Chapter 5. Hiding beneath the Veil
Two weeks of a steady rhythm had brought a comforting lull to the shack—they woke with the sun and slept when the stars were bright. Mornings were spent planning, calculating, theorising, hypothesising, pondering, while afternoons were a rush of thrumming energy, scouting locations, juggling names and faces, hidden beneath the cloak of Polyjuice Potion—which they had managed to buy in an apothecary after a heavy bribe of Galleons had been dumped on the counter by Sirius. They had snagged some Muggle hairs from a hairdresser's dirty floor and assumed new, unassuming identities: John and Jane Roberts. Meals were the only inconstant in their daily routines—while they sometimes cooked hearty meals that left their stomachs ballooning and their mouths sighing with satisfaction, most of their sustenance came from cheap supermarket sandwiches, usually gulfed down while they ducked behind a street corner, the paranoia of being seen ever the constant in what had turned into their daily routine.
Sirius was paralysed by the idea he'd get caught by his younger self. He knew the risk was infinitesimal—the size of a drop of water in the ocean—but he couldn't help but feel like he was plagued by bad luck, and that drop of water could turn into a tsunami at any second, without any warning. No amount of reassurance from Hermione managed to quell that anxiety—not that she tried very hard. It was far easier to deal with an anxiety-riddled and precautious Sirius than it was to manage an impulsive and reckless Sirius. She hated to admit it—hated that she even thought of him in such a way. It felt wrong.
But it was practical.
And it fed the monster within.
The monster she couldn't keep at bay now that she and Sirius were getting closer, now that their silences had grown comfortable, familiar, rather than awkward and heavy, now that each quick getaway beneath the shadows forced them into close proximity, bodies pressed together, knuckles slightly brushing against each other, hot breaths trapped in the bubble created by their huddle, now that their mornings were littered with quick glances, daring eyes surveying every expression on the other's face, now that they dithered and lingered and wandered around each other, both prey and predator.
Of course, Hermione knew it was all in her head. She knew she was making it all up, keeping her heart awakened by the perspective of something more when there was, in truth, nothing there.
But it fed the monster within.
The monster who congratulated her for taking care of him, for soothing him, for understanding him.
The monster who lived for the dark desire she tried to drown with each forceful bite of bland sandwiches, each gulp of water, each burning sip of Firewhiskey.
The monster who breathed down her neck, watched her every move, pushed her more to the brink every day.
The monster who, on this very day, made her do the unthinkable and break the covenant she had made with herself years ago, as a young girl. The promise she made to always follow what was right, what was humane.
Because, on that day, as Hermione rummaged through the shelves of a nearby supermarket, uncloaked and untransformed, she bumped into a young Sirius.
"Careful there, love."
He was just as she knew him—a cocky smile, the sparkle of mischief in his eyes, wild strands of dark hair flying about and, of course, the litany of black tattoos littering every available inch of his skin. He was also wildly different—unencumbered by the worry lines and wrinkles that had worked their way through the face of his older self, the spectre of death and loss only a mere shadow in the very corner of his eyes, and not yet the constant presence it had become.
She realised she had been staring at him for an uncomfortable length of time because—
"Are you alright?" He had cocked his head to the side and quirked his eyebrows.
"I'm f-fine," she stuttered, a cherry flush spreading across her cheeks. It didn't matter how old he was—he could make her lose all her might in a single glance. "S-sorry," she added, before turning to the shelves and pretending to look for a specific brand of peas—she didn't even like peas.
"You don't look like you're fine. Should I get someone?"
Hermione's hand was hovering above the canned vegetables, fingers trembling in shock. They had prepared for this scenario. They had gone over hundreds of plans. So why was she so clammed up and anxious? Why couldn't she just smile and say everything was okay and leave the fucking supermarket?
"You know why."
The voice was no longer a vague echo. It had become a habitual presence, a rhythm in her days. It piped up every so often to tell her to go against her better judgment—and it always, always won. It didn't matter that she had survived a war or that she had gone through hours of training to become an Unspeakable—when it came to him, nothing mattered. Her world fell to pieces and her morality disintegrated before her very eyes. The fact that this was not him, that this was a different version of him, did nothing to change things.
She was powerless to fight this.
"No, there's no need. I'm just—" her eyes rapidly moved from shelf to shelf—what had she been looking for? Tuna? No, she hated tuna—especially canned. Did it matter? "I just—the peas—um—I'm too short," she stammered, trying to regain control of herself.
"Let me help you."
She heard the clink of a plastic basket hitting the linoleum below them and didn't even think to refuse him—not that it would have mattered. A sudden warmth took over her—he was right behind her, a hand hovering over the canned goods in search of the peas.
"Any preferred brand?" he asked.
