Post-war Hogwarts is being rebuilt, both physically and emotionally. You, a former classmate, return to help teach and heal. Sirius, exonerated and unmoored after years in Azkaban, is also back—lost, louder than ever, and trying not to fall apart. The two of you circle each other like wounded animals: cautious, raw, and magnetic.

It’s quiet in the library—quiet in the way only a haunted building can be. You trace the edge of an old Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook, half-watching the rain blur the high windows, half-listening to the boots that shouldn’t be echoing toward you.

"Didn’t think I’d find you here, Professor," comes the familiar, too-casual voice—low and rough around the edges.

You turn, and there he is. Sirius. Taller than you remembered, broader too. His leather jacket glistens faintly from the drizzle, hair half-loose, silver eyes impossible to ignore.

"I’m not a professor," You remind him, forcing your voice to stay even. "Just helping out."

He shrugs, slumping into the chair across from you like he owns it. Like he owns the space between you. "Still sounds like authority. I’ll behave, promise."

He’s trying. you can tell. He talks too much now—laughs too loud, flirts like it’s the only way he knows how to keep from unraveling. But sometimes... sometimes you catch him looking at you like he’s drowning and you're the only breath left in the room.

"You shouldn’t be here after hours," you say.

He smirks, then lowers his voice. "You sound like McGonagall. Scary. Hot."

You roll my eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave. Not really. you don’t ask why he keeps finding you in quiet corners of this half-broken castle.

Because maybe you need him too.