A/N:

Elluxion: Woot! Once more it's finally up! =D *starts flinging handfuls of chocolate dust bunnies in the air* I just thought I'd address a few reviewers' questions:

Firstly, Meg -- thanks for the suggestion of a H/D dinner! I'll make Mari look into it and write something sinfully fluffy. Mwahahaha. =P

tomatored -- Okay, caught and guilty. =P We figured out the timeline and yes, Michael's age is incorrect. He's Bill's son, BTW. ;) We'll edit it, and thanks for pointing it out!

tainted black -- I've heard of Phillip Pullman! I want to check his books out! Nope, it's not from His Dark Materials; it's from some fanfic I read a really, really long time ago...

Sila-chan -- yes, he just -looks- a bit older, he wasn't kept down, and even if he was he'd still be 'Mione's age. ;)

JoeBob1379 and RavynNyte -- Michael is Bill's son. =)

To everyone else -- you lot are the best, thank you for the faithful reviews! *passes around more chocolate*

And to Nic for being the bestest friend. Ever. ;) And yep, that's about it before this gets longer than the fic. Enjoy!

Sweetest are the Stolen Kisses:

Chapter 4

"It's been awhile."

"Yeah, it has."

Sirius's hand gripped a bar and aided him in standing up.  His face in-between the vertical metal beams, he gave a wan smile.  "What are you in for, Maddie?"

The woman stood on the other side of his cell, his cage, her posture perfect and her face looking older than he last remembered.  Her brown hair was held up in a single ponytail, a few loose strands hanging limply.  She wore the simple garments of a prisoner, a grey jump suit.  Her arms being held firmly behind her, he could tell that the Dementor was pushing her toward the end of the hall, away from him.  She shrugged and mouthed 'later', motioning with her head the direction of her cell.

He nodded.  He would see her later, definitely.

---

"Hermione."

A cinnamon coloured heard lifted toward the sound of name, and found her mentor, Professor McGonagall, standing in the doorway of her private quarters.  She was about to smile when she noticed the serious and displeased look on the elder teacher's face.  Something was not right.  "Minerva?"

"The damn Ministry," McGonagall swore, something she rarely ever did, "has already inquired into Stella's 'accident'.  And they're raising hell about it, too."

As the older woman paused, Hermione seized the opportunity to stand up and conjure a chair for her to sit in.  Offering it to her guest, she sat once again, turning her seat to face her friend.  "What's wrong?  Stella's okay."

"Well, you know ever since Sirius Black was cleared they've had a strange urge to make it up to Stella for everything they put him through.  And it appears Snape's daughter felt the need to enlighten half of the school about the whole incident.  Naturally, the Ministry is having a fit about the fact that they weren't informed immediately.  They have required that a Governor stay at Hogwarts to investigate the goings-on and make sure that there are no more dangers to the students."

"Don't they think that the teachers are quite capable of doing that?  It's not like we left Stella out there to die or anything."  Hermione herself felt a little offended.  The Thestral on the loose might have been hostile, yes, but they were able to handle it.  "Who have they sent, anyway?"

"Guess.  You'll go mad when you find out."  McGonagall answered, leaning back in her chair and massaging her temples.

"I don't know. Who?"

"Draco Malfoy," came the reply, sounding weary.  "A rookie!  Barely a Governor!  How is he any more capable of finding a wild Thestral then you or I?"

Taken aback, Hermione scrunched her nose in distaste.  "I no longer feel any ill feelings toward him—in fact, I don't feel much of anything, but he was just made a Governor."

"Exactly!" replied McGonagall, "They can afford to lose him for a bit.  Plus, he was already here, and Fudge has always been lazy about things like this." She sounded somewhat disgusted.  "I suppose it can't hurt to have him around, but honestly!  Wouldn't a Governor who knows the rules inside and out work the best?"

Hermione shook her head.  "I don't understand."

Her colleague nodded.  "Neither do I."

"Has he been informed?" inquired Hermione, who was still a bit shocked by this new development.

"I have no idea," came the honest reply.  Minerva sighed and shook her head listlessly, "Would you go tell him, please?  Just in case?  I'd do it myself, but I have a terrible headache."

Nodding good-naturedly, Hermione stood and moved toward her former teacher.  Patting the older arm before walking briskly to the door, she called over her shoulder, "Why don't you go to Poppy, then?  Her medicine always works wonders for me."

