Title: "Vermilion Edges."

Pairing: HG/SB

Rating: M

Summary: She was 19 when he returned, the war was over but everything and everyone had changed. Sometimes you need games to keep your mind occupied.

A/N: 22/08, just to fix some mistakes.

His eyes upon your face
His hand upon your hand
His lips caress your skin
It's more than I can stand

El Tango De Roxanne, Moulin Rouge (2001).

He watched from the shadows, greedily swigging his whiskey. His thunderous gaze following her every move, noticing her every touch. Saw as the men surrounded her in packs their predatory eyes drinking her in.

Her lips alerted his senses, had made him realise that she'd grown up. He'd searched his memories in an attempt to pinpoint the moment when she had ceased being a child. The blushing brim of her mouth, not the high shoes or the late hours; neither the cigarette held loosely between her fingers nor the vodka tonic clutched in her other. It was the deep ruby paint on full smooth flesh that always reminded him. She was his.

The sickly, sweet smell of sweat and Red Bull was barely concealed by the smoke, but he hardly noticed, unable to tare his eyes from her as she glided across the nightclub past tables of abandoned drinks and ashtrays billowing forth tendrils of yellowish smoke. He observed her momentarily halt near a group of business men and underage girls to replace the strap of her camisole on her shoulder. Watched as she headed in the direction of the lino dance floor; disappearing into the mass of arms and hands illuminated in the greens and reds of the DJ box. Vanishing in the haze of smoke and gathered patrons all dancing and swaying to the beat of the electronic music. Eventually noticing her re-emergence on the opposite side, to where she was chatting to a young attractive man.

He leaned forward, unblinking as her fingers encircled the youth's bicep too tightly.

Spied from his shadowy niche as her head flew back in contagious laughter and bouncy chestnut curls fell loosely about her ivory complexion.

He ignored the man who had slumped in a drunken stupor beside him, instead watching enthralled as she leaned forward a mischievous smirk gracing her carmine lips and whispered in the male's ear. He was overcome with an ungodly desire to be privy to the secret, to be on the receiving end, to feel the caressing whisper of tickling hot breath.

Smokey eyes followed furiously as she smiled seductively as the youth offered her a drink. He could have sworn she was looking directly at him as she leaned in and kissed her companion on the cheek in thanks, leaving behind a perfect vermilion imprint.

Sirius couldn't take anymore; he slammed his tumbler to the warped, sticky table as the last of the ice melted into amber oblivion. She was his, no-one but he touched her. Why was she doing this, teasing him? In his rush to get up his hand collided with a candle, its flame extinguishing as it fell leaving behind a pool of crimson wax.

Sirius' return had never been thoroughly explained to her. It was almost as if a collective fear hung over the subject; as though the mere question would cause him to vanish once more. Whatever Sirius had witnessed in the veil it had left its imprint upon him and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know all the details.

For as long as she had known him he had been unpredictable and impatient and sometimes he'd get a glassy, fathomless look in his eyes that could make her feel suddenly very cold and very aware of her isolation. The difference was, since he'd returned the look was more frequent, and it appeared far too often for her liking.

He was plagued with nightmares and refused to confide in her. All she knew of his thoughts were snippets assembled together from the nights she had laid beside him. Nights where he'd squirm about in sweat drenched dreams, becoming entangled in his bed sheets. He'd always wake and leave regardless of the time or whose bed they were in and never say he was going. If it had been a particularly bad dream she might not hear from him for days. She realised she needed to distract his attention and she'd become desperate to keep his mind from wandering into those dark dreams again. At first it was easy; he appeared to have a fondness for suspenders and lacy lingerie. Not long after, her hold began to slacken and it was then the games slowly infiltrated. The fact that Harry had decided to go find himself and barely made contact, hadn't exactly helped matters much.

She had noticed him trailing her around the nightclub, as he kept his distance, preferring the veil of the shadows. Watching her every move. Hermione inhaled sharply the smoke from between two fingers. The combination with the cool night air stung her lungs and she resisted the urge to cough. She didn't like smoking, even if they were the lightest brand she could find. It was all part of the game. She hated everything about this Muggle nightclub. It was dark and dingy, from its out of date advertisements of local bands and dog-eared reminders of weekly pub-quizzes to the spilt pork scratchings and roasted peanuts that crunched under foot. How the head barman, with his cauliflower ears and narrow eyes, if given the slightest encouragement would harp on about his lost years as a star rugby player.

