~ Cora ~

Personality -

Many, many people see him as an asshole. They think of him similar to Draco-just a dickhead who has a soft spot for y/n. I've always thought of him as a genuine person. He's brooding, moody, and can often act like an asshole. But underneath that, he has the loyalty and bravery of a gryffindor. He would stop at nothing to protect his closest friends and loved ones. He presents himself as closed off and uninterested as a mechanism to root out those who aren't worth his time. But once he develops a relationship with someone and respect towards them, there are cracks in the cold mask. I do agree with the fact he would have violent issues. He's distrustful, he has an evil father and everyone immediately assumes he's a monster. He holds grudges and isn't afraid to fight people with fists, words, or magic.

Romance -

Once again, contrary to popular opinion, he's not a fuckboy. Yes, he's not at all a virgin inexperienced and he's not against making out with someone he finds fit. But I don't see him being super interested in hook ups, he doesn't see the appeal. (i'm not saying it won't happen at all in something i write) He finds it hard to actually open up towards a person, especially when love is involved. He doesn't trust them. And he doesn't trust himself to treat them properly His love language is for sure quality time and physical touch. He's also not ashamed when it comes to PDA. (but it's not like he's gonna go stake his claim when his partner is mid conversation by kissing them)

His family -

He is not a Deatheater.

Considering I've watched Deadly Class and I adore Marcus, I can't see a character with his face being a Deatheater. He thinks it's all despicable.

On this note the only character I 100% see being a Deatheater is Draco and that's because it's canon. Maybe Theo if it fits the fic, but not really.He despises his father. He refuses to have anything to do with him and will deny any invite to being a Deatheater or a relationship. But the biggest thing is that he doesn't go shouting about this. People have no problem in calling him a monster, killer, and psycho. They assume he's his father's first pick. And he does nothing to stop the rumors. He doesn't encourage them of course, but he doesn't tell people to shut up. He can't find the energy in convincing everyone. Besides, it gives an opportunity for people to avoid him and he prefers being left alone.

there you were, running up to him all excited and bubbly. very on brand for you.

‘i got a new lipgloss!’ you panted out through a smile as you finally reached him and his friends.

at this, enzo sniggered into his cigarette. draco paid no attention to your presence, blaise merely quirked his brow and theo craned his neck around blaise to watch the interaction at hand.

‘ah, is that so angel?’ mattheo asked tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you blinked up at him.

‘mmhm! they finally stocked a new brand in hogsmeade.’

‘that means all new flavours then, no?’ he asked, making you nod your head excitedly.

‘guess what one i’m wearing now!’ you asked, grabbing mattheo’s arm and leaning on your tip toes so he could get closer to your face to examine your gloss.

‘hmm,’ mattheo hummed, snaking an arm around your waist and crashing his lips to yours making you giggle. quick and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

the other slytherin boys wished they could say they were surprised by this act, but you and mattheo being this comfortable with each other was a common occurrence. it wasn’t unusual for you two to be touching each other in some kind of way: would it be him feeding you something, you sitting on his lap, taking a nap together, anything goes really. that’s what best friends are for, right?

mattheo pulled away from the kiss just enough to look at you and tapped his chin mockingly with his free hand. ‘orange?’

you shook your head ‘no’ and mattheo went in again, this kiss longer than the first making you snake your arms around his neck. when he pulled away he thought for another moment then guessed. ‘apple?’

‘nooo,’ you giggled ‘matty, you’re miles off!’ he grinned at this, moving to wrap both of his arms around your waist inevitably pulling you flush against him.

‘okay, okay. how about one more try, angel?.’ and he kissed you again. the longest out of the three kisses. once you broke apart you were panting slightly.

‘was it… cherry flavour, gorgeous?’

‘yes!’ you gasped smiling brightly. ‘i’m surprised you didn’t get it sooner, don’t you love cherry flavour?’

‘is she fucking thick?’ enzo muttered behind you, only to be met with an elbow in the ribs from Draco.

‘i do, well remembered. what class do you have next?’

your brows furrowed in thought before you answered. ‘herbology, why?’

‘let me walk you.’ it was only then did mattheo release your waist, swiftly swinging his bag over his shoulder and taking your hand in his, not even bothering to bid farewell to his friends.

