Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

ℍ𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕖

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

31𝘴𝘵 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 2004

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hermione Granger had always lived too fast. She was up and walking by the time she was nine months old, talking in short sentences shortly after her first birthday, and reading before she turned three. By the time she was halfway through her primary school years, she’d long since realised that she was—somehow—older than her peers, despite their chronological sameness in age.

Oftentimes, she thought that perhaps fate—or magic, or some other, equally all-knowing entity—had been preparing her all along. 

Her first brush with saving the Wizarding World came at age twelve. 

By eighteen, she was a godsdamn war heroine. 

Married by nineteen, the head of the Juvenile Werewolf Welfare subdivision of the Department for the Care and Control of Magical Creatures by twenty—which, to be fair, she had founded said subdivision herself, but that was beside the point.

A homeowner by twenty-one, she’d been ready to start a family with her husband and decade-long best friend—and then, as with all the best laid plans, everything had crashed down by the time she turned twenty-two. 

Her subdivision lost funding, forcing her back to a desk in the bullpen to file paperwork all day. Her gorgeous little cottage was lost to—of all things—a muggle electrical fire. Unfortunately, one of the few things to survive said fire was the letter tucked into a drawer that held the proof that the aforementioned husband—slash—best friend was overjoyed to become a father. 

To another woman’s child.

The divorce had been quick and efficient; Ron and Daphne had wanted things to be settled before the baby arrived, and Kingsley helped grease a few wheels to expedite the process, lest a scandal befall the Ministry’s favourite little trio of show ponies.

Thankfully, things had settled in the three years since. After a few too many nights on the floor with old photo albums and bottles of wine, a myriad of sessions with both mind healers and muggle psychologists, and endless girls' nights—which even eventually came to include one Daphne Weasley—Hermione had healed.

It took time, as all things do, but eventually she realised she and Ron would have simply never worked. 

Honestly, where was the compatibility? 

Eighteen-year-old child soldiers, trauma-bonded after seven years of saving the world side by side, don’t often take the time to stop and think about the bigger picture, she supposed. They had both been desperate for someone to cling to, to chase away the nightmares, and caught up in the comfort of the familiar. In the end, however, it was all for the best.

Ron was a good man. Hermione was a good woman. Together, they had been good friends. Together, they had also been rather shit at the whole married-couple thing. They hadn’t even shared a bed more than half the time, because she hated his snoring and he hated how she hogged the covers.

They’d gotten married because it was just the thing they were supposed to do next. After the war, when the dust had settled, Harry had Ginny, Hermione and Ron had each other, and that was simply the way that it was. Everyone was perfectly paired off and poised for their happily-ever-afters, so they moved forward and did what the world expected them to do. 

In retrospect, they both knew that they should have done things differently, but she was eternally grateful for where they were now. 

Things were good.

Daphne and Ron were a brilliant fit. Daphne lived to dote, to mother the universe, which worked in perfect tandem with the way that Ron needed to be nurtured, and—dare she say—coddled. There was no harm in Ron having those needs, of course; It had just been one of the many reasons they hadn’t fit, given the fact that Hermione herself also needed those things, and two left feet never make for a fluid dance.

Besides, Hermione found she’d had quite enough of raising Ron—and Harry, as it were. Call it selfish, but she’d put in enough work taking care of others. She was ready to be taken care of herself—or, to be more exact, to find that balance she needed; To find someone to take care of—because caretaking was an integral part of her being, and nurture was her nature—who would also take care of her.

Fucking balance.

It was the same issue she kept running into in the year since she’d started dating again.

She was twenty-five now; She’d taken a new position in the Department of Magical Education and loved her role as a Muggleborn Family Liaison. She had a nice little flat with a spare room she’d turned in to a library, a stellar collection of shoes, and—thanks to a newfound love for food after a year in a tent, three years stressed about how she’d look plastered on the front page of the prophet, a year of knowing her marriage was over and a year of dealing with it actually being over—curves for days that stopped any wizard in his tracks. 

Not that she was conceited; She was just rather fit, had good enough eyesight to see it, and saw no sense in pretending she didn’t own it.

Still, finding that balance, that someone, seemed to be impossible—though not for lack of trying. 

Hermione had no problem finding a date. In fact, according to Pansy—one of a handful of former Slytherin enemies turned reluctant acquaintances and eventual friends via Daphne—who had taken it upon herself to keep a little notebook in her quest to find Hermione a man, she had been on thirteen first dates, nine second dates, and two third dates in the last year, in addition to one three week situationship, and one night stand.

There also may have been a certain dalliance with one Draco Malfoy and his Husband Theo after too many drinks back in March—which may have been brilliant, yes, and which she also would not be discussing at this juncture, and no, she would also not be discussing any of the times she may or may not have repeated said dalliance, next question, please.

Still, that godsdamned issue persisted. She’d accept a date and pull out all the stops, both muggle and magical. She would wax and pluck and charm and smooth, throw on her best lingerie and her highest heels, slip into some slinky little number Pansy had designed and thrust upon her, and set out for the night, ready to be wooed.

And then, inevitably, she would spend the entire night either trying not to fall asleep in her wine glass whilst her date talked about quidditch or the magical trade market or his new dragonhide loafers—imported from Romania, of course—or trying to keep herself from digging her old DA galleon out of her handbag and sending Ginny an SOS to save her from the hell of trying to suffer through dinner with a guy who turned out to just be getting off on being seen out with The Golden Girl.

The groupies were the fucking worst.

Over and over again, though, it all came down to one thing: Hermione had lived too fast. 

Some may call it conceit, but she was just so bloody intellectually understimulated. She always wound up feeling as if she were a decade older than every guy she dated, playing governess to some teenage boy while he prattled on about sports. 

The idea of having to coddle another overgrown man-child was more of a turn-off than imagining Dolores Umbridge and Lord Voldemort in a three-way with Dobby the house elf.

For all of the love she had for being strong, independent, mature, and so on and so forth, she couldn’t help but want at least one area of her life where she didn’t have to be the one running the show.

“How’d that date go on Thursday?” Ginny asked, looking over her shoulder as she sat perched on the bench in front of Hermione’s vanity, fiddling with her hair. 

“Do I even need to say it?” Hermione rolled her eyes and looked down, reaching a hand inside the top of her dress to adjust her left boob, which had decided it didn’t want to behave tonight, and thusly, refused to stay put.

Typical. She swore those fuckers drew straws to decide who would be going rogue which night.

“I’m telling you, we just need to find you a sugar daddy,” Pansy drawled as she propped her foot on the bench at the foot of the bed to roll a garter up her slender leg and position it on her thigh.

“I don’t need any sugar.” Hermione rolled her eyes, hooking one of the dangling diamond earrings Harry had given her for Christmas into her ears.

“Just a Daddy, then,” Ginny quipped.

“Well, if that’s what she’s into, who am I to kink shame?” Pansy looked up from where she was applying another coat of her ever-present blood red lipstick with the help of an ornate, antique compact mirror.

“Oh, trust me, Pansy, we all know you could never. Our ears would probably bleed if we had to hear everything you and Nev get up to in those greenhouses.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Pansy grabbed a tissue to blot her lipstick, then smirked over at Ginny. “You’d be surprised how many uses one can find for Devil’s Snare.”

“Quaffle!” Hermione called out, clamping her hands over her ears. She wasn’t a prude—not in the slightest. She could get down with any number of kinks, personally. 

Personally. 

Hearing her friends discuss their sexcapades, however, gave her the biggest of icks. 

Ginny always said it was because she was the ‘mom friend’ and the rest of them, her pseudo-children, so of course, it weirded her out when they talked about sex. Hermione herself proclaimed it was simply because once they started, they never shut the fuck up.

Regardless, they could very easily not, but they all seemed incapable of not. Thus, the Quaffle motion was born.

“Fiiiinnnneeee. I’ll respect the conversational safe word. No more sex talk around Miss ‘It’s been three months, and my quim may have sewn itself shut by now.’” Ginny waved her hand dismissively. “I agree with Pansy, though. If the problem is that you’re finding everyone you’ve tried going out with unable to keep up with you as far as maturity goes, then maybe someone older is the way to go.”

“Exactly. We need to find you a silver fox. Rich, successful, fit. He’ll cart you off to Italy and Rome and buy you the finest Blahniks to add to your shoe collection, and you’ll pretend not to mind that he’s a little grey in the temples,” Pansy added.

I’d take grey eyes over Blahniks and Rome any day, Hermione thought to herself. Obviously, she couldn’t say that out loud, because she wore her feelings on her face like the Weasleys wore a day in the sun—reddening her appearance until the blush of want was all over her—and she knew that they would know exactly which pair of grey eyes she had in mind.

Though maybe if they did find her out, she could just convince them she had a thing for Narcissa or Andromeda, MILFs as they both were. That’d be a good enough cover. She’d been known to dabble with the fairer sex here and there.

“I don’t care about money, Pans,” she said instead.

“Sigh,” Pansy said, in lieu of actually sighing. “Shame. Fine. A poor fifty-five-year-old, then.”

“That seems to be pushing it a bit. Best to cap it around… eh, say forty-four, then.” Ginny laughed and shot Hermione a knowing look, which she pointedly ignored, and which absolutely did not inspire an urge to remind herself that her moral compass would not allow her to hex a pregnant witch. 

Stupid Ginny and her stupid, constant way of knowing all the things Hermione refused to say.

“How do I look?” Ginny asked, mercifully changing the subject as she moved to stand in front of the mirror, smoothing her gown over her swollen stomach.

“Fat.” Pansy stepped up beside Ginny and ran her hand over her own still-flat stomach. “I’ve already informed the future little Longbottoms that they are NOT to make me any bigger than a size six, or they’re both grounded until they’re thirty.”

“Just wait, Pansy. I love being baby-bump fat. And Neville is going to lose his mind once you start to show. I swear, Harry gets hard the second I run a hand over—”

“Quaffle!” Hermione groaned. “I very clearly Quaffled!”

She rolled her eyes and finished buckling the strap on her heel, then moved to stand next to them in the mirror, taking in the picture they created with a soft smile as she tied her own mask around her face.

Pansy, tall and lithe, with her sharp features and sleek black bob, looked radiant in a deep burgundy lace gown that clung to her body like a second skin, her dark eyes shining beneath the matching mask, which was bordered with little amber jewels.

Ginny looked just as stunning with her Quidditch-toned arms on full display in her strapless, deep purple satin gown, a simple bit of braided gold cinching the material below her bust to highlight the swell of her stomach—five months now, with baby number two—topped off with an amethyst-jewelled mask with gold accents, her fiery red hair spilling in loose waves down her back.

And then, her. A solid six inches shorter than either of them, all hips and bust, soft tummy and wild curls. The gown Pansy had shoved her into was gold and glittery, because blah blah Golden Girl, but even she had to admit that between the corseted waist, plunging neckline, and thigh-high slit, she looked, for lack of better phrasing, hot as hell.

She tied on the—gold, of course, ugh—mask, and soaked up the view of the three of them for a moment longer, ignoring the pang of longing in her chest as she watched two of her favorite witches run affectionate hands over their stomachs, and took a deep breath, pulling back her shoulders and turning to the side to inspect Pansy’s handiwork.

“I don’t know, Pans,” she sighed, “it’s a bit too Golden Girl. I know the Ministry loves this crap, but, gods, I wish for one night I could just… not be this.”

“If I weren’t pregnant, I’d offer to polyjuice each other so I could borrow your tits and arse for the night,” Ginny offered helpfully.

Pansy barked out a laugh and shook her head, then gestured for Hermione to move away from the mirror and began to walk slow circles around her.

"You want to be... not the golden girl, for a night?" Pansy tilted her head, the tip of one perfectly-arched eyebrow rising above the top of her mask as she tapped her wand against her chin.

"I'd kill for it," Hermione laughed.

“Do you trust me?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Hmmm. Brightest Witch of our age, indeed.” Pansy nodded. She came to a stop and looked Hermione up and down, then began to work quickly, casting a variety of charms over her dress and hair while Ginny gasped and squealed, excitedly offering suggestions—go a little darker on the dress, smooth out the hair at her nape, for the sake of the gods, do something about that left boob, lest it spend the entire night waving hello to everyone that passes. Unless you want a tit out? You know, there was this old King in France who had this mistress, and she always wore—no? You’re no fun.

