Sirius eyed Blake, hesitant to speak.
He's… actually defensive.
If we keep talking like this, it's going to get awkward.
The expensive Firebolt Sirius had planned to buy wasn't even as good as the broom Blake made himself.
No matter how he turned it over in his mind, it just felt… wrong.
But this was the same man who'd solved dragon pox in under a minute. Sirius didn't doubt his words for a second.
And Sirius was sharp. He spotted the weak point in the logic instantly.
"Since your broom's better than a Firebolt," he said slowly, "then I—"
Right. If Blake's broom was that good, why bother buying a Firebolt?
"Do you want to buy one from me?" Blake asked.
"Yeah… though it's a bit abrupt to say it out loud," Sirius admitted, embarrassed.
He'd wanted to gift Blake something. Now, not only could he not give him a Firebolt, he was asking Blake for a favor—making him a broom.
Sirius knew Blake wasn't hurting for money. So "buying" one became tricky. And this was a new invention; Blake might not want to hand it over so easily.
"Hold on." Blake dug in his pocket, then pulled out a roll of parchment covered in detailed illustrations and shoved it into Sirius's hands.
"I'm busy, so I'll just give you the blueprint. You can make it yourself. It's very detailed—just find someone who can refine the 'Seven Seven Zero' metal and follow the plans."
Sirius blinked. "Blueprint? You mean for the broom better than a Firebolt?"
"That's right."
"Hahaha…" Sirius started laughing—until Blake's serious gaze silenced him. "…You're serious?"
"Of course."
Sirius stared at the parchment in shock. He'd been worried Blake wouldn't give him the broom, and here he was handing over the entire design?
"This… I can't take this."
Such a design could make anyone rich overnight. Blake was tossing it to him like it was nothing—like loaning someone a flying motorcycle anytime they asked.
"Take it. You're not who you used to be," Blake said, walking on. "You'll need a way to leave Harry a family fortune."
Sirius gripped the blueprint tightly. This man had saved him and now was setting him up with an inheritance—this was beyond generosity.
"But… why?" Sirius asked. "You've helped me so much already—"
"Maybe I'm just helpful," Blake said with a laugh. "But I only help people worth helping. You are. The blueprint's useless to me now but useful to you, so I'm giving it to you."
"It's too expensive… and I—" Sirius began.
"If I needed your help in the future, would you help me?" Blake interrupted.
"Of course! You've helped me recover so many regrets. Even if it cost me my life, I'd help you without hesitation."
"See? That's why," Blake smiled. "If it were Peter Pettigrew, do you think I'd even bother talking to him? Take it. You already owe me plenty of favors; one more won't matter. And the more favors you owe me, the easier it is for me to ask you for work later."
Sirius watched Blake's back as he walked ahead, realizing he was making it easier for Sirius to accept without guilt.
"Alright," Sirius said, lifting the parchment, "I'll use it wisely."
"It's yours now—do whatever you like," Blake replied.
Sirius regained his carefree air, shoved the parchment in his pocket, and caught up. "I'll start a broom company. Crush the Firebolt! You'll be majority shareholder, of course. We can even name it the Blake Card—hey, we're both Blakes!"
"Good idea. I'll provide the tech. And when you're rich, want to buy a Quidditch team?" Blake grinned.
"Perfect! Which one?" Sirius chuckled.
Their twenty-minute walk passed quickly in laughter.
At last, they reached Grimmauld Place. Blake studied the row of houses—numbers jumped from 11 to 13, with 12 invisible.
Opening his Eye of Reality slightly, Blake saw only a gray mist. He sensed space beyond but couldn't pierce it without going full power, which would make his eyes glow—not ideal.
The concealment was impressive.
"Welcome to Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The home I've always wanted to escape," Sirius said.
Blake felt a weak magic sweep over them, and the view changed. The houses seemed to pull apart like curtains, revealing Number 12 between them. Muggles nearby remained oblivious.
Compared to its neighbors, Number 12's exterior was worn, walls peeling, windows blackened—either from drawn curtains or dirt.
"Nice magic," Blake said.
Sirius shrugged. "Don't tell me you've figured it out? I can't—it was done by an ancestor, after he… persuaded the local Muggle to move out."
"Cool spell," Blake admitted. The old Blake family clearly had talent, though their morals were questionable. It was odd such a family produced someone as decent as Sirius.
They passed through the yard, leaves crunching underfoot, and Sirius opened the weathered wooden door. The stench of decay hit instantly.
The foyer stretched ahead, dim gas lamps flickering to life. Peeling wallpaper, worn carpet… A cloth-covered portrait hung on one wall—Sirius's mother, Walburga.
If disturbed, she would scream insults at any non–pure-blood wizards. Permanently stuck to the wall, she still guarded her home from the grave. Ironically, the house had originally belonged to a Muggle.
"Come in," Sirius said, stepping lightly past the snoring portrait.
Blake followed, passing an umbrella stand made from a troll's leg, and glanced into the dining room, spotting cupboards filled with porcelain bearing the Blake crest. No Horcruxes there.
The house was crawling with spiders. At the foyer's end, a staircase led up. Mounted beside it were shrunken house-elf heads—retired servants who'd asked for the "honor" before death.
Pure-blood tradition at its finest.
The stairs creaked under Sirius's steps as he led Blake to the second-floor living room. Sirius scooped clothes off a broken sofa and gestured for Blake to sit.
"I need to buy another wand soon," Sirius muttered. "No magic is inconvenient." Years in Azkaban had weakened his magic, and without a wand, cleaning felt like Muggle drudgery.
Blake ignored the seat and studied the glass display cases—family trophies, meant to impress guests.
One crystal bottle with a large opal in the cork contained dried, dark-red residue—blood, perhaps.
Nearby were dark silver boxes engraved with ancient runes, likely marking the age of whatever lay inside.
Another dusty box held a medal Blake recognized—the Order of Merlin, First Class. Sirius grinned. "My grandfather's. Awarded for the pile of gold he gave the Ministry."
Blake's eyes shifted to a small silver locket with a green serpent-like "S" on the lid. The magic was unmistakable—it was a Horcrux.
Slytherin's locket. Voldemort's.
Blake didn't touch it yet, remembering Sirius's younger brother, Regulus, who had risked everything to retrieve it, leaving a mocking note for the Horcrux's guardian.
Blake admired the young man's redemption and thought, maybe in a time-travel moment, he could try to save him. That cave… worth visiting someday.
Shaking off the thought, he asked Sirius, "You said your family has a library?"
"Fifth floor. Want to see it?"
"Of course," Blake said—anything not covered in the original story fascinated him.
Sirius led the way upstairs.
Moments after they left, a pale, thin hand reached through the window and closed around the locket.