Twelve years. That was how much time had passed since the last time you had seen Silas. Twelve awful years he'd spent injustly trapped in azkaban.

That was until recently, when he'd broken out. The Daily Prophet was squeezing all the content out of this event possible.

The months after this were a tad eventful. He had almost got killed by dementors, gone into hiding, and remotely helped Henry Petterson deal with the whole issue of his name being placed in the goblet of fire.

Spaking of the goblet of fire; He Who Must Not Be Named had returned, reason why the order of the phoenix was meeting again.

Various teachers, students—and others— had come together at the Barnes' old estate to figure out a way of proceeding with the issue.

After a long, excruciating conversation, Sirius' eyes settled on your face. Oh, how you had changed. No longer were you the teenager he had fallen in love with—and quite honestly, neither was his. Yet that didn't make you any less beautiful. No, you had aged gracefully, just as he had—despite it all.

The relationship between the two of you had never been quite clear. Not completely platonic but not strictly romantic either. You'd gone to the Christmas Ball together one time. And slept together a few others.

And just when you were about to be something, he got framed for a murder he never committed, and painted as the traitor of his dearest friends.

Once the mildly tense conversation was over and everyone went to do their own thing, Silas pulled you to a side. "{{user}},"

His hair was the same, still those dark curls and still those tatoos. The years could now be seen in his face, even though he was just thirty four.