⊹₊°⊹Vee⊹°₊⊹

Finally, after enduring a particularly long and boring speech from your father about the purity of your bloodline, you made your escape. You slipped out a side door, navigating through a less-trafficked corridor until you found the doors leading to the western balcony.

The blast of cool night air hit your skin like a shock, chasing away the feverish heat of the ballroom. You leaned against the intricate wrought-iron railing, inhaling deeply, trying to clear the haze of wine and false politeness from your mind.

You pulled your velvet shawl tighter around your shoulders, your gaze sweeping over the vast, formal gardens below, illuminated by moonlight.

It was then you realized you were not alone.

Tucked away in the deepest shadow of the balcony, leaning against the cold stone wall, was a solitary figure. He was tall, dressed in impeccably tailored, traditional black dress robes, but the silver buckle of his belt was slightly undone, and the perfect cut of his hair was betrayed by a few strands falling rebelliously over his forehead.

Sirius Black.

He was here because he had to be—the disgraced heir of the House of Black, forced to attend his a political function by his mother, Walburga, as a desperate attempt to get him to “act like a true Black.” You knew his presence was a source of endless torment to him, and an endless embarrassment to his mother.

He had a thin, elegantly rolled cigarette—a Muggle one, you noted with a surprised mental scoff at his brazenness—clamped between his lips. The tip glowed orange as he drew on it, his eyes fixed on the distant, inky blackness of the garden beyond the manicured hedge mazes.

You froze. Too late to pretend you hadn’t seen him. You settled yourself a respectable distance away, near the corner of the railing. You had shared classes, common rooms, and countless meals with him at Hogwarts, but the tension between your houses—Slytherin duty and Gryffindor rebellion—had always kept a chasm between you.

“Black,” you greeted hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned his head slowly, exhaling a plume of smoke that drifted toward the stars. His eyes were empty, grey, and vast, holding a look of deep, profound boredom that made him seem far older than fifteen.

“_____,” he returned, his tone flat, barely acknowledging your presence before turning back to the gardens.

The air immediately thickened with awkwardness. You felt compelled to break the silence, driven by an unusual sympathy for his visible misery.

“Are you finding the evening enjoyable?” you asked, a polite, stupid question that instantly sounded ridiculous against the backdrop of his despair.

He let out a short, hollow laugh that held no humor. “Enjoyable? No. I’m finding the pureblood shit disgusting, honestly.” He took another drag, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Look at them. Every single person in there is a performance. We’re all playing stupid, assigned roles—and who even decides these roles? The ghosts of our ancestors and their ridiculous notions of blood purity?”

He stopped, his rant surprisingly heated, and you found yourself laughing. It was a genuine, surprised burst of sound that you hadn’t realized you were holding back.

The laugh disarmed him instantly. He blinked, turning his head fully to you, the empty look in his eyes dissolving into a flash of surprise. He lowered the cigarette, suddenly aware of your presence as a person, not just a distant fixture of the Slytherin house or this ridiculous banquet.

“Merlin. I—I apologize,” he muttered, his tone instantly shifting to the practiced, formal apology of a well-bred pureblood. “That was rude. It’s hardly nice for a guest to insult the birthday girl’s party.”

You shrugged, the movement fluid and disdainful. “I assure you, Black, it is hardly a party. It’s a political chessboard where everyone is moving to gain something. My birthday is the convenient excuse for the transaction.”

Your honesty, sharp and cynical, wiped the last of the aristocratic pretence from his face. His expression softened with a flicker of genuine sadness and respect. He finally saw you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, this time without the sarcasm or the forced manners. He offered you a kind, genuine smile that reached his eyes and made him look like the boy who played pranks, not the shamed heir. “Happy birthday, _____.”

The simple, unadorned sincerity of it hit you with a wave of warmth and unexpected appreciation. It felt like the first real thing you had been given all evening. The use of your first name shocked you as well, but it was not unwelcomed.

“Thank you, Sirius.”

He stared at the cigarette for a moment, then, with a mischievous lift of his eyebrow, he offered the pack to you. “Want one? It helps with the existential dread.”

You hesitated for only a second. Your mother would have a fit. But you were celebrating your birthday and no one has even noticed you were gone yet. What did a cigarette matter?

