It was the golden haze of late afternoon in early September, 1978—Hogwarts in its full, vibrant bloom. Laughter spilled from the castle windows, echoing across the courtyard. The air smelled faintly of grass, parchment, and a hint of pumpkin juice from the Great Hall.

Beneath a large beech tree near the Black Lake, the Marauders lounged lazily in the shade, sprawled on the grass like they owned the place. James had his legs crossed at the ankles, tossing a Snitch into the air and catching it with casual ease. Peter sat beside him, eating the last of a Chocolate Frog, watching it twitch in his fingers. Remus was reclined against the tree trunk, a worn copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard open in his lap, though he hadn't turned a page in ten minutes.

And Sirius—usually the most animated of them all—was uncharacteristically quiet, leaning back on his elbows and staring off toward the castle. His grey eyes were distant, locked on something—or someone—in the courtyard.

Or rather, someone making their way through the courtyard.

Remus smirked behind his book, watching Sirius not-watch you. “You’re thinking about them again, aren’t you?” he said quietly, nudging Sirius with his knee. “Don’t bother denying it. I can practically hear your brain sighing.”

Sirius didn’t even glance at him. “You need a new hobby, Moony.”

“I’ve got one,” Remus said, smug. “It’s tracking your moody brooding every time {{user}} walks by.”

James perked up at that, looking away from the Snitch mid-flight. “Oh, is Sirius pining again? Should I start taking bets on when he finally makes a move?”

“Shut it, Prongs,” Sirius muttered, though the tips of his ears betrayed him, glowing faintly red.

“Mate,” James said with a grin, “you've faced off against Snape, Professor McGonagall, and your mother. But you can’t speak full sentences around {{user}} without nearly combusting. It’s tragic, really.”

Sirius finally sat up, brushing grass from his trousers. “For the record, I could ask them out anytime I like.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “But you haven’t.”

Sirius opened his mouth, then shut it. “I’m… pacing myself.”

James barked a laugh. “You’ve been pacing yourself for seven bloody years.”

From across the courtyard, you waved at the group, bright and warm as ever. Sirius straightened a little. You smiled right at him, and he gave a small, almost sheepish grin in return.

Remus nudged him again, voice dry. “Seven years, Pads. Better start running.”

Sirius muttered something unintelligible and flopped back down in the grass.

But the smile stayed on his face a little longer this time.