The fire crackled quietly in the Gryffindor common room, casting warm shadows across the worn furniture and half-abandoned textbooks. Most students had gone to bed hours ago. But Sirius was still there, perched on the arm of the couch, cigarette in hand. His eyes were glassy, distant—staring into something far beyond the flames.

You watched him from the staircase for a long minute before approaching, your slippers making soft sounds against the rug.

He didn’t look at you when you sat. But his body leaned—almost imperceptibly—toward yours.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmured.

He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs for a second before blowing it out with a wry grin. “Didn’t want to.”

That was a lie. You knew it. He knew you knew it.

Still, you didn’t press. You just shifted closer until your shoulder brushed his. The warmth of your presence seemed to ground him; his muscles unclenched.

“Sometimes I think,” Sirius said, voice barely above a whisper, “if I close my eyes too long, I’ll wake up back there. At Grimmauld Place. With her screaming.” A bitter laugh. “I always wake up half expecting to find her standing over me.”

He doesn’t look at you until you slide your fingers over his—tentative, gentle. His rings are cold against your skin, but his hand warms quickly in yours.

“Tell me something good,” he says suddenly, eyes flickering to you. “Lie to me if you have to.”