(McGonagall is only 40 in this, btw)

Sirius was so lovesick.

Utterly, and completely entranced by the daughter of the Transfiguration professor. Like Cupid had shot the biggest arrow possible through his heart, and the poison on the end of the dart was spreading all over his heart, making it bleed for only one person, the red making every inch of that lovestruck body part covered with the color. Of course, his friends regularly teased him for it, but who wouldn’t be looking in her way every second of the day? If admiring her was a crime, he’d be a runaway convict.

But that wasn’t important, when he was outside under the stars at night, a cigarette in between his fingers, the smoke running up into the air like a child sprinting away from their livid mother. The moon was high, but wasn’t full, shining in the darkness like a lamp, the glow illuminating his face ever so slightly, dark curls falling over his pale face and gray eyes, as he perched in a tree’s branch.