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There’s an instinct, a primal truth carved into Heir James Potter’s bones, etched in the very veins of his magic. It’s possessive and protective and darkly purrs, “Mine!” every time he lays eyes on Heir Sirius Black.
He’s never content unless Sirius’s attention is his, unless Sirius’s gray eyes are fixed on him, unless Sirus’s face is turned toward James as if James is his reason for living, the center of his universe, the star around which Sirius rotates, inexorably drawn in by gravity, unable to flee his orbit.
James knew the moment that he and Sirius met as children that Sirius was his in a way that doesn’t easily translate into words. It’s as if a divine being reached into the firmament, snatched Sirius out of the velvet-black sky, and placed him on Earth for James to treasure. Sirius is intrinsically important. If anything ever harms him, James will immolate the person responsible.
There is nothing that James will not do to keep Sirius staring at him with the covetous obsessiveness of a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
“James?” Sirius groans as he rolls over in the grass, his head sliding down James’s thigh in the process.
“I’m here, Sirius,” James replies as he buries his hand back into Sirius’s silky black hair. The black opal and silver dragonhide hair tie he removed while Sirius napped rests around his wrist. The loose locks reach just past Sirius’s shoulders. The ends curl the barest bit. James strokes Sirius’s hair and cherishes each moment he’s allowed such liberties.
“Mm.”
Sirius nuzzles against his thigh, eyes closed, and stretches. His fingers spread, his back arches, and James imagines Sirius in his bed, his pale skin a stark contrast against crimson sheets, the night after their bonding ceremony. It’s an enticing image.
There’s no doubt whatsoever in James’s mind that he and Sirius will eventually bond at a soul-deep level. He will accept no one else. Everyone else’s magic feels profane when compared to Sirius’s. Only James is worthy of Sirius’s unrelenting, resolute adoration. Just as only Sirius is worthy of James’s staunch, everlasting devotion.
He will allow nothing and no one in Avalon to come between them. He has no compunctions whatsoever about maiming anyone who even considers impinging upon their future as bonded lord-husbands. Neither of them requires suitors of any kind. He and Sirius belong to one another.
Sirius yawns widely, squints at the sunlight, and then murmurs a gentle, “Thanks, James,” when James raises a hand to block the light. He presses his head more firmly against James’s other hand, which continues to stroke his hair.
“Anything for you,” James replies, meaning every word. He’s said it a thousand times. He’ll say it a hundred thousand more before he dies, assuming he ever does.
If James has his way, he and Sirius will achieve immortality and remain in Avalon forever, their souls intimately intertwined. Stretching the boundaries of magic and dragging impossibilities into probabilities are within their combined power. Surely, if nothing else, it’s within their abilities to create a Philosopher’s Stone.
Sirius smiles at him upside-down, his gray eyes warm with a fondness that fills James’s heart to overflowing. “You make an excellent pillow, James.”
“Only for you,” James answers.
James knows that the vast majority of pureblood society believes he’s some paragon of virtue, a wizard of unimpeachable conduct, barring a few “tasteless but ultimately harmless pranks”. It’s a facade he’s built one charming smile after the next. He is the only surviving child of Lord Charlus Potter and Lady Dorea Potter née Black—the three older siblings that should exist aren’t even phantom familial bonds inside him—and James learned as a child at his mother’s knee to wield charisma in one hand and a curse in the other.
If anyone else sought to behave so familiarly with him, there would be dire consequences for such presumptuousness. He offers polite smiles freely to the other members of pureblood society. Prolonged physical contact, however, is reserved for his family and Sirius alone.
“Only for me,” Sirius agrees with a smugness James adores.
The grass around them bends with the wind, bowing to the force of nature. The petals of the arbutus blossoms rustle like silken skirts. It’s James’s favorite part of the family gardens, the ones which are inaccessible to the public. Every time he brings Sirius here while Sirius visits Potter Manor is an unspoken confession—thee only do I love.
