Wedlocked
Chapter 32: Two

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"

Hermione leapt back, shocked at the loud shriek. It was two o'clock in the morning, and the house was dark; no one should have been awake in Grimmauld Place to yell at them, yet the harsh voice still greeted them, as unexpected and unwelcomed as old Walburga Black had been. Hermione looked around, expecting to see Molly Weasley in her dressing gown, holding a wooden spoon or wand threateningly as she waited, sleepless, to ambush them, but there was no living person in sight.

"Over here!" the woman snapped impatiently, drawing their eyes from the dark hallway to the painting hanging in it.

"Lily?" Sirius groaned.

"Don't you 'Lily' me!" the portrait ordered. "Do you have any idea what you did to everyone taking off like that? Remus was gone for over thirty hours! He comes back half-dead from exhaustion, way beyond anything the full moon ever did to him, only for you to run off next! Selfish bastard!"

Sirius tried to ignore her. He walked past her frame without offering a rebuttal, but that did not stop her following his path to continue berating him.

"And dragging that girl along with you!"

He paused and looked back over his shoulder at Hermione, his face halfway between amused and irritated. Lily could nag about his failings all she liked, but apparently he would not let her drag Hermione into it. "For the record, she followed me," he pointed out as he stopped in the sitting-room to pour himself a drink. "I don't think anyone could drag her anywhere she didn't already want to go."

"You—"

"And, technically, she's not a girl," he added. "She's over legal age by several months, married – and quite happily, I might add – so I think it's time you stopped calling her a girl. It's an insult… and not to me. She brought you into this world; you ought to be polite to her before she decides to have you painted over."

Hermione blushed and hurried away before Lily shouted so loud it woke the whole house.

She was happy Sirius was alive. She was happy his fears had been laid to rest along with the Horcrux. She was happy that he was no longer hiding the truth of his and Remus's 'Order business' from her. While she was happy for Sirius and all these things, she did not want to have to explain them to everyone in the dead of night when they were woken by Lily's window-rattling screams. That was the sort of conversation that went better with coffee and Kreacher's excellent waffles than with crusty eyes and dressing gowns.

Safe from Lily's outrage, Hermione threw her clothes into the hamper. Her trousers stunk like dragon filth and centuries of mould from the Lestrange vault; her jumper was streaked with Sirius's blood where she had tried to pull him to the hospital wing and been held tight as a lifeline after Madam Pomfrey supplied him with healing potions. It was certainly more than she had bargained for when she dressed that morning.

Falling onto the mattress, she sighed blissfully at the thought of sleeping properly on a full-sized bed and without the audience of a nurse hovering over her.

"Where do you think you're going?" Sirius asked.

Brow knit with her confusion, she looked over at him. "To sleep…?"

"No, I don't think so." He shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on hers, sending out his meaning with the barest of smirks.

She groaned. He could not be serious. "It's two o'clock, Sirius. Go to sleep."

"I had a kip."

"You had unconsciousness," she corrected. "It's not the same."

"I also had some very invigorating potions," he grinned and settled down on top of her.

She pushed ineffectually at his chest. "Sirius, I'm tired. It's been a very long couple of days."

"But I'm still feeling very fragile," he pouted. "How do I know you didn't say all those things just to spare my feelings and make me destroy the Horcrux? You might really think I'm a dirty old man and secretly hate me and spend all your free time plotting to kill me the moment Old Voldy is defeated."

"You're not. I don't. Now go to sleep."

"You can say that all you like," he sighed, dejected. "But there's really only one way to prove it's the truth." His wounded expression was very convincing even with the mischievous glint in his eye and the grinding of his hips into hers.

"It's Christmas morning," she protested. "People don't shag on Christmas morning."

"I do. Well, I'd like to." His smile was so charming, like an excited child begging to open just one present early if he promised not to tell anyone and to do all the washing up for a month, two months, a whole year. She couldn't say no. The git was just impossible to resist.

"Fine," she sighed. "You win."

"Naturally. So I was thinking. If you want to prove how much you don't hate me," he paused, rolling over so that she was on top of him, straddling his hips, "you should take the lead."

She was blushing. She was sure she was blushing. "I can't do that."

"You are Hermione Fucking Black. You can do anything you set your freakishly enormous brain to."

Rolling her eyes, she had to laugh. "That did not sound nearly as complimentary as you intended it to."

"Shut up and kiss me, you bloody swot."

With a slap to his shoulder, she did as he instructed. It was glorious being in control of the action, taking what she wanted at the speed she wanted. She liked their kisses slow and lingering, and she would have enjoyed nothing more than to kiss him that way until dawn. Sadly, this was not about what made her happy; this was about making him happy and proving that she really did want to be with him. To do that, she had to kiss him like he kissed her.

