A/N: Okay, a couple of things - first, Doctor Who's back tonight, so updates may or may not be unreliable this week, depending on how many times I can actually sit and re-watch it. Second, I got the Deathly Hallows PC game last night and...well it's quite addictive. This also may or may not result in unreliable updates. Third, you're all lovely for reviewing and I'd like to bake every single on of you a cake. (Unfortunately the logistics of this make it nigh on impossible for me to do so, but it's the thought that counts, right?) Enjoy!
Before the Dawn.
by Flaignhan.
January fades in a blur of chilly dampness, and February dawns with dustings of snow.
They are now in a routine. Sirius keeps himself busy by cooking and cleaning, while Hermione heads out to work each day with varying degrees of boredom and frustration. He has had to learn to do things the muggle way, and while it certainly helps him pass the time, it does nothing for his mood.
"I need my wand back," he says.
"Where is it?" she asks.
"At my mother's house," his tone is dark, his brow hanging low in a scowl.
She doesn't know what to say. He didn't have a wand when they were all at the Shrieking Shack, and she's not sure he had a wand during the Triwizard Tournament either. She supposes she could go and get it for him providing he only uses it in the house...but he's not likely to keep that promise.
He's not even likely to make the promise.
"They've probably got aurors watching the place twenty four seven," she tells him. This doesn't matter in the slightest. Hermione is fully capable of casting a powerful enough disillusionment charm to remain unseen for the few seconds it takes for her to to apparate onto the doorstep and go inside, but she won't tell him this. It would only make things difficult.
"I know," he says, teeth gritted. "I need it though. I feel so useless."
"Well you'll just have to cope without it for now."
"And what am I supposed to do when I find him?"
They've taken to not saying his name aloud. It only makes him sound human.
"He hasn't got a wand either. It'll be a fair fight."
"Oh you think so?"
She sighs. He's determined to catch him, determined to put things right, determined to see the last breath leave his traitorous little body.
She doesn't have the heart to tell him that all his attempts are completely futile.
Sirius' frustrations at being rendered a muggle continue to grow as February blitzes through. March's weak rays of sunlight lift his mood a little - he can sit in the garden again, but far too often his optimistic sunbathing has been sabotaged by a heavy and unexpected shower.
Hermione doesn't know what to do with him. She considers going to get his wand several times - she thinks perhaps if he can use a little bit of magic around the house his spirits might lift. But she can't trust him, not when it comes to Peter.
She feels guilty (but what's new?) that he's locked up in her house, on his own for most of the week with only a small, often wet garden for him to venture into. It's more comfortable than Azkaban, for sure, but he's no freer in here than he was in his cell.
By the time April arrives, the sunshine is a little more reliable. She comes home one day to find him digging in the garden. She watches him for a few moments - he's unaware she's there, and when he turns to her, he wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
"Just practising for when I catch Peter," he says, his teeth glinting in a mildly dangerous but playful smile.
She laughs and steps out onto the patio. There is fresh compost lining the right hand side of the garden, and he's now working his way down the left.
"Flowerbeds?" she asks, mildly amused.
He nods, stamping on top of the shovel to sink it deeper into the earth. "If I plant stuff now, by the summer it'll all be in bloom."
He won't be here to see it, but he doesn't know that yet. He'll be in some exotic country with Buckbeak, and there won't be any rain to ruin his mood.
There won't be any roof for him to sleep under, or any food for him to eat, but she knows he'll be all right.
If he can spend twelve years in Azkaban, live in a cave eating rats (she wonders how much his choice of delicacy is related to his desire to obliterate Peter) then he'll be fine wherever he ends up.
"So what next?" he asks, jabbing the fire with the poker.
Hermione consults the calendar, skewing her lips from side to side as she racks her brains, trying to extract the date of the Gryffindor Slytherin quidditch match. It's in late May, she knows that much, and it's a Saturday too...but he has to go a few days before to meet Crookshanks and get hold of the passwords...
"Nothing for a few weeks," she says.
He sighs loudly, tilting his head back against the chair to stare at the ceiling.
"Well you can go now if you like. But nothing's going to happen and you'll just be hungry and cold and you won't have anywhere to sleep."
He ignores her.
Most likely because he knows she's right.
"I'm going to need to get into the tower this time. I can't have another episode like I did at Halloween."
She knows exactly what that means. Four words would have sufficed.
Tell me the password.
"You'll figure it out..." she says, searching the shelf under the coffee table for her crossword book. It comes in handy during conversations like this, although she's nearing the end, and must get a new one soon.
She can't possibly hope to survive without her false distraction.
He'll be gone soon though, and the pressure on her will be eased.
It's a very selfish thought, and she tries to retract it as soon as it's formed in her head, but that's a very difficult process. She's always going to know that she thought it, and she's always going to know exactly what she meant. It'll be even worse after that night, and she knows it is all she will remember whenever she thinks of their time together.
She holds him tightly that night, in an attempt to appease her guilt.
It doesn't work.