~2~

Hermione walked slowly, her head bent in contemplation even as she kept a careful awareness of her surroundings. The cool damp air of London wrapped its fingers around her and she pulled her cloak tighter, draping the loose hood over her hair. She was glad she'd thought to bring it, magically shrunken and stowed safely in her purse until her date with Derek had come to its early end.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head to herself for what was probably the twentieth time that evening. She'd known the date was going to be a bust, even without Sirius' meddlesome, pompous, and presumptuous little visit. Derek, with his trendy looks and flippant personality, had never seemed to be her type. And yet he'd hounded her repeatedly to go out until she'd finally caved, thinking perhaps there was more to him than she thought. Unfortunately, there was more to him – as soon as he'd gotten her alone, he'd turned into a multi-tentacle groping machine that rivaled Cormac McLaggen both in persistence and lack of style.

Hermione gave a small huff and tossed her head as the scene of their date's end played over in her head. She wagered she probably had a few days to still shop at that record store before Derek would be able to go in to work again. Without the use of magic, no less, Hermione thought with a proud chuckle.

Her smile dropped and her eyebrows knit into a frown as she rounded the corner, however. She stopped in her tracks, looking at the space between number eleven and number thirteen, Grimmauld Place, too far away from the old house for the Fidelius charm to recognize her and reveal its secret residence.

Her stomach was still twisted into a knot over the dark-haired owner of the house. She was hurt, angry, humiliated, and disappointed in him. What an utter fool she'd been. People frequently regarded Sirius as a spoiled, arrogant, self-entitled prat with no interest in women except for the value of an easy shag. She'd refused to buy into that image, however, no matter how hard he worked to maintain it.

Upon his return, the charges against him having long been cleared and his estate re-directed back into his own name, he'd made perfectly clear that he was done trying to please others. He'd made a rather public point numerous times that his restored life was going to be spent as hedonistically as possible.

She couldn't say she blamed him, really. Except when his lifestyle of pleasure managed to bleed over on to others, and usually with disastrous results. After all, most other people did have responsibilities, jobs, relationships, children…

…Except you, a sullen little voice in her head amended.

For the past year and a half, she'd been working a desk job at the Ministry until she figured out what she truly wanted. Since the war had ended, everyone else seemed to have some kind of goal – careers, relationships, the beginnings of new families, but surprisingly enough, not her. Without exams or a dark cloud of evil waiting to be confronted, the brilliant and headstrong Hermione Granger had, for once in her life, totally floundered.

She stood out there for how long, she couldn't say. Even when the cool damp air turned to mist, then drizzle, then a soft rain, she remained, standing and staring unhappily at the rusted iron fence that ran along the front of the houses of Grimmauld Place.

Why was she even staying there? she wondered, angry with herself more than anything. She'd contemplated moving out many times, perhaps using her award gold from being a "war hero" to tour the world and make a decision once and for all. She actually almost had moved out, but then Sirius had returned, and she'd put it off once again. Why that had any bearing on her life's choices, she had no idea. No, that wasn't quite true. He'd asked her to stay, asked all of them to, but his invitation had surprised her nonetheless.

What a complete and total idiot I am, Hermione thought, scowling. Because she knew, deep down, the reason she'd stayed so long was that she'd been waiting for Sirius to grow up. She'd been living in that house with Peter Pan and his "Lost Boys" for over a year now, and the big ugly truth was that she'd been secretly hoping and waiting for that pompous and obnoxious prat to grow up.

Grow up and do what, though? It wasn't as if he'd ever give her the time of day – he'd made it more than clear particularly this past week what a pathetic and unattractive little swot he thought she was.

"Hermione?"

She gasped and whirled around, her wand drawn before her eyes even registered the wizard standing before her.

"Sorry," Sirius mumbled, not meeting her gaze.

Hermione lowered her hand and took in the pathetic sight before her. His black hair was like polished ebony, plastered to his face in spots, and his clothes were soaked through. His usual careless grin was completely absent, and his voice sounded tired, resigned, and old.

"No – I'm sorry," she said quietly. "Old habits, I guess."

"It's a good habit to keep. Just getting back from your big date, then?" he asked in a flat voice.

Damn it, why can't I stay mad at him? she wondered. In her defense, though, he looked so… sad…

"No, actually," she answered truthfully. "It ended quite early. Are you alright, Sirius? Why are you out here so late?"

