Whispers in the Dark-Fred Weasley

I haven't left my room all day.

Ginny and Hermione come and go, their voices gentle but persistent, their questions carefully measured—attempts to get me to talk, to pull me out of whatever state they think I'm in.

But I don't.

I don't have it in me to open my mouth and pretend I have the words to explain how I feel. I don't have it in me to go downstairs and talk to Fred like everything is fine, like I didn't spend last night being torn apart under the weight of Veritaserum and judgment. I don't have it in me to even look at Sirius, not after the way he looked at me like he wasn't sure if I was someone he could stand to be in the same house with.

The Order members have left, their presence no longer suffocating the walls of Grimmauld Place. But still—I can't shake the feeling that their voices, their stares, their doubt still lingers in the air like the last embers of a dying fire. I can't face the pitying looks from Ron or Harry now—not after last night, not after they heard the truth, the brutal, unfiltered reality of how I ended up on the Weasleys' doorstep that night.

I should get up. I should walk downstairs, let Fred wrap his arms around me, let him tell me that I'm okay, that I'm safe, that I belong here.

But I can't.

Because I don't know if I believe it. I feel guilty, locking myself away like this—away from Fred. I know he's waiting for me. I know he's probably pacing, debating whether or not to come up here and force me out of this room, force me to talk to him. But right now, I can't.

I don't want to talk. Not to Ginny. Not to Hermione. Not to Fred. Not to anyone.

The door creaks open more, and i glance up from where I'm curled on the edge of teh bed. Sirius leans against the doorway, arms crossed, looking just as exhausted as I feel.

"I assume you're not actually dying," he muttrers, eyeing me with something between amusement and mild irritation. 

I sigh, rubbing my hands over my face. "Not yet."

He huffs a dry chuckle, stepping inside without permission, as if the conversation from last ngiht gave him some right to invade my space now. He doesn't sit, just lingers near the old dresser, drumming his fingers against the wood.

"Did you come in here to be insufferable or just to gloat about how miserable I am?" I mumble, not bothering to sound polite.

"Bit of both," he admits, eyes scanning the dimly lit room. "But mostly, I figured I should check if you'd actually wasted away in here."

I roll my eyes, but it lacks energy.

I sit frozen on the bed, still reeling from the encounter with Kreacher, my skin crawling from his words-the noble house of Black. 

Sirius scoffs, almost as if he can hear my thoughts. "You hate the way he talks, don't you?" His voice is rough, edged with something unreadable. "The reverence, the loyalty, the devotion to a name that doesn't deserve it."

I don't respond at first, but eventually, I nod. "It's unsettling."

Sirius lets out a hollow chuckle, moving toward one of the chairs and collapsing into it with the weariness of someone who has been fighting a battle for too long. "Yeah," he mutters, staring at the flickering candle on the table, eyes distant. "Unsettling is one word for it." Silence hangs between us. He drums his fingers against the table absently, lost in thought, before finally sighing.

"You know," he starts, voice lower now, like he's speaking more to himself than me, "I used to think that if I ran far enough, I could get away from it. That I could outrun the name, the history, the legacy." He shakes his head, his jaw tightening. "But this house—it reeks of them. Of their hatred, their arrogance. No matter how much I try to scrub it clean, it remembers."