Desclaimer: not mine. EVERYTHING BELONGS TO THE BRILLIANT JK ROWLING.
---------
Every action has its reason, every move its result, like a great ball of yarn that has to be opened in order for you to see both the beginning and the end. And what could have saved you, in one life, could, down a different path, become your undoing.
---------
Bellatrix twirls her silver goblet in her hand, the dark liquid sloshing inside, thick and deep. Her silk gown is the same colour as the wine, a deep blood red, the full, heavy skirts neatly spilling from the sides of her chair. Her blue-black hair is plaited, dark ribbons entwined in the long braid, and her ruby earrings are catching the candle light, shining crimson and silver.
It is Christmas at the ancient and most noble house of Black, and little joy is to be found.
Sirius sits opposite of her, a scowl on his otherwise enchanting face. She has been sneaking glances at him all through the feast, mesmerized as ever. He is dressed in black silk robes, perfectly cut but sever, the collar high and the lines stiff. There is silver embroidery on the hem of the fabric, delicate silver dragons slithering across his broad shoulders.
He is holding a fork in his hand, pushing his food around the plate, graceful without meaning to be; it is a trait they all have, bred into them and taught from childhood, side by side with their arrogance. His hair, so much like her own, falls into his eyes, wild and too long.
She loves it, although his mother has been fingering her embroidery scissors irately ever since they came home for the holidays.
They are more alike then anyone acknowledges, than Sirius would ever admit, she thinks. Both in their looks (ebony hair and gray eyes, while Narcissa's hair is blond, like the Malfoys she will be marrying into soon, Andromeda's hair is auburn, like their mother, and Regulus, though he has the same colouring as the both of them, lacks the good looks and aristocratic features their family shares) and in their character and mind.
Sirius passes a hand through his hair, finishes his wine in one great swallow, and pours himself another one. It isn't the first glass he's finished since the meal started, and it won't be the last, she is sure. Bellatrix can already see the first signs of drunkenness: the bright, feverish eyes, slightly unfocused, the way his moves become a little more flowing and a little less rigid, the faint flush staining his cheekbones.
He is, if it is even possible, even more beautiful like this.
His mother, her aunt, had quite a few drinks herself, and something probably stronger than wine. She is smiling at her husband from her place across the table, her stiff face somewhat relaxing, and Bellatrix can actually tell she was pretty once, before the years and her disappointment in her elder son soured her.
She takes a small bite from her meat and doesn't touch her goblet, still more than half full, as everyone around her get steadily drunk. Instead, she watches Sirius.
-----------
Dinner is long over, and everyone still slightly sober has already left the table to their respectable rooms. Only the completely sloshed stayed behind, heads rolling on the table. And Bellatrix herself, of course.
Sylvinia Black, Sirius' mother, is snoring lightly from a few seats away, her long, graying hair in her unfinished Creme Brulle. Narcissa is snoozing, albeit in a more dignified way, in her chair next to Bellatrix. And Sirius, her Sirius, as she sometimes wishes she could call him, is smeared on the table, his dark hair all over his face, his mouth open slightly. His left hand is on the table, too, as if reaching to her, the fingers curling in on themselves.
Without any thoughts of her sister, who will wake up with a sore neck in the morning, she gets up and walks quietly, stopping next to Sirius. She shakes his shoulder gently "wake up, Sirius".
He lets out a sigh, but doesn't show he hears her. She shakes him again, a little stronger this time, and he opens bleary, unfocused eyes, the black of the pupils almost covering the gray, and blinks at her.
"Bella?" he yawns.
Bella. Her heart contracts painfully. He hadn't called her Bella since their first train ride, before he was sorted into Gryffindor, before everything tumbled to pieces. She wants to hug him, to kiss him, even, hearing her old nickname on his lips.
"Come on," she says instead, pulling at his arm "lets get you to bed".
They stumble together out of the dining room and into the hall, Sirius half leaning on Bellatrix, and she almost falls under his weight.
"When did you get this heavy?" she asks, half-serious. He is so tall now, so mature, not the young boy she knew and loved.
Instead, he's a young man, and she loves him in an entirely different way.
They reach his room at last, and she opens the door with her elbow, pushing him inside. She drops him on his bed, where he proceeds to curl up and fall asleep. She stares at him, annoyance eating away at her hesitation. Instead of leaving, she closes the door behind her, and returns to his side.
He half opens his eyes, handsome and drowsy, and her breath catches in her throat. But she is not a Black for nothing.
"Sirius," she tells him, swallowing "you need to take off your robes, your mother will kill you if you ruin them by sleeping in them".
He nods, and begins to fumble with the tiny silver buttons on his collar. After watching him struggle unsuccessfully with them for a few minutes and feeling herself growing steadily redder, she bats his hand away "you're hopeless" she scolds him, her harsh voice a contrast to her gentle hands, and sets to work on the buttons.
When the entire row is finished, he lifts his arms, like a child waiting for his mother to pull his shirt over his head. His mother, of course, never did such a thing.
Bellatrix, chuckling against her will, tugs the robes off him, only to find what a bad idea this was, when the fabric slips up, revealing his body.
She can't help but stare as he looks at her sleepily. He is wearing nothing but a pair of short trousers underneath. His torso is lean, his limbs long and graceful. His form is willowy, slim and elegant, something the robes always hid until now. As he stretches, light muscles ripple under the smooth surface of his skin, and she can't tear herself away, even when he is frowning at her, asking "Bella?' in confusion. She can feel the blush on her face, hot and red.