‘they’re revolting.’ enzo commented, his face twisted into disgust as he put his own cigarette out on the side of the bridge.

‘there’s no way he hasn’t fucked her.’

‘don’t be stupid nott, of course he’s fucked her.’ blaise replied as he watched you and mattheo walk slowly down the bridge, mattheo’s hand holding your own swinging it slightly.

‘but they’re best friends,’ draco quipped in mockingly.

But Sirius—ever the optimist—believes it every time. This time, though, there's a difference: the festival is in a park. Open spaces, easier to navigate. Not some dingy bar with narrow doors, steps leading to nowhere, and bathrooms that haven't been updated since the '70s.

"Do they even have paths?" you ask, trying not to let hope creep into your voice. "I'm not going to spend three hours rolling through mud."

His grin only widens at your question. "They've got paths, I made sure. Mostly gravel. A bit uneven in places, but nothing you can't handle." He leans forward, as if sharing a secret. "And there's this punk-folk band that looks like actual goblins. Come on, just this once. If it's awful, we'll leave. No arguments, no sulking, no drama—well, maybe a little drama."

You consider his offer, watching him bounce on the balls of his feet with an energy that would put a house-elf to shame. The sun catches on his rings as he rubs his hands together, and for a moment, you're struck by the infectious enthusiasm in his grey eyes. Despite everything, part of you wants to see this—the wild colours, the unapologetic individuality, the chaotic mess that Sirius seems to revel in.

"Alright," you say, already regretting the words even as they leave your mouth. "But if I end up covered in mud, I'm levitating you into the nearest pond."

The festival is chaos. Beautiful, vibrant, pulsing chaos.

The park has transformed into a riotous sea of color and movement—torn fishnets, jackets studded with defiance, hair that burns bright against the summer sky. Boots stamped with symbols march across the grass, their wearers adorned with piercings that glint in unexpected places. Booths line the paths, their covers flapping like flags in the warm breeze, peddling small zines, vegan tacos, handmade patches emblazoned with slogans like "Cripples Against Capitalism" and "Disabled Not Disposable."

Sirius is beside you, his eyes alight with excitement. He lets out a low whistle, nodding towards a figure that towers above the crowd, shoulder pads crafted from traffic cones asserting their space amid the throng.

On a nearby stage, a band is setting up, the metallic twang of strings being tuned cutting through the cacophony. A vocalist tests their mic with a guttural scream that earns a cheer from the onlookers. The air itself seems to thrum with anticipation, vibrating with the energy of a thousand voices yearning to be heard. It's as if you've stepped through a portal into another world, one where volume is currency and audacity is queen.

Music blares from different stages, the bass vibrating in your chest as guitar solos and fast drums compete for attention. People move freely, their bodies swaying, jumping, headbanging—unconcerned about judgement, lost in the rhythm.

At first, you're on edge, your lips pressed into a tight line as you take it all in. You notice every look, every step, every tiny bump in the gravel under your wheels.

Then something shifts.

It's not that people aren't looking at you; they are. But not in the way you expect. They glance at you, then away—just like they do with Sirius's wild hair and safety-pin earrings. It's not a stare that lingers too long, not a gaze heavy with pity or curiosity. It's a quick acknowledgement, a nod to your presence before they return to their own world.

"Love the jacket," someone calls out, and another points at the spikes on your wheels with an appreciative whistle. There's a thumbs-up from a stranger who smiles before launching himself back into the mosh pit.

And just like that, you feel it—the hardness in your chest beginning to loosen, the edges of your world softening as you realise: you belong.

Sirius watches the change come over you, his eyes flickering with a spark of satisfaction. He nudges your shoulder, leans in close so his voice can be heard above the pounding music. "See? This is your place."

Your laughter mingles with his, infectious and freeing. You find yourself drawn in, the worries that usually knot your brow unfurling.

Sirius never walks ahead but stays by your side, matching your pace. Whenever the path becomes uneven, he's there—not to help, unless you ask, but simply to accompany you. He understands that you can navigate this world just fine; you've been doing it longer than he has, after all.

He holds your drink when you need both hands for your wheelchair, and his eyes sparkle with mischief as the first band takes the stage. Sirius dances with abandon, unashamed and utterly alive. His movements are wild, a physical manifestation of the music that pulses through the air.