Hermione wondered how long he planned to stand behind her, the crunch of his leather shoes on gravel and the smell of his cologne betraying his location. After all this time she had become accustomed to his steps, to how he leaned heavier on his left leg due to a Quidditch injury that never healed properly.

He leaned his thin, fit body close behind, enveloping her in his embrace. "Why do you do it?" he whispered, his whiskey breath hot on her neck.

She fought to ignore him, his presence ensnaring her. She stared straight ahead desperately blocking out the close proximity of the man, fighting her primal instincts to close her eyes as his hand ventured beneath the thin cotton of her camisole. Her breath hitched as his thumb traced light circles around her belly button.

He waited expectantly, his palm pressed lightly against her naval, as she continued to stare away to the glittering lights in the distance. She was weary of the situation and not sure how much more she could physically stomach.

"Because you enjoy the chase," she replied toneless, trying to reassert her position.

Shrugging of her companion she managed to wiggle free of his embrace and subconsciously she raised the rapidly dying cigarette to her fading lips, but it was plucked away. A wiry smile appeared on her lips as she watched Sirius flick the end to the gravel carpark.

"Because you like to be reminded," she added.

Hermione pulled her thin cardigan around her shoulders; it was cold, much colder than before. She silently chastised herself for forgetting a jacket, whilst avoiding eye contact.

Sirius grabbed her firmly by the elbow pulling her close to him, her body was limp and exhausted and it proved to be of little resistance. She could see he wanted more of answer, but he knew exactly why she did this. Why she acted so unlike herself. Why they always went to this bar away from everyone she knew. Yet, here he was glaring at her, if he thought she would apologise, he could think again. She moved to turn but he only tightened his grip on her arm, so tight she feared it might bruise.

She gave one fierce thug and realised her arm, nursing her sore elbow she said, "You love the chase." She sighed, the defeat becoming evident in her voice. "You tell me Sirius, does it keep you interested?"

"I don't like people touching my things."

"I'm not an object," she whispered but found it hard to mask her distain.

Sirius reached out a hand, his palm cupping her face, his thumb trailing down her cheek, holding her gaze. "Merlin, you're gorgeous!"

"I'm tired of keeping you interested," she continued ignoring his statement. "I'm ashamed of myself, the way you make me act. This," she said indicating around her. "This isn't me."

"Don't deny you like it a little."

She glared at him incredulously. "I can't believe you just said that, the fact that you would…" She rubbed her temples in an attempt to ward of the ache.

"I've been evaluating things while I was standing here. There has got to be more than this, then planning my next visit to 'The Fuzzy Lime'. I hate this place Sirius. I hate the fact that my heels peel away from the floor as I walk and there isn't enough alcohol in England to make that head barman bearable." She took a deep breath. "There has got to be a solution to all of this, because I can't do it," she waved her arm back and forth between them. "Anymore."

"Whatever it is, we do exactly, these days," she added bitterly.

Sirius grasped her firmly by the shoulder his finger nails digging into her shoulder blade painfully and turned her forcefully towards the neon glow of the city. "Look!"

"Look," he repeated, shaking her slightly. "See them? The flickering lights of your city? If you think you'll get your answers then go, because I don't need you and I sure as hell won't stand here and listen to a lecture." He let her go.

"Go! Find yourself, I set you free," he mocked. "And when you've figured out things are not as easy as that, you'll find me. Because you'll want me. You'll come back to me."

He pulled the collar of his leather jacket up around him, causally turned away, hands in his jeans pockets. "You always do," he called back carelessly, before vanishing into the night.

Hermione slumped to the damp ground, gulping deeply the night air, frustrated tears leaked from her eyes as she held her knees defensively. She would go back to him, because he wasn't always like that, because sometimes he was sweet and gentle. She loved him and refused to believe it had all been for nothing. She had no idea what it was like in that dark abyss. It was easier to blame 'The Veil', but mainly because Sirius was right, she did enjoy it.

Hermione stood shakily to her feet dusted off her top and skirt. Glancing about her, she shut her eyes in concentration. The tingle and buzz of magic hung loosely in the air as she disappeared.