Chapter Text
In Cut the Strings Free the Boy, Sirius Black was freed from Azkaban and recognized as an innocent man on December 3rd in Harry’s first year at Hogwarts. The process was begun when Harry, with the help of the goblins of Gringotts, got letters to a series of strategic recipients to incite an investigation of the process surrounding his imprisonment. Peter Pettingrew was revealed through a scheme thought up by Harry in the weeks leading up to the trial date. Around the time of his freeing, Harry contacted Kreacher asking him to treat Sirius as his master even though the elf had grown closely attached to the boy in their time together.
In the final chapter of Cut the Strings Free the Boy, Harry arrives at Grimmauld Place after completing his first year at Hogwarts.
This story begins sometime before that with Sirius lost in a haze.
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It was without known cause or intervention that Sirius Black returned to his childhood home to find it well maintained by a not-so-miserable house elf one December morning. He could've sworn Kreacher would be trying to murder him. Maybe his food was being poisoned slowly?
It had been many long torturous years in Azkaban. Even after leaving the sun shone too brightly, the food and sounds too overwhelming. Somehow, the dimness that lived in Grimmauld Place was just what he needed.
He pulled the heavy velvet curtains over the windows on those days, picked at simple toasts and teas, and sat. He would sit for hours without change. Maybe he was thinking. Maybe he was drifting away, as he had for all those years in Azkaban.
Time… what a funny, fickle thing.
It had a way about itself. Moving in silken, bodiless drapery that ran over your skin without sharing in your body’s heat. Sand which both crawled up your frame and slipped through your fingers. In time, he was simply motionless in a sea of movement.
At least, that had been true while he was there. But now he was here. And it was not time that had him, but he who had it.
He had time. He had the time.
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Living. He hadn't even allowed himself to imagine it in years. What was he supposed to do to live again? Where was he? He fought against the haze which let time pass by without his knowing. Blinking hard.
He was in a chair.
The air didn't smell damp.
The chair was made of crushed velvet. He moved his fingertips back and forth– feeling.
The room was dark. Some light was slipping under the heavy curtains over the windows.
Something was sending soft shadows over his shoulder. A lamp? A candle? Best not to try to figure it out just yet. Looking into a light source might send time away again.
He took a deep breath feeling his ribs expand and chest raise up.
He moved one hand away from the chair and touched his face.
His chest fell again and his ribs moved inward.
Long, wiry hair. He ran his fingers gently along the broad shape of his unruly beard. Why hadn't he shaved yet? Yet? How long had he had the option? Did the old house even have a razor?
He’d been free… how long was it? He knew he'd been bathing. There were memories of him sitting in a warm bath only to come back to himself hours later with pruney fingers and gooseflesh. Yes, he was clean. He could smell the soap.
But he didn't want this beard. He should get rid of it. He stood up from the crushed velvet chair and turned towards what had to be the door.
Oh.
Why was he in here? Did he bring himself here or did the elf?
He stepped close to the wall and raised his hand. He followed the lines, so intricately woven into the tapestry. All the way to his rightful spot. A burn mark. His mother had done that herself. The bitch. He smirked. Just a few inches to the side– his little brother. Poor Reggie, if only they had been able to stay on the same path. Damned to be a follower by their brainless parents. He snarled.
Enough of that. He had a beard to be done away with.
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He successfully rid his complexion of the ghastly tangle that had overtaken it. However, in doing so, learned why it had taken him weeks.
It was the first time he was seeing himself in a mirror in over a decade. He surely had passed the mirror in the bathroom since his homecoming, but that had been in that strange place where time took away his thoughts.
He wasn't there anymore, though he had nearly fallen back into its grasp when he had seen himself.
Pale. Sickly. Gross. He couldn't recognize himself.
He was older too, wasn’t he? How old?
Removing the excess hair both growing on his face and falling down his shoulders had helped. Though it also had helped his skin look thin and pulled taut over his bones.
Food. He needed more of that. Maybe… he could venture out of his home? Was the sun still high in the sky? What time was it? What day was it?
“Kreacher,” he rasped.
Had he talked to the elf at all?
“Yes, Lord Black?”
He turned slowly to look down at him. He looked good. Surprisingly so. What had kept him going for so many years without a household to serve?
“Kreacher, can you bring me a copy of today's Daily Prophet?”
“Yes, Lord Black.” The elf went away and reappeared quickly with it in hand. Sirius was confused.
“Does the estate still receive the Prophet?” That would make no sense. He watched the elf. “Kreacher, I need money. Muggle money. Can you retrieve it for me?”
The elf’s lip curled up for a moment, “Yes, Lord Black. How much would the lord desire?”
“I would like to get some food nearby. I don't know if the costs have changed since I've been… Give me 20 quid for now. If it's more than that then I hope you have been poisoning my tea.” Hey, that was his first joke since… Well, he was rusty.
Thankfully, the sun was lowering itself behind the buildings in the late afternoon. That's when he was. Thankfully, the streets nearest Grimmauld were not too busy. Thankfully, a sandwich meal from a nearby deli was only slightly impacted by whatever muggle economics had been up to over the past decade.
As he chewed on the crusty end of the bread, he looked around himself again. The shop owner. The hum of the fridge. A construction worker. The bell over the door jingled. A woman with a baby in a pram. Cute baby.
A baby.
Not as cute as his baby. Because he was supposed to be taking care of a baby. Not his. But his brother's in all but blood. That was supposed to be his job if they ever died. And they had died. He had to do his job. Why wasn't he doing his job? He frantically gathered up the sandwich paper and napkins and pushed the ball into the bin as he stumbled out the door. The bell rang.