Chapter 7 – The Terrace

It was bright inside Grimmauld Place.

Too bright.

Sirius couldn't think properly when the house was this full and loud. It was so different to how his childhood home had been for so much of his life. He knew it was good that the place had changed while he'd been gone — while he'd been dead — but this many people gathered round, sounding so happy, on the eve of something so forced and feigned…

He'd known it wasn't going to be an easy night. The wedding was in two days. With the whirl going on all around them, Sirius felt he'd barely seen Hermione in the days since he'd exploded at Ron. Since he'd rubbed her shoulders and fought a losing battle with himself.

Today had been different, however. He'd been with Hermione for hours, but still barely had time to say a word to her.

They'd just gone through the rehearsal that afternoon, and it had been totally macabre. He could appreciate the stark beauty of the old, gothic church, but that was about it. Neither he nor his blushing bride-to-be wanted this to really happen, so why rehearse the damn thing?

To please the reporters, he chided himself. To please the whole sodding wizarding world at this rate. The whole thing was so cringeworthy.

At least they'd been left alone inside the actual sanctuary, but photographers from The Daily Prophet had been waiting underneath a tree in the small green park next to the main entrance. Their avid interest had spurred on a few Muggles nearby to crane their heads, too, to catch a glimpse of the affianced couple. Hermione had held onto Sirius' arm as they left, in part, he thought, to keep him from trying to strangle a few reporters who gotten too close as he led her away from the church's large stone archway and ancient wooden doors.

They'd given the press one posed shot outside the church on the red-and-grey flagstones: a pre-arranged compromise. Anything to keep the Ministry vultures at bay. Sirius had pulled Hermione close, and she had rested her head against his upper chest, and they had smiled at the flashing cameras as if this had always been what they'd intended to do with the rest of their lives. They'd pointedly ignored the questions Rita Skeeter had hurled at them — "Are you both terribly excited?" "How long have you two felt this way about each other?" How did Harry take the news?" "Did the years apart bring you together now?" — as they raced past her.

Every bone in Sirius' body had been begging for him to turn around and snap, "No, you silly bint! It's your damn fucking law that's done this, and you bloody well know it!"

But the firm grip Hermione had on his arm all the way to where his motorcycle was waiting at the end of the walk had kept him silent. Then they were off, speeding away as quickly as he could to get them back to Grimmauld Place. They'd been in such a hurry to escape Skeeter and her hordes, Hermione hadn't even protested at having to ride pillion behind him; she had simply put on the helmet he'd proffered and wrapped her arms around his waist as if it were nothing.

Maybe it was nothing to her.

Sirius swallowed at the thought.

At least the party this evening was decidedly only for friends and family: no press allowed. Trusted professors from Hogwarts had arrived — Sprout, McGonagall, Slughorn, and Sinistra — along with Hagrid, Arabella Figg, every possible Weasley, and a slew of Hermione and Harry's school friends that Sirius somewhat recognised, but didn't bother to speak to. Hermione's parents had appeared only very briefly, begging off after being in the Black townhouse for less than half an hour. Knowing he had to keep on his in-laws' good side for at least another thirty-six hours, Sirius tried not to look surprised at their early departure. Hermione's face on seeing them leave so early had been enough of a curiosity to him.

That still left nearly thirty other people in his house, drinking and eating and carrying on as if this was a proper festive occasion rather than a wake. The numbers had thinned slightly in the intervening hours since the revelry had started, but there was still enough of a crush of bodies in every room downstairs that all Sirius wanted to do was escape.

No one else in the house understood the nervous energy careening through him at every moment. Well, almost no one. There was one other person there tonight who probably had a fair idea of what Sirius was feeling, but there was no way in seven hells that he was going to lean on her this evening. She'd been through more than enough.

Ron had wisely kept his distance from both Sirius and Hermione in the days since his outburst. Sullen but silent, the boy was now sitting near the corner of the ground-floor drawing room, listening to Neville Longbottom and Hagrid go on about… something. Sirius could honestly give a toss what it was; just so long as the little pissant wasn't bothering him or Hermione until the wedding was over. After the ceremony, Ron could have a go as much as he pleased. Sirius almost hoped he would, so he'd have another chance to holler at him for being an idiot. Regardless, by that point, he and Hermione would be married, and Ron would have to take his lumps and fuck off.

