Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.
A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed. So sorry for the wait.
And what did everyone think of Deathly Hallows? What a shocker! I never would have expected half the things I read. But I enjoyed it, as I did all the books. I just can't believe it's all finally finished. It took me a whole three days to get over the shock. And I'm still reeling.
WARNING : This chapter is most definitely, definitely, definitely rated M!
Hope you enjoy.
Chapter Eleven: Of Laughter, Of Tears, Of Fears
xxxxx
When Antoinette awoke the next morning, Sirius was gone. The only sign of his having being there a few hairs scattered on the pillow next to hers as well as his distinctive scent. She gave into the urge to bury her face in it and, almost, screamed in frustration. All she did was merely moan.
Stubborn wizard!
Eventually, a divine smell led her down to the kitchen, where breakfast was waiting. Along with the note:
Toni,
Don't expect me until dinner. You could try to make it I suppose, but I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself.
Regards,
Sirius.
That absolute cur! She burned the note with great pleasure (though she could not keep back a small smile at his teasing, relieved that last night's debacle hadn't so totally ruined their current standing) then set about eating the sausages, eggs, and . . . Mon Dieu, what in the world is that? She peered closer at it. As she did so she noticed yet another note tucked under the gilded plate of . . . things.
Toni,
I've made you kippers. And yes, they're a type of fish. I don't yet know your sensibilities well enough, but if you can eat Frogs' Legs you can certainly eat fish. They're quite delicious, if I do say so myself. Try them.
Sirius.
Antoinette raised her head, contemplative. How well he knew her. And how mocking of him to cook breakfast for her, when he knew she didn't know how. It occurred to her that he could have cooked it simply because he was hungry himself. She felt guilt now. She clenched her fists. Was she always going to have so many fluctuating emotions because of this wizard? Couldn't she just hate him and be done with it! Her eyes immediately watered at the thought. Hate Sirius? It was easier to stop breathing.
Wiping her eyes — again chiding herself for her momentary lapse of composure — she plucked a little fish from its pile and nibbled on it.
She finished the whole plate ten minutes later.
Regardless of what an absolute stubborn-head Sirius was being, she could not help but be in awe of his hard-headedness. When he didn't want to do something, he really didn't want to do something. She suddenly felt quite proud of him. If any Death Eater were ever to capture him, they would not get an ounce of secret out of him. She was certain of it. Even with Veritaserum, which could be blocked.
But that stubbornness was now going to be her undoing.
She had tried an ultimatum — that had failed spectacularly because, even though he was affected by her presence, he was stubborn enough, Sirius enough, to ignore it, which gave her no end of frustration. And made her also, a little bit, feel almost slighted, as though she wasn't desirable enough for him. Which was stupid, because she knew very well that she was.
She had tried to be provocative — that had not worked, and also made her feel very foolish.
She had tried to provoke his lust — that had merely scared him. Yes, he had been highly aroused, but perhaps, because of that very fact, he had been frightened of her. Or of himself? Now there was a thought. Had he been scared because of his potential lack of control? Had he been afraid that he would loose control, and give into his desire to make love to her?
She became very excited. If that were the case, then all she had to do was push him just that little bit further.
xxxxxxx
Dinner arrived along with her parents' owl, but still no Sirius graced the table fit for five. Trying not the be irritated, she untied the note — embossed in silver ink with the Le Creux crest taking up half the centre — and began reading:
Dearest Toni,
I am happy to hear that you are well. As to your predicament, it puzzles me. Surely Walburga would think to lend you one. But as you have no house elf, we will give you one of ours for the nonce. Even though you are no longer her mistress, we have instructed Linear to obey your every command . . .
Just as Antoinette finished reading the passage, a small pop sounded throughout the kitchen.
There, standing before her, was Linear. White tea-towel dress, mittens, and all.
"Oh dear." How ever could she explain to Sirius?
. . . And Happy Birthday in advance, mon petite! Unfortunately your present was too large to be carried by a mere owl, so we a shipping it via the two Ministries. The British Ministry shall then send it through to your Floo (you never did tell us why you are home so early from your honeymoon) and we attain hope that the British Ministry is not as incompetent as the French one, or your present will be lost.
On another, less important, note Aunt Helena has acquired a touch of the dragon pox, nothing serious, but she complains incessantly . . .
Antoinette completely forgot about reading the rest of the letter. Her birthday was coming up. How could she have forgotten? Admittedly eighteen wasn't a very special birthday in terms of how birthdays went, but to be so distracted by her new husband as to forget . . .?
"Is Mistress Black needing anything?"
