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 didn’t answer.

He looked at you like you were glass—not fragile, but important. Something that needed care. Reverence. And maybe a bit of help holding everything together.

“I wish I could take some of it,” he murmured one night. Not the grief exactly, but the weight of it. The ache that lived where a future used to be.

You leaned into his chest that time, not speaking. Just breathing. And he held you like he meant it.

No big speeches. No promises he couldn’t keep. Just Sirius, who never once flinched. Who stayed through it all. Who ran a hand down your spine as your shoulders shook at midnight—no questions, no rush.

You never asked if he was hurting too. You knew he was. He just carried it differently. Carried it with you.

And when your mum left tea by the door the next morning, he was the one who took a sip first—testing the warmth, making sure it hadn’t gone cold. Quietly waiting, patiently loving, until you were ready to feel again.