Mischief Managed

47: Cold Sun

Dear Sirius,

I've been thinking a lot lately; one of the benefits of having no friends is that you have an excess of time to spend alone. And I think I've finally come to some conclusions about my feelings...about you, about that whole disaster, really.

I don't...I can't feel the same way about you. When you first left, I was so terribly heartbroken that I couldn't stop loving you for a moment long enough to think about what you'd done. Even if you didn't kill Peter, I'm not confident that you didn't try. You tried to kill him, and you had to have known that you were practically throwing your life away- throwing me away.

I've spent months defending you, but, honestly, I'm tired. I know it's awful...but I'm not sure you deserve it anymore. Because I realized that even though you didn't betray Lily and James, you betrayed me.

If you ever come back to me, fugitive or free man, I can't promise to love you forever anymore. I can't promise you anything.

Bree

❋ ❋ ❋ ❋

A young man who looked only a few years older than me kept catching my eyes. He played cello for Paris's symphony, so we sat directly across from each other after I'd earned first chair for the violins.

I shot him a shy smile after catching him looking at me for the third time that day.

He turned his head away from a moment as if he was embarrassed to be caught, but then he returned my smile.

After rehearsal, he stopped me before I left by grabbing my shoulder, and I turned back, curious.

"You're Brianna, aren't you?" he asked me, his English coated with a barely hidden French accent.

I nodded.

"How'd you know my name?"

He laughed and met my gaze again, his dark blue eyes sparkling with uniquely French charm.

"You are concertmaster. And you are English. Combine those two and the whole city will know your name."

I laughed with him then smiled again.

He cocked his head. "So, Brianna, would you want to meet up with me sometime?"

"After rehearsals, you mean?" I asked, my stomach churning with uncertainty and some emotion I couldn't quite define.

He shrugged his shoulders. "How about before morning rehearsal tomorrow?"

I thought about it for a moment, a thousand thoughts flying through my head, then replied, "Yes. We could meet at the small cafe in the Latin Quarter, by Place Saint-Michel."

"That sounds perfect," he answered, then smiled, his teeth dazzlingly white.

I didn't say another word before leaving, walking down the street at a faster pace then was socially acceptable in Paris. My hurried walk attracted the scandalized glares of several locals, but I carried on anyway.

What was I thinking?

By the time I was actually supposed to meet up with the cellist who's name I didn't even know, my stomach was in knots. I'd hardly slept at all last night, and dressed only casually since I figured this wasn't a real date- was it?

I bit my lip as I stepped inside the tiny cafe. I quickly spotted the cellist, and he grinned, pulling the chair across from him away from the table so I could sit.

I took my seat uncertainly, my hands clinging to my shoulder bag filled with music books.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he said graciously.

I nodded in recognition then rose to order a cappuccino.

When it was delivered, the cellist, who's name I learned was Adrien, politely held up the conversation with small talk of the symphony and nice restaurants in Paris.

I wrapped my hands around the hot cup, but they began shaking so severely that I was forced to set it down again.

Adrien noticed and looked at me with concern.

"Is something wrong?"

Everything, I thought but shook my head and ran my fingers through my hair.

Sirius's ring caught on a knot and I twisted my head to loosen it. Adrien watched, confused, as I cursed when I set my unruly hand back on the table.

His eyes widened as he studied my hand. "You are married, mademoiselle?"

"Erm..." I stammered as a blush crept up my cheeks. "No. My...fiancé...died a little over two years ago."

His eyes widened further and he bowed his head to me, politely respecting my loss. "My apologies, I had no idea."

"I-It's not your fault," I said shakily. Bile rose in my throat as I recognized the feeling I couldn't identify yesterday. Guilt. I rose hurriedly from the table, ignoring the scandalous screeching of my chair, and said to Adrien, "I'm sorry. I can't do this." before rushing out the door.

I collapsed on top of my bed more upset than I had been in months.

It was supposed to be over by now, I thought desperately. I had been so convinced that I had learned how to move on- that I had won my battle with grief and was free to live a different life now, but everything I'd felt in the past twenty-four hours screamed otherwise.

With an unsteady hand, I picked up a quill and began writing with the vain hope I could resolve all of this, but I knew in my heart the effort was futile. Writing to Sirius wouldn't help me anymore because I'd already told him everything. I just needed to hear his response.

❋ ❋ ❋ ❋

Dear Sirius,

Why can't I let you go? It's been so long since I've seen you, but my heart still hurts with just thinking of your face. I still see bits of you everywhere- I'll see men with hair just like yours pass me on the street, I'll see clouds the exact shade of grey that your eyes-were-are, and sometimes I'll think I heard your laugh or glimpsed your face in the corner of my eye.

I keep telling myself that it's your own bloody fault you got stuck in Azkaban, but, Merlin, I still miss you. I'm beginning to think that won't go away, not ever. Is that the price of loving someone? Is it that once you really love someone, you can't fully let them go? If it is, I'm sorry I keep trying. I keep trying to move on from you, but perhaps the truth is that I'm simply not meant to. I still love you, Sirius, and I feel much better admitting it. I just wish you could tell me the same.

Bree