Chapter 12: Holding Hands.
(The sharing of plump and cheese cakes. A smelly learning aid. The inside of Sirius Black's mind. )
The first time a fight broke among the marauders was about six days, ten hours and twenty-two minutes into our shared living experience. Give or take.
We had a bit of a book situation, in that we had too many.
We had our school books, my favorite readings, the latest Quidditch issues, my favorite Sunday readings, potions books pickpocketed from the Potters' library, dark arts books given willingly from the Blacks' library, a series of alarming books relating pump-lines, my wish-list readings, The Honeydukes Chronicles, An I-will-probably-never-read-it-but-I-brought-it-with-me-just-to-be-safe readings, and one particular book that no one took credit for - but was in fact the most worn out copy – " Igor Lewinsky: the wizard behind twenty-eight interior designs."
I've long learned that two of those titles belonged to Peter, though for some reason, I still took the chief of the blame when Sirius stumped his toe.
A glorified git led to a tosser, which escalated pretty quickly into the less dignified wanker and suddenly books were flying everywhere.
Sirius refused to talk to me for a whole week.
This marked the first out of two major fights Sirius and I ever had.
The second fight remained an unspoken, fearful time period, that many students preferred not to reminisce.
When Sirius closed shut the door after storming out, I prepared myself for our third big fight.
If history was any indication, it would include no jokes, no talking, no eye contact, a copious amount of abrupt tantrums (allegedly unrelated to my person, but which revolved around causing irrevocable damage to my belongings nonetheless), no planning or pranking of any kind and an immediate ban from headquarters for the foreseeable future.
I am quite fond of my belongings, and there is something about headquarters that does not bear the thought of exile (it has just the right ratio between crispy clean, to six-years' worth of living in it). So, you see, I acted out of a primal sense of self-preservation when I darted out of bed and headed for the door.
I did not have to venture very far to find my friend.
As soon as I opened the door, I came face to face with a pale, stuttering Sirius being led involuntarily back inside by James.
"Gents, it appears we have some issues to discuss!" Peter declared, not quite pulling his weight in, Sirius-wise.
"W-we do?"
"Yes we- bloody Bogarts did you just bit me?" James cried, nursing his injured thumb, "wass dh'mader wid ju!?"
Sirius, once again a free man, sniffed audibly. "Nothin' just fancied myself a walk is all."
"Your bathroom break can wait," James admonished, flopping down on Sirius' mattress, quickly accompanied by Peter and eventually by Sirius himself.
I was the last boy standing.
"You're waiting for a personalized owl or somthin'?" Peter asked bemusedly while James threw his hands in the air; his right thumb ostensibly bigger than the left -" I am not letting Moony bite me!"
"That's Werewolves discrimination." Sirius noted jokingly, relaxing somewhat now that he was in his own bed.
Strange…
I took a tentative step forward.
No flying books so far.
Another step.
My bed was not set on fire.
I sat, slowly, palms first on Sirius's bed.
Our friends blinked - "alright there Moony?"
I caught Sirius' eye. He nodded. I breathed.
"Never better."
Funny; I didn't mean for my voice to get all throaty.
Thankfully, my pubescent moment went unheeded by my friends - James's self-important cough demanded our undivided attention.
"We return to you from Puddifoot." He exclaimed, and so I rearranged myself into a cross legged sitting position, gearing up for a promising story.
Then it hit me.
Sirius leaned in.
Did he try to snog me?
Okay, scratch that. Of course he tried to snog me. There was no lash in my eye. There is never a lash.
"-this couple in the far left table kept giving us the stink eye –"
The real question was why.
"Aye that was a right stinkin' eye they gave us! You'd think two blokes can't enjoy a plum cake together -"
"- right you are Wormtail, right you are!"
He tried to snog me, does that mean he's interested in me? I snogged Amelia Bones once, on a dare.
To this day the most profound thing I can tell about her is that she takes Herbology.
"- A Slytherin strolled in alone. My money says he couldn't find a proper date -"
" - a nasty lookin' bloke –"
"- dodgy bugger, kept his face hidden –"
Sirius was sitting leisurely against his pillow, leaning an arm over a bunched knee. He bit into a fingernail.
Sirius does not bite his fingernails.
Maybe he's drunk? The Prewett Thing almost happened when he was drunk.
"– left quickly after that, so we kept watching – "
Then there was my list. The seven to eight signs list.
