summary: There is not a single person who could resist Sirius Orion Black’s charms – that, at least, is the bet that prompts Sirius into a months-long pursuit of eliciting a declaration of love from you. The only thing he did not consider? Falling in love with you himself.
tags: sixth year, comfort/fluff, but also so much angst, misunderstandings, kinda friends to lovers, reader hangs around ghosts, insecure!reader, mentions of traumatic injury, slow-burn!, james is a prick in this one (sorry, it’ll get better).
word count: 6.5k
a/n: yeah, what can I say. this is very self-indulged and I had fun writing it; so I hope you can enjoy it as well. English is not my first language. I tried making reader as inclusive as possible, but please let me know if I can change something! no use of y/n.
I do not support jk rowling nor her abysmal ideologies. Do not copy my work. Do not feed my work to AI.
Outside, October kills itself as softly as it has begun.
Yellow and orange trees are starting to bald in colder winds, and their wayward leaves swirl in the air, getting stuck on rooftops and windows. The castle did well to keep the already frosty temperatures at bay, but few stayed within. It was the weekend: and that would mean a trip to Hogsmeade to all who could.
And yet you have found a place in the library.
Faux-reading, one may call it, with how often and fast your thoughts stray from the pages. Your eyes were still stuck on the same passage from half an hour ago. If there would have been someone around who’d care enough to listen to your explanation, you’d talk about the sudden change haunting your days, confusing you in every moment.
You’d talk about Sirius Black.
The elder Black brother had inexplicitly started to talk to you. No, to seek out conversation, to acknowledge you as if you were his friend.
Which was irritatingly off-putting, because you already knew him starting first year and shared almost all classes with him since then. And in all this time, save the last three weeks, you could count your interactions on one hand.
Once, in second year, he had spilled ink all over your hair; laughing with his mates and making some joke you can only remember murkily.
Another time, he made a short comment about a quidditch game – Gryffindor’s victory, of course – to you before waltzing off.
And some ‘watch it’s’ sprinkled here and there.
In conclusion: nothing.
And you would be content with that. Truly. Politely put, he and you were … too different. You kept to yourself. You always had. Being shy and awkward and odd did not really entice many people to be friends with you. Not that you hadn’t tried – but ultimately you had made peace with it. And so, you were one to sit amongst silvery shadows or dwell too deep in the Dark Forrest instead, keeping to yourself, keeping your head down, seldomly speaking to your peers unless spoken to.
Sirius Black was none of that.
You could fill pages trying to define what he was – bold, genius, rude, charismatic, daredevil, popular –
It wouldn’t be enough for such a greater-than-life-person as he was.
It almost hurt, standing too close to him.
Because there he was – embodiment of so many peoples hopes and dreams; of how to be, how to look, how to act, how to speak and move – and you still were you. A wallflower next to an expensive, refined bouquet.
It was only natural, all possibilities considered, that Sirius Black finding a liking to you was none of them.
Hence you still try and fail to explain his sudden shift in focus. Hence the faux-reading.
You stiffen when someone takes a seat next to you in the otherwise empty library. You needn’t look up – the strong cologne you have come to know is telling enough. Something in your brain short circuits. Stumbling over the same sentence, over and over, you try to remain calm. You weren’t nervous – only confused. Yes, confused was definitely the right word.
“Hello there”
His voice rolls over you in a warm cadence. And despite everything, your head darts up like a spooked prey animal. Sirius Orion Black, in the flesh. Immaculate as always – with his long, black curls up in a half up, half down kind of hairstyle and piercing grey eyes that almost seem silver. He is out of school uniform: denim and leather; and on his face a brilliant smile that almost shows too many teeth. When you fail to respond, he waves a hand in front of your face, calling out your name. That finally breaks you out of your stupor.
“You know my name?”
His eyebrows lift. “’Course I know your name. We’re in the same year. You sit across from me in Flitwick’s’ class”, he says easily. He suddenly leans forward then, canines flashing when he smiles. “Say, you do know my name, do you not?”
The stupidity of Sirius’ question is almost as all-encompassing as the new wave of his cologne. You scrunch up your nose. “Of course I know your name. Everyone knows your name. You’re Sirius Black”
Sirius leans back, victorious, his grin never leaving his face. You have the feeling of losing a game, only you don’t know what you are playing. A question forming and burning under your tongue almost slips out, but then Sirius begins to talk again.
“What are you reading?” This had to be a prank. None of this makes any sense. You fold your arms across the pages, clearing your throat. “Nothing”
But if there is one thing you would get to know about Sirius was that he is incredibly stubborn. “Bit too big to be nothing. Looks older than Binns”, he teases, long, slender fingers tracing the thick hardcover peeking out beneath hundreds of pages. A thin line of dust is removed while he does so.
He flicks it off in an elegant arch.
It bursts out of you then, all awkward and sudden. Next to his mellifluous voice, you feel like a croaking magpie.
“Shouldn’t you be at Hogsmeade?”
Sirius pauses in his movements, then cocks his head. “Are you telling me off? I am wounded, pet.”
You furrow your brows and look anywhere but him. The air is thick with bergamot, cigarette smoke and leather, and you cannot help but feel absurd. Sirius Black was cool. Cool people don’t hang out with weirdos like you.
“I’m not telling you off, it’s just-“, you make the mistake of looking up again and watch as his grin grows. It makes you stumble over your words. “I mean – it’s the – don’t you always go to Hogsmeade this time of the week?”
Amusement colours his tone and lights up his face. “Oho – and how would you know?”, at ‘you’, he points a lazy finger to you, then fans his hand over one side of his mouth, as if telling you a secret, lowering his voice: “Don’t tell me you keep tabs on me.”
The thought is so embarrassing it makes you pull a face.
That sort of noticing another’s schedule the way he implies is I-fancy-you-behaviour. Worst thing being, he wasn’t wrong per se. You did have a crush on him (dear god, who did not) – but that was two years ago; and you have done well to smother it and move on. Because it would never, ever work out. And you weren’t even half the person he’d usually go for anyway.
And because it was stupid, plain and simple.
Another idea fills your head then, and you muster your courage to speak out loud. He’s mocking you. He had to be. It was the only sensible explanation.
You take a deep breath. “What are you doing, exactly?”
Sirius takes the shift in direction with graceful ease. “Having a conversation” He states simply and refuses to elaborate. Your nails bury themselves into your palms. “Why?”, you ask, and as if bracing for the shoe to finally drop, you look away from him.
Any second now, Potter and the rest of his entourage would barge into the library or jump from behind the tall bookshelves, and they would all laugh at you. When you were lamenting your loneliness, you didn’t mean to get a sweetly faced bully to keep you company (again).
You freeze when a large hand settles over yours. Softly, it pries your fingers from your palm. You cannot help but stare at him then; but he does not look back.
“I don’t know”, he finally answers, and it moves you so much more than any grand explanation ever could. His voice is soft, and kind; and for the first time since he started talking to you three weeks ago, it sounds real.
“I guess I find you interesting. Always did, I mean, but”, he shrugs his shoulders, “No time like the present, amiright?”
He lets go of your hand.
All of a sudden it feels very clammy and you hurry to wipe your palms on your skirt. If he notices, he doesn’t comment on it. Even if he did say something, you don’t recon you would’ve heard it over the drumming of your heartbeat in your ears.
“Oh”, is all you can say, lamely.
Outside, the wind picks up. It howls through a broken window someplace near the library. Little time ago, you’d only watch the leaves zipping violently through the sky, now, you felt akin to a leaf yourself.
With only the grace of someone so deeply comfortable with himself that even horrid company could not dim it, Sirius relaxes into a lazy propping up of his chin upon his palm. Then, he folds your book to its cover with one hand, marking your current page with a finger as he reads the calligraphical title.
“On Morality and the Fragments of the Soul: A Guide to Understanding Archaic Magic and Ghosts“, he reads out, and smiles at you as if proven correct on a hypothesis. “Always knew you were a smart one”
Your neck heats inexplicably.
After your encounter in the library, it seems that you run into Sirius Black every day.
Which was theoretically not as difficult – while the castle was grand, it certainly was not inevitable to see people one would like to or would not like to run into anyway – and sixth year too would mark the ongoing trend of sharing an almost identical schedule with Sirius Orion Black.
What was new however, was the frequency of idle conversations and greetings, saved seats - ! – and easy smiles extended to you. Never mind that just anyone would start doing that – you were practically invisible to the student body of Hogwarts, save your childhood friend Neil and his friend group (your houses quidditch team) in unclear extension – no:
It was someone on the highest ladder on the popularity food-chain.
And somehow, while it still made you nervous, the impending feeling of doom that hovered over you before was no more. Having dissipated into the air on that fateful October day, you dared to hope that maybe this would be something … genuine one day. Friendship, if it weren’t too laughable to Sirius.
And this is how November begins: with new attention and steadfast company, that slowly and surely extends into your everyday routine.
Bergamot and leather and a hint of cigarette smoke reach you before Sirius can announce himself otherwise. He doesn’t really need to anyway; this part of the day you know by heart.
The scraping of a chair, a heavy bag being dropped, rustling of paper. It’s the last row, and his the most outer seat: you think it’s because of that no one commented on the change. He collapses in his chair as if it were a lounger.
“What a day, huh?”, he laments.
You stifle a smile. “It’s morning”.
Sirius nods gravely.
He would nap or look out of the tall window for the next one and a half hour, or doodle on his notes and write something small on yours: and still, when asked upon, he would have all answers correct. It had always frustrated you in the past, when witnessing this easy way of success, where you had to sit hours in the library for.
It still did, a little, you had to confess to yourself while you listen to him talk about a quidditch match he watched over the summer. Less now that you were closer to him, knew him; but who would fault me for that, you think, and brush the notion away, paying closer attention to the vivid recounting of the match Sirius re-enacts for you.
He had the prettiest voice you have ever heard, you decide to yourself then.
As if summoned on the mention of the wizarding sport, Neil Cairney manifests in front of you. The two of you say the others name almost simultaneously. Sirius quiets and cocks his head. His gaze prompts you to hasten an explanation, though it somehow feels misplaced and wrong.
“Uhm, this is Neil. Neil Cairney – we’re-“, you almost said ‘We’re in the same house’ – which was incredibly dumb, because Sirius wasn’t colour-blind; and so, you stumble over you own tongue; “-we’re childhood friends. Oh, he’s in quidditch too. In the team, I mean”
You wanted to dig a grave and lie in it.
If Sirius is irked by your rhetoric demise, he does a good job at hiding it.
Neil only nods slowly and furrows his brows. “Since when do you two know each other?”, he asks, not unkindly, but shakes it head all the same. He glances at the door, and then onto the clock above it. This was not his class, and you wondered what he wants from you.
“Listen, deadline has not passed yet”, he starts, and at that you already wave your hands avertingly. He was dragging out a dead horse to race again.
“I’m sorry, Neil, but I can’t-“
“Come on! You were magnificent!”
His plea makes you cringe. “Yeah, until I was not”, you mutter under your breath. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see Sirius lift an eyebrow. You bite onto the inside of your cheeks. This conversation with Neil – the third this week – was already bad enough without an audience. You needed to end it. Now.
“Hoffrey is lax with deadlines, we both know that. And my answer is still no”. You fiddle with your hair, pulling strands like a curtain close over your face, evading his eyes.
“But-“,
Neil is interrupted by the swishing of purple robes into the classroom, and a clear ‘Good morning, class’. He gives you one last look before making for the door, offering a small ‘Hello’ and ‘Sorry’ to the professor.
“What was that about?”, Sirius whispers. You shake your head, intend on focusing to your teacher than dwelling any longer on this cul-de-sac-topic. It was a futile endeavour, of course.
During class, Sirius pushes little notes your way.
What was he talking about?
Deadline?
You ignore him. It probably wounds his pride, because he stops scribbling for a while. Then he slides another note to you, and you fear he is too perceptive for comfort.
This has something to do with quidditch, correct?
Your eyes widen. Trying to gauge his knowledge, you hesitate before answering back, small, timid script next to his aristocratic one.
Yes.
He was a quidditch player himself. Naturally, he knew the other houses’ quidditch captains – Harriet Hoffrey being yours. What you suppose he didn’t know was the team’s history; simply because you weren’t Gryffindor or Slytherin: and hence, probably no ally or great competition anyway.
He ponders for a moment. You see it in the way he mimics interest at the professors’ words, before jotting down another note, as if he listens for key points of the lecture.
You play?
Waiting for a moment, lest it looks too obvious to the professor that you were doing something other than you should, you finally correct him. On the same paper, you cross out ‘play’ in a shaky line, before writing a ‘played’ above it.
Sirius’ eyebrows lift. He looks as you then, as if searching for another resemblance besides you having shared class together. Hurriedly, you add:
One game. Last year.
“Reserve?”, he whisper-asks. Kind of, but it was too complicated to explain now, so you simply nod, embarrassed. You needn’t be, many people had told you. Neil would tell you daily, if you were to start the topic – which you would not, thank you very much. But next to quidditch star Sirius Black, it looks a bit different.
The way he stares at you is question enough. He doesn’t need to write it out again:
’Why?’
Why stop? Why leave the team? Reserve or not, you had passed selection and hence qualified as a good player.
Unsavoury memories grip at your skin. Your temple and rips tingle, as if awoken from a bad slumber. You decide to turn your head and ignore him, saying no more.
But Sirius was stubborn.
At the end of the class, your notes look as if you have gone mad halfway through. ‘Why’ was scribbled all over the left half of your papers, or wherever Sirius could reach best.
