Chapter Text
POV: Sirius
Sirius lived to be in the sky.
Above the world, there was only wind and wing and the steady thrum of Nyx’s heartbeat beneath him. The weight of the Orders, the watchful eyes, the brewing war he hadn’t signed up for–none of it could touch him here. Up in the sky, he was nothing but motion. Breath. Flame. A shadow slicing across the clouds.
Nyx twisted through a pocket of cold air with a growl of pleasure, her great black wings catching the wind like sails. Sirius laughed, the sound stolen away by the rush, and leaned into the curve of her spine. “Show-off,” he called.
“ You’re one to talk ,” she said, her voice curling into his mind like smoke.
He snorted.
The sun had barely risen, throwing gold along the distant ridges, but already the frost had begun to melt along Nyx’s wings. Sirius reached out, trailing his fingers along her scales–warm, smooth ancient. She hummed, pleased.
“Race to the cliffs?” He murmured.
“ As if you could win. ”
They dove together, wings tucked tight, Sirius relinquishing his seat, a perfect freefall. Sirius whooped as they dropped through the clouds, the air biting, fierce, pure. The Isles unfolded beneath them–rolling hills, broken stone, the long dark like of a forest that marked the outskirts.
Then the wind shifted.
The scent hit them at once: burnt wood, char, and something deeper.
Ash.
Nyx pulled up sharply with a roar, scooping him up onto her back. “ There ,” she hissed, “ ahead .”
Bainburgh.
Sirius’s gut twisted as the ruined outpost came into view.
He leaned forward in the saddle, one gloved hand stroking along the curve of Nyx’s neck. The dragon rumbled beneath him, a low warning in her chest like the sound of old mountains shifting. Below, the land sprawled in a blanket of ruin–blackened soil, scorched rooftops, twisted timbers where homes had once stood.
No smoke rose. The fires had burned themselves out days ago. But the ash still drifted, fine and grey, carried on the wind in spirals that clung to Sirius’s leathers and caught in Nyx’s wings.
“ It’s wrong ,” Nyx murmured. “ There is no death here. ”
Sirius’s brow furrowed. “You mean no bodies.”
“ No bones. No blood. Only the marks of flames. It isn’t right. ”
He swallowed hard. Bainburgh had been a thriving outpost–a trading post nestled between the borders of Stag and Wolf Order. It should have been full of riders, merchants–even children. Yet what lay below him was silent. Empty. A smear of black on the map.
“We should land,” He said, already steering Nyx lower. She hesitated, her powerful wings angling upward in resistance.
“ Something watches. Something lingers .”
That gave him pause. Nyx was brave–fiercer than any other dragon in the Isles–but she feared the old magics, the ones that didn’t leave tracks.
From above, Sirius could see shattered tiles and what looked like the remnants of a marketplace. He caught a glimpse of something glinting–metal and half-melted, a sword twisted in the shape of a cross.
And just beyond that, near the hollowed out remains of a barn, the earth was burnt inward, not outward. A circle of char. A sigil, maybe.
“I’ve seen enough to report,” he said quietly. “We don’t need to stay.”
Nyx huffed in approval, curling her body and turning toward the distant rise of the Citadel.
The wind caught the ash beneath them as Sirius fought hard not to think too much about why that sigil felt so familiar.
_____________
The Citadel rose like a blade from the highlands–white stone carved with a thousand runes, banners of deep gold and crimson rippling in the cold wind. Sirius guided Nyx into the upper flight path, past spiraling towers and roosting perches, where dragons called out to one another in greetings only they could understand.
As they landed, Nyx settled carefully onto the ledge. Below, riders and messengers hurried like ants across bridges and courtyards. The whole place hummed magic and power.
Sirius dismounted in a practice motion, brushing ash from his shoulders.
“ I do not like this place ,” Nyx said, curling her tail tightly. “ It masks too much .”
