You’re trying to read.

Actually trying. Really. You’ve got your knees drawn up and your spine curved just enough to make it look comfortable, even though the bark of the tree behind you is digging into your back. The sunlight’s warm, the lake’s calm, and the pages of your book flutter lazily in the breeze like they, too, don’t take you seriously.

But then there’s a wet snout nudging your elbow.

Again.

You glance down without turning your head. Big black paws, slightly muddy. That dumb wagging tail thumping against the grass. Ears perked like he’s pretending to be innocent. But he’s not fooling anyone — especially not you.

“Padfoot,” you say, voice low, trying not to grin. “I’m reading.”

A low, unmistakable huff leaves his muzzle. Offended. Dramatic. Of course.

You feel it before it happens — the sudden shift of weight as he pads in a slow circle and then flops dramatically onto your lap like he’s done this a thousand times. Which, to be fair, he has.

The book gets jostled. Your stomach tightens. Not from the weight, but from the familiar pressure of him. The warmth of his animagus form is somehow more grounding than anything else in this castle. He lays his massive head across your thighs, letting out a world-weary sigh that says “I suppose if you won’t pet me, I’ll simply die here.”

You cave, obviously.

Your fingers curl through the fur behind his ears, slow and rhythmic. You can feel the vibration of his contentment — a low, steady thrum against your leg. He shifts a little, nuzzling into your stomach, and you pause for a second, book forgotten in your other hand.

It’s not like you talk about this. Whatever this is.

You’re friends. You’ve always been friends — since the train ride on day one, when Sirius Black threw his arm over the seat and asked you if you thought ghosts had drama. Since he made fun of your handwriting, but then started copying your notes. Since the first time he let you braid one of his rings into your hair and said, too casually, “It suits you.”

Somewhere between teasing and tension, something else bloomed. Quiet but steady. And somehow it felt more real in these moments when he wasn’t himself. Or rather — when he was, more than ever.

“I’m never going to finish this chapter,” you mutter, eyes flicking to your book.

Sirius responds by thumping his tail twice — the smug bastard — before rolling to his side to expose his belly.