"That guitarist is mad!" he shouts in your ear, grinning like a child who's just discovered a new toy. "Sounds like he's trying to blend a storm—it's brilliant!"

His enthusiasm is a tangible force, sweeping you up and carrying you along. It's not about the music or the energy of the crowd; it's about this moment—being here, being seen, being part of something bigger than yourself.

You find yourself nodding along, then tapping your foot, until all at once your fingers are drumming out a rhythm on the armrest of your seat. Your head starts to bob, and Sirius is laughing next to you, reaching over to grab your hand and twirl you around in an impromptu dance. He doesn't care who sees—rather, he makes it feel like everyone should be sharing in the joy.

"Careful," you say, but the laughter bubbles up, making your cheeks ache with the force of your smile. "You'll knock someone over."

"Let them fall," Sirius says, spinning you one more time—too fast—and ending up on one knee with a flourish. It's all so dramatic, so utterly him, that you can't help but shake your head. "I'll catch them. Unless it's you. You I'd never let fall."

"Sure, sure," you reply, rolling your eyes even as you toss a popcorn kernel at him. "Get up before you cause a scene."

The afternoon unfolds with a rhythm of its own, punctuated by the thrum of distant music and the murmur of voices raised in discussion. You move from tent to tent, each a microcosm of rebellion offering a different facet of punk culture. There are patches hand-sewn with anarchist slogans, sticker packs celebrating disabled punk icons, even a tarot reader whose cards foretell a revolution sparked by people like you.

Food stalls line one edge of the park, their wares strange and intriguing. Cactus chips crunch between your teeth, releasing an unexpected sweetness that lingers on your tongue. Spicy jackfruit skewers sizzle over open fires, their aroma wafting through the air and mingling with the scent of fresh ink and paper from the zines spread out on makeshift tables.

Sirius is there beside you every step of the way. He talks a tattoo artist into sketching a temporary bat design onto his forearm, laughing as he explains, "It just feels right, y'know?"

You end up at a table manned by twins in matching outfits who tell you they're running a zine-making workshop. They introduce themselves as Crash and Burn, names chosen not just for their propensity for chaos but also for the fiery passion that fuels their activism. They point to a stack of papers, scissors, and markers, encouraging you to create something—anything—that speaks your truth.

"Your voice matters," says Crash—or maybe it's Burn; they've already switched places twice since you sat down. "And this is punk as fuck."

So you pick up a marker and let your thoughts flow onto the page. The words come slowly at first, then faster, forming a rough essay you title Rolling Riot. It's a call to arms, a demand for recognition and respect, spiced with your own brand of defiance. You sketch crude stick figures in wheelchairs toppling a police van, turning the violence of oppression into a symbol of empowerment.

Sirius watches over your shoulder, silent but attentive. His eyes shine with an intensity that suggests he sees more than just the words and images taking shape on the page. He sees you—not just the outer shell of scars and wheels, but the spirit within, fierce and unyielding.

When you're done, he takes the zine from your hands, careful not to smudge the still-wet ink. He folds it neatly, tucking it into the pocket of his jacket where it will stay safe, close to his heart.

At one point, a fire-juggler's flame comes too close to their mohawk, and Sirius whoops like this is the greatest victory of the day. You're out of breath from laughing.

Later, you find yourself in front of the merchandise tent, looking through patches and enamel pins when a small child toddles over. Their eyes are round and wide, fingers sticky with cotton candy. They look up at Sirius, then point at you.

"Are you their helper?" The words tumble out of the kid's mouth, straightforward as only children can be.

Sirius doesn't miss a beat. "Nope," he says, grinning down at the child. Then, with a playful wink, "They're my boss."

You burst out laughing, and the kid looks at you, confusion flickering across their face before they decide it must be a joke. With a shrug, they scamper off after a bubble wand, leaving behind the trail of their innocent curiosity. The vendor across the table chuckles, sliding you a discount on a patch that reads: Rolling With Rage.

You nudge Sirius with your footrest, the metal cool against your shoe. "Boss, huh?"

He inclines his head, a teasing glint in his eyes. "At your service. Always."

