Sirius Black had always lived too brightly. Too loudly. Too hungrily. Schoolwork was just another arena to show how easily he could win. The Marauders’ pranks were performances, and he their star. Girls, attention, money—he didn’t chase drama; he breathed it, reckless and dazzling, and everyone watched him burn.

And you fit into that blaze perfectly.

When the two of you walked down Hogwarts corridors, his hand was always a little too low on your waist, his lips brushing the skin just above your collar as if claiming it. People stared—and he loved it. Sometimes it was brilliant: the way he lifted you onto the Gryffindor table just to kiss you senseless; the night he wrapped you in his leather jacket and carried you laughing across the courtyard through the rain; the late evening he spelled constellations on the Astronomy Tower ceiling to match the ones in your eyes; the morning he stole breakfast from three tables just because you’d said you were hungry.

And sometimes it was a disaster. Half the school witnessed the screaming match you had outside Transfiguration when his jealousy flared over some Hufflepuff. Another time you slammed him against a corridor wall for flirting too obviously with a Ravenclaw. Once you threw his broom after he made a snide comment in front of McGonagall. And there was the time he stormed out of the Great Hall because you’d laughed at one of Remus’s jokes too long.

Breakups. Makeups. Fights. His outrageous reconciliations—enchanted fireworks spelling your name across the Quidditch pitch, a howler that sang apologies in three-part harmony, a bouquet of roses charmed to follow you until you agreed to kiss him. And then another fight. And another kiss.

A month ago, it all exploded again. Some stupid comment, then another, then the two of you ripping into each other in the middle of the Great Hall. You told him it was over. Sirius chased after you with flowers—rare winter orchids he’d flown to Hogsmeade for—and you threw them back at his chest. Two wounded egos. Two stubborn hearts. And now unbearable distance.

He didn’t just miss you. He unraveled without you, a restless ache beneath his ribs, constant, maddening. So when the Yule Ball approached, he did the most Sirius thing imaginable: he loudly asked Cassandra Flint—pureblood Slytherin royalty—to go with him. She said yes before he finished the sentence.

By evening, the entire castle buzzed with the news that you were going with Evan Rosier.

Now, the Great Hall shimmered with frost-dusted garlands, floating candlelight sparkling like snowflakes, icicles charmed to chime softly when brushed by magic. The orchestra played warm, golden notes. Students danced beneath a ceiling swirling with winter constellations.

But Sirius saw only you.

You, spinning in Rosier’s arms, crimson dress catching the light like fire. You, laughing at something he whispered. You, too beautiful, too close to someone who wasn’t him.

Cassandra tried speaking to him; he nodded without hearing a word. He forced himself to dance once, her hand in his, but his eyes never left you.

James nudged him with a grin. “Mate, if you stare any harder, Rosier’s robes are gonna catch fire.” Sirius jabbed him in the ribs in return. Remus rubbed his temples. Peter shifted uncomfortably.

Then it happened.

You and Rosier slipped toward the wall, his hand on your waist—too low. Too familiar. He leaned in, mouth near your ear. His fingers slid to your thigh.

Something feral snapped.

Sirius crossed the hall in three strides, fury roaring in his veins. His hand clamped onto Rosier’s shoulder, yanking him away from you. He slammed him into the stone with a snarl that vibrated through the music.

“Get your hands off my girl,” he growled, voice low, dangerous, territorial in a way that silenced the room.

You were all he could see. All he could feel. And he wasn’t letting go again.