The morning of Christmas Eve, Eglantine awoke to the din of her mother attempting to cook things.
There was only one thing that could perturb their house elves, and it was Ethelinda Bertrand's cooking. They made scarcely a peep all year, but if Ethelinda attempted to cook on Christmas Eve, and she usually did, they exploded into high-pitched shouts. Not only was Eglantine's mother disarranging the natural order of mistress and house-elf, she was disarranging their pristine kitchen with her complete ineptitude. She could make scrambled eggs taste like a moldy tire. She could make French toast reek of dogs, despite there not being a dog for miles. And the bacon? The bacon was rapidly eviscerated, never to be seen again, leaving only a faint bacon stench in the curtains until Easter.
Eglantine had gone to a Muggle salon the previous day, and had walked out looking like the wife from "Fawlty Towers." After a brief episode of panic and rage, she had disarranged the bouffant into loose curls, which were sticking straight up on the right side. She smoothed them down so her mother wouldn't tell her she looked like a drunken barrister.
Every seat was full in the dining room: Carlisle and Linda and their children on one side, Cam and Amos and her father on the other, and her mother just sitting down, finally dissuaded from culinary catastrophe. Her mother dragged a chair in from the parlor for Eglantine, a chair that was far too short, and which rocked from side to side.
Eglantine disliked these mornings. She found her family tedious: things really weren't even bearable until people like the Weasleys arrived. Marlene would probably stop in, looking glamorously downtrodden as usual, as she had ever since Bertie died; and Molly's aunt and uncle, who knew Eglantine's parents and were distantly related to Sirius; and various Quidditch chums of Carlisle's, who were loud and boisterous and usually attractive (but typically rather old).
"How is school?" came the inevitable question.
"Same," was the perpetual reply.
"How is that nice Muggle friend of yours? Lila?" said her mother.
"Lily? We haven't talked since September." It was pointless to add that she wasn't exactly a Muggle.
"Oh no! Why?"
"Not entirely sure," muttered Eglantine. "Something about her being a snotty cow, thinking everybody wants to snog her."
"Well, she is rather pretty," said her mother. "But you're far prettier. I'm sure all the boys would like to—er—snog you. Probably even some of the girls," she added brightly.
"If I became a lesbian, would you stop trying to get me to cozy up to Sirius?"
Her mother considered this. "Probably not. Couldn't you only be mostly lesbian?"
"Mum, what's a lesbian?" piped up Carlisle's daughter Susan.
"Mum!" said Carlisle. "Have you forgotten my kids are here? All this talk about snogging and…the L word."
"Love, darling?"
"No! The other L word!"
"Not leprosy?"
Carlisle sighed. People often asked Eglantine why she didn't converse more with her mother. At least her siblings understood.
"Oh!" said Ethelinda. "Lesbians! Yes, I'll stop talking about them, darling. As long as Eglantine doesn't become one, I shan't have cause to. Now, to be serious, though, Eglantine, you're sixteen years old. You ought to have someone in your life right now. You're building the foundations of your future. It isn't as if the world has this never-ending pool of wizards, darling. Our choices are limited and we've got to make the best of it."
Eglantine snorted. "So, what, you're saying I should start chasing after people like Sirius because they're not absolutely hideous and who knows who else I'll be able to get?"
Ethelinda chewed thoughtfully. "I wouldn't put it quite so bluntly, love. But not everyone has the opportunity to shop around before life gets in the way. These are tumultuous times, you know. I hear things abroad. You want to live your life as much as you can, darling. And the same goes for you, too, Camilla!" She waggled her fork at Cam, who was blushing and trying to engage in a whispered conversation with Amos. "You don't want to wait forever to have a little one, you know."
"We'll have one when we're ready," said Cam, turning pink. "When we're ready. Merlin's sake, Mum, we're not even married yet."
This was the Bertrand policy for dealing with Ethelinda, originally formulated by Bertie: You never openly did anything she might agree with, or she'd always think she was right. You pretended like you were going to stubbornly do the opposite, then, once she'd dropped the issue, you "just wound up" doing the thing you were always going to do. Somehow, this was better. When she supported a person's idea, she made them wish they'd never had the idea in the first place.