For the next hour, you find yourself parked under the shade of a towering oak, sharing a paper tray of greasy fries and watching the crowd. Attempts at a dance circle keep breaking apart amidst laughter, but it doesn't deter them. Someone in a tutu and combat boots throws themselves into an impromptu split, applause echoing around them. Nearby, a person with neon green hair meticulously paints slogans onto recycled cardboard, stencils and spray paint spread out before them like sacred tools. A few curious souls wander over to admire your chair, asking about the make, whether you added the skull decals yourself, where they can get one just like it.

A punk in a wheelchair with a service dog wearing small sunglasses rolls up beside you, and the dog's tongue laps at your hand. The two of you end up talking for twenty minutes about modified wheelchairs, obscure riot grrrl records, and the unspoken rules of mosh pits. For the first time in hours, you stop worrying about how your body is moving, stop checking to see if people are watching you.

Eventually, a drum circle forms nearby, and Sirius insists that you both join. Someone hands him a tambourine, which he shakes with gusto, while you get a pair of egg shakers. You're both off-beat, laughing too much to care, and your cheeks start to ache from the unfamiliar sensation of constant smiling. As the sun dips low, painting the sky with hues of pink and orange, you realize hours have passed without you noticing.

You're tired, sure. Your back and shoulders throb from the strain of movement. But there's still a smile on your face that refuses to fade even as the music continues to play, the crowd swaying, shouting, living in this space where bodies are just bodies and everyone belongs. There's a rhythm to it all, natural and inviting, like maybe you've been searching for this kind of crowd your whole life.

Sirius stands behind you, his arms looped around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder. His breath warms your ear as he hums along to the song of a girl with inked skin and a ripped tutu. You lean back into him, feeling his steady heartbeat against you. Despite the cacophony, there's a sense of peace here—a sense of belonging that seeps into your bones and roots you to the spot.

"Next year," Sirius murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple, "we should bring our own zine table. And a speaker. Start our own act."

You can't help but laugh, picturing the two of you busking on the fringes of this chaos. "Only if we get matching jackets that say 'Boss' and 'Minion.'"

"Deal," he says, and the word is a promise sealed with a kiss to your forehead.

Sirius's gaze drifts to the edge of the firelight, where the cabins loom in the dark like secret. You slipped inside an hour ago, your steps slower after the long hike, your smiles not reaching your eyes as they usually do. "Just tired," you'd said, brushing off concern with a wave of your hand. But he knows better.

You're always just tired.

His stomach twists, not with hunger but with worry. The image of your worn expression competes with the sight of golden marshmallows turning over the flames, and it's no contest which one gnaws at him more.

The marshmallow catches, turning black before he can react. He mutters a curse under his breath, tossing the charred remains into the fire pit and spearing another mallow onto the stick.

This time, the marshmallow browns perfectly—soft and golden, just like you told him you liked them when he asked you during the walk earlier. You'd given him that playful roll of your eyes and said, "I like the middle all gooey, but not too crispy on the outside." He remembers. He always remembers what you say.

Sirius sandwiches the now molten marshmallow between a square of chocolate and two graham crackers. It squishes out the sides as he presses down, creating the perfect, messy treat. He wraps it in a napkin and sets it aside before starting on another. And another.

"Are you planning to eat all of those yourself?" James's voice breaks through the quiet, a grin audible even in his words. He nudges Sirius with a stick, eyebrows raised in question.

Sirius shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Nope."

He straightens, dusting off his trousers with more force than necessary. Averting his gaze from the knowing looks of Remus and James, he picks up the napkin, his fingers brushing against the warm marshmallow.

Sirius has never been one to shy away from a flirtatious encounter, but this—approaching your cabin alone under the veil of darkness, armed only with the peace offering of s'mores—feels different. More vulnerable somehow.

The clamour of the campfire fades as he steps onto the gravel path leading towards the cabins. His boots crunch softly against the stones, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. The fire's glow is a distant beacon now, its light barely reaching the edges of the girls' side.

He ascends the wooden steps, each creak a testament to his presence. Above him, the porch light buzzes faintly, casting an eerie halo around the cabin door. He glances over his shoulder, half expecting to see a figure emerge from the shadows, ready to chastise him for crossing an invisible line.

There are rules, after all. Boys aren't allowed in the girls' rooms, not even Sirius Black with his devil-may-care attitude. But there's no rule against knocking, is there?

His knuckles rap against the door softly, twice.

"Leave me alone, I'm tired," you grumble, your voice muffled and weak through the thick oak door.

