Archive of Our Own

Dawn had not yet broken when Fleur Delacour tiptoed softly downstairs, pausing on the landing as the grandfather clock in the foyer struck the hour.

Frozen, she breathed in and out in time with the clock’s strikes—one, two, three, four, five. When she was sure it was safe to move again, she fled, moving with panther-like grace down the rest of the stairs and across the foyer. Against her will, her eyes were drawn to the life-sized portrait of her family, hung to both greet and intimidate guests from its place of honor in the entryway. Commissioned and painted when Fleur was only thirteen, it hung in a gilded frame, showcasing the wealth, power, and beauty of the Delacour family—Fleur, her mother Catherine, and her father Olivier.

It had been in their home for almost seven years now. And for seven years, Fleur had hated it—both the painting and everything it represented. Giving it one final, cutting look, she hurried on, making her way down a hall and into the massive kitchen.

Pulling a letter out of the back pocket of her jeans, Fleur laid it carefully on the marble countertop, next to a vase of her mother’s favorite flowers.

Then, before she could lose her nerve, she turned, gathered the suitcases waiting near the back door, ran quickly across the manicured lawn, and climbed into the taxi waiting at the curb, ready to take her to LAX.

She glanced back over her shoulder one final time, watching the home she grew up in disappear as the taxi sped away. She didn’t know if she’d ever see it again. She didn’t know if that would be long enough.

Finally, in the backseat of the cab, the smell of stale cigarettes and body odor thick in her nostrils, she could breathe.

She was free.

The airport coffee shop was crowded, but Fleur managed to grab a small table in a back corner as she waited for her latte. Around her, parents with sleepy children and businesspeople in smart suits and leather briefcases bustled about, fueling up on caffeine to make their early morning travel more bearable.

She was so caught up in watching a young girl argue with her brother over who could drink their hot chocolate the fastest that she didn’t hear the barista call her name. Only after the third shouted, “Fleur!” did she come to her senses, gathering her bag and hurrying toward the counter.

She grabbed the cup from the countertop with a sheepish smile of apology, then turned and headed toward her gate.

She made it only a few steps when she heard a man’s voice call out her name.

“Uh, Floor?”

She turned, ready to correct his pronunciation, but stopped. Blinked several times. Stared.

Standing in front of her, in the middle of the airport terminal, was the most striking man she’d ever seen. He was older than her, but not by much. Taller than her own 5’10, with dark hair that brushed the top of his shoulders and several tattoos peeking out from the open collar and rolled sleeves of his button-down shirt. He wore more jewelry than her, as well—several rings on his fingers, woven bracelets on his wrist, necklaces hanging in the “V” of his shirt, and even a thin silver hoop through one nostril. And his face—Fleur’s heart beat a bit faster as her eyes traced over his angular jaw, sharp cheekbones, and dark eyes.

“Floor?” he repeated, holding out a paper coffee cup with that word clearly written on the side. “I think you accidentally grabbed my coffee.”

She started, looking down at the cup in her hand. She turned it slowly, eyes widening as she saw the word “Serious” written in messy Sharpie.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Embarrassed, she raised her free hand to cover her face. “I took the cup without checking the name.”

“No problem,” he said, an easy smile crossing his face as they traded cups. “Is your name really ‘Floor’?”

“Is your name really ‘Serious’?”

He nodded, grinning. “Sirius Black. Spelled differently, same pronunciation.” He extended his free hand toward her, and she accepted the handshake.

“Fleur Delacour,” she returned.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, gazing at one another, hands still clasped, before Sirius seemed to remember himself and let go of her. “Where are you headed today?”

“New York City,” she checked her boarding pass. “Gate A3.”

His eyebrows shot into his hairline, lips pulling into another grin. “Really? Me too.” He pulled his own boarding pass out of the front pocket of his shirt, flashing it at her.

“Want to walk together?” she asked, inclining her head toward the moving walkway.

“Definitely.”

Five minutes later, they were sitting in the cracked, misshapen leather seats standard to every airport in the world, discussing their plans for New York.

“I’ve lived there my whole life—mostly Manhattan, now Brooklyn,” Sirius was saying, chewing lightly at the end of the plastic stirrer he’d used to mix cream into his black coffee. “I’ve been in LA for a few weeks to scope out some independent record labels, but New York is where my band is based.”

“What kind of music do you play?”

“Mostly rock, but we do a little bit of everything.” He made a clicking sound out the side of his mouth, jerking his thumb toward his chest. “I sing and play guitar, my best friend James sings and plays bass, Remus plays the keyboards, and Peter plays drums.”

“What are you guys called?”

He smiled, a dimple appearing in one cheek, not the slightest bit embarrassed as he told her. “The Marauders.”

