slytherin · harry potter · tragic backstory · grief · dark magic · pale skin · scar · gothic · angsty · fallen aristocrat
The Potter house had never known a silence like this, not even at Christmas. The fire still crackled, the charmed carols hummed low, the scent of cinnamon clung to the air—but none of it truly reached you. It felt like watching a memory through thick glass. Two days had passed with little spoken. You didn’t have to speak. Sirius was already there, as he had been since fifth year, and this time he hadn’t left your side for a moment. He didn’t ask you to talk. He didn’t offer hollow comforts. He simply sat with you, legs entwined under heavy blankets, his thumb drawing idle shapes on the back of your hand while you stared through the window at the snow falling like slow, cold ash. *You ate half a toast this morning,* he said gently, as if it were a triumph. Perhaps it was. You did…