He finally raised his gaze to her eyes, his grey depths remorseful. "I just needed a walk. Too many thoughts," he replied.

They stood there for an awkward moment, not speaking, getting more and more soaked. Hermione fought the compulsion to apologize. She had nothing to apologize for, she kept reminding herself.

"I'm sorry if I ruined your date," Sirius finally said.

Hermione frowned slightly, and wondered why she felt suddenly annoyed. Oh, she remembered.

"Ruining my date is hardly why you should be apologizing, Sirius," she answered tersely, feeling her anger flare up again as she remembered every harsh and unkind assumption he'd had about her. Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and stormed toward the hidden house across the street.

She had just reached the walkway to Number Twelve when her arm was roughly grabbed and she was jerked back, stumbling into the solid wall of Sirius' chest. His hands steadied her as he turned her around to face him.

Hermione made to pull away but his grip tightened as his stormy eyes searched her face with a look that caused her heart to skip a beat before she shook herself into reality.

"Sirius, what do you think you're d - "

Her protestations were cut short by a kiss as sudden and earth shattering as lightning. His hands held her, cupped around the sides of her neck, his thumbs stroking her jaw line as his mouth claimed hers.

All thoughts fled as Hermione's world was reduced to lips that were both powerful and slow, dancing over hers, coaxing and tasting, pleading and demanding all at once. Her hands should have shoved him away so she could reclaim any shred of sensibility, but they only slid hungrily over the damp material stretched across his chest. When his tongue teased along her lower lip, she granted him access with a whimper. Raindrops mingled with the taste of him – coffee and cinnamon, not firewhisky like she'd always imagined.

When they finally parted, he pressed his thumb to her mouth to quiet her, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes closed as he took a deep breath.

"I – I'm sorry, love. I… Look, I can't fucking speak right around you, damn it. I always fuck it up. So can't we just shut the fuck up and let our actions speak instead?" he said desperately, his voice rough, dark, and sweet like salted caramel.

His other thumb was softly stroking the spot below her ear that, oddly, was never a weakness before now, his long fingers tangling in her wet hair. Suddenly none of it mattered – the ridiculous assumptions on either of their parts, the misunderstandings… all the mattered was this man who was now kissing away all of the stray raindrops from her face.

Let our actions speak instead…

Gently, Hermione brought her hands up to Sirius' wrists, holding them and pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. She'd seen that look so many times, but it was always fleeting – glances across the parlour when no one was looking, over tea in the kitchen, when he'd poke his head into the study to quietly inform her that dinner was ready… It was a look that implied something was there on the tip of his tongue, wanting to be said, but always choked back.

She nodded in reply.

"It's getting cold, though. We both need to dry off," she murmured, tugging him toward the front steps of the house.

"I'll make tea," he rumbled softly as they crept over the threshold.

"You'll get out of those wet clothes first," Hermione answered without thinking. The slow, suggestive grin that spread over his face as he turned to her made her cheeks fill with warmth as she realized what she'd just said. Her heart tripped around her chest like a drunken pony as she also realized that suggestive look was for her. She licked her lips nervously.

"I will if you will, princess," Sirius purred teasingly, before leaning in and kissing her temple sweetly. "I'll meet you in the kitchen," he said, and gave her hand a squeeze, pulling her up the staircase to her bedroom before continuing to his own.

~o~

Hermione looked around her room desperately, not quite sure what to change into. She had a sexy negligee or two left over from her last rather short-lived relationship. But that would look incredibly obvious and presumptuous. Still, she wanted to be at least somewhat appealing, "just in case." She finally settled on a pair of satin pajama pants and a simple tank top with tiny lace trimmings, over which she donned her fluffy blue bathrobe to ward off the wet chill from the rain.

She paused at the doorway of her bedroom. What if this was all some bizarre misunderstanding, or worse yet – some weird, sick joke? Her lips still felt tingly and slightly swollen from being so thoroughly kissed just minutes ago. But a fantastic snogging didn't explain away the fact that Sirius had basically implied she was some desperate, unattractive little…

No. Hermione shook her head at herself. She wasn't desperate, or unattractive. She sure as hell wasn't some sexless nerd like Ginny Weasley had implied. And if Sirius Black found that idea funny, well he had another think coming. Just because she didn't slag around or publicize her sex life… She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin before turning the old glass knob and stepping out into the hallway, braced for anything.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, her bare feet silent against the cool, old wood of the floorboards, she saw that Sirius was already in the parlour, two steaming mugs set out on the low table before the sofa. He was crouched before the fire, stoking it with an ancient andiron.

