Chapter 3

December 1995

Hermione

Dear Hermione,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that it won't turn your Christmas upside down. I'm sure you've heard about the attack on Arthur Weasley, by now. What you may not know is that Harry helped people in the Order so they could find Arthur quickly enough to save his life. He had some kind of dream where he saw it happen. The whole Weasley family and Harry are staying with me for the holidays, to be close to St Mungo's, where Arthur is recovering. I'm happy to have them here, but I'm worried about Harry. He seems to think he is somehow responsible. He told me things about the night it happened, and it scared him more than anything he has been through before. He doesn't sleep, he's moody and withdraws from everyone. The Weasleys don't really notice, but I do. I've never seen him like this before, and I can't really reach him. He doesn't want to speak to me, and I don't know what to do, as I clearly can see that he needs to speak to someone.

I know it's Christmas, and that normal people such as yourself see this holiday as a time for family and friends. I might be an insensitive bastard to ask you this, but can you find it in your heart to come and see Harry? I've always treasured friends before family, but I know I'm not like most people, and that your family is nothing like mine. You are more than welcome to stay until after the New Year.

Ron said you were going skiing with your parents, but since you don't like snow in general and snow-covered slopes in particular, I thought I'd ask.

I'm sorry if my god fatherly concern about Harry is too much. Please let me hear from you soon.

Love

Sirius

Butterflies. Lots of them. Despite the damp, grey and dark December, Hermione is intensely aware of butterflies. A whole community of them has taken up residence in her stomach, sending tingling tickles through her body. She hates skiing, but her parents love it, and they are going to the French Alps tomorrow. Her parents won't really miss her that much when there are snowy hills and lifts and after-skis to attend. She'll use her usual "I need to study." She had planned to anyway, but in Chamonix. Now she'll do it and stay behind in England. Going to Grimmauld Place. Sirius's letter worries her. She always worries about Harry, fearing that all their mad adventures during the more than four years together is only the beginning of… Beginning of the end? What has happened now?

The butterflies don't come from worry, though. It's the tone in Sirius's letter that conjures them up. She has not been prepared that he would confide in her, but is thrilled that he does now. Writing to her as… as a friend, but something more than the adult friend to a child. There is something more there. Something she likes. Something she wants more of.

The first time she visited his house in Grimmauld Place was in August, just before the new school term. But then Sirius had kept mostly to himself, and been in a rather foul mood when he appeared at mealtimes. There hadn't been a trace of the closeness she had felt the previous Christmas, when he had walked her back to Hogwarts from the cave he camped out in. She had been secretly disappointed. The letter she now holds in her hand makes her remember their walk through the frosty evening a year before. Evidently the butterflies also remember, and make her shiver from their wild dance inside.

She asks the Knight Bus to let her off at Angel underground station on the Northern Line, implying she has plans to continue her journey by this muggle way of transportation. Instead she walks the few blocks to the street with the row of Georgian brick houses, with her backpack slung over her shoulder. Her belongings, including the books she has brought home from Hogwarts are all shrunken inside.

How do I…? What does Sirius really want me to say to Harry? What if Harry doesn't want to talk to me either? He has been so reticent this term, exploding when I've pressed him. Refusing to tell anyone about his detentions with Umbridge. Has he told Sirius about the blood quills?

Hermione realises she is as concerned about how her talk with Harry will go, as she is about what Sirius will think about her help.

Eager to please?

She blushes and does not want to scrutinise her motives further.

Heasked me to come. Me.

Number 12 appears between 11 and 13, looking as grim and uncared for as ever. She hears the doorbell echo inside and runs her fingers through her hair, trying to tame the wild curls the damp weather has caused.

"Kreacher! Where the hell are you? You should get the door! Has anyone seen that bloody elf?" Sirius's voice is cold and annoyed from the other side of the thick oak door. Hermione straightens up when she hears his footsteps coming closer.

