⋆.˚ ☾⭒.

The department was chaotic. Stretchers lined the hallway, nurses shouting vitals across the room, the waiting room overflowing from the pile-up on the freeway. The air smelled like blood, antiseptic and adrenaline. Robby shoved the stairwell door open and held it long enough for me to step inside before it slammed shut behind us. The muffled quiet of the concrete stairwell felt suffocating after the noise outside. I watched as he dragged his hands down his face as if he had to physically gather his thoughts and keep his emotions in check. He was the depiction of a man on edge from a very stressful day and I wouldn’t doubt that it’s not only due to the fact it’s been a busy day but also that it’s the anniversary of his predecessor’s death. “Robby?” At the sound of his name he finally turned to face me. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Eyes furious. “How long have you known?” there was no warmth to his tone like I grew accustomed to. They were cold and void of any emotion. “Known what?” Robby let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not playing anything,” I said, irritation starting to spike. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about. You okay? I know it’s–”

“Don’t change the subject.”

His voice cut like a scalpel. 

“How long have you known about Frank and his benzo addiction?”

For a second the words didn’t even process. Clearly I misheard him.

“…What?”

Robby’s glare didn’t waver.

“Frank. Stealing benzos from his patient. Helping himself whenever he wants.” His voice dropped lower, tighter. “You two are practically glued at the hip. So I’ll ask again.”

The accusation landed like a punch to the chest. 

“I didn’t know,” I said slowly.

“Bullshit.”

My head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“You expect me to believe you’ve spent the last year covering shifts with him, grabbing drinks with him, hanging out with him outside the hospital and you never noticed?” 

My stomach twisted at his accusations.

“Robby, I’m serious. I didn’t know anything about this.”

His eyes searched my face like he was looking for cracks.

For a lie.

“And you never thought anything was strange?” he asked. “No changes in his behaviour lately?”

“He’s been on edge lately but I chalked it up to him and Abby’s marital issues. I had no idea that he was getting high.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“Robby please…” I stepped closer. “If I had known that he was stealing meds I would’ve said something to you.”

His expression hardened instead of softening.

“Finding it hard to believe that.”

My chest tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t believe that you had no idea about your close friend and his addiction.” His jaw clenched. He quietly added, “Did you help him?”

My irritation morphed through several other emotions in the span of sixty seconds. Hurt and betrayal were the leading top two right now.

“Don’t do that,” I snapped. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once across the narrow landing like a caged animal.

“You know what this looks like from my point of view?” he said.

“I’m listening. Though I assume you already have your conclusion.”

“It looks like my girlfriend knew one of my residents was stealing controlled meds from patients and kept her mouth shut.”

The word girlfriend hit differently coming out of his mouth like that.

Clinical.

Detached.

“Except I didn’t,” I shot back.

Robby stopped shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

For a moment something flickered across his face. Doubt, maybe.

Then it vanished.

“I can’t do this right now.”

A cold feeling spread through my chest.

“What does that mean?” 

“It means I have a department falling apart through those doors and a resident spiraling into addiction.” His voice went flat. “And apparently another resident I can’t trust.”

My breath caught.

“Michael…”

“We’re done.”

The words echoed off the concrete walls.

Just like that.

“What?” My voice came out smaller than I meant it to.

“You heard me. I don’t know if I could trust you.”

The sentence felt worse than if he’d just called me a liar.

He grabbed the door handle.

“Don’t come over tonight,” he added without looking back. “You’re not staying at my place.”

Then he pushed the door open and walked back into the chaos of the ER.

Leaving me alone in the stairwell with my scrambled thoughts and broken heart.

My eyes burned with tears threatening to spill over. I was thankful for the empty stairwell as I sank down to sit on the steps.

How the hell did I not notice my friend was struggling? Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t Michael believe me? 

The questions kept swirling in my head over and over as I sat there. My phone buzzed in my pocket, I fished it out to see Frank sent me a message.

I’m sorry.

Two words. 

Two words that were supposedly an apology for his addiction or for the effect he knew this would have on my relationship with Robby. 

I pocketed my device choosing to not respond to him right now, don’t think I could speak to him anytime soon. 

Releasing a breath I pushed to my feet and returned to the ER to get back to my patients.

Perlah smiled at me as I walked past and I returned it despite the strong urge to go cry and scream in the nearest empty room.

Fake it till you make it.

