See first part for notes about this collection of stories.

Disclaimer: I am but a poor college student. Please don't sue me.

"A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal."

"Fuck—"

"Bloody—"

"Go!"

Their shoes squeak as they scramble around the corner, and James cringes. They really can't afford to get caught tonight. Filch has been exceptionally suspicious lately; if he finds them, he'll flay them alive.

"There," he hisses, "quick, the statue—" and in a flurry of pushing and pulling and muffled cursing, he and Sirius manage to wedge themselves behind the stately figure of Salazar Slytherin.

"Oof," Sirius grunts, panting for breath. "Haven't been stuck here for ages. Don't think we fit quite as well as we used to."

"It'll do," James whispers back. He eyes the corridor with distrust, waiting for their pursuer to catch up with them.

The two stand motionless behind the statue, dripping, as their heartbeats gradually return to normal.

No one appears.

Finally, James ducks his head out, casting a wary glance up and down the hall before pulling back. "I don't see anything. Maybe we lost her."

"Bloody likely," Sirius mutters sarcastically. He shifts uncomfortably, restless as always. "If that damn cat gets us caught again, I'll wring her neck."

"We could always frame the Slytherins for it," James suggests, though he is quickly losing track of the conversation. Sirius wriggles again, and James is becoming dangerously aware of the hard press of Sirius's body against his.

Focus, James.

Sirius shrugs. "We'd have to. Can't get detention now, with the match on Saturday."

The match. James swears under his breath. If Filch catches them—

Sirius snickers. "Terribly irresponsible, you know, getting yourself benched for the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. Really, as captain, you ought to know better."

James glares at him, to no effect. "I ought to know better than to keep you on the team. Anyway, we're not going to get caught. That is, if you think you can keep your daft comments to yourself for a few minutes."

"I'll do my best, mon capitaine."

Irritating as Sirius is, that polished French accent

(lingering legacy of a Black childhood)

is as seductive as always. James takes a moment to debate over whether to hit him or ravish him senseless. He decides to do both. Later.

Silence descends. James listens intently for any signs of trouble, but hears nothing—not the familiar skulking footsteps of the caretaker, nor the stealthy clicking of feline claws. Perhaps they have escaped notice, after all. A minute more, maybe two, and they can chance a dash for the Tower. Should've brought the Map. He sighs. Should've brought the Cloak

"Ugh." Sirius squirms again, before finally he relaxes, slumping between the wall and James. The two of them are joined at hip, flank, shoulder—seamed together in a jumble of muscle and wet cloth. They are still soaked, and the cool drafts of air down the corridor are like icy winds on James's damp skin. At least the union of their bodies has created a welcome bit of heat.

James presses just a bit closer, and breathes in. He should not think Sirius smells good. Sirius ought to reek—and, indeed, he does. He stinks of fish and lake water and wet dog. And yet, somehow, underneath all that is the lingering scent of Sirius. Spicy. Warm. Sexual.

James wants him. He is too tired and too cold to investigate the thought, to explore the complicated layers of friendship and possessiveness and hunger. He knows only that Sirius is there, hard and soft and more alluring than he has any right to look, considering the circumstances—and James wants him, possibly more than he has ever wanted anything

(brooms, adventure, the Cup, Lily's smile)

in his entire life.

Before he realizes his mouth is moving, he says, "I think I might be in love with you."

Oh.

Sirius is going to kill him. No—no, Sirius is going to tease him to death. Once Moony and Wormtail hear of this, James will never be able to set foot in Hogwarts again. Word will spread that the great James Potter is swooning for his best mate, and he will be laughed out of every classroom, common room, and locker room. His life is over.

James considers finding Filch and begging for a year's worth of detention. Scrubbing trophies, cleaning bedpans—anything to keep him away from Sirius and his mockery—

"James."

Bugger.

"James, look at me."

Sirius's face is shadowed and indistinct. He is not laughing. He is not even smiling.

Merlin. He really is going to kill me.

"James," Sirius says very sternly, "I am hiding from a cat in the middle of the night."

Flashing silver eyes study James's face to make sure he has absorbed this.

"So far tonight, I've almost drowned, nearly frozen to death, and barely escaped being throttled by a giant squid, all because you thought a midnight dip in the lake would be a great adventure." He pauses, ever conscious of dramatics. "At the moment, I happen to be stuck in a compromising position between you, the wall, and a statue of Slytherin, of all the bloody wizards. We're both drenched, and I for one am freezing my bollocks off."

Sirius stops again, this time for breath. His face is beginning to flush with heat, a sign that he is warming to his topic.

"Also you should know that you look like a right idiot. Your glasses are all foggy, and your stupid hair is going everywhere, and, and if you don't kiss me in the next ten seconds, I'm going to fucking kill you."

James stares at him, bewildered, unsure whether to be terrified or aroused.

Sirius flicks a strand of wet hair from his eyes, and sighs. His voice is deliberately casual. "If this isn't love, I've gone completely round the bend."

There is a long, heavy pause—and then James laughs, a great whoosh of relief and surprise and barely-concealed lust. There is a gleam of teeth in the darkness as Sirius finally cracks a smile, looking rather too pleased with himself for James's taste.

Twisting in the narrow space, James reaches up and captures Sirius's face, smooth skin chilled and clammy under his hands, icy lips curved in a self-satisfied grin. His fingers twine in cold, wet locks of black hair, tugging gently, and water drips down his fingers as Sirius's mouth opens under his.

James Potter is not known for his patience, but the situation calls for a diligent attention to detail. Anything less than absolute thoroughness would be unseemly, and so he bites and licks and sucks the smirk from the other boy's face until Sirius moans into his mouth and arches against him.

They never do make it back to the Tower.