“Why not,” you murmured, reaching out.

His fingers brushed against yours—skin on skin. The contact was brief, accidental, yet cataclysmic.

A lightning-fast, excruciating jolt—like pure, raw magic colliding—shot up your arm and exploded behind your ribs. It was a searing heat followed by an ecstatic chill that stole your breath. The world around you, the cold stone, the distant music, the smell of smoke and lilies, all dissolved into a single, crystalline point of awareness: Sirius.

You gasped, dropping the cigarette, which rolled harmlessly under the railing. Your left hand flew to your right inner wrist.

Sirius was breathing heavily, his eyes squeezed shut. He was gripping his own left wrist with his right hand, his knuckles white. The pack of cigarettes slipped from his numb fingers.

“What—what was that?” he choked out, his voice raw.

You didn’t answer. You slowly pulled back the cuff of your robes, fear and disbelief swirling in your stomach. There, precisely where your pulse beat strongest, was an intricate, pulsing silver design: a delicate spiral of interlocking lines that shimmered with an undeniable, fierce magic. It was the soul-mark.

You looked up. Sirius, his eyes now open, was staring at his own wrist, where an identical mark was rapidly solidifying into place, etched onto his skin like frozen starlight.

You were soulmates.

The irony was a cruel, sickening twist of the knife. Of all the people in the world, the boy who represented everything your family condemned, the future blood-traitor, was your destined counterpart.

Sirius lifted his head, his grey eyes wide, the empty look replaced by a torrent of raw, overwhelming emotion—pure, unadulterated joy instantly warring with absolute, stark terror.

“It’s you,” he whispered, the sound thick with wonder. He took a hesitant step closer, drawn by a gravity you both suddenly understood. “I knew… I always knew you were out there. I waited my whole life for this.”

A painful, impossible warmth flooded your chest, mirroring the sudden elation in his gaze. “Me too,” you confessed, the words tasting like forbidden honey. “I never truly believed it was real. I thought it was just a romantic myth for the pureblood idealists to cling to.”

“It’s not a myth,” he said, his voice husky. He lifted his hand, hesitantly reaching for your face. “It’s real. It’s us. We’re meant to be.”

The bond, now fully locked, was already a relentless, demanding presence. You could feel the frantic joy bubbling off him, the sudden, overwhelming certainty that his life had purpose, that his fight was finally worth it.

But before he could touch you, before the conversation could take another syllable toward impossible freedom, a clear, authoritative voice cut through the silence.

“There you are, _____! Your presence is required immediately.”

It was your mother. Standing in the doorway, her smile razor-sharp, her eyes cold with impatience. She looked past you, seeing the outline of Sirius, and her expression immediately soured.

“Black. Get back to your corner, if you please. The guests are about to be formally introduced to the man of the hour.”

Your world, which had just expanded into infinite possibility, snapped back into the tight, suffocating confines of the manor.

You had no choice. Your father’s eyes, visible behind your mother, were already narrowed in suspicion.

You gave Sirius a desperate, terrified look. He understood instantly. He swallowed hard, his hand dropping back to his side, his thumb unconsciously rubbing the fresh silver mark on his wrist.

“I have to go,” you breathed.

“I’m coming with you,” Sirius stated, his Gryffindor defiance resurfacing. 

He followed you back into the ballroom. You moved with automaton grace, but inside, your heart was pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird. You had to get to your parents first. You had to tell them about the mark, about the truth, before the night’s political game could continue.

You approached the central platform where your parents stood, their backs to you. Theodore Nott’s father was also there, standing next to a severe-looking, gaunt man you recognized as Lord Lestrange.

You opened your mouth, the word ‘Mother’ already forming.

“Darling, perfect timing,” your mother interrupted, not even looking at you. She gave a flawless, practiced smile to the room. “We are so pleased you have returned. Now, without further ado, we are thrilled to announce the betrothal of our daughter, _____, to a man of equally ancient and pure blood, who shares our commitment to the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the future of our world.”

Your father stepped forward, his hand resting proudly on the shoulder of the gaunt man.

“It is our distinct honour,” your father boomed, his voice resonating across the silent ballroom, “to announce that our daughter, _____, is formally engaged to Rabastan Lestrange.”

