tailor
“Why don’t you go wash your hands, dear?” Madame Pomfrey murmurs to you. Her eyes are gentle and pitying. They flick over to the boys’ dirtied sleeves. “You two, as well.”
You nod silently. You stare down at the maroon coating your palms and dried under your fingernails. You stand shakily. James and Sirius are close behind you. You go back to the office, the tick, tick, tick of the clock mocking you. You push open the door to the bathroom. Exhaustion rolls over you in waves.
You find yourself standing in front of the sink. Unable to move. Eyes stuck on your hands.
“Prongs, you should wash yours first and go back to be with Rem,” Sirius gently says, lightly guiding you to the side. You stare at the sink as James turns on the tap and scrubs his hands. The water goes red, then pink, then clear in the basin.
“I’m sorry about what I said- it’s not your fault,” you croak, tears brimming your eyes. You didn’t mean any of your words when you were overwhelmed with adrenaline and fear- guilt has been throbbing in your gut ever since they came out of your mouth. James sighs, wipes his hands off, and inspects your face before he pulls you into a comforting hug. You stare at the bathroom wall over his shoulder, and slowly wrap your arms around him.
“I understand. I’m just glad he’s okay.”
You pull away and nod wordlessly, and he returns the gesture. He shares a look with Sirius and walks back out into the hospital wing.
Sirius washes his hands, and you stare at your own. Seeing his stained red is more painful. You can’t explain why. Your cheeks feel wet. Your vision is blurry. Warm, wet hands grasp yours, gently pulling you to the sink. You blink up in shock at Sirius’s face, but his gaze remains on your crimson fingers. He tenderly scrubs the blood from your palms, a furrow in his brow. His skin on yours is smooth and solid, his touch gentle and sure. He stays silent, his expression distant and pensive.
Once the water runs clear, you reach up to cup his jaw with your wet hand, droplets trailing down your forearm and into your sleeve. Your eyebrows furrow, eyeing the cut running down his throat. You slowly drag your thumb over it, his breath hitching as water drips down his neck like a caress- you mutter a spell and watch his skin slowly close. You feel something in you ache, deep and guttural. He curls his lip with discomfort.
“Sorry,” you murmur, reaching behind you to grab a paper towel- you wet it, dabbing at the blood around his wound. His eyes stay on you as you carefully tend to the cut, his stare full of the unspoken. He pushes your hand away, gentle and slow, and wraps his arms around you, holding you tight to him. You relax into the embrace, feeling his body heat soak into you. You wrap your arms around his neck and tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder, tears freely falling onto his skin. His scent- something woody and musky and comforting- fills your nose and eases your torment; you feel yourself breathing deeper. You’re suddenly aware that your arms are shaking, and you cling onto him instinctually. His hand comes to cup the base of your skull, the other wrapped snugly around your waist.
“He looked just like- and Dumbledore just-” you cut yourself off with a choked sound, trying to use your voice, but your lungs can’t seem to fill. The hot sting of betrayal and the whirlwind of confusion are disorienting your senses; the headmaster saw that your boggart is Remus in pain, and placidly stood behind you as your nightmares became reality. You know you aren’t making any sense to Sirius, but you don’t care- he’ll probably write it off as hysteria.
“He’s alive. You saved him,” he murmurs.
You nod into his neck, your nose brushing his skin- you flush with embarrassment, and loosen your arms, giving him an out- he only holds tighter. You sigh in relief, letting yourself fully relax into him.
You feel slightly more grounded when you walk out to the hospital wing, but that doesn’t stop the fury bubbling in your chest when your eyes land on Dumbledore standing beside Remus’s bed. Pomfrey stands next to him, looking anxious and grave. James sits at Remus’s feet, gazing at him blankly.
“I understand you’re upset,” the headmaster murmurs, staring down at Remus’s pale, sleeping figure. “And there will be time to discuss such matters later, once you’ve had rest.”
