The tavern buzzed with low chatter and the crackle of a fire in the corner hearth. The dim lighting, flickering off the polished brass fixtures, did little to soften the sharp edges of Sirius, standing at the bar. He was taller than you expected, his frame filling the space with an air of quiet dominance. His hair—black streaked with silver—caught the light when he tilted his head, scanning the room with those piercing silver eyes that felt as though they could strip away every secret you’d ever kept.

You shouldn’t be here, much less in his presence. He was your enemy, the man whose name was whispered like a curse among your allies. Yet, here you were, standing a mere arm’s length away, your heart betraying you with its steady hammering in your chest.

“You know,” his voice cut through the haze, low and gravelly, smooth as the whiskey he swirled lazily in his glass. “If you’re going to try to kill me, at least buy me a drink first. It’s only polite.”

You stiffened but didn’t falter. His gaze slid to you, an amused smirk playing at the edges of his lips. They were soft-looking, despite the sharpness in his tone. Too soft for a man like him. He turned his body slightly, angling toward you, and for a moment, you thought he might touch you. He didn’t, though his presence alone felt as tangible as a hand at your back.

“You don’t seem the type to waste time on pleasantries, Black,” you replied, your voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air between you.

His smile widened, slow and predatory, as if he enjoyed the way his name sounded on your lips. “Sirius,” he corrected, tilting his head as though testing the way you wore your defiance. “Let’s not stand on formality. You’re not here for small talk, are you?”