For the rest of the shift I kept my head down and focused solely on the job. Robby avoided me at all costs but somehow every one of Frank’s patients somehow ended up on my list.

Another reason why I will not be messaging Frank anytime soon after this shift from fucking hell. I’m behind on charting and every time I think I’ve got a chance to sit down another fucking gurney is rolled in through those doors. 

“Hey Superwoman, just who I was looking for.” 

“Donnie, what can I do for you?” My eyes didn’t leave the screen as I updated one of my patient’s notes.

“A group of us are planning to grab some drinks afterwards, you in?”

“I’m swamped so no, I’ll join you guys next time though.”

Dr. Abbot furrowed his eyebrows at me from where he stood on the opposite side of the hub. It took everything in me to not bash my head into this monitor to put myself out of my misery. 

Jack and Robby are close friends which also meant that he knew of our relationship and I’m positive Robby already filled him in on the whole situation. 

The attending wrapped up his conversation with one of the student doctors before crossing the room towards me. 

“If you’re coming to spew bullshit accusations at me too, don’t. I’ve had a very fucking long day.” 

Jack grunted as he leaned against the trolley. “Just came to check on ya. I know you and Langdon were friends.”

My eyes finally trained on him.

“I’m fine, if I need a psych eval I’ll see Caleb.” My tone was snippy but I couldn’t find it in me to care.

His lips twitched as he fought a smirk. “You’re not fine.”

I was about to retort but I sensed Robby before I even heard his voice. He came to tell Jack he was headed out, didn’t even glance in my direction and it felt like a punch in the gut.

Jack quirked an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise?”

“How much trouble would I be in if I told an attending to go fuck himself?” He actually laughed at that.

“He’ll come around.”

I scoffed at that. 

If only he had seen the look on Michael’s face earlier.

God, I really could do with a drink.

Sirius hated Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

And there was an irony in the fact that, as a boy, he had run away from this very house to James's, convinced he couldn't survive another single second here. Irony in realising he had fled because he couldn't bear life in that dark house, overflowing with resentment and bitterness. He had run because he'd spent his life trapped in his own home, imprisoned by his own family.

And now, he was trapped in the exact same place once more.

The Blacks were long gone, but the wretched feeling the house gave him never eased.

Of course, compared to Azkaban, there was a certain level of comfort. A soft bed, a few of his old books he'd managed to hide from Walburga, hot meals. He was also fortunate enough to no longer deal with Dementors, though Kreacher's constant muttering served as a decent substitute for psychological torture.

Not long ago, he had managed to contact Albus, offering to turn this godforsaken hole into something useful by making it the new Headquarters for the Order. Perhaps having people fighting for the right cause constantly coming and going might make him view it less like a nest of vipers and more like a home. Especially since, by Dumbledore's orders, he had to avoid going outside, avoid being seen, avoid going on missions.

Sirius didn't know what his purpose was now that he was "free". He felt utterly useless, living off the charity of others who were out there risking their lives, hunting for the one who should have been in his place all these years while he rotted in this filthy house.

Still no sign of Wormtail. He found himself remembering Dumbledore's last letter.

Merlin. Was it really too much to ask for something to do? Was he truly such an incompetent wizard in their eyes?

He was still slumped in the armchair in the drawing room when he heard someone apparating outside. He grabbed his wand and sat up straight. Sirius knew Dumbledore was the Secret-Keeper of the place, but after all these years, a little extra caution wouldn't hurt.

Moments later, he heard the click of the front door lock, the turn of the handle, and then the sharp, rhythmic clicking of a heel against the wooden floorboards.

"STAINS UPON THE NOBILITY OF OUR NAME! BLOOD TRAITORS IN MY HOUSE!"

Brilliant, he thought. Walburga had heard too and seemed wide awake now, screeching her atrocities loudly enough to be heard all the way to the Thames.

Sirius tucked his wand into the waistband of his trousers with an irritated sigh and strode toward the entrance hall. His loudmouthed mother’s shrill voice gave him splitting headaches, and he’d already asked people to enter the house quietly, otherwise she'd scream for hours on end. In truth, he'd probably prefer a Dementor’s Kiss over enduring the old hag's shrieking. As he walked, his teeth ground together, and his steps grew heavier on the floorboards. His anger toward the old portrait, however, vanished the second he saw you.

You were standing in the middle of the hall, struggling desperately with the heavy, dusty velvet curtains to cover the portrait. Your hair was slightly damp from the drizzle outside, and your dark woollen coat still hung from your shoulders, half-open, revealing the formal clothes you wore to work at the Ministry.

