Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Oh, but they are fun to play with.

We're shuffling down one of the dark corridors on the seventh floor, trying to keep James's invisibility cloak covering bodies that had outgrown it years ago.

As it was, we were hunched over, shoulder to shoulder, legs brushing and breaths unnaturally loud in the midnight silence.

We were coming back from setting up a prank, attempting to slip back into the Gryffindor common room without running across Filch or the yellow-eyed Mrs. Norris.

The light of the moon was dim, and I was reminded of the fact that the full moon had passed just days ago when my right shoulder dragged against the rough stone of the castle wall, aggravating a cut.

When I hissed at the sting, Sirius stopped to look at me, as best he could in the limited space under the cloak.

He placed a hand gingerly on my other shoulder. "You okay?"

I nodded a gruff, "Yeah," in his direction and ignored the thrill his soft touch sent through me.

Sirius eyed me dubiously, and I rolled my eyes at him and started making my way down the shadowy corridor.

His hand left my arm, and I was conscious of its cool absence.

I couldn't remember when I started to notice it. When I started to realize that I wanted his hand on my arm like that, warm and comforting and just for me. When I suddenly understood the breathlessness of the silly girls who swooned when he ran a hand through his hair or sent a wink in their direction. When the dreams started. When the staring started.

I push the thoughts away with practiced ease, because I become too aware of the ache in my chest when I linger on them.

Because we've always been marauders.

Because we'll always be marauders, and nothing more.