He huffs, annoyed, when everyone starts packing their bags and begins to clear the room and he still had no answer. The prospect of losing his, well, good will bothers you more than the uneasy feeling in your stomach. You grab his sleeve suddenly. His head whips to you: and the movements are only lost to the other students because they were in a hurry for next class.
“I had a freak accident.”
When he looks at you, it seems to slow all else.
The other students pass by as if ghosts. You swallow and let go of his sleeve. Shouldering your bag, you get ready to dart, lest you say something stupid again but are interrupted once more.
His words wrap around you like fine silk. He places a hand on your shoulder.
“Then I am all the gladder you’re still with us”.
The rest of the week plays out similarly.
Neil relents, eventually – apparently, he had a stern talking to from Harriet – and you ease at the comfort of being able to spend time with him, without quidditch being the only topic. He does try and ask you about Sirius though. Try, because he seems to be suspicious of your every word, and does not believe you when you explained to be on ‘friendly terms’ with him.
“I’m sorry, love, but that’s not the kind of person he is”, he says one night in the common room, a look so worried it makes you uneasy. It makes you defensive too, and you are not proud to admit that you ended up arguing over it.
You two would be okay, eventually. You always did; but you evade him for a few days afterwards. Parts stubbornness, parts sulking. Having no one else to reflect upon your conversations of both Neil and Sirius with, you end up seeking the company of ghosts. Or at least those with tact and an understanding of secrecy. Sitting in empty archways and in front of large windows, silvery shadows circling you - or sometimes completely invisible, you talk.
They don’t always offer advice, and if they do it runs into the danger of being horribly outdated (‘Best her in a duel of blade and thus be gone of this riddance!’, one ghost had said to you in your first year), but they were good listeners, nevertheless.
You think you have made a decent sorting of all your worries and calmed your nerves accordingly, till Potions rolls around and Sirius loudly declares you to be his partner for the class.
That was the first time other students took notice of you.
Well, of Sirius and his changed modus operandi anyways, because who even were you if not Ravenclaw’s lunatic? If you had expected offence and whining from Sirius’ usual potion partner – James Fleamont Potter – you would be correct. But instead of being swayed by that, the older Black brother only pulls a face and says something along the lines of Potter having annoyed him enough for the day, before waltzing over to your table and shooing your bench mate away.
Whispers start and you become a jumpy mess, imagining hearing all sort of nasty rumours about yourself at every corner of the castle. The only comfort you have is hiding behind your hair and hoping this new attention would end soon. And you are all too eager to forget about it, till Sirius changes his seat to the one next to yours the next week. It’s the same in the week that follows. At this point, you’re sure all of Hogwarts knows that Sirius Black took some kind of interest in you, as now they start noticing his other behaviour around you as well.
It made them notice you with renewed intensity.
While it made you shrink from their gazes and sometimes tactless comments, worried about what would – if ever – come next, Sirius was as relaxed as always. No, he became even bolder.
Darlin, he started calling you.
Neil corners you on a random Tuesday morning before breakfast and asks if you’re okay. If Sirius is bothering you. If you feel uncomfortable. That you could always come to him.
An awful feeling of déjà vu takes hold of you. Crossing your arms over your chest, you look past him, feet kicking dust. Anger wells up inside of you, inexplicitly. Anger, and something else you didn’t have to courage yet to name. You keep your voice low, reminding yourself to just take deep breath.
“Why do you keep insisting that this is something … something bad? Why can’t you be happy for me that I have made a new friend?”
He makes a sound like a dying laugh.
“A friend? Is that what you think?” Neil runs a hand through his hair, looking around to check if the two of you were still alone in this corner of the common room.
“Love, do you truly think that?”
You don’t know what hurts you more.
His question, his patronising tone, the implication that someone being your friend being … impossible. No. Downright abnormal it was cause to worry about you as if in a life-or-death-situation.
He knew better, did he not? He knew you basically since the crib, since before all this magic and school drama and when you two were the odd kids in a muggle village, trying to fit in in a non-magical world.
He knew about the bullying, he knew about your struggles to find a group of people or person to belong to. He knew, and still-
“Sirius Black is not that kind of guy. He would not … go for you if he does not have some sort of ulterior motivein mind.”
It makes you want to cry, frankly.
Instead, you feel bile rising in your throat, your stomach twisting and head beginning to spin. The air suddenly was putrid and humid; and you an animal stuck in a cage, unable to escape.
And what else can a caged animal do when in distress?
It bites.
“You are so fecking cruel, Neil. Do you even listen to yourself?”, your half-shout, and you are aware that some heads turn to you. You try to dim your voice, but it only breaks and becomes a scratchy mess instead.
“All these years – all these years – I struggle with making friends and being liked. You know that! And now that some shows interest in me and becomes my friend, you act like I don’t deserve it. I didn’t choose Sirius to suddenly be friends with me; he initiated that himself.”
Neil grabs you by the shoulders, forcing you to look at him. “That’s exactly why-“
You cut him off and shake his grip from you.
Taking a step back, you gesticulate with open palms as if it would help him understand. Your right hand twitches for a second.
“I’m still weird, Neil, just like when we were kids. Only that I cannot seem to shake it off like you do, and, andgo up to people and instantly become best mates, or find something to be good at and bond with others about that – do you really think I hadn’t tried?”
You don’t care if you are shouting right now. You didn’t even know if you were or not; the buzzing in your ears making you nearly deaf. But you need to make him understand. You need to get this misery out of you.
“I tried so hard, with class, with getting to know someone, with - with bloody quidditch, which you insisted I join!”
Something bitter comes over you, an anger you haven’t voiced directly till now. It laces your words with acid, your voice dropping an octave, solemn and enraged simultaneously.
Your breathing has become laboured. Your vision wobbly, as you hastily wipe the tears away. It has become so quiet in the common room you could have heard a pin drop.
Neil only gapes at you.
He extends a shaky hand. “Love-“
“Leave me the fuck alone, Cairney.”
You storm off, leaving murmurs and broken remnants of your first friendship behind.
You had missed breakfast and all electives and mandatories for the day.
Too many people. Too much noise. And frankly you had lost all care to drag yourself to class. Instead, you stumble through the treeline of the Dark Forest and let your feet carry you while your head still swims.
At some point, you let yourself down onto the forest floor, place your head on angled up knees and cry.
The tears seemingly cannot stop. You don’t know how long you sat there in the end – for the forest was dark, no matter the time of day, and the sky could not be seen from here. When you finally do stop, you wheeze. A sudden wave of nausea grabs you, dizziness reminding you of self-induced dehydration and a lack of any edible substance you failed to take today.
It made you feel stupid too, on top of being miserable already. Hunger besides, the thought of returning to the castle made you queasy. The thought of potentially seeing Neil again downright sick.
You press the thick thenar eminence muscle on your hands, just above your wrists, over your eye sockets, in search of relief and clarity.
A deep voice suddenly calls out your name.
Scared – surprised – startled: you cannot help when a shrill scream rips out of your throat.
Trying and failing to clamber into a more upright position, your legs – all pins and needles by now – cannot hold your weight. You fall again, a new wave of pain flashing through your body on the impact.
Your eyes widen when you see who spoke.
The man in front of you flicks his ears at the shrill sound. No. Correction – the centaur flicks his ears.
“Juniper”, you whisper, but it sounds hoarse.
He inclines his head, and a long, thick braid falls over his shoulder at the movement. “Indeed, I am, even though I was certain to not be mere seconds ago, having been stricken down by the cry of a banshee. Alas”, he says moving closer, and his hooves make a soft clop clop sound admits the foliage, “it seems to be no banshee at all”
He leans down to you.
“And yet you wail all the same, friend”
You sniffle at that. The centaur waves your attempted apology off, leaving you with a half-finished sentence hanging emptily in the air. You turn to massage the stiffness from your legs, watching as he circles you.
It would have given a concerning picture; a student and centaur deep in the forest, of whom the latter was armed with bow and blade and his kin equipped with an usually short temper when it came to humans.
It does little to unsettle you, however.
The forest, when given enough respect, was one of the few places you did not feel like the odd one out.
Junipers melodic musings make you turn your head to him at last. “I wonder,”, he begins, “what does bring you here, when you should be at school? The castle still stands, does it not?”
Even though you knew him for three years now, you still had trouble discerning whether and when he was making accusations or jokes. You clear your throat and wipe the tears off your face. “It still does, yeah”
Not a muscle moves on his face. Unimpressed, he comes to a halt and keeps observing you. There is no escaping this, you realise.
“Neil and I fought. No – I mean, with words.” You explain and correct the centaur’s assumption. His pointer finger leaves the hilt of his dagger.
“I thought he was close to you, given that you knew each other since being foals”
You stare at your hands. For a horrible, horrible second you had had the urge to hit Neil back then. You cross your arms over your chest, shrugging. The mental image stays, even though you try and banish it. You feel sad again, though you know not of what reason exactly. “I thought so too. But I made a new friend, and he does not like him. No, that’s not right. He does not think it genuine if someone would choose to be friends with me.”
Juniper’s ash-brown tail flicks back and forth.
“Community is both our salvation and greatest demise”, he says, and you feel too weak to comment further on it besides an undescriptive ‘mhm’. A growling of your stomach cuts through the air.
At that, he extends a strong arm to you. His fingers are rough in yours and when he pulls you up, you nearly stumble headfirst into him. You readjust your feet and hold onto his hand for a while longer, till the black spots filling your vision and vertigo was no more. He inclines his head once more – even when standing, he looms over you – and gives you a once over.
His palm is the first kindness of the day when it is placed upon your shoulder and gently leads your course.
“Let’s find you fresh nourishments. And then you must return to the castle, my friend, for soon dusk is upon us”.
When you walk in the castle’s corridors again, it is with a fuller stomach and a promise to return under a kinder star. It was both request and well-wishing on the centaur’s behalf, and you were glad of it.
You pass only few students and ghosts – classes and dinner had long ended, and you decided to not worry about the academical implication of that for now. Despite feeling better, you must still look rather miserable, rumbled clothes and red eyes and all of that, because someone stops you and asks if you’re okay.
Too surprised at the question, you halt delays by two steps. You turn to face him.
Gryffindor and prefect, a quick glance tells you; and his towering height and scarred face easily makes you recognise him as Remus Lupin. He sounds tired, but not uncaring.
“I’m good”, you supply steadier than you believed you could. “Thank you”, you add nevertheless, and give him a small smile. It would have been all good and well, but he continues to stare at you. Your smile collapses like an unsteady house of cards. Turning your head, you yearn for escape, but your feet stand still.
Take heart, Juniper had said.
You clear your throat, facing him again. “Do I have something on my face?”
He furrows his brows. Slowly he nods and you can feel your neck heat up in embarrassment already. It dies just as quickly when you recognise his expression to be one of worry.
“You’ve, err, got a popped blood vessel in your eye. Looks … truly, it looks horrid, but I wouldn’t worry too much. That’s nothing Madam Pomfrey cannot fix”
Despite yourself you break out into an uncharacteristic grin.
“Yeah,”, you comment dryly, “She can even bring people back from the dead”.
Lupin stares at you as if you’d collapse any second now or do something else hilarious.
“Are … are you sure you’re okay?”
You nod, then raise your hand to wave before reassuring him once more and changing your course from dormitory to medical wing. You can feel his gaze upon your back till you turn the corner and vanish from his sight.
The Gryffindor common room was lit with the warm light of the fireplace. Golden and red tapestries hang the walls, and an odd assortment of candles illuminate the other corner of the empty room.
Well, empty save the most plush and comfortable cushion chairs and sofa near the grand fireplace; the arguably coziest spot in the whole castle and sovereign territory of the Marauders.
Of which currently three were lounging - or at least appeared to be.
On second glance, the underlying tension was hard to miss and too uncomfortable to ignore. A log in the fireplace creaks and collapses, and the smallest of three boys’ flinches at the sound as if it were something else.
The portrait door swings open. And Peter Pettigrew looks like he has seen a god walk through. Or salvation incarnate.
“James!”, he cries out, and Potter mimics the greeting in fake-yearning - “O Wormtail, o wormtail!” – before plopping himself down on the red, lavish sofa next to Sirius, spreading his legs over the others’ knees under the usual protest.
It was quiet then. James’ narrows his eyes.
“All right, out with it. What’s the matter?”
Sirius breaks the silence, and he gives his friend a look along the lines of ‘get ready for this drama. James knows then and there that a relaxed night for conspiracies and prank planning was no longer on the table.
“Moony has developed a conscience”
Remus snaps the book he was reading close with a snap. “No, Sirius, you weren’t listening. You stop this – the joke’s not funny anymore.”
If James hadn’t got his legs on top of Sirius’ knees, the raven-haired boy would have jumped up in annoyance. Instead, he only throws up his hands.
“Oh, by Merlin’s balls! You talk as if I am harassing her”
At that, James was in the loop again.
You. They were talking about you.
It all had started as a front to Sirius’ ego, which was the root of all evil anyway:
On the train to Hogwarts, Sirius smugly showed of three fresh love letters he received at the station, boasting that There is not a single person who can resist Sirius Black’s charm. Not everyone, he had been corrected then, because there was one person who no one in the castle even spoke to if they couldn’t help it.
Ravenclaw’s lunatic - the loner, the girl who only stares and stares, talking to herself, laughing quietly by herself as if hallucinating or something worse; an awkward and unsightly apparition with hair obscuring nearly all of her face.
Hence it was promptly decided: Sirius had till the end of the school year to make the weirdest girl in school confess her love to him. Or get into her pants – whatever came first. (Though Peter did voice his concerns if the latter would lead to Sirius getting some type of curse or reduce his lifespan).
A mock-ceremonial handshake over crumpled wrappings of sweets sealed the deal.