"Just... shut your bloody mouth... you miserable old hag..." you muttered through gritted teeth, your voice strained and muffled by physical effort as you yanked the heavy fabric, fighting to hide the slight embarrassment of waking the old witch.

"Let me help with that," Sirius said.

His voice, rough and deep, seemed to startle you. You gave a sharp flinch, letting go of the curtain for a split second. Sirius took two quick strides forward, positioning himself right behind you. He stretched his long arms over your shoulders, gripping the velvet firmly and yanking it closed over the frame in one swift movement.

Walburga’s screams were abruptly muffled, reduced to a low drone behind the heavy cloth.

Sirius hadn't stepped back yet. He was still standing right behind you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body. It was always strange for both of you to be in the same room, after all, a lot could change in fourteen years, even for two people who had been engaged before the disaster with the Potters and his imprisonment.

It had been such a confusing storm of emotions when the Order summoned you again. Sirius had escaped Azkaban nearly two years prior and still hadn't sought you out. Of course, there could have been a dozen reasons for that, and during the year he broke out, most people still believed he was indeed guilty of James and Lily's deaths. Somehow, you had never been able to believe it, even when Dumbledore himself advised you to move on. But then, if Sirius wasn't to blame, why had he never come back for you? Had the agonising years in Azkaban managed to erase you from his heart?

When Dumbledore’s summons finally arrived, you instinctively knew he would be there. You were only more certain when you stood before the house at Grimmauld Place.

Just thinking of the possibility of seeing him again threw you into a spiral of feelings that could hardly be put into words. The immense longing echoing in your chest was the strongest of them, but the uncertainty of his state of mind was just as powerful. There was also the desperate, aching passion that fourteen years apart hadn't been able to extinguish – but there was fear and doubt too, which time had only watered to grow.

When you finally saw Sirius Black again for the first time in all those years, standing in one of the drawing rooms of that massive house, surrounded by the other members of the Order, you couldn't run to him like you thought you would. You couldn't even cry, though you felt like you might burst with emotion at the sight of him. All you managed to do was exchange a few awkward, clumsy words, barely looking each other in the eye. You even remembered Molly's teasing the following day, whispering to you, "Given how you two used to be, I thought you'd throw yourself at him the second you saw him." Well, that was what you had thought you’d do, too. But how do you interact with a fiancé you were separated from for over a decade? You can't just pick up where you left off. What had changed? Who had he become, when even you weren't the same person anymore?

No. You didn't have the courage to do anything. Not that day, and not in the days that followed.

And Sirius? Well, it was a torture shared by both of you. Fourteen years. Fourteen years since he was ripped away from his own life, from everything you two shared, from wedding plans, and even from the warmth your body brought to his soul. Sirius knew you must carry a deep wound from his imprisonment. He imagined you must have spent all this time questioning his true intentions, believing he was a murderer – after all, even Dumbledore had given up on him. He feared you might even feel disgusted with yourself for ever having given your body and soul to such a vile man. Even though the truth had come to light, how could he dare believe things would remain the same between you? How could he believe that someone who had likely spent the last decade nurturing the thought of him as a killer could still love him? Perhaps not even he would do that.

Sirius had a cowardly dread of seeing repulsion, fear, or hatred in the eyes of the woman he loved most. From his perspective, when you walked through that door for the first time weeks ago, his heart beat so violently against his ribs it felt ready to break the bone and leap toward you. In his mind, all he wanted was to run, sweep you into his arms, and kiss you until the world vanished. But when your eyes met amid the other Order members, all you two could manage was a few stuttered, formal words, lacking even the courage to hold each other's gaze for more than two seconds. Unable to face one another, when you used to share a loud, physical relationship where personal space barely existed and passion was a delicious game between you. But how could he touch you now? What right did he have to your body or your love? He was no longer the bold, reckless twenty-two-year-old. What if you were only there out of duty? What if you didn't want what was left of him anymore?

So, the two of you remained like strangers.

Back in the hall, slowly, you turned to face him, closing the distance between your bodies even further. Your eyes met in the dimness of the corridor, lit only by the weak glow of a wall bracket.

Sirius swallowed hard, his grey eyes tracing the contours of your face. He wanted to raise his hand, touch the curve of your jaw, and pull you to him. His arms twitched with a subtle movement, his fingers flexing, but he hesitated.