Standing by the hearth in the drawing room, watching their friends and loved ones have a proper piss-up in advance of the weekend's more formal celebrations, Sirius chose to believe this wasn't so much a joyous event as everyone taking a chance to have a drink and let down while they still could. While the cameras weren't documenting everything they said and did.

He was glad the others could enjoy themselves, but Sirius didn't think he could. Not yet.

"I still don't see the purpose," he heard a slightly tipsy Tonks say from her perch on one of the leather couches nearby. "I mean, if it were the other way 'round, I could see the horrific logic to it. Dark wizards forcing Muggle-borns to marry Purebloods — that happened before, didn't it? It was all the rage hundreds of years ago, but why punish just a handful of families now?"

"I suppose," drawled Arthur from the opposite couch, "there haven't been any forced marriage laws like this from the Ministry since—"

"The Black Death," supplied Andromeda, nodding at the Weasley patriarch.

Tonks rolled her eyes. "That's rich."

"Let's just be thankful the Ministry isn't calling for executions instead of marriages," said Remus in a grave tone. "I wouldn't have put it past them at all, not with the way Fudge and the others have been wielding their power these past few months."

Tonks stared at her mate as he sat next to her, astonishment clearly etched across her features. "You think they might've done? Kill the dark heirs rather than marry them off?"

"Well, there's hardly enough willing Muggle-borns now to marry all the heirs — and Azkaban is just one prolonged death sentence. If it weren't for Hermione's decision, I think it likely Sirius would've ended up there again, even if he had been willing to marry a perfect stranger. Thankfully, however, we're not at that point."

"No, we're not," chimed in Sirius, finally feeling a need to join the conversation happening around him. "There's no point speculating on something that will never happen. Hermione's saved me — again."

He took a long slug of firewhisky and then stared into the crystal tumbler.

Finishing off her glass of wine, Andromeda gazed at her favourite cousin. "I adored being married to a Muggle-born, you know."

"You had a love match," countered Sirius.

"That I did." She smiled to herself as her eyes grew glassy. "I'd've shared Ted with you if I could."

"Cheers, Andi, but that's a bit of a non-starter. Ted and I got on all right, but I think he was always more of a one-witch kind of bloke."

"Yes, he was, bless him. Besides," she added, flashing Sirius a grin, "I think you've already got a good one there, yourself."

He gave her a wry look. "Right."

"Does anyone know exactly what time we have to be at the church on Saturday?" asked Arthur. "Incidentally, why do they have these things in the morning? It makes no sense. Our ceremonies are always at sunset, so things can roll nicely into the evening's entertainment."

"So keen to dance at Hermione's wedding, are you, dear?" asked Molly. Given the vehemence of her earlier objections to the mere thought of Hermione marrying Sirius, Molly had made great strides in at least pretending to support her fellow Order members as they went through the motions of an engaged couple. Still, Sirius thought he could detect more than a bit of an edge in her voice.

"It's not exactly that," Arthur answered his wife, reaching for one of the many open bottles of wine littering the nearby table-top and topping up Andromeda's empty glass as well as his own. "But given the panic of recent days, I for one will feel quite a bit more relaxed once this is all squared away and settled."

Tonks snorted into her drink. "Yes," she muttered, "then we can all just let down and focus on getting the law overturned as quickly as possible before anything else happens."

"It might be too late by then," said her mother in a pointedly loud whisper.

Tonks' mouth dropped open. "You think?"

"How are we to know what happens behind closed doors?" asked Andromeda in a knowing tone. The two women then shared an excited look that made Sirius frown.

"Andi…" he growled.

His cousin leaned toward him, looking more like a Black than ever. "I've been watching that girl these past few weeks, Sirius. She's quite something. You might have a bit of a problem, there, if you're not careful."

The growling didn't stop. "Leave it," he warned her.

