The knock came too early. Arthur was still half-asleep, half-curled around a lumpy pillow and last night's memories.
"Arthur," Remus' voice floated in, too soft to be urgent, too firm to ignore.
He groaned and rolled onto his back. "What?"
"Come downstairs. I need you to do something."
Arthur dragged himself out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a sick flobberworm. When he trudged into the kitchen, Remus was already at the table, sipping lukewarm tea and looking like he hadn't slept at all.
"What, are we being evicted?" Arthur muttered, slumping into a chair.
Remus slid an envelope across the table.
"No. I need you to take this to Sirius."
Arthur blinked. "Didn't we just see him last night? Pretty sure he's still emotionally winded from my presence."
Remus didn't rise to the joke. "It's important. He won't read it unless you're the one who gives it to him."
Arthur picked up the letter. Heavy parchment. The wax seal had a single hairline crack. It looked... personal.
"What's it about?"
Remus gave him a tired smile. "Family."
Arthur arched a brow. "You're not trying to set me up with him, are you?"
Remus gave him that look. The one that said "Don't be a brat, I'm too old for this."
"Fine," Arthur grumbled. "But only because I like dramatic entrances."
---
Grimmauld Place wasn't just gloomy—it sulked. The street looked like it had secrets stuffed in every crack. Arthur appeared on the front step, letter tucked in his hoodie, and exhaled sharply.
He hated this place already.
The door creaked open after a moment's pause, and Arthur stepped into the kind of darkness that had weight. The air felt like velvet dipped in ash. The wallpaper looked older than sin.
And there it was.
The dreaded curtain. Tall. Dusty. Unmoving.
A few ragged cloaks had been hung over it, probably by Sirius. But as Arthur brushed past, the edge of one cloak caught on his sleeve and slid off. The curtain twitched. A pale hand, out of habit, tugged the rest away.
And then she screamed.
"FILTH! HALF-BLOOD SCUM! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
Arthur blinked.
"Ah," he said mildly, "you must be the welcoming committee."
The portrait raged. "YOU DARE STAND HERE—TRAITOROUS BLOOD—YOU BEAR THE STENCH OF MUDBLOOD SYMPATHY!"
Arthur sighed. "Look, lady—"
"DISGUSTING! DISGRACE TO ALL MAGIC! I KNOW YOUR BLOOD—I SMELL THE ROSIER BUT MIXED—RUINED—"
Arthur's face twitched.
He stepped closer to the portrait.
And in a voice soft as snowfall, he said, "I'm Arthur Damian Reeves. Reeves, as in 'none of your bloody business.' And I'm not here to impress an embroidered corpse who yells at furniture."
The portrait hissed.
Arthur leaned in further. "Keep shouting. But I'll still be standing here. Breathing. With my 'ruined' blood. In your house."
The curtain snapped shut. Mrs. Black went silent.
Arthur blinked. "Huh. Thought she'd last longer."
Behind him, Sirius chuckled.
"Well, well," came a voice soaked in mischief, "and here I thought I was the only one who could shut her up."
Arthur turned. Sirius was leaning in the doorway, looking like he hadn't combed his hair in a decade but wore his charm like a second skin.
"You know," Sirius added, "you might be the first teenager I've seen scare my mother."
"I aim to impress," Arthur said, flicking lint off his hoodie. "Remus told me to deliver this."
He pulled the envelope from his pocket.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, took the letter, and tucked it inside his coat without opening it. "Ah. Moony's subtle guilt bombs. Delightful."
"Should I get you a drink before it detonates?"
Sirius grinned. "Damn, you are your mother's son."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Don't say that until we hit phase three of this emotional detour."
Sirius waved him inside. "Come on. I'll give you the tour. But lower your expectations—it's less of a home and more of a haunted museum curated by bigots."
---
They wandered down the dim hall, exchanging snide remarks about the décor.
Arthur asked about school. Sirius asked about Harry, and Arthur shared a vague summary of classes, chaos, and how Draco Malfoy still styled his hair like a broom had insulted him.
Sirius laughed so hard he nearly knocked over a cursed umbrella stand.
"And Harry?" he asked eventually, more serious now.
Arthur's voice dropped. "He's...he's holding up. You know Harry. He turns emotional trauma into extra credit."
Sirius nodded, a tightness in his jaw. "That's my godson."
They turned a corner and came upon the tapestry.
It loomed like a shrine—massive, dust-covered, and filled with gold-stitched names.
"This," Sirius said, voice quieter now, "is the great Black family tree. Also known as Exhibit A in the case against inherited lunacy."