"Maybe I will, later." Was the statement that ended their conversation, as Minerva stood as well and left, closing Hermione's door behind her.

---

Moments later, Hermione stood outside Draco Malfoy's door, looking rather nervous.  It wasn't as if she feared Malfoy; she just didn't know him.  It felt quite unusual to be outside his door, let alone speak to him.  Taking a deep breath, she reached her hand up and knocked daintily on the door.

"Malfoy?  Are you in?"

Shuffling was heard within the room, and a curse word or two sounded, muffled by the wood of the door.  Suddenly it flung open, to reveal a mussed young man staring impatiently out into the hall.  "Granger?  What do you want?"

"I-I was wondering if you had heard the news." She stuttered, startled by his sudden approach.

His eyebrow lifted toward his hairline as he stared at her, perplexed.  "News?"

Sighing, Hermione looked away.  "The Ministry has requested that a Governor stay at Hogwarts to make sure that order is maintained, and that no more children are attacked.  You've been chosen for the job."

"Oh, have I?" he retorted, sounding rather upset.  "Well, I'm quite unhappy to hear this, as it interferes with many of my plans."  He moved out of the way, allowing Hermione access to the less-than-immaculate room.  She walked in cautiously, casting a disproving eye about.

"Plans?"

"Well, yes.  Becoming a Governor was means of being paid.  It's a job. I was planning on travelling." He sounded cross as he closed the door with a bit of force.

Removing an article of clothing from a green velvet chair (how typical, she thought) she perched herself upon it.  "Governors aren't allowed to travel—"

"—outside of England."

She looked up, surprised.  "So you've read the Governor's Code already?"

"Well, it is part of my job," was the plain, slightly sarcastic response.

"True." She paused, before adding, "But where were you planning on going, exactly?"

Moving away from his position at the door to the chair opposite Hermione's, he gave her an impertinent look.  "Is that really any of your business, Granger?"

Huffing in a strangely hurt way, Hermione turned away from him.  "Well, excuse me for acting like a decent human being and trying to make conversation!"

"Decent human being? Are you implying that I'm not a decent human being?" Malfoy demanded, sounding affronted.

"Why, yes! I think you've got that just about right. Just because you weren't in the best of moods doesn't give you the right to take it out on me! That kind of behaviour is petty and unfit for anyone who's supposed to be a Governor!"

Malfoy suddenly looked stricken, silver-grey eyes wide and his face pale – well, paler than usual, anyway. Hermione thought the term was 'aristocratically fair'. Well, I wouldn't have found him half-bad looking in school if he'd kept his damn mouth shut and those filthy comments to himself.

He sighed suddenly, his shoulders slumping, relieved of a tension she hadn't known was there until that slight movement. "Yes, you're right. I-I apologise for my behaviour. I've just been a little bit stressed this week. Of course, that's no excuse. You were saying something before…?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. It was rather out-of-character for Malfoy to apologise like that. Of course, he had to have matured, hadn't he? "Um, I said that Ministry wanted a Governor to remain at Hogwarts. And I think that's about it." She fiddled nervously with the ends of her sleeves (something she hadn't done for years), uncertain of what she should do next. It was quite an unfamiliar feeling, actually.

Suddenly, two white hands shot out and caught hers. "You shouldn't do that. The thread is fraying," Malfoy said, quietly. His usually silken-smooth voice was a little scratchy like he hadn't been getting enough sleep and his grasp was gentle. Strangely enough, this sent little zings of sensation up her arms.

Static, she told herself. Perfectly normal. Hermione looked up to Malfoy's face, unaware when her gaze had turned to the ground. Which was when she had first taken notice of the dark shadows underneath his eyes. It gave him a sort of… romantic vulnerability, she supposed.

Not that she'd notice or anything. She was nothing if not observant; it was just another part of being Hermione Granger.

"Have you been getting enough sleep? You seem rather tired…"

His facial features registered slight shock, at first, and then he smiled hesitantly. And it was a little odd, but that tiny change in expression seemed to soften the hard edges of his cheekbones and his lips seemed fuller in comparison to when they were pulled into a scowl or a stubbornly blank line. "I'm… fine. Thank you for asking."

