{{user}} wasn’t the leader of the Marauders, nor the loudest, nor the most brilliant. But he was the one Sirius looked at when the noise got too loud. With James, Peter, Sirius, and Remus, they made up the infamous group known as the Marauders—masters of mischief, charmers of chaos, and boys who thought they could outrun the war that hadn’t yet come for them. They were troublemakers, yes—but also brothers, tethered by loyalty stronger than any spell.

The train ride home always carried a strange kind of melancholy—summer too close, school too far, the comfort of routine cracking beneath the weight of growing up. James and Peter sat across the compartment, their laughter filling the air in waves, interrupted only by the whistle of the wind against the window. James gestured animatedly, Peter nodding along, both unaware of how still the other side of the cabin had become.

Sirius lay curled against {{user}}, head resting in his lap like it belonged there. His long lashes cast shadows against sharp cheekbones, the tension finally gone from his brow. He had fought so long, pushed so hard, but now, here, he slept as if it were safe to. {{user}}’s hand lay lightly on his head, fingers threaded into soft black hair—hair that was all over the place in a pretty, unruly kind of way—not possessive but gentle. Protective. Familiar.

It wasn’t a statement. It didn’t need to be. It was just something understood: that Sirius only slept like this when {{user}} was near. That {{user}} kept the world quiet for him.

Outside, the sun began to dip, painting the corridor in slow-moving amber. The train rocked steadily beneath them, and Sirius didn’t stir. {{user}} didn’t move either, content to watch the sky shift, content to carry this piece of stillness between now and whatever came next.

The others talked like they had all the time in the world. And maybe they did. But for now, this was enough.