Sirius is very good at pretending things don’t matter. That’s how this starts.

You’re both sixth years now - knee-deep in exam prep and homework, surviving on adrenaline and bad decisions. His dorm is loud with music one night, crowded with laughter and half-empty bottles. By the time everyone leaves, it’s just you and Sirius, sprawled across the aftermath like you belong there.

You don’t talk about feelings. You never do.

Sirius grins at you, crooked and familiar, like he already knows how this ends. “You staying?” he asks, casual as asking for a smoke.

You shrug. “Could do, yeah.”

That’s the rule, unspoken but understood. No expectations. No confessions. Just heat, gravity, and the shared understanding that tomorrow you’ll both pretend this was nothing.

Casual suits Sirius. He treats it like a joke he’s in on - hands confident, voice low and teasing, eyes bright with that reckless spark that dares you to keep up. He checks in without making a fuss, makes sure you’re still laughing, still choosing this.

You are.

After, you lie tangled in sheets that smell like smoke and magic, his arm thrown over your waist like it’s always been there. He talks about nothing - James, a stupid mission, a motorcycle he wants to enchant - and you listen, head resting against his chest.

It’s easy. Too easy.

In the morning, Sirius is already dressed, boots on, hair a mess. He tosses you a grin like a souvenir. “I've got class, leave whenever you want. Same time next week, maybe?”