Ch. 23 I Refuse To Check If My Nipples Are Hard
[HERMIONE]
"Do the Senior Order members have any idea what rubbish you're doi—"
"Do the Senior members have any idea – bleh bleh bleh – go fuck yourself."
"Me? ME? WHAT THE FUCK EVEN ARE YOU-"
"Chuck, you need to relax, mate. You're blowing this—"
"BILL, GET OUT OF MY FACE. YOU DIDN'T SEE- YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT—"
"Chaz, listen to your brother. You should probably take your suppository chill-pill, ASAP."
Hermione flinches as the sounds of scuffling feet and muffled grunts replace the animated arguing. She and Ron are crouched behind kitchen counters and cabinets, hidden from the view of the wizards and muggle that just floo'd into the adjacent room. Frozen in place, but listening hard, the teenagers stare at one another with matching wide eyes.
The two eldest Weasley boys grapple in semi-silence, their breathing labored and their shoes slipping on the cement floor. Finnie doesn't appear to be willing to de-escalate, however.
"Suppository means up the butt, Chuckie. Just in case they didn't teach you multi-syllabic words in dragon-farming school."
Charlie pushes away from Bill with a grunt, breathing hard, "You're a bloody terrorist! I wonder if my brother would stand in my way if he knew the demented shite you got up to—"
"You talk an awful lot for a registered reptile pervert who doesn't know shit from his own socks-"
Charlie scoffs, "Jus' because your mask is six shades stupider than the Death Eaters', doesn't make you any less fucking EVIL-"
" – this mask was my grandmother's, so don't you feel stupid—"
" – well then your gran's a serial killer, in't she? Because you look like bloody You-Know-Who in drag-"
" – better than looking like half-baked, ginger Bruce-Willis if he had pancetta for skin from the neck down. Did Norberta roast you when you were busy being an UGLY IDIOT- "
Hermione's mind races to keep up. Everything is happening so fast. Not two minutes ago, she and Ron had been debating the quality and ethics regarding porridge as a midnight snack. Hermione had then tried to snatch the dry-goods measuring cup from Ron's unskilled hands and succeeded in tipping it all over their shoes.
When she'd crouched to retrieve the measuring cup, cheeks ablaze and muttering an apology, Ron unexpectedly did the same. Their fingers collided, knees also nearly brushing, and Hermione glanced up to refuse his help.
At the same time, Ron frowned exaggeratedly, trapping and enveloping Hermione's fingers with his enormous ones. Hermione's words dried up with a squeak, but Ron didn't seem to notice. He held their hands up to show her – wearing a genuine, mocking smile – and teased, "Is this a result of calcium deficiency?" He held her small hand wholly in his larger, freckled one.
Before she could recover and respond – but not so fast that Ron didn't begin to blush at the ears after noticing he held her hand – the roar of the fireplace beyond the kitchen made them jump, then subsequently land on their asses. It was a matter of milliseconds before the shouting started.
"-GET OFF MY DICK, CHARLES. I DIDN'T REALIZE THAT DIRT-ENCRUSTED OGRE WITH THE DARK MARK WAS YOUR FUCKING GIRLFRIEND-"
Hermione and Ron both flinch as the heated voices continue to intensify, providing little clarity for the unintended audience. Shadows shift in the periphery of her vision, and Hermione whips to see who else is bearing witness to this scene. Fluffy/Sirius sits at rapt attention, his massive, sloped form hidden in a side hall that leads to the small garage. Hermione realizes he must have only just gotten home. How long has he listened?
Ron exhales sharply out his nostrils making Hermione jump once more and face him. He isn't looking her in the eye.
" I-it wos your hair—," he barely whispers, lightly touching his long, Roman nose.
Too close! We're TOO CLOSE! Tooclosetooclosetooclosetooclose—Hermione can feel her eyes bugging out as her brain shrieks with what she assumes is the last of her sanity.
" –WELL THEN ACCEPT MY SINCEREST APOLOGIES FOR STUNNING THAT FILTHY, BLOODTHIRSTY, VAGRANT MUGGLE YOU – WOT? – KEEP FOR A PET?"
There's a soft shing of metal on metal along with two unmanly squeaks of surprise.
"This is done," Finnie's voice is no longer mocking and petulant.
"L-like hell it—ack!" Charlie's anticipated reply cuts off with a yelp.
"Done," She hisses, sounding downright inhuman.
Silence falls for one tense beat. "I'm going to take a bath," Finnie continues. Her voice has deflated, and she sounds tired, "Charles- if you so much as breathe near me without a leash and a chaperone, I'll use my knives to find every soft piece of your flesh that's not covered by dragon hide."
Next to Hermione, still hidden behind the countertops, Ron's body jolts.
There's faint movement, as Finnie must make to leave. Charlie finally bites out, "Good. You reek!" His tone is acidic, "Be sure to get the werewolf blood behind your ears."
