𝘋𝘈𝘕𝘊𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘞𝘐𝘛𝘏 𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘏𝘈𝘕𝘋𝘚 𝘛𝘐𝘌𝘋/𝘵𝘰𝘮 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 (English version)

Chapter 77

Sarah Black's Journal

It was after his death.
The first lunch at Headquarters.
No one spoke.
Tonks had red, glistening eyes, Remus sat at the far end of the table, shoulders hunched, his plate still full in front of him.
No one was really hungry.
Someone said, "Sit wherever you like."

And I... I saw that chair in the corner.
Slightly pulled back from the table.
Alone... just far enough to seem purposefully chosen by someone who didn't want to be the center, but not entirely out of the picture either.
And I thought: Sirius would've taken that one.

Back to the wall, legs stretched out, arms crossed. That smirk on his face, the one that pretended not to care, but took in everything, understood everything.
He was always there, even when he seemed far away.
So I didn't sit in that chair.

I left it empty for the whole meal.

No one noticed, but I watched it the entire time.
I waited for the creak of the door, the sound of boots on the floorboards.
I waited for him to stroll in with that lazy gait and say something idiotic, like:
"Stew again? Crime against humanity."

But no one came.
The chair remained there.
And I didn't eat.

—

The sea crashed against the rocks; the sky was grayer that day, promising rain.
A flock of seagulls drifted away from the cliff.
Inside the house, muffled voices came from the kitchen: the clink of cups and cutlery, a radio playing too low to make out the words.

Sarah had gone upstairs.
She had taken refuge in her room, the one with the widest window facing the sea, knees on a cushion, notebook open in her hands.

It had been Fleur who gave it to her, placing it gently on the bed.
"Write," she'd said. "I promise you won't regret it."

So Sarah had begun to write.
Not every day, and not always in order.
But she had left a trail: scattered sentences, memories, emotions she didn't want to lose.
Little pieces of herself laid down on paper.

That morning, she'd reread a few pages.
The empty chair.
The nights at Grimmauld Place.
The times Sirius would drape his coat over her shoulders and call her "little Black" in that tender voice only he ever used with her.

His voice, in her mind, was still clear.
As if he'd just stepped out of the room.

"You still think about him, don't you?"
The voice behind her was low, she would've recognized it anywhere.
She didn't need to turn, she knew it was Harry.

Sarah nodded, eyes fixed on the notebook.
"Every day," the girl said softly. "But not always in the same way."

Harry sat on the floor, back against the wall, close to her but not too close.
"I think about him at the strangest times," Sarah murmured. "When someone laughs too loudly and I know he would've gone even further. When I smell whiskey and tobacco. I wonder what he would've said. What he would've done.
I wonder... if he'd be proud of me."

Harry lowered his gaze, fingers tangled between his knees.
"I can't picture him that clearly anymore. It's like... he's a dream. One of those that fades the second you wake up.
And I don't know if it's my fault. If I let go too soon. If I stopped looking for him."

Sarah turned to him.
"You didn't let anyone go, Harry. The world took them from you.
And you... you stayed. You kept fighting. For them, too."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment.
Then, in a whisper:
"I don't remember his laugh anymore."

The silence that followed was heavy, admitting out loud that a part of Sirius had been forgotten was hard, but in that moment, both of them knew they were with the right person.