Votre Esprit

Pairing: Hermione/Sirius

Rating: M

Warnings: Erotica, (read: smut), language, adult themes, drinking and all around dirty flirtation. Also, excessive use of commas, fragments and the word 'desperate'.

Author's Note: Firstly, I don't speak French, so forgive the translation if it's wrong, (please, correct me!) This story is based on the idea of sapiosexuality, the notion of being sexually and emotionally attracted to someone based on their intelligence, which I think is pretty cool. That being said, it's still me writing smut.

One thing that kind of concerns me is that she sobers up real fast. I want Hermione to give her full consent in this story, and Sirius to not take any kind of advantage of her. In this universe they fight but they trust each other – this is supposed to be a light hearted story with a lot of flirtation, I'm just a little concerned about it, so I'm noting it here.

Also, I checked the Lexicon for a lot of the info, but some of it, (the entire history of the Goblin Rebellion,) I made up, so don't take any of it to heart. Anyway, enjoy, m'lovlies!

Votre Esprit

Hermione could feel herself wobble, catch herself for a moment, and then lose her footing again. She cursed as her left ankle bent at an awkward angle, damning the five-inch heels strapped to her feet, and wondering how many glasses of champagne she was into the evening. The precarious crystal glass currently in her hand made for seven - eight, she corrected herself, then wondered for a moment whether the glass of sparkling rose wine had counted as champagne.

Her head spun and she righted herself against the wall. The merriment and dancing and free flow of elegant liquor just down the hall of Grimmauld Place was a grand celebration, indeed, and she was glad to have the chance to be part of it. Five years, five years since the end of the war and the overthrow of the Dark Lord and the end of her childhood. She paused and corrected herself; her childhood had ended long before the end of The War. But here they were, five years later and the Wizarding World was finally able to rejoice, to live in their new homes, to be joyful in their new families and at peace with their old losses. She couldn't help but feel a spread of warmth when she thought about all they had overcome.

But she needed a break from the dancing and the low lighting and the drinks that she was usually so careful about indulging in. She was, by and large, a practical woman. While she spoke freely and openly about the matters that concerned her community, her position as Ministrator of the Welfare of Magical Creatures Department of the Ministry of Magic gave her quite the forum for expression, she was organized, meticulous and always prepared. Even in the course of The War, unexpected and out of her control as it was, she had always tried to think ahead, to expect the worst of the situation. It was habit she had not yet learned how to break.

That was why twelve, sixteen, twenty two, glasses of champagne and half a bottle, two bottles, of Elfin Wine, later she was taking a small hiatus from the party to seek a soothing refuge in the sanctuary of the Black Family Library, where she knew she could be alone to drink some water and let her ears stop ringing.

She stumbled into the library, damning her five-inch heels again and wondering what had possessed her to wear them in the first place, comforting charms or no comforting charms; she was not a graceful woman.

But she wasn't alone, and her cursing, and slight sloshing of drink number thirty-six, alerted the other person in the room of her presence. She righted herself against one of the long walls of bookshelves, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and papyrus and long dried ink. It served to clear her head slightly.

"Here's a sight I never thought I'd see," of all the damned people in all the damned Wizarding World, the last one she wanted to run into drunk off her heels and cursing like a sailor was the one currently leaning against the enormous picture window, his elbows resting on the sill and a smirk on his face that made her blood boil.

"Sirius," she heard the slur in her voice and cursed that to hell beside her shoes. She wasn't in the mood for this.

Sirius pushed himself from the windowsill, the perfectly cut suit contorting back to his form without the slightest wrinkle. She was loath to admit to herself how well it fit him, the tailored corners of fine silk melting into his broad shoulders and framing the cut of his hips. She bit the skin inside her mouth and tried to focus on something else.

"Shouldn't you be dancing," she began, "Or talking a half wit out of her knickers and into your bachelor pad."

"You're drunk," he said, that damned smirk growing on his ever boyish, ever rugged face.

"I'm not," she replied, though she struggled to keep herself upright against the bookshelf. Sirius shook his head.

"See," he began, "You are drunk. You're usually far cleverer than that. Half-wit?" He paused, "I was expecting ignoramus, aspiring status symbol," he stopped and his eyes twinkled, "long legs with a short mind."