(They had spent another thirty minutes trying to remember your name then, till Remus awoke from a nap and helpfully supplied the correct answer.)
Back in the common room, Sirius only rolls his eyes at Moony, before speaking to the others, as if they would need the convincing anyway.
“And it’s not a joke, fellow gentlemen, of that I would like to remind you.”, he wags his pointer finger like a reprimanding teacher. “It is a bet. And the bet does still stand, does it not, Prongsie?”
James grins. Shrugs. Given Remus’ anger, he had worried they’d argue about something graver than a silly bet. “It does, certainly. … Oh, it’s just a bit of fun Moony, relax”
Moony was nowhere near relaxing.
The image of your frazzled state still weights onto him. Only sharing some core subjects and Care for Magical Beasts with you, he had too little interaction with you to call you an acquaintance, but enough that he could confidently say that while, arguably yes, you were a bit of a fruitcake, it wasn’t as if there’s something so grotesque about you that warrants a humiliation ritual the like of which Sirius sets up for months now.
In a castle full of magic, was it truly all that weird to talk to ghosts and inanimate objects or beasts as if they were human? And who would fault a typical, quiet, shy and awkward girl to be what she is? It wasn’t as if you were a weirdo the way Snape was.
Sirius’ continuous display of tactlessness makes Remus more agitated than he probably should be.
“I still think you’re taking it too far.”
Sirius collapses back into the cushions and groans. “Oh, come on! She’s practically eating out of my hand!” He pulls two of his long hair strands in front of his face, nearly covering it all in a similar fashion that you tend to do.
“’Oh, Sirius, that is so kind. Oh, Sirius, that wasn’t necessary’”, he mocks, mimicking your voice. Peter snickers. Sirius’ grin is wolfish. “Such a virgin, I swear to God. This is definitely not a bet I will lose.”
“Maybe she’s too weird. Saw her talking to herself last week, a full conversation!”, it bursts out of Peter, all too eager to contribute.
James scratches his head at that. “Nutcase”, he sings out quietly.
That’s the breaking point.
Remus can’t take it any longer. The full moon is coming closer, and his friends are being morons. First, he overhears whispers of a concerned group of students talking about some sort of commotion in their common room this morning involving you. Then he runs into you himself - dazed and apparently crying so much you’d burst a blood vessel in your eye.
And now the others were being downright cruel.
He stands up suddenly, collects his book. The others quieten, confused.
“Ghosts”
James shoots him a puzzled look. “Come again?”
“She’s talking to ghosts, if you care.” Remus says over his shoulder, having had enough of this. But Sirius’ voice has the tendency to carry quite well if he wants it to.
“And why do you care?”
Remus stops his descent up the stairs for only a moment. “Because anyone with a shred of class would recognise that this ‘bet’ or whatever the hell you want to call it, has been going on longer than any good thing should.”
Remus cuts Sirius’ protest off with a sharply raised hand.
“It’s been months, Sirius, and you’re basically setting her up for some lasting trust issues. This isn’t funny anymore. Leave her be. Not everyone and everything needs to be your trophy.”
He vanishes behind the curve of the spiral staircase. Another log collapses in the fireplace and Sirius finally pushes James’ legs off him to go and open a window. He is bitter and his face hard when he snaps a cigarette alight, bluish smoke escaping into the night.
It’s a sinister picture.
He begins chuckle. “You just wait and see.”, he promises. “I’m Sirius fucking Black, and I can get anyone I want. I can be patient”
He breaths out a thick cloud of smoke, and the candlelight catches his grey eyes behind it ominously.
summary: There is not a single person who could resist Sirius Orion Black’s charms – that, at least, is the bet that prompts Sirius into a months-long pursuit of eliciting a declaration of love from you. The only thing he did not consider? Falling in love with you himself.
tags: sixth year, comfort/fluff, but also so much angst, misunderstandings, sirius is head over heels, (kind of) it fake dating, depictions / mentions of traumatic injury, reader hangs around ghosts, insecure!reader, slow-burn!, james is a prick in this one (sorry, it’ll get better). tarot symbolism.
word count: 15,9k
a/n: English is not my first language. I tried making reader as inclusive as possible, but please let me know if I can change something! no use of y/n.
I do not support jk rowling nor her abysmal ideologies. Do not copy my work. Do not feed my work to AI.
The school settles down again. Your involvement in stopping Peeves’ madness did not at all go unnoticed, and for the next couple of days you seemingly cannot walk a hundred yards without somebody calling out to you, thanks or relief in their voice.
It makes you dizzy, all their attention, just as it had done so before: same as with the unicorn thing, or Sirius newfound interest in you, before the sight of the two of you together was becoming a new normal. Sixth year really was different, was it not? Not so unwelcome, this change, you think to yourself, smiling.
The potions project is going well, too. Or at least, it looks like it does.
Sirius is currently reading off the next step of instructions from the handbook while you shift through your bag. Books, books, books – a few loose parchment rolls, your quill, oh, for Merlin’s sake-
“You alright, darlin?”
Sirius fixes you with a part amused and concerned kind of a look. You must look utterly miserable, because he starts laughing good naturedly.
“Stop it, Sirius”, you whine, “I am suffering here”
“Oh, of course,”, he says but continues anyway, hiding his face behind the handbook, “you poor thing.”
Narrowing your eyes, you throw a thin, wooden bookmark at him, but cannot help your own grin starting to form. Giving up, you blow a wayward strand of hair from your face, watching your friend calm down again.
He eventually raises one of his perfect brows at you then. “Okay, okay. Out with it, what’s the matter?”
“Can’t find my bloody hair tie”
Such a small and silly thing, but your hair hanging loose over a blubbering cauldron was nothing you ever like repeating. You shift in your seat. Besides, it’s just in the way, obscuring your vision.
Sirius shakes his head, amused, before putting down the handbook. He snaps something from his wrist in a quick motion and moves to stand behind you. You follow him with your eyes, neck turning eventually, but he gingerly makes you look forward again by placing his hands at the sides of your head.
“Stay still for me”
Your breath hitches when you feel his fingers in your hair. Your thoughts come to a sudden and forceful stop.The shiver running down your spine nearly makes you flinch. Instead, you can only stare ahead mutely, feeling Sirius’ fingers carefully but surely combing through your hair, gathering strands.
The empty classroom the two of you were in spins.
You settle on holding your own hands in your lap, listening to his breathing and trying to match his even rhythm. Sirius’ touch is calming, like lulling you to sleep. The gentle tugging at your hair a feeling so intense in its softness, it makes your eyelids lower. The comfortable tingles all over your scalp come in waves and you hope to drown in them.
He’s braiding my hair, your brain helpfully, slowly supplies you. A good plait too, with how nothing feels loose or strands falling out again. It makes you wish you had longer hair so Sirius would braid for another few seconds.
The sound of an elastic being wrapped around your hair slowly wakes you up again. Hesitantly, you reach one hand up to run over your hair, feeling the shape of the braid. French, you muse to yourself.
Sirius does not move. You can still hear his breathing, still feel his hands in your hair like a ghostly echo. Slowly, you turn to look at him.
“Sirius?”, you whisper.
There is an intensity in his gaze that makes you swallow, hard. Silver darts down, as if tracking the movement, before he shakes himself out of the apparent stupor and leaves his place behind you in exchange for his previous one, just as sudden as he got there.
When he looks at you again, his eyes rank over your features, as if truly seeing them for the first time.
“Suits you”, he ends up saying. He clears his throat. “You should wear it more often like that.”
“Only if you braid it”, you hear yourself say and are surprised at yourself with how bold you are. When the seconds tick by without any reaction from him, you slightly incline your head. You can feel the weight of the plait mirroring the motion, see how Sirius eyes follow it. How his gaze shifts upward, tracing your face.
He folds his arms over his chest before taking up the Potions handbook again, turning the pages almost randomly.
Maybe it’s the dim light playing tricks on you, but you think his pale complexion reddens considerably.
“Yeah, I think I can do that, darlin.”
When Professor McGonagall had issued you the forty points, it apparently put the head-on-head race with Gryffindor to an end. Now, your house proudly stands on first place.
“Not for long”, Sirius’ promises, self-assured. But your house was just as certain to prove the opposite:
Quidditch Season had begun again. And the first match of the new calendar year? Ravenclaw versus Gryffindor.
The castle brims with excitement and good willed sportsmanship, the possibility of your house winning standing rather good. But never totally in your favour: Gryffindor, under the captainship of James Fleamont Potter, was a formidable enemy.
“He is a devil, I swear”, Sirius’ complains one evening after quidditch practise. Hair still damp from the post-training shower, he practically collapses onto the bench opposite you in the library. “Thrice a day he mishandles us on that field”
This, too – Sirius’ whining about his mate and the sheer obsession in which he goes on about the sport – has been a new normal for you. Before, you’d liked to think that the raven-haired boy was just as obsessed over Quidditch as Potter, now, you knew that the bespectacled marauder had another thing going for him: undying discipline to pursue something till he had it. Though that wasn’t really new – one would just need to ask Lily Evans, and she would be able to fill a library with Potters stubborn determinism.
Instead, you only copy notes out of a tome, listening to Sirius and how each and every muscle in his body aches. When you turn to a new page, your hand draws an arch; reaching over to your friend to pat him comfortingly on the head, before settling back to the tome, fingers highlighting the next passage for you to copy.
You look up when Sirius remains uncharacteristically quiet.
“Sirius?” Nothing. “Did you fall asleep?”
His crossed arms rest on the table, serving as a pillow for his head. But his eyes are open, you see then; their grey-silvery colour like crescent moons under half-lidden eyes.
“You’re coming to the game, won’t you?”, he asks you softly.
Your gaze travels back to your notes, readjusting the grip on your quill.
“I don’t think I can come. Sorry, Sirius”
At that, he sits up straight.
“But why? C’mon, it’s the most interesting match of the year. And it’s our houses, too. Aren’t you feeling a little competitive?”
Naturally, anyone in your position would be. If you were like … like any other person from your house you’d be anxious or giddy or feeling competitive alright, or …
Neil is probably training day and night.
The thought is so sudden and intense, you startle yourself. A big splotch of dark ink seeps through the paper. You watch it grow, before cursing quietly and trying to dry the spill before it becomes more disastrous.
Neil. The team. His friends – yours too, or something along those lines. You had spent four years with these people before cutting all contact. Something presses heavily behind your eyes then. Unshed tears, you realise. And with that realisation comes the ignored pain of Neil and your ended friendship. The slow ignoring of the team, letting contact die out – either quietly or by force, but always intentional.
It makes you feel horrible.
Worse, even thinking of them makes your stomach turn. Because thinking of Neil meant thinking about the argument. And thinking about the team –
Steel against bone and muscle, blood in your mouth, fingers losing their grip around wood and grasping the air, body falling from the sky, falling, falling, falling –
You dig your nails into your palm till skin breaks.
Everything spins. It wasn’t supposed to, wasn’t allowed to. Not here. Not in front of him.
“I’m sorry, Sirius, but it’s a ‘no’. I … I just can’t. Sorry.”
Memories flashing by as if you were part of an audience instead of on stage yourself. And then - no images, only sensations, when everything became dark.
Shattering.
“But you’ll only be a spectator! If you have no one to go with, you can go with my friends – as long as you don’t mind being surrounded by a bunch of Gryffindors. They’re nice, I promise, you’ll have fun.”
“Quidditch is awesome! I promise, you’ll have fun!”
Sirius sounds an awful lot like Neil back in second year when try-outs came around. It makes your breath uneven, hands sweaty.
Fun, they say. But what would it bring you, eventually? Reserve for three years till finally being on field for a year - dying, if only for a little.
“I won’t go!”
Your chest heaves. Your vision blurs. Wrong place, wrong time. Not here. Not in front of him.
You pack up your things and dart off.
At night, you toss and turn in your bed. Parts because you cannot stop cringing at how you … fled, leaving your friend without any explanation or goodbye, and parts because your head cannot stop repeating memories from two years ago.
End of December, last week before Christmas Break. Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw. The first match of the season. In the castle: excitement, buzzing over. Outside? Snowstorms, raging on.
Neil had been elated to finally have you in the team. You, naturally, were as well. Months, years of hard practise would pay off today, of that you had been sure. The whole team was. The odds stood well.
Two hours into the game, and the bludgers criss-crossed their path on one fix-point:
You.
Now, staring at the canopy of your bed, you watch the moonlight shift as the hours tick by. Absentmindedly, your hands find your right temple, and the three lowest rips of your left side.
How very funny, you whisper quietly to yourself.
There was no pain anymore. But if you strained yourself to think back on it, you could still remember how it felt like.
Was it fear now, that made you dart? Fear of what, though?
With a deep sigh, you close your eyes and drift to an unrestful sleep, dreaming of Sirius, falling from his broom.
You catch him before breakfast in the hallway.
“Sirius”, you call out. His head whips around, loose hair drawing a semicircle in the air. “Hey darlin. How are you feeling today?” His smile is easy, but he looks concerned despite it. Suddenly you feel very stupid for making him worry like that.
“I’m good, truly. Sorry for my outburst at the library. Its …”
He interrupts you. “No, no, I mean, it must’ve been something I said. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, really!” You wave your hands in front of you avertingly, unsure whether to feel abashed or silly. Perhaps both. It would fit this little back and forth game the two were playing. You clear your throat.
Sirius’ voice is tentative, unsure in a way you’re not really used to coming from him.
“So, you’re not mad at me?”
“Never was”
He grins at you, relieved, and slings one of his arms around your shoulder, leading you to the great hall for breakfast. And because Potter was nowhere in sight, you lean back into him as well.