Ethelinda frowned at Cam, looked despondently at her husband, and sighed. "So old-fashioned. It's the seventies, love! It doesn't matter if you're married. I won't judge. I don't mind what my children do! I don't care if they're lesbians, or unwed mothers, or retired Quidditch players, or-"
There was a knock at the door, interrupting her list of acceptable occupations. Everybody looked at the clock: It was only ten in the morning. Who on earth was visiting on Christmas Eve at ten in the morning? Nobody could see through the thick white draperies, either, and a large rhododendron, though divested of its leaves, still blocked the Bertrands even seeing the silhouettes of who was standing on the front stoop.
"I'll get that, shall I?" said Osbert, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He took his wand out of his breast pocket, holding it casually by his side, concealed by the folds of his robe.
The door opened, and everybody looked at one another, all silently reaching for either wands or, in Eglantine's case, a large, serrated knife.
"Blimey," said Amos. Whether he meant, "Blimey, what a paranoid family," "Blimey, what a strange holiday," or just "Blimey," nobody really asked. Nobody really listened to him.
"Ozzie!" screeched Alya. The smell of her perfume, something of a loud smell, immediately reached the dining room. "Happy Christmas!"
If anything, this was the most confusing visitor they could've had. Ethelinda frowned deeply and hurried to join her husband in the front hall, but Alya, in her wide, Cruella-De-Vil white fur robe, was already sweeping into the dining room like a fluffy Dementor, flanked by Melusina and Belinda, in robes vaguely reminiscent of Cinderella's evil stepsisters: dark-haired Melusina was in flouncy green, and blonde Belinda was in a particularly enthused shade of pink. The matching fur muffs hinted at the fact that the robes were a gift from Alya: she never could resist buying her daughters matching outfits, even now that they were in their twenties.
"Hello, everybody! Happy Christmas!"
Eglantine and Cam looked at one another. What was she doing? She'd never been fully distant, unfortunately, but it'd been ages since any of the Crevan Bertrands had just dropped in on their relations.
"Carlisle! Oh, it's been so long!" squealed Alya. "I got your card, after Crevan's passing. I so very appreciated knowing people care. Especially since some of your family couldn't even be bothered to come to Crevan's funeral. I understand you were in America, of course, but some in England couldn't even come, which was ever so depressing."
Eglantine rolled her eyes. Really? She was surprised?
Mel was coming over to her, after greeting Cam with a hug. All of a sudden Mel was very grabby with the hugs—Eglantine couldn't remember her ever being like that before.
"Long time, no see. Well, not that long."
"What do you mean, not that long, Melusina?" Alya interrupted, stopping her own conversation to interject in her daughters. "It's been ages since we've seen Eglantine. Since she didn't come to your father's funeral, and all."
"I ran into her in August. In Borgin and Burkes," Mel said, straightening up and looking her mother straight in the eye. "She was buying you a gift."
Shit, thought Eglantine, fully expecting her aunt to say, "Well, I never got a gift."
"What were you doing in Borgin and Burkes, Melusina?" Alya said, rather sharply.
"Shopping. Research. You know, that sort of thing."
Alya gave a thin-lipped smile. "What research? Darling, you never told me what research. I am your mother, darling. If you've got a promotion, and now you've moved on to research, why wouldn't you tell me?"
Cam's and Eglantine's eyes met again. This was a highly interesting development. The thought leapt into her head: I wonder what Severus will make of this. What? her own mind responded to itself. Severus? Who gives two shits what he thinks?
This wasn't Alya's normal playbook—or Mel's. Alya would, historically, be more interested in the lack of a gift than in her daughter's activities. Alya had once famously forgotten that Melusina even had a job, or had, in fact, left school. And Mel—despite Alya being, well, Alya—normally told her mother everything. Add to that the fact that both of them seemed suddenly nervous, like dogs baring their teeth, and Eglantine knew that there had definitely been more to that Borgin and Burkes visit than Mel had let on. There quite possibly had been something there, some evidence.
"I didn't get a promotion," said Mel, smirking. "And I never said the research was for work."