He pressed a hand to her scaled cheek. “Neither do I.”
He left her in the roost, her eyes glowing faintly, and made his way down toward the Great Hall.
_____________
The hall was colder than usual. Perhaps that was by design.
Sirius stepped inside to find the banners of the Orders raised above three separate tables–Stag, Wolf, Serpent–each carefully arranged so no Order held the central place of power. It didn’t matter. Everyone knew the Citadel belonged to the Stags.
James sat to the left, golden-eyed and sharp-jawed, whispering something to Councillor Lily Evans. Dumbledore stood behind them, his expression full of mirth.
Across the hall, Regulus sat at his father’s side–elegant, motionless. Sirius didn’t flinch, though he could feel Orion’s gaze like ice sliding down his spine.
Bellatrix stood behind them, arms crossed, armor ceremonial and gleaming with sigil-work Sirius didn’t recognize.
And Greyback, grizzled and growling even in silence, sat at the Wolf table, casting a long look at Sirius as he approached.
He didn’t bother to bow.
The summit began with words. Dumbledore’s words, full of ideals: unity, balance, the memory of old wars.
Then Greyback’s voice rose, thunderous. “You want unity now, after your dragons go rogue and leave nothing but ash?”
Tension rippled. Evans spoke next, carefully, like a blade drawn in slow motion. “We don’t know if it was one of ours.”
“We know it wasn’t one of ours,” Greyback growled.
Sirius let the words wash over him. His gaze kept slipping back to Regulus.
Eventually, Orion stirred. He didn’t speak/ He only glanced sideways.
Regulus stood.
And when he spoke, the hall went still.
“I bring news from our northern watch. They’ve spotted a mark. A sigil burned into our lands.”
A projection bloomed in the air–lines etched in fire, spiraling, familiar and wrong all at once. Sirius’s jaw tightened.
He’d seen it before. So had James.
“We believe,” he said, evenly, “these are not isolated attacks. We believe someone is orchestrating this. And that they are no longer limited to the living.”
A murmur swept the hall, but no one interrupted Regulus.
“Necromancy,” James echoed softly, almost to himself.
“And something far worse,” Regulus added.
Even Dumbledore’s face had gone blank.
Greyback’s mouth moved around a curse.
Orion Black said nothing at all, but he surveyed them all, waiting for someone to challenge his heir.
“And if we do not act now,” he said quietly, “we won’t have time to later.”
The hall didn’t erupt.
It fractured.
Delegates leaned into one another with whispers sharp as blades, voices rising in volume in their panic.
Sirius took one last look at his brother and left the room.
He had to talk to Remus.
_____________
Greyback’s chambers smelled like old smoke and steel.
The stone walls were rough-hewn, lined with maps and scrolls and the scattered detritus of someone too busy for order. A fire burned low in the grate. Weapons rested in a rack by the door–axes, mostly. Crude things. Sirius had always thought it fitting.
He stepped inside without being invited. Nyx’s parting warning still whispered at the edge of his thoughts, but he forced himself to lock it down. Focus. Report.
Greyback didn’t look up from the map he was scowling over. “You’re late.”
“I was flying over ash and ruin,” Sirius replied, brushing invisible soot from his shoulder. “Forgive me if I stopped to take notes.”
Across the room, a figure stirred from the shadows. Remus.
He was seated on the low bench near the fire, parchment in hand, a half-finished diagram etched in charcoal on the page. He didn’t speak, but his eyes flicked to Sirius, soft and sharp all at once.
That look still undid him.
Sirius’s throat went tight. He dropped his gaze, fixing it on Greyback instead. “Bainburgh’s gone. There’s no sign of survivors. No bodies, either.”
Greyback finally looked up. His eyes were wolf-yellow in the firelight. “And what did you find?”
“A pattern.” Sirius crossed the room, tapping the center of the map with a gloved finger. “Scorch marks. Circular. Like something was summoned.”