Two weeks later, on the morning of the match, Sirius finds you an hour before the game starts.
You’re sitting on the stone steps to the great courtyard, book in hand. When Sirius sits down next to you, he already dons his quidditch uniform. Brilliant gold and red. It looks good on him, you confess to yourself.
“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you”
He looks a little out of breath, cheeks rosy, black locks askew. Before you can stop yourself, you brush a wayward strand of hair out of his face. It’s terribly soft, just like you imagined they were. With your other hand, you close your book shut.
“Well, here I am”
Sirius’ slightly puzzled look shifts into something gentler.
“I suppose it’s no use in asking you to come to the match again? For moral support?”
You chuckle quietly and shake your head. “Sorry, Sirius. But I’m sure you will be fantastic.”
He winks at you, as if saying, ‘Of course I will be’. Then he stands up again, pulling you along and makes a great deal of sighing dramatically in typical Sirius fashion.
“Do I at least get a good luck charm for the match?”
A good luck charm?
You think, remembering how Harriet Hoffry, your team’s captain, always received a small kiss on the cheek or forehead from her boyfriend before a match. Would that do?
With the two of you now standing, you have to stretch slightly to match Sirius’ height. Holding yourself steady on his arm, you lean forward and press a light kiss on his cheek.
“Good luck, Sirius. You got this”
And Sirius remains frozen in place, stunned, slowly raising a hand to his cheek while he watches you leave the courtyard.
He releases a shaky breath when your silhouette vanishes from his sight.
“Oh.”
The news spread like wildfire through the castle.
Gryffindor won the match.
But that wasn’t really what people talked about. That wasn’t what made your blood freeze and heart race with the nauseating pain of trying to stand still in a spinning room. No. It was something else;
That in pursuit of their victory, Gryffindor suffered a freak accident -
Sirius Orion Black was hit with a bludger and fell, his broom shattering.
You fly down the stairs towards the medical wing, nearly crashing into stone face first yourself. When turning in the corner, you have to brace yourself against the walls with your hands, stumbling before regaining momentum.
Your legs burn and you feel incredibly hot and cold simultaneously. Stomach turning, you have to fight against feeling sick and throwing up and continuing to run.
Stone, paintings and windows zoom past you.
Sidestepping and excusing yourself through a small group of brilliant gold and red quidditch uniforms just leaving the hospital wing, you finally, finally arrive at your destination.
It makes you freeze. Chest heaving and clammy hands. Students, though not as many as you thought there were, and somewhere at the end of the room, Madam Pomfrey’s swishing white robes …
Slow, unsure steps into the hall. Head turning, left and right. And then, finally …
A figure in gold and red lies on a hospital bed, one of their legs propped up by metal wires. His face is turned away from you, but you recognise him by his black locks easily.
Suddenly you’re by his bedside without knowing you moved. Something trails down your cheek, and there is a horrible buzzing static in your ears.
A shaky hand reaches out to touch his arm.
“Sod off Prongs, I said I’m alright”
You make a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob.
At that, Sirius turns towards you, and his eyes grow large when he sees just who’s beside him. Hastily, he props himself up on his elbows.
With a breath stuck in your chest, you unsteadily scan him for injuries. Some bruises and scratches, his foot, fixated … but otherwise?
You practically collapse onto him and engulf him in a crushing hug.
He smells like musk and bergamot. Burying your face against his chest, you feel the knit of his uniform, the steady fall and rise of his thorax, and your racing mind comes slowly, stuttering to a halt. A small sniffle escapes you, but you are too besides yourself to really care.
Sirius eases himself back into the bed and you feel how his arms wrap around your frame, pulling you down with him.
He props his chin upon the crown of your head, his thumbs drawing small circles on your back. Sirius mumbles something quiet in your ear, not English, but it sounds reassuring, nevertheless.
After what felt like an eternity, you slowly ease your grip around him. He is reluctant to let you go; his fingers trail your arm until they touch the empty space you filled mere seconds ago.
Hovering, reaching-
falling to his sides.
Sirius sits up and you change your seating from the awkward angle to something more comfortable on the edge of his bed. With a shuddering breath, you wipe over your eyes with the back of your hand, realising that you have been crying.
Oh, how embarrassing.
His hand finds your free one, offering a comforting grip.
“Are you alright?” “Are you alright?”
The two of you speak almost at the same time. You breathe out a quiet chuckle before nodding. How silly, he’s the one injured, but here he was, comforting you instead.
“I was just worried. People said … they said …” You have to look at him again to make sure he is truly well and alive. “Are you okay?”
Molten silver glides over you with the warmth of the rising sun. Sirius’ fingers intertwine with yours.
“Yeah. Had your good luck charm keeping me safe after all.”
You want to laugh, but the honest genuineness in his tone makes you falter.
“But you had an accident”, you say weakly. Your brows furrow and eyes dart to his bandaged and fixated foot before finding his face again. He was hurt – how exactly was that ‘having kept him safe’?
“Looked more dramatic than it actually was. Had I been just a little slower it would’ve been bad – but, hey – it wasn’t. Bludger only really grazed my ankle. Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”
The creases between your eyebrows deepen. “They said your broom shattered”
Sirius shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, as if he was not one of the broom-crazed quidditch players you knew.
“Oh, yeah, but only a bit. James wants to send it back to the shop, he thinks they can repair it again. In the meantime, I’ll just have to make do with one of those ancient school brooms.”
Sirius sounds properly annoyed at that prospect, and at that you truly know he’s okay.
The curtain on the other side of his bed is pulled back with a metallic crrrk. Madam Pompfrey’s face is a mask of disapproval.
“Oh, you will not be going anywhere near any broom for now, young man. You are lucky the break was clean.” She fills a cup with a steaming, rose-coloured potion before unceremoniously placing it in Sirius’ free hand. “Now drink.”
Then her gaze finds you, and her expression softens. “Hello there”, she greets, using your first name. “So good seeing you. Everything well?”
You desperately hope your eyes aren’t too red and watery anymore. “Yes, thank you Madam. Much work?”
The woman collects the now empty cup from Sirius again, tutting at his disgusted expression and fills the glass on his nightstand with water magically. “Oh, just the usual madness with this quidditch sport. You know, no year passes by where I cannot help but think some new regulations or safety measures wouldn’t be amiss, but I’m just a school nurse, what do I know.”
Madam Pomfrey’s tone suggests that there was an awful lot she did knew and would like to say.
“It’s just the usual scratch here and there!”, Sirius pipes up, clearly taking neither the healer nor her concerns seriously. “That’s just how it goes, no need to make a big fuss about it.”
The older woman levels him with an unimpressed look. “Not everyone is always as fortunate as you were today, Mister Black.”
She then rounds around the bed, collecting another empty potion bottle from a small table next to you before placing a hand upon your shoulder. “So wonderful seeing you well, my dear. I’ll be in my office, if you need anything.”
You wave after her, a small smile on your lips.
Rearranging the pillows behind himself so that he can sit more comfortable, Sirius shoots you a puzzled look. His eyes dart between you and Pomfrey back and forth.
“No offence, darling, but why do you get special treatment from Poppy?”
“Special treatment?”, you reiterate. “Or regular kindness? Madam Pomfrey and I get along well, why is that odd?”
Sirius waves a finger in front of you. “Nuh uh. You know exactly what I mean. I’m not saying she isn’t nice, I’m just saying she isn’t normally so … soft around students.”
Your brows and corner of your lips lift at his observation. “Maybe you’re just a troublemaker, Sirius”
He laughs and the sound makes your stomach feel all fluttery. But you couldn’t evade his questions for too long. Sirius Orion Black was incredibly stubborn, after all. And didn’t good friends tell each other everything? Or, at least, such important things? If there’d be anything waying on Sirius’ mind, he could tell you anything. You’d listen.
You take a shaky breath, fixing your gaze onto your hands. Watching as you clench and unclench them.
“Uhm”, you start. “Madam Pomfrey and I probably get along good because we know each other … longer.”
“What, is she your aunt or something?” Sirius’ chuckle is met with no response.
“I was her patient, for a considerably long time. I guess that lets you get to know another well enough.”
It’s quiet then.
When you look up again, Sirius’ brows are furrowed and you can see the thoughts flitting behind his eyes. They end up settling on his own bandaged foot, and finally, back to you.
“Your accident in year five. You said it was a freak accident in quidditch.”
The early springtime sun colours the whole of the hospital wing in warm light and leaves little memory of Decembers’ cold grey. Absentmindedly, your fingers trace your left side, where rips had been shattered and punctured organs. The air tastes clear and slightly herbal, the hall orderly and well kept – nothing like the bloodied chaos from two years ago. Hells, you don’t even remember most of it.
You finally make an affirming humming sound in your throat. Looking through the window how the Scottish Highlands fall and rise beyond the castle grounds.
“I … I never asked. You …” You can hear Sirius take in a deep breath. His voice is raw. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounds scared. But that’s nonsense. Why would he be? “What happened?”
The highlands have started to bloom again, painting the green with purple and yellow splotches. How easy it was, to drift towards them in thought, leaving everything in this hospital wing behind.
Sirius’ tentative fingers brush against your hand again.
“It was my first game. Before, I had only been on reserve.”
He knew that already, you chide yourself. But Sirius doesn’t interrupt. You take a deep breath.
“We had big snowstorms last, no, two years ago. Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw. Opening game of the season. It went well for us, I think. Finding the snitch in this horrible weather had proven very difficult, so we were mostly just scoring points and trying to distinguish who was who. It was like flying in a thick, milky soup, you know? Everything was white all around you, and you could only see maybe two yards ahead of you”
Before your eyes, the green, purple and yellow landscape beyond the windows changes. Cold creeps up your spine.
You were back on that field again. Back on your broom, your fingers frozen, your breath crystallizing in front of you.
“Things happened so fast. I was flying normally, and the next second I wasn’t.”
Cold steel crashing into you with the speed of a bullet-train. One right, one left.
“The, uhm”, you wet your lips. “The bludgers hit me. One on the side of my head, the other on my ribs. And then I just … fell. Everything turned black. I don’t know, I, I heard people didn’t know what happened at first – can’t fault them, I mean, with the snowstorm and all, you couldn’t see very far.”
You trail off.
The grass beneath you had been frozen. It had been thawed and stained red by your blood for days afterwards.
You can feel the tears welling up again, their heavy weight choking you. It made you feel stupid. It was stupid, wasn’t it? You’re alright again, you’re not hurt anymore. Everything had already passed. Why were you still upset by it? Clearing your throat, try yourself at a small laugh – anything to lighten this sudden heaviness. You fail.
“I’m good – I’m good now. Madam Pomfrey and the healers at Sankt Mungo did a great job. Honestly. So, so when I heard that you had and accident, with bludgers too, and that you fell off your broom …”
Your vision wobbles and blurs. Harshly, you rub your eyes.
“I was so worried something bad had happened to you. I was so scared.” Your voice breaks. A tear runs down your cheek again, and you open your mouth to apologise for it, annoyed at yourself, but can’t.
Sirius pulls you in a tight embrace, fitting his face between your collar and jaw.
Your arms wrap around his back. Resting your head against his shoulder, you listen to each other’s breathing.
How well your forms fitted together, like missing parts of a puzzle. How normal, how right this feels.
It doesn’t matter what other people say, you decide then, content and with already drying tears. Your lips pull up in a small smile at the realisation. Who cares what nonsense Peeves or Neil spew. Who cares about whispers and sneers. What did they know after all?
You breathe in his scent and bury your face in his hair, and it feels like home.
This was your friend. Your Sirius.
Time flies by. You sit at Sirius’ bedside and laugh again, talking, listening. The air feels light and sweet, clear like after a storm passing. Sometimes, he gives you a look so soft and thinks he can hide it well, and if you weren’t busy evading his gaze and trying to cool the heat rising your neck, you’d be teasing him about it.
Sirius’ gives a humorous reiteration of how Gryffindor successfully managed to catch up on Ravenclaws point difference till seizing the snitch declared Gryffindor the winner (he himself scored the important points just a second before their seeker had to catch the snitch, lest Ravenclaws seeker managed to), when he suddenly pauses.
“I never asked”, he confesses, surprised at himself. “What position did you play?” – No, actually, don’t answer that. Let me guess.” Sirius puts a pointer finger to his chin, contemplating.
“Cairney is keeper, I know that all too well by now, and I’m certain he plays that position since years”, he laughs and you think back on how he told you about the iron defence Neil had over the hoops, as well as the aggression with which he blocked Sirius. At the latter, you had pursed your lips, confused. Iron defence, yes, but aggression? That was usually not Neil’s style.
“Hm, I’d say … chaser. I think you played as a chaser. Am I correct? I know I’m correct”
You laugh. When you shake your head, Sirius looks personally offended, and it only makes you laugh more.
“Actually, I played the position of beater.”
Sirius’ eyes grow as big as saucers. “Shut up, you didn’t”
Grinning, you cross your arms, more than delighted to prove Sirius wrong on something.
“Why? Is it so surprising I did?”
The Gryffindor stammers to find a good explanation. “I mean, beaters are – no offence, darlin – beaters are ruthless, strong, aggressive, even. You … you’re a very sweet and calm girl. I just find it hard to believe …” He trails off.
Your brain plays his words on loop. Very sweet girl, he called you. But pride, or some form of it, wins over.
“I’m strong enough alright”, you say, offering your arm towards him and flexing muscles.
Under the dark school uniform you are wearing, he doesn’t see anything, of course. Sirius canines flash when he laughs and you swat at him lightly. “You’re not listening. Here-“, you touch your bicep, “feel here. I might’ve not been training anymore, but Juniper keeps me busy with archery alright.”
