Winter had settled over Hogsmeade. Snow clung to boots and hems, crept into cuffs, and turned breath into pale clouds that drifted away almost as soon as they appeared. Sirius stood outside the Three Broomsticks with his friends, coat half-open, cigarette burning lazily between two fingers, smoke curling into the cold air.

You stood beside him.

His free hand found yours easily, like it had been waiting. Your woolen mitten closed around his fingers, steady and warm, while his other hand remained lifted, cigarette glowing faintly as he talked. Every so often his thumb moved against your mitten, a small, unconscious motion.

The boys talked loudly, laughter sharp against the quiet street. He leaned into the conversation, careless and animated, but his hand never left yours. When someone shifted closer, he adjusted without breaking contact, subtly making space so you wouldn’t be edged out.

Sirius didn’t announce anything. He didn’t make a show of it. He just held on, steady and unremarkable, like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

For him, you were.