You noticed his hesitation, and your chest tightened with your heavy longing. You felt just as desperately how much you wanted to hold him. You wanted to wrap your arms around his neck, cling to him tightly, and bury your head there, breathing in his scent. Would it still be as intoxicating as it was all those years ago?

"Hi, Sirius," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly at the end.

"Hi," he replied, the gravelly depth of his voice vibrating straight down your spine. He took a half-step back, creating a safe distance, and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets–a defensive tic he’d had since his Hogwarts days. "You... I haven't seen you in a while. Is the Ministry keeping you busy?"

"Yes. A lot of paperwork and import reports for the committee," you lied partially, not wanting to bore him with the bureaucracy of your day, though the truth was you were only trying to delay your return to this house. "It’s been a long day."

"I imagine so," Sirius nodded, casting his eyes to the floorboards for a second before focusing back on you. "You've come for the meeting, I suppose?"

You looked around, searching for any sign that anyone else had arrived. "Yes, has everyone else arrived?"

"Not yet. You're the first, as always. Even if you are later than usual."

You wiped your dusty hands on your coat, averting your eyes. "Force of habit. Believe me, I'm not in the least bit excited to discuss Dolores Umbridge and Fudge's delusions."

Sirius nodded, still keeping his distance, though his pupils drifted back to you for a fraction of a second.

"The drawing room is... a bit warmer. I was in there. Left a fire going in the grate. If you like... we could have a drink until the others get here."

You looked at his hands hidden in his pockets, remembering how those very hands used to be so possessive and warm against your skin. The desperate need to be near him, even under the awkward guise of two strangers who knew each other far too intimately, won over.

"I’d love that," you said softly.

You walked past the hall and made your way to the drawing room in silence. The room was bathed in shadow, illuminated only by the reddish glow of the embers in the fireplace. On the old, ornate coffee table, a bottle of Firewhisky was already half-empty next to a single, heavy tumbler. Sirius walked a bit further to the kitchen cabinet, grabbed another matching glass, and returned to pour you a generous measure, sliding the glass across the dark wood of the table before sitting on the sofa.

You took off your damp coat, draping it over one of the sofa arms, and sat down beside him, misjudging the physical proximity so that your knees almost touched over the upholstery.

You held the glass, feeling the warmth of the Firewhisky seep into your cold hands. Sirius swirled his own drink, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid, his jaw clenched as he seemed to battle his own thoughts.

Feeling awkward under the heavy silence, you looked down at your drink before downing the entire shot in a single gulp.

Sirius seemed to be amused by this.

"I remember you used to hate Firewhisky," he remarked suddenly, a bitter, nostalgic half-smile tugging at the corner of his thin lips. "You said it tasted like goblin piss."

A faint laugh escaped your lips, breaking the tension slightly.

"Yes, well. Things change in fourteen years. I suppose this sort of drink gets a bit more tolerable as we get older. Though I do still think it tastes like goblin piss."

"And you drink a lot of goblin piss, do you?"

You gave his arm a playful swat, laughing. "Oh, stop it, you know what I meant."

Sirius let out a short, breathy laugh – a sound so rare lately that it felt foreign even to his own ears. The movement crinkled the corners of his grey eyes, momentarily softening the exhausted, hardened expression that years of imprisonment had carved into his face.

"You're out of luck with this one. Mundungus brought it, Merlin knows where from," he said, leaning his head back against the sofa, though his eyes didn't leave you for a second. "The last time I had a whisky this bad was during our first winter in the Greenwich flat. Remember? None of us knew how to cast a proper warming charm, and it was, what? The coldest week of January?"

A soft, genuine laugh finally slipped from your lips. "I remember that," you murmured, feeling the warmth of the whisky start to spread through your chest, relaxing your tense shoulders. "Nothing could faze you back then, could it? I told you buying that rubbish was a waste of sickles."

"Oh, come off it, it was aged at least-"

"Sixty years? Yes, I remember you saying that," you interrupted, still laughing. "No wonder you bought it from some other Mundungus type."

Sirius laughed. "Now that I think about it, one gulp of Skele-Gro would have tasted much better."

"It did nothing but give me the worst hangover of my life, and you swore it would help warm us up."

"And it did work," he shot back, a flash of playful arrogance crossing his eyes – a perfect ghost of twenty-two-year-old Sirius. "Though I admit the whisky was just a pretext. We didn't end up needing any warming charm after what we did on the living room floor."