“The Marauders,” she laughed, sweeping her long blonde hair up into a topknot. Sirius’s eyes followed her movements, trailing down her body while her arms were over her head, and she felt her cheeks grow warm under his attention. “Big pirate fans?”

“Something like that.” His lids lowered and nostrils flared, and he gave her a look she had seen a million times before. But unlike the boys she’d gone to school with or her dad’s creepy friends, Sirius’s eyes didn’t make her uncomfortable. They made her want to preen, want to actually inspire the lust and appreciation she usually found on men’s faces when they looked at her.

“So why are you heading to New York? Meeting up with your boyfriend?”

“Smooth,” she joked, and he threw his head back and laughed. “No boyfriend. Just an audition for Juilliard.”

“Oh, no shit?” he asked, looking suitably impressed. “For what?”

“Dance.”

He nodded. “And you’re um, obviously old enough to attend Juilliard, which would make you…”

She laughed again. “I’m almost twenty.”

A look of relief crossed his face. “Right. Of course you are.”

“Single and of age,” she confirmed, feeling bold. She leaned toward him, watching his pupils dilate as her fingers brushed against his. “So, did you want to ask me out now or wait until after we land?”

He flushed, but didn’t back down. “Now works for me. What are your plans for the next, oh,”—he lifted his left arm, exaggeratedly checking the watch on his wrist—“seven hours?”

“Sitting in a cramped seat on an airplane, probably between someone who snores and someone who wants to talk my ear off.”

“What a coincidence! Me too. Are you the snorer or the talker?”

“Not the snorer,” she scoffed.

“The talker, then. Sounds like a date.”

Soon they boarded, taking advantage of the open seating to grab two seats at the back of the plane. Sirius insisted that Fleur take the aisle seat, which would make it easier for her to stretch out her legs during the long flight. She agreed on the condition that they switch periodically, as his legs were longer.

They ended up talking the entire flight—through safety announcements, snack and beverage service, seatbelt signs pinging softly on and off as they hit turbulence somewhere over the Midwest, and especially over their eventual seatmate’s snores.

They talked about their favorite movies, favorite bands, favorite books. He told her about his younger brother Regulus, how they were both rebels who bucked the family tradition of working on Wall Street to instead pursue careers in the arts.

“You should have seen my father’s face when I told him I was using my business degree from Columbia to start a band,” he said. “I can laugh about it now, but at the time I was fucking terrified. And then when Regulus told our parents he wanted to transfer from NYU to the Rhode Island School of Design and study architecture? I thought my mother was going to have a nervous breakdown.”

She felt comfortable enough to tell him about her family—about the constant pressure her parents had put on her to look perfect, act perfect, be perfect. “I didn’t get to be a child,” she said over her second cranberry juice. “I was more like a robot—dance classes three days a week, etiquette class every Monday, French tutoring every weekend. And it only got worse as I got older. In high school I practically had a nervous breakdown. I was so busy with clubs and sports and other extra curriculars, on top of taking all AP and honors classes and classes at the local community college. I barely slept, rarely ate, never had a minute that wasn’t planned and scheduled and criticized.”

Now that the floodgates had been opened, she found she couldn’t stop. “Do you know that I already have two full years of college credits? And that I took a gap year between high school and this year—not to give myself a break or get to know myself or any of that bullshit—” she spat, drawing the eyes of the couple across the row. Sirius sent them an apologetic smile, then took Fleur’s hand as she spoke. His touch worked; she calmed down slightly as she continued speaking.

“I spent my gap year volunteering with the Peace Corps. In Malawi. That’s in Africa,” she added, leaning into his space for emphasis. “I’m nineteen, but I’ve never been to a party with people my age. Never had any close friends whose parents weren’t friends with mine. Never had any freedom, any fun, any happiness—” she broke off, embarrassed at the tears that filled her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. A tissue appeared in front of her and she took it, shooting a grateful smile to Sirius and squeezing his hand. “I didn’t mean to get so emotional. I just—I’m so glad to be going to New York. To get the chance to do something I love, even though my parents would never approve. They want me to go to an Ivy League school and become a neurosurgeon,” she whispered.

“The horror,” he agreed sardonically.

She sighed loudly, and felt more than heard his chuckle rumble in her ears. “I know I sound like a poor little rich girl. But I think we both know that money can’t buy happiness.” She paused, huffing out a humorless laugh. “Well, I suppose money can buy some happiness, since I’m going to be using an inheritance from my grandfather to pay for Juilliard. If I even get in.”

