Mrs. Weasley's yearly Christmas party was the flutter of every year these days; even Hermione, in her long years of mourning Ron's death, had been loathe not to attend, and had convinced herself to go two years out of five. It was lively, a masquerade sort of affair. The array of guest stretched from the lower floor inside, spilling all the way out into the farthest reaches of the garden in the backyard, spelled to keep warm while still retaining snow. There was food and drink and merriment in abundance, as well as, courtesy of the Weasley twins, a grand surplus of mistletoe and spiked punch. Hermione had long dreamt of this upcoming party, thinking she would be able to bring the newly revived Ron as her date.
The day after Sirius moved back in with Hermione, settling himself back down on her couch, was the day Hermione received her invitation by owl. Sirius found her weeping slightly in the kitchen when he woke up, and he took the paper from her hand and read it.
"A party? Wow." Sirius sighed, trying to remember the last time he had been to a real party. He did not know why Hermione was crying about it; he would have loved to have been invited to a get-together, and was a little hurt that he was not when he remembered that people were still getting used to the fact that he was alive in the first place, and Molly probably had not had the mind to put him on the guest list. Besides, he and Molly had never quite gotten on very well, stated mildly.
"What's the matter?" He asked, suddenly realizing Hermione was in tears. She looked up, wiping her eyes and trying a smile, and shrugged.
"Er… nothing."
Sirius raised his eyebrows. Early morning or no, he was not quite stupid enough to be that inobservant. Hermione shrugged again, looking back down at her lap. A strand of her hair fell into her eyes, and Sirius noted how her long eyelashes folded together when her eyes fluttered shut.
Sirius looked back at the invitation, at where it stated that Hermione could bring anybody she'd like to bring as a date; he frowned. "You were… planning on bringing Ron, weren't you?"
Hermione looked up at him, frowning. "It's not that," she said quickly, but Sirius shook his head, and she smiled a little. "Alright. Maybe."
Sirius grinned. "I'm sorry, but… I don't have anyone to go with, and I'd really like to go to a party just about now—I haven't been for longer than I'd like to think about."
There was a long silence, and Hermione raised her chin and her eyebrows simultaneously, appraising Sirius's frank expression. Then, with a caution befitting her nature, Hermione actually smiled back at him, albeit very slowly. "Are you asking me out on a date, Sirius?"
Sirius frowned with one side of his mouth, biting down softly on the other side—an expression of thought. "I wouldn't call it a date, exactly, but…" he sighed. She could really do with some cheering up at that moment. Perhaps a date—a real date—would be just what the doctor ordered. He let up a bit on his lip and allowed himself to smile again. "Sure. Hermione, will you be my date to the Christmas party?"
Hermione grinned. "Alright, then." They stayed like that, grinning at each other, until Hermione bit back a gasp, and said aloud, "Damn. Sirius, there is one kind of big problem…."
"What's that?" Sirius asked, raising his eyebrows in concern.
The very corners of Hermione's mouth bent downward into a frown. She looked up at him slowly. He noticed her chocolate eyes were still ruddy and puffy around the edges, still sparkling from iris to white; he gulped slightly, knowing he would be quite unable to deny her anything she asked for. A heartbeat later, Hermione's shoulders heaved with a sigh, and she said melodramatically, "You see… living along for so long… well… let's just say that I don't have a thing to wear."
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"I hope Harry doesn't mind…" Sirius said, offering Hermione a hand up. She had fallen while Flooing in to Grimmauld Place. Sirius did not mention that he had done the same thing before her, but Hermione took in the ash on the knees of his pants, and assumed as much for herself. She said nothing, but smirked a little.
"He shouldn't. He never actually comes here, anyway." Hermione sighed. "And what are we doing here, anyhow? Or are you not permitted to answer?"
"Checking out all of the old closets." Sirius said, with a slow wink and a smile. "We're going to see if all those pansy clothes of Regulus's fit me, and if the horrid coquette dresses Bellatrix used to doll herself up in do anything for you. We'll be a regular old-fashioned couple."
Hermione blushed a little. Sirius laughed. "Then again, Bellatrix may have been a bit curvier than you are—no offense, of course," Hermione only shrugged, "but we'd probably better check Narcissa's supply… if she hasn't taken them all out, already."
