the_debt_of_time

and death, and he could not let one more moment escape without loving her the way he
was meant to, the way he was made to, the way magic wanted him to.
Without a second thought to the very damning consequences, Sirius pressed his lips
against hers, revelling in the warmth that graced them once again. He waited for her to
push away from him, expecting a solid slap across the face, but a sweet-tasting sigh escaped
up her throat and vibrated against his lips. Surprised but elated, he captured the noise
gratefully, swallowing it as his lips moved worshipfully over hers.
With little restraint, the ache in his body demanded that he taste her.
He feathered the tips of his fingers against her arms, trailing down until they grazed
along her ribs, and she gasped in response. Her lips parted, and he took immediate
advantage of the unconscious invitation, sliding his tongue into the wet warmth of her
mouth and growling in appreciation when she pushed her own tongue forward to gently
touch his. He groaned deep in his throat as an old, familiar thought came to the forefront
of his mind:
She tasted how firewhisky felt.
He thought he had forgotten, worried he had imagined it all, but this was real. She
was alive and in his arms, giving him as much as she was taking, and he sank into the feel
of her. So overcome by the assault on his senses, Sirius almost missed the familiar tug of
something deep inside of him that made him think: Do you feel that, too? Please feel it, too.
He dug his free hand into the tangle of messy, chestnut curls at the nape of her
neck, holding her tightly against him as the hungry beast within his chest growled for more.
She made sweet little mewling sounds against his lips, and he drank in every last one of
them, promising to coax more out of her as though it was the sole purpose of his existence.
Maybe it was.
Her soft whimpers and moans fuelled a fire within him that had not burned in
almost nineteen years, and he suddenly felt as though she had never left him. No death, no
war, no Peter, no Voldemort, no betrayal, no loss, no bloody Azkaban, and certainly no
veil. There was just her. Only ever her. Just this moment in the darkness, nibbling fervently
at her lower lip and licking at the mark immediately afterward.
She whispered his name, and Sirius moved his hands to her hips, pulling her into
his lap and against his hard body on instinct. She winced at the movement, bringing a hand
between her breasts, inhaling slowly. He realised that he must have hurt her with the