Sirius apparated to the only tree standing next to the sea-house, the cold air still seeping in, even through his black robes. He hadn't worn his mask, this time. He didn't need to. Here, it was just James and Regulus.
The wards opened around him, shimmering golden. He couldn't imagine that James asked permission of Dumbledore to add him. Death Eater or not, the old wizard had never trusted Sirius, had always looked at him with a wariness.
James and Regulus must've been at the sea-house for about a month now. It was new years, and the sky was covered in clouds, obscuring what would've been a partial moon to Sirius' eyes.
He approached the door carefully, still unsure about whether he was truly welcome here. James had told him as much, Regulus nodding along in the background, still removed from Sirius in some way. He supposed he deserved it. All Regulus knew of him was someone who'd left, and yet he still ached to be back together, as they had been when they were children.
He knocked on the door.
The wind was whirling around him, as it usually did next to the ocean. Sirius had no idea why they'd chosen here, of all places, to hide away while the Ministry hunted them down. Technically, while he hunted them down. As part of the Wizengamot, Sirius was probably supposed to ensure that any prisoners he came across were rightfully brought in.
Of course, he'd never give James and Regulus away. It'd never been a concern for him, not really. Neither would Evan and Barty. The three of them had been through too much to give away Regulus, the person who they'd started all of this for in the first place.
It reminded him to clutch the notes the slightest bit tighter in his palm. He'd wrapped them in a leather casing, kept safe from the cold air and what seemed to be rain, potentially looming in the distance. Sirius didn't know the exact location of the safe-house, though it was somewhere near Cornwall, but it was warmer down here. Unlike where he usually spent his time, in the cold manors of pureblooded society.
The door swung open, creaking at the hinges. It was Regulus at the door, his face pulling into a half-smile. He looked relaxed, wearing yet another of James' sweaters.
Sirius supposed it was only fair—most of Regulus' clothes were still up there, perfectly-preserved in Grimmauld Place. None of them really felt much like Reggie, either. For some reason, James' did.
He felt a smile glance across his own face, even though he knew, deep down, that there would always be that distance between him and Regulus, that the ides of his childhood were gone the moment he'd walked out the door of Grimmauld Place. Seven years later, and somehow Sirius was still there, still trapped.
It was better now, though. His brother was back. And, though James would never forgive him for what happened on Halloween night, he looked him in the eye, now. At least Sirius had that—fractions of his past life, fractions of a world before the war.
"Sirius," Regulus said, holding a hand out for him to come inside, away from the cold of the night.
"Where's James?" He asked, glancing around the hall. It was barren, similar to the way he remembered most Order safehouses.
"Kitchen."
Regulus' feet were quiet across the ground, bare, and so Sirius slipped off the black boots he wore, undoing the laces carefully. Effie had always been that way, too—she'd scolded him whenever he wore shoes inside, yelling at him half in English and half in Hindi. He didn't mind it like that—she sounded nothing like Walburga.
When he approached the kitchen, James was cooking, something frying on the stove, filling the room with the same aroma always-present in Potter Manor. It conjured up memories of that same night, too, turning up on their doorstep.
