The Quiet Before the Storm
In Sirius's opinion—though, admittedly, not that anyone really cared about his thoughts—most people were far too blind to truly appreciate the benefits of someone like the Heir of Black being sorted into a House like Gryffindor. To him, it seemed almost laughable that everyone around him was so easily swayed, so malleable and gullible, incapable of seeing past their narrow perspectives.
It was almost insulting how simple it was to deceive them. All he had to do was flash his most charming smile, act a little more affable than usual, and suddenly he had them eating out of the palm of his hand.
Everyone around him, it seemed, was so eager to please, so desperate for approval, that they couldn’t help but bend to his will. The idea of him, the heir to the House of Black, being placed in Gryffindor—of all places—seemed almost like a game to him. They couldn’t see the advantage, the freedom it gave him.
Back at home, however, the situation was far different. His own family, those who should have been the most understanding of his position, had been quick to turn their backs on him, shunning him the moment the Sorting Hat had made its decision. Of course, it hadn’t been a unanimous decision.
His mother, Walburga, had wasted no time in condemning him. Regulus, only five years old at the time, had still been too young to grasp the complexities of his older brother’s defiance, too innocent to understand what it meant for Sirius to reject everything his family stood for.
And his father—well, Orion Black had yet to find any real sense of backbone, too spineless to stand up to his wife’s wrath, too afraid to defy the rigid expectations she imposed. But Walburga, oh Walburga had wasted no time in declaring him a traitor, and she had done so with such venom, with such fury, that the very walls of Grimmauld Place had seemed to reverberate with her magic.
She was relentless in her fury. How could she not see how her magic was slowly draining away? The cursed house was consuming her power piece by piece, its very foundation seemingly alive, feeding off whatever magical energy Walburga could no longer spare. Her obsession with “propriety” had warped her beyond all recognition, her need for control twisting into something dark, something almost grotesque.
Sirius could see it in her eyes, in the way her once-pristine appearance had begun to deteriorate. The tight chignon she wore—her signature style—seemed to be the only thing left that had any semblance of control over her appearance, and even that couldn’t disguise the lackluster dullness of her once-glorious hair, now slowly fading with every passing year.
How far would she go in the name of keeping up appearances, in her desperate obsession with “respectability”? He could only wonder.
But as for himself, Sirius knew that he would never, ever allow himself to be brought down to that level of degradation.
His witch would never be subjected to the same indignities that Walburga had inflicted upon herself. His witch’s hair would remain long, flowing, and radiant with magic, a true reflection of her strength and vitality, untamed and unbroken by the twisted expectations of his family. That much he could be sure of, if he still had a witch.
The amber liquid swirled in his glass, watching as it caught the dim candlelight of the Gryffindor common room. He barely tasted it as he took a slow sip, letting the burn at the back of his throat anchor him to the present. The fire crackled beside him, its warmth licking at his skin, but it did nothing to thaw the ice that had settled in his chest.
She was out there somewhere—Narcissa. No longer his, never really his, yet occupying every inch of his mind as though she were carved into his very bones. He hated her for it, resented her for this power she wielded over him without even trying. And worse, he hated himself for letting her.
He should have known better. Black men didn’t get to choose their fates; they played the hands they were dealt, manipulating the pieces when they could, but ultimately, the game always belonged to the family. The only difference between him and the rest of them was that he had always thought he could outplay it. He had believed, naively, that by slipping into Gryffindor’s red and gold, he could shed the weight of his name, pretend for just a moment that he was something different, something other than the perfect son of the House of Black.
But deep down, he knew the truth. There was no escaping it.
The people in this room, his so-called brothers in arms, they saw only what he wanted them to see—a rebellious, charming rogue who had turned his back on tradition and embraced their ideals. A Black who had forsaken his lineage. It was laughable, really. If only they knew. If only they understood that while he played the lion well, the serpent still coiled beneath his skin, whispering, reminding him of who he really was.
He leaned back in his chair, letting his head tip against the worn velvet. The thought of Narcissa’s name linked with another’s sent something sharp and ugly through him. She was his, whether she wanted to be or not. Whether she even knew it or not.
Lucius Malfoy.
His lip curled involuntarily. Of course it would be him. A perfect match in the eyes of their parents, a union blessed by bloodlines and power. And Malfoy, that arrogant, smug bastard, wore his claim over her like a badge of honor. The thought made Sirius’s fingers tighten around his glass, knuckles whitening as something dangerous and feral clawed at the edges of his control.
Had she ever looked at him the way she used to look at Sirius? Had she ever let Malfoy touch her in the way—
He exhaled sharply, shoving the thought away before it could take root. It was pointless. He was above this. He had to be.
She was younger than him, just a year, but it had always felt like a lifetime. She had been the delicate thing trailing behind them as children, watching, learning, absorbing. Too young to truly be part of his world then, but not now. Now, she was stepping into the role their family had carved out for her, slipping further away from him with every passing day.
A rustle of movement near the staircase made him glance up, his expression carefully schooled into indifference as James dropped onto the couch beside him, stretching out like he owned the place. “You look like you’re about to murder someone,” James observed casually, reaching over to steal the bottle from Sirius’s grasp and pouring himself a generous drink.
“Do I?” Sirius murmured, lifting a brow. “How uncharacteristic of me.”
