You’ve always known Sirius had too much fire in his chest to ever burn quietly.

Even at Hogwarts, he moved like he was running from something—laughing too loud, flying too fast, loving too hard. You knew the war changed everyone, but it carved something different into him. Something invisible, sharp-edged. And yet, somehow, he's still him. Still the boy who called you “mate” like it meant everything, still the guy who’d fight a troll with a frying pan if it made you laugh.

And now? He’s Sirius—the footballer. The one who makes headlines and magazine covers, the Premier League’s enigma, heartthrob, chaos incarnate. Right winger for Manchester City. Wizard-born legend with charm-stiched boots and a grin that makes people forget he was ever a soldier.

But you’ve seen behind all that. The penthouse with the silence too loud. The glimmer of grief in his eyes when the crowd goes quiet. The ghost of James in the way he ties his boots. The quiet way he says, “You coming to the match? Kinda need you there.”

Tonight, the city glows outside his windows. Music hums low from enchanted speakers. He’s barefoot in his kitchen, shirtless, spinning his wand between his fingers and trying to summon a protein bar from the fridge. You think he’s doing it wrong on purpose.

“Oi,” he calls out, not turning around. “You ever think about how weird it is that I ended up doing this? Football? Like—what the hell happened, right?”

You shrug from the sofa. “I mean, it was either this or you opening a magical pub called The Barking Grim.”

He laughs—loud, real, the kind that shakes dust off old bones. “Shit. I’d forgotten I said that.” Then, with a grin over his shoulder: “You’d have worked the bar, yeah? Served firewhisky with one of those judgmental looks you do.”