Author's Note: Okay, so I know that this is not exactly how Sirius's bedroom is described in Deathly Hallows, but oh well. Somewhat of a pointless story, but I just felt like I had to write it.

Disclaimer: All characters and themes related to the Harry Potter Book series belong to J.K. Rowling. Yayyyy.


James died years ago. And as much as I loved the bloke, even dead he continues to truly, infinitely, persistently, irritate me. Does that make me sound every bit the arse I think it does?

Well, I can't very well be expected to have sex in front of the damn picture. We have tried, we have, Moony and me, but that accursed Potter family portrait is always there. It's like… ew. And every time we even come close to doing anything, we remember, oh, yeah. James is covering his ears and shutting his eyes and Lily is hiding behind him, and baby Harry does not need to know what Remus and I do at night. And despite the fact Remus is looking very, incredibly, indescribably, practically illegally, nearly irresistibly, and almost fortunately fuckable right now, I just. Cannot. Do it.

Because it would be fortunate. If the bloody picture was not permanently stuck on the damn wall as a sort of punishment for my teenage rebellion in the form of irreversible sticking charms.

If we were a normal couple, we could just switch rooms or something. Use the table, or the floor, or the wall, or the couch, or the stairs, for all I care. However, seeing as I had to offer up this house for the Order of the Phoenix headquarters, and we are very generously, very kindly, and very selflessly, sharing the damn place with half the world, we cannot just go and make love on the dining table, since I really do not want to be the one in the kitchen, found stark nude, tangled up with another man, on the table where everyone else eats.

Molly would make me tell Harry that we were not having sex, at all, really, and that I had been in the shower and it was my exhaustion that gave way to the delirium that made me forget my clothes when I wandered into the kitchen. And Moony conveniently happened to be there and naked, and no, he did not kiss me at all, but told me a bedtime story in my mouth, and we fell asleep holding each other for warmth on a hot summer night.

Then dear old Mrs. Weasley would lacerate my balls with an unbelievably sharp dessert fork and rubber gloves. I am not exaggerating. She is dangerous in the kitchen.

So Remus is sitting there, glazed eyes and adoringly looking at me and massaging my hands, and just as resentful as I am that we are practicing a form of preventive protection. And by protection, we mean not giving Harry an altogether different scar for his life, and keeping from making our darling James and Lily from running away from the frame forever; preventive referring to an untimely annihilation.

"So… Sirius," Moony says. And I cannot help but think that his voice has a sort of flamboyancy to it. Not in a floatation device kind of way, but in a way that lets me know that there was a reason he never made a pass on a girl in school.

"Remus," I murmur, and I realize I sound just as flamboyant as he does, especially when I look into those beautiful amber eyes… that I am absolutely, positively, wholly, and completely not looking at, because I know they will do that… that thing to me that will make me do something that I will regret when portrait James will jump out of the frame and trounce me oh-so-severely for traumatizing his family until I am so deformed that Moody will mistake me for a cow then skin me alive and hand me over to Molly so that the kiddies can have me for dinner.

"What?" Remus sputters, with this adorably confused look on his face. Anywhere but his eyes, anywhere but his eyes. I settle on staring at the point of his chin.


"Your unbelievably bloody death at the hands of James, Moody, and Molly."

Oh bullocks. Why do I always sound like the nutter?

"I was just imagining the consequences of ravaging you on the spot," I riposte, even though he is not arguing with me. Remus laughs, knowing I had intended for it to come out coolly, not grudgingly.

"What am I going to do with you?"

And though that could be part of a completely friendly, completely platonic, completely not-between-lovers, confabulation, I know, and he knows, that this is the beginning of flirtation, and oh, look. James knows it, too. And I can see the malice in his eyes. He has every intention of chucking baby Harry at my head, so that it will slam back into the headboard and I simply die, and Remus is left to cry over my body, before James forgets that Lily is not a bat and bludgeons him with her.

I pout huffily at the thought… and why am I doing that? I know Remus likes my lips when I pout, and he knows I love his voice when he talks, and he just keeps doing it, and I just keep pouting, and Lily's about to poke my eye out with her wand, and James is about to dig my other eye out with Lily, and Harry is completely concealed in protective charms so that it does not hurt when he is propelled at my face and I swear Azkaban did not turn me into a nutter.

A few times, we considered carrying over our affections into the bathroom, but Remus is much too considerate for that. Who wants to use a shower where we would do unspeakably, unimaginably, inconceivably, indescribably, intimate things? So no, that was not an option.

Some more daring couples could partake in said unspeakable, unimaginable, inconceivable and indescribable affections in more public, or at least, less traditional, places; a park, a public bathroom, the broom cupboard, the backyard, the roof… but seeing as a park or public bathroom are not of the utmost impeccable sanitation, and that they are, in fact, public, and that my head is, in fact, priced at more galleons than my family could ever have afforded and then some, Moony and I cannot be daring in public, nor can we be daring in the broom cupboard, because that involves the house in which five hundred and a half people currently, reside, as do the backyard and the roof.

And Remus is talking, and his voice is oh-so-pretty, and oh-so-smooth, and his hands are so rough, and they're travelling up my leg, up, up, up, my thigh, and, oh bloody hell, something else is going up, in the anatomical sense, and I do not know why I am letting myself do very similar things to Remus, very, very, similar, very, very, unspeakable, unimaginable, inconceivable, indescribable things, for which portrait James is plotting my death, and for which portrait Lily is planning something sure to cause me eternal tribulation, and for which portrait Harry is in preparation process for afore mentioned death and tribulation, which, in effect, would be the cause of Molly's mutilation of my little friends down south, which would be the reason for them being served on a platter, which would be the doer of all the kiddie order's deaths.

And why is he talking? Oh, wait, the look on his face is telling me it is something interesting, and Sirius Black is tuning in, only to hear his dear, but much too proper, much too considerate, much too damn desirable, beloved, say:

"Screw it. We're using the bathroom."

Thank Merlin.