This is a recent entry to a writing contest, which won me second place; the topic was, well, practically a free rein - a story centered around your favourite character/s. Messrs Moony and Padfoot were the obvious choice ...

Obviously I don't own Harry Potter, otherwise the series would most likely include a hell of a lot more scenes like this.

'You done with that paper, Moony?'

Remus jumped a little, and looked up with bleary eyes. He hadn't realised anyone was still around when he'd finally managed to settle down in front of the common room fire with that morning's newspaper; but there, over in the corner, was Sirius Black, arms leaning heavily on the table he'd probably been dozing on not thirty seconds before.

'Er …' he replied intelligently. He was finished, had just read the last article before the damned Quidditch section at the back, but he wasn't quite prepared to relinquish it yet. He knew why Sirius wanted it – he used any excuse nowadays to transform into his recently-acquired dog form – and Remus wasn't in the mood to pick up strewn-about bits of paper in an effort to avoid awkward questions from the house elves the next morning. 'No, not yet … aw, no, not the puppy-face, Sirius!'

For Sirius had pouted his lips, cocked his head and made his eyes as big and pleading as possible; it was a look no-one should have been able to get away with, but this was Sirius, after all, and his patented 'puppy eyes' expression (which he'd recently joked about getting trademarked, there were only so many coincidences in one's life, after all) worked a treat with women and girls of all ages – even McGonagall had been known to succumb to its charms – not to mention Remus and even James, when he was feeling giving.

Remus rolled his eyes and twisted the Daily Prophet into a tight tube before throwing it haphazardly across the room. 'Sirius Black,' he grumbled as he made himself comfortable again, 'determined to spoil your plans and your paper since 1959.'

But to his surprise, the other boy did not become the large dog he'd become so fond of recently and proceed to rip the paper to shreds. Instead, he shook it out, flipped to a page near middle and took a quill from his pocket.

'What …'

'Crossword.' Sirius grinned, turning to Remus and holding up the Prophet to point out the black and white grid. 'I noticed you never fill them in and I quite like 'em, though the cryptic ones are much better …'

'So you decided to steal my paper?' Remus didn't attempt to hide his broad grin. 'You insufferable git.'

'You know you love it,' Sirius replied distractedly, tickling the corner of his mouth with the quill-feather before diving to fill in a clue.

Remus watched him for a few minutes, highly amused that the Prophet's simple puzzle seemed to elude his supposedly genius friend, before settling his head against the arm of the oversized chair he was sat in and allowing eyes to flicker shut. It was only a few days since full moon, and though Padfoot, Prongs and Wormtail were already having a marked effect on his monthly transformations, no amount of animals were going to help his erratic sleep patterns – not even sheep. Satisfied that Sirius was engrossed in his crossword, he let his body catch a few winks of sleep.

He awoke later, not exactly refreshed but grateful of the rest, to a dying fire and low mutterings and groans from Sirius' corner of the world.

'Need some help over there, Padfoot?' he yawned, savouring the word as he said it. The nicknames were new – came with the Animagus territory, James insisted – and Remus rarely used them still, his fear that they would grow old and stale on his tongue, or worse, be revealed as a mere daydream, a sham, far outweighing the fear of an authoritarian overhearing and demanding to know their origins.

'No,' came the short reply. ''M fine.'

'If you say so,' Remus murmured, rubbing his eyes, and he curled up, as a cat might, to watch the hissing, dancing logs and sparks in the fireplace. For a moment he vaguely considered wandering off up to the dormitory, but decided against it almost immediately; Sirius' unhappy grunts and mumbles were favourable to Peter's snuffles and snores, and the red-and-gold of the fire was a more pleasant sight than James entangled in similarly-coloured covers and hangings.

He wasn't sure when he dozed off again, or how long for, but he was suddenly aware of someone – Sirius – calling his name, and jerked awake.

'Remus – Moony … wake up, will you.'

'What?' he answered sleepily. He could hear Sirius cracking his fingers, a horrible habit he'd developed when he was agitated, or else deep in thought. 'Don't, Sirius.'

'Hmm? Oh, sorry,' he amended quickly, and sat on his hands. 'No, I just wondered if you knew another word, 7 letters … actually, nah, it doesn't matter.'

Sirius was always too proud to admit when he needed help. Remus rolled his eyes. 'Worked out the answer, have you?'

'I wasn't going to ask about the crossword anyway,' Sirius replied, a sense of almost-haughtiness in his voice. Remus made a sceptical noise and turned back to the embers.

He could hear Sirius muttering – 'Eight down, 'anticipated safe row developing'? What the hell is that supposed to mean?' – and thought complacently to himself that maybe his friend wasn't as good at the cryptics as he liked to believe, before pulling another cushion behind his head and letting the comforting heat washing over him from the fire lull him into a deep sleep, Sirius' low voice filling in the gaps of silence between each pop and crackle from the few remaining logs in the grate, until soon he could hear nothing at all, at least until James' worried voice was rousing him the next morning; when he moved to get up from the armchair, joints clicking painfully, he found that someone had thoughtfully tucked a throw around him, and that yesterday's paper was lying folded up beside him, all but one of the black and white columns and rows filled in with the chunky, straightforward lettering he knew so well.

---

The kettle was whistling angrily on the hob, hot steam billowing from its spout, but Remus paid it no heed, engrossed in the Prophet's advertising section.

After a few minutes the door flew open and Sirius Black was suddenly in the kitchen, shifting the kettle from the hotplate and cursing as he scalded his finger. 'Christ, Moony, d'you want to start my mother off?' He pulled the cup standing ready on the worktop closer and sniffed disdainfully at its contents. 'Tea. Dunno how you can drink the stuff.' And he spooned some coffee granules into another mug for himself.

When the drink was placed in front of him, Remus murmured a 'Thank you,' but otherwise gave no acknowledgement of Sirius' presence until the other man said, 'You still not done with that paper?' in an exasperated voice. 'Your tea's going cold.'

He blinked, then finally shrugged. 'Never liked it hot anyway.' He felt Sirius' gaze on him, but stayed focussed on the paper in front of him until he heard Sirius replace his mug and move to leave the room; he quickly rolled the Prophet up and called, 'Catch,' before launching it through the air.

Sirius caught it, with reflexes James would have been proud of, and the black and white squares caught his eye as he unfurled it; he raised a curious eyebrow at the smiling Remus.

'I'm sure you missed doing the crossword all these years, Padfoot. Maybe you could start with eight down?'

I love those puppies way too much than would be considered healthy. Reviews are love!