“Fleur,” he said, and she lifted her eyes to his. “I know what it’s like to grow up with overbearing, unloving parents. It’s awful. But you’re free now.” he continued. “You can do whatever you want. And it seems like what you want is right there, within your reach.” He held his hand up in front of him, fingers less than an inch apart. “So what are you going to do about it?”

Her tongue darted out, tracing her lower lip. Sirius’s gaze dropped to her mouth, and he drew a sharp breath, shifting in his seat.

She was about to respond when the snoring woman on the other side of Sirius choked, waking herself up. Fleur buried her head against his chest, trying to stifle the sounds of her laughter, enjoying the feel of the muscles beneath his shirt and the scent of his spicy cologne.

“Ahem,” the woman said, and Fleur looked past Sirius’s shoulder to find her standing next to the window, waiting to get out of their row to use the restroom. Fleur stood immediately, pulling away from Sirius and moving out into the aisle to let the woman pass.

Once she was gone, Fleur gestured for him to take the aisle seat. He reluctantly obliged, stepping past her into the aisle so she could take his previously-occupied middle seat. She smiled, taking a small step forward, when a sudden burst of turbulence knocked her off-balance, throwing her forward—directly into Sirius. His arms came up immediately, grasping her by the elbows and preventing them both from falling.

Her hands clutched his biceps, breasts pressed flush against his chest, mouth mere inches from his. She froze, inhaling and exhaling a few shaky breaths before pulling away, not missing the way his fingertips lingered on her skin, ghosting down her arms and over her hands as she moved to sit down.

The rest of the flight passed quickly, but the tension of that moment never went away. It simmered, crackling and sparking between them as they brushed hands while sharing a pair of earbuds to watch the in-flight movie, as they twice more did their dance in the aisle to use the bathroom or switch seats, as Fleur woke from a nap to find her head on Sirius’s shoulder.

Once their plane touched down at JFK, they disembarked and collected their baggage, navigating the crowded airport together. They walked out into the muggy night air, joining the queue for taxis to take them to their next destination—for Fleur, a hotel near Central Park; for Sirius, his apartment in Brooklyn.

“Listen,” Sirius said as they neared the front of the line, voice urgent. “I don’t know how long you’re here for, but I’d love to see you again. Can I take you out—maybe for coffee, or lunch, or something?”

Fleur smiled over her shoulder at him, holding her hand out for his cell phone. She quickly added herself to his contacts, reaching up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’d like that.”

This time, when she looked out the back window of the taxi, she saw Sirius’s broad shoulders disappearing into the waiting taxi behind hers, with the hope that she would be seeing him again soon. Very, very soon.

Fleur awoke the next morning to the buzzing of her cell phone on the nightstand. Disoriented, she reached for it, blinking the sleep out of her eyes before the words on the screen came into focus.

Mother.

She sat bolt upright in bed, the events of the past twenty-four hours coming back to her in a rush. Sneaking downstairs, leaving the letter, going to the airport, flying across the fucking country…

And Sirius. Meeting Sirius.

She hit the red “decline” button on her screen, not yet ready to speak to her mother after her first real act of defiance. She wasn’t about to listen to her mother berate her for being stupid and inconsiderate, as well.

Instead, she sent a text: I’m in New York. Arrived safely last night. I hope you found my letter in the kitchen—it tells you everything you need to know.

Satisfied she had at least reassured her parents’ fears—she wasn’t completely cruel, after all—she sank back against the hotel’s pillows, scrolling mindlessly through her social media apps and email until a new text popped up on her screen.

Hey, it’s Sirius. Your devastatingly handsome seatmate on your flight from LA?

Her heart leapt in her chest, and she indulged in a moment of pure, girlish delight, flopping onto her stomach and squealing into her pillow before pulling herself together and texting him back.

Yes, I remember you. Mid-fifties, short hair, blue pantsuit? Snored a lot?

A beat, then: Oh, so you’re funny in addition to being beautiful?

Fleur squealed again, this time not even bothering to smother the sounds with a pillow.

I can also cook.

She stretched luxuriously before rolling out of bed, taking her phone with her and setting it on the counter as she disappeared into the small bathroom. When she came back out, several texts were waiting for her while she washed her hands.

So do you want to get married now or wait a week?

I was just kidding. Obviously. We’ll need to date at least a month before planning the wedding.

Fleur? I’m sorry—I was really only kidding.

She grinned, beginning to brush her teeth as she took pity on him and texted him back.

Sorry, set my phone down for a minute. I insist on at least two months of dating and a suitably grand proposal before even considering joining our lives in holy matrimony.

She could practically hear his relief in his next text.

Don’t worry, I’ve got it all planned out. So what are you up to today? Taking in some tourist attractions?

She spit and rinsed her mouth, tapping out a response as she gathered her shower necessities.