Finally, after she’d finished her work and Ginny had finished her commentary, Pansy grabbed Hermione by the shoulders to turn her back toward the mirror, and Hermione grinned. 

This was what she needed. It was perfect.

Her usually wild hair fell straight and silky down to her waist, looking somewhat darker without the curls catching the light, and the dress was a deep emerald green—Slytherin green, classic Pansy—with silver accents. The mask was a sparkly silver, adorned with little emerald swirls, and now covered a broader section of her face, from the tip of her nose to the middle of her forehead.

“Wow. I can hardly even recognise myself,” Hermione laughed, “it’s perfect, Pans.”

“I know. Everything I do is perfect.” Pansy shrugged, grabbing her handbag off the vanity as they made their way toward the door.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕊𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕦𝕤

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

“I don’t see why I’m needed at this stupid ministry shitshow,” Sirius grumbled as he slumped back in his chair, staring down at the amber liquid in his glass. The firewhisky, he could spend the evening with. A bunch of Ministry puppets parading around in masks, however? Honestly, maybe the dementors hadn’t been so bad; perhaps he should just call up Azkaban and make a reservation to spend the night in his old cell.

“Because it’s New Year’s Eve and we’re going to have fun. You may have heard of the concept?” Harry called over his shoulder. “Besides, you can’t restore the Black name by hiding at Grimmauld 24/7.”

“Fuck the Black name. Whose bloody idea was that anyway?” He rolled his eyes and brought his drink to his mouth, tipping it back and downing it in two quick gulps before he slammed it down onto the side table, then waved his hand to refill it.

“Yours,” Draco drawled, not looking up from where he’d busied himself fixing Theo’s tie as the latter perched in his lap, “though I’d wager Mother had influence, as she’s set her sights on you to produce the next Black family heir. Seems that, despite my best efforts, I continually fail at my constant—and vigorous—attempts to get Theo pregnant.”

“Sigh,” Theo said, “five long, arduous years of marriage, being reduced to breeding stock at every turn, and still, my womb remains barren, empty, devoid of the life that love is wont to create. Alas, we must stay the course. The disappointment persists, but so do we, in our pursuits. For the hope of the bloodline, of course.”

“I thought you two had that little… thing going?” Neville spoke up, ignoring Theo’s dramatics, commonplace as they were.

“Oh, yes, well, that was just a bit of fun. We’ve no desire to keep a witch in our bed full-time, and she has no desire to be kept.” Draco shrugged.

“She won’t even play with us anymore.” Theo pouted, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child. Draco leaned in, shushing him, and began to coo praise as he patted his husband’s head. They were cute, those two, if not a bit much.

“Well, that’s Hermione for you.” Harry shook his head and laughed. “I’m surprised she even… not to insinuate she’s a prude or anything. She’s just had a shit year, so she isn’t big on taking risks these days.”

Sirius clenched his fist around the glass in his hand as he forced himself to breathe, and to very much not think about wild curls and full lips and a mind that made him want to blow his whole life up. A road which his thoughts packed up their bags and set off to travel down of their own volition, despite his best efforts to the opposite—but one that he could never truly explore. 

His fucking godson’s best friend. Sure, they were all grown up now—and Godric fucking Gryffindor, had that little witch grown the fuck up—but she was Harry’s.

Not in the romantic sense, or even the physical, but in ways that ran far deeper. Harry had a full, rich life now. Friends, a good job, all the charity work he did in his spare time, a gorgeous wife who looked at him like he hung the moon. A little boy, and another on the way. But years before Harry finally succeeded in wrenching the kindness he deserved out of life with his bare hands, he’d had her.

He'd had her and Ron both, sure. Neville and Luna—now living in France with her wife Astoria—but he had her, and, more than anyone else ever had, she had Harry. It was her love that got him through. Her push that shoved him along. Her encouragement and support that kept him going. Her mind—that beautiful, infuriating, intoxicating fucking brain—that got Harry through to the finish line so they could save the world. Sirius had watched life grow and change by leaps and bounds in the last few years, but that fact never changed. 

She was Harry’s, in a way that most would never even grasp. Acting on his feelings and taking the chance of fucking that up for the boy who had been through enough wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. He took another sip and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the thoughts of her back into the little box in his mind that always seemed to scream her name. Tonight was important to Harry, on the heels of his promotion to the position of lead Hit Wizard in the Auror Department, so he’d be on his best behaviour, and not eye-fuck her from across the room. 

Not that much, at least. He’d ration out the eye-fucking throughout the evening. He could do that.

“You know I only do this for you, yeah?” Sirius asked, as he set his glass down and rose from his chair and walked over to Harry, clapping a hand on his Godson’s shoulder. 

He knew the double meaning was lost on Harry, who likely assumed he was only referring to all the pomp and circumstance of public events, and not the fact that he also resisted the urge to throw Harry’s best friend over his shoulder and lock her in his bedroom until she gave up the fight—because gods, could she fight, that mouth knew no bounds. He wondered far too often what that mouth could do, thought about it every time he brought his hand down and—

Gave up the fight. Right. That’s what he was thinking about. Until she gave up the fight and agreed to stay in his bed forever. But she was Harry’s, and he could never be the one to take one more thing away from the kid, so he put on the monkey suits when duty called, just as he resisted the urge to go all caveman. Both things, in equal measure, he only did for Harry.

“Yep.” Harry grinned at him. “You’ll be just fine, old man.”

Just fine. Sirius Orion Black was, as fate would have it, an expert at being just fine. He’d been raised in the shittiest of circumstances, and he was just fine. He lost everyone and spent twelve years in Azkaban, and he was just fine. 

He survived a war and geared up to fight another, only to die, and then to pop out of the veil when Voldemort fell. The Unspeakables had concluded that a surge from the power passed between Harry and Riddle had caused a rift in the veil between worlds for a split second, but apparently, it was just long enough for him and a few others who had gone through without technically dying to make their break, and he was alive again, and that, too, was just fine.

He was rather fucking sick of being just fine.

Once upon a time, he’d been the type of man who had allowed himself to hope for something greater. A wife and kids, Saturday nights at the Leaky with James, Remus and Pete, Sunday dinners at Godric’s Hollow while the next generation of Marauders ran around underfoot. 

When Harry was born, it felt like a new beginning for all of them.

He and Marlene had stayed up talking for hours after they got home to their flat from visiting the newest little Potter in St Mungo’s, watching the rain beat against the bay window across from the foot of their bed as they wove dreams of little faces housing his grey eyes and her freckles, and a house in the Italian countryside.

It had been raining the day they’d put her in the ground, too. He hated the rain for years after, used to lose his bloody mind when he was trapped in that cell with no choice but to listen to the rain falling against old stone, but rainy days, too, were just fucking fine now.

“Right.” He nodded, forcing a grin as he reached out to smooth down Harry’s ever-messy hair. The James of it all punched him in the gut, as it always did, but he widened his smile and pushed it aside. “It’ll be just fine, kid. Now, which of these hunks of plastic am I supposed to cage this beautiful face under tonight?”

“Rude!” Theo scoffed. “They aren’t plastic. Those are all antique family heirlooms, from 17th-century Italy. But do take the blue and gold, love. I think it will suit you best.”

Sirius rolled his eyes but complied as he slipped on the mask and turned to check himself in the mirror.

It worked. He wasn’t big on the get-up he’d let his little cousin talk him into—though he couldn’t deny the skill that Longbottom girl showed in her tailored designs. The simple black and white tux was far too plain for his normal tastes, but the work was expert-level. Perhaps, he thought, he’d blend in with the scenery a little better this way. On that thought, he pulled out an extremely rare stop and summoned a hair tie.

He couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he’d tied his hair back. He rather liked letting it flow loose and messy, but it had become his signature look. Anyone could spot him from across the room by his hair alone. Given the fact that he had no desire to perform tonight—and, in equal measure, the fact that random witches were always far too eager to run their hands through his hair without asking, when that was sacred, godsdammit—he figured being left the fuck alone was worth the sacrifice of hiding his most prized feature.

That boy of his had better be glad he loved him. He’d even shaved, muggle razor and all, completely divesting himself of his usual scruff. So really, if that didn’t show how much he loved the damn kid, he didn’t rightly know what would, because he’d have rather not dealt with a single ounce of all this shit tonight. 

The fact that Harry’s wife had cornered him with a razor and informed him he was shaving or she’d cast a Petrificus Totalus and shave him herself—and the greater fact that Ginny Potter with a blade in her hand was bloody terrifying—notwithstanding, he’d cleaned up and put on the stupid suit and he would go behave at the stupid event and pretend as if he didn’t want to hex three fourths of the government drones in that building.

Sirius was bitter. 

He accepted that. It wasn’t necessarily that he enjoyed being bitter; he was merely suffering from a lack of unbitter things to fill his days. Sure, he had things to look forward to. His godson—his boy, for all intents and purposes—his daughter-in-law, who he loved dearly despite the fact that she was a teensy bit unhinged. His pseudo-grandson, James, now four, running and babbling his arse off about dragons to anyone who would listen, and the new baby on the way, they were all the best parts.

He’d reconnected with Andie and Cissa after the war and bridged the gaps, gotten closer with that ponce of a younger cousin and his ridiculous husband via Harry’s ever-growing group of strays that always seemed to fill the halls of Grimmauld Place. He had his bike and his freedom, spent most weekends out at Andie’s place or Remus and Tonks’ cottage watching Teddy run around, and getting to see Mooony be a dad was one of the best parts, too.

So there was plenty to be un-bitter about, indeed. But it all never seemed to be enough. He wondered, often, if anything ever would be enough. 

Maybe that was just the way it goes, when you lose your future to the war, your twenties to prison, a chunk of your thirties to the veil, and so on and so forth, and such is the tragic tale of Sirius Orion Black.

Maybe he was just bored.

Either way, he would wear the mask and go to the damn ministry and be proud of his boy because that was his job. He and Moony were the only ones left standing to show up for Harry, to show up for those kids as far as Harry’s side was concerned, and for all his internal—and, admittedly, far-too often, external—bemoaning, he would always show up for the family he had now.

“Right, so, I’ve been given strict instructions that we are to find the girls ourselves, Nev. Guess they’re leaning into the whole mystery bit of it all.” Harry chuckled as he glanced in the mirror, straightening his tie once more before he gave the group a final nod and turned to head out of the study, the rest falling in line behind him.

Sirius picked his glass of whisky back up and downed the contents in one quick gulp, then followed suit, dragging his feet as he hung behind the little crowd. Fuck, this was going to be a long night. He was already ready to be back home, where he could brood in peace.

He’d grown rather fond of his brooding time, thank you very much.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕚'𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕖
𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚'𝕞 𝕟𝕠𝕥
𝕚'𝕞 𝕗𝕒𝕣 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕝𝕪
𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕚𝕥𝕤 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚'𝕧𝕖 𝕘𝕠𝕥
(𝕚 𝕘𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕚 𝕣𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕘𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥 𝕞𝕖)

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Hermione

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Cormac McLaggen was a notoriously flagrant cad. The way he acted was no secret to the world at large, but, having known him since their school days, his behaviour was especially predictable to Hermione. 

Still, some part of her must have unknowingly rationalised that at least a portion of how he acted toward her was because he’d known her long enough to be comfortable slipping off the mask he'd constructed of a polite, kind man, and showing the creep underneath.

Apparently, this was far from the case, and McLaggen was pushy and full of himself from the jump, no matter who he thought he was talking to. 

Pansy’s disguise had worked perfectly. Almost too well, in fact, though Hermione certainly had no complaints.

With her wild hair now charmed silky straight, the fitted gown highlighting the curves she usually kept hidden under her work robes or oversized jumpers, and the mask obscuring half of her face, McLaggen had no idea who she was. 

Unfortunately for Hermione, not knowing who she was hadn’t stopped him from cornering her and introducing himself as Mac, with the Auror Department (he was a bloody secretary in the department, because he couldn’t pass the physical or written examinations to get into the training academy) and a retired Quidditch player (he’d played a few seasons in school before he quit that, as he had most things) and what’s your name, beautiful? As he trailed a finger over her collarbone.

Hermione had panicked and glanced around as she pulled away from his slimy touch, and blurted out the name of the first thing her eyes caught on. He'd half-heartedly replied that it was a beautiful name and continued blathering on about himself, and she'd spent the last ten minutes debating the ethics of turning him into a ferret. 

