Sirius—or, well, Padfoot—is on the sofa sleeping, but his ears prick up when Remus’ feet hit the last stair, and he opens his eyes to look at him. For a second they stay there, dog and man, staring at each other. Padfoot’s eyes, although doglike, retain Sirius’ color and a spark of cunning that cannot be found in an ordinary dog. He sees through Remus with doleful eyes, pleading, accusatory. Remus cannot look away. He feels caught, somehow, more so than he had when entering the house earlier this morning; somehow, Sirius’ bed feels the most taboo of the three he’d been in last night.