. His hands were still shaking. "He looked— dead."
"He's stronger than he looks," she said quietly. "But Azkaban doesn't let anyone walk away whole. It drains the soul itself. You've seen what it did to his brother."
Cassian's jaw clenched. "And yet he came home."
Andromeda smiled faintly. "Because of you."
He finished the toast mechanically, barely tasting it. The moment she set the tray aside, he was already on his feet.
"Where?"
"Upstairs," she said. "Second guest room, south wing."
Cassian was halfway up the stairs before she finished.
The door creaked softly open.
Sirius lay in bed, half-buried under a heap of blankets, his hair finally clean, his skin pale against the dark pillows. The sunlight cut across his face, softening the sharp lines carved by years of stone and shadow.
He stirred as Cassian entered, eyes fluttering open.
For a heartbeat, father and son just looked at each other.
"Hey," Sirius rasped, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "You look like hell."
Cassian huffed a laugh that broke halfway through. "You're one to talk."
Sirius smiled weakly. "I hear I've got you to thank for saving my life."
Cassian sat on the edge of the bed, the photo from last night clutched in his hand. "You're not dying on me. Not now."
Sirius's eyes softened. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Andromeda appeared in the doorway, watching them both — the last living Black who'd chosen love over power, and the one who still could.
She smiled, weary but proud. "The House of Black has seen enough ghosts. It's time for it to start seeing light."
Cassian reached for his father's hand. "Then we'll start now."
Sirius squeezed it, weak but certain. "Together."
And for the first time in two generations, the old house seemed to exhale — as though, somewhere deep within its walls, it knew redemption had finally walked back through its doors.
Two weeks passed, and 12 Grimmauld Place had begun to stir back to life.Gone was the cold, heavy silence of neglect. Dust no longer lingered on the banisters. Curtains once drawn in mourning now let in shy strands of sunlight.For the first time in decades, the house of Black was awake — cautious, but alive.
Cassian had thrown himself into the work.He'd scrubbed away the grime, burned out the cobwebs, and replaced the scent of decay with sandalwood and smoke.
Sirius, though still gaunt and pale, had started walking the halls again — sometimes leaning on the banister for balance, sometimes pacing restlessly like a man who couldn't stand still in his own skin.
When the restlessness grew too sharp, he vanished into his Animagus form, the great black dog prowling the halls in silence — the sound of claws against marble echoing softly through the house. It wasn't for disguise; it was for grounding.
The dog was the part of him that survived the screaming walls of Azkaban — the fragment that could still breathe when the man could not.
Sometimes, Cassian would hear the soft huff of Padfoot settling near the library hearth. When Sirius returned to himself, there'd be soot on his hands, exhaustion in his face — but a faint steadiness that hadn't been there before.
And then they'd sit, side by side, and talk.
"Your mother," Sirius said one afternoon, tracing a finger along the spine of an old tome, "believed in the kind of magic that breathes. The kind that binds, not breaks.
She used to say, 'Wands are tools. Magic is what lives in us.'"
Cassian watched him quietly, elbows resting on the table. "She sounds like someone who saw past the glamour of bloodlines."
"She did," Sirius said softly. "That's what made her the best of us — and why she didn't belong anywhere but beside me."
His smile faltered. "And why she died too soon."
Cassian glanced down at the book before him — The Lineage of Ancient Houses. "I used to think 'Toujours Pur' meant what everyone said it did. Always pure. Always superior."
Sirius gave a dry laugh. "That's what my mother wanted it to mean."
Cassian shook his head. "But Great-Grandfather Arcturus said something else. He told me that before the family lost its way, it meant 'Always True.'"
Sirius's eyes lifted. "Always true?"
"To magic," Cassian said quietly. "To self. He said the Blacks were never meant to be proud of their blood — but of their fire. To be a Black meant to live unmasked, without apology, without fear of what you are."
Sirius's lips twitched into something like pride. "You spoke to Arcturus's portrait, didn't you?"
"He practically raised me," Cassian admitted. "Taught me more about this family than anyone alive."
Sirius leaned back, thoughtful. "Then he was right. Magic without truth rots. That's what happened to them.
They forgot that to be powerful doesn't mean to rule — it means to endure."
Cassian looked at his father — this man who'd endured the worst hell imaginable and still spoke of love and choice. And for the first time, he felt it: not shame, not burden — but pride.
"I'll make the name mean something again," he said, voice low but firm.
Sirius met his gaze, eyes soft but fierce. "You already have."
Shya Kaur Gill flopped onto her bed, her phone lighting up with unanswered messages.
Cassian 🐍 — 27 texts unanswered.
1 read receipt, 0 replies.
"Unacceptable," she muttered, sitting up cross-legged. Haneera's head popped up from her lap, golden eyes blinking.
She hit Facetime again, only to be sent straight to voicemail.
Across the screen, Talora's face appeared in a video call bubble. Her braid was loose, Pando snoring behind her. "He's still not answering?"
Shya threw up her hands. "It's been two weeks, Bob. Two! He hasn't replied to anyone. I even tried the creepy photo messages with filters. Nothing."
Roman's voice crackled through as he joined the group call, lying dramatically on his bed. "Maybe he's in a coma. Or hiding from your daily essay-length texts."
"I don't send essay-length texts!" Shya protested.
Talora smirked. "You literally sent, 'Are you alive, have you eaten, are you avoiding us, or have you been kidnapped by Death Eaters?'"
Shya shrugged. "Valid questions."
Roman rubbed his temple. "Look, he's not dead. I'd know."
"How?"
"Because his family's wards would've screamed about it," Roman said simply. "Not even the Ministry could touch that house without permission."
"Then maybe he's hurt," Talora said softly, worry threading her tone. "Something must have happened. He wouldn't just vanish."
There was a pause — then Shya's eyes narrowed, determined. "So we go check."
Roman blinked. "You mean go to 12 Grimmauld Place?"
"Exactly."
He sat up. "You realize it's hidden, right? The entire house literally doesn't exist to people who aren't keyed in."
"You're keyed in," Shya countered. "You said so last Christmas when he invited you for dinner."
"That was before—"
"Before what?"
Roman sighed. "Before the wards got redone. Only direct blood or chosen access works now."
"Then key us in," Shya said, as if it were obvious.
Talora grinned. "I second that. We're not letting him isolate himself."
Roman ran a hand through his hair. "You two are insane."
"And you love it," Shya said sweetly.
He groaned. "Fine. But if the wards kill us, I'm haunting both of you."
"Deal," Shya said, already grabbing her jacket. "We leave tonight."
Cassian was sitting by the fire again, parchment scattered before him. Sirius dozed in the armchair beside him, the flickering light casting soft lines over his face. The house was quiet — warm, almost gentle.
For the first time in his life, Cassian felt like he belonged.
But in the quiet, his phone buzzed once on the table — ignored.
A message glowed on the screen:
Shya 🪶: "If you think you can ghost me forever, you've got another thing coming."
Talora 🌙: "Roman's plotting the route. See you soon."
Cassian glanced at it, the corner of his mouth twitching.
For the first time in weeks, he smiled.