Chapter 39: Orion

Music suggestion: Wings of an Eagle, Russell Morris

Hermione hurried up after him, Harry and Remus following more slowly. She reached the fourth floor just as Sirius was walking into his father's room, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet.

He hadn't gone far into the room. He was standing on the rug when Hermione trotted in. He turned and looked at her, his face very serious.

'Don't touch anything!' he said, quietly but forcefully. 'That goes for you too, Remus,' he added, as Remus and Harry entered after them. 'My dad didn't like werewolves much either. Harry, you should be okay, but be careful all the same.'

'With…' Harry said slowly, 'what?'

Hermione pointed to the cane on the floor on the far side of the room, the screen lying broken not far from it.

'That attacked me,' she told him. 'Sirius… there's still a Bundimun in the wardrobe.'

And the bag of doxies, which was tied up by a window.

Sirius made no response. His glee at destroying the house had completely disappeared. He was glowering at the huge bed, decorated with cherubs. His wand was in his belt. He didn't go for it.

Instead, Hermione saw his hand claw, knuckles going white, by his side. In his palm, growing from a small flicker, was a ball of flames – not red this time, but a startling violet. Sirius drew his hand back and flung the ball – hard – straight at the bed.

It didn't just light the bed on fire. The whole thing went up in purple flames – literally went up: floating above the ground, the roar of the fire getting louder as the glowing ball of wicked violet got bigger. Hermione squinted against the bright glow, and then it was shrinking, the fireball contracting before winking out of sight. Leaving nothing more left of the bed than a little trickle of ash that made a galleon-sized heap on the carpet.

Harry cast Hermione a wide-eyed look. No, Hermione answered silently, he didn't like his father.

Standing silent, Remus's eyes followed Sirius as he strode over to a bedside table. Remus was the first to start forward in pursuit, Harry and Hermione hastening to catch up with the two older wizards.

Sirius had yanked open the top drawer in the bedside table. He withdrew a bizarre object that looked like a cage wound out of golden thread. He poked his wand at it, and nothing happened.

'Right,' Sirius muttered. He Conjured a large sack and tossed the item into it. 'Fiend Fyre again, then.'

He didn't stop to check whether the other items he was tossing out of the drawers were resistant to spells. They all went into the sack. As far as Sirius was concerned, all of his father's possessions could be destroyed in the Fiend Fyre kist in the cellar. Hermione winced when Sirius pulled out a viciously sharp diamond-encrusted knife and hurled it, point-down, into the sack with the other objects. Hermione thought the force he'd used had sent the heavy knife straight into the floor.

It had. Sirius finished with this bedside table. Wrenching the knife out of the floor with a grip on the top of the sack, he hauled the bag over to the other one, pulled out the top drawer, and froze.

Hermione wasn't the only one who hastened over. She got there first, though, and, her hands determinedly by her sides, peered into the drawer. It held a book, a vial of some powder, and a silver box, intricately designed and probably very valuable.

It was the box Sirius was staring at. Hermione's eyes dropped to his hand. It was hovering above the drawer. She'd never seen Sirius's hands as anything other than sure and capable. The one Hermione was looking at was quivering.

'Sirius,' Harry said, his voice wary, 'what's in the box?'

Sirius didn't respond. Hermione felt someone move behind her and looked up at the watchful face of Remus, stopping beside his old friend. Sirius's cheeks had gone slack, his face white. Hermione's eyes prickled with tears.

Sirius swallowed, reached down, and snapped the lid of the box open. Hermione gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, her head going woozy.

Remus hadn't made a sound. Harry gulped audibly.

'Sirius,' he said again, more softly, 'whose fingers are those?'

Hermione knew. Hermione knew exactly who the two severed fingers, perfectly preserved in the box, belonged to. She'd admired those fingers.

Sirius made a choking noise. He took a breath.

'Mine,' he said croakily.

'What?' Harry exclaimed. Hermione registered dully that, for once, she wasn't the one most surprised by one of Sirius's revelations. 'But… but – you still have your fingers!'

Sirius's fist had clenched. Rising with the whiteness in his knuckles was the whiteness in two thin scarred lines, straight across the base of the first two fingers on his right hand. Hermione's gaze trailed up to Sirius's face. He looked unable to pull his eyes away from the box. He looked sick.

'Shut it!' Hermione cried. 'Harry – shut the box!'

Sirius blinked as the box snapped shut. He didn't speak, but Remus did.

