Wedlocked
Chapter 2: Books & Bodices

Hermione's stomach was letting her know that Sirius and Remus were taking far too long in Diagon Alley. She looked up from her book and sighed at the time, eight o'clock. The shops had to be closing soon. How many jewellers were there in Diagon Alley, anyway? There couldn't be more than three, and, between the two of them, Sirius and Remus should have been able to pick up a single ring by now.

She wondered if it would be impolite to make herself some dinner or if she ought to go back to the Burrow. No one had contacted her via the Floo Network, so she assumed everyone knew she was all right.

"Maybe I should have asked if they wanted me back in time for dinner," she considered.

The idea of being back in that house, overcrowded with people and overflowing with sympathy, made her face burn with anger. No, she would stick it out and wait for Sirius to come back. Besides, she had to keep an eye on the painting and make sure Kreacher did not try to repair it when her back was turned. The house-elf had already shuffled past several times, commenting to himself that he wished she would leave so he could fix it.

"Miss me?" a whisper came so close to her ear that she shrieked and fell from the couch.

"Dammit, Sirius!" she shouted as she rose. "That was not funny!" She smacked his arm and chest and head and everything else within easy reach, but he kept laughing at her. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Fine," he said as his laughter finally settled into an amused chuckle. "I was just surprised you were still here."

She bit her lip, "Actually, about that. Could I stay the night? I don't want to have to go back to… that."

"What's so bad about it?" He threw himself onto the chair, somehow falling effortlessly into a perfectly elegant pose that Hermione could never hope to duplicate.

"They all keep telling me how sorry they are," she sighed. "Molly is the worst, but Fred is over every night to tell me he wishes he could have talked them out of choosing you. Harry's been avoiding me all week until today when he came in to ask if we had to have sex." She noted his slight frown at the idea. "But Ginny has been telling me how wonderful it is that I'll get to sleep with you."

"Oh?" he quirked eyebrow.

"She walked in on you in the shower once last summer. She approves of what she saw."

"Naturally," he grinned.

"So, I would like at least one full day of nothing. No apologies, no sympathy, no sex talk, nothing."

He threw his arms out wide, "You will find plenty of nothing here. Pick a room, you're guaranteed to find nothing in it. Except Buckbeak's room, there's far too much shit in there."

"Thank you," she said and dropped her head back on the couch. Silence followed. He said nothing, which was precisely what she had requested. "Oh, I left the painting. I assumed you would want to destroy it yourself. I thought it might be some kind of catharsis."

He smirked. "Revenge."

"Pot-A-to, pot-ah-to," she waved her hand. "Speaking of which, are you hungry?"

"Very," he said. "Kreacher!"

The decrepit elf popped in next to his chair. "Yes, Master?"

"Is dinner ready?"

"Yes, Master Black, filthy blood traitor," he replied.

"Good, we'll be dining now. Do not touch anything in the entrance hall," he ordered. "And Hermione will be joining us for the night, make up a bed for her – no surprises or presents of any sort."

"Yes, Master Black, shame of his mother's flesh," the elf bowed and vanished with a 'crack'.

"He's getting better, don't you think?" Sirius commented dryly and offered her a hand in getting up. She took it, knowing that it was not an indication of her weakness or inability to get up on her own but just a gentlemanly gesture. Surprisingly, he held her hand gently all the way through the kitchen door and to the table, where he dropped it to pull her chair out with a courteous bow.

"Thank you," she said uncertainly, slightly worried by his behaviour. "Sirius… you haven't by any chance been reading romance novels, have you?"

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "What if I have?"

She opened her mouth to say something slightly derogatory about the lower form of fiction, but thought better of it. He was a grown man, entitled to read what he liked… even if it was rubbish. He had been denied his freedom for nearly as long as she had been alive, and should be allowed to spend his precious time doing whatever he liked… even if it was wasting it on nonsense.

"Just wondering."

"I haven't," he smiled.

"Oh, thank goodness," she laughed. "I didn't know what I'd do if all you read was bodice-rippers."

He paused while bringing the fork to his mouth, and looked at her. "They make books of that?" She nodded and a thoughtful frown overtook his face. "How have I gone this long without knowing about them?"

