Author's Note: Something has happened to my stats on this site. After a great reception for the first few chapters, I haven't been able to see if anyone is still reading the story since the last week of February. I can see an increase in follows and favourites, and also if someone leaves a review, but that's it. So, if you are reading and enjoying the story, it'd be lovely to know! And if you're not someone who likes to leave comments, no worries - I'm still thrilled you've made it this far with my tale of Sirius and Hermione (and hopefully you'll stick around for the chapters still to come!).

Chapter 18: The Minister

The office of the Minister for Magic had changed many times over the years. Under Cornelius Fudge, the office and its anteroom had been full of photos of the Minister with various movers and shakers of the magical world: fellow politicians, a portrait of the sitting British prime minister that changed accordingly with whoever filled that post at 10 Downing Street, Heads of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, international quidditch team captains, and unknowing Muggle celebrities of whom even the Wizarding World was somewhat aware.

Scrimgeour's brief tenure had seen a drastically scaled back interior appropriate to a time of war: bare walls where Fudge's fawning pictures once had been, stacks of known Death Eater files piled on top of scuffed tables, various overlapping maps of Britain chronicling attacks on Muggles and wizarding folk alike.

No one chose to remember the Imperius-influenced décor of Pius Thicknesse after Yaxley had taken control of his mind.

During his time as the temporary Minister for Magic after Voldemort's final destruction, Kingsley Shacklebolt had refused to bother with the trivialities of office furniture. In time, however, it was impressed upon him that as the now-permanent leader of Wizarding Britain, there were certain protocols and expectations to which he had to conform, although he was given greater leeway that many of his predecessors in dispensing with fripperies and unnecessary levels of bureaucracy.

He was also the only Minister for Magic who had involved himself in a clandestine, highly illegal, and potentially soul-destroying rite of resurrection in the Death Chamber, although that was known only by the few rather than the many. So far, he had enjoyed great success in squelching any details regarding the mechanics of Sirius Black's return from both the press and his own circle of peers.

So, Minister Shacklebolt didn't feel he had anything about which to worry as Sirius, Lupin, and Tonks made their way into his office's inner sanctum.

"You three come to my door unannounced," he intoned. "Either something is very wrong, or something is very right. Which is it?"

Tonks shrugged and, with a crinkle of her nose, turned her hair a majestic shade of purple to match the colour of Kingsley's robes, just so that he knew she was not the threat in the room. She then tripped on the carpet and knocked over a tall stack of files that Kingsley had been refusing to look at for the past week.

"Despite appearances," said Lupin, bending to help gather up the paperwork, "I think it's more of the latter, Kingsley, but you'll have to be the judge of that. May we sit?"

Waving his hand at the empty chairs before them, Kingsley waited, watched, and then tilted his chin up to inspect the heir to the House of Black. "Sirius! Are you here to yell at me yet again about our current policies on juvenile wizarding offenders? Or that too many laws still favour pureblood houses like yours? If you'll remember, I did offer you the chance to work on those problems with me."

"You did," replied Sirius laconically.

Lupin raised an eyebrow.

Smiling, Kingsley laced his fingers together. "He told me if I attempted to make him a Ministry lackey ever again, he would rip me to pieces, wear my guts for garters at all major social occasions, and leave the rest of my carcass in the Forbidden Forest for the Thestrals – presuming they'd even want it, which he doubted." His deep laughter boomed around the room.

Remus coughed. "Well, that sounds… memorable."

Sirius smiled coyly.

"Quite. So, this is Order business then, I take it?" Kingsley waited, but no one nodded. Eyes narrowing, he carefully assessed each of his guests. "Or something else?"

"Something else," affirmed Tonks. "You're not going to believe it. I still don't."

Lupin patted her leg. "Not yet, love."

"There are many things I can't believe about Sirius Black. His final N.E.W.T. score in Transfiguration, for instance. That one still rankles."

Taking a deep breath, Sirius closed his eyes and then looked at the powerful wizard who had been in turn his classmate, his friend, his hunter, his co-conspirator, and one of his redeemers. "If my N.E. stunned you, Kings, then you'd better hold onto your wand. This will be a whole new level of shock. I want my seat."

"No, I like that chair," Kingsley said immediately. "It's one of the few things in this office I want to keep."

"Not the chair," corrected Sirius testily. "My seat."

Silence filled the room. Kingsley's stare would have turned Medusa to stone.

