hp fic: A Toppling Tower of Violets
Title: A Toppling Tower of Violets
Pairing: Sirius/Minerva
Rating: R
Words: 3,800
Warnings: Angst
A/N: Written for my Minerva Deserves Hot Boyloving Challenge. Thanks to![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88)
darkasphodel, happiestwhen and ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thysanotus for various and sundry, and to shaychana, for letting me ping her in the small hours with inane questions about 'lay' and 'lie'. *clucks*
A Toppling Tower of Violets
::
1.
Violet Winston is a muggleborn from Hufflepuff, and if Minerva's memory serves, Sirius has been dating her since the end of fourth year. They make a striking couple; her blonde beauty complimenting his dark good looks, and their relationship lacks the penchant for melodrama so common in teenaged romances.
She endures Sirius' misbehavior and trouble-making with soft smiles and laughter like bells, and she seems immune to the boorishness of his friends. She is staunchly dedicated to him, insisting that the whispers about his occasional dalliances with Marlene McKinnon and Remus Lupin are nothing more than rumors, vicious lies spread by girls who wish they could be as lucky as she is.
Violet fancies herself a good girlfriend, but Minerva thinks she is blind, thinks she is a fool. The girl is star-struck, in love not with Sirius but with the idea of him, with the idea of dating one of the most popular boys in school.
Minerva tries to understand, tries to remember what it was like to be seventeen, young and stupid and at the mercy of hormones and emotions. She tries to remember the warmth of stolen kisses and the heat of whispered words, but she cannot. Seventeen was many, many years ago, and Violet's arrangement with Black is a sickening display to watch.
And arrangement it is, because in spite of outward appearances, Sirius' investment in his relationship is perfunctory at best. His attraction to Violet has little to do with her platinum curls and even less to do with her agreeable nature. She's from the wrong stock and the wrong house, and Black's parents would not approve.
Minerva wonders if Sirius has thought beyond the petty statement he's trying to make to his family, wonders if he realises things have changed drastically since fourth year. Now, with war brewing stronger and more potent every day, he's only drawing attention to himself, only putting himself and Violet in danger.
She nods as Violet answers the question she posed, informing the class on the proper technique for turning pincushions into hedgehogs. Her wrist is angled just right, and the spell rolls perfectly off her tongue, but Sirius doesn't spare her a single glance. He is hunched over his desk, writing, scribbling on a scrap of parchment that Minerva knows is bound for Potter's desk as soon as she turns her back.
She awards five House points, inciting an appreciative murmur from the Hufflepuff number, and Sirius looks up briefly, flashing Violet a lazy smile. Violet blushes prettily, preening under his attention, and Minerva finds the words coming out of her mouth before she is truly aware of what she is saying.
"Detention, Mister Black," She says sharply. "And five points from Gryffindor."
Confusion flits over his face, but he doesn't argue. He simply nods, and sets down his quill.
2.
He sweeps into the room at the first toll of the bell and is in a seat with a book open by the eighth.
"Mister Black," she begins.
Sirius looks up at her expectantly, a finger marking the place in his book, and she frowns, words curling together on the tip of her tongue. She wants to tell him was late, but she can't, and this infuriates her, because that had been the purpose of the stunt. It had been a subtle show of defiance, a flirtation with the rules that did not quite warrant another detention.
"You will study silently for two hours," she explains. "And I do mean silently, Mister Black. I have essays to mark, and I will not appreciate interruptions."
He replies with a nod, countering her sour expression with a smile. It's a dangerous thing, his smile, mouth curving to accentuate the fullness of his lips, lighting his face in a manner that chases away the Blackness of his blood.
Minerva holds his gaze for a moment, narrowing her eyes at the openness of his own, at the mischief dancing there, lying in wait.
She settles in with the first essay, a rambling treatise on Switching Spells by Fabian Prewitt. His large, looping handwriting fills the parchment, hedging the length, a finger's width of space between each word. And it's only words, hastily composed waffle that does not mask his lack of study time and classroom participation.
Sirius stops reading to dig through his bag, and Minerva immediately realises she made a mistake. He does not speak, but manages, with the clink of inkwells and the thump of books, to make enough noise for a classroom full of children. She watches him as he too-flawlessly ignores her, and berates herself because having to deal with Sirius Black for seven years should have taught her not to give him instructions with wiggle room.
She returns to Fabian Prewitt's essay, her quill slashing and circling, leaving a trail of red ink in its wake. She makes a terse note on spelling and punctuation in the ample margin just as Sirius coughs loudly and scuffs his foot on the floor with a squeak, and the parchment rents under the weight of an exclamation point.
"Mister Black," she snaps, setting her quill down.
