She looks up at me from under a creased brow. "What do you want with him?" the question isn't bitter, nor is it taunting. She honestly wants to know. Wants to know that I want to touch him; to draw sweating palms up over his toes, feet, ankles, calves, knees, thighs, hips, waist, stomach, chest, shoulders, arms, hands, fingers, back down to his neck, chin, jaw, and stroke his face. To tangle my fingers into his hair and pull his head back to brush his throat. To trace every single line to his body – every cut, every scratch, every birthmark, every freckle, every scar and memorise them.
Wants to know that I want to feel him; to feel every touch he gives, and even briefest of accidental brushing of elbows when we walk down the corridor. To feel his lips on my lips, and his tongue on my tongue, and his hair – damp and messed and clinging to sweating skin – on my neck. To feel his hands on my body, moving over my skin and burning me up as he moves under me
Wants to know that I want to smell him; to bury myself in the scent of earth and parchment and ink and chocolate. To close my eyes and inhale him as I pretended to be asleep just so I can curl up with my head in his lap when we're the only ones left in the common room. To steal his jumper, his favourite grey jumper that I bought him, and hide it under my pillow so I can pretend he's there and that my beds not empty.
Wants to know that I want to hear him; to hide a smile and let his voice wash over me when he tries to explain something about homework that he finds particularly interesting. To mess around with James after lessons in our dorm, all the while keeping one ear trained on him as he talks with Peter or talks to himself under his breath as he gets ready for bed – sometimes glancing in our direction and shaking his head in exasperated amusement.
Wants to know that I want to see him; to steal glances across desks and rooms, drinking in the combed mousy-brown hair – never so much as a single strand out of place lest someone find something that can be used against him because of his secret. To sneak into the library after hours, following him to the back shelves and watching him from between the books, just staring at the way the candle-flame reflected in his eyes, and how the soft yellow light lit up his face – the expression of intense, almost heated concentration filling me with a different kind of heat as I let myself imagine him looking at me with those eyes.
Wants to know that I want to taste him; to experience the flavours of his mouth, and his skin. Licking my way over his body and marking him as mine. To run my mouth up his body and collect the slight salt of sweat on my tongue. To taste his mouth against mine, sample the wet heat behind the lips that I've dreamt about for so long. To savour his breath mingling with mine, our mouths close but not quite touching as we panted for shared breath.
"Well, Sirius?" she's watching me, studying my face to weigh the truthfulness of my answer.
"...I want the right to want him, Lily"