Alya tittered. "Of course! Nothing wrong with having an—er—hobby. Well, everybody, we don't want to trespass on any more of your holiday. Just wanted to say hello! We're ever so busy the rest of the day, too: Belinda's little friend Cissy is now engaged to one of my best friends' son, Lucius, and so we're all going to congratulate them, just a little bit belatedly—but they have been so busy, the both of them!…And then it's off to the Crouches', and Druella's invited us round for tea…Good heavens, girls, we are busy, aren't we? Off we go, then!"
Belinda, who had spent the short visit talking to Ethelinda—who now looked somewhat perturbed—kissed Ethelinda on both cheeks, as well as Osbert, before resuming her position beside her mother. As they walked out, Belinda whispered agitatedly in Mel's ear. Eglantine couldn't see what—if anything—Mel might've replied, but her expression was defiant and smug.
"Well, that was interesting," said Carlisle.
"Blimey," said Amos again.
"Yes, I don't know that you'd had the pleasure—if it is a pleasure—of meeting my aunt. I don't think she'll be around all that often, though," said Cam. "She sort of…keeps to her own, Alya."
"I should say so!" Osbert muttered. "Piece of work, that woman. Swanning in here…Anyway." He rubbed his temple. "As far as our itinerary, it's nowhere near as travel-heavy as Alya's—the Prewetts and Weasleys are due to arrive around one, according to Molly, and everybody else, probably around four."
"Yes," said Ethelinda, "so Eglantine's got plenty of time to pretty herself up." She winked. (It was obnoxious.) "The mistletoe, so you know, will be at the foot of the steps. And I've hidden one elsewhere in the house!"
"Oh, fantastic."
"Christmas romance is fantastic, darling."
Eglantine went upstairs, put Elvis on, and paced around the room, turning over the conversation between Alya and Mel in her head, trying to put it together with how Mel had seemed that afternoon at Borgin and Burkes. It hadn't been just an ordinary shopping trip, of that she was now certain. But Mel—dodgy as she seemed sometimes—certainly didn't strike her as the manically-pureblooded type. She had her prejudices, but for the most part, Mel tried to be what she called "a lady" about it: no matter how lowly Mel thought somebody was, no matter how unsuitable she thought them, she never mentioned it to them. Sometimes, depending on how much of "a lady" she wanted to be that week, she didn't mention it to anybody, preferring instead to employ a sort of glacial stare.
Mel certainly hadn't been there for the same reason as, say, Lucius. She thought that the Dark Arts were quite déclassé and gauche, and that their use revealed a certain fundamental weakness. Was it possible that she had been there for the same reason as Eglantine? Crevan had been her father. If she was curious, perhaps her own independent investigation led her to the same place.
And her parents. After Crevan's death, they'd seemed quite sympathetic towards Alya, but now her father was calling her a "piece of work"….
She put on some Elvis, sat down with her book of curses and started making note of more interesting ones. After about a half-hour of this work, there was a loud thud in her closet.
Death Eaters, was her first thought. Death Eaters who are lost? Death Eaters who are stupid? That bloody Goyle boy? Squirrels.
Oh, right. It's probably—
The doorknob squeaked, and out of her robes stepped Sirius. He had attracted, somehow, a large dust bunny, which was dangling precipitously off of his chest.
"You might want to consider cleaning inside there once a century," he muttered crankily. "It's disgusting. Hey, 'Hound Dog'! Enter Sirius."
"Happy Christmas to you, too."
Sirius made an oh, please face. "What're you doing homework for?"
"It's not homework, genius. It's curses."
"Ah." He crossed the room and looked over her shoulder, brushing off his robes. "Ludos Lacuna. What's that?"
"The Pun Jinx. Your enemy speaks in puns until the spell wears off. 'Most useful before public speaking engagements, such as weddings and elections.'"
"What sort of puns? Ordinary puns, or dirty puns?"
"I suppose it'd depend on the person the spell got cast on. And look at this one—The Beard Hex. The person grows a full, fluffy beard that can only be removed by a thorough application of Stinksap."
"Isn't Stinksap really rare?"
"Dunno. I suppose that's why it was in the 'semi-permanent' hex section."
Sirius snorted. "Can you imagine Snape with a full, fluffy beard? It'd be a nice contrast with the greasy hair. He'd look like Rasputin."
