Stained Hands
Part II
Rating: T, will be M soon
Pairing: Will be Hermione/Sirius
Warnings: Emotions
Disclaimer: La, La, La, I would not be worrying about my impending college graduation were I the owner of the Harry Potter saga.
Author's Note: As standard, apologies for the tardiness, and the fact that I didn't finish in this chapter. I'm graduating in May, and things are wild right now. Also - shameless self-promotion I have stories up on Amazon right now, one of which is the first of three books in the Motorcycle Series. Check out me out by Holland Rae or The Triumph of Love, or share! As always, thanks for reading!
Stained Hands
Part II
Was she insane, the thought had occurred to Hermione, as she climbed onto the back of Sirius' bike. It bounced through her mind, as she wrapped her arms around his muscular chest, feeling the give of worn leather, trying not to feel the strong, built body under her arms. She must have been insane.
But then Sirius started the engine, and the whole bike roared to life, vibrating in a sweet rhythm beneath her. For the first time, in as many times as she had heard the growl of that blast motorcycle, it made sense. It was a low and husky sound, demanding something from its riders that kindled a feeling within her, a feeling Hermione hadn't had in a long time.
And then they were floating.
Hermione had never been very steady on a broom. For all her aptitude with quill and question, the basic skills of balance and dexterity had somehow remained just past her grip. But now, with her arms clenched around Sirius' body, and the strong, cool air playing with her skin, tugging loose curls free from her braid, she could understand why the boys had always called Quidditch pure freedom.
"Where to?" Sirius asked her, revving the engine just once more for good measure - a movement that sent a tingle of inexplicable sensation right through her. They were high up in the air now, something she hadn't realized until she looked down, seeing the disappearing houses below her feet, no larger than toys - flats for the dolls she'd played with as a child.
"Anywhere," she said, barely aware of the words spilling from her mouth. The pure awe of flying was as wild and new as she'd always believed it to be, growing up in a muggle world. She was flying. The thought made her laugh out loud. "Everywhere," she said.
Everywhere turned out to be Turkey, right in the middle of their annual hot air balloon festival. She saws the balloons far off in the distance, against the orange horizon, setting to blaze with rising sunlight.
"It's magnificent," she murmured. Sirius grinned.
"Want to get closer?" He asked, and without waiting for an answer he sped the bike up, shooting them straight into a cloud of massive, swirling hot air balloons.
The first thing that struck her was just how huge the balloons were. Logically Hermione knew that the physics of the matter requires an excess of fabric, but the theoretical knowledge paled in comparison to the reality of flying beside them. They floated by on every side, huge and slow, but graceful, like multi-colored whales caressing waves of sky that spanned on across the flat plains forever.
She never wanted to leave. The world had dealt her many blows, many losses. She'd said goodbye to her childhood in desperate search of good, and wouldn't have changed it, despite the heartache and the headache. But even with so many years of adventures, even with the knowledge of magic thrust upon her, and then taken with pride, even with the everyday spells she still marveled at, nothing could compare to this.
In every basket she saw the faces of strangers, smiling, happy, inspired strangers. A little boy pointed at a star patterned balloon as it strode for the sun. In a crisscrossed balloon of honey and auburn - almost Gryffindor colors, she thought with a smile, a couple embraced, kissing with a passion that went deeper than their bodies. Beside them, a pilot politely turned his head, waving to another pilot in a neighboring balloon.
What a scene, what a marvelous drama, all coming together before her eyes. Hermione was a rational woman, too rational if you asked her friends. She spent long hours staring at ancient texts; she spoke prudently at university lectures, and had contributed her findings to a number of academic essays and scholarly journals.
In the many years since she had first received her Hogwarts letter she had taken pains to work through each bout of magic, to understand, down to the most basic level, how something so incredible could happen right before her eyes.
And yet, this scene around her, this community of strangers paying little mind to the sparking, growling motorcycles weaving between them, had managed to reduce her back to the little girl, sitting on her father's knee and listening to fairy tales, wishing that magic existed.
