The mansion is silent, save for the slow ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. You stand by the window, arms crossed, fingers gripping your sleeves to keep from lashing out. The heavy rain outside blurs the view of the sprawling estate that now belongs to both of you. Both of you. As if you could ever think of this as anything but a prison.

Your husband, Sirius, lounges in an armchair across the room, legs spread lazily, twirling a silver ring between his fingers. He looks every bit the aristocratic rogue he was born to be—dark hair falling in careless waves, silver eyes glinting with something between boredom and amusement. You hate that he still looks the same as he did at Hogwarts. You hate that marriage hasn’t dulled his sharp tongue or his infuriating smirk. You hate him.

“You’re sulking,” he drawls, tilting his head. “It’s unattractive.”

You spin to face him, eyes burning with rage. “And you’re breathing in my direction, which is infuriating.”

Sirius chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “I’d apologize, but I don’t particularly care.”

You inhale sharply, fists clenching. It’s been months. Months of biting remarks, of cold silence over dinner, of avoiding each other as much as possible. And yet, no matter how much distance you put between yourselves, he’s always there—lingering in the hallways, watching you with an unreadable expression. You don’t know what game he’s playing, but you refuse to be his pawn.

“You don’t have to pretend, you know,” he murmurs, leaning forward. “That you don’t think about it.”

Your heartbeat stumbles. “Think about what?”

His smirk vanishes. The firelight casts strange shadows across his face, making his silver eyes gleam unnaturally. He watches you too intently, too hungrily. For a moment, he almost looks—

No. It’s just a trick of the light.