Title: A Black Family Fairytale

Pairing: James Potter/Siriana Black and Charlus Potter/Dorea Potter

Siriana Black could understand why Muggles loved fairytales. Who didn't like princesses and princes and happily ever afters? Yet, the Muggles never got the story right. Considering most Muggle fairytales were the result of a Muggle-born sharing gossip about the Black family, Siriana wasn't surprised.

Children's fairytales were her family's history. Not all of them ended well.

"Once upon a time," Siriana said, "there was a witch named Rapunzel." She sat at the vanity in her room, unfurling the braids she had slept in. "Rapunzel's hair was so glorious that her family locked her away in a tower of their castle, until she was of age to wed." Siriana's hair was a mass of shiny, silky smooth ebony that rested in a pool on the floor behind her chair. "Her father and mother warded the walls, the floor, the staircase, and the roof, so that nothing but a house-elf could ever enter."

Her family's houseguests had headed down to breakfast already, and Siriana was the last one upstairs. At school, she was always one of the first to breakfast. She had always been an early riser. "Yet, her parents didn't ward the window. It was high in the air, and too small for anyone to enter through." She began brushing her hair, one stroke at a time. "Rapunzel leaned against the window ledge everyday, staring at the sky, a prisoner because of her beautiful hair."

Siriana gazed in the mirror, wincing as three more owls flew past her open window. They carried scrolls that were tied shut with ribbons in the Black family colors. She remembered the numerous owls that had flown past her dormitory window at Hogwarts the last three months of sixth year, many bearing the Potter family ribbons.

Had James Potter chosen his future bride?

"The house-elf was forbidden to speak to Rapunzel. All it could do was bring her whatever she wanted." Siriana blinked tiredly. "But the house-elf couldn't fetch her companionship or freedom. The sound of her own voice, and the chirping of any birds that happened to fly past was all that she heard. So she repeated the same words to herself, as if a rescuer was just out of sight and reach: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, that I might climb its golden stair."

Siriana never wore her hair down in public. While Siriana might eschew some pureblood customs, this was one she held fast to her heart. Other than her blood family, only her future lord husband would ever glimpse its true beauty. She didn't care how many headaches she got, or how much sleep she lost taking proper care of it. Siriana would follow the Ancient Ways and present herself to her lord on their bonding night in nothing but her own hair.

"In a fit of rage, Rapunzel desperately tried to shorn her hair. If it were gone, if she were no longer too beautiful to gaze upon, then surely her family would free her. She would no longer need to be locked up for her own safety." Siriana shuddered. "But regardless of what method she tried, Rapunzel couldn't cut her hair." Siriana's eyes welled with tears. "Because the hairbrush her father had gifted her was crafted from the family blood magics."

She dropped her silver, engraved hairbrush and straightened her spine, even though she wanted to hunch forward and bury her head in her hands. "It's not the same," she reminded herself.

Had James accepted a bonding offer? He had been receiving them ever since his seventeenth birthday, back in March. At first, Siriana had been amused. How did any of these witches think they even stood a chance? But James hadn't laughed them off and rejected them. He still seriously considered each one—as if every single time he unrolled a scroll and examined it intently didn't break her heart a little more.

"One day, the house-elf brought a note up to Rapunzel. It was from her father, a man she couldn't remember at all. She hadn't seen him since she was three years old. And though he had provided her with the necessities of life, her family had never provided her with the necessities of the heart."

A scroll, with a broken wax seal, lay on her vanity. It was beside the discarded hairbrush. It was from her father, announcing that her first Courtship date was to be tomorrow. Heir Lucius Malfoy had apparently decided to pass on her Cousin Narcissa Black in order to win the Black Heiress. He was an idiot. Narcissa loved Lucius. Whereas Siriana would follow Rapunzel's example, if necessary.

"The note informed Rapunzel that a husband had been chosen for her. He was a wealthy, powerful lord. He had fallen in love with Rapunzel after seeing the most recent portrait of her; the house-elf made her sit for one every birthday."

Siriana pressed a hand to her aching chest. She gazed into the mirror, haunted by her eyes. They weren't warm. They hadn't been since she received the edict last night. Siriana felt as frigid and empty as Salazar Slytherin's soul. She flinched when she remembered the last time she had seen Lucius; his eyes had raked over her, lingering longest on her hair. If James hadn't stepped between them, she probably would've thrown up. Lucius hadn't been crude or vulgar about it—he was Heir Malfoy—but she had long since decided that James was the only one who had the right to look … or touch.

