Sirius Black looked exactly like the kind of boy who knew he was good-looking. Dark hair fell across his face in careless waves. Grey eyes, sharp and assessing, flicked over the newcomer in the doorway with the casual arrogance of someone who had never been told no in his life. His school robes were already wrinkled, his tie undone, and he wore the whole ensemble like a deliberate insult to whatever authority had ironed it.

Remus looked paler than the others. His robes were neat but worn, his hair a soft brown that fell into his eyes. He didn't look up from his book, but there was an open seat beside him, and his words were careful—offered like a peace treaty.

The rain picked up, hammering against the glass. The compartment smelled faintly of wet wool, sugar quills, and the lingering trace of something burnt that Peter had almost certainly been responsible for.