Hermione could feel herself seethe. It was hardly news to their relationship for him to mock her intelligence. They'd become frightfully adept verbal sparring partners over the time she had been living with Sirius and Ron, Harry and Ginny in Grimmauld Place. They fought in desperate abandon, with her finding him immature, a poor role model and an overgrown drunk skirt chaser with the arrogance of a rebel aristocrat. He found joy in cracking the armor she had built for herself, poking holes in arguments she had thought airtight and breaking down her insults point by point. They went back and forth, tied for tied for tied - a perpetual chess game of wit and intention.

Hermione nearly growled.

"You're insufferable," she said, wondering where her mind had gotten to, for he was worryingly right in that she should have been able to find something better than half-wit. The thought was distantly concerning. What was more concerning, however, was how close Sirius had suddenly gotten, how he had perched himself at the end of the long glossy table just feel from her, legs crossed, arms balanced and the smug look on his face that reminded her of Casanova and Mr. Darcy and Rhett Butler all rolled into one. He certainly had enough arrogance for the three.

"I'm your match," he responded, and she raised her brow and bit the inside of her cheek because the scruff on his jaw when he spoke was incredibly distracting. She shot back the rest of the champagne in her glass, the bubbles catching in her throat.

"Easy there, Kitten," she heard him say, and she hated him for it, "Don't want you to get sick all over my library floor." She could hear the damn eyebrow raise and the normally deep tone of his voice drop even more when he added, "Or rather, expend the contents of your admittedly fine body onto my arguably finer rug." She nearly threw the crystal at him, but held back, knowing that missing the target would be even more cause for mockery.

"You think I'm fine?" She replied, letting the silk of the expensive drink take over her tongue and speak for her, "No wonder I make you so angry." It was Sirius' turn to respond with the irritated spark in his eye and the agitated flare of his breath.

"You don't make me angry," he replied, "Not even a bit." She could see him lying, the aura around his face pulled taunt and stressed. She reveled in knowing how badly he didn't want her to know.

"I do though," she replied, "Why is that?" She walked slightly closer to him, finding herself able to stand taller, despite the heels, the cloud around her head dissipating enough for her to concentrate on her words.

"Minx,"

"Dog," she shot back. The vein in his neck pumped and she wished she didn't feel so inclined to kiss the skin, to taste the canvas of his body. Sirius drove her crazy, but he awoke something within her as well.

"For calling you fine?" He paused, "Or for making you think?" They were close now. She wasn't quite sure when it had turned from her walking towards him to him moving towards her, the silk of her gown pressed against the leather couch. His body was near enough to her own for her to be increasingly aware of the hard lines that made up his hips and his shoulders, and how they quite contrasted the softness of her own form. She swallowed.

"I love to think. You have little to do with it." She whispered, when had she started whispering?

"You love to think," he murmured, "When you're the smartest one..." he paused and she missed the growling sound of his voice, deep enough to reverberate within her.

"Wrong," she breathed, "So wrong." She closed her eyes. She could smell him so closely, the masculine scent of hard liquor and old-fashioned shaving cream and charcoaled firewood. She could breathe in the leather hint of the old textbooks, the curling wisps of ancient ink and old, old papyrus. She shuddered.

"You just can't help yourself," he began, leaning into her neck, his voice hot against her skin, "You have to be right." She curled every so slightly into him.

"I don't have to be," she muttered, eyes still closed, "But I always am."

"Not always," he was speaking into her neck now, breathing against her skin, so close, so very close, but still not touching.

"Always," she replied, though she could feel her resolve slipping, and she thought to the night when Ginny had drunkenly expelled her theory about unresolved sexual tension, or all the times Harry or Remus had waggled their eyebrows and muttered under their breaths. She, of all people, should hardly be surprised by the turning of events.

"Ingredients for Polyjuice Potion," he murmured, finally, finally, kissing the inside of her neck in a way that had Hermione grasping for knowledge usually so accessible.

