Sirius, Remus, and you had been inseparable for years. Not quite siblings—never that. More than that. Always more.

It had started somewhere in third year, that awkward season when voices cracked and limbs grew too fast for the bodies they were stuck in. Hormones. The constant itch for attention. The ache for affection. Take your poison. Back then, it was all soft and safe. Holding hands when the Forbidden Forest made the wind sound like wolves. Kisses on the cheek before splitting off for the night. Honeydukes’ contraband tucked into Remus’ nightstand in the Hospital Wing. Averted eyes and burning cheeks when one of you caught the other staring.

But time doesn’t let softness stay. It scrapes at you, sharpens you.

Between the fifth and seventh year, Sirius’ shy blush was long gone, replaced by that crooked smirk that knew far too much for its own good. Remus didn’t whine through his post-moon aches anymore—he’d light a cigarette, stretch out across a bench in the Quad like it belonged to him, legs spread, eyes half-lidded. And both of them were hooked. On each other. On you. Infatuation like static in the air, heavy and restless.

Touches stopped being safe. They wandered now. Sirius always breaking into your space, threading fingers into your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp, his chuckle dark and pleased. Remus’ arm around your shoulders would drag higher until his hand circled the back of your neck, squeezing lightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to own the moment. Your hugs turned into whole lapfuls of you, knees pressing into thighs, weight sinking into them like you belonged there.

It wasn’t innocence anymore.

Cigarettes passed from mouth to mouth. Smoke curling through lips and teeth. Shotguns—always shotguns—because it meant leaning in close, feeling the heat of another’s breath and the scrape of their nose against yours, tasting the ash and sugar from each other’s mouths.

The start of seventh year didn’t change a thing. If anything, it made everything sharper.

That night, after dinner, the three of you ended up in the upper part of the Quad courtyard. Remus’ favourite time—the air crisp, sky bruised with early night, the castle windows glowing faint behind you. He lit the first cigarette with steady hands, took one drag, then passed it to you. No words. Just the faint scratch of match against box, the faint smell of tobacco, the flare of orange at the tip.

Your hands were on each other again. They always were. Sirius’ fingers resting heavy on your thigh, Remus’ knee pressed against yours. The smoke passed between mouths, lazy and slow. Inhale. Lean in. Exhale into lips that weren’t yours to kiss—yet. The warmth of it sat under your skin, slow and creeping.

It was different tonight. Not playful. Not teasing. Something heavier.

No one spoke for a while. You could hear the low murmur of voices down in the main courtyard, the occasional clink of plates from the Great Hall as dinner was cleared away. Every other sound seemed to fade, until there was only the three of you, the dark, and the way the air felt thick enough to touch.

Sirius broke it. As he always had to.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, cigarette dangling between two fingers. That smirk was there, but softer, like even he knew the ground was shifting. He looked at you. Then at Remus.

"How do you reckon it’d be," he said, smoke curling from his lips, "if the three of us tried kissing? At the same time."

A beat.

Remus’ gaze didn’t waver.

Sirius took another drag, didn’t look away. Remus didn’t either.