Hands gripping his scalp, she kissed him hard, crushed his lips beneath hers and stole into his mouth with all the force of a conquering army. She had to admit that she loved his reactions to her attention, the groans and gasps he made whenever she felt confident enough to take some action on her own, which was not very often. His previous responses were weak by comparison to the deep, desirous moan that she pulled from him with just this one kiss.

"Damn," he said, breath ragged. "You get to be on top from now on."

"I've only just started." She smirked a smirk to make him proud and ripped his shirt open.

"I think I might have taught you a little too well," he moaned and fell back onto the mattress as she began licking her way from his collarbone to his navel and beyond.

If sex was, as Remus had once described it, just another subject she needed to learn, then this had to be her final exam. A practical application test, where she showed her teacher, the Dishonourable Professor Black, just what she had learned from their lessons and how she might use her book reading in a real-world situation. Taking the noises he was making as an indication of her forthcoming grade, she was performing to her usual and expected high standards.

As she pulled his trousers down off his hips, Hermione realised just how easy Sirius had it since October. There was not a single time they slept together that she was wearing trousers. Every time, she had been wearing a skirt. Skirts were instant access, no work, no pause. He could go from beginners kissing to advanced sex instantly. That was hardly fair.

Looking down at herself, she realised that she was wearing sleeping trousers. Of all the days to have sex in trousers, it had to be the day she was leading.

"Why the hell did you stop?" he demanded, not even trying to keep a calm tone.

"You're practically naked," she pointed out, "and I'm not. That's hardly fair." She really did dislike it when there was an inequity of clothing. He often managed to strip her to nothing while remaining fully clothed himself. On those meetings, when she could find a thought through the red fog of desire, she felt humiliatingly inferior.

"Yes," he agreed. "Not fair at all. I deserve something to look at, too." He propped himself up on his elbows and watched her. "Go on, get naked."

She could feel the heat in her cheeks and knew she was blushing again. Considering how she had just kissed and licked her way down his body, her blush was hardly appropriate, but she was embarrassed to have him watch her. She was far from pretty enough to deserve that sort of attention. The kind of lust she saw in his eyes was meant for someone more attractive, a woman…

That woman…

"Sirius," she began.

"Shit, what did I do now?" he groaned.

"That woman…"

"I didn't do any woman, I swear!"

She smiled at his quick denial, like a teenager caught red-handed by a professor. "No, that woman who came out of the cup."

"You. That was you who came out of the cup." He frowned. "…Well, not exactly you…"

Her shoulders fell along with her smile. She had been so sure he was going to say something wonderful about how that was what she looked like to him, but his scrutinising eye told her the truth. He was studying her, picking out the imperfections that the vision had lacked. His absolute, tactless honesty would kick in any second and tell her that she was dumpier, wider in the hips and smaller in the chest.

"You are far more pleasant to be around," he smiled. "Even when you're cross with me, I have not been tempted to commit suicide."

"I know that part, git!" she snapped. "I care about how she looked."

"What about it?" he questioned indifferently, offering as close to a shrug as he could manage while leaning on his elbows. "She looked like you."

"No, she did not." Hermione tore the clothes from her body. "Look at me. I am not that woman."

He did look. Happily, hungrily, he looked. His eyes raked over her body, following every curve, pausing on the spots he found most enjoyment in. She already knew those spots from the extra attention he gave them. His eyes rested for a long moment on her left shoulder with the birthmark he loved to kiss before moving to her ear. He loved kissing the sensitive skin just behind her ears. He lay there, naked and wanting, staring at her for several long minutes.

"You are every inch that woman," he said with so much conviction she couldn't find it in herself to argue. The man was experienced enough not to be delusional; his vision was not clouded by love, perhaps slightly distorted by lust occasionally, but not enough to have her rejection act as his greatest fear. Still, it was ridiculous.

Something of her trepidation must have shown in the slump of her shoulders or the arm rising to shield her breasts because he was up and holding her inside a single heartbeat. It was wonderful being wrapped in his arms – the ultimate security blanket, one that could not only comfort but actively soothe and protect her.

As if making her point, he kissed her and promised, "I will prove just how beautiful you really are, even if it takes the rest of my life." He paused, "Given my track record, that might not be very much longer… so I think I'd better start now."

"I'm supposed to be proving I don't hate you, remember?" she said with a weak laugh.

"You've already done that," he smirked. "But who's to say we can't do both at the same time? You were doing a very good job before, and I very much liked the view from down there."

"Git," she muttered, blushing again.

"Whatever you say, pet," he grinned. "Now where were we again? Somewhere around the trousers, I think."