Not the kind of quiet Harry remembers—never the tense, listening silence before something bad happens. This is different. Softer. Like the castle itself is holding its breath, unsure what it’s allowed to be now that the war is over.
Harry can’t sleep.
He gives up sometime past midnight, pulling on a jumper and wandering the corridors with no real destination in mind. The portraits watch him, but they don’t whisper like they used to. Even Peeves hasn’t shown up to torment anyone yet. It’s like the whole place is… careful.
He ends up in the Astronomy Tower without quite meaning to.
“Potter.”
Harry startles anyway.
Draco Malfoy is already there, sitting on the stone ledge with his knees drawn up, silver-blond hair catching the moonlight like something out of a dream Harry isn’t sure he’s supposed to be having.
“Didn’t know this was occupied,” Harry says, automatically.
Draco huffs, but there’s no bite in it. “It’s not. You’re not exactly interrupting anything.”
For a moment, Harry considers leaving. That would be the easy thing. The expected thing.
Instead, he walks closer.
“You couldn’t sleep either?”
Draco glances at him, expression flickering. “Groundbreaking deduction.”
Harry snorts, then hesitates before lowering himself to sit beside him—close, but not too close. There’s still space between them. Enough to retreat if needed.
They sit in silence for a while.
It’s not uncomfortable.
That’s new.
“I thought it would feel different,” Harry admits eventually. “Being back.”
Draco lets out a slow breath, his shoulders loosening just slightly. “It does feel different.”
“Not like I expected,” Harry says.
“No,” Draco agrees. “Not like that.”
Another pause. The wind brushes past them, cool and gentle.
Harry glances sideways. Draco looks… tired. Not in the sharp, brittle way Harry remembers from sixth year, but something quieter. Like he’s been holding himself together for so long he’s forgotten how to stop.
“You stayed,” Harry says, softer now. “I didn’t know if you would.”
Draco’s mouth quirks, but it’s not quite a smile. “Neither did I.”
Something about that lands heavy and light at the same time.
Harry shifts, just slightly, until their shoulders almost touch.
Draco notices. Of course he does. He goes still for half a second—
—and then doesn’t move away.
“I keep thinking,” Harry says, voice barely above the wind, “that we’re supposed to go back to how things were.”
Draco lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That sounds dreadful.”
Harry smiles, just a little. “Yeah. It does.”
Another stretch of silence. Easier this time.
“Potter,” Draco says after a while, like he’s testing the word instead of using it as a weapon.
“Yeah?”
Draco doesn’t look at him when he speaks. “What happens now?”
Harry watches the horizon, where the sky is just starting to think about morning.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. Then, after a beat: “But I think… we get to decide.”
Draco exhales slowly, like that answer matters more than he wants to admit.
Their shoulders touch properly this time. Neither of them pulls away.
Somewhere below them, Hogwarts creaks and settles, as if it’s finally allowing itself to rest.
For the first time since Harry arrived back, he feels like he might be able to do the same.
“Alright,” Draco murmurs.
Harry glances at him. “Alright?”
Draco’s eyes flick toward him, softer than Harry has ever seen them. “We’ll decide, then.”
Harry nods.
They sit there until the sun starts to rise, quiet and close and something new—not fixed, not defined, but not broken either.
Rain against the windows of Hogwarts Castle sounded like a thousand tiny taps on glass.
Most students had already fled to the common rooms.
Which was how Regulus Black ended up nearly walking straight into James Potter in an empty corridor.
James blinked at him.
Regulus blinked back.
“You’re lost,” James said immediately.
“I’m not.”
“You’re a Slytherin,” James said, gesturing vaguely down the hall. “Your dungeon is the other way.”
Regulus folded his arms. “I know where my common room is, Potter.”
“Suspicious,” James said. “Very suspicious.”
Regulus turned as if to leave.
“Wait,” James said quickly.
Regulus paused.
James rubbed the back of his neck. “I just meant… it’s pouring outside, and the corridors are freezing, and—”
“And?” Regulus prompted.
“And I found a window seat in the west tower that’s warm because the fireplace below heats the stone,” James said in a rush. “And there’s a good view of the storm.”
Regulus studied him.
“You’re inviting me to look at the rain.”
James shrugged, suddenly shy. “Seemed like something you’d like.”
For a long moment, Regulus said nothing.
Then he turned and started walking past James.
James deflated. “Right. Of course. Silly idea—”
“Are you coming,” Regulus said over his shoulder, “or did you plan to stand in the corridor talking about it all night?”
James stared.
Then he broke into a grin and hurried after him.
By the time they reached the tower window, the storm had grown louder.
They sat close together on the stone ledge, watching lightning flash across the sky.
After a while, James said quietly, “Worth the detour?”
Regulus looked out at the rain for another moment.
Then he leaned just slightly against James’s shoulder.
