The Potter household was never quiet, but with Sirius Black officially taking up residence in the guest room, the air in the manor felt like it was permanently charged with static electricity. It was the summer before your sixth year, and Sirius—having finally severed the toxic ties to Grimmauld Place—was vibrating with a new, frantic kind of freedom.
He was currently sprawled across the Persian rug in the library, tossing a Snitch he’d nicked from James into the air. You were trying to finish your Ancient Runes essay, but Sirius had decided that your concentration was a personal challenge.
"You’ve got a smudge of ink right there," he remarked, gesturing vaguely toward his own cheek. "Makes you look like a disgruntled raccoon. Very scholarly."
"And you have a smudge of arrogance right there," you retorted, pointing at his entire face. "Makes you look like a Black. Very traditional."
Sirius winced, though his eyes danced. "Ouch. Below the belt, little Potter." He sat up, the Snitch forgotten as it fluttered near the ceiling.
He crawled forward on his hands and knees until he was encroaching on your parchment, his grey eyes fixed on yours with that signature, heavy intensity that usually made James yell at him to back off.
"What if I told you I’m tired of being 'Little Potter’s' favorite nuisance?" "I’d tell you to find a new hobby. Maybe knitting? I hear it’s very calming for the volatile," you said, though your heart had begun a frantic, uneven beat against your ribs. "I’ve already got a hobby," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, velvety register.
He reached out, his fingers catching the edge of your desk, pulling himself closer until your knees were brushed by his. "It involves seeing how long it takes for you to stop pretending you don't like it when I’m this close."
"Sirius," you breathed, the banter dying in your throat. "James will kill you. My parents—" "James knows I’m mad about you. He’s just in denial because he’s a berk,"
Sirius countered, his cocky veneer cracking to reveal something raw and terrifyingly sincere. "And as for the rest... I don't want to be the houseguest anymore. I don't want to be your brother's best mate who steals your toast. I want a label, love. A real one."
The air between you snapped. He didn't wait for you to find a clever comeback. He lunged forward—not with his usual grace, but with a desperate, clumsy sort of hunger. His lips met yours in a collision that was all teeth, ink-stained fingers, and the overwhelming scent of leather and sandalwood. It was your first kiss. It was clearly his, too—uncertain and breathless, a frantic exploration of a boundary you’d both been circling for years. His hand found the back of your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline with a reverence that felt like a silent vow.
"Ahem."
The sound of a polite, pointed throat-clearing from the doorway caused you both to spring apart as if hit by a Duro spell.
Fleamont Potter was standing there, a tray of tea in his hands and a look of immense, fatherly amusement on his face. Behind him, Euphemia peeked in, her eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hairline.
"I believe," Fleamont said, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles as he looked at a bright-red Sirius, "that the tea is officially secondary to whatever 'label' you two were just discussing."