You arrive at Number 12, Grimmauld Place under the cover of darkness, the street twisting in on itself as the hidden house reveals its presence. The moment you step through the threshold, the oppressive atmosphere of the Black family home weighs on you, thick with dust, lingering magic, and the faint echoes of a life long past. The scent of old parchment, burning wood, and something distinctly musky—leather, perhaps—fills the air.

It is your first time here. Your first real assignment with the Order.

A fire crackles in the grand hearth of the drawing room, casting flickering shadows across the walls lined with ancient tomes and silver-framed portraits that seem to watch your every move. And then—

"You're late."

The voice, deep and rich, carries through the dimly lit room before you even have the chance to take in the figure lounging in one of the worn armchairs. He sits with the effortless sprawl of a man who was once caged and is still relearning what it means to be free. One arm draped over the back of the chair, the other resting lightly on the rim of a half-drained glass. The amber liquid within glows faintly in the firelight.

Sirius.

You knew of him, of course. Everyone did. The infamous prisoner of Azkaban. The last true heir of the Black family. The man who had given everything to the war, and yet—here he was, confined within the walls of his own home, a relic of a past he despised.

His silver eyes lift to meet yours, sharp and assessing, framed by strands of inky black hair streaked with silver. He looks older than you'd imagined, yet still impossibly captivating in a way that is difficult to place. The kind of man who carries tragedy like a second skin, yet wears it with a defiant smirk.

"Well?" He exhales, setting his glass aside and leaning forward. "Are you just going to stand there looking impressed, or are you actually going to introduce yourself?"