Paint the Stars | Sirius Black

1

"I know nothing with any certainty. But the sight of the stars makes me dream." 

– Vincent Van Gogh

"Clara, my love."

Grumbling, the young woman pulled her thin cotton sheet above her head. A small defiance, a plea to return to her dream world.

"You have to get up," the man persisted, "You've got an appointment in," a pause to check the time, "about half an hour."

"Please," the woman begged, refusing childishly to open her eyes, "Sirius, I'm just so tired."

The man didn't answer at first, and she silently prayed that it meant she could return to her slumber. But, it, like most things, was short-lived. "You know, I wish for nothing more than for you to stay here with me, always and forever." He sighed, "But you can't."

With a groan, Clara sat up, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. At the end of her bed, the wall was bare, apart from one solitary frame. It was golden and ornate, made with love and carved delicately out of a beautiful piece of oak wood, which she had carefully painted gold. Inside the frame, a painting.

It was one of her best. She had spent months perfecting it, and wouldn't rest until all his features had been flawless. His eyes, twinkled with a certain type of mischief, the way his hair curled and the way his stubble always looked a few days post-shave. The suggestion of tattoos peeking out beneath his favourite pyjama shirt, even the wristbands from bands they'd seen together, many moons ago, bedecking his wrists. He was beautiful.

"I miss you," she gasped, trying desperately to stop the tears from bubbling in her eyes.

The man in the painting frowned.

"I know," he agreed, reaching forward, laying his hand against the invisible barrier that separated them. "I'm sorry."

Clara tumbles forward, tripping over the tangled bed sheets, until she was a breath away from the canvas, "You have nothing to be sorry for," she lay her hand against his, and tried to fool herself into feeling his warmth. "You did nothing wrong."

Sirius sighs, pulling his hand away and avoiding her eye, "I got myself locked up."

"Hey!" she snapped, making him jump in surprise, "I didn't paint you to be self-deprecating. Pull yourself together!"

He laughed, the perfect bark-like laugh that she remembers so well from their school days. But, as soon as it had started, it stopped, "My love," he begins, with one of his signature charming smiles, "You look beautiful, as always," her cheeks blossomed red, "But, I might suggest taming your hair before you leave for your meeting."

She gasped, springing backwards and to the mirror, eyeing the mess atop her head, "Oh Merlin!" she frantically ran her fingers through the blonde locks, doing nothing but heightening the problem, "I'm going to be so late!" she squealed, finally eyeing the clock, "Sirius!" she snapped, "stop laughing at me!"

Clara locked herself in the ensuite bathroom, away from his prying eyes. Only then, finally alone, does she let the tears go. They were silent, as they had to be, to make sure he didn't grow concerned. Having his painting helped ease some of the pain. The longing ebbed slightly less intense, but it would never fix her. Twelve years had gone by since Sirius had been locked away in Azkaban. Twelves years she'd been alone. With most of her friends dead, all she had was Remus, but they rarely had the time to meet, although, a part of her knew that he didn't want to see her. She was a reminder of his friends, of the guilt that we survived when so many did not.