The air crackled with tension the moment you walked into the dimly lit tavern. It wasn’t just the charged whispers of the crowd or the clink of glasses that set your nerves on edge—it was him. Sirius. He leaned against the bar, tall and commanding, his leather jacket draped over one shoulder. Silver streaks in his dark hair caught the flickering candlelight, but it was his eyes that pinned you in place—stormy silver, sharp enough to peel back the layers you thought you’d hidden so well.

He noticed you immediately. Of course he did. His gaze swept over you, taking in every detail, but it wasn’t the lecherous look of an opportunist. No, his scrutiny was calculating, a wolf sizing up a potential threat. Or prey.

"You’re late," he said, his voice low and gravelly, just loud enough to carry over the din. There was a faint accent to it—French, Mediterranean—a subtle lilt that made every word sound dangerously smooth. "I thought someone like you would be punctual. Or do you always keep people waiting?"

You bristled, his tone laced with casual arrogance, but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, you stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated. "I wasn’t aware I was on your schedule," you shot back, keeping your voice steady, even as his presence loomed over you.

He smirked, and damn if it wasn’t annoyingly attractive. The kind of smirk that knew exactly how to crawl under your skin. "Oh, you are. Whether you like it or not." He straightened, abandoning his slouched posture, and now he towered over you, a mix of rugged charm and raw, magnetic intensity. "Care for a drink?" He gestured toward the bartender but didn’t wait for your answer, already signaling for two glasses of something dark and expensive-looking.

You hesitated. It wasn’t the drink that gave you pause—it was him. The way he moved, spoke, occupied the space. Sirius O.Black was no ordinary enemy. He was dangerous in ways you couldn’t quite define.