Her first impression of him matches his angry question about his house elf, but only for a split second. When he sees her his expression changes to the most welcoming smile Hermione has ever seen. The butterflies go even wilder. Sirius takes a step back to let her in, and as if drawn by an invisible line attached to him she crosses the threshold. He holds out his arms and without thinking she walks right into his embrace. When he folds his arms tightly around her she thinks about jigsaw puzzles. For some reason she gets the same feeling as when she finds two azure pieces of the sky in a 2000 pieces puzzle to fit. Pressed to his chest, she feels his quick heartbeat. He inhales slowly before he speaks.

"I'm so glad you're here, love. So good to see you. Really. Would you rather have gone to France with your parents?"

She shakes her head against his shoulder and mumbles "No, not at all," while she wishes he won't let go of her. And for a few seconds, he doesn't. Then he takes hold of her shoulders, and keeps holding her at arm-length distance.

"Where is Harry?" she asks.

For a second he looks as if he has never met anyone by that name.

"Harry? Oh, Harry! He's upstairs. Third floor, to the left. He's kept Buckbeak company since this morning. But I think you should speak to Fred or George before you go up. Come on. Let me take your bag."

He reaches for her backpack and ushers her towards the library. He keeps his hand at the small of her back, and the tiny touch and the warmth of his hand make her unfocused and rather uninterested in Harry's self-imposed isolation with the Hippogriff.

Fred and George sit opposite each other with two armies of toy soldiers between them. With their wands they make the armies fight a brutal war, and small arms, legs and heads fly off the table, accompanied by low but desperate screams. Sirius clears his throat, and George looks up for a second.

"Let me just kill Napoleon first," he says and continues the fight with his brother. Soon Napoleon dies in a puddle of melted tin, and both brothers look up.

"Sorry about the table, Sirius," George says sheepishly. "I'm afraid I left a burn-mark. Or the Emperor of France did."

"Doesn't matter," Sirius says with a shrug. "I didn't like that table anyway. My mother used to keep her trained rats there. Look who's here."

"Granger, hello," Fred says and rises to give her a hug. Hermione hugs him back and suppresses the fact that Fred's hug does nothing like Sirius's for her, however tender the Weasley twin is.

"Can you tell Hermione what happened before Harry went all bugger-off-everyone-and-leave-me-alone?" Sirius asks Fred.

"Well, sure. We were at St Mungo's, visiting Dad…"

"Oh, Fred. How is Mr Weasley?" Hermione interrupts.

"He's… Well, I think he's getting better. I mean, he survived the attack by the snake, they somehow got control of the venom he got by the bites. Now when you're here you can come with us tomorrow. Are you staying for Christmas?"

Hermione glances at Sirius and finds him looking… expectantly.

I never took him to be so keen on Christmas.

"Yes," she answers.

"Jolly good. You'll see Dad tomorrow then."

"Now, what happened at St Mungo's yesterday, Fred?" Sirius reminds him.

"OK. We were in Dad's room and George sort of tried getting Dad to tell us whether him being in the Department of Mysteries had anything to do with this weapon or whatever You-Know-Who's after. Since no one want to tell us," he adds with a glance in Sirius's direction. Sirius just shrugs and nods for George to continue. "Well, Mum seems terrified we'll be told anything at all and kicked us out. Said Tonks and Mad-Eye wanted to speak to Dad. So we stood outside Dad's room when brother dear here got this brilliant idea of testing our new product in other environments than at home."

Hermione frowns and George rises and joins them. He puts an arm around Hermione's shoulders and holds out his free hand. It's full of flesh-coloured stings with… ears.

"It's your extendable…"

"…Ears," George finishes for her.

"Can I see one of those?" Sirius asks and untangles one.

"Certainly. Well, anyway, St Mungo's didn't have any Imperturbable Charms against these, because they are of our own making, so we could hear everything they talked about in that room. Apparently Mum had spoken about Harry to Dumbledore who had been worried, I really don't know more about what exactly, but then Mad-Eye growled about Harry seeing things from inside You-Know-Who's snake and that Harry might be possessed without realising it."

