Wedlocked
Chapter 23: Gryffindor Courage Fail

Knowing it was a stupid idea and that she could be caught by Death Eaters and taken to Voldemort or, worse still, expelled, Hermione slunk through the dark tunnel toward the basement of Honeyduke's. It was eleven o'clock, well past curfew at Hogwarts and closing time for the sweets shop. Most everything in the village was closed at this hour except the Three Broomsticks. If what Rosmerta said was true, and she had no reason to doubt the woman's sincerity or memory, then Sirius would be sitting at the bar of that pub.

She wrapped herself against the freezing mid-November night and ran from one shadow to the next. Curious and annoyed she may be, but she was not completely blind to the danger she was in. One final dash across the open and unprotected stretch of road and she was relatively safe under the dark, overhanging eves of the pub. Squinting through the windows told her nothing; the frost was so thick on the glass it distorted or completely obscured the view. She would have to go in if she wanted to see with her own eyes that Sirius was really drowning himself in whiskey nightly. What exactly she planned to do with such information, she wasn't sure; she just wanted it confirmed. And perhaps to talk to him. Or smack him.

"Now or never," she muttered to herself as the door opened and a witch staggered out into the night.

Hermione ran through the door before it closed and ducked into a table half-hidden by a Christmas tree. Peering through the prickly branches, she spied Rosmerta leaning on the bar while she waved her wand at a spilled drink farther down and talked to someone sitting opposite. Her view was obstructed by the tree; she could only see the arm of the person across the bar. It looked like a man, though.

"Just go on up," the woman said.

"I'd rather not," the man replied, making Hermione grind her teeth. That was Sirius's voice. That was Sirius's arm. That was Sirius on a barstool, not half-a-bleeding-mile away from where she studied and slept and worried herself senseless about The Bloody Deadline.

"You're in no condition to Apparate yourself home," replied Rosmerta with the stern voice of experience. "I'll not have another Splinching on my conscience. Now up you get."

The man grumbled and groaned and protested and downed another drink, but took the key she had set on the bar before him. Hermione couldn't see for the branches in her face but she could hear his heavy, uncoordinated steps cross the wooden floor and ascend the stairs to the rooms Rosmerta let out to weary travellers.

"If you're planning on talking to him, I suggest you go up now before he passes out," the woman called. "He's been at it hard tonight, and I don't think he'll last much longer."

Hermione poked her head around the tree. "You knew I was here?"

The woman just smiled and pointed to the stairs. "Third floor, second right."

The girl ran up the stairs before nerves took her back out the front door. She raced up to the third floor, stumbling to a stop as she reached the landing. Sirius was so drunk he had only just reached the door and was struggling to get the key in the lock. How much did he have to drink?

He looked at her, his glassy eyes barely registering that another person was present before he turned back to the complicated task before him. "Give us a hand, would you?" he grunted.

"Okay," she replied hesitantly and took the key from his unsteady hands only to have him lean against her.

"Think I might've overdone it a bit."

She could smell he had overdone it and by more than just a bit, but thought better of telling him so. Door successfully unlocked, she pushed him into the room, turning the lights on with a flick of her wand. To her relief it was not the room she had been expecting. This was not the room where they fulfilled their obligation; the duvet was different as were the colour of the walls and the view from the window.

Sirius squinted at her, his inebriated brain working overtime to sort out who she was. "You shouldn't be here," he said and jerked himself away from her. "Go back to school."

"No, I need to talk to you," she said, though it was beginning to look increasingly like a bad plan as Sirius could barely stand; thinking seemed out of the question.

"'Bout what?" he growled as he started the arduous process of removing himself from his jacket.

"The Bloody Deadline is in three days, Sirius," she reminded him.

He threw the leather jacket to the floor angrily. "You think I don't know that? Why you think I been coming here every goddamn night?"

"To get drunk, obviously."

"To build up the damn courage to talk to you, you prissy lil swot," he sneered and poked her hard in the chest. "You are very difficult to face. An' I faced Death Eaters, dammit. I shoul'n't be worried about you." The menacing affect he had momentarily vanished as he swayed uneasily on his feet.

"Yes," she assured him. "You're very scary. Now perhaps this is a conversation best kept for when you're sober."

"Can't deal with you sober," he insisted with a shake of his head that transferred to his whole body and Hermione had to rush forward to keep him from falling. "Always say the wrong thing."

"That's true."

He swayed again. Hermione had just enough strength to push him backwards, so he fell onto the bed and not onto to floor. "You gonna stay?"

She panicked and it must have shown.

"Come on… I won' remember anything in the mornin'," he assured her drunkenly. She really didn't believe him, but he kept his hand held out to her as he had when escorting her through his house weeks earlier. Reluctantly, she took it and let him pull her onto the bed and into his arms. He didn't say anything else, just held her close and kissed the top of her head.

Her suspicions had been correct. Drinking only led to cuddling where she and Sirius were concerned.

oOo

Morning came and stabbed her in the eyes. She groaned and rolled away from the painful light, burying her head in a pillow that smelled oddly of whiskey. It was terribly hard for a pillow, too, come to think of it. And since when did pillows hug back?