The Gryffindor common room was loud in the way it always got on a Friday night—exploding wizard chess pieces arguing with their owners, someone practicing charms that were definitely not homework-related, and the low hum of chatter that made the fire crackle brighter. James Potter was sprawled on the rug in front of the hearth, broom catalog open, chin propped in his hands.
“Padfoot,” he said absentmindedly, tapping a page. “Do you think the Nimbus handles better in sharp dives, or is that just marketing nonsense?”
Sirius Black didn’t answer.
James frowned and glanced up. Sirius was slouched in an armchair nearby, boots hooked over one arm, dark hair falling into his eyes as he stared into the fire like it had personally offended him. He looked—annoyingly—like he belonged in a painting. A broody one. Possibly titled Tragic Handsome Idiot.
“Oi,” James tried again. “Earth to Sirius Black.”
Sirius blinked and turned his head. “Hm?”
James rolled onto his back, catalog flopping closed onto his chest. “You alright? You’ve been glaring at the fire like it insulted your mum.”
A muscle in Sirius’s jaw tightened. “Low bar.”
James winced. “Right. Sorry.”
There was a pause. The noise of the room filled it easily, but something about Sirius felt… off. James sat up, suddenly restless.
“You want to go for a walk?” he offered. “Before Remus assigns us reading or Peter starts telling that story again.”
Sirius’s lips twitched. “The one with the exploding cauldron?”
“The very one.”
Sirius stood, grabbing his jacket without hesitation. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
The corridors were quieter, moonlight spilling through tall windows and painting silver stripes across the stone. Their footsteps echoed softly as they wandered without a plan, shoulders brushing every so often in the way they always did.
James shoved his hands into his pockets. “So,” he said, casual as anything. “What’s got you brooding? Lose an argument with McGonagall?”
Sirius huffed a laugh. “As if.”
They stopped near a window overlooking the grounds. The lake shimmered faintly in the distance, and the sky was dusted with stars.
Sirius leaned against the wall. “Got a letter today.”
James’s stomach did a weird little flip. “From…?”
“Home,” Sirius said flatly.
James didn’t push. He just waited, because Sirius always talked eventually—especially to him.
“They want me back for Christmas,” Sirius continued. “Properly. Dress robes, pureblood guests, the whole performance.”
James scowled. “That’s rubbish.”
“Yeah,” Sirius said quietly. “I told them no. Again.”
James stepped closer without thinking. “You don’t have to go. You know that.”
Sirius looked at him then, really looked. “I know.”
Something soft settled between them, unspoken and warm. James swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close they were. He could see the faint scar near Sirius’s eyebrow, the one from second year when they’d been idiots with a Bludger.
“You can stay with me,” James said quickly. “For Christmas, I mean. Mum would love it. Already thinks you’re basically hers.”
Sirius smiled—small, genuine, a little stunned. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The smile widened. “Alright, Potter.”
They ended up on the Astronomy Tower, sitting side by side with their backs against the cold stone. Sirius had his jacket half-draped over James’s shoulders, and James pretended not to notice how deliberate that was.
James tilted his head back to look at the stars. “You ever think about after Hogwarts?”
“All the time,” Sirius said. “Mostly about not being told what to do.”
James laughed. “Fair.”
There was a beat. Then Sirius added, quieter, “I think about staying close. With you lot.”
James’s heart thumped. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”
The silence stretched, comfortable and charged. Sirius’s knee brushed James’s, and neither of them moved away.
James’s mouth felt dry. He’d faced down Snape, dodged hexes mid-air, stolen biscuits from the kitchens without fear—but this? This was terrifying.
“Sirius?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“You know when everyone says we’re inseparable?”
Sirius snorted. “They’re not wrong.”
James laughed, then sobered. “I don’t think I’d mind if we were. Like. Really inseparable.”
Sirius turned fully toward him. “James.”
The way he said it—soft, fond—made James’s chest ache.
“I’ve been wanting to do this for ages,” Sirius said, and then he leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t dramatic or rushed. Just warm and gentle and right. Sirius’s hand curled into James’s jumper, and James kissed him back like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.
When they pulled apart, Sirius rested his forehead against James’s. “Well,” he murmured. “That explains a lot.”
James grinned, wide and brilliant. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Sirius kissed him again, smiling into it.
Above them, the stars burned bright, and Hogwarts stood steady and safe around them—holding two reckless boys who had somehow, finally, figured it out.
James: Do you want the last biscuit?
Regulus: No.
James: Okay.
James: (does not eat it, just keeps holding it)
Regulus: Why are you hovering?
James: In case you change your mind.
Regulus: I won't
James: That's fine. I can wait.
Regulus:
Regulus:...Give it here before you make this even weirder.
James: I brought you a rock.
Regulus: ... Why?
James: It reminded me of you!
