Sirius rolled his eyes, huffing impatiently. "Listen, girl, I don't know who you think you are, but I am the convict Sirius Black, I saved your life, and I will take it if you don't tell me where Harry Potter is right now!"
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Could it even be possible? Had not only the spell given Hermione the wrong person, but had it also not allowed Sirius to remember he had died? Did he really think he had emerged just after the battle was over, the battle that had taken place seven years ago? He certainly looked exactly the same as when he had fallen through, she thought, but she trembled all over. Would she have to tell him everything? Would she have to be the one to recount all that had occurred since he had gone through the arch?
She wanted to go back to the room and toss Sirius back to the arch, yelling, "You gave me the wrong one!" She wanted to tear her hair out from the pain of the after-effects of the spell; she knew she would be killed if she attempted the spell again. She could not help it; she hated Sirius without mercy, and she began to pound on his chest as she cried.
He looked so surprised, like he really expected Hermione to be insane. Of course, he did not really know who she was. Had she really changed all that much? She knew her face was thinner than it had once been, more lined. She supposed she must have looked older, at a newly-turned twenty-three, than at fifteen. But for him to not even recognize her?
"Listen," he said, obviously trying to calm her down, "I didn't mean I'd kill you, little girl, I'd never want to kill you… I just… can you please tell me where Harry Potter is?"
She looked up at him, no longer racked with pitiful sobs, no longer pounding his chest with her furious fists. He looked so dreadful, so haggard and lost and afraid. His hollow eyes were pleading, not demanding as the Sirius Hermione had known as a child would have done. Instead of moving her with pity, however, this caused her to consider him with a deep hatred. How dare he be vulnerable? She could never forgive him for this weakness. He had come instead of Ron; the least he could do was be strong, as Ron had been strong.
"Girl… what is your name?" He said, obviously trying for kindness.
She just shook her head, eyes jammed shut. She could not possibly speak to him, let alone tell him everything that had happened. He was supposed to be dead. He did not deserve to know.
Sirius got to his feet. "I'll bring you something to eat, then." He sounded forced, as if kindness was not coming easily for him anymore. Good, Hermione thought bitterly. He can be awful, which will make me feel so much better for hating him.
He turned around and left.
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He tried not to slam cabinets and such in the kitchen, but could hardly help himself. He threw around the pots and pans until he had some soup heating on the oven. Calming himself down by running his hand through his hair and taking a deep breath, he leaned against the stove and stirred the soup as casually as the situation allowed.
Had the Order forgotten about him? He wondered. No, of course not, before long at all they would be coming to Grimmauld Place in order to catch Sirius up and maybe take the girl to St. Mungo's. That would make more sense, anyway. If he was not a wanted criminal, he would take the girl himself, probably to the mental ward. The girl obviously had some bats in the belfry, to attack him like that without reason. Especially after he had practically saved her life.
"So much for old fashioned gratitude." He stretched his back, hearing a loud and unpleasant crackle. He was not sure whether this was from carting the girl all around London the night before, or sleeping on the couch that was far too short for his lanky frame. Taking a sip of his coffee newly-prepared, he decided it was a mixture of the two.
When the soup was done, he hesitated before pouring some into a bowl to bring up to the girl. He really did not want to be attacked again, but he could hardly let her starve.
She was leaning back against the headboard of the bed, staring blankly at the wall when he entered. Her eyes immediately snapped to Sirius in fear when he entered, but then narrowed in suspicion. It was clear that little had changed in her heart since he had left the room.
"Soup." He said, handing her the bowl, as well as a napkin. Something about the prim manner she spread her napkin onto her lap reminded him of… somebody. He could not for the life of him think who, although it felt like somebody he had seen as of late.
He sat back in the chair by the bed, surveying her in silence. He wondered if she could talk easier yet, although he really was not likely to find out anytime soon.
So it caused him to jump when she did speak, and quite clearly, at that. "Why are you just watching me?" She sounded a little annoyed, but mostly curious.
"You… remind me of someone I know, but I can't think of who."
The girl flushed in anger, and flinched so hard she almost upset her soup bowl. "Probably somebody so unimportant that it really doesn't matter if you remember her or not, right?"
Now that was familiar, and Sirius smiled a little. Every girl he had ever truly known had been like that. Suddenly, this was well-traveled territory, Sirius thought with a smirk.
"That's not it at all. At least, I don't think so." Sirius said.
The girl was merely silent, glaring at him from behind a curtain of brown frizzy hair.
"Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot." Sirius suggested.
The girl laughed, as if enjoying some private joke. "Oh, you could say that."
"I'm Sirius Black, and I'm not really a murderer. I was wrongly accused, and the person who really did all that killing I was blamed for was…"
"Peter Pettigrew. Yes, I'm well aware." The girl muttered, and Sirius froze. Such a thing was not exactly common knowledge.
"How… did you…?"
"I know more than that." The girl said, with little conviction in her voice whatever. "You are the lucky one to inherit the great Black fortune. You live here at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. You are reckless and have a complete contempt for rules with any rationality behind them. Your favorite color is blue, but you also like red because you used to be a Gryffindor. You drink three things—coffee, butterbeer, and firewhiskey. You are Harry Potter's godfather. You are Padfoot of the Marauders. You are an unregistered Animagus. You are pretentious and irresponsible, rash and insensitive. And you still don't even know who I am, do you?"
Sirius was nearly floored by this. How could one person know so much about him? This girl—or young woman, he should say—knew more than his family ever had, and maybe more than some of his less close friends from school had. His curiosity to know more about her multiplied tenfold.
He tried a shaky smirk, but it really did not work so well. He leaned back in as casual a manner as he could. "You're right, I feel awful about it, especially with you apparently knowing so much about me." Sirius leaned forward ever so slightly and cocked his head in curiosity. "What is your name, and where do I know you from?"
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Hermione seemed to be causing him great confusion, which she enjoyed in a sick, twisted way. She decided to prolong the suspense.
"You know me from the Order."
There was a silence. Sirius still looked lost.
"I stayed here in Grimmauld Place with you."
Another lost look, and Hermione laughed.
"I was one of the ones that was there—not entirely conscious, but there—when you died."
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A/N: Hehe, that's likely to wipe it all out of a person. Thank you for the lovely reviews!