'Oh bloody hell,' she thought and leapt from the bed.

Sirius grumbled and groped across the duvet in his sleep, searching for the lost body heat. If she moved quickly, she could escape back to the castle and avoid facing a hung-over Sirius, angry professors or demanding roommates. Then she would have to try to talk to Sirius again tonight, and she suspected the results would not be much different. Still, fleeing seemed like such a good idea.

'Loo,' she decided and ran silently to the washroom, locking herself in. Relief was short-lived; just as she was patting her face dry on a towel, the doorknob turned and rattled and Sirius began cursing on the other side. He was obviously still drunk from the previous night.

"Wha'the hellsamatter with this thing?" he asked, slamming his hand against the door and trying again to open it, as if giving it a sound thumping and turning the doorknob with more force would really work.

A decision had to be made. She could climb out the window, fall safely into a snowdrift and escape back to the castle, pretending none of this had happened. Or she could be the mature adult everyone claimed her to be, open the door and face her husband as she had intended to the night before. Again, fleeing seemed the better option, but it would solve none of their problems. The deadline was now two days away and if the previous week and night were any indication, Sirius would simply drink himself to sleep before he managed enough courage to come up to the castle.

Fine pair of Gryffindors they were, one hiding in a washroom, the other in a bottle.

"Just a minute," she called, or at least tried to. It came out as a squeak, but Sirius still heard her.

The persistent tugging on the doorknob stopped instantly. "Hermione?"

"Yes. I'll just be a minute," she said with a bit more confidence.

"Fuck, oh fuck…" Sirius cursed to himself, though it came out rather loudly. She could practically hear the man tugging at his hair in panic. Then she really did hear the heavy zippers of his jacket scratching against the floor as he struggled to gather it and run for the door simultaneously.

He was running away?

He was running away from her?

She threw the door wide and hurried into his path before he could escape.

"Sirius, we need to talk," she said, trying very hard not to find amusement in his appearance as he fought to pull his jacket on the wrong way round.

"No… stuff to do… Order business…" he muttered and tried to step around her.

"You don't have any Order business. They're keeping you out of it because your job is to keep me safe," replied Hermione sternly. "I am your Order business."

He shook his head, "Too drunk to deal with you."

"Last night you said you couldn't deal with me sober, either," she practically laughed. First he had to be intoxicated to talk, now he needed to be teetotal. It seemed there was no way he was capable of approaching her.

A gentle knock came at the door and Rosmerta opened it a fraction. "Morning," the barmaid smiled. "Thought a touch of the hangover cure might do you some good."

"Oi!" Sirius shouted. "Might've been in the middle of something here. Do you mind?"

The woman laughed. "Please, you were so drunk you couldn't have seduced a prostitute." She deposited a tray on the writing desk and left them with a knowing smile and a wink.

Sirius cursed the woman, her opinions, her liquor and her potions, but downed the brimming goblet. Coughing as the revolting concoction stung his throat, he dropped into the chair and brooded until the potion took effect. Once he was free of his intoxication, his mood only darkened.

"So talk," he said, not bothering to look at her.

That was hardly the welcoming invitation to discourse she would have liked, and it did nothing to ease her nerves. The words refused to come. She cleared her throat and tried again, but nothing happened. His demanding glare did little to assist her.

"The deadline," she managed after several false starts.

"Is in two days, I know," he growled. "You're here now. So let's just get this over with. That's apparently what you want." His voice was heavy with spite as he snapped at her. It felt like an insult to her character, as if she was strange or stupid for not wanting to spend hours rolling around naked with him.

"Oh, yes, you'd love to make it last forever, wouldn't you?" she spat. "Pig."

His face contorted into something hateful and not at all attractive. "Last I checked you didn't have any problems with my stamina. What changed? That I slept with someone else before you? That's prudish even by your standards, Hermione."

"I don't give a damn how many women have fallen for your charms," she glared at him. "But don't go telling me you've not had any for twenty years and expect me to take it well."

"It's the truth!" he said. "I was in prison for twelve years, on the run for another two – not exactly a situation ripe for romance and hot sex."

"I know that!" she shouted. It was true. She did know that the past fifteen years of his life were far from easy. She did know that Azkaban and hiding in Grimmauld Place were unlikely to lead to any hook-ups. So what was it that was really annoyed her? It wasn't the confession of forced celibacy so much as the way he had said it and what that confession had made her feel.

Readying herself for a scathing laugh, she continued, "Telling me that I'm the first in that long makes me feel like some bloody blow up doll. That all you needed was a body and you didn't care whose."

Neither sarcastic comeback nor scornful laughter met her ears. His anger vanished abruptly; the hideous contortion of his features transformed into amusement, though his eyes and posture still spoke of something sharp and dangerous. Before he spoke and not really knowing why, she took a step away from him.

"You are no blow up doll," he said is a quiet purr. "A blow up doll wouldn't giggle when I massaged its backside." He took a step closer, negating her subconscious step back. "It wouldn't mew my name whenever I bit its stomach. It wouldn't constrict so tight that I thought I might break." He stalked her into a corner, locking her in place between his arms.

"Not even Fred and George are clever enough to make a doll as glorious as you."