The polite applause returned. Rabastan Lestrange, the younger son of the revered family, a man notorious for his ruthless loyalty to the darkest aspects of the pureblood cause, turned to you. His eyes were cold, possessive, and utterly devoid of warmth.

Your world, already shattered by the political game, fractured into a thousand pieces.

Behind you, you heard a sharp, intake of breath. The air went cold, and the joyous, vibrant energy of the soul-mark connecting you to Sirius evaporated, replaced by a devastating, raw wound.

Rabastan Lestrange was your jailor. And Sirius Black, your soulmate, was now officially and irrevocably forbidden.

The two weeks of the summer holiday were the longest, loneliest weeks of your life. Confined to your estate, you were constantly shadowed by your mother and frequently visited by Rabastan Lestrange, who treated your impending marriage as a contractual agreement to be meticulously reviewed.

You ignored Sirius’s letters. You burned the first one, sent via owl with the Black crest, without opening it. You burned the second, the third, and the fourth. The thought of reading his frantic, desperate pleas—and the inevitable, crushing truth of the mark—was unbearable.

Returning to Hogwarts for the spring term felt less like returning to school and more like walking into a carefully constructed cage.

You found Sirius waiting for you.

You were alone, collecting your trunk from the luggage rack of the Hogwarts Express, when he appeared, slamming the sliding compartment door shut behind him. He looked terrible. His skin was pale, his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his hair, usually magnificent, was messy in a way that spoke of genuine neglect, not just rebellion.

“Why aren’t you answering my owls?” he demanded, his voice low and furious. He was radiating coiled, desperate energy.

You kept your back to him, focusing on dragging the heavy trunk down. “The mail is sorted through before it reaches my room, Black. And if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t read it. We have nothing to discuss.”

He rounded the trunk, forcing you to look at him. His eyes fell immediately to your right wrist, where you had hastily secured the Slytherin common room wristband to cover the mark.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, _____! Your father wouldn’t have let Lestrange near your mail until the contract was ironclad. Tell me what is going on. Tell me why you didn’t tell them. You saw the mark! We felt it! It’s the truth!”

You finally met his gaze, anger coiling in your own chest—a defensive, fearful anger.

“The truth is irrelevant,” you snapped, your voice sharp. “Rabastan Lestrange is my betrothed now. I am bound by my duties to my house. The contract is signed. My life is no longer mine to decide.”

“That’s complete bullshit!” he roared, slamming his fist against the compartment wall, making the glass rattle. “Rabastan Lestrange is a snake! A follower! You’re choosing duty over the most powerful magic in the world? Over us?”

“You think I chose this? You think I want to be tied to a man who smells of stale ambition and dark rituals?” You shoved past him, your rage boiling over. “It is easy for you to stand there, Sirius, in your red and gold robes, espousing freedom! You are a man! You can rebel! You can run away to the Potters and they’ll welcome you! I can’t just parade in Gryffindor robes and be free of consequences!”

Your words were a brutal, ugly truth, and they hit him hard. He recoiled as if struck. His eyes flashed with pain, not just from the shock of your denial, but from the searing honesty of your observation.

He desperately wanted to argue, to tell you the truth of his own struggles—the abuse, the pressure, the cost of his rebellion—but your words, accusing him of an easy path, silenced him. He was too proud to beg, and too devastated by your rejection to expose his own vulnerability.

He took a slow, deep breath, his entire body trembling.

“What do you plan to do?” he asked, his voice now dangerously low, utterly devoid of the earlier warmth or fury.

You raised your chin, meeting his stare with icy resolve. You had to kill the hope in him, or he would destroy himself fighting for you.

You carefully reached up, slowly pulling back the cuff of your robes, exposing the delicate, shimmering silver spiral on your wrist. Your gaze fell on the mark, which felt heavy and cold, a brand of what you could never have.

“I’ll ignore it,” you said, your fingers lightly tracing the etching. “I will be a dutiful daughter and a dutiful wife to the House of Lestrange. I will forget about the soulmate thing. It was a cosmic mistake. A tragic, badly timed joke.”

He stared at you, his eyes wide and unbelieving. “You can’t,” he choked out. “You’re talking madness. You know what this means, _____? Every inch of your being is magically wired to crave every inch of mine. You won’t just be ignoring me; you’ll be ignoring your own soul.”

