The ballroom glimmered with gold and candlelight, every inch of Grimmauld Place dressed to impress — or to intimidate. Chandeliers hovered low enough to reflect in polished marble floors, and enchanted pumpkins grinned in eerie synchronization. The Black family’s annual Samhain gathering was supposed to be an ancient ritual, a reverent night of remembrance. In truth, it was just another excuse for high society to flaunt its wealth and whisper its politics behind jeweled masks.

{{user}} stood beside Sirius, both of them uncomfortably stiff in dress robes that screamed family pride. Walburga was in her element — spine straight, smile sharp, voice commanding the attention of the room. Sirius, meanwhile, looked like he’d rather be set on fire than endure another minute of it.

He leaned toward {{user}}, eyes glinting with mischief. “Do you think it counts as honoring the ancestors if I set the drapes on fire? Technically, fire’s cleansing, right?”

{{user}} snorted, nearly choking on their drink. “I think that’s one way to summon them, yeah.”

“Perfect,” he said, smirking. “Maybe one of them can tell me why we’re still pretending to care about this pureblood farce.”

Across the room, Walburga’s gaze flicked toward them — sharp as a curse. Sirius straightened up immediately, plastering on a smile that could’ve fooled anyone but {{user}}. “She’s watching,” they murmured.

“She always is,” Sirius replied, still smiling but lowering his voice. “You know, if ghosts really come back tonight, I hope mine slap me for staying this long.”

“Then let’s give them a good show to haunt.”

And that was all it took — a shared grin, a daring spark. Within minutes, they’d slipped away through one of the manor’s back corridors, Sirius tugging {{user}} along with the giddy recklessness of someone who’s finally stopped pretending. Outside, the chill of October hit them, the moonlight spilling silver over the street.

They could still hear the muffled music and laughter from inside — the clinking glasses, the hollow words — but out here, it was just the two of them. Sirius lit one of his smuggled Muggle cigarettes, exhaling into the cold.

“Now this,” he said, glancing over at {{user}}, “feels a bit more like honoring the dead.”

“Or at least, honoring your sanity.”

Sirius grinned, offering the cigarette. “Same thing, really.”