You scoff, eyeing him wearily. Rest- how will you get rest? You give him a mindless nod, sitting down in the chair at Remus’s bedside, staring at his chalky face. His lips are nearly the same shade as his skin, his old, light-colored scars contrasting the fresh gashes along his cheek and brow. Blankets are pulled up to his chest, covering his abdomen. You knew if you pulled back the sheet, the white gauze covering his expansive wound would almost blend into his skin.
“He’s had a tonic for the blood loss, and a sleeping draught for the pain. Dittany is on his scars. You did- I don’t know how you-” Pomfrey shakes her head, exhaling and giving you a weary look. She seems exhausted- you glance at your watch. It’s only a few hours until dawn. “There’s nothing else we can do. He just needs time. You three should get some sleep- here.” She hands you and the boys three dark blue vials of sleeping draught, shooing you out the door. You’re too tired to argue.
Your exhaustion doesn’t stop you from lingering at the bottom of the staircase to the girls’ dormitory, listening carefully to James and Sirius’s weary footfall. You leave for the hospital wing as soon as their bedroom door closes with a thudding click.
In the early morning light, Pomfrey finds you asleep at Remus’s bedside, your hand in his.
---
“Sirius has that robe fitting tomorrow,” James says leadingly, attempting to play hacky sack with a roll of gauze.
“Mhm,” you nod without looking up, half-paying attention to him, your feet kicked up next to Remus on the bed.
“That was me covertly hinting that you should go with him,” James says, kicking the gauze into the air. He fails to catch it and curses under his breath as it hits the floor and rolls out of sight.
You look up, raising your eyebrow. You flick your eyes back down, turning a page. “He’s a big boy, I think he can handle getting his robes tailored. I don’t want to leave Remus ‘till he’s back to normal.”
“I’m fine,” Remus sighs, looking at you wearily. He does look much better, physically. Color has flooded back into his face over the past week, his skin almost back to its normal golden hue. “Pomfrey is here, and so is James. You’ve been here all week- you need air.”
“Yeah!” James says, voice muffled, searching on all fours for the gauze under the bed.
You sigh, biting the inside of your cheek. He’s right- you haven’t left the hospital wing except to shower, change clothes, or get new books since the incident. To Pomfrey’s dismay, classes haven’t crossed your mind- you know that Dumbledore must have made an excuse to the staff for your absence, but Pomfrey hasn’t stopped pestering you to go back to normal. You insisted on staying by Remus’s bedside, even after he woke up a few days ago. He’s still weak, but he’s awake, and your constant monitoring has sped up the healing process impressively.
“That’s not to say I don’t appreciate it,” Remus adds, “but you’re working yourself sick. I’m barely hurting anymore- let Pomfrey take her turn. At least for a day. Plus, you owe it to Pads- he’s been taking care of you all week.”
You flush, looking back down at your novel. Remus is right, yet again. Since the full moon, Sirius insisted on eating with you for every meal and brought you towering plates from the Great Hall. He didn’t seem to mind when you sat in silence for the first few days, barely picking at the food. He talked enough for both of you- what happened in class, what annoying things Snape did that day, how quidditch practice was going. You cherished it more than you could ever say.
You nod slowly, standing to stretch your legs. “Yeah, okay. Just-”
“Dittany every hour, uh huh, you’ve told me a million times.”
You send him a joking glare, twisting to stretch your back.
“When is he getting his robes tomorrow?” James asks. The door swings open, and Sirius strides into the room with a grin.
“Nine in the morning, for fuck’s sake- she’s a villain, that woman is.”
“Well, she was thinking of joining you,” Remus says, gesturing and raising his eyebrows to you. Sirius raises his back in confusion, looking around the group.
“Why would you willingly wake up at eight on a Saturday-?”
“You should make a day of it,” James shrugs, a sly grin poorly concealed on his lips. “She needs time outside, anyway.”
“You’re talking about me like I’m the dog,” you drawl to him. He gives you a smug look, and you pointedly ignore James to regard Sirius. “But I’d actually like that, I think- it’d be worth it to see Father Fringe’s vision for you.”
