He tried to focus his eyes upon the chandelier before himself, but found he couldn't. The whole room was slightly blurry from the drink – he had already had too much, he knew; not that it really mattered.
He drank like a true Englishman, after all – discreetly and with composure, in a way not many would notice. Not if not looking close enough. And nobody did or would – not really.
He knew very well how to drink in such manner – his father had taught him, after all, when he was only fifteen.
"A Black can not be associated with scandals.", his father had said. It was his explication of why he had to sit there, night after night during the vacations before his 6th year, and drink Firewhisky, one of the strongest drinks there were, chosen so he'd also built an high tolerance to alcohol, and learn to behave properly in such state.
Now, all those years after, he wondered what his father would have said if he knew what had been going on. Was him sleeping with a fifteen-year-old scandalous enough?
He ran a hand trough his hair, glad for the first time that he was fully alone in the house.
He loved her – he couldn't quite say how it had progressed from their innocent talks on sleepless nights to the relationship they had up to now, but it had, and now he was completely in love with her.
It was a need, a constant hunger for her, her white freckled skin, her red perfumed hair, her tall, lean and curvaceous form, which resembled nothing to the small girl everyone made of her, against him.
He knew better than that false image they made of her – he had from the first moment he had seen her.
She was, to an unobservant eye, such as her family's, shy and slightly frighten to see him – comprehensible, of course, he was the big bad Sirius Black who, she had learned to believe, had killed thirteen people at once.
But, as they shook hands, her small, immaculate white fitting with a strange perfection in his big, aristocratically long-fingered one, he had looked into her eyes.
They were big brown ones, one would think the sheer image of innocence, but, far from naive, they were knowing eyes – the ones of an ancient soul.
He could tell that, somehow, she had seen evil, already been in it's claws, even if at such tender age.
It was sometime until he realised how – only when Remus told him about the Chamber, about Tom Riddle's diary, the werewolf noticing his intrigued eyes upon the redhead one afternoon.
He had eagerly heard all Remus volunteered to tell him, realising what drew him to her so badly – she, the same way he had, had been to a very bad place and returned, and now tried to cope with everything. That was what her often-haunted look – the same he knew he sometimes bore – meant.
It was that night he firstly approached her, while she was alone in the living room, reading a book – no second intentions, he just wanted to try and talk to her; he couldn't say why, he just needed to.
She had been demure at first – falsely so, that was, for he could see, by her unblushing demeanour, unconsenting - clashing - with her attitude, that she was only acting the way others would have expected of her, calling him Mr. Black and, when she noticed he was looking, primly turning her eyes down.
He had insisted in her calling him Sirius, thought he wasn't sure why, even if at the time it seamed the right thing to do – he had never really objected it when coming from any of her senior brothers, after all.
She had instantly dropped the shy act, realising what kind of person he was, uncaring of etiquette and society expectations – she had began to look him deep in the eyes, to talk freely and excitedly, and he was pleased.
That day they talked about him – about what had happened due to 's betrail, about Azkaban and the places he had been in his running years.
Soon, such talks became a habit of theirs, but only when all the lights went out – at other times, they were both busy, her with her young, gullible girl act, him with Orders affairs.
Then she had had to go to Hogwarts, and they didn't saw each other, not talked, let alone a few empty letters, until Christmas came.
She had been worried about Arthur and he had calmed and then consoled her, making her feel better.
Quickly, she was back to her normal self and it was like they had spent no time apart.
He couldn't tell, even now, who had took the first step into the place they found themselves.
He had already drank some on that fatidical night, during dinner, and, probably because of it, poured her a glass of wine, though he knew Molly'd fret if she found out – but Ginny had promised not to tell and the red was always good for her promises.
They had sat together in the couch, watching the fire; his arm was around her shoulders, though he had no idea of how it had got there in the first place.
They were talking about something innocuous – the D.A. meetings, if memory served him right.
And then, though his mind couldn't make out the transition between such opposite states, his mouth was crushing down on hers, her seemingly weightless form almost on his lap.
As soon as he realised what was going on, he parted their bodies, both the redheaded girl and raven-hared man apparently at lost for a full minute.