She'd rather liked that trick when Crouch-Moody had performed it. 

“Wait, I’m sorry.” McLaggen laughed at her breasts, to whom he’d been directing the majority of the stilted conversation she’d been trying to worm her way out of.  “I just realised—did you say your name is Chair?” 

“Huh?” Hermione pinched her brows together in confusion, then took a sip of her champagne. Had she said chair? Why the hell did she say chair? She hadn’t had that much champagne, had she? 

It had only been an hour since she’d arrived at the Ministry’s annual Masquerade for Mer-Rights with Ginny and Pansy, and couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes since she’d excused herself while they went off to find their husbands, so she was fairly certain this was only her second glass. 

Regardless, she certainly couldn’t claim to be named Chair. Though it was less clunky than Hermione. Chair Granger. Chair Jean Granger. Chairmione Jean. Oh, that was fun.

Perhaps she’d file a name change in the morning. 

“Oh, no!” She laughed. “I said Cherie. You must have misheard. The orchestra is quite loud.” 

“Yes, I suppose it’s rather loud,” McLaggen told her breasts. At least the rogue boob was minding its own business now. 

“Maybe we should go somewhere a little more quiet?”

Annnnddd there was her limit. 

Hermione could keep the peace with Harry, Ron, and Draco’s coworker when she had to, but she was far too wise a woman to let herself be shoved into some dark corner with He Who Cannot Take A Hint.

“Oh, I should really get back to my friends now, but thanks for the drink.” She smiled politely and, giving him a small nod, pushed off the wall he’d practically caged her against. Ducking under his arm, she turned to leave, but only made it two steps when she felt a hand clamp down on her elbow, and she had to fight back a scream of frustration. 

“Hey, now.” McLaggen shot her a look that she was sure he was sure came across as flirty, “We were having fun, weren’t we? Let's just go get some fresh air.”

“I said no,” Hermione firmly reasserted as she glanced around to assess her surroundings. They were near the back of the ballroom, tucked away by the dessert table she’d been trying to hide at when he found her, with a few people milling about that she didn’t recognise. 

She could scream, but really, that would be a bit over the top. Creep-vibe aside, he hadn’t actually done anything yet. The last thing she needed was to be labelled as a hysterical woman or have her actions taken for an overreaction. 

That would only stand to discredit her when he actually did do something, and men like him would take someone not believing a woman about their creepiness as fuel to be… creepier.

Cormac McLaggen was just one of those men whom you could tell had it in him. It lurked behind his eyes, that faintest bit of a calculated gleam that was almost drowned out by his bright smile and cheerful demeanour. 

It was the sort of indicator that women would pick up on, while the men around them called them crazy and reassured them that he was a real fine bloke. For all intents and purposes, he did a good job of keeping that hint of danger just deep enough that if you didn’t play your cards right, you just looked like the crazy one. 

So, play her cards right, she did. She glanced over McLaggen’s shoulder and, by some fortuitous twist of fate, locked eyes with a man leaning against a nearby table. Watching them with narrowed eyes behind an intricate blue mask, adorned with gold accents. His gaze seemed to focus in on McLaggen’s hand wrapped around her elbow before he looked up to meet her eyes, cocking his head as if to ask if she was alright.

That one move was all the permission she needed, because she was absolutely not alright, kind Stranger.

“Darling!” Hermione grinned brightly, waving at the stranger. He startled, but quickly righted himself and snapped to it, playing along in an instant.

“There you are, Sweetheart!” He strode over to where she stood—still in the clutches of the dreadful breast-whisperer—and slung an arm around her shoulder. 

“You know, if you’re quite done mauling my date, the night is young and my girl here promised me a dance,” he told McLaggen. Oh, she liked that voice. All deep and raspy. He sounded like a man.

“Shall we?” The stranger asked, lowering his already-dangerous voice to a sultry murmur as he turned his attention to her.

McLaggen looked between the two of them and opened his mouth as if to protest, but he quickly seemed to think better of it.

“Sorry, man.” He held his hands up in defence as he took a step back, flashing the stranger a grin. “Didn’t know the bird was spoken for.” 

“You know, you might find you don’t have to jerk women around to get your way if you take the time to learn when to recognise the type of woman who—” the stranger paused and tilted his head, giving Hermione an appreciative once-over, then looked back at McLaggen, “—clearly knows how to speak for herself.” 

He pulled his arm off of her shoulder and offered it to her, and she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow as he started to lead her away. 

“Thanks for the save,” Hermione sighed, shaking her head, “I’m so sorry to drag you into that.” 

“It’s fine. Never been one to miss an opportunity to help a damsel in distress.” 

“Ohhh, you’re smooth,” she laughed. 

“Like butter, baby.” He winked behind his mask, and she rolled her eyes, letting out another laugh. “But since I’ve got you on my arm now, how about that dance?” 

Hermione took a moment to really take in his appearance. He was taller than her, though that was hardly a hard point to measure up to. He was well-built, too. Slim and fit, and filling out that tux like it was a second skin. It had to have been tailor-made, because a fit like that didn't come off the rack. 

He exuded the kind of power that only came from having a Gringotts vault that would put hers to shame—ot that she cared much about people's finances, of course; but if there was one thing she knew after years of friendship with Pansy and Theo, it was how to spot someone who bled old money through their clothing. 

His hair was on the longer side, pulled back into a neat bun, and his eyes were light, though the hue was difficult to discern under the dim, greenish-blue lighting of the ballroom. 

The planning committee had really gone all-out on the Under the Sea theme, though she found it all a bit cliché. 

The majority of his face was obscured by his mask, but from what she could see of him—a good mouth, chiselled jaw—she had no doubt he was handsome. Honestly, there were worse ways to spend New Year’s Eve than dancing on the arm of someone who looked like that. 

“I suppose a dance is the least I can do for my knight in shining armour. What’s your name?” 

He looked away, his jaw ticking as he seemed to stare at nothing across the crowded room. Slowly, his mouth stretched into a wide grin, and he turned back to face her with a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. 

“It’s a masquerade, Sweetheart. Where’s the fun in killing the illusion with something as boring as a name?” 

“Hmmm…” she hummed in contemplation, “well, I suppose you have a point there. No names, then. Maybe I'll just call you Stranger. Though Lancelot is a close second, what with the knight-ing of it all.”

“Lancelot, aye?” He laughed. “Does that mean you’ll be my Guinivere for the night, Mystery Girl?” 

“So long as that doesn’t mean the git back there is Arthur,” Hermione quipped, smiling back at him as he turned and led them to the dance floor. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sirius 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

He was fucked in the head; he’d never denied that. Now, though, as he spun this little witch around the dance floor, he felt his resignation to the fact surge to new heights. He was at this stupid, stuffy Ministry event with a gorgeous woman in his arms, who was making him laugh more than he had in ages, and he still couldn't keep himself from glancing around the room to look for her. 

“Is she special? The girl you're looking for?” The Mystery Girl asked, shaking him from his thoughts. He pulled back and looked down at her, fully prepared to make up some sort of excuse or tell a lie, but she merely smiled up at him—a curious smile, from what he could tell, given that the majority of her face was obstructed by the ornate green and silver mask she wore. 

“It's okay,” she added, before he could respond, “I have one, too.”

“You have one, aye?” Sirius grinned. “What sort of one are we talking about here?” 

“The kind of person who makes you search for them in a crowded room, even with someone else in your arms.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Really, it’s okay. I get it. If you hadn’t been so busy looking for her—or him, sorry, I don’t mean to assume—you’d have noticed I was searching too.” 

“Eh. Either or. I’ve never been too picky.” He winked at her, though he wasn’t sure it had the same effect with the mask. Godsdamn the luck. He was a good winker. 

“And, hey! I have half a mind to be offended,” he continued playfully. “Dancing in my arms and searching for another man?” 

“Oh, now you assume?” she challenged with a laugh. “Yes, it's a man. Though if you’re going to be offended, then I’m going to be offended, and I’ll have to make a proper scene.” 

“Not a scene!” Sirius gasped. 

“A proper one,” she giggled, “they’ll think we’re having a lovers' quarrel, we’ll make the front page of the Prophet. Imagine the scandal.” 

“Well, we can’t have a scandal, now, can we?” He shook his head. “I suppose I’ll have no choice but to withhold my offence.” 

“Good.” She smirked and went silent for a moment as he extended an arm and twirled her in a circle, then brought her back against his chest.

“Tell me about her?” she asked, throwing her arms over his shoulders and pulling back to look up at him when the song changed to a slower tune.

“Ah. She’s just… very off-limits.” 

“Same. The guy, I mean. But it…” she trailed off, and then, her voice nearly a whisper, added, “still doesn’t stop the wanting, though, does it?” 

“Nah. I reckon it doesn’t fare well for the needing or the aching, either,” he replied, trailing his fingers down her spine before his hand fell to her hip.

“The ache.” She nodded, looking away for a moment. “That’s the worst of it, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” He looked around the room again, sighing heavily.

“Is she not here?” 

“I guess not. They…the uh, people we have in common, said she was coming, but…” He shrugged. “I’m sorry. This is fucked, isn’t it? Talking about some other witch while I have this pretty little snake in my arms?” 

“Snake?!” She tilted her head and opened her mouth as if she were about to protest, then looked down at her dress before she looked back up at him.

“Well, I guess I am all dressed in Slytherin, yeah?” She smiled—a sort of playful, pinched, pout of a smile—and shrugged. “What can I say? House pride, or whatever. I suppose the same could be said for you.” She ran a hand down his lapel and then reached up, tapping the tip of his nose through the mask. “Ravenclaw? I do love a man with brains.” 

“Well, you’re in luck. They tell me I've got one.” 

Ravenclaw. Sure. Might as well roll with it.

He was enjoying this little bit of secrecy here with her, and he couldn’t deny that it felt good not to be Sirius Black, even for just a few minutes—not that he necessarily took issue with being Sirius Black. No, he was rather fond of himself; he just simply hated the way everyone else treated Sirius Black, was all. 

“So. My very own snake, for a few dances.” He smiled down at his Mystery Girl again, lifting her arm to give her another spin. “I feel lucky. That’s the only house I never conquered back in school.” 

“You went to Hogwarts?” She gave him a curious look, scanning what she could see of his face, then added, “What year?” 

“Oh, uh, eighty-four.” Sirius threw out the first year that popped into his head—maybe not-so-accidentally making himself quite a bit younger, but that was neither here nor there. She was an adult, too, and this was just a dance. “You?” 

“Oh, um, ninety…four,” she stuttered out, “so I suppose we just missed each other.” 

“A shame, that.” He shook his head and exhaled, a long, over-dramatic sigh. “I suppose we’ll just have to make up for lost time. Another dance?”

“Why not?” She shrugged, glancing around the ballroom as people shifted on and off the dance floor while the band prepared to play another song. 

“Is yours not here tonight, either?” 

“Not that I’ve seen.” She cast her eyes downward, her tone softening as she added, “I just worry about him. He’s been through a lot, and he has people, but he doesn’t have…a person, you know? Someone to take care of him.” 

“I do know.” Sirius nodded and looked up, watching the band play for a moment. Gods, did he ever know. He didn’t have that great, individual person either, but it wasn’t too bad; he had people, just like her bloke did, so he was sure whoever this man that had her attention was, he was getting by just fine.

For reasons unbeknownst even to himself, the next words spilled out of his mouth of their own volition. He had no reason to care, truly, and no real reason to ask it; but he did ask, all the same. 

“And who takes care of you?” He brought his hand to her chin and tilted her face up to meet his. “While you’re so busy worrying about this man who has his own people, do you have people who take care of you?” 

“Of course. I have a good amount of people, honestly.” 

“That’s good, then.” He nodded. “I was just curious, with your worry about this man being taken care of. I’ve known a few caretaker types in my day. They always seem to get so caught up in everyone else that they forget they have their own needs.” 

“Oh, psshhh. Who needs needs?” she said playfully, waving a hand. “You know what I do need, though? A drink. Shall we?” 

She stepped back and held a hand out toward him, and Sirius studied it for a minute. Some part of his mind knew he should say no; knew that he should walk away and let her enjoy her night, maybe go find a connection with someone who could offer her something beyond a single night of dancing. 

Ultimately, though, a large part of his brain shot back a resounding fuck it. 

