Dislaimer: Not mine, of course. Just borrowing.


In the Kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place

"Why did you do it?" she asked.

"Do what?" he sneered back.

"Why did you switch shides?" she said, he voice thick.

"None of your business, Miss Granger," he snarled and slammed the whisky glass down.

"Well, I'd still like to know," she went on, now slurring more than a little. "And my name ish not 'Granger' anymore, ash you well know. After all, you were with ush today, at my hushband's grave. My late hushband's...grave."

"You've had too much to drink Miss Granger," the dark man said, rising from the table.

"I hau..have a right to know. My life...I...why..."

With an uncharacteristic softness in his eyes, the tall man walked over to the silently sobbing young woman.

"Come on, I'll help you upstairs."

Barely nodding, Hermione rose from the table and almost immediately fell over. He caught her just in time and heaved her upright. Leaning heavily on the older man for support, she managed to make her way out of the kitchen and over to the stairs, but there her knees gave out. Sighing, the dark man scooped her up in his arms and started making his way up to the third floor. His progress was slow, although the woman in his arms hung limp. Apparently the whisky had finally got the better of her. She was heavy in his arms, and warm. He breathed in her scent and old images started to flood his mind.

She was smiling at him through the mists of time; her secret smile, the one that was just for him. Then she was sitting at a desk, looking all too serious. And she was laughing, laughing like there were no sorrows in the world, her flaming hair flying free in the wind.

He clamped down on his memories, willing them to stop manifesting before the unpleasant ones would surface. With an inhuman effort, he forced them down just as wild flaming red met with sickly fluorescent green.

Instead he buried his head in bushy brown hair.

"You smell like her, little bird, but you will continue your flight."

Silently, he walked the rest of the way to her bedchamber, opened the door, walked over to the bed and carefully deposited his burden. He covered her with a blanket and stood a moment and watched her sleep.

"Sleep, little bird," he whispered before he left.

Tonight, he thought, is a good night for drinking. Green eyes watched him from the depths of time as he drunk himself into oblivion.