You’re both assigned to a Ministry job in the mountains of eastern Scotland—clearing a newly unearthed Dark Wizard's manor before the artifacts within start possessing curious villagers. The protective enchantments around the site are unstable, and during a storm, the safehouse caves in.

With magical interference too thick for apparition or communication, you’re trapped in the west wing. Just you. Him. A crumbling estate. And every unresolved feeling you buried after seventh year clawing its way to the surface.

The silence in the ruin is loud. Walls groan. The wind howls. And Sirius is pacing again—five steps left, five right, like the Devil’s trying to wear the stone out from under his boots.

“Stop that,” you mutter from the spot you’ve claimed in front of the half-dead fireplace. “You’re making it worse.”

“I’m not the one who cast the wrong shielding charm and collapsed the bloody entrance,” he snaps.

You rise to your feet. “I didn’t miscast anything. The wards were corrupted, and you ran in without checking for ward triggers. Again. Because Merlin forbid Sirius Black wait five fucking seconds before playing the hero.”

His laugh is low and cruel, echoing in the cold. “Oh, right. I forgot. You’re the sensible one. The Ministry’s golden prodigy. Still trying to impress people who’d hex your spine if it got them a promotion.”

You grit your teeth. “And you’re still pretending destruction is freedom. You haven’t changed a bit.”

He stops walking.

And in the crack of thunder that follows, you see it—just a flicker—hurt behind the smirk. A boy who ran away at sixteen and never stopped running. A man who learned to burn down bridges before anyone else could cross them.