'I remember that day,' he said quietly. 'I was there when he came into the Hospital Wing,' he went on, gaze directed down but speaking for Hermione and Harry's benefit. 'Christmas holidays, fifth year. I'd remained at Hogwarts for full moon, he'd gone home. It was about a week before classes were due to start…'

Remus took a breath, then spoke to Sirius.

'You told Poppy you'd had an accident. That wasn't your only injury. You never talked about it. It wasn't an accident, was it.'

Remus hadn't said it as a question. It was a statement, as though he'd always known.

Sirius's eyes had shut. His throat bobbed and he gave his head a single shake.

'He cut off your fingers?' Harry breathed, horrified. 'And kept them?'

Remus's hand clasped Sirius's shoulder.

'For once,' Sirius's voice came out as no more than a thin wisp, 'I was glad he'd used the knife. Wouldn't have been able to regrow them if he'd cursed them off.'

'The – ' Harry stared down at the sack. 'That knife?'

No one answered him. Hermione was pretty sure it was that knife.

'But – ' Harry looked wildly from Sirius to Remus. 'Why?' he finished lamely.

Sirius's eyes opened slowly. A little, bitter smile rose in the corners of his mouth.

'Because,' he said, and his voice sounded like a distant pipe scraping along the road, 'I wasn't nice to dear Bella and Cissy. They had rumours to pass on to my parents. Dad didn't take kindly to me giving them the two-fingered salute.'

Hermione's fingers had taken hold of Sirius's fist. He looked down at it, mildly surprised. A moment later, his hand opened and Hermione gripped it in both of hers.

'You also had a broken ankle,' Remus said, very gently, 'and a number of ribs.' He was watching Sirius intently. 'You had more cuts than just the fingers. I heard Poppy. She was horrified…' Remus trailed off. He picked up with quiet, 'How'd you get to the castle, Sirius?'

'Apparated.'

'Apparated…' Remus repeated. He didn't look disbelieving. His head turned slightly as he shut his eyes.

'Couldn't use the Knight Bus,' Sirius went on tinnily, gaze cast down at Hermione's hands, though she didn't think he was focusing on them. 'Couldn't stay on my seat. Bus wrenches too much. Would've taken too long, too. Didn't want to walk all the way to the kerb… it was hell getting up to the castle from Hogsmead. Glad I didn't pass out.'

'You… walked on a broken ankle?' Harry whispered.

'Just fractured,' Sirius corrected.

That didn't seem to clear it up for Harry. He stared to Hermione for a bit of clarification – or for a companion in shock, Hermione didn't know which. Hermione could provide the first, not the second. She wasn't shocked Sirius had walked on a fractured ankle. She wouldn't be surprised if he'd crawled some of the trek up to Hogwarts, either.

'Had a good Christmas break after that,' Sirius went on. 'I didn't go home for the rest of it. Went back for summer. I knocked dad out. Nearly killed him. Think he ended up in St Mungos. Best Christmas I ever had the next year – with the Potters.'

There was silence after that. What more could be said? Sirius lifted his gaze and met Harry's dead on. Harry cleared his throat.

'So,' he said, indicating the room, 'it all goes, then?'

'Everything,' Sirius confirmed.

'Right.'

And Harry strode off. Hermione heard something wooden blow up with a great deal of violence. She didn't turn to look. She didn't want to leave Sirius's side. Remus squeezed Sirius's shoulder, Conjured a few more sacks, and said, 'There was a Bundimun in the wardrobe, was there?'

'Yes,' Hermione answered. 'The robes are okay to touch.'

She was left with Sirius, standing by the horrid box. Hermione sniffled, lifted Sirius's hand, and kissed his knuckles. Harry wouldn't see. He was making a furious clatter on the other side of the room, chucking items into sacks. When she leant her head against Sirius's shoulder he raised and arm around her and held her head to him.

It didn't last long. Sirius cleared his throat, released her, and hurriedly tossed everything from the drawers, the box included, into the sack. He tied it off when he was done and straightened up.

There was a lot of tugging and smacking going on behind Hermione. Sirius watched it blandly for a moment over the top of Hermione's head, his eyes clouded with that awful internal thunderstorm.

'It's all right, Harry,' he said, leaving Hermione's side, heading for where Harry was trying to open a polished wooden chest large enough to fit a body. 'I've got it.'

Harry didn't want to give up. He shot another spell at the chest and gave its lid a vigorous shake, a ropey muscle standing against the youthful skin of his cheeks.

