Sirius Black

Night at Hogwarts is never truly quiet. A portrait will creak somewhere, a draft will blow through with a rustling sound, as if someone is sneaking up behind you. And if you listen closely, you can even discern muffled voices.

You had just slipped out of the library when a heavy hand fell on your mouth and the other pressed you against the cold wall.

• Shh.

Sirius. His eyes seem almost black in the darkness, but you know they're actually gray, like the winter sky. He pulls his hand away, but doesn't back down.

"Filch's two corridors away," he whispers, as if sharing a state secret. "If you don't want to spend the night in the company of his cat, run away. And preferably without making a sound."

“I didn’t break anything,” you protest, even though you know how stupid that sounds at two in the morning outside the living room.

"Of course," Sirius grins. "You just decided to take a stroll. With a book on the Dark Arts. In the restricted section. At three o'clock."

• At two.

— There is no fundamental difference.

He grabs your wrist and pulls you around the bend. You pass the statue of Gregory the Headless, and Sirius motions for you to freeze. A cough sounds in the distance. Filch. Or a ghost. Or someone else who can't sleep.

"You're like a mouse," Sirius mutters when the danger has passed. "I mean, quiet. And nervous."

• Thanks for the compliment.

"It wasn't exactly 'thank you,' but you were dangerously close to hearing it."

He turns around, and you notice he's smiling. Not that showy, brazen grin he gives teachers and freshmen. But the real thing—warm, slightly lazy. The one that appears when he forgets to pretend.

You stop by the window. The moon casts a milky light on the stone floor. Sirius leans against the windowsill, his hands in the pockets of his robe.

"You know," he says, looking off to the side, "I thought you were one of those proper girls who sleeps at night. But it turns out you're quite the adventurer."

Sirius met.