"It's Sirius," he replies, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carries the unmistakable timbre that commands attention.

A pause, then the soft click of a lock being turned. The door creaks open just wide enough for one eye to peer out at him.

You're standing there in a loose-fitting pajama set, hair in disarray, with one bare foot peeking out from behind the other. You lean heavily on your crutches, your expression wary but curious. Seeing you like this—unguarded and vulnerable—it tugs at something within him, awakening a protective instinct he didn't know he had.

"I brought you something," he says, extending the napkin as if it holds the most precious treasure.

Your eyebrow quirks up, a silent question hanging in the air between you. "Is that...?"

"Three," he confirms, his grey eyes twinkling with mischief. "Because you said one is never enough, and two is too predictable."

The corners of your mouth twitch, fighting the smile that threatens to break through your guarded facade.

"You're such a flirt," you accuse, but your tone lacks conviction.

His own smile broadens, unapologetic and endearing. "And yet, you haven't told me to stop."

Your fingers brush against the napkin as you take it from him, careful not to make contact with his skin. Even so, he’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, a living, breathing reminder of the world outside your door. You sit heavily on the edge of your bed, legs stretched out before you, every muscle aching as if they had borne the weight of the world.

He stays in the doorway, one hand still resting on the frame, as if anchoring himself there will prevent him from doing something stupid. Like stepping inside and closing the distance between you two.

You take a bite, savouring the flavours that burst on your tongue. The sandwich is simple but well-made, each ingredient chosen with care. Your eyes flutter closed as you chew, momentarily forgetting the conversation, forgetting him.

"Okay, fine," you admit after swallowing, your voice muffled by the food still in your mouth. "This earns you... like, five points."

"Out of ten?"

"Out of a hundred."

A soft laugh escapes him, more breath than sound. "Tough crowd."

You glance at him then, allowing a slow, deliberate smile to tug at the corners of your lips. "You didn't have to come up here."

"I know."

There's a pause in the conversation, a moment where neither of you say anything. The silence stretches, taut like a string about to snap. Then, finally, he breaks it.

"But I wanted to."

Your gaze lingers on Sirius, studying him, as if looking past the charming exterior that so often masks his true emotions. You see beyond the crooked grins and careless bravado, and something in your expression softens.

"Thank you, Sirius," you murmur, almost too softly for him to hear.

He nods, his own walls crumbling just a bit at your quiet gratitude. Stepping back, he squares his shoulders and tries to regain his composure.

"Goodnight, Y/n."

The nickname slips from his lips without thought, and you pause, but don't correct him. Something about it feels right, even if it shouldn't.

You swallow hard, eyes stinging as they dart away from his gaze. "I just... I wanted to get it right. The routine. I was so close. If I could've just—"

"Y/N." Sirius's voice is a soft plea, filled with an ache that mirrors your own. He leans forward, resting his forehead on your knee, his breath warm through the thin fabric of your pyjamas. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone, least of all me. You're already the most incredible person I know, and you're trying so damn hard. That's more than enough."

Your chest tightens, and you take in a shaky breath, not trusting yourself to speak. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, his eyes reflecting an unshakeable belief in you that both warms and breaks your heart. Because how can he see someone worthy when you often only see what's broken? But there he is, looking at you like you're everything he could ever hope for.

"I know it's hard," Sirius continues, his words falling gently between you, "that your body doesn't always cooperate. That the fatigue comes out of nowhere and flattens you, that just climbing the stairs can feel like summiting a mountain. That you wake up tired, and sometimes existing takes more energy than you have. But that doesn't make you any less. You're still you. You're still mine. And I love you—even when you're curled up in bed with heating pads and a scowl that could rival Snape's. Especially then. Honestly, you're absurdly cute when you're grumpy."

A small laugh escapes your lips, genuine despite the heaviness in your heart. "You think everything I do is cute."

"Obviously," he replies with a grin, both cocky and achingly fond. He reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch lingering as if imprinting the moment into memory. "But especially when you're letting me be here for you. Loving you means loving all of this, too. Even the hard days. Maybe especially the hard days."

