Chapter Text
It started with a book.
It wasn’t even a particularly interesting one to look at, not like the Monster Book of Monsters, all snapping teeth and temper, or the elaborate, shifting cover of Hogwarts: A History (250th edition). This one was… ordinary.
Plain, even.
The sort of book that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a shelf in a Muggle home.
If not for the title.
Embossed in faint, worn lettering across the front:
Old Magicks and How to Use Them.
Harry grinned as he opened the letter that had come with it, knowing without looking that it was from Sirius. His godfather had been sending him more and more letters lately, and he hoped it meant something. Maybe that he was close to leaving Privet Drive behind forever.
The letter unfolded itself.
Harry,
Found this book with some of my old things. Might be interesting for you. Speak soon.
Snuffles.
Harry shrugged, folding the letter shut before turning back to the book. Maybe he should have known better. Sirius didn’t often think about risk. Or the future.
The book didn’t react.
But something did.
A low, quiet hum settled into the air around him, soft and steady, singing, almost. Like Old Magic.
Like Hogwarts.
Harry stilled, fingers resting lightly against the cover, listening without quite meaning to.
Then he opened it.
His eyes skimmed the first page.
The Ways of Magick Moste Ancient.
Written by Septimius Blackthorne, 1662.
It wasn’t like reading about magic was against the law. No one was going to expel him for reading. As long as he didn’t perform any he’d be fine.
Let no unlearned hande unseal these leaves, nor idle minde presume upon their contents; for Magick, in its eldest forme, is not a thing to be toyed with, but a current moste deepe and perilous, which runneth beneath the worlde as blood beneath the skinne.
– Septimius Blackthorne, Anno Domini 1662.
Editor’s Preface to the Revised Edition
The Ways of Old Magicks and How To Use Them
Compiled and adapted for modern instruction
The previous is an extract from the original edition of this work. While of considerable historical and theoretical value, Blackthorne’s writing reflects a pre-modern understanding of magical practice, and is therefore often inaccessible, if not impractical, for the contemporary reader.
In the centuries since its composition, magical theory has developed significantly. Where Blackthorne describes “accordance” in abstract and often esoteric terms, modern scholarship has refined this concept into something more readily understood and, importantly, applied.
For the purposes of this revised edition, “accordance” will be referred to as resonance.
Resonance describes the alignment between the practitioner’s internal state and the magical effect they intend to produce. Unlike wand-based spellcasting, which relies on codified incantations and controlled magical output, Old Magic operates through this alignment. It is not commanded in the traditional sense, but elicited.
This distinction is critical.
A practitioner cannot simply decide to produce an effect. They must instead recreate — with sufficient clarity and intensity — the conditions under which that effect naturally occurs. Emotion, memory, intent, and identity all play a role in this process, and must be considered functional components of the working rather than incidental influences.
For example:
Where a modern spell might produce flame through incantation and wand movement, an Old Magic working requires the practitioner to establish a state consistent with fire — intensity, consumption, transformation. Without this alignment, the working will fail.
With it, the result may be achieved without word or wand.
It should be noted that such practices are not without risk.
As Blackthorne correctly observes, prolonged alignment with a given state may produce lasting effects upon the practitioner. These changes are not always immediately apparent, but may accumulate over time, particularly with repeated use.
Accordingly, this text does not present Old Magic as a replacement for modern magical practice, but as a specialised discipline requiring caution, control, and a thorough understanding of its underlying principles.
The following chapters have been structured to provide that understanding.
Proceed with care.
– Lord Elias Greengrass, Anno Domini 1923
Harry hummed under his breath as he perused the chapter list.
