Time doesn't exist inside someone's mental world. I have no idea how long it's taken to wade in and out of his abrupt demonstration of his innermost being. Anywhere from a minute to a month is possible, but I don't think I'm hungry enough yet for it to be more than a couple of minutes. And yes; once again, I am procrastinating.
He's looking at me in silence, still as close, still with my fingers curved around his bicep, still with the dangerous emotional volatility flickering in the depths of his eyes.
He doesn't frighten me anymore, like I know him better, like I can hurt or heal him with the knowledge he's just handed to me. He can't hurt me now he needs me. Power does feel good, even to the ones who know it corrupts.
An ethical person would know that power over someone like this, is wrong. A moral person just wouldn't use this power against someone.
But ethics are the only point needed on your resume for deciding whether you belong in the light or the dark, no one ever says anything about morals. And of course, the light side is always to desperate for recruits to bother checking the difference.
Right, Procrastination.
"Why did you show me that?" I asked finally, my tone neutral, my gaze flat. My fingers uncurl from his bicep and fall to my side but his position with one arm on the wall doesn't move.
He tilts his head and looks at me, expecting me to work it out myself and spare him his pure-blood pride at having to ask someone so much younger than him for help. But of course, just because I empathise with him, doesn't mean I have to pity him as well does it? Morals and ethics….
"You want my help." I inform him shortly, bored of the silent war. He snorts and straightens up, removing his arm from the wall, shoving his hands in his pockets, looking every inch the bored aristocrat he once was.
"You think you can help me?" he asks derisively, flicking his gaze up and down me. "Little miss find-it-in-a-book?"
Despite my annoyance at his disparaging quip, I know that he's right. How can I possibly find a way to help him curb a want so dark and terrible in the cool, soft pages of a book?
The truth is, I can't.
The way his dream-self used the body of his young lover, so angrily, so controlling and so roughly inconsiderate seemed barbaric to me.
I had seem a lot of things during the war, done a lot of things that kept me up at night. But nothing had ever been so poignant as the way Sirius Black used another human being for his own pleasure, and his own pleasure alone.
And the way his victim had enjoyed it….
I shivered. For some reason, now his perverse thrills intrigued me as well as troubled me. Maybe giving him answers would help me find some as well.
I glanced up to see him still watching me closely.
"I can help you find what it is you want." I clarify, revelling secretly in the look of surprise in his face as I fake study my manicure.
"Not really interested in a sponsor and a minder Princess" he scowled, losing interest and turning around, now looking more sulky then threatening. Or maybe my fear of him was just gone.
"Well I actually meant I could find you a girl every so often that would be willing to be…used." I corrected, not lifting my gaze from my nails. The verb felt wrong in my mouth, like there wasn't a word that did justice to what he wanted to do.
He's back in front of me in a second, hand either side of me yet again, peering down through his ebony bangs suspiciously. "and why would you do that?" he asked softly, "little miss goody-two-shoes not only allowing, but ensuring a dirty little deed takes place."
I shove him away from me, annoyed that the stereotype that still follows me around, even after the war and everything I had to do to win it.
"because " I snap frustrated, " Repression is a one way ticket to a pardoned ex-convict following a girl home from school and jumping her in an alley!"
He frowns and backs away a couple more steps. "So this is to prevent a dirtier deed later on?"
"does it matter?" I counter. Evidently it does. "I empathise with you okay? I know what it's like and I want to help." Only a half truth. There's also the small fact that I can get something out of this arrangement as well.
I don't think this is the end of this conversation, but I know he needs what I can offer more then he needs answers.
"so what do I need to do" he ask, "in order to receive some… help?"
He needs to stop making innocent words sound filthy.
"You have to make an unbreakable oath not to harm anyone unless I give you permission or your life is in danger." I inform him flatly. "And nor can you provoke anyone into fighting with you and eliciting a life threatening situation. "
"Why do I need to make an unbreakable oath?" he asked shrewdly, his expression carefully blank.
I paused, trying to decide why it was I felt so wary of him.
"because I don't trust you." I said at last.
Snakes can shed their skin, but the design underneath is just as scaly.
He nods, almost imperceptibly, not removing the inscrutable mask of calm that his face has become. I wonder why someone usually so tumultuous and violent with their emotions would be so still when they are so close
But of course, he's afraid of what he wants. Ultimately, he knows that he's come back a little rough around the edges, just a tiny fraction less of the person her once was; and that scares the shit out of any ex-hero, no matter how far gone they are.
"so." He says finally, still not giving any indication of whether or not he's relieved or suspicious at my offer. "when do you want to do this?"
I blink, surprised at his automatic assent, apparently not needing much time to think it over. To be honest, I didn't really have a fully formulated plan yet, I figured he would want time to make a decision.
Although, there's a iota of hunger creeping it's way into his dark eyes, and I suspect he wants to curb the craving more then he wants to consider the consequences of our deal.
"Give me a week" I tell him firmly. "I need to make some arrangements first, and I don't really want to make an oath to help you and then find out it's unfeasible."
He raises an eyebrow. "So you don't know if you can really help me after all?" There's a note of threat creeping into his voice that I don't particularly care for, so I roll my eyes at him and walk past him to the stairs, a list of tasks already formulating in my mind.
"Of course I can." I tell him as I reach the stairs, and there really isn't any doubt in my mind at all. "I am Hermione Granger after all."
And with that I smirk and saunter down the stairs, leaving him standing in the hallway, trying to control the look of hunger etching it's way across his face.
I feel like I've made Hermione a bit too Slytherin here… although, to be fair, she was in a rather bloody war, so something's would have changed her.
Hope you liked, Dahlings.
Nixon. x