Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.

A/N: Written for Hogwarts: The Black Lake for their Magic Under The Moon Writing Competition. It won the Nightmares Award (Best Dark Story) and the Drunken Despair Award (Most Heart-wrenching Story).

Prompts: Firewhisky and Fog

Trigger Warning (Spoilers): This fic includes alcohol abuse, something that might seem like adultery (but it isn't), and smut. Also, this is a Creature AU.

Inner Demons

The house is quiet tonight. No odd creaks in the darkened hallway; no light thuds on the ceiling as if someone paced the empty bedrooms upstairs. Even Mother Dearest is silent, safely ensconced behind blackout drapes and an extra-strength Sticking Charm.

The only sounds in this goddamned house are my trudging footsteps down the narrow corridor and the faint sloshing of Firewhisky in the nearly-empty bottle in my grasp.

I stumble, and my arms flail out. My shoulder lands against the frame-cluttered wall with a dull thud. Glass shatters at my feet. I glance down, relieved that I hadn't dropped my bottle of Firewhisky.

Each drop is precious to me. Necessary.

Harry and his wife cleaned everything out when they came earlier in the day—the kitchen cupboards, the cellar, the sideboard in the parlor.

"It's for your own good, Sirius," Harry said. He dragged around a rubbish bin. Inside, glass clinked together as he stalked the kitchen, feeling behind cupboard doors and drawers for hidden bottles.

I loved my godson very much—but I fought the urge to clobber him. Beat him down for being so utterly stupid and guileless. But I couldn't, so I raked my fingers through my hair instead, yanking at the roots, using the pain to keep me focused.

On the other side of the kitchen, his wife bustled with her own garbage bag. Her perfume wafted over—vanilla and spicy cinnamon. My mouth watered as she passed, unaware of how delectable she smelled. My fingers twisted tighter into my hair.

Her scent lingers in the hallway. I bring the bottle to my lips—inhale the pungent odor of alcohol—and tip it back. Liquid fills my mouth, and I swallow it quickly. It burns a path down my esophagus.

I hope it kills the demon inside me, the one that wants to drown in her sweet scent. Or at least keep it helpless and harmless in an alcohol-induced fog.

It's not enough, though. It's never enough.

Leaning against the wall, I shake my head, struggling to remember where I hid another stash of Firewhisky. The library…behind a copy of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. A faithful record of Blacks since the Middle Ages—at least, the ones deemed worthy of the name.

I chuckle to myself as I stagger to the library doors. For someone who loves libraries as much as she does, it's funny that she has never found my secret stash of alcohol behind the dusty tomes.

Maybe she just never wanted to go near that damned blood supremacist book. I don't blame her—whenever I touch the faded leather cover to get to my Firewhisky, the back of my neck prickles and goosebumps sprout on my arms. It's a creepy piece-of-shit book that I would throw in a blaze if it wasn't such a perfect size to hide the boxy bottles of Ogden's Finest.

Or maybe she just thinks I'm an illiterate drunk who wouldn't step a foot inside any library. I don't know—it's a toss up.

I shove the double doors open. The fireplace bathes the room in a soft yellow glow, but that's not what startles me. Something hangs over the high rolled armrest of the leather couch.

A profusion of curls.

My mouth dries up. I reach for the handle behind me, but my feet develop a mind of their own. One foot goes in front of the other, noiseless on the shaggy carpet.

The closer I get, the more I see of her. Dainty shoulders covered by a crisp, white shirt—a line of pearly shell buttons all undone. It gaped to reveal the golden-hued skin in the valley of her breasts and the shadowed dip of her belly button. Her fingertips graze the tops of her lace knickers. She wears nothing else from the tops of her thighs to her pretty toes.

Hermione glances up from under thick, dark lashes, and her raspberry-tinted lips pull into a smirk.

My heart squeezes in my chest. "Not again!" I growl.

I turn for the door when she says—croons—"Sirius."