Sirius groans, and James snorts, “Father Fringe? Lovely.”
“Who’s Father Fringe?” Remus asks, squinting at you.
“Every pureblood of the noble class goes to Father Fringe’s Fine Fabrics,” you drawl sardonically, “for only the latest of noblepureblood fashion.”
“He put Sirius into those elegant lime green robes last year,” James remembers, a dreamy, far away look in his eyes.
Remus wolf whistles at Sirius teasingly. “I see why you wouldn’t mind going, sounds entertaining. Ooh, bring dung bombs.”
Sirius gasps with delight, eyeing you hopefully.
“If we get caught, all of the Twenty-Eight would know by the time we get back to the castle. He’s a real gossip,” you remark.
“Since when have you cared about what the Twenty-Eight think?”
---
A bag of dung bombs is securely tucked away in your jacket pocket, pressing into your side with every step you take down the main street in Hogsmeade. You shiver, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself and tucking your chin into your scarf. You’re carefully avoiding an ice patch when Sirius curses loudly next to you.
“Oh, you have to be kidding me.”
Sirius glares at the front of the Three Broomsticks, his nose pink from the cold. A crudely-written sign haphazardly pasted to the front window reads:
KITCHENHOURS:
MON-THURS: 8 AM TILL MIDNIGHT
FRI-SUN: NOON TILL 2 AM
TRESPASSERS BEWARE- WE CURSE FIRST, ASK QUESTIONS LATER!
“Well, fuck me,” you sigh, “I’m pretty sure Puddifoot’s opens at six in the morning, even on weekends.”
Sirius raises an eyebrow at you. “You really want a cuppa that bad?”
“It’ll take two seconds. We’re not drinking them inside,” you say, eyes tracked on a snowflake that flutters through the air to cling to his dark brow.
Sirius groans. “That place is awful.”
You roll your eyes, walking ahead of him in the direction of the tea shop. “You’ve taken, like, every girl in our year there.”
“That’s different,” Sirius says, striding on long legs to catch up to you. You swallow thickly, concealing the jab you feel at his words. “Don’t tell me you actually like Puddifoots.”
You shrug. “It’s cute, and the tea is good. And at least she got rid of those awful singing cherubs- they were so annoying.”
“Why would you go there?” Sirius says, eyebrows furrowed. You huff at his second jab, working your jaw.
“It’s quieter than Broomsticks- plus, you get to eavesdrop on awkward first dates. It’s entertaining. Remus and I went a few times.” You kick a pebble as you go, watching it slide down the icy path before getting lodged in a pile of snow.
“Of course you did,” Sirius mumbles.
“What, are you jealous?” you ask teasingly.
Sirius rolls his eyes, scoffing. He opens his mouth to reply, turning to you, but pauses, eyes fixed to your cheek. You raise a brow at him. He swallows noticeably.
“You’ve got an eyelash…” he trails off, brushing the top of his cheekbone. You mimic him to try to brush it off. “No, it’s-” he grabs your wrist and stands in front of you, stopping you. He inspects your face as he wraps his hand around yours, guiding your thumb to gently swipe over your cheek. The contrast of his warm skin to the cold air on your wrist makes you shiver. His eyes flick to meet your flustered stare.
“Thanks,” you say quickly, clearing your throat and pulling your hand out of his grasp. You step around him to continue down the path unsteadily. You can’t look at him that close, not right now, not after everything. You won’t take advantage of his kindness, of his friendship. You remember the week he spent taking care of you, his kind eyes, his warm hands washing yours that night. You're friends. A familiar pang comes back to its home in your chest and lingers.
He falls into step next to you as you’re turning the corner to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. The building, while attached to the taller units in Hogsmeade, is small, squat, and painted a pale pink. Gentle white doilies and silk ribbons adorn delicate teacup displays in the front windows. You look over at Sirius, smirking at his grimace.
“Ladies first,” you say, opening the door for him. He grumbles under his breath, and you have to purse your lips to stop yourself from laughing.