'I've got it,' Sirius repeated, more quietly, taking hold of the lid. 'Help Remus with the robes.'

'What's in there?' Harry said roughly, stepping back and glaring at the chest. He didn't look up at Sirius.

'I don't know,' Sirius answered. 'I'll let you know when I do.'

Hermione shoved tears out of damp eyes and hurried to help wherever she could – breaking down furniture, clearing up debris, and sending sacks down to the cellar for disposal in the kist. There was little satisfaction found in the job when it was done and the room was empty, cleared of Orion but for the mural on the ceiling. It was a silent group that trudged down the stairs.

Every floor they passed had been cleaned of the mess they'd left. It hadn't been them. Hermione was fairly sure it had been Kreacher, and, when they reached the kitchen, it seemed Sirius thought similarly.

Glancing at the elf for no more than a second, he gave a short but meaningful, 'Thank you,' before passing on through the cellar door and clattering down the bare wooden steps into it.

The Fiend Fyre Kist, a very thick-walled, blackened steel box, held only one sack at a time. Sirius and Harry dumped them into it again and again, then the lid was slammed down, the latches closed, and Sirius poked his wand through a small hole in the side. He cast the spell before rapidly withdrawing his wand and swinging shut a cover over the hole – the process repeating over and over, through a dozen sacks.

Sirius was first to leave the group. Other than instructing Harry on operating the kist, he'd said little since he'd said so much. He dumped his overrobes over the back of a chair, told them he needed a run, and left the house. Remus was next to go, and Hermione was left with Harry in the kitchen. She tried to coax him into learning how to brew an Oculus Potion, but his mind couldn't focus on it.

'No… Harry,' Hermione said gently, interrupting his potion preparations for the seventh time, 'you're supposed to be filleting it.'

Harry looked down at the Pickled Flapperfish he'd been hacking into irregular chunks. He didn't seem to see it. He dumped his knife on the table and just sat there.

Hermione lay down her own knife and watched him sadly.

'Try,' she said, 'not to treat him any differently, okay? He wouldn't like that.'

Harry didn't need to ask whether she was talking about Sirius.

'What do you mean,' he said aggressively, glaring at her, 'treat him differently?'

'Well,' Hermione said, uneasy, 'you wouldn't even look at him…'

Harry's eyes, striking as they were, could seem to gleam even more brightly when he was angry.

'How am I supposed to look at him?' he demanded. 'Why does it seem like I'm the only one who didn't know?'

Hermione dropped her gaze to the table. It proved a giveaway.

'You did know!' Harry said furiously. 'Why didn't he tell me?'

'He just did!' Hermione said hotly. 'That's about as good as anyone else has gotten! He never told Remus – Remus was just there! And you can bet, Harry, you were the hardest to tell!'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Can't you see, Harry?' Hermione said, exasperated. 'Who would Sirius least want to know that? Not an old friend – not me – but the person he was charged to be guardian to!'

That shut Harry up.

'It's a weakness he wouldn't want you to know,' Hermione went on. 'It's a horror in his past he wouldn't like to put on you – but he did tell you, despite that! And you can bet he'll regret it if you treat him like an injured child – or can't even bring yourself to look at him!'

'I don't see him as an injured child,' Harry said, startled.

'No,' Hermione huffed, 'because he's a great deal stronger than that! And you should be able to understand that better than anyone – your childhood wasn't much fun either!'

Harry was watching her silently. Hermione felt very hot. She was breathing heavily. And it wasn't Harry she was angry at. Drawing a deep breath, Hermione fought to get herself under control.

'Childhood?' Harry said once Hermione felt herself starting to cool. 'Sirius wasn't a child then. He was sixteen.'

Hermione nodded and busied herself with her Flapperfish.

'How young,' Harry said, undeterred, 'was he when it started?'

'Four,' came a new voice, and both of them turned to look at Kreacher. 'Master Sirius was four. Master Regulus was five.'

That was it. That was all Kreacher said. He scuttled into the pantry after that and carried a leg of ham out to slice for lunch. It lined up with the start of the Inform Orion messages Hermione had seen in Walburga's diaries. It left her feeling even worse than she had been.

But, despite it all, Sirius hadn't just shut up and been a good boy. He hadn't bowed down and kept his views to himself – or decide he agreed with his parents. Hermione blinked rapidly to clear her eyes.

Sirius returned after what had to have been a four hour long run. He took the belated lunch Kreacher gave him without comment, and sat at the table not far from where Hermione and Harry were chugging on with potions.