Sirius looks up at her, false innocence hanging precariously from his face. The quill in his hand is bone-dry, but he lays it across his parchment as if he had been writing before she interrupted.
"Perhaps you did not understand my instructions," she says. She chooses her words carefully, because she knows if she admits to making a mistake, he will try and exploit it. "Silently means without a sound, Mister Black. It means you do not speak. It also means you do not toss things about in your bag or stomp around like a Hippogryff."
He nods, favouring her with an expression that is a bit too sheepish to be genuine, and turns back to his schoolwork. She retrieves her quill, intent to continue her battle with Fabian Prewitt, but Sirius sighs, and her eyes automatically follow.
She studies him for a long moment, noting how his tie is so loose it scarcely manages dress-code, watching how his hair, as if Charmed to do so, falls forward to perfectly curtain his face. He pauses in his writing, absently stroking his cheek with his quill, and in the sudden, forced silence, Minerva imagines she can hear the feather rustling over his skin.
He glances up at her, as if he can feel her eyes on him. He flashes her a smile before returning to his work, and colour rushes to her cheeks.
Minerva forces her mind back on Fabian Prewitt, and in her determination, she viciously circles a comma that had every right to be there. She makes herself to focus, makes herself read every word, even if it is waffle she could mark without more than a second thought.
She's in the middle of explaining to Fabian that 'congenial' and 'congenital' are two different words when Sirius' book falls dramatically to the floor.
The noise makes her jump, and she tips her inkwell over, a river of red ink bleeding across Fabian's essay. She swallows the noise building in her throat, because she knows it would only be giving Sirius what he wants. She vents her frustration on the essay instead, barking a Scourgify so fierce the parchment whitens and the blue of Fabian's words pales two shades.
Sirius is waiting when she looks up, ready with all the abashed horror he can muster, complete with wide eyes and pink cheeks. She wonders how he can do that, how he can make himself blush on command, how he can feign embarrassment so well when he is certainly guilty as charged.
She wonders what fuels his endless stream of pranks, wonders if they serve a purpose, wonders if they fill some kind of hole inside him.
"Mister Black," she says, hating the slightly hysterical edge to her voice. "If you cannot contain yourself, you will continue this detention with Mister Filch."
"I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall," Sirius replies, sulking in a way that is almost convincing. "Only, the desk is too small."
The desk, Minerva notes, is large enough for two people, as evidenced by the empty chair next to him, and the fact that two students sit at it every class period, every day. But she refrains from pointing this out, because she knows he'll only find a way to argue it, and arguing with Sirius Black is a pointless exercise.
"Silence!" she says instead. "One more word, one more sound, and I will tan your hide myself."
He smiles again, a dare dancing in his eyes, and Minerva is suddenly uncomfortably warm. Sirius pulls at his tie, as if echoing her thoughts, and her eyes dart to the area of skin peeking out of the collar of his shirt.
"Out!" she shouts, and she ignores the way he smirks, because there is nothing else she can do.
3.
When she walks into her classroom, a rose is laying on her desk. It's Charmed to stay fresh, its leaves a bright, vibrant green, its petals as black as night.
4.
The parchment is yellowed from two years inside a dusty filing cabinet. It feels brittle under her fingers, and she hardly recognizes the handwriting as her own. She frowns at it, then looks up to frown at Sirius Black.
"Mister Black," she says disapprovingly. "Two years ago, you expressed interest in training as an Auror after you finished school."
"Yes, Professor."
"Is that still your plan?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Do you feel you are adequately prepared for such an endeavour?"
Sirius is quiet for a long moment, as if he is carefully considering his words.
"I followed all of your suggestions, Professor," he says. "I dropped Divination, because you said I wouldn't need it, and I raised my marks in both Potions and Transfiguration."
"I am aware of that fact," Minerva snaps. "What I am asking is, are you prepared for it, mentally? Are you aware of what will be expected of you, behaviourally, once you enter the Auror training program?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, Mister Black, that while you are in the Auror training program, there will never be a circumstance where Dungbombs in the toilets are acceptable," she says. "I mean, Mister Black, that while this appears to be something you and Mister Potter plan to do together, you will likely be roomed separately, you will likely attend classes separately, and you will certainly be expected to think and act independently."
"I've not put Dungbombs in the toilets," Sirius says, a bit too defensively.
"Not recently, no," Minerva replies.
"Professor--"
"Are you aware, Mister Black, that with your application you are required to submit a letter of recommendation?"
"From who?" he asks, far too calmly.
"From your Head of House."
Sirius' face betrays nothing, his expression every inch of the mask he was born and bred to wear, but the silence in Minerva's office is heavy, uncomfortable.