She laughed again, blushing slightly at his honest interest in erotic novels. "I imagine you were too busy living it," she replied.

"That is true. Though I don't recall any bodices…" He brought the fork the rest of the way to his mouth and chewed while he considered it. "There was a girdle once. Put me off blonds for a year when she took that thing off after a few pints," he muttered more to himself than to her. "And there was that one corset… but that was Halloween, so it doesn't count." He looked at her, "No, not a single bodice."

"How unfortunate for you," she commented, her pink cheeks taking away from her dry tone.

"It is," he agreed with a solemn nod. "Although you could always remedy this very sad gap in my life."

He smirked as her face grew redder still.

"I thought we agreed that there would be nothing," she said, keeping her eyes on her plate. "That included no sex talk."

"You brought it up, pet," he reminded her. "You and your bodice-ripping books. I'm starting to wonder about your fanatical love of reading. You've read Hogwarts: A History far too many times… Admit it, there's something much more interesting hiding behind that boring cover."

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly and ignored the insinuation, focusing on her meal instead.

"What would you say to a trip to Muggle London?" Sirius asked after several long minutes of nothing.

"Why?"

"Shopping," he said. Something in his tone and the faint smirk pulling at his mouth made her wary.

"What for, precisely?"

"Books," he smiled. "I know you like books."

She studied him through narrowed eyes, waiting for him to make a crack about bodice rippers or erotic novels again, but he said nothing. "What sort of books?"

Her suspicious gaze had no effect on him and his smile remained firmly in place. "Whatever strikes my fancy," replied the man lightly, a vague and elegant wave of his hand adding to his relaxed and in-no-way-am-I-plotting air. Hermione didn't believe him for a minute.

"Well, I could do with something to read," she replied hesitantly, unsure that she really wanted to go with him but desperate for something to keep her occupied while at the Burrow. She also recalled that Sirius did not venture into the world nearly as often as he should. That he willingly offered to leave the house was something special and she knew she ought to pounce on it.

"Fine," she sighed. "Shopping it is."

"Brilliant," he grinned. "Where's a good shop?"

She frowned. "I don't know," she had to admit. "I don't get to London that often. We could go to Oxford. Blackwell's has a wonderful selection and I'm sure will have something that will 'strike your fancy'."

"Fair enough," he agreed. "I can meet your parents, too."

"Oh bloody hell," she moaned. "I forgot all about them." Her head fell onto the table with a solid 'thud' and she kept it there while imaging the debacle which was sure to occur when the Grangers' only child arrived with a fiancé twenty years her senior. Lead balloons would have nothing on that announcement.

"You do spend a considerable amount of time away from them," Sirius observed. "Bad parents?"

"What?" she sat up, crossing her arms defensively. "No! They're wonderful."

His raised eyebrow indicated his question.

'So much for nothing,' she thought with a quiet sigh.

"They've seen me for barely three months of the year since I was started at Hogwarts," she explained. "They haven't had time to realise how close I am to being an adult, and still treat me like their baby. It's wonderful for the first day, but then they start demanding I tell them where I'm going and with whom and for how long, trying to force me back into this idea they have of what I am."

"You don't strike me as the sort to put up with that. I've seen you browbeat Fred and George into submission," he commented. "I'm sure even your parents couldn't hold out against you for long."

"That would require explaining things that would only scare them," she said quietly. "After first year, facing all those challenges to reach Voldemort, I told them everything. I was so proud of myself and of Ron and Harry, but my parents just panicked. They spent the entire summer trying to get me to change schools, to forget about being a witch and stay with them where I'll be safe. I haven't told them about anything that's happened since, not even when I was petrified. They've no idea how dangerous my life is, and I'd like to keep it that way."

He cocked his head to the side, examining her. "So what do you plan to do about us?"

"Lie to them," she replied simply.

"The truth might be easier," he suggested. "And if they knew why we're marrying, I wouldn't seem like such a dirty old man." The lascivious wiggle of his eyebrow that followed such a sombre suggestion had her giggling.

"You're not old," she smiled. "Certainly not in personality anyway."

"Well, thank you," he gave a mocking bow of his head. "I'll remember that kind-hearted lie the next time you ask me if something makes your arse look big."