“I think she adds more doilies every day,” Sirius murmurs to you, looking around.
Everything that sits still is covered in bows, lace, and crochet- the entire room is in shades of pink and white. Tiny cherubs are painted on the crown molding, and fragile wooden chairs and tables laden with floral arrangements are crammed into the space in front of the counter. The room is empty except for an old woman with deep skin and puffs of white hair sitting patiently behind the register, a display of pastries next to her. Her eyes light up as you step inside, a bell chiming when the door opens.
“L/N and Black. Well, this is an odd pairing, don’t you think?” she greets, lipsticked lips curling into a coy smile, and you scoff in response.
“Tell me about it.”
She hums thoughtfully, her eyes flicking from yourself to Sirius. “Opposites attract, I suppose,” she muses. You pretend not to notice Sirius’s burning gaze on the side of your face as you inspect the hanging menu.
After you order to-go, she moves to the espresso bar to make your drinks. You glance over at Sirius, a lump sitting in your throat, as you wait. He’s wearing a deep maroon sweater that fits him well, broadening his shoulders; his crossed arms and black combat boots make him look more intimidating than he is. The contrast of his dark clothes and rugged hair to the frilly surroundings makes you chuckle inwardly- no wonder why other girls like going here on dates. The way he looks so out of place is oddly endearing.
Other girls. It makes your stomach churn. Godric, get a grip.
He’s standing beside you, eyeing the pastry case, eyebrows furrowed, debating. His shoulder brushes yours, and even through layers of winter fabric, it makes your breath pause. When you manage to inhale, his cologne mixes with the sugary air in an intoxicating way. You blink, looking back at the pastries.
“You should get one,” you say. His eyes flick over to you, not moving his head.
“I think I am- and I think she’s got your favorite.”
Madam turns around with two steaming to-go cups, and you’re grateful for the almost painful heat it spreads through your fingers. Sirius orders two of your favorites before you can interject. She ducks into the kitchen to heat up the pastries. You shoot him a look, waiting to scold him for his kindness once you were alone. The barista gives you a far-away smile as Sirius grabs the paper bag from her in exchange for a few coins; the bell chimes when you exit, hair whipping in the wind.
“Fuck, it’s cold- and you don’t have to buy me things, Sirius, I’m not even hungry,” you say, holding the warm drink to your chest with a shiver.
“Just eat your bloody danish.” He shoves the pastry bag in your direction.
You snatch it and take a small bite to placate him. “I ‘fink-” you pause to chew, and Sirius raises an eyebrow at you amusedly. “I think I read that floral lace is in season.” You tuck the pastry back into the paper bag.
Sirius groans, “Godric, I hope not. Do you think he’ll stick with the green theme?”
You tilt your head, debating, before saying, “Probably. He likes to torture you. Plus, green suits you.” You didn’t mean to actually say the last part of that- Sirius’s brow arches, a smug smile on his face. You cut him off before he can speak. “I take it back- don’t get an even bigger head.”
“No take-backs. Do you think red suits me, too?” He eats half of his danish in one bite, gesturing to his sweater smugly.
You shrug. “Blue brings out your eyes more. Like that sweater James’s mom made you.”
You ignore the way his gaze softens on you for a moment, instead looking ahead at Father Fringe’s Fine Fabrics's regal marble exterior. Sirius opens the door for you casually, making your lip twitch in amusement. When you step inside, you’re hit with the sharp, overwhelming smell of luxury perfume. The shop consists of perfectly organized fabric swatches, haughtily displayed extravagant robes, and a few middle aged witches puttering around with handbags on their elbows, eyeing the wares. Father Fringe sits behind the register, his large, heavy spectacles low on his nose as he embroiders a piece of silk. His eyebrow raises, and he regards the two of you suspiciously, placing his glasses higher on his face to inspect you. His eyes are dramatically magnified behind his oversized lenses, making him appear oddly youthful- despite the grey hair circling a shiny bald spot on the top of his scalp. From what you can tell from behind the desk, he’s wearing an uncomfortable-looking set of vibrant purple and black dress robes.