"Professor, this is very important to me."
Minerva believes this is true. Two years ago, it had been a flight of fancy, the whimsical dream of a fifteen year-old boy. Now that he's older, now that his brother's disappearance has brought the war closer to home, it's a calling, a necessity.
"I understand that," she admits.
"Professor--"
"I am prepared to write it for you," Minerva interrupts. "I am willing to fill it with sufficiently complimentary things, provided you behave accordingly for the remainder of the term."
"Yes, Professor."
"I've heard you are no longer living at home," she says. "Where do you intend to stay between the end of term and the start of training in the fall?"
"I've a flat." Sirius answers, preening a bit. "In London."
"Auror training is a nine month ordeal, and it does not pay," Minerva goes on. "The Ministry will provide you with housing and three meals a day, but like school, any other necessities will be your own business. Rent on your flat will be as well, should you keep it."
"I've money," he replies quietly. "I inherited some from my great-uncle."
She pauses, watching him, and he returns her gaze evenly. He seems unaffected by her grilling; the slight flush to his cheeks could easily be from the summer heat, seeping into her office as noon approaches.
"What does Violet think of your plans?" Minerva asks suddenly, even though she knows she should not, even though she knows it is none of her business.
"What?"
"Violet," Minerva repeats, because there is no going back now. "Have you informed her that you will not see her for nine months?"
Sirius shrugs, and brushes his hair out of his face.
"You are intending to marry her, are you not?"
"I... um--"
"This is the most dangerous career the Wizarding World has to offer, Mister Black, especially under the current circumstances," Minerva presses. "You should to discuss this with her, so she can decide if she wishes to marry a man who could die at any moment."
"I never said I was going to marry her," he says quickly.
"If you're not, I daresay you've wasted three years of her life."
"It hasn't been that long," Sirius says. His tone is dark, defiant, but his blush deepens.
Minerva is not the least bit surprised that he doesn't know.
"It has been, Mister Black," she says. "Three years. You must admit that is a significant amount of time."
"I suppose," Sirius admits. "But I never said I'd marry her. I never told her that."
"Actions speak louder than words, Mister Black."
She tries to say it lightly, but accusation tarnishes the edges of her words, and he stiffens visibly, his hands gripping the arms of the chair until his knuckles turn white.
"It's not your business," he snaps, anger clouding his face as he leans forward. "Violet is not even in your House."
"No, but you are."
"It's still not your business!"
"Temper, Mister Black," Minerva reminds. "Aurors are expected to keep themselves under control at all times. Reckless displays of emotion will not be tolerated."
His eyes flash, and Minerva can almost see the anger coursing through, can almost feel it crackling in the air around him. She knows there is an argument on his tongue, desperate to be set free, but he doesn't deliver it. He leans back and crosses his arms across his chest.
"Yes, Professor," he hisses through gritted teeth.
"What I said about Violet was merely a suggestion, which you are free to take or leave," Minerva says. "Your behaviour, however, is not negotiable. You will keep yourself in line for the rest of the term, or my letter will, in detail, outline every bit of school property you exploded and every person you hexed."
"Yes, Professor."
"Very well. You may go."
5.
When she walks into her office in the morning, there is a bouquet of violets on her desk. They are brittle and grey, and Minerva thinks they were dead long before they were picked.
6.
Minerva wakes to someone pounding frantically on her door. It startles her, making her heart hammer in her chest, but it is almost a relief. Her sleep has been fitful of late, filled with dreams of her having to inform yet another student that a member of their family has died.
The war has made late night visitors commonplace, something she has almost come to expect, but she is quite surprised when she opens her door to Sirius Black, and she wonders how he found her rooms almost as much as she wonders why he came.
"Mister Black," she says sharply. "What are you doing here?"
His face is dark, stony, and he pushes past her without a word.
"This is utterly inappropriate," she continues. "Students are not allowed in staff rooms under any circumstances, and it is well past curfew."
"James' parents are dead," he says quietly.
Minerva knows this; it had been the reason behind last night's visit in the small hours. But hearing it again, hearing Sirius' dejected, defeated tone brings her up short, and she shuts the door with a sigh.
"I am aware of that," Minerva says softly. "I told Mister Potter, myself."
"They were my family," Sirius says, studying the floor. "After second year, I went there every summer, when things at my house got bad. They never complained. They just Transfigured another bed and set an extra place at the table. They bought my books and stuff when they went to Diagon Alley for James'."
"They bought my first broom, when I made Quidditch," he continues. "My parents wouldn't, because I was playing for the wrong house."
"Sirius."