It’s the only manner in which James can currently express his emotions while also restraining himself enough to abide by his mother’s wishes that he not bond when he’s still a student.
“Help me with my hair?” Sirius asks as he leverages himself halfway off the ground with his elbows.
“Of course,” James replies. It doesn’t quite have the same meaning as helping a pureblood witch tend her hair. Sirius doesn’t have his excess magic stored in his silken tresses. However, James treats it as if it’s sacred regardless. To him, it is. Any chance he has to touch any part of Sirius is a blessing beyond measure.
Sirius whistles a lilting tune, his fingers drumming against the ground as James gathers his hair and ties it back with the dragonhide tie he removes from his wrist.
“All done.”
“Well, do I look dashing?” Sirius asks as he winks over his shoulder.
It takes an immense amount of self-control to stop himself from dragging Sirius into his lap and sinking his teeth into the bare nape of Sirius’s neck. It’s so difficult to rein in his desires when James knows that Sirius would yield instantly, trust him with everything—his body, heart, and soul—and bond with James in the Ancient Ways under the Olde Magick the very moment James even implies he wishes for such a thing.
If James’s beloved mother hadn’t requested he wait to bond until after graduation, he would have bedded and bonded with Sirius already. Graduation is only a few months away, but tomorrow is Ostara—a sacred holiday and an excellent time for bonding.
He can barely breathe through the temptation.
“Devilishly handsome,” James answers.
A pink flush stains Sirius’s fair face. He twists around to face James and waggles his eyebrows. “Are you saying I’m irresistible, Heir Potter?”
James’s heart lurches in his chest. Of course, Sirius is reckless enough to unintentionally play with fire. Merlin, he’s reckless enough to play with it intentionally. But— If James pulls Sirius over him, or presses Sirius into the grass and settles atop him, James knows himself well enough to know that nothing short of an impotence curse will keep them from consummating a soul-deep bond into existence.
Not when Sirius’s eyes burn almost silver with magic, his gaze turning more ravenous and avid with each moment that James doesn’t respond.
“Sirius,” James rasps, grasping desperately at the threads of his self-control. Sirius closes his eyes and James abruptly feels robbed of part of his very soul.
When Sirius reopens them, the heat is lesser, now equal to a potion simmering over a fire for weeks on end instead of a conflagration that can devour a vast forest in an hour. He says, “I’ve almost completed my Animagus transformation. I wanted to wait until we were together before attempting the final step.”
James latches onto the change of subject with a wealth of gratitude. Fierce satisfaction rises inside him at the knowledge that Sirius desires to bare himself so wholly to James. An Animagus form is the literal soul manifestation of a wizard or witch. It’s eminently intimate.
Mine, the dark instinct inside of James purrs.
“Show me your soul, Sirius.”
James completed the Animagus transformation over the Yule break, a few months past. He shifted into a glorious stag on a snowy winter morning as Sirius watched with fervent rapture. He will never forget how reverently Sirius stroked his hide and traced wind-nipped fingers along his majestic antlers. He will never regret kneeling in the snow, silently offering to let Sirius mount his back. He will forever treasure Sirius’s softly gasped, “You’re magnificent!” as James bounded through the snow-laden woods with Sirius astride him.
He hasn’t transformed in front of anyone else—not even his own parents.
It doesn’t matter what the law says. James has no intention whatsoever of registering his Animagus form. He knows that Sirius will refuse to do so as well. Neither of them will allow their very souls to be observed and recorded for public review at the Ministry of Magic.
Likewise, James knows neither of them ever intends to transform within a public area. They’ve only ever worked on the transformation in private while on either the Black or Potter Estate. If they had practiced at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as well, they would have achieved the full transformation years ago. But without needing to speak a single word on the subject, Sirius and James silently agreed that their souls may only be witnessed by each other.
Sirius’s smile is bright and sincere as he teases, “So demanding.”
It’s true. It’s undeniably true. When it comes to the people that James allows into his heart, he is, without question, demanding. His standards are exceedingly high. Sirius has never once failed to meet them. He leaps over them with a boundless devotion that James will cherish until he ceases to exist.