Not today. I was going to just relax and do a bit of walking...unless you had something else in mind? I’m jumping in the shower, but I’m looking forward to a detailed itinerary when I get out.

Fifteen minutes later, hair wet and skin rosy from the steamy heat of the shower—in addition to some steamy thoughts of Sirius—Fleur picked up her phone again. She was not disappointed.

Your wish is my command, my lady.

1. Get on the B Train to Brooklyn. They run every 10 minutes, so text me when you’re on and I’ll be waiting for you at the station.

2. Lunch at my favorite spot.

3. Tour of my very impressive(ly small) apartment, currently shared with my best friend and bandmate, James.

4. We can decide what to do after that. You might be sick of me by then.

She sent him a quick confirmation, then rushed to get ready. She took extra care with her appearance, selecting a pale blue sundress and a pair of strappy sandals.

When she stepped off the train thirty minutes later, Sirius was there, wearing a black t-shirt and faded jeans, his hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He grinned when he saw her, a dimple appearing in one cheek, and her heart responded by fluttering wildly in her chest.

She made her way over to him, elated when he opened his arms and pulled her into a hug.

They walked to lunch, her hand looped around the crook of his arm. She tried to listen to his speech about the neighborhood, the architecture, the history—but the feel of his warm skin under her fingers distracted her. Her body hummed with the electricity of being near him again.

Inside the small, sun-drenched cafe where they ate lunch, they talked about mindless things—their favorite episode of Friends, their favorite Beatle.

Fleur couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so light or had so much fun.

Sirius leaned across the table toward her. “From what you’ve told me, I’m guessing your parents didn’t know about your plans to come here.”

Her smile melted, changing into something more familiar—neutral, placid, cool. “No, they didn’t. They wouldn’t have let me come.”

He nodded, as if he had expected as much. “My parents tried to have me shipped off to a military boarding school to learn ‘discipline.’ I snuck out of our family apartment the night before I was supposed to ship out. Believe me when I say—and I truly mean this—fuck our parents.”

Fleur blinked at him, then promptly burst into laughter. He grinned in response, raising his glass in a salute to their mutual distaste for parental dictatorships.

After lunch, they walked the few blocks to Sirius’s apartment, located in a two-story brownstone on a tree-lined street. There was a large park across the street from the apartment, where children played tag and adults lounged on picnic blankets.

It could not have been less like Los Angeles. Fleur decided she liked it immensely.

Sirius led her up the front steps and into the main hallway of his building, digging in his pocket for his keys. As they stepped through the door into a surprisingly bright and airy living room, a voice greeted them.

“Sirius! You just took off without telling me where you were going, and—” A tall, shirtless man came hurtling around a corner, skidding to a stop at the sight of Fleur. “Holy shit,” he breathed, scrubbing a hand up and down his face. “That explains a lot.”

He stepped toward her, sticking his hand out in front of him. “Hey, I’m James. James Potter. And you must be Fleur.” He grinned, and his dark hair—shorter and messier than Sirius’s own—fell into his eyes. “Sirius told me a lot about you. Like, a lot. Like, I actually fell asleep because it was fucking late and he wouldn’t stop talking.”

Fleur turned to Sirius, eyebrows raised. She was pleased to find a light pink flush on both of his cheeks—hard to detect under his day-old stubble, but there nonetheless. He leaned forward to punch James in the arm, but didn’t deny any of what he’d said.

“He made quite an impression, as well,” Fleur replied.

“Lily!” James called over his shoulder, and Fleur heard footsteps approaching from down the hall. Then a pretty woman with flaming red hair, bright green eyes, and the slightest hint of a rounded pregnant belly appeared, a grin breaking out across her face.

“Is this her?” she asked James, not waiting for a response before she stepped forward, wrapping both arms around Fleur. “Of course it is,” she whispered in Fleur’s ear. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

Lily immediately took charge of the room, ordering James to get dressed and sending Sirius to grab drinks. She pulled Fleur to the couch, sitting beside her.

“Sirius said he met you in the airport? And you were on the same flight out of LAX?” Lily asked, smiling warmly. “That is just, the coolest story. The only people I ever meet in airports are old women and assholes—not mutually exclusive, those categories,” she added.

Fleur laughed. “It was… serendipitous,” she said.

Just then, James returned, dropping onto Fleur’s other side and leaving no room for Sirius, who entered the room a moment later with a tray laden with mason jars full of lemonade.

“So you have an audition with Juilliard?” James asked pleasantly. “Impressive. When is it?”

“In five days,” Fleur responded, shivering slightly as Sirius’s fingers lingered on hers as he passed her a glass. “I came to the city early so I could get over my jet lag, do some sightseeing, and plan some logistics in the event that I get in.”

