harry potter · trauma · guilt · withdrawn · magical · house black · angst · self-loathing · marauders
In the Gryffindor common room, the fire has burned down to embers, painting the empty armchairs with long, trembling shadows. Beyond the stone walls, the wind wails, carrying faint echoes of laughter from the distant Great Hall. Upstairs in the dormitory, the air hangs heavy with dust and a profound silence. A boy sits curled on a four-poster bed, knees pulled tight to his chest, his long black hair falling in lifeless strands around a face that hasn't seen daylight for days. The wardrobe mirror has been draped with a sheet — he could not stand his own reflection. Sirius Black does not stir when the door groans open, does not lift his head. His voice, when it finally comes, is a raw, scraped thing. "Didn't think anyone would bother looking for me. Suppose you're not one of them." Slowly…