Your cheeks flushed hot instantly at the memory. That night, the freezing flat had been entirely forgotten beneath the heat of his skin, in the rhythm of how you used to love each other on the floor of that tiny room, taking your time. Two young, newly engaged people, driven by an uncontrollable physical hunger for one another, consuming every inch of that shared space.

"We were so reckless," you whispered, a nostalgic smile forming, only to wither as the silence threatened to return.

You poured yourself another and took a slow sip of the whisky, trying to focus on the heat of the drink to ignore the fact that Sirius's leg was only inches from yours. The warmth radiating from him seemed to pierce through the fabric of your clothes, emitting a magnetic pull that drew you in like a moth to a flame.

Sirius watched the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His eyes traced down the line of your neck, where a tiny trickle of whisky had slipped past your lips, glistening against your skin. He felt the fingers of his free hand twitch against his knee. The urge to reach out, trace that damp path, and lick it from your skin was almost unbearable.

He still remembered the texture perfectly, how you would gasp softly when he kissed that exact sensitive spot just below your ear. The muscle memory was pure torture. His hands knew precisely where to grip, where to caress. Would you still arch into him if he touched you like that? Would you still feel the same?

Merlin, he wanted to know so badly.

"You ought to dry your hair," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its lighter edge and turning low, intimate. "You'll catch a cold."

"I'm fine. The whisky is keeping me warm," you replied, lifting your face to look at him.

As you did, the distance between you seemed to vanish. Your eyes locked onto his mouth, onto the contours of those lips you had kissed so many times before.

Sirius noticed your gaze. He held his breath, his jaw tightening as he fought the primal urge to throw all caution to the wind, pull you onto his lap, and sink back into the familiar physical rhythm you once shared. He felt like a teenage boy all over again, wanting to feel the weight of your body pressing against his. Merlin, what was happening to him?

To mask his own desperation, he let out a dry chuckle and gestured with his glass toward your formal clothes.

Think of something else. Say something else. Anything.

"You look far more serious in that uniform," he teased, though his voice was thick with a rasp that betrayed the humour. "Quite the proper witch now."

Your mouth fell open in mock outrage. "Excuse me! I have always been a proper witch."

He scratched his bearded chin, a smirk playing on his lips. "I don't know about that. But you certainly look the part."

"And you haven't changed a bit. Still the samecorny charmer who thinks he's incredibly cool."

"Corny charmer? Since when am I a corny charmer?"

"Since when are you not?"

"Oh, come off it, we both know I'm still extremely cool. In fact, now that we're older, I feel like I'm the only cool adult whenever we meet up."

You let out a scoff, though in truth you agreed with him. "Keep dreaming."

He chuckled, shaking his head, crossing his arms as his gaze softened with nostalgia. "But seriously, an exemplary Ministry of Magic employee. Who would have thought?"

"Honestly, what is so hard to picture about that?"

Sirius laughed again. "Nothing. Don't take it the wrong way, it's just... I keep remembering how it used to be." Bad idea. Do not go there, he thought, yet he couldn't stop himself from pushing on. "I remember when you applied and got the job, right before... well, before everything happened. You came home in an outfit very much like this one. So proud."

You felt your heart skip a beat at the direction the conversation was taking. Again.

"I remember," you whispered, your voice suddenly fragile.

Sirius hesitated before continuing, and you felt his eyes trail down your skirt to your legs, hidden beneath sheer tights. "It took me exactly two minutes to scatter all your new paperwork across our kitchen floor and strip you bare on top of the table," he murmured, his grey eyes darkening, fixing back on yours with a raw, unfiltered honesty. "You were cross because I'd crumpled the parchment from your new boss..."

But I didn't complain when he made me forget my own name half an hour later.

The explicit mention of that intense intimacy, of the times when your routine was constantly interrupted by the urgent need to possess one another, made your spine shiver. The elephant in the room, which had been growing for weeks, seemed to drain the air from the place, making it so hard to breathe.

Instinctively, you shifted slightly on the sofa, seeking support, and your knee brushed directly against his.

The physical contact, however minimal and suppressed by layers of clothing, acted like a high-voltage electric shock, leaving both of you in a state of semi-paralysis, though neither of you pulled away. The simple touch of your legs seemed to burn, sending a wave of heat straight to your lower abdomen.

