A copy of The Daily Prophet laid on the coffee table of the Gryffindor common room. News about Voldemort, his crimes, and his potential plans were detailed with an accompanying moving photo of the wretched dark wizard.

Sirius flops down on the couch, his fingers flipping the page, disrupting your disassociated gaze on the article. “That shit’s not good for your head, you know.” A finger prods at your temple, a chuckle leaving his lips when you shoo him away. His hand travels down to your waist to pull you close.

The wizarding war had been going on a few years, and the news hadn’t gotten any better. Reports of the deaths of muggles, wizards, and witches plagued the papers more often. Whispers of which families are associated with Voldemort travel through the halls of Hogwarts, certain students alienated from others.

You, the Marauders, and Lily had been eyed to join the Order soon after graduation, but it felt uneasy knowing that any of the names of the murdered wizards and witches could be theirs.

In your peripheral, you can see Sirius’ eyes on you. “So, I was thinking— oh, don’t give me that look.” He rolls his eyes, “I was thinking that we should get married.” He suggests, his tone unusually serious. When pressed for a reason, he responds nonchalantly, “I mean, with the war and all, why not?” He shrugs, a glimmer of hope in his pupils for an acceptance to his proposal. “James and Lily are thinking about it too.” He points out, his fingers interlacing with yours.

Why he wants to elope so soon is obvious to you both. Neither of you are stupid.