"Mrs. Potter was upset when I got my flat. Hurt, like," he says. "She wanted to know what she'd done wrong, that I'd rather waste money than stay with them. And it wasn't that. I don't know if she ever believed me, though," he sighs, and Minerva ignores the waver in his voice. "Just, I'd sponged off them so long, I thought I should get my own place. I was thinking of Remus, too. He's going to have a hard time, you know, when school gets out, so I wanted him to have a place to go."
"Sirius," Minerva says, touching his shoulder lightly. "You should be with James right now."
"He doesn't want me," he says. "He wants Evans. He can cry in front of her, because she's a girl, and that."
Suddenly, Minerva understands.
"You don't have a girl," she murmurs.
"No, I guess I don't. I don't know, really. I never did get to talk her, about that stuff you said. She left before I got the chance."
Minerva knows this, also; less than a week after she'd talked to Sirius about his career goals, there had been an attack on a Muggle-born girl in Hogsmeade. When word had come around to Violet's parents, they'd pulled her out of school.
"I want to join the Order of the Phoenix."
There is a long silence then, stretched and full, and Minerva tries to regroup, tries to keep her composure under his determined, steel-grey stare.
"I'm sorry?"
"I want to join the Order of the Phoenix," he repeats. "We all do. Me and James. Remus and Peter, too."
"Sirius, I don't--"
"Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about, because you do," Sirius snaps, running a rough hand through his hair.
"How?"
"I saw Arthur Weasley at the last Hogsmeade weekend, and he told me all about it," he explains. "We weren't going to say anything. We were going to wait and talk to Dumbledore after school finished, but it's different now."
"Sirius--"
"My girlfriend was taken out of school, Professor," Sirius continues. "The closest thing I have to a family is dead. My brother--"
"Have you heard from your brother?" Minerva gasps.
"He wrote me the other day," Sirius says. "His letter was off, though. He was trying to say things without writing them out. It sounded like he was sorry... like he wanted out."
"We'll find him," Minerva says, not because she believes it, not because she thinks the Order can, but because she knows that is what Sirius needs to hear. "We'll find him, and we'll find some place safe for him to stay."
"You have to," he says desperately. "They'll kill him. I know it."
His voice cracks, breaking up his words, slicing through her heart like a knife, and she hugs him, because she doesn't know what else to do, because there is nothing else she can do.
"We'll find him," she says again, and she's still not sure she believes it, but she promises herself she will do her damnedest to make it happen.
She holds him for a long time, endless minutes ticking by as she tries to soothe him, tries to calm him with explanations and apologies. Her words are nonsense, meaningless, and she knows this, but he responds to it, answering with his own nonsense, whispered against her neck.
His kiss is warm and wet, a soft press of lips and the barest flicker of tongue, and it's only half a surprise. She knows he needs this, knows this is probably what he came here for, but she pulls away, not because she wants to, but because she knows she must.
"We can't do this," she says, but she whispers it against his hair, and she thinks it is probably a lie.
"Doesn't matter," Sirius replies. He kisses her again, pulling her close, and Minerva decides he's right.
A part of her mind argues, fighting against the feel of his arms winding around her waist and his tongue pushing between her lips, reminding her that he's a student, that she's more than twice his age. But the rest rationalises, welcoming the teeth nipping at her lower lip and the press of his cock against her hip, saying over and over that he's of age, that in a handful of weeks he'll be leaving school forever.
It's been years since anyone's touched her like this, since anyone has wanted to touch her like this, and the very thought makes her skin flush hot, makes warmth pool low in her body. She wonders if he'll realise what he is doing and stop, if he'll pull away and apologise, but he only demands more, kissing her harder, his hands parting her dressing robe, sneaking inside to cup her breasts.
He kisses a wet trail down her neck, lips and tongue sliding over her skin as his thumbs circle her nipples, and she moans quietly. He pulls at her dressing robe, her nightgown, dropping them in a pile on the floor, and his hands smooth over her skin, fingers skating over her belly and tracing the curve of her hips.
There is a moment of uncertainty when he lowers her to the bed, that small part of her mind arguing again, reminding her again that he's too young, that he's her student, that his desperation does not stop this from being wrong. The words form on her tongue, even though she knows it's too little too late, but Sirius doesn't give her the chance, he falls on top of her and ends her silent protests with his mouth.
He's quiet when he slips inside her, a sharp breath escaping his lips as his hands tighten on her waist. He starts to move, leaning forward to kiss her, and she sees his eyes flash empty and hollow just before they slide closed.
She lies to him with each thrust, telling him that they'll find his brother, that they'll find the Potter's murderers, that everything will be all right.
7.
When Minerva returns to her room after the Leaving Ball, there is a small, white box in the centre of her bed. Inside is a crystal figurine, a transparent phoenix glittering yellow and white in the lamplight.