Contents
Editor’s Preface — On the Adaptation of Pre-Modern Magical Theory
- On Resonance and the Nature of Magical Alignment
- The Limitations of Wand-Based Spellwork
- States of Being: Emotion, Memory, and Identity as Catalysts
- Why Most Wizards Cannot Perform Old Magic (And Why They Should Not Try)
- Fire — On Consumption, Transformation, and What Remains
- Water — On Stillness, Depth, and the Weight of Unmoved Things
- Earth — On Endurance, Burial, and Memory That Does Not Fade
- Air — On Movement, Absence, and That Which Cannot Be Held
- Blood — On Inheritance, Sacrifice, and the Persistence of Claim
- Place — On Loci of Power and the Memory of Land
- Names — On True Identity, Ownership, and the Act of Unmaking
- Time — On Echoes, Repetition, and Things That Refuse to End
- Death — On Thresholds, Boundaries, and What Waits Beyond
- Silence — On Absence, Severance, and the Undoing of Magic
- Hunger — On Want, Taking, and That Which Cannot Be Satisfied
- Reflection — On Mirrors, Doubles, and the Fracturing of Self
- Constructing a Working Without Incantation
- Maintaining Control During Resonant Alignment
- Recognising Magical Feedback, Drift, and Contamination
- Recovery, Detachment, and the Question of Whether the Self Remains
Appendix I: Recorded Instances of Successful Working
Appendix II: Failures (Selected and Otherwise)
Appendix III: Signs of Irreversible Resonance Drift
Appendix IV: On the Difficulty of Stopping Once Begun
Well he certainly would not be touching chapter nine, or thirteen. But… the rest of them would be fine, he thought. More than fine. Surely there was no problem with working with the elements. He’d heard Professor Binns talking about them. Something covered in History of Magic couldn’t be dangerous, or dark.
He turned the page.
Or, rather, he tried to. The paper resisted for a moment beneath his fingers, not stiff, exactly, but slow. As though it were not quite ready to move.
Harry frowned, shifting his grip, and pushed a little harder.
The page slipped free.
A soft whisper of parchment, too quiet to be anything more than ordinary. The book settling, perhaps. Old binding. Warped spine.
Harry stilled.
The pages moved again.
Not quickly. Not all at once. One after another, lifting and falling with careful precision, as though guided by a hand he could not see. The sound of them was wrong, too measured, too deliberate. Not the loose flutter of paper, but something closer to breath.
He didn’t touch it. Didn’t move. The book stopped.
Silence settled over the room, thick and waiting.
Harry looked down.
Chapter Nine
Blood — On Inheritance, Sacrifice, and the Persistence of Claim
There are magicks which may be shaped by worde, and others by will alone; yet of all that lieth beneath the skinne of the worlde, ancient, restless, and unbound, none answereth so readily, nor with such certainty, as that which runneth beneath thine own, and hath ever run there, whether thou wouldst know it or no.
– Septimius Blackthorne, Anno Domini 1662
Harry shuddered a little, not that most of whatever Blackthorne was going on about actually made sense but.. He knew blood magic, a little, had heard it whispered about in the hallways. None of anything said about it was good. But he couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop reading.
Supplementary Notes on Blood-Working
Magistra Helena Selwyn, 1923
The preceding account, while characteristically evocative, reflects a pre-systematic understanding of blood as a magical medium. Blackthorne is correct in his central assertion: blood retains memory, and may act as both conduit and anchor in advanced workings. However, his treatment of the subject is imprecise, and his emphasis on mysticism obscures several practical considerations.
Blood is not merely symbolic.
It is functional.
Where modern spellcraft relies upon the externalisation of magic through wand and incantation, blood-working operates through internalised alignment. The practitioner is not directing magic outward, but permitting it to recognise and act upon what is already present.
In this respect, blood may be understood as a point of convergence between identity and effect.
This has several implications.
First, blood renders certain workings inherently specific. Unlike standard charms, which may be applied broadly, blood-bound magic will tend toward particularity. It answers most readily to the one from whom it is drawn, and to that which bears a meaningful relation to them.
Second, blood increases stability.
A properly constructed working, anchored in blood, is significantly more resistant to degradation over time. This is of particular relevance in the construction of protections, wards, and bindings intended to persist beyond the immediate presence of the caster.
Third, and most frequently misunderstood, is the question of cost.
Blood does not function as a currency in the simplistic sense often implied in earlier texts. It is not the quantity of blood which determines efficacy, but the clarity of the alignment it represents. Excess is unnecessary. Precision is sufficient.
That said—
Repeated reliance upon blood as a medium may produce cumulative effects upon the practitioner. These are typically subtle, and may include increased sensitivity to certain forms of magic, as well as a tendency toward fixation within particular resonant states.
Such effects are not, in themselves, cause for concern.
They should, however, be observed.
He thought about closing the book for a moment. The clock on his nightstand showed just past midnight, his eyes were getting itchy and his shoulders ached from sitting hunched over in bed. But. The book almost seemed to call to him. Urging him onward. The pages almost turning on their own.