At that, Remus stood. “A sigil?” He asked quietly.
Sirius met his gaze. “Could be. Nyx wouldn’t land. She said something was watching.”
Greyback grunted, stroking his chin. “You trust your dragon’s instincts over your own?”
“She’s older than you. Smarter, too.”
Remus made a sound like a smothered laugh.
Greyback didn’t. He stepped forward, towering over Sirius. “I don’t like games, boy.”
“Then don’t play any.” Sirius didn’t flinch. “Whatever did that to Bainburgh wasn’t natural. And Regulus knows more than he’s saying.”
“Of course he does.” Remus’s voice was quiet again, but this time there was something else behind it. “But he isn’t the only one.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened. “You think I’m keeping secrets?”
“I think we all are,” Remus said.
There was a long silence.
Then Greyback waved a hand. “Enough. Go. Both of you. I’ll take this to the Council.”
Sirius hesitated, but Remus was already closing his notebook, rising. He rolled up his parchment, slid it into his sleeve, and reached for the heavy cloak folded beside him.
The fabric was deep brown, the kind worn by the Wolf Order’s monks–unmarked, hooded, and long enough to swallow a man whole. Remus pulled it over his shoulders in one smooth motion, then drew the hood up until his face was lost in shadow.
He looked like a ghost. Or a warning.
Sirius watched, aching a little.
As they turned to leave, Greyback added, “And Black?”
Sirius paused in the doorway.
“Don’t mistake yourself as invincible. Something is coming. You’d better be ready to bleed.”
Sirius didn’t respond.
Remus opened the door.
They stepped into the dark corridor beyond, side by side, cloaked in silence and smoke.
They walked in silence, the kind that weighed more than words.
Sirius kept glancing sideways at the hooded figure beside him, but Remus didn’t speak. Nit in the hallways, not while stone and shadow might be listening. The Citadel had ear, and while Greyback’s chambers may have been safe enough for most conversations, the halls certainly were suitable for much.
When they reached the corridor outside the roosts, Remus paused.
“I’ll go in first,” He murmured beneath the hood.
Sirius leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Still worried Greyback will think I’ve seduced his favorite prophet?”
Remus didn’t answer. Just slipped through the door, a shadow among shadows.
Sirius waited. He counted the breaths it took for the hallway to feel safe again, for the pulse in his throat to settle. Then he pushed the door open.
Inside, the roosts were quiet. High arching ceilings, skylights that opened to the clouds above. The scent of fire and scale and straw.
Nyx turned her great head to look at him as he entered, clearly having made her way inside after they parted ways earlier that day. Her eyes narrowed with something suspiciously close to amusement.
“You smell like longing.”
He ignored her.
Remus stood near the edge of the roost, hood down now, face turned toward the open sky. His cloak fluttered in the wind. He looked pale in the moonlight. Tired.
Beautiful.
Sirius came up beside him, close but not touching. “You shouldn’t be out here without your hood on. Someone might fall in love.”
Remus huffed a quiet laugh. “Too late for that.”
Silence stretched between them. Somewhere in the rafters, a young dragon hissed in its sleep.
“You’re not telling me something,” Sirius said at last.
“I never do.”
“Remus.”
Remus turned to face him. His eyes were lit with something Sirius couldn’t name. “The sigil. It’s waking up. It’s not just a prophecy anymore. I see it when I sleep. When I touch the old stones.”
Sirius felt a chill slide down his spine.
“It’s tied to Regulus,” Remus said. “And to you.”
“To me?”
Remus didn’t explain. He only leaned closer, reached over, and touched Sirius’s cheek. The callused edge of his fingers sent sparks along Sirius’s jaw. “You already know where you need to go.”
Sirius held his gaze. “Graphorn’s Ridge.”
Remus nodded once. “You won’t be alone. But you will be the first.”
Sirius leaned in, forehead almost brushing Remus’s. “Say it.”
