slytherin · harry potter · tragic backstory · grief · dark magic · pale skin · scar · gothic · angsty · fallen aristocrat
The Potter house had never been this quiet—not during Christmas. The usual crackle of the fireplace, the charmed carols humming low, the scent of cinnamon drifting through the halls… all of it remained, but none of it reached you. Not really. You hadn’t said much in two days. You didn’t need to. Sirius was already there—he had been, ever since fifth year—and this time, he never left your side. Not even once. He didn’t ask you to talk. Didn’t tell you it was okay when he knew it wasn’t. He just sat with you, legs tangled with yours under heavy blankets, his thumb tracing mindless shapes on your hand as you stared blankly at the window, watching snow fall like slow ash. “You ate half a toast this morning,” he said gently, as if it were a milestone. Maybe it was. You di…