[He nods quickly--eagerly; if he's honest with himself it might be a little too eager, but he can't help that. That's how he is. If there's something to do, he'll do it, even if it's a small thing like making it snow indoors. Stupid, right, he knows it's stupid, and not something he goes around shouting about, because it's better (always) to be a little above real displays of affection, no matter what form they come in.
But it's too late for that. So he sits back on his heels and waves his wand toward the ceiling--a large, swooping wave, like someone stirring a thick vat of stew, only in the air--slowly, concentrating--they're close to the gardens so that helps, he can pick water out of the air and weave it together--a jab, once, at the end of that circle before he starts it again, and the temperature chills abruptly, as if they're sitting warm in a pub somewhere and someone's just opened the door. The cold is sharp at first, and then it dims, settling in as something more like the subtle chill of walking outdoors in the winter--
And Sirius is back to tracing that circle in the air, slowly, his eyes narrowed in concentration--the air stirs, once, twice, and then he smells it, the cold closed-in smell of snow before it falls, and he grins--
And it's then that the first snowflake drifts down from the empty ceiling. It melts before it can settle down, but the second flake gets farther--and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, they actually drift to the floor, and now the snow is actually falling, gentle at first but growing steadily heavier, big fat snowflakes, and soon the air is thick with them and Sirius finally drops his wand arm, grinning.]
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But it's too late for that. So he sits back on his heels and waves his wand toward the ceiling--a large, swooping wave, like someone stirring a thick vat of stew, only in the air--slowly, concentrating--they're close to the gardens so that helps, he can pick water out of the air and weave it together--a jab, once, at the end of that circle before he starts it again, and the temperature chills abruptly, as if they're sitting warm in a pub somewhere and someone's just opened the door. The cold is sharp at first, and then it dims, settling in as something more like the subtle chill of walking outdoors in the winter--
And Sirius is back to tracing that circle in the air, slowly, his eyes narrowed in concentration--the air stirs, once, twice, and then he smells it, the cold closed-in smell of snow before it falls, and he grins--
And it's then that the first snowflake drifts down from the empty ceiling. It melts before it can settle down, but the second flake gets farther--and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, they actually drift to the floor, and now the snow is actually falling, gentle at first but growing steadily heavier, big fat snowflakes, and soon the air is thick with them and Sirius finally drops his wand arm, grinning.]
There.