Disclaimer: I own nothing but the original books.
Hermione stared him down, jaw set, back straight.
"Not on your life."
"You can call in any favour you want, pass any legislation you need—uh, well, that I can chat Malfoy around to—I will pay you out of my own pocket—."
She raised her wand.
"For the last time—" Her voice was very clear, and very quiet.
"If you don't I'll tell Ron you want to reconcile!"
Her wand hand firmed as her eyes narrowed, aiming for the unprotected center of his scarred forehead.
"Molly!" he screamed, his hands in front of him. "I'll tell Molly you want to reconcile with him!"
"You utter pr—" Hermione grit her teeth as she forced her breathing to calm, her chest to cease panting. "Harry, this is ridiculous. Go find someone else. He has legions of fans who would die to kiss his feet. Why me?"
"Because you won't fall at his feet?" Harry offered weakly, still chasing his confidence from behind his raised hands. "I mean it, he really did try to keep this last manager, but things didn't work out."
Hermione lowered her wand and crossed her arms, unimpressed.
"Had nothing to do with that harassment suit?"
"He lodged that, actually, after he caught her going through his things and trying to find mementos to sell on eFay."
"Why doesn't he hire a man?"
"He's tried. He's working on hiring one now, but he said he's mostly run into the same problem; overzealous fans posing as managers to try and get close to him. He just needs someone to tide him over until he can properly screen and hire someone, Hermione. It isn't permanent. You have been holing away vacation time to take a sabbatical for years now, and I've already checked with—" Harry cowered as Hermione snapped to attention, arms shooting down to her sides. "Er, it was… I… I mentioned I'd pay you, at the beginning. A top-up to bring you up to full salary until you… find it within yourself to forgive me."
Her blood boiling in her veins and her stomach twisting fitfully, Hermione's fists clenched.
"You already told him yes," she grit out between her teeth, understanding.
"I'll just double that amount I quoted you. And give you an advance. And… fix your roof."
"To start," she said, holding his gaze.
"Of course."
Harry pressed his lips together and rolled back on his feet, letting out a small breath. "I owe you one, Hermione."
"You have no idea."
"Um, is this a good time to confirm your start date is this afternoon and he needs your assistance at LaVache to fit his newest pair of leather pants?"
Hermione's hair sparked and crackled, unfurling from its bun and advancing on Harry like Medusa's crown of asps.
"Right, well, I best be getting to Gringotts to empty my bank account into yours. Here's Sirius' mobile number, schedule, and solicitor's numberwhich you'll probably need sooner rather than later, and I'll see you—ouch! Hermione... your hair just bit me!"
"I'll see you in Hell," hissed Hermione, snatching the papers from Harry and stalking off towards the park's exit.
"That went better than I expected," said Ron, once Hermione was out of earshot.
"Said the one who had disillusioned himself and hidden behind a tree."
"I doubt my presence would have added much value to that encounter, mate."
Hair re-tamed and pinned securely in place once more, Hermione took a deep breath and held it a few seconds longer than necessary. The door to Number 12 Grimmauld Place faced her, slick-finished with black paint shiny enough for her to see her reflection.
"Frowning is unattractive," said the door knocker.
Hermione may or may not have perked up as she smacked it a touch harder than necessary, just to hear how creatively it could curse.
"Bloody buggering Hell, who is it now," she heard a low voice muttering from the other side.
Quirking her brow, she shook her head, pursed her lips and crossed her arms.
"Go away!" the voice hollered. "Unless you're wearing a—"
Hermione cleared her throat, loudly.
Sirius paused.
The door creaked open.
Scruffy-chinned, shaggy-haired and ninety percent naked, Sirius poked his head through the opening to peer at her.
"I thought I recognized that disappointed sound," he said.
She smiled at him. Not very nicely.
Then gave him a mighty shove back into the house, following him on his heels.
"You have a fitting in twelve minutes, an interview one-point-five hours thereafter, a meeting with your solicitor over dinner, and this evening you are reviewing and balancing your chequebook. Now I suggest you familiarize yourself with a shaving charm, a hair brushing charm, and for the love of all things holy a pair of underpants and trousers, or so help me you'll become intimately familiar with Lavender Brown's first attempt at a depilatory hex."
