adult Hermione/Sirius
theme: jealousy
song: selfish by virginia to vegas
warning: slightly deranged postazkaban and possessivesirius.
Jealousy will drive you mad.
He counts by the seconds.
Each one is agonizing. Another blight to his self esteem, to his sense of security. Of having what is his.
Sirius waits, walking in short, jumpy paths in front of the fireplace.
Every so often, he throws another champagne flute into the fire as he thinks of her.
Of why she's still not home. At Grimmauld Place where she belongs.
Fuck.
He checks the watch on the mantlepiece for the billionith time. It seems.
Have a billion seconds passed since she last walked out this door?
He could almost laugh now at his own stupidity.
How could he have let her walk out this door? Why didn't he just grab her by the shoulders and get a feel of that ridiculous bushy brown hair and tell the damn chit exactly what she meant to him.
If he wasn't still a fugitive and under house arrest, he'd run out right now and go after her.
As Padfoot he could chase her down and locate her in the wildest most abandoned places.
He'd find her honeysuckle and vanilla scent of her skin and hair again. The lavender detergent she used to wash her clothes-the muggle way, instead of just Scourgifying them the normal way all wizards and witches did. Except for Hermione. That damn muggleborn backward chit. That was driving him mad.
Why did I let her slip out of my grasp?
Barely two hours ago she'd been in his parlour, filling it with her laughter and her scent. And it sent a strange thrill through him whenever she deliberately avoided eye contact with him, as if she knew, she knew exactly what she was doing to him and it wasn't an illusion in his head.
Though it was a damn cruel thing to do to an ex-convict prisoner like him. Didn't she know how hard the war had been on all of them? Didn't she know she shouldn't play with fire?
Damn. Damn. Damn. He was in a great moral dillemna.
Hermione was now 19. She was free to do what she liked, she was an adult. He couldn't stop her. He wasn't her godfather. Though he wouldn't even order around Harry if he tried. Sirius didn't want to order anyone around.
Or wait. That wasn't true. He fucking did want to order someone around.
He wanted to order Hermione Granger to come back home right now so he could stop worrying for her and wondering what the hell she was getting
up to in that pretty red dress. She shouldn't have gone out dressed like that. Better yet, Sirius shouldn't have let her out like that. It was wrong. It was
all wrong.
And right now, he couldn't help fearing that someone else's eyes were on those legs and sexy ass and that red dress could be slipping off her shoulders, if she got drunk, if something happened...
Another glass flute went flying into a spattering of violent fractures against the fireplace.
He checks the clock again.
Where is she? WHY ISN'T SHE BACK?
He's about ready to throw the clock in too. Destroy the damn instrument of his torture he was been obsessively checking for the past two hours.
No there must be a way that abillion seconds fit into the last two hours, there just has to be. Too much time has passed.
"That's it. Something's happened to her. I'm going after her."
In a matter of seconds, before he even has time to think through any sort of plan, he's already transformed into Padfoot and bounding out the front door of Grimmauld Place, his wet nose sniffing the wet pavement where he already can pick up a trail of scent from where her boots last walked...
Not for the first or last time, he thanks merlin that his animagus is a dog.
Bloody useful.
He's going to find her, and he's going to take Hermione J Granger back home. Because bloody hell, it might be completely deranged, but she belongs
to him.
He's decided, somewhere deep inside of him that knows no words, she is his. He can't let anyone else have her. He won't let it happen.
His tail wags as he picks up the pace and breaks all rules to bring back the one woman he loves.
~o~