"No," Sirius whispers, obviously shaken, even though he must have heard it before.

Hermione frowns again while her quick mind takes in George's words. She thinks about what she knows about visions, about possession and about Harry. Slowly she shakes her head.

"I don't think so," she says eventually.

"You don't?" Sirius gasps.

"No. Where is Ginny?"

"What? Why…? She is… Eh, where is your sister, George?"

"I saw her with Ron in the kitchen a while ago."

"OK," Hermione says and turns towards the kitchen. "I'll talk to you later."

A couple of hours later most of the guests in Grimmauld Place are gathered in the library, in couches, armchairs and on the floor in front of the roaring fire. Harry looks exhausted but happier than Hermione has seen him in weeks.

How could he even think he was possessed? Doesn't he take in what happens around him? And he was even the one who found Ginny when she was possessed three years ago, and about to die. If he'd been possessed he wouldn't have had a will of his own, and huge lapses of memory. But there is something. A kind of connection between him and… Like there is a tiny bit of… Voldemort inside him. Is that even possible? I need to sneak into the Restricted Section of the library at Hogwarts…

She sits in the corner of a small sofa when Ginny comes and sits on the armrest. Ginny twirls the curls of Hermione's hair around her fingers, collect the dark golden tresses in a messy bun and secures it with Hermione's wand. She says in a low voice how happy she is not to be alone among all the boys. They chat in whispers about what Christmas gifts they have bought for the others. Then Ginny stretches from her uncomfortable position and nudges Hermione to make room for her. Hermione moves and finds herself bumping into Sirius, who has taken the other corner of the sofa. She stammers an excuse, but Sirius only smiles at her and shakes his head slightly. He stretches out his arm along the back of the sofa, not really touching her, but close enough for her to feel his body heat radiate on the skin of her exposed neck.

"What on earth did you say to him?" he mumbles.

Hermione shrugs and tells Sirius to talk to Harry about it. It feels wrong of her to reveal Harry's fears and mistakes to a man she knows Harry looks up to as a father and wants to make proud.

Fred shuffles over from his position in front of the fire.

"So, Sirius, what do you think about our Extendable Ears?"

Sirius takes down his arm from behind Hermione and leans forward to discuss pranks in general and the possibilities of the eavesdropping equipment in particular. Hermione is disappointed. For a few seconds Sirius's arm right behind her had recreated the jigsaw puzzle feeling. The satisfaction of a perfect fit. She looks at the fire, beyond Ron's black, shadowed profile, and for once she lets her mind run haphazardly instead of its usual structured way. Surrounded by the familiar scent of rows upon rows of books a red warning light inside her lights up.

I'm crushing on Harry's godfather. I'm… I'm fifteen years old, he's… I don't know. Can he tell? How pathetic am I? Has anyone noticed?

Inwardly stunned Hermione sits through an hour of undecipherable small talk. She wants to lean into the corner where Sirius sits and just… just be there, in his presence, curled up, inhaling his scent of grass and pine resin. She forces herself to sit absolutely still and to appear relaxed. Harry crouches down in front of her and pats her hand awkwardly to get her attention.

"What?" she says, not having noticed how he got there.

"Thank you," he says.

"For…? Oh, of course Harry. I was glad to help. You needed…"

"…you," Harry finishes for her.

"I was going to say 'someone who could see your position objectively'," she says with an embarrassed smile. She is suddenly aware of Sirius. He watches them and does not try to hide that he is listening to what they say.

"And who would that be but you?" he murmurs to her right and smiles softly.

She can't answer his rhetorical question and feels a blush creeping up her neck.

"You've got my back again and again. I would have needed more lives than a cat without you. Thank you." Harry's eyes are slightly unfocused and Hermione realises that he might have had other drinks than butterbeer. Or far too many butterbeers. This might also explain his embarrassing sincerity. A low voice on her right makes her care less about her friend's state of inebriation.