Rolling his eyes at the continuing pause, Sirius huffed and flexed his fingers. This was beginning to feel like the times he'd been called into McGonagall's office when his ploys to sneak up the girls' dormitory staircase had ended in disaster. He'd come here to take charge of his birthright, for Godric's sake, not to have his knuckles rapped.

Shaking his head slightly as if to clear it, Kingsley looked at Lupin and Tonks. "The Wizengamot? Am I hearing this correctly? Sirius Black wants to take his rightful place on the Wizengamot?"

"I fancied a new set of robes and theirs are the snazziest," Sirius drawled, staring at his fingernails. "But I tell you now, Kings, I will not wear that flipping hat. It's a dealbreaker."

Ignoring him entirely, Kingsley continued to stare at the others. "How did you get him to agree?"

"It wasn't really us," said Lupin.

"No, not as such," added Tonks. "He, um…he decided he needed to make some changes in his life. Take a bit of responsibility. Show some initiative. Get a bit of backbone. Dig down deep. Lay it all out. Do th—"

Sirius leaned across Remus to glare at his cousin. "If you want to live to see tomorrow, I suggest you shut it. Now." He could feel as well as hear Moony's miffed exhale at the implied threat to his mate, but that wasn't enough for Sirius to back down. He should have hog-tied Tonks as a child when he'd had the chance. At least then the furniture would have been safe. Once she was quiet, he turned back to Kingsley.

The First Minister was grinning from ear to ear. "Sirius. My dear Sirius."

"Oh, no."

"It makes my heart so glad that you have decided to join us – to join me – in making our world a better place." Kingsley's eyes twinkled even brighter. "Now, tell me. What bet did you lose that made you have to come to see me like this? Was it to you, Remus? Tonks? It must have been something colossal. Was it this or lose the motorbike?"

The couple seated in front of him shook their heads.

"Harry, then!" surmised Kingsley. "Of course! Potter bested you, yes?"

"No," sighed Sirius, "not him either. I haven't lost a bet against Harry yet. This is down to me. And, in a slightly more oblique way, your top researcher over at the Department of Mysteries."

Sirius hoped the mention of Hermione wasn't too obvious, but even a faint reference to her made his chest feel warm and tight.

"Miss Granger?" Kingsley's smile deepened. "A brilliant witch. The finest I think I have ever seen. I had no idea she was such a good card player, that she could humiliate you so easily. I'll keep that in mind next time you have me over for Christmas drinks."

"Kings," began Remus.

"No, Moony, let me handle this." Sirius shook out his hair, his shoulders adopting a sudden formality that the others immediately noticed. "Minister Shacklebolt. While my reasons for wanting to reclaim my family's seat on the Wizengamot are… complex… they are also genuine. I am here to formally request my admittance to the Wizengamot as the rightful and only heir of House Black and to maintain my place in its ranks as a leader of the Sacred Twenty-Eight until the end of my days, according to the rites of Merlin and Nimue."

Tonks audibly swallowed at Sirius' ability to recite the official oath so easily. He would have to say it again in front of the other members of the Wizengamot in order to be inducted during his first session, but saying it now to Kingsley, unexpectedly, almost gave it more resonance.

Had any of them been aware he knew it already? Had he?

Dropping the formalities, Sirius raised his eyebrows and smirked. "It's time I started to help, Kings, instead of just whingeing about all the things you're bolloxing up."

"I'm doing that, am I?" replied Kingsley, his mouth taking on a tighter line. "How enlightening. In that case, I will support your request for familial reinstatement to the Wizengamot, and I will advocate on your behalf to the other members… on the following conditions."

Sirius scowled immediately. "What conditions?"

"Oh, you'll enjoy them, I'm sure."

The newest warlock on the Wizengamot winced. "Merlin's saggy balls. Just what do you have in mind?"

"Colourful as always, my Lord Black," said Kingsley smoothly, using Sirius' new title with knowing emphasis. "But I think we can put that sharp mind to better use for more than just inventive curses."

Remus looked at Tonks, flashing her a smirk. This was going to be delicious.

"You'll let me take the House of Black's rightful seat on the Wizengamot in return for what?" asked a glowering Sirius.

"Your expertise, of course! Your wide-ranging expertise, my old friend." Looking every inch the crafty diplomat, Kingsley sat back in his chair, surveying the man before him. "You have gifts, Sirius – great talents that have been wasted over the past two decades. We are going to change that."

