Don't own anything—save original character. I also don't really care about details from any 'verse of Harry Potter-never read the books and only ever saw one of the movies, so if you're looking for perfection on details look elsewhere. This story is a combination of dialogue and scenarios taken from various movies/songs that somehow fit with either Black or the OC of this story. In a similar fashion to my other story, "The Kisses of Severus Snape," which featured original work stemming from inspired movie scenes. Ergo, it is both inspired by and based off of other work and put into this work. A lot of the dialogue in this scene is from "The Breakfast Club."
Sirius-fucking beautiful-Black was, by her standards, the biggest idiot in the history of idiots on the face of any planet in any solar system. Not only did he prance about with his equally idiotic friends—except for the misguided Lupin; unless his choice of friends was what made him an idiot as well, in which case he was well suited—causing mischief and grief, but he also did so while acting like some gift from the gods to womankind. Sure he was beautiful, sure he had a lean muscular form that her fingers itched to recreate in bronze, but with that beauty and form came an attitude from hell, and she knew hell better than anyone.
Hell was being stuck sitting next to Black and Potter during Potions where they insisted upon screwing up her concentration with constant jesting, hell was being "partnered" with him on research projects in History of Magic where he left all work to her and only took credit for it later, hell was having to listen to him brag to his mates about his latest conquest during Herbology, and a new level of hell was most definitely serving detention with him.
After HE caused a ruckus in Transfiguration and blamed it on her, which of course she wasn't about to take lying down, and she had retaliated in kind—had actually surprised him with her ferocity in fact—this resulted in McGonagall ordering her to serve a week's worth of detention with the bloody git after class. The woman was pimping them out to whatever professor had the nastiest chore for them to do and they were to complete the task, sans wands-because who could trust a Slytherine and a Gryffindor to serve detention without hexing each other-, and they had two hours time, once a week, to work in, until the week's worth of detention was served.
So here they were, first day of detention, sitting on their arses at opposite ends of the room, scrubbing cauldron after cauldron without the aid of magic. From time to time he shot glares of death at her and she of course did so in return. (The prat deserved more than a glare but she wasn't in the mood for a physical confrontation.) Aside from the occasional grunts of frustration, neither one of them spoke and worked "diligently"; at least until Black decided enough was enough.
Now she watched out of the corner of her eye as he rolled a few cauldrons together and took to treating them like drums, banging out a would-be funky beat had they been anything other than old cauldrons. He was most certainly pounding out pent up frustration and energy; she'd observed him enough over the years to know that he couldn't sit still or focus for too long without doing something impulsive or idiotic-usually it was both at the same time. She sighed and continued cleaning.
"What's going on in here?" The potions professor suddenly bellowed from the door.
She looked up and smiled, "I don't know what you mean." She wasn't about to cover for Black but at the moment she also wasn't fully acknowledging his existence, so as far as she was concerned nothing was going on.
"I heard a ruckus." The professor insisted, glaring from where she sat nearest the door over to Black and back again.
She heard Black chuckle, "Oh that was probably Pervs' gastritis. She can't seem to keep it in these days."
The professor's face greened a bit before clearing up again, "Well, er...um, keep it down in here and finish up quick. I've got better things to do than wait for you two."
Once the professor was good and gone, she turned her wrathful gaze upon Black, "That was great, Black, my image of you is totally blown with your oh so creative cover." She tossed the scrubbie into the cauldron and stood up, mindful to readjust her skirt as she did so. They were usually a bit tight on her hips and any time she sat down the hem would edge up. "And the name is Persephone, not Pervs."
"Can't call someone like you Persephone." He eyed her up and down in with obvious disdain. "She was the goddess of spring and youthful beauty. You're a cow someone drug up from hell."
She didn't show the sting his words always caused. She knew she wasn't the most beautiful of girls at the school. She wasn't tall-had she been tall perhaps the added weight wouldn't be an issue-but at her height the weight in her chest and hips made her look more round than curvy, and her thighs, though muscular, were more like trunks than anything else. She was short and built like an ox like her father, and her hair was always flat against her head. Straw colored and straight, never glossy and full, she couldn't quite say it was the bane of her existence, but it definitely was up there on her list. Her front teeth were on the big side with a slight gap between them, her nose crooked from when her cousin had broken it a few years back during a play fight, and her skin far from flawless, with freckles and scars riddling it. No, the only redeeming factor about her looks was her eyes—even her loving mother admitted that; turquoise and expressive.
"Better a cow than a trollop." She ground out between teeth.
"You're just jealous that no one with eyes in their head would want to shag you." He shuddered at the supposed mental image.
She rolled her eyes, "Fucking Prince Charming aren't you? School would fucking shut down if you weren't here? Oh no Black isn't here."
"Is that some kind of joke Pervs?" his eyes were cruel and mocking.
"Am I laughing?" She was proud that her voice had remained even though inside, her stomach was rolling.
She eyed him a moment longer before she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and returned to her cauldron. Black was the type who thrived on attention. She knew just the way to get under his skin. Ignore his pokes, ignore his jibes, ignore his existence, and he'd go nutso. Indeed, it didn't take long before he was close beside her, hovering around like a hawk.
"Sweets," she hated it when he called her that, "you couldn't really ignore me if you tried."
She thought she was doing a pretty damn good job of it actually. He was now sitting next to her, not really cleaning the cauldron that he had placed in front of himself, doing everything in his power, short of physically touching her, to distract and/or get a rise out of her. She wasn't about to give in.
