A one-shot for the 34 stories, 106 reviews challenge on the HPFC forum.
Round Two: Sirius Black/Hermione Granger.
It remains a mystery. It just happened and there's nothing to be done – to sort it out. It is what it is and it won't start making sense.
Oh, how Hermione resents it.
She was staying at his house. Most of the Order was, not that she was part of it – still. There was an amazing sense of unity to be found in this place. Hermione, she had to admit, felt whole; reunited with her friends, yet surrounded by adults – she had always felt most comfortable around adults – she was, somehow, a part of something, and people were looking at her, listening to her.
Not all of them were, though.
There was one to keep well away – Sirius, whom only Harry seemed able to reach. Somber, silent Sirius, usually universes away from the cheerful man he could sometimes allow himself to be. Not that Hermione liked him. He was childish – he was impulsive – he was irresponsible (an irresponsible godfather, as Molly had refused to say, yet dared to imply). But still, for those very same reasons, it was infuriating indeed to meet his gaze, that turned, on her, so... gently mocking.
They very seldom ended up alone, anyway.
Someday, somehow, it happened.
It was the day right before they went back to school. There was a party planned, to celebrate Ron's and her new responsibility as Prefects. She just walked into a room and found him there, staring blankly at a wall. (It was pretty silly, really. She didn't even have anything to do there, and it felt so awkward.)
"S-Sirius?" she stammered, taken off guard, wrongfooted (just like the first time she had addressed him, just like always.)
"Hermione," he said, turning towards her. He laughed humourlessly. "Don't you have a party to attend?"
"This evening," she said.
"Yes, and shouldn't you prepare?"
For some unknown reason, at his wry tone, temper flared from the depths of her.
"Don't patronize me," she snapped.
A slight, grimacing smirk pulled up the corner of his mouth. "I wouldn't dream of it," he remarked. "You, however, patronize me. In fact, I sometimes find you disturbingly patronizing for a fifteen-year-old."
"You're doing it again."
And yet again he laughed.
"Well, perhaps I am, but I don't mean to."
"You expect me to act fifteen, and what is that in your book? Brainless?" she continued, slightly raising her voice.
"I really don't expect anything of anyone anymore, Hermione. It is dangerous to expect. Azkaban has taught me that."
Peter had, rather.
"But still you do it." He frowned. "Really. You always expect everybody to act according to your idea of them."
He was glaring now.
"I was not quite aware you had such exclusive access to the contents of my mind, Hermione."
"Harry's place," she started, her tone fiery, "here with you. Molly – such a sweet, sweet woman, but really, overprotective. Lupin – the only friend you have left, too discreet to ever be anything else. Harry – his father's spitting image."
He was silent for a while as they both took a breath.
"What do you know of life, Hermione?"
She swallowed. Her throat was dry, "Not much. But about people, enough."
He was approaching her, studying her. "You are fifteen. You can't know that much."
That fired her temper again.
"Try me."
He did.
His lips upon hers felt warm and soft and foreign. Instinctively she closed her eyes – that was what the books had said. A split second later she was loathing herself for it. The books didn't speak of a fourty-year-old fugitive, reckless and irresponsible. They really didn't – besides, life wasn't books. But he felt so... not as wrong as he should.
Adamant, she pushed him away.
"What do you think you're doing?"
His only response was a soft, almost tender chuckle.
"So you know those lines too, don't you?"
"What is that supposed to mean?" she stammered.
Slowly, gently, he touched the back of his warm hand to her cheek.
"I'm sorry, Hermione," he spoke. "I do think you need to learn to live. But certainly not from me."
Lips burning, she retreated.
This party was getting long and Hermione was nervous. Ron seemed to be, too – ke kept laughing, the sound off, unnatural, forced, and that hardly occurred often with Ron – perhaps it was Harry's disappearance, perhaps it was the war. Perhaps being a Prefect was starting to look and feel silly to them as well. Perhaps it was everything.
Anyhow, Hermione was wearing random black robes, because Ginny had laughed upon finding her rummaging through her clothes feverishly, and said that really, it wasn't that big a deal. True, it certainly wasn't. She was feeling quite like a little girl; the Butterbeer she was slipping was surprisingly tasteless on her tongue, and the faces around her had started to look tired and grave again. It wouldn't do to stay up too late just the last day before school, she decided, and set down her glass.
