You don’t mean to crash into his life—literally—but that’s exactly what happens.

One moment, you’re riding the borrowed broomstick over the edge of the Forbidden Forest, adrenaline high from a wildly miscalculated shortcut. The next, you’re skidding sideways through a barn roof held together by enchantments, moonstone nails, and sheer spite.

The crash is loud. The goats are louder. And the man stomping toward you from the smoke?

Livid. Shirtless. Gorgeous. And glaring at you like you personally cursed his mother.

“You’ve got ten seconds to explain yourself,” he growls, soot clinging to the lean cut of his frame, arms streaked with what may or may not be Hippogriff blood. “Before I feed you to the crankiest Niffler in Scotland.”

The moment your eyes meet, something shifts. Not soft—never soft. More like flint catching steel.

You sit up, groaning, brushing hay out of your hair. “I was aiming for the clearing. But your bloody barn leapt in the way.”

He doesn't laugh. Doesn’t even smirk. But his jaw twitches. It's something.

Then she toddles in.

A small voice chirps, “Daddy, the sky lady fell!” and a tiny girl—all wild curls and serious grey eyes—barrels straight toward your side, utterly unfazed by your broomstick still smoldering behind you.

She peers into your face like a little healer in training. “Do you have a concussion? Or are you always like this?”

You blink. Then laugh. And the man—Sirius Black, you realize—freezes as if someone cast Petrificus Totalus on his heart.

That’s how it starts.