"That's the last thing anyone will be doing for quite some time. You do realise that, don't you? She's a war hero and you're a bloody pin-up. Our world will be desperate for any news about you two. Rita Skeeter's never going to leave you in peace."

Sirius sighed, exasperated. "Andi, I love you, but sod off, eh?"

"Charmingly phrased, as always." Leaning back once more, Andi shot him a wink worthy of most devious Slytherin.

Still glaring at his cousin, Sirius gave into the restless energy crawling up and down his spine and took his leave. Wending his way through the guests, he passed by Kingsley, Minerva, Neville Longbottom's grandmother, and Luna Lovegood before making a break for the back garden.

He'd almost made it when he felt a hand on his arm.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

He sighed and did his best to avoid Moony's questioning gaze. "I need some air."

"Do you want company?"

"Not particularly." He stared at the floor, waiting.

After another moment, Remus released his grip on Sirius' arm. "Go."

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes. I'll hold off any curious minds."

"Cheers, mate. I won't be long."

Remus said nothing; he only nodded toward the closed glass door, not moving again until Sirius had slipped through it.

Outside it was blissfully dark and silent compared to the dull roar inside the house. It only took a moment before Sirius saw her, leaning against the granite balustrade that ran the length of the long, flagstone terrace.

The garden of Grimmauld Place, like the house itself, defied all spatial logic, thanks to some early magic in the original builders' design. Hardly any townhouses in all of London still had this kind of green space hidden at the back of their properties. The stone terrace was raised several feet above the greenery; a set of ornate, wide stairs led down into the grass. Twice as long as it was wide, the garden was watched over by several tall, stately plane trees. At this time of night, it was impossible to see its back wall, and the only sound came from the warm June wind softly rustling the leaves.

Sirius hadn't expected to find her there. Not wanting to disturb, he also didn't want to leave. After a brief pause, he quietly moved to join Hermione. Her forearms rested against the cool granite as she looked up at the dark sky. Sirius came closer, taking in the simple blue dress she had worn earlier to the church and how it accentuated the natural curves of her body. Its thin straps meant that her shoulders were bare to the night air.

"Hello."

"Hi, there," she answered.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Star-gazing."

He gave her a puzzled smile. "Not much to see if we're in London."

"Practically nothing," she agreed. "Still. I thought I'd try."

Not sure what else to do, Sirius also cast his eyes up to the heavens. As expected, the glow of Central London blocked any hint of stars overhead.

"So," he began, clasping his hands behind his back, "anything else you're doing out here? Plotting your escape from all this madness? Waiting for your own getaway Hippogriff to arrive? I wouldn't blame you — and I can personally vouch for both their speed and discretion."

Hermione looked over at him sharpish and narrowed her eyes. "Sirius. I'm not going anywhere."

"Last chance to change your mind," he reminded her.

"No."

"All right."

Another few seconds of pure quiet passed between them. He matched her pose, moving to lean his forearms against the balustrade. Unlike Hermione, however, he didn't look up anymore; instead, Sirius stared off into the shadows of the garden.

A certain scent lingered in the air. He breathed in more deeply and closed his eyes. He knew that smell. He'd know it anywhere now: Hermione's pleasing, clean blend of eucalyptus and rosemary. But what truly surprised Sirius was that he found the aroma entirely relaxing. Normally, women's perfumes irked him — a hangover of his canine-enhanced sense of smell. Cloying, heavy scents were anathema to him. But not this tantalising fragrance emanating from the woman beside him.

It was… her.

He liked it.

"Saturday's going to be a big day."

Her words startled him back into the present and he replied without looking at her. "So it would seem. How are your parents dealing with it all?"

"Don't ask," she sighed.

"I noticed they didn't stay long tonight."

"They wouldn't."

When she didn't elaborate further, he glanced over at her. "That bad, eh?"

Hermione watched the wind move the tree branches overhead as she spoke. "Imagine we had a daughter—"

"You've just shattered my mind, right there," snarked Sirius.

"—and she came home, out of the blue, and told us she was marrying a man twice her age so that he didn't have to go back to prison."

