Written for the A-Maze-Ing Race challenge.
Prompt: compass.
You know what you're doing is wrong. So incredibly wrong. Of course you do. You're bloody Hermione Granger. The brightest witch of your age. He's Sirius Black, for Merlin's sake. More than twice your age. But you just can't stop yourself from going into his room every night, getting your fill of sexing from an older man who is way, way off limits.
During dinner after Order meetings, you avoid his eye, certain that your body language is giving you away. You can feel his eyes on you, just like how you feel his mouth, his hands,and his weight on you as he thrusts roughly into you.
You blush as you catch his eye during a dinner of Weasley steak and kidney pie, and a large, heaping bowl of mashed potatoes. He winks at you and runs his tongue along his bottom lip, making you squirm. He turns to Harry, who is sitting next to you. "What are you doing under that table to make Little Miss Perfect blush, Potter?" Harry's hands are suddenly flat on the table, and his face is as red as yours. You shoot Sirius a lookand he winks at you. Oh, that wink. You blush again.
Your moral compass is a few notches off, maybe even nonexistent, you tell yourself, as you Disillusion yourself and travel to his room. You hate yourself, you hate what you're doing. You hate the fact that you're sleeping with a man more than twice your age. What would Harry say if he knew? But you can't stop. You can't stop going to him; he's like a drug. A bloody perfect sexy drug.
You enter his room in the dark and you climb into his bed,in your Transfigured sexy pajama bottoms. You aren't yourself as you kneel next to him, asking if you can stay. You know you can. You do this every night. Of course he says yes, and pulls you to him like he can't survive without you.
You give in to the feeling of being wanted. He treasures you, touches your skin with his nimble, experienced fingers and you fall apart underneath him.
Maybe you were never so smart in the first place.