"You really have, love. I'll be grateful to you forever. Keeping a clear mind like you… well, it's something to pray for. If I can help you at all with this Dumbledore's Army, which I understand was your idea originally, please tell me. I can show you both some really nasty defence spells tomorrow."

"Great!" Harry beams. Then he rises and kisses Hermione clumsily on her cheek. She turns her left cheek to him and can see Sirius realising Harry's state of slight drunkenness. Well, what else is to be expected after two days of not eating and barely sleeping? But Sirius gets up to steady his godson, and for that alone Hermione is momentarily prepared to leave Harry to his false conclusion about being possessed by Voldemort.

Harry and Sirius are the last ones to leave the library but her. She hasn't noticed everyone else leaving, or how late it is. She doesn't want to climb the stairs to her room, though. She shares a guest room with Ginny and doesn't feel up to chatting, giggling and gossiping for another two hours. When Harry has left, supported by his godfather's arm around him, she curls up in the corner of the sofa that is still warm and smells of pine resin.

Sirius

Sirius smiles at the scene he is about to leave. It's far too familiar. The messy dark hair against the pillow, the glasses on the bedside table, the slight snoring. Harry isn't really drunk, merely exhausted, but he still looks like a carbon copy of James after a wild pub-crawl. Sirius used to be the last man standing, and quite frequently dragged James to the closest bed to sleep it off. In those days, Sirius's drinking habits were very moderate. He had someone to get back to at home, and he was rarely keen on staying out late for a boys' night.

He tiptoes down the stairs, avoiding the creakiest ones. It's late, and tonight he plans on having a few steady firewhiskey in front of the embers in the fireplace.

The house is warmer than it has been in months, and he flings his jacket on a hook in the hall and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. He can't decide if he likes having so many people staying for the holiday. He loves the fact that Hermione came to stay, and tries to tell himself it's because Harry needed her clear deduction and convincing reasoning.

Harry is entitled to need her. In any way. I need her in a way that hasn't happened yet. Not to her. Was I too obvious earlier? I could have sat there forever, just having her next to me. But the naked skin of her neck almost gave me a heart attack. I was about to pull her wand out of her hair just to see it fall down her shoulders. Why does she have to be so pretty, so soon?

Sirius stops dead in his tracks in the doorframe leading to the library. The fire still burns with flickering flames and a few candles light up the room in a soft dusk. And Hermione is just where he left her. Almost. Curled up like a kitten in the corner where he's spent the evening unfocused on everything and everyone but her. Silently he crosses the floor and sits down on a chair next to the sofa where she sleeps.

Her features are slightly more rounded than when he knew her. When he first met her she was as thin as a greyhound, as if she had had months of sleeping rough, and almost starved. Her face and hands had also been peppered with small wounds, cuts and bruises and for the first few days, when Minerva McGonagall had asked Lily to help Hermione to settle in in the Head Girl's quarters, Hermione had walked with a barely noticeable limp. But, of course, at that point he already noticed everything about her. Her dark golden hair, the sometimes haunted look in her eyes, her square shoulders, which were always a little tense, her careful, but soft smile, and her faint blush whenever he spoke to her. He came to love that blush in matter of days.

Her dark eyelashes shiver in a dream. It's not a nightmare. He knows what she looks like when someone is threatening her with a knife in her sleeping state. He never really got to know where the incident with the knife happened, but he suspects it's where she got the large vile, large scar on the inside of her left arm. The scar had formed letters, and he remembered how its foul invective had haunted her. As if it had marked her to be something she wasn't.

Earlier today, during dinner, he had noticed that her left arm was unmarred and smooth.

So, somewhere between now and… how long can it I be? Three years? Four?

