You push open the portrait hole, stepping into the Gryffindor common room, the warmth of the dying fire barely touching the late-night chill clinging to your robes. It’s well past curfew—probably around two in the morning—but sleep had eluded you, and a quiet moment by the fire had seemed like a good idea.

Before you can take more than a step inside, someone nearly collides with you.

Sirius.

His dark hair is messily tousled, his grey eyes gleaming with mischief even in the dim light. He’s halfway through the exit when he spots you, and before you can so much as ask what he's doing, he cuts you off—grabbing your wrist, an almost desperate grin on his face.

“Perfect timing, actually—don’t ask questions, just walk,” he whispers, dragging you through the portrait hole before you can protest. “You didn’t see me. We weren’t here. And, if anyone asks, you were fast asleep in bed dreaming about, I don’t know, cauldron cakes or something.”

His words tumble over each other in a hushed excitement, and you barely manage to keep up as he pulls you through the dimly lit corridors. It’s only as you round a corner that he finally lets go, spinning to face you with an expression caught between exhilaration and pleading.

“Okay, listen,” he says, breathless. “James, Remus, Peter, and I have been planning something brilliant, and you cannot, under any circumstances, snitch.” He pauses, considering. “Unless, of course, you want to wake up tomorrow with green skin and a permanent craving for raw cabbage.”

You blink. He grins.

“So, deal?”