“Good morning, Mister Black. And Miss L/N, what fantastic timing,” he says dryly through a thick, unrecognizable accent that sounds somewhat French. He stands, placing the fabric aside and gesturing to the back room. “After you,” he says with a bow.
“Sorry- what do you mean, ‘fantastic timing’?” you ask, giving the old wizard a confused look.
“Apologies,” he says airily, “I wasn’t aware that your mother had not yet informed you of her purchase. I assumed you were coming in for your dress robe fitting early.”
You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, stuttering, “Well, uh-”
“It will only take a moment. Follow me.” He cuts you off impatiently, turning on his heel.
You raise your eyebrows at Sirius, and he gives you a smug smile. You roll your eyes. Why would your mother order dress robes for you- you don’t go to outings unless forced, and your parents haven’t forced you to go for years. Why now?
You’re lost in your thoughts as you walk into the fitting room you dreaded as a child- it still manages to make your stomach churn. Sirius seems to have a similar reaction, wrinkling his nose at the wall of mirrors as he catches your eye in the reflection. Three pedestals are separated by delicate, shoulder-high lace screen dividers that split the room into three stalls. You can still clearly see Sirius from his torso-up in the mirror when you step onto your respective pedestals.
“Undress to your undergarments, please- I prefer to have exact body dimensions to refer to while I’m tailoring. Then you will model the robes I have prepared.” Father says, puttering around and readying bundles of fabric. Your eyes widen with realization, your gaze flicking over to the small modesty partition. It’s the same procedure that you remember your childhood tailoring appointments being, but now Sirius is here, and you're not a kid anymore, and now it feels a lot more… vulnerable. Your stomach twists, and you feel your cheeks heat up. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Noticing your silence, Father Fringe pauses. “Is that a problem?”
You both shake your heads, avoiding eye contact.
“Good.”
“Joy,” Sirius mutters, and you let out a nervous scoff.
You swallow thickly and take a deep breath. You pointedly stare at at the marble floor, tossing your jacket on the ground with a huff. As you pull your jumper over your head, it gets stuck on your chin- you hear Sirius let out a snicker.
“Shut up,” you mutter, muffled through the fabric. With a sharp pull, you’re left in your bra. If you’d known you were going to be on display today, you would have worn something a little cuter- you disregard the thought. It doesn’t matter, anyway. You bite your tongue, unzipping your jeans.
“Is that… muggle clothing?” Father spits behind you, as if he can’t believe his eyes. You share a glance with Sirius in the mirror as he bunches up his jumper to take it off. Your eyes land on his chest- he’s mostly healed, only a little discoloration left on his ribs. Sirius refused your help after he was hit by the bludger, despite your insistence. You avert your eyes before you get caught gawking.
“Yes,” you answer curtly, stepping out of your pants, “I prefer them to the skirts you used to insist on.”
“Skirts are proper garments for a woman of your age and status,” Father scolds, pursing his lips tightly as he glares at the pants you’re folding over your arm. You raise your eyebrow at him in the mirror, an amused smile on your face.
“Proper- when’s the last time you saw me, Father Fringe? I haven’t been proper for years. I thought you, of all people, would know that.”
He clicks his tongue at your comment, his greying brow arching- something more approachable, more mischievous, shines behind his eyes. “Hold your tongue. But, you’re correct, I suppose it’s been quite a few years since you’ve had a fitting... and, I’ve heard of your disappearance from noble society, yes. I cannot say I am surprised.”
Father Fringe sweeps his wand casually, and a measuring tape immediately snaps to attention, whipping around your waist fast enough to sting. You gasp in shock as the tape wraps itself around your shoulders, hips, thighs- a nearby notebook and quill furiously takes notes in midair. The same happens to Sirius, and he lets out an annoyed sigh. You eye the peaks in his neck as he rolls his head back in boredom.
“May I pry?” Father Fringe asks after a moment of scratching quills, looking over his glasses at you in the mirror- his eyes are startlingly small without the lenses.