Eglantine laughed uncomfortably. Nobody knew about her Legilimency practices, and given the enmity between Snape and virtually everyone she knew (except maybe people like the Black sisters, and possibly her aunt) it had to stay that way. She didn't quite know how to explain that—despite the extensive hours they were beginning to spend together—it was purely academic. Probably they'd accuse her of helping him to further some sneaky aim, like reading the minds of top Ministry officials.
Shit, am I? Am I, like, helping to train Voldemort's heir? She chewed her lip. Merlin's beard, she'd never thought of that.
"Something wrong?"
"Hm? Oh. No. I was just wondering what I would do if someone hit me with the Beard Hex."
"Don't worry, I'd help you shave."
"Wow. So amusing, as always."
"You know it." He sat backwards astride her extra desk chair. "I wasn't supposed to be here until later, but I was bored. James is in a snit about some aunt of his being a cow, and he's gone off for a moody walk by himself. I even tried to cheer him up, but he wasn't having it."
"Tell me about it. Alya was here earlier. Mrs. Death Eater of the Year."
Sirius stared at her, and a small choking noise escaped him. "I'm sorry, I seem to have missed something. Your aunt is a Death Eater now? I thought it was just your uncle. I thought they killed your uncle."
"It's a long story," Eglantine muttered. "I really shouldn't say. I mean, it's one thing to tell about Crevan, because he's dead, but Alya—that's why I didn't mention her being into it before. She's still alive. Alive and possibly murderous."
"Eggs—you don't think—"
"No. In fact, I'm almost certain it wasn't her. Which isn't to say I don't hold her responsible in some way, because I can't imagine she didn't at least fail to dissuade whoever might've killed him, if they'd mentioned it."
"Hmm." He put his chin in his hand. "Who else d'you know that's a secret Death Eater? Cam? Your little niece—what is she, ten?"
"I think possibly Belinda's Shih Tzu might be."
"Well. What was this disgraceful relative of yours doing here?"
"Wishing us a Happy Christmas, supposedly. Probably casing the place to figure out who's here. Normal Death Eater Christmas activities."
"Placing a great big green skull atop the Crimbo pine, stringing a garland of one's enemies' toes along the stair rail."
"Exactly. In fact, she offered us some toes, but we said we'd get our own."
Sirius cleared his throat awkwardly and looked out the window, despite the curtains being closed. "Have you—er—done something to your hair?"
"I haven't. Some psychotic hairdresser did, but I thought I'd fixed it."
"Oh. Erm. Well. It looks nice."
"Thanks."
"A lot nicer than Theresa Oldenkirk's."
Eglantine snorted. "Thanks again."
"I, er, I went with her for a bit, you know. Had to drop her. Much too attached, that Theresa. Nice girl, though. Nice…nice girl. Good snogger."
"So I've heard. I can't speak from personal experience, though my mother did assure me this morning that if I was, in fact, lesbian, she would love me anyway."
"You're not, are you?"
"No."
"Only, you know, that'd explain a bit, wouldn't it? You not, er, falling head over heels for me first thing."
"You do know you're terrible at this attempting to be suave thing, right? Someone's told you already, I hope?"
He turned pink. "Damn it! It worked on bloody Theresa! And Lisa! I was really cool with them."
Eglantine shrugged. "So you say. I wasn't there to see it."
"If you had, I probably would've turned into the same blithering idiot!" He let out a short sigh. "I'm going downstairs."
Eglantine didn't allow herself to fully laugh until she'd heard his footsteps descend all the way down the stairs. She'd never seen such a pathetic performance, not since Ronnie and his octopus tongue. Why was he trying so hard to make her think he was James Bond? "Much too attached, that Theresa"?
Come to think of it, why'd she told him the lesbian observation? Why'd she even mentioned lesbians? She was normally a lot cooler, herself. It must be, she surmised, a combination of Portkey-lag and the chaos of her mind after seeing Alya. Absolutely it.
After Sirius went downstairs, she developed a sudden interest in her family's pastimes. What were they doing, anyway? She went downstairs, grabbing a bottle of butterbeer from the kitchen to make it seem like that was her only reason for coming down, not just…well, boredom, wasn't it? Surely it wasn't the fact that Sirius was down here. In fact, she was going to avoid him. Let the Portkey-lag wear off.