She kicked the door shut behind her, and cast a tempus charm. "Countdown starting now. Chop chop."
"Hex? You mean charm," said Sirius.
Hermione arched her brow again and with a twitch of her wand and non-verbal magic, she just barely held in her smirk as Sirius' high-pitched protest registered.
"You're an evil cow," he muttered, applying pressure to the flaming throbbing. He would have ingrown hairs no doubt.
"You're on the clock and so am I. Ten minutes or I do it all myself. Simultaneously."
He lagged more than necessary—in Hermione's opinion—and she zapped him again, sighing delightedly in his yelp.
Perhaps she would ask Harry for a new deck to go with her new roof?
"No."
"It goes or I don't."
"You're getting fitted for new trousers, Sirius, you don't need your guitar."
"I don't go anywhere without it."
"You get guitar now, or lager later. Choose."
"... you evil—ouch! Okay, okay. Guitar now. Lager… tomorrow," he mourned. "Come along, Sisqo, we're going for walkies."
The solid, brass-buckled custom guitar case hopped along with the enthusiasm of a new puppy, chasing Sirius' heels.
"You named your guitar case?" Hermione pressed her lips together, and shut her eyes. "And after the artist behind The Thong Song?"
"Certainly not!"
Hermione let out a low breath and opened one appraising eye, meeting Sirius' gaze.
"I named the guitar after him after so many women threw their panties at me on stage."
Hermione nodded serenely and marched him to the Floo.
And zapped him once more for good measure, a shiver of pleasure running down her spine at his sudden yelp as he exited at the tailor's.
The stately, silver-haired tailor approached Sirius with the trousers that had caused Hermione so much trouble already, and Sirius grinned at him.
"Good job, Fathardboners!"
"Fitzharjoners, sir, and thank you. We are always honoured to serve the ancient and most noble house of Black."
"A pleasure for me, too. Now, you said you had these ready in several shades?"
"To match your jackets, sir, as requested. Please don a pair of your choosing now so we can fit them as you please."
"Sure." He smiled at Fitzharjoners and accepted the pile of folded leather. Then dropped the guitar case in Hermione's lap. "Hold Sisqo."
"I'm not your—" Hermione closed her eyes and breathed deeply into her lungs. "Get a move on."
Sirius smiled widely at Fitzharjoners and tilted his head at Hermione. "She's a right—"
Fitzharjoners suddenly succumbed to a distressing coughing fit, and Hermione seized the opportunity to flick her wand, swishing aside the curtain to the change room. Then she leaned to the side and gently rubbed the poor tailor's back.
"They're—meant—to be worn—commando, sir—as requested," wheezed Fitzharjoners. Hermione stilled and met Sirius' cheshire grin and crescent eyes. "Built-in support."
"If you come out of there sans pantalons—" she began, only for Sirius to disappear behind the curtain with a chuckle.
"May I ask how long the fittings take, in general?" inquired Hermione of Fitzharjoners after brief civilities were exchanged and his health returned.
"Oh, with Master Sirius, it can vary greatly."
"Is he difficult to work with?" she asked, her tone sympathetic.
"Oh, no, not really."
Hermione's polite smile froze.
"I'm sorry, I'm fairly new to the position of his manager; could you please elaborate a bit on… his tendencies and working relationships? And how long should I anticipate for this or future fittings? I would like to set a more concrete schedule for him, to ensure he is not taking up too much of your time."
Fitzharjoners's lips pursed. "Hmmm… Well, it depends. Will you be joining him in his fitting room?"
Hermione blinked. Slowly.
"No."
"Then it should run fairly smoothly. When he has three or four girls in with him, sometimes that drags on."
"I would have thought it would be over with even faster. Strange."
Fitzharjoners muffled his cough in his hands, his eyes downcast, his smile hidden behind long, slender fingers.
"Are you talking about me?" Sirius called from the change room.
"Only about your unfailing narcissism." Hermione replied, tone bored.