My eyelids slam down, and I suck much-needed oxygen into my chest. I shouldn't glance back, but I do—I always do—and she's now lying flat on the long couch. Her hair fans around her head like a halo. Like she's one of those Byzantine paintings in a Muggle church—except she's anything but holy.

The devil inside me crows with delight.

Her eyes are shut—muscles relaxed, as if in peaceful slumber. Her shirt gapes wider, revealing the side of a curved mound, its pert, rosy tip hidden. If she breathes too deeply, it would peek out from under the starched fabric. My own breath hitches, praying for it to happen, silently begging her to move a damn inch—

Her breathing remains shallow and even.

My fingers twitch. Obeying my hungry eyes, my hand reaches out, nudging the shirt lightly. The fabric falls to the cushion without resistance, exposing her breast to the cool air.

I yearn to nip that pink tip. My palm craves the weight of her full, rounded breast. My tongue darts over my lips, eager to partake in the feast laid out on the leather couch.

But the thudding of my heart slices through the lust like a beam of light through fog. I jerk my hand back—but not fast enough. She clasps my wrist and tugs me closer.

Her eyelids lift slowly, revealing pools of molten chocolate. "Sirius," she whispers. "Touch me, Sirius."

I didn't—couldn't—do otherwise. She presses my open palm to her cheek, nuzzling it briefly with her soft lips. She trails my hand down the column of her neck and over her uncovered breast. My hand stays for several moments, pinching, kneading the firm mound. Then, she takes control once again, dragging my all-too-willing palm over the plane of her belly down to the edge of her knickers.

My fingers dip under the delicate fabric. They curve over her mound—press against her heat. Parting her, exploring her. Finding her ready—she is always ready. I glide one finger, and then a second, into her wet, velvety folds. She arches her back; her lips emit a gasp.

A shiver crawls down my spine. My manhood strains painfully against the stiff fabric of my pants.

She rolls her hips, grinding her slick heat against my palm. My fingers sink deeper inside her, and her nails trail up and down my forearm, encouraging, coaxing.

I shouldn't indulge in this—I should tear out of this room right now—but she moans my name, and I plunge deeper into the fog of lust.

Then I am between her thighs. Her knickers are gone, and so is her shirt. My tongue licks over her folds and circles her sensitive bud. Her hips buck, and I grab her arse, steadying her. My fingers find their way inside her again. They start at a lazy rhythm—but her whimpers and moans pitch higher, quicker, and I match each breath with a thrust of my fingers.

Her head throws back, and she cries out, "Sirius!" I feel her convulse around my digits—I withdraw them, and my tongue quickly takes their place.

I feast on her pleasure. I drown in vanilla and cinnamon and the addicting scent of woman.

It's a potent hit. It cuts through the remaining Firewhisky-induced fog, and all I am now is need—the need to be on her and inside her. I tear out of my clothes. I part her thighs, and my shaft plunges into her tight cunt, and I shove deeper, deeper into her slick, hot core.

Rosiness blooms on her cheeks. She's so beautiful—the way her lips part and her head lolls in pleasure, the way her lashes flutter as her eyes roll back in ecstasy.

So. Fucking. Beautiful.

I can't stand it.

First, it's guilt that floods in. Then, anger and jealousy stampede through—I want her, need her, need to fuck her, but I can't stand doing so while gazing at her beautiful face—the same face that my godson sees every night before he goes to sleep.

I pull out and flip her over. Grabbing her hips, I tug her to her hands and knees.

She glances over her shoulder, a knowing glint in her eye. "Too scared to look your godson's wife in the eye while you fuck her?"

With a guttural moan, I slide my hand up her spine and wrap my fingers on her nape. My other hand grasps her hip, and I drive into her again. Harder this time—with a vengeance. She screams my name in an intoxicating mix of agony and rapture.

Her limbs give out, and I pull her back flush against my chest. I sit back on my heels, and I grasp her breasts as she bounces on my cock. Her walls convulse, and I feel myself coming. Urgent to feel her writhing under me, trapped, helpless, I push us both flat across the cushions. I thrust into her—once, twice, thrice.