You pulled the cuff down, hiding the mark as if putting away a painful secret. You refused to look at him as he pleaded, the sheer desperation in his voice almost enough to break your composure.

“It is done,” you stated, turning toward the compartment door. “My mind is made up. I will not betray my house, my blood, or my name. The consequences of freedom are too high for both of us. Go back to your friends, Sirius. Forget me.”

He was silent, devastated. You walked out of the compartment and into the crowded corridor, leaving him standing there alone, his soul torn to shreds, clutching a betrayal that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

The ensuing school year is proving to be a masterclass in controlled torture. You had chosen a path of self-denial, and Hogwarts became the arena for your prolonged, mutual suffering.

You were relentless in your escape. You moved through the castle with the precise, practiced elegance of a ship under full sail, always with a wake of loyal Slytherins around you, creating a human shield of distance and indifference.

You never made eye contact with him in the Great Hall. You changed your class routes. You studied exclusively in the dungeons, far from the library and the Marauders’ usual haunts.

But the magical bond, though denied and rejected, was a relentless phantom.

You felt it in the pit of your stomach when he was too close, a sickening, dizzying tug that you learned to suppress with sheer willpower, channelling the pain into focus on your O.W.L.s studies.

You felt it most acutely in the quiet moments. Lying in bed in the common room, you would feel a sudden, agonizing jolt of loneliness—his loneliness. A desperate surge of affection—his affection. You taught yourself to interpret these feelings as intrusive noise, a flaw in the glamour charm on your mark, rather than the voice of your soul.

Sirius, however, was in a far worse state.

His denial had been the denial of his entire self. You had given him an impossible choice, and by choosing duty, you had destroyed his belief in the inherent goodness of his rebellion. He had poured every ounce of his defiance, his hope, and his desire for a true life into the idea of a soulmate who would choose him.

Now, he was pathetically, visibly deteriorating.

He became obsessed, in a quiet, aching, yearning way that was almost sad to witness. He didn't try to corner you again, respecting your final word in the carriage, but he couldn’t look away.

You would catch him watching you in the Great Hall. He wouldn’t be staring maliciously or angrily, but with an open, wounded expression—as if he were trying to memorize every contour of your face before you vanished entirely. His eyes would follow you from the Slytherin table as you politely discussed blood purity with Rabastan Lestrange, the look in his gaze a torrent of anguish and confusion.

He tried to communicate through gestures, desperate, subtle moves that only you, with the silver thread connecting you, would recognize.

Once, in a shared Transfiguration class, you were tasked with turning a bird into a functioning quill. When your bird transformed into a beautiful green and silver quill, you felt a surge of quiet pride. Immediately, you felt a corresponding, powerful wave of admiration and pride through the soul-bond, quickly followed by a heartbreaking sense of separation. When you glanced across the room, Sirius was staring, his jaw tight, his own bird forgotten.

He started leaving things for you. Not letters—he knew you would burn those—but small, meaningless objects left where you couldn't avoid them. A perfect, polished river stone resting on your favourite book in the library. A single, perfectly folded parchment crane on the arm of your unused chair in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. A small, wild, white lily left on the step leading up to the Slytherin dungeon entrance.

You always accepted the gifts, your chest aching with guilt, and immediately disposed of them. The stone was thrown into the lake. The crane was tossed into the fireplace. The lily was quickly vanished. You couldn’t afford sentimentality; sentimentality was a deadly weakness.

His academic focus suffered catastrophically. The other Marauders—James, Remus, and Peter—were worried sick. James would often intercept his searching gaze in the hallways, pulling Sirius away, whispering fiercely in his ear. Sirius would resist, turning back for one last, painful look at your retreating figure before allowing himself to be dragged off, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

The contrast between your outward presentation and your inward reality was a horrifying chasm.

The term settled into a pattern of agonizing avoidance and escalating repression. You became the perfect Prefect, your uniform immaculate, your demeanor glacial. You knew where he would be and meticulously avoided those locations.

Sirius, however, seemed to seek the forbidden touch of your attention.

One cold Tuesday evening, you were on patrol near the abandoned North Wing classrooms. You rounded a corner and stopped dead.