Procedure: Self-Anchored Protective Working (Blood-Bound)
The practitioner must first determine, with precision, the boundary to be protected. This may be a physical threshold or a defined space, but it must be fixed clearly in the mind. Indistinct boundaries will produce indistinct results.
Alignment must then be established. This is not a general desire for safety, but a certainty that the boundary will hold. Consider not what is to be protected, but what must not be permitted to cross. Hesitation will weaken the working.
—Don’t be vague. It takes you at your word.
(R.A.B.)
A single point along the boundary should be selected to act as the anchor. The practitioner must create a small breach of the skin and apply one drop of blood directly to this point. Contact must be intentional, and alignment maintained.
No incantation is required. Once anchored, the working will recognise the practitioner and the defined boundary, and respond accordingly. This may present as resistance or refusal at the threshold.
Initial testing should be minimal. Excessive force is not recommended.
Self-anchored protections will recognise the practitioner as congruent with the boundary. Others may encounter resistance depending on the clarity of the working.
Removal may be achieved through disruption of the anchor point or dissolution of alignment. The latter is not always immediate.
It sounded easy enough. There was no casting. He wouldn’t be caught. The trace only really recognised spell casting. And he wouldn’t be doing any of that.
Harry read the instructions once, then again, slower. Not because he didn’t understand them, but because he wanted to be certain he understood them properly.
It wasn’t complicated. That was the thing. No wand movements, no incantations, no long chains of steps to memorise. Just clarity. A boundary. A point. A drop.
The boundary, as described, did not require a structure. It did not require a space.
Only definition.
Harry’s gaze dropped briefly to his own hands, then steadied.
That would do.
What must not be permitted to cross.
The thought came cleanly, without hesitation.
Anything that would harm him.
There was no need to elaborate. No need to justify. The idea settled easily, precise and contained.
He thought of locked doors. Of hands on his shoulder. Of all the things that had crossed the line before anyone ever thought to stop them.
A single point.
Harry turned his wand in his hand and pressed the tip lightly against the pad of his thumb. A brief sting, sharp but manageable, and then a bead of red welled up, bright against his skin. He watched it for a moment, steady and focused, before pressing his thumb just below his wrist, where the pulse beat faint and steady beneath the surface.
Contact.
He held it there, maintaining the alignment, the certainty of the boundary and the condition he had set. His skin. His body. The line that separated it from everything beyond. Nothing else intruded. No doubt. No distraction.
The hum returned, not around him this time, but through him.
Harry drew in a slow breath as something shifted, not forced, not summoned, but recognised. The magic did not build or surge. It settled. It took shape along the definition he had given it, threading quietly through him with an ease that felt almost inevitable.
He did not move until it was done.
When he finally pulled his hand away, the mark remained faintly visible against his skin, darker than it should have been, as though it had sunk deeper than the surface. Harry wiped his thumb absently against his sleeve, then flexed his fingers, testing.
At first, nothing felt different.
Then something changed.
A subtle awareness.
Not a sensation exactly, but the absence of one. As though there was now a distinction where none had been before, a line drawn so cleanly he could not see it, only feel the certainty of its existence.
Harry reached for the quill on the bedside table and turned it between his fingers, considering. After a moment, he pressed the tip lightly against the back of his hand.
It didn’t break the skin.
He applied more pressure. The nib bent, catching slightly, but still it did not pierce. There was no sting, no resistance in the way he expected, only a quiet, absolute refusal.
Harry stilled, watching.
He shifted his grip and tried again, more deliberately this time. Nothing. The quill slipped, useless. Slowly, Harry lowered his hand.
It had worked.
Exactly as described.
He sat there for a moment longer, flexing his fingers once more, then resting his hand loosely against his knee. The awareness remained, faint but constant, like the edge of something just beyond sight. Not intrusive. Not uncomfortable.
Simply present.
Harry looked down at himself, at the unmarked skin, the steady line of his wrist.
Protected.
ᛟ • ᛟ • ᛟ
The knock came precisely at ten. Not loud, not hesitant either, just three even taps against the front door that seemed to settle into the house rather than disturb it.
Harry was already in the hallway. His trunk sat by the stairs, Hedwig’s cage beside it, everything packed the night before with quiet efficiency. Aunt Petunia had watched most of it from the kitchen doorway, saying nothing, which had somehow been worse.