James snorted. “Must be about a girl, then.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, throwing back the rest of his drink. The warmth of it did nothing to settle him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh, come off it, Pads.” James grinned, but there was a sharpness to his gaze, perceptive in the way only James Potter could be when it came to Sirius. “You get this look sometimes, like you’re wrestling with something ugly in that Black-bred head of yours. And considering there’s no new mischief to be had, and you haven’t hexed Snivellus in at least three hours, I’m willing to bet it’s a girl.”
Sirius huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You give me far too little credit, mate. My mood has nothing to do with a girl.”
James studied him for a long moment, unconvinced, but finally shrugged. “Alright, if you say so.” He lifted his glass in mock toast. “To whatever the hell is plaguing that twisted mind of yours.”
Sirius clinked his glass against James’s with a smirk, but as he took another sip, the taste had turned bitter.
Because he was lying.
It was always about her.
And deep down, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted that to change.
Later that night, long after the fire had dimmed to embers and the common room had emptied, Sirius found himself restless. The quiet pressed in around him, suffocating in its stillness, and he knew there was only one place he could go.
The castle halls were dark, but he navigated them with the ease of someone who had spent years sneaking through shadows. He knew every creaky floorboard, every hidden passageway, every blind spot the prefects never checked. The path to the Slytherin dorms was familiar, one he had taken before—once to torment, once to escape, and now, for something far more dangerous.
He had no real plan, only the relentless pull of her name echoing in his head.
When he reached the entrance to the dungeons, he hesitated. This was reckless, even for him. If he was caught, the consequences would be... complicated. But Sirius had never been one to let consequences stop him.
The hallway was empty, save for the flickering torchlight casting long, distorted shadows on the stone walls. And then, just as he took a step forward, movement.
She was there.
Narcissa stood near the entrance to the Slytherin common room, wrapped in a pale silk robe that barely concealed the elegant nightdress beneath. Her hair, always perfectly arranged, was slightly looser than usual, cascading down her back in soft waves. She wasn’t waiting for him—not really. She was simply there, lingering, hesitating, as if caught between two worlds.
But he knew better.
Her fingers played idly with the edge of her sleeve, betraying her nervous energy. Her posture, straight-backed and poised as ever, faltered just slightly when she saw him. Her blue eyes widened, and for a fleeting moment, he saw something raw flicker in their depths. Hope. Need.
She could not fathom the idea of another man. Not truly. Not when it had always been him.
And Merlin help them both, but he knew it would always be him.
Sirius took another step forward, closing the space between them until all that remained was the sharp, intoxicating tension that had always existed between them.
“Narcissa,” he murmured, his voice a low drawl, teasing and cruel and everything in between.
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Only watched him, as though he were the only thing in the world keeping her from unraveling.
As though she had been waiting for this moment all along.
And then, as if drawn by forces neither could control, she took a step forward, too.
“You’re late, I’ve been waiting an eternity here” she complained, with her eyes down to the ground. The words sounded soo sweatly coming from her mouth, his little songbird. Would they clip her wings?
Sirius’s heart thudded painfully in his chest as her words hung in the air, soft and trembling, yet sharp as a blade. She always had this way of drawing him in, of making everything else fade into nothing. Her voice was a melody he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried. The world around them seemed to shrink, the shadows deepening, curling around them like the embrace of something dark and inevitable.
“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he replied, his voice dropping lower as he closed the last bit of distance between them, his eyes never leaving her. Narcissa didn’t look up, but he could see the subtle way her lips parted, her breath hitching ever so slightly as if she were trying to steady herself against something much more dangerous than just his presence.
Sirius’s breath caught as he felt the warmth of her skin under his fingertips. It was the smallest touch, but it sent something sharp and aching through him. Narcissa, standing so close yet so impossibly distant, didn’t pull away at first. For a brief moment, she remained still, her lashes fluttering as though caught in a silent war with herself.
Then, carefully, she stepped back, her hand slipping from his. “You shouldn’t be here, Sirius,” she whispered. There was no anger in her voice, no sharpness—only something quiet, something fragile.
Sirius didn’t retreat. His fingers curled at his sides, as though resisting the instinct to reach for her again. “I don’t care if I shouldn’t be here. I am.” His voice was steady, but not without urgency. “I won’t pretend that I can just walk away from you.”
Narcissa exhaled softly, shaking her head. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Her lips parted, but she hesitated. “They made me believe…” She paused, gathering herself. “They made me believe that choosing you would be selfish. That it would bring ruin. Not just to me, but to you as well.”
Sirius felt something twist in his chest, a slow, simmering anger beneath his ribs. “And do you believe that?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I was so sure before. But now…” Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, and she clasped them together as if to steady herself. “Now I feel as though I can’t trust what I thought was true.”
Sirius took a step closer, cautious but deliberate. “Then trust me.”
She looked up at him then, something unguarded flashing in her gaze—something that made Sirius hold his breath. But the moment passed too quickly, and her expression shifted, smoothing over into something more controlled, more careful.
“I can’t just walk away from everything I’ve ever known,” she admitted, her voice softer now, as though she were afraid of saying the words too loudly. “Not yet.”
Sirius studied her, searching for any sign that there was still a part of her willing to fight for them. And he saw it—in the way her eyes lingered on him for just a second too long, in the way her breath hitched when he moved closer.
He nodded. Not in surrender, but in understanding. “I can wait.”
Narcissa’s lips parted slightly, as if his answer had surprised her. But she said nothing. She only turned away, her silhouette disappearing into the dimly lit corridor.
Sirius remained standing there, his heart still pounding. The game was not over. Not yet.
And whatever it took, he would not lose her.