You wake to the sound of fabric shifting.

Not loud. Careful.

The kind of careful that means someone is trying very hard not to be caught.

Your four-poster bed is cocooned in heavy red curtains. The dorm is dark except for moonlight bleeding through the tall windows across the room. You can just barely hear James snoring. Peter murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep.

And then

A whisper.

“Move over.”

You don’t even have to ask who it is.

“Sirius,” you breathe.

There’s the faintest flick of light outside your curtains. A barely audible murmur.

“Muffliato.”

The air shifts. The dorm sounds dim, distant. Wrapped in cotton.

Your curtains rustle, and then he’s slipping inside like he belongs there.

He smells like cold stone and night air. Probably just came in from the Astronomy Tower. His hair is a mess, falling into his eyes, and he’s grinning. That reckless, conspiratorial grin he only gets when he’s breaking rules.

He has always been touchy.

He drapes himself over James in the common room. Hooks his chin over Remus’s shoulder. Shoves Peter around affectionately. Physical contact has never meant anything with him. It is just how he exists in the world.

So when he slides under the covers and immediately wraps an arm around your waist, it would be easy to call it the same.

It would be easy to pretend.

“You’re freezing,” you mutter.

“Your concern is touching.”

“You’re going to get us detention.”

“Worth it.”

His knee nudges between yours as he settles. His hand spreads against your side.

It is not careless.

But that does not mean it is not friendly.

That is what you tell yourself.

Boys roughhouse. Boys cling. Boys fall asleep on each other after too much butterbeer.

This is nothing.

This is just Sirius being Sirius.

You shift to face him.

The moonlight outlines his features. He is watching you in a way that feels too focused. Too aware.

You both look away at the same time.

“What happened?” you ask.

“Nothing.”

You wait.

He sighs. “Had an owl from home.”

His grip tightens for half a second before relaxing again.

You do not ask what it said. You just reach for his hand beneath the blankets.

He stills.

There is a pause. Long enough that you almost pull back.

Then his fingers lace with yours.

Slowly.

Not playful.

Not rough.

You ignore the way your pulse jumps.

Friends hold hands sometimes. In the dark. When one of them has had a bad day.

There is nothing else about this.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he says suddenly, voice low.

You blink. “What?”

“My mother thinks there is. Corrupted. Disgusting. You know.”

His jaw tightens.

The word hangs there unspoken.

You both know it.

You have heard it before. In corridors. In muttered jokes. In cruel laughter that follows certain rumors about older students.

It is not something people admit to being.

It is not something people are.

Not here. Not now.

You swallow. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”

The words come out fast. Defensive.

He searches your face.

“We’re not,” you repeat, softer. “We’re just… mates.”

The word feels fragile.

He nods once.

“Mates,” he agrees.

But neither of you let go.

His thumb traces over your knuckles again. Back and forth. Back and forth.

That is friendly too.

Probably.

You have shared a dorm for years. Shared secrets. Shared detentions. Shared late nights studying and laughing until your ribs hurt.

This is just an extension of that.

It has to be.

“I don’t fancy blokes,” he says quietly. Like he needs it on record.