Darling, can I be your favorite ?
✮⋆˙ 𝔖𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔲𝔰 𝔟𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔵 𝔣𝔢𝔪!𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔤𝔢 𝔞𝔲 ⋆˚꩜｡
Summary : You’re caught between past and present: forced into an engagement with Sirius Black, your sharp rivalry turns reckless one night, leaving you with Estelle. Now, your days revolve around her warmth while Sirius stays distant, the marriage hollow but motherhood full of love. A/n : So this had been sitting in my drafts for a VERY LONG TIME , since October 21st !! So I decided i'd finally release it even though I have no ideas what to do for part two ?? please send ideas !!
The kitchen was warm, the smell of sizzling butter and herbs filling the air. You moved with precision, chopping vegetables and stirring sauces, the rhythmic motions keeping your mind occupied. It was a quiet evening, one of those rare moments where you could just exist without the weight of the world—or Hogwarts—pressing down on you.
But then, as you sprinkled salt into the pan, your mind wandered. A sharp memory came unbidden, dragging you back to a time you’d rather forget. The memory of cold stone halls, of a family’s expectations heavier than any spell, of a boy with a smirk that made your blood boil…
Your hands stilled over the stove, and for a moment, the warmth of the kitchen vanished, replaced by the icy tension of that first meeting. You could see it all again: the Black estate, Regulus beside you like a lifeline, Sirius leaning against the doorway with that insufferable grin, your parents pushing you toward a fate neither of you wanted…
You shook your head, trying to dispel the memory, but it clung to you, sharp and vivid, and for a moment, you almost laughed at yourself. Cooking had always been your escape, your solace, yet here it was—your mind betraying you with the very nightmare you’d spent years trying to bury.
You hadn’t wanted to go. Your parents insisted, claiming it was “for the good of the family,” as if your opinion ever mattered. Still, you followed them through the winding corridors of the Black estate, trying not to wrinkle your nose at the grandeur, at the portraits of sneering ancestors, at the oppressive weight of pure-blood tradition.
Regulus, your closest friend among Slytherins, had tagged along at your side, whispering reminders to stay polite. “Just… smile,” he muttered, giving you a small encouraging nod. “You’re still you, don’t let them intimidate you.”
And yet, when Sirius Black finally appeared, lounging in the doorway like he owned the world, all of Reg’s advice flew out the window. He was impossibly tall, impossibly confident, and had that infuriatingly smug smirk plastered across his face. Your stomach flipped—not in excitement, but irritation.
“Well,” he drawled, voice rich with mockery, “so this is my… prospective other half?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.
You scoffed loudly, folding your arms. “And you must be the infamous Sirius Black. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’d be lying.”
He laughed—a deep, mocking laugh that immediately set your teeth on edge. “Oh, I like her,” he said, eyes glinting. “Already giving me attitude. This will be fun.”
“I wouldn’t call it fun,” you shot back, voice sharp, “more like a nightmare I’m stuck in.”
Regulus snorted beside you, but you ignored him. Sirius’ eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t look offended. If anything, his amusement only deepened.
Dinner was a tense affair. Your parents tried to make small talk, talking about family alliances, blood purity, and other things you had no interest in. You and Sirius sat across from each other, the air between you crackling. Every glance, every smirk, every bite of food seemed like a challenge.
“So,” you said finally, cutting through the tedious chatter, “do you always look this insufferable, or is it just reserved for me?”
Sirius tilted his head, mock hurt flashing in his eyes. “You wound me. I’d say it’s an art form, perfected over seven long years.”
Regulus sighed quietly, knowing this was going to be a long evening.
Then came the announcement. Your parents cleared their throats, standing like statues at the end of the table.
“We believe it is in the best interest of both families,” your father began, “that you two—” he gestured toward Sirius, “—be formally engaged. Effective immediately.”
For a moment, silence fell over the room. You stared at Sirius, expecting him to erupt, to insult your family or storm out. But no. He just froze, eyes wide, jaw tightening.
“Wait,” you managed, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re… serious?”
He blinked at you. “Are you joking? Because if this is a joke, I hate you even more.”
When your parents finally left the room, the silence between you shattered instantly.
“Oh, this is perfect,” you hissed, voice dripping with venom. “I’ve wanted to be chained to a pompous, reckless, self-absorbed prat for my entire life, and now here I am.”
Sirius’ jaw twitched. “You have a real talent for flattery, you know that?”
Flattery?!” you snapped. “I’m stating facts. Look at me—seven years in Hogwarts, and now I’m going to be married to this.” You gestured vaguely at him. “The one who probably thinks the world revolves around him!”
His face darkened for a split second, and you felt a small, guilty pang—but only small. “Watch it, love. I might start believing you enjoy insulting me.”
“I do,” you said, sharp and honest. “And I especially enjoy that it hurts you.”
