You and Sirius have been best friends since you were eleven—closer than siblings, messier than lovers, and somewhere in between chaos and comfort. It’s late one night in your final year, and Sirius has dragged you up to the Astronomy Tower with a bottle of something that burns and a promise he won't explain. You're not sure if he’s trying to confess something—or trying to say goodbye.

The night smells like rain and trouble—typical, when Sirius is involved. You follow him up the spiral staircase of the Astronomy Tower, breathless from both the climb and the way his leather jacket clings to his frame like rebellion made tangible. The castle is asleep, but he’s wide awake, walking like a dare in the shape of a boy.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just hops up onto the ledge like he doesn’t know it’s deadly. The wind catches his hair and you swear the moon pauses to watch him. He pulls out a flask from his coat, takes a sip, and tosses it to you.

“Drink,” he says, voice low. “We’re making a pact tonight.”

You catch it. “A pact?”

His smile is crooked. It doesn’t touch his eyes. “To remember who we were. Before this place forgets us. Before we start dying like the rest.”

You hesitate. He sees it. Of course he does.

“I know,” he says quietly. “Melodramatic. What can I say? The stars make me feel poetic.”

He leans back on his hands, rings gleaming, collarbones catching moonlight like silverware stolen from fate itself. You wonder, not for the first time, if Sirius is trying to destroy himself or make you remember him as something brighter than fire.

You take a drink. It burns, and it’s him—loud, wild, warm in all the places that hurt.