canopy
“How was your date, by the way?” Lily asks, weaving her ginger hair into a loose braid. She meets your eyes in the mirror, a smug smile on her lips. You glare at her from over the sink, toothbrush in your mouth.
“‘Uhddup,” you struggle to say while simultaneously brushing your teeth. You spit into the sink. “My platonic trip to Hogsmeade with my friend was fine,” you assert, rinsing off your toothbrush.
“Sure, right- is that why you’re so quiet?” she presses, pulling an elastic from her wrist to fluently secure her hair.
“I’m going to bed,” you dismiss, your toothbrush landing in the holder with a clink as you breeze past her to the bedroom.
“Aw, come on,” she whines, her voice slightly echoing off of the tile.
“Please? Did anything juicy happen, at least?” Mary butts in from her four-poster, precariously balancing an open bottle of black nail polish on her knee. Her tongue peeks out from the corner of her mouth as she squints at her messy paint job.
“No. The most interesting thing we did was plant a few dung bombs on Fringe,” you lie.
“Oh, Sirius has to be in love,” Mary replies with bright, mascara-smudged eyes, “a day with you and pranks? Goner.”
“Y’know, he was distracted at practice today. Probably daydreaming about your long, dung-bomb-filled life together,” Marlene says, carefully snipping unruly twigs from her broom. You roll your eyes, crawling into bed.
“Or, he was tired from waking up so early on a Saturday, like I am. Goodnight.”
A chorus of teasing goodnights follow yours. You tug your curtains shut and cast a silencing charm on your bed. Ever since you woke Lily up, shivering and crying out during a nightmare, you’ve gotten in the habit of taking a few precautions.
You tuck yourself in and stare at the slivers of light that cross the crimson canopy. They dim, candles blown out one by one, until only the soft orange glow of the central furnace peeks through. A peaceful quiet fills the air, and you let your eyes flutter shut, your body slowly relaxing.
Habitually, your mind thumbs through photographs of Sirius.
The slope of his nose, the arch of his brow, the curl of hair at the base of his neck. You pull the blankets tighter around yourself, rolling onto your side. The column of his throat. The freckle behind his left ear. The bow of his top lip. You let out a sigh.
The thumb he pressed to your bottom lip. His eyes, dark and foggy and clouded with something you ache for, meeting yours. What would he do if you leaned into him, an invitation in your heady gaze- would he slide his thumb between your lips? Would he let out an exhale at the warmth of your mouth? Would he tilt your chin up and lean down close enough to just barely graze your lips, his breath hot and heavy on your tongue?
You bite your cheek hard enough to draw blood. Think about something else. Anything else. Something that you won’t regret in the morning, when you’re unable to meet Sirius’s eyes at breakfast. Fine, right- you attempt to silence your mind for a moment, shifting your weight uncomfortably. Your thighs rub together with the movement, and you shiver. Fuck.
You haven’t crossed that line. You shouldn’t. He’s your friend, and that’s something you have to respect. Every flirtation on his part is out of boredom, for the sake of banter, or to get on your nerves. He’s proven it time and time again. Even if he did feel attracted to you, he’s not the relationship type. It would never work out- you can’t give him what he wants, and he can’t give you what you need.
But, Godric, you need him. You’ll take whatever he gives, even if it’s painfully lacking. And doing that, crossing that line, will make this famine torturous.
You’re pretty sure you’re not a masochist. You’re starting to question that.
You shakily inhale as your hand slips between your legs, caressing the agonizing fabric of your underwear. You close your eyes as your fingers put gentle pressure between your thighs, your hips slowly bucking into your hand to satiate the hot ache. Your free hand slides up to cup your breast, and you whimper as you imagine Sirius’s hands instead of your own. You yearn for the sting of cold jewelry against your skin. His rings- oh, his rings. You’ve stolen enough glances at his hands that you’re more than familiar with them.
They’re old, chunky silver pieces that are always on specific fingers. Your favorite is on his right pointer- a wide band of silver set with a dark, rectangular stone. You can tell from memorized fleeting touches that his hands are steady, bigger than yours, and a little calloused from quidditch.
You imagine that ring hurriedly pulled off of his finger, clattering to rest on the bedside table. Him above you, lips on your neck, hand splayed broadly, tauntingly across your inner thigh. His voice low and thick with lust in your ear. You bury your face in your pillow, eyebrows pulled taught in a pointless attempt to control yourself, to hold back. You move your wet underwear aside and slowly slide a finger into yourself, letting out a choked noise. Fuck, fuck- you’re already close. The shame you should feel simmers down into something sticky and sweet. How pathetic- what would he do, if he ever found out what a mess you are for him? Does he ever do the same while he pictures you?
