The cottage was always warmest in the late hours of dawn.

Somewhere between Sirius’s discarded boots by the hearth and Remus’s half-read book facedown on the armchair, the morning light spilled through the gauzy curtains like honey over bread. You stood barefoot on the cool floor, humming softly, grinding a sprig of monkshood with phoenix ash into a mortar, the scent of lime leaves curling up into the air around you. The alchemy table beside the window was cluttered—parchments curled like petals, tiny vials catching sunlight and scattering it across the wood in fractured rainbows. Your hands, stained faintly violet from yesterday’s tinctures, moved with deliberate grace, precise and slow. Always ten minutes early for the day.

Outside, the sea murmured faintly. Somewhere, your tiger shark—Nimue—stirred beneath the sun-sparkled waves, watchful and solemn, bonded to you like breath to a body.

And then—

Thud. Clatter. Laughter.

James entered first, hair wild from sleep and a Quidditch jersey tugged on backwards, his glasses askew and a grin blooming instantly the moment his eyes found you.

“Caught the sunrise again, did you?” he said, voice still thick from sleep, walking toward you with that easy, boyish confidence that always made the air tilt.

You offered him a sidelong glance, wordless and bemused, fingers still stirring the brew. He stole a grape from the bowl beside your elbow anyway.

Then came Sirius—shirtless, tattoos gleaming faintly beneath the blue of morning. The scratch marks from last night’s sex still peppered his ribs. His storm-grey eyes locked onto you like you were magnetic north.

“You’re up early, alchimista mia,” he drawled, stepping behind you. His fingers skimmed the edge of your short hair, curling a lock around one ringed finger before pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “Dream of us again?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The way your hum paused for a beat was enough. He smiled against your skin.

Remus followed last. Wrapped in his oversized cardigan, mug in hand, and eyes already searching for you, like habit. His gaze landed soft, deep, reverent.

His fingers brushed your lower back as he passed. "You didn’t sleep again." Not a question. An understanding.

“I was close,” you murmured finally, voice wrapped in sleep and sweetness, "to a breakthrough." You looked at Remus. “Do you think love can amplify the catalyst in a binding tincture? Real love, not synthetic.”

Remus’s smile curved slow. “If anything could, it would be this house.”

James, meanwhile, lifted you effortlessly onto the table and stood between your legs, forehead against yours. “If you make a love potion from us, promise you’ll test it on Sirius first. He’s already halfway gone.”

“I am,” Sirius said proudly, slumping into a chair and biting into an apple. “And if it kills me, I want a dramatic poem read at my funeral. Moony can write it.”

“I already have,” Remus said, deadpan.

They made the house feel like a heart, beating in strange, polyphonic rhythm.

You leaned forward, brushing your fingers along James’s jaw. “You smell like broom polish.”

“You smell like lime and danger,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your lips that tasted like mischief and home.

Sirius groaned, “Merlin, can we not snog before breakfast? Wait—never mind, keep going.” He watched from the table, chin on his fist.

Remus laughed softly. You slid off the table and walked toward him instead, slipping your arms around his waist and pressing your forehead to his chest. His heart was steady, worn, and warm.

He rested his chin atop your head. “What’s the tincture for?”

You pulled back and offered a small vial of soft pink elixir. “For preserving warmth. For anchoring things that feel like they might vanish.”

Sirius blinked. “You’re making potions for us again, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. James turned the vial over in his fingers. “We’re already anchored to you,” he said. “You know that, right?”