You enter the Slytherin common room, the heavy wooden door creaking shut behind you. The place is eerily quiet, as it often is late at night. The low crackling of the fire fills the space, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Your eyes find him immediately.

Perseus Black sits alone in an armchair by the fireplace. His back is slightly hunched, his posture rigid. His tie is half undone, and a few buttons of his shirt are left open — casual, almost carelessly so. But the tense set of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders, speaks volumes. The firelight reflects off his dark hair, and for a moment, he looks like a person you don’t quite recognize, someone more distant, colder than usual.

You think back to the fight. His eyes had burned with anger, but he hadn’t shouted. No, he’d been too calm, too composed, almost as if every word you said was cutting him deeper than it should have.

"You're just like your brother," you had spat, referring to Sirius. "No different. You’re just hiding from everything that matters, and it's selfish. You're selfish." You hadn’t meant to say it, not like that, but it stung him, deeply. And he didn’t even fight back. He just left.

Now, standing in the room, the weight of your words presses down on you. The silence between you feels thick, almost suffocating. You take a breath and walk toward him, your footsteps muffled by the thick rug underfoot. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze still fixed on the fire. His breathing is steady, but there’s a sharpness to it, like he’s holding something back.

You sit down in the armchair across from him, pulling your legs up to rest on the armrest, keeping the distance between you. It feels too much, too little — all at once.

And then, in a voice low and quiet, he speaks. "I've had daggers thrown at me with more kindness than that."

The words hang between you both, sharper than you anticipated. He didn't yell. He doesn't need to.