"You'd better go to sleep" she manages at last, breaking the awkward silence in the room "I don't envy the headache you'll have in the morning".
He shrugs, his disheveled hair spilling over his shoulders, stirring as they move "nothing I haven't experienced before". Even his voice sounds on the verge of sleep.
She is hit by how surreal this is, her standing in her best gown in Sirius' room, with her cousin uncovered save for his undergarments, sprawled on his bedcovers and looking at her in that way, which makes her knees weak because she can almost believe he cares about her.
"Stop that" she says, not because of his statement but because of how she feels.
"Go to sleep," she tells him, tight lipped "and you can go back to hating me in the morning. Just, for Salazar's sake, stop looking at me like that".
He levels a gaze at her, his gray eyes smoldering, his mouth half-open, his black hair around his head like the halo of a fallen angel.
Don't, she reminds herself, that's how he looks at everybody. That's just how he is.
"I don't hate you" he mumbles, eyes closing, and falls asleep.
Bellatrix's head snaps up "what?" she asks sharply, and then, seeing the peaceful way his chest rises and falls, narrows her eyes "Sirius, damn you, you can't fall asleep after telling me something like this!"
No answer, save for his calm breaths.
--------
Bellatrix sits beside him, her skirts pooling on the bed, fighting her blush "Sirius! Wake up! What did you mean, you don't hate me?"
She leans close to hear his answer, mumbled from sleep "don't hate you. Not Regulus, either. Just them. Them and this house". She doesn't have to ask who he means by 'them'. His parents, who hate him just as much.
She watches him a few minutes, feeling warm all over from his words. He really is breathtaking. She passes her fingers in his hair, marveling at its softness, slides her hand over his face. His mouth opens against her palm, breath hot and moist, and she shivers, her fingers trembling on his lips.
Feeling guilty, but unable to control herself any longer, she leans forward and kisses him.
Her hair falls around her face, her braid having come undone long ago, and when a strand tickles Sirius' nose, he frowns, his elegant eyebrows coming together. His lips are soft, dry, and she can taste the wine from dinner on his lips; full-bodied and bitter.
His eyes flutter open, long lashes like silk on her eyelids "Bella...?" She lifts her head a little, nervous, but for some reason, not horrified.
"Yes?" she answers quietly. His forehead creases with the effort of thinking, intoxicated as he is "what..." he breathes "are we doing?" she meets his eyes, bold suddenly "does it bother you?"
His eyes close, like it takes too much of his energy to keep them open "we shouldn't" he says, his voice soft.
"Why?" she asks, angry, thought not only at him "you're not my brother. You're my cousin, and cousins have married before. This is a match neither of our parents could object to- we're both purebloods..."
"That's not it," he says, his eyes scrunching tight as he tries to concentrate.
"The fact that you're a Gryffindor?" she says almost desperately "that won't matter, after we get married".
"Not that" he says, shaking his head, and his nose brushes hers. His eyes shoot open, and he stares at her, his gaze intense and drunk.
"Don't say that," Bellatrix tells him, and kisses him again, and he doesn't. He barely responds, but she doesn't mind, her heart set on the possibility she knows exists now. We'll just try again when he's sober, she thinks. After all, we have all the time in the world now.
----------
They don't mention that night afterwards; Bellatrix isn't even sure if Sirius remembers it. But she feels the difference between them now, the softness in his eyes every time he looks at her, the small smiles he gives her, over their breakfast, when their parents can's see. And in her chest, her heart sings.
Soon, it says, soon, and forever will be yours.
Their sixth year ends, and they both come home, along with Narcissa and Regulus, and a bomb land on the family: Andromeda betrayed them, married a Muggleborn, and her name is burned off the family tapestry, forbidden to be mentioned in the house.
Bellatrix shivers at the loss of a sister, and tells herself it's for the family, for the purity of our blood, and I have Sirius.
Every time she cries at night for the sister she won't see again, she tells herself that, and is satisfied.
And then, when she thinks it is about time she has a talk with Sirius, with their parents, the worst she could have imagined happens; Sirius runs away.
His mother shrieks for days, and it takes the best of Bellatrix's efforts, combined with a generous amount of Firewhisky, to convince her that it's just a faze, that it'll pass, that there is hope for him yet. Harder still, when she isn't sure if she believes herself.
He avoids her in the halls of Hogwarts, in their seventh year, and she becomes more desperate as Christmas is almost upon her, and she didn't manage to talk to him yet. He isn't coming home for Christmas, of course, and it is almost a year since that night, and she has to act fast and quick, like the Slytherin she is, in order not to loose him.
Then the night before she leaves home, she stumbles upon him in the library, in a dusty, forgotten isle near the restricted section, and he is not alone.
She watches, silent, horrified, as he presses that boy he hangs around with all the time against the shelves, the one with the wild amber eyes and the light brown hair, and kisses him. The library is quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages, and Bellatrix can hear her own heart breaking, loud and clear.
"Not that" he told her, and she was foolish enough to think she understood.
The next night she slips out of her bed, creeps down the creaking staircases, and burns Sirius off the tapestry herself.
----------
Every action has its reason, every move its result, like a great ball of yarn that has to be opened in order for you to see both the beginning and the end. And what could have saved you, in one life, could, down a different path, become your undoing.