He didn’t do this much these days. There really wasn’t a point when nobody could even come close to what it felt like to just think of her. But this little witch was fun, and he wanted a night of fun. 

He could have a drink with her. 

As he watched her walk toward the bar, a few steps in front of him with her arm stretched out behind her to lead him through the crowd, her wide hips and biteable arse—biteable, yes, the highest of honors on his own personal arse quality scale—swaying with every step, he thought he could stand to do more than just have a drink. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hermione

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

He was easy. Too easy, in a way that had thrown her off guard. Hermione hadn’t had a conversation with a man—save for Harry or Draco or another platonic friend, and yes, of course, she considered Draco and Theo platonic. Stellar shags as they may have been, there was never anything emotional there for her—flow this smoothly in ages. 

Many times, as the night dragged on, she thought about asking for his name or asking to see him again, but honestly, she liked being in this suspended state with him. They were masked and anonymous, and she didn’t have to be the Golden Girl right now. 

As soon as names were exchanged, though, that bubble would burst. 

So, she carried on, drinking and dancing, laughing, growing firmer in her choice as the night flew by. This was good. It really had been easy, and fun, and she’d needed a good night without the weight of expectations, more than she’d even known.

The weight of expectations was the thing that always did her in. 

People expected her to behave a certain way because of who she was, and that expectation bled over into every date and hook-up she’d tried to have. When she did take men to her bed, it was, more often than not, an awkward dance of them acting like they’d shatter her perfect image if they so much as gripped her too tight.

She took another sip of her drink and watched him flex the grip he had on his glass, the veins in the back of his hand becoming more prominent every time he squeezed, and she couldn’t help but wonder how that hand would feel…

“If I could have everyone’s attention, please.” Her thoughts were interrupted by the Sonorous’d voice of Krellington, the head of the fundraising committee. “We’ll start the New Year’s countdown in five minutes, so if you’re not already with your midnight kisser, best get to finding them.”

Well, then.

It had been a night of anonymity, and really, what good was anonymity if she didn’t take a bit of a risk?

“Would you like to be my midnight kisser, Stranger?” Hermione asked, careful to keep her voice even in an attempt not to look entirely pathetic. He looked at her for a minute, then darted his eyes down to her lips and seemed to be stuck there for a beat before he finally spoke.

“How could I not, Mystery Girl?” He grinned and knocked back the rest of his firewhisky, then climbed off his barstool and held a hand out to her. “Shall we head back to the dance floor, then? Join the fray before the chaos begins?” 

“The dance floor?” Hermione mused. She wanted more than that, could see this night leading to far more than another spin around the ballroom, but the thought alone was risky. As a general rule, she had decided long ago that she’d lived through enough risk to last a lifetime.

Hermione Granger no longer took risks, but tonight, she was anonymous. She was free. She was nothing more than a mystery, and Mystery Girl absolutely took risks.

“We could go dance a bit more, but we might end up causing quite the scene, given that I didn’t say I wanted you to kiss me on the mouth,” she finally replied, smiling sweetly up at him.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, his voice low and raspy as he tilted his head and stared her down, his tongue darting out to lick his lip slowly as his eyes trailed down her body, then back up. 

She accepted the hand he was still holding out, and it seemed to startle him from his perusal of her body. He jerked in surprise, to which she let out a small laugh. 

“Aye, laugh it up,” he said playfully as he gave her hand a tug, pulling her in against his chest. He wrapped one arm around her lower back and tucked her hair behind her ear with his free hand before he began to slowly drag the knuckles of his fingers down the side of her face. 

“Not on the lips, hmmm?” he rasped, his touch ghosting along her jaw. “S’pose I could kiss you here.” 

He shifted his hand, dancing his fingers over the curve of her ear, “or here.” 

“Maybe here.” He turned his wrist again, the very tips of his fingers meeting the skin of her neck, and she shivered in his arms, “or… here.” He leaned in, and she stopped breathing, her heart reaching a calamitous roar as her pulse quickened, as he dipped his head, lowering his mouth closer until his lips were a hair's breadth away from her throat.

Instead of closing the gap, he lingered there for a moment before he pulled back, flicking his eyes down to meet hers. Gods, in this lighting, the way the glow from the ocean-themed decorations turned the golden candlelight nearly silver, she could almost pretend. 

His eyes were so light—likely blue, she knew, but it felt like she was looking up into that same sea of grey she was so used to drowning in.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she struck, closing the distance between them and pressing her mouth to his. He didn’t hesitate. The second her lips touched his, he fisted a hand in her hair and dug his fingers into her hip. His tongue slid into her mouth as he groaned, and she lost herself in the kiss, as if time itself had screeched to a halt around them—or, at the least, it felt as if it had, until someone, somewhere, was yelling for them to get a room. 

Fuck, this man could kiss—so well, in fact, that she couldn’t help but wonder if it was even legal to have a tongue that could make her so wet without even exploring the fun bits? They broke apart, chests heaving as they stared one another down. 

When he raised a hand, looking stunned as he pressed his fingertips to his kiss-swollen lips, the decision came easily. Without another word, she grabbed his hand and spun on her heel, striding toward the back hall of the venue with laser focus. 

“Are we going on an adventure?” he chuckled.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕚𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤, 𝕚 𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕞𝕪 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕖
𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕪 𝕒𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕖
𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕚'𝕞 𝕞𝕖𝕝𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤
𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕞𝕪 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚 𝕔𝕒𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖
(𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕤𝕖𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕕 𝕚'𝕞 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦, 𝕚'𝕞 𝕒 𝕞𝕖𝕤𝕤)

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Hermione

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Are we going on an adventure?

She didn’t respond—couldn’t respond. She felt as if she’d lost her marbles, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. That kiss had been the thing. The thing she’d been searching for, for the past year, but coming up short at every turn.

Thirteen first dates. 

Nine second dates. 

Two third dates. 

One three-week situationship. 

One one-night stand.

Twenty-some-odd nights between Theo and Draco. 

It went even farther back than that, though. 

The night in the tent with Harry, the time right after the final battle with Ron, and everything since. 

Hermione had only ever found things ranging from absolutely dreadful to good enough.

The closest she’d come, she supposed, were the two Malfoy men. She loved them both dearly, but she was never meant to be theirs, and they were never meant to be three. The love between them was more fluid, rife with sexual tension and a sense of adventure, but grounded by emotional platonicity. 

This kiss, though, with this complete and total stranger? 

His kiss had it. 

The fire, the burn she’d always craved, all bruising force and skill. The way his breath had filled her lungs and set her on fire. The groans he made into her mouth, causing every cell within her body to swell with need. 

Gods, was she ever needy.

She tugged him down the hall, her red-bottomed heels clacking against the tile at rapid speed until she reached the door she’d discovered earlier, and pulled him inside without preamble. 

She released his hand and turned around, locking the door with a bit of wandless magic, and then remained facing the heavy oak, staring at the swirling pattern of the wood grain while she took a brief respite to assess her state of being. 

Her heart was beating at a rate she wasn’t sure was humanly impossible, her breath coming in short, stuttered gasps, and every nerve ending in her body felt like it was set to explode. She’d had a few drinks, enough so that she could feel the lightness of the alcohol buzzing in her veins, but she was far from intoxicated. 

Emotionally, she was fine—not upset or anxious, not feeling pressured in the slightest. No, she was rather okay, all in all. She was just crazed where her Stranger was concerned. 

She could deal with that. 

She spun around and took in the sight of him leaning back against the bathroom vanity. He had one hand in his pocket while the other gripped the edge of the counter, his ankles crossed in front of him as he projected the perfect air of calm confidence. 

Calm. 

That was good. 

He should be calm, because she sure as hell couldn’t be.

“I want you to fuck me,” she demanded, her voice coming out an octave too high, too shrill, in her need. He startled at the sound and cocked his head, pinching his brows together and pursing his lips as if he were trying to decipher a puzzle of some sort, but as quickly as the expression had settled across his face, it was gone, replaced with a devious smirk. 

“Not how this works, Mystery Girl.” He shook his head and pushed off the counter as he began to walk toward her, his strides slow and steady as he closed the short distance between them. 

“It’s not?” she asked, her eyes locked on his feet as he moved, too fucking slowly. 

“Nope.” He stopped just within arm's reach, reaching out to take her chin between his thumb and forefinger to tip her head back.

“How…” Hermione met his eyes as she swallowed to ease her now-dry throat and licked her lips. “How does this work, exactly?” 

“However I say.” He stared down at her mouth as he spoke, running his thumb over her bottom lip. “If that’s okay with you, of course. I’ll need you to say the words,” he paused, giving her a lopsided grin, “but don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not mean. Just a bit of a control freak.”

“Good,” Hermione breathed the words out on a heavy sigh of relief. “I mean…yes, I’d like that. I’m a control freak, too, but I’m too often in control. I’ve always needed to…not be, when I’m like this.” 

“You need someone else to do the thinking, hmm?” He took a step back and ran a finger along the neckline of her dress. “Red, yellow, green, then? Do you know the rules?” 

“Gods, yes. Please.” She nodded. “Colours. I’m familiar.” 

“Hmm…” He stepped away, walking in a slow circle around her as he rubbed a hand over his mouth. 

 “Gods, you’re hand-crafted to be every man’s wet dream, aren’t you, little witch?” He circled her slowly, like a shark circling its prey. His fingers brushed along the small of her back, resting briefly on the curve of her hip before he came to a stop in front of her. “I’m not asking for anything insane tonight. I just tend to get a bit…bossy. Rough, to say the least, so I want to make sure you’re comfortable every step. I assume you’re experienced?” 

“Oh gods,” she laughed, “I’m hardly a virgin, Stranger. Though I have found that most of the men I’ve been with fail to meet my needs in terms of…control.” 

“Most, hmmm?” One corner of his mouth tilted up in a playful smile as he took a step back. “Do I have a score to try and beat, then?” 

“Not really. Just a bit of a…third wheel situation. One of the partners was very dominant, so it was a weight off my shoulders to be able to enter that mindset, though I found it wasn’t exactly what I needed.” 

“What about it didn’t work for you?”  His eyes moved down her body again, landing back on her face before he clarified, “Not to be nosey, of course. Your business is yours to share, or not. I’m just curious what makes you tick, because I think I'd rather like to make you tick.”

“I think I’d like to tick for you, too,” Hermione laughed, digging her teeth into her bottom lip and pressing her thighs together as he shot her another heated grin. “He was less hands-on than I would have liked. He loves restraints, toys… additives. While that was all wonderful—and, if I’m honest, being the third in the situation and submitting alongside his spouse was thrilling, to watch someone bring two people to heel like that so easily—he’s really good at what he does.” 

“Careful now,” he warned, arching an eyebrow. “I might get jealous.” 

“Oh, hush. You asked.” She waved her hand dismissively and brushed past him, turning to lean against the counter. He turned to face her, nodding his head as if to say ‘go on.’

“I liked the fact that I could sort of…shut my brain off. The knowledge that I didn’t have to be the one running the playbook. All of it was rather hot, and while I’m not opposed to playing deeper into that sort of dominant/submissive dynamic, it still fell a bit flat for me because I don’t think the group setting is quite where I shine. It's something I’d do on occasion, but as far as what I really need…” 

She trailed off, and he moved forward, walking her backwards until her arse hit the counter.  Gripping the marble on either side of her hips, he caged her in and tilted his head down to run his nose along her jaw, nipping lightly over the joint below her ear before he whispered, low and husky, “And what is it that you need, little witch? Hmmm? Here, in this room, masked up and shrouded in mystery, we can be anything we want tonight. What is it that you want?”

“To be desired,” she confessed. “Not just wanted, but…needed, so badly that he can’t help but tear me apart. I can kneel before someone, crawl to them, be blindfolded and bound in equal measure to soft, slow, vanilla lovemaking. But neither are…primal enough.” 

“Primal?” He pulled back and shook his head, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he fixed her with a heated stare. “Careful, now, sweetheart. You have no idea how much of an animal I can be.” 

“I’d like to find out.” She stood her ground, shrugging as she adopted an air of confidence that belied the nerves spinning through her gut at Mach speed. He unsettled her in a way she couldn’t name, but it wasn’t bad. 

He was just…fuck, so unnerving. 

“Tell me exactly what it is that you need. You’re doing such a good job, using your words, Sweetheart. Keep going,” he told her as he leaned in closer. Hermione gasped, a low moan escaping her lips as his mouth found purchase on the base of her neck, licking a broad strip up to her jaw, and then bit down again, a little harder this time.

