"Your hands are freezing!" Sirius said to me, like it was so strange. He was the one who wanted to stay outside. In the cold. Stupid naturally hot people.

All the better to keep you from holding my hand, my dear. "I'm always cold."

"I can think of a few ways to warm you up." Was he insinuating something? Wasn't he always insinuating something? "Have some coffee." Oh. 'Kay.

I accepted the thermos gratefully but hesitated before I brought it to my lips. He had taken a drink from it yet? If he had, did that mean our lips would technically touch?

I took a gulp but immediately spat it out. So close to his jeans…. "This is not coffee! It tastes like you poured the whole bottle of artificial flavor in here."

"But it's the good kind!" Sirius defended. "The peppermint mocha that only comes out during Christmas!" Oh, that makes it so much better.

"It's October." I pointed out.

"I know people." Girls, he knew girls. "Besides this is the only way coffee is good! I'm more of a tea man."

What kind of a man drinks tea? "If you don't like coffee what were you doing at a coffee shop? The hot babes?" I asked sarcastically. If coffee shops were a notorious hot spot for hormonal teenagers I wouldn't spend so much time there.

"Maybe. I found you there." Was comparing me to the blood suckers he always had trailing after him considered a compliment?

"Don't call me a hot babe."

"Why?" He asked, almost not believing my request. Who wouldn't want to be honored by the great Sirius Black, god of self-worship, himself?

Because it would be lying. "It's offensive to women. And I'm not exactly your type." Did he have a type? Did he even have requirements? Even I had made a list of preferences, but the highest score a boy had ever gotten was a 4. It was practically impossible for guys to get more than a 3 because my list consisted of half personality and half physical traits. I never let myself get close enough to find out if they had a great eye color or nice teeth, let alone their personality.

"So what is my type?" What, am I supposed to be an expert on him now? I assume a bit like your taste in coffee. Horrible. Pretty, falsely sweet, reincarnate of the devil.

"I don't know. Not a girl you'd find at a coffee shop." I see what he's trying to do! He wants me to admit that I had been watching him. Maybe he should have been in Slytherin.

"Are you saying that I can't date a smart girl?"

"I'm not saying you can't, you just won't. You want to have fun."

"Well, what kind do you like?"

"I like black."

"I like you too."

"What – oh. I meant coffee. I like black coffee."

"So… you don't like me?" Not particularly.

"Sure I do."

"Rate me." He ordered – more like, barked.

I played around with my fingers, occasionally tucking an added finger into my fist. "5. Wait, smile." He quirked his head to the side and I realized for the first time I had never seen him smile. I'm sorry. Should I have said smirk?

"You look for a nice smile?" He made a joke out of his reluctance.

"No. Nice teeth." I corrected. I reluctantly added another point when he finally smiled. "You have very well-aligned teeth." I told him, vacantly wondering why he didn't smile more often. He seemed like such a happy person. What did he have to be angst-y about? He had great friends, a new girlfriend every week and the majority of the school would throw themselves on the wet ground to prevent his feet from getting muddy. He walked all over everybody; he was disrespectful to the teachers, cruel to everyone from the Slytherins to the Hufflepuffs and they still loved him, and he would just stand there, acting all modest and chivalrous, like he didn't really want the attention everyone offered.

Not that I've been any different. I didn't exactly want him to notice me, but I hadn't pushed him away. I gave him just as much attention as everyone else, maybe it was negative attention, but it still got him off, didn't it?

He was the kind of guy my mother would date – and hell, why not? He's 18. It's legal. "6." I told him, almost spitting out the score.

His smile disappeared. Good. Maybe he didn't deserve to smile. "Please tell me that was out of 5."

"How does that make sense?" I looked at him like he was an idiot. Which he is.

"I've gotten 11's before. A couple 12's too. Even a 100 once."

"And that proves what? You only date girls who can't count?" I said, feeling especially judgmental at the moment.