His breath ghosted over her skin, ensnaring her senses, turning her into a puddle. She was dizzy all of a sudden, ready to crumble, weak in the knees and the bones, soft all over. stumbled and tripped, collapsing against him.
She sank into an ocean of flesh and bones, hard muscle lines acting as anchors pulling her to the bottom—in a matter of seconds, they both hit the ground.
The absurdity of the situation weeded a long-lost laugh out of Hermione—it gurgled out of her without much grace, before turning into a soft sound, one anchored in shyness and tender adolescent chords. Was… was she giggling? Christ, it was like she wanted to play the damsel in distress card on him.
"Well, you do."
She dismissed the voice and got to her feet, offering him her hand. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to—I'm never this clumsy usually, I just—it's been a rough day." She tried to regain her dignity and straightened her shoulders. "You have a nice a day." In her shame, she didn't even want to pick up the discarded basket of groceries—she could always come back later, or some other day, or even never. She could shop somewhere else.
"Wait! I'd like to be sure you're alright." There was something she couldn't decipher in his tone—it appeared to be concern, but concealed something else, altogether unreadable. She whipped her head around, still red in her embarrassment. "Humour me," he grinned.
No.
No.
No.
He couldn't be flirting with her.
Could he?
"Let me invite you out for a cup of coffee. Or a drink! You just seem like you need to let out some steam."
It all made sense now. He was just pitying her. Much like the older Sirius did—because, what her alter ego refused to accept was that, whether it was in this timeline or another, whether it was at twenty or forty-two years of age, Sirius Black would never want her, the dull-looking know-it-all.
"I insist," he said firmly.
"He insists."
"Alright then," she said without any conviction. It could be useful to their mission, after all—maybe she would find a way to join the Order, to change the past. Even if she was wearing her own skin, and not that of Jane Roberts'.
He handed her the basket she had left behind and picked up his own—the peas were all but forgotten now.
They paid for their groceries and walked out of the store together. Hermione could feel the plastic handles of the bags digging into the flesh of her fingers—she held onto that sensation to remain grounded, to remind herself that this was no dream. It was reality. She had to face the music and abandon her childish after-hour musings. There was to be no fucking about with this Sirius or any other Sirius. They would have a cup of coffee, or maybe a glass of something a little stronger, and she would return home. With the groceries. Indifferent and undisturbed. Pristine.
"Fat chance."
It took all her power not to tell the alter ego to shut up—she looked off her rocker enough as it was.
They soon landed in a small café, just a few blocks away from the shack. Sirius led her to a table next to the large windows, which left them with a full view of the street right outside. They placed their bags right beneath the table and Sirius ordered two black coffees without consulting her—she remained quiet, her eyes dragging around the room in an effort to avoid his gaze, his questions, and, most importantly, the naughty little thoughts that danced behind her eyes every time she looked at him.
Of course, all this did was delay the inevitable—one simply cannot drink coffee in another's company without paying them at least some attention. It's the polite thing to do, after all—to look in their eyes and nod and hem and haw while they speak.
The waitress flashed a flirtatious smile at Sirius as she set down the cups on the table, but he paid her no mind—Hermione could feel his stare burning through her.
"Feeling better?" he asked, indifferent to the indignance on the waitress' face as she left the table.
"I'm fine. The weather is just a little too warm, I was feeling faint for a minute there." She adjusted herself on her seat, still refusing to entirely face him—a brush of uneasiness filtered through her fingers as she picked up the cup of coffee—he was still staring intently at her. "Do I have dirt on my nose or something?" she scrunched up her nose for good measure, rubbing her finger along the edge.
"No, not at all." He shook his head and drank from his cup. "I've just always been fond of a pretty view."
The words smacked Hermione across the face—her lungs collapsed, air no longer making its way in or out of them, the small room suddenly stuffy and uncomfortable.
"Told you."
"Not now," she replied, beyond exasperated with the voice.
Sirius' puzzled face told her she hadn't simply thought the words but said them out loud.
"Sorry," she apologised, "I meant to say thank you." It was unconvincing, certainly, but he would be too polite to protest—God, what was she even thinking? This was Sirius Black. He was not polite.
"I'm not sure that's what you meant, love," he laughed. "We'll chalk it up to a misunderstanding and move on."
The air stilled for a moment as they drank their coffees in silence—something wasn't quite right. He had invited her here, after all—he had insisted upon it, in fact, and now…
Now, they were two strangers staring at each other without a clue what to say.
She had foolishly justified her presence here as a help for the mission, for the Order—but they had met in a supermarket, for Christ's sake! He thought her a Muggle.
She had—yet again—lied to herself. Lied to her conscious so her subconscious was free to run amok, destroying everything she was working so hard for. To maintain her composure. To keep her desires at bay. To find them a way out of there and forget what lay beyond the Veil.
