It started in dark and dusty corners of pubs, the pair of them intertwining together two sets of limbs, both glittering with sweat. It started with mussed-up dark hair and kiss-bruised lips. Red lipstick transferring from a feminine mouth to a masculine collar. A wink, a husky laugh, the clink of bottles of Firewhisky. Post-mission terror and euphoria conspired equally to raise heartbeats and inspire passion. There was no romance, just desperation and hormones and lust; because if you're going to die soon, you may as well enjoy life whilst it lasts. It started secretly, but not furtively – it was not announced or ever acknowledged publicly, yet neither denied nor tried to hide it.

At first glance, they make a beautifully flawless couple, appearance-wise at least. Marlene is petite and feisty, with inky-black hair cut into an angled bob. Her eyes are dark and glinting, and intelligent. Slinking stealthily over the back of her shoulder is a tattoo of a phoenix rising, the black contrasting strikingly against the pearlescent whiteness of her almost translucent skin. Wearing stiletto heels and a biker jacket, she raises one eyebrow oh-so-casually, and she makes grown men cringe with shame. It doesn't work on Sirius though, tall, laughing Sirius, he of the steel-grey eyes and long, long eyelashes, and beautiful, touchable cheekbones. They are stunning, almost regal – flawless. Pry a little closer though, and it's blindingly, painfully obvious that these are just two broken people, desperately and recklessly seeking solace in one another.

She is so alive that it is almost terrifying. She spins, she ducks, she dives, ever-avoiding the strings of fatal curses sent whirling in her direction. From a distance she appears sleek and slender, closer up, the criticising spectator can note that she is excruciatingly thin, that her collar bone protrudes just a little too much, that her shoulders are just slightly too angular. And always, always, she smokes – and smokes properly, not like a lady 'should' – she draws in deep breaths of the polluting fumes, and exhales as if she has a personal vendetta against her comparatively defenceless cigarette. She can't hold her drink, yet her blatant headlong rush into imminent breakdown is endearing, not worrying or irritating or scary – how can it be when really, she's been headed for it her whole life?

He doesn't think he can cope for much longer with this wild, wild woman. He's barely holding it together for himself, let alone for both of them, and the strain is there. Not between them, he has no resentment, feels no desperation because of her, but it's clear in his eyes that sometimes – just sometimes- he is scared of where all this is heading. Sirius isn't perfect or adjusted either though. The white sheep of his family he often thinks, ironically. Cast out, unloved, haunted by demons that are not his own. Yes, he knows he has friends he can count on, and hell, they're more to him than his family ever was. But... he's missing something and he's not sure what it is. Alcohol and mild drugs and friendship and love and Marlene do their best to fill it, but there's an irreparable hole in his heart, and jagged rip in his soul. He's falling to pieces, he has been for years, and yet – miraculously - he's been disintegrating unnoticed.

They're two of the best, Sirius and Marlene. They are the two that the Order of the Phoenix sends out for it's most dangerous work. They're perfection - Sirius has no attachments, and Marlene has no fear. That's a convenient lie – Sirius has James and Remus and Lily and Peter andandand... the list is almost endless it seems, whilst Marlene is terrified. Her entire life is a carefully constructed mask. Sometimes even she's not sure which aspects of her personality are her, and which are part of her public persona.

This isn't L-O-V-E. This won't last forever: it's blazing, burning, brilliant, and everyone knows all fires are eventually extinguished. They don't think its love. This liaison is exciting and dangerous; it's fumblings in grubby corners, stolen kisses and hasty encounters. There's friendship there, and chemistry and lust in spades, but no love.

She is like fire, and he is like fog. They are completely different, and yet their similarities are striking: they are both untouchable, nigh unstoppable. Mysteriously evasive, yet permeating everything.

This alliance shouldn't work, but it does. It won't last forever, but it might last for now. And so, even though it's stupid and rash and flawed, they will continue to create a beautiful facade around each other and they will continue to entangle themselves in each others' arms on an irregular basis. They will appear gorgeous and mussed-up and thoroughly kissed. They will laugh and cry and pretend that the world will not soon end. They will continue to live whilst they are still alive.