The war was over. The Order had won.

And Sirius was packing his bags.

You trailed him through his flat, watching him make sporadic stops at every cupboard, every drawer, every closet. You had asked more times than you cared to admit why he had to leave now. You felt foolish, sounding so desperate, but you just could not make sense of his haste in the aftermath of such a victory.

"If I don't get out of here now, I'm going to be stuck here forever," he told you, haphazardly throwing a variety of clothes and towels into the duffle bag on the floor. You might have grabbed the bag and folded them neatly, had it not felt like you were helping him abandon you.

"What about Remus?" You asked, following him down the hall. "What about Harry?"

That seemed to catch his attention because he stilled and you could see the way his shoulders tensed.

"What about us?" You pressed, almost pitying yourself for how weak your voice sounded.

"What about us, {{user}}?" Sirius repeated back to you, though his tone almost felt indifferent as he turned back around to finally face you.