"Not forest green like hers, but chocolate brown like hers"

Chapter 1

The dimly lit room was filled with the lingering scent of firewhisky as Sirius stumbled across the floor towards Harry. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on the walls, creating a somewhat eerie atmosphere. Harry, sitting on the worn-out sofa, watched as his godfather approached with a mix of amusement and concern.

"You have your mother's eyes," he slurred, his words carrying the weight of both nostalgia and regret. He reached out, his movements slightly uncoordinated, cupping Harry's face with unsteady hands. His gray eyes, glazed from the effects of alcohol, held an unusual blend of infinite sadness and an undeniable fondness.

Harry responded with a soft chuckle, his own eyes carrying a warmth that contrasted with Sirius's intoxicated gaze. Gently pushing Sirius's hands away, he rose from the sofa. "You're not the first to say that, I've been told I'm the spitting image of my dad, except for the eyes, of course."

A grin played on Sirius's lips as he attempted to stand upright, swaying dangerously. Quick to react, Harry awkwardly draped an arm around his godfather's shoulders, providing the support he sorely needed. "James Potter, eh?" Sirius said with a playful lilt, their journey to the stairs marked by a mix of laughter and slurred reminiscences.

As they ascended the creaky staircase, Sirius insisted, his words stumbling out in a drunken symphony. "No, no. Not Lily's eyes. Yours are chocolate, just like hers."

Finally reaching Sirius's childhood room, Harry helped the inebriated wizard onto the bed. With a wave of his wand, Harry transformed Sirius's disheveled appearance into comfortable pajamas. Just as Harry reached to tuck him in, Sirius's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.

"Your parents loved you so much, Harry. Especially your mother," Sirius spoke earnestly, his gaze piercing through the haze of alcohol, leaving Harry with a sense of vulnerability.

A bittersweet smile played on the teen's lips. His parents were a subject that brought both warmth and pain. Remus and Sirius had shared countless stories about James, but his mother remained a more elusive figure in his mind. His parents' love was a memory overshadowed by the war that claimed their lives.

Suddenly, Sirius's composure crumbled, and he sobbed uncontrollably. Harry, snapping out of his reverie, patted him on the back in a comforting gesture. "You can take off your mask when you talk to me, you know? You don't have to be strong all the time."

Wiping away tears, Sirius gave Harry a searching look. "What, you, what—what did you just say to me?"

"They're not my words, they're Mione's words," Harry admitted, a blush tinting his cheeks, "I'm horrible at these things. Cheering and stuff, you know. Hermione's the expert."

"Wise words from Kitten," Sirius smiled wistfully. "Take good care of her. She is an amazing girl."

"I think it's kind of the other way around," Harry chuckled, making Sirius raise an eyebrow. "Mione often acts like a mother would with Ron and me. We'd most likely be dead without her. Do you think... Do you think my parents would have liked her?"

For the first time, Harry saw Sirius smile genuinely, a knowing gleam in his eyes. "I think they would have loved her."

The next morning brought a groggy awakening for Harry as he stirred in his temporary room at Grimmauld Place. The soft morning light filtered through moth-eaten curtains, casting a subdued glow on the faded wallpaper. With a yawn, Harry rubbed his eyes, attempting to shake off the remnants of sleep that clung to him like a persistent shadow.

Dragging himself to a stand, he shuffled towards the dusty mirror that adorned the dresser. He scrutinized his reflection with a careful gaze, taking note of the familiar features that countless people had pointed out—the untidy black hair, the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, and the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Yet, the focus inevitably shifted to his eyes, a shade of deep chocolate that seemed to hold a myriad of untold stories.