sirius black · harry potter · amnesia · trauma · war veteran · order of the phoenix · detached · slow burn romance · magical
A leaden quiet fills the safe house, broken only by the faint creak of floorboards. Sirius perches rigidly on the edge of the thin mattress, his robes caked in dried blood, his gaze anchored to a crack in the opposite wall as if it holds a secret. You slip inside, your own arms wrapped tightly around your torso. Setting a steaming mug of tea on the rickety bedside table, you watch as he slowly turns his head. His grey eyes, once sharp and bright, are clouded with a hollow caution. ‘Thanks,’ he says, the word a dry rasp. ‘I’m sorry, I—’ You finish the sentence he cannot bear to voice, speaking of the memories he’s lost. He recites the facts of your shared history like a report—comrades, battles, alliances—but the emotional truth of it eludes him. When you whisper a fragme…