"Rapunzel wasn't a fool, for all that she was isolated and starved for touch and comfort. This supposed lord had never met her; he had never dried the tears she could no longer cry, or woken her from the nightmares that she cherished, because they didn't hurt as much as being awake." Siriana concentrated her magic into her hands, threading it from one fingertip to another as she wove and spun it. "No, all this lord loved was her appearance. He loved her body. He loved her beauty. He loved the curse that had exiled her from her family into a forsaken tower, where her sanity rotted away in silent solitude."

Focusing more intently, jittery with worry and excitement, Siriana created lace from her own magic. It took less time than she thought it would. Her mother had forced her to learn and master all the feminine arts; making lace was one of the least of these. Once she finished the masterpiece, it glowed a vibrant white—as if she had captured a moonbeam and spun it into thread, as Lord Rumpelstiltskin had done to win the heart of Lady Lycoris Black millennia ago.

"So Rapunzel decided to deny the lord what he most desired—her."

Siriana twined the magic lace through her hair, from the ends up past her shoulders. She treated it like wrapping a present with gift paper that was meant to be seen through. There was a bow holding the ends of her hair together, and another cinching her hair an inch past her jaw.

"Rapunzel hanged herself with her hair.…" Siriana felt nausea swell as she remembered what came next in the historical story. "The lord, insane with grief at the loss of his soul mate, changed his name to Alcor Black—for his love was as distant as the stars themselves, and his soul and heart were black with grief and bitterness."

She spun a single thread of magic, wrapped it around her hair just above the lace bow, and tugged the ends in opposite directions. Siriana's lace-twined hair fell to the floor. The ends of her shorn hair tickled her face. With a few whispered words and flicks of her wand, the short locks were curled and pinned. Even if it was only a few inches long, only her family and lord had the honor of seeing it down.

"Tempus."

Glancing at the time hovering in the air, Siriana took a deep breath. She straightened her shoulders and prayed for courage. Siriana lifted her lace-wrapped hair into her arms and left her room. As Heiress Black, a lady of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families, the highest token of interest she was allowed to show a suitor was to gift him with a lock of her hair tied with a ribbon of her magic. Siriana had always been one for taking things to the extreme.

If this gift couldn't convince James that she didn't think of him as a brother, and that he shouldn't think of her as a sister, then her destiny would be the same as the first Patriarch of her family. A lifetime knowing the one she loved was as far out of her reach as the stars in the sky.

"If nothing else," Siriana whispered as she walked through the empty hallways, "it'll never belong to Heir Malfoy." At this point, James wasn't one of her suitors; he had never offered for her. What she was doing crossed boundaries, ignored protocol, and had the potential for disaster—a pureblood witch was never supposed to initiate a courtship.

But James would never humiliate her by mentioning such things. He would accept it, or he would reject it … and her. Everyone would assume that they were already courting if he accepted; if James rejected Siriana's offer, they would sympathize with her—thinking he hadn't been as invested as she was.

"It's not too late to do this in private," Siriana whispered to herself as she stood in the hallway outside the dining room, just out of sight. She loved James more than her magic; she would forfeit nearly every drop of it (keeping just enough to bond) and become a Squib if it meant keeping him. A private offering wasn't acceptable to her, though. Siriana loved James enough to risk public heartbreak, and she trusted him so much that it hurt.

If he didn't want her …

"Then at least everyone who tries to win Heiress Black will know that they are insignificant replacements. They will be dueling for and courting a body to bear and mother their heirs—nothing more. Because Heiress Black's heart will be as distant, cold, and dark as the stars."

Siriana walked into the dining room with her head held high. It took even less time than she thought it would for someone to notice her. The clamor of the guests faded as, one after the other, people turned to see what had captured their neighbors' attention. They gaped at her in sputtering silence, mouths and eyes wide. Embarrassment, avarice, disgust, and desire painted their faces.

Siriana was grateful her parents were out for the morning at a political affair. Her mother would've thrown a fit, and her father would've stared at her in stony silence.

She approached the table, only to suddenly stop as she noticed something she had missed due to her nerves: James wasn't there.

James wasn't there!

James was always at breakfast at this time. In fact, walking down together was their daily routine, in mimicry of their time at school. He wasn't sitting between Regulus and Ignatius Prewett, heads hunched as they started planning the beginning of a prank without her.

Laughter sounded behind her. Familiar, warm laughter.

Siriana glanced over her shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief as James walked into the room with Regulus at his side; several others wearing Quidditch robes tromped in behind him. James's hair was even messier than normal. The glasses he wore when he was bored and wanted a change were missing, revealing honey-hazel eyes. They crinkled with laughter. His robes were pristine, somehow, though everyone else was covered in mud. His broomstick was propped against his shoulder like a sword as he sauntered into the room.