There's a shortfall of footsteps and Finnie mutters, "Werewolf…," as if to herself. Her light steps continue out the room, and Hermione can't decide if she's more anxious, or less.
"Bloody hell," Ron breathes beside her.
"Bill – where the hell is Dumbledore? Why isn't Moody back? WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT-"
"Charlie," Bill sighs, sounding irritated and weary, "Just let me take you to the bloody Burrow."
Charlie squawks something else but Bill must have muscled him, because in less than ten seconds there are back-to-back whooshes signaling their departure.
Still not looking at her from their continued vantage on the kitchen floor, Ron mumbles, "I'm going to follow 'em."
Hermione tries to stop him, "Ron, wait—"
As usual, he doesn't pay her any mind, "Later, 'Mione." He stands, outrageously tall from her position on the ground, and marches to the fireplace. Within moments he, too, is gone.
Hermione presses her fingertips to her mouth, her dark eyebrows high on her head as she reels. She turns to glance down the garage hallway, but Fluffy has also disappeared.
She stands slowly, having to blink and recall all she just heard. The argument was not just uncharacteristic, it was downright bizarre. Hermione's mind recalls a moment, weeks ago, in which she thought she'd glimpsed something on Finnie's face.
It was practically a trick of light- nothing which could be considered solid proof. But nonetheless…
Alone in the kitchen, feeling like the deflated balloon at a particularly ill-conceived family gathering, Hermione sighs again, "Bugger."
[FINNIE]
I watch water rivulets stream off my feet and legs and into the tub. Reddish-brown water fades to pink as I stand motionless beneath the spray. I feel numb and exhausted. I'm not going to be able to hide what I am much longer.
Were you ever really hiding it? My brain defends me, because she's a loyal scamp.
"I was hiding enough," I mumble back, and I know I'm right.
The water cools a little, so I wake myself with a shake. Deftly, I scrub behind my ears – ew gross, there IS blood – and gently wipe at my new burns.
They won't last long. No injury I sustain while wearing Satan's skin ever does, but fuck it stings. Across both forearms – i.e. DEFENDING myself – and on the fronts of my thighs, my skin tries to heal over what was once second-degree burns.
On my other body, nothing fades. Every scar I've ever gained shines bright on my mutated flesh. My unblemished pink skin acts like a glamour over the other. There is no pain from old wounds when I'm changed, but it's as if my other skin refuses to age and allow scars to fade.
In that sense my body is a roadmap of moments I'd prefer to forget.
As I elegantly gargle and spit lukewarm water, I think about Lois and Moody. Are they okay? Did Moody help her? I may not be able to stay awake long enough to find out.
I think about the rest of the Weasleys, Fleur, Tonks, Hermione, and Harry.
They're going to hate me when they know me.
I feel my own certainty ringing in my bones and sigh with resigned apathy. I don't blame anyone, I suppose, for fearing someone who kills and hurts others as casually as I'm able. I wish I wasn't so brutal. I wish I had never signed the small-text-shrouded dotted line, changed, and become something that was only ever good for being scary as shit.
On the other hand, its fucking intoxicating. I wish I could brand myself "The Punisher" without too many people noticing it isn't an original thought.
I flex the sore muscles of my hands. Everything aches and I remind myself that I made the acquaintance of a brick wall today.
It was downright cinematic.
Reluctantly, I end my shower. The geriatric motif has grown on me in the past weeks – I pretend I'm visiting a long-lost grandparent. But they're privately very shady and would never flinch at the blood stains in the tub. If anything, they'd light a vanilla candle and tell me tales of their past lives as scumbag insider traders.
I hum Rosemary Clooney's "Sway" and brush my wet hair. My reflection is sallow and stressed, but my uber-expensive cashmere robe (fuck you and your finances, Dumbledore) gives me warm fuzzies as I slip it on.
I huff a sigh and open the door to the dim hallway – thinking I may sneak upstairs for a nightcap. These intentions vanish as I pull short and spot a tall, sexy silhouette leaning against the opposite wall.
Sirius' profile is cast sharply with shadows from the far-spaced lamps on either side of him. I can't see his expression which makes me want to throw up.
I realize I've frozen and not said anything.
But, you know, neither has he. So.
"Hi," his voice is low and rough, like he hasn't used it in a hot minute. It is also unreasonably attractive, and I don't trust my own voice not to break like a prepubescent, so I don't respond quickly. He stays slouched on the wall but looks away as the silence returns.
I can't make my throat open for words to come out. I don't want to keep overtly lying – it's only going to get shittier – but I honestly can't think of the first thing to say. Also, I'm exhausted, so brain no worky.
Sirius is watching me again. I can't see his eyes, but I see his chin dip as he assesses my post-shower state. I refuse to check if my nipples are hard; I'm cold – I just took a shower. That's the only reason.
Yep.