"Git," she muttered.

"Swot," he retorted, still smirking.

They fell back into silence for the remainder of dinner, Hermione fretting over what to say to her parents. Sirius was right; the truth would make things considerably easier. Phillip and Martha Granger wanted the best for their daughter, and knowing Sirius was only stepping up to keep her safe would make them accepting of him on some level. Unfortunately, for that kind of understanding, she would have to tell them about Voldemort and the Death Eaters and everything that had happened to her in the last five years of school. If she did that, they were as likely to snap her wand and lock her away in her room as anything else.

No, lies were better.

Lies would keep them safe.

"Decision made?"

Hermione blinked and looked across the table to where Sirius sat watching her. "What?"

"You made a rather determined face," he replied. "Does that mean you've made a decision?"

She nodded. "We're going to lie to them."

"As you wish," he said, pushing a slice of pie across the table to her. "Now, have you come to any decisions regarding bodices?"

"No."

"Is that a 'no' to decisions or a 'no' to bodices?" he inquired innocently.

The girl rolled her eyes and shook her head. Immature idiot. Hadn't the Order rejected Fred as her fiancé for that same reason? Why on earth did they think Sirius would be any better? At least her parents would have been more accepting of Fred as he was only two years older and his immaturity would have been easier to explain.

"Kreacher," Sirius called, breaking Hermione's concentration.

The decrepit house-elf appeared by his side, glaring his prejudice at the pair of them. "Yes, Master Black?"

"Show Hermione to her room," he ordered.

"Yes, Master Black, disappointment to his heritage," Kreacher croaked and bowed to Sirius as he stood.

"I'm off to bed," he declared. "Big day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Should I clean up?" she offered.

"That's what Kreacher is for," he said indifferently.

The girl frowned. "You're not even going to ask him politely?"

Sirius stared at her a moment, disbelief evident in his expression. His face darkened as he stepped closer. "That thing nearly got Harry and you killed. It hates you. It would love nothing more than to see you dead at Voldemort's feet, and you still think I should be nice to it?"

She sometimes forgot how bitter Sirius was about his house-elf. It was a small wonder the pitiful thing was still alive after the great effort it had taken in June to help Voldemort. She knew, though, that it was not Kreacher's fault that Walburga Black had corrupted him, left him alone with only her ranting portrait as company. He was half-mad, but still a creature with thoughts and feelings, still a creature worthy of sympathy and respect.

"Yes, I do," replied the girl stubbornly.

"Fine," he growled. "Kreacher, would you be so kind as to clean up the kitchen?" His face was contorted and his tone harsh, giving the words a hostile and hateful edge.

"As my master wishes, blood traitor," the house-elf bowed.

"Happy?" he snapped.

"Not really, no," Hermione sighed. "But it's a start."

Sirius turned and left the kitchen, the door slamming shut behind him. Hermione stared at the dark wood a moment, imagining how often such a scene would present itself in the coming years of her life. He might have his freedom, but Sirius was still temperamental at the best of times. If pushed into discussing a sore topic, he could become as dispirited or livid as he had in the final weeks of his house arrest.

Kreacher, it seemed, was the sorest spot of them all.

"Filthy Mudblood," the elf muttered. "Taints this noble house with its presence."

"Yes, this is going to be fun," she commented sarcastically to herself.

She sighed and spoke again, more considerately, "Kreacher, what room am I in tonight?"

"The same as when you last slept here, Mistress, dirty creature," the house-elf replied.

"Thank you," she said with a forced smile. "I'll find my own way. Thank you for cleaning up."

Hermione walked up the stairs, pausing on the landing just outside Sirius's bedroom. She could hear Sirius cursing through the closed door. A few crashes followed a particularly loud 'dammit' and then all was silent. She was not sure if he had put up a silencing charm or if he had run out of things to throw or the energy to throw them. Whatever the reason, she refused to listen any longer.

"I hate Voldemort," she told her empty room and threw herself down on the bed, thankful Sirius had thought to keep Kreacher from leaving any 'presents'. The last thing she wanted to find between her sheets was a dead mouse or a wriggling clump of maggots.

Was this really what she had to look forward to for the rest of her life?