Paint the Stars | Sirius Black

2

The first time Clara spoke to Sirius was in their fifth year at Hogwarts. Of course, she had known who he was, long before then, but the two had never crossed paths. He was a proud Gryffindor, and she was a reserved Ravenclaw.

She had been in the art classroom, with her friend Pandora, when the boy entered.

The classroom, an average-sized room, with large windows overlooking the lake, was usually quite empty. There were a few easels, some with half-painted canvas, but most were barren. During her school days, only a handful of students cared to take the art class. It was an extracurricular, and not an exceedingly popular one, at that.

Sirius had never been there before—she had spent enough time in the studio, to know this without hesitation—but he ran in, face flushed and eyes frantic, but with undeniable purpose. He was there for something, she didn't know what, but she couldn't help but be curious.

"Are you lost?" She had asked, stepping away from Pandora, and closer to the dishevelled Gryffindor.

"What?" he spun around, meeting her eye and freezing. Later, he would claim that he fell in love with her at that very moment, but she was dubious of that claim.

"Are you lost?" she repeated.

"This is the art classroom?" he coughed, his steadfast confidence making a resurgence.

She glanced pointedly at the easels on display, and shrugged, "Maybe."

He chuckled, a sound she wouldn't deny she enjoyed (especially knowing she had been the one to cause it). "Right, I need some paint."

Now, Clara wasn't an idiot. Sure, she spent most of her academic genius on learning the craft of portraiture, instead of working on her potion's assignments, or her DADA spell casts. She got mediocre grades at best (a trait her Ravenclaw buddies loved to taunt her about) but that didn't mean she was an idiot.

Clara knew Sirius Black was trouble, she had heard the rumours, had seen the chaos that followed in his wake. It didn't take a genius to realise he wasn't here to paint, but instead to take her precious resources—most likely for a ridiculous prank against the Slytherins.

Crossing her arms, she eyed the boy with a look her parents had described as 'stubborn' and asked, "Why?"

Sirius, despite himself, hadn't prepared an answer. He had hoped, most likely assumed, that whoever was in the art classroom (if there was anyone) would hand it over without question. Perhaps he'd considered the professor would put up a fuss, but he had seen the pompous old fool in the great hall, just ten minutes ago.

"To paint?" his voice was uncertain, and Clara had to fight the urge to grin.

"Ok," she grinned, watching with silent delight as the boy relaxed slightly, "I'll set an easel up for you!"

"What?!"

She pulled out an easel, and attached a medium-sized canvas, before turning back to him, "You want paint?"

"Uh... yes?"

"Then work for it."

---

Later that evening, the rest of the marauders hounded Sirius, as he sat in the Gryffindor common room, covered in drying paint chips, with a gentle smile on his face, eyes lost in a daydream.