Sirius Black did not believe in plans.
He believed in chaos, croissants, and vibes.
So when he showed up at 7 a.m. with a box of slightly squished doughnuts, mismatched sunglasses, and a Muggle motorcycle helmet slung under one arm, Arthur should have known the day would be anything but ordinary.
"Get dressed," Sirius said brightly. "Something that says I'm mysterious but also extremely cool under pressure."
Arthur, mid-bite of toast, blinked at him. "Why?"
"Because I'm kidnapping you."
"Right."
"You've been mopey," Sirius added, tossing a doughnut into his mouth like a coin. "And mopey teenagers are my sworn enemy."
Remus shifted in his seat, still in slippers, coffee in hand. "Don't crash the bike."
"I'd never crash the bike."
"You've already crashed the bike."
"That lamppost leapt out."
The sky was a soft London grey when Sirius dragged Arthur out into the day, arm slung over his shoulder like they were co-conspirators in something wicked and wildly illegal.
They ended up on the rooftop of a Muggle café in Camden, sipping burnt espresso and eating overpriced pastries while pigeons judged them from nearby gutters.
Sirius leaned back, feet on the table, sunglasses crooked. "So," he said, mouth full of croissant. "When were you going to tell me you've been walking around with the emotional range of a teaspoon?"
Arthur arched a brow. "I was hoping you'd get the hint and leave me alone."
"Oh, I got the hint. Ignored it. Comes with being Uncle of the Year."
"You're not even on the list."
"But I made the list," Sirius grinned. "Which is more than I can say for that creepy cat I found napping in your trunk."
Arthur stiffened. "What cat?"
"You named it?"
"…It's not mine."
"Too late. Claimed your bed. Yours now."
Arthur groaned.
They meandered—parks, old bookstores, a detour to knock on Moody's window and run when he shouted about curses. Sirius talked the whole time, mostly nonsense, like jazz and freedom and the superiority of messy hair.
For the first time in weeks, Arthur laughed. Really laughed.
They stopped at a magical flea market that looked like it had blinked into existence just to spite the Ministry. Tents shimmered with impossible colors. A goblin sold pocket-sized dragons that hissed like teapots. A hag offered palm readings for buttons. Sirius tried to trade her an expired Chocolate Frog card and got hexed with hiccuping ears.
Arthur drifted.
One tent pulled him in. Quiet. Dusty. Full of enchanted oddities and old magic. A velvet-gloved witch behind the table watched him too closely.
He didn't touch anything.
But there was a dagger—silver, humming like breath.
When he leaned closer, it stopped.
"Interesting," the witch murmured.
Arthur backed away.
Sirius found him by a stall selling bird whistles. "You okay?"
"Fine," Arthur lied.
"Your hair's doing that white thing," Sirius noted gently. "Spooked?"
"I didn't do anything."
"Magic doesn't always need your permission. Sometimes it just is."
Arthur didn't respond. His fingers twitched.
"Let's get ice cream," Sirius said like it solved everything.
It didn't. But it helped.
By dusk, they were watching the Thames glitter from a low stone wall. The air was soft with the promise of rain.
"You look like him, you know," Sirius said suddenly.
Arthur didn't ask who.
"Your dad. Philip. Same eyes. Same I'm quietly overthinking everything stare."
Arthur stayed quiet.
"He was brilliant," Sirius went on. "Sharp. Reckless. The kind of Slytherin that made other Slytherins nervous."
Arthur tilted his head. "And my mum?"
Sirius's smile turned wistful. "An inferno in a teacup. She could outduel a banshee while quoting poetry."
"…Sounds fake."
"I liked her first, then Remus," Sirius sighed. "Philip won because he had books and tragic eyes. We never stood a chance."
Arthur blinked. "Lupin loved my mum?"
"Oh, hard. Thought he was subtle. Even the portraits knew."
Arthur's hair turned faintly pink. Sirius noticed, but didn't say anything.