“I have every right to be,” James replies, his voice weighted with a possessiveness he can’t deny at this moment. For who, in all of Avalon, has more right to glimpse Sirius’s soul than James does? No one. Not even Sirius’s beloved baby brother, Master Regulus Black.
“Yes, you do.”
Knowing someone at a soul-deep level is a powerful, intensely intimate undertaking. It is also, by the very nature of the revelation, dangerous. It’s offering up the nakedest, rawest, most primal portions of yourself to another and trusting that the person will never exploit all the vulnerabilities the process will inevitably divulge.
There isn’t an iota of his being that James is unwilling to entrust to Sirius.
This devout pureblood wizard who worships James with his alluring gray eyes, whose essence is inexplicably destined to be entwined with James’s, who inspires something primeval within James to claim “Mine!” so resolutely that James has whole-heartedly believed it since their first meeting, will never betray James.
Neither outside pressure nor lucrative incentives will sway Sirius’s heart. Not when James shelters it in the shrine of his soul.
“Sirius.”
“All right, enough delaying,” Sirius replies with a merry grin.
The grin on Sirius’s face widens, lengthens, and grows as his face stretches. His silky hair shines in the sunlight like spilled ink. It rolls down his fit body, replacing his clothes. His bones shift, altering his skeleton itself, reshaping him into his truest form. The hair, now fur, spreads down his hands and fingers as his fingernails turn into vicious claws.
The Animagus transformation is tremendously difficult. It’s not uncommon for those who attempt it to only manage a partial transformation before getting stuck. That’s why it’s entirely unwise to attempt a full transformation for the first time while alone.
For an instant, an interminable moment, Sirius is a macabre, twisted half-beast. Then, abruptly, a Grim sits before James in the private family garden, surrounded by arbutus blossoms.
The black-furred hound is massive, easily as tall as James is while seated on the grass. His gray eyes are reminiscent of hoarfrost. His fangs are lengthier than most ritual athames and, assuredly, equally as deadly.
“Mine,” James bites out, the word expelled from the deepest chasms of his magic.
Sirius is a Grim. He’s a Grim—the faithful hound that’s an omen of Death. And James, through his revered ancestor, High Lord Ignotus Peverell, is a direct bloodline descendant of Death Itself.
“Oh, Sirius,” James rasps as he grasps Sirius by the muzzle and smooths his hands up soft, black fur, “you’re a Grim.” He curls his hands behind Sirius’s ears and stares directly into piercing gray eyes that burn—endlessly, eternally—with love and loyalty.
Sirius barks. It sounds like rattling bones and feels like being pricked by a thousand needles simultaneously.
James wants with a rampant ferocity that fills his veins with Fiendfyre. He has to kiss Sirius. He has to. If he doesn’t, James will—something, something deranged. Sirius’s soul is a perfect complement to his own. Death reached into the heavens and retrieved Sirius from the celestial majesty above for James alone, and—
“Transform back,” he half-demands, half-pleads.
In this instance, Mother will have to forgive his disobedience. Knowing what James now knows, he can’t torment himself and Sirius any longer by denying them the soul-deep bond they both crave so eagerly. When they return to Hogwarts after the Ostara holiday, they will be bonded lord-husbands.
The transition is quicker, and more fluid, this time. In a handful of moments, Sirius sits before James again, his eyes wide with naked wonder. Delighted laughter spills from his lips as he throws himself forward into James’s arms.
“A Grim! James, I’m—”
James swallows whatever Sirius intends to say next, feasts from his lips. It isn’t gentle or sweet or the kind of kiss that’s described in fairy tales. It’s hungry, ravenous, all enthusiasm and no finesse. But James doesn’t care. He’ll have a lifetime—an exceedingly long one if he has his way—to learn how to kiss properly. For now, it’s enough that Sirius’s lips are finally beneath his own, yielding to him with a swiftness that speaks of an aching yearning long unfulfilled.