When Sirius doesn’t move, you roll your eyes and take his hand, placing it on your arm.
“See?”, you say triumphantly.
Sirius’ fingers squeeze down but are met with unyielding resistance. He looks genuinely puzzled, as if you’d suddenly told him you played at Nationals or that your uncle was the prime minister.
Seconds tick by, and his grip eases, but remains, only more tender. You have to clear your throat to make him snap back, and he retracts his hand in a sudden motion, the tips of his ears coloured pink.
“Who is Juniper?”, he asks instead and ignores the look you give him skilfully.
“Juniper?”, you repeat. Theres a new quality in Sirius’s expression that looks foreign on his pretty features. Was it … no, that couldn’t be. Surely not.
“Juniper is a friend of mine. We sometimes trek through the forest or look at the stars together.”
If before you had wondered about Sirius’s expression, there was now no denying it:
He looked utterly, and almost bitterly so, jealous.
“Huh. You often do that with friends?” He has an odd intonation on the last word, on which you cannot make heads or tails of. “Spend time the forest, looking at stars?”
You cross your arms in front of your chest. “Sirius?” But he doesn’t look at you. What was wrong with him all of a sudden? He was acting weird, out of character even. Was it truly … jealousy? No, no, maybe it’s the after effect of his accident or something.
After all, it didn’t really make sense if he were.
“Uhm, well, if you want to, we could do that too”, you offer. “I just thought you wouldn’t like it, so I never asked”
That, and the notion of asking a friend to accompany you into the forbidden forest – heavens, to ask Sirius Black, back then, when the two of you weren’t as close? He would’ve probably thought you were weird and trying something fishy.
“Is that so?” He looks unconvinced.
“Of course! You can meet Juniper too, if he’s in the mood for it.”
Sirius furrows his brows and his silvery-grey eyes meet yours again. “You talk as if he’s living in the forest.”
Blinking, you stare at him, as if you suddenly had an epiphany. Context, you remind yourself. You break out in a grin. “He does. Live in the forest, I mean. He’s a centaur, after all.”
Sirius’ expression eases. “Of course you’re friends with centaurs”, he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. He shakes his head in small disbelief but smiles anyway.
“You really are something, aren’t you, darlin.”
“Oh, you’re quite the number yourself, Sirius Black.”
More quietly, you add: “We make a good team, don’t we?”
Sirius doesn’t reply but squeezes your hand firmly.
The atmosphere in Slughorn’s classroom was so tense, one could’ve cut it with a knife.
Neat rows of steaming cauldrons line the tables, behind which students in either groups of two or three stood anxiously.
Today was examination day.
And you wanted nothing more than to disappear behind your usual curtain of hair: strands covering your face, blocking out others. But you cannot, as it is nicely held together in a French braid. Instead, you shift closer to Sirius beside you, as if this would make Slughorn oversee you.
Or your potion, at least.
Sirius and you had been so sure of yourself. Brewing, although sometimes stressful, had gone well, for the most part. Not only because it made you spend more time together, but the two of you were rather certain that everything went as it should’ve had.
The reactionary colour-changes, the thickness and thinness of the brew after being exposed to either sun or moon light …
Now, even Sirius’ usually so unshakeable confidence falters.
Because every potion in the room looks different.
Some were a dim grey, brownish-green or red, others changed from hot pink to mustard yellow back and forth, another few were entirely colourless and clear, akin to water.
Looking at the shimmering white contents of your cauldron, you sigh.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad”, Sirius whispers in your ear. Not a second later, a cauldron three benches away goes up in flames.
“Well,” Professor Slughorn’s voice is dry as he clutches the small vial with a dark potion needed for the final step of the Invisibilis potion, “I’m afraid you had no luck this time. Nil Points, Mister Brown, Mister Patil. Yes, yes, very unfortunate …”
You and Sirius exchange a concerned look.
It feels like hours and mere seconds simultaneously, till Slughorn finally stands in front of you. So far, this half of the class, minus Severus Snape and his potions partner, had not managed to produce an acceptable result. Slughorn eyes the cauldron wearingly, before uncorking the small vial again.
“Ah, Mister Black, at last.” Slughorn smiles as if he is relieved to see a promising student in front of him. You clear your throat. The old professors’ eyes dart over to you. “And of course, Miss …“ There is a pause, and you know he has forgotten your name. Whatever. It was on his ledger with the group constellations anyway. “Err, yes. Alright. Let’s see what you two have brewed, shall we?”
Sirius readjusts the grip on his crutch.
Slughorn tips the vial slightly, and a small drop falls into the cauldron. Soft ripples draw over the bright liquid, before it stills. A millisecond later, all colour suddenly vanishes and you are left with a substance looking like water.
You close your eyes in defeat.
“Alright, alright”, the potions professor mutters, carefully lowering a metal stirring spoon into the cauldron. You watch him with bated breath.
Suddenly Slughorn laughs, delighted, and lifts the spoon again – but only the handle? Heavens, did you and Sirius end up mixing a concoction that melts metal?
The head of house Slytherin gingerly taps where the head of the spoon should be against the rim of your cauldron. A metallic clink answers. Relief and elation flood through you at the sudden realisation: your Invisibilis potion worked.
Slughorn applauds, turning back to the other students to prompt them to do the same.
“Brilliant! Full marks! This is magnificent work, well done you two!”
By the time the lesson draws to a close you cannot stop smiling, high on success.
The Invisibilis Potion project turned out most difficult for most students, with only a handful of groups succeeding. Slughorn ends up saying something about a potential second exam for those with poor marks, but you don’t pay it any mind, busy packing up and leaving once the lesson officially ends.
You make Sirius’ bag levitate with a quirk of a wand and wait up on him. When walking out of the classroom, he uses his crutch to hit people out of the way, instead of supporting his bad foot.
“Knock it off, you moron”, you hiss at him, and quieter, you add: “You gotta hit them at the ankles or under the knee”
The grin Sirius gives you is a mischievous, wolfish one.
“Oh, I see the beater in you alright”
The two of you sit next to each other at lunch, Sirius having you dragged to the Gryffindor table. Remus Lupin and Lily Evans you recognise and offer them a polite ‘hello’, while scanning the table for Potter. Best mate of Sirius or not, something about him made you uneasy. But he’s a no-show for now. You secretly hope it stays that way.
“So you’re the girl Sirius just can’t get enough of.”
Your head whips to your left.
Sitting next to Remus is another Gryffindor, her hand propping up her chin and levelling you with a sly grin. But unlike Potters, hers does not have a trace of maliciousness at all. Still, her question makes your mouth feel dry and the wooden table far more intriguing to look at that any of their faces.
“Very charming, Mary”, Sirius shoots back. “Ignore her”, he says directly to you and loads himself another serving of mashed potations onto his plate, before doing the same for you unprompted.
“Thanks, Sirius”
Somehow, the girl’s, Mary’s, grin deepens. She looks like a fox having found her prey, her brown eyes sparkling nearly as much as her pearly shimmering eye shadow. Exchanging a look with Lily, she wiggles her brows, like they are on to some kind of inside joke.
Clearing your throat, you introduce yourself, first name and last.
“Please, there’s no need for that”, Lily Evans smiles at you. “You have somewhat become of a celebrity here, after all”
Furrowing your brows, you automatically look at Sirius, trying to get more information through him. Swallowing a mouthful, he simply raises two fingers, thumb and pointer.
“You pulled a Newt Scamander with the unicorn last year”, he puts down his thumb and simultaneously, lazily, points at a random ghost floating by. “And you liberated us from that drama with Peeves.”
“Oh”, you say dumbly. You didn’t think it was particularly special, what you did back then. Maybe it was.
“Yes, speaking of, how did you do that?”
You’re happy when Mary takes the conversation into a different direction, though the mischievous gleam in her dark eyes remains. You force yourself to not look down again- Unable to meet her gaze full one, you instead focus on one of the dark curls tucked behind her ear.
“I … I guess I was just being nice.”
“Nice”, Mary repeats. You shrug your shoulders. The relationship between you and the poltergeist could be described as friendship, if such a thing even exists between poltergeists and witches or wizards.
“Peeves and I get along okay. We had a little chat …” You trail off at the memory.
Had a falling out?
You sound just like Lupin.
You peer towards Remus, who was multi-tasking: reading The Daily Prophet, emptying plate after plate and somewhat listening to the conversations around him.
Your eyes flit back just as quickly. “We talked about how things were ‘not funny anymore’. That it was way past a good laugh. That he ought to stop.”
Silently, you peer towards Remus for a reaction. Anything that might prove whatever Peeves said that day correct. Another part of you didn’t want to know. Back in the hospital wing you said to yourself you didn’t care. That this was your Sirius, your friend. You choose to hold yourself to that last decision and end up looking away from Remus after all.
It makes you miss the sudden frown on his face. how he slightly lowers his newspaper and stops chewing.
The girls look at you, impressed, you note with some embarrassment.
“So, you can just talk with the ghost and be alright, but when I try to convince Peeves to stop putting stink-bombs near the common room, I just get laughed at?” Mary complains. “I’ll come to you next time when that jester gives me trouble.”
Mary was quite a nice girl after all, you conclude. Just bold, like any of these Gryffindors seem to be. Same as it is with Sirius. It makes you very happy that he introduced you to his friends, you realise. You give Mary a small, but genuine smile.
“Peeves is a poltergeist, not a ghost”, you correct her softly. “That’s why he can also interact with corporealobjects, you know?”
“So, what I’m getting is that we could ask you to get Peeves to help with pranks”
“Uh, I suppose so?”
Lunch flies by. You have a wonderful time following along a mock argument between Sirius and Mary, telling a few stories yourself and basking in the feeling of how easily you fit into the little group’s dynamic. When Sirius (and you, by extension) leave, it is with a promise to meet again.
(“Don’t hide your bird from us anymore, Black. And you, love, don’t be a stranger,” Mary said with a wink.)
When your waving hand lowers and your figures vanish from sight, Lily turns to Mary, leaning closer to her over the table. The ginger girl hides her smile behind the tips of her perfectly manicured fingers.
“Did you see the way he looks at her?”
Mary let’s a low whistle be answer enough. “No wonder he has stopped his usual conquests. He has eyes on a bigger prize now.”
To her left, Remus suddenly puts down the newspaper nosily and rises to his feet in a jerky movement. His face is unreadable, switching between confliction, annoyance and something else too hard to pin down.
“Remus? Are you alright, love?”
More than once, you have to remind Sirius to keep using his crutch.
Madam Pomfrey did a wonderful job healing his broken ankle, but another week of rest and additional support was necessary. Today was day five, and you were sure to strangulate Sirius the next time he starts swaggering through the halls, his cane slung over his shoulder.
(“It’s not going to heal proper!” - “I’m alright, I’m telling you!” – the same spiel every day after his release from the medical wing).
Climbing up the sheer endless stairways up to your respective common rooms, the two of you are busy complaining about Binn’s new essay assignment – three-foot parchment about the effects of the first wizarding riot after the Salem witch trials. Your steps slow when the familiar sight of the Gryffindor common room’s entrance come into view. Familiar only because of sight, of course. Just because Sirius introduced you to his friends didn’t mean he’d start inviting you into the common room too. Such things did happen; you knew that. The random odd-coloured tie amongst the sea of blue and bronze in your own common room was nothing new, after all.
You hope none of your thoughts (or wish, perhaps?) is visible on your face when the two of you come to an eventual halt.
You peer to him behind your eyelashes to study his profile, in all his refined elegance. He catches your gaze and shoots you a wink before clearing his throat.
“Err, I’ve been thinking. We should celebrate our success with the potion project.”
“Yeah, that sounds very nice,”, you say and smile, noticing how Sirius’ eyes dart down for a split second, before fixating on a random painting down the corridor.
“So, … Hogsmeade? The two of us? We could go to that bookshop and antiquaire you told me about? Maybe a have a drink later?”
Silver-grey flies back to you just in time to see your reaction.
You have to fight the sudden urge to place a hand on his arm. “I’d love that!”, you say instead and watch as Sirius’ posture relaxes.
Was he worried I wouldn’t want to go?
But Sirius Black looks his usual suave charm again, no trace of nervousness or anything of the like in his face. Instead, he flashes his canines in a boyish grin and grabs his floating bag, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Done deal, darlin. I’ll pick you up at 10 o’ clock on Sunday in front of your common room.”
Sirius is waiting for you at 10 o’ clock sharp.
Black leather jacket over a white, crisp shirt, dark denims and Docs.
You somehow feel horribly underdressed in your long, plated skirt and tight and short blouse, pulling the cropped denim jacket your mother passed down to you tighter over your midriff. Mourning the lack of loose hanging hair behind which you could hide yourself – the uncharacteristic updo of your hair preventing all attempts.
But when he turns to you, his eyebrows jut up. You’re close enough to watch – or imagine, anyhow - how his pupils dilate, grey being swallowed up by black.
“Hey there”, you greet softly.
Sirius Orion Black does not stutter, because of course he does not, but he does sound a little breathless when he greets you back.
“Looking dashing, darlin. Shall we?”
You take his extended arm and pray to not trip over your own feet when walking down the steps with him.
Hogsmeade is as pretty as it always is. But colder than anticipated too – it makes you glad you remembered to bring your new gloves. Sirius gives you a compliment about them just as easily as he hands you another quirky or interesting looking antique.
The shop the two of you enter first is selling practically anything a witch or wizard might want and doesn’t need, the rooms were filled to the brim accordingly. You and Sirius must stand closely together to fit in the badly signed out walkways. Multiple times does a light hand, or fingertips reach out to gently steer the other back from a precariously close statue or oddly placed shelf.