"You've got her fire," Sirius added. "His quiet. And both their knack for getting into absurd magical nonsense."
A pause.
Then: "I never told you why we kept things from you."
Arthur glanced over.
"We were scared," Sirius admitted. "Too many people wanted too much from you before you were even old enough to decide who you were."
Arthur picked at a thread on his sleeve. "I don't know how to just… live."
Sirius didn't speak. Just reached into his coat and handed over a crumpled photo.
Frayed edges. Slightly burned. Two young adults—one with a wild grin, the other with sharp eyes and a soft smile—stood outside a cottage. Between them, a golden-eyed baby gnawed on a wand.
Arthur stared. The photo trembled in his hands.
"I miss them," he said.
"Good," Sirius replied. "Means they mattered."
As they were about to leave, Sirius realized he forgot where he parked the bike.
Turning to Arthur, he said: "Hey Damian", his smile getting broader.
Arthur sighed. Sirius was the only one who ever called him by his middle name and whenever he does, he's probably planning something.
"Let's hear it."
"Ever apparated before?"
They apparated home under starlight.
Remus barely looked up from his book. "Curfew was midnight."
"It's still technically night," Sirius said.
Arthur didn't say anything. He just went upstairs.
But for the first time in days, he didn't go straight to bed.
He stood at the window, Elira perched beside him, the city stretching loud and alive beneath the glass. His reflection flickered faintly.
Not frost.
Not flame.
Just Arthur.
He smiled to himself, I guess I'm here
The house had settled into a hush. Distantly, a clock chimed one. The kind of hour that didn't belong to sleep or wakefulness, just to the quiet in between.
Arthur sat on the floor of his room, legs crossed, the old photo from Sirius still clutched in his hand.
Elira had curled into a warm, feathery lump on the windowsill. Occasionally, her tail flicked. Like she was dreaming someone was being annoying.
Arthur wasn't tired.
Not yet.
He placed the photo on his bed. Then reached into the drawer beneath his nightstand. The one he rarely opened.
Tucked in the back was a folded piece of parchment. Edges frayed, the ink faded. His name was written across the top in careful, familiar handwriting:
Arthur, age nine.
He opened it. Slowly.
"If you're reading this, it means you've done something spectacular. Or terrible. I'm honestly not sure which. But you're older now. And maybe—just maybe—you're ready to know."
It was a letter. One of the ones Lupin had written every year on Arthur's birthday. Some were serious. Some were chaotic. This one was different.
He kept reading.
"You've probably figured out I wasn't meant to raise you. I wasn't the plan. Your parents had big ideas—backup plans for their backup plans. They never thought the world would fall apart before any of them mattered."
"But it did."
Arthur blinked. The words blurred.
"And I held you that night—tiny, screaming, furious—and I knew I was going to mess everything up. But I also knew I was going to try."
A lump pressed against his throat.
"You hated porridge. Loved thunderstorms. Refused to sleep unless someone read you poetry. You bit me once because I tried to cut your hair. I still have the scar."
Arthur let out a soft breath—half a laugh, half a wince.
"I didn't raise you perfectly. But I raised you fiercely. I taught you how to be kind, and quiet, and loud when it mattered. I taught you how to ask questions. How to sit in silence. How to lose things without letting them turn you into something cruel."
"You're not your parents' shadow, Arthur. You're their echo. But you're also your own person. And whoever you grow into—whatever power lives inside you—I'm proud."
"Even if you set the garden on fire again."
The signature was a scrawl.
— R. Lupin (a.k.a. Extremely Tired Dad Figure)
Arthur folded the letter carefully and placed it beside the photo.
He didn't cry. Not exactly.
But the room got very still.
And in that stillness, he whispered, "Thanks."
Just once.
Elira stirred. "That was a lot of feelings," she mumbled without opening her eyes.
Arthur smiled faintly. "Shut up."
Then, finally, he climbed into bed.
And slept without dreaming.