The Potter house always felt like summer.

Sunlight poured through every window. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon toast and warmth. It was messy and loud and full of life—nothing like Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. No cold silence. No stifling pureblood pride. Just laughter, and burnt toast, and the soft thud of someone running down the stairs barefoot.

Sirius had always liked coming over, but this summer was different.

This summer, he stayed.

Because he’d finally done it—walked out of that cursed house with nothing but a rucksack and his middle finger raised high. He hadn’t looked back. He didn’t need to. Because the second Euphemia Potter opened the door and wrapped him in a hug that smelled like vanilla and firewood, he knew he was home.

And you? You were there too.

James’ little sister. Two years younger, always somehow just outside the circle but still orbiting close. He’d seen you around the house before—barefoot in the garden, curled in an armchair with a book, laughing at something Fleamont said. But this summer… this summer was different.

It started small.

Shared glances over the breakfast table. Brushing past each other in the hallway. You teasing him when he burned his toast. Him lingering just a little too long when you passed him the butter.

You’d always had a strange kind of closeness. The way you’d roll your eyes when James was being overbearing, and Sirius would smirk at you like finally, someone else gets it. The way you didn’t flinch from his moods, his sharpness, his occasional silences.

You understood each other in a way he didn’t expect.

And then tonight happened.

James had gone out with Peter—something about meeting Marlene and Dorcas for “secret Quidditch plans.” You’d been reading on the couch when Sirius sat beside you. Close. Not too close. But closer than usual.

The sun had long since set, and the house was quiet. Just the ticking clock and the occasional creak of floorboards upstairs. You were both “sleeping” in the living room tonight. That was the plan.

You were under one of Euphemia’s knitted blankets, legs tucked beneath you, your hair a little messy from the day. Sirius was beside you, stretched out in one of his lazy slouches, head tilted toward you on the couch cushion.

You could feel him breathing.

And then—barely there—his fingers brushed yours.

Neither of you moved.

Not right away.

Then, as if pulled by something heavier than gravity, your hands slid together. Not fully. Just fingertips. Just almost.

“I can hear you not reading,” Sirius said suddenly, voice low and teasing.

You looked up, pretending to glare. “I was reading.”

“Page thirty-two,” he said, smirking. “For the last twenty minutes.”

You threw a cushion at him, which he caught without effort—smug, amused, utterly at home. That’s what was dangerous about Sirius. He made himself belong wherever he went. And with you? He made you forget that he was your brother’s best friend. That you were younger. That this—whatever this was—shouldn’t be happening.

“I’m just… distracted,” you muttered, pulling the blanket closer.

“Me too” he said.