Harry dumped shredded eel eyes into his cauldron, gave it a stir, and looked up at his godfather.

'Want a game of chess later?' he asked Sirius. 'I'll let you win.'

Sirius kept Harry's gaze for a solid moment, then glanced down and picked a fallen lettuce leaf off his plate.

'That'll be a change,' he responded.

The two did play chess, after dinner and after Harry had finally managed to brew the potion correctly. Hermione left them to it, running upstairs to grab the record Sirius had given her before going into the room with his player; leaving the door only mostly shut.

She set the record up, remembering how to do it, and sat on the floor to listen to Songs from the Wood.

In all the years she'd lived with her parents, they'd never once raised a hand to her. Not a single spanking. Not even a slap to the hand. Just hugs. A great many hugs.

She'd seen The English Patient with her parents. Caravaggio's thumbs being cut off was a scene burned into her brain, and she'd watched that partially hidden behind her fingers.

She didn't know how it had happened. Perhaps it had been a slash of the knife as Sirius held up a hand to defend himself. But as it was specifically the two fingers he'd have used to give the rude gesture…

Hermione's skin pricked with a terrible horror, her lungs working only shallowly.

It seemed Orion's abuse had gotten worse and worse over the years. Perhaps in response to Sirius's continued, and likely escalating, defiance. That, though – and keeping the fingers – in his bedside drawer! Hermione had the impression of a very disturbed man. From what Hermione had seen from her portrait, Sirius's mother had gone mad, though in later life. It seemed to run in the family – seemed to run in the families of many driven by pureblood mania: a horrendous cruelty unleashed inside uncaring, unhinged, and unhealthy homes.

Except for Sirius. He stood, hale and robust amongst them – an astonishing enigma. With a mix of great power and lively intelligence few wizards had, and a resilience… no one had. It was like a magical child popping up in a long line of Muggles, but more remarkable.

Magical children exposed to significant trauma didn't tend to be able to properly control their magic. It made Hermione wonder. Sirius wielded magic like it was nothing. Violet flames were far from simple magic, difficult to Conjure, and difficult to control; especially to do both without a wand.

Hermione didn't think Sirius had been unaffected by his experiences. Far from it – she was sure he'd been shaped by them. She could believe it had affected his magic, just, perhaps, in a way that was more unusual.

I believe in fires at midnight

When the dogs have all been fed

A golden toddy on the mantle

A broken gun beneath the bed

Silken mist outside the window

Frogs and newts slip in the dark

Too much hurry ruins the body

I'll sit easy, fan the spark

It was the last song on the album, and the last song Hermione had heard on many nights as a child, with her mother singing it quietly next to her.

Hermione's eyes shut. She longed desperately for her mother. Maybe Hermione couldn't tell her mother everything, wouldn't be able to sit and discuss sex, men, and a horrible history with her, not entirely. And definitely not with her father. But… Hermione would like a bit of parental understanding right now. Someone older, with more wisdom. With… a parent's view of it all, authority in their opinions.

She got up, restarted the record, and sat down to listen to side one all over again.

There was a knock on the door. Sirius pushed it further open and looked in.

'Mind if I join you?'

He wasn't avoiding her. It was enough to make Hermione smile. That, and the strong rush of eagerness to be with him that ballooned within her. She nodded and Sirius came in and shut the door behind him.

'I helped myself,' Hermione said, indicating the player. 'I hope you don't mind…'

'Nah.' Sirius swept his overrobes out of the way and sat beside her. He – or Kreacher – had given them a good dusting, and the wind had taken care of the plaster dust in his hair. He didn't look like he was greying all over anymore. He looked notably young, and sat with a similar amount of notable youth: lowering himself easily straight down and kicking his legs out in front of him as he leant back on his hands. It showed long, densely muscled legs and the flat plane of his torso to good effect. And bare feet beyond crossed ankles. Always bare. Hermione's guess was he didn't like socks.

'Who won?' Hermione asked.

'Me.'

Hermione smiled and shook her head.

'Perhaps you should let him win one chess match out of many?'

'Perhaps,' Sirius agreed. 'But not today. I went for normalcy today, and it wasn't easy. Harry was strong competition.'

It was probably the right call for today. Hermione chewed at the inside of her cheek.

'How is he?' she asked cautiously.

Sirius was silent for a long moment.

'Angry at James,' he answered finally.

'At James?' Hermione said, surprised. 'Why would he be angry with James?'