The high-pitched voice made her look down. "Yes, Linear. Make dinner. As extravagant as you can with what food is available."
xxxxx
He was so very quiet this time that Antoinette did not hear him enter the room. A muted thump against the corner of the bed table gave him away. That, and the subsequent cursing. Though she could not make out what was being said, the hissing was loud enough to wake her fully. She blinked at the darkness. Dawn had not yet risen, though she felt as if it might at any moment.
"You're back."
The cursing ceased immediately. A long pause, then: "Yeah. I know I said I'd be back by dinner but something came up. I'm sorry I woke you."
Antoinette tried, but could not stop the delicious shudder upon hearing his low, husky voice. She still found it disconcerting, as well as embarrassing, that he could so affect her without even trying. "I was not asleep," she lied.
"Then I'm sorry I made you wait up for me," he shot back without pause.
She sighed.
The bed dipped briefly, lowly ― Antoinette clutched at the side to keep from rolling onto him — before he settled upon it with a soft groan. Heat literally seeped from his body, leading her to believe that he was without clothes once more. She was too shy to dare confirm her thoughts. But the thought that he was naked again sent a whiz straight to her stomach and beyond. That he could affect her without so much as doing anything was mortifying, but familiar. Her senses had become used to how he played them; so much so that she was now strangely comfortable with the feeling of spontaneous arousal.
She heard him sigh, then shuffle, turn onto his side. "Aren't you going to face me?"
Her heart thumped an unsteady tattoo against her ribcage. "Why should I?"
He laughed softly, which was so surprising, that she blinked. "So I can talk to you properly, face to face. I have to ask you about that delicious dinner downstairs. Five course meal. You've outdone yourself. How the hell you managed it, I'll never know, but I have to applaud you."
"I had help," she said weakly. Linear had gone a little overboard, it was true. Late last night, while reading the Daily Prophet, she had chosen not to tell Sirius about the elf, as she was sure that he would all but approve. Linear had been ordered to stay out of Sirius's sight. It was selfish of her, she had to admit, but she still felt a kind of guilty pleasure in keeping such a secret right under her husband's nose. He would never guess that a house elf had done all the work, and she would never tell him.
"I'm sure Uncle Alphard's old muggle cook books were a huge help." The sarcasm in his voice was hard to miss.
"They were at that," she said haughtily.
He laughed again and, again, the sound went straight through her body like an electric jolt. "Recognise teasing when you hear it, Antoinette. Now, I ask again, aren't you going to face me?"
"And I ask you again: why should I? You can hardly see me in this gloom as it is."
He waited a long time to answer, and the silence was anticipatory. "I can see you perfectly well. You look desirable, as always. And have you forgotten that I owe you a kiss? I didn't give you one last night."
Antoinette blinked again. She had forgotten ― which was very unusual, considering she had spent most of the night thinking about him, what he was up to, and bemoaning the loss of her daily pleasure. But why was he so eagre to remind her? She promptly chided herself for that ungrateful thought. She had known, instinctively, long before this, that her husband was honourable. Of course he would abide by his promise. And he had told her he wanted her . . . "Oh. What I mean is, yes, I had forgotten."
"Turn over."
Her stomach dipped once more at his unexpected demand and, much lower, that familiar tingling ache built to an alarming degree. A moan collected in her throat, and she instantly squelched it. Heat flooded into her cheeks. What was wrong with her this morning? Lack of proper sleep must have been affecting her thinking ― no, not her thinking; the susceptibility of her senses, which appeared to her to be more vulnerable than they ever had before.
She turned over.
"There's my girl," he smiled down at her.
Instantly, she remembered that they had only ever been in this position once; the first night of their honeymoon: she, lying flat on her back, he hovering almost, but not quite, over her, hair falling over to hang on either side of his face in a tumult of glorious black waves. The only difference tonight was that he seemed, unbelievably, less stiff. Almost comfortable. Relaxed. As if the world was once more to his liking. His beautiful grey eyes, she could see, were crinkled in bemusement.
"What is it?"
"You," was all the information he offered.
"And what have I done to amuse you so?"
His gaze fell to her lips. "You?" he murmured. "Nothing. You've done nothing." Then rose to stare into hers. "Close your eyes."
The whisper sent her heart palpitating in delicious expectation. She followed his command and closed them.