When she glanced at him, Sirius raised his eyebrows.

"Exactly," agreed Hermione. "Even without magic, the thought of us together is a bit much for them."

"And with it?"

"They're not comfortable around wizarding folk. Not anymore."

"Too many memories?" he ventured.

"Not enough. I'm sorry," she said, catching the confusion on his face, "I thought you knew. I didn't want them to be targeted by the Death Eaters, so I obliviated them before the end of the war. Just before Harry and Ron and I went on the run. They forgot all about me and moved to Australia."

Sirius whistled lowly. "That must have been one hell of a memory charm."

"They got most of their memories back, but—" Hermione hesitated. "It's—it's not the way it was before, you know?"

"Of course."

This time, as he breathed in, Sirius got an even more powerful waft of Hermione's scent. Her pulse must be racing, he realised. He certainly hadn't meant to upset her; that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Clearing his throat, he edged as close as he dared to the bare shoulder nearest to him. "I'm, uh… I'm really grateful, you know," he said in a halting voice. "For what you've done. For what you're going to do on Saturday. I know I don't often show it, but I am."

She breathed softly through her nostrils. "My pleasure."

"About that."

At the same moment that Hermione peered over at him, a small yet highly vocal part of Sirius' brain began to protest loudly.

Not now. Surely, he wasn't going to do this now?

As Hermione watched him, the light from inside the house illuminated the whisky-amber colour of her eyes, and Sirius decided that, yes, he was going to bring this up, because there was no way he couldn't. Not now that he'd started.

"Have you thought… that is, what do you think—?" Shutting his eyes briefly, he dropped his head down so that he could stare at where his hands hung over the edge of the railing. "I used to be much better at this," he sighed.

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'll just say it, then, shall I?"

"Please do."

"What do we do about fucking?"

The words were barely out of Sirius' mouth before he shot her a look to catch her reaction — and it a wasn't good one. Hermione had blanched, her eyes widening tremendously as her mouth fell open. "I'm… I'm sorry?" she croaked.

"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it." Pushing back from the stone railing, he stood straight and watched her, still gauging her response.

"W—well…" she stammered. "Well, I—"

"Hermione. We're getting married. Married people shag. A lot, if James and Lily were anything to go by. The Act doesn't have a pregnancy clause yet, thank the gods, so we don't have to face that nightmare, but, with our laws, marrying me would still mean that you couldn't—" He broke off, completely unable to read her face. "What is it?"

"Don't you know?" Her chin dropped down as she gazed up at him, making her look wholly vulnerable.

"Know what?" He swallowed with some difficulty. "Why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I'm scaring you."

"I'm not scared."

"Yes, you are. You're trembling." Sirius gave her a baffled grin. "It's almost as if you've never—"

He stopped talking.

For a moment, he stopped breathing.

That look on her face — it couldn't be. And, yet, it was. In that moment, standing with her in the dark, Sirius was as sure of it as he was of anything in his life.

"Holy fucking furies," he swore. "You're not, are you?"

"Not what?" she countered quickly.

Leaning in, Sirius stared at her. "Hermione. Are you a virgin?"

She swallowed nervously, and the world dropped out from under his feet. "Does it matter so much?" she asked.

"Yes!" he snapped, his voice rising enough that he then glanced around quickly to make sure no one else had heard him. "How—how is this even possible?"

Breathing sharply through her nose, Hermione crossed her arms below her breasts. "I highly doubt I need to explain the mechanics to you, of all people."

"You're having me on."

"I'm not." She flattened her lips until they made a thin, white line, and then gave him a single nod. "It's true. I've never had sex. Are you satisfied now?"

"Satisfied?" he echoed.

"Isn't this a good thing? Shouldn't you be having some sort of caveman-esque reaction and be beating your chest over it? A virgin bride! We're quite the prize in some societies."

Sirius just gawped at her. "Merlin's balls. This can't be happening. And," he added in a suddenly different tone, "where do you get off calling me a cave man? Bloody hell, Hermione! When have I ever deserved that from you?"

