Sirius stood outside the music room, the old guitar case heavy in his hand—heavier than guilt, maybe. It had been days since you stopped talking to him. Since you’d found out.

He hadn’t tried to defend himself when you confronted him. What could he say? Yes, I was paid to date you. Yes, it started as a joke. Until it wasn’t. He knew how that sounded. He wouldn’t have believed it either.

He pushed the door open, slow. You were there, just like he’d hoped. Sitting at the piano, posture tense, like you were holding yourself together with spite alone.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t expect you to.

He walked forward and set the guitar case on the floor beside you. No words yet. He’d already said too many of the wrong ones.

Finally, you glanced at him—eyes cold, distant. You didn’t need to say anything. He saw everything in that one look: betrayal, hurt, and the tiniest flicker of hope you were trying hard to kill.

He opened the case.

The midnight-blue guitar sat inside like a secret. You recognized it instantly—it was the one you’d stopped to admire once, just for a second, behind a shop window in Hogsmeade. He remembered.

“I sold my Firebolt,” he said, his voice low.