"Easy," she replied, though the words seemed distant and unimportant in the face of the feelings Sirius was stirring within her. He nipped at her skin and she fought to keep her focus. "Lacewing flies," she choked,

"Stewed for...," his lips against her ear were sinful. She focused on the fireplace, trying to block out the feeling of his arms against her bare skin, the cut of his silk sleeves brushing the fine outline of her breasts with such delicacy that she would have almost believed it to be accidental. She knew better.

"Twenty one days," she managed. "Mixed with leeches, knu-," she shuddered as he kissed her collarbone, "knutgrass, powdered...powdered bicorn horn," gods he was making it hard to concentrate, "fluxweed," she groaned when he bit every so slightly on her collarbone, "Picked during the full moon, shredded boomslang and part of the person..." she breathed, feeling as though she had just run a mile in those damned five inch heels.

"Not bad," he kissed the valley leading to her breasts and she let out a laugh, throaty with arousal. "Of course," he continued, wisping over the canvas of her skin, "I shouldn't be surprised." She wanted to tell him that he shouldn't have been surprised. That he was dealing with the most 'Brilliant Witch of Her Age,' but all the words flew out of her brilliantly capable mind when his fingers brushed her form fitting silk dress directly over where she had decided to forgo her bra and the contact lit her skin on fire. He thumbed her nipples through the silk and they pebbled at his touch. She melted into him.

"Sadist," she murmured in his ear, as he teased her with a talent and self-control she was admittedly surprised he possessed. His hand slip up her dress, the whispering of skin to skin, and stroked the soaked satin underwear she wore.

"Like you mind," he growled, and she realized just how tight he was strung, all from watching her moan. The thought was delightfully intoxicating. She slid back from his touch and walked behind him, sliding her hands up his silk jacket and whispering in his ear, wondering when she'd become so bold.

"I love your mind," he groaned, and her stomach flipped in knots.

"Chronology of the Goblin's Rebellion," as she spoke she wrapped her hands around his waist and sliding her small hands around the leather of his belt. He let out a deep guttural moan and she smiled into his back, letting her hands follow the path of his dress shirt, dipping below his beltline.

"1698 The Noland Tribe broke the Treaty of Pine," she slid her hands lower, his voice was too steady for her liking.

"And then..." she followed his belt, walking to face him, toying with the gold clasp that held it up.

"The Sonda Tribe fired the first arrow in 1699," she fingered his belt, slowly sliding it off while he talked; reveling in the small sounds he allowed to escape. "The Battle of Malloy began in 1701," Hermione paused.

"1702," she replied.

"1701," he shot back, "But the Winter of Hallington kept them from advancing until the next year." His voice had gotten smug and he had gained control again. Hermione slid her hand down the length of his thigh, he was desperately hard against the fabric and she felt a small triumph at being the one who made him that way.

"1702," she said, "The Winter of Hallington was in 1702, the Winter of Spollen was 1701. But," she paused, still sliding her hand up his thigh and leaning into his neck, "Nice try."

Hermione didn't see his hands move but the next thing she knew they were tight around her waist, sliding down to her behind with a fierce desire.

"Smart little witch," he muttered, "Too damned smart for your own good," she went to protest but he continued, "You're so hard to resist." She looked up at him, catching contact for the first time since their dance had first started, and saw a desperate, illuminating spark in the beauty of his eyes.

"Then stop resisting." She said because in that moment it felt right, but more than that because she realized how right it had been for a long time. They fought because they brought out the challenge in one another, the need to prove something, the worthy opponent. They fought because they were everything the other wanted and wanted to be and they fought because the erotic energy between them was undeniable. She couldn't help herself; she wanted him for all those reasons and so many more.

She would have thought about it all evening, but his hands slid down and grabbed her arse with a beautiful possessiveness and then, finally, finally, he kissed her.

Hermione had had her fair share of snogs, world famous Quidditch players, Viktor Krum, Oliver Wood, Charlie Weasley, medaled war heroes, (and heroines) Ron Weasley, Dean Thomas, Parvati Patil, Luna Lovegood, artists, ministry workers and the gamut, added to the roster, though few rarely went beyond snogs she had certainly enjoyed her years out of Hogwarts.