That you enjoy grazing his arm or back just as much as the careful touch extended towards you is a secret you decide to keep for yourself for now.
Suddenly, Sirius laughs out loud, and your head turns to the sound like sunflowers to the sun.
“Darlin, c’mon look at this”
You navigate yourself around an unfavourably placed rose-quartz bathtub filled with chandeliers and shiny coat buttons.
Sirius holds up a sad looking porcelain figurine of a dog.
It is the most wretched little thing you had ever seen.
Chipped at some corners, and paint dull in others, you were not surprised at the thick layer of dust coating the little dog.
Maybe for Sirius it was already grotesque enough to be funny again, but at the sight of the sad canine, you cannot help but feel a pang in your chest. By now Sirius should’ve known you better to understand how easily you can grow attached to an inanimate object or feel genuinely sorry for it.
Your finger comes up to pet the dog statue on his head. A thick patch of dust sticks to your fingertip, making you shake your hand.
“Mo ghrá”, wails the porcelain dog in Sirius’ hands.
Pausing, you cock your head to the side, eyes narrowing in thought. Then, you snap your fingers. The sound is muffled by the gloves.
“I think it’s part of a wedding gift”
“A wedding gift?”, Sirius asks, looking at the dog figure again. “I’d only gift this depressed spaniel to someone I don’t like. I mean, look at it.”
You shake your head, trying to stifle a smile.
“You know how those dog figurines, what were their names – Staffordshire’s? - I’m not sure, anyhow, they were a popular wedding gift till a few years ago. They symbolise loyalty and love, and were meant to protect the home”, you start explaining, ignoring Sirius’ unimpressed look. His mimic seems to ask you if you were truly sure about that whole love, loyalty and protection business. You swat at his arm lightly.
“So that means there’s another. Another dog,” – the dog statue makes a pitiful wail at the mention – “somewhere in this store. If it’s not bought already”, you add quieter.
Sirius brings the small statue up to eyelevel. He looks somewhere between unconvinced and puzzled. “So, you’re missing your lover, don’t you?”
“Mo ghrá”, makes the dog again. It somehow sounds more miserable than before.
Sirius furrows his brows. “What does that even mean?”
“My love”, you translate.
“Yes, darlin?”
Sirius doesn’t even blink. You choke on your own spit, looking anywhere but that handsome face of his.
“I mean, that’s the translation”, you manage to say quietly, still looking at his boots. There is a soft chuckle, and you know he has that smile on his face again. The smile that keeps you up at night, wondering if this is truly how friends look at each other. (The one that makes you hope it isn’t).
“So, what should we do now?”
Sirius and you spend another hour searching the antique shop for the other dog figurine.
You end up finding it behind a slowly self-spinning globe.
If the shop keeper did hear your delighted cry, you feel a bit sorry – it probably sounded like a potential expensive business deal to him. But when you reach Sirius, another Staffordshire dog in your arms and smiling like you won the lottery, you might truly have.
Extending the similarly chipped and dusty figurine to Sirius’s, you watch in delight how the dogs start to bark and wag their porcelain tails excitedly.
Their depressed frowns melt away.
“Mo ghrá” and “Mo Mhuirnin” echoes through the cramped room, but this time it sounds happier. The longer you watch, the bigger your smile grows.
Suddenly the dog in your palm jumps over to land in Sirius’ outstretched hands, snuggling closer to the other.
“Wait”, you laugh, “let me take a picture of this!”
You rummage in your leather satchel bag for your camera and applaud yourself for bringing it with you.
“Smile!” And with a characteristically click the photo is taken: Sirius, grinning, while holding up the Staffordshire dogs like they’re trophies. The blank polaroid is spit out by your camera and you put it in your copy for safekeeping and till it is developed fully.
“Wicked, I didn’t know you had a camera!”
You give him a smile. “Got it for Christmas”
Sirius sets down the dogs on a nearby shelf, where they happily take a seat next to each other. “You will let me try my hand at it too, won’t you?”
I’d give you pretty much anything if you asked for it.
The thought makes you blink. Lest it looks like you disagree, you hurry to add a “If you’re careful, sure!”, at which he shoots you another wink. Your fingers overlap when you hand him the apparatus. It’s too long to be accidental, and you do not mean it to be.
Gingerly, you show him how to operate it, leaning back onto your heels again. Sirius lifts the camera up to his eyes, posing.
“Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, a picture for the daily prophet?”, he jokes in a mock-serious and slightly desperate voice of a professional photographer. He sounds a little bit French too, thought you don’t know why.
Laughing at his theatrics you try to match it, making a small spin and giving him an over the shoulder smile.
The camera light flashes.
“C'est parfait, thank you!”
Sirius takes the slowly emerging polaroid with two fingers, holding it up. In the same breath he hands you the camera. You stow it safely in your bag again, but when you move closer to catch a glimpse of the photo, he quickly pockets it.
He shoots you a wink. “I’ll be safekeeping this one for now”
Then he pauses, his eyes landing on the Staffordshire dogs again.
“By the way, you don’t happen to have a pen and piece of parchment in that bag of yours by any chance?”
When you end up leaving the shop – with nothing bought, but feeling delighted nevertheless – you walk with a pep in your step.
The two dog statues sit now on a piece of paper. ‘Only sold as a set’ does it read in Sirius’ beautiful penmanship.
The air outside is crisp and refreshing, and you drink it in eagerly after the stuffy air inside the shop.
“We can always go back and go get it for someone’s wedding one day”, did he easily promise. The notion of sending a joint gift (a little ‘from – to’ note with your name next to his attached), in a fashion usually couples or families do, makes you feel brave.
You take his hand in yours.
Sirius reciprocates in an astoundingly fast manner.
You turn your head slightly, so he doesn’t see the smile forming on your face.
The two of you stroll around the little village and end up going into Zonko’s (where Sirius took great delight in showing you all sorts of magical prank items) and Griffiths’ – the local book shop in Hogsmeade.
Somehow you manage to pull out the same book – just different editions – out of a shelf thrice. Its title was something bland, but what struck you as odd was that the design cover, through different in style, always bore the same image: a moon and two upside-down chalices.
Sirius seems to find great pleasure in finding books that might interest you, handing you tome after tome. When you try to do the same, instead of interest you are met with familiarity, him saying something along the lines of ‘Yes, I’ve read this one, pretty decent’ or ‘Abhorrent author – did you knew he plagiarised all his work?’.
It somehow became a little game, finding something that might interest him but was not already read. With the next classic you hand him and Sirius prompt and self-assured summary of its contents rattled off for you like a news broadcaster, you mentally cross all popular and old classics off an imaginary list. Maybe you should try the sport section next.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I never thought you’d be the type to read as a hobby,” you say to him while shelfing Of Goblins in Sheffield back. Sirius laughs a little but is silent soon after.
When he does not speak, you turn back to him.
He looks oddly serious. Conflicted perhaps, if the twitching of his brows was anything to go by.
“My mother would implore me and Regulus to read. She’d quiz us on it. Said it was only necessary for the education of a respectable wizard”
The way Sirius talks makes you think he uses euphemisms.
You have to think of Regulus Arcturus Black and his ever-stoic face, too serious for a boy his age. How he carries himself with the cold poise and charm that could only come from being raised in a pureblood family as old as the Black’s. Secretly, you always thought he looked sad. But what did you know but a few stolen glances and the whispers of ghosts? You think of your dorm mate – Pandora Rosier – a friend of Regulus, and although all the years of acquaintanceship, she and you not friends enough for you to ask questions about the younger Black brother.
When last winter break rolled around, Sirius had told you that he would spend the holidays at Potter’s – and the immeasurable relief that had brought you was still familiar to you.
The whispers and stories of ghosts of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black were many things, but not kind. What you had seen yourself – red eyes, quivering hands opening letters in small alcoves, flashes of pale scars when the hem of an arm or pant sleeve had ridden up too much.
Even now, you do not know what comfort you could offer Sirius.
“I don’t like your parents”, you end up saying. At its core, it was the fundamental truth.
Sirius snorts. He pats your shoulder in an affirming manner, hesitating as if wanting to add something, but doesn’t. And that is the end of this topic.
When the Three Broomsticks etch into view, you’re already salivating at the thought of late lunch. You hadn’t truly managed to eat much for breakfast – nervousness, maybe. Though for what you were unsure. Sirius made you feel as welcome and comfortable as always.
You take a small booth table, food and drink arriving soon after. It was as busy as it gets on a Sunday afternoon, and you sometimes have to lean over the table to hear Sirius speak and vice versa. Maybe it was the second butter beer that made you bold: touching Sirius by the shoulder to pull him more in your direction, your lips hovering over his ear when speaking.
Suffice to say, lunch went well.
When the plates and glasses were empty, Sirius excuses himself to go to the toilet and you are left alone at the table.
Sipping at the remnants of your butterbeer, you hum, content. This was truly the best day since long.
“Do you see the girl he’s with?”
Truly, it was still loud in the pub, but not loud enough to not hear the neighbouring table. You bite the inside of your cheeks, trying to ignore the comment. Maybe it wasn’t even directed at you. It probably wasn’t.
“Gosh, I had a matron who wore the same skirt when I was young. Brave, to wear that in public.”
“Yeah, in such company too. If I were out with the Sirius Black, I’d at least try looking presentable”
A collective giggle.
Okay, they were definitely talking about you.
Your hands dart up to pull a few strands of your hair out of your updo, pulling them in front of your face. You want to hide and disappear behind them again, blocking the comments out.
“Well, not much to make presentable, is there?”
All the warmth and fun you had this day threatens to diffuse into thin smoke. Suddenly you find yourself thinking back onto every small detail, every expression Sirius made that might have shown anything but content and analysing everything you’d said.
Worry makes your stomach curl and ache.
You think you’d want to hurl its contents up again.
“You alright there, darlin?”
Sirius warm voice is lilt in good fun. You stand up, throwing your jacket on and nodding your head. Then you’re mute, keenly aware of the whispers behind your back. You pick at the fabric of your skirt.
He places an arm around your shoulder. A gesture he has done so many times it was light and natural – but now you only stiffen. You felt brave and confident mere minutes ago, but now …
You hate that it affects you that much.
There is confusion in his voice when he asks you if somethings wrong – don’t see it in his expression, you don’t dare to look up – but fall into his step and mumble a soft ‘No’ anyway.
Only when the fresh cold air hits your face again, the pub behind you, do you slowly come back to your senses. A horrible realisation slides down your back, and you push your heels into the cobblestone.
“Sirius. We have to go back I didn’t pay-“
“Already done, darlin. Don’t worry about that”
At that, you finally look up again. Sirius face is relaxed as ever, if not by the quirk of a brow. He looks as if he’s conflicted, or maybe uncertain about something. “Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t … well, you look a bit sick all of a sudden.”
You continue to simply stare at him, looking at the face that was as kind as ever. Picking you up in front of your dorm, walking together, the antique store, Zonko’s, Griffith’s, lunch … it all had been great fun, hadn’t it? Why would someone pretend so intensively if they didn’t like another’s company? It couldn’t be, and Sirius Orion Black out of all people surely didn’t have the patience for such games. Your shoulders ease, but you still stand, rooted in place. All the love in the world from a friend could still not ease year-long insecurities.
“Do I look weird?”
Sirius blinks. “What?”
You swallow hard but manage to keep eye contact. “My outfit. Me. Do I look weird?”
He looks at you as if you hit your head. His other arm, the one not wrapped around your shoulders, comes up and his fingers gingerly tuck the few loose strands of hair covering your face behind your ears.
He’s so gentle it makes you weak in the knees.
“I probably should have been more direct with that”, he mumbles, and the grey of his eye’s softens. “But you’re a real stunner, darling. Makes it hard for me to keep my eyes off you.”
You suddenly feel very warm for cold spring. Relaxing into his half-embrace, your shoulders sag, jaw unclenching. How silly, you think, neck burning in bashfulness. How words can so easily sway you in both directions.
Because you have no idea what else to say in response, you settle on a ‘Thank you’.
Sirius hand on your shoulder gives you a light squeeze, before it suddenly freezes. He turns fully to you, his arms at his sides and a look in his eyes that is unreadable.
“Did somebody say something to you?”
Your eyes widen. Of course he would pick up on that. Internally you cringe. Merlin, you were making such a big scene -
A pair of black eyebrows raise and Sirus’ canines flash in a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. He sounds amused, like a dog being given the go to maul a home invader.
“Oh, did they now?” His smile drops. “Who.”
You shake your head slowly, eyes darting down the street in the sudden need to grab him and hurry far away from here.
Sirius mistakes your uncomfortableness for fear.
His hands gently – gently, and the sensation is so contrasting to his politely announced rage it makes you wince – rest on the sides of your arms. “Hey hey hey, you did nothing wrong, darling, okay? I just want to have a small chat with someone.”
“There is no need, truly – it was nothing –“
You have to put all your weight into dragging Sirius away from the direction of The Three Broomsticks.
But it’s like trying to stop an unstoppable force. Heavens, you could already see the drama ensuing if Sirius would go back inside.
“Please, Sirius.”
“I’ll be civilised, no need to panic- “
Between the two of you, Sirius apparently had more strength. You put up a good fight but slide behind him like a puppy being dragged on a leash eventually.
“Sirius Orion Black, if you do not stop right now I - I …” Your mind races and - with a finality in your tone that makes you proud- you let go of him and cross your arms:
“I’ll never talk to you again.”
Sirius stops so hard in his tracks he nearly falls.
His head whips back to you in an undignified manner. Eyes wide and mouth half opened as if he wants to disagree, but quite literally cannot.