She walked upstairs quietly, undisturbed. There, she paused for a while, before she carefully picked a door, and knocked lightly, something curling tight in her stomach.
A rough voice barked something, and she entered.
He had his back to her. He turned around and his eyes widened, and he breathed "Hermione?"
She nodded. "I just wanted to say I never meant to patronize you."
She made to leave. He suddenly raised a hand, then changed his mind, lowered it slowly. But she had paused.
She stared at the door, at her little, pale hand upon the door, curled around the handle, squeezing it tight, tight, tight. She turned and looked at the room, and at the tall, thin man whose wide dark eyes were locked upon her. Her fingers relaxed on the snake-shaped handle, slipped off. She took one deep breath, and two big steps – forward.
Her chest hit his own like two universes colliding. He caught her around the waist though she wouldn't have fallen, and she stood on her tiptoes to press their lips together – they drank into each other. There was unknown energy and not much oxygen in the oddly passionate way they held their lips locked to the other's, scarcely moving, just – just – pressing closer. Of course they broke away gasping, and stared. Dilated pupils speaking to widened eyes before they were brought together again. They kissed and kissed and kissed until they felt violently light-headed, and actually, even then they didn't stop. They couldn't stop. Something in them had broken loose, broken free, and could now no longer be restrained. Hermione felt something wild in her chest that she had never known to exist before. She had forgotten what control had ever felt like. She actually wanted to lose control. They shouldn't. This was wrong. She didn't care.
Fatally, her clothes ended up on the floor. She wore Muggle clothes underneath, faded blue-jeans and a T-shirt. Sirius undid the buttons of her jeans slowly, his hands cool against her bare stomach. He made them slide down her legs and she stepped out of them with odd grace, kicking her shoes aside. They kissed once more. His robes flew off – his shirt – her T-shirt –
Sitting on a man's bed in her bra and knickers, Hermione unexpectedly thought of Viktor, who had been too old, too clumsy and she too young, had it only been two months ago? It had to be further back. She burst out laughing and Sirius blinked down at her. It hadn't been war by then, but was it war now? Well, it certainly wasn't peace – it was in-between, a wordless state that made you itch for something to happen. Hermione wasn't drunk or anything but she didn't want to be a little girl anymore and yet she sort of liked the way he made her feel like one. It was all twisted and complicated and for once, she didn't want to think. Her first true moment of recklessness. She reached out towards him and led him closer to her.
They lay together just for a moment, as though to rest. Then he straightened up and took off his trousers. The sight of him whole made her heart palpitate with a slight fear and with adrenalin. Slowly, he undid her white, virginal bra, slid down her knickers. He laid her bare and drank her in with his eyes.
Hermione lay on her back and discovered what it was like to feel a man's weight upon her. It was heavy and warm and it made her feel protected against the world. It trapped her, too, in a way. Losing, relinquishing control felt in this very moment infinitely desirable. Sirius' hands found her body and started lazily tracing it, drawing patterns on exposed skin with kisses that made her tremble inside. He handled her like a precious, porcelain thing, a foreign entity to be discovered and treasured. He was unsure, too. She felt the trembling of his hands, and she touched his chest with the deliberate will to be made his. She willed herself to remember that she was giving her body freely, as a gift and a token of trust. She did not wish to resent any one of them in the morning.
She did not wish for that moment to end.
Hermione felt pain from the deepest, most secret regions of her being and her rational mind said it was a normal thing. She rejected the sheer notion of normality but only opened up to the feeling. It didn't hurt much for he was gentle, but it hurt deep, as though to remind her of what she was freely giving away of herself. She accepted. She gave him access to the very core of her, dark and deep and unknown of herself, hidden for a lifetime of fifteen ever-so-short years. She lay vulnerable and white and gave him what she was and the first taste of what she would grow up to be.
She took what he was giving her, too.
It was over quite soon.
In the morning, Hermione felt a bit too hot, and aching from the depths of her.