Lily hummed in approval. “What type of dancing do you do?”

“Well,” Fleur began, watching Sirius as he settled into an overstuffed chair across from her, eyes never leaving her face. “I am a classically-trained ballerina, but my passion is contemporary dance. I feel most alive when I’m letting the music flow through me—when I’m interpreting it with my body.”

“You’re in good company, then,” James said. “Speaking of,”—he turned to Sirius, arching an eyebrow—“Remus and Peter are on their way over. Remus was all hyped up about something.”

Sirius groaned, dropping his head against the back of his chair. “Well, that’s just fucking great.”

When he didn’t seem inclined to say anything else, Lily took control of the room once more, asking Fleur about her sightseeing plans over the next few days.

When the buzzer finally sounded and James leaped up to let their bandmates in, Fleur shifted nervously on the couch. Sirius took advantage of the change in seating arrangements to quickly move to the now-open spot next to Fleur, leaning in close to whisper, “I wish we could be alone.”

He pulled back, but only slightly, the tip of his nose close enough to touch hers. She inhaled shakily, feeling that spark she’d felt since the moment she turned in the airport to find him holding her coffee.

Maybe her actions over the past few days had been impulsive, but she was enjoying the ride.

Sirius pulled his gaze from hers only when James returned, followed by two other men—one tall and lanky, with light brown hair and a kind, intellectual face; one short and stocky, with fair skin and even fairer hair.

The shorter man stopped, his mouth falling open when he saw Fleur. “Who the fuck is she?” he asked in an awed voice.

Fleur flushed, and Sirius bristled beside her. Lily opened her mouth to smooth over the gaffe, but the taller man beat her to it, stepping forward to shake Fleur’s hand. “Forgive our friend Peter,” he said, “he doesn’t often meet beautiful women. Present company excluded, of course,” he added, turning to kiss Lily’s cheek.

“This is Remus Lupin,” she said, by way of introduction. “And Peter Pettigrew. They’re James and Sirius’s bandmates—and sometime—friends. Boys, this is Fleur. Sirius’s new...friend,” she finished with a sly smile.

Peter apologized profusely to Fleur, stumbling over his words in either embarrassment or nervousness, until Remus cut him off again, turning to Sirius.

“Sirius, look at this,” he said, vibrating with excitement as he held out a printed flyer that screamed BATTLE OF THE BANDS in purple spiky letters. “We have to enter this. We have to.”

Sirius arched a brow at Remus, eyeing the flyer skeptically. “Why do we have to?” Even as he spoke, Fleur could hear the interest in his words, the undercurrent of excitement in his voice.

Remus threw his hands in the air, dropping into Sirius’s previously-occupied chair. “Because it’s great fucking publicity? Because we could win some money? Because we love playing, and are better than any of the other dickhead bands who will be participating?”

James laughed, dropping onto the arm of the couch next to Lily. “You can’t guarantee that, Lupin. But I’m game if everyone else is.” He turned, looking at Peter.

“I’m obviously in,” Peter mumbled.

“And so am I,” Remus added, leaning his elbows on his knees to level a glare at Sirius.

Sirius heaved a sigh, hand coming up to rub his eyes before dropping to Fleur’s knee. “Want to come to one of our shows?” he asked her, shooting her a lopsided smile.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The show was back in Manhattan, so they all bundled themselves onto the B train, with the exception of Peter, who drove their equipment separately.

Fleur shivered—not from the cold, as Sirius had lent her a black leather jacket that kept her plenty warm on the cool autumn night—but from the scent of his cologne enveloping her, the press of his leg against her thigh, the feel of his fingertips lightly playing with the ends of her hair.

When they arrived at the bar where the battle was taking place, she panicked, as she wasn’t yet of age and didn’t have a fake ID. “Don’t worry,” Lily assured her, patting her belly. “I’m not drinking either, and we’re with the band. You’ll be fine.”

Sirius disappeared with the others to warm up, but he stole a final moment with her, pulling her into a hallway near the bathrooms and stepping in close, placing a hand on her waist as he spoke quietly into her ear.

“I’m sorry. Today has been a lot.” He dropped his eyes, staring at the combat boots he wore, loosely laced over the tops of his dark jeans. “I wouldn’t blame you if you thought this was the worst date ever.”

“Are you serious, Sirius?” she joked, taking a step forward and closing the small gap between them. “This has been one of the best days I’ve had in—well, I can’t even remember how long it’s been.” Her arms came up to encircle his shoulders, hips fitting against his, mouth curling into a smile as she felt his hand boldly drift lower to brush the curve of her hip. “And besides,” she added, “this is our second date.”

