Sirius sat in the dusty, suffocating stillness of Grimmauld Place, the walls pressing in on him like a vice. It felt like he hadn't breathed properly in weeks, maybe longer. Time blurred here, the days dragging on endlessly, blending together into a thick, heavy haze. The dark, oppressive house was more prison than home, a reminder of everything he had fought to leave behind, and now he was stuck right in the middle of it, helpless.

He hadn't slept well in days. He barely slept at all, really. His mind was restless, constantly pulling him into dark places he didn't want to go. He tried all the remedies—Firewhiskey, reading, pacing the floors until his legs ached—but nothing worked. Every attempt to quiet his mind seemed to amplify the noise instead.

The Order meetings were his only reprieve, though they were fewer and farther between now. Dumbledore kept them all busy, except him. He was the one left behind, like a forgotten relic. Useless. He could feel the weight of his confinement in his bones. The others came and went, living their lives, fighting the war, while he… stayed here.

He stood by the window, the curtains heavy with dust, and stared out at the grey London sky. It was raining, of course. It always seemed to be raining when his mood was darkest. He used to love the rain, the way it brought a sharp, fresh air to the world, but now it felt like just another layer of suffocation, as if the sky itself was pressing down on him.

A creak behind him made Sirius glance over his shoulder. Remus had arrived, slipping into the room like a shadow. He always had that quiet way about him, unassuming, blending into the background until you needed him. And right now, Sirius needed something, though he wasn't sure what. He craved his company though, that was sure.

"You're up early," Remus said, his voice soft, cautious.

Sirius shrugged, turning back to the window. "Didn't sleep. What's the point?"

Remus didn't push. He never did. He just walked over and stood beside Sirius, looking out at the same rain-soaked street. They stood in silence for a while, the kind of silence that stretched and filled the room like fog. Sirius didn't mind it, though. It was better than the noise in his head.

"I feel like I'm losing it," Sirius said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, what am I doing here, Remus? Just sitting here, day after day, doing nothing while everyone else is out there fighting?"

"You're not doing nothing," Remus replied, his voice calm. "You're safe, you're waiting for the right moment."

Sirius let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Safe? What good is safe when everyone I care about is out there risking their lives, while I'm stuck here rotting away in this miserable house?"

The words hung between them, heavy and raw. It wasn't just frustration speaking. It was something deeper, something that had been festering inside him since the day he returned to this place. Sirius felt like a burden, useless and trapped in a life that no longer had purpose. The memories of Azkaban were still fresh enough to haunt him, and Grimmauld Place was just another kind of prison.

"I've been here too long," Sirius muttered. "This house... It's in my blood, Remus. Every time I look at it, I feel like it's pulling me under, like I'm sinking back into the person I was when I lived here." He paused, his breath catching. "I hate it."

Remus nodded slowly, understanding in his tired eyes. "It's not who you are anymore. You left this place, Sirius, and you became something better. Don't forget that."

Sirius clenched his fists at his sides. "What if I haven't changed as much as I thought? What if this place… this darkness… it's still a part of me? What if it's always going to be there, no matter what I do?"

Remus didn't answer immediately. Instead, he sat down on the worn-out couch, leaning back as if to gather his thoughts. "We're all made up of different parts, Sirius. Some good, some bad. But it's the choices we make that define us, not the places we come from."

Sirius let out a long, shaky breath and turned away from the window. "I just don't know what to do with myself anymore, Remus. I feel… useless. Trapped. Every day feels the same, and no matter how much I try to shake it off, it's like this house has its claws in me."

He sat down heavily next to Remus, his shoulders slumping. "Maybe I'm just overreacting. Maybe this is all in my head."

Remus looked at him carefully. "It's not just in your head. This war, this waiting—it's hard. But you're not alone in this. We're all struggling in our own ways. You just… you have to hold on. We'll get through this."

Sirius stared at his hands. He knew Remus was right, but it didn't make the ache in his chest go away. He felt restless, like he needed to break something, to feel something other than this gnawing emptiness. He wanted to tear down the walls, smash the windows, let in some air, something to make him feel alive again. But instead, he sat there, unmoving, weighed down by the same sense of helplessness that had haunted him for months.

"You ever feel like maybe we're fighting for something that's already gone?" Sirius asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Like… we're too late."

Remus was silent for a moment before shaking his head. "No. I don't believe that. Not yet."

