It always started with Sirius.

He spotted Snape crossing the courtyard before anyone else had even looked up. A smirk curled his lips—sharp and amused, the kind that promised trouble—and his wand was already in his hand by the time the others noticed.

“Oi, Snivellus,” he called, voice low but carrying. “Bit early to be bleeding out of your ears, isn’t it?”

Snape froze mid-step. He didn’t turn, didn’t speak, but his grip on his bag tightened. He knew better than to rise to it. Knew it wouldn’t matter.

The Marauders were draped across the warm stone like they owned it. Sirius had risen now, slow and fluid, the picture of arrogance. His robes hung open, collar loose, and the sun caught in the edges of his hair like a halo someone might set fire to. James stood at his side, wand in hand, saying nothing—but there was a glint in his eye, a tension in his stance. Complicit. Comfortable.

Peter laughed before the punchline even landed. It was always too loud.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” Sirius said, strolling a step closer, voice syrup-smooth and dangerous. “What’s in the cauldron this week? Something to make your hair less tragic?”

{{user}} watched. Quiet. Still.

Snape walked faster.

A quick flick of Sirius’s wand and the bag on Snape’s shoulder exploded open, parchment and vials raining down around his feet. He turned then, wand raised, eyes narrow with fury—but Sirius was already grinning, delighted.

James moved with him, shoulder-to-shoulder. Peter lingered just behind. And Remus? He hadn’t moved. Not yet.

“Feisty,” Sirius said, lazily flicking his wand again. Snape’s shoelaces knotted. His hair turned an ugly shade of green. “Better. Now he looks how he smells.”

Laughter burst around the courtyard—Peter’s shrill, James’s easy. Sirius’s was the loudest, richest, meant to echo.

But {{user}} didn’t laugh. And somewhere between the smirks and the spells, he didn’t look at Sirius either.