What would his pulse feel like under your lips? What does he sound like when he’s breathless and grinning? Sirius, eyebrows taught and a smile slipping from his lips, hand furiously working- you tumble over the edge, every muscle in your body going taught, your lips parted softly as you involuntarily rut into your hand, hard and vulgar and shameful. A blissful shudder falls over your jaw, neck, down to your shoulders, and your hips slow to a halt, your fingers slowly caressing yourself through the high. Your chest rises and falls heavily, and you let your eyes flutter open to stare holes in the canopy.
You’re so fucked.
---
“I don’t know why she ordered robes. I’m don't want to know,” you groan, taking a bite out of the pastry Sirius bought you yesterday. You’re starving, but you were too ashamed to show your face at breakfast earlier, so a magically reheated, slightly crushed, day-old danish will have to do. You hold it with one hand, the other mindlessly stirring the steaming cauldron on your desk. You stretch out a sore muscle in your shoulder, wincing. You’ve been hunched over this bloody desk since dawn; you couldn’t sleep more than a few restless hours. Remus has kept you company for the latter half of the morning, interrogating you about your little trip to Father Fringe’s Fine Fabrics.
Remus sighs, closing his book. He pushes out of the chair in front of you and begins to pace in mindless circles. He seems healthy, for once; his skin is flush, and he’s barely limping at all. Pomfrey dismissed him from the hospital wing earlier this afternoon, but it's a habit to scan for damage. He yawns with gusto and turns his head sharply, his neck letting out a loud crack.
“I don’t know anything about… pureblood culture, or whatever, but I’m guessing dress robes are for parties, right?” he says, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rises up with the action, revealing clean white bandages around his midsection. “Do you think she wants you to go to that Malfoy Christmas thing?”
“Mm’be,” you shrug with a mouthful of pastry, swallowing thickly. “But whatever- I’ll deal with it when I get to it. I’m tired of thinking about it."
“Did you miss me?” Sirius’s smug voice fills the office as he raps his knuckles on the open door. Your stomach turns inside out. You clench your jaw painfully tight, glaring into the bubbling cauldron. You want to slap the smirk off of his face- the memory between your thighs is crystal clear.
“No, and aren’t you supposed to be at practice?” you drone, shoving the rest of the danish in your mouth, pretending to be busy organizing ingredients. It’s a half-truth; Remus doesn’t know, but bringing up the dress robe debacle only reminds you of the expanse of Sirius’s bare chest, of his heart beating through his dress robes under your fingertips, and of his thumb sliding across your bottom lip in the freezing cold. You’ve had enough mental turmoil over this today- over him today. And last night. You pray you can blame the blush blooming across your cheeks on potion steam.
“Brought you something,” he says, and you glance up, eyebrows raised. He’s holding a thick stack of parchment out to you, a small smile quirking his lips. “I took notes in the classes you missed when you were with Moony- and I got Lily to take some in Ancient Runes. I figured you two might want them, since you’ve been gone for so long.” He glances at the clock above the door and curses. “James is gonna kill me- take them, you git,” he insists, waving the stack in front of your nose. You’re rendered speechless, taking the notes, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. He smirks, and wipes his thumb along the side of his lips, staring at yours. “You have a crumb on the corner of your mouth. See you.”
You hurriedly wipe your lips, blinking, as his footfall fades down the corridor. You flip through the notes- they’re far more detailed than you’ve ever seen him do for himself, and his handwriting is actually legible, for once. He even used red ink to underline the important parts. You’re going to puke.
“Christ,” Remus says, rolling his eyes, “if that doesn’t tell you how he feels-”
“Shut the fuck up, it's for you, too,” you insist, and Remus lets out a laugh. Suddenly, an aching, stabbing pain moves through your midsection- you grab your stomach and let out an involuntary whimper, barely audible, but Remus looks at you with furrowed eyebrows. You shake your head, bracing yourself against the desk.
“It’s fine, I’m probably just-”
Everything gets worse all at once- your arms and legs feel numb, your chest feels heavy, you feel blood rush out of your face. You drop the notes on the desk, furrowing your eyebrows.