You lean into Sirius, your body finally surrendering to his embrace. His arms are strong and sure around you, and the warmth that radiates from him is like a beacon cutting through the cold fog of your exhaustion. There's a gentle sway as he shifts his weight, an unconscious mimicry of a dance, slow and soothing. The rhythm aligns with your breaths, in and out, until they mirror each other—a silent symphony lulling you deeper into this moment.

Your cheek rests against his shoulder, and you turn your face towards his neck, inhaling deeply. There's a familiarity to his scent that tugs at a memory buried deep within you—wood and warmth, a hint of leather and mint, and something else that you can't quite place but feels like home. It's comforting, grounding, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you allow yourself to relax fully into the man you love.

"Okay," you murmur, your voice so quiet it's barely more than a thought carried on a breath.

"Okay what?" His voice is a soft rumble, vibrating through his chest and into your ear.

"Okay... you can take care of me. Just for a little while."

His lips brush the top of your head, cool and comforting, as a smile curves against your hair. "That's all I ever wanted," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. His arms tighten around you, solid and sure. "Let's stay here as long as you need. Or forever. I'm okay with forever."

For the first time today—maybe all week—you let yourself believe it's enough. That you are enough. That he loves you not despite your illness, but with it. Through it. Fully.

In Sirius's arms, the world feels less chaotic, the edges of your worries blunted by his unyielding presence. The tension in your muscles begins to ebb, replaced by a sense of calm you've forgotten how to feel. He hums a familiar tune against your head, each note vibrating with promise, with understanding, with love.

It's not a lie, not really. You did lose track of time—spent too long convincing yourself that you had the strength to Apparate back home, pausing in shadowed alleyways when the dizziness threatened to overcome you. But Sirius doesn't need to know that, doesn't need to see the cracks in your armour.

His gaze lingers on you, the silver-grey of his eyes reflecting a depth of understanding that is both comforting and unnerving. Then, with a grace that belies his size, he hops down from the counter. "Dinner's still warm," Sirius says, nodding towards the table where a plate waits, the steam rising slowly from it. "Thought you might forget to eat again."

Guilt twinges in your chest. He shouldn't have to worry about such things, not when he has enough troubles of his own. And yet, here he is, looking after you as though it's the most natural thing in the world. "You didn't have to—" you begin, but he cuts you off.

"Yes, I did." His voice is calm, steady—a beacon in the storm that is your mind. Sirius leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an intensity that leaves little room for dishonesty. It's a look you've come to recognise over the years, one that tells you he knows there's more to the story than you're letting on.

Your attention shifts to the jacket in your hands, its leather worn and familiar beneath your fingers. It's easier to focus on that than meet his gaze. "I'll warm it up later," you say, more to yourself than to him.

There's a pause before he responds, his voice thick with something unspoken. "Alright." But Sirius doesn't leave the kitchen, and you can feel his gaze on your back as you walk away.

Your legs are shaking by the time you reach the sofa, and you sink into the cushions with a sigh of relief. You've made it, you think, just before the wave of exhaustion hits. Your eyelids grow heavy, and you realise your mistake—allowing yourself to relax too soon. Now, getting up again will take more strength than you possess.

You pretend not to notice Sirius watching you from the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, the line of his jaw hardening as he takes in your appearance. He's always been perceptive, despite—or perhaps because of—his own turmoil. And now, those stormy grey eyes are bearing down on you like an impending tempest, threatening to wash away the walls you've so carefully constructed.

Of course he's picked up on it. Sirius Black may be many things—impulsive, reckless, prone to lash out when cornered—but he is far from oblivious. His life has honed a sharp edge of awareness, a knack for seeing the cracks in the world around him. And when it comes to people he cares about, that sight becomes laser-focused, unyielding, even if they never asked for such scrutiny. Especially if they never asked for it.

What you do next is a poor imitation of nonchalance. You shift in your seat, extending your legs to feign a stretch, but there's a tremor in your hands as they reach for the pillow behind you. It's subtle, easily missed by anyone not paying attention, but your breaths are shallow, too quick.

And Sirius Black, with his sharp eyes and sharper instincts, doesn't miss a thing.

With a sigh that's almost imperceptible, he detaches himself from the doorway. His movements are fluid, a graceful dance born of years on the run and countless hours spent honing his reflexes. A few steps bring him within touching distance; he chooses instead to perch on the edge of the coffee table, never breaking eye contact.