It all came back to that list, didn't it?
In the end, James and Peter came back with some surprising revelations; they discovered that Branda Bruke from Slytherin was drinking tea with Leon Redburn (who, upon an evil twist of fate, was the proud owner of the Slytherin's Quidditch Captain pin). Redburn himself much preferred to ogle Mary Macdonald while eating an apricot cheese-cake. They also availed that Fletcher took the trash out on an hourly basis, and that whenever he took it, he had a Vanishsmoke pipe stashed behind one ear.
It was not there when he returned.
They even managed to extricate the Madam's Lemon Rose Squares recipe.
What they did not find out, though, was the identity of the O.G.P.T.S.P shipment's recipient.
It was promptly decided that they had either never came in at all or else managed to slip under my friends' radar. Undoubtedly, by utilizing a form of rare and powerful dark magic.
It was only sometime after Peter's third yawn that I realized I had yet to tell them about Lily's slip.
In the background, James launched his fifth retelling of the stakeout; the more he told it, the greasier the mysterious Slytherin became and the tastier the apricot cheese-cake sounded.
An elbow was rearranged here, a leg spread there and by the time James recanted how The Madam shooed them off, we were all substantially more horizontal than how we set out to be.
When Sirius affirmed that he, too, came up empty handed, James gave out a low contented sigh, followed by slurs of "next time" and "for sure".
Resolved that the Lily conversation could wait another day, I let my friends murmurs guide them into sleep.
Instead of waking them up, I craned my head over the two logs between Sirius and myself.
Through a series of silent mouthing and pointed neck gestures, I was able to deliver my message.
We needed to talk.
We strayed into the common room.
Immediately, Sirius began to stride around the empty space; rearranging an abandoned chess game so that black won, fluffing the pillows on the sofa, re-enchanting the fire, patting stones walls.
Mind, that last one was a bit of a doozy.
"You must not tell anyone." He mumbled and it took him pulling a bottle of firewhisky out of a brick for me to realize he wasn't referring to his previous...advances.
He tilted the mostly full bottle in front of his face, scrutinizing the content. Apparently appeased, he took a wavered swig before recorking it.
"Foul drink if you ask me," he said, twisting his mouth. "More of a Sherry bloke myself, but I'm having a bit of a thirst, you see."
The ignorant twit reclined languidly against the wall. Admittedly, my head was bursting with balance-knocking questions, but Sirius's opinions on high-end liquor did not quite make the cut.
"Oh, I'm sorry, would you like some?" the boy gallantry offered, misconstruing my silence for offence. "No? suits yourself. Mind, you're probably better off, tastes like – "
"- you tried to snog me." I blurted, because, well, he did.
Sirius had the audacity to pout; a retaliation against the rudeness of cutting his words, no doubt. "I suppose I should apologize," he allowed graciously, stashing his bottle before renewing the strutting.
"I am sorry, you know." He remarked, giving me a quick once over every few royal steps, as if making sure I was still there.
Right behind him.
If it wasn't for the defiantly raised chin, I would have been floored by this exhibition of fervent candor.
"I never meant to run off on you."
"That is what you're sorry about?" I asked, scandalized.
Sirius stopped long enough to nod, albeit sheepishly, "it was very unGryffindorish of me."
Now I was floored.
"You tried to snog me." I reminded him, taking more time to enunciate my words than I did at my first spelling bee competition (I was nearly five years old. The winning word was Azkaban. It awarded me five fresh crumpets, and a hug).
To my great indignation, Sirius snorted.
"That is what's bothering you?" he asked, "do not worry about that, I am not mad-"
"Mad?"
"Would you kindly stop interrupting me?" he huffed, "and no more fretting too, I'll take responsibility Moony, I should have had more consideration."
"You should have had?" "I asked, unconvinced.
After all, Sirius Black was a verbal landmine; just when you thought you reached solid ground, something went boom.
Most likely, your brain.
"Of course, I am not a brute, Moony. I have some basic notions about improper conduct. I can own up to my mistakes."
"You can?"
"Don't be rude, obviously I read the situation wrong."
"There is that, yes." I agreed, navigating my way. Trying not to slip.
Sirius, on the other hand, plunged right in; his words emphasized by the manner with which he racked his hair. "I hate the thought that I might've forced myself on you. That's despicable. Truly."
Tentatively, the boy came forward until his hands were ghosting my shoulders. "I never meant to upset you. Forgive me?"