It didn't take long for James to notice the silence and glance up quizzically. He beamed when he saw her. "Ana, you slept through the game again. How lat—" James's broom clattered against the floor, before rolling away and stopping against Rodolphus Lestrange's foot. He lowered his head, shaking.

James was the only person that she allowed to shorten her name in such a manner. Not even her brother Regulus could call her 'Ana.' She put her Black family magic lessons to use when anyone else tried. They had no right. "James?" He was the only male outside her family that earned such intimacy from her; for James alone, she would drop his title.

When he looked up, Siriana almost took a step backward. She couldn't ever remember seeing that much rage and hatred on anyone's face before, and she had watched the memory of several pureblood heirs and heiresses destroying an unstable half-blood who thought he was not only their superior, but worthy of being a self-proclaimed Dark Lord.

It wasn't aimed at her.

Siriana followed his line-of-sight to Master Reginald Davies, the Ravenclaw Keeper and one of Regulus's friends. Davies was also a prefect, and he had been assigned as Siriana's Ancient Runes partner for a project months ago. Before this moment, she would've said that James liked Davies. Now, she thought James would stand back, watch, and laugh as Davies was tortured … if he weren't doing the torturing himself.

"Move." James didn't need a wand in his hand to be threatening. "Now."

What? As Davies obeyed and slid down several seats, Siriana started to feel light-headed. When she had noticed James wasn't present, she had accidentally stopped within two feet of where Reginald Davies was sitting. Then James had entered and seen her and what she carried, and catapulted to the wrong conclusion.

James's burning gaze turned haunted as he focused his full attention on her; he ignored the grip Regulus had on his shoulder. It looked painful. "Why?" He asked countless questions with a single word. Why him? Why not me? Why am I not good enough? Why isn't such a gift for me? Why did you pick him? Why him? Why? Why didn't you choose me? Why don't you love me? Why him? Why would you betray me like this? Why would you crush my heart like this? Why would you spit on my love like this? Why can't I be what you need? Why him?

Siriana almost spat the word back at him to ask her questions. Why did you never offer for me? Why am I not good enough? Why can't you see how much I love you? Why didn't you set those contracts on fire the instant you received them? Why would you ever let me think I would have to let someone other than you touch me?

"Idiot," she huffed.

James flinched.

Sighing, Siriana walked toward him. Her arms were starting to get tired; it was a good thing that James was so strong. She stopped beside him and draped her lace-twined hair around his shoulders as if it were an adornment for the winning Abraxan in a race. She whispered, "As if I'd ever willingly let anyone else touch what has been yours alone for years."

"Ana," he breathed reverently. James wrapped an arm around her waist and hugged her against him, even though it wasn't proper.

She rested her head against his chest. He smelled like the outdoors. "I received a scroll from Father last night. I have a Courtship date with Heir Malfoy tomorrow in Hogsmeade."

James's fingers shifted and tightened possessively on her hip. "No." James held her closer. "Lucius will have to keep his dirty hands and intentions to himself. He won't be kissing your hand in greeting tomorrow. He won't even get to see you tomorrow. I won't allow it."

That was exactly how she wanted him to react. "I want you to kiss more than my hand, James," Siriana confessed. She wanted his lips on her neck and shoulders. She wanted to feel his calloused hands stroke the smooth skin on her legs. Siriana wanted him to be her lord in truth.

"Ana." His voice was gritty. "Be careful, love. My self-control isn't what it should be when it comes to you. Keep talking like that and we'll have the shortest engagement before a pureblood bonding in centuries."

Siriana glanced at Regulus, who was a pace away, and lowered her voice even more. She stroked James's bicep and whispered, "I don't need you to ask my parents' permission. I don't need a Potter courtship comb, though you can certainly give me one later; I know how important they are to you. I don't need expensive bonding robes, or detailed contracts of how this will work." Siriana stared right into his eyes. "I trust you to do right by me. All I need is somewhere safe and private." She tilted her head and mused. "And a hair-growth potion, so that I can present myself to you as I've dreamed of doing."

James growled, and then swept her into his arms like a princess. "That sounds delightful, Heiress Potter." He offered a tendril of his magic to her; Siriana twined it into her core, melding their magic and bonding them for life.

His magic danced alongside hers, warm and bright—just like him. "It will be, my lord husband."

"Accio." James caught his broomstick, mounted it, and set her on his lap, his arm firm around her. He kicked off and hovered in the air while facing the table. "Heiress Potter and I will be absent the next two weeks. Let Lord and Lady Black know I'm not ruining her."

"Heir Potter!" Narcissa Black gasped, mouth flapping.

