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"Struggling is pointless!"
With a start, Sirius jerked his neck towards the source of the voice. His head throbbed, but the ache was fainter than the dizziness he had experienced during the failed Apparition. Where was he, and how long had he been out for? A mosaic of memories tugged at his mind— an aggressive unicorn, a dark satchel, and a tower he had climbed in before he had passed out. His mind rushed about his surroundings. Soft candlelight lit the corner. Obscure golden strands stretched around the expanse, looped through the ceiling and staircases, tying him to a chair.
"Is this hair?" He muttered, his eyes floating to the shadows the sound had come from. He looked down at his jacket, unable to feel any magical strength he did with his wand around him. "What did you do to my wand?"
"Who are you?"
"I know not who you are, nor how I came to find you, but may I just say— Hey, how you doing? The name's Sirius Black. Sirius, not Serious, for I am as serious as—"
"What do you want with my hair? To cut it? Sell it?" A girl stepped out of the shadows, a pan in the grip of her long fingers.
He gawked at her momentarily before breaking into a soft chuckle. "Your hair? Listen, blondie, the only thing I want to do with your hair is get out of it! And to find a way out of here—and to give the— wait, where is my satchel? And my wand?"
"I don't know anything about any wand," said the girl, stepping closer. Her green eyes reflected the candlelight in a dangerous gleam of golden. "But your satchel is somewhere you will never find it."
Sirius raised a brow at her. The disdain on his lips morphed into a smirk, and he tilted his head to his left. "It is in that pot, isn't it?"
Darkness engulfed him once again.
The second time he stirred, he noticed the twig-shaped creature on his shoulder, rubbing its tiny twig-like hands. It jabbed one of its sharp arms on his cheek.
Sirius yelled. "Could you stop doing that?" He said indignantly. "What even is that— ah, wait! It's a bowtruckle, ain't it? Professor Grubby Plank liked them quite a lot. Well, blondie—"
"The name's Rapunzel, and—"
"Right then, blondie, listen. I don't care about your veela hair--"
"What hair?"
"You are of veela inheritance, aren't you? How much of a Veela are you? Half? One-fourth? One-eighth?" Sirius went on. "And you are perhaps a part of Voldemort's inner circle, that's why—"
"I'd rather you speak in English, not in this foreign tongue you chose to ramble in!" Rapunzel snapped, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
"It is English," Sirius nodded, a smirk forming on his lips again. "But I can speak French too, mon amour."