Sirius looked at him, searching for something—hope, maybe, or reassurance that it wasn't too late. That they weren't too broken to fix anything. But all he saw was Remus, tired and worn, but still standing. Still fighting.

Maybe that was enough.

"I hate this place," Sirius said again, his voice softer this time. "I hate feeling this way."

"I know," Remus replied. "But it's not forever. Just remember that."

Sirius didn't respond. He couldn't. All he could do was sit there, in the dim light of Grimmauld Place, trying to believe that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't the end. But the ache in his chest remained, a constant reminder that things were slipping away faster than he could hold on to them.

And for now, that was enough to make him wonder how long he could keep going.

Sirius sat in the dim, dusty room, the weight of his words still hanging in the air when a faint sound broke through the silence—Remus sneezed, barely audible, as though he was trying to stifle it, and succeeding almost completely to be honest. Sirius blinked, momentarily distracted, and his gaze flickered toward Remus.

It was only then that he noticed something else—Remus's voice had been rougher than usual, scratchy around the edges, and now that Sirius thought about it, there was a slight redness around his friend's nose, the way he shifted in his seat just a little more sluggish than usual.

Sirius's mind latched onto this small detail, an almost absurd surge of energy flaring in his chest. He knew that look—Remus was coming down with something.

"You're sick," Sirius said, a little too sharply, his focus snapping to Remus with an intensity that had nothing to do with their previous conversation.

Remus shot him a glance, half amused, half exasperated. "I'm fine," he muttered, his voice confirming the telltale huskiness that Sirius had only just noticed. "It's nothing."

Sirius's eyes narrowed, a different kind of worry filling the space where helplessness had once been. Remus hated being fussed over, that much Sirius knew, but at this point, Sirius needed something to occupy his restless energy. And right now, that something was Remus's brewing cold.

"You don't sound fine," Sirius shot back, his tone edging on accusatory, though it was more about the worry gnawing at him. "Your voice is wrecked."

Remus sighed, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. "I'm fine," he repeated, a little firmer this time. "Just a cold. It'll pass."

But Sirius wasn't having it. "You should rest," he said, the idea quickly taking root in his mind. "You shouldn't go out in this weather." He motioned toward the dreary rain outside, as though it were proof of Remus's imminent demise.

"Sirius, I've been through worse," Remus replied with a hint of amusement in his voice, though it was evident he was starting to lose patience. He shifted in his seat, clearly trying to downplay his condition, but Sirius wasn't so easily fooled.

Sirius crossed his arms, feeling the burn of a new kind of obsession creeping into his chest. "Doesn't matter. You look exhausted. You should lie down."

Remus gave him a flat look, his brows furrowing slightly. "I'm not going to lie down just because I sneezed."

"Then at least drink something warm," Sirius countered, already imagining the things he could do—fetch tea, stoke the fire, force Remus to rest whether he liked it or not. It wasn't just the concern, it was the need to focus on something, to throw himself into a problem he could actually solve. Remus being ill, even slightly, was something he could control, something he could fix, unlike the crushing weight of war and the prison that Grimmauld Place had become.

But Remus was having none of it. He shot Sirius an incredulous look, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he was fighting back a smile. "I'll be fine, Sirius. Really."

Sirius huffed, though he couldn't help but feel a slight tug at the corner of his own lips. "You're impossible, you know that?"

Remus just shook his head, amused despite himself, and Sirius felt that restless energy shift inside him, redirecting. He knew he couldn't force Remus to rest, but the desire to do something, to care for him, was irresistible. Sirius was all sharp edges and unspent emotion, and right now, fussing over Remus seemed like the only way to dull the ache of his own helplessness.

But he knew Remus well enough to tread carefully. Remus hated being fussed over—hated it almost as much as Sirius hated being trapped in this house.

Still, Sirius couldn't shake the need to do something, to pour his energy into making sure Remus didn't get worse. "If you're not going to rest," he said finally, "at least stay for a bit longer. It's miserable out there anyway. You don't want to get caught in the rain and make things worse."

Remus raised an eyebrow but didn't argue, his tired eyes betraying the fact that he probably didn't mind sitting for a little while longer. "Alright," he said with a soft sigh. "I'll stay."

Sirius nodded, satisfied for the moment. He couldn't fight in the war, couldn't escape this house, but at least he could make sure Remus stayed warm, and maybe—just maybe—stop his mind from spiralling out of control for a little while longer.

