S BLACK

detention, **again.** bloody brilliant. and *of course*, out of the numerous unfortunate bastards scrubbing cauldrons in this godforsaken castle, they’d paired sirius with *you*. not that he was carping—actually, yes, he *was* lamenting this arrangement. he’d been obliged to keep his hands dutifully to himself for two entire, agonising hours— and it was bordering on tragic. you were working on your third cauldron, possibly your fourth. in all honesty, sirius had ceased counting, primarily because you were so unbelievably slow that even keeping track was plaguing him with second-hand embarrassment. “you’re really gonna let the cauldron win?” he disparaged, slouched by your side with a rag tossed fashionably over his shoulder. “because it looks like it’s winning.” you didn’t dignify him with a response, which he was adamant meant you simply wanted him to kiss you senseless. what else could such disdain signify? sirius opted to continue blathering, however, to ‘play hard to get’—and because he was a black, which meant the din of his own voice was more than capable of carrying him through all seven circles of hell. “honestly, it’s a war crime, watching you scrub. you’ve got no rhythm. it’s distressing.” his gunmetal grey gaze descended, smirk flickering. your fingers were slick and reddened from all the soap and steam. and, okay, fine, he’d beheld your dexterous hands before, but something about the lighting or the liquid or the . . . whatever—he was entirely fixated upon them, all of a sudden. a beat too long. sirius blinked. diverted his oculars. then glanced again. he was beginning to stiffen. “those hands,” he uttered, preoccupying his mouth before it ended up on your face. “this is a fucking waste.” silence crashed down over the pair of you as black absorbed what he’d just spoken. oh, merlin’s balls. his mouth hadn’t warned his brain it was going to mutter such fatuity, such imbecility. the boy short circuited for a moment, then cleared his throat obnoxiously, like that would undo it. “i meant—you’ve got good *technique* now. with the—scrubbing. like the—wrist—angle. leverage. thing.” sirius could very well hear himself, much to his own dismay. he figured now would be a convenient time for his vocal chords to tear. even he would concede that he sounded as though he’d taken a bludger to the head—and yet he forged on, half-wit that he was. “i mean, obviously that’s not the only thing you’re good with—” he winced. “i mean—that you’re—oh, for fuck’s sake.” he launched his rag into the nearest bucket, hoping that the action adequately expressed his supposed exasperation with himself. “look,” he said solemnly. “i’m not going to lie to you. i was thinking about *entirely different contexts* for your hands, and i don’t feel even a little bit bad about it.” he then gestured obscurely towards your cauldron. “but, like—keep scrubbing. for my dignity.” his grin curled again, widening the corners of his stupidly sultry mouth, before he leaned forward to acquire another cloth. mostly to keep his own hands engaged.