They walked off, arm in arm, to an old musty bedroom, the one Tonks had kept up in during her time there, years before; Sirius led Hermione to one closet. Hermione's head was elsewhere, trying to remember exactly how big Narcissa was around the chest; no matter how little she imagined, it was always at least some more than she. Also, a little, needling thought in the back of her mind told her that Sirius must have at least really looked at her figure once—a thought which embarrassed her to no end for some reason which Hermione could not identify.
"Alright, you rifle through that closet," Sirius said, smiling and pulling back the wooden closet doors (several mothballs rolled out, and a large cloud of dust, causing Hermione to cough slightly), "and I'll go jam myself into some of my little brother's old clothes." He moved closer, and, for once exciting second, Hermione thought he might be about to kiss her on the cheek—although, on later analysis, she did not allow herself to wonder too much as to why that would be any more exciting than a kiss on the cheek from anyone else—but he patted her on the shoulder and hugged her gently to him before letting her go and walking out of the room. "Change into it, so I can see," he tossed over his shoulder.
"I will if you do." She muttered as the door shut behind him.
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Sirius entered his brother's old room, putting a stop to all the old memories that threatened to come back. He walked directly over to the old wardrobe and opened it, staring at the array of hanging clothes before him. There were a few moldy, moth-eaten suits, but, in the very back of the closet, there was an actually nice suit—without too many lacy ruffles—that must have had an anti-aging spell on it, because it was in nearly perfect condition. Sirius, smiling doggedly at it, pulled the old suit out and stared at it.
It was a very dark blue hue, Sirius's favorite color; a white collar showed a few ruffles, but they looked like something a vampire from an old classic movie would wear, rather than a prat. The pants were probably a tad short; Sirius would magic those longer later on. Sirius found a pair of fancy black gentlemanly boots and polished them just a little. He slowly undressed, and got into the suit.
It fit very, very well; something about how the pants were just the right length convinced Sirius that there must have been some auto-fit spell on it. He put on the shoes and surveyed himself in the mirror. After a few combs through his hair, he smiled. He could not wait to show Hermione.
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At that very moment, Hermione had just lamented that absolutely nothing in the closet would fit her properly. She finally chose one for the color—a kind of bridal off-white—and slipped it up. There were complicated laces in the back which Hermione could not get, and she decided that Sirius would definitely have to get it for her. She looked quickly in the mirror, checked that her hair was in order, and then jumped at the knock on the door behind her. She whirled around.
"Sirius?"
"No… it's the Minister of Magic. Just thought I'd check in."
Hermione snorted and rolled her eyes. "Come on in… I need you to lace this up." She looked at the neckline of the dress which bagged around her scant curves, and showed rather more than Hermione would have preferred. Sighing, she turned so her back would be facing him when he came in, and she swept her hair to the side and over one shoulder.
Sirius opened the door slowly, peeking his head in first, and then allowing his body to follow. He was smiling, but his smile faded quickly when he saw Hermione's neck bared; something about it made his pulse pound, and the way she turned her head slightly so she could see him over her naked shoulder, and the way that her eyelashes stood out vividly dark in her profile… he was rendered speechless. He somehow managed to continue walking to her, and, with a burst of inner effort—although every instinct told him to tear it off—began lacing the dress.
"Tighter than that," Hermione said mildly, turning her head back to face straight, now unable to see Sirius. "Please." She added, as an afterthought.
He laced it a little tighter, corners of his mouth now pointing upwards, if only just a little. The laces were intricate, and something about the speed at which warm blood was racing through Sirius's extremities—all of them—slowed his fingers, gave them a bumbling sort of nature. He tried not to let Hermione feel how difficult this was for him, but soon, he heard her giggle.
"What are you doing back there… tying it in a thousand little knots?"
Sirius laughed. "No. These are hard to do up, is all." He finally finished, tied as graceful a bow of the ribbon as he could muster, and stepped back. "Alright, all done." Hermione threw her brown curls back over her back; she wheeled around, feeling the floaty skirt whirl about her legs, and then turned to face Sirius, smiling.
He was not smiling. A lump had formed in his throat the size of a troll; he pursed his lips together tightly. Hermione looked a little hurt.
"What's the matter? Is it too big?"
Sirius shook his head, able to speak, but his voice was rough, and he blushed a little. "No. It's… well, Hermione, you're perfect."