Regulus: In what possible way?
James: ...It's very smooth but also looks like it could ruin someone's day
Regulus: You are ridiculous
Regulus: ...Thank you.
Evan: I could definitely fake my own death if I wanted to.
Barty: You couldn't fake being normal for five minutes.
Evan:
Evan: Low blow
Evan: Accurate, but low.
Remus Lupin learned early on that Sirius Black did nothing quietly.
He laughed too loud, sprawled too wide, loved too hard. He burst into rooms like he owned them, like the world was delighted to see him, like everyone else was simply waiting for his arrival. And somehow—against all sense and self-preservation—Remus found himself orbiting that brightness like a moth, helpless and a little singed.
It was late autumn at Hogwarts, the sort that stained the grounds in amber and copper and made the castle smell faintly of smoke and old parchment. The common room fire crackled low, most of the Gryffindors already turned in. James and Peter were nowhere to be seen, likely plotting something disastrous.
Remus sat cross-legged on the rug, nose buried in a battered book, quill tucked behind his ear. He was determined not to notice the weight of Sirius’s head slowly lowering onto his shoulder.
“You’re going to strain your neck like that,” Remus murmured without looking up.
“Worth it,” Sirius said, voice lazy and warm. “You’re comfy.”
Remus huffed a laugh, the corner of his mouth tugging upward despite himself. “I’m a person, not a pillow.”
“Debatable,” Sirius replied. “You’re very soft. And you smell nice.”
Remus felt heat bloom in his cheeks and tried to focus on the page, even as Sirius shifted closer, their thighs pressing together. Sirius’s fingers idly toyed with the hem of Remus’s jumper, tracing absent patterns.
“You’re distracting,” Remus said.
“That’s my purpose in life.”
Sirius tilted his head just enough to peer at the book. “What’re you reading?”
“Advanced Defensive Theory.”
Sirius grimaced. “Thrilling.”
Remus nudged him with his elbow. “Some of us enjoy learning.”
“I enjoy learning things about you,” Sirius said easily.
Remus froze.
Sirius didn’t seem to notice—or pretended not to—as he continued, “Like how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating. Or how you always pretend not to like when I steal your chocolate, but you buy extra anyway.”
“That’s because you’re impossible,” Remus said weakly.
“And yet,” Sirius murmured, “you keep me around.”
Remus swallowed.
The truth was a delicate thing, something he kept folded and hidden deep in his chest. He’d learned to be careful with his heart, learned that wanting too much only led to disappointment. Sirius Black—reckless, brilliant Sirius—was far too much to want.
And yet.
There were moments, like this one, when Sirius’s knee pressed against his, when the firelight caught in his dark hair and softened his sharp grin, when Remus thought perhaps—just perhaps—wanting wouldn’t ruin everything.
The portrait hole swung open with a loud creak.
Both of them jumped apart like they’d been hexed.
James stumbled in, laughing, hair windswept and grin feral. “You will not believe—oh.” He stopped short, eyes darting between them. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No,” Remus said too quickly.
“Yes,” Sirius said at the same time.
James raised a brow. “Right. I’m going to bed. Try not to scandalize the castle.”
He disappeared up the stairs, laughter echoing behind him.
An awkward silence settled.
Remus closed his book with a sigh. “Sirius…”
Sirius suddenly looked uncharacteristically nervous, scratching the back of his neck. “Look, Moony, if I—if I make you uncomfortable, I can stop. I just—”
“It’s not that,” Remus said softly.
Sirius met his eyes, gray gaze searching. “Then what is it?”
Remus hesitated. He thought of the nights he locked himself away, of scars hidden beneath wool and silence. He thought of how Sirius looked at him sometimes—like he was something precious, something worth protecting.
“This isn’t a joke,” Remus said. “I come with complications.”
Sirius stepped closer, expression earnest in a way that made Remus’s chest ache. “I know. You think I don’t see them? You think I don’t see you?”
Remus’s breath caught.
“I see you,” Sirius continued quietly. “All of you. And I still—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “I still want to sit next to you. Still want to make you laugh. Still want to steal your jumpers and your chocolate and your time.”
He reached out, hesitating just an inch from Remus’s hand. “If you’ll let me.”
Remus stared at their almost-touching fingers. This was the dangerous part. This was where hope crept in.
Slowly, he closed the gap.
Sirius’s hand was warm and steady, fingers curling around Remus’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.
They sat there, hands intertwined, firelight flickering over them. No grand declarations. No promises about the future. Just the quiet understanding of something beginning.
Sirius leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Remus’s temple. “You know,” he said, voice gentle, “I think you’re my favorite thing at this stupid school.”
Remus laughed, resting his head against Sirius’s shoulder. “High praise.”
“Absolutely,” Sirius said. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
And for once, Remus let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—this was something he was allowed to have.