Regulus chuckled, nodded sagely, and clapped James on the shoulder. "I'll tell Mum and Dad." He winked. "I'll do my best to keep them from hunting you down and skinning you the Muggle way, while I'm at it."

"Regulus, you're not really—"

"True love, Bellatrix, should be celebrated." Regulus clapped his hands and beamed at his apoplectic cousin.

"Let's get out of here," Siriana said, lips quirked. She knew that Regulus liked James, but she hadn't thought he liked James enough to condone what was happening without their parents' approval.

As James flew her out of the room, Siriana leaned up and nuzzled his neck. Unlike her ancestor, she wasn't cursed with an irreparably broken heart; his magic beat steadily alongside hers. James was brilliant on a broom, and it took less than a minute to fly past the wards. He took them to the ground, dropped the broom back inside wards, and then caressed her cheek. Before she could ask what he had planned, he Apparated them to the front parlor in Potter Manor. Not surprising, given that the Floo Network tended to shoot him out of any given fireplace as if he'd been launched from a trebuchet.

"If I ask to kiss you, love, will you say yes?" His gaze was heated, yet tender.

"That's the stupidest question you've ever asked me, James," Siriana replied. Hadn't she been waiting for just that to happen? Hadn't she dreamed of the taste of him? "Maybe Snivellus has a point about your intelligence."

James wrinkled his nose. "Please don't ever mention him again when I'm planning to kiss you. I might have to go throw up instead."

"Agreed. Yes," Siriana replied as she rolled her eyes, "you can kiss me."

He looked away from her to touch the hair she had draped around his shoulders. James stroked it with trembling fingers; he plucked the lace as if it were strings on a harp. She felt joy resonate through her with each touch. "I might've killed Davies if you'd gifted your hair to him," James whispered, as if it were a shameful confession filled with weakness. He rubbed his cheek against it and inhaled deeply. His shoulders relaxed, as if he'd just smelled home and safety and love.

"I'm was born a Black, James. If you think murder in defense of love will scare me off, then you're mistaken." Siriana would certainly be willing to kill for him.

Without wasting another moment, James kissed her. He kissed with passionate intent. Siriana loved it. It was better than she had imagined, because it was real.

"James Charlus Potter!"

Chest heaving, Siriana was grateful he shifted them to block her from view. If his mum, Lady Dorea Potter, saw her all frazzled, Siriana wouldn't mind. They were very distantly related; she could handle teasing from females. But as much as she loved Lord Charlus Potter, she never wanted any male but James to see her like this. If his blown pupils and ruby lips were any indication of what she looked like—well, she valued privacy in intimate matters.

James kissed her temple and struggled to pull himself together. "All right?" he asked. He cast a few glamour charms, much to her relief.

"All right," she agreed. James's hands rose from her hips; he curled an arm around her waist and turned them to face his parents.

"Why aren't you at Black Manor?" Dorea asked, arms folded across her chest. Her lips kept twitching, even though she tried to appear stern. "You better have a good excuse, young man. It's rude to abandon your host when you're a houseguest!"

James cleared his throat, but his voice was nearly an octave lower than normal. Siriana shivered. "Officially, I have not absconded with Ana to ruin her."

Charlus Potter snorted, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "And unofficially?"

James buried a hand in the lace-twined hair. "Unofficially"—he smirked smugly—"I'm the prince in the latest Black family fairytale."

Dorea swept into a low curtsey, somehow keeping her balance despite her laughter. "Welcome home, your highnesses. We're delighted to see you."

"It's the Potter genes, of course," Charlus said with a wink. "We're too charming and dashing. Blacks can't resist us." He held Dorea against him exactly as James was holding Siriana.

"Ah, I think you have that wrong," Siriana countered, playing along. "Potters are much too honorable to ignore a damsel in distress or pass on a quest. They're knights who want to have their victories regaled for generations. It's you Potters that can't resist us Blacks."

"You're not a Black anymore," James reminded her with a grin.

Siriana ducked her head, and then peered at him through her eyelashes. "No, I'm not. I'm Heiress Potter, beloved lady of my lord."

Solemn all of a sudden, Dorea walked over and hugged Siriana. "Trust him, darling," she whispered. "My son is a true prince. He won't hurt you."

At the same time, she could just make out Charlus whispering to James, "Treasure her. You'll never forgive yourself if you hurt your princess."

"I promise I will," they said in unison.

As they went to the dining room for a bonding brunch—Dorea insisted, and Siriana was hungry—she idly wondered how their fairytale would be told. Perhaps it would go something like: Siriana shorn off her hair, and James climbed the night sky stair.