Taken aback by the reassuring seeking gesture, I relented at last and accepted his apology. Momentarily ignori- forgetting the fact that it was not so much a question of should have Sirius tried to snog me, as it was of why he wanted to in the first place.
"I guess I can accept that."
"Good." Sirius said, clasping my shoulders before heading for the spiral staircase.
"Don't worry, Moons, next time I'll give you a proper heads - up."
BOOM.
Sunday provided me with some much needed clarity with regards to the happenings inside Sirius's mind.
As usual, it was terrifying.
I hadn't had the privilege of speaking with him alone ever since last night, despite spending the majority of our time together.
Needless to say, my mind was riling with possibilitie- QUERIES.
For starters, Sirius verified that A. he did in fact tried to snog me. and B. he thought it perfectly reasonable to try it again.
This unhelpful warrant made my palms so sweaty I considered sneaking a peek at the relationship timetable he created; I wouldn't put it past Padfoot to pin down the exact time for "private snogging attacks".
Alas, too petrified by the thought of getting caught with such an implicating document, I decided to distract myself instead.
Thus, Sunday morning found me doing my Daily Prophet's Tapword puzzle (which was virtually the same as a muggle crossword puzzle, only you had to use your wand instead of a pen, and the answers were all spells), when a large, perfectly manicured hand covered my own.
I froze. Sirius sipped his morning tea. James and Peter each lobbied in excruciating details why Dungbumbs were a practical magical learning aid in a set of Christmas' gifts requests cards (which I can only hope, were meant for their parents).
All the while, five white bumps stretched under ivory-pinkish skin.
Over my hand.
Where Sirius' palm rested.
Unmoving.
Not even when I stilled my wand mid-spell. Nor when elbows began to punch ribs, and necks elongated for a better view. Not still, as Professor Mcgonagle passed the rudimentary, last minute form for students who wished to stay over for Christmas break .
Despite being one of said students.
"Professor, can I put my name down?"
The bored drawl caused three things to happen at once; our professor's lips tightened, James's face fell dramatically, and I chocked on my eggs.
The hand remained the same.
"Mister Black? I was under the impression that you are staying with the Potters for the holidays," Mcgonagle intoned icily, "in fact, I seem to recall an incident involving two hundred howlers that stated as such."
Sirius gulped.
"Last month."
"Er, you see-"
"-All over the castle-"
"Proffe-"
"At midnight."
"But I have to stay over, professor," Sirius all but whined, "Mo-Remus is staying over."
Unimpressed, our teacher raised both eyebrows, "I am well aware of Mister Lupin arrangements. He signed up in advance." She tusked, "and did not found it necessary to disrupt the entire school in the process, I may add."
Was it just me, or did my prefect pin shone a little bit brighter?
"But I can't leave him alone," Sirius pressed on, "He's my boyfriend."
"Um, Padfoot?"
On a whimper, "and I would have signed up a month ago, but, I mean, who would have thought he'd say yes?"
With wide eyes, "you are not going to make me leave him all alone, are you Professor?"
Clenching my hand tighter, "Please?"
It had to be a family hex. Perhaps a nonverbal Imperius. A potent pre-administrated mind-boggling potion. Nothing else could have made the Professor's severe glare frost into a yielding, almost-smile.
Sirius Black was officially celebrating his holidays on school's grounds.
With me.
Just the two of us.
Probably, holding hands.
As if reading my mind, Sirius tagged my wrist. Finished with his breakfast, he was now ready for more adventurous activities.
And he did them all holding my hand.
Ribbing Wormtail during a lazy stroll? Holding my hand.
Jinxing the mistletoes in the library? Holding my hand.
A rainy afternoon Quidditch match against Prongs? Holding my hand (aka, the scariest hour I had ever spent on a broom).
Crawling in front of the common room fireplace? Holding my hand.
It had dawned on me, as I sipped my liquor induced coca (after a trip to the kitchens, with Padfoot, holding my hand) that I was now on hand-holding basis with Messer Sirius Padfoot Black.
And the thing about Sirius Padfoot Black was that he had a right nice hand.
It was at room temperature. Big. Comfy really. Almost like an old, beloved glove; smooth here, overworn there.
I was contemplating a particularly protruding bluish line, when it finally shifted.
At first, I thought maybe Sirius had had enough. Then, I wondered if it was a spasm. A byproduct of overworking his muscles in this novel exercise.
