The fire crackled gently in the Gryffindor common room, casting golden light across the worn rug and deep armchairs. It was late, the kind of late where the castle had gone quiet and only the loyal, the restless, or the stupid were still awake. James sat half-slouched on the couch, legs over the armrest, lazily tossing a ball of parchment in the air. Remus sat upright in an armchair, a thick book open on his lap, reading aloud in that slow, patient cadence that made the words feel like honey in the air.

Peter was off "studying," or so he claimed. James, of course, had declared him a “right spoilsport,” until Remus leaned over and smacked him on the back of the head with his book. Now James just smirked, rubbing the sore spot like a badge of honor, and listened.

Remus continued reading, his voice soothing even in the dull moments. You were stretched across the floor, a cigarette hanging lazily from your lips, smoke curling toward the ceiling as your eyes fluttered half-closed. The rhythm of Remus’s voice, the warmth of the fire, the occasional clink of James’s rings as he fidgeted—it all felt like home.

Then, with the perfect combination of confidence and idiocy, James grinned and interrupted, “Hey, Moony, take me to the art museum in that book and make out with me, won’t you?”

Remus faltered, snorting behind the pages, cheeks blooming a soft pink. “I would, truly… but they ask you not to touch the masterpieces.”

The laughter came easily after that. And you, without missing a beat, exhaled a long stream of smoke and drawled, “Well somebody’s got to pin the artwork to the walls.”

James flushed red behind his glasses. Remus’s ears turned scarlet as he tried to bury his face in his book, a traitorous smile playing on his lips. The laughter quieted into comfortable silence, the fire crackling and hearts quietly full. Another night with them—your masterpiece in motion.