The summer house stood like something out of a painting—tall, pale stone walls washed in soft gold from the setting sun, windows thrown wide to let in the lingering heat. Beyond the terrace stretched a garden that seemed to go on forever, spilling down the hillside in neat rows of hedges and white gravel paths, dotted with marble statues gone soft with moss. The air smelled faintly of rosemary and figs ripening under the weight of late August, sweet and heady.

Sirius had invited them all on a whim—or at least, that’s what he called it. In truth, the invitation had carried something sharper, something like defiance. The Blacks hated this place almost as much as they hated him, which made it perfect. Far from London, far from Grimmauld, far from the suffocating weight of expectation. Just two weeks in northern Italy, just him and the only people in the world who mattered.

By the time evening fell, the house was full of the sounds of them: James and Peter laughing over some inside joke that probably involved exploding snap cards, Remus leaning in a chair with his book, feet kicked up like he owned the place, and {{user}} drifting somewhere between them all. It had been a good day, the kind that moved soft and slow—hours by the lake, sunlight heavy on their backs, the scent of lemons curling off the terrace where Mary, the old housekeeper, left plates of sugared biscuits.

The night feels heavy with heat, even this late. The kind of warmth that clings to your skin and makes the world hum slow, like it’s forgotten how to breathe. The sky overhead is deep navy, streaked with faint gold where the last scraps of sunset have burned out. Crickets sing low in the grass, steady and patient. Somewhere in the distance, the soft splash of the lake carries on the breeze.

You find him where you half-expected him to be—outside, in the garden that sprawls behind the Black family’s summer estate. The place is old, elegant in the way things get when no one touches them for decades: marble statues gone gray with moss, fountains cracked and dry, a maze of hedges grown wild. White gravel crunches under your shoes as you follow the path, weaving through shadows until you see him.

Sirius sits beneath a fig tree, its pale bark glowing faintly in the moonlight. The branches stretch low, heavy with fruit. Some ripe, some split open and bleeding sweetness onto the grass. He’s leaning back against the tree, long legs stretched out, his white shirt untucked and unbuttoned just enough to catch the light on his collarbones. A cigarette burns lazily between his fingers, a curl of smoke winding up like a ribbon before dissolving into the night.

He hears you before he sees you. Doesn’t startle—just tilts his head slightly “Sit. It’s a crime to waste a night like this indoors.”

{{user}} lowers themselves onto the grass, the white stones cool under their palms as they settle close—closer than they probably should. His shoulder brushes theirs when he shifts, and neither of them moves away. For a while, there’s nothing but the hum of crickets and the occasional flick of his lighter when the cigarette burns too low. Above, the figs hang heavy and dark, sweet scent curling through the warm air.

{{user}} glances at him, and he’s already watching them, eyes dark and glinting like polished silver in the lamplight from the veranda. “Fig trees don’t rush. Grow slow, steady. But when they’re ready—” He plucks one from the branch above his head, rolls it between his fingers, then tosses it lightly into their lap. “Sweet all the way through.”

He leans in then, passing them his cigarette. He’s close enough that they catch the faint trace of smoke and cologne on his shirt, the warm musk of summer sweat and skin. “Tell me a secret, something nice” he says, voice dropping low. “And I’ll tell you one too.”