She slid out of the bed in silence. He opened up his eyes but did not look at her and did not speak a word. He allowed her to go freely. She thanked him in silence. So it was goodbye then.
In the corridor, she found herself deprived of any bearings. It was still very early – nobody in the house would have been roused from their sleep by the new day's call, however busy it would turn out to be. She was alone in the darkness of this hateful house where she was highly unwelcome. Mudblood. She shivered, paranoia gnawing at her, feeling dirty for the very first time. Her bedroom should have seemed appealing, but Ginny might be lying awake, a thousand questions in her young eyes, aware that her friend had spent the night someplace unknown. She thought of the bed she had just left, filled with warmth and impulsive, thoughtless, reckless tenderness. But it had been a mistake. Wrong. Sirius was the adult, Sirius should have stopped. Or was she the adult? Was she, now, a woman? Hermione had a headache and a deep, bitter reluctance to remember, to admit that she had chosen to give herself away. Freely. Fifteen. She walked down the stairs quietly and went to the big, cold, empty kitchen to make coffee.
She couldn't wait to get out of this house. It was polluting everybody, her whole world. The house was tainting her as someone she wasn't.
The platform was crowded and she felt unexpectedly cold. She was surrounded by crowds of young people pushing past her, laughing. Innocent. Universes away from any war that might be lurking, that might occur, start all of a sudden, wreak havoc into their whole lives and at long, long last, see them go under. Hermione felt more mature than ever. She tossed her hair in the breeze and fingered her wand in her pocket, impatiently. Time to go.
All of a sudden a black dog barked at her, an uncanny light in his dark, clever eyes.
Hermione jumped, her hand shot up to her heart, and she could not help a nervous laugh that shot, too high and too short, towards the troubled sky.
She watched the dog bounce around Harry.
Careless.
It was freezing outside, so, so cold, but the biting winter air felt oddly liberating as it bit Hermione's cheeks hard. She strode up the street towards the house only she could see among the Muggle passerbys. All thoughts of fleeing it that had nibbled at her a few months ago were gone as she pushed the door open, quietly sliding in. Christmas was coming up and she was stepping in a household full of friends, among which a specific one seemed to need the support of them all, as Ron's and Ginny's letters had seemed to imply to her. She wanted to go straight to them and see them all reunited and fine, yet she was stopped, a few steps in, by a cheery voice she knew quite well and yet completely not. She hovered there, hesitant.
A door was thrown open and in he strode, waving his wand idly and whistling, eyes alive with a shine she deemed entirely too unfamiliar. But he stopped at once at the sight of her, shocked into silence and staring deep into her brown orbs. As though looking for answers.
"Hi," she spoke nervously. She wanted to run all of a sudden.
"Hello, Hermione," he said slowly. "What brings you here? I thought you weren't supposed to come?"
"I meant to go skiing," she explained, "but I changed my mind. I preferred coming here... seeing everyone..."
She trailed off.
"Seeing Harry, especially?" he guessed, his eyes slightly darkening.
"Yes, actually," she replied, jutting her chin up slightly. "He needs to be cheered up, I gathered."
He laughed lightly.
"I'd love to see you cheer my godson up, Hermione."
She flushed slightly.
"Well, I certainly will try," she said defensively, "and I'm not... that... serious, I'll have you know."
"Didn't have a doubt," he whispered. "Well, I suppose you should go then."
"I suppose I should," she echoed.
"You'll see them in the highest floors," he concluded. A soft smile grazing his lips, he brushed past her and disappeared through another door.
Hermione gulped and walked forward, legs wobbly and head light.
"And here I thought you had decided to be better-tempered these holidays."
Hermione was leaning against the doorstep, staring down at Sirius who was kneeling on the floor, busy cleaning an old chest that had probably been cursed, and more than once – yet another one. She had observed as he neutralized the thing, cursing under his breath at the nasty, never-ceasing routine, but now it lay heavy and dark, no decade-old magic making it alive with cruel wrath, and she deemed it safe to speak. Or rather, it was safe to distract him slightly, regarding the task he was handling. Was it ever safe to hang around Sirius Black, Hermione didn't care to wonder.
