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The problem starts after the war, when Harry says, offhand, "You're not getting out of your promise, by the way."
"I'm morally against it," Sirius grumbles, shoveling porridge into his mouth. It's breakfast time. They should be doing wholesome, godfather-godson breakfast activities like plying themselves with good food and drinking more coffee than a human body may be able to handle, not talking about one of the promises he's made to Harry. He's made a few of them over the years, most of which he's delivered on, but of the rest he knows which one Harry means. "Spare an old man."
"You're not that old," Harry replies. "I can wait if you want me to. It doesn't have to be right now."
"How about in a decade?"
Harry shrugs, glancing down to focus on spreading jam on his toast. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, then finally says, "It can be in a decade if you want. Or in two, or three. Just someday, yeah?"
"I don't go back on my promises," Sirius says. He keeps his tone muted, sincere.
It's worth it for the way Harry looks at him with relief evident in his gaze, if not for the way that the idea of it all leaves him cold. Still, he's a man of his word. Sirius has made few promises in his life. Most of them will be forever unfilled, made to dead men and graves, but some linger. Words have power. No one knows that as well as a wizard. Even words without magic threading through every syllable, even simple promises. There's no unbreakable vow that ties him to Harry, no bond between them except for the memory of making that promise, strong as anything and ever-present in his mind after Harry reminds him of it.
Harry's a man of his word, too. He doesn't mention it again. Not a hint, not a leading remark. It hangs between them, not so much like a ghost, but a curtain drawn over a sensitive subject. There isn't much Sirius is sensitive about. Hell, his dirty laundry is all out for others to sniff, airing out over the pages of the Daily Prophet or simply thrown at anyone who asks. He's never had much shame, not even when he really fucking should.
But that morning, it's not when the problem starts, not really.
It starts when James places Harry in his hands, and when Sirius swears an oath to protect his best friend no matter that it isn't the secret keeper's vow, and when he sees Harry for the first time since escaping Azkaban. It starts when he makes his first promise to Harry, that they will be a family if he has any say about it, and it starts when Harry takes him up on it after the war.
It starts when he realizes that he'll make any promise that Harry asks of him because he trusts that Harry will never ask for more than Sirius can give. And even if he doesn't have what Harry wants from him, he might still find a way. All it takes is some time.
When it comes to this promise, it takes three years. The first year, he lets himself forget about it. He has a decade's time limit. He can think about it later. It's easy to let the curtain rest, to not unveil the things beneath. The next time Sirius thinks of it, it's around the time of Harry's birthday. Wouldn't he like it if, if, if. But this isn't a birthday gift to be sprung on someone. It's a process that lasts a lifetime and beyond, and Sirius can't bring himself to start it. Not yet.
He gives it another year, then another for good measure.
Peacetime is busier than he'd thought it would be, but it's a good kind of busy. He takes a job at the DMLE to help with the post-war rebuilding effort and then never leaves ministry employment. He's all kinds of an idiot for working for the place that wrongfully imprisoned him, but with Kingsley as minister, and Harry at the auror department and happy to meet him for lunch when their schedules allow, it's pretty good. On the weekends, there's Teddy and Weasleys and learning how to make friends for the first time since Hogwarts, and there's holidays and birthdays and milestones.
Sirius doesn't devote much time to thinking about his promises.
Three years in, he simply realizes that the thought of it doesn't send him running for the hills anymore. For the most part, he's put that part of the past behind himself. It will ache sometimes at night, or on certain days, but then in the morning he will step out into the little garden behind Grimmauld Place and tilt his face to the sun's rays. The sum of his parts is no longer angled so thoroughly toward grief; there's more there, laid brick by brick in the years since the war. Harry has been there for each step of it and Sirius can't figure out what he did to earn Harry's friendship. It's certainly not duty that keeps him here, living in Sirius' house and throwing out his whiskey, because as Harry says, duty's for wartime. Life is just all that comes after.
It's another weekend morning, this one after breakfast, when Sirius comes to a decision. He leans in the doorway of the living room for more than a few heartbeats, watching Harry read on the couch. Harry isn't a big reader, but when he picks up a book, he attacks it with the same energy he gives learning spells. Even now, his shoulders are fixed and his gaze is boring down at the page as though he can absorb words with the power of his determination.