He seamed to have lost all ability of forming any sort of coherent thought; not that he had that much time to try – before he could do anything, Ginny ran upstairs, not waking his mother's painting, or any of the other asleep people, as if by miracle.
He spent the rest of the night in several distinct states of mind – fear, for once, of having hurt her;
Dread of her telling someone;
Self-blame for having done it, though he couldn't truly say the initial impulse had been his;
Guilt, for he found himself thoroughly aroused after it, in a way he hadn't been in years;
Hope of her, somehow, having enjoyed it too;
And then again he'd find himself dreading what she'd do, wondering whether she'd tell anyone.
He eventually felt asleep on the couch, waking up with Tonks apparating by his side after a stakeout night.
When it was time for breakfast and he took his usual place in the head of the table, she was there, acting as if nothing had happened, greeting him with the same falsely coy "Good morning, sir" of always.
He was briefly startled, but didn't let it show, greeting her back, then engaging conversation with his godson.
Later, the moon already high in the sky, all already fast asleep, he waited for her as always, despite his lack of confidence in her showing up.
But she did.
He stood up instantly from the couch as he heard her feather-light footsteps behind him.
He opened his mouth to say something, but again found himself lost of coherent thought as she crossed the space between the two of them.
She was now very close – she was tall, more than most girls her age, but he still towered her for over a foot...
She looked deep into his eyes.
There were golden flocks mingled with the chocolate brown of her eyes, how hadn't he noticed...
She stood in the tip of her toes and kissed him lightly, her lids coming down her brown eyes.
Following suit, he also closed his, pulling her closer by the waist, one hand sprawled on the small of her back, another reaching for her auburn hair, feeling it softness, his senses drowsy with the sent of her; cinnamon, herbs and rose soap...
And then it was over, no prove it had ever happened other than the faint ache in his lips.
She had pulled away, ever the so kindly and calmly, to then bit slightly into her lip in the most adoring way.
"I won't tell if you don't" she had said, now smiling a mischievous, sensual grin. At Sirius befuddled silence, she once more lifted herself and kissed him, this time more roughly.
And so it had began.
During the day they'd pretend and be impersonal, almost ignoring, of each other, then, during the nights, they'd be each other's – in the nights, they belonged together.
But they didn't go to bed together – not until her birthday.
That day he could barely be around all the others, so strong it was the want of kissing her as he saw her content smiles as she opened a present or laughed of some joke, as one'd congratulate her for her birthday.
He went to bed early, only to be awaken in the dead of night by her, kissing him, wearing no more than a Quidditch jersey he had given her away from the others, his birthday gift.
That day he possessed her fully.
That day he told her he loved her.
Three days later, it was time for her to return to Hogwarts.
Desperate – he needed her, he was far too addicted now – he made an illicit portkey, which led directly to his room, and another to take her to the Shrieking Shack, where no one'd see her, both to be activated by will.
They settled on manners to know when she'd come, and come she did.
She had just came, in fact, the second time that week.
He remembered very well siting there, four days previous, right after she had went. At the time he could smell her scent in his clothes – he remembered thinking he had to get it out, though he liked it there, before the following day. Moony would be coming and he couldn't risk the werewolf feeling it.
He remembered the felt of tiredness at that moment – every time Remus was around had became sheer torture for him. He hated to hide things from him – they had been so close once...
It had been with that thought, four nights behind, that another one had came, hitting him like a blow to the face.
What his life had become – what their lives had become.
Ginny had been so tired, lately – he could tell she wasn't getting much sleep, not with visiting him, schoolwork and hiding things from her friends, who, she had said, were becoming suspicious... It wasn't right to do such thing to her, he had realised.
Nor to do it to himself – he was constantly eaten by guilt. He couldn't face Arthur, nor any of the Weasley's, nor even writing to Harry, without feeling it – that remorse, which made him fell like the lesser creature on earth.
It wasn't right to either of them. He loved her and he knew she loved him, but it wasn't right. She deserved more than that – she deserved a normal life, without having to lie to all, without having to have so many secrets...
And so he had made a decision – he'd end it.
And he had – she had not cried, she had not argued, she had just stared at him. And then, with a curt nod, she picked up the portkey to return to Hogwarts, leaving the other behind.
Now, a few hours later, he sat there, having drunk about half a bottle of Firewhisky.