FIN
Pairing: Sirius/Minerva
Rating: R
Words: 3,800
Warnings: Angst
A/N: Written for my Minerva Deserves Hot Boyloving Challenge. Thanks to
darkasphodel, happiestwhen and thysanotus for various and sundry, and to shaychana, for letting me ping her in the small hours with inane questions about 'lay' and 'lie'. *clucks*::
1.
Violet Winston is a muggleborn from Hufflepuff, and if Minerva's memory serves, Sirius has been dating her since the end of fourth year. They make a striking couple; her blonde beauty complimenting his dark good looks, and their relationship lacks the penchant for melodrama so common in teenaged romances.
She endures Sirius' misbehavior and trouble-making with soft smiles and laughter like bells, and she seems immune to the boorishness of his friends. She is staunchly dedicated to him, insisting that the whispers about his occasional dalliances with Marlene McKinnon and Remus Lupin are nothing more than rumors, vicious lies spread by girls who wish they could be as lucky as she is.
Violet fancies herself a good girlfriend, but Minerva thinks she is blind, thinks she is a fool. The girl is star-struck, in love not with Sirius but with the idea of him, with the idea of dating one of the most popular boys in school.
Minerva tries to understand, tries to remember what it was like to be seventeen, young and stupid and at the mercy of hormones and emotions. She tries to remember the warmth of stolen kisses and the heat of whispered words, but she cannot. Seventeen was many, many years ago, and Violet's arrangement with Black is a sickening display to watch.
And arrangement it is, because in spite of outward appearances, Sirius' investment in his relationship is perfunctory at best. His attraction to Violet has little to do with her platinum curls and even less to do with her agreeable nature. She's from the wrong stock and the wrong house, and Black's parents would not approve.
Minerva wonders if Sirius has thought beyond the petty statement he's trying to make to his family, wonders if he realises things have changed drastically since fourth year. Now, with war brewing stronger and more potent every day, he's only drawing attention to himself, only putting himself and Violet in danger.
She nods as Violet answers the question she posed, informing the class on the proper technique for turning pincushions into hedgehogs. Her wrist is angled just right, and the spell rolls perfectly off her tongue, but Sirius doesn't spare her a single glance. He is hunched over his desk, writing, scribbling on a scrap of parchment that Minerva knows is bound for Potter's desk as soon as she turns her back.
She awards five House points, inciting an appreciative murmur from the Hufflepuff number, and Sirius looks up briefly, flashing Violet a lazy smile. Violet blushes prettily, preening under his attention, and Minerva finds the words coming out of her mouth before she is truly aware of what she is saying.
"Detention, Mister Black," She says sharply. "And five points from Gryffindor."
Confusion flits over his face, but he doesn't argue. He simply nods, and sets down his quill.
2.
He sweeps into the room at the first toll of the bell and is in a seat with a book open by the eighth.
"Mister Black," she begins.
Sirius looks up at her expectantly, a finger marking the place in his book, and she frowns, words curling together on the tip of her tongue. She wants to tell him was late, but she can't, and this infuriates her, because that had been the purpose of the stunt. It had been a subtle show of defiance, a flirtation with the rules that did not quite warrant another detention.
"You will study silently for two hours," she explains. "And I do mean silently, Mister Black. I have essays to mark, and I will not appreciate interruptions."
He replies with a nod, countering her sour expression with a smile. It's a dangerous thing, his smile, mouth curving to accentuate the fullness of his lips, lighting his face in a manner that chases away the Blackness of his blood.
Minerva holds his gaze for a moment, narrowing her eyes at the openness of his own, at the mischief dancing there, lying in wait.
She settles in with the first essay, a rambling treatise on Switching Spells by Fabian Prewitt. His large, looping handwriting fills the parchment, hedging the length, a finger's width of space between each word. And it's only words, hastily composed waffle that does not mask his lack of study time and classroom participation.
Sirius stops reading to dig through his bag, and Minerva immediately realises she made a mistake. He does not speak, but manages, with the clink of inkwells and the thump of books, to make enough noise for a classroom full of children. She watches him as he too-flawlessly ignores her, and berates herself because having to deal with Sirius Black for seven years should have taught her not to give him instructions with wiggle room.
She returns to Fabian Prewitt's essay, her quill slashing and circling, leaving a trail of red ink in its wake. She makes a terse note on spelling and punctuation in the ample margin just as Sirius coughs loudly and scuffs his foot on the floor with a squeak, and the parchment rents under the weight of an exclamation point.
"Mister Black," she snaps, setting her quill down.
