Chapter 36 – The Room That Wasn't Silent
That night, when the estate had quieted, Sirius returned to his room—not to paint, not to sleep, but to investigate.
Not with noise.
With presence.
He stood in the center of the chamber, the way a general stands on a battlefield. Still. Listening.
Then he closed his eyes.
Magic stirred beneath his skin—not wild or violent, but refined, controlled. He let it slip beneath the floorboards, seep into the walls, coil around the furniture. Not to damage. Not to summon.
To sense.
He reached into the space itself—not for sound, but for memory. For traces. Magic, especially when strong emotions linger, could hold echoes.
And this room had held everything.
A flicker. A pull.
There.
Someone had walked too far in. Not a servant—they never dared. Someone older. Heavy steps. Hesitant. Afraid.
His mother.
He turned.
Another imprint, more recent. Stronger. Larger.
His father.
The door had been opened with force, not stealth. They hadn't snuck in. They'd stormed in.
They saw.
He exhaled once, slowly, and moved toward the far shelf, the one holding his older canvases—the ones he hadn't touched in months. He waved a hand over the surface. A soft shimmer spread.
Dust disturbed. Paint slightly shifted. A sleeve had brushed this edge.
She had reached out.
Touched something.
Anger flickered, but he pressed it down.
Instead, he moved to the desk. Papers. Drawings. A poem he had left half-written in a forgotten tongue. Still where he'd left it.
But the ink was smudged.
A thumbprint.
Too small to be his father's. Too delicate to be a guard's.
Her.
His mother had touched even this.
And still pretended not to know.
He turned from the desk and let the magic fade.
Then he looked up—at the massive painting he'd begun that morning. Her hair wasn't finished. Her eyes were.
Sirius stared into them, then spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
"They saw you."
The silence around him didn't respond.
But his own fury did. Slow, cold, unforgiving.
Not because they had entered.
Because they had lied.