Chapter 3 – Musings

Hermione never knew how she was able to fall asleep after her declaration in the kitchen. So many thoughts whirled through her brain as she lay back in her bed, but they all came back to just one thing.

One man.

Sirius Black.

Her fiancé.

Where in the world had she found the gall to propose to him like that? To Sirius? Something inside of her had told her she had to do it – there really was no choice to be made – but now, after the fact, she was still rather shocked at herself.

Even more surprising was the sure knowledge that she was happy about what she'd done. She had wanted to do it. It was helping Sirius, wasn't it? She'd wanted to help.

It had, Hermione assured herself in the black stillness of her bedroom, absolutely nothing to do with her terrible awareness of Sirius as something more than her best friend's godfather; as the man responsible for that low-down, dirty tickle she felt whenever she thought of him as she tried to fall asleep; the one who made her skin feel all thin and hot.

That was something entirely different.

When Sirius had returned from the Veil, Harry and Hermione had been living together at Grimmauld Place for nearly two years. The pair made for easy housemates and the set-up had worked well for them.

Ron had been on the verge of joining them, but the sharp and sudden collapse of his relationship with Hermione the summer after Voldemort's defeat had put a stop to that. The tumult of the final battle, the frayed nerves from the long search for Horcruxes, the sense of betrayal that lingered after Ron's abandonment of them, the loss of too many loved ones – like a snow-slide down an ice shelf, all those things had gathered speed and then swept through their fragile romance, destroying that hot-and-cold tension that had simmered between Hermione and Ron since they were children.

A part of her had realised they were doomed even in the early aftermath of the final battle, when the three of them had stood on the bridge to Hogwarts and watched Harry contemplate his future. She'd known for certain a few weeks later. She and Ron had been in her new bedroom at Grimmauld Place and she'd lain frozen beneath him. Since that one clenched embrace in the Chamber of Secrets, kissing Ron had felt increasingly like kissing the back of her own hand. It was wet and pointless and liable to make her chafe. In the end, she simply couldn't do it any longer.

And, like a petulant child, Ron had sulked. He never really forgave Hermione for finally voicing her doubts on a hot midsummer evening in the fields near The Burrow. She'd patiently explained that it wasn't working for her, but that wasn't his fault; that she believed they had never really been 'meant to be'; that they had only ever been friends, at best.

She'd wanted them to be friends again, if they could. After all, they both loved Harry – and the three of them had always made for an amazing team. Agreeing on those foundations, she had left that evening thinking things were in a good place, that going forward they could truly be good friends. But there was no denying that it had been awkward for quite a while afterward, and there were still countless moments when a rude remark or a caustic eyeroll sent her way struck deep.

No one else could ruin Hermione's day quite like Ron Weasley.

She knew she should just move past it, but it was hard. She'd once had so many emotions tied up in ideas about Ron, what he felt or said now could still hurt.

Worst of all was his inability to let her have a social life of her own in the years since. No matter what, there was always some kind of snide comment. There certainly was nothing teasing or gentle about the way he'd put down her choice of dates or harp on about what she might wear when going out. When it came to Hermione's love life, Ron was a killjoy.

The irony, of course, was that his own romantic relationships had fared no better – at least, not from what she could tell. Truth be told, she preferred to be spared any details about his hookups. In the end, Hermione had found that keeping her mouth shut and soldiering on was easiest both on herself and Harry, and so she did just that, until, occasionally, the tension became too much, and she and Ron would have at one another and then not speak for days or even weeks. Those were the times when Hermione gave thanks that Ron had never moved into Grimmauld Place. The Black mansion had become one of the few safe spaces she felt she had left, away from their own circle of friends and the wider crowds of witches and wizards who still seemed obsessed about whatever the Golden Trio did next.

And so, she and Harry had lived alone together in Sirius' old townhouse for nearly two years with a constant stream of friends and family dropping by on a daily basis. During the day, the house was always lively. It was just that, at night, after the others had all gone home to their own beds, Hermione would watch Harry disappear into his room, quite often with Ginny hot on his heels, and then she would retire upstairs alone… and it rankled.

It didn't feel right to be left behind. To be by herself.

Something was missing. Some kind of deeper connection. She knew she wanted one, but she also felt so tired of it all. She couldn't be bothered to fix it. Not yet.

Hermione had a definite itch, but she didn't want just anyone to scratch it. Not after already waiting so long.

When Sirius had miraculously reappeared in their lives just after the summer solstice a year ago, Hermione had immediately offered to leave Grimmauld Place. Harry and his godfather needed space, she was sure; they needed time together, and a chance to be a family again. But neither man would hear of her leaving, and so she'd stayed.

At first, it had just been good manners on her part not to contradict them.

But then, things had changed.