“That,” she whispered as she let out a shaky breath.

“That? Me telling you you’re doing a good job? Or this?” He trailed his mouth up the side of her neck, slowly, placing two or three open-mouthed kisses along her flesh before he struck again, sinking his teeth into her. 

“That,” Hermione whimpered, her hand flying up to grip his shoulder as he began to suck and nibble his way down her neck. “The praise I can…I like it. I like it the other way too. Praise, degradation, anything in between. I don’t really care what’s being said so long as you’re being vocal. Very vocal. But, fuck, the teeth…”

“Got it. Words and teeth.” He pulled away, his hands grasping at her hips. “You like a little pain, then?” 

“Intensity. Hard touches, bruising grips and teeth and sweat and roughness, but not…” She chewed her lip as she searched for the right words. 

“Not forced. Not a game, or a scene, or a practised dynamic? You like the idea of someone being so gone for you…” He leaned in and buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent, and then dragged his mouth down her chest, sinking his teeth into the swell of her breast. Hermione gasped, her hand flying up to grasp the collar of his suit jacket, and he laughed against her skin. “So incapable of controlling themselves, because they just fucking need you so badly that they can’t help but grasp too tightly, take you a bit too hard, hmm?” 

“Yes. Fuck. Gods, yes.” Hermione nodded enthusiastically, and he pulled away again, rising to his full height as he grinned down at her. He was neither too tall nor too short, but somewhere in between. With the extra four inches of height her beloved Louboutins provided her, she was roughly eye level with his nose, but something about the way he carried herself made her feel small. 

She liked that.

“Good,” he responded, “because there’s something about you, Mystery Girl…I just want to devour you.” 

“Do it,” she challenged, licking her lips.

“Fuck.” He let out a shaky laugh and shook his head. “You’re perfect. Masks?” 

“Keep them on. Clothes too. I like…this. The mystery.” She tilted her head to the side, running her eyes down his body and back up, then raised her eyebrows at him. “So?” 

“So?” 

“Do it, Stranger,” she repeated. He cursed under his breath and surged forward, grabbing her by the hips to spin her around. He pressed a hand to the centre of her back, and she allowed him to guide her, bracing her hands flat against the counter as she arched her back, tilting her hips and presenting her arse to him like an offering, which he greedily accepted. 

With a groan, he palmed her arse, then moved to her hips, bunching the skirt of her dress in his hands and shoving it up until the fabric pooled around her waist.

“Well, well, well.” He let out a low, rasping chuckle as he sank to his knees and ran a hand over her centre. His fingers dragged against the sodden lace, drawing a low whimper from deep within her chest. “Gryffindor red. A lion in the snake pit, hmm?” 

Hermione nodded, sucking in a breath as his fingers slipped beneath the straps at the side of her knickers. He began to pull them down, slowly, and she looked up into the mirror. The floor-to-ceiling mirror on the opposite wall gave her the perfect view of his back as he worked her knickers down her thighs, and she groaned. “Fucking hell, I can see you. That’s so hot.”

He chuckled in response and looked over his shoulder. Catching her eye through the mirror, he winked at her before he turned his attention back to the task at hand, wrapping a strong hand around one ankle to help her step out of her knickers. She watched in the mirror as he brought them to his face and pressed the fabric to his nose, drawing in a deep, audible breath, and she felt her cunt growing wetter at the sight.

“You smell dangerous,” he laughed, a low, rumbling sound that sent shockwaves dancing across her skin as he shoved the fabric into his pocket. 

“Dangerous?” she asked, her voice an octave too high. “And give those back, they’re my favourite.” 

“Dangerous,” he repeated, ignoring her demand as he settled further onto his knees. “Like once I let myself get a taste of you, I won’t be able to come up for air.” 

She felt his touch then—broad, calloused thumbs spreading her apart, unveiling her to his heated gaze. Her eyes flicked back to the mirror to watch the back of his head as he leaned in and dragged his nose up her slickened centre. Hermione groaned, incapable of looking away as he smelled her—which, in any other situation, she would have been self-conscious about, but something about the way he groaned in response sent fire dancing up her spinal column. 

“Dangerous. Though if I had to choose between breathing and drowning in this sweet little cunt…” He dove in, latching on to her clit and sucking so hard she rose to her tiptoes, as if her body were trying to force her away from the sudden, overwhelming sensation, and the fucker laughed. The vibrations sent a shockwave through her, causing her to curl in on herself so suddenly that her face nearly slammed against the counter. 

Fuck. 

For all his talk about losing the ability to breathe, he was going to be the one to kill her. 

He began to lap at her cunt, his tongue sliding through her lips, circling and flicking against her clit, thrusting inside of her as his hands dug into her arse, beyond the point of pain. She looked into the mirror again, marvelling at the way his long fingers sank into her flesh. She was sure to be bruised tomorrow, from this alone, but she took delight in the prospect.

He shifted his left hand, wrapping it around her hip and pressing hard on her lower stomach as he pulled her back against his face and continued his endeavours, sucking and licking and fuck, even scraping his teeth all over her. She couldn’t be sure how much time had passed—had been far too preoccupied to bother keeping track—but it felt like less than a minute before she felt the first signs of her impending downfall. 

Her toes curled, fingers scrambling against the counter for purchase as her back arched almost violently. Her long, straight curtain of hair spilt across her back as she watched him in the mirror. She felt like a goddess with this impossible mystery of a man on his knees behind her, burying his face between her legs as he groaned and fucking whimpered, eating of her essence as if she really were a snake, offering him the fruit of knowledge in the form of her cunt—and he, her own personal Eve.

A juxtaposition, of sorts, to think of this strong, captivating man in such a manner, but it was the only metaphor befitting the situation at hand. 

Her eyes locked onto the back of his head as he sucked her clit into his mouth once more, rolling his tongue over her sensitive nub. She realised with a start that from this angle—even though she knew he’d never be caught dead with his hair tied back out of his face the way her Stranger wore it—she could almost pretend it was him. 

And then it was. 

For all intents and purposes, in the deepest reaches of her mind, it was him. 

Sirius fucking Black, on his knees behind her in a suit he’d never be caught dead in, his hair pulled back in the man-bun style he hated so much, devouring her, consuming her, as if he were incapable of taking another breath that wasn’t mingled with the taste of her cunt. 

She moaned wildly, a string of nonsense escaping her lips as the two began to blur in her mind. Sirius, sucking her clit back into his mouth. Her Stranger, groaning against her cunt. For the brief, suspended instant between when he scraped his teeth against her clit and when her body exploded, they were one and the same. 

Hermione screamed—a guttural, piercing shout—as her knees bowed, slamming into the cabinet in front of her with such force that she knew she’d bruise there, too, as her orgasm crashed down upon her. 

She’d never come so hard in her life. She could never get herself there or be taken there by anyone else without being filled—fingers, cock, toys, it didn’t matter; she’d never been able to get off from just one form of stimulation. She needed her clit and G-spot to be worked in tandem, and she’d never been shy about asking for what she needed. She knew her body better than anyone, and if a partner took offence to her directing them or ignored her requests, well, then it was an easy way to know she needed no repeat performance. 

With him, though, with this stranger, his mouth alone—and, admittedly, her fantasising about a certain someone else—had driven her to heights she’d never reached. It was intoxicating and so fucking freeing to be able to shut her brain off and just dive headfirst into the pool of sensation as he worked her cunt to release like an expert. 

As the last waves of her undoing surged through her body, she collapsed forward, pressing her face to the cool marble countertop as she panted and tried to catch her breath. Instead of pulling away the second she was through, like most would, he guided her back down to earth. 

His grip on her arse and stomach became softer, his thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles against the now-sore flesh as he placed firm, audible kisses, first to her overworked clit, then down her labia before his mouth moved along the creases where her thighs reached their apex as he uttered praise and reassurance against her heated skin. 

“Fuck, you came so hard for me. Good fucking girl,” he rasped softly, trailing his mouth up to kiss along the underside of her arsecheek where it creased the top of her thigh. “You taste like heaven.” 

He worked his way up over her arse as he moved his hand away, and she lifted her head, watching with rapt attention as he pressed his lips to the red-marked flesh, kissing her with such reverence it was as if he thought a mere press of his lips could heal the bruises that would surely form.

“Such a fucking shame.” He tutted his tongue and cast a look at her over his shoulder, their eyes locking in the mirror, before he turned back around and sank his teeth into her arse, biting just shy of hard enough to break the skin. She yelped in surprise, then moaned—gods, she’d never even considered herself one to enjoy…that, but this man could bite her arse all night long.

He laughed and pulled away, kissing over where he’d just bitten her, then rose to his feet behind her. She looked up to meet his eyes in the mirror—so blue, in the glowing candlelight, beneath that velvet, Ravenclaw-inspired mask, and she had to chastise herself internally for her disappointment. 

It didn’t matter. 

Sure, she’d let her mind slip and imagine him for a moment, there—something that couldn’t be helped, truly, because really, she wasn’t sure there had ever been a time in the last decade when he hadn’t flashed through her mind as she came. 

Sirius wasn’t here, though; there was only her Stranger staring back at her, masked faces locked on one another through the mirror, with such an intensity that she felt the fire in her lower stomach begin to build again. 

“What’s a shame?” she asked as she cast her eyes down, watching lower in the mirror as his hands worked his belt out of its buckle and began to unzip his trousers. 

“What’s a shame?” he echoed, shoving his trousers and pants down just enough to pull his cock free. Hermione’s eyes widened at the sight, and he grinned in the mirror, wrapping his hand around his length and stroking himself slowly as he trailed a finger down her soaked slit. He brought his hand to his mouth, sucking the taste of her off of himself, and his eyes rolled back in bliss as he groaned around the digit. 

“The shame,” he told her, eyes meeting hers again as he lined himself up with her entrance, “is that you have such a perfect little cunt.” 

“Oh?” She braced herself on her elbows, tilting her hips up in a silent plea as he began to tease her, just barely pressing the broad, thick head of his cock forward. “I always thought having a good cunt was one of my best-selling points. Listed it on my CV and everything.” 

“As you should. It's an accomplishment to be proud of, for sure.” He tore his eyes away from her, looking down to watch as he began to inch just the head of himself inside of her.

“The shame…” he continued on as the first inch of his cock pressed forward, stretching her so wide that it stole her breath. He looked up and grinned at her again as she gasped for air, “Is that it is such a perfect little cunt.” 

He pressed forward, another inch, and her jaw dropped, the pain and pleasure mixing together, dizzying her mind, and he looked back up at her, grinning.

“Fuck. You feel so good.” He moved his hand away from his cock to grab her hip before he repeated, “Such a perfect little cunt. Such a fucking shame that I’m going to destroy it.” 

With a hard tug on her hips, he pulled her back against him as he thrust forward, impaling her with a harsh grunt. Hermione screamed at the intrusion, tears springing to her eyes. 

She’d never been so fucking full. He was the biggest she’d had, on all fronts. She’d taken Theo in her cunt and Draco in her arse, and vice versa, at least a dozen times, at the same time, and she’d still never felt so fucking invaded.

His cock was so long she could feel him nudging painfully against her cervix, and she was stretched so wide around him that she felt as if she was being cleaved in half. It was so much, too much, and he was too fucking big, and she’d never felt so owned owned by someone. 

She was never going to recover from this night, she was sure of it. 

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so deep. So big, I can’t—fuck, I can’t. S’too much,” she whimpered, shaking her head even as her body betrayed her, her hips rocking back against him as he held her firmly in place. 

“Look at you.” The words escaped his mouth on the wings of a groaning, incredulous laugh as he looked down to watch her take him. She knew it had to be a sight to behold, given the way she could feel him stretching her wider with every desperate grind of her hips. “You know, I could just hold you right here, let you warm my cock with this hot, tight little cunt for hours. But you’re just too fucking eager, aren’t you? You like the way it hurts, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” Hermione admitted without hesitation, “I need…please move. Please just fuck me, don’t hold back.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure. I—green. So bloody green. I’ve never been so full, and it hurts, but it's so good, and I need more, I need…” she trailed off, moaning as she continued to bounce on his cock. The tiny bit of leeway his tight hold on her hips allowed her only served to let her retreat and descend enough to slam the head of his cock against her cervix, over and over, and it did hurt, but it was a pain unlike any she’d ever felt, freeing and consuming in equal measure. 