“Boy,” Uncle Vernon snapped from the sitting room, “see who that is.”
Harry didn’t answer. He opened the door.
Remus Lupin stood on the step, coat a little worn, hair threaded through with more silver than Harry remembered. He looked exactly the same, and not at all. There was something steadier about him now, something that suggested he was very deliberately choosing how much of himself to show.
“Harry,” he said, with a small, genuine smile.
“Professor,” Harry replied automatically, then paused. “Remus.”
Something in Remus’s expression shifted at that, not surprise exactly, but approval.
“May I come in?” he asked, glancing past Harry into the house as though it were a mildly interesting specimen.
Harry stepped aside. Remus crossed the threshold, and the air seemed to adjust around him, subtle enough that no one else would notice, but present all the same. His gaze flicked once to the walls, the ceiling, the narrow hallway, and then back to Harry, amused in a way that didn’t quite reach his mouth.
“Well,” he said softly, “it’s exactly as welcoming as I thought.”
Uncle Vernon appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, already flushed. “What is the meaning of this? Who are you?”
“Remus Lupin,” Remus said pleasantly. “I’m here to collect Harry.”
“You most certainly are not,” Vernon snapped. “Coming on to my property without so much as a ‘by your leave’. The audacity. I’ll—”
Harry didn’t look at him. Remus did.
There was nothing threatening in it. No raised voice, no wand. Just a steady, attentive look that seemed to narrow the space around Vernon until he was the only thing in it.
“I assure you,” Remus said, mildly, “that Harry will be leaving with me today.”
Petunia had come up behind Vernon now, her eyes sharp and searching. “And where exactly do you think you’re taking him?”
“To stay with family,” Remus said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
That made her hesitate. Harry saw it, the flicker of uncertainty she tried to hide.
“Family,” she scoffed.
Remus inclined his head. “Yes. We do try to keep track of our own.”
Vernon huffed, bristling. “This is highly irregular. No paperwork, no warning—”
“You were informed,” Remus said.
“I was not!” Vernon snapped, colour rising in his face.
Remus paused, as though considering that very seriously. Then he inclined his head slightly.
“Then allow me to correct that oversight,” he said. “You have been informed. I am informing you now.”
For a moment, Vernon simply stared at him, caught between outrage and the uncomfortable sense that arguing further might not go the way he wanted.
Remus held his gaze, calm and unyielding, and then, just as deliberately, looked away.
Harry stepped forward, picking up his trunk. “I’m ready.”
Petunia’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and searching, as though she expected to find something different and couldn’t quite work out what.
“You’ll be back,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
Harry paused. The house seemed to hold itself very still.
“Probably,” he said. The answer came easily, not reluctant, not eager, just certain.
Vernon made a dismissive noise. “Well, go on then. Off with you. And don’t expect us to—”
Remus reached for Harry’s trunk before he could finish, lifting it with more ease than he should have managed. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, in a tone that suggested the word had been chosen very carefully.
Harry picked up Hedwig’s cage. She clicked her beak softly, feathers ruffling, then settled when he steadied it.
Neither of them looked back as they stepped out onto the street. The door closed behind them with a heavy, final sound, and the air outside felt different immediately. Open. Uncontained.
They walked in silence for a few moments. Remus adjusted his grip on the trunk, then glanced sideways at Harry. “Train,” he said. “I thought we might attempt to be civilised about it.”
Harry nodded. “That’s fine.”
“Good,” Remus said. “Brooms tend to attract attention, and I’ve been told I’m a poor influence.”
Harry glanced at him. “You’ve been told that?”
“Frequently,” Remus agreed, entirely unbothered.
They moved through the station with practiced ease, the noise and movement flowing around them rather than disrupting them. The train carried them out of Surrey and into something denser, older, the city rising up in layers beyond the window.
“You’ve been studying,” Remus said after a while, not looking at him.
“Learning,” Harry replied.
Remus hummed softly, as though that distinction mattered. “Yes,” he said. “That’s rather what I thought.”
He didn’t ask anything else. The quiet that followed wasn’t empty, just shared.
By the time they reached the Underground, the air had changed again, warmer, closer, threaded through with something older beneath the noise of the city. Remus navigated it easily, steady without seeming to try.