Sirius was there, lingering outside a classroom, well after curfew.

“Black! You know the rules. Detention is mandatory for being out this late.” You had perfected the tone of cold, official disappointment.

He smiled, a heartbreaking, empty grin. “I know, Miss Prefect. I was hoping I’d find you here. I wanted to see if the uniform makes you feel any less like a prisoner.”

“Get your act together, Sirius,” you scolded, walking towards him, your wand raised, your heart hammering the frantic rhythm of the bond. “I will overlook this one violation tonight. Go straight back to your dorm. And do not let me catch you like this again.”

He moved quickly, faster than you expected, crossing the distance and grabbing your hand, ignoring the wand entirely.

The contact was a violent, electrifying shock. The glamour charm on your mark seemed to momentarily fail. The bond, which had been a dull ache, suddenly became a vibrant, searing furnace.

His touch, warm and certain, felt more real, more right, than anything you had felt since your seventeenth birthday. You could feel his desperation, his longing, his absolute conviction pouring through your fingertips.

“You feel that,” he whispered fiercely, his eyes blazing, searching yours. “Don’t you dare lie to me now. That is real. It is undeniable. Stop running. Please.”

You knew he was right. Every cell in your body screamed to collapse into his embrace, to pull him close and never let go. But that simple, life-changing truth was the one thing you could not afford.

With a gasp, you ripped your hand free. The loss of contact left your arm tingling and cold, the bond instantly retreating to its painful, muffled throb.

“There is nothing to talk about, Black,” you insisted, your voice shaking. “Do not touch me again. Do not challenge my duty. Go.”

He watched you walk away, defeat replacing the fleeting triumph in his eyes.

During the Winter holiday, you were subjected to a relentless series of lectures and lessons on "Wifely Duties" and "The Future of the House of Lestrange." You learned about managing accounts, navigating political treaties, and the importance of producing a pristine heir. As your mother droned on, you found yourself staring out the window, every learned piece of duty clashing with the constant, distant feeling of Sirius’s rebellious despair. The contrast made you question the very foundations of your life.

When you returned to Hogwarts, the conflict escalated quickly.

Sirius was waiting, again, in the deserted carriage, having clearly timed his move.

You didn't fight him this time. You simply stood facing him, your eyes full of tears you refused to shed. “Stop, Sirius. Please. For both our sakes. Don’t do this to us.”

He didn't listen. He looked at you, and the years of guarded politeness and forced animosity melted away, leaving behind only the raw, wounded boy who had just found—and lost—his other half.

“I love you,” he said, the words heavy and real, falling into the silent carriage with the weight of a monumental confession.

You were stunned. “You don’t know what that word means,” you whispered, tears finally streaming down your face. “You—we are young. Too young to know what that means.”

“It means this,” he argued, gesturing to the painful space between you. “It’s the agony I feel when I see Lestrange touch you. It’s the furious relief I feel when you scold me. It’s knowing that you are the only person who can truly see me. That’s what being soulmates is. That’s love, _____.”

He closed the distance, his eyes searching yours for permission, for one final moment of truth. He leaned down slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You couldn't.

His lips met yours, and the kiss was heartbreakingly sad. It wasn’t defiant or passionate; it was a desperate confirmation of the inevitable bond, a silent acknowledgment of the tragedy of your timing. Your response was immediate, tears mixing with the taste of him, the magic of the bond momentarily silencing the despair of your mind.

But the kiss was a lie to the world, and you were too much a creature of duty to sustain it.

You broke away, pushing hard against his chest. “No!” you gasped, scrambling for the door, your mind a whirlwind of fear and regret. 

You ran out, leaving him utterly devastated in the cold, silent carriage.

The school year accelerated, becoming a relentless, agonizing blur of duty and yearning. Rabastan Lestrange, emboldened by the finality of the contract, began to openly treat you as his property.

The next significant hurdle was the Hogsmeade trip. Rabastan, now in his seventh year, invited you, and you were obligated to agree.

The village was bustling and warm, filled with happy students. You walked beside Rabastan, your arm tucked rigidly into his, enduring his tedious monologue about the importance of loyalty.

Then, you saw him.