She flushed. "We… haven't exactly seen eye to eye on most of our opinions."

"We argued and debated years ago — quite heatedly, I'll grant you. But we never made it personal. At what point did I regress to being a troglodyte in your eyes?"

Hanging her head, Hermione began to twist her fingers together. "I'm sorry. You're not one, obviously! I—I know I'm being defensive. It's just—I didn't—" She deflated visibly in front of him and her voice was notably smaller when she choked out, "It's embarrassing, all right? Having to admit something like this. Especially to… to someone like you who—"

"Careful," he warned.

"—who has so much more experience in bed than I do," she clarified, looking him in the eye. "It's intimidating."

"I intimidate you?"

"Not you, per se. But your wicked ways? Absolutely."

He gave a disbelieving laugh. "My what?"

"You heard me," she insisted.

Still shaking his head at the things she could come up with, Sirius put his hands on his hips. "Well, I'm flattered you think I'm such a rake," he drawled, "but I assure you, my reputation is no reflection of reality."

"Are you a virgin?"

"Hardly!" he scoffed.

Hermione arched an eyebrow.

Caught in his own words, Sirius rolled his eyes. "Yes, I've had sex. I haven't been a virgin since… Merlin, what, fourth year? Fifth? But I'm not the issue, here." He peered at her through the shadows, willing himself to understand this unbelievable quandary. "Hermione, why have you never had sex? Was there no bloke at school you wanted? Ron? Or—or one of the twins? Both?"

She winced.

"What about that Bulgarian chap? Krum?"

"None of the above."

"Seriously, though," he pressed, refusing to let her squirm away from this. "You had no one?"

Shrugging one shoulder, Hermione sniffed. "Limited opportunity, diminishing returns, and a distinct lack of desire. Boys just seemed so—"

"Merlin's beard!" interjected Sirius. A hollow feeling hit him in the chest. The way she'd said 'boys' had been so dismissive, so… uninterested. He felt fantasy after fantasy about her crumbling away in front of him. "I am such a dullard! You like witches, don't you? Circe, 'Mione, if that's the way it is, you absolutely cannot marry—"

"Who said I like witches?" she asked sharply. "That's not it at all!"

Sirius felt thoroughly perplexed. "Well, then, who did you fancy back at Hogwarts?"

"No one."

That was too fast of an answer.

"No one? No chance. Who?"

A loud roar of laughter sounded from inside the house, making them both turn towards the building. There were people moving about inside; most faces were obscured, but a few were just visible through the window: Harry, Hagrid, and then joining them, Remus.

Sirius followed Hermione's gaze as she looked at his fellow Marauder, his oldest living friend, and then swiftly looked away.

His stomach lurched sharply. "Bloody hell!"

Knowing she was found out, Hermione immediately moved closer. "No, please!" she cried out softly. "I was thirteen! It was ages ago!"

"And you're how old now?"

"Twenty. You know that."

"Sodding Circe. Twenty." He groaned. "This makes no sense," he said, drawing a hand over his face. Suddenly, he froze and, dropping the hand, peered at her again. "Wait. Do you still like—"

"No!" erupted Hermione. "Of course, not! Remus is my friend. That's all. I've only ever thought of him as a friend for years."

Turning on his heel, Sirius looked out again over the dark garden. Clearly infuriated, he tsked at the sky.

Hermione reached for him and grabbed his shirtsleeve. "I'm sorry, Sirius," she said, her voice pained. She let go of the smooth material almost as soon as she'd touched it. "I didn't mean to throw you like this."

Sirius looked down at the grass below them and shook his head. "I'm not thrown. I'm appalled."

"Am I that horrible?"

"Horrible?" Sirius knew repeating whatever she had just said was becoming a bad habit, but he couldn't help himself. "Hardly that, love. I'm appalled with my own sex!" Pushing back from the balustrade, he stared at the witch in front of him. "What were all those wizards doing? Were their heads completely up their arses? Because, I swear, if I'd been at Hogwarts when you were, you wouldn't have stood a chance! I'd've been trying to bed you since fifth year, at least!"