“I- I don’t-” you gasp. Air spills out of your lungs without your consent, leaving you shocked and breathless. In a state of panic, you try to move, but your legs buckle underneath you, and you tumble to the ground. Your knees knock on the floor painfully as you catch yourself on all fours, choking on nothing. Remus cries your name, rushing to your side, pulling you up to face his horrified expression as you struggle to breathe, your ribs shaking, your heart racing. You foggily realize Remus’s yells must have drawn Madame Pomfrey out of her chambers- you hear frantic footsteps and a gasp. Her cold hands pry your jaw open and she peers down your airway, muttering an incantation as she holds her wand to your throat- nothing happens. Her face falls.
“Shite,” she curses, “shite, shite, shite-” she stumbles to the ingredient shelf, bottles and glasses clinking together- but the sound is muffled behind your racing heartbeat, and Remus’s assurances to you fall on deaf ears. When your weight goes slack underneath you, and your cheek meets the cold stone floor, your mind screams- I’m going to die. I’m going to die on the floor of the bloody hospital wing. I’m going to die and I’ll never read the notes Sirius gave me.
Remus’s surprisingly strong arms pull you up to lean against him as you let out inhuman, rattling gasps. Pomfrey falls to your side as your eyelids grow heavier and heavier. You can’t hear their hurried, desperate speech, despite their moving mouths and pale expressions- you’re overwhelmed with the sound of your frantic blood flow and shuttering lungs. You let out one last rattling, painful choke before falling into unconsciousness, your head lulling back against Remus’s trembling chest.
---
When you wake up, his arm is the first thing you see- it’s thrown on the bed next to you as a makeshift pillow, his face twitching in a restless sleep. The moonlight is bright enough to make Sirius’s skin glow. His black hair is in his eyes, messy and unkempt. You sleepily consider how he could have gotten into the girl’s dormitory. You shift slightly, feeling the starched sheets underneath you- this isn’t your bed.
You sit up suddenly, letting out a groan at the stabbing pain in your midsection. Sirius stirs beside you, eyes fluttering open with a sharp inhale. He rubs his face, sitting up in his chair.
“Hey,” he croaks, “you’re awake.”
His voice, Godric, his voice. You shakily exhale, taking him in- he’s wearing a soft-looking David Bowie shirt, his hair is a tangled mess, and his undereyes are dark.
“Y-eah,” you stutter out in a dry whisper. Your throat feels like sandpaper.
“Oh- here,” he says, grabbing a glass of water from your nightstand and handing it to you carefully.
“Thanks,” you murmur, taking a swallow. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, blinking at him slowly. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Sirius looks at you with an uncharacteristically gentle and humble expression. “I dunno, I came down here to check on you and I guess I fell asleep. Did I wake you up?”
Your heart stutters, and your head is still groggy. There’s a moment of silence as you gather your thoughts enough to speak. “How long have I been…?”
“It’s Sunday night. Well, probably Monday morning. You only missed a few hours.”
You nod slowly, eyes flicking down to the glass in your lap. “What happened?”
His eyes harden, fixing to your bedsheets. His jaw twitches with tension. “I heard Pomfrey say you were poisoned.” His voice is cold and serious and rigid, a tone you’ve never heard from him. It makes you shudder.
“Poisoned?” you reel- you’re so distracted by a straining tendon in Sirius’s neck that you barely grasp onto his words. The air around you suddenly feels as frigid as it was at Hogsmeade. He nods solemnly and leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair.
“Remus said you ate that danish from Puddifoot’s. I told them everything- er, relevant.” He clears his throat before continuing. “Dumbledore and McGonagall went down to Hogsmeade. They didn’t let us in to see you, so I stole James’s cloak and eavesdropped. Pomfrey said you almost died.”
Your body breaks out in goosebumps. You furiously rub your arms as you swing your legs over the side of the bed.
“Fuck,” you mutter, pushing yourself to stand unsteadily. Sirius grabs your shoulders, eyebrows furrowed in concern.
“What are you-”
“Get off of me,” you snap, your midsection screaming in pain- you wince, trying to nudge his welcoming hands away. He doesn’t budge. Panic rises, hot and fast, boiling your insides as your mind reels.
“At least tell me where-” he starts.
“I- I have to-” you cut yourself off, looking everywhere but Sirius’s eyes. What do you even do? Do you go to Dumbledore? Do you hide away in your dormitory? The Forbidden Forest feels more appealing than this cold, haunted castle. That’s the second failed attack on your life that you’ve known about, you can’t imagine if there’s been any that slipped by without your knowledge. There are listening ears, Dumbledore had warned.