He leans forward then, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together, and his gaze is intense, a stark contrast to the softness of his voice when he finally speaks.

"Alright," Sirius says, the word barely more than a whisper. "That's enough."

Your heart lurches, and despite everything, you manage a faint, shaky laugh. "Enough of what?"

He tilts his head slightly, studying your face with an intensity that makes you want to look away, to hide. But there's nowhere to hide from Sirius—not here, not now.

"This," he says, his hand making a small gesture in the air between you. "The pretending."

You still, every muscle in your body tensing. The ache behind your eyes sharpens, but you push it back, push everything back.

For a moment, Sirius doesn't say anything more. He simply watches you, his eyes never leaving your face. His hands twitch once, as if he wants to reach out and touch you—to comfort or to confirm, you're not sure, but he doesn't move, and won't until you give him permission.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. Your throat feels like it's closing up, but you force the words out anyway. "I'm not pretending anything."

His eyes, those damned perceptive eyes, darken. "Don't," he says, the word hardly more than a breath. "Please don't lie to me."

Something clenches in your chest at that—at the softening of his voice, at the way his gaze treats you like fragile glass, as if you are something precious to be handled with care. It's almost worse than if he were angry.

You look away, fingers curling into fists on your lap. "I just..." A sigh escapes, carrying the weight of all the frustration building within you. "It's not a big deal, Sirius. I don't want to make a fuss."

"Isn't it?" His jaw hardens, an edge creeping into his voice. "Because from where I'm standing, it seems like a very big deal."

"It's just how things are," you counter, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "There's nothing to be done about it."

He shakes his head, a slow, disbelieving motion. "That's not the point." Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees, every inch of him radiating concern—a beacon in the storm. "The point is, you're hurting, and you don't have to be alone in this."

You press your lips together, forming a tight line across your face. "I don't want you to feel obligated to...take care of me."

A pause fills the space between you, and for the first time tonight, a shadow crosses Sirius's features. There's a flicker of something—hurt? disappointment?—in his stormy eyes before he schools them back to neutrality. "Is that what you think?" he asks, his voice softer now, almost pained. "That I'd consider this some kind of... obligation?"

Your gaze drops to your hands, and you don't answer. The words won't come, choked by the lump in your throat. Something in the air shifts as Sirius moves slightly, his hand inching closer to yours. He doesn't touch you yet, giving you the chance to pull away.

But you don't.

His fingers finally close around your hand, a warmth spreading through the contact. It's grounding, real—a lifeline in the storm brewing within your thoughts.

"Because I love you," he says quietly, each word heavy with sincerity. "And love means being there for someone—not because you have to, but because there's nowhere else you'd rather be."

Something inside you trembles, a wall beginning to crack.

"I'm not asking you to be okay," Sirius continues, his thumb tracing circles over the back of your hand. "I'm not asking you to fix anything. All I'm asking is for you to let me stay. To let me see you." His grip tightens just a fraction. "Please."

Your throat constricts, a knot of unshed tears and unsaid words. You want to pull away, to plaster on another smile and deflect with the ease of practice. But exhaustion clings to your bones, and Sirius is still here, waiting.

So, you exhale. Your shoulders sag infinitesimally, leaning into the solidity of his presence, if only for a moment.

Sirius shifts closer, his other hand reaching up to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "There you are," he murmurs, so softly it's almost lost in the silence.

Admission doesn't come easily to you. Even now, with Sirius this close, his fingers woven through yours as though they could anchor you to the present, the confession sticks in your throat. There's fear that voicing it will make it more tangible, that acknowledging the weight will only make it heavier.

But Sirius waits, the silence between you stretching like a bridge over troubled waters. He doesn't prod or pressure for answers; he rarely does when he senses the depth of your struggles. Instead, he remains by your side, a constant presence in an ever-shifting reality.

You inhale deeply, attempting to gather the fragments of your composure, but they slip through your fingers like sand when you finally speak.

"It's just..." Your voice is a tremor, a faint echo of the turmoil within. "I'm so tired, Sirius. Of everything. Of pretending I'm stronger than I am. Of smiling even when every fibre of me screams otherwise. Of trying to fit into a mould of normality I was never meant for."

His grip tightens around your hand, a silent vow that seeps into your skin and reaches for your weary heart.