Sirius gets caught up in it sometimes, paying too much attention to Harry. He can blame it on wanting to give Harry the attention he never got to give him when he was growing up, but he knows it's not that. Not really. It’s a reward to himself for being good: he can think what he likes if he doesn't act. He can think about the way Harry's shirt sculpts his muscles, his sleepy looks in the mornings, his hands sticky with grease when he and Sirius work on the bike. He can think about it all he likes as long as that’s where it ends, with thought instead of action.
Sirius hates to pull Harry away. He does it anyway. If he's doing this, then he's doing it with Harry matching him step for step. "I need another pair of hands. What do you say?"
"Sure," Harry says, looking up from his book. He drops it onto the couch without hesitation. With a sigh, he stuffs a corner of a couch pillow into the book to keep his place. He's barely a quarter of the way through. "Why did I offer to read Hermione's favorite book? I regret it already."
"Because you're under the impression that Ron shouldn't have to suffer alone," Sirius replies, loftily. It's easy for him, since he hadn't made any ridiculous promises of that sort. He's been hearing about how boring the book is daily. It hasn't stopped Harry from continuing to read it for an hour most days after work and quoting passages to Sirius. At this rate, Sirius will unwillingly know more than he ever wanted to know about the history of the wizarding world's finances.
Harry shrugs. "Friends don't let friends suffer alone. What's this about?"
Sirius shakes his head and motions for Harry to follow him up to the little-used attic of Grimmauld Place. It'll be clear enough soon. He doesn't drag his steps, doesn't hesitate at the door. His mind's made up. All the rest of it, the worries and the memories, they're rubbish. They don't hold a candle to the man standing next to him.
The attic is a hodgepodge of junk in and out of boxes. There's old furniture to trip over, a collection of dusty flying carpets from a relative who'd held out hope that the ministry would repeal their ban, various books that had been weeded out of the old library for being too boring. The pile closest to the door is full of the junk Sirius thrown up here over the years since his escape from Azkaban. It's the smallest pile in the attic. Sirius continuing the longstanding Black family tradition of hoarding all sorts of crap. He's the last one to carry the name, so it's only right that he gets to choose which traditions the family keeps and which it throws out.
Harry looks around and lets out a quiet whistle. "We're not cleaning this, are we?"
"Who do you take me for, Kreature?"
Sirius steps over his own pile of junk, looking closely at a few records at the top of the pile that he might migrate downstairs later. He'd gone off them after playing them once upon his return to this house; he and James had quite a collection at one point, but the memories had been louder than the music. He thinks he might give it another try.
It takes about ten minutes to rummage through various boxes until he finds the right spot. Harry snoops through various boxes with Sirius' tacit permission, ignoring the ones that are taped and spelled but opening the flaps of the boxes less stringently sealed.
"We could open an antique clothing shop with all of this," Harry muses, raising a dusty black lace dress from one box. Within moments, he's sneezing all over it. "Is this sneezing powder or dust?"
"Can't say. I remember that one being a favorite of Bella's, so I wouldn't put it past myself to have thrown some powder in in case she ever wanted the dress back."
The right chest is relatively easy to find. He remembers the paint splatters on the latch and the old, dark wood of the chest. There's a phoenix in shades of blue, purple, and black on the sides, zipping through to the back of the chest when Sirius appears to escape his sight. It's never liked anyone as far as Sirius remembers.
"This is the one," Sirius says.
He could levitate it out, but Harry's already grasping the handle on the other side, so Sirius takes the one closest to him. The wooden ridges of the handle bring out a long-forgotten sense memory: himself and Regulus bringing out the chest on their mother's orders, arguing and laughing and trying to get the phoenix to stay still. It feels like some of that laughter is caught in his throat even now; in all those years of hating him, he hadn't realized what a privilege it was to hate Regulus in the same uncomplicated strokes he'd painted Walburga in his mind. Now, with evidence and hindsight, he's been forced to mourn him. Terrible, really. It's like Regulus forced himself onto the list of people Sirius mourns, making room for himself despite Sirius' attempts to push him out. Like a proper little brother.
Sirius directs them to the living room once more. They place it on the floor next to the table.
"Do I get to ask questions now?" Harry asks, poking at the chest.
"You may," Sirius allows.
Harry huffs at him. "Come on, Sirius. What is it?"
"It's a chest."
"I'll have you know I'm an auror. I can and will misuse my authority to throw my badge at you until you answer."
"When have you ever misused your authority?" Sirius asks, fondly. Maybe too fondly, because Harry looks away for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips. Sirius switches his focus to the chest instead, running his wand hand over the smooth wood. "This belonged to my great-great-great grandfather, who was a painter and his generation's black sheep of the family. That didn't stop them from commissioning him for portraits, but he's not listed on the family tree for reasons that were never properly explained to me as a kid."
