He has a funny way of speaking that sends shivers down my spine. The words are never tiresome, but it is not always what he has to say that intrigues me so much as the way he says it, full lower lip pouting out delicately, his tongue occasionally making a slow swipe across when he falters or grows nervous. The way his thoughts bring a blush to his cheeks when spoken out loud, and the way his hair falls across his forehead, just long enough to shadow his eyes, giving them a depth he lacks otherwise; normally those chiseled features and the pretty-boy beauty of him steal the seriousness from his eyes. I sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, half-listening, head cocked as I examine him, brushing over every eyelash, my eyes tracing his high cheekbones, watching his teeth flash in the gloom of our dormitory as late afternoon gives way to evening. We always find ourselves together at those rare moments of setting sun, before everyone else has sauntered up to prepare for dinner and fill the common room with noise that echoes up the stairs.
" -- when Bellatrix told me that she wasn't going to the wedding," finishes Sirius, something creating a crease in his brow. He looks thoughtful, reflective, and distinctly unhappy. "I should have known she was just saying that to trick me."
He looks different from the way he will be as an adult. The defiant expression of a teenager has etched itself onto his face permanently, and he wears a scowl even in his sleep, every moment when James isn't pulling pranks to make him laugh. The girls, who ignored him first year and found him lacking the next, flock to him now, drawn by the impudence he displays. He has become cool, someone who talks back to teachers and does not concern himself with rules, who orders illegal items from Zonko's which arrive late at night, delivered by dark grey owls that blend in with the clouds. Around the dorm he wears Muggle jeans that cling to his hips in a way that makes me mysteriously dry-mouthed and thirsty, and once in a while, when the mood strikes, dragon-skin riding pants the same colour as the hide of a Welsh Green. Green, a Slytherin colour, suits him, which is perhaps not surprising, given his lineage.
"Are you even listening, Remus?" he asks at last, his voice betraying impatience. I jerk upwards, my startled eyes meeting his.
"Of course."
Satisfied, he goes back to his story, describing every detail of the wedding, most of all the way he had to sit still and put up with the taunts of Bellatrix, who has hated him since the day the Sorting Head called out his fate and sent him here, to Gryffindor, instead of the house he expected. For a few minutes I listen as keenly as I do in class, but soon enough the rhythm of his voice lulls me and I cup my chin in my palm and simply stare, watching the sharp line of his jaw move as words tumble forth. He is beautiful when angered, and while part of me longs to embrace him and make promises we are both too young to keep, another part relishes the ferocity in his eyes as he hatefully tells of his cousins and the misery they have wrought. I know I should be paying closer attention to what he says; someday our time together will be over and I will miss words then, in the long years without him, when nothing but silence curls itself at my side, but for now all I can do is examine his mouth, mapping the best places to kiss.