Sirius looks up at her, false innocence hanging precariously from his face. The quill in his hand is bone-dry, but he lays it across his parchment as if he had been writing before she interrupted.
"Perhaps you did not understand my instructions," she says. She chooses her words carefully, because she knows if she admits to making a mistake, he will try and exploit it. "Silently means without a sound, Mister Black. It means you do not speak. It also means you do not toss things about in your bag or stomp around like a Hippogryff."
He nods, favouring her with an expression that is a bit too sheepish to be genuine, and turns back to his schoolwork. She retrieves her quill, intent to continue her battle with Fabian Prewitt, but Sirius sighs, and her eyes automatically follow.
She studies him for a long moment, noting how his tie is so loose it scarcely manages dress-code, watching how his hair, as if Charmed to do so, falls forward to perfectly curtain his face. He pauses in his writing, absently stroking his cheek with his quill, and in the sudden, forced silence, Minerva imagines she can hear the feather rustling over his skin.
He glances up at her, as if he can feel her eyes on him. He flashes her a smile before returning to his work, and colour rushes to her cheeks.
Minerva forces her mind back on Fabian Prewitt, and in her determination, she viciously circles a comma that had every right to be there. She makes herself to focus, makes herself read every word, even if it is waffle she could mark without more than a second thought.
She's in the middle of explaining to Fabian that 'congenial' and 'congenital' are two different words when Sirius' book falls dramatically to the floor.
The noise makes her jump, and she tips her inkwell over, a river of red ink bleeding across Fabian's essay. She swallows the noise building in her throat, because she knows it would only be giving Sirius what he wants. She vents her frustration on the essay instead, barking a Scourgify so fierce the parchment whitens and the blue of Fabian's words pales two shades.
Sirius is waiting when she looks up, ready with all the abashed horror he can muster, complete with wide eyes and pink cheeks. She wonders how he can do that, how he can make himself blush on command, how he can feign embarrassment so well when he is certainly guilty as charged.
She wonders what fuels his endless stream of pranks, wonders if they serve a purpose, wonders if they fill some kind of hole inside him.
"Mister Black," she says, hating the slightly hysterical edge to her voice. "If you cannot contain yourself, you will continue this detention with Mister Filch."
"I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall," Sirius replies, sulking in a way that is almost convincing. "Only, the desk is too small."
The desk, Minerva notes, is large enough for two people, as evidenced by the empty chair next to him, and the fact that two students sit at it every class period, every day. But she refrains from pointing this out, because she knows he'll only find a way to argue it, and arguing with Sirius Black is a pointless exercise.
"Silence!" she says instead. "One more word, one more sound, and I will tan your hide myself."
He smiles again, a dare dancing in his eyes, and Minerva is suddenly uncomfortably warm. Sirius pulls at his tie, as if echoing her thoughts, and her eyes dart to the area of skin peeking out of the collar of his shirt.
"Out!" she shouts, and she ignores the way he smirks, because there is nothing else she can do.
3.
When she walks into her classroom, a rose is laying on her desk. It's Charmed to stay fresh, its leaves a bright, vibrant green, its petals as black as night.
4.
The parchment is yellowed from two years inside a dusty filing cabinet. It feels brittle under her fingers, and she hardly recognizes the handwriting as her own. She frowns at it, then looks up to frown at Sirius Black.
"Mister Black," she says disapprovingly. "Two years ago, you expressed interest in training as an Auror after you finished school."
"Yes, Professor."
"Is that still your plan?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Do you feel you are adequately prepared for such an endeavour?"
Sirius is quiet for a long moment, as if he is carefully considering his words.
"I followed all of your suggestions, Professor," he says. "I dropped Divination, because you said I wouldn't need it, and I raised my marks in both Potions and Transfiguration."
"I am aware of that fact," Minerva snaps. "What I am asking is, are you prepared for it, mentally? Are you aware of what will be expected of you, behaviourally, once you enter the Auror training program?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, Mister Black, that while you are in the Auror training program, there will never be a circumstance where Dungbombs in the toilets are acceptable," she says. "I mean, Mister Black, that while this appears to be something you and Mister Potter plan to do together, you will likely be roomed separately, you will likely attend classes separately, and you will certainly be expected to think and act independently."
"I've not put Dungbombs in the toilets," Sirius says, a bit too defensively.
"Not recently, no," Minerva replies.
"Professor--"
"Are you aware, Mister Black, that with your application you are required to submit a letter of recommendation?"
"From who?" he asks, far too calmly.
"From your Head of House."
Sirius' face betrays nothing, his expression every inch of the mask he was born and bred to wear, but the silence in Minerva's office is heavy, uncomfortable.
"Professor, this is very important to me."