"If that's all, would you mind bringing me Sisqo? I'd like to keep my hands occupied."
"You're supposed to be putting on a pair of trousers. You need your hands to… what are you doing?"
"If you won't bring it to me, I'll come out and get it."
"For the love of Dumbledore's whiskers, Sirius, get your pants o—get BACK in that room and PUT ON YOUR—fine, here, just cover it up, Christ," bitched Hermione, shoving the guitar and case at Sirius as he strutted out of the change room, naked from the waist down.
"They're a bit snugger than I'd anticipated. It's just taking me an extra moment to get into them," explained Sirius to Fitzharjoners, who nodded.
"Thank you for the feedback. I must not have remembered your measurements correctly. I apologize, sir."
"No, he just put on weight because he's been sitting around eating junk food on his couch. Don't apologize to him," said Hermione. Then she turned and put a hand in front of her eyes as she faced in Sirius' direction. "And would you please go put something on over your dangly bits? I can only hold the paparazzi off for so long, you know, with temporary charms."
"Is that why it's been so boring today? Hey, what are you doing?" Sirius asked, peering over Hermione's shoulder. His bits pendulummed dangerously close to her collar.
"Texting Harry. Letting him know the style of jacuzzi I wanted, and where to put it on the back deck."
"I didn't know you were renovating."
"It's a recent decision. So help me, Sirius, if I feel any more ball-sack heat radiating off you onto my neck, I will snap it off and feed it to your fangirls."
"Fathardboners? A quick moment, bring the pins and the extension charms."
"Of course, sir."
"The rear needs to be brought up more, for emphasis," Hermione heard Sirius directing the poor tailor, both men safely ensconced behind the fitting room curtain. "And the waist is looser, slipping."
"Yes, sir."
"And the thighs feel fine, but the calves are snugger than usual because of all the tennis I've been playing," called Sirius through the curtain, in Hermione's direction.
She rolled her eyes.
"We can certainly adjust that for you and let the seams out a bit."
"Perfect. Also, slightly bigger belt loops, please? I have my eye on one of your belts out there and think it would really set off the design on the rear pockets."
"Easily fixed, sir."
"That's looking much better. Thank you—oh, and one more adjustment, here on the front placket. Could you make it a bit roomier? Johnson's being strangled and would like a bit of personal space."
"... of course, sir. Would you like the complimentary shielding and privacy charms cast over the placket, in case of… personal need?"
Sirius laughed loudly. "Of course not!"
Hermione dropped her head in her hands, mortified.
She had spent two years researching how to bring Sirius back through the veil; another six months assisting with his rehabilitation; two weeks assisting Harry with the never-before-experienced legal proceedings to re-instate Sirius as a living being with the Ministry of Magic; and a very quiet, very lethal dinner at the end of it all explaining to Harry that she would never assist him with his god-father-uncle again.
And Harry had choked out when it came to finding Sirius a proper manager for his career as a rock star with a booming fanbase, and come crawling back to her.
Only to have Sirius strut around collecting thongs in leather pants with the impression of his willy on display for all and sundry to admire.
She really had to stop helping Harry. It was not worth the grief. Voldemort was one thing—
"Oh, perhaps a bit more room—things are getting snug in there as we speak. Here's the magazine back, thank you for letting me check the 'up fit', too."
—Sirius Black was quite another altogether.
"Let me go get my wand and we'll sort out those adjustments. One moment, please."
Hermione nodded to Fitzharjoners as he passed, a look of sympathy exchanged between comrades in arms, just as the light strains of an oddly tuned guitar met her ears..
"This is why I needed Sisqo."
Hermione's shoulders drooped. Now he wanted to talk? "The waiting?" She called back.
"Is annoying. I could be writing a new song to impress y—my fans, but I'm left to squander my time in a fitting room."He strummed the guitar, adjusting notes and strings as he went, until a harmonious chord sailed through. "Oh," he said, voice low, throaty. "That was a new sound." He strummed again. It shifted to a heart wrenching lament.
A tentative chord or two later, a touch of tinkering, and suddenly beautiful, ethereal music crept through the curtain. A low, raspy, then fuller, voice accompanied it after a moment, though his words were too quiet for Hermione to make out.