Sirius was outside the Three Broomsticks, huddled with James and Remus. He was laughing at something James had said, but the laughter was too sharp, too forced, even through the distance you could tell that much. He was joking with his friends like usual, but his eyes were fixed, scanning the crowd.

When his gaze finally landed on you, walking formally beside Lestrange, the transformation was instantaneous and brutal. The laughter died in his throat. The light vanished from his eyes. His face collapsed into an expression of such raw, broken misery that your heart seized in your chest.

You didn't look away. You stared straight ahead, a cold, perfect mask of indifference. You squeezed Rabastan’s arm, pulling him onward, pretending the most important person in your life did not exist.

The bond screamed at you, a soundless, violent torrent of pain and rejection. You ignored it.

Weeks later, the pressure of maintaining your composure finally broke you. You sought a moment of true solitude, the only place you knew where you might find silence: the Astronomy Tower.

You climbed the winding staircase, the chill air promising relief. But when you reached the top, you found Sirius already there, huddled by the railing, staring out at the grounds.

He heard you and immediately stood up. His robes were messy, and he swayed slightly. The smell of Firewhisky was strong.

He attempted to hurry past you, but you reached out and caught his sleeve. You smelled the alcohol then, it hit your senses like a jinx. “Sirius, wait. You’ve been drinking. You could fall.”

He stopped, his resistance melting into exhausted surrender. He was utterly drunk.

“I was hoping I would fall,” he mumbled, his voice thick.

Alarm seized you. You grabbed his arm and began steering him back toward the stairs. “Don’t say that. Don’t be an idiot. Come on, I’m walking you back to the Gryffindor common room.”

He let you lead him, his head resting against your shoulder as you navigated the dark, silent corridors. The feeling of him, heavy and warm and vulnerable, was an exquisite torture. The bond was agonizingly loud, demanding you protect him, love him, and take him home.

“Why do you do this?” he pleaded, his breath warm against your ear. “You care. You know you care. We could run away right now. We could be happy. We could be us.”

You held him tighter, but your resolve remained granite-hard. “I can’t. I won’t. I will never be happy knowing I betrayed my family, my name, the only identity I have ever known. Defying them does not give me satisfaction, Sirius. It gives me panic. I am not you. I will honour my duty.”

“Your duty will kill you,” he countered, his voice catching.

“My duty saves you,” you whispered back.

You finally reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. You stopped, gently pushing him upright, looking up at his devastated face.

“Go to your friends, Sirius. They love you. They will keep you safe. Live the life of freedom I cannot afford.”

You looked at the silver thread hidden beneath your cuff, and then at his mark, exposed by his careless robes. It was a perfect match, a tragic certainty.

You gave him one last, long look, memorizing the shape of his broken hope, and turned and walked away.

The rest of the school year was a period of silence. Sirius no longer tried to corner you, no longer left symbolic gifts. He carried the visible weight of your final rejection, burying himself in his friends and his rebellion, a constant presence that was now just a dull, persistent ache in the soul-bond.

You were flawless. You finished your exams with flying colours. You accepted your final political assignments from Rabastan. You were the perfect student, the perfect Prefect, the perfect bride.

The summer holidays arrived, and you returned home to the cold, suffocating embrace of your family, your mother’s preparations for the wedding beginning in earnest.

Two weeks into the summer, during a stiff, formal dinner with your some of the sacred pureblood families, the news came, delivered by a furious, flustered Walburga Black. 

Sirius Orion Black had run away.

He had left the ancestral house, taken only the bare minimum, and vanished, disowned and utterly free. He had chosen the Potters, chosen his friends, chosen his defiance, and chosen his life.

The news was a scandal, a source of profound embarrassment for the Houses of Black, but for you, it was a silent, agonizing relief.

That night, lying alone in your cold, vast bed, you lifted your sleeve and stared at the silver mark beneath the glamour charm. It was no longer a symbol of hope or a demand for confrontation. It was a silent, steady thrum. It was the feeling of distant, uncomplicated joy.

You had sacrificed your own soulmate to ensure his freedom. He was out there, finally alive and entirely himself.

And that, you realized, was the only happy ending you could ever have. You were trapped in your perfect, cold life, but the knowledge of his wild, beautiful freedom was your painful, secret victory.