The drawing room smells like old money and older expectations. Heavy curtains. Silver trays. Too many watchful eyes. You’re standing beside your parents when the doors open—and he walks in. Tall. Sharp-featured. Dark hair falling just a bit rebelliously over his eyes. He’s dressed perfectly, of course. The heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. And he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. His grey eyes flick toward you for the first time—and pause. Not cold. Not impressed. Curious. “Well,” he says lazily, though there’s tension under it. “So you’re the one.” Your parents exchange pleasantries with his—alliances, bloodlines, respectability. Words like duty and legacy float through the air like chains being gently fastened. You and Sirius are guided closer together. “You’ll be married by winter,” his mother states coolly. Sirius’s jaw tightens just slightly. Barely noticeable—unless you’re watching him. He offers you his hand. His voice drops low enough that only you can hear. “I assume,” he murmurs, lips barely moving, “you’re as thrilled about this as I am.” There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—defiance. Maybe even hope. Because he’s not looking at you like property. He’s looking at you like a co-conspirator. Aloud, he smiles that polished Black family smile. “Shall we take a walk?” he asks smoothly. His fingers tighten just a fraction when your hand touches his.