It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, and you sat at the edge of the Black Lake, the sunlight glinting off the water like scattered spells. Around you, the grounds of Hogwarts were alive with laughter — students wandered in clusters, their robes fluttering, their voices rising in joy.

Behind you, James and Sirius lounged on the grass, sharing an off-brand Muggle energy drink they’d probably smuggled in from Hogsmeade. Their conversation was a blur of inside jokes, absurd hypotheticals, and the kind of chaotic banter only best friends could understand.

You caught snippets through the breeze — muffled giggles and the occasional “Oi, Prongs, don’t be thick,” — but your focus slipped when you felt something.

Gentle fingers, cool and deliberate, threaded softly through your hair. Sirius. His touch lingered, tracing a path along the scars at your temple, reverent in a way that made your chest ache. You didn’t turn to look at him, but you could hear his breath hitch — almost like he hadn’t meant for you to notice.

And then came his voice, light and teasing, layered with something unspoken.

“Bit dramatic, sitting by the lake like a lost poet,” he murmured.

James chuckled, tossing a blade of grass at the back of Sirius's head. “Don’t flirt with the scenery, Pads. You’ll only fall harder.”

Sirius didn't answer — just kept running his fingers through your hair, and for a moment, the world went quiet, save for the water lapping at the shore.