'Because James didn't do anything about it.'

'What…' Hermione said hesitantly, 'did you tell him?'

Sirius rubbed at the stubble on his cheek. Hermine could hear the sandpapery noise it made.

'Not much. He just asked whether his dad had known. I deduced the rest. I told him James hadn't really – not until after I'd already left this house. There wasn't much point doing anything then. James's parents let me stay, and James… was like my brother. That's all he needed to do.'

Hermione nodded. She flipped the record when side one ended and sat back a little nearer Sirius on the carpet.

Velvet Green. It was a song Hermione could recognise from the first trilling sounds. That wasn't the part of the song she liked, though. She liked the part her mother had sung around the house sometimes, where Ian Anderson's vocals were accompanied by nothing more than a steel string guitar. Her mother had called the song a beautiful, poetic warning.

Won't you have my company, yes, take it in your hands

Go down on velvet green, with a country man

Who's a young girls fancy and an old maid's dream

Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green

One dusky half-hour's ride up to the north

There lies your reputation and all that you're worth

Where the scent of wild roses turns the milk to cream

Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green

And the long grass blows in the evening cool

And August's rare delight may be April's fool

But think not of that, my love

I'm tight against the seam

And I'm growing up to meet you down on velvet green

Sirius was listening silently. Hermione wondered whether he was hearing the words, or just the music. She leant a little and found his side with her back. He didn't reach to hold her. Pinching her lips, Hermione took his hand and held it in her lap.

Now I may tell you that it's love and not just lust

And if we live the lie, let's lie in trust

On golden daffodils, to catch the silver stream

That washes out the wild oat seed on velvet green

We'll dream as lovers under the stars

Of civilizations raging afar

And the ragged dawn breaks on your battle scars

As you walk home cold and alone upon velvet green

But Hermione wasn't alone. Sirius's hand was warm in hers. It was his right one. Hermione found the scars without needing to look. Rubbing her thumb back and forth on the base of his index finger she could just feel the slight rise of it. Sirius's hand turned and he held her fingers still.

'Leave it, Hermione,' he said softly. 'I don't want to be reminded of it – especially not by you dwelling on it.'

He'd burnt his own fingers into nothing in the kist. Hermione could still see the severed ends in that box… still and lifeless fingers. Not like the ones gripping hers. Dead ones. Like Sirius had been. Looking startlingly like how his fingers had been when Hermione had first seen him in the Shrieking Shack. Waxy. Pale. Like all of him. Horribly thin. Like a wasted, animated corpse. Hermione's mind had never been able to lose that image. She was quite sure his severed fingers would be the same.

'What's Azkaban like?' Hermione whispered.

'Hermione…' Sirius sighed. Hermione glanced over and saw his eyes had shut. 'It's your own personal hell you can't get out of. Please… Hermione. Just leave it. I don't want to do more of this today.'

Hermione nodded hastily and gripped his hand in both of hers. His eyes opened and she gave the nod again.

'All right.'

He wasn't skeletal now. Hermione gazed at his legs as the music filled the room, appreciating them with less salacious intent this time.

The album sung them its lullaby for the second time that night, and then ended. Hermione got up to retrieve it and pack it away.

'Erm…' Sirius was still sitting when Hermione turned to look at him. 'Time,' she said nervously, 'for bed?'

Sirius nodded, stood up, and opened the door. He paused in the doorway, looked around, and held his hand out for Hermione's. She took it gladly, unable to hold back a small smile.

The question hung, unanswered, just as it had the previous night, all the way up to the third floor. Hermione slowed as they reached the landing, hoping, somehow, he could read her well enough to know she didn't want last night to be a one-time-only occurrence.

But that was stupid. The steps shortening ahead of her, Hermione asked quietly, 'Could we… give it a second try?'

'Sex or sleeping?' Sirius asked.

'… Sleeping.'

'Pity,' Sirius uttered, and it made the whole, awful day disappear: Hermione giggled.

He turned crinkled eyes on her and gave a single nod.

'I'd like a second try,' he agreed quietly, looking at her with warmth in his eyes. Hermione's heart did a funny little jump in her chest.

'I'll just…' Hermione gestured over her shoulder toward her bedroom, 'get what I need…'

'Female stuff?'

Some things… he could say almost too freely. Hermione blushed.

'And… pyjamas, I think.'

'Ah–' Sirius broke off, glancing over Hermione's head to her bedroom door. His humour had disappeared when he looked back at her. 'What's…' he said slowly, 'wrong with your top?'