"I like those earrings Pervs, are those real diamonds? Did you work for the money for those earrings? Did your daddy buy those? I bet your daddy bought them? I bet those were a Christmas gift right?"
Her hand stilled on the cauldron for a moment, contemplating how much strength it would take to crack a cauldron into his head, before she shook her head and continued her scrubbing. Black knew quite well that as the half-blood daughter of an unrecognized bastard, though a pure blood, she had no money and barely any connections. Anything nice that she had, had been some sort of hand-me-down from a pitying cousin, always given on the sly.
Black liked to think that he was oh so different from his elitist family and yet he made jibes at her, and Snape, every chance he got. Snape because, well Snape had a talent for making enemies, and her, well because she was a Slytherine like Snape—though not exactly like Snape-and she'd warned the most beautiful girl in the school—her Ravenclaw friend—away from Black, and she didn't take crap from him. She saw the truth behind his antics and deep down she knew he felt threatened by that. He'd had it out for her ever since Peggy had rejected him and told him exactly why, and where she'd gotten her information from—not Peggy's most shining moment in their friendship.
Before he could continue to taunt her she sighed, "We grow up to be just like our parents." She didn't look up from the cauldron she was cleaning but she felt more than saw Black tense at her words. "It's unavoidable."
"I won't; ever." His voice was low, almost a growl, and she knew she'd hit a nerve and she wasn't about to let up.
"Oh really? Then what do you call taunting me for my position and looks? Something a nicely reformed Black would do? You're as elitist and egotistical as the rest of your incestuous family. Any kindness or empathy was bred out of you lot generations ago until all that is left is this?" She looked him up and down with disgust. "A beautiful shell of, pardon my pun, black; all nice and shiny on the outside but rotten on the inside. Shuffling from one prank to another, one conquest to another, all to feel something beyond the shame you feel your connections bring, beyond the disgust you feel when you remember who and what you are and, inevitably, will become. You thrive on the lights popularity brings because you fear what's in the dark; the truth lurking in the shadows eager to consume your sanity." She didn't remember standing up and glaring down at him but here she was, for once staring down her nose at him, and him silently watching her. "But what do you care what I think anyway? I don't even count right? I could disappear forever and it wouldn't make any difference. I may as well not even exist at this school. Remember? Your words, Black, not mine."
His eyes, for once, were clear of any mockery, any mischief, and it seemed that a new light of awareness was shining out of them. Her words had hit home and while his reaction was guarded he was most definitely having a reaction. A moment passed before he stood, slow like a predator, until he again towered over her, his body tense with anger. They were almost chest-to-chest and she could feel the waves of heat radiating off his body and mingling with her own. Something or someone was about to explode, she could feel it in the tingling in the air around them.
"I have just as much kindness and empathy as anyone else, even you." Of all the things she thought he'd say in reaction to her tangent, that was not one of them. "If you even have feelings."
She sneered, "You're pathetic! Don't you ever, ever compare yourself to me ok? You got everything and I got shit."
She turned to sit back down but suddenly his hands seized her arms, holding them against her body like vice grips. She felt a surge of panic rush through her body at the ridiculous idea that he was about to physically harm her, but she fought against it and instead stood her ground and did what she could to relax her body. She didn't want him to know she felt intimidated by his touch, his size, or his intense stare.
She couldn't pinpoint what it was in his stare that had her on edge. There was anger, yes, but she couldn't tell if it was pointed at her or at himself. There was a melancholy—she definitely could recognize melancholy anywhere—and while she took pleasure in the knowledge that she'd put it there, she suddenly realized that the melancholy was probably always present but just well hidden. The longer he stared down at her, the more she began to realize that all that she'd said was not only true but mostly likely exactly what he thought when he looked at himself in the mirror when no one else was around.
She couldn't stop herself now, not when she saw the truth reflecting back at her in one of the most unguarded and honest moments in the history of her "relationship" with Black. Her voice found itself again, and her words tumbled out—for what purpose and from where she suddenly couldn't tell, "When you grow up your heart will die."
She watched as a myriad of emotions played across his face and in his eyes. His grip didn't lesson and she knew she'd have bruises. At some point in the last ten minutes they'd gone from taunting each other to this, whatever the hell this was. Was it her sharing her intimate knowledge of his soul to him? Was it him confirming her observations? Was it a truce? What the hell was this? Why the hell was he still holding her so close and yet not, in a non-aggressive but most certainly nonsexual though intimate way?
"Who really cares?" He whispered finally, his gaze falling for a second before darting back up, a strange vulnerability hovering at the corners of his eyes.
Something curled inside her then, twisted and churned, until she felt a pang in her heart, for Sirius Black. Her fingers unclenched and she now had to fight a strange urge to touch him. A connection had been formed, bond if you will, with the very boy who tormented her, when he remembered she existed. Here he was, slightly vulnerable, reality of his existence exposed as if it were his trousers around his ankles, and she'd exposed it. Over the years they'd found each others buttons, pressed, and reacted and now here they were, wherever HERE was.
She found herself softening, as if her mother's loving spirit had suddenly possessed her instead of her father's icy fire. Her fingers still itched to reach up and touch his face, trace the line of his jaw, the edges of his lips. She felt herself sway slightly, drawn and repelled by his presence in equal measure. She knew if they stayed like this much longer she'd say something stupid, he'd do something stupid, and whatever THIS was would be broken and they'd be back to despising each other in their usually more subtle fashion.
Before she could stop herself, words tumbled out, unexpected and most definitely unwelcome in her opinion, "I care."