Minerva believes this is true. Two years ago, it had been a flight of fancy, the whimsical dream of a fifteen year-old boy. Now that he's older, now that his brother's disappearance has brought the war closer to home, it's a calling, a necessity.
"I understand that," she admits.
"Professor--"
"I am prepared to write it for you," Minerva interrupts. "I am willing to fill it with sufficiently complimentary things, provided you behave accordingly for the remainder of the term."
"Yes, Professor."
"I've heard you are no longer living at home," she says. "Where do you intend to stay between the end of term and the start of training in the fall?"
"I've a flat." Sirius answers, preening a bit. "In London."
"Auror training is a nine month ordeal, and it does not pay," Minerva goes on. "The Ministry will provide you with housing and three meals a day, but like school, any other necessities will be your own business. Rent on your flat will be as well, should you keep it."
"I've money," he replies quietly. "I inherited some from my great-uncle."
She pauses, watching him, and he returns her gaze evenly. He seems unaffected by her grilling; the slight flush to his cheeks could easily be from the summer heat, seeping into her office as noon approaches.
"What does Violet think of your plans?" Minerva asks suddenly, even though she knows she should not, even though she knows it is none of her business.
"What?"
"Violet," Minerva repeats, because there is no going back now. "Have you informed her that you will not see her for nine months?"
Sirius shrugs, and brushes his hair out of his face.
"You are intending to marry her, are you not?"
"I... um--"
"This is the most dangerous career the Wizarding World has to offer, Mister Black, especially under the current circumstances," Minerva presses. "You should to discuss this with her, so she can decide if she wishes to marry a man who could die at any moment."
"I never said I was going to marry her," he says quickly.
"If you're not, I daresay you've wasted three years of her life."
"It hasn't been that long," Sirius says. His tone is dark, defiant, but his blush deepens.
Minerva is not the least bit surprised that he doesn't know.
"It has been, Mister Black," she says. "Three years. You must admit that is a significant amount of time."
"I suppose," Sirius admits. "But I never said I'd marry her. I never told her that."
"Actions speak louder than words, Mister Black."
She tries to say it lightly, but accusation tarnishes the edges of her words, and he stiffens visibly, his hands gripping the arms of the chair until his knuckles turn white.
"It's not your business," he snaps, anger clouding his face as he leans forward. "Violet is not even in your House."
"No, but you are."
"It's still not your business!"
"Temper, Mister Black," Minerva reminds. "Aurors are expected to keep themselves under control at all times. Reckless displays of emotion will not be tolerated."
His eyes flash, and Minerva can almost see the anger coursing through, can almost feel it crackling in the air around him. She knows there is an argument on his tongue, desperate to be set free, but he doesn't deliver it. He leans back and crosses his arms across his chest.
"Yes, Professor," he hisses through gritted teeth.
"What I said about Violet was merely a suggestion, which you are free to take or leave," Minerva says. "Your behaviour, however, is not negotiable. You will keep yourself in line for the rest of the term, or my letter will, in detail, outline every bit of school property you exploded and every person you hexed."
"Yes, Professor."
"Very well. You may go."
5.
When she walks into her office in the morning, there is a bouquet of violets on her desk. They are brittle and grey, and Minerva thinks they were dead long before they were picked.
6.
Minerva wakes to someone pounding frantically on her door. It startles her, making her heart hammer in her chest, but it is almost a relief. Her sleep has been fitful of late, filled with dreams of her having to inform yet another student that a member of their family has died.
The war has made late night visitors commonplace, something she has almost come to expect, but she is quite surprised when she opens her door to Sirius Black, and she wonders how he found her rooms almost as much as she wonders why he came.
"Mister Black," she says sharply. "What are you doing here?"
His face is dark, stony, and he pushes past her without a word.
"This is utterly inappropriate," she continues. "Students are not allowed in staff rooms under any circumstances, and it is well past curfew."
"James' parents are dead," he says quietly.
Minerva knows this; it had been the reason behind last night's visit in the small hours. But hearing it again, hearing Sirius' dejected, defeated tone brings her up short, and she shuts the door with a sigh.
"I am aware of that," Minerva says softly. "I told Mister Potter, myself."
"They were my family," Sirius says, studying the floor. "After second year, I went there every summer, when things at my house got bad. They never complained. They just Transfigured another bed and set an extra place at the table. They bought my books and stuff when they went to Diagon Alley for James'."
"They bought my first broom, when I made Quidditch," he continues. "My parents wouldn't, because I was playing for the wrong house."
"Sirius."
