Leave me with something to hold, lend me your t-shirt to get home

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I'm drowning in a vat of laundry. As I pull a fluffy sleeve out of my mouth I wonder what they'll inscribe on my tombstone.

Young girl suffocated by an anonymous Third Year's B.O drenched jumper.

I'd never live it down! I suppose I wouldn't be alive to live it down but that's beside the point. I'd forever be remembered as the git who couldn't figure out which way was up when swimming for some inexplicable reason through Hogwarts' gargantuan laundry collection.

Although I do have a good reason. I've misplaced my jumper. Okay, so I more threw it in the lake thinking it was Lily's than misplaced it but that's also beside the point. The point is I need a new one. And if you think I'm going to shell out precious galleons for something as mundane as a new school jumper then you've got another thing coming, buddy.

I finally break the fabric surface. Lily is leaning on the edge of the laundry container regarding me with a mixture of boredom, disgust and disapproval. First off, she wouldn't be half as bored if she had a good rollick in the laundry bin herself. Second, she shouldn't be disgusted because this is the clean laundry bin. Aside from that one kid's permanently B.O stained jumper, this is a perfectly sanitary exercise. Thirdly, she should wipe all disapproval from her face because I only 'borrow' clothes from people I know.

In fact, I'm wearing Lily's school skirt right now. I'm also wearing Remus' socks and Alice's spare cloak. There's been a bit of a kafuffle in the Gryffindor common room about the phantom clothes stealer. I started a rumour that a rogue house elf was stirring an uprising, convincing more and more of his comrades to seize their freedom by seizing our clothes.

"Just choose one already and lets get out of here," Lily moans indelicately.

I plunge my hand down and extract a jumper at random. Just like lucky dip really. I flick back the collar to read the tag:

Sirius Black

Bollocks. I twist around so Lily can't see as I gently sniff the material. That smell. I swear he douses himself in chloroform. It would explain all the light-headedness when I get too close to him. Take the other night, for example. Nearly kissing him didn't mean anything really, except for re-establishing the already confirmed fact that we're both strongly attracted to each other. All attraction is, is lust. And lust is just a callous tool of nature designed to get people to procreate and thus continue the never-ending oddity that is life.

Love is different. Love is caring. And being in love is simply the dangerous equation of caring multiplied by lust. Lust is a kiss, whereas love is a hug. A kiss has to deteriorate eventually; oxygen is mandatory in the life department. But with hugs, you can stay latched on to someone forever.

I drag the threadbare jumper over my head. Sirius is taller than me so it hangs loosely, the sleeves enveloping my hands. The material is faded and tattered. He could have afforded a new one long ago but unlike James, Sirius doesn't put effort into his appearance. He doesn't have to. He could be dressed in a tea towel (shame he refused to) and look smashing. At least he's loyal to his clothing, instead of throwing them away like he does with other entities in his life.

As the material rubs against my skin I feel a gentle tingle ripple through me. Having his contaminating scent constantly wafting up to my nose region probably isn't the smartest way to be distracted from him. But were friends now, so the ultimate plan of distraction has gone to the dumps anyway. I fold the security of Sirius's warm sleeves around myself. Wearing someone else's jumper is the next best thing to being eternally wrapped in their arms. Maybe Sirius just wanted a kiss. But I've stolen his hug.

And even though it's not a real hug, donning it feels like I'm cheating on Frank. Sirius doesn't really have a care filled hug to give me. But the fact that I'm scrambling for anything that simulates it can't be good.