A/N:
I realized after posting this that it'd accidentally submitted two
chapters in one, so if you read this any time in the past day it was
a lot longer. I'm sorry. I've been working on my novel for too long
and it's messing with my mind.
I
haven't even read through this, let alone edited, so alert me to any
mistakes.
Chapter Four
If Sirius was sometimes a bit immature, sometimes, you never blamed him. He had spent his twenties in Hell, after all, and if he wanted to make up for it now, that was fine. What you could never stand was the childlike way in which he would skirt problems, ignore them and with they would go away. You, apparently, were one of those problems.
There were no more casual talks, each night, after you kissed him; he became moodier, not only because Harry returned to school so soon after, but because you could hardly look at him without blushing furiously. Once or twice, you would find yourself talking about the weather.
September had passed, and most of October, before you were drawn together again; you would be off on Order work for weeks at a time, glad to be away, and he left caged and alone in Headquarters, but Halloween had finally, inescapably come.
Halloween. hal-ə-'wën n. 1. A holiday of pranks and chocolate and everything else you have ever stood for; 2. The single day of the year to render both you and Sirius speechless and miserable with grief and memories, the one night you can never help but to curl up and cry.
You sat in the kitchen at Number Twelve, that night, as Dumbledore had no assignments for you. Sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea and stared at the steam rising for at least five minutes before breaking into Sirius's secret stash of firewhisky and pouring a substantial amount into your mug.
Enter Sirius. His hair a mess, as usual. Oddly quiet, but for once not at all drunk. "Happy fuckin' Halloween, Moony," he grumbled in your general direction. "Whatever that means."
You raised your mug of spiked tea in his general direction and took a large gulp, making a face at the heat of the drink, and he gave a small, un-Sirius-like chuckle.
"What did I tell you about stealing my firewhisky?" he asked, in a falsely reprimanding tone.
You suggested, hopefully, "'Please do, and often?'"
"But never mix it with your damnable Moony tea," he corrected, not at all angry. You noticed that his eyes were a bit puffy, and realized that you had never really seen him cry; you wondered why you had ignored him for so long.
You apologized, both for the tea and the disregard, and he scoffed, as he always would when he thought things were getting to sentimental. Though you were feeling rather fuzzy, the next thing you knew, Sirius had dumped your tea into the sink, saying that Halloween was no time to be drunk.
"I think you're a bit too late for that," you mumbled, and he patted you on the shoulder, snapping, "Nonsense, Moony," and some other words you couldn't hear because you had just remembered that it was Halloween.
"Halloween's that kind of day that makes you loose track of time, isn't it?" you asked.
He raised one eyebrow uncomprehendingly, most likely thinking that he had not disposed of your firewhisky in time.
"It's just that I know it's been fourteen years, but it feels like five minutes, and – Merlin, Padfoot! How do that with your eyebrow?"
"I'm very talented," he agreed lightly, the first light words all night, repeating the move. You attempted, and failed, to copy the gesture, just as he reached over and attempted to "help" – everything was still blurry and fuzzy, but Sirius's hand on your face was all that really mattered anyway. He knew it, too.
Though you were never sure what happened next, you awoke at dawn the next morning, sitting with your head on the kitchen table, and you knew that everything would be all right again.