Disclaimer: all characters which appear on this page are the property of JK Rowling.

Warnings: sexual themes, male/male relationships, violence (in later chapters)

Note: One character's age has been altered for the sake of the storyline.


Every woman wants a bad boy.

There's no use trying to deny it. Dark features, accompanied by sinfully plump lips and a sense of adventure makes most women, myself included, go weak at the knees. And naturally, when on the search for Mr Right, there is bound to be one such man, with smouldering looks and a personality that tugs at the heartstrings (among other things), who makes all others pale in comparison.

These men are rebellion personified. Fighting against the norms of society, their debonair graces allow them to lead and not be led. To rule and not be commanded. To conquer the hearts of many whilst keeping their own hearts guarded better than the secrets of the dead, leaving room for only the stealthiest of women to slide their way in.

The mythical Prometheus, defying authority and creating their own destinies, dragging everyone else along for the ride. Why, without their independence the wizarding world would truly crumble and stagnate, with no one to disrupt the waters. They are the leaders of the pack, so was there ever any doubt that each woman would hold one of these primal rogues close to their heart? Did I stand any chance of preventing my own bewitching rogue from ripping my heart from my chest to keep as his own?

For my bad boy smoulders like no other. During the day, cloak draped gracefully across his strong shoulders, he strides through the building, commandeering the heart of every girl who should be so unfortunate as to cross his path. Oh, to be one of the lucky souls whose shoulders are graced with the weight of his arm as he whispers sweet nothings into their waiting ears! They fall to him willingly, unable to resist as he slowly kills their dreams of reality, dragging them into his idealistic world.

And in the evenings, oh, the evenings, when his cloak is replaced by the delectably smooth leather jacket, and the bookbag is thrown aside, he sizzles. The same woman as earlier - or perhaps a new lady, should the other one not live up to expectations - worships him, at his beck and call as he showers her with terms of endearment for her troubles.

I sit in the common room at night, watching him and his fille de joir, the women that can hold his fancy for but a day. Sometimes he'll give them an innocent kiss, sometimes he'll make love to them, writhing in the chair hidden in the corner, unaware of my presence as I lurk in the shadows. I close my eyes and pretend the moans are being drawn from my lips, that the feather-light kisses are being lain against my skin, coaxing goosebumps across my flesh.

We would run away together. I could calm the savage beast that lays within him. I could bear his rages, bare my heart, bear his children. His light stubble could scrape its way across my swollen stomach, ripe with child, as he declared his love for me, for us, for our family. His charm and rage could be sated, could be handled, if only he would let me try.

Tonight, his courtesan writhes desperately, repeating the prayer of his name as his lips smile lightly, eyes blank. She's his first in almost a month. The chastity preceding her took me by surprise. I need this as much as he does.

I stifle a moan as he kisses her earlobe, hands trailing down to rest upon her hips. My own hands trace the same lines upon my body lazily, hands resting lightly on the elastic of my skirt. Today is different. His eyes don't connect with her, don't sparkle as usual, and although he goes through the initial motions, there is none of the usual passion behind the sexual movements.

He fingers her waistband as I let my fingers dance along my own, eyes closing as I listen to his partner's moans. He is silent as he continues his administrations, but I am more than familiar with the paths he is tracing, knowing his sexual habits perhaps even better than he himself does.

My bad boy allows a brief touch to the girl's hip, eliciting a moan from our lips. My teeth tear into my lower lip, digging deeper with desperate desire as he pulls his courtesan's arms above her head. Opening my eyes once more, I watch as he kisses a pattern up her neck slowly, letting the perfect body below him gyrate desperately.

Suddenly, my head snaps as the common room entrance swings open, a tall, imposing, masculine form filling the doorway. My bad boy freezes, movements stilled by the new occupant as his scarlet woman continues to gyrate and moan. Satan stops, staring at the couple for a moment, before nodding lightly at my bad boy, and continuing his journey up towards the dormitories.

I can't help but let a whine escape my lips as my bad boy pushes his scarlet woman off lazily, stalking in the direction of the unwelcome intruder, the name rolling off his plump ruby lips with practiced ease as he disappears up the steep staircase behind the devil.

The actions of the woman left behind are lost to me as I slide along the wall towards the exit, slinking up to the girl's dormitory subtly, lamenting the interruption to the lover's tryst. I needed to see him, to see him moan, to see him screw his eyes shut in pleasure, to see him release himself, for him to be at his most vulnerable whilst I, I, I, was in the room. Yet once again I am left wanting, once again I will have to wait for the next woman to take his fancy, praying to god that it would be me that he chose, only to be left alone once more.

I think it is fair to say that I, Molly Prewett, have developed a minor infatuation for a one Sirius Black.