Then, briefly, I'm in heaven.

But heaven casts out demons, and so I plummet back to Earth.

Gradually, I become aware again. Our breathing is rough, uneven. Hermione shifts under me. Her dark eyes are malevolent, wicked—nothing at all like the real thing.

Then again, the 'real thing' would never have been with me in the first place, lying sweat-soaked on the leather couch after a good, thorough fuck.

"Are you ever going to do this for real?" she asks.

I close my eyes. I don't answer her.

"You're going to give in one day," a voice murmurs in the recesses of my soul. "You'll believe you've got me under control. You'll think you've overpowered me. When that day comes, I'll take over your body. I'll do what I was made to do—and I'll start with her."

Mercifully, the fog rolls in once again—but those words chase me through my nightmares.

"Damn it, Sirius." The voice swims through darkness, and then I'm jolted awake. Harry moves the curtains back. Sunlight spears through the library.

I blink down at myself. I'm fully dressed, thank God. And alone—always alone after such a night.

I sit up, and my foot knocks over the empty bottle of Firewhisky.

Harry sighs. His face is full of sadness and pity, and he rubs a hand over his scarred forehead in irritation. "Sirius." He sounds more like James every day. He picks up the bottle and glares at me. "You have to stop this. You need to stop drinking, or it's going to kill you."

Trust me, you'd rather my lips be on the mouth of a liquor bottle than your wife's pretty cunt, I wanted to say. Instead, I mumble, "I'm sorry, Harry," and truly, I mean it—on many levels.

He nods once, briefly, then glances at the open door. "Hermione's in the kitchen making you something to eat." His eyes wander the dusty library. "Why don't you head over there while I clean up here?"

I swallow, thinking of arguing. The hard look in Harry's eyes says I'm already on thin ice, so I slink off to the kitchen.

Her scents of vanilla and cinnamon mingle with the buttery scones and roasted coffee. She greets me with a bright smile that knocks me back on my heels. "Sirius." A plate of scones and jam slides across the countertop. "You didn't eat dinner, did you?" She points to the stool across from her. "Sit and eat."

I do as she says. The sooner I obey, the sooner they both leave. I gulp down a scone in three bites.

Hermione plants her elbows and leans on the counter. "Sirius," she starts gently, "why do you keep doing this?"

I gaze at her, forcing myself to meet her eyes and not glower at her plump lips. "I can't help it," I confess truthfully. What I don't say is that I feel it crucial to my existence—that I invite the demon of alcohol to battle this other demon, the one that hankers to destroy her life and Harry's. The demon that imposes hallucinations on me—visions of her body, naked and vulnerable, as I indulge my depraved soul.

Demon versus demon. At least, the one found at the bottom of a bottle damages only me.

Hermione reaches over and clasps my hand; it takes all my effort to freeze my muscles lest I leap at her touch. "Is there anything—anything at all I can do to help?"

I close my eyes. I don't answer her.

She squeezes my fingers. "You know, we're going to have to take all the alcohol out of this house. Will you please tell me where you hid the rest of it?"

I tell her the truth. "In the library. Behind the book that holds my family history. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."

Hermione smiles at me. "Thanks for telling me," she says. "Finish your breakfast, and I'll be back in a bit." Then she walks to the library in search of my loot.

Go, I think. Run. Get as far away from me as possible.

Of course, I don't say it out loud, but as I sit in the lonely kitchen, I hold in my heart a vain hope. That Hermione—in her eternally unquenchable curiosity, would peek through the pages of the family tome. Would see how tainted the Black lineage truly is—evil in its truest form. That several generations back, a demon had infiltrated the bloodline.

An incubus.

Since then, each generation of Blacks had been cursed with the affliction. Most of them never fought their demons.

I'll fight mine anyway I can.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! I've been pretty bad lately about responding to reviews, but please know that I do read them, and they are very much appreciated!