“Well then,” he said, dropping his chin until their lips were only a breath apart, eyes fixed on hers. “Could I be so bold as to ask for a kiss? For good luck, of course.”

“Of course,” Fleur said, lifting up on her toes. She trailed her fingers up the back of his neck to twine in his hair; smiled at the feel of his body shuddering against hers. Then, slowly, she brought her lips toward his, heard his sharp intake of breath as she kept moving, pressing them to the stubble of his cheek instead.

“There’s more where that came from,” she whispered in his ear, and felt him groan against her. “Now go win your competition.”

He pulled back. “Fine,” he said, tapping her on the nose. “And then I intend to collect.”

They stood, grinning stupidly at each other until Remus called for Sirius from the backstage area. As Sirius jogged away he turned, moving backwards as he called out to her.

“Hey Fleur?”

She arched a brow at him.

“I’m really fucking glad you stole my coffee.”

“Me too!” she called, watching him disappear through the curtain. Then she went back out to the main performance area, finding a spot next to Lily at the bar.

At least five bands played before The Marauders, none of them great. When Sirius, James, and the others finally took the stage, the crowd was restless for a decent performance.

From the first note Sirius played on his guitar, to the first word he growled into the microphone, he had the audience eating out of his hand. The crowd cheered, screamed, and danced, singing along to the chants led by James.

“They’re good!” Fleur said, turning to find Lily watching her, a huge grin on her face.

“Yeah, they are.”

They played two more original songs, closing their set with a shouted, “Thank you and goodnight!” before leaving the stage, disappearing into the back until the results of the competition were announced. The judges huddled near the front of the stage, deliberating over the acts.

Fleur was sure The Marauders had won by a mile, but she still clutched Lily’s hand nervously, heart beating faster in anticipation. When the judges came onto the stage, announcing that Sirius’s band was, in fact, the winner, Fleur and Lily’s screams drowned out the sound of the crowd around them.

The bands all shook hands with each other and the judges, exiting the stage and heading into the crowd to mingle. James sprinted toward the microphone, yelling, “I love you, Lily Evans!” before leaping into the waiting arms of the audience, crowd surfing over to where Lily and Fleur were standing and sweeping Lily into his arms. He lifted her off the ground and spun her in a circle, red hair flying wildly behind her as she threw her head back and laughed.

Then the crowd parted and there was Sirius—sweaty, flushed with excitement from his performance and subsequent win, and with eyes for no one but Fleur. He brushed past the people who stepped into his path, making a beeline for her.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, the blood rushing in her ears drowning out all other sounds.

Sirius stepped into her, arms going around her waist and pulling her tight against his body. She lifted up onto her toes, enthusiastically reciprocating his embrace, twining her arms around his shoulders. Then he was dropping his head to hers, claiming her lips in a kiss that stole her breath along with her wits. Immediately, the tension that had been crackling between them ignited, exploding into an out-of-control blaze of passion that seared her lungs and set fire to her blood.

How long they kissed, she couldn’t be sure. She was too intoxicated by the taste of him: the feel of his hands on her body, the slide of his tongue against hers, the sounds he made deep in his throat as she opened for him.

A sharp wolf whistle broke them apart, and Fleur peered over Sirius’s shoulder to find Remus standing there, a grin on his face. “Sorry to interrupt,” he lied. “Just wanted to see if you were going to be joining us at the after-party?”

Sirius opened his mouth to answer, but once more, Lily took control. “No, they’re going to head back to the apartment. And come to think of it, I think James and I will stay at my place tonight,” she added, winking at Fleur. “You guys will have the whole place to yourselves. You can stay up and...you know,” she waggled her brows, “watch movies as late as you want.”

Back at the apartment, after an extremely frustrating train ride back to Brooklyn and a walk that was delayed by several make-out sessions pressed up against brick walls and trees and even a parked car, Fleur and Sirius burst through the door, attached at the mouth.

The leather jacket she’d been wearing hit the floor first, followed closely by Sirius’s shirt. It was too dark to clearly make out his tattoos, but she could see the ink flowing across his chest and down his arms, and she chased it with her lips.

He hissed as her tongue licked over one of his nipples, threading his hands into her hair and pulling her face back up to his. “Give me your mouth,” he demanded hoarsely, and she did.

Fleur wasn’t inexperienced; she’d had several boyfriends in high school and enjoyed sex. But this—this was like nothing she’d ever experienced.

Never had she had someone gently bite, then fiercely suck at the skin of her neck, sending bolts of electricity straight to her center.

Never had she had someone carefully pull the straps of her dress off her shoulders, dropping soft kisses to her newly-bared skin, practically licking his lips with anticipation when the material slipped below her bare breasts.

Never had she had someone like him.