He lets us stand in silence another moment before training his gaze awkwardly on the ground, and I'm tempted to feign sleepwalking and try again another time (or never). I'm opening my mouth to excuse myself when Sirius declares, as if it's the simplest, most nonchalant moment, "Charlie Weasley has always been a blooming prat."
The previous warm fuzzies caused by my exorbitantly expensive robe blaze back to life, making me dizzy. With relief? I don't know how he knows…someone either spoke with him or he was there (horrifying).
And if he was (jesus fuck, please no), he either saw me pull a knife on an Order member or heard me verbally abusing one. But instead of any of the equally plausible negative reactions he could have had, he's here. Reassuring me that Charlie sucks.
I can't stop my grateful smile.
"There you are," Sirius mumbles, standing straight from his lean against the dark wood paneling. His intensity, as always, is lit-er-al-ly breathtaking. It takes me a moment to realize he means my smile, because I'm struck dumb when he reaches for my face and runs his thumb lightly along my bottom lip.
His touch causes goosebumps to explode across my skin. If my nipples weren't standing at attention before THEY DEFINITELY ARE now. I try to rein it in.
"You really know the way to a woman's heart, don't you?" That's it, Fin. Play it cool, goddamn you.
Sirius is standing very close to me now, and I have no will to move away. His smell is heady from the heat of his body. The vague scent of lingering soap tells me his arrival was long enough ago to have bathed.
His eyes are dilated, and the sight sends a pang straight to the apex of my thighs. "How's that?" His low murmur makes my heart stutter. I try not to focus on the sexy way some of his unbound dark hair hangs in his face, or how his height suits me in a pick-me-up-against-the-wall-again-please kind of way.
Oh, god. I'm going full mush-brain, and I don't know what that will do to my mouth. Luckily adrenaline ceased being my enemy a long time ago.
"By validating her experience with another person," I smile wider just to see him enjoy it, "We love being told we're not crazy."
He smirks, "Oh now, love, I didn't say that."
Nope. That's it. My IQ is 50 points below normal, and I need to go to bed.
Maybe he'd come with me….
FOR SLEEPING.
Or, at least at first.
"Stop doing this-," I gesture around his general face region – my hands look kind of blurry, "improv with your flirting technique. I'm working with a handicap here - Ahem-," I cross my arms in front of my chest. I don't know if I'm just paranoid, but his attention keeps returning there. Not that I can see his eyes all that clearly anymore, mind you. Still.
His smile nearly blinds the remaining vestiges of my vision. My memory fills in the blanks where I know his laugh lines pull charmingly across his cheeks, elevating his stoic handsomeness into something only before promised in Twilight novels. His smile might be my new favorite part of the Magical Wizarding World of Harry Potter. They could make a ride in Orlando that is just a lazy car ride through tunnels papered with glamor shots of Sirius Black. Boom. Instant millions.
Focus, goddamn it. I continue, "I'm serious! I'm in no shape to banter-," I hope I look serious. "You'd really be taking advantage, Mr. Black. I'm this close to biting off your shirt buttons with my teeth— wait."
Wait.
I hear his intake of breath and clap a hand over my eyes.
"YOU SEE? This is unethical!" I know I'm whining, but I'm desperate to delay any conversation until I have all my faculties. Including, but not limited to, marginal hormone control.
"No, you're absolutely correct-," stupid, sexy accent. Damn him. "-Have you considered if you're having a seizure? I hear muggles are especially prone to them." Sirius is good at laughing with his eyes.
Oh, crap. "How would I know?"
"Well, do you smell toast?"
Toast. That's kind of funny. He better not be funny AND hot. No more toast jokes from this guy, I'm putting my foot down.
Why are we talking about toast? This is out of hand. BAIL, FIN. BAIL.
"That's actually my clothes," my eyes are watering with exhaustion, and I point half-assedly to the once-smoldering pile of jean and cotton – now wedged behind the toilet.
There's a brief pause as he looks over/around me. He clears his throat, "How 'bout we sit on that gem, and save it for when you wake up."
Fuck, he's so nice. Except for that one time.
I yawn big – in his face.
"Go to bed, Fin," I think Sirius is smiling again, but my vision is casting in and out.
The next instant I'm beside my bed, turning down my covers to climb in (robe and all). My mind drifts and I strain to remember the very end of our not-conversation.
"I'm not staying long," he had said, "I only had time to stop in for a shower and quick peep show."
Had I sniffed his neck and collar? Like, loudly? Yikes.
"I'll be back tomorrow night at the latest," his low lilt is burned into my brain and filed under: "private time" material.
I'm sliding under the covers and preparing to dive into the cruel, bitter mistress that is my unconscious, but there was more.
"Sweet dreams," Sirius had barely spoken loud enough for me to hear, as he kissed the side of my neck. Honestly, I might be making all of this up. Did that really happen?
My heart beats harder, briefly, as I panic at my imminent unconsciousness.
That better have happened.