Hermione swallowed hard at the sight of his bare torso, the muscles in his back flexing as he poked at the coals in the fireplace. She really did wonder what the bloody hell he did to look so… delectable was the word that came to mind before she cringed at herself and shook her head.

Still, it didn't stop her eyes from following that gorgeous slope of back down to his bum, clearly firm and quite grab-worthy even through the loose black silk of his pajama bottoms.

She faltered, feeling suddenly rather frumpy in her bathrobe and pajamas, her doubts and insecurities weighing on her shoulders like her rain-soaked cloak. She debated turning around and creeping back upstairs and pretending like none of this was real.

As if hearing her thoughts, Sirius turned and caught her eye. He said nothing but stood, giving her a dangerous smirk as he crooked his finger at her, beckoning. When she stepped into the old formal room that had become the regular household gathering place, the door slid shut behind her on its own.

Hermione felt her cheeks burn under Sirius' heated scrutiny as he watched her every step, his grey eyes smoldering as if he could see through every thread of fabric that covered her body. When she was within arms' reach of him, she stopped and waited expectantly, but for what she wasn't certain. When he merely smiled at her, she opened her mouth to speak, but once more he stopped her with his fingers pressed to her lips. She gave a shiver as he lightly traced her mouth with his gaze as well as his touch before handing her a cup of tea and motioning to the couch nearest the fireplace.

Once she was settled in, he sat down on the floor at her feet, looking up at her through a fringe of midnight black lashes. Still, he didn't speak, but sipped at his tea. Hermione followed suit, smiling to herself as she realized that Sirius always knew exactly how she liked her tea. There was a small canister of dark brown sugar she kept hidden away in the pantry, and she supposed he'd seen her sneak it out one night when she was making a cup of vanilla spiced tea for herself. Whenever it was his turn to make tea, he'd made hers that way for… how long?

Just like her toast in the mornings, blackened a bit more than anyone else's. And the fact that he never said 'good morning' to her until she'd had her first cup of coffee, as if he simply knew it irritated her to speak much in the mornings. Come to think of it, there were easily a dozen little things Sirius did to make her stay here comfortable. And had she ever once thanked him for it?

Hermione opened her mouth once more, but was distracted by the warm hands that suddenly wrapped themselves around her chilled feet. She looked down at him questioningly, and he merely made a soft shushing sound before setting to work, massaging her insteps that she hadn't even realized were tired and sore.

She let her eyes fall shut, her head resting against the back of the couch while his fingers performed their special magic. The only sounds that filled the room was the soft crackling of the wood in the fireplace, the muted rumble of rain on the roof, and the occasional random noises of the old house settling in for the night.

When he finally stopped, she opened her eyes again to see him smiling sheepishly, flexing his hands with a shrug.

"… "

What the hell - ?

Hermione's eyes widened as she tried once more to speak, to thank Sirius. But nothing came out. She nudged at him with her foot, motioning to her throat in alarm, but he merely smirked and reached over to the table behind him before handing her a small piece of parchment.

Tired of miscommunications. Until I can make you understand, no words.

Anger flared in her as she realized he'd cast some sort of spell over her. She set her cup of tea on the side table with a loud thump before rising from the couch, only to be pushed back down again as Sirius rose to his knees in front of her.

After a few humiliating moments of mouthing angrily and gesticulating, Hermione felt the infuriating sting of tears in her eyes. A strong rough hand gently grabbed her chin and forced her to look into those slate coloured eyes. She could see the flecks of blue and gold even now in the soft light of the fire.

Sirius shook his head at her, his other hand gently stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers before he leaned in and tenderly brushed his lips across hers. He didn't deepen the kiss, but pulled away slightly, his eyes searching her face with a silent plea. He took a deep breath and held one of her hands, pressing it to the intricate lines of faded ink on the left side of his chest. His gaze was intense, as if willing her to understand what he was trying to communicate.

Hermione inhaled sharply at the touch of his bare skin beneath her fingertips. The soft, steady thump of his heart against her hand was even more intimate than the feel of his flesh. Her eyelids fluttered slightly, but she was anchored by those darkening silver irises that seemed to penetrate her soul.

There was a question there, something perhaps neither of them could put words to, even if they could speak. Yet she knew the answer. Her fingers curled slightly, pressing against him possessively as she gave a slow, understanding nod.

