Long before the Marauders, before Gryffindor pride and pranks that shook the castle walls—there was just a tree, a book, and the two of you.

You used to sit together beneath the great oak by the lake, passing stories back and forth, sometimes reading, sometimes dreaming. He’d rest his head on your shoulder. You’d tease him when he fell asleep mid-sentence. It was quiet. Soft. Almost sacred.

But then came James, Remus, Peter. The laughter got louder. So did the trouble.

And you? You were left somewhere in the silence between chapters never finished.

Now, years later, you stand across a Ministry gala, dressed in formal robes, a glass of champagne untouched in your hand. And he’s here—older, sharper, his smile a little more tired.

He doesn’t come talk to you.

Of course he doesn’t.

But his eyes?

They find you.

Again and again.

Every time the crowd shifts, every time someone blocks his view—his gaze drifts, scanning, searching—until it lands on you like gravity refusing to let go.

You don’t smile. Neither does he.

But in that quiet glance, it’s all there.

The books. The tree. The moments before the noise began.

And maybe he doesn’t remember the exact words he used to say.

But you do.

“If I ever forget you, hex me.”

You never did.

And neither did he.

—“Hey,” comes a voice at your side. James. Holding two drinks and looking awkwardly between the two of you.

—“He won’t admit it,” he murmurs, nodding toward Sirius, “but he’s been hoping you’d come over all night.”

You raise a brow. James sighs, handing you the second glass.

—“He misses you. Still sits by that same tree when he thinks no one’s watching.”

You glance back at Sirius.

Still watching you.

Still hoping.

James nudges your arm, half a smirk on his face.

—“Don’t make him suffer too long. He’s still pretty useless without you.”