Long seconds past. Incredibly, they weren't awkward. There was just a heavy feeling of weightlessness, of waiting for something to happen. In itself, this waiting was unbelievably erotic. To her at least. She had no idea why it was so, because her husband had never willingly, consciously, tried to eroticise any part of their relationship before. It was wishful thinking, that's what it was, but Antoinette wasn't in the least surprised by that. She'd thought wishfully ever since she had first set eyes on Sirius Black. There was nothing to it. It couldn't be helped, almost, like Antoinette couldn't help but be a witch.
She expected to feel the pressure of his lips any second now, and she did, but not on her mouth. A gentle tickling began at the base of her lashes, caused in part by the incredibly soft brush of his mouth against the feathery tips, and in another by the breath that misted ever so gently out of said mouth.
She giggled.
"What?" he asked, causing another avalanche of ticklish sensitivity to strike the base of her eyelids.
"You're tickling me."
He said nothing, merely kissed her left eyelid, then her right. Then the tip of her nose, her cheeks, her jaw ― by this time Antoinette was holding her breath ― and along. Down, down her neck. Hard, yet soft. Wet, yet dry. His breath was moist along her neck, but his mouth was dry as it skimmed her pulse. Suddenly his tongue shot out, laved, quick as lighting. She choked on a gasp. Then panted. She couldn't seem to help herself. Why was he doing . . .? Her eyes opened wide. Had she finally achieved it? Was he finally giving up fighting? Had she seduced him? Or was he trying to seduce her? Oh, she didn't care! She just wanted him never to stop.
Somehow, her hands had found purchase on his broad shoulders, fingers digging in, massaging the tense muscles so tightly that she felt certain she had bruised him. What in the world was wrong with her? He hadn't even kissed her yet, hadn't even touched her yet but for his lips upon her skin.
She tugged at his shoulders, wanting, more than anything in the world, to be able to feel his weight on top of her.
He wasn't budging.
A frustrated little noise escaped her mouth.
Sirius stopped kissing her neck, and laughed gently. Unsteadily. "You get mindless too quickly, love."
Did she? Oh, what did it matter! She tried tugging again, but he was immovable. "Si-ri-us," she hissed, teeth gritted.
She felt the shaking of his body beneath her hands as he struggled not to laugh.
"Urrgh!" she said.
He burst out laughing at that, rolled over onto his back. Away from her. Her hands fell, empty, by her side. Disbelieving, she started at him.
"What's funny?"
"You have no clue ―" he chuckled "― just how flattering you are to my ego."
Antoinette had no idea what he was talking about. "What do you mean?"
He propped himself onto an elbow, grinned. "I'd like to tell you, but I'm going to embarrass you if I do. We aren't that comfortable enough with each other yet."
Meaning he wants us to be? She was still slightly dazed from his earlier grin. How different his attitude was this morning. "Just tell me."
He glanced at her from under half-lids. For the first time she realised that dawn had finally arrived, and with it, its confirmation of her earlier musings. Sirius was naked. Determined not to let it distract her, she concentrated on his face, which may have been a bad idea, gorgeous as it was. But at least her eyes weren't wandering anywhere potentially embarrassing. Thank God for the sheet!
It still didn't help, though. Now she had to force her eyes not to travel down that chest she'd been so obsessed with the last few nights.
"All right, then," he said, "if you want the truth: You loose all sense of yourself when I kiss you. You don't act at all like yourself."
"How do you mean?" she asked, blushing. Idiot, you did want him to tell you.
"You're demanding, for one. You're never like that when I talk with you. You're always so passive. It's almost a welcome change."
"Almost?"
He looked straight at her. "Yes. Almost." He laughed. "You're not very good for my piece of mind." He winced visibly. "Sorry, that was tactless wasn't it?"
Antoinette had been about to say just that. "Yes, it was."
"What I meant was . . . I can never think properly when I'm around you." She stared, amazed. He looked down, cleared his throat. Said nonchalantly, "You're also very passionate."
"That's because . . ."
He grinned boyishly at her. "What?"
'What?' he asks. Wanting him to seduce her, to seduce him, was one of her top most priorities at the moment. She just couldn't seem to help herself anymore. Being around him made her hot, tingling, aware, and completely overtook all rationale thought. She had to get him out of her system soon or she would burst! She was reminded suddenly that Sirius was more prone to response if she hinted at something provocative. If she pushed him just that one step further. What would he do if she came right out and said it? Would he be surprised? He had, after all, admitted it to her.
Heart thumping excitedly, she peeked up at him — and had to calmly clench her fists into the bed covers. Mon Dieu! How delicious he looked, how rumpled, how suddenly . . . there. Available.
His black hair fell messily about his face, eyes sensuous through the locks, lips lush and inviting.
God must have put him on earth just to torment her.