"Mrs. Potter was upset when I got my flat. Hurt, like," he says. "She wanted to know what she'd done wrong, that I'd rather waste money than stay with them. And it wasn't that. I don't know if she ever believed me, though," he sighs, and Minerva ignores the waver in his voice. "Just, I'd sponged off them so long, I thought I should get my own place. I was thinking of Remus, too. He's going to have a hard time, you know, when school gets out, so I wanted him to have a place to go."
"Sirius," Minerva says, touching his shoulder lightly. "You should be with James right now."
"He doesn't want me," he says. "He wants Evans. He can cry in front of her, because she's a girl, and that."
Suddenly, Minerva understands.
"You don't have a girl," she murmurs.
"No, I guess I don't. I don't know, really. I never did get to talk her, about that stuff you said. She left before I got the chance."
Minerva knows this, also; less than a week after she'd talked to Sirius about his career goals, there had been an attack on a Muggle-born girl in Hogsmeade. When word had come around to Violet's parents, they'd pulled her out of school.
"I want to join the Order of the Phoenix."
There is a long silence then, stretched and full, and Minerva tries to regroup, tries to keep her composure under his determined, steel-grey stare.
"I'm sorry?"
"I want to join the Order of the Phoenix," he repeats. "We all do. Me and James. Remus and Peter, too."
"Sirius, I don't--"
"Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about, because you do," Sirius snaps, running a rough hand through his hair.
"How?"
"I saw Arthur Weasley at the last Hogsmeade weekend, and he told me all about it," he explains. "We weren't going to say anything. We were going to wait and talk to Dumbledore after school finished, but it's different now."
"Sirius--"
"My girlfriend was taken out of school, Professor," Sirius continues. "The closest thing I have to a family is dead. My brother--"
"Have you heard from your brother?" Minerva gasps.
"He wrote me the other day," Sirius says. "His letter was off, though. He was trying to say things without writing them out. It sounded like he was sorry... like he wanted out."
"We'll find him," Minerva says, not because she believes it, not because she thinks the Order can, but because she knows that is what Sirius needs to hear. "We'll find him, and we'll find some place safe for him to stay."
"You have to," he says desperately. "They'll kill him. I know it."
His voice cracks, breaking up his words, slicing through her heart like a knife, and she hugs him, because she doesn't know what else to do, because there is nothing else she can do.
"We'll find him," she says again, and she's still not sure she believes it, but she promises herself she will do her damnedest to make it happen.
She holds him for a long time, endless minutes ticking by as she tries to soothe him, tries to calm him with explanations and apologies. Her words are nonsense, meaningless, and she knows this, but he responds to it, answering with his own nonsense, whispered against her neck.
His kiss is warm and wet, a soft press of lips and the barest flicker of tongue, and it's only half a surprise. She knows he needs this, knows this is probably what he came here for, but she pulls away, not because she wants to, but because she knows she must.
"We can't do this," she says, but she whispers it against his hair, and she thinks it is probably a lie.
"Doesn't matter," Sirius replies. He kisses her again, pulling her close, and Minerva decides he's right.
A part of her mind argues, fighting against the feel of his arms winding around her waist and his tongue pushing between her lips, reminding her that he's a student, that she's more than twice his age. But the rest rationalises, welcoming the teeth nipping at her lower lip and the press of his cock against her hip, saying over and over that he's of age, that in a handful of weeks he'll be leaving school forever.
It's been years since anyone's touched her like this, since anyone has wanted to touch her like this, and the very thought makes her skin flush hot, makes warmth pool low in her body. She wonders if he'll realise what he is doing and stop, if he'll pull away and apologise, but he only demands more, kissing her harder, his hands parting her dressing robe, sneaking inside to cup her breasts.
He kisses a wet trail down her neck, lips and tongue sliding over her skin as his thumbs circle her nipples, and she moans quietly. He pulls at her dressing robe, her nightgown, dropping them in a pile on the floor, and his hands smooth over her skin, fingers skating over her belly and tracing the curve of her hips.
There is a moment of uncertainty when he lowers her to the bed, that small part of her mind arguing again, reminding her again that he's too young, that he's her student, that his desperation does not stop this from being wrong. The words form on her tongue, even though she knows it's too little too late, but Sirius doesn't give her the chance, he falls on top of her and ends her silent protests with his mouth.
He's quiet when he slips inside her, a sharp breath escaping his lips as his hands tighten on her waist. He starts to move, leaning forward to kiss her, and she sees his eyes flash empty and hollow just before they slide closed.
She lies to him with each thrust, telling him that they'll find his brother, that they'll find the Potter's murderers, that everything will be all right.
7.
When Minerva returns to her room after the Leaving Ball, there is a small, white box in the centre of her bed. Inside is a crystal figurine, a transparent phoenix glittering yellow and white in the lamplight.