"If you put me behind an effing desk, Kingsley, I'll walk out of this room immediately."

Hands raised, Minister Shacklebolt shook his head, his grin still firmly in place. "That is not what I had in mind. Nothing of the kind. Did you know that, in the Muggle world, there is a delightful position in government that can be made for those who have similarly diverse talents like yours? Someone who can appeal to a broad portfolio of concerns and tastes? In America, they call it a 'cultural attaché'."

"What on earth does that mean? It sounds like a bloody suitcase." Sirius' voice was full of trepidation.

"It means," replied Kingsley, "that you can do what you like. I will give you free reign to involve yourself in whatever aspects of wizarding culture that appeal to you. Your appreciation for art is already well known, as is your consistent backchannelling to advocate for changes to our system of justice."

Tonks' eyes grew very round. "Did you know he was doing that?" she stage-whispered to her mate.

"Not exactly," said Remus slowly.

"Attaché?" Sirius pondered the term. "What else could I do?"

"Our world would be your oyster, my friend, as the saying goes. Prison reform, literary studies, magical creature rights, unsolved mysteries, Muggle-Wizard relations… The possibilities are endless. We have no one like you, Sirius. We never will again. I would be a fool not to grab you in these few moments while your interest seems… peaked."

Sirius' bottom lip stuck out ever so slightly as he considered this rather intriguing proposition, his fingers steepled below his chin.

"Hogwarts?"

Kingsley sounded shocked. "You want to be a governor?"

Sirius' smile was silky and evil. "It's possible. I was one of its best students, after all."

"And one of its most devious," Lupin muttered.

Biting his lip with glee, Sirius nodded at his dearest friend. "You could join me, Moony. Don't you think the young minds of Wizarding Britain would benefit from our wide-ranging scholastic experiences?"

Kingsley groaned as Lupin's own wicked grin began to dawn. "That's a separate position, you two cretins, and you both know it. But I suppose – in time – it's something we could also think about. Other work takes priority now, however. The conditions are these: first, this will be no stunt. You will announce your intentions regarding your ancestral rights, you will take your seat on the Wizengamot as soon as possible, and you will attend the actual meetings. We bother to keep track of those things now."

"How very progressive of you, Kings," Sirius smirked. "That's one."

"Second, the Ministerial position. It, too, will not just be for show. I expect results – and I'll get them." There was no mistaking the gravity in his voice. Giving Sirius that much power was no joke, and Kingsley clearly didn't want anyone laughing as they hammered out the terms.

Sirius' mouth went flat for a moment before he nodded his agreement. In less than ten minutes, he had signed himself up for far more than a brass nameplate and an ugly hat. He doubted anyone else had ever been offered this kind of latitude by the Ministry before.

Except Hermione.

Kingsley had given her a similar amount of independence in how she conducted her time at the Department of Mysteries. Now the Ministry would want results from both of them. Running with the idea, Sirius' mind briefly entertained the notion that he might be able to work alongside her, attaché-ing himself to her research project – if she'd let him. It would be a natural fit, given he was the bleeding research project.

He held up his fingers as he rhymed off the current agreement. "So, the Wizengamot, becoming your ace Ministry attaché for whatever I fancy, and the possibility of more portfolios in the future so long as we all behave ourselves. Anything else?"

"One more. This will be your favourite," Kingsley smirked.

When deployed, Sirius' crooked smile could make one feel deliciously wicked; by comparison, Kingsley's devilish grin was rather frightening.

"You are one of the most famous wizards alive, Sirius. I want to put that to good use, too. Our witches and wizards need to trust their government again. It has been… slow going, so far. I am only one man, but you—" He paused, leaning forward across his desk. "You, my friend, are a star."

Remus winced. "That's a dreadful pun, Kingsley."

"But an accurate one. As a Black, Sirius is a known quantity in our world no matter what he decides to do with his time. But with this new dedication to public service, he will be an absolute force. And he knows it," added Kingsley, taking in the look on Sirius' face. "My last condition is that you will agree to a full interview with The Daily Prophet to talk about all the good you intend to do in your new positions."

Sirius scowled. "Kingsley. I hate being in The Prophet. There've been enough photos of me in that bloody rag to paper over half of London."

"But not many of you without a 'Wanted' headline running at the top, or with a smile on your face. I want you to be seen as impressive, not insane. Charming rather than criminal."

