Everyone warned you.

—“Don’t fall for Sirius B.” —“He’s trouble.” —“He’ll break your heart and laugh while doing it.”

But you didn’t listen.

Because when he smiles at you like that, when he leans in just a little too close during patrols, when he says your name like it’s something sacred—you forget the warnings.

You forget everything.

Until nights like this.

He’s pacing the common room, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess, fury in every step. You’re sitting on the couch, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

—“You don’t get to act like this,” you snap. “Not when you disappear for days and come back pretending like nothing happened.”

Sirius stops. Stares at you like you’ve just hexed him.

—“You think I don’t care?” he growls, voice rough. “You think this is easy for me?”

Silence.

Then his voice breaks.

—“Do you want me to say it?” he mutters, almost to himself. “Fine. You want the damn truth?”

He steps closer, eyes burning.

—“You matter to me. You drive me insane. I think about you all the bloody time, and it scares the hell out of me.”

A pause. His voice drops, barely a whisper.

—“You want me to say it? You matter, damn it.”

You breathe in sharply.

And suddenly, he’s in front of you—messy and vulnerable and Sirius B in all his chaos—and it hits you like a curse:

They were right.