“Nearly there,” he said as they surfaced again, the sky lower and the buildings pressing in a little closer.
Harry nodded. He could feel it now, a tightening in the air ahead, something that recognised him even before he could see it.
“Here,” Remus said.
The gap between the houses stretched. Brick unfolded, windows slid into place, and Number Twelve Grimmauld Place settled into existence as though it had always been there.
Harry stopped.
He looked at it.
The house looked back.
Remus let the silence sit for a moment, then said lightly, “It grows on you.”
The door opened before Harry could reach for it.
Not cautiously, not just a crack. It swung wide, fast and certain, as though the house had already decided he was meant to be let in.
Warmth spilled out to meet him. Real warmth. Voices, movement, the sound of something clattering in the kitchen and someone immediately shouting about it.
“Harry!”
Ron got there first, skidding slightly on the floorboards as he reached him and grabbing him in a hug that was more collision than coordination.
“Bloody hell, mate,” Ron said, pulling back but keeping his hands on Harry’s shoulders as he squinted at him. “You look—”
“Say it and I’m leaving,” Harry said.
Ron blinked, then grinned. “Like you actually survived summer.”
“Just about,” Harry said. “Would’ve helped if someone remembered how owls work.”
Ron’s ears went a bit red. “I wrote!”
“Twice,” Harry said.
“I was busy!”
“With what, exactly?” Harry asked. “Perfecting your ability to ignore me?”
Hermione made a soft, disapproving noise as she stepped forward. “We did not ignore you.”
Harry turned to her. “You didn’t write either.”
Hermione hesitated, then stepped forward and hugged him, quick and firm.
“Dumbledore told us not to,” she sighed, shaking her head. “We wanted to. We just couldn’t.”
“Dumbledore,” Harry hummed, raising an eyebrow. “And since when have you followed all the rules?”
“This is serious stuff, mate.” Ron shrugged. “Seemed like a good time to start.”
“Right,” Harry nodded, grimacing.
Hermione shot Ron a look, but there was a faint smile at the edge of her mouth now, the tension easing.
Mrs Weasley appeared before either of them could continue. “Harry, dear, look at you, honestly, you’re all skin and bone—”
“I’m not,” Harry said, as she pulled him into a hug anyway.
“You are,” she insisted, already steering him further inside. “And don’t argue with me, I’ve made enough food to fix it. Come in. Ron, take his trunk—”
“I’ve got it,” Remus said mildly.
“Oh, Remus, thank you. Fred, George, if you’re loitering—”
“We’re observing,” Fred said.
“Scientifically,” George added.
Ginny slipped past them, pausing just long enough to give Harry a quick, bright smile. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Harry said.
She lingered half a second longer than necessary, then nodded and followed her mother.
Fred and George approached in sync.
“Harry,” Fred said.
“You’ve developed a presence,” George added.
“Slightly ominous,” Fred continued.
“Very marketable,” George finished.
“Give it a week,” Harry said. “You’ll be copying it.”
“Already started,” Fred said.
“Bit harder to pull off,” George added. “You’ve got the whole tragic hero thing.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “I was gone three weeks.”
“Long enough,” Fred said.
They drifted off toward the kitchen, still talking, the noise following them easily.
Harry stepped further into the house, the door closing behind him with a softer sound than he expected. The air shifted around him, settling in a way that felt familiar.
“Harry.”
He turned.
Sirius was standing at the end of the hallway.
For a second, everything else dropped away. The noise, the movement, even the house itself seemed to fall back just enough to leave the space between them clear.
Sirius looked a little thinner. A little older in a way that had nothing to do with years. But he was there. Solid. Real.
And looking at Harry like he mattered.
Harry didn’t move straight away.
Something in his chest tightened, sharp and unexpected, not quite painful but close enough to make him catch his breath for a moment. He didn’t try to name it. He just stood there.
Then Sirius crossed the distance between them in a few quick strides and pulled him into a hug.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t restrained. It was tight, one hand coming up to the back of Harry’s neck, holding him there.
“You’re here,” Sirius said, voice rough.
Harry swallowed and nodded against his shoulder.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter than before. “Yeah, I am.”
For a moment, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t make a joke or shift. He just stayed there and let it happen.
Then he exhaled, the moment easing just enough for something more familiar to settle back into place, and leaned back slightly.
“Done?” he asked.