It had been the right thing to be done.
And it had had to be done.
He had done the right thing.
The right thing.
He drank like a true Englishman, after all – discreetly and with composure, in a way not many would notice. Not if not looking close enough. And nobody did or would – not really.
He knew very well how to drink in such manner – his father had taught him, after all, when he was only fifteen.
"A Black can not be associated with scandals.", his father had said. It was his explication of why he had to sit there, night after night during the vacations before his 6th year, and drink Firewhisky, one of the strongest drinks there were, chosen so he'd also built an high tolerance to alcohol, and learn to behave properly in such state.
Now, all those years after, he wondered what his father would have said if he knew what had been going on. Was him sleeping with a fifteen-year-old scandalous enough?
He ran a hand trough his hair, glad for the first time that he was fully alone in the house.
He loved her – he couldn't quite say how it had progressed from their innocent talks on sleepless nights to the relationship they had up to now, but it had, and now he was completely in love with her.
It was a need, a constant hunger for her, her white freckled skin, her red perfumed hair, her tall, lean and curvaceous form, which resembled nothing to the small girl everyone made of her, against him.
He knew better than that false image they made of her – he had from the first moment he had seen her.
She was, to an unobservant eye, such as her family's, shy and slightly frighten to see him – comprehensible, of course, he was the big bad Sirius Black who, she had learned to believe, had killed thirteen people at once.
But, as they shook hands, her small, immaculate white fitting with a strange perfection in his big, aristocratically long-fingered one, he had looked into her eyes.
They were big brown ones, one would think the sheer image of innocence, but, far from naive, they were knowing eyes – the ones of an ancient soul.
He could tell that, somehow, she had seen evil, already been in it's claws, even if at such tender age.
It was sometime until he realised how – only when Remus told him about the Chamber, about Tom Riddle's diary, the werewolf noticing his intrigued eyes upon the redhead one afternoon.
He had eagerly heard all Remus volunteered to tell him, realising what drew him to her so badly – she, the same way he had, had been to a very bad place and returned, and now tried to cope with everything. That was what her often-haunted look – the same he knew he sometimes bore – meant.
It was that night he firstly approached her, while she was alone in the living room, reading a book – no second intentions, he just wanted to try and talk to her; he couldn't say why, he just needed to.
She had been demure at first – falsely so, that was, for he could see, by her unblushing demeanour, unconsenting - clashing - with her attitude, that she was only acting the way others would have expected of her, calling him Mr. Black and, when she noticed he was looking, primly turning her eyes down.
He had insisted in her calling him Sirius, thought he wasn't sure why, even if at the time it seamed the right thing to do – he had never really objected it when coming from any of her senior brothers, after all.
She had instantly dropped the shy act, realising what kind of person he was, uncaring of etiquette and society expectations – she had began to look him deep in the eyes, to talk freely and excitedly, and he was pleased.
That day they talked about him – about what had happened due to 's betrail, about Azkaban and the places he had been in his running years.
Soon, such talks became a habit of theirs, but only when all the lights went out – at other times, they were both busy, her with her young, gullible girl act, him with Orders affairs.
Then she had had to go to Hogwarts, and they didn't saw each other, not talked, let alone a few empty letters, until Christmas came.
She had been worried about Arthur and he had calmed and then consoled her, making her feel better.
Quickly, she was back to her normal self and it was like they had spent no time apart.
He couldn't tell, even now, who had took the first step into the place they found themselves.
He had already drank some on that fatidical night, during dinner, and, probably because of it, poured her a glass of wine, though he knew Molly'd fret if she found out – but Ginny had promised not to tell and the red was always good for her promises.
They had sat together in the couch, watching the fire; his arm was around her shoulders, though he had no idea of how it had got there in the first place.
They were talking about something innocuous – the D.A. meetings, if memory served him right.
And then, though his mind couldn't make out the transition between such opposite states, his mouth was crushing down on hers, her seemingly weightless form almost on his lap.
As soon as he realised what was going on, he parted their bodies, both the redheaded girl and raven-hared man apparently at lost for a full minute.
He seamed to have lost all ability of forming any sort of coherent thought; not that he had that much time to try – before he could do anything, Ginny ran upstairs, not waking his mother's painting, or any of the other asleep people, as if by miracle.
