The house at 12 Grimmauld Place loomed before you, its dark brick facade an ominous presence against the dreary London sky. The air around it felt thick with enchantments, repelling the outside world, a secret fortress in the heart of the city. You had been here before, but only in passing. Tonight was different. Tonight, you were being properly introduced to the man who had given his home to the Order but could never truly leave it.

Sirius.

You knew the name long before this moment. Everyone did. He was the infamous escapee, the last heir of a decayed pureblood dynasty, the man who had been falsely imprisoned for years and had still come out fighting. But despite the legends, despite the whispered stories, you had never actually met him. Until now.

The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit hallway lined with peeling wallpaper and the heavy presence of a past that refused to be forgotten. You stepped inside, your boots echoing against the wooden floorboards. A familiar voice—Molly—called out instructions to someone in another room, and for a moment, you thought you had gone unnoticed. But then, you felt it.

A presence. A weighty gaze resting on you, scrutinizing, assessing.

“You must be the new recruit.”

The voice was deep, edged with something rough, like an old song played on a worn-out record. You turned, and there he was, standing at the base of the staircase. Sirius.

He was taller than you expected—lean, but still broad-shouldered, a frame that spoke of past battles and lingering strength. His black hair, streaked with silver, fell just past his shoulders, slightly unkempt in a way that seemed deliberate rather than careless. And then there were his eyes—stormy, silver, sharp enough to cut through pretense. They held amusement, curiosity… and something darker beneath the surface, something he kept locked away.