scarborough
The biggest joke of all is that everyone thinks you are still the same little good girl you were a year ago.
Warm woolen kneesocks pulled up high under shiny black Mary Janes, ruby hair in a tidy plait, she was all essays handed in three days before the deadline, all volunteering to take on extra prefects' rounds, all teacher's pet and Slug Club princess and loyal friend and library assistant.
You were that good girl for so long that you know her persona by heart, so it's easy as anything to go on pretending when you need to, smile your way through prefects' meetings and Potions classes so you're still on the fast track to Head Girl next year. But even you are surprised by how easily everyone is fooled.
They don't see your barely-there bra and knickers, sheer black lace against your milky skin. Your knees kissing the floor of the broomshed last Thursday while you gave Gawain Robards a blowjob. The flask of Firewhiskey tucked in your brown leather bookbag. The smoke curling from your cherry red lips, out in the courtyard with a cigarette after you told Vector you had a bad flu and couldn't come to class.
And they certainly don't see you now, your too-short school skirt hitched up around your waist, your back against the scratchy bark of a tree in the Forbidden Forest, and your fingers running through Sirius Black's sloe hair.
"You're keen, aren't you?" he hisses into your ear even as one hand slides up under your bra and the other is pressing bruises like roses into your hip.
"Please," you sneer, pausing in your kisses to his jaw. "Don't act like you weren't hard during Charms just now, staring at me and imagining what kind of knickers I was wearing."
Sirius smirks down at you, and damn it, your breath still catches in your throat when he turns that infamous smirk on you. "And you weren't wearing any."
You grin. "No. Must've forgotten them this morning."
He groans and buries his face in the downy skin of your neck. "Merlin, Evans."
Both of you stop talking, then, because kissing and stroking and gripping and sighing and moaning and licking and biting become more important.
And there are far too many words that go unspoken – We shouldn't be doing this.
This is wrong.
What about James?
Because Sirius is cruel and narcissistic, innately haughty and aristocratic despite his hated of his blue-blooded family. And you are callous, vicious, utterly self-absorbed underneath that perfect little good girl reputation. Neither of you are good enough people to say what you should, to put a stop to this magnificent catastrophe in the making.
It's fine, really, you're both perfectly at liberty to do as you like. James has been in love with you for years, but it's not like you've ever agreed to date him or anything.
That doesn't make it feel any less wrong when Sirius pants into your hair, when he leaves little blooms on your breasts, when you grip the bark behind you so hard your hand starts to bleed as you feel the earth shake around you. It feels wrong and bad, and you're sick to your stomach every time it's over and you're in the Great Hall for dinner and see James, slinging an arm around Sirius and staring at you with reverence and desire.
But you stopped being a good girl a long time ago.
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