Sirius is not a man to deny a woman who is asking for it. Correction: Sirius is not a man to deny a woman. So when a miserably feminine figure stands with her back to him, all tied up in a black pea coat with her silk black hair flying whilst her cigarette refuses to light, he comes to the rescue in his usual deboinare manuvering.

Sliding up behind her and flicking his lighter's flame toward the tip of her cigarette, it immeadiatly catches it and she takes a grateful inhale. He has his best smirk on, heavily ready to initiate as much flirting as humanly possible. She turns, fag resting in a tepid hand, and starts with his shoes: scanning up with appreciation until her silver eyes get past his broad shoulders to rest on his face, his eyes that manage to widen in realization of this pouty-lipped beauty.

"Cousin," he drawls, shocked, and she takes a step back in realization.

"Fuck off," she retorts, icy clipped words matched to the turn of her heel back out his life. He reaches long, gloved fingers onto her shoulder and she turns back, having completed mere steps in her escape attempt.

"What do you want?" she questions, flicking ash off the end of the cigarette, her arms still defiantly crossed over her chest.

"Smoking's bad for you, you know." He avoids her question, suddenly sullen and his eyes incredibly focused on the smoke spiraling out her mouth.

"Oh, decided to be a Mummy now, have you?" She blows another smoke ring. "Since when have you been so preoccupied with my health?"

His hands are shoved in his pockets as another gust of wind nips their already iced faces. "Wouldn't want my beloved cousin falling short in next week's skirmish."

Her eyes darken threateningly, "I don't think I know what you're talking about."

"Being naive never, ever suited you."

"It got me out of loads of detentions, though. Guess you lacked that skill?"

"No, I lacked the skill of showing the male prefects a little chest."

"But you certainly put out for the females ones."

It's natural, this banter that they'd been raised with. Animosity reserved for the other, never relenting til the other backed down. Wands and hexes got thrown in as soon as their motor skills had developed, and the parents encouraged their duels: field practice for defending their beliefs.

"You are avoiding answering my accusation," his voice is something she'll never admit she misses, the lilt she constantly reminded him was so irritating managed to haunt her.

"You are avoiding my original question: what do you want?" She won't let him get to her, not this time.

He crosses a hand over his chest, "You, m'darling, you!"

She shoves him and he trips. "You wound me."

"Hopefully it's a mortal wound." It would be a flirtation if she'd said it the right way, but it's not. It's a threat, because he well knows the answer to his accusation: she'll be at the next skirmish.

"There seem to be alot of those going around these days."

"That's the basic implication of a war, Sirius."

"Funny, and I thought it was just a bunch of spoiled rich kids trying to get their way."

"Oh, for once in your life can you not see things the way they are supposed to be?"

"I direct the same question back to you."

Why is she still here, she questions, but more importantly: why can he still get to her?

"As lovely as it is seeing your deadbeat self," she scoffs, "I need to go."

He doesn't say anything, and she searches his face for the answers she knows deep inside her. She turns and walks away. He rakes a hand through his hair in agitation: he always finds a way to make her leave.

"You know," he shouts and she stops, about four feet away from him, but doesn't turn. "I wasn't kidding about what I said I wanted."

And she knows, the heart she manages to freeze for the most of time knows. She won't turn to face him, in fear of what her body would do if she did. She isn't a toy to be messed with, she isn't his to be had.

"And I'm not kidding at what I want, either," she states loud enough for the answer to his accusation to sting his frost-bitten ears.

She walks, he watches her go, well aware it may be the last time they speak. He swallows and lets the cold air rip at his lungs, muttering before turning back to go where he was initially headed.

"See you at the next skirmish."

Author's note: hello, darlings - it has been a while, hasn't it? Fic blocks aren't pretty. This is attributed to some fairly well-written Blackfics I read up on today, though none of them were cannon in my opinion. This is set in the war le duh and ... Blackcest, I know. If that doesn't suit your digs, you can just assume he wants his good old Bella back. Y'know, I just realized: I never said Bella in this. So if you're one of those Cissa/Siri people, place your little narcissist in hurr. Yes, well, I better be going to post.

Review, please?