And his scent, oh Dieu his scent! Just smelling that scent aroused her. Being this near him aroused her. She welcomed it; welcomed with open arms the most decadent feeling she had ever felt. A feeling, Antoinette instinctively knew, that would increase a thousand-fold if he would only make love to her. If he would only approach her and give her that sweet, sweet pleasure.
He frowned now, in confusion. She was taking too long to answer.
"What is it?" he asked, joking. "Cat got your — ?"
"Je te veux."
He sobered immediately. Tensed. His gaze ― which had become incredibly wide upon hearing her confession ― turned even more smouldering, and dropped to her lips. Anticipation built. Antoinette twisted her hands into the sheets to keep from spreading them over his luscious torso and ruining the moment. When his voice finally came — strained and gritted — she jumped. "Come here."
She went quickly, shuffling over until her body rested against his. They both gasped at the contact. So hot. He was so hot! "Now what?" This time, she was the one lying almost on top of him.
He stared at her lips, making them throb. "Open your mouth for me."
Erotic. That was what his words sounded like. That was what his voice felt like. And Antoinette could not help herself: she whimpered.
He stared at her. Repeated, "Open your mouth for me."
She did, and immediately felt, saw, his hand reach about her neck, thread into her hair, and bring her down to meet his lips.
At once her body came alive. Every one of her nerve endings tingled. His tongue swept past her teeth, past her own tongue, and delved deeply. Lapped. The moan collected in her throat, exploded, and she could not stop it, even had she tried. It was all happening so fast.
This is it, this is it! She knew it. It had to be it . . .
Sirius could not stop his actions. It was as if his brain had been temporarily disconnected from his limbs.
"I want you," she had said. And, as he had known would happen if he were ever to hear those words from her lips, he lost all sense of mind. He now existed purely on instinct; purely on ingrained reaction; purely on experience. He could remember nothing of every day life, of his promise to not bed her, of the Order. Voldemort and all problems associated remained a distant memory, one that, if asked to recall at this moment, he would not be able to; not even to save his life.
Only one thing mattered: pleasure. Her pleasure, and his pleasure; their mutual enjoyment of each other.
He continued kissing her; drawn out kisses, long kisses, tongues sloppy and wet and the feeling a thousand times better than he had ever felt in his life. He released her lips, allowed her to take a breath — which she did, gasping.
"Sirius, Sirius, Sirius," she could not stop breathing. Could not stop the weak shaking of her head. "Oh, please . . ."
"What?" he asked and, for the first time ever, cupped her breasts.
She shrieked and jerked, bucking into him, thigh brushing his erection.
He drew a hissing breath, mentally shook his head of any pleasurable cobwebs. He needed to concentrate on his task, not leap like an animal at her. He had dreamed of this moment. Had allowed himself to fantasise, but never to believe. Never to believe that he could be here, now, doing this to her.
Take it slowly, a voice cautioned.
He kneaded the globes through her silk nightgown. She cried out. He pinched her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, the buds already hard and peaked without his having to do anything. He looked up from his task long enough to see that she was biting her knuckle, the pleasure almost too intense for her. He couldn't wait to touch her skin. But first . . .
"Touch me."
English had deserted her. "Wha —? What? I can't think, I can't think. What did you say?Sirius."
He forced himself to straddle her knees, to remove his hands from her deliciously soft femininity, gently took her own, and brought them to his chest. He spoke now in her own tongue. "Touch me."
Her eyes lit with a thousand understandings. "I shall not last if I do this to you."
"You won't last either way," he growled. "Just touch me, Antoinette. I can't stand it anymore."
With a hoarse moan, she did so. Ran her palms down his chest, stroked his chest, fingers briefly playing with his nipples. Up and over his shoulders they went, kneading, stroking, playing with his hair, down his back, down, down — he knew what she was going to do, and this time he waited for it, welcomed it. And when the touch came they both moaned. It gave him no end of delight that she was receiving pleasure, obtaining pleasure, just by touching him.
While she was busy down there, he set to work on the buttons of her nightgown. He divested it swiftly. He had to clench his fists, mentally ground himself, not to fall on her, not to thrust into her. The morning light was brighter now, much brighter, and it painted her in twinkling gold. He could clearly see the vivid blush that graced her cheeks, neck, and chest.
Everything. The light showed him everything. All the things he had been longing to see, that he had imagined revealing, exploring, in the dark hours before daylight when he could not sleep.
And now he had them. And they were his.