But this blew every one of those out of the water. Sirius had surprisingly soft lips, they melted into her, meeting her mouth in rhythm with the way his hands moved across her back. His scruff was a brilliant texture, desperately masculinity to the sensitivity of her cheeks, and all with such an incredible, deeply rooted in a passion he seemed to be holding out on. She kissed him back, returning the desire she could feel throbbing against her, and he let go, pushing her up against the bookshelf, passions running in abandon, hands fisting her curls as she ran her own through his wonderful mane.

She wondered if she was dreaming.

Dreams didn't feel that good.

She pushed him onto the couch, quickly undoing the buttons and making a mental note to tease him with it the next time around. If there was a next time, the voice in her head countered, but she got distracted when Sirius ran his hand across her breast, flipping the nipple through the fabric. They nearly tore off each other's clothes, desperate abandon had led them astray of formal delicacies, and she reveled in it, the deliciousness of new treasure as his shirt and trousers and shoes hit the floor.

He unclothed her in brilliant fervor, the beautiful red dress a silken pile on the hardwood floor, and his attention on her lace knickers, which he seemed to contemplate leaving on her for a moment.

"Red's your color," he whispered, breathing through the air like a siren's call, and Hermione forgot all about the people dancing down the hall and her hatred for him she had just begun to understand. She knew how she must have looked, straddling him on the ancient leather couch in just her red panties and those blasted five inch heels, her skin flush with erotic excitement and her hair as wild and natural as she felt.

How had it taken her this long to realize how well then went together?

It wasn't long before he had flipped them, tossing both of their undergarments aside and she took a moment to appreciate the incredible Adonis like body before her, rippling, yet subtle muscle, moving with the artistic lines of deep tattoos in an incredible wild dance. She must've demanded something, though her own thoughts barely seemed to register any more, but he smirked the way he only seemed to do for her, kissed her shoulder with a lip nip and thrust into her.

It was the rightist thing she had ever felt. They fit together as if they had been made to touch, to bite, to feel. He filled her completely and moved with a rhythm based on experience and passion. She could almost anticipate his next move and she thrust to meet him, riding the glorious mounting wave. She could feel him begin to lose his control and thrust in random, unplanned movement that she met, as the closing of her own pleasure began to peak, in her own desperate thrusts. And then they fell.

She murmured his named, whispered his named, shouted his name to the room as fell over the edge, tumbling into an abyss of wild colors she had never known, sparking bright before her eyes, the backs of her eyelids. She let herself going, feeling the carnal explosions wrack her body in an indescribable pleasure she had never before felt.

She woke up a moment later. The leather couch was slick with sweat and she could feel her heart rate thudding back to normal. Sirius had his arm around her shoulders, and a shit-eating grin plastered across his rouged cheeks.

"Morning, Princess," he said as she came to, the realization of her incredible experience hitting her with hot flush. He noticed.

"Hardly cause to be embarrassed now," he said with a smile, a notion that she begrudgingly had to afford him.

"What?" She paused for a moment, "How did that happen?"

"You mean the mind blowing sex?" Sirius replied, his grin growing, "Or that it took us so long to get there?" Hermione shook her head.

"That, both." She laughed, shoulders back, cheeks relaxed. "You're incredible." He ran his hand through her hair, his enormous fingers getting caught in the locks. "But why me?"

The gentleness with which he stroked her hair was in such contrast to the way they'd touched before. She liked it.

"All the time we spent fighting," he began, "Felt a little immature, didn't it?" She knew that it did, that they fought like the proverbial school children, pulling pigtails on the playground.

"You're brilliant," he began, "And it drives me crazy." She thought back to all the ways he had just managed to drive her crazy. "You just have this way of pissing me off and turning me on." She didn't even comment on his crude phrasing.

"You drive me crazy, that big ol' brain of yours," he laughed and it was contagious. "Never stop doing that, okay?" How could she say anything but yes, as she settled into the crook of his arm, naked in the Black Family Library. They really knew how to light each other up, brimstone and fire and all sorts of hell raising, but they knew how to handle each other as well, to push buttons and start wars, and make love like it was the last thing they would ever do.

Hermione nuzzled into Sirius' neck and whispered in his ear, "I think I could get used to fighting if we always make up like this."

"You're the only person I enjoy fighting with," he admitted. "That being said the Goblin War did start in 1701..."

It was a long time before they left the library.

A/N: Title is French for "Your Mind"