Disclaimer - Not mine.

Note - every single chapter, I have truly believed that the story was done. I intended chapter one to be a one-shot, but Sirius wanted his side heard. Thanks to author Verasilyn, this is now the final chapter. For real this time.

Chapter Three

The Marriage

The funeral was not a pleasant affair. Not that funerals are, of course, but this one was decidedly unpleasant. Most of this was due to my awareness of Sirius's misery. It must have been hard on him, to stand in sober black robes and say sorrowful things about the old hag. It was a relief when she died even to me, who used to be fond of her. After I married Sirius, I became very much disillusioned with her. I became re-illusioned with Sirius; I hadn't thought I would care much for him. My family is not high-ranked, though we are respectable, and a marriage to Sirius Black for the eldest child was decidedly a step up – yet we all knew it was only because other families wished to shield their daughters from the famous rebel's influence.

Sirius comes downstairs into the kitchen where I am standing at the sink, watering my plants. He is in Muggle clothing, brown jeans and a fresh snow-white shirt. His hair falls past his shoulders now, silky and thick, and he has caught it back into a ponytail with a wooden clasp. I like his looks better now, after nearly three years of marriage. He looked young when we married. He was, really – barely eighteen. Aging has brought out a quieter sort of beauty in him.

His penchant for Muggle clothing does not bother me either, as he is careful never to embarrass me. I've a cousin in Spain whose husband has a penchant for women's clothing.

Not that I wasn't worried about that particular problem to begin with. I suspected it from the first time I saw him sitting alone next to that quiet, considerate Remus Lupin – pity he's a werewolf, I might rather like him if he weren't – and my suspicions were confirmed by the private talks between Sirius and his mother in the first two years, when we seemed unable to produce a child, talks from which Sirius emerged angry or upset, once in tears of frustration which he tried not to let me see.

At first I was disgusted that a married man was so much controlled by what his mother permitted, but again, I've come to know Tyana Black. Since her illness, he has become more self-possessed.

"Are you going out?" I ask Sirius, though it's obvious that he is.

"Yes," he says, and comes closer. He kisses the corner of my mouth, then kisses his palm and lays the hand on the gentle swell of my belly.

"I think it's a girl," I say. "It could be a boy, but I have a feeling."

Sirius shrugs. "A girl would be lovely," he says, with a smile and a shrug. "We have years to produce the required heir. If we don't, there's always Regulus."

"Your brother," I say dryly, "would not produce an heir if all the nubile virgins in England were paraded in front of him nude. Can you imagine him losing his self-control enough to climax?"

Sirius snorts his laughter. I've surprised him. He likes it when I do that, and I like to do it, to some extent. It adds another element to things.

Sirius, I think, is resigned. Let him have his nights out with his old friends. He keeps it all private, and he appears respectable in public. His rebellious days are over and he has behaved in a becoming manner since our marriage. Why not? There are stranger quirks.

"Don't wait up, Maria," he tells me as he leaves.

"I won't," I reply, and I fill the can to water my iris.

Apple pie with cream on it, one cup of coffee and one cup of tea. Cheap flatware and chipped china on a neat, small table for two. A small sitting room with a small fire. Shakespeare's Sonnets with a blue cover and a blue ribbon marking the place. A snapshot of four teenaged boys on the mantelpiece. One armchair; a spot on the rug pushed askew where someone has sat down. A warm bed behind a closed door, street light soft and misty through the blue curtains. A heap of clothing in the corner. One candle flickering on the nightstand to illuminate a heap of worn books and an elderly red quilt. And here is clarity. Here is passion. Here, finally, is fulfillment.

End