Remus and Tonks shared a quiet look. For someone who had no idea what he was going to hear when they walked into the room, Kingsley Shacklebolt certainly had lost no time in getting what he wanted from Sirius.

"Does it have to be The Prophet?" Sirius whined. "Can't we get Lovegood to do a new run of The Quibbler? They've always been good to me."

"Absolutely not," Kingsley countered. "Xenophilius still thinks you might really be a rock star."

"I could wear my leather pants for the photo shoot and he'd only be half wrong."

"No."

"Witch Weekly? They'd go bonkers for an exclusive with me."

"No, Sirius. The Daily Prophet. I won't have a profile like this ruined by gossip and the reporter fawning over a celebrity."

"Are you sure you trust The Prophet for that kind of thing, Kingsley?" asked Remus. "When it comes to fawning and gossip they already have quite the reputation."

The Minister for Magic looked non-plussed. "I have some pull with them, Remus. This wouldn't be a Rita Skeeter interview."

"Well, thank fuck for that," Sirius exhaled. "Fine. A proper interview where I promise not to be a horse's ass. Those are all of your conditions?"

Kingsley nodded. "A fair deal?"

"And, at work, I would answer to…?"

"Me," said the former Auror, his bass voice echoing in the room. "We can do great things, Sirius. Let's put that pureblood influence to its best possible use: destroying whatever power it has left."

Sirius grinned for the first time since hearing that a newspaper might be involved. "Kingsley, you took the words right out of my mouth. Circe, Moony, we should have done this years ago!"

"You were dead," Remus reminded him drolly. "And before that you were in hiding, and before that you were one of Azkaban's finest. You simply didn't have the time for selfless public service."

"Well, whatever loss I've been to wizarding society until now, I'm about to make up for it with gusto."

Kingsley looked at Tonks. "Am I really going to doing this?" he deadpanned to his one-time colleague.

"It appears so," she answered brightly.

"Well, Sirius," said Kingsley as he stood up, "I expect that this will be quite a coup."

The scion of House Black gladly took the Minister's outstretched hand, rising from his chair to shake it firmly. Catching Tonks' eye, he quirked an eyebrow. "Think she'll approve?"

"Your mother or your girlfriend?"

"You're despicable," he scowled.

The purple-haired witch rolled her eyes but betrayed herself with a wide smile. "After she's died of shock, I'm sure Hermione will be delighted. You haven't just become responsible. You've become bloody respectable."

Sirius let the smug look fill his face as he sat back in his chair, his arms crossed contentedly.

Remus never would have said it out loud, but it was the most like a Black that Sirius had ever looked in his entire life.

"Hermione?" asked Kingsley as he sat back down, obviously surprised. "Hermione Granger? She's… you… she's your…?"

Sirius' eyes flashed with emotion. "That remains to be seen, Kings. But you've helped tremendously. Send whatever house elf is in charge of wardrobe for the Wizengamot over to Grimmauld so we can get my costume underway. Or, no, better yet," he said, rethinking his strategy, "I'll pop by tomorrow. When everyone is on lunchbreak. If you want an exclusive in The Daily Prophet to really get people talking, there should be a few crumbs leading up to the main feast."

"Good Godric," Remus swore, burying his face in his hands.

"Don't forget, Moony: this was your idea."

"And I will live that burden for the rest of my days," he sighed, rubbing his hands down his jaw.

Sirius snorted. "Well, if I have to be on the sodding Wizengamot 'til the end of mine, the least you can do is share the pain. Come on you two, after all this I need a drink." Nodding to his new employer, Sirius tugged at a pretend forelock. "Until next week, Minister Shacklebolt."

Kingsley shook his head. "Merlin help us all."

"You've been well?"

"Me?" Hermione blushed. "Yes, thank you, Colin. I've been very well."

"I only ask because you seem… well… quite incandescent, actually."

She brought her hands up to her cheeks. "Am I? I suppose I'm just… happy?"

Colin chuckled. "You really must be off in your own world to be that confused, but somehow still happy about it. Everything all right?"

She nodded, biting her lip. "I think so. I… uh… I got some post last night. It was pretty special."

Raising his eyebrows, Colin said, "It must have been quite the letter."

"Oh, it was," Hermione concurred.

"Care to share?" asked Colin as he laid out his brushes and pencils on a table near his easel.

