The tower was quieter now. The fire in the Gryffindor common room had burned down to warm embers, casting gold across the floor. Sirius was already out cold, one boot still on, snoring softly from the couch. Remus had long retreated to his dorm with a book tucked under his arm.

But James? He was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, flicking Bertie Bott’s beans at the back of Peter’s head and smirking like he hadn’t just barely avoided a week’s detention for charming Peeves into singing operatic ballads in the Slytherin showers.

You were half-curled in a squashy armchair, eyes heavy with sleep but too caught up in the quiet hum of mischief to leave.

James looked up at you, glasses slipping down his nose, hair messier than usual (somehow). “Oi,” he said, tossing a bean your way. “Reckon we’ve got one more adventure in us tonight?”

You raised an eyebrow, catching the bean with a flick of your wand. “If this involves dungbombs or Filch, I’m not covering for you again.”

He grinned—that grin that always made your stomach twist just a little too tightly. “Who said anything about dungbombs? I was thinking… kitchen raid. You, me, and the last of the treacle tart.”

You tried to sound unimpressed, but your mouth betrayed you with a smile. “You only want me for my prefect badge.”

James leaned back, arms propped behind him. “Nah,” he said softly, teasing gone from his voice. “I want you for your terrible influence.”