Is Sirius even to be trusted? Anyone can be imperio’ed- and the only two people that have been around you both times were Sirius and Remus.
“I don’t know, I just have to go,” you dismiss, breaking out of his grasp. You force yourself to take a few unsteady steps away despite the stabbing ache slowly spreading through your torso.
“It’s the middle of the night-”
“I don’t care, Sirius,” you snap, supporting yourself on the rows of beds as you move.
You almost expect him to pull you back, but he lets out a deep sigh and wraps a gentle arm around your waist, supporting you as you walk. He looks over, ducking to inspect your eyes. You focus on putting one foot in front of the other, not on the placement or pressure of his hand.
“You’re going to Dumbledore, aren’t you? Why can't it wait?” he asks, his dark eyebrows furrowing.
“It just can't.”
Your heart sinks in realization of how your relationship, so publicly displayed, places Sirius in a state of peril. Godric, why haven’t you thought of that? Your outing to Hogsmeade could easily be mistaken for a date- hell, you went to Puddifoot’s. If he’s seen as your… boyfriend, he’ll be a target if Death Eaters attempt some kind of power play.
He’s jumped in front of a bludger for you, he’s broken his ribs for you. He could have easily eaten the pastry meant for you. Being close to you means being close to danger, now.
You lean a little further from him, as if a centimeter of space will change the connection you have.
“You need to go, Sirius,” you say, voice shaking. You fully pull away from him, his hands not resisting this time. He takes a step back, and his face flashes with a bitter expression you haven’t seen in months- it makes your heart sink to your stomach.
“Why?” he asks with a scowl. “Godric, why are you-”
“Go,” you bark, your gut contracting painfully. You can’t tell if it’s guilt or poison. His eyes darken. You spin around, continuing your trek to the Headmaster’s office. “Just go away-”
He scoffs, and his footsteps echo yours. “Why won’t you tell me? I’m not an idiot, I know there’s something happening with you- ever since that internship-” Your gut falls to your feet.
“Why are you so bloody stubborn?” you snap, spinning around, face twisted. His expression drops into something sorrowful, and you realize your vision is blurred with tears. “I don’t want your help. I don’t want you here.” The words feel like acid on your tongue. Something sour and distasteful stabs your stomach. He swallows, void-like eyes meeting yours.
“What did I do?” Sirius says stonily.
You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You think of Sirius, arms full of food as he saunters into the hospital wing to keep you company. Sirius, who took a photo of the stained glass window you love and tacked it on the ceiling of his four-poster. Sirius, who has time and time again protected you- warranted or not. Sirius, who always has a clever rebuttal to your banter, who always clouds your mind, who always lingers at the door.
You think of the boy that glared at you for your entire life. You think of his hissing words echoing up the stairwell: “She’s fucking everywhere. It’s like she won’t leave me alone, like she annoys me on purpose.” You think of the dread you used to feel when you saw his face, heard his voice, smelled his cologne- you still feel that, but that feeling has warped into something even more passionate, more painful, than hate. You think of Amelia’s perfect face peering over Sirius’s shoulder at the top of your tower. You look at his eyes and want to punch his nose.
You’re a coward. You ache to tuck yourself into his arms and whisper, Nothing at all. I just don’t know what to do. I’m scared, I’m so scared.
You furrow your eyebrows, head spinning, desperate for an answer, a reason to give him. You need to make sure he never wants to see you again. It’s him hating you, or you’re risking his life. He’s hated you before. It won’t be hard for him to slip back into his old habits. It’s safer that way.
Sirius’s words fall on deaf ears as you blearily stare beside his forehead, not able to meet his eyes.
“What did I do to make you push me away like this? I- it’s like I get so close to actually seeing you-”
“You weaseled your way into my fucking life, Sirius,” you spit. Tears well in your eyes. You keep your stare stagnant. “Everywhere I fucking go you’re there, you have been since we were kids. I never asked for you to bless me with your coveted presence or your- your valuable time. I never asked for you to 'see me.'” Your voice cracks. “I’m sick of this.”
You turn away instead, your throat so tight that every word feels like a battle. “You’ve ruined everything. Everything’s- everything is wrong now that I’m around you.” You feel his presence behind you. Your heart races. “You drive me crazy,” you mutter, “and I hate it. I hate it so much, Sirius. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Just leave me alone.”
His hand, warm and sure, wraps around your shoulder. You let your watery eyes slip shut, taking a shaky inhale. You shrug his hand off and walk out the door. It's the worst thing you’ve felt in a while.