Why did I come here again? you asked yourself. Your reasons for coming seemed like distant memories, while the sensation of Sirius Black devouring you felt more vivid than ever, even if it had happened years and years ago. How is this even possible?

Sirius swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling visibly. The teasing was over. Of course, it was entirely his fault. He simply couldn't hold his tongue. Not when everything he said was exactly what was playing on his mind. He looked into your eyes, and the vulnerability mixed with raw lust there was almost painful to look at.

He whispered your name, his voice rougher still, his hand releasing the glass as he reached toward your face.

But the touch never came as another loud crash echoed from the entrance hall.

"FILTHY HALF-BREEDS! BLOOD TRAITORS!"

The old hag's voice echoed through the walls once more, shrill and grating as ever.

You jerked back with a start, your senses suddenly snapping back, left breathless by the pounding of your own heart. Sirius merely closed his eyes, clenching his hovering fist tightly as he let out a sharp breath. The sheer fury of having your moment ruined made him want to smash the bloody glass on the floor, shattering it completely. His jaw clenched so hard that a vein throbbed visibly at his temple before he finally let his hand drop heavily onto his thigh.

Masculine voices and heavy footsteps muffled Walburga’s screams as the curtain was pulled shut firmly by someone else outside.

"Sorry about the racket, Sirius! The door latch got caught on my overcoat," Remus Lupin's calm voice echoed from the corridor, approaching the drawing room along with Kingsley Shacklebolt's firm footsteps.

The two of you pulled apart instantly. You gripped your near-empty glass with trembling fingers, fixing your eyes on the dying embers, while Sirius leaned back against the sofa, running a hand through his hair to shake off the irritation that had fallen over him like a bucket of ice water. By the time Lupin and Kingsley crossed the threshold, the air between you had turned completely cold.

"Ah, you're here already?" Remus noted, his gaze darting quickly between you, the glass in your hand, and Sirius's excessively rigid posture.

"Yes. Wanted a break from all the paperwork," you lied, forcing a steady, professional tone that didn't match the storm raging inside you. Obviously, you wouldn't admit that you’d spent the last few days buried in work just to distract yourself, and now had nothing left to do.

"Excellent, then we can begin as soon as Moody arrives," Kingsley said, his deep baritone filling the room as he headed towards the kitchen.

After that, the meeting went on for two hours.

More Order members arrived, and the dining table in the kitchen was soon packed. You sat at the opposite end from Sirius, sharing space with Tonks and Mr Weasley. Sirius remained at the head of the table, but he didn't seem as present as he usually tried to be to make himself useful. He had adopted a familiar posture of boredom, resting his chin on his hand, grey eyes hooded, pretending to listen to the updates on Hogwarts while his focus remained entirely on you.

Whenever you were asked to speak about the import committee's movements, you could feel his gaze burning against your skin. When you gestured, Sirius fixed his eyes on your hands, when you tucked a stray hair behind your ear, his jaw clenched.

You tried your absolute best to stay focused as well, but the warmth of him that still felt imprinted on your skin made it difficult to concentrate on the tedious details of wizarding bureaucracy. You actively avoided each other. Sirius directed no comments to you, and you didn't seek his approval for any of your points. To any casual observer, you were simply old acquaintances.

When the meeting finally adjourned, you stood up to leave immediately. Molly tried to get you to stay a little longer. She couldn't hide her gaze darting between you and Sirius, and though she never said anything outright, you could tell she was still trying to rekindle whatever you two once had. But her maternal instincts and will to help weren't enough to make you stay, and you said your goodbyes to everyone. As you passed Sirius, who was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, you held your breath. Your eyes met for a single fraction of a second – a fleeting glimpse of hunger, frustration, and longing.

"Goodnight, Sirius," you said quietly.

"Goodnight," he replied, the rough timber of his voice sending one last shiver down your spine before you stepped through the door and apparated away.

-----------------------------

The footsteps of the last Order members to leave Grimmauld Place had long since faded, and even Kreacher had retreated to his den of rags beneath the kitchen sink.

Sirius was alone. Again.

He walked up the stairs to his old bedroom. The posters of motorbikes and girls in bikinis stuck to the walls were symbols of his teenage past, and now they felt like nothing more than pathetic relics of a boy he would never be again.

He collapsed onto the four-poster bed, tossing and turning as he tried his hardest to fall asleep. He hated his sleepless nights, they gave him far too much time to think, much more than he wanted. Tonight, there was only you whenever he closed his eyes.

