Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

Godspeed

The two men disappeared down the hallway, Euphemia following not long after. Sirius could only guess it was to discuss the events that took place only an hour ago at Grimmauld Place.

Alphard had decided the Potter's Manor was a suitable place to hide away for the time being. He promised his nephew that, when things died down, there would be a serious conversation about Sirius's wellbeing at Grimmauld Place. Sirius doubted anything would settle any time soon given Walburga's temper and Bellatrix's acute rage. Orion would clearly think he was a coward from running away from home, and, in a way, Sirius might have agreed with him. Regulus was a blabbering mess and, eventually, his mother would convince him that Sirius's actions were unforgivable.

Sirius sunk in the armchair. He wished that it would swallow him whole. He wished he could melt away in front of the fireplace, out of James's reach, and never return. There were many times that Sirius had claimed he would throw himself off the astronomy tower. Naturally, he was inclined to say so again.

James hadn't spoken much since Sirius's initial arrival, neither had Fleamont. Euphemia fussed over his injuries, mollycoddling him in a way he had never been mollycoddled. He felt oddly uncomfortable under her gaze, deep brown eyes and gentle hands tending to his every need. Had he eaten enough? Was there any pain lingering? Did he feel nauseous at all? Perhaps he should lay down for the night, she'd suggested. There was a spare bedroom at the end of the hallway near James.

Sirius wasn't in the mood for sleeping. His body was screaming exhaustion, and he'd most definitely felt fatigued, but, no matter how hard he tried, sleep evaded him. That's when he found himself wandering around the Potter's massive house on the English countryside.

Sirius had always assumed that Grimmauld Place was the prime abode for wealthy aristocrats. It was spacious enough for his family with a bit of wiggle room left. Most of the space was taken up by dark artifacts and that bloody piano Regulus had been gifted on his tenth birthday. Some of Walburga's potion's equipment took up the kitchen, but their home had always been comfortable. Yes, it was dark and dank, there always seemed to be a draft coming from the cracks in the walls. Yes, there was no such thing as hot water, which was absolutely terrible for his luscious hair. But it was his house. He'd lived in it for 16 years.

However, even when first visiting Potter Manor in Wales three years before, there was something different. Externally, he could come up with a concrete list of everything that made it better. It was warm, smelled like fresh cookies, and had buckets upon buckets of light pouring through floor to ceiling windows. Their curtains were a deep red with golden curtain ties as wide as Sirius's wrist. Artwork – real artwork – lined their hallways. Van Gough, Monet, Dali, and Kahlo stared back at him as he wandered. Starry night shimmered in the moonlight. Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening danced in his irises. The carpet was flush between his toes, and the furniture was like clouds.

Something else, however, struck him. It wasn't just the warmth of the air, the plushness of the carpet, or the artwork that touched him. It was the photographs of James as a baby hung on the ice box. Yes, the Potter's had a running ice box for whatever reason. It was the artwork he had made as a toddler hanging just as high as Warhol's pieces. It was the scattered toys he'd never picked up in the west wing, and the flowers Euphemia tended to just outside the kitchen window. It was an array of hair tonics Fleamont worked on in his workshop and his glasses always askew.

This was home.

James finished composing a letter, hiding it from Sirius's eyes as he handed it to his owl, Flamma. The only reason he was named so was because his wing had caught fire after a baby James performed a bit of accidental magic. Since then, he'd become the family owl, always spoiled and tended to. The Potter's were quite good at doing that.