Sirius had been thinking far too much about Mary Macdonald, which was surprising in itself. She was a familiar little track in his mind, where he sometimes turned out of boredom or loneliness. But Sirius wasn't suffering. Suffering was for those who lacked drama in their lives, and he always had it in spades: both from his family and from the endless stream of lovers in his arms.

He just couldn't figure out what it was. Mary was like a complicated spell but ultimately failed to make his life work. Her sass, and the seductive way she bit her bottom lip when she concentrated on something, formed a perfect picture that he really liked. Sirius was so lost in it that, to his amazement, he actually decided to say it out loud and sanction a spontaneous kiss; it was some kind of madness.

And the fucking picture came alive, turned to him and said in a carefree tone that cut right into his starboy ego: "Mate, nothing personal. You're cool as fuck, but I'm sorry, I’m into girls."

Yes, it was a total annulment of the very possibility.

As much of an arsehole as Sirius was, he did a complete one-eighty and stopped rolling his fucking balls towards her.

But what he hadn't foreseen was you, twining around him. Not a replacement in the literal sense (you were entirely different; he was not blind) but an unwitting cure for his frustration.

Well, the icing on the cake was the fact that you were bloody hot.

October this year was hanging somewhere between summer and autumn, refusing to let the cold weather in. The sun, no longer scorching but gentle, lazily poured over the castle grounds with light. The two of you were sprawled on a slope, hidden from prying eyes by an old oak tree. Sirius was half-sitting, leaning his elbows on its gnarled trunk, and you were lying on his lap, throwing your head back on his belly, and gnawing on an apple. The juicy, loud crunch was heard with perfect regularity, and for some reason this sound did not irritate him but, on the contrary, soothed him.

Through your half-closed eyelids, the sun was painting golden flecks on your lashes. His fingers absent-mindedly played with a strand of your hair, winding it around his finger and letting go. Silky, smelling of something sweet.

But fuck, the most uncomfortable thoughts caught up with him. He traced the curve of your brow, the shadow of your eyelashes on your cheek and caught himself searching for something else in those features. A sharper chin? A different tilt to the neck? He tried to imagine Mary on his lap instead of you. To remember the exact weight, the same smell, or the sound of her breathing as she snuggled sleepily against him in the dark. Would it have made him feel that calm?

Or had it always been about something else: trying to drown out yet another argument with his family in scorching closeness? You know, when you lack the warmth of your soul, so you try to fill it with bodies. Maybe that was why he thought of himself as a slag.

You took another bite of your apple, and some juice splashed onto his jeans. You idly ran your finger over the stain without opening your eyes, mumbling a vague sorry. This spontaneity was more real than all his languid fantasies about Mary, which always ended the same way and, as he now understood, never really led anywhere.

And the question spinning in his head began to change its form. It wasn't you or her? any more. It was turning into: what if what I'm feeling for you right now is actually it?

The warmth of your body on his lap suddenly seemed unbearably tempting to him. The hottest sweetheart.

His fingers wrapped around your waist, and in one swift motion he pulled you astride his lap, facing him. You gasped in surprise, and the apple slipped from your loose fingers, thudding on the grass and rolling down the slope, bouncing on the tussocks: such a silly, romantic moment that he nearly let out a laugh.

"You're fucking exquisite. You know, eh?" he rasped into your lips. "Give me that kiss, sweetheart."