'It's… erm… not a pyjama top?'

Hermione watched him curiously. Sirius dug finger and thumb into his eyes and rubbed at them.

'What's… wrong with a pyjama top?' Hermione asked.

'Just,' Sirius muttered, 'not the pinkish one with the frilly sleeves.'

'Okay…'

She left him, none the wiser, to hurry to the bathroom, do what she needed to and grab a spare pad, and moved on to her bedroom. The "pinkish one with the frilly sleeves" was folded under her pillow. Hermione pulled it out and frowned at it. It was girlish. She'd always thought that. And it seemed Sirius really didn't like that.

Hermione folded it up and tucked it back in her trunk. She had others. There was a simple black t-shirt that paired with star-patterned shorts. She considered the shorts, wondered if that was too girly as well, and just took the top. If he didn't like her looking girlish, well, that was probably a good thing, if a bit funny. It was just a top.

She cast a look around the room before she left it. No Crookshanks. He'd probably missed her last night. There was a fair possibility…

Sirius's bedroom door was ajar. It meant he hadn't changed his mind – was sticking to what he'd said. Hermione stepped in and found Crookshanks. Accusatory yellow eyes glared up at her from where he was lying on Sirius's chest, bare above the covers. Crookshanks shouted a loud meow, white cat fangs showing. Sirius was giving his back a good rubbing. Crookshanks shouted again, though not because he wasn't enjoying the pats.

'I'm sorry,' Hermione said, amused, scratching the cat's head.

'Meow!'

'You don't need to shout at me.'

'Meow!'

'I'm here now aren't I?'

'Meow!'

Lying flat on his back on the bed, Sirius was looking down at the cat, an eyebrow raised.

'Never met a cat quite like this one,' he commented. 'Reckon he's trying to fend me off?'

'No,' Hermione said, scratching under Crookshanks's chin. His purrs were returning. 'He likes you. He's just making sure he's not forgotten.'

'I don't think he can be forgotten,' Sirius said flatly. 'He's an enormous ginger ball that doesn't let you get up.'

Crookshanks purred happily, his eyes closing as he was rubbed and scratched by pampering hands. Hermione kissed his head and went to shut the door. She changed quickly, leaving her panties where they were and pulling the black top on above them. She stored her day clothes with the spare pad tucked inside them.

She stepped around the footboard to what, it seemed, was allocated as her side of the bed, and met Sirius's gaze, the man still stuck, pinned on his back under Crookshanks. She paused for a moment, evaluating his response, and saw no aversion to this top.

As Hermione climbed into the bed, Crookshanks got up and stepped onto, then over her. He lay down beside Hermione and gave her a slow blink. Sirius pulled the blankets up over his torso. He eyed Crookshanks and shifted nearer Hermione. Crookshanks rested his head happily on the bedcovers. Hermione was scratching his back. Sirius reached over her and rubbed the cat's head.

'I usually sleep on my side,' Hermione said, breaking the silence.

'Then lie on your side.'

Hermione took a hesitant moment to work out which way to turn. She chose to face Sirius. It didn't seem that had been what he'd been expecting. Propped up on his elbow, he looked down at her for a few seconds before lying down too.

He'd stopped patting Crookshanks, but he didn't remove his arm. It lay over Hermione's side and she smiled at him, finding his ribcage under the covers. It felt solid, no ribs apparent unless she pressed her fingers in.

Sirius shoved a hand under his pillow, propping his head up a little, and watched her silently. He wasn't smiling, but the image was tremendously soft; the moment sweet and conspicuously intimate. Hermione's fingers traced a muscle in his back.

She'd thought she'd known, with Ron, what he wanted from her – thought of her. Until they'd called a halt to things… and then Hermione had reconsidered, and was sure she knew, now, what he'd wanted and felt. It was the same as what she had. She didn't know what Sirius wanted and felt, but, once again – in a different way – that was the same for her.

Sirius pulled away, but did no more than grab his wand and turn off the lamps. He settled back beside her, and Hermione felt him reach for her under the covers. He didn't go for a breast, didn't try anything at all. Just rested a hand on her side.

It already felt familiar: having his body weigh the bed down beside her.

''Night Mione.'

The words seemed to rumble through the bed and into her. Hermione smiled into the darkness. His voice was delicious.

''Night Sirius.'

Hermione found his shoulder with her lips and kissed the warm skin. Her waist received a rub in reciprocation.