“Oh, you’re never finding out what happens behind closed doors,” he responded, and shook his head. “That’s reserved only for the inner circle.” Sirius leaned a little closer, then, and lowered his voice to a stage-whisper. “But I say awful things about you, just so you know. My mates all think you’re part troll and can’t play the guitar to save your life.” He chuckled to himself at the teasing comment, entertained by the image of a child whose genes were an impossible mixture of human and troll, and by the impossibility of Charity being even remotely related to a creature who lived in the dark and the damp rather than the s u n l i t, airy world the blonde inhabited. (Sometimes he had to ask himself if she had even an inkling of how f r e e her exuberance and joy made him feel.)
She did seem to him, sometimes, like a cat trapped in a human form, in the way she sought out warmth wherever she could find it and would wind her way around him until she was comfortable. It occurred to him that her Animagus would most likely be a cat (if the evidence he’d seen was anything to go by), and for the most fleeting of moments the enormity of the secret the Marauders were keeping, and the people they were keeping it from, weighed down on his shoulders. (Most of the time it was easy to bear that burden, but sometimes he thought that it might have been nice to share it with someone else.)
“Have you?” He smiled at her, and reached out to wind one of her blonde locks in between his fingers. “Careful what you say, C. Comments like that might just go to my head.”
❝ I knew it, ❞ she whispered back, narrowing her eyes playfully as she leaned a little bit closer, too. ❝ It’s all a ploy on your part to keep us away from each other, no? Probably don’t want me realising that I’m much better off with James as a duet partner. ❞ An I N N O C E N T smile played on Charity’s lips, barely keeping away the otherwise amused grin that threatened to break through, and frankly, doing nothing at all to conceal the mirth and pure enjoyment dancing in her blue-green irises. Such was the nature of their interactions, for the most part --- a lot of cheek and banter, with a touch of genuine affection laced in for good measure. She blamed the whole thing on him, naturally. He brought that devilish side out of her.
( Affection, however, was and would always be her forte. She’d claim that until the day she died. )
❝ Please, we are years late on that, mister --- your ego is already way out of proportion. Besides, we’ve been through this before, it’s just true. What’s the point in lying about it? ❞ And she really didn’t see the point, honestly. After all, compliments of this particular nature, at least in Charity Burbage’s world, were to be given freely and without hesitation ( because who doesn’t love being told that they’re desirable? ). She and Greta had an actual list of snoggable lads and ladies, for crying out loud --- and she had never been the least bit shy about who was on it.
Realising that she was still draped in his leather jacket, the blonde slowly untangled her hand from his hair and placed it on his arm, drawing circles across his skin with her thumb. ❝ Are you sure you aren’t freezing? Because you can have your coat back, y’know. Or we can go inside. ❞