He caresses her visually. Her peachy vanilla scent invades his senses. Ever since he was rescued on the back of Buckbeak he has been able to recognise her by her scent alone. On a few occasions he hasn't been able to stop himself from slowly filling his canine sense of smell with her. He hopes she hasn't noticed and found it freaky.

Her right arm is bent under her head against the armrest, the other one rests across her chest, her left hand clenched against her long neck.

You will be stiff and sore tomorrow. You will crane and stretch that long neck of yours and drive me insane.

Hesitantly he touches her shoulder. She doesn't react. He strokes her shoulder with his thumb a little to wake her up, and his skin comes in contact with hers. He closes his eyes to the sensation, and tries to close his mind to what his memory conjures up.

Your collarbones and shoulders. Thin but strong enough to bear just about everything. Things really will go to hell between now and then, won't they? You have an innocence about you now I never even glimpsed later.

His eyes flick open when she moves under his hand and he is just about to break the physical contact when she leans into his hand with her face. Sirius forgets to breathe. Her lips against the palm of his hand. A sleepy kiss. Sirius pulls away his hand as if burned. The quick movement wakes her up. Slowly she opens her eyes and stretches her neck.

"Is the guest room that bad?" he asks lightly.

She sees him and blushes slightly.

"Sirius. No, not at all. I just… well, fell asleep. Is it late?"

"Midnight-ish."

"Is Harry asleep?"

The feeling of déjà vu is so intense it makes Sirius's head spin, and he is lost for words for a few seconds. Seconds long enough to rush through a memory so strong he can't control it.

"Is Harry asleep?"

He nods and yawns.

"And you?" she continues teasingly, and he nods again.

"Nothing is so exhausting as putting babies to bed," he sighs. "It is as if he can feel I want him to fall asleep and refuses, until I lay down and almost nod off."

She pats the place beside her on the sofa.

"Come here. I'm sure you did a marvellous job with your godson. James and Lily will be relieved when they come back."

"When will they be back? What time is it?"

"Late-ish. And late-ish again. Can you think of any other exhausting activities?"

Sirius shakes his head to clear his mind.

"Yes, he is. He was rather… tired," he finishes lamely, not wanting to use the word 'exhausted.'

"I'm worried about Harry," she says. "As usual."

"I know. You are too compassionate. And maybe too clever."

Hermione looks questioningly at him.

"You can probably see more risks in everything that happens than he, Ron or I put together. Is it a woman thing?"

She blushes.

"Well, I never… I don't know. Maybe. But how can he not see? I mean…?"

"Maybe he doesn't want to?" Sirius suggests, rises and walks over to where he keeps his liquor. He pulls out a glass and glances at her over his shoulder. She frowns in deep thought. Before he pours he flicks his wand at the fire to have it burn stronger and warmer again. Transfixed he watches her stretch her legs against the fire, baring her ankles. He turns away. He really needs that glass of firewhisky.

After he turns around Sirius realises his mistake. He has indeed poured himself a glass of Ogden's Finest in one of his mother's crystal tumblers, but by habit, forgotten but awoken tonight, he has poured Hermione a glass of a wine he knows she loves. Or will come to love. He sees her eyes widen in surprise. Of course, what responsible adult would serve the hideously expensive elf-wine to a teenager? Or wine at all? At least not in the large crystal glasses he has dug out especially for Christmas. It's too late to undo, he just has to go along with his mistake and hope it will be the last this evening. Nonchalantly, as if he really does not know how young she is, he holds out the glass to her with an unspoken question in his eyes. Hesitantly she nods, takes the glass and says 'thank you' in a low voice.

"Now, tell me about this Dumbledore's Army," he says. "I understand Harry is doing well as a teacher."

Hermione beams and starts telling him about the secret meetings in the Room of Requirement and the spells Harry has taught them. She sips the wine as if she actually knows how to drink it, not gulping it down like Sirius probably would have done at her age.

"After the holidays Harry might try to teach the Patronus Charm."

Sirius is impressed, but doubtful.

