You can still smell the burn of the heat charm James overdid trying to make the lake water “just warm enough to not scream when you dive in.” The air is thick with the scent of smoke, sunscreen, and the wet grass Sirius flung himself onto an hour ago claiming he was “melting into the earth and it was sexy, actually.”

The sun dips low, catching in the chain around his neck, the rings on his fingers, the lazy curve of a smirk he’s worn since he beat Remus at enchanted darts. You’re sitting on the rickety porch swing, feet bare, wearing a shirt you know damn well is his — oversized, fraying at the collar, smelling like cologne and firewhisky.

He’s watching you. Of course he is.

James is building a dubious bonfire with a grin that says someone might lose an eyebrow. Remus is reading upside-down again, muttering about “entropy and testosterone.” But Sirius? Sirius is sprawled on the railing, shirtless, talking shit and throwing marshmallows at you like he’s never once been afraid of being loved.

“You know,” he drawls, stretching like a cat, “if you stare at me any harder, I’m legally required to flirt obscenely. It’s in the Marauder Code.” He tosses a marshmallow, misses. “That was a warning shot. Your move, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, heart thudding too loud in your chest. This has always been the game with him — your best friend, your co-conspirator, the boy who taught you how to set a hex and who you once saw cry at 3am over a dead bird no one else noticed. You’ve known him your whole life. You know he’s impossible.

But tonight, under stars and summer smoke, he seems almost touchable.

The lake glitters. The bonfire crackles. Sirius Black is flicking his wand lazily, making sparks dance in the air between you, and all you can think is: If I say the wrong thing, he’ll laugh. If I say the right one, he’ll ruin me.