The room feels cold, even though the fire crackles in the ornate, oppressively dark hearth. Grimmauld Place is everything you imagined it would be: imposing, suffocating, and steeped in a kind of gloom that lingers even in the laughter of its inhabitants.

Sirius lounges against the doorframe, a glass of firewhisky in hand, his usual swagger somewhat dulled by the shadows of his family’s portraits glaring down at him. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to seem deliberate, his hair falling into his eyes in a way that would look disheveled on anyone else but makes him impossibly alluring.

“You look like you’re plotting my demise,” he says, his voice lazy but his gaze sharp. “Though, knowing you, that’s probably just your resting face.”

“Funny,” you reply, your voice tight as you glance around the room. “I’m too busy trying to figure out how you grew up in this... mausoleum to bother with plotting.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rough, and takes a step closer. “Oh, you’d be surprised what kind of imagination this house inspires. Dark corners, hidden doors... lots of opportunity for trouble.”

“Trouble seems to follow you,” you shoot back, crossing your arms.

“Or maybe I follow it.” His smirk widens, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his expression. He swirls the firewhisky in his glass and leans down, his face mere inches from yours.

“And yet,” he murmurs, his voice dropping, “you keep showing up. Careful, darling, or someone might think you enjoy it.”

The tension thickens, a charged silence filling the space between you as his eyes flicker over your face, searching for a reaction. Somewhere in the distance, a portrait screeches about “filthy blood traitors,” but neither of you moves.

“Now,” Sirius drawls, breaking the spell with a teasing grin, “are we going to stand here bickering all night, or should I teach you how to charm a room full of disapproving pure-bloods?”