Sirius huffed out a laugh, something bright breaking through. “Not quite. You’ve grown.”
“I do that,” Harry said.
“Could’ve warned me,” Sirius replied.
“I did,” Harry said. “It’s been a while.”
Sirius blinked, then snorted. “Alright, fair. I walked into that one.”
“Easily,” Harry said.
Sirius grinned, sharp and familiar, and clapped him once on the shoulder.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you fed before Molly decides we’ve all personally failed you.”
Harry followed him down the hall, the noise of the house rising again around them.
This time, it felt like home.
ᛟ • ᛟ • ᛟ
The house had been restless all evening. He’d been there a week now, long enough to learn the rhythm of the place. And it was restless. Shifting.
Not loudly. Not in the way it could be, with slamming doors and shouting portraits. This was quieter than that. A low, constant awareness that settled into the walls and the floorboards, into the banister beneath Harry’s hand as he paused halfway up the stairs. He’d only been at Grimmauld Place for a week but he knew the House well enough to know something was in the air.
It shifted, just slightly, as though it noticed him stopping.
“Sirius?” Harry called, already turning back.
“I’m here,” Sirius answered, not loudly, from the sitting room.
Harry didn’t hurry. He didn’t need to. The house eased ahead of him as he crossed the landing, the door already opening a fraction before he reached it, as though it had learned the rhythm of him.
Remus was inside, seated in one of the armchairs, a book open in his lap. He looked up as Harry entered, something soft and attentive already in his expression, like he had been expecting him.
Sirius was standing by the fireplace, restless in the way he always was, but there was something lighter in it tonight. Less caged.
“Sit down,” he said, with a vague gesture toward the sofa.
It wasn’t an order. It wasn’t quite a request either. Just… natural.
Harry did, folding himself into the corner of the worn cushions as though he had been doing it for years.
The house seemed to approve of that. The room settled around them, the faint draughts quieting, the door closing with a softer sound than usual, as though careful not to interrupt.
Remus’s hand rested against the arm of his chair, fingers lightly brushing the wood. Not absent-minded. Acknowledging. The way one might steady something that did not quite need steadying.
“We wanted to tell you something,” Sirius said. “Figured you should know… considering.” He waved a hand as if that cleared everything up.
He glanced at Remus as he said it, not uncertain, but checking. Remus met his eyes and gave the smallest nod, something grounding in the gesture.
Harry looked between them, waiting.
“We’re together,” Sirius said.
The words landed simply.
“Properly,” he added, after a moment, quieter this time.
Remus’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, but close. There was something settled in it, something that had been uncertain for a long time and wasn’t anymore.
Harry took that in.
The way Sirius stood just slightly closer than he needed to. The way Remus didn’t shift away, didn’t make space, but allowed that closeness as something expected.
It fit.
He nodded once. “Right,” he said.
There was no surprise in it, no need for one. Just acknowledgement, as though they had told him something that made sense.
Sirius huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. “That’s all I get?” he said. “No dramatic reaction?”
Harry tilted his head slightly. “Do you want one?”
Remus let out a quiet laugh, the sound soft and warm enough that the tension in the room eased almost immediately.
“I think we can manage without,” he said.
Sirius shook his head, but there was no bite to it, just a faint, lingering smile that he didn’t quite seem to notice himself.
“Merlin,” he muttered. “You’re both impossible.”
Harry’s gaze shifted between them again, more deliberate this time. Not assessing. Just… placing them.
Together.
It made sense in a way that felt almost inevitable.
Remus’s attention returned to Harry then, sharper, but not intrusive.
“You’ve settled in,” he said, not quite a question.
Harry considered that.
“Yes,” he said.
Remus watched him for a moment longer, then nodded, accepting it. Not pushing. Not prying. Just… making space for the answer to be enough.
The house shifted faintly at that, the floorboards easing beneath them, the quiet deepening into something closer to comfort than tension.
Sirius leaned back against the mantel, looking between the two of them, something thoughtful passing across his face.
“I’ve got a feeling,” he said, “that things are about to change.”
Remus’s brow furrowed slightly. “Sirius—”
“Not in a bad way,” Sirius said quickly, though there was something steadier underneath it than simple hope. “Just… not forever like this. Won’t be.”
He glanced at Harry as he said it.
Harry held his gaze. “I know,” he said. “I feel it too.”