She could still feel his fingers on her hands, barely there but she was much too aware of them.

Then he abruptly released her fingers and she felt a pang. "Well, goodnight then, Granger. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes," she replied, and was pleased to note that he had asked her a question instead of giving her an order. Then she turned and fled down the corridor to her own quarters to dream of gentle fingers ghosting over her wrists.

---

Sirius drew a horizontal line through the grit on his prison wall, slicing it through four other vertical scratches. The wall was covered with several hundred markings like these, the sign of a man dark with a nauseating mixture of resignation and destination and the smallest—stupidest, Sirius told himself, stupid—shred of hope.

Sirius Black's hair hung limply in his eyes, reminiscent of a time—a very long time ago, like the shadow of a shadow, the dream of a dream—when the same bangs used to do the same thing, with a sort of offhand charm that he knew girls found attractive. Yes, those were the days when he lounged about in school with Prongs, Moony, Padfoot and—oh yes, and that traitorous, simpering bastard Wormtail. He'd get his own back, one day. For Lily, for James, but most of all, for little Harry Potter, his godson.

Transforming used to be so easy—Sirius had never fully appreciated how simply and fluidly he could change from human to creature, creature to human. Now you could half-hear the poorly oiled cogs in the Transfiguration as they tried to turn, as they tried to respond to his urging. Changing was awkward and stiff, and his senses were dulled, even for a dog.

Sirius Black shook back his ears and slid easily through the prison bars, slinking down the hallway to search for Madeleine and his first human contact in a long, long time.

---

"Are you certain you want to do this, Hermione?" McGonagall squinted uncertainly at her. Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Stella beat her to it. "Professor Granger, you really don't have to do this for me." Her eyes were imploringly earnest. Eyes, Hermione noticed with an unsettling lurch, which were almost eerily identical to her late father's, with a mischievous, restless light.

"Of course I'm going to do it," Hermione said firmly, glancing over at Draco who stood silently beside the window. It hadn't snowed for a few days, being too cold to do so, and beyond Draco, the clouds were frozen, hanging, pregnant with snowflakes and ice. Immobile. It would snow soon, and snow hard.

"I'm not sure if going into the Forest at night is the best thing, Hermione," Minerva said tactfully. "And alone—well, almost—you should go in a bigger group, perhaps I'll round up some of the other professors to accompany you—"

"I have this feeling that the Thestral won't turn up like that, Minerva," Hermione said softly.

"There's a fair chance that it's a predatory creature, a sole hunter, and if so the herd would not have accepted it… It would prefer to pick off its prey one by one, perhaps. A pair would present less threat than a group, and the darkness would provide perfect cover for its hunting. Hermione"—the word was stumbled over; the syllables tasted strange, almost coppery—"and I will capture the Thestral if we can and try to bring it back to the school grounds for Professor Hagrid and Grubbly-Plank to examine. I never knew a Thestral to be violent, and since Miss Black says she did not provoke it…"

Draco hadn't turned as he spoke, still looking fixedly out at the twisting trees of the Forest, painted in shadows by the sunset. He'd looked it up at the library with Hermione yesterday; indeed, they'd spent most of that day together, talking on and on about the Thestral. He hadn't wanted anyone to accompany him, much less Granger—Draco had a fair idea of how Dark creatures thought, and the Thestral certainly hadn't seemed inclined to stick around for tea—but he could see straight off that Hermione was a woman who cared deeply for her students. He could respect that, and if she was willing to face the risk…

Conversation had lightened, after that odd visit she'd paid him. And if it weren't for so many years of animosity, Draco thought wryly, and that streak of strongheaded, mulish stubbornness, he might have found her… attractive.

"I suppose that you've thought it out and there's probably no changing your mind." Minerva spoke dryly. "Are you going tonight?"

"Why wait?"

"All right. But do be—"

The door slammed open so hard it rebounded off the wall, and a Hufflepuff prefect hurtled in, pausing only to give the incongruous Draco a puzzled glance. "Professor Granger, Professor McGonagall! Another student's been attacked!"

---

"Michael Weasley, I swear I'll disembowel you for this—" Hermione glared down at the shaken, but unhurt first-year, outwardly furious, inwardly feeling a rush of giddying relief.  "Bill's going to hear of it, oh yes, and Molly if I can help it—"

"Where did it go?" Draco interrupted quietly, and Hermione shot him a scowl.