The leather of the large, overstuffed sofa creaked noisily as Sirius guided Hermione to lay on her back, his eyes never leaving hers. As he sat on the edge of the cushion, his hip flush against hers, his gaze drifted over her face and hair, flitting down over her body and back up again. He raised his hand to her cheek and traced a path over her eyebrow, down her temple, across her jaw, to her lips, and down her neck before tangling his fingers in her unruly curls.

His kiss this time was purposeful, deliberate. Hermione shivered as his breath whispered across her lips, nudging them apart with teasing nips, then sampling them so slowly and sweetly she thought she might cry.

This was like nothing she'd ever expected from Sirius. Or any wizard, for that matter. Despite her impatience with him, she'd had her fair share of fantasies about him. She'd always imagined he'd be incredibly passionate, fiery, and extremely skilled as a lover. But this - ?

As he pulled away with that questioning look in his eyes, she realized he was actually speaking to her with his actions. The way his one hand gently cradled her neck, even as his fingers had wrapped themselves possessively into her hair… and how his other hand found hers, his thumb stroking the back of her knuckles, reassuring and tender, yet asking… asking… asking what?

She frowned slightly and looked up at him, realizing he was watching her intently, a spark of amusement flickering in his expression. He raised an eyebrow and released her hand to finger the opening of her bathrobe.

Oh – that.

Hermione leaned up and wriggled her way out of the thick, blue, voluminous sleeves, smirking at the older wizard as she lay back on the lump of discarded robe. He smiled in return, giving a wry nod before his face fell into a solemn regard.

The brief flutter of uncertainty she felt melted under his adoring scrutiny as she watched his gaze travel pointedly over her bare shoulders and arms and up again, plunging with a mischievous leer to where her thin tank top had stretched a bit lower than originally intended. She rolled her eyes at him teasingly, and he grinned as he gave her chin a playful bite, his body shaking with a silent chuckle.

Merlin, she thought, her breath catching as his face lit up. She had never seen a more genuine, easy smile cross his face. She'd covertly watched him since his return and even before then, during the summer before their fifth year. He had his special smile for Harry – heartfelt and warm, but always tinged with melancholy. And he had what she called his "Marauder" persona – the prankster, quick-witted and filthy-minded, and always amusing. But she hadn't realized before now how much he'd been holding back. He's beautiful, she thought, awed.

Hermione realized she must have had a startled look on her face, as Sirius' grin softened and he tentatively brushed the hair out of her eyes. She reached up, cupping his rough, stubble-covered jaw, and took the opportunity to freely admire his face: the slightly weathered surface over perfectly chiseled bones, the small crinkles surrounding the ocean depths of his eyes, his indecent black lashes contrasting with strong, thick brows - as well as the little imperfections – the scar that cut into the edge of one eyebrow, the creases on either side of his mouth from years of dimples, the almost too-full and slightly uneven curves of his lips, the almost imperceptible dip in his chin...

Beautiful, she thought again, but she realized it wasn't just his physical features. It was what she could see in those eyes… his spirit… Suddenly Hermione realized that even if speech were possible, words would fail the level of emotion she felt for this beautiful soul above her.

Slowly, she leaned up as she slipped her fingers down the muscled column of his neck and around to fist those silky black waves of hair. She inhaled deeply, breathing in his uniquely delicious scent – the one that always lingered on the old leather jacket hung next to hers on the hallway hooks. He'd let her borrow his scarf once – that may very well have been the day she'd caved and admitted to herself her attraction to Sirius Black. And here she was now, in his arms, brushing her lips across his, lazily drinking in the heart-clenching experience of such a small thing.

He stilled for a moment, almost as if listening to a secret whispered under a breath. Then, as Hermione slowly bit down on his bottom lip, soothing it with her tongue, a hungry sigh escaped him. He lowered his body over hers, smoothing one hand down her body as his other arm kept his weight from crushing her into the couch cushions.

The slow experimental tango of their lips and tongues quickly increased into a hard, demanding frenzy. Perhaps tomorrow she would curse her foolish and gullible heart, because certainly she should be practicing more care than this. And yet, with every kiss, every silent sigh, their breaths intermingling, limbs tangling as their fingers tried frantically to feel and give… Hermione felt all sense of caution wither like parchment to flame until it was forgotten, lost to the night as prudence and thoughts of "tomorrow" went up in a silent curl of smoke.