Sirius Black lay sprawled on the floor in front of the hearth. Oliver Kent sat bolt upright in the bed, staring directly into Sirius's grey eyes, neither of them daring to move. The green of the floo powder in the fire burned off and the fire turned yellow, the connection to Gryffindor common room severed. Sirius had, for a fleeting, wild second, thought about rolling into the fire and falling through onto the common room floor. He could get lost in the walls of Hogwarts faster than anywhere else on earth - escaping a bunch of Gryffindor kids was much easier than getting out of Hogsmeade without getting apprehended. Especially when he was on the second floor of an in with an internationally famous Quidditch star who was known for his insane ability to catch things... but that chance was gone with the fading of the floo and Sirius lay there, still, half hoping Oliver was still drunk enough to believe he was seeing things.

"Sirius Black?" Oliver whispered with confusion, then, with an old, curious familiarity. "Sirius Black?" Then, with new, Ministry fear-mongered conditioning, "SIRIUS BLACK!!!"

That last one was screamed.

Sirius rolled, grabbing his wand from the floor where it had slid away from him during his chat with Harry and aimed for Oliver's mouth. "Silencio!" he hissed and a jet of light hit Oliver, relieving him of his voice, cutting him off with a strangled half "SIRIU---!" Sirius turned and struck the door with a colloportus, and rolled to his feet. Oliver scrambled backwards across the mattress, kicking at the bedding until his back hit the headboard, fear etching every one of his features, his mouth still silently forming the name over and over again as though screaming from a silent film screen.

"Shut up!" Sirius growled, leaping across the room in a couple quick bounds and grabbing onto Oliver's shoulder with one hand and clapping his palm over Oliver's mouth with the other, as though he needed to back up the silencio physically. "Stop that. Do you want the entire bloody wizarding world to hear you?!" he hissed, glaring at the door, then back at Oliver.

Oliver nodded.

"Well I don't want them to," Sirius replied, rolling his eyes. "Now listen, I know what you think, but I'm not going to murder you or whatever dramatic shit is going through that ickle seagull brain of yours."

It had been ages since Oliver Kent had been referred to as an ickle seagull. He stared up at Sirius over the side of Sirius's hand, his eyes wide with the shock of the memory.

"If I was going to murder you," Sirius said pragmatically, "Wouldn't you think I'd have done it already and got it over with instead of fucking about with your floo? Wouldn't you think I'd have gut you like a fish while you lay there all passed out and avoided all this messy screaming nonsense?"

Oliver considered this, then nodded.

"Yeah, see? So clearly I'm not planning to murder you," Sirius said.

Oliver wriggled his face out from under Sirius's palm and his mouth flapped soundlessly with questions. Sirius squinted, trying to read his lips, but he was never much good at that and he sighed. "If I undo the silencio -- do you solemnly swear not to go on with the screeching?"

Oliver nodded.

Sirius studied him, trying to decide whether to trust Oliver or not, then finally aimed a muffling charm at the wall and a finite at Oliver's mouth.

Oliver coughed with the return of free flowing wind in his voice box and looked up at Sirius, incredulous.

"Speak," Sirius commanded.

Oliver prodded his throat with his fingers, soothing the glottal ache from the sudden stop of words when Sirius had cast the spell, and asked, looking around, "Where's my dog?"

"You didn't even like the dog," Sirius answered.

Oliver stared at him. "I did a bit."

"I am the dog," Sirius said.

"You --?"

"Next question."

Oliver's mind felt like it was drowning. "W-why are you - what are you - why are you here?"

"To use the Floo you've just caught me using," Sirius answered, then, "Bloody hell, were you always the dense one of the group? I always thought it was Dexter with all of the whooaaaa but apparently I was wrong?"

Oliver flushed, "No I - I'm overwhelmed."

Sirius went and leaned against the desk, staring at Oliver from where he'd propped himself up, wand still lazily trained on the Quidditch star as though he would choose to strike at any moment. Something about the incredulous look on Oliver's face made Sirius decide to elaborate.

"I needed the Floo to talk to Harry," Sirius said.

"Potter?" Oliver stammered.