She was already covered with a fine layer of sweat, and it gave her an altogether glowing sheen, making her seem like some otherworldly creature. Fairy, yes, he had always likened her to a fairy. Her breasts were pink-tipped, and not too large, but they were perfectly shaped.
He could not resist cupping them again. And this time there was no nightgown to take from the pleasure. Moist silken skin filled his palms. It would soon fill his mouth.
But not yet, said the voice again. You don't want to frighten her.
He ignored it.
Bent his head, set his lips on her left bud, and lapped. Stroked. Suckled.
She screamed and twisted, hands fisting in his hair, and tugging — not gently.
He couldn't help it. He fell onto her with a grunt.
He thanked Merlin he was still straddling her, otherwise he would have fallen between her outspread legs. He wasn't sure if he would have been able to stop himself then, and she deserved better for her first time than some animalistic mating. Although that scenario decidedly attracted him, she was not ready for it yet.
But his arousal was now lying, innocently, along her soft stomach, and he almost died with the strength it took him not to press into her.
She felt it too. Her eyes widened.
He tried to shift onto his knees with as little movement as he could, but her eyes became, if possible, even wider and she clutched at his shoulders. "Non, non, don't move. Please don't move, I love your weight."
He shivered. "I love my weight too. I love pinning you down. But I have to move, darling. I haven't finished exploring."
A sort of meowing cry left her throat then. "How could you not have? I can't stand it anymore, Sirius. Make love to me!"
"I can't." The words left his mouth before he could stop them. And it took him at least ten seconds to realise just why he had said them. An ice-cube dropped into his stomach.
Merlin, how could he have forgotten, even for a moment, about the annulment?
He sat up, again straddling her knees, his erection pointing straight up, throbbing, but he ignored it in favour of looking at her, because this was the last chance he would get to do so.
"What is it?" she asked. "What did you mean by that?"
He stared at her for a moment longer, memorising exactly how she looked in this moment. Hair wild, long, askew, some locks tumbling passed her shoulders, others spread by his own hands to lie across the pillows beneath her lovely head. Her clear sapphire eyes — exactly the colour of the necklace he had purchased for her birthday — were wide, confused, and not all together with him, still caught in the pleasure.
His gaze travelled down now, mapping, memorising her still heaving breasts, her unbelievably small waist, the golden curls that lay below it, and the sheen of moisture that could be found there — that told him exactly what he was doing to her. Exactly what sitting across her knees like this was doing to her.
"I can't make love to you, Antoinette."
She did not understand, was still too caught up in it all. She tried tugging again at his shoulders. "Please."
The word was filled with such longing.
In that instant he understood that she felt now like she would die without him. If he didn't pleasure her, she would die. It was as simple as that. She would never forgive him if he left her now. And, despite the fact that he was plotting their annulment, planning their estrangement, he did not want her hate. He really didn't think he could stand it.
He reached out, letting his fingers curl into her secret place, finding the wetness there, the erectile bud. A few strokes was all it took and then she was soaring, screaming, digging her fingers into his thighs.
And Sirius had never seen a more beautiful sight, than his wife in the forgetfulness of ecstasy. He could only imagine how delicious, how satisfying, she would feel right now if his shaft were to sink into her.
She fainted long before her contractions faded.
Sirius didn't waist any time. He whipped off the covers and strode from the bed and into the bathroom, hoping desperately that a cold shower would fix his problem.
xxxxxxx
They had taken a step into the dangerous.
Sirius wasn't sure just how he could convince her to take a step back, to forget last night and go on as they had before.
He didn't think he could.
The bowl of cornflakes had long turned soggy, and he let his spoon fall back into the milk with a dull clunk. Eating now turned his stomach. Eating soggy, stale cornflakes that he'd found in the dark corner of the pantry — no doubt sitting there since before Alphard had passed away — threatened to bring up the five course meal he'd eaten early that morning. The food his wife had cooked.
He snorted. Not that he believed that. It was more likely that she'd hired someone, or else somehow attained a house elf to cook it for her. He suspected Kreacher. After all Antoinette was Kreacher's mistress now, but that implied that she'd been in contact with Sirius's mother . . .
His palm clenched over the spoon, the curved ends digging into his flesh. The pain brought a different kind of relief. It allowed him to retain at least some of his control. The thought of his mother turned his stomach. The thought of Antoinette in cahoots with her, visiting her . . . well, he didn't exactly know what to feel. Betrayal, among other things.
And he knew he was being absolutely ridiculous.
But she had not done it herself, Sirius knew that much. She was too much of a . . . pureblood to. Not that that was a bad thing, but she could never have learned how to cook in such a short amount of time. It had taken him at least five visits to Lily's kitchen before he could master the spell to fry a perfect sausage. In mid-air.
