She woke up the following Saturday morning with a foreboding feeling. For the third time, she had woken up at 12 Grimmauld Place, only to find herself in a dimly lit room, surrounded by a man who was currently sitting at the table by the window, eating a croissant.
"Not as good, but I take what I can get," Sirius says with a teasing smile as he watches Severina getting dressed. The innuendo is not lost on her, but she's far too set on her determination to leave to rise to it.
"This needs to stop," Severina says as she buttons up her blouse. "I have duties to attend to, and I can't laze about in bed all day every Saturday, unlike some people."
"I was up at eight," Sirius says, pointing a croissant at Severina to emphasize his point. "I can hardly help it if you're too out of shape to withstand a night of passion."
What they have is not what Severina would call "passion." Passion is such an inadequate description. Passion doesn't leave one with marks that bring to mind a mauling by some wild animal. Passion doesn't leave one trembling in the arms of one's oldest enemy or cause one to lose all sense of time and decency.
No, she cannot adequately describe the emotions behind whatever this is, but it is not something as simple a discription as passion.
She reaches for the box on the table, but Sirius grabs her wrist and pulls her down into his lap for a fiery kiss. This is wrong, Severina wants to scream, but her tongue is busy wrestling with his. Her waist is held by an arm as wirery and strong as an iron bar. Sirius stands up with her in his arms and lays her back on the bed again. The blouse she had just put on is slowly and methodically taken off of her again.
It's well past two in the afternoon by the time she gets out of there, the croissants long since forgotten.