"No, Warbeck - ferfuckssake ---"

"C'mon give me a break, I've got a splitting headache and just woken up after a night out to find there's a bleedin' convicted murderer in my room!"

"I'm not convicted," Sirius said, wagging a finger at Oliver warningly, "You have to have a trial to be convicted, don't you?" he raised one eyebrow. "And I certainly never got one of those." He laughed a bit wildly in that deranged way people so liked.

Oliver's complexion paled at the sound of it - his nostrils flared - and suddenly he seemed to come to himself, remembering because of the way Sirius threw back his head as he barked in humor. "You killed James Potter," he said accusingly.

Sirius stopped laughing abruptly and shook his head, "You Know Who did that."

"But you helped him," Oliver snapped.

"Not in the way you think," Sirius said darkly.

"You gave them up to him," Oliver said.

"It was Peter Pettigrew, not me, who gave them over to him."

Oliver shook his head, "You killed Peter."

"Peter's not dead."

"Only his finger was found! You obliterated him."

"He's with You Know Who now in Albania or wherever the fuck they are."

Oliver shook his head, "You Know Who's dead."

"He's not."

Oliver's skin was cold and crawling with goose bumps and he shook his head and rolled off the bed. Sirius stood upright as though afraid Oliver was about to go running for the door and shouting for help but instead Oliver simply bent down, grabbed his suitcase from under the bed, and started rooting about inside.

"What're you looking for?"

"I need something stronger, I'm clearly not well," Oliver muttered, turning several pairs of socks outside in and getting frustrated as his palms felt through the things that clustered inside his suitcase. "I know I brought --"

Sirius's head tilted.

"Don't do that, you really do look like that bloody dog, you're creeping me out," Oliver said. Then, "Actually, you know what, that's the proof I'm hallucinating." He laughed, "You're - you're a figment. Just my imagination. The dog - you're - you. This is my brain messing with me. Maybe I had something stronger already?" He looked at the nightstand for the orange bottle, but it wasn't there. His eyes darted to Sirius. "You are a figment, aren't you? Something I'm imagining?"

Sirius wasn't sure how to answer that.

"Bloody hell they're gone," Oliver cursed and he slammed the suitcase lid down, letting out a huff of exasperation. "Fucking Declan must've found them."

"Found what?"

"My medicine," Oliver answered.

Sirius frowned. He didn't like the tone Oliver said the word in. It was a little too desperate.

Oliver sighed and turned round, casting his back to Sirius and grabbing onto his hair, fingers knotting up in the gold strands. "Wake the fuck up, Ollie," he whispered, "Wake the fuck up."

Sirius walked over slowly, like he was approaching an animal he didn't want to spook. He crouched down in front of Oliver like he might've done when they'd first met - way back in fifth year, when Oliver was tiny and an orphan and afraid of something trivial and stupid. He peered up at him, balancing on the balls of his toes, and tentatively put a palm on Oliver's knee.

Oliver opened his eyes again - blood shot, worn and full of a world of hurt that Sirius understood all too well.

"You know," Oliver murmured, "It might be easier if you were here to murder me."

Sirius's brow furrowed. "Well, I'm not."

Oliver looked into Sirius's eyes. They were real. He was real. He was really really real. Sirius's palm was on his knee still and it was heavy with the weight of flesh and bone - not a lot of flesh, mind, but some, not the absence of weight, like a ghost or a figment of imagination would be.

Twelve years of hell, of being misunderstood, of being left to rot in one's own filth... Had something in common, Oliver in Sirius, didn't they? Oliver realized.

He pictured the years that had gone by, the divide that had been torn between himself and Wally. How much deeper and treacherous was Sirius's divide from everything - everyone - he had known and love? If Oliver was lonely, how much more lonely was Sirius Black? Oliver understood the feeling.

Mouth dry Oliver asked, "Have you seen Remus Lupin?"

Sirius nodded.

"Does he know you're - you're innocent?" Oliver asked.

Sirius nodded again. "Better than I know it myself," he said quietly.

And just like that, Oliver burst into tears.

He knew that feeling as well.