Sirius could still smell your scent lingering on his own fingers. He raised his right hand in the dim light, staring at his pale, calloused palm against the weak street light filtering through the dusty window pane. That was the hand that had almost touched you earlier. "If he tried, he could still remember the texture of your skin perfectly.

A violent surge of frustration rose in his chest, making him growl in anger. He felt his entire body tense, his cock hard and aching beneath his rough trousers, reacting to the memory of seeing you earlier, of the trickle of drink slipping down your neck, and the way your body had tensed when you talked about the old days.

Fourteen years. He had spent fourteen years locked in a cell where the only thing beyond the instinct for revenge keeping him sane was the image of your face. He had survived the madness by remembering how you gasped when he kissed you, how your nails clawed at his back when he took you.

Unable to bear the agonising tightness of his trousers any longer, Sirius muttered a low curse and reached for the buttons. He undid them with slightly trembling, impatient fingers, sliding his hand beneath his underpants until his pulsing, fully erect cock was free.

The moment his hand closed around the hot length, a shaky, hissed breath escaped his clenched teeth. He shut his eyes tight, and on the dark screen of his mind, it wasn't his own hand touching him. It was yours.

He imagined your soft, cool fingers wrapping around him, the touch he craved so desperately, the one that would make him gasp and groan. Sirius began to move, sliding his calloused palm along his length in a firm rhythm. With every stroke, he recalled the look of pure, restrained lust you’d given his mouth. He could clearly picture the curve of your hips, the way your skirt rode up slightly when you shifted on the sofa.

He whispered your name to the empty room, the broken words sounding like a prayer, rasped from his dry throat.

Then he quickened the pace of his hand. He could feel the waves of pleasure that the firm, rhythmic friction sent straight to his lower abdomen. He arched his back slightly against the mattress, his chest rising and falling in rapid, noisy pants. In his desire-frenzied mind, he was pulling you onto his lap, feeling the weight of your body, hearing your soft whimpers echo against his ear, just like it used to be.

He remembered before. The rug on the living room floor. How your hips moved against his, the warm, tight wetness that welcomed him. The wet, obscene sounds. The memory was so vivid he could almost swear he felt your fingernails scratching his shoulders.

The pleasure surged like a violent tide, pooling at the tip of his length with an almost painful intensity. Sirius squeezed tighter, forcing a feverish, relentless pace. His hips lifted slightly off the bed in involuntary spasms, seeking a release that seemed long in coming after being deprived of touch for so many years.

His breathing turned into rapid gasps. He was right on the edge. He surrendered completely to the vision of you beneath him, hair messy and spread across the sheets, begging him to fuck you at last. The memory of how good you were to him. Always so good to him. His beloved. His fiancée.

"Fuck..." he muttered, his voice entirely shattered.

With a few more rapid, tight, desperate strokes, the climax hit him hard. Sirius seized on the bed, his thighs and abdominal muscles tightening violently as he came. A low, hoarse, purely animal grunt was ripped from the depths of his chest, echoing off the walls of the room as he spilled his hot cum over his fingers and stomach.

He lay motionless for long seconds, his heart hammering against his ribs, his hand still loosely gripping himself as the last spasms of pleasure subsided.

Slowly, Sirius opened his grey eyes.

The room was still dark. The bed was still cold. The smell of sex and sweat mingled with the damp mustiness of Grimmauld Place. And he was still alone. He looked at his dirty fingers, feeling an even deeper void settle inside him.

He cleaned himself up with a lazy charm, buttoned his trousers back up, and turned onto his side to face the peeling wall. The act would satisfy him for a short while, but it wouldn't be enough. He knew the hunger would return even worse the next time he saw you. And worse the time after that, and the time after that. Until he became a complete slave to his own passion and succumbed entirely, confronting you, perhaps even begging you to end his agony in the most pathetic way imaginable. He knew, in the depths of his soul, that he wouldn't be able to keep his distance for much longer.

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English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any typos or weird phrasing.

First time writing NSFW and I have absolutely no idea how it reads, but I hope it’s okay! I’ve been wanting to write this story for a while now, and it really needed this level of sexual tension, it wouldn’t have worked any other way so I had to push myself out of my comfort zone a bit. 💦 (Even though I didn't manage to make it as smutty as I originally imagined... but part two is on the way, and that's where I’ll really have to step up my game! 💀)