a/n: this is for Melody (w a t e r m e l o n e y e s), happy birthday!
oc pillows for the win.

disclaimer: harry potter is not mine.

a pillow and a duvet

He's a boy with shaggy black hair and gray, storm-cloud eyes that make your heart go thumpthumpthump.

Maybe you realize you fancy him in Fifth Year. (Not that it really matters when, because it feels like you've loved him all your life.)

You remember heartfelt talks in the dead of night and banter in the early morning, and bitter feuds when it's nearing the full moon and when he is just so infuriating.

He is Sirius Black, after all.

"Moony. Moony," his voice hisses into the darkness, and you're half asleep and extremely tired, so you don't bother to open your mouth and reply. "Remus Lupin!"

You groan and roll over, clutching your pillow like it's a lifeline. "Harry and I are trying to sleep here."

You can practically hear him watching you, giving you a look like, um, what look and you're too tired to retort.

"Who the hell is Harry?" He says loudly, eliciting a sigh from James in the corner, and he lowers his voice. "Who the hell is Harry?"

Remus burrows himself deeper into the duvet, the taste of morning breath on his mouth—except it's barely morning (about two or three AM, he predicts) and why is Sirius waking him again? "Harry's m'pillow."

"You named your pillow?" You're so tired you don't even bother to note the gruffness of his voice, and the hints of jealousy seeping through…why—? "Do you know a Harry?"

You mumble back a 'nope' and sink back into 'Harry', your lovely pillow that's feeling so soft and warm and Merlin, you're starting to fall asleep agai—

"Then why'd you name it that?" His voice seems to be haunting your dreams, but oh, wait, it's not a dream after all. There's an actual voice, a mouth centimeters from your ear; you can feel his body warmth, and it's spreading from him to you, and dear Merlin, is this a fantasy?

"Dunno," you swallow and crack an eye open, and his figure is looming over you—you can barely see him in the dark room, but his outline is enough for now.

"I'm having the dream again," he says bluntly, and your eyes are adjusting to the darkness—and you swear you see his nostrils flare and his figure tense up. You attempt to sit up, the duvet falling somewhere (on the ground, probably) and all you have left is your pillow. He's still standing over your bed and the bed hangings are drawn shut—no one can see you (or him, for that matter). You're in a pair of boxers and a tee-shirt and you realize he's standing right there, and god, is this embarrassing.

"Oh," you can't seem to formulate a proper sentence when he's in such close proximity to you—he sits on the edge of your bed. "Want to talk about it?"

He nods, his usual expression of mirth and mischief missing from his face and it's so unnatural, it's like a piece of him is missing. (Maybe, maybe you can be the one to complete him.)

You pat the other side of your bed and he crawls over, next to you—this is normal, okay?—you glance over at him and he's staring, staring right at you.

"Was it bad this time?" you mutter, careful as to not wake up the others, and you pull the duvet off of the floor and drape it over your legs and his—he moves closer and your thighs are almost touching. (God, this is torture.)

He nods silently, doesn't even try to deny it.

You nod understandingly, and the duvet is now pulled over both of their legs. He lies down, and you lie down, and it's almost like you're together, really together.

(And maybe, this is enough for now.)