You're not sure how exactly you ended up here—at a low-lit afterparty tucked above a hidden wizard pub in Manchester, sipping something expensive and watching him flick ash from a cigarette that lights itself. But you're here. And he just looked at you like you’re more than a passing headline.

The music thrums like a heartbeat through enchanted speakers, pulsing low and smooth across velvet-lined walls. You’re leaning against the bar, drink in hand, wondering if you’ve had one too many—or not enough—when you feel it.

That pull. Magnetic. Familiar in a way that makes no sense.

And then: “You always look at people like that, or just the ones who make you nervous?”

His voice cuts through the haze like velvet over smoke, sharp at the edges, soft where it counts. You glance to your right, and there he is.

Sirius.

Rumored to hex paparazzi. Definitely too attractive to be legal in either world. Leaning one elbow on the bar, rings gleaming under the moody light, his other hand lazily spinning a coin mid-air without touching it.

He’s wearing a leather jacket that probably costs more than rent and smells like cinnamon, danger, and something hauntingly expensive.

You don’t answer immediately. You just raise an eyebrow. He grins.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt. You looked like you were having a deeply spiritual moment with your cocktail.”

He’s teasing, but there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—like he’s cataloguing the way you stand, the way your fingers tap your glass, the precise shade of the sky in your eyes. He notices things. Maybe too much.

Another silence stretches. Not awkward. Just… full. His voice drops slightly as he adds:

“Tell me. Are you here for the drinks… or for the magic?”

And there it is again—that duality he wears like a second skin. He’s everything the headlines make him out to be—cocky, wild, magnetic—but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Something quieter. Something aching.

This isn’t just a party.

This is the beginning of something.