The party had burned out hours ago. Empty bottles glinted like fallen stars on the floor of the Gryffindor common room, and the hearth had dimmed to embers. You were halfway through vanishing the mess when the portrait creaked open behind you.

He stumbled in.

Hair a mess. Jacket half-off. That ridiculous grin softened by something almost... lost.

“Sirius,” you said, pausing mid-vanish. “You missed the grand finale.”

He blinked, then laughed—sharp and warm, the kind that filled a room.

“Nah,” he slurred slightly, flopping onto the couch like a prince returning from war. “This is the finale. You and me. No distractions. Just—” he gestured vaguely between you—“existential dread and maybe some emotional oversharing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re drunk.”

“Tragically.”

“And emotional?”

He smirked, tilting his head. “Only when it’s dark enough for secrets.”

You meant to leave it there. Meant to roll your eyes and vanish the last of the Firewhiskey stains.

But he looked up at you—truly looked—and for a flickering second, the air changed. His silver eyes were stormy, serious, and gods, he looked... tired.

“You ever think,” he murmured, “maybe people only like the version of you they can laugh at?”