“You need what? Use your words, sweetheart.” He dug his fingers into her hips even harder, keeping her pinned against him despite her best efforts. 

“I need… fuuuccckkk,” she whined, dropping her head to press her cheek against the marble. He reached up and fisted a hand in her hair, forcing her to face him, and she shivered at the heat in his eyes as they met in the mirror once more. 

Fuck it. 

“Hurt me,” she begged, incapable of caring how desperate she sounded. “Please, please, make it hurt.” 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕞𝕪 𝕙𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕠 𝕙𝕚𝕘𝕙
𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕜𝕚𝕤𝕤 𝕞𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕞𝕖
𝕤𝕠 𝕨𝕠𝕟'𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕞𝕖
𝕤𝕠 𝕚 𝕕𝕚𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕪
(𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕤𝕖 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕪 𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕖, 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕗 𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕝)

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Sirius 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Sirius Black had never been one to turn down a shag. 

There were all sorts of labels around these days—bisexual, pansexual, gay, and straight, and a million others he was too old and out of touch to pay attention to, but it was all the same. He’d never considered himself anything other than simply… sexual. 

Blokes and ladies alike, he’d been everywhere, and inside of everyone, and had a few people inside of him, and it was all the same. From the first time he and Moony let their curiosity get the better of them fourth year, to when he pulled Emmaline Vance into an alcove the next night to see if he liked it with girls too, only to discover that it was all the same to him.

Sex was fun. 

Sex could be casual—with James a time or two after too much firewhisky, with Moony off and on over the years, with a dozen or so girls and a couple guys throughout the school, with a handful of muggles on breaks between terms when he’d set out about Islington to escape being at home with his mother. 

Sex was a great way to pass the time, so Sirius shagged his way through Hogwarts until the day of graduation, when Marlene informed him matter-of-factly that she’d be moving into the flat he’d purchased with the gold his Uncle Alphard left him, so it was best if they both stopped shagging other people and made a go of things. 

They didn’t actually stop, though, of course. 

Marlie had been his kindred spirit, and they’d simply combined their activities. It was great when a couple could engage in their favourite hobbies together, after all. 

After the worst had all happened and Marlie was in the ground, along with nearly everyone else he loved, and he was tossed in Azkaban, he—obviously, given that even aside from the fact that they lacked the necessary equipment, he hardly thought a dementor would make for a good shag—hit a bit of a dry spell. 

Once he was out of prison and working for the Order as he tried to survive an impending war all over again, he resumed his previous pastime the best he could—a few nights with Moony, random Muggle girls from pubs, the occasional witch or wizard from the Leaky—but after the veil, something shifted inside of him. 

Thusly, he hadn’t been inside of anyone since he’d gone home with a married couple the night before the battle at the department of mysteries. He wasn’t sure if it was growing up, or the second chance at life, or some combination of the two, but regardless, somewhere along the way, he lost interest in meaningless sex. 

This girl, though. 

This infuriatingly delicious little snake of a Mystery Girl, in her green dress and silver mask, with an arse that didn’t quit and a snarky little attitude that made him want to put her over his knee? There had just been something about her he couldn’t turn away from. 

She wasn’t her. 

He knew that.

Sure, he could pretend. That shrill scream when he made her come on his tongue; the breathy little moans as he buried his face between thighs that were nearly identical in skin tone to Hermione; he could mix it all together in his head and pretend he was feasting on the cunt he’d dreamt of for far longer than he was willing to admit, but she’d never be her. 

All the same, she was something else entirely, and if only for a night, he was more than happy to sample the delicacies she was offering up on a silver platter. His mind flashed to the knickers in his pocket—red and lacy, just as he’d always imagined her in—and he grinned as her words overtook his mind.

Hurt me. 

Oh, yes, he fucking would. 

“Such a brave little witch.” He shook his head, a small laugh escaping his lips. 

He fisted his hand harder in her hair, pulling her closer until her back met his chest, and snaked his right hand from her hip back to her lower stomach, digging his fingers into the supple flesh he found there. She was soft all over; round hips and breasts, a little extra weight around the middle, and, truly, the perfect little cunt—all candy pink, puffy-lipped with an impossibly tight centre that fluttered around his cock, squeezing him like a fist with every breath she took. 

“You want me to hurt you, Sweetheart?” He kept his voice soft and reassuring as he peppered kisses over her shoulder and up the side of her neck, then back down again.

“Please,” she repeated. Fuck, she was so pretty when she begged for him. Even with the mask leaving only her mouth, chin, and jaw open for his viewing pleasure, he could see that she was beautiful. But the way her chin quivered, those full lips parting as she pleaded for his pain? His imagination ran wild all over again. 

“How could I deny you a single fucking thing when you beg so sweetly?” He placed a final, soft kiss on her shoulder and released his hold on her hair; he couldn’t fucking touch it, not now. It was too soft, too tame, too straight, and wrong or not, he needed this, needed it to be her, just in his mind, just for tonight. 

Instead, he gripped her by the throat as he banded his free arm around her waist and sank his teeth into her shoulder. She moaned, her head lolling back against him, and with that sound—that needy, breathy little cry of submission—he was off.

He thrust inside of her tight, wet heat so hard that it hurt him when he slammed against her cervix, then retreated and surged back inside, fucking into her with a force he wasn’t sure he’d given anyone before as he watched her in the mirror, his eyes trained on her gasping, moaning mouth. 

That, right there. 

That sinful little fucking mouth. 

That's what it was. 

Mystery Girl had the same complexion as Hermione, a few similar mannerisms he could delude himself into comparing to her,  but the mouth was where he kept finding her all night. When she’d laugh, when she’d speak, even now, as she cried out, mascara tears dripping down from beneath her mask and staining her jaw. 

“Colour?” He forced the word out, startling at the sight of her tears. To his own surprise, the sight hadn’t given him pause out of any sense of sympathy or worry; no, it was something much darker. 

He’d never so much as given thought to being turned on by the sight of a witch crying, but fuck if his tongue didn’t nearly hurt at the thought of ripping off that godsdamned mask and licking her tears away.

“Green, green, please don’t stop, fuck, I’ve never been fucked like this in my life.” Her words empowered him—that godsdamned masculine urge to dominate had always sat a little heavier within him than most—and he caved, tightening his grip around her throat and forcing her head back to bring his mouth to her ear. 

“Pull your legs up. Brace your feet against my calves. I’ve got you, Sweetheart.” She obeyed in an instant, fuck, she was such a—

“Good fucking girl.” He tightened his arm over her stomach and barrelled on, fucking her like a man untethered as he choked her harder. Leaning in, he pressed his tongue to her neck and dragged it up, and up, over her jaw and all over the skin below her mask as he licked away her tears. 

The salty proof of how badly she was coming undone for him, mixed with the inky taste of her mascara, caused something primal to surge inside of him—fucking this little witch so hard that it ruined her makeup was something to be proud of, propriety be damned—and he gripped her throat harder, drawing the sweetest little gagging noise out of her.

“You feel like a fucking dream,” he groaned. “Taking me so well, better than anyone ever has. I could live in this fucking cunt.” 

“I don’t know,” she stuttered out between gasps, “I’d charge you an outrageous amount of rent.” 

“Baby, I’m rich as fuck,” he laughed, tightening his hold on her throat until she gagged. Her body spasmed against him, causing her heels to dig into his shins. He released her throat and hooked an arm beneath her thighs as he folded her in on herself, her knees bent over his left forearm as his right arm held her waist. “You can drain my vaults if it means I get to come inside of this perfect little cunt.” 

Whatever response she may have had—if his words even registered at all—was lost on the scream she emitted as she came again, clamping down on his cock like her cunt was trying to choke the life out of him. He felt her release spraying down his thighs, soaking the front of his stupidly-posh trousers, could fucking hear it dripping onto the floor beneath them, and he groaned and sank his teeth into her other shoulder, determined to leave another mark on her flesh. 

“Holy fuck, holy fuck, I don’t—I don’t know what just…oh my gods, you feel so good. I’ve never come like that, I don’t know—” 

“Oh, you poor, neglected little thing,” he cooed mockingly against her neck. “Nobody’s ever made this pretty little pussy squirt before, have they?” 

“N-no. Is that what—oh my gods,” she repeated as he slammed inside of her even harder, spurned on by the knowledge that he’d pulled something from her body that no other man had been capable of. He held her like that, pinned against his chest, legs bouncing over his arm like a ragdoll as he fucked her harder than he’d ever moved in his life. 

“Fucking hell, little witch, I can feel you trying to choke the life out of my cock. Already gonna come again for me, hmm?” he rasped. “Such a slut for pain. Tell me how bad it hurts, sweetheart.” 

“Fuck, it's impossible,” she whimpered. “So painful, so good. I can’t—holy fuck.” 

There it was again. 

Holy fuck. 

That muggle way of cursing spilling out of her lips—a halfblood, she must have been, if she’d been in Slytherin, because while Muggleborn snakes weren’t unheard of, it was rare. The semantics of Hogwarts houses didn’t matter, though, because right now, with his eyes still trained on the mouth beneath the mask as she repeated those words, over and over, all he could think about was the only other person he’d ever heard utter the phrase, the one who had awkwardly stumbled through explaining it when he’d asked. 

He was sorry to Mystery Girl, great as she was—and likely should have felt a bit of shame over the matter—but it didn’t matter, because his mind, his cock, every fibre of his being was lost in the fantasy of her. 

Hermione’s cunt clutching at his cock as he split her in half, Hermione’s voice screaming for him as the mystery girl fell apart around him for a third time, Hermione’s body drinking him in as he surged forward with a final, brutal thrust, and spilled inside of her to the thought of Hermione fucking Granger’s stomach swelling with his fucking heir.

“Fucking take it,” he ordered, groaning against her shoulder as he squeezed his eyes shut and let himself picture riotous curls overtaking his vision, “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Good girl. Come all over this cock while I fill you up, you’re doing such a good job. So fucking perfect.”

He held her to him, burying his face against her neck and allowing himself to pretend, just a little longer, until the last waves of their shared release had subsided, and then gently guided her feet to the floor, opening his eyes again as he focused on the woman who was really before him. 

He ran his hands up and down her sides to soothe her as he remained buried inside of her, and kissed his way up and down her neck, paying extra attention to the bitemarks he’d left on her shoulders as he murmured against her skin. 

“So good. You took it all so well. Such a good girl.” 

Sirius continued on, whispering his praise and touching her with reverence, half-gone with guilt over imagining her as someone else but determined to bring her back down to earth gently all the same, until his cock had softened and retreated from her heat of its own volition. With a final kiss to her collarbone, he stepped away and waved his hand to cast a wandless Scourgify, first over himself, then over her, earning a laugh in response as she straightened her dress and turned the faucet on, grabbing a wad of paper towels to wash the remnants of her mascara off the skin below her mask.

“Thanks for the clean-up. Such a gentleman.” She grinned over her shoulder. 

“Shit, I didn’t even think…” he trailed off and finished buckling his belt, then turned to lean back against the counter as he watched her dab at her neck, cleaning away the mascara that had tracked its way down. “Did I–I cast the charm, right?” 

“Umm…I don’t remember. It's fine either way. Muggle birth control.” She tapped her arm, which made no sense to him, but he hardly knew shit about Muggle contraceptives, so he simply nodded in response. 

“Good. Sorry, I’m usually on top of things, but I was… caught up, I suppose.” 

“Me, too,” she laughed. She shut off the water and binned the paper towels, then turned to lean back against the counter next to him as she looked into the mirror on the far wall, adjusting her dress and fixing her hair. “It’s an implant in my arm. Lasts for two years, so we’re covered.”

“Good,” he repeated with a swift nod as he tucked his shirt back in and righted his jacket. After a moment of silence, she turned her head, studying his side profile. 

“Do we need to do that awkward thing where we exchange information and pretend we’re going to call each other?” she asked plainly. He laughed out loud, relief blooming in his chest. 

“No, I don’t suppose we need to jump through the hoops. Don’t get me wrong, this was… honestly, I won’t bore you with the details, but it's been a long time, and you were incredible. Perfect. I just…” He trailed off, sighing as he scrubbed a hand over his mouth.