She donned a pair of her mother's old winter robes and gloves and went out to the field where Carlisle and Amos, and now Arthur Weasley, were putting around on dinged-up brooms. Arthur was playing Keeper, at which he was terrible—he kept peering myopically up at passing airplanes. Carlisle was Chasing, and Amos was Beating. Well, sort of—he missed a lot because he was too busy watching Carlisle's expert playing. (He wasn't even trying: on a good day, he was just sort of a blur, like a hummingbird, but he kept pausing to rest.)
She hopped on and played Seeker for an hour, nearly catching the Snitch several times: Once it hit her in the forehead, and another, in the buttock. By then, the Prewetts had materialized, as well as Carlisle's old Quidditch teammate (and their some sort of third-removed cousin), Brian Bones. She quietly left the pitch—she couldn't feel her hands, face, or really anything—and walked stiffly back in.
"Oi," came a whisper from the carriage house. "Up here."
She rolled her eyes. He really was losing it, Sirius. He'd be hiding out in caves next.
He was up there sitting on the stool, playing Gobstones with himself. "I'm hiding from your mum."
"Ugh. Let me guess, she's trying to persuade you to marry me?"
He gave her an odd look. "No. She keeps on trying to question me about Black family gossip. I told her it's no use; I avoid my cousins if I can help it, and obviously I'm not exactly chummy with my parents." He sent a Gobstone flying against the wall. "Makes me wonder if she knows something I don't."
"She probably knows plenty that people don't know and don't care to know."
"She only started trying to persuade me to marry you after she gave up on that. But then she started asking me about the Potters, and what did I feel the options were for magical children who disagreed with their parents on significant issues like all that blood purity business. Says she's trying to get together a human interest piece."
"What did you tell her?"
"I said the options were to either cave and follow them, or to tell them to go fuck themselves. In other words, not a great variety."
"Workable, though."
He nodded. "You look like you're halfway to a snowman."
"More than halfway. I dunno what possessed me—I hate Quidditch."
"And what's more, you're abysmal at it. Come here."
He was wearing lumpy woolen mittens (likely hand-knitted by Mrs. Potter), and he folded her pink, benumbed hands between his.
"This really isn't necessary," she said. "I can just go inside."
"Technically speaking, you are inside. But maybe that's better."
She turned to go. "Aren't you coming?" Shut up, she told herself. You don't actually care if he's coming. Why'd you ask?
"And have your mum think we've been snogging in the barn? Is that wise?"
"Might shut her up."
"Or she'll start planning our wedding."
"Nah, she'll just try to get us to do a double with Cam and Amos."
"I'll just have to plan to have a date on that day."
Eglantine giggled. "Fat chance of that. Not after you've gone with Theresa and Lisa. You're a Casanova now. Only girls like me would go near you—ones who aren't looking for anything."
"Everybody's looking for something, though, aren't they? Anybody who says they're looking for nothing is just terrible at defining what they're looking for."
Eglantine wasn't used to Sirius saying things that made any sort of sense, so she didn't respond. He followed her into the kitchen, where they sat down with mugs of hot cocoa that rivalled the size of soup bowls. Molly's sons Bill and Charlie, who were six and four, came crashing through, Bill on a toy broom that bucked like a horse, and Charlie on roller skates that his father had obviously picked up at some sort of Muggle junk shop: they were mismatched, and both for a left foot.
"I'm looking for fun, I suppose," Eglantine said, as the din of Bill and Charlie receded into the hallway.
"Fun. That's awfully vague in itself. Besides, I knew that. Everybody wants fun."
"Freedom, then. Amusement. Variety. Life. I don't want to die and think of all the decisions I made, and to feel like my life was in any way constrained."
He took a sip of the cocoa. "Why do you feel like anybody would want to constrain you?"
"Because everything does. Life is very constraining. You have one job, you can't have any others. You have one house, you can't have any others (unless you're loaded). You have one partner, you can't have any others—not without being cruel to them. So I don't want just one job, just one house, or any partner. I want nothing."
"It doesn't sound like you're driven by what you want." He took another sip. "Sounds like you're just driven by what you don't want. What you're afraid of. I don't think that's much of a philosophy."
"I didn't ask you what you think, and I don't care. What I think is for me."
