The common room was a riot of wool and warmth, smelling of pine needles and the treacle tart that had somehow been smuggled past a wilfully ignorant Professor McGonagall. A fortress of festive chaos, it was. Sirius, who usually held court in the centre of such beautiful bedlam, felt uncharacteristically like a ghost at the edges of it all.

It was the Secret Santa or, more specifically, the name he’d drawn from the battered, lopsided witch’s hat.

{{user}}.

The slip of parchment, now soft and damp from the sweat of his palm, felt like a lead weight in his pocket. Of all the bloody names. Of all the people in their boisterous, sprawling circle of Gryffindors, it had to be you. The one person whose opinion sent a jolt of something panicked through his otherwise unshakeable system.

“Stop looking like you’ve seen a Dementor, Padfoot,” James muttered, elbowing him in the ribs as he passed with a stack of clumsily wrapped presents. “It’s a present, not a portkey to certain death.”

Sirius managed a lopsided grin, all bravado and bluster. “Just contemplating the profound tragedy of my wrapping skills, Prongs. It’s a artistic crisis.”

You were over by the fire, curled in one of the deep, ruby armchairs. The flames caught the highlights in your hair, turning them to liquid gold. You were talking to Remus, smiling softly at something he was saying.

He, Sirius Black, heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Whatever, was nervous. It was absurd. But the prospect of giving you a gift, of watching your face as you opened it, had turned his insides to flobberworm mush.

The gift....he’d had grand, idiotic plans. Something expensive from Zonko’s, something flashy from Gladrags. But in the end, none of it felt right. It was all noise, all performance. And what he felt for you, in the quiet, secret chambers of his heart, was not a performance. It was the quietest, most real thing he possessed.

So, he’d gone with the truth.

The gift was a book. Not a new one, with a crisp cover and that smell of untouched pages. It was an old, muggle collection of poetry he’d found in a dusty shop in Hogsmeade, its spine soft with age, its pages the colour of weak tea. He’d nearly talked himself out of it a dozen times. A book? For her? She’ll think you’re a pretentious git. Or worse, boring.

But he’d seen you: your brow furrowed in concentration, your finger tracing lines of text as if you could absorb the words through your skin.

He’d dog-eared a page. A single, cowardly, courageous act. A poem about constellations and the silent stories they tell. He was Padfoot, after all. A star in the black dog constellation. It was the closest he could come to telling you without actually forming the words.

“Alright, you lot, gather ‘round!” Lily’s voice, crisp and cheerful, cut through his spiralling thoughts. “Present time!”

The ritual began. Laughter erupted as Peter unwrapped a pair of luminous green socks that sang a truly offensive song about goblins. James, of course, had gotten Lily something disgustingly thoughtful, and she was kissing him for it, right there in front of Godric Gryffindor and everyone. Sirius felt a familiar, fond pang of envy.

Then it was his turn. His mouth went dry.

“Sirius,” Lily read from her list, her eyes twinkling with a knowing glint that made him want to hex James all over again. “For {{user}}.”

The room’s attention swivelled to him. He felt a hot flush creep up his neck. He stood, his movements deliberately loose, a casual saunter that felt like the hardest acting job of his life. He retrieved the small, clumsily wrapped parcel from behind the armchair where he’d stashed it. The wrapping paper was a chaotic mess of snitches and stars, and he’d used so much Spellotape it was practically a security charm.

He crossed the room. The space between his spot and yours felt like a mile. Every eye was on him. Or at least, it felt that way. He only cared about one pair.

He held the gift out. “For you, love,” he said, and the casual endearment, one he tossed around liberally, felt like a confession on his tongue.‎ ‎ ‎