A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More Touch Me

It's not until he's pushed up against the couch, his hands entangled in her unruly black locks and his lips smashed against hers in a way that is anything but sexy and yet so desirable, that Sirius Black realises he's destined for recklessness. Vaguely, he wonders what his friends would say, because he's not quite twenty-one and she's just past twenty five, with a tattoo of a dragon on her left forearm and an attitude to match.

Every week, it's like this. There's an Order meeting, and they secretly wink at each other across the table; sometimes Marlene sits next to him and rubs her hand seductively up his leg under the table, and Sirius shivers through the entire meeting, surprised that no-one notices. They drink a lot of Firewhiskey; it burns his mouth, creating a searing trail of fire in his throat and then eventually, they stumble, half-drunken, through the streets of London to her flat – Remus tries to reprimand him, before scurrying off home himself – and collapse on this very couch, the cushions sink further and further with the weight of their desire.

It's reckless and insane, Sirius tells himself as she lights sixteen candles the Muggle way – always sixteen, she says they help the atmosphere ­– but he doesn't care, because he's a Black and a Marauder, and if there's ever going to be a reckless, explosive cocktail, he's it. Marlene attaches herself to him and the couch creaks, and then it's all over and he transforms into Padfoot and lopes home, tail between his legs as the cold bitumen scrapes at his paws and a million excuses form in his mind.

Tonight, Sirius watches Marlene light the candles as she breaks away from him, and he can't believe someone so dangerous and in love with the fight can be so dainty. The dragon tattoo is bright against her creamy skin and white singlet, and it seems to dance in the candlelight.

He doesn't understand this addiction; he likens it to a cigarette, but she's much too harsh for that, and all he can do is laugh and entangle his hands in her hair and pull her to him again, and then go home, because this is no strings attached, it's life, not a fairytale – they're bothfar too cynical for that one.

It's all hazy in his mind, a cloud of dreams and lunacy, and he kisses her again – only it's a not a kiss, because wild women like Marlene McKinnon don't kiss, they snog ­– and then he falls to the floor, wax droplets dripping from the candles like fallen warriors and their light burning his eyes.

The last candle dies out in a rush of blowing wind, smoking newspaper and Aguamenti,and she lights sixteen more, because this is their routine – sixteen candles, two bottles of Firewhiskey and a night to remember.

And then, one morning, scarce hours after he's snuck out her back door and trotted amongst the drunken loots that litter the pavement, broken glass stuck in his paws and the sunrise soaking into his rugged brown coat, she steps out the front door, straight into the arms of Antonin Dolohov and Death.

Sirius locks the door to his flat and sinks into his own couch, a bottle of Firewhiskey in one hand and his wand in the other, because for all he wants to remember the Dragon Girl, he can't bothered to find a match, and lights sixteen candles - always sixteen, she says they help the atmosphere ­– watching the thin tendrils of smoke escape into the unknown like her life did.

And that's when he realises: it wasn't the tattoo, crimson red contrasting perfectly with deathly white, or the hand on his leg or even the way his taut muscles felt as they scraped against her frayed couch, it was her.

The last candle flickers, and dies.


(a/n: This is nothing special, just a random story I wrote in English the other day that I thought I'd share with you. The title comes from the song by Fall Out Boy, which randomly started playing right when I got to typing the first line about candles, so I can't claim any ownership. My Marlene is different to a lot of others, so concrit is love, and feel free to share it with me.)


-Cuba …x