"Is that really appropriate? I mean, many of you won't be able to…" He stops talking when he sees her rage.

"Be able to what?" she says in a low voice he recognises and respects. "Because we are fifteen years old and haven't got enough experience?"

"Hm, well, yes, something like that crossed my mind. It is advanced magic after all." He regrets doubting her. He is certain she would be able to transform him into a frog quicker than he could down his drink.

"Do you know Harry saved your soul with a Patronus almost two years ago? His Patronus is a stag, just like James's."

"But Harry was with me, at the shore of the lake when the Dementors came soaring in…"

"Harry and I went back in time to save both him and you. I have… I mean, I had a Time Turner. Professor Lupin had taught him to conjure up a Patronus earlier that year. It may not be age that decides how advanced your magic is, but your experience, and even though we are only in our fifth year, I think we've seen more than… many," she finishes.

"I never knew that," Sirius mumbles and thinks about his godson. He admits that Harry has indeed been in a lot more danger than Sirius himself had been at the same age. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Hermione take a larger gulp of wine that before.

I could get in so much trouble because of this.

"Please, don't underestimate us, Sirius, just because we are young."

"I didn't mean to. I'm sorry." Suddenly he is curious if Hermione can conjure up her Patronus yet. Does she know that her Patronus is an otter? He loves the otter's sleek lines and quick jumps, and can't resist asking for it. "Have you… Do you know what your Patronus is, Hermione?"

"Yes."

"And what is it?"

"Guess," she says and smiles.

Otter, otter, otter.

"Eh, I don't know. A cat perhaps? Or a fox? A bird of some sort?"

She doesn't answer, but pulls her wand out of the messy bun her hair is in and closes her eyes. Hungrily Sirius watches her hair fall down around her face and shoulders and her jaw tense in concentration. He almost forgets to watch the silvery otter that suddenly appears from her wand. The silvery light is however too strong to be ignored and he watches the small animal run around the room before it dissolves.

"Brilliant," he whispers. "Beautiful."

"I wonder why it is an otter," Hermione muses. "I love it, but before I saw it I would never have guessed my Patronus is an otter. I would also have guessed a cat, like you did."

Yes, Kitten.

She speaks more freely now and Sirius knows it's his and his damned wine's fault.

Maybe I should just drink up and say 'good night'

But he doesn't. He listens to Hermione when she tells him about Hogwarts of 1995. It's different than the Hogwarts he knew sixteen years earlier. He shares some of his school memories with her. Safe ones. Memories where he compares himself and James to Fred and George Weasley, and Remus, the voice of reason, to her. This makes her blush again.

It's harder than he thought to talk about his schooldays with James, without mentioning her, when she sits right in front of him. The silence isn't uncomfortable though. She gazes into the fire, he watches her. He can't tell if she is really sleepy or if her mind is drawing conclusions by its own accord.

You never got sleepy from wine, love. What happened was that your deduction and reasoning made larger leaps. Scary when you could pick up on an unfinished conversation from hours before.

"How do you know that I hate snow?" she asks and meets his eyes.

Sleepy? No.

"I guess someone told me," he says, rises and puts two more logs on the fire.

"No." There is something about her tone. Something that makes him feel uncertain. He shrugs.

"Then I guess you must have told me yourself."

"No," she says again.

"But why does it matter? Maybe someone told me that another girl hates snow and I somehow confused you two."

She looks at him with her head cocked to one side. She looks at him as if she doesn't believe him.

I can't really tell you that I know this from an afternoon where you told me you hate snow after I had made the most inappropriate remarks about your naked breasts, and their shape made me ask questions about that bizarre muggle sport. Skying? Skating? Skiing?

Sirius yawns and stretches.

I need to leave now, before I put my foot in it ever further.

"I think we should leave this room for Santa to visit tonight," he says lightly, and she rolls her eyes, before she smiles and gets up.