"I hate feeling like a prisoner in my own body," you confess, the admission barely more than a breath against the stillness of the room. "Not knowing if today will be manageable or unbearable. Not being able to trust my own senses because pain is always lurking, ready to strike." A bitter laugh escapes your lips, the sound hollow and devoid of any real humour. "And the worst part is, it's always there, at the back of my mind, even when I don't want it to be."

Sirius doesn't interrupt, his gaze steady and unblinking. The expression on his face is hard to read, but there's an intensity in his eyes that speaks of something protective, something fierce. You pause, gathering your thoughts before pushing words through the barrier of your reluctance. "I didn't want you to—" You swallow, the lump in your throat stubborn. "I didn't want you to feel like you have to take care of me."

Sirius exhales slowly, a quiet sound that brushes against the silence between you. "I don't feel obligated to take care of you," he says, his voice low and earnest. "I want to. Not because you need it, but because I love you." The certainty in his words is a solid thing, heavy and warm within the cold confines of the hospital wing.

His thumb gently traces circles over your knuckles, a soothing rhythm that anchors you to the moment. "I know you're used to dealing with this alone," Sirius murmurs, "but you don't have to anymore. You shouldn't have to."

You shake your head, the motion small but resolute. "It's not that simple."

"I know," he murmurs, his thumb tracing circles on your skin. "But love isn't about keeping score or worrying if you're asking for too much. It's not a transaction." His voice is softer now, almost a whisper against the cool night air. "You've been carrying this weight alone for far too long. Let me share it, okay?"

His words seep into you, and something inside cracks open—a dam holding back years of solitude and silent suffering. The exhaustion hits you then, a tidal wave of fatigue from the endless charade, the constant vigilance, the loneliness that clings like a shadow.

Slowly, so slowly, you allow yourself to relax against him, your body folding into the curve of his with a sigh that speaks volumes.

Sirius wraps his arms around you tighter, pulling you close until there is no space left between. His body is warm, a solid presence that anchors you amidst the storm. The rhythm of his breathing is a lullaby in the silence, his fingers drawing lazy patterns along your spine.

For a moment, you simply exist there, allowing yourself to be held, to be comforted. Your breaths begin to match his, slow and steady—a shared language in the darkness.

"I've got you," he breathes into your hair, the words barely audible. "I promise, love. I've got you."

His voice is a lullaby now, stripped of its usual bravado, devoid of the hard edges that define Sirius Black to the world. This is a side few get to see—the part of him that loves fiercely, unyieldingly.

You close your eyes, leaning further into his touch. He's solid and warm, a beacon in the storm. His heartbeat thunders on, a steady rhythm beneath your cheek. You didn't realise how tightly you'd been holding yourself until this moment, until you allow yourself to sink into him, until you let go of the weight you've been shouldering.

"I don't know how to let people help," you confess, your voice a whisper against the fabric of his shirt.

"I know," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "But you can start small. Just... let me be here, okay?"

You nod, and his arms tighten around you, a silent vow to keep the world at bay.

You try to focus. You don’t think so. You manage to piece together the right sounds to tell him this time. 

Sirius nods. His fingers twitch beneath your head in a lazy scratching motion. “Sweet. I wasn’t in the room when you fainted, but it looks like you might’ve fallen back down onto the couch and then the floor, so we should be good.” 

You take a few deep breaths. Your body feels like you’ve just woken from a deep, disorienting sleep, and somehow also run a marathon while doing that. “Thanks,” you say. 

Your boyfriend rolls his eyes and moves your head into his lap, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Don’t mention it, sunshine. All in a day’s work.” He grins when your lips twitch tiredly. “Just take it easy. We’ll get you some water when you’re ready, okay?” 

You hum, letting yourself relax while he’s watching over you. Sirius has helped after you’ve passed out in public and once while crossing the street, so you know he’s more than capable of looking after you here in your home. Slender fingers tunnel into your hair to scratch soothingly at your scalp. 

“So,” he says casually, “do you come here often?” 

An amused exhale comes out your nose. You must make a funny face, because Sirius’ brows furrow. 

“What?” 

“I’m trying to decide if saying something about falling for you would be too cheesy.” 

He laughs, a surprised, barking thing. “Hey, cheese is welcome. I thought you had hit your head for a second there.” 

“Sorry…if you say your thing again, I can try to flirt better.”