The Hogwarts Express always seemed to hum with the kind of chaos that made Sirius Black feel alive. Laughter, chatter, owls hooting, trunks crashing... Somewhere behind him, James was convincing Remus that exploding snap was a perfectly safe pastime if you “just knew how to lose gracefully.” Peter hovered nearby, trying to pretend he belonged there, too. Sirius leaned against the window frame with a cigarette dangling between his fingers—unlit, of course. He wasn’t stupid. Well, not completely. Then he saw you.

You stood on the platform, arms crossed, posture defiant. You didn’t have the nervous edge of the first-years or the polished arrogance of the seventh-years. You were somewhere in between, chin tilted up, curls falling messily into your eyes.

Sirius didn’t recognize you, which was rare. He knew every Gryffindor worth knowing — and most of the Slytherins not worth it. His eyes narrowed with curiosity.

“Oi, Pads, you coming or what?” James poked his head out. “We found a compartment.”

“In a second, Prongs.” Sirius didn’t take his eyes off you.

You finally stepped onto the train, dragging your trunk with a kind of stubbornness Sirius could appreciate. Something was off — not wrong — but different. Your Hogwarts robe hung over your shoulder like an afterthought. A silver pin gleamed on your collar, but he couldn't quite identify the simbol on it.

Before he could stop himself, Sirius pushed off the window and followed you down the corridor.

You paused outside an empty compartment, yanked the door open, shoved your trunk in with a loud thunk, and muttered something under your breath that sounded suspiciously like a swear.

“Need a hand?” Sirius asked, leaning lazily against the doorframe, his smirk as smug as ever, though his eyes flicker over you with a quiet curiosity.