“I thought I was supposed to hold my tongue,” you say. Sirius purses his lips to contain a laugh. It makes the tendons you’ve been staring at become even more noticeable. You tear your eyes away, back to the older wizard.
Father Fringe raises an eyebrow at you. “Release it. May I pry?”
“Sure, you’re going to ask anyway.”
His lips twitch in a restrained smirk- he’s trying to hide his amusement. “Why would you ever distance yourself from the luxury of predictability? Your life without rebellion would be an easy one, child, you cannot deny that.”
You tilt your head, debating on giving him a sarcastic, dry answer, but instead think aloud: “You’re right, yeah. But it never felt right living in a lie. I stopped caring what my parents think, what ‘noble society’ thinks, what you think. Sometimes it’s best to just keep the peace and shut up, sure, but it still makes me sick to my stomach to just… ignore their nastiness. So I stopped going to all of the dinner parties and galas and luncheons.”
Sirius catches your gaze in the mirror, his face unreadable- his eyes are far away in thought.
“Plus, I couldn’t stand one more Wilhelmina Redgrass song. Do you seriously need to measure the height of my forehead?”
That breaks Sirius out of his daydream. He barks out an unapologetic laugh as the tape measure pulls away from your brow, somehow appearing embarrassed. Father Fringe’s lips twitch up, and he dismisses the tape measures and quills. He nods to hanging bundles of silky fabric beside the mirrors in front of you.
“You may put those dressing gowns on, now. And… don’t tell anyone I said this,” he steps closer and whispers to you, eyes bright, “but she is absolutely dreadful, isn’t she?”
He sweeps away, his plum robes trailing behind him dramatically. You raise your eyebrow at Sirius in the mirror, smirking. He gives you a shocked, disbelieving look before you both dissolve into poorly-restrained laughter, standing in your underwear.
“This isn’t how I thought this would go,” you say once you’ve caught your breath, wiping your eyes. You grab the silky dressing gown, thankful for the modesty, and tie it tightly.
“Yeah, I didn't pencil in seeing you almost naked today,” Sirius says, a bold grin making his dimples appear. You immediately feel heat spread to your cheeks, the back of your neck, over your shoulders; you scoff, looking away as he shrugs on his dressing gown.
You step off of the pedestal, slowly padding around in your socks, inspecting the room. You cross your arms over your chest, spinning on your heel to look at Sirius again. “What could my mother possibly be planning? I haven’t worn proper dress robes since second year.”
“I dunno,” Sirius says, looking pensive. “You usually only get a letter from her before Christmas, right?”
You furrow your eyebrows at him. “How’d you know that?”
He shrugs, giving you a slightly embarrassed look. “We sit at the same table during breakfast, you know. You get The Prophet, but I never see any letters.”
You almost question him further, but you realize what he gets in the mail- his mother sends him howlers about once a week, but that’s about all he receives. No wonder why he was jealous of you. Your family must seem like a breeze to him.
“Uh- yeah, I haven’t talked to her in a while. Maybe she’ll write me-”
You cut yourself off as Father Fringe sweeps into the room with two garment bags, hanging them on the divider.
“Mister Black first, then?” he says, nodding to you. Sirius scowls, and you smile widely, nodding.
You pointedly look at Father Fringe’s work table as Sirius gets dressed, rustling of fabric and whispered cursing filling the room. You smile to yourself at his obvious annoyance. The rustling eventually settles.
“Are you decent?” you ask in a teasing tone, and he snorts.
“Unfortunately.”
It takes everything in you to not burst into laughter when you turn around.
He’s wearing an airy, white long-sleeve shirt under a deep green cummerbund with matching green trousers and a robe- the hems of his clothing are embroidered in a sparkling silver thread. The star of the show, however, is the ridiculously large stack of ruffles on the chest of the shirt. With the white fabric puffed under his chin and his sour expression, he looks like a disgruntled bird. He gives you a scowl as you purse your lips behind your hand.
