The discovery began with a morning like any other, though you couldn’t shake the odd feeling clinging to the edges of your consciousness. Your owl, a diligent if mischievous creature, swooped in with its usual grace, a scroll of parchment secured tightly in its talons. Yet when you unrolled the letter, the words scrawled across the page were not yours. They were... his.

The letter was written in an elegant, slanted script, each word dripping with equal parts sarcasm and sincerity. The writer had a knack for capturing attention, his wit as sharp as a freshly honed quill. Sirius. The name rang faintly familiar, whispered perhaps in old tales of a bygone war, or murmured in the shadowed halls of your childhood.

It was clear the letter hadn’t been meant for you. You thought of setting it aside, perhaps sending it back with a hasty apology, but curiosity burned brighter. You read on.

"To whomever has stolen my morning post, I’d accuse you of nefarious intentions if I weren’t secretly amused by the thought of someone pawing through my thoughts like an overzealous Crup in a garden of gnomes. Still, it would be polite to return this letter—assuming you’re the polite type. Merlin knows the world could use more of those. But if you’re not, well... at least send another reply. I could use the entertainment."

The audacity! And yet, you found yourself smiling. Against your better judgment, you picked up your quill and replied.

Over the days and weeks that followed, your exchanges grew into something neither of you anticipated. His words were bold, brimming with confidence that danced the fine line between charming and infuriating. Yet beneath the bravado, you glimpsed a vulnerability that made you wonder about the man behind the ink.

"You’re far too nosy for your own good," he wrote once. "Not that I mind. I’ve always had a soft spot for troublemakers."

You’d never heard his voice, but in your mind, it was rich and unyielding, like the crackle of fire.

Until, one day, his letters stopped.