Fuck.
She was too far gone now.
"It's too hot in here," he groaned, interrupting her flow of sudden panic. "Fancy a walk?"
Hermione nodded, roaming hands toying with her pockets in search of money.
Sirius placed a gentle hand on hers and leaned in, grinning. "Let's make a run for it," he whispered, tilting his head towards the unassuming employees, who were all turned away from them. Then, noticing the visible hesitation in her frown, he added: "Come on, the thrill is worth the couple pounds."
She was too far gone now.
So they ran.
They ran out of the coffee shop, limbs flowing freely in the air, the excitement liquid in their veins and fuelling their unabashed criminal enterprise, their meek little misdemeanour the most freeing thing Hermione had experiences in years.
"Come on," gestured Sirius before grabbing her by the wrist. The movement was electric, it bubbled and fizzed until she could no longer feel her arm.
He pulled her into a back alley so they could catch their breath—they both panted joyously, bubbles of laughter popping against the bricks.
"You were right," said Hermione after a moment.
"How so?"
"The thrill was worth the couple pounds."
A mischievous glint shimmered in his grey eyes. "You looked like you needed a break. There's nothing more stress-relieving than a little crime."
It was perhaps the most irrational thing she had ever heard—but it somehow made sense. She was surprised to hear herself agreeing with him.
"What now?" she asked, back against the wall, small doses of air still trapped in her lungs.
He moved towards her, that glint in his eye burning brighter, his tall frame leaning over her, trapping her beneath his shadow. Hermione's already short breath diminished in supply, her heart climbed up her throat, clawing at the membrane lining her insides—she didn't know whether she wanted to puke or cry. Maybe both.
Probably both.
She wondered if he could tell the state she was in.
"We should keep this party going. I have drinks at my place—fancy one?" he smirked.
Maybe he could tell.
Maybe he liked it.
Maybe he was asking for more.
But Sirius—the other Sirius—was waiting for her. She should have returned with the groceries by now.
"Sure." It slipped out without even a drop of hesitation.
She was too far gone now.
He smiled—it lacked most of what she enjoyed about Sirius' smile now; the sadness at the corner of the lips; the roughness in the eyes; the shadow of wrinkles in the creases of the face—but she liked it nonetheless. For all she knew, this Sirius was just a memory, an idea—and if she had to settle for that, then so be it.
He grabbed her hand and walked her out of the back alley—they made their way back to his flat in complete silence. The sun beat down on her neck, a reminder of the beautiful summer they were having, of the magnificence of time unspooled, reordered and balled up again—a long infinity that stretched without meaning or sense to it. This was the summer of 1979. A few weeks ago, it had been the summer of 2001.
And, in the meantime, a lifetime had happened. Thousands and millions and billions of suns had risen all over the world, for days and days and days, and kept rising in her present, would keep rising in her future—maybe none of this meant anything.
Maybe she wasn't doing something wrong.
"That's right, sweetheart. There's nothing wrong here. Let yourself live it all, enjoy it all."
She found herself agreeing with the voice—for the first time.
It should have scared her, shouldn't it?
It should have terrified her.
But it didn't. Not when she climbed up the stairs of a young Sirius' flat, not when they clinked glasses full of amber liquid, not when he playfully touched her hair, not when they laughed, splayed out on the floor of the flat, drunk and immortal in their youth. Not when he finally brought her face to his and kissed it, soft lips melting in her starved mouth, not when his hand slipped beneath her shirt and pressed against her skin, digging into her flesh until all she could feel was hot and dizzy and exhilarated.
It didn't terrify her when she found herself stripped of her clothing, tender skin marked by the rough hardwood floors, or when he stared her down with lustful eyes, or when he explored the touch-starved valleys and hills and beaches of her body, or when he filled her so deeply she lost all train of coherent thought and begged for everything and anything, disjointed words spilling from her mouth in a song only the flesh could interpret, or when she quaked in ecstasy, overwhelmed with him, with herself, with their union, with the rough lines of his body aligning along the curves of hers.
Terror only seized her when she woke next to his unconscious form a few hours later, the reality of what she had done smacking her across the face with such strength she found that she couldn't breathe. She was suffocating on his floor, body shaking and quivering with anguish, with guilt.
It was dark out already—she had been gone for far too long, done something far too horrifying, and she had no excuses for it. No lie to cover up her deed.
"Well, no use regretting it now."
Hermione clasped her hand over her mouth—it had been her speaking but—
But these were not her words.
These were not her thoughts.
This was not her.
The voice had spoken from within, using her body to speak the words into existence, to anchor them into this reality—
It was no longer a thought strolling around in her mind.