"Knowing your mum's portrait, I bet it was something terrible, like treating a muggle with basic human decency," Harry says, bumping his shoulder against Sirius'.
He hadn't realized Harry had approached him so closely; now, it's hard to think of anything else. It takes his mind off of things at the very least. Sirius lifts the heavy latch, then the lid of the chest. It smells musty and acrid, and he waves a hand in front of his face. "Ew. Mum's revenge—not storing this properly."
Next to him, Harry's nose is wrinkled, and he seems to be trying not to breathe, but his eyes are bright as he takes in the contents of the chest.
"Gross," Harry agrees. He doesn't sound like he's running for the hills. He sticks his hand inside the chest and returns with several rolls of canvas, all larger than the outward dimensions of the chest.
One by one, they set the painter's materials on the table. Brushes, old paints, wooden boards, cloths, glass jars, and a myriad of other supplies follow. The last is an iron cauldron that has Sirius grunting as he lifts it onto the table.
Harry’s dislike of anything to do with potions has him looking at it warily. "What does a painter need a cauldron for?"
"To bind the paint to your magic." Sirius picks up one of the jars of paint and eases it open. One whiff is more than enough to make him gag, but it gets the point across. "It's not as easy as Teddy's watercolors. It's a long process, from pigment to imbuing your magic into the materials to finding a painter who can work with your magic without adding any of their own. This might've been Mum's, now that I think about it; her magic's just always been like that."
"Are all of these already imbued?" Harry asks as he picks up two of the many jars, looking them over. "They're not labeled."
"Without a painter to set it into a painting, the magic's faded over the years. Thirty years ago, you could have picked out each person's paints by touch alone. Now, well." Sirius shrugs. "These are useless for the most part; I could never use them in a portrait of myself. Unless you want another painting of my mum?"
Harry shakes his head. "No way. We barely got her down from the entrance room. Unless you can make a portrait of her that's really nice..."
"You can," Sirius replies, simply. There must be something in his tone because Harry looks over at him, the turn of his head sharp. Sirius sighs and reaches back into the chest, where they'd left behind scraps like broken paintbrushes and bits of paper to litter the bottom. In the midst are several scraps of canvas, no longer attached to a frame, with ripped edges and flaky, unfinished paint. He doesn't look at the pieces as he hands them to Harry, identifying them by the way they resonate with his own magic against his hands.
Harry spreads them across the small part of the table that isn't covered with painting materials. They made an incomplete picture. Bits and pieces of a young man sitting at the formal dining table that's long gone from Grimmauld Place. There was a vase of flowers on that table, but it's not evident from the pieces that remained.
Sirius runs a finger across one of the jagged edges of the canvas. Harry covers his hand with his own, and Sirius leans against the table because it's a better choice than to lean into Harry, to draw strength and comfort from him like he's done all too often throughout the years, just as Sirius has provided it to Harry in return.
"I have a track record of destroying paintings," Sirius begins, moving his hand so that it is no longer obscuring the parts of the image that remained. The top of the young man's head, gray eyes defiant but unmoving, lifeless. Unfinished.
Harry squeezes his hand and doesn't let go. "The Fat Lady forgave you as soon as I told her the whole story. She believed me even in third year when I had no proof."
"She's always had a soft spot for me. Let me into the dorms a few times when I didn't know the password. It's all down to my dashing good looks."
"I wouldn't doubt it."
The worst part is that Harry sounds sincere. No, scratch that, the worst part is that Harry's hand is warm as it holds Sirius', and it is that Sirius hasn't already waved his wand to send all the supplies back into the chest, and it is that he isn't going to do it. Instead, he's pulling a tale of the Black family tragedy from the vaults of his mind, buried and half-forgotten except for the parts that prick at him like needles.
"I was sixteen. I'd just returned home from Hogwarts when Mum announced that I was to sit for a painting. Each summer home from Hogwarts, she'd come up with new attempts to rein me in. Tutors, assignments, guilt, bribery, punishments. It would have been easier if she'd given up on me, but she had determination in spades and too much fucking time on her hands." He lets Harry tug them over to the couch. Despite his better judgment, he also lets Harry sit them down too closely, sides and shoulders touching. "Anyway, that summer, it was portraiture: portrait, torture. James didn't appreciate that pun either."
