The air in Grimmauld Place's library hung thick with dust and damp parchment, the only light a single guttering candle casting long, dancing shadows. Sirius stood by the grimy window, his back rigid, staring out at the rain-lashed London street. He'd been recounting a story - something about James and a rogue Bludger in their sixth year - his voice attempting its usual careless bravado, but it kept catching, fraying at the edges. She sat curled in a threadbare armchair, a half-finished mug of lukewarm tea forgotten in her hands, watching him. Watching the tension cord the muscles in his neck, the way his knuckles whitened where they gripped the windowsill.

He'd been... different since she'd started spending more time here. Less like the feral ghost escaped from Azkaban, more like the ghost of the arrogant, brilliant boy he'd once been. But a ghost trying desperately to haunt properly. He pulled out chairs for her with exaggerated, almost antique courtesy. Offered her the least chipped teacup. Called her "my dear" in a low murmur that sounded both practiced and painfully sincere.

Tonight, the performance had faltered entirely. The story about James had trailed off. Sirius fell silent, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the rain-streaked darkness beyond the glass. The carefully constructed persona of the charming, if slightly ragged, pureblood gentleman seemed to crumble, leaving only the raw edges of the man beneath.

She rose quietly, sensing the shift.

He flinched, a minute movement, then slowly, painfully, turned his head. The lamplight caught his face - the sharp cheekbones, the aristocratic lines now etched with exhaustion and something deeper, older. His eyes weren't looking at her, not really. They were looking through, seeing Azkaban's chill, the echoing emptiness of twelve years, the gnawing fear for Harry trapped in that deadly tournament.