To her surprised, Hermione realized she was crying. It had the effect of kaleidoscoping the scene before her, blending sky and sun, stars and plaids. Sirius seemed to sense her feeling of overwhelming, and turned the bike for the mountain opposite they'd come - saying nothing about the streaks she was sure he saw on her face in his mirrors.
A man with long black hair and an all white robe poured her tea and then bowed, walking back into the small wooden building and leaving them alone in the outdoor patio, sitting on cool down pillows and sipping local brews.
"You look happy," Sirius said, picking up a small dessert and eyeing it with mild curiosity. Hermione sipped her tea, sensing raspberry and ginger root and something earthy she couldn't quite place. How to explain, how to put into words that she felt as though her world had been opened up beyond closing again. She inhaled, reveling the deep intake of herb and earth.
"I missed the adventure," she admitted. Though they were simple, saying the words out loud lifted a force from her shoulders and soul, one she hadn't even realized she was carrying. "I don't miss the war," she explained quickly. That was part of it; to miss the adventure was to miss the war, the thick darkness that had brought such sorrow to all of them. She had been shrouded in the guilt of that wanderlust for so long. "But the idea of a new place, a new people." Hermione shook her head. "I haven't had the wind on my face in a long time."
Sirius took her hand, and while the gesture surprised her she didn't move away. He had calloused hands, big and capable, the hands of a workman. That wasn't how she saw him, Hermione knew. She'd always thought Sirius so entitled, even with the losses they'd all suffered, he'd acted the playboy, he'd embraced the role of aristocrat with all the ease of a young king. Perhaps she'd erred in her harsh judgment.
"You feel guilty?" He asked her, feathering the lightest strokes across her skin, which sent strange, pulsing sensations through her body. "Adventure is not a synonym for war, Hermione," he said.
"To me it is," she replied, before she could stop herself. How had she let that get through? How could she explain that a need for fresh air brought the nights of camping in tents, hidden off in the forest, all pummeling back to her. Fresh air meant running, it meant fear, it meant uncertainly.
Fresh air also meant freedom.
Sirius shook his head. "How long are you going to hide from the world?" He asked her. "Every whisper is a reminder, every shadow is a memory. The simplest design on a dress in a marketplace brings back the nights you couldn't sleep, the days filled with horror, sadness, desperation." He looked her in the eyes, and she could see that he'd felt every one of those moments, for so much longer than she had. They'd all endured. They'd all survived.
"You cannot live your life with your nose on a piece of parchment and your eyes desperate for something other than ancient ruins," Sirius said to her. "That is not a life worth living, 'Mione. Hiding from your past is not life."
Oh, how desperately she had needed someone to say those words to her, how completely they hit home to her soul. Live a life worth winning war, that's what it all meant.
But just because she heard the words, just because she understood them down to the depths of her very soul, didn't mean she could live their meaning out. She had been part, an integral part, of the War, and because of her hundreds of lives had been lost in fighting, because of her families still mourned, families she loved still mourned. True, had she not fought the war might still be raging around them, had she sat on the sidelines people still would have died, the ending might not have come in their favor. She wasn't immodest, but she knew her value in the fighting.
"I'm not hiding," she said, thinking of her parents, who would have no spark of recognition if they saw her now, and not because of the scar slipped around her left eyebrow, not because the war had aged her so. They'd all be forced to make sacrifices, of that she'd be all too aware. But even now, even so many years later, the idea of being happy was a hard one to fathom.
"I love my study and I love my position with the Ministry," neither of them lies, though perhaps omissions, leaving out the grander idea that she also loved the freedom of seeing the world, the freedom she'd felt that afternoon. But with her guilt, she could not reconcile.
"I think it's time you take me home," she told him, standing and straightening her jacket before Sirius had a chance to protest. "I appreciate the reprieve, but running away on a whim is not my life anymore."
Sirius boarded the bike without asking her any more questions, for which she was grateful. Had he looked at her face in the darkening sky he would have seen a river of tears flowing from her eyes.