Sirius stood abruptly, pacing a few steps, his hands fisted at his sides. “I swear, if this is how it’s going to be, we are going to make each other miserable. And I… I don’t even know if I can hate you enough for that.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Challenge accepted.”
The sizzling in the pan snapped you back to the present, though not entirely. Your heart was still racing from the memory, your fingers gripping the spatula a little too tightly. And then… a sound pulled you completely out of it.
A soft, wailing cry.
Your chest tightened. “No… not now,” you muttered, setting the pan aside. The noise grew, urgent and piercing, unmistakably coming from upstairs. Your daughter.
“Estelle?” you called gently, your voice laced with concern as you moved toward the staircase. Another sob hit your ears, and your pace quickened. The moment you reached her door, you could see it was slightly ajar. Peeking inside, your heart softened immediately.
She was sitting up in her crib, tear-streaked cheeks glimmering in the dim light, tiny fists gripping her blanket as she whimpered.
“There, there,” you murmured, pushing the door open and kneeling beside her. “Shh… it’s okay. I’m here.”
Her sobs didn’t stop immediately, but she relaxed slightly as you scooped her into your arms. Her small body pressed against yours, and you felt the familiar mixture of exhaustion and love settle over you.
As you gently bounced her, humming a soft tune, your thoughts drifted back again—but this time not to the Black estate. This was your life now. Safe. Warm. Your daughter’s tiny hands clinging to your hair, her sniffles slowly fading.
And yet… somewhere, deep down, the memory of Sirius, of that engagement, of the tension and hatred that had once defined your life, lingered like a shadow you couldn’t shake entirely.
But for now, all that mattered was her.
“Shh… it’s okay, little one,” you whispered again, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Mommy’s here. Always.”
You rocked Estelle gently in your arms, her soft breathing starting to slow as sleep overtook her. Watching her, you couldn’t help but think of the day everything had begun—the day your life had taken a turn that neither you nor Sirius could have predicted.
The Black estate had never felt smaller than it did that night. The grand hall was empty save for a few flickering candles, the shadows dancing along the high walls. Sirius had poured the wine, insisting it was to “celebrate the engagement properly.” You hadn’t wanted to come, but your parents’ persistent reminders had left you no choice.
He handed you a goblet with that infuriating grin of his, and you rolled your eyes, taking it anyway. The first sip burned pleasantly, loosening your tongue, your usual defenses softening ever so slightly. Sirius laughed, a low, mocking sound, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
“You know,” he said, leaning closer, eyes glinting, “I almost like you when you’re not glaring daggers at me.”
You snorted, swiping at your cup with your pinky raised. “Almost? That’s generous of you. I’d say the same, but you never really earn generosity, do you?”
He smirked, unbothered, taking a step closer. “Perhaps I like pushing you just to see that fire in your eyes. It suits you.”
The haze of alcohol made the air between you feel heavier, warmer. Words turned into laughter, laughter into whispered provocations. You found yourself leaning slightly toward him, though every instinct screamed not to. He mirrored you, leaning closer, that familiar smirk softening for a moment into something unreadable.
“Do you know,” he murmured, voice low, “how much I hate that I want to do this?”
Before you could answer, his lips brushed your neck, not harshly, but teasingly, making your pulse skip. The fire in your chest burned, a mix of irritation and something else, something dangerous. You shivered, a laugh escaping against your lips, sharp and breathless.
“Sirius Black,” you hissed, trying to push him away. “Do you even realize what you’re doing?”
“Oh, I do,” he whispered back, pressing closer. “And so do you.”
The world outside that room ceased to exist. Wine, laughter, and the heat of proximity dissolved your usual barriers. Hands brushed, lingering touches, the faint press of bodies too close to be accidental. He trailed soft kisses along your neck again, just enough to make you dizzy, and you couldn’t help but gasp. The lines between hatred, irritation, and desire blurred in a way that terrified you.
By the time the night ended, you both knew something irreversible had happened. Not love, not yet—but a binding, undeniable connection forged in reckless abandon, in defiance, in intoxicated passion. You had given your families exactly what they wanted, without either of you fully grasping the consequences.
Days later, the revelation hit like a thunderclap. You were pregnant. Your parents erupted in ecstatic joy, the Black family mirrored their delight. And you and Sirius… well, you weren’t thrilled. The distance returned immediately, thicker than before. Touches became nonexistent. The night you had shared together, the fire, the closeness, vanished into nothing. Not a hand held, not a hug, not even a glance that lingered too long. Walls were rebuilt, thicker than stone, between the two of you.
When Estelle was born, however, everything shifted. Tiny and perfect, with your eyes and his mischievous smirk in miniature, she somehow carved a place in both of your hearts. Sirius softened in ways he didn’t admit, and you… you loved her fiercely. But the closeness between the two of you? Never returned. The wedding night, the intoxicated night of reckless abandon—it remained a memory, a fire burned out but not forgotten, a secret truth neither of you spoke aloud.