Despite the fragility of the agreement, and Remus's clear reluctance, Sirius bolted up from his place on the sofa with sudden purpose. He needed to move, needed to do something. He wasn't going to sit here and let Remus brush off being ill, not when Sirius could take action, no matter how small.

"I'll make tea," he declared, his voice a little too bright, masking the simmering restlessness that had been gnawing at him for days. Well, what he wanted was a shot of Firewhiskey, something to take the edge off, but tea sounded more reasonable—and Remus was certainly not the type to refuse tea, no matter how much he protested. Maybe Sirius would sneak in a splash of Firewhiskey into his own cup. Why not?

Before Remus could object, Sirius was already halfway to the door. "I'll bring you some too," he called back, not leaving room for argument.

"Sirius, you really don't need to—" Remus started, his tone exasperated but tinged with amusement, as though he knew resistance was futile.

"I want to," Sirius interrupted, glancing over his shoulder with a stubborn set to his jaw. "You just sit there and try not to sneeze yourself into a fit while I'm gone."

Remus rolled his eyes but didn't push further. He probably knew Sirius wouldn't let this go until he'd fussed over him at least a little.

As Sirius hurried to the kitchen, his steps were quick, purposeful, but inside, his mind whirled. Remus was sick, but he wasn't seriously sick—it was just a cold, something mild, really. So why did Sirius feel like this tiny moment of caretaking was suddenly the most important thing in his life?

By the time he reached the kitchen, he had made up his mind: a little tea for Remus, with the usual honey and lemon that Remus liked, and maybe a splash of Firewhiskey for himself. After all, if Remus wasn't going to let him fuss over him properly, Sirius at least deserved a small reprieve for his troubles.

As the kettle boiled, Sirius allowed himself a small smirk. He'd never admit it, but there was a comfort in having something so ordinary to do. Something that didn't involve the war, or Dumbledore's plans, or the ghosts of this cursed house.

When the tea was ready, Sirius poured two mugs, eyeing the bottle of Firewhiskey on the counter. He hesitated for only a moment before splashing some into his own cup, the amber liquid swirling into the tea. He paused, considering adding some to Remus's as well, but thought better of it. Remus would definitely notice, and Sirius didn't need another lecture about the dangers of mixing alcohol with a cold.

Satisfied, he picked up both mugs and headed back to the sitting room, a strange sense of accomplishment filling the hollow spaces in his chest. At least for now, he had something to focus on.

As he entered the room, Remus glanced up, a tired smile playing at the corner of his lips. "You didn't have to do this," he said softly, but there was gratitude in his voice.

"I know," Sirius replied, handing him the steaming cup, "but I did it anyway. Besides, I make the best tea, remember?"

Remus chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he accepted the mug. "Of course you do."

Sirius settled back into his seat, feeling the warmth of the tea cup between his hands. The familiar, sharp burn of Firewhiskey mixed with the tea as he took a sip, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. For now, he had a purpose, something to focus on besides the four walls of Grimmauld Place and the gnawing feeling of helplessness that always seemed to be there.

As the steam from the tea curled into the air, Remus sniffed slightly, then sneezed again—this time a bit louder, unable to stifle it quite as well. Sirius, who had been watching him out of the corner of his eye, felt a strange jolt run through him. Something about it—about the congestion, the way Remus tried to casually pull out a handkerchief and dab at his nose—left Sirius transfixed. He couldn't quite explain why, but suddenly all he could think about was bundling his friend up in blankets, taking him upstairs, and making sure he got the rest he needed.

Poor Moony, Sirius thought, the concern gnawing at his insides. Remus looked pale, more tired than usual, and the way his eyes were just slightly pinched at the corners suggested he was dealing with a headache on top of everything else. Sirius's instincts screamed at him to do something—to force Remus into bed, to take care of him properly, whether he liked it or not.

But with Remus, it was always a careful dance. Sirius knew that better than anyone. Too much fussing, and Remus would just withdraw, insist he was fine, and push Sirius away. Too little, and he might miss the chance to actually help. It was a balancing act Sirius had learned to navigate over the years, but right now, in this moment, it was taking everything in him not to act on his impulse.

Remus, for his part, noticed Sirius's reaction—Sirius could tell by the way he narrowed his eyes, rolling them in a mixture of amusement and exasperation. The movement, however, seemed to aggravate whatever headache Remus had been nursing, because his expression tightened in discomfort.

"Don't start," Remus muttered, rubbing his temple lightly as if to ease the pain.