"It's not fair! I've never gotten below an eight." Of course he hadn't.

"Well, it was based on my preferences – half personality and half physical. I don't know you that well, so it would be impossible for you to score all ten points."

"Oh I see. This was all a ploy to get me to spend more time with you."

"Nice try." The no was left unsaid.

"What are your preferences?" Has he ever heard the term "let it go"? What am I thinking – he's never heard the word no!

"Well, you got all the points in physical traits." I admitted.

"Does that mean you only like me for my body?" What else would I like you for? Your sparkling personality?

"Actually, one of my things is a little on the thin side. Tall. Dark hair."

"Long or short?"

"Doesn't matter, as long as it doesn't cover up his eyes. I've got a thing for eyes." Sirius quickly shook his hair from his eyes.

"So far your type is tall, dark and handsome." He simplified. It would have given most people the impression he wasn't interested, but I was more observant than most people. He had leaned in subtlety during our conversation, much closer than necessary, I noted.

"I didn't say handsome."

"Your dream guy isn't attractive?"

"I don't picture him that way. Nothing is too distinct about him. I don't have a set eye color and height and every facet of his personality in mind. I like to be surprised. But personally, I like average guys better."

"Why?"

Because I don't deserve anyone better. "They tend to be more real. They can't depend on their looks, so they're not superficial or conceited," Hint, hint. "They're more laid back."

"And you don't think I'm laid back?"

"That was your one personality point. You're obviously easy-going –"

"How do you know?"

"The way you sit in your chair." He raised his eyebrows and I realized my mistake. He wasn't sitting in a chair right now, I had practically confessed to even casually taking notice of him. But he wouldn't look at it like that. Everyone knows how big his ego is. "I can get really stressed, so I –" Want? Need? "I would like to have a guy who was light-hearted and funny and can calm me down."

"So, you like a submissive guy."

"Not particularly. That's another point. I don't want a controlling guy, just controlled. It's not like I want to be fighting all the time, but I like a guy who isn't afraid to disagree with me on something and make a reasonable argument. He has to be smart. A gentleman, kind of old-fashioned. Opening doors, pulling out chairs –"

"Paying." He butt in. Has he ever heard of waiting his turn? Did he even go to kindergarten? He probably skipped.

"At least for the first date, but my idea of the perfect first date wouldn't be that expensive. I don't want dinner and a movie, that's what – 50 bucks – and you don't even talk for half the date. I want someone more creative."

"And you don't think I'm creative? Have you seen the pranks I pull?" Those things aren't creative, they're destructive, Hitler.

I hated knowing Sirius was the only guy who had ever gotten close to a perfect score. I knew he was creative, smart, funny, easy going – but not a pushover. I was suddenly very grateful he was not a gentleman. I couldn't sleep at night knowing he was a 10.

"I can't believe you didn't ask me to rate you." He told me.

"I don't exactly want to be classified as a number." I was sounding particularly feminist today, but I knew I was really just afraid. I wouldn't score very high. Oh well. He's not my type anyway.

"Name three things you like about your appearance."

That was hard. I considered myself pretty, but only by process of elimination. I don't have any pronounced features that could categorize me as cute, hot, or beautiful. I always considered the pretty ones to be the plain ones.

My nose was a little too straight, my lips were a little too full, and my cheeks were a little too defined, hollowing out all the way to my pointed chin.

I could say I liked my hair, but that would only be half true. I liked the way the ends fell in slight curls around my shoulders, but the color often caught people's attention.

I could say I liked my height, but it really only made me stand out from the other girls.

It was the same with my eyes – an unclassified shade of grey and green, and my skin – imitating that of porcelain doll; flawless and fair.

"I can't."

"You can't think of three things?"

"Well, can you?" I snapped.

"I can think of more than three things." I remained quiet, but convinced myself it was out of defiance than being dumbfounded. "You don't want to hear them?"

"No." I said. "I don't care what you think."