Against her will, she couldn't help the way she responded to the enchanting song. Swaying lightly in her cushioned velvet armchair, Hermione felt her heart swell, her emotions dancing on an imagined breeze through the waiting area.
Suddenly the music stopped, the spell broken.
"Hermione!"
"Yes?"
"I need you!"
"... No."
"I need your muggle phone device. I didn't bring my recording book with me. Give it to me."
"Why do you need my—put the guitar down lower so I can approach you without filing my own harassment suit against you, thank you. Hold on, okay, I'm right outside the room. Why do you need my phone? I don't have the memory available to record you."
"No? Then I just need you to set it down in here," he swung open the curtain, allowing her in and nodding at the stool. "And hold my pants up."
She glared at him.
"Do it now! Before I lose the song!" He grabbed her phone and dialed his home number, set it to speakerphone, and punched in the access code to his message machine.
"Quick, grab the front of my pants!"
"Sirius, you are out of your f—"
But he'd already started playing again and let go of his trousers.
She made a mad grab for his waistline… and misjudged.
Sirius smirked down at her as she hastily re-placed her hands and knelt in front of him, cheeks burning.
"That's a good look for you," he said, eyes hooded, voice low and electrifying her insides.
"Depilatory he—."
His voice, rich and hypnotic, caressed down her crown to her throat and into her chest to settle low in her belly as he strummed the guitar above her.
The music flowed over her as if the notes were his hands, delicate and fluttering, smoothing and limning, his voice his tongue as it lapped at her skin.
"... with you," his voice breathed over the guitar, over her, and Hermione opened her eyes and looked up, up into Sirius' shining black eyes.
She swallowed, licking her lips as she opened her mouth just as Sirius paled and opened his eyes wider, his lips opening to speak—
"—oh, well, I guess this will be a longer fitting than usual, if you are joining him in here," sighed Fitzharjoners.
There came a great clattering and crashing from the front of the store, as if a herd of wild circus animals had broken through the gates.
"By the way, I think your wards just failed, Miss Granger. The paparazzi have descended."
Sirius grinned like a mad hatter.
"Good thing we got the hard part out of the way then, eh, Hermione? Best hands in the business, Fitzhardboners, I gotta tell ya, she really has."
Harry received the text and called the construction crew to a halt.
"Five minute break, enjoy the catering!" he yelled with a wave.
They cheered and abandoned their posts.
"What's up?" asked Ron, sidling around, a hoagie in one hand, and a styrofoam bowl of bubble & squeak in the other.
"She just asked me to pick up a bottle of gin, a bag of ice, and some extra-strength headache potion for her and pop them in the ice box for when she gets home… and something about making sure the squeaky doors in the basement and attic are fixed."
"That seems fairly straightforward."
"Yes, that's what worries me."
"Well, just ask the guys to go up to the attic and down to the basement, I'll go get the groceries, and we'll be done for the day."
"That seems too easy," said Harry after a moment of reflection. "Hold on, the phone just beeped again,there's another message.
"By the way, the moat I want needs to be at least twelve feet across, twelve feet deep, in the form of… the Deathly Hallows. And she said she needs four goats and an early quitting time for the workers, and no questions asked about her wards tomorrow morning."
Ron paled and looked at Harry, who was pressing his lips together very tightly.
"She didn't outright say it would be a sacrificial rite."
"No, which means we can claim we had no prior knowledge."
"No need to file anything with the Aurors office."
"Not unless… no, no, I already saved the world once, they can bloody well handle this on their own," said Harry, deleting the text. "Go get the goats, when you get the gin."
"Do you think I should get limes and some mint?"
"Yes, probably a good bet."
"Right then, see you later, good luck with the moat."
"And you with the goat."
Harry nodded at Ron, and put on his best PR-smile and went to wrangle the construction crews.
"Good news!" he called, clapping his hands to get their attention. "We're hiring again, so if you have a few mates who are good with tunnelling and digging charms…"
To Be Continued... AN: Happy Holidays, all!