Sirius clenched his jaw, trying to keep the urge to take charge in check. "I'm not starting anything," he said innocently, though his mind was already racing with ideas about how he could subtly coax Remus into resting more. His heart twisted a little at the sight of his friend so obviously struggling, but Sirius knew better than to push too hard. Remus would never allow himself to be coddled.

Still, it didn't stop Sirius from thinking about how easy it would be to just grab his arm, steer him toward a proper bed, and make him stay there until the cold passed. Why does he have to be so stubborn? Sirius thought, frustration mixing with the deep affection he always felt for Remus.

"Honestly, Moony," Sirius finally said, his voice softer, more careful, "you look like you've been run over by the Knight Bus. You should really lie down."

Remus gave him a tired smile, still dabbing at his nose. "I appreciate your concern, Padfoot," he said, his voice hoarse, "but I'll be fine."

Sirius's eyes narrowed slightly, but he forced himself to relax. It was hard, seeing Remus like this and knowing he couldn't just fix it. But he also knew he couldn't push. Not yet, anyway.

"Yeah, well," Sirius muttered, sipping his tea and glancing at Remus over the rim of his cup, "you're lucky I'm showing some restraint. Otherwise, I'd have you bundled up in bed with about ten blankets and a small dose of Pepper-Up Potion in your hand by now."

Remus chuckled softly, though it quickly turned into a cough. He shot Sirius a look, his eyes tired but still warm with the familiar exasperation. "I'm fine, Sirius," he repeated, but this time the words sounded less convincing, as if even Remus knew he was pushing his limits.

Sirius sighed but didn't press further. Not yet. He'd wait, keep an eye on him, and maybe later, when Remus wasn't paying attention, he'd sneak in a bit more care, bit by bit.

Because for now, just sitting here with Remus—making sure he was at least drinking tea and not pushing himself too hard—was all Sirius could do. But the urge to do more, to protect and fuss, to show his care in the only way he knew how, would simmer just beneath the surface, waiting for its chance.

The silence between them stretched on, not exactly awkward but heavy in its own way. Remus sipped his tea quietly, clearly grateful for the warmth, while Sirius sat there, eyes fixed on him, his senses tuned to every little sound. Every sniffle, every barely audible hitch of breath, every throat clearing—it was like a drumbeat in Sirius's mind, impossible to ignore. He counted them, keeping a tally of each subtle reminder that Remus was fighting off a cold. It was all he could do to stop himself from jumping up and insisting Remus get some proper rest.

Sirius's fingers drummed restlessly on the armrest, his energy simmering just beneath the surface, unable to keep completely still. He hated sitting still. Hated feeling like he wasn't doing enough. But with Remus, he had to wait. He had to be careful.

Remus sighed after what felt like ages, his eyes glancing over at Sirius, who was fidgeting like a caged animal. "Do you want to play a game of chess?" Remus asked, his voice still a little rough but carrying a gentle tone of suggestion, as though he were offering Sirius a way to release some of his pent-up energy.

Sirius blinked, caught off guard by the offer. His fingers paused their drumming. "Chess?" he repeated, his brow furrowing slightly as if trying to make sense of the idea. He was usually too restless for chess, the slow pace of it grating on his nerves, but... right now, maybe that was exactly what he needed. Something to focus on. Something to quiet his mind.

Remus gave him a small smile, recognizing the internal debate flickering across Sirius's face. "It might help," he added, his tone soft, understanding.

Sirius stared at him for a moment longer before letting out a resigned sigh of his own. "Yeah, alright," he muttered, pushing himself up from the chair, glad for something—anything—to break the monotony of his anxious thoughts.

He moved to retrieve the chessboard from the corner, the familiar weight of it settling in his hands. As he set it up between them at the table by the window where Remus had relocated to, Sirius shot Remus a glance. "You're sure you're up for it? Wouldn't want to tax you too much." His words were teasing, but the concern underneath was still evident.

Remus rolled his eyes again, though the effort seemed to irritate his headache once more. "I think I can manage a game of chess without collapsing, Padfoot," he replied, his voice laced with that dry humour Sirius had always admired.

Sirius smirked, settling into his seat and eyeing the pieces. "Alright then. But if you start sneezing all over the board, I'm calling it a win."

Remus chuckled softly, a genuine warmth in the sound despite his condition. "We'll see about that."

And as Sirius made the first move, a part of him relaxed—if only just a little. Because at least now, he had something to occupy his mind. Something other than the quiet desperation that clung to the corners of Grimmauld Place. And even though he was still watching Remus closely, counting each sniffle and cough, for now, it felt like enough.