She arched her back when his mouth dropped first to one nipple, then the other, giving each a soft, sucking kiss. His mouth trailed lower, biting gently at the fabric of her dress and dragging it down, over her flat stomach. He hummed in approval when she hooked both thumbs in the fabric and gave her hips a little shimmy, sending it pooling onto the floor.

“Sirius,” she breathed, and he responded by pressing her back against the living room wall, one hand sliding down to grasp her knee and yank it firmly around his hip as he ravaged her mouth.

His clever fingers massaged her thigh as he kissed her, inching closer to her hot center as she moaned into his mouth. She twisted her own fingers into the strands of his hair, pulling it loose from the band he had tied it back with.

Then he was grasping both thighs, easily lifting her and carrying her down the hall, her legs and arms wrapped tightly around him.

In his bedroom, he set her down. She barely registered the iron bed frame and deep blue bedding before she began fumbling with the buttons of his jeans, eager to have him naked and on top of her. Or underneath her. Or both.

“God, Fleur,” he panted, trying to help her but fumbling her progress. She slapped his hand away, and he laughed. “You are so fucking beautiful. When you turned around in the airport, and I saw your face—” he broke off, gesturing vaguely at the air. “I thought I was hallucinating. And then we were on the same flight, and liked so many of the same things, and you were so easy to talk to, and oh my god—”

Fleur had decided that, since Sirius had apparently gotten sidetracked with a recap of their brief relationship, she needed to shut him up. So she pulled down his jeans, shoved her hand inside his underwear, and grabbed hold of his cock. It did the trick.

They stumbled backwards to his bed, collapsing in a heap of limbs and laughter. They rolled, kissing and kicking off their remaining clothes, until Fleur was beneath him, his hair falling in a curtain around their faces as he claimed her mouth once more.

When he finally slid inside her, it felt like coming home. She wrapped her legs around his hips, undulating beneath him as he thrust into her wet heat, eyes rolling back in her head as he hit a previously undiscovered spot inside her, over and over, groaning in her ear and increasing his pace until she tumbled over the edge. He followed a moment later, hips pumping jerkily as he hoarsely whispered her name.

The next morning, Fleur was awakened by the smell of coffee and the feel of Sirius’s hair tickling the sensitive skin of her abdomen. She smiled, stretching languidly before lifting the sheet to find him propped on his elbows, grinning up at her from between her spread thighs.

“Morning,” he murmured, and Fleur decided that husky-voiced, sleep-rumpled Sirius was her favorite version of the man. He confirmed her decision by dropping his lips to her belly, kissing his way over to one hip, then across to the other, then finally landing where she ached for him, already wet and wanting.

He kissed her slowly, tongue teasing lightly over her folds before his lips closed around her clit, sucking firmly, fingers joining his mouth to stoke her desire even higher. She writhed on the bed below him, digging her heels into the mattress and arching her back. His laugh was smothered by her flesh, his hands coming up to grip the globes of her bottom and hold her in place while he continued his attentions.

She lasted approximately ten more seconds before exploding, shoving her fingers into his hair and crying out his name. Then he was rolling her, moving up and over her body to gently bite at her shoulder as he entered her from behind.

Much later, after they were both sated and spent and showered, they sat together on the living room couch. Fleur wore one of Sirius’s shirts, sipping coffee and nibbling on toast while tucked comfortably against his side.

From inside her bag—still on the floor near the door, where she’d abandoned it last night—her cellphone buzzed.

“I’d better check that,” she said apologetically, hopping up and rummaging through the bag’s contents, stomach dropping when she saw the screen.

85 missed calls.

217 text messages.

22 voicemails (mailbox full).

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered, flipping to the most recent text, from one of her close friends in LA.

Fleur, what the hell is going on?! You’re on the front page of the LA Daily!

Hands shaking, she navigated to the app for the newspaper, then promptly dropped her phone.

“Fleur?” Sirius’s voice was concerned, his bare feet moving quickly across the small living room, his hands coming up to rest gently on her shoulders.

“M-my parents,” she managed, tears blurring her vision. “My parents did an interview with a tabloid.” She pointed numbly at her phone, and Sirius bent to pick it up, guiding her back to the couch to sit.

“Can I read it out loud?” he asked gently, and she nodded, staring blankly at the wall.

After he finished reading, Sirius stared at her phone for several minutes, breathing deeply. “Privacy?” he finally managed. “They’re asking for privacy after they paid a tabloid for a front-page story?”

“Front page lies,” Fleur spat, vibrating with fury. “I left them a letter explaining everything—where I was going, where I would be staying, and extremely detailed, color-coded notes about my plans if I got into Juilliard—including how I planned to pay for it—and they still—” she broke off, choking on a sob.