It turned out, Sirius merely pushed our hands over my thigh, so he could lean into my side; he seemed to engage in a self-balancing challenge, pressing his entire midsection into my elbow. Discreetly casting an inferno to every-nerve ending from my hip to my shoulder.
His lips just barely missed my ear lobe.
"Is this okay?" he whispered, and because I suddenly had a thigh stretched over my person, I answered sincerely.
"Mrfphf".
"Can you keep a secret, Moony?" he asked giddily, looking around before returning to his original post "I wasn't going to try holding hands until our next date, at least. But I figured, just to check, after last night…"
"W-well, Padfoot¸ I do believe I can keep that one to myself. Prongs will be horrified, mind. Wormtail, heartbroken. You know how he detests secrets keeping." I deadpanned, albeit, with a proficient dazed interval - our next date? And what was that about last night? How can almost snogging me when we are alone, compare to holding my hand in the common room?
"Of course," the smug prick allowed, hummed, and began to twirl his thumb over the back of my hand; watching the minute circle with growing fascination. " It came in handy though, didn't it? 'Gonagle ate it up… Nice catch, not freaking out about the boyfriend bit, by the way. Prongs nearly pissed his pants, no doubt – "
And why was he still talking about breakfast? If you ask me, our current sitting situation was much more pressing.
Literally.
" - And did you see his face when we ducked under that Bludger? Priceless. Best. Broom. Ride. Ever. Wasn't it? Be careful though, I reckon Prongs might try and draft you for the team –"
Maybe he had a bet going on with James to see how long he can hold my hand under pretense of The Plan, and this was his latest attempt to spook me out of his arms.
I considered it as Sirius proceeded to summon a fresh roll of parchment to work on our Christmas itinerary, stopping here and there to run an idea by me (I was willing to accompany him in the search of Slughorn's cellar, but drew the line at letting him curse the faucets in the prefects' bathroom). I was in the middle of trying to gauge out why, exactly, one would even want to visit Flitch's private chambers when Sirius got a disconcerting twinkle in his eyes. A pinkish tip glazed his lips and for a moment I was sure he was going to snog me. The promised warning be damned.
Instead, he simply grazed his lips over my knuckles in a fleeting, awkward kiss.
Wait, no, that was still weird.
Ditching the questionable schedule, my friend committed his full attention on my hand with vigor. Between chaste kisses and soothing fingers, it occurred to me that this might be another boundary Sirius wanted to try out. Just to check.
This turned out to be a room-spinning revelation because Sirius checking habits could also be construed as being gentle and taking things slowly.
Which, inevitably, insinuated there were things between us to begin with.
Suddenly, all the evidences started to align; brooding over our date plans and making crazy lists well into the night, trying to snog me, better yet, failing to snog me and apologizing for his manners. Not to mention, he was thrilled that I did not get upset when he called me his boyfriend, despite it being a rather brilliant move.
And through it all, how many times did Sirius mention the rules of proper dating conduct? Sirius Black does not do this or Sirius Black has to do that. We had a bloody timetable.
Sirius Black was attempting to be a perfect gentleman. In and out of the spectators' eyes.
Which might have made sense if we were actually dating.
"D'you use a heating charm on your hands? 's amazing." He cooed, finishing the onslaught on my hand in order to examine it better. "Might want to work on the side effects, though," he added, a tiny wrinkle ruining the otherwise taught skin of his forehead, " 's sweaty."
With very little awareness of our audience, Sirius wriggled forward, stopped, and gave me a snitch-speed peck on the cheek.
"I had a roaring good time, Moony. Thanks." And with that adieu, Sirius finally let go of my hand, climbed out of my lap, and skittered off to the dorm.
It was short, sweet and courteous.
Bloody Grindylows, was I dating Sirius Black?!
PUFF.
My epiphany was interrupted by the soft noise. Identical, carefully cut out cards popped into existence, filling all the nooks and crannies of the room. One of which, landed in my recently vacant hand.
"The Marauders' Complete List of Christmas favorites; how to impress your chosen prankster."
ENDNOTES:
Did I struggle with this one? OH YEAH. Gauging out if I want to write a big argument or not was a toughy.
On a more positive note...A Christmas chapter is coming up! How will the boys get along all by their lonesome hmm? Will Remus get an answer to his question? Will James get his Dungbumbs? Stay tuned.