A five course meal required at least, he was sure, two months of study. Not counting mastering the spell for washing the leftover dishes, either.
It had to have been a house elf. Definitely a house elf. The thought of Kreacher in his house, touching his food, brought forth a shudder that wracked his tall frame. But he could not help but feel pleased, proud even, that the little snot had listened to Antoinette. And apparently with full adoration, if he had, indeed, made a five course meal. Kreacher had never made him a five course meal.
Standing up, he sidled to the sink and poured in the cornflakes, grimacing as the droplets of milk spattered on the arm of his sleeve. The kettle stood waiting, ready to be boiled, but yesterday's debacle was still fresh in his mind, and he thought he could stomach drinking tea even less than eating cornflakes right now.
But, if his wife wanted some . . .
With a wave of his wand the water in the kettle boiled. Another wave and a cup and tea bag materialised beside the kettle.
He smelled her before he saw her.
That exotic flowery scent of hers, that clung to her skin, that had intertwined with their play last night. That scent had been strongest, down there, in her secret place . . . He closed his eyes in disbelief. He was not supposed to be thinking about that!
They would talk about it, yes, that was inevitable. But that didn't mean he had to think about it.
"Tea?" he asked, still without having turned around.
"Please."
'Please don't move, I love your weight.'
He nearly broke the cup he jerked so much at the images that accompanied the thought of those huskily whispered words.
"Milk?" Steady on, old boy. Chin up, there's the lad. You can do it.
"No, thank you."
He. Would. Get. A. Grip. He had to.
"Biscuits?" Now he was grasping at straws. He knew she didn't eat biscuits, just as he'd known she didn't drink milk with her tea.
"No, thank you."
He turned around and handed her the cup. She took it, eyes not meeting his own.
"We need to talk," said Sirius.
Her blush was very evident, and he was at once reminded of the way her whole body had turned pink last night . . . The little Sirius in his head slapped himself.
"Yes."
They sat on opposite sides of the table, Sirius wishing that he had made himself a cup of tea because then he would have something to concentrate on. As it was, Antoinette was not taking her eyes off the cup in her hand.
"I know last night, whatever it was, was not a mistake."
He looked straight up at her. "Not a mistake?" Surely he hadn't heard right. Surely she couldn't be so naïve as to think that they would repeat any of what had happened last night?
That gold-pale hair of hers was loose this morning, and it draped to frame her face as she bent her head even more. "Yes."
"At least look at me when you talk to me, Toni!"
She did.
He realised his mistake at once. Her wide, blue eyes were glistening. He felt like an arse. And now certain Antoinette herself was not aware of her condition, otherwise he didn't think she'd have obeyed him so fast.
Merlin's Beard . . . he was never going to win with her if, simply by glimpsing a sheen of unshed tears, was enough to pile on the guilt. He had to face the horrible truth. She held him in the palm of her hand without even knowing. He hoped she never found out.
"Now," he began, leaning his forearms onto the table, "would you mind explaining what you meant? What did you mean by 'it was not a mistake'?"
Miserable eyes stared at him, but did not offer any more information. Well, if she wouldn't say anything, than he would. He had to set her straight. He had to make her see . . .
"Nothing can happen between us, Toni. I thought we agreed on that. I accept that I must kiss you every night, and sleep by your side, but I'm not doing anything else. You can't . . . you're not allowed to respond to me that way. You can't just go telling me that you ―" He cursed, raked his hair. Those eyes of hers were widening now. "I'm going to tell you something now, in hopes that you'll lay off: my control is already shaky where you're concerned, and we both know it. Telling me that you w —"
He looked down. Breathed. "I want you as well, you know I do, I fully admit it but I-I . . ." He drew a deep breath, stared down at the table. "I don't love you. You don't love me. We both want out of this marriage. Therefore, it stands to reason, that it would stupid of us to consummate it. We both have things we have to do; different lives we have to lead. You have no place in mine, and I'm convinced I have no place in yours. We're just too different, Toni."
Silence.
When she finally spoke Sirius started so much his foot hit the leg of the table. "Last night," she began, fingers playing with the rim of her cup, "you initiated everything. You approached me, you kissed me, you continued to kiss me."
Sirius swallowed. He had not forgotten that. "I don't deny it."
"Yet you can sit there and tell me it was all my fault?"
"Perhaps I didn't word the speech as well as I could have . . ."
"Speech?"
He winced.
She nodded, slowly, contemplatively. "I see now. You have been practising."