Hermione blushed and bit her lip. "I highly doubt that," she said, giving him a small smile.

His eyes flashed. "I would've done it, too. Do you doubt me?"

"Um… well—" She stared awkwardly at the ground for a moment. "Still… I'm not… you wouldn't have—"

"Hermione," he said, his voice rumbling from a place deep within his chest.

"Yes?"

He took a step closer. This whole thing was mad. It certainly shouldn't have been turning him on. But, fates and furies help him, it was.

She was.

"They've all been complete tossers. I mean, look at you!"

"No one does," she said dismissively.

Now it was his turn to smile, and it was a wicked thing. "Oh, yes, they do," he insisted. "Trust me. I've seen it. It's just that you terrify them. Real women always do."

Hermione huffed a laugh. "Is that right?" she scoffed. "Do I terrify you then?"

"No."

"And why not?"

"Because," he drawled, "I happen to like real women."

"So, does that mean you like me?" she teased.

The laughter between them vanished in an instant. Their eyes locked with an intensity that shocked him. There was only the scantest amount of space left between them. A prickling started at the base of his spine. It was the beginning of a different dance, one that Sirius hadn't expected to start when he came out on the terrace. Hadn't expected, but couldn't deny.

She was waiting for an answer.

He swallowed. "Yes, I do. Very much."

Their gaze deepened and Hermione's body shifted in line with his. She only moved her hips, but Sirius suddenly felt he was drowning in her intoxicating fragrance: rosemary, eucalyptus, and that sweet tang of arousal he'd first noticed when he'd touched her in the library. All those days ago.

His fingers itched to touch her again now.

Spellbound, he gazed at her lips and watched them part.

"But not like that," she whispered.

"Not like what?"

Hermione searched his face. "You're not in fifth year now, Sirius. Neither am I."

"Thank fuck for that." It was meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out just the opposite.

He couldn't look away.

Neither could she.

A womanly smile played at the edge of her mouth. "I'm all grown up now," Hermione pointed out.

"I've noticed."

Her head fell slightly to one side. "Have you?"

"Yes." His voice was low and rich as he confessed the truth. "More than I should have."

He watched, entranced, as the corners of her eyes crinkled at his admission.

"I thought you said you couldn't stand me."

Sirius cocked his head. "Did I say that?"

"I think you did."

"If I ever said it," he vowed hotly, "I never meant it. That's not what I think at all."

"What do you think, then?"

"Of you?"

She nodded.

"I think of you… I think…" Sirius checked myself, blinking again and breaking the spell. Covering as quickly as he could, he gave her a breezy smile. "I think of you as… as the woman who's saving my life." He splayed a hand on his chest and gave her a courtly bow. "My intended."

"Oh."

Was she disappointed? If so, she only gave him the barest sign of it, flashing a fast smile instead.

"But," he added, leaning in, "I think any man would be lucky to count you as his friend."

Now Hermione's smile deepened. "You know you can."

As he met her gaze, the pull between them roared back to life.

All Sirius wanted to do was touch her — so he nearly stopped breathing when she suddenly placed her hand over his on his chest. He didn't look down at it; her eyes were entirely too mesmerising to look away, so he glutted himself on them instead.

"Can I?" he asked softly. "Can I really?"

As if by magic, their fingers laced together.

"Yes," she murmured, and then took a shallow breath. "Please."

"Yes?"

"I—"

Turning their hands together slightly, Sirius somehow drew her even more into himself. He brought his other hand up to her jaw and palmed her cheek, tipping her face up to his. "Complete tossers," he whispered roughly. "All of them."

She blinked slowly at him. "Really?"

He nodded once, his mouth already descending towards hers.

"Fuck, yes," he swore, and then closed his eyes.

It wasn't a gentle kiss.

Maybe it should have been, maybe it almost was, but as soon as his lips touched hers, Sirius felt as if he'd been kissing this witch forever. He recognised her taste; he half-remembered how it felt to hold her this close, how to relish the moment when the fingers of her free hand pressed against his arm and his leg slipped between hers; knew the familiar crinkle of her curly hair as it brushed his cheek. All of it, as if he had kissed Hermione just like this, a thousand times before, in another life.