"Go away if you mean to lecture me again, Hermione," he growled bitterly, "I'm quite tired of it. What will it be this time? The well-being of the stinking piece of slime I call a house-elf? The shameful selfishness of my behaviour towards my only godson?"
"If you'd only listen to me, I wouldn't annoy you this much," she pointed out, "not that I address you with those issues that often, anyhow."
"Well believe it or not, I have better things to do with my time than listen to a stuck-up fifteen-year-old ranting because she firmly believes that she knows the right behaviour to have in all situations way better than I do," Sirius abruptly snapped.
That stung. Harshly.
"I'm so sorry to have bothered you," she uttered with a voice cold as ice. "I was merely concerned about your alarming selfishness, but I believe you are right – I'm certainly too young to fully comprehend the dynamics of your tragically misunderstood mind. Just go on and think you have prefectly good reasons and can't learn anything from anybody."
She turned away, but then swiftly whirled back towards him with a fierce glare.
"You know what bothers me, too? It's that you never, ever have the decency to even apologize."
"Are we still talking about Harry?" he shot back.
"No," she snarled, "we're talking about you who never considers others' feelings, and just find it more convenient to avoid discussion!"
"Do forgive me, Hermione. I suppose it was quite foolish of me indeed to assume that other people could prefer forgetting some things ever happened, and that I was actually just respecting them."
For a couple of seconds, they just glared into each other's eyes, wordless.
"Won't you ever start acting responsible?" she asked, lips trembling ever-so-slightly. "You are the adult, Sirius. There are times when you are supposed to put your hurt feelings aside and show some generosity. Can you? Because your bitterness distresses me."
He locked eyes with hers.
"Stop reminding me that I'm an adult all the time, Hermione," he said slowly. "You are no child, either."
"No," she agreed, her voice hollow. "Nor is Harry. But it's too convenient for you, to imagine we're adults. To think we're your equals. To think you can be careless, with us, and we'll handle it."
"I'm never careless with the people I love – "
"I never doubted you love Harry!" she cried, "I never did!"
They breathed, in silence.
"I'm not careless with the people I love, Hermione," he repeated softly. "I might be unfair, and I might be wrong. But you have absolutely no right to call me careless."
He was looking at her in such a way that she had to turn and conceal her too-moist eyes.
"You're right," she said from behind her hand, "Forgive me. I'm going, anyway."
"Hermione."
She didn't acknowledge him, but rushed out instead.
Lying on a cold floor, Hermione... dreamed.
(was it a dream, or was it her life, flashing... flying, before her eyes, she couldn't tell)
(anyhow, unreachable)
A flash of violet, blinding, burning.
A large hall full of faintly glowing spheres.
A dark forest of shadows and fears.
Being grabbed and pushed forward. Pain in her arms. Doubt. Terror. A voice squawking "Crucio!"
No. No. No.
Further. Deeper. Stress. Worry. Conflict. Conviction. Fighting on. Friends. Faces.
Voices.
Uncertainty.
Feelings – foreign.
(anger – attraction)
Dark eyes, rough voice, sweet touch –
fading –
away –
into oblivion.
"Hermione..."
Hermione jolted awake, lungs tight, eyes wide. Pain shot through her stomach and briefly knocked the breath out of her.
"Hermione!"
Slowly, she turned her head. Ginny was sitting close to her bed; leaning forward immediately, the redhead squeezed her hand tightly.
"Oh, Hermione, I'm so glad you're awake! It's so good to see you with your eyes open!"
She turned her head slightly. Everything was white, eerie, blinding. She could see another flaming head in a bed close to hers.
"Ron..."
"Oh, he's fine, he's fine! Sleeping – you're the last one to awaken, you know! You got us worried for a moment, though Madam Pomfrey had fixed you all right, of course..."
"I..." she breathed in, "are the others okay? Everybody?"
In the dazzling whiteness, Ginny's face seemed to pale under her flaming mane.
"We... we all came back fine," she whispered.
"So..."
"But..." her friend cut her in, "Sirius..."
Lips slightly trembling, Ginny shook her head.
Hermione felt nothing but a seeping coldness in her insides.
"Sirius?"