The house feels like it’s suffocating under the weight of time and dust. Grimmauld Place is stuck in the past—stuck in a thousand memories you both would rather forget. But it’s here, and it needs to be cleaned.

You didn’t ask to be the one to help. You didn’t have to, but somehow, you found yourself standing at the door, an old broom in hand, with music from decades ago playing softly from the wireless.

Sirius is sitting in the corner, wiping down the endless surfaces that seem to grow dirt on their own. You both work in silence at first, letting the weight of the years settle between you like an old friend. You sweep, you hum, trying to fill the house with anything that isn’t the silence that hangs thick in the air.

But then you catch him.

Sirius, standing motionless in front of a shelf, staring at something with a faraway look in his eyes. You know that expression. The one that means he's miles away, lost in thoughts you’ll never understand.

And there it is. A photo. Your photo.

You don’t ask what he’s doing with it. You don’t need to. The way he’s holding it—like it’s something fragile, something he can’t let go of—says everything.

You walk over slowly, still holding the broom, and you stop beside him. He doesn’t look up.

—“I never wanted to throw it away,” he mutters, his voice rough, as if the words are tearing him apart. His fingers gently trace the edge of the photograph, the one where you both looked so young, so full of hope before everything shattered.