"I know you didn't ask. But I also didn't ask you what you, in particular, wanted. Of course I'd like to know, but I didn't make you tell me. You just did. So I'm assuming you wanted me to know."
"I thought you should know," she said, trying to sound somewhat haughty. "Going on about people who don't want anything. I suppose you're right about the fact that I'd never defined it, but now I have."
He just smiled at her, his teeth slightly chocolaty. "Fair enough."
She finally picked up her own mug, bringing the slightly syrupy liquid to her lips. "And I guess it's only fair that I ask you what you want, since I've told you."
"I want the same thing as you," he said, shrugging. "Only I don't look at life like one giant boa constrictor, waiting to squeeze you to death in some undesirable situation. I think…I don't know. If you do something one day and you like it, or you're in a place one day and you're happy, or you're with a person one day and you like it, then you keep doing it. If you don't like it, you don't. But if you do, and you keep doing the same thing, and the same thing keeps making you happy, well, then, why not commit to it? You're only committing to what makes you happy. Even if it doesn't make you happy one day, or ten days, or even thirty days, chances are good that it'll make you happy again."
"What is happy, anyway?" Eglantine grumped, staring at the cocoa. "Nothing makes you perfectly happy."
"Not perfectly, no. But—"
Bill came hurtling through again, the broom hoisting itself up onto the table to upset the mugs and send viscous chocolate oozing everywhere. Sirius and Eglantine sprang up, their robes slightly spattered.
"WILLIAM ARTHUR WEASLEY! I swear, this child—oh, hello, Eglantine. And…Stephen, is it?"
"Sirius."
"Oh, that's right. You know, I think we might be related, you and I—" She looked swiftly between Eglantine and Sirius, forming some kind of equation in her head. "So sorry Bill's disturbed you. He's been VERY NAUGHTY today, and I don't think FATHER CHRISTMAS will be VERY PLEASED!" Bill was chuckling in the cabinet under the sink.
As Molly was creeping towards the sink, Charlie was forming a counterattack on the other side of the table, having run in from the hall. He jumped out at her as Bill raced off.
"These—blasted—boys! What I wouldn't give for my next to be a girl. Nice and quiet, no trouble. ARTHUR! Help me find your sons, would you?"
"Oh, Arthur's outside on the field with Carlisle and your brothers—"
"Damn and blast. I'll just let the little hooligans run. They'll tire themselves out. So, Eglantine, how long have the two of you been—you know…" She gave a little wink.
"Oh, God, Molly, you're as bad as Mum. We aren't. We're friends. He's had some—er—rough times this year, so Mum invited him. Of course, Mum also hopes she'll be able to force us to snog by hiding mistletoe throughout the house, but—"
Molly let out a loud "HA." She pointed upward, to where a large sprig of mistletoe dangled from the light fixture, nearly blending in.
"Your mum's pretty skilled at that, I must say. Go on. I'll even leave the room." She was giggling to herself as she left—she sounded exactly like Bill.
"We haven't got to kiss, you know," said Eglantine. "Nobody's around to see. And one of us would lean in the cocoa."
Sirius shrugged. "It's just a kiss. It's not as if I'm some sort of boa constrictor."
He leaned across the table, his scarf trailing fully in the drink, and kissed her. She hadn't recalled his lips being this dry: it was preferable to over-soft lips, which made her feel as if she were kissing a bowl of gelatin. He smelled earthy and citrusy, like Earl Grey tea, with overnotes of spilled chocolate.
"There. Now, tell me, Eglantine Bertrand. Did that make you in any way happy?"
"Naturally. Nearly as happy as hearing that my hair was, in fact, nicer than Theresa's."
"Seriously, now."
"Har, har. Did I put the Pun Jinx on you? I thought that joke died when we were about ten."
He rolled his eyes and gathered up his chocolaty scarf. "Not everything's supposed to be funny."
"Why not? You used to be funny. Until you got all Hamlety on me."
"Hamlety?"
"It's a book, Sirius. Anyway, why've you got to be like this? It's not you—at least, not the you I've always known."
"So what? Maybe I've changed."
"I certainly hope you haven't changed that much."
"I think I have."
