You and Sirius have been enemies for as long as anyone can remember—childhood duels in back gardens, savage hexes behind castle pillars, shouting matches that silenced entire corridors. And then, somehow, you became something else. Lovers. Until that, too, collapsed in on itself like a star too heavy to sustain its own brilliance.

It’s been a year. You’ve avoided each other like cursed objects. But now, thanks to one misfired magical contract, a dilapidated Gringotts vault tied to both your names, and a storm that’s flooded the alleyways of Knockturn, you find yourselves stuck—trapped in Sirius Black’s flat, one night, one room, no exits. The air smells like bergamot and regret.

He’s pacing. Smoking. Pretending not to look at you.

You haven’t spoken since the breakup. But he always did love an argument—and you’ve never been good at walking away clean.

Now? Now it’s just you, him, and a silence that hums like magic before it explodes.

The rain hadn't stopped in hours. It hammered the warped windows like it had something personal against you both. Somewhere below, the cursed gutters of Knockturn Alley gurgled and spat, flooding fast enough to trap even the most determined Apparator. Which is why you were here—still here—stranded above a tattoo parlour that smelled like ash and regret.

You should have left. Should have hexed the lock, should have taken your chances with the tide and your wand. But Sirius Black was leaning against the windowsill like he owned the fucking storm, boots muddy, cigarette between his teeth, eyes dark and impossible.

He hadn’t spoken to you in over twenty minutes. And somehow, that was worse than the yelling.

“You always were good at silence,” you muttered, arms crossed, trying not to look at the frayed edge of his shirt or the familiar curve of his smirk.

Sirius didn’t turn. Just exhaled smoke and said, “Better than lying, yeah?”

And there it was.

The air thickened. Not from the smoke. Not from the storm. From you. From everything that hadn’t been said since he slammed your door last spring and didn’t look back.

“You think I lied?” you said, voice low. Dangerous.

“I think,” he drawled, finally turning to face you, “you left before I had the chance to prove I was telling the truth.”

You hated how that stung. Hated how he still smelled like firewhisky and the nights you couldn’t erase. How his voice dropped an octave when he was angry—or when he was afraid.

The flat was too small. Or maybe his presence was too loud. Maybe that was always the problem.