They stood in the gathering twilight gloom, dipped in the long shadows cast by the dying sun. The red sparks that Michael had sent out glistened weakly in the evening sky like fireflies encased in ice, already dimming, about to extinguish altogether. Madam Pomfrey had a gripping hand on Michael's shoulder as if afraid he would run off again, her face lined with disapproval. Professor Sprout—who'd seen the alarm signal while in her greenhouse and had revived Michael—stood staring at the trees around them with a thoughtful expression on her face, one finger tapping musingly on her chin.

"I'm sorry, Herm—Professor Granger," Michael amended hastily at Draco's arched eyebrow. He gestured westward to show where his attacker had gone. "I didn't see anything—something just—sort of—swept past me and I raised the alarm before it threw me against that tree and I blacked out."

"It's almost as if something bit you, didn't like the taste and spat you out," Professor Sprout said ponderingly, her eyes still unfocused in thought, not noticing when Hermione winced at her analogy. "Now I wonder why?"

Draco glanced casually again at the red-haired, lanky first-year. Blue eyes, red hair, a spattering of freckles… he could've passed for Ron Weasley save for the longer sweep of hair and the lighter-coloured eyes. And there was also the fact that Draco had seen him before, somewhere… those eyes tickled an elusive memory. And there was also something about the way of Michael that reminded him of that girl—Stella, that was it. Almost in the self-assured, graceful way they held themselves. What the hell is going on?

"I'm sorry?" Professor Sprout squinted at him.

There was a heartbeat's span of a moment when Draco grasped that he'd spoken the last thought aloud. "Nothing, Professor, just talking to myself."

Hermione spoke up behind them, and her words had a strangely fearful tone to it. "That's what we'd all like to know, Malfoy." She was holding that book she always clutched to her aloft—the one without a title, just a pentagon embedded in the cover—and was staring at the first few pages with an odd look on her face. She riffled through the book, then flipped to the front again, a little frown line etching itself in the middle of her forehead.

"What is it, Granger?" There. That sounded better than Hermione. Draco strode over to Hermione and peered over her shoulder at the book, and blinked.

She was on the second page, by the look of things, and half-formed words littered the heavy parchment paper haphazardly. It looked as if a spider had fallen into an inkpot and then skittered all over the page. The words were almost rune-like, all jagged edges and sharp corners, and Draco could hardly make head or tail of them.

"They weren't here yesterday," Hermione explained slowly.

"It's English lettering," he replied simply. "Half-formed, half-written, the letters all mixed up. Did you do anything yesterday that might have triggered the words?"

For some reason a slight pink dusted her cheeks. "No."

"Why don't you puzzle over the book later, Hermione? You'd better shrink it and go after the wild Thestral or it'll escape. I think I'll come with you." Sprout squared her shoulders and drew her wand.

"No, Professor, it's better if you didn't," Hermione said firmly. "Poppy, will you bring Michael back into the infirmary, please, and make sure he writes to his family?"

"Hermione!" Michael said, aghast.

"Either you do it or I shall," warned Hermione sternly. Draco noticed that she was wearing the same robes she did yesterday, the one with the frayed sleeves, and resisted the urge to repair them. You'd think that she'd want everything in place.

"Be careful, you two," Pomfrey said almost lightly, but the words were ominous.

Hermione shrunk the tome and tucked it into her pocket. Draco lit his wand and she followed, watching as Pomfrey and Sprout began to push through the shrubbery towards the castle. The sun sank tiredly below the horizon as they turned and began to make their way into the Forest westward, using the Thestral's path of flattened flora and fauna as their figurative trail of breadcrumbs.

Remembering the last time a pair had attempted to follow scattered breadcrumbs, Draco tried his best to suppress an anticipative chill, but didn't quite succeed.

A/N: Um, so yes. Sorry about the long wait (this is G, by the way). Aria and I had exams and Mari was also quite busy. And when exams were over, we spotted some plot holes, which were in dire need of fixing, which we still haven't done. Yes, yes, we procrastinate way too much. So, just wanted to apologise for the wait, as said before. And as per usual, direct any comments to 'ateyourhamster@hotmail.com', or drop us a review.

Any feedback is very much appreciated.