Hermione blushed as well now, a little taken aback. She raised her eyebrows and smiled. "Well…" she said, surveying Sirius now, "you look quite charming yourself. Blue truly does suit you. Perhaps you should have been a Ravenclaw…?"
"Perish the thought." Sirius said, grinning. He offered Hermione his arm. "My lady?"
She accepted it, and allowed him to lead her to the kitchen, creeping barefooted—holding their shoes in their free arms—past the old portrait of Sirius's mother. Setting down their shoes on the floor, they sat at the table, and Sirius looked in a few dusty corners of the room that Hermione had never thought to look in before. From these, he procured a bottle of firewhiskey. He pulled out two small glasses, and filled them both with the liquid.
"To Christmas parties," he said, offering Hermione her glass and raising his own. Hermione hesitantly raised her glass, allowing it to clink pleasantly against Sirius's, and quickly downed the liquid. It burned with all sorts of spices. She smiled a forced smile as she gulped it all down. Sirius wiped his mouth and refilled both glasses.
"You don't think the neckline is too low?" Hermione asked.
Sirius shook his head. "The neckline's perfect," he said, grinning. "Shall you make a toast, now, Lady Hermione?"
Hermione grinned, as well, and elevated her glass cautiously, so as not to spill the red-amber liquid. She had a feeling it would burn her if it touched her skin. "To the perfect outfits for the perfect party…" she stopped here, but her voice did not punctuate the statement, and Sirius looked on at her, as if expecting something more. Hermione, loosened a little by that first toast—she never could hold her liquor very well, and even the smallest bit loosened her tongue like the strongest Veritaserum—continued daringly, nodding her head at Sirius and saying, "and, of course, the perfect date."
She downed hers, and was too busy wincing from the bitterness of it to notice that Sirius had not taken a sip of his. By the time her eyes opened and she looked up, the firewhiskey from his glass was gone, but he looked placidly at her from over the empty glass. There was a long silence.
Hermione swept to her feet, blushing more than she would have liked. She felt on the verge of tears. What right had Sirius, to say nothing? Her whimsical nature induced by the drug had been cancelled, now a kind of violent melancholy, threatening tears. Her body shook once, but whether with a sob or just a hiccough, Hermione could not tell. She swept her skirts away from the chair, setting her glass down with a thud. Sirius continued to watch her placidly.
"I'm going to go change back into my clothes," Hermione said, voice wavering dangerously. "I'll be at the flat." With that, she walked as quickly as she could out of the kitchen, past the portrait of Mrs. Black, and then dashed a swiftly as possible up to Narcissa's old bedroom. It was all she could do to prevent herself from flinging herself down on the bed and weeping then and there, but she knew this was not that place for such a thing. Instead, she scooped up her clothes, and, despite being a little woozy to Apparate safely, did so, and found herself in her own flat, in her own room.
She fell against the wall slightly, allowing her clothes to drop to the ground. With as swift a nature as possible, she tore at the ribbons as her back, trying to unlace them; luck was not with her, and no matter how she tried, she could not get them undone. She threw her head full of dark brown curls back and moaned in aggravation.
There was a knock on the door, now to Hermione's back. She said nothing, allowing sobs and tears to pour out of her like that was what she was meant for; she heard the door open, and heard Sirius's walk—she could distinguish his walk just from the sound—sweep across the floor. His warm hands pushed her hair from the laces; her fingers quickly unlaced the dress. Suddenly immune from any further embarrassment than she was going through already, she forced her arms from the sleeves and allowed the dress to fall to the ground, now in only her undergarments.
She sobbed noisily, and Sirius shushed her, turning her around with his warm palms on her thin shoulders. He wiped the tears from her bright red face, and pulled her to him. She beat a fist against his chest halfheartedly, but she had not hurt him, had not prevented him from holding her.
They stood like that for longer than either of them knew, Hermione sobbing and Sirius holding her, the dress pooled at Hermione's feet, until Hermione collapsed, asleep, against him, and he put her to bed, pulling the sheets up about her. He folded her clothes and set them next to the bed, bringing her the shoes she had left behind at Grimmauld Place. Hesitantly, he leaned over and kissed her forehead, and then turned and left the room.
"Memo to Sirius," he said, leaning against her door after he shut it behind him. He allowed his head to loll back and tap the wood quietly. "Don't let Hermione have a drop at the party."
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