Even now, you could remember the heat, the laughter, the teasing, the way he had made you tremble with just a look… and yet, after that night, nothing ever happened between you two again. Not a touch, not a word of intimacy. Distance became your armor, and Sirius wore his just as well.
The memory faded like smoke, leaving your chest tight and your hands clutching Estelle a little too tightly. You blinked and found yourself back in the warmth of your kitchen, the quiet hum of the evening filling the room. Estelle had finally settled into your arms, her soft breathing steady.
Life had a rhythm now, one you’d grown used to. Sirius left for work as an Auror before you even woke, long before the first light of dawn touched the windows. Most of your days were spent with Estelle—playing on the floor, reading to her, coaxing giggles from her tiny lips, or letting her crawl around while you kept a watchful eye. On some days, when she napped, you’d retreat to your room for a few quiet moments to yourself, letting the house feel still for a while.
Evenings were quiet too, though they carried their own routine. By the time Sirius returned, it was usually close to dinner. Until then, the house was yours and Estelle’s—her laughter bouncing off the walls, her small fingers exploring everything in reach. You’d prepare meals, tidy the living spaces, and steal moments to simply watch her, marveling at how she had become the center of your world.
Sirius’ absence was constant, predictable. He would come home, change out of his work clothes, and settle in for the night, watching TV or losing himself in his own thoughts. There was no rush for closeness, no need for words. The space between you remained, both comfortable and lonely, a reminder of walls you’d built long ago.
And yet, as you held Estelle, her tiny head resting against your shoulder, there was a quiet contentment. This was your life now. Your own little world, full of the love you gave—and received—in the small, ordinary moments.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
You sighed, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet rhythm of the house. Estelle stirred slightly in your arms, letting out a small, sleepy noise as you glanced toward the door.
Of course.
Right on time.
You didn’t need to check to know who it was. Only one person rang the bell like that—three short, impatient buzzes that practically screamed get the door already.
Setting Estelle gently in her crib, you brushed your hands on your apron and moved toward the hallway. The front door creaked open, and in came Sirius Black, all leather, exhaustion, and arrogance wrapped into one infuriatingly handsome mess. His hair was slightly disheveled, the top buttons of his dark shirt undone, Auror badge still clipped to his belt.
Merlin help you, he looked good—and you hated that you noticed.
“Evening,” he said simply, voice low and rough from the day. He kicked his boots off by the door, shrugged off his coat, and tossed it onto the armchair like it didn’t matter. Typical.
“Rough day?” you asked, only because silence felt worse.
He glanced up at you briefly, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he gave a short nod. “Same as always.”
You hummed in response, moving back toward the kitchen. You didn’t need to see his face to know that faint smirk had returned, that casual indifference he wore like armor.
Merlin, Sirius Black, you thought bitterly, clenching your jaw as you stirred the half-cooled dinner on the stove. You hate him. You really do.
And yet, the sound of his footsteps moving through the house still made your stomach twist in ways you refused to name.
The morning light slips through the curtains before the clock even strikes six. You’re already awake. The kettle hums on the stove, tea leaves swirling in a quiet storm. His cup is always ready before he leaves — two sugars, no milk. You stir, wait, pretend the sound of spoons against porcelain can fill the silence.
He passes through the kitchen without meeting your eyes. A faint nod. The door shuts behind him.
You clean the cup anyway.
The days stretch long. Laundry. Bottles. Estelle’s laughter bubbling through the halls like sunlight — the only real warmth left in the house. You fold his shirts, press out every wrinkle, hang them on the line where the wind can catch them. It feels like care. It feels like something.
Evenings are slower. You set the table for two, then for three. By the time the food cools, you’ve already lost count of the minutes. You sit, watching steam fade, tracing circles on the edge of your plate until it’s just you and the ticking of the clock.
When he finally comes home, it’s late. His voice stays low — polite, distant, foreign. You smile anyway. Ask about his day, the Ministry, the weather, the moon. Anything. He answers with nods, half-sentences, the sound of boots against the floor.
You tell yourself it’s enough. That if you just stay soft long enough, he’ll find his way back to you.
At night, Estelle stirs. You hum her back to sleep, slow and steady. The melody fills the cracks in the quiet. The floor creaks — he’s there again. Standing in the doorway. Watching.
You don’t turn around. You don’t stop singing. If he wants to speak, he will.
He never does.
Weeks blur into months. The tea grows colder. The bedsheets stay still. You stop asking if he’s eaten. You stop waiting for the sound of keys at the door.
You pour one cup instead of two.
By month 12, you stop setting the table. By month 13, you stop looking at the clock. By month 14, you stop trying to be his wife — and start learning how to be Estelle’s mother instead.