"Absolutely not!"

"Ohhhhh," he said, nodding dramatically. "It was that kind of letter."

Hermione's mouth pulled over to one side. She was not going to talk about what Sirius had written to her the night before. His words had been for her eyes only.

She hadn't been able to leave her room for nearly an hour after she had finished reading it. Luna had knocked on the door, asking if she wanted any supper, and Hermione had barely been able to croak a reply. She was too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

I can still taste you. I try to work or write or read with the taste of you in my mouth. I should have licked your wetness off my fingers when I had the chance, that last time they were deep inside of you. I want to bury my face between your thighs and never come up for air until I can hear you screaming my name and shaking from how hard I've made you come.

That lush scent of your pussy just in front of my face, the honeyed tang that overwhelms me when you pulse against my tongue, the trails of musk that I know must have spilled out of the room that night while we took each other… I never open the door to your room in case any of those delicious aromas are still there; if it wasn't shut, they might escape, and I would be bereft all over again.

Just thinking of how amazing you smell makes me hard.

When I close my eyes, I see you. I remember you in the dark, the way the shadows played across your breasts as you rode me. Gods, you felt so tight. Now, I dream of taking you hard on your bed in the middle of the afternoon with the sunlight glinting off your pale skin and the sheets warm beneath us. My hands start to itch, wanting to touch you, to trace down your spine to that valley at the small of your back and then up again with the curve of your ass. I'm going to fill my hands with you, squeezing until you buck back against me, and then I'll turn you over so I can blind myself with how beautiful you are.

I need to see your nakedness spread out in front of me. At first, I would just look at you. I wouldn't touch you – I won't – until I can tell from that sweeping blush on your skin that you can feel my eyes on you. That you know every place I'm gazing at. That it's making you hot and wet. I hunger for you. I want to gorge myself on the vision of you, knowing it's real – that you really are there before me.

There are nights when I refuse to touch myself when I think of you. I won't allow it. Some cruel part of me enjoys the torture, the pure masochism of craving you so much that I resist and suffer alone, throbbing in the dark, until you can be the one to touch me, to make me shake and groan and come.

Then there are times when I can't help it – I have to touch myself, or I'll die. I know it's a shallow echo of being deep inside of you, but it's all I have. It's all you've left me with, you wretched witch.

I swear, 'Mione, I will never touch another woman while you walk this earth. How could I ever be happy with shadows when I've been inside the sun? When I'm palming myself, feeling my cock harden and swell, gritting my teeth to make the sensations eke out another moment longer, it's only because that sweet chase is one of my last, best memories of being with you.

That is what it's like for me to be in your bed, in your body and – please, Merlin – in your heart. I am undone. To crave another person like this – this deeply – it's terrifying. To realise that I've been with the one woman and now I'm separated from her for Godric knows how long. That is the real agony, princess. That is what I'm fighting against every minute of every day that you are gone. That you are not here with me. That I'm not making you mine.

Tell me that it's not too late to be saying this – that our one night together isn't our last. I will want you to the end of my days, Hermione Granger. Never doubt it.

Never doubt me.

S.

Really, how was any woman to react to such an erotic, brazen confession? The emotion of Sirius' first letter had made Hermione gasp and feel almost dizzy. The sheer carnality of his second had made her weak at the knees.

Before, she had thought that was a silly, over-exaggerated statement that made women seem like total ninnies. Now she understood what it truly meant: that the ligaments and spaces between them at her knees became cold and prickly all at once, benumbed as if pins and needles had taken over and made walking impossible.

Smiling secretly to herself, she looked over at Colin and retied the cord around her silk dressing gown.

"Yes," she said quickly, "that kind of a letter."

"Fair enough," he replied. "Come here, I want to show you these sketches before we start today. Tell me what you think."

Looking at what he had spread before her, Hermione gasped. "Oh, Colin! That can't be me."

"Of course, it is. It always has been."

She wasn't so sure.

As someone whose stick figures looked ham-fisted, Hermione was enchanted by the way Colin's charcoals had captured the lines of her shoulders and the angle of her chin. All of the sketches so far were either of her head and shoulders or, on a single sheave, a study of her arms and hands, her fingers clenched around her wand.

"These are wonderful!"

"Thank you," he said softly. "It's easy when you have such a good model."

Shaking her head, she took the compliment as gracefully as possible.

