it was yet another Gryffindor party in celebration of their equally routine Quidditch victory. the night was wild, filled with loud music and strong drinks that flowed through the veins of sweaty teenage bodies, warming them up and pushing them even deeper into the rhythm of the dance.

by morning, Sirius, quietly snoring in his bed, already deep in his seventh dream, let out a soft whimper at the peculiar sensation of hair tickling his face rather intensely. the persistent tickling gradually roused him, making him open his eyes to see you in front of him.

why in Merlin's name did i deserve this torture..?

he mumbled dramatically, still drowsy, lightly nudging your hand so you’d release the coal-black strand of his hair that you had taken between your fingers like a brush, insistently brushing it across the animagus’s face.