The Gryffindor common room pulsed with music, firelight, and the unmistakable warmth of students finally breathing after a hellish round of exams. Someone had enchanted the ceiling to mimic a sky full of swirling stars, and the smell of spiced butterbeer lingered in the air.

You leaned against the far wall, half-listening to Marlene rant about a Transfiguration mishap, your eyes scanning the room. James was already dancing atop the table, Lily looking half-exasperated, half-entertained. Remus and Peter had disappeared—probably to sneak more drinks past McGonagaII’s wards.

And then you saw him.

Sirius, grinning like he’d invented trouble. The firelight caught on the silver rings at his fingers, his hair tousled in that reckless, slept-in-charm sort of way. He caught you looking. Of course he did.

In three long strides, he was in front of you, a drink held out like a peace offering. “Thought you might want something a little stronger than pumpkin juice,” he said, that grin tilting into mischief.

You raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly is this?”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Something I may or may not have nicked from Slughorn’s private stash. Which I may or may not have diluted. Slightly.”

You took the cup, brushing his fingers in the exchange. “And if I wake up hexed and hungover?”

Sirius gave an over-dramatic bow. “Then I’ll take full responsibility. Probably.”