He spent the rest of the night in several distinct states of mind – fear, for once, of having hurt her;
Dread of her telling someone;
Self-blame for having done it, though he couldn't truly say the initial impulse had been his;
Guilt, for he found himself thoroughly aroused after it, in a way he hadn't been in years;
Hope of her, somehow, having enjoyed it too;
And then again he'd find himself dreading what she'd do, wondering whether she'd tell anyone.
He eventually felt asleep on the couch, waking up with Tonks apparating by his side after a stakeout night.
When it was time for breakfast and he took his usual place in the head of the table, she was there, acting as if nothing had happened, greeting him with the same falsely coy "Good morning, sir" of always.
He was briefly startled, but didn't let it show, greeting her back, then engaging conversation with his godson.
Later, the moon already high in the sky, all already fast asleep, he waited for her as always, despite his lack of confidence in her showing up.
But she did.
He stood up instantly from the couch as he heard her feather-light footsteps behind him.
He opened his mouth to say something, but again found himself lost of coherent thought as she crossed the space between the two of them.
She was now very close – she was tall, more than most girls her age, but he still towered her for over a foot...
She looked deep into his eyes.
There were golden flocks mingled with the chocolate brown of her eyes, how hadn't he noticed...
She stood in the tip of her toes and kissed him lightly, her lids coming down her brown eyes.
Following suit, he also closed his, pulling her closer by the waist, one hand sprawled on the small of her back, another reaching for her auburn hair, feeling it softness, his senses drowsy with the sent of her; cinnamon, herbs and rose soap...
And then it was over, no prove it had ever happened other than the faint ache in his lips.
She had pulled away, ever the so kindly and calmly, to then bit slightly into her lip in the most adoring way.
"I won't tell if you don't" she had said, now smiling a mischievous, sensual grin. At Sirius befuddled silence, she once more lifted herself and kissed him, this time more roughly.
And so it had began.
During the day they'd pretend and be impersonal, almost ignoring, of each other, then, during the nights, they'd be each other's – in the nights, they belonged together.
But they didn't go to bed together – not until her birthday.
That day he could barely be around all the others, so strong it was the want of kissing her as he saw her content smiles as she opened a present or laughed of some joke, as one'd congratulate her for her birthday.
He went to bed early, only to be awaken in the dead of night by her, kissing him, wearing no more than a Quidditch jersey he had given her away from the others, his birthday gift.
That day he possessed her fully.
That day he told her he loved her.
Three days later, it was time for her to return to Hogwarts.
Desperate – he needed her, he was far too addicted now – he made an illicit portkey, which led directly to his room, and another to take her to the Shrieking Shack, where no one'd see her, both to be activated by will.
They settled on manners to know when she'd come, and come she did.
She had just came, in fact, the second time that week.
He remembered very well siting there, four days previous, right after she had went. At the time he could smell her scent in his clothes – he remembered thinking he had to get it out, though he liked it there, before the following day. Moony would be coming and he couldn't risk the werewolf feeling it.
He remembered the felt of tiredness at that moment – every time Remus was around had became sheer torture for him. He hated to hide things from him – they had been so close once...
It had been with that thought, four nights behind, that another one had came, hitting him like a blow to the face.
What his life had become – what their lives had become.
Ginny had been so tired, lately – he could tell she wasn't getting much sleep, not with visiting him, schoolwork and hiding things from her friends, who, she had said, were becoming suspicious... It wasn't right to do such thing to her, he had realised.
Nor to do it to himself – he was constantly eaten by guilt. He couldn't face Arthur, nor any of the Weasley's, nor even writing to Harry, without feeling it – that remorse, which made him fell like the lesser creature on earth.
It wasn't right to either of them. He loved her and he knew she loved him, but it wasn't right. She deserved more than that – she deserved a normal life, without having to lie to all, without having to have so many secrets...
And so he had made a decision – he'd end it.
And he had – she had not cried, she had not argued, she had just stared at him. And then, with a curt nod, she picked up the portkey to return to Hogwarts, leaving the other behind.
Now, a few hours later, he sat there, having drunk about half a bottle of Firewhisky.
It had been the right thing to be done.
And it had had to be done.
He had done the right thing.
The right thing.