The aroma of alcohol hung thick in the Gryffindor common room, mingling with the warm scent of burnt wood curling lazily up from the fireplace. Golden firelight flickered and danced across the worn stone walls, casting shifting shadows as the room pulsed with laughter, shouts, and the steady clinking of bottles.

It was a night of celebration—Gryffindor’s latest Quidditch victory had the entire house riding high, their excitement buzzing in the air like static. Music drifted from a battered old wireless in the corner, and someone had started a half-hearted game of Exploding Snap near the window.

Sirius, naturally, had thrown himself headfirst into the revelry. He had laughed the loudest, poured the most drinks, and egged on every toast. But as the firewhisky flowed freely and the hours blurred into a hazy, golden lull, his usual magnetic energy softened. He now lay sprawled across one of the deep crimson sofas, one arm dangling off the side, hair delightfully mussed, shirt rumpled and half-untucked, eyes half-lidded in a slow, syrupy daze.

When someone tossed a teasing remark his way from across the room, Sirius didn’t even bother sitting up. He managed only a lazy flick of his fingers in response—a gesture so sluggish it might’ve been mistaken for a stretch, if not for the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.