An hour later, Sirius found himself in a familiar position—losing, and losing badly. Remus, despite his cold-addled brain and the visible discomfort written on his face, was still outmanoeuvring him on the chessboard with a calm efficiency that only made Sirius more determined. Yet even as he tried to focus on the game, his attention kept drifting to the small signs that Remus was feeling worse.

Remus rubbed at his temples now and again, a subtle movement that Sirius didn't miss. His sneezes, though still stifled, were coming more frequently and with increasing desperation, each one sending a flicker of discomfort across his face. Sirius was certain that stifling them wasn't helping that headache. His fingers drummed against the armrest again, impatience building.

Finally, with a soft, congested sniffle and a quick glance at the board, Remus delivered the inevitable blow. "Checkmate."

Sirius let out an exaggerated groan, though his heart wasn't in it. He could see it clearly now—Remus was slumping back in his chair, his usual upright posture giving way to fatigue. The game had taken its toll on him, and as much as Remus tried to hide it, Sirius could tell. His pale face, the lines of strain around his eyes, and the way his shoulders sagged—it was all the proof Sirius needed.

Now, he thought, his mind racing as he seized the opportunity.

"Well," Sirius drawled, leaning back in his chair with a casual air he definitely didn't feel. "I think it's pretty clear who the better chess player is here." He smirked, though his eyes were already assessing Remus, planning his next move. "I'd demand a rematch, but—" He paused, his tone shifting into one of mock concern. "I'm starting to think maybe you should, I dunno, lie down?"

Remus's eyes flickered open just a fraction, and he gave Sirius a tired look, clearly already bracing for whatever was coming. "Sirius—"

"Ah, ah, ah!" Sirius cut him off before he could protest, standing up swiftly and moving toward him with a grin. "Don't bother arguing. I can see it, Moony. You're practically dead on your feet. Or… dead in your chair, more like."

Remus rubbed his temples again, sighing softly. "I'm fine—"

"No, you're not." Sirius leaned down, his hands on the back of Remus's chair as he loomed over him. His voice dropped to a gentler, more coaxing tone. "You're not fine, and that's okay. It's a cold. You're not going to win any medals for toughing it out."

Remus blinked, clearly too tired to offer much resistance. He shifted in his chair, rubbing at his nose with his handkerchief before letting out another barely stifled sneeze. "Hh'Nkt!"

Sirius couldn't help but wince at how much that seemed to hurt. Stubborn, he thought, but the word was laced with affection. Remus never let anyone take care of him, not fully, and Sirius knew it was a delicate dance. But right now, he didn't care. Remus looked miserable, and Sirius needed something to do with the burning energy inside him.

"Come on," Sirius said softly, straightening up and offering Remus his hand. "Just come lie down for a bit. I'll leave you alone, I swear, but you'll feel better after a rest."

Remus stared at the offered hand, eyes narrowed in tired suspicion. "You won't leave me alone," he muttered, his voice rough with both amusement and exhaustion.

Sirius smirked. "Okay, maybe not completely alone. But I promise I won't fuss too much." He softened his tone, all traces of teasing gone. "Please, Moony. You look awful."

For a long moment, it looked like Remus would argue again. But then he sighed, giving in to the inevitable. "Fine," he muttered, though there was no real fight left in his voice. He reached out and took Sirius's hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

Sirius felt a wave of relief wash over him as he led Remus toward the stairs, one hand steadying him by the elbow as they walked. It was a small victory, but right now, Sirius would take it. Remus needed rest, and finally, Sirius was able to help. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was something—something tangible, something real he could do.

As they reached the bedroom, Sirius hovered just a little, trying not to make it too obvious that he wanted to tuck Remus in himself. But Remus gave him a knowing look, half amused and half exasperated.

"I can manage getting into bed on my own, thanks," Remus said dryly, though the soft chuckle that followed was interrupted by a stifled cough.

Sirius raised his hands in mock surrender, stepping back. "Alright, alright. I'll let you handle it." He hesitated for a moment before adding, "But if you need anything, I'm right downstairs."

Remus gave a small nod, clearly too tired to respond, and Sirius took that as his cue to leave, slipping out of the room quietly. But as he closed the door, a part of him still lingered on the other side, listening carefully for any sign that Remus might need him.

Sirius smiled to himself. He'd give Remus his space—for now. But he wasn't going far.