"Too busy being angry with your mum to laugh," Harry replied, gently squeezing Sirius' hand. "We should have done worse with her painting."
"I don't know, feeding it through a muggle paper shredder was inspired. It was a hot summer and cooling spells were claimed to interfere with the paints. I spent weeks sweating into my least favorite formal robes while the painter ordered me to stop moving and Mum hovered around to yell as needed. I don't remember his name, just that he was my mum's kind of pureblood, old, didn't put up with any of my shit. Toward the end of the process, he began adding spells into the portrait."
"I take it they weren't the normal ones."
"Normal to my family, maybe. I memorized one and looked it up in the library afterward, then had a blowout fight with my mum immediately after. It was a bunch of shit—obedience, loyalty, honesty when asked questions by a Black, personality changes. Mum had decided that if she couldn't control me, then she could control my legacy. Set up that portrait in the portrait hall and when I was dead and buried, which she assumed would be soon since she knew I wanted to fight against Voldemort, the family could remember me as I should have been. A fussy dick who was loyal to his family over anyone else."
"The shredder was too good for her," Harry said, anger heating his voice. "What the hell was wrong with her?"
"Centuries of privilege, inbreeding, and general assholery." It's been long enough that Sirius can be flippant.
Harry, hearing the story for the first time, is anything but. That first year out of Azkaban, Sirius had looked for Lily and James in Harry, but ghosts don't always want to be found. They come out when you least expect them to, in the smallest, strangest ways, like the way Harry's lips turn just so when he's pissed off, a mirror of Lily's. But it's been forever and a day since he's seen Lily; that motion is Harry's alone now, as are the creative insults flowing from those lips. The auror department's really done him well.
He's let go of Sirius' hand to gesture in the direction of the chest as he finishes off with, "And you are better than any of those dicks combined. They should have changed themselves, not you."
"At the end of the day, they're gone and only I'm left. Up to me to bear the Black legacy and whatnot. It's a good revenge to end the name with a bang. I won't rest until every one of them turns over in their graves."
"You can and should do whatever you want," Harry says. "End the name, or change the name, or give it a different meaning. No matter how many times you say it, you're not an old man. You could, you know..."
"Continue the fine Black tradition?"
"You could start a new one," Harry offers instead. "What's stopping you?"
"You need at least two for that kind of tradition," Sirius says, dryly. "I may not be ancient, but I'm happy where I am, with what I have." And it's true; he is happy. The kind of happy that he's grown accustomed to, one where he doesn't hold his breath waiting for it to change. A portrait is a legacy. For the longest time, Sirius hadn't wanted to leave one, until he looked around and realized that he can leave one with pride. This is the legacy he wants to leave behind: Sirius Black, exonerated, employed, godfather, friend, best damn holiday gift-giver you've ever met. "I don't need much more than this."
At some point, his hand found itself on Harry's shoulder. It's funny how that happens. Shoulders are supposed to be safe, friendly. And apparently an invitation for Harry to hug him, which Harry takes with both hands. Sirius rests his chin on Harry's shoulder, closes his eyes, lets himself enjoy the warmth and closeness.
"You don't have to make a portrait if you don't want to," Harry says, his voice quiet and serious. "I didn't understand before. I shouldn't have guilted you into agreeing."
Sirius huffs. "You did no such thing. I would've noticed. All you wanted was to hang onto me for a little longer. Can't fault you for that. I'm pretty great."
Harry agrees too quickly. "You are."
That's the problem with feelings: they're there all the time. Every drop of warmth, every puff of Harry's breath, every movement of his chest. It's ludicrous for Harry to suggest that Sirius could ever say no to him or that Sirius' motivation is guilt instead of love. Even during the war when Sirius had made his promise, there had been no guilt involved. All it had taken was for Harry to stand at his parents' grave and say I wish Mum and Dad had made portraits, with his voice hoarse and his head turned away from Sirius. He'd turned to Sirius and he'd barely asked the question before Sirius said yes. If they both survived the war, Sirius would make a portrait.
Harry's arms slip from around Sirius. Although the hug ends, he doesn't move far enough away. "You said you don't need much more."
"I did."
"Not that you don't need any more. What's missing?"
There are ways to shut this conversation down. They're on the tip of his tongue. One name, two, three. "I take it back. I don't need anything except for what I've got."
"It doesn't work that way."
"Marriage? Kids?" Harry asks.
Sirius makes a face. "I can't imagine kids running through this house again. Aunt Druella used to claim that the house would eat us if we poked around in the forbidden rooms and that's not too far off base."
