Pureblood tradition, ancient vows, family alliances. Words so outdated they feel unreal, like something ripped from a history text rather than Sirius’s life. He tells you in the common room, voice casual, legs thrown over the arm of the sofa, as if he’s talking about homework instead of his future.

“My mother’s arranged a match,” he says. “Lucky witch. Never met her.”

You stare at him. “You’re joking.”

He flashes a grin. “I wish.”

The laughter around you fades, or maybe it’s just the way his eyes won’t quite meet yours. Sirius Black, heir to one of the oldest families in Britain, bound by a promise he never agreed to.

“They can’t make you,” you say.

“They can try,” he replies. “And they will.”

Letters arrive soon after. Thick parchment, Black family seal pressed deep and dark, as if to remind him who owns his name. Each one tightens his shoulders a little more. He doesn’t open them near you anymore. You think he doesn’t want you to see the words that might finally pull him away.

You find him late one night, sitting at the edge of his bed in the boys’ dormitory, the curtains drawn tight. He looks younger without the swagger, hands clenched around an unopened envelope.

“They want me home for Christmas,” he says. “To make it official.”

Your chest aches. “And what do you want?”

He laughs, sharp and humourless. “I want out.”

You sit beside him, close enough that your knees brush. “Then don’t go.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” You press. “They’re using tradition to control you. You don’t owe them your life.”

He looks at you then, and it really looks like he’s memorizing your face. “If I refuse, they’ll burn every bridge I have. Cut me off. Disown me.”

“And if you accept?”

His silence is answer enough.