“I can’t.”
“Say it anyway.”
But Remus pulled the hood back up, swallowing whatever truth had been about to fall from his mouth. He stepped away, retreating into the folds of his cloak and the silence he wore like armor.
“I’ll leave first,” he said, voice barely audible.
Sirius didn’t stop him.
He watched Remus disappear down the corridor, back into the safety of shadows.
Then he turned to Nyx.
She blinked at him, unimpressed.
“ Well? ” she asked.
“I’m going to need armor,” he said. “And rations.”
Nyx’s tail curled lazily around her feet. “ And to sneak past a fortress full of traitors and spies? ”
Sirius grinned. “Exactly.”
_____________
The Citadel was never fully asleep.
Even after curfew, torchlight burned low in the halls, and the walls seemed to breathe. Somewhere, a sentry dragged a spear across the stone floor. Sirius moved through the shadows like he’d been born there.
He wore his old cloak–not the Wolf Order’s grey, but black. Silent. Anonymous. The sort of thing that looked like it belonged in no Order at all.
He ducked through narrow stairwells, past the library annex and the old observatory tower, down into the underlevels where the armor vaults lay. He needed only a few things: protection, food, and a dragon saddle pack outfitted for battle.
He told himself he was being cautious. Strategic.
He didn’t admit that part of him missed the thrill of breaking rules.
Just as he reached for the vault door handle, a voice spoke from the dark.
“Hello, Padfoot. Where are we off to?”
Sirius froze.
Then turned, slowly.
James Potter stood half in shadow, arms crossed, cloak draped over one shoulder. He looked exactly the same and nothing like Sirius remembered–older, harder, the easy smile twisted into something he didn’t wear so easily anymore.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be polishing Dumbledore’s scepter or something?”
James smirked. “I was. Got boring.”
He stepped closer, boots scuffing the stone. “What are you doing down here, Sirius?”
“Thought I’d go for a moonlit stroll. Take in the ambiance.”
“You’re stealing from the Citadel.”
“Borrowing. I’ll bring it back.”
James titled his head. “Planning a little trip?”
Sirius said nothing.
“You’re going to Graphorn’s Ridge aren’t you?”
That pulled Sirius up short. His mouth twitched. “You always were annoyingly clever.”
“I learned from the best.” James looked him over, and something in his expression softened, just for a heartbeat. “Soooo…what Regulus said during the summit….”
Sirius brushed him off.
James observed him, head bobbing in a slow nod, like Sirius was actually telling him anything. “So you believe it too.”
“Necromancy? No, don’t be ridiculous. I believe there’s something there. Something old. And I think Regulus knows what it is.”
James’s eyes sharpened. “You think he’s got something to do with it?”
“Doesn’t he always?”
James hesitated. “I don’t trust him.”
That, more than anything, surprised Sirius. “Really?”
James gave a crooked smile. “Don’t look so shocked. I might be captain of the Stag, but I’m not blind.”
Silence stretched between them. A dozen unspoken things hanging in the air like unloosed arrows.
Finally, Sirius asked, “Do you miss it?”
James blinked. “Miss what?”
“Us. Before graduation. Before–” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the whole damn thing .
James didn’t answer right away.
Then he said, quietly, “Every day.”
Sirius looked away first.
James stepped back. “You’ll need better armor than that old Wolf-issue scrap.”
He pulled something from beneath his cloak–dark leather with burnished steel edging, marked with Stag Order craftsmanship.
“I’m not wearing your colors,” Sirius muttered.
“It’s unmarked. Like you.” James tossed it over. “Don’t die, Padfoot. That would be deeply inconvenient.”
Sirius caught it. Met his eyes. “Thanks, Prongs.”
James smiled. Just a little. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Then he was gone, vanishing into the halls as quietly as he’d come.
Sirius exhaled. Fastened the armor to his pack.
Then he turned back to the vault and started stealing his future.