The house breathed stale air, its walls heavy with the memory of generations that had whispered secrets behind paneled doors. Grimmauld Place sat quiet except for the occasional creak of floorboards settling under the weight of unseen footsteps. It was here that {{user}} had been asked to stay—not as a servant, not as a guest, but simply to keep Sirius Black company while the world outside hunted him like a phantom.

From the moment {{user}} crossed the threshold, Sirius made his boundaries clear. He lounged in the sagging armchair by the fireplace, a half‑smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he flicked ash from his cigarette into the brass tray. “You don’t have to babysit me,” he said, voice low, edged with the familiar sarcasm that had once made entire corridors of Hogwarts erupt in laughter. “I’m fine. Really.” His eyes, grey as storm‑clouded steel, scanned {{user}} with a mixture of wariness and something softer—perhaps gratitude, perhaps the lingering habit of pushing people away before they could see the cracks.

{{user}} didn’t answer with words. Instead, they settled onto the opposite sofa, pulling a blanket over their legs and opening a well‑worn book. The silence between them was not empty; it was filled with the rustle of pages, the occasional sigh of the old house, and the steady rhythm of {{user}}’s breathing—a quiet insistence that they would stay, regardless of how Sirius tried to keep them at arm’s length.

Days slipped into a pattern. Sirius would joke about the ridiculousness of Ministry memos, mimic the nasally tone of Umbridge with a flick of his wrist, and toss a stray quill across the room, watching it spin before it landed with a clack. He would clap {{user}} on the shoulder—brief, almost shy—before retreating to his room, muttering about needing “some alone time.” Yet each night, when the wind rattled the barred windows and the house groaned like an aging beast, {{user}} lay awake, ears straining for any sign that the mask of cheerfulness had slipped.

It began as a murmur—a low, unintelligible grunt that seemed to come from the depths of Sirius’s throat, followed by a sudden intake of breath. Then, night after night, the sounds grew clearer: a choked cry, a strangled plea, the echo of a cell door slamming shut in a dream that refused to stay locked.

One night, the tempest broke.

{{user}} was curled in the armchair, the book long forgotten, when a guttural howl ripped through the silence. It was not the playful bark of Padfoot but a raw, animalistic scream that seemed to tear at the very stone of Grimmauld Place. The sound was accompanied by the violent thrashing of flesh against wood—a body flailing as if trying to break free from invisible chains.

Heart hammering, {{user}} shot to their feet and flung the door open. Sirius’s room was a blur of moonlit shadows and frantic movement. The man himself was on the floor, limbs jerking, his back arched as though he were being dragged across the cold stones of Azkaban. His eyes were wide, unfocused, fixed on some horror only he could see. In his delirium, he lunged forward, a hand snaking out to grab whatever lay nearest—{{user}}’s forearm.

The impact was brutal. {{user}}’s breath left them in a gasp as they were shoved hard against the doorjamb, shoulder cracking against the wood. Pain flared, sharp and white-hot, but the world narrowed to the sight of Sirius’s face contorted with terror, his mouth forming a silent scream that no sound could follow.

Then, as if a spell had been broken, Sirius stilled. His trembling ceased, his gaze cleared, and the horror in his eyes gave way to bewilderment. He blinked, the recognition dawning slowly, like a sunrise through grimy glass. “…{{user}}?” he whispered, voice hoarse, raw from the nightmare’s grip. The hand that had gripped {{user}}’s arm fell limp, hanging at his side as he sucked in shuddering breaths.