"We've done massive renovations. The house didn't eat Teddy on any of his visits. I think it would be nice, actually."
There's something about Harry's tone that has Sirius saying, "Have you thought about this a lot?"
"Maybe a little. As Hermione says, it's never too early to plan for the future."
It's a heart-aching, wonderful, terrible thought: the possibility that perhaps Harry would stay. That one day this house would have children's voices, and Harry's voice, and the voice of whoever Harry married, and Sirius could stick around. Be an uncle, a godfather, a great-godfather (perish the thought, but he'd be whatever Harry needed).
Sirius is aware of his own selfishness. He's never denied it. Never tried to. It would be futile.
But it's taking it too far to imagine that future.
"Worry about finding yourself a wife, first," Sirius advises him, pulling a smile across his face because he's not sure what expression he'd make if left to his own devices.
Harry shakes his head slightly, barely making a motion. His gaze doesn't leave Sirius'. "I'd rather find an artist. I don't want a wife, Sirius."
"A husband, then."
"Yeah," Harry says. "One of those."
It's not like Sirius isn't aware of Harry's preferences, but the idea of sharing him with another man is somehow worse. "How about we start with the artist?" He reaches across the couch for the book Harry had dropped earlier, handing it to him before he stands. "Don't forget about this either."
It'll take Harry at least another month to get through the book. Longer for the painting.
In all this time, Harry hasn't been serious about finding love. It looks like that's changed. Sirius remembers when James had stopped pulling Lily's pigtails and fallen for her properly, head first, all the rest of him following immediately after. He needs to get ready to watch the same transition in Harry. Sirius can't stall for long with talk of artists and books.
He tries anyway.
Sirius declines Harry's first three choices of painters; the first for his art style, which isn't to his preference, the second for his overly cheerful demeanor, the third for the way she looked at Harry.
"What was so wrong with her?" Harry asks as she exits the house.
"Her technique," Sirius replies.
"She didn't even bring an art sample."
"That's why."
Harry laughs, shaking his head. "Just one more interview. You'll like him."
Despite himself, Sirius does. Dean is on the young side and had been in Harry's year at Hogwarts. He's talented and friendly. He's not awed by the great Harry Potter or intimidated by memories of Sirius' old wanted posters and former reputation. His portfolio is varied, and his grasp of portraiture and architecture is firm. He's done a few proper wizarding portraits and is perhaps not as experienced as the others they'd interviewed, but Sirius feels comfortable with the paintbrush in Dean's hands. He's nowhere near the pureblood old codger that had done the first painting. He's also been in a relationship since Hogwarts, a fact that shouldn't matter to Sirius. All combined, Dean is pretty much perfect.
Harry seems to know it, too, grinning when Sirius agrees to hire him.
The most labor-intensive part of the process, on Sirius' part at least, is the creation of the paints. He and Dean labor over them for the better part of three weeks. Dean looks embarrassed as he says he's never been great at potions; Sirius just blames it on Snivellus. It's not the kindest thing to say—Harry's been all about forgiving people for their parts in the war—but Sirius isn't ever going to get there with Snape's legacy and it looks like Dean isn't either.
For the painting itself, Sirius chooses the most comfortable location of Grimmauld Place: the plush, dark red couch that he drags in front of the fireplace. He sprawls out on it for the painting, leisurely. It would be a suggestive pose if he'd had one less layer of clothing. Robes don't give much impression of suggestiveness. He'd tried muggle clothing first, simply in the hopes that his mother would turn over in her grave, but he's never found them all that comfortable. It's easy enough this way, with messy robes and surrounded by various favorite books and mementos. Portraits don't get bored, their feelings aren't deep enough for that, but he likes the thought of it anyway.
Sometimes Harry tortures them both by reading aloud from Hermione's book.
Other times, it's only Dean and himself and the record player in the background. Dean is a quiet painter for the most part. It's only a week in when he says, "You know, I'm not usually commissioned to do paintings of people's godfathers."
"We're family," Sirius replies, shrugging off the look Dean's sending his way.
Dean continues with his brushstrokes, glancing Sirius' way occasionally. "You know Ginny and I dated at Hogwarts?"
"Must've forgotten."
"Yeah, it didn't last long. I knew she was more interested in Harry, but I thought for sure he only had eyes for offing Voldemort. Harry can be sneaky when he's falling in love. You wouldn't think so by how he is with everything else, but he is. I didn't notice he'd fallen for Ginny until he was kissing her in the middle of the common room, acting like there wasn't anything in the world except for her. It shocked the hell out of me that they didn't get back together after the war. I didn't get it for the longest time."