Sirius found he could not say anything to that.
Antoinette straightened her back, breathed deep, and stood, cup in hand. "You can say all you like, husband, but I know that you must care for me. What I don't understand is how you can simply dismiss that so easily? Do you not care — do you not realise — that circumstances have a way of changing?"
He stared at her. "Of course I care for you, you're my wife."
"A convenient excuse, I think."
Then she calmly walked to the sink, placed the cup inside it, then walked back out of the room, her gait slow and steady and . . . Antoinetteishly Aristocratic.
Sirius wasn't stupid. He knew what she had been getting at, but it was a lie.
He did not love her.
And how dare she tell me I do!
xxxxxx
They avoided each other for the next couple of days. After their initial confrontation, awkwardness on both ends had ensued, and neither one felt particularly comfortable in the other's presence. Sirius had stopped sleeping with her at night, and had ceased to administer his promised kiss, but Antoinette hadn't complained about it. Sirius was grateful for that, and it made his life a lot easier to deal with. He only hoped she didn't mention the annulment.
But he'd had Order work to do anyway. The very same night of their talk in fact, he and half the Order had been called to subdue a Death Eater attack in a sleepy muggle village in Nottinghamshire. They had been lucky this time, because the only casualties had both been Death Eaters. But that was after the village had been half-demolished.
His mood had been considerably black that night, and he was thankful that he and Antoinette had not been talking at the time. He felt certain that he would have somehow, unintentionally, insulted her otherwise.
The next day, however, had been calm as you please and Sirius himself had not been ordered to do anything. He had no choice but to stay at home. He had tried Remus at first, but his friend hadn't been at home. Peter had been too busy doing something Sirius still wasn't exactly clear about even now, and the Potter's had taken a trip to a muggle park for the day.
He was stuck. And he hated it. Occasionally he'd pass Antoinette in the corridor or at breakfast (at which point he would make a hasty exit!) and, beyond a polite nod to each other, there was no conversation.
He missed her. He missed her company. He missed the way she'd look at him when she thought he didn't know. He missed — incredible though it was for him to believe — their daily tension. Their spats, their disputes, their reconciliations.
He missed kissing her.
He missed being able to touch her whenever he wanted. It was agony when, as he sank into a particular armchair in the living room, that he would smell her lingering perfume.
And he was furious because of it all!
Yes, Sirius was furious. But at himself more so than his wife. And in a few days he would have to tell her that she'll be living with his mother from now on . . .
As for Antoinette, the only emotion that could describe how she currently felt was confusion. Complete, uncontrolled confusion.
She loved him.
It hadn't been hard to discover. She had always been very honest with herself, but she was sorry that it had to be so. She didn't want to love him. It was a hassle and a stress and she wished it would stop.
Antoinette was divided between two emotions: joy upon discovering that she had finally managed to find love, and despair because of the fact that it was so stressful and heartbreaking.
Thus, she was confused.
And how very quietly he had made his little speech. Of course it had all been a load of dung, but she had never seen him so serious before. And what a fool he was, what a fool she had been! How wrong she had been these past weeks! She desired him, yes, sometimes more than was healthy for her. But how could she miss the one most important fact in their relationship so far?
She did love him.
And had only been too stubborn to see it, just like he was being now.
Antoinette paused in her thoughts to reflect a little on the feeling; something she had done a lot over the last two days. On the one hand she was shocked, but not horribly so, to discover that she truly was in love with the irritable man, and had been ever since the first night of their honeymoon. Ever since she have first noticed how stubbornly determined he was to ignore their mutual attraction. On the other hand, her loving him did not bode well for her sanity. He was likely to cause her, without meaning to, more than enough heartbreak. Loving someone else, she felt sure, was also slightly frightening. Giving herself emotionally to someone like that seemed suddenly very disturbing.
Vulnerable.
Naked.
She shivered. Her soul felt as if it had been stripped away and shoved into Sirius. Of course he didn't know he had it. And he wouldn't know, she told herself silently. Not until she was sure of his feelings. She didn't think he'd lied. She was almost positive that he didn't love her.
Yet.
He was protective of her now. He cared for her. Their special circumstance, their betrothal, their families, their initial reaction to each other, made them blind to the fact that they could love each other. Where was it written that they couldn't? "I don't love you," he had said.
But that doesn't mean he won't!
xxxxxxx
An uneasy truce had settled between them after the initial two days had past. The truce was brought to an abrupt halt on the fourth day when an owl, black and haughty, flew in through the kitchen window clutching a letter bearing the Malfoy family crest in its beak. It landed on Antoinette's corner of the breakfast table.