“I get it.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, letting loose her own heavy, sighing breath. “Neither of us is them. It wouldn’t be fair to pretend we could build something when we’re both in love with other people, you know?” 

“I do know.” He leaned in to kiss her atop the head and let himself linger there for a moment. It was almost sad, he thought. Maybe in another life, he could have done this. Could have been what this clearly beautiful, incredible in bed—or, over counter, as it were—funny, feisty little witch needed. But as he buried his face into a bed of straight, calm hair, trying to convince himself of the reasons he should say fuck it and ask her to see him again, he came up short. 

One night of perfection simply couldn’t outweigh years of aching for someone so deeply that you felt it in your very bones with every step you took. 

“No,” he said again, sighing once more as he pulled away. “It wouldn’t be fair. But you were great, all the same.” 

“Well, thank ya.” She laughed and leaned in to hug him, then pulled away, straightening her dress as she took one last look in the mirror, “You were perfect. I’ll see you around, Stranger.” 

She paused and looked at him over her shoulder, then tapped her mask. “A strange thing to say, I suppose, when I haven’t even seen you. Is it wrong that I like that?”

“Not at all.” He laughed. “I’ll forever think of you as Mystery Girl. Kinda fun, innit? I could walk right by you on Diagon, and we’d never know.” 

“Nonsense. I’d recognise you in a heartbeat!” she protested playfully. 

“Well then. Maybe someday we’ll shake off our pathetic bouts of romantic longing, and we’ll bump elbows at the Leaky or Flourish and Botts. I’ll reach out to steady you, and we’ll have one of those ground-breaking ‘it’s you’ moments, like in the Muggle films the women in my son’s life make me watch.” 

“A meet-cute,” she giggled, “or… a re-meet-cute. I like that idea. Maybe someday.” 

“Maybe someday,” he echoed. She smiled and leaned in again, giving him one last hug—a gesture almost too sweet, after what he’d just done to her, but it was nice, nonetheless—then pulled away and walked toward the door, waving her hand to cancel his locking charm.

“See you someday, Stranger,” she called over her shoulder, giving him one last smile before she opened the door and turned to leave. A little surge of pride coursed through him as he noted her gait was a little unsteady. 

“See you someday, Mystery Girl.” He shook his head as he watched her walk away, then looked up toward the ceiling, internally bemoaning the loss. He’d regret that someday; he was sure of it. If he could just shake himself out of this stupor, he wouldn’t have to at all. 

A smart man would have recognised long ago that holding on to a girl who would never see him as anything more than her best friend’s father figure was a lost cause. 

A smart man would have already fled this godsdamned bathroom and chased her down the hall. 

A smart man would have grabbed that Mystery Girl by the arm, apparated her straight to his bed, and ripped that mask off so he could watch her face as he sank inside of her again. 

Sirius Black, self-proclaimed dumbarse that he was, was not a smart man. 

So, he stayed rooted in his spot, staring at the ceiling of a random public bathroom with his hands fisted in his pockets, the taste of ink from her mascara tears still coating his tongue. 

Yes, he would most certainly regret standing there, doing nothing at all, someday.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕚 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖
𝕤𝕜𝕚𝕟 𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥 𝕞𝕖 𝕥𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥
𝕝𝕚𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝, 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤 𝕘𝕚𝕣𝕝
𝕤𝕠 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝𝕪 𝕚𝕥 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝𝕤 𝕤𝕠 𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥
(𝕚 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕗𝕦𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕥)

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Hermione 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

“What do you mean you don’t know who it was?” Ginny screeched, throwing herself back on the bed. Hermione watched in amusement as she grabbed a pillow and pressed it to her face to stifle a scream.

“Honestly, Granger, you didn’t even take off his fucking mask? Come onnnn,” Pansy grumbled. She sat down next to Ginny and ripped the pillow out of her hands, staring down at it before she tossed it back to her with a heavy sigh, “Scream for me, too. I don’t want to ruin my makeup.”

“I think it's romantic,” Daphne called over her shoulder from where she stood just inside the closet of her and Ron’s bedroom, “like a fairy tale.” 

“Right.” Hermione rolled her eyes, ignoring Ginny as she did, in fact, scream into the pillow again. “Call me Cinderella. The Stranger will have no choice but to try on every cunt in the kingdom until he finds the perfect fit.” 

The room went silent, and Hermione glanced up from the box she was packing, looking around in confusion before the realisation set in. 

“Oh bloody hell, you idiot purebloods.” She rolled her eyes. “Cinderella was a princess from a Muggle fairytale. She was raised by an evil stepmother who did evil things, and treated her like…a house elf.” 

“What?” Pansy gasped in indignation, “Oh, how horrible.” 

“So did Cinderella fuck a guy?” Ginny rose to her elbows on the mattress and looked at Hermione with rapt attention. 

“Well, yeah, I think she just said the guy shagged everyone in the kingdom. Right?” Daphne asked.

“You’re all impossible. No, he didn’t shag everyone.” Hermione sat back on her heels, rolling her eyes as she pulled out her wand. After casting an adhesive charm over the box, she shrank it down, adding it to the neat pile behind her. Daphne and Ron had skipped the New Year’s Eve festivities, opting to drop little Lydia off at the Burrow and spend the night getting a jump start on readying themselves for their upcoming move. 

With the magic of hangover potions, Pepper-Ups, and a hearty breakfast courtesy of the great Molly Weasley, Hermione and the others were helping Daphne pack the bedrooms while a handful of the guys helped Ron set things up at their new place. Now that Lydia was toddling around and the next was due in just a few weeks, they’d outgrown their flat and were moving into a cottage in Devon, just a few kilometres up the road from Molly and Arthur. 

With Percy and Audrey, and George and Angelina also setting down roots in the area, Hermione figured that in another generation or two, the whole of Ottery St. Catchpole would be overrun with chaotic gingers.

“Who shagged who, then?” Pansy asked excitedly. Hermione laughed again and rose to her feet, dusting her hands off on her jeans as she joined Daphne in the closet. She schooled her features, forcing herself not to wince at the lingering ache between her legs as she walked—that godsdamn Stranger really knew how to follow through, didn’t he? 

Her hand went to her neck, as if on instinct, and she rubbed at the tender skin. She’d woken up this morning to find her throat and shoulders positively covered in hickies and bite marks, and had almost healed them. But she found she rather liked the way she could feel the reminders every time she turned her head. Being all marked up after having a night like that just felt right—though that little fact was between her and her glamour charms, thank you very much.

“Aren’t you two supposed to be helping?” She dropped her hand and turned her head, calling over her shoulder to where Ginny and Pansy were still sprawled over the bed. 

“Moral support.” Ginny waved a hand lazily in the air as she lay back on the bed. “Besides, we're busy cooking babies.”

“So’s Daph,” Hermione challenged. 

“Yeah, but she’s better at it. Did you know the bitch doesn’t even get morning sickness?” Pansy grumbled. 

“Jealous,” Daphne sang out, drawing out the word, then looked over at Hermione. “Okay, story time. Who did the guy shag?” 

“Nobody shagged anyone,” Hermione paused, tilting her head. “Well, I’m sure someone shagged someone. In the story, though, the Prince holds a ball. Cinderella is given a pretty dress and a carriage by a fairy godmother, and she also gets these shoes—glass slippers.” 

“Glass? That sounds uncomfortable,” Ginny remarked. 

“A fairy godmother? The fae would never agree to take guardianship of a wix child. That’s just preposterous,” Pansy argued. 

“Muggle! Fairytale!” Daphne reminded them, clapping her hands between the words before she looked back at Hermione. “Okay, so does she go to the ball, then?” 

“She does,” Hermione agreed. “Obviously, she meets the Prince. They dance all night, but because of the deal she made with the fairy godmother, she has to leave by midnight or all the magic will be undone. The carriage will turn back into a pumpkin and so on.” 

“Of course.” Ginny sat up on the bed and tossed the pillow she was still holding back onto the mattress, her face gravely serious. “That’s why you never make a deal with the fae.” 

“My cousin made a deal with fairies in Iceland, and they took all her teeth,” Pansy said. 

“Your cousin got mixed up with an Icelandic, Muggle drug dealer and rotted her teeth smoking whatever crap he was feeding her,” Daphne corrected. 

“Maybe that’s what the fae want you to think.” Pansy raised an eyebrow. 

“Anywaayyy,” Hermione interjected, “Cinderella runs away, but she loses one of her shoes in the process. The prince takes the shoe around to all the women in the kingdom, searching for the perfect fit until he finds her. Happily ever after, the end. Daphne, do you really need this many belts?” 

“Yes.”

“Well, that story had nothing to do with cunts,” Ginny complained.

“I’m still stuck on the glass slippers. I wonder, with the right cushioning charms…” Pansy drawled as she studied her nails.

“Okay.” Hermione clapped her hands together. “You two, off your arses. Go finish Lydia’s room. Daph, if you’re good here, I’ll go double-check the kitchen and bathroom.”

“Yes, Muuummmm,” the three called in unison. Hermione took a defensive stance, ready to protest their never-ending claims about how she was basically ninety and no fun and such a mum, but before they could begin, she assessed her current predicament—hands fisted on her hips, mouth drawn into a tight line, eyes narrowed—yeah, whatever. 

Maybe she was ninety.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

“It's a good place.” Hermione leaned in and gave Ron a one-armed hug before she thrust the box she’d been balancing with her other hand toward him. 

“Yeah, it is, innit?” Ron gave her a lopsided grin and turned to set the box down on the kitchen counter. “You know, I keep waiting for the day when this all turns back to being awkward.” 

“What? Your ex-wife buying you baby gifts and helping pack your former mistress-turned-current wife’s lingerie?” Harry raised an eyebrow. Hermione elbowed him in the stomach, then laughed at Ron's flabbergasted expression.

“Well… er, yeah, I s’pose,” Ron sputtered, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Nothing to be awkward about.” Hermione lifted a shoulder in a half-shrugged response. “We were kids, then we were married. You were a shit husband, and far too needy; I was a standoffish wife, and now I only have to worry about Crookshanks needing me to baby him and not a grown man. It's a win/win.”

“Ouch.” Ron rubbed a hand over his chest, and Daphne leaned across the breakfast bar to ruffle his hair. 

“Aww, it's okay. I like babying you, Darling,” she placated him soothingly.

“Right, then,” Harry chuckled and clapped his hands together, “where did you say Gin got off to, Hermione?” 

“Oh, she said she had some errands to run before she gets James and Lydia from the Burrow,” Hermione informed him.

“Ah. That reminds me, Ron, Daph, I think Gin’s set on keeping Lydia tonight. Jamie’s been begging for a sleepover,” Harry said.

“Fine by us.” Ron shrugged. “She'll want to stay over again next weekend, too, since you guys’ll have Teddy for the full moon.”

“Anything for my favourite niece.” Harry grinned. 

“Ooohhh, I’m telling Vicky, Molly and Roxanne you said that,” Hermione teased. 

“Shhh. Hush, witch.” Harry reached over and clamped a hand to her mouth. Hermione licked his palm, causing him to grimace as he pulled away.

“Gross, Hermione.” He looked down at his hand and pulled a face again, then wiped it on his shirt. “If you tell the girls, then I’ll tell James and Teddy each that you said the other is your favourite and they’ll both hate you forever.”

“Oh, come off it. You know I was just teasing.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Besides, there’s a flaw in your plan.” 

“Oh?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “What’s—fffuuuucccckkkk me.” 

Hermione jumped as Ron and Harry’s Auror communication devices rang out with a shrill, piercing chirp. They both sprang into action, pulling out the little boxes before they groaned in tandem.

“What is it, love?” Daphne asked, peering over Ron’s shoulder. 

“Fire at a magically registered residence,” Ron answered. He leaned in and kissed Daphne on the forehead, then looked up to Harry. They held each other's gaze, seeming to come to some sort of silent agreement, then Harry nodded once.

“Right. Well, I guess we’ll be back when we can. Sorry, Daph.” He turned to Hermione and gave her a timid smile. “Remus is already upstairs.”

Hermione grinned and squealed in excitement, then took off toward the doorway where the kitchen led into the sitting room. 

“Wait! What was the flaw?” Harry called after her. 

“Oh. That Teddy and Jamie could never hate me. They both love me more than any of you.” She stuck her tongue out at him, earning a middle finger in response, then laughed and fled back through the sitting room.

