It was one of those rare afternoons that felt like it belonged to no one—a perfect, gentle lull in the school year, the kind of day meant for window seats and lazy walks and scarves worn not for warmth but for the familiar weight of something soft around your throat. The breeze filtered through the half-open dorm window, stirring loose papers and the faint smell of cedarwood and ink that clung to the Gryffindor boys’ room. Sunlight softened everything it touched.

Sirius sat perched on the edge of his bed, a vintage-looking Muggle phone pressed to his ear—one of his many charming, inexplicable acquisitions. His black nails tapped lightly against the plastic as he feigned a raspy cough into the receiver, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, betraying the act even as he delivered, “I think I’m coming down with something.” On the other end of the line, Mary Macdonald’s voice crackled faintly, warm and teasing as she invited him out.

Behind him, {{user}} Potter leaned in close, head resting against Sirius’s back, the curve of his nose brushing against worn fabric. He was quiet, content. One arm dangled loosely around Sirius’s waist, thumb absently tracing circles on the hem of his jumper. It wasn’t a possessive gesture—more like something grounding. Like the two of them existed in their own frequency, and Sirius’s voice, low and feigned-sick, was just part of the background hum.

The way {{user}} leaned into him, face half-hidden in the folds of Sirius’s shirt, made it clear this was a sanctuary. The outside world—Mary, the Marauders, Hogwarts itself—was irrelevant for the moment. Sirius didn’t move, didn’t shrug him off. If anything, he shifted just slightly so {{user}} would fit more comfortably against him, as if lying was easier with the truth of {{user}}’s weight at his back.

A perfect day, and still—Sirius was sick. Just not the kind he was pretending to be.