Heat shot through him, making him blind to everything except her lips… her scent… her warmth. He wanted everything she had to give — and her tight grip on him seemed to say the same.

It was completely mad, but he couldn't stop, any more than he could stop the world from spinning.

When Sirius slanted his lips over hers and her mouth opened beneath his, sweet and sinful in equal measure, he groaned. Desire speared through him. Yes, he might have imagined this dozen times over the past few months, but nothing could have prepared him for the real thing.

For her.

Responding to him, Hermione squeezed his fingers even more tightly with hers where they were clenched together between their bodies.

His free arm tightened around her.

Her legs pressed on either side of his thigh.

It was electric.

It was amazing.

It was wrong.

The world came crashing down around him and Sirius pulled back, already damning himself.

"I'm sorry," he whispered harshly, his eyes still closed. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Yes, you should."

Sirius looked down between them to where their hands were still locked together. "You're Harry's best friend."

"I'm more than that," she answered.

He bent slightly so that their foreheads gently touched. "This isn't real, love."

"Why not?"

Such a simple question — and he didn't have a simple answer.

He felt the soft touch of her fingers trace the line of his jaw, recognised the sway of her hips against his as she pressed her breasts up against his chest, and then Hermione was kissing him, wanting him, and Sirius felt as if he'd been set on fire.

He tore his hand away from hers where they'd been pressed between their bodies, but only so that he could pull her properly to him, cupping her hip while his other hand ploughed through her hair to hold the back of her head. The rough gesture made her gasp into his mouth, but then she kissed him even more deeply, the tip of her tongue darting tentatively against his own.

The blood rushed below his waist so quickly, he felt dizzy.

He had been getting increasingly aroused since he had first smelled her hypnotic sweetness next to him in the dark, but now his cock became rock-hard as she shifted up against his body. They fit together, like the jagged tiles of the flagstones beneath their feet.

Releasing her hair, his fingers flexed across her back, learning her shape as she wound her arms around his neck, removing any last bit of space between them.

For a brief moment, he squeezed the fantastic roundness of her arse and rutted against her, letting her feel just what she'd done to him. Then his hand skimmed up her side, tracing her curves. He could feel her bra beneath the fabric of her dress. The soft sweep of his thumb over the crest of one breast made her nipple stand out, showing him that, whatever separated them for the moment, she wanted him.

In fact, she seemed to be getting as turned on as he was, if such a thing was possible.

As he touched her there, Hermione stiffened in his arms, pulling air sharply through her nose; Sirius nearly let go, but then her hands were carding through his hair, reeling him in, and he dared to have his thumb make a second pass. She moaned even more, and he drank in the sound. Gods, he wanted to taste her there — wanted to draw her full breast into his mouth, to trace its pink peak and feel her nipple harden against his tongue. His boldness must have set off something similar in her, because suddenly she was arching into him, taking control of the kiss, chasing him, tasting him, making the blood pound through his entire frame.

He'd noticed Hermione's beauty months ago. No, he'd noticed she was a woman, not a girl, as soon as he'd returned from the Veil. But this version of Hermione? Who was she?

All of his anger, all of his frustration and rage and fear from the past several weeks went into that kiss, but most of all was his desire. Sirius wanted to kiss her, had been wanting it since… gods, when? When he'd traced the satin of her skin as she sat in front of him, so trusting, keening those small sounds from low in her throat that had made him ache for more; or when she had first pressed her hand against his heart out in the hallway and told him to marry her.

Fuck it, he'd wanted to push her against a wall and have her from the moment she'd given him that wicked grin after Christmas, the light in her eyes matching the hard heat tenting his pyjama bottoms.

He'd had no idea she could be like that — and all he'd wanted since was to know more.

Memories of when he'd massaged her sore muscles flooded back to him. He'd wondered then if she'd taste like this — so delicious and enticing — if her hair would feel like this against his face, if those notes of growing arousal he'd happened to sniff while touching her soft skin had really been because of him.

Now he knew.