He slumped out of the room, unwinding the sodden scarf from his neck. Go on, get out, and go find yourself a skull to soliloquize at, Eglantine thought. It had made her happy, only she'd have to have been mad to admit it. She wouldn't even have minded doing it again. But doing it again would put her in danger of developing a habit, and from habits it was an easy step to comfortable.
She went back upstairs, playing the Beatles this time. She was visited by Molly and then Cam and then her mother, all of whom wanted to talk about Sirius, who was the last thing she wanted to talk about. She hoped he'd gone. (She tried not to ask.)
After a time, he himself returned. "Your Mum made me a Portkey to get back," he said, holding a sock. "It'll start working at about seven."
"Staying a bit late, aren't you? What if James finds out?"
He glared at her. "Are you really going to keep this up forever? All this…prickliness?"
Eglantine raised an eyebrow. "What you call 'prickliness,' I call sense. I refuse to just be…swept up on a whim."
"Swept up on a whim? I'd have thought that bloke from the disco was a 'whim.'"
"Well, yes, but it was mine, not yours."
"Don't you think it was his, too?" Sirius said incredulously. "You had no bloody problem going along with his whim, did you? What about—ugh, you're impossible, d'you know that?"
"No, I'm not." She gave him a broad grin. "You're the only boy who's called me impossible. I rather think most believe me to be easy."
"That's exactly the problem!" he said loudly, tossing his hands up. "You don't care about giving in to anybody but me. I have to be resisted. Now, that tells me that I'm different in some way, but how? Am I repulsive? Annoying? Do I smell?"
"No. I've told you, it's because I know you too well."
"How—is—that—a—PROBLEM? I should think it's an advantage! You already know me!"
"I don't know, Sirius. I'm tired of explaining myself," said Eglantine, leaping to her feet. "You've turned into this—this being that isn't the person I used to know, and I don't know what to do with that. I don't know who you are, or who I am. I don't get anything anymore."
He folded his arms. "Do you actually like me? Is that why? Is that the problem?" She couldn't ignore the obvious hopefulness in his voice. "You don't normally like these disco blokes, so there's no worry of—of anyone's whims. But maybe—maybe it's because you actually like me. You're afraid that someone will know you the way that you think you know me."
"Think I know you? Please." She rolled her eyes. "I do know you. I know almost everything about you."
"And to think, you've never even read my mind, like you have Peter's."
"Honestly, Sirius. It's not mind-reading. That's a gross oversimplification."
"Whatever. You don't know me as well as you think you do. And I'm sure that even though I know you quite well, there are one or two things about you that I don't know. But you—you're so many things, Eglantine, I can't even—I don't know how to say these things. That's not who I am. But I know that something about you makes me happy in a different way than, say, being around my friends. And these are my best friends. You almost…you almost make me more happy."
"That's just because two-thirds of your friends are colossal dickheads."
"Again! Again with the jokes! Are you actually incapable of having a serious conversation, or is this an actual conscious choice?"
"Little of both, really."
"Just once—just once I wish you'd be honest with me."
"I have been! I was honest earlier. Just because you don't like what I say doesn't make me any less honest."
"I don't believe what you say. There's a difference."
"Why the fuck not? I've done everything to get you to believe me."
"You've said everything to get me to believe you. You've done everything to make me think you're full of shit. I don't know why I'm even bothering with this! I could have anybody."
"So do it, then! What's stopping you? I do what I want."
He smirked. "I said I could have anybody. I never said I wanted to. Not anybody."
"Well, I want to. I want just anybody, any old person at all—What?"
He had crossed the room, and now he was kissing her. She thought that, if this had been the movies, he would've been Rhett Butler seizing Scarlett O'Hara (in what was undoubtedly a contrived, uncomfortable pose) right after her husband had bit the dust. In reality, it was startling—and he mashed his nose into her cheekbone.
"What was that? I thought I said—"
"I know what you said. Do you think I'm stupid, Eglantine? I'm not going to give up until I believe you. I know you—to what degree, I don't know, but I know it's better than you want me to. And I know that you don't want me to leave you alone, not really. You don't want me to go around passing the time with random girls, not really. And you want me—maybe only a little, and maybe only for a little while, but you do. I'm pretty confident that I can turn 'a little while' into something promising."
"You are, are you? Why's that?"
"I don't really know. Just a feeling I have."