Chapter Three (Sirius)

Sirius sighed and rolled over in his unfamiliar bed. Despite the fact that, for the first time in nearly thirteen years he had a thick, soft mattress with crisp, clean sheets (and even a soft down duvet), he found himself unable to sleep. So much had happened in a single day and all he could think about was Misha - and not necessarily in a good way.

Oh, she seemed a fine person, if rather chatty and slightly over-political. But she was strange, albeit very kind. All that talk about the Muggle world and refusing to say if she was a Muggleborn, Halfblood, or Pureblood? (She was clearly the latter.) Sirius wondered why in the hell Ron had asked her that, anyway, but he was quickly learning that Ronald Weasley was prone to asking inane questions – especially to pretty females. Wait, did he just think that Misha Marrowstone was pretty? This was not good.

Ron had picked through a scrapbook he'd found sitting atop of a bookcase and asked Misha if she used to be a model. Although hardly pleased with his nosiness, Misha managed to evade the question by saying that the class was something her late mother had pushed her to do and that she didn't want to talk about it. She also mumbled vaguely about the experiencing teaching her that she was fat and that she didn't quite care. Frankly, Misha didn't look all that large to Sirius, but he had to admit that, at several stone underweight, he might not be the best judge of that.

Then at one point Ron looked right at Misha and said, "Damn, your boyfriend must really like you."

Misha frowned and attempted (and failed) to be polite. "Excuse me? Boyfriend? I haven't had anything resembling a boyfriend for the last five months, thank you very much!"

Sirius found himself being secretly glad and then much more openly ashamed of his feelings.

Ron, meanwhile, had looked quite sheepish and then pointed to her neck and remarked upon what he termed her "giant hickey." For a moment, Sirius had actually believed that Misha would strangle the red-headed fool, but thankfully Hermione had intervened. "Ron, you imbecile, she plays the violin. It's a bruise from her instrument."

Misha had just laughed and passed Sirius more ham before launching into a long series of questions about his becoming an Animagus. It was unnerving how much that girl actually listened to him. Back at Hogwarts, Sirius had been very much in love with the sound of his own voice, but after over a decade in prison, he found he was reticent to speak. Except to Harry. He could always talk to Harry.

Sirius tossed and turned on the softly-scented linen sheets and tried to make himself fall asleep. But sleep was, as always quite evasive. And the threat of dreams even more foreboding.

He missed Buckbeak. Yes, he knew that his friend was happy in the stables, but over the past year, Sirius had come to find the hippogriff's gentle snores quite soothing in the small, sleepless hours of the morning. The Marrowstone House was much too quiet. Almost eerily so. Sirius had remarked on this at one point and Misha had responded casually that the whole house was permeated with Silencing Charms because, in a house of musicians, one could have it no other way. It made sense, granted, but the quiet remained disconcerting.

In fact, disconcerting might be an appropriate term for his whole experience as guest in this household. Within minutes of entering her home, the house-elves (who were wearing clothes, no less) produced a feast that the claimed Misha had helped them prepare earlier in the day. "What kind of person cooks alongside her house-elves?" Sirius wondered.

And the house-elves themselves were more than slightly strange. Not only did they wear clothes but one of them, Winter, sewed them herself. Winter had appeared at the table wearing a modest little dress sewn from what looked to be a red and white checked tablecloth. Hermione, ever the little S.P.E.W. activist, had remarked upon the irony of this and the elf had replied almost reproachfully, "That's the point, miss."

Misha chuckled (the girl laughed a lot, come to think of it) and told Winter that the dress was "a fine play on mid-Century Americana." Sirius had no idea what that even meant, but Winter had offered to make him a whole new wardrobe and Misha had given her permission along with a warning: "Normal clothes, Winter. Plain robes, Muggle jeans, shirts, a nice cloak… that sort of thing. He's supposed to blend in. Remember, he escaped from Azkaban, not Milan!" Shockingly, the house-elf had all-but talked back to her at which point Misha had told her point-blank that Sirius was in charge of his own clothing and not to play any games with him. She'd turned to Sirius and smirked, "And don't let her convince you that 'everyone wears jodhpurs now' or some such nonsense. They clearly don't. Winter fancies herself a designer, and she's quite talented, but even the best do prêt-a-porter." Sirius could only smile wanly, for, once again, he had no clue what she was talking about.