Thankfully, he hadn't heard her—so she scrambled to pick up her clothes in the dark and rushed out the door as quickly as she could, numb with a cocktail of emotions she couldn't decipher.
The walk back was just more of the same—echoes of sentiments crawling beneath her skin, unwilling to reveal themselves or to make themselves known and identifiable to her. Maybe she had died.
She didn't even bother trying to come up with excuses or lies or anything of the sort. If asked, she would answer. If prodded, she would open up.
The alter ego had done enough damage—it was now poisoning her from within, and her every transgression only made it stronger, sturdier, louder. There was only one way to resolve this: complete and utter honesty. No matter the price, no matter the consequences—
She had committed the acts. She could live to see them through—she was tough enough for that. She had done worse things and she lived with them.
This was just another brick in the wall.
It was only as she reached the shack that she realised that she had left the groceries behind, at the coffee shop—the very same coffee shop she had stolen from.
She dithered on the doorstep—
"No time like the present," the voice echoed in her head.
She opened the door.
Sirius leapt from the couch, shock plastered in the stiffness of his limbs and the ticks on his face.
"Where the fuck were you?" His voice was low, almost animalistic. "I thought you were dead."
"I—" The truth remained lodged in her throat. She tried to avoid his gaze and looked past him. Bottle cadavers were littered around the coffee table, all empty—wine, some liquor, but mostly beer. Bottles upon bottles of beer, all splayed out like the bodies of dead soldiers on the field of war. "Did you drink all this? Today?" she asked instead.
"Maybe I did." He paused, furrowing his brows. "What's it to you, Hermione? Are you just going to deflect? Not tell me where you were? What you were doing?"
"I—" It wouldn't come out. She tried and tried, but the words collapsed in her throat before they even made it to her mouth.
"You left to grocery shop at four o'clock. It is now well past eleven. And I see no groceries or injuries—what were you doing?"
Then, Hermione saw it. Beyond the anger, beyond the fury, she could see the worry. The fear.
"Were you worried?" she asked meekly.
"The fuck do you think? Of course I was fucking worried! I thought you were kidnapped. I thought you had died somewhere. I was losing my goddamn mind, thinking of all that could have happened to you! Why do you think I drank so much? I was—I was—I was so sure I'd never see you again." He towered over her, but she was no prey, and he was no predator.
The intensity in his voice, in his eyes, in his words nearly knocked her off her feet. She balanced herself on the nearest wall, dizzy with confusion and something else, something she hadn't felt in a long time—
Hope.
"I'm so sorry," was all she found to say. Eyes closed, mind reeling, she held on to the wall like it was the only thing keeping her grounded to reality. "I—I'm so sorry, Sirius. I was foolish and irrational and—" The words, yet again, died in her throat.
She steadied herself and stared up at him. She could see the hundreds of questions swimming in his eyes, storms of doubt brewing amidst the grey and the silver, the corners of his mouth ready to speak, to ask, to inquire.
Frustrated with herself, with her inability to say the truth, with her cowardice, she finally gave in to what her alter ego had been so adamant about since the beginning—
He wanted answers—
She only had one.
Her body answered for her—small hands climbing up his torso, toes propping her up a few centimetres higher, muscles pulling her forward, lips closing the gap between them. Everything Hermione felt, everything Hermione refused to say but could no longer contain, she poured into that kiss.
Nothing happened for a second.
That second lasted an eternity for Hermione—she drowned in shades of red, from the vermillion of embarrassment to the crimson of humiliation, every moment of rejection and sadness flashing behind her eyes.
But a second is just that—and, before she had the time to regret entirely what she had done, large hands ensnared her waist and pulled her flush against Sirius.
And Sirius kissed her back.
It was a tempest—waves crashing against the shore (his mouth guzzling hers until she dissolved into nothingness); large sea storms trying to swallow her whole (his hands travelling over her clothes); dark clouds covering the skies (her tongue moving fluidly inside his mouth) lapping up every star and every morsel of light.
For a moment, Hermione knew paradise. She had reached the Heavens and was well and truly decided to stay there—forever.
But Paradise can be Lost. And often is when you're alive.
"Hermione," Sirius breathed out, pushing her away. "I can't."
She blushed furiously, embarrassed—of course. Of course he would reject her. She had known this.
"No, look at me, it's not—it's not about you," he said, snaking a finger beneath her chin and lifting her head up. "We can't… I can't be distracted." He paused. His eyes bore into hers. "I think… I've been having a feeling for a while that something is not quite right here and… I can't be thinking about anything else until this is resolved."
"Until what is?" Hermione asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Sirius passed a hand through his hair, nerves visibly rattled. "I don't think we travelled back. I think we travelled beyond."