The Black Lake stretched out before you, dark and endless, reflecting the moonlight in rippling patterns. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and the distant hum of the castle behind you. You weren’t supposed to be out this late, but then again, neither was Sirius.

“You always this reckless, or is this just for me?” he teased, dropping onto the grass beside you.

You smirked, hugging your knees to your chest. “Says the boy who considers detentions a hobby.”

He chuckled, leaning back on his elbows. His hair was tousled, silver under the moon, and there was that ever-present mischief in his stormy eyes. But tonight, there was something else—something quieter.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just full. Then, after a beat, he exhaled sharply, fingers digging into the grass.

“I hate it, you know,” he muttered.

You glanced at him. “Hate what?”

He licked his lips, hesitating. “Going back home.” His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. “Every time I step foot in that house, it’s like—I dunno. Like I stop being me.”

Your chest tightened at the rawness in his tone.

“You’re still you,” you said softly.

His gaze flicked to you, something unreadable in it. Then, after a moment, he huffed a laugh. “You always say things like that.”

“Maybe because it’s true.”

Something shifted then—his expression, the air between you. He sat up, closer now, close enough that you could see the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheekbones.

“D’you think,” he started, hesitant, “that maybe—if I had something else to come back to, it wouldn’t be so bad?”

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t smiling now. Wasn’t teasing. Just looking at you like the answer to that question might change everything.