"You are right. Oh!" She is a little unsteady and Sirius grits his teeth and curses himself and the wine he keeps in his cellar even though no one drinks it. He doesn't ask anyone if they want it. He saves it for her and keeps a bottle chilled among the other bottles on the sideboard. He takes her arm to steady her and lead her out of the library. The glass, he notices, is empty.

She is not about to leave, though. She takes a step into his arms and looks up at him.

"Good night, Sirius," she says, rises on her toes and kisses him.

Maybe she aims for his cheek and he moves, or maybe she really does aim for his lips and he does nothing to stop her. When she withdraws with a horrified look in her eyes, he takes her softly around her upper arms and stops her from turning around and running out of the room.

"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry," she says. "I don't know what…"

But he knows, he can read it in her eyes. He places a finger on her lips to silence her.

"Don't be sorry, love. I'm flattered, to say the least."

The panic in her eyes dies, and he sees only what he wants to see. What he sees in his dreams. Very quietly he asks:

"Do you want me to kiss you back, love?"

Hermione nods slowly once and rises on her toes again. Sirius is blind and deaf to any voice of reason. He kisses her tenderly. Somewhere in his mind he gets the feeling of a key in a rusty, rarely used lock, unlocking what's hidden inside without difficulty. As if all it needed was the right key.

He knows how to kiss her senseless but doesn't. His fingers act however on their own accord to find the hollow at the back of her neck, just below her hairline. And, Merlin help him, he strokes her skin in a way that makes her gasp and press herself against him. As if her reaction to his caresses is something she knows. Maybe she does. He wonders how many boys she has kissed before when she opens her lips to him and lets him taste her. He does. He might be cursed to any level of hell for doing so, but he does. He feels her cheeks growing hot against his face and knows he needs to end this before he can't. Lovingly, with closed eyes, he ends the kiss, but keeps her close with his forehead to hers.

"One day, love, when you are a little older, I will turn around and see you in a completely different light. If you then look at me like you just did, I will never leave your side again."

I can't possibly be stupid enough to send you away again.

"But please give me, and yourself, a little more time."

He feels her nod slowly again.

"Now go to bed, and sweet dreams, darling."

He turns her around and pushes her softly towards the door. As if hypnotised she leaves. Sirius watches her leave and grabs the desk behind him to prevent himself from following her. Not until he hears her door closing several floors up, does he let go of the sturdy piece of furniture. The key in his mind doesn't click the lock to closed, though.

His hands shake and he pours himself another glass of firewhisky, which he downs at once. He doesn't give a fuck about Santa, and stretches out on the couch. Surrounded by the scent and taste of her he closes his eyes. In Azkaban he could fall asleep and dream of nothing, by sheer willpower. He can still fall asleep almost anywhere, but he can no longer control his dreams. He dreams of his past and her future.

2 January

Hermione

When Harry, Hermione, Ginny and all the Weasley brothers have said their good-byes and are ready to leave, Sirius pulls Hermione aside.

"I have something for you. And, yes, it's a book, of course."

Hurriedly he pushes a small parcel into her hands. It's wrapped in brown paper.

"Don't open it now. I hope you'll like it."

Hermione doesn't know what to say, and then he quickly kisses her cheek and ushers her out of the door.

"Thank you," she mimes to him. He stands with Remus on the top of the stairs at 12 Grimmauld Place and she doubts he sees her. His eyes seems fixed on Harry, with a worried expression.

Later, in her room at her parents' house she opens the gift.

The unassuming pale cover with its dark golden but empty frame lacks the title of the book, and on the second page Sirius's bold handwriting in sepia ink speaks to her stronger than all the following sonnets put together.

Dear H,

My knowledge of the muggle world is indeed limited, but I want you to have this. You will be 18 forever, to me.

Love,

Sirius

X

PS. If you ever want to sell it, just use an Atramento Evanesco and no dealer in antique books will ever trace the sacrilege I just committed.

She knows immediately she'll never sell it, not matter how rare a first edition of Shakespeare's sonnets is.