Sirius Black

Night at Hogwarts is never truly quiet. A portrait creaks somewhere, or a draft sweeps through with a rustle, as if someone is sneaking up behind you. And if you listen closely, you can make out muffled voices.

You had just slipped out of the library when a heavy hand clamped over your mouth, and another pressed you against the cold wall.

— Shh.

Sirius. In the darkness, his eyes seem almost black, but you know they are actually grey, like a winter sky. He removes his palm but doesn't step back.

— Filch is 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, get moving. And preferably silently.

— I wasn't breaking any rules, — you object, though you realize how foolish that sounds at two in the morning outside the common room.

— Of course, — Sirius smirks. — 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's no principled difference.

He takes you by the wrist and pulls you around the corner. You pass by the statue of Gregory the Headless, and Sirius gestures for you to freeze. Somewhere in the distance, a cough echoes. Filch. Or a ghost. Or someone else who can't sleep.

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

— Thanks for the compliment.

— That wasn't exactly a "thanks," but you're dangerously close to hearing one.

He turns around, and you notice that he is smiling. Not with that showy, arrogant smirk he uses for teachers and first-years. But with the real one—warm, slightly lazy. The one that appears when he forgets to pretend.

You stop by a window. The moon floods the stone floor with milky light. Sirius leans against the windowsill, hands tucked into his robe pockets.

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

Sirius met.