"War changes you," Sirius murmurs. But war doesn't change you completely, and perhaps not forever. Harry may have claimed not to want a wife, but... "She's single now?"
"That's not— yeah, sure. She's single."
It gives him something to think about throughout the rest of the session. The Weasleys are good people. They are the kind of good that Sirius can never lay claim to; Weasleys don't come from dark lines, don't spend years doing renovation to rid their house of curses and traps, and they definitely don't fall in love with their godsons. Dean doesn't bring Ginny up again. Neither does Sirius, not with Dean nor with Harry. Whether it's Ginny or someone else, Sirius still feels like living on borrowed time.
His last modeling session for the portrait sneaks up on him. Dean is gone before he knows it, off to put the finishing touches on the portrait, and Sirius stays on the couch for longer than he intends to. It's a comfortable place, something he's appreciated a lot over the past few weeks. He feels languid and lazy after a busy week and a full weekend of posing for Dean.
Sirius is thinking about taking a nap when he hears Harry approach. Eyes open halfway, Sirius watches him approach.
"All done?" Harry asks, voice quiet as if not to disturb Sirius' almost-nap.
"Should have the finished portrait here in two weeks," Sirius confirms. He yawns and opens his eyes fully, letting his gaze fall on Harry. It's gotten dark. The only light in the room is from the fireplace, which isn't as bright as it could be.
"Sirius," Harry says, sounding as helpless as he looks down at him, a smile tugging on his lips.
Head resting on the back of the couch, Sirius indulges him, and says, "Harry," in reply. "Do you need anything?"
Harry huffs, shaking his head slightly, and then he seems to pause. "You know what? I do."
There may not be much light in the room, but there's more than enough to watch Harry step closer and brace himself against the couch, leaning down to kiss Sirius. It could be the atmosphere, or the way Harry's lips aren't nearly hesitant enough for a first kiss, or the fact that he's wanted this for so damn long, but Sirius can't do anything else except pull Harry closer to him and kiss him back.
"Are you sure about this?" Sirius asks, unable to let the thought go when they break apart for a moment.
Harry looks at him fondly, his hands slow and wandering. "Hermione thought Ron and I would be aimless after the war, so she sat us down and made us create twenty-year plans for the future. This has always been in mine, right there between joining the aurors and buying a crup puppy. I was just hoping it wouldn't take the full twenty years. You were hard to read."
"And you were impossible," Sirius retorts. Now that the invitation's there, he can't seem to keep himself away. "Talking about husbands and futures all of a sudden."
"I would have told you who I wanted if you'd asked. It's always been you."
And what else is there to do but to say it back, and to kiss him again, this time with the knowledge that this is forever. Screw the portrait; this is how he wants to be remembered, with Harry in his lap and nothing better to do than to kiss him as thoroughly as he can. Sirius hopes that when the time comes, his and Harry's portraits are free with the boundaries of their frames, and visit each other exactly like this.
*
Dean delivers the portrait as promised. It's beautiful, as strange as that is to think about a portrait of himself. Sirius has no qualms about hanging it in the empty portrait room. By the magic of the portrait, it will only awaken when Sirius is gone from this world. Sirius can only hope that it will a great many years until then. It's comforting in a way, to leave a piece of himself, his magic, in Harry's capable hands. Sirius will imagine no other future than one where Harry will outlive him.
"Can you look through these and see what you can do?" Sirius asks before Dean leaves. He gestures toward the phoenix chest, still standing in the corner of the room.
There may not be enough magic in the paints for what he wants, but he knows he needs to try. Sirius had prevented the first painting of himself from being completed, but the war must have interfered with any more paintings to be completed. One had been started and left unfinished, all the materials for it prepared but cast aside in his mother's grief. There's a variety of photographs that could perhaps make up for the lack of a model, and magic trapped inside the jars of paint, waiting so long to be finally used.
Four months later and a sum of galleons poorer, Sirius hangs another portrait up.
"Hey, Reggie," he says. "It's been a while."
"I told you never to call me that," the man in the portrait says, and Sirius laughs.
The Black family portrait room has been empty for a long time. It grows slowly, one portrait, and then another, and then a few more, when the Black family name doesn't do the proper thing and die out, but expands instead. From portraits to rings and more, Sirius has a habit of giving Harry exactly what he wants, and he never plans to stop.