In fact, he'd spent much of the past twelve hours being utterly disorientated by Misha and her household. Even her bathroom was puzzling. Ashamed of his own filth, he's hesitantly asked her if he could take a shower and she'd shown him to a bathroom that contained not only an enormous shower, but a bathtub nearly the size of the Prefects Bath at Hogwarts. It also contained a bewildering array of cleansing and hygiene products the likes of which Sirius had never seen. "Oh, it's all spa stuff," Misha had said dismissively. "Help yourself to anything."

And, despite his being not quite sure of what everything actually was, he did as instructed. He stayed under the scalding spray for nearly forty minutes relishing in the joy of finally being clean. He scrubbed his back. He trimmed his beard. He washed his hair for the first time in over twelve years. And he felt marvelous. Best of all, everything smelled heavenly. There were lotions and dubious-looking mousses and even something he found rather useful in detangling his matted hair. Sirius had emerged from the bathroom over an hour later, sated and happy and wearing the fluffy white dressing gown Misha had given him. He felt glorious, almost handsome. And, then, there was Misha, appearing as if from nowhere in the darkness of the hallway and flashing him the sweetest smile. Merlin, what was he thinking? This was utterly inappropriate!

Even Hermione had noticed it. She's kicked him under the table about one thousand times during tea. When he admitted to Misha that, as Padfoot, he'd often sneaked into her garden at dusk, just to watch her picking tomatoes, Misha had blushed, but, thanks to Hermione, he'd nearly lost a toe. Damn, that girl could stomp. "She's going to think you're daft!" the fluffy-haired harpy hissed when Misha got up to fetch more Earl Grey.

And things grew worse as the day progressed. As the students were leaving, Misha said her good-byes and retreated to the kitchen, giving Sirius space. He'd hugged Harry fiercely, promising to always watch over him, and shaken hands with Ron and Hermione. But, true to form, Hermione leaned in and whispered into his ear, "Please don't try anything, Sirius. I've seen the blokes she dates and her boyfriends are always young and handsome."

That had stung more than Sirius cared to admit. Once he had been the young and handsome one, but, thank you, Hermione, apparently, no longer. He wasn't even sure if he was interested, but her words still hurt. Worse yet, Misha seemed to notice his sadness, making him feel all the more pathetic. But as the evening wore on, Sirius' mood improved. Being clean helped, as did the wine, the food, and her rather fine homegrown. Away from the students, Misha was far more relaxed, less frenetic in her speech and more playful. "You know," she'd whispered over dinner, "Hermione might well be 'the brightest witch of her age,' but she isn't right about everything." Sirius had said nothing, but began to wonder about the efficacy of the Silencing Charms.

They'd stayed up late talking and laughing and telling stories. Misha insisted on providing more and more food and Sirius persisted in eating it. "Not a bad arrangement at all," thought Sirius. But as midnight approached and they began to tire, the awkwardness returned. She showed him to his room, which appeared cozy enough, but Sirius hesitated, fearing to tell her the truth: he'd not been alone at night since Azkaban.

For the past year Buckbeak had been his constant companion. And, when the nightmares came (which they inevitably did), he had another living being to whom he could turn. It gave him great comfort to know the great beast was keeping watch in the night. He'd never admit this, but the thought of sleeping without Buckbeak nearby made him nervous.

But now he was alone. Alone with his entirely inappropriate thoughts and in someone else's house. What was he to do? Why was he feeling this way? Sirius Black had dated several girls, but he'd only had one love and he had rejected Sirius back in 1981. Remus Lupin was still his friend, but claimed he would never again to be his lover. And that thought pained Sirius even more than Hermione's earlier words. It was a thought that haunted his nightmares.

Finally, after hours of tossing and turning, Sirius drifted off to sleep.

Suddenly, the room turned cold. Frost formed in cracks along the lead-paned windows and the fire blazed icy in the hearth. In the oppressive silence of his newfound prison, Sirius could see his own fearful breath. He was alone. Abandoned. Unloved. Then the Dementors came, claw-like hands reaching toward him, mouths open, eager for the kiss. And Sirius screamed.

He was still screaming when Misha came stumbling into the room wand at the ready.

"Shit! Sirius, love, are you okay? WAKE-UP!"

He opened his eyes to see her pale, worried face and extended his hand, grabbing her by the wrist. "Stay. Please."