Wednesday night. Empty bar.

Sirius hoped for an easy shift. Friday night was when it usually got busy—most Ministry employees, ranging from some wand inspectors to Head Auror. Not today, though.

Sirius was used to crowds of wizards—especially the ones that read the Daily Prophet and the ones that knew the inner drama of the Sacred 28—ogling him. Here he was, the Black heir that walked out of the pureblood family, to work as a bartender.

Sirius used his easy going charm to an advantage. A few extra winks earned Sirius tips and prompted customers to buy a few more drinks.

There were a few customers here and there. A group of friends occupied one booth in the corner; a group of Aurors talking at the bar seats; a few couples on the dance floor. A quiet Wednesday night.

The small bell above the door rang, signaling a new customer. Not looking up from washing the glasses, Sirius called out a quick greeting. He fixed his hair and sleeve cuffs before looking up to greet the person.

Sirius watched you as you sat down at one of the bar stools. You looked troubled—like there was something weighing you down, a weight on your shoulders.