Sirius exploded. "What in Merlin's Devil Beard is that bird doing here?"
Antoinette decided to play it as if it were not a big deal. So much for hoping Sirius wouldn't recognise the crest . . . "Probably Narcissa Malfoy, oui?"
"Yes, probably," Sirius gritted out. "But what the hell is she doing writing to you?"
"I imagine she merely wishes to welcome me into the family."
Her husband snapped his teeth together, brow furrowing dangerously, and he still managed to look gorgeous doing so. "Why," he said after several controlled breaths, muscle in his jaw locking, "would she do that? Come to think of it, how do you know the name Narcissa at all?"
Shrugging, Antoinette flicked open the crest and pulled the letter out of its envelope. "Your, er, dear mother told me all about the Malfoys. And were they not invited to our wedding? Really, I have no idea why you are going on so."
All this was true of course, but she only barely managed to keep away her blush. Sirius did not know that she had already met Narcissa Malfoy, and she was hoping that he would never find out.
"Give me the letter," he demanded, curtly.
In his dreams. "No."
"It might be jinxed!" he tried. "You never know with these people. I should examine it first — to determine if there's anything harmful there or not. Might have used poisonous ink or something." He shot across the table and a made a grab for the letter, which she smartly held out of his reach.
"You're behaving ridiculously. This is my private letter. And if there is anything in the contents of which that concerns you, I shall tell you about it after I read it."
"But the jinx —"
"Do you think me incapable of detecting whether there is a curse on this letter or not?"
He crossed his arms and glared.
"And what an absurd notion. I don't know where you got that idea from."
"It's not absurd," he grumbled. "Look, just let me read —"
"No." She drew the word out. "Now shoo. Go away and let me read in peace."
His mouth dropped open. "Shoo?"
She blushed. That had been too bold. She would have to play along with it. "Yes."
"I am not going to–to shoo. I'm going to finish my breakfast." He indicated to his half eaten scone, his piece of sausage, and the empty goblet — the contents of which were now spread over the white linen table cloth (courtesy of his leap across the table).
Sirius, to give him his due, pretended nothing of the sort had happened, and set about pouring himself another glass from the flagon in the middle.
Antoinette had to bite her lip to keep from smiling at his perseverance. He would never surrender, and it was one of the things that made him so endearing.
But at least they had reached a compromise.
She unfolded the letter.
Dear Mrs Black,
Our conversation in Diagon Alley four days ago — it was suddenly yanked out of her fingers.
"Sirius!" She had looked up just in time to see him pocket his wand. He now brandished the letter like a victor his spoils.
"Yes," he said innocently.
She could not believe it. "Give it back!"
"Not until I've had a chance to read it."
She withdrew her wand, and was pleased to see his eyes turn wary. "I won't give you any warning."
"You can't be serious."
She flicked her wand. The letter instantly caught fire. Sirius yelped dramatically and dropped it before the cinders burned him.
"Now there's a jinx for you. Figure that one out!"
He stared at her incredulously. "You just burned your own letter!"
"What of it? I never wanted to read it in the first place!"
In the next second all Antoinette heard was raucous masculine laughter. Three seconds after that her own laughter joined his. Just what was so hilarious escaped her.
"Do —" Sirius held on to his stomach, "Do you think Narcissa's waiting for a reply?"
"Yes," she gasped.
The laughter died out five minutes later. Husband and wife clutched their stomachs, wincing.
"I have never laughed like that before."
Sirius grinned. "Get used it."
She stared at him. That sounded like a promise.
He raked his hair; a nervous gesture of his. "What I meant to say was — that is — I mean . . ."
"You know," Antoinette began, tracing the edge of spilled pumpkin juice with her finger, "you haven't kissed me the last three nights." She peeked up at him, in time to see him swallow.
"No," he agreed.
They were still breathing hard.
They were still smiling.
They were still staring.
They stood, moved closer, and fell into each others arms.
xxxxx
A/N: I really would like anyone to tell me if I went over the rating in this chapter. I have a feeling that I might have, but I checked the rating register and it said that M ratings are permitted sex scenes, but not explicit ones. I didn't think this was explicit (after all, S & A didn't go the whole way) and I only hope now that they warn me if they're going to be taking this story off the site.
This is also the very first time I've written anything of this sort, and I'm feeling a little apprehensive. Please be gentle.
A/N: Also, if anyone doesn't know, the literal meaning of "cur" is actually mangy, ill-tempered dog, so there's a double pun there whether Antoinette knows it or not.