“It’s lovely,” you choke out, and Father Fringe beams. He’s pruning Sirius’s clothing, pinning as he sees fit, a floating pin cushion circling around him.
“Any suggestions?” Father asks, stepping back and taking in his work proudly. You slowly step closer, eyeing Sirius up and down. His adam’s apple bobs, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something fiery and burning buried under the ashy surface of his irises.
You’re close enough that he has to look down to hold eye contact with you. You tilt your head, a mischievous, flirty smile quirking the corners of your mouth as you place a hand on his chest, letting your touch linger on the fabric before adjusting his collar. His eyes widen slightly.
“Some more frills, I think.”
His heated stare simmers into a glare.
---
Sirius holds the door for you as you exit Father Fringe’s shop. His jaw is clenched tightly, his eyebrows are furrowed- they have been ever since you stepped inside. You glance around; the street is deserted, most stores are just now opening, thankfully.
“Walk faster,” you call over your shoulder as you speed up, hands stuffed in your pockets against the cold.
“Why?” Sirius grunts, obeying nonetheless. You glance over your shoulder at the marble pillars of Father Fringe’s shop, praying that it worked- Father Fringe cuts your thoughts off with a yell of shock that can be heard even from your distance. You burst into laughter, grabbing Sirius’s wrist and tugging him to run- you hear the door slam open with a violent chime as you turn a corner, nearly slipping on the icy stones. You duck into an alley, pulling him behind a dumpster. You peer around it, dropping Sirius’s hand, heart racing. He doesn’t step away.
You turn back and catch his eye, your chests rising and falling in quick, unsteady unison. His eyes are crinkled with a grin, looking at you with such joy and adoration it catches you off guard. You shake yourself out of it and strain your neck to look out of the alley- you duck back just in time, spotting Fringe’s purple pants leg striding around the corner. You pull Sirius onto the wall next to you, his shoes stumbling over yours. He leans with his back flush to the brick, shoulder pressed to yours, his eyebrows raised. You hold a finger up to your lips, listening carefully.
“Bloody kids… spoiled lot, they are…” Father’s voice mutters, jarringly close. You wince as his footsteps crunch just outside the alley, pausing for a moment- they continue down the street until you and Sirius are surrounded only by the sound of your own breaths.
You make eye contact, and your lip trembles to a grin before you both let out giddy laughter.
“What the fuck did you do?” Sirius cries, wiping his eyes.
“I put those dung bombs in your pocket when you were getting tailored. I charmed them to go off when we left,” you exhale heavily, letting your head fall back against the brick behind you. You grab your side, aching from laughter, and look at Sirius over your nose. “Sorry about feeling you up in there, by the way. You’re probably going to hear about it at Christmas.”
“I- uh- no, no, it was brilliant.” Sirius is suddenly very interested in the sky- despite his avoidance of eye contact, you can see the dark flush that grows on his cheeks. A part of you glows with pride. He lets out a laugh and looks down at you, teeth shining with a smile. It’s unlike his typical smirk- there’s no sneer, no smug expression. Just a true, honest, sweet smile. “You’re brilliant.”
This must be what a heart attack feels like.
Sirius opens his mouth to speak, but stops, eyes flicking down to stare at your mouth. Your stomach flips. His hand reaches to cup your jaw, slow and gentle, his eyes never wandering from your lips. You involuntarily take a shaky inhale as his fingertips slip into your hair, warm on the skin behind your ear. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip. You flush, your mind going still.
He blinks, remembering himself- he takes a step back, your skin cold in his absence as he draws his hand away from you. He’s fully blushing, now- you’ve never seen him this flustered.
“I- uh, you just had snow on you, so I…”
You want nothing more than to tease him, to joke and prod at his crimson cheeks and stuttering tongue, but you can’t find your words. Sirius Black, resident cocky, unshakable playboy, has, once again, rendered you speechless; this time, solely by his out-of-character chagrin. You clear your throat, wrapping your arms around yourself for warmth.
“Yeah. Snow,” you say, nodding, convincing yourself the moment was nothing more.