Arthur stared at it. He found Sirius' name—burned out, the thread seared into nothing. Next to it were cousins, aunts, generations upon generations of "pure."
Sirius stood beside him, arms folded, eyes fixed ahead. "It records bloodlines going back centuries. Pure-blood madness stitched into fabric."
Arthur's gaze swept the tapestry, scanning names he didn't recognize—until he saw his own.
"Arthur Reeves," he breathed. His name was there. Small. Pale. Almost like a secret someone had tried to bury.
"What am I doing up there? How am I related to you?" he murmured, more to himself than Sirius. "Lupin—he never told me about any of this."
"He didn't want you growing up with the weight of it," Sirius replied. "You were just a baby when your parents were killed. You didn't need a legacy soaked in blood. You needed to survive."
Arthur's heart beat faster. "My parents… I remember nothing. Just the one Voldemort said. That he came for us. That I survived."
"You didn't just survive, Arthur," Sirius said. "You're the Boy Who Lived. Voldemort came for your family, and he couldn't touch you."
Arthur turned slowly toward Sirius, voice tight. "But why? Why us?"
"Because of who your mother was—and who she chose to be," Sirius replied, hiding the real truth. "Jean Rosier. Daughter of Aldus Rosier, one of Voldemort's oldest allies. But she rebelled. She left the pure-blood world, married your father—Philip Reeves, a pure-blood wizard whose family originated from America—and tried to build a life outside of this madness."
Arthur flinched at the name. "Philip... I never heard about him before."
"He was brave. And completely unwelcome in Britain's magical society. But he didn't care. He loved your mother, and he was proud of the life they were building. That's why Voldemort came for them."
Arthur turned back to the tapestry. His fingers traced the threads leading from Vivienne Selwyn to Aldus Rosier ( Brother to Druella Black nee Rosier), then down to Jean. She stood like a lone flame among darker names. But then the tapestry forked—Jean's name connected to his father's, and then… to him.
"I didn't know I was part of all this," Arthur said softly.
"You weren't supposed to," Sirius replied. "Remus raised you far from all this. He kept you safe, gave you a life not dictated by bloodline or reputation. But now you're older. And with Voldemort back, this matters."
Arthur's fingers stopped on a different name: Clarissa Black. Married to John Rosier—Jean's brother.
"So my uncle married your cousin," he said slowly.
Sirius grimaced. "Yeah. Clarissa was Druella's youngest daughter. That makes her your aunt by marriage, and Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa your first cousins once removed. Small world. Nasty one, too."
Arthur's eyes widened as he realized the depth of it. "So I'm connected to them? Bellatrix? Malfoy's mother?"
"By blood, marriage, yes," Sirius said. "But don't let that fool you. You're not them. Your mother made sure of that."
"And Reginald Rosier?" Arthur asked, his voice almost a whisper.
"The youngest Rosier sibling," Sirius said grimly. "Worse than John. Fully committed to Voldemort. Hated your mother for turning her back on the family. Some think he helped track her down."
Arthur's stomach twisted. He stepped back from the tapestry, the weight of names and blood and history pressing down on him like a suffocating fog.
"So I'm the heir of all this darkness?" he asked bitterly.
"No," Sirius said firmly, stepping in front of him. "You're the light that came from it. The one who broke the cycle. This tapestry? It's just thread. What you do now? That's what matters."
Arthur looked up, pain and purpose battling in his eyes. "I always wondered who I was. Now I know... and I still don't have an answer."
"You don't need to have one yet," Sirius said. "Just know this: your parents didn't die because of their blood. They died because they chose love over legacy. You've already inherited the best part of them."
He turned to Sirius.
"So… what does that make us?" Arthur asked, his voice unsteady.
Sirius gave a half-smile—dry, but not unkind. "Family," he said simply.
Arthur blinked. "Wait—like, actual family?"
"Yeah, real family. Technically, you're my second cousin once removed—or something absurd like that. But titles don't matter, Arthur. You and I? We come from the same cursed tapestry."
Arthur let out a shaky breath. "And Lupin's my godfather. You're technically my... dark uncle or something."
Sirius snorted. "Better than 'Murder Uncle.'"
Arthur laughed. It came out strange and sharp, like breaking ice. But it helped.
"So much of this is dark," he whispered. "But… you're not."
Sirius met his eyes. "Neither are you."
Arthur nodded slowly, the truth sinking in like the first sunrise after a storm. His family's past might be tangled and dark—but he was still alive. He still had a choice.
And for the first time, he was ready to make it.