There was no way this woman was interested in other witches. Not if she could kiss him like this.

They devoured each other in the dark. The sheer power of their embrace began to scare Sirius as much as it thrilled him. What were they doing? How much longer could he keep doing it before he had to give her up?

And how the hell was this witch still a virgin?

A virgin.

She was a virgin.

Gasping, Sirius broke away from the sweetness of her mouth a second time.

"We can't," he panted.

"Yes, we can," she insisted, her lips trying to find his again, refusing to let him go.

"No, we can't. Not if you want to be able to get out of this later." He pulled her arms from around his neck, still tasting her on his lips, and held her by both wrists, wanting to be sure that she didn't bolt because there was no way that this had been a kiss he'd wanted to end.

Hermione's eyes clouded with confusion instead of lust. "I don't understand."

"Has no one explained it to you?"

He'd just assumed she'd known. She had to have known. If she'd offered herself up to save him without knowing what that really meant…

Sodding Merlin. Sirius closed his eyes, blindsided yet again.

"What do I need to—"

"Hermione, dear! There you are! We've been looking all over for you!"

Sirius froze. Slowly, he turned his head to look behind him, already knowing who he was going to see.

Molly Weasley stood at the French-doors to the terrace, gripping the handle tightly with one hand. Her voice was so maternal, but her gaze was scathing.

Unfortunately for her, so was his.

"Molly. Can we help you?"

Before he spoke, Sirius had been tracing his fingers up and down Hermione's forearms. Now, she pulled away. If he could have throttled Molly where she stood just for that, he would have, but Arthur wouldn't have liked it, so he stayed where he was.

"I need Hermione."

"Do you now? Why?"

"That's none of your concern!" From any other person, the line might have sounded teasing, even amusing; from Molly, it sounded like a threat.

Sirius heard Hermione draw a deep breath before she looked past him to where the other witch stood. "Mrs Weasley, Sirius and I were just going over a few details for the ceremony."

"Of course you were, dear. Such a complicated thing you two have to go through — all those vows."

"There really aren't that many," muttered Hermione, but Sirius was sure he was the only one who heard her.

"Come!" beckoned Molly, making quick hand motions. "Let's go. The others are waiting!"

"If you could just give us another minute," said Sirius.

"No! That is, I'm afraid not." Molly's tone wisely changed from shrill to conciliatory in the space between heartbeats, as if she suddenly knew she was treading close to a line she shouldn't cross.

Still, it was Molly. The red-headed matriarch wasn't about to budge. "Hermione's needed inside," she insisted. "Now. Yes?"

Sirius turned back to his fiancée, who looked about as nonplussed as he felt. He took her hands in his and held them down near their thighs. "It's all right," he murmured, kissing her temple gently. "Go. We'll talk later."

"Later, when?" asked Hermione pointedly.

"Later," he promised.

Still frustrated and confused, Hermione went back inside. She held onto Sirius' fingers until the distance forced them apart.

Molly didn't say anything, but Sirius thought he heard a distinct sniff of disapproval. Hermione walked past her and into the house; once the younger witch was gone, Molly shot him a look that could have flattened legions.

Once, that kind of interfering presumption might have driven Sirius to say something truly nasty. But the touch of Hermione's fingers was still warm on his. What had just passed between them had given him a power he hadn't known he was missing.

Sirius could have taken on dragons and cowed them in their traces.

When Molly looked at him with those daggers in her eyes, he met her edge for edge, parrying all her jabs and thrusts without a single word.

Molly's eyes flared as she realised her failure. Harrumphing loudly, she scowled one last time and turned away, leaving Sirius alone on the terrace.

It was a small victory, but still enough of one to make him smirk. That feeling, however, was fleeting. Bracing his hands on the railing once more, he looked out over the dark garden.

He had just kissed Hermione Granger.

No.

He had just snogged the fuck out of his godson's best friend — and she had done the same to him.

"Bleeding Circe," he muttered to the dark night sky. He ran a hand through his hair, at a loss for words.

What the hell had just happened?

And, more importantly, how on earth did Hermione not know the truth?