After a while, she didn't want to leave.

For the first few months, she and Sirius had been scrupulously polite around one another. They were, in essence, acquaintances rather than friends, even if she had been with him for some of the worst moments of his life. During their time at Hogwarts, Harry had understandably been Sirius' only focus.

But, perhaps, Harry wasn't his sole focus any longer.

Around others, Sirius treated her at first just as he always had, with a bit of courtly grace and benign interest. But, over time, a different kind of intimacy had begun to grow between them as housemates, especially when they were alone together. Nothing romantic, of course. More of a familiarity. A nearness.

There had been amusing, awkward exchanges on the stairs, for instance, when both she and Sirius would try to pass one another by going in the same direction, smiling shyly together once they had finally gotten the footwork right. Without fail, he was there to help her into her coat on cool autumn and winter mornings when she needed to bundle up before going outside. When they went to the Three Broomsticks, he'd always pass her drink to her first, although there had been a good long stretch the previous summer when they hadn't gone to Madame Rosmerta's pub at all. Hermione still wasn't clear on why Sirius had seemingly gone off the place.

For his first Christmas back among the living, she had given Sirius a book on motorcycle maintenance and repair. He had given her a bright red scarf. Nothing risqué from either quarter.

They were polite and distant with each other, until, suddenly, they weren't.

Early one morning, not too long after Christmas, Hermione had found a bare-chested Sirius in the kitchen making tea, his pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips. When he'd turned toward where she stood in the kitchen doorway, Hermione had taken in his tattoos across his chest and stomach, and then the slight line of dark hair leading from his navel southward, the muscled slopes of his pelvis guiding her eyes straight to his crotch.

Her first thought was that she wanted to trace those defined grooves near his hips with her tongue.

Her second was that he was obviously already having a happy morning.

On seeing the tented material below his waist, Hermione's eyes had flashed back up to his. Sirius' face had looked blank at first: caught. Then, having realised who was watching him, he had shrugged one shoulder slightly and given her a half-impish smile.

Maybe he'd expected her to flee back up the stairs after discovering him like that. Maybe he'd expected her to chastise him. Maybe he expected any number of things. But Hermione knew for certain that Sirius had never expected her eyes to linger on his morning erection and then for her to give him a saucy grin of her own.

His eyebrows had risen and, even across the room, she had seen his irises darken and his lips curl into a sexy smirk.

For her.

"Good morning," he'd whispered, his voice a low rumble.

"Morning," she'd whispered back. Still holding his gaze, she had then backed out of the room slowly, never looking away, while he wrapped his hands around his mug of tea and took a sip.

That had been it.

That had been the moment.

From that morning on, months ago now, Hermione had found it impossible not to notice Sirius whenever he was in a room with her. It wasn't anything silly: just a little change in how she'd behaved from before. Now, she noted him. That was all. As far as she knew, she'd kept that heightened awareness entirely hidden, never giving herself away to anyone; not to Harry, and especially not to Sirius.

It was just a little crush, she assured herself. Something fun to keep things interesting in her own mind. It wasn't harming anyone. It wasn't embarrassing anyone. She had no expectations whatsoever because nothing would ever come of it.

After all, it wasn't as if Sirius ever got flustered looking at her, breaking into a coughing fit or the like to cover himself. That had never happened. That would never happen.

Hermione just thought it was nice to know that, even after the disaster with Ron and a long string of dead-end first dates, she could still appreciate the presence of a handsome wizard; that looking at someone like Sirius could still give her a little thrill.

And if, every so often, Sirius' eyes rested on her, too, then so be it. They were housemates, after all. These things happened. It wasn't as if she had intentionally bought that silky new dressing-gown that stopped at mid-thigh so soon after their encounter in the kitchen. That look on Sirius' face had had nothing to do with it – she'd just needed something a bit more grown up for around the house, was all.

And if, every week or so, Sirius appeared early in the morning in the kitchen doorway to find her making tea while she wore that slinky robe and silently watched her move about the kitchen while leaning against the doorframe, that, too, was fine. He had every right to be in his own kitchen whenever he pleased. After all, it wasn't as if he'd ever stepped close behind her and reached up to lift down the tin of tea leaves from a shelf just out of her reach, one hand resting gently on her lower back as he stretched past her. Perhaps she'd fantasised that something like that might happen someday, but it was just that: a fantasy. No doubt it was something she'd dreamed up because of reading those silly Muggle romance novels she kept hidden around the house for moments when she really needed a bit of indulgence.

Besides, Sirius didn't even like her.

He didn't.

Not really.

Although, she mused in the darkness of her room, now that she had offered to marry him to save him from returning to one of the worst places on earth, maybe he'd start to like her a little more… just a bit.

Perhaps.