Sirius pulled her into his arms, running his fingers gently through her hair as she cried into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Fleur,” he said when her tears had slowed, kissing her forehead but saying nothing more.

“My whole life, I have done what they wanted. What they demanded of me, to make sure their appearance as perfect, loving parents was upheld.” She sniffled, and a Kleenex appeared in front of her, held between two of Sirius’s long, ring-adorned fingers. “They thought they could buy my obedience, buy my happiness. I never wanted a fancy car, or expensive jewelry, or a fucking fur coat. I just wanted my parents to love me, to be proud of me.”

She stood, pacing restlessly. “But the only time I’ve ever truly been happy is when I dance. When I can put on music, turn it up so loud that I can’t think, and move my body.”

He nodded, and Fleur realized he might be one of the only people she’d ever met who really understood what she was talking about.

She rushed to the couch, straddling him where he sat, cradling his face in her hands. “Thanks for listening. For getting it.”

He slid his hands under the hem of the t-shirt she wore, tracing the muscles of her bare thighs. “You don’t have to thank me. I haven’t even seen you dance yet, but I can tell you’re passionate about it, and that it makes you happy. I understand that feeling, and I'm here to support you—as little or as much as you want me to, for as long as you want me to.”

She leaned forward to kiss him, but stopped an inch from his mouth as his words registered. “You haven’t seen me dance.”

He shook his head.

“We need to fix that.”

The studio where The Marauders usually practiced was large—mostly bare of furniture or decorations, save for a stained old sofa and a mini fridge—and absolutely perfect, according to Fleur.

She spent several minutes warming up, stretching her muscles to prevent injury. When she felt ready, she turned to Sirius, nodding at him to start the music.

Immediately, she was transformed. She felt the bass thrumming through her veins, flowing as naturally as if it were in her actual bloodstream. She moved, arms lifting, body spinning, legs twirling her around and around as smoothly as if she were dancing on ice rather than stained cement. When she ran, leaping through the air, she caught a glimpse of Sirius’s face, and her heart surged into her throat.

The look on his face was like nothing she had ever seen from anyone—not her parents, not her teachers, not her friends. It was awe, pure and simple. And it spurred her on, made her dig deeper within herself and let the music completely overtake her, until the song ended and she stopped moving, laying panting and exhausted on the cold floor.

When she felt calm enough, she raised her head, finding Sirius watching her with that same expression. He swallowed audibly, blinking several times before finally managing to speak.

“Holy fucking shit.”

She grinned. “Yeah?”

He stood, crossing to her and holding out his hand to help her up. “Definitely.”

The days before the audition passed quickly. Fleur and Sirius spent them together, taking a ferry boat around the island of Manhattan to see the Statue of Liberty, making out at the top of the Empire State Building, experiencing sensory overload during a night-time visit to Times Square, walking across the Brooklyn Bridge as the sun rose. In between sightseeing, there were several practice sessions in the studio—for Fleur, for The Marauders, and sometimes for both at the same time. And Fleur spent one angry, tear-filled afternoon on a phone call with her parents, who would not be quick to understand or forgive her newfound streak of independence.

The nights, of course, were spent in bed—either in Sirius’s apartment, if James and Lily were gone and they could be as loud as they wanted, or in her hotel room, where they’d order room service and wear nothing but the hotel’s fluffy robes and make love until they collapsed in exhaustion.

On Thursday morning, just over a week since she embarked on her new life, Sirius walked her to her audition at Juilliard. He promised to wait for her at the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, kissed her within an inch of her life for good luck, and grinned as she waved to him over her shoulder before heading inside the imposing glass building.

As she walked to the auditorium where the auditions were being held, she was surprised to realize that she felt absolutely calm. Confident. Ready. A warm tingling sensation spread from her solar plexus outward, all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes, ebbing and flowing in time with her steady breathing.

She pushed her way through the double doors of the auditorium, smiling at the three instructors who were waiting there, waiting to decide whether her talent was good enough—whether her passion was strong enough—to earn her a spot, a chance, a choice.

Two hours later, she walked under the stone arches of Bethesda Terrace, feeling her heart lift at the sight of Sirius sitting on the edge of the fountain, the Angel of the Waters above him. He was looking down, reading a book held loosely in his lap, but seemed to sense her presence because he suddenly looked up, a questioning, uncertain look on his face.

And then she was running to him, grinning like a maniac, laughing as he stood and caught her in his arms and spun her until they were both dizzy.

She didn’t need to tell him in words that she had nailed her audition; he knew.

As they walked through the park together, hand in hand, on their way to a celebratory lunch, Fleur smiled, feeling happy and at peace.

She was free.