There have been very few places Sirius Black has ever felt at home. The Potters' had been one of them-James' parents house, where he first spent summers and then was taken in after he left the dim, dank corners of Grimmauld Place. Hogwarts had been another, but for a long time that was it; his habit of bouncing from place to place kept him from
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"Sirius," she says, looking up with an ink-smudged nose. "In your world, did you have a spell to make a person speak any language?"
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Leaning in, he presses kisses to her forehead, the tip of her nose and her lips. "What are you doing, Beautiful?" he asks, and settles onto the mattress just behind her so that he can peer curiously over her shoulder at the mess across the blanket.
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"You know, they teach some languages at the school, if you're wanting to learn," he says, not even sure how he knows this. Harry, possibly.
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