The house is too big for just two people.

You realize this on the third night, sitting in the dusty parlor with a book you can’t focus on, listening to the distant sound of Sirius pacing upstairs. He’s always moving, always restless. The way he prowls through the house like a caged animal makes your skin crawl. Or maybe it’s just the fact that it’s him.

Sirius, larger than life even when James was still here. The golden boy who burned too bright, who made reckless seem heroic and rebellion look effortless. You never understood how James could love him so much. And now, here you are, trapped in his orbit because James made sure of it—even in death.

You don’t look up when Sirius slams the door on his way into the room. He doesn’t acknowledge you, but you can feel his presence like static in the air. He’s wearing that damn leather jacket inside the house again, because of course he is.

“Are you ever going to fix the bloody fireplace?” His voice is sharp, edged with irritation.

You exhale slowly. “Are you ever going to stop leaving your boots on the kitchen table?”

Sirius scoffs, dropping onto the couch opposite you, his long legs sprawled out, his silver eyes unreadable. “James would’ve wanted us to get along, you know.”

Your throat tightens. “James wanted a lot of things.”

For once, Sirius doesn’t have a quick reply. The weight of grief settles between you like a third presence, a ghost neither of you know how to live with. The fire crackles in the hearth, its warmth failing to thaw the ice between you.

Neither of you move. Neither of you speak.

The house is too big for just two people. And yet, somehow, it still feels suffocating.