"I'm thinking that we'll have a number of these lining the rooms at the premiere, and maybe a few of the clay moulds and maquettes scattered around, but I'll save the actual portrait for a reveal later in the evening."

"The big finish?"

He grinned. "Precisely."

"So, we start the oils today?"

"Yes. A quick sketch first, and then the real thing. I've been trying to work out your pose. We could be demure and have your back turned to the canvas, or we could do more of a Romney pondering motif, or perhaps something full-on and confrontational."

"How much movement will she eventually have?" asked Hermione, mentally running through the possibilities that Colin had just outlined.

"We can determine that once we've decided on the overall presentation. The spell can be adapted as much as we want."

"But just the one full nude for the show?"

He nodded. "I think that's best. You, my dear Hermione, are unique. Your portrait should be, too."

Unbidden, memories of Sirius' voice rumbled in her ear.

I can't think properly when I'm with you like this. When you… look like that.

Hermione began to feel flushed. One finger slowly traced its way down the angle of her neck that Colin had captured in pencil, hovering just above that spot on her body that Sirius had claimed time and again for himself.

Merlin, I can't even think straight if you're naked. I just can't.

She didn't want him to be able to think straight. That was the entire point. She wanted him only to feel and to react. She wanted him to love it.

She wanted him to love her.

His voice continued to echo in her mind as she took her position on the raised dais in front of Colin's easel. Her fingers nimbly untied the knot she had made earlier and the silk dressing gown slipped to the floor, pooling at her feet.

"Leave it there," Colin said suddenly.

"Really?"

"Yes. Ah… can you remove the hair clip? That's it, yes. I want to see what it's like down rather than up."

"It'll look like a lion's mane," she warned him.

"Well, you are a Gryffindor, aren't you?"

"You say that like a Slytherin."

"Hardly! Gryffindors just revel in making each other look their best," he winked.

Giving in to a small smile, Hermione did as he asked and let her hair down. She could feel it spilling over her shoulders, standing out at the sides of her face.

"Yes. Yes, that'll do nicely."

Colin began to sketch quickly, hardly pausing between quick glances at her and furious movements on the paper. She couldn't see what he was creating, but she could tell from the speed that he was wanting to capture something in particular – something that might disappear in a moment.

"I'm sorry."

"That I was thinking?"

"No, that you had to get dressed."

"You're smiling again," Colin said teasingly.

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. "I'm having fun."

"Good. Can you lift your hand – no, more towards your head – yes, lift your hair, just like that, only the one side. Just by your temple? Wonderful. Now, hold yourself there. Try not to move."

Feeling slightly silly despite the hours she'd already spent doing this, Hermione let her mind drift.

But you know… you naked… I can't resist that.

Could he really not? Would this painting push Sirius over the edge?

"One more thing."

"Yes?" she asked, her mind skipping back to the present.

Colin caught her eye. "Think of it again."

Her eyebrows drew together. "What?"

"Whatever you were just thinking of. That was the key. It was that letter, yes?"

"Not quite."

"Whatever it was, think of it now. Whatever he said – it was him who wrote it, wasn't it? Whoever he may be?"

Feeling more than slightly embarrassed, Hermione nodded and dropped her head.

"No," Colin said. "Don't look down. Remember what he wrote. Whatever it was that made you feel on fire earlier. That's what I need to see. It changes every line in your body."

Closing her eyes for a moment, she thought back to that weakness in her knees and the swarms of butterflies in her stomach that came whenever she saw Sirius across a room. That low down, dirty tickle that teased between her legs when he looked back.

At first, I would just look at you…

I want to bury my face between your thighs and never come up for air…

Gods, you felt so tight…

Then there are times when I can't help it – I have to touch myself, or I'll die…

I will never touch another woman while you walk this earth…

More…

She raised her head, reliving as much as remembering.

"Holy Hecate," Colin swore slowly. "Yes! That! Whatever it is, keep thinking that."

The tiniest corner of her mouth rose as she thought of Sirius, of everything he had written, of everything he had done to her, of everything she had done to him in return.

"Amazing, Hermione. This is pure magic."

The only sound in the room was Colin's pencil scratching across the page.

The only sound in her mind was Sirius.

Look at me…

Come… come with me…

Just watch me.

Later, Colin declared it the most inspired sitting he had ever had. The premiere would be an absolute triumph.

Hermione bit her lip, hoping he was right.