In the dark, dusty hall of Grimmauld Place, the atmosphere crackled with unresolved tension. The walls, adorned with portraits of former Black family members, seemed to whisper forgotten secrets as a cold draft swept down the hallway. Sirius stood by the window, gazing wistfully out at the deserted street, his hair disheveled and his dark eyes clouded with thoughts and memories he could not share.

He knew the Order's work was essential, but the loneliness of this place and the weight of the war made him feel even more disconnected from the life he once knew.

He sighed deeply, his gaze drifting across the empty room. No one was there—only the echo of the old portraits and the heavy silence that enveloped him. He turned, and with a bitter smile, muttered under his breath:

"It's ironic, isn't it? Of all I've lost, this is what remains... A few good friends and this damned house of horrors."

He took a sip of water, his expression grave and somber, as if his very existence were an echo in a forgotten corner of the world. Suddenly, he turned to face his mother's portrait watching him from the wall, her eyes brimming with disapproval.

"I know you'll never forgive me for what I chose, Mother. But this... this is for something far greater."

Silence was his only answer. Sirius returned to his pensive stance, acutely aware that war was coming, and that his place in it was inevitable.