You try your very hardest to keep your expression stoic.
“I’ll be going now”, you announce, and hope the small quiver in your voice isn’t noticeable. Turning on your heel, you walk and desperately hope you didn’t make a wrong decision. Honestly, would that even work? Didn’t you two look incredibly comical, too?
All tension leaves your body when you hear Sirius’ hurrying to fall back into step with you.
He catches up quickly and leans forward to try and read your face. You clear your throat in an attempt to wipe a forming smile off your face, surprised your threat actually worked.
You offer an outstretched hand to him, calm reassurance washing you when he eagerly accepts, intertwining your fingers.
“What did they say?”, he tries again, but softer this time. He doesn’t look at you, but straight ahead. You reprimand him with an equally soft call of his name.
“Thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Don’t be silly now.”
You can hear the grin in his voice without looking. “I’m not silly, I’m Sirus.”
Despite the joke probably being as old as his namesake, you giggle.
“Seriously though - no pun intended – what for?”
You tuck an out of place strand of hair behind your ear - a notion almost foreign to you, as the girl who used to hide behind it like it was a shield.
“For paying.”, you start, the notion still making you feel fluttery, simply because of its implications. You had gone out with a friend, and friends before, and they never payed for you, and never in the gallant way Sirius did. Gentlemanly.
“For helping me find the other porcelain dog. For the time in the shops, for lunch. I really had fun today.”
The cobble stones wind into a twirling street, the castle looming in the distance. Soft green hills fall and rise, and you watch as a flock of birds fly over your head. Spring, the time of new beginnings.
“Was a pretty good celebration”, Sirius agrees and for a brief moment you fear it was just that. He opens his mouth again as if to add something, but you beat him to it.
Take heart.
“Do you think we could do it again sometime?”
His lips close again, and there is this soft smile again. Sirius was looking at you, and you, for the first time, perhaps, understand.
“I’d love to, darling.”
Sirius Black feels like God himself when he climbs through the portrait hole.
Gryffindors red and gold mirror the utter warmth he feels, like a lighthouse full of jittering joy he carries with him. You – you. Where does he start and stop to replay this day in his head? He is drunk on the memory of your smile, weak at the ghostly pressure of where your hand intertwined with his.
This, this, this – this was worth more than all the gold in his family’s vault.
This was pure and soft and his; the shadow of your company enough to make him immortal.
It was as if everything makes sense then; figures falling into place. Like flying over the Scottish Highlands, wind in his hair, victorious yells echoing farer than he can see.
“How’s the bet, Padfoot?”
He is like a stone falling into bog water then.
Sirius halts, a slow and steady feeling of suffocation embracing him. Pulling him from the air, down, down toward another unkinder end than simply crashing and breaking his spine on solid ground. Still, a drowning man would instinctively gasp for air where there was none.
His voice is thin. “What bet?”
But James only smiles. There was a time where Sirius chased that smile with an understanding that this boy was and is the key to family, in a manner the House of Black could never give him.
Was this why he agreed to this? No, no it was not, does his conscience tell him. This is your doing alone.
“No need to be humble, mate. Wormtail said he saw you and the lunatic walking arm in arm. I’m sure there will be even more rapport too. Hogsmeade, yeah? Tell me about it”
Sirius can only stare, rooted into place.
The high of being near you fades completely.
All that he is left with is the feeling of sinking in unmoving waters. Was this what he planned for you, all those months ago, sitting next to his friends in the train compartment? If the room wasn’t spinning as much as it was, he would have understood that back then, he never thought so far.
James still looks at him, anticipating. The cheer, the success, the conformation: That Sirius Orion Black could get anyone he wants. That he had the patience to play the long game, that there was none who could resist his charms.
Wasn’t this what he wanted? Wasn’t this – this – victory, the way it’s meant to be? Sirius Black, rich in his pursuits and attention received. He, who never had to ask for something, lest it already be his; nothing name, family, centuries worth of gold couldn’t buy. Even when most of this ceased to be his; and in a way, it still remained.
He, who could beg for the things that truly mattered and never receive them.
So, yes, Padfoot, how was the bet?
Sirius flees the scene, hasting up the stairs to his dorm in an unstable manner. Strides to his bed, pulls the curtains shut has the mind to put a muffling spell on it.
He doesn’t think of you, then.
Not of how your eyes light up and lips curl into a smile, not of how you could talk endlessly about all sorts of matters concerning ghosts, how your hair looks so lovely held together in a plait. The feeling of you beneath his hands and the thoughts you so easily share with him; both of which he, in turn, collects greedily like a starving man.
No. Even in a moment of utter, wretched misery, he could not hinder to think of himself instead.
Of how dearly he needed not to lose you. To keep you in a space close to him.
Was it the birth of a new sun, when you held his hand? Fingers intertwining with his, no thought had entered his brain then; reduced to a much more primal, animalistic feeling of belonging: this was nature, this is how it was meant to be. This was right, and his lawful place right beside you. How could it not, when every part of you matched his like an puzzle piece fitting together?
The calm serenity you so easily pull around him, the settling of nerves, stilling of a shaking leg, unrest buried. The patience, the looking out for him. Was it not a declaration of immense love, to love itself, in such an unconditional form as you hold dear?
For five years he had been blind. Uncaring, passing you without thought or glance – eyes seeing and yet not seeing in a way that mattered. Now he could barely cross a ten-step without thinking of anything else.
Truly, if you could love the creatures of magical and non-magical nature, from bugs to unicorns; if you could make the ghosts feel alive with your compassion –
Was it so unnatural to believe you could love him too?
When did he start praying for it? He, who never had to ask, and when denied, left the bidding with a grace that levelled apathy. If not this, then another will do.
But there was no other like you.
Heaven, there was no other like you.
Sirius suddenly realised just how easily he could break and shatter this new world of his. Was he already losing, holding remnants while waiting to listen to the mourning bells? In all your love – a love he groomed like a perverse executioner – was there space for forgiveness? For understanding?
Madness was an over looming curse of House Black, and right now, he feels like having been sentenced to it.
Fingers dig into skin, pale flesh dipping under the pressure needed to break a grown man’s neck. Sirius watches how purple and blue spots appear on his arms. If anything, it feels barely enough.
How to right wrongs? How to right this wrong? You, darling love, his light of eyes and innocent lamb, how can he save you from himself?
No one had ever spoken his name with such tender care. And he? He chose the banquet cutlery with which to eat your heart months ago.
A tear rolls down his cheek.
This misery was man-made. And heavens, was it bitter.
The air is heavy and salty of tears shed, when his shaking breathing is forced into something more structured. The temptation to suffocate in the fabric of his pillow was astonishingly big. Reluctantly, he turns to lay on his back eventually. Watching, blinking the small dark dots in his vision away. Was this body even his anymore, he wondered. Or was it the madness taking over, leaving him with this ravaging ache between his ribs and gaps in his memory.
A small, fearful part of him was too anxious to think about such an implication.
Another came to three altogether different realisations.
Firstly, he had to tell you the truth – he had to set this right.
Secondly, and most importantly: he had to keep you next to him despite it. Because if he did not … his chest cramps up at the thought.
And lastly, he understands now with a finality that made him sick, the simple and irrefutable fact that he was deeply, and ardently, in love with you.
Sirius was being weird.
Maybe he was getting ill, you wonder during lunch. Having your last class for the day cancelled due to your professor being hospitalised (again), you end up with much more time for sitting in the Great Hall and letting your thoughts wander.
He had been jumpy as of late. Still in an elegant sort of way all Blacks somehow managed, and badly displayed disinterest or denial easy shields for him to wield – but still, jumpy. Sirius was stiff, tension radiating off him in waves these days. When you took your place next to him in class, his shoulders squared, eyes never meeting yours for too long. When your hands brushed – brushed, because when you took it on Monday, he had been stiff like a board – he sucks his breath in sharply.
You dare not ask him to braid your hair again in fear of making him faint.
And still, despite it all, Sirius keeps the old habits of being close to you. Just that these days, you were the one who did all the talking.
He had to be ill. That was the only solution that made sense.
You push your fork across the plate, moving vegetables like toy soldiers from point A to B.
Letting your eyes wander, you settle on the Gryffindor table. Busy as ever, it was an easy feat to spot Potter with his wild hair and loud laugh, talking animatedly to the people around him. You see Lily and Mary, both of which you began to encounter more in day-to-day life in the castle; exchanging words and smiles in what you hoped would be friendship soon. There are a few others from the same year.
But no Sirius.
Having reached no definitive conclusion, you stand and leave. Careful to avoid too much attention of your own and the red and golden house, you navigate through the long rows filled with students. When someone stands up along your way, you freeze. Nothing happens, of course – you don’t even know the girl in question – and you curse under your breath. Sirius’ sudden, long-lasting anxiousness threatens to take hold of you too.
And so, you take the familiar path from castle to forest; even when today Care for Magical Beats didn’t take place. Besides, your destination was another than the area reserved for teaching anyway.
Maybe Juniper could read you your stars and tell you that you’re simply stuck in a long, and very odd dream. Smooth stone becomes cobble under your feet, then dirt roads, grass and finally foliage. The weather is mild and slowly becoming warmer, making you enticed to think of summer.
But when you long pass under the treeline, dipping into their shadows like water, it was not the centaur you meet first.
Standing like a lost wood spirit, curls messy and gaze somewhere far away, is Sirius.
You freeze where you stand.
Subconsciously holding your breath, unsure whether to call out or maybe leave him be – after all, people usually go into the forest to find truly undisturbed quiet. Maybe he needed some time to himself.
But then he turns to you and the look in his eyes makes you cross the distance without hesitation.
He’s quiet, his fingers tentatively reaching for yours. You grasp his hand in a strong grip as if afraid, he’d run. “Walk with me?”, you offer quietly and pull him with you.
Sirius follows you like a child led by a fey.
Eventually you come to halt in a clearing. The grass and moss are so soft underneath your feet, you feel like you’re sinking into it. Sirius still stares straight ahead.
“I need to tell you something”
He speaks suddenly then. With a speed that makes you gawk, he turns and grips your hands tightly. For the first time for today, no, for the whole week since last Sunday when you two had been at Hogsmeade, he looks at you.
Truly, properly looks at you.
I need to tell you something.
It sounds like a confession.
Your breath becomes shallow, every muscle clenching in uncomfortable and anticipating horror. Something in the way he said it makes the arms on the back of your neck rise.
“Tell me”, you prompt him, because you cannot stand the pause.
But Sirius falters.
You try gentle persuasion. Pleading, if your voice betrays you. It does. “I’m your friend, Sirius. You can tell me anything”
He mumbles it so quietly you do not hear it. His eyelids lower.
If he hadn’t such a strong grip on your hands, you’d bury your face in them. Instead, you tug, forcing Sirius to snap out of whatever thought is torturing him.
“Sirius. Sirius, you’re freaking me out”
It’s more audible this time. But it’s certainly not the same. “Sorry”, he says.
“I need you to promise me that you’ll listen to me.”
“Of course, I will.”
“No, I mean not to run away. I need you to listen to everything I say.”
You feel the anxious dread rising like bile. He was talking too gravely, too serious for this to end well.
It’s not that you notice it, but Sirius catches sight of your watery eyes and pained expression and promptly realises that he cannot do this.
He cannot tell you of the bet. So, he does what he can apparently do so easily:
Lie.
Sirius takes a deep breath and eases the grip on your hands. “It’s stupid, darlin. Really stupid. Nothing worth all this fuss”, it almost scaring how easily the words pass over his lips, still shaking enough to sound real, but strong enough to carry on.
You look at him earnestly despite of it, no: because of it.
“I … “ – think of something! – “I had this horrible dream”
Years of lying into Walpurga Black’s face made hiding his own cringing now possible.
“I had this dream – and it was so real – that something happened to you. Something bad”
For all his lies, Sirius Black failed the strength to look at you then.
“I won’t say what it was. It … but it haunts me, do you understand?”
And bless you, you tried.
The pressure behind your eyes has disappeared, breath evening out. There was still tension, of course there was, this was not something to just brush off and move on.
But Merlin did it lift a weight from your shoulders to know it was just a nightmare.
Sirius apparently had found his wit to speak again, and you dare not interrupt him with questions. His fingers trace lines over your hands, almost absentmindedly.
“It made me realise something”, he eventually continues.
You speak softly enough to not break this fragile atmosphere. “And what’s that?”
Sirius voice is not fragile at all then. The conviction behind it makes you blink.
“That I couldn’t bear losing you. I can’t, do you understand?”
“I understand-“
“No, you do not. Darlin, darling look at me.”
He lets go of you, only to cup your face in his hands.
Sirius looks at you like it was both the first and last time. The cold silver-grey of his eyes warms at the sight in front of him. He allows himself a soft sigh, thumbs caressing your skin. This part, at least, is real, he thinks. It gives him courage to continue speaking.
“There is no one like you. For me, I don’t think there will ever be. It’s you, do you understand?”
It feels unreal. Your fingers hold onto his wrists, both stability and plea for him to stay. Something in your chest leaps when the words begin to make sense to you.
“I have never felt so … alive but when I’m with you. I have never felt so brave. Standing beside you … it’s intoxicating.
“You … if I am a star, then you are the whole sky”, Sirius explains. “Without you I’d be falling. Without you, I have no place to be. I am so afraid of losing you, because I felt what it would be like. And I do not know what I should do with myself if I ever did.”
Oh.
Oh.
The air smells like bergamot. One of Sirius’ hands glides up further, tangling in your open hair, holding the back of your head reverently.
“My darling. My sky. Mon ciel.”
