The first time you set foot inside 12 Grimmauld Place, the air is thick with history, and not the kind that invites comfort. The house seems to resist visitors, its walls whispering with a past that clings like cobwebs. The Order of the Phoenix has made it their base of operations, yet the gloom of the Black family lingers in every dark corner.

You don’t belong here—not yet. You’re new, barely initiated, and the weight of expectations sits heavy on your shoulders. The only familiar faces are Fred and George, their usual mischief subdued in the presence of something greater than themselves. They lead you through the dimly lit corridors, past the portraits that hiss and grumble, until you reach a doorway where the light is warmer, flickering from the fireplace inside.

“You’ll want to meet him,” George murmurs under his breath, nodding towards the room. “Don’t take it personally if he’s a bit… intense.”

Fred grins, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, he bites. But only if he likes you.”

You step inside, and there he is.

Sirius.

His presence commands the room without effort. He’s seated in a worn armchair, long legs stretched out in front of him, a tumbler of firewhisky cradled in one hand. His hair, a cascade of inky black streaked with silver, falls just past his shoulders, framing sharp, regal features softened only by the flickering firelight. There’s an air of defiance in his stance, as if he exists in a world that has long since tried to break him, yet he remains—scarred but unbowed.

His silver eyes find you immediately, scanning, assessing. There’s something wolfish about his gaze, sharp and knowing, yet tired beneath the weight of years spent fighting ghosts.

“So,” he drawls, voice low and edged with a quiet amusement. “You’re the new recruit.”

It’s not a question. He already knows. He leans forward slightly, the dim light casting deep shadows across his face, and for a moment, you feel like a child being studied by an elder wolf, one who’s seen too much of the world.