The Ministry of Magic’s grand ballroom was suffocating. Gilded chandeliers dripped with light, casting an almost dreamlike glow over the sea of formally dressed witches and wizards. The scent of expensive wine and old money lingered in the air, mixing with the hum of polite conversation.

You had been invited out of courtesy—one of the many names on a long list of war heroes forced to play nice in a world that still didn’t quite know how to treat survivors. You had been doing well, avoiding the worst of the evening’s tedious small talk, when a familiar voice sent ice down your spine.

“Well, well. Look what the wind dragged in.”

Sirius stood before you, looking as out of place as ever in a setting like this. Dressed in a tailored black suit that still somehow managed to look effortlessly undone, he held a half-empty glass of firewhisky in one hand, his storm-gray eyes sharp with mischief and something else—something unreadable.

You exhaled sharply, forcing your posture to remain composed. “I didn’t realize stray dogs were allowed at Ministry functions.”

He grinned, slow and sharp. “Didn’t realize Ministry functions were still this painfully dull.” He stepped closer, tilting his head as if inspecting you. “You clean up nice. Almost didn’t recognize you without your usual scowl.”

You gave him a saccharine smile. “Must be the company.”

His laugh was low, infuriatingly charming, and entirely too amused for your liking. “Merlin, I missed this.”

You bristled. “Missed what?”

Sirius leaned in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of smoke and aged whiskey on his skin. “The way you pretend you don’t care. The way you pretend I don’t get under your skin.” His voice was quiet, edged with something dangerously close to fondness.

You held his gaze, unwilling to be the first to break. “I don’t pretend, Black. You’re just desperate to believe otherwise.”

The silver in his eyes darkened, but his smirk remained. “Sure, love. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”