His whispers brush your face softly. Dark eyelashes flutter under lowering eyelids, the grey of his eyes still trained on you, as if he could not bear to lose you from his vision. His own locks framing the side of your face. This close you can see a faint mole near his mouth, feel the softness of his skin as your noses brush.
“May I?”, he whispers, pleads, “Please tell me I may”
You feel dizzy. “You may”
And then his lips are on yours.
They’re soft, and warm and almost shy – so very unlike Sirius – but then you sigh, content, and the sound is enough to send him into some kind of frenzy. The hand not cradling your head grabs your waist, possessive and firm, pulling you closer till your bodies are pressed so close together you could feel his heartbeat through your own chest. There is little hesitation in how he devours you – like he is a starving man having finally been served his meal.
You don’t know what you’re doing (or if you are doing it well), but chase after him all the same. Holding onto him, melting into the kiss. Breaking apart only a little to breathe but never more than a few millimetres from Sirius’ mouth while simultaneously leaning back just a little as he chases after you. Maybe it’s the lack of air, but you feel intoxicated; positively blissed out, trying to follow Sirius’ lead. You feel his hands roaming over your back, the muscles under his shirt as you support yourself on his arms. It’s too much and not enough at the same time.
When Sirius reluctantly parts from you, the two of you are breathless. His pupils swallow up grey greedily, till only a thin ring remained.
His voice is breathy, like he’d just run from the castle to here. “Do you understand me now?” His hand caresses the side of your face, and you lean against it for stability. You nod, shakily as speaking was nothing you had strength or capacity to do now. Your heart races.
But even with your opening and closing mouth, and too many seconds passing till you found your voice again, Sirius does not rush you.
“Since when?”, you finally manage to breathe out.
He gives you a soft smile. The same as back then. The smile that had made you wonder if this is how friends look at each other. He speaks quietly too, as if scared you’d vanish underneath his hands if he didn’t.
“Do you remember pre-Christmas break?”
“Yeah?”
Oh, you realise, and it’s apparently visible enough on your face for Sirius to nod at in confirmation.
“And do you? Do you ...?” He is almost shy when he asks.
The smile that spills over your lips rivals the brightness of the sun.
“I love you, Sirius Black.”
How liberating to say it out loud. The sheer happiness it brings you makes you bold.
“Now kiss me again.”
He leans forward again and your smiles melt against each other, like the brightest star revelling in his rightful place in the sky.
When you wake up the next morning, it almost feels like you were dreaming.
But then you see Sirius waiting in front of your common room and the smile he gives you is so tender, it makes your heart ache.
“Good morning, mon ciel.”
He smells like bergamot and summer when you reach up to clasp your hands onto the back of his neck, guiding him into a short kiss.
Sirius follows, easily and eagerly, his hand finding the small of your back. Even when you part again he does not move it, instead offering a constant touch guiding you down the stairs.
You feel like walking on clouds.
The day passes and never have you ever enjoyed sharing almost every class with Sirius more. The two of you are practically glued to each other, from breakfast to class to lunch and back to class again.
If others notice, you could not tell – weren’t focused on in anyhow. You’ve read about young first love, seen how your classmates got all radiant and giggly when their person of affection was around, thought to yourself back then how silly they looked. Now you probably look the same but couldn’t care less. Instead, you feel very, very brave, like it was your God-given right to stand next to Sirius; not as friends, but as something more.
Time flows by like honey, the constant, steady presence of Sirius besides you like ambrosia. A glance towards him only to find out he was already staring at you, a hand on your waist, an arm slung over your shoulder. Your routine of classes and studying in the library was the same as usual, but then again, was totally new.
It was silly, how distracted you were. Your thoughts circling back to yesterday’s confession and the dizzying realisation that this was only the beginning. If any legilimens were to be around you, all they would hear were the words Sirius repeated a dozen times in the forest:
I love, I love, I love you.
A week passes in a flash, and it could not have been lovelier. More than once you catch yourself spacing out at the realisation that this was real. It makes you feel warm inside.
It’s why you can hardly fault Sirius for not being as organised as usual either. Absent minded, one could even say. It’s when the two of you walk back from your mandated study session in the library one day that he suddenly stops in his tracks, slapping a hand onto his forehead.
You blink at the gesture. “What’s wrong?”
“I forgot my bloody textbook”, he groans. “The one we need for the essay.”
“Okay then, let’s go back and get it-“
“No, no, I’ll go myself. I’ll be quick, promise. Just stay here.” He places a hand to his chest and gives you three small pecks on the cheek, as if this was some sort of formal affair. You laugh, taking his bag from him and usher him off. Your smile only grows bigger when Sirius, running, turns his head at least twice to look back to you.
Watching as he vanished behind a corner, you amble to the large window near you, carefully placing both your bags on the ground before taking a seat on the broad windowsill.
Only a few students pass by you. No wonder, it was late afternoon and all classes were over. Dinner was to be held in an hour or so and the weather was nice – you watch through painted glass how big groups of students trail along the courtyard and out to the hills to bask in sunlight.
There is another set of footsteps approaching, but you do not turn your head. They’re not Sirius’, after all. And you would have happily continued to mind your own business and look out onto the courtyard, if the person wouldn’t have said something.
Something odd.
“Looks like he finally did it, huh?”
You turn your head around and recognise the boy standing in front of you as Peter Pettigrew. Sirius’ friend. He lets out a snort, and it makes you furrow your brows. Looks like he finally did what? Something in the way Peter said it was off. Something you couldn’t quite place your finger on; puzzled by the look on his face and the flat expression in his eyes.
It makes you square your shoulders and cross your arms.
“What are you talking about?”
“What? You don’t know?” The sneer on Peter Pettigrew’s face is lacking any depth but still manages to border on maliciousness. Deviant, in a prickly way; the way a shallow cut turns into blood poisoning. Then into sepsis, and finally, death.
It makes your stomach turn. You lean back, etching closer towards the glass.
“I mean, of course he’d win it. He is Sirius Black, after all.”
There are trepidation and slight annoyance building up in your chest now. You hope your hard tone would be enough to scare him off. “What the hell are you talking about, Pettigrew?”
In the distance, you can hear footsteps approaching. And although the sound should comfort you, the wide corridor starts to feel suffocating with Peter looking at you like that. You force air into your lungs in an effort to remain alert, upright, in a position to defend yourself.
Annoyance, it turns out, is not enough. Not in the face of this.
“The bet, duh. Seriously, are you still in denial? Sirius would never just go out with someone like you. Guess you’re still hung up about that. Sad.”
You can finally place the look onto the boy’s face. Amusement. Amusement in the face of a cruelty not extended towards him.
His words trickle through you like water through sand. No way. That couldn’t be. What was he even talking about?
The footsteps grow closer, slowing. Even through the buzzing in your ears do you recognise them. But you are hesitant to turn your face, still held captive by those watery, shallow blues with not a kind thought behind them. Held captive like a prisoner on death row.
Then he finally calls out to you, and you cannot remain frozen any longer.
“Mon ciel!”
You turn to Sirius, your face an open wound of disbelieving and praying to be wrong.
His smile dims when you do not respond, do not reciprocate, only stare.
You stare through uneven vision, searching for a sign, for a confirmation of his friends’ words. Oh, how hard it is to search for such malice in someone you came to love. How horrible to even try.
How easy it was to deny all claims made, because this was not him – not your Sirius, not your star, not your lover. Who so tenderly held your face when he kissed you, who loved you so easily like breathing.
You dare not speak.
But your eyes dart from Sirius to Peter, and then back to Sirius again.
Sirius’ expression falls. He swallows, hard. Terror slides over his form, and you know then the truth for what it is.
And Sirius know that you know, too.
For the first few seconds there is … nothing.
A tear sliding down your cheek. A second, a third. You move off the windowsill and take a step back, numb. The words that ruined it all still hanging heavily in the thick air. Something weak tears from your throat and makes it difficult to breathe.
This couldn’t be real.
It simply couldn’t.
But then Sirius moves, and you see how his gaze hardens to something animalistic as he towers over Peter Pettigrew. The buzzing in your ears is too loud, your mind too disorganised to listen what they say. You blink and Pettigrew is running down the hall.
In front of your inner eye, the months you’ve spent with Sirius fly past.
Replaying and searching for a clue that this had always been just that to him. And wasn’t it so easy to find, right from the start? The sudden interest, the time so purposefully spend together?
A bet.
The word makes you sob.
Suddenly Sirius in in front of you – a gap in your distracted attention? – and touches the side of your arm. You flinch back into life.
“Please, you have to listen to me”, there is desperation in Sirius’ voice, and it takes you a good long while to register what he is saying. “Whatever he told you, it’s – it’s not like that – this is a misunderstanding-“
God, you wanted to believe him so bad. But his reaction, his tone, is telling enough. Pettigrew spoke the truth. And your heart breaks.
All vain hope dies. Infront of you stands not your friend, but a person you do not recognise, scrambling for excuses.
What happened to him?
Your Sirius, that is. You mourn that boy as much as you find yourself helpless in this misery.
Sirius shakily moves a hand up near your face to wipe a tear away. You would not offer him this victory. Pain twists into a myriad spiral of anger and hurt.
Anger wins. You step away from him before he could touch you.
“You had a bet going on. If you could … what? Get me to fall in love with you?”
Sirius fumbles to answer. “Yes, but it’s not – darling, please believe me, I do love you, back then-“
Ripping yourself away from his touch, you turn and sprint down the corridor. Yes, it echoes in your head – yes yes yes. It was just a bet.
Sirius darts right after you. He calls out to you, your name, in all its variations; nicknames that echo like foul mockery in your ears.
He catches up to you, grabbing your wrist.
You whip back and Sirius flinches at the hurt in your eyes.
“A BET?”, you yell, voice breaking under the strain.
Sirius is silent.
The betrayal makes you dizzy in its cruelty. Sirius. Sirius – hadn’t you told him you loved him and kissed him just a few hours ago?
No, you realise finally. This was not Sirius. This was a maunderer. A friend of James Potter, the former heir to the House Black. This was a prankster and infamous Casanova of Hogwarts.
Other than angry, you suddenly feel very, very stupid.
You cut him off when he finally does find his voice. “How much?” The harshness and sudden apathy in your tone startles even you.
Sirus looks as if you have used the Cruciatus curse on him. He bows slightly to match your eye level; hands raised like bartering with someone at the risk of suicide. “No, no, mon ciel, let me explain-“
“How. Much.”
He sobs. Not looking at you, he mumbles something you cannot hear.
“Say that again?”
“Five galleons”, he finally confesses.
You don’t know whether to cry or to laugh. Must repeat his words to understand them. Your voice wavers in disbelief.
“Five fecking galleons?! Five? …”
You couldn’t even buy a wand with that, your brain helpfully supplies. Five galleons were nothing. There had been quidditch bets on matches in Hogwarts which were higher. You begin to laugh.
The tears do not stop.
“Mon ciel, please listen to me-”, tries Sirius again and the sweet nickname makes you nauseous. Why did he still pretend? Why did he continue to hurt you so?
You pull out your wand and make him fly back from you in a sudden jerk.
Then you curse him again, this time without magic. Harshly attempting to wipe your tears away, you turn and run far, far away from him.
You run like you could escape this suffering.
“Fuck off, Black! Rot! Rot like the scum you are!”
thats it for part 1! hope you enjoyed reading!! :D
“And if life is repeated a thousand times / Still you, you, and again, you” - Forough Farrokhzad.
leto atreides I x gn!reader. 464 words. comfort and yearning.
I need this man biblically. that’s, it. that’s the post.
Caladans skies hang themselves low with dark clouds.
Another deluge would sink down in but a few hours. For now, though, you enjoy the dryness, the taste of sea salt in the wind and the silent race of white sailing boats at the horizon.
The sand beneath your feet shifts. Waves lap gently towards you; streching, reaching out to grasp you by your knee-high boots. If not for the familiar strain of cleaning salt off leather, you would have stepped in, however high you pleased. Instead, you let your gaze rest on the uneven waves farther out, the twirl of grey and green and dark blue that mapped shore, algae-patches and open sea.
You lean against a sudden gust of wind. It is too weak to fully hold your full weight yet, but tangles open hair all the same. The strands flutter in front of you, obscuring your vision.
It's perhaps why you notice him rather slowly; the sound of shifting sand beneath boots making your head turn.
And what a sight he is, the Duke of Caladan, dark coat and salt-and-pepper curls windswept; his gait graceful, proud.
Eyes already watching you.
Such magnificent eyes. You turn fully then, meeting him halfway. Sand dust kicks beneath your feet.
“Leto”, you greet so softly you weren’t sure if he heard it over the breeze. But then his usual stern features soften. His brows dip. A brown hand reaches up to cusp your cheek and you close your eyes as his face follows. His lips on yours.
The beard scratches you lightly as you angle your head to better meet his. You feel your weight shift; hands carefully placed upon Leto’s arms as you lean into him. It was not a spectacular short kiss, but when Leto moves to part from you, your left hand darts up to settle on the base of his neck, pulling him down again. He groans, surprised, into the second kiss, and lingers in the spot you leave him when you part away.
His hand glides down your neck and rest on its side, thumb stroking the line of your jaw. With eyes still closed, he leans forward breathing unevenly, till your foreheads touch. You watch him through half lidden eyes; unable to shake the feeling of being pleased that you – you – manage to reduce the great Duke of Caladan and Head of mighty House Atreides to a yearning, almost desperate man. But what were you if not the same?
You reach for his other hand and your fingers intertwine.
His voice is the second coming of the tide. It washes over you, engulfing you.
“And if life is repeated a thousand times”, he promises, pressing a kiss on your forehead and pulling you closer,