She took the stairs two at a time, excitement bubbling in her chest. She adored Remus. He was her favourite…something. Half mentor, half friend, full confidante.

His stupid, dumb idiot of an amazing best friend may have every bit of her heart—and her cunt, in spirit. Or…what was left of it after that Stranger murdered it last night—but she digressed. 

Sirius may have her heart, but Remus had her brain; she was nothing if not addicted to probing his mind. As much as she loved her friends, intellectual conversations were hard to come by with all their shenanigans.

Draco was always good for a stimulating chat, as was Blaise when he and Charlie were in town, but nothing beat picking her former favourite educator's brain.

She reached the landing and skipped down the hall to the future nursery, pausing in the doorway to watch Remus work as he knelt on the floor, wrenching away at some part of the cot as he assembled it. Muggle as she may have been, Hermione didn’t know shit about tools and putting things together, though she did appreciate the dedication to making sure the cot was put together by hand. 

After a young Teddy had an accidental burst of magic around a year old, which caused him to dismantle his own magically assembled cot, Remus had become a strong supporter of setting up furniture and baby gear the Muggle way. He’d since taken to helping others within their circle with the task, though he often grumbled his way through it.

If Hermione was the mum, then Remus was the grump-arsed old grandfather, though she’d never say that aloud—given his proclivity toward being, well, a grump-arse. 

“Good morning, Hermione,” Remus called out, his back still toward her. 

“One of these days I’m going to reign victorious over that Lupine sense of hearing,” she teased, stepping into the room to lean against the changing table behind him.

“Perhaps,” Remus acquiesced with a nod, “though you’d never outwit the sense of smell. Speaking of…” He turned to face her and gave a bit of a—rather rude, and wholly invasive, the nosey twat—sniff. 

“Someone had fun last night,” he murmured with a chuckle, setting his tool aside and rising to his feet. He took a step closer to set the tool—a screw…thingy—on the changing table behind her. As he turned and leaned against the wooden shelving next to her, he sniffed again, then did a double-take. He looked at her, looked away, and then looked back at her, his eyes going wide before he quickly schooled his features. 

“Oi!” She batted him on the chest. “Quit being nosey.” 

“Sorry, sorry, I just—well, erm…” Remus trailed off, crossing his arms over his chest. He seemed to lose himself in thought for several seconds before he gave a little shake of his head and looked back over at her.

“Sorry,” he said again, with a bit of a laugh. 

“I showered,” Hermione said defensively, “and Scourgifyed. Twice, actually. The guy—whoever he was—cast one, and then I did when I got home as well.” 

Remus startled again, his elbow clanking against the changing table as he dropped his arms and stood to his full height, turning to face her. 

“Oh, gods, Hermione, no, I–I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re unclean. I just meant…well, the scent lingers—” Remus trailed off and scrunched his face in confusion as he looked down at her. “Wait. Whoever he was? You don’t know? How could you not…” 

He clamped his mouth shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, then cast his eyes to the ceiling before he let out a deep sigh. “The ball. You went to that last night, right?”

“Hey! No slag-shaming!” Hermione wagged her finger at him. “I’ve had one one-night stand before, thank you very much. Well, two, now,” she laughed. “But yes, I met him at the masquerade ball. I think we both liked the anonymity, so…whoever he was. I just called him Stranger.”

“Stranger.” Remus looked away and laughed, “I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m not…shaming. I was just surprised. If I’m honest, it's always hard not to feel a bit awkward. This godsdamned sense of smell feels so invasive, you know? I apologise for even bringing it up.” 

“Oh, don’t apologise.” Hermione waved her hand. “I can only imagine how uncomfortable it must be to have to know everybody’s secrets all the time. I’m not upset, I promise.” 

“Right. Well, that’s good, then.” Remus nodded. “Tell me, erm…tell me about this stranger, then.”  

“Well, he saved me from a creep, we danced, then we shagged in a bathroom. Do you really want details?” Hermione teased. 

“Oh gods, no. Nope. You’re right.” Remus held his hands up and shook his head. With a weary sigh, he leaned in, kissing her atop the head, and then pulled back to place his hands on her arms. “I hope you know I would never shame you, Hermione. I am so, so very sorry that I made you feel that way.” 

“It's fine. I just…bristle, a bit, about the subject.” Hermione shrugged. 

“There’s no need to bristle, love. You’re a grown woman, and your sex life is your business. I didn’t mean to act so…I just worry about you,” Remus admitted. “You’re kind of a big deal, you know? And I don’t just mean the hair. Since way back when you were my student, I’ve always known you had a wonderful future ahead of you. Cleverest Witch of her age, after all.”

“Aww, thanks, Dad,” Hermione teased. “But I think you mean way back when I was your favourite student.” 

“I’ll never tell.” Remus shook his head, a wry grin spreading across his face as he stepped away. “Speaking of things that never happen, a certain someone was supposed to be here an hour ago. Guess I’ll go play fetch.” 

“I think the world would forget how to spin if he showed up on time even once.” Hermione rolled her eyes and turned to open one of the boxes on the changing table, and began sorting through some of Lydia’s old clothes. As Remus said his goodbye and left the room, she busied herself filling the drawers of the table, suppressing another eye roll—maybe Molly was right, and they’d roll out of her head one of these days—at all the little baby things. 

Hermione wanted to be a mother someday. She was certain of it. A few years back, she’d been ready—or had thought she was—but now, surrounded by three pregnant witches, she decided she’d rather gnaw her own arm off. Thank the gods for Muggle birth control and the monthly contraceptive potion. 

Babies could come later. 

Or never. 

It had become impossible to think about curly-haired children without her mind attaching icy grey eyes to their little faces, and given the fact that that would never come to be, she’d just have to content herself with playing Auntie Mimi—as Teddy had affectionately dubbed her a few years back—to the gaggle of next-generation Gremlins. 

As she worked, her mind drifted back to the night before—to her Stranger.

H’d been unlike anyone she’d ever had; the best she’d had, undoubtedly. 

She could still feel the ache of his presence inside of her, her skin breaking out into goosebumps as she shivered every time a flash of memory from the night before hit her. 

It had been perfect, and she wanted so desperately to let it be perfect. She’d had a wonderful time, then they’d gone their separate ways. It was safe, sane, consensual, all the right things, and really, she was a twenty-five-year-old divorcee who had agency over her body and had every right to shag a stranger if she damn well pleased. 

So really, there was no reason for her mind not to just accept it for what it was: A brilliant shag, a release, an adventure she’d needed, and something she had no reason to feel ashamed over. 

But holy fuck, was she twisted up over it. She did want to let it be perfect, but she couldn’t help the irrational guilt clawing at her stomach. 

Hermione and Sirius were not together. 

They would never be together. 

He saw her as nothing more than his godson’s best friend, and for all her wanting and wishing and hoping and lusting, that was all she would ever be. 

But even if he’d never know the truth, some intrinsic part of her being was so his that it made everything else impossible. She couldn’t even go on a random blind date without feeling guilty, as if she were betraying him.

Given the aforementioned nothing between them, it wasn’t as if she’d cheated on him; she knew that. Unfortunately, that fact did nothing to quell the ache in her heart. She was, at all times, aching for him, and it was a hurdle she couldn’t seem to pass.

It was the same reason she’d removed herself as an option to warm Draco and Theo’s bed, the same little fact that made it impossible for her to take any of the dates Pansy and Millie had set her up on seriously. 

No matter what she did, nothing ever felt right: dates, threesomes, new shoes, good wine, nights with friends. All the greatest pleasures in life always seemed to fall a bit flat. 

As she continued organising Lydia’s things, her mind drifted back to the conversation she’d had with the Stranger the night before, when she confessed she worried about the man she’d been searching the crowd for because he didn’t have a person. 

Nor did she. 

She’d never fancied herself as someone who only needed one person. She did need everyone. Her closest friends. Molly and Arthur. Fleur and Bill, Remus and Tonks, and the list went on. And yet, at the end of the day, when she climbed into bed alone, the only thing that seemed to compute in her mind was that she needed everyone and someone. 

Maybe she just needed to let Pansy set her up on another blind date. She’d grown rather tired of trying to pretend anything was going to come out of it, but surely someday, something would work. Something had to give. 

Hermione knew she needed to move on from this pointless obsession and go find a good life somewhere out there with a man who would love her right—or at all. The urge to move on, to seek comfort in anyone else, was so strong, but everything paled in comparison to him.

Even a perfect night with a perfect stranger couldn’t pull her out of her longing for him. No matter how hard she tried, her godsdamn mind just never could quite shake the Sirius fucking Black of it all.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕀𝕥'𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕪 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝

𝕀𝕥'𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕪 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕙𝕖 𝕜𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦

𝕀𝕥'𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕪 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕗𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕚𝕟 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Sirius 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Sirius gritted his teeth and pressed his forehead to the cool, tiled wall of the shower as he worked his hand faster. Tightening his grip on his cock, he groaned as an array of images flashed through his mind. 

That fucking Mystery Girl soaking his trousers as her perfect little cunt strangled his cock so hard that he saw stars. 

Hermione bent over the counter in his newly renovated kitchen last week, as if she were presenting her arse to him for the taking, while she innocently handed James an ice lolly. 

Those quick little gasping breaths Mystery Girl let out as he pinned her knees to her chest and rutted into her like the fucking dog that he was. 

His name on Hermione’s lips, over and over and over, a million times on a thousand different days. 

Plunging into the tight, slick cunt of some masked girl he'd never see again while he thought of her. 

Guilt burned in his chest, spreading through his veins like fiendfyre as he fucked his hand to the images in his mind—rapidly flipping back and forth between a strange, dizzying snake of a woman bent over the counter of a ministry bathroom and a certain bushy head of curls he wanted to bury his face in until he couldn't breathe. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and came with a groan as shame roiled in his gut. 

Shame. That was new. 

He hadn’t had a shameful wank since he was a lad. Yet here he was, kicking himself for letting that girl walk away, whilst simultaneously drowning under the weight of a girl he could never have. 

Maybe he really was fucked in the head.

With a sigh, Sirius angled the showerhead to rinse his cum from the wall, then set about finishing his washing. Once he’d wrapped it up, he stepped out of the shower and tucked a towel around his waist before he moved to the vanity.

He swiped away some of the condensation that had collected on the mirror and ran a hand over his jaw, cursing the light trace of stubble. He missed his fucking beard already, but magic existed for a reason, he supposed. 

After stepping out of the en suite and into his bedroom, he dressed quickly in a pair of black jeans and a white t-shirt. Simple. He liked simple, now. When he’d first gotten out of Azkaban, he’d taken to dressing in the opulent, outdated wizarding fashions that had been readily available in the house, leftover from his days before prison and his Father’s wardrobe. 

Over time, he’d mellowed substantially. 

Pansy—who, truth be told, was one of his favourites, so far as Harry’s friends went, if only for her constant snark—had been dead-set on bringing casual Mugglewear into the wizarding world. Naturally, she’d made everyone she could get her hands on sport the fashions, and once he’d been awoken to the simplicity of a dark pair of denims and a hooded jumper, he’d never looked back.

On the subject of hooded jumpers, he grabbed an old grey one out of the closet and shrugged it on, then left the room, towel-drying his hair as he walked to the closet near the end of the hall, where he kept a stock of potions and medicinal products in with the bath towels and extra linens.

He dug around for a moment, whooping in success as he pulled out the wares he’d been in search of: A bottle of Pepper Up and a tin of hair replenishing balm—another of Fleamont Potter’s creations. 

Fuck, he missed Effie and Monty. He’d give his left arm up for a loaf of Effie’s infamous lemon blueberry bread, or one of those late-night talks with Monty that ended with a clear path forward on how to get his shit together over whatever matter was fucking with his head. 

Though if they could see him now, all twisted up over…well, he’d never be grateful that any of the people he’d loved were gone, but there was something to be said for not having to see the disappointment on the faces of the people who had been like parents to him.

He headed back to his bathroom and rubbed the balm on his face, then made his way downstairs, shoving his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to scratch his jaw to alleviate the tingling sensation that had spread across his skin. 

By the time he’d made it to the kitchen to pour himself another cup of coffee, he could feel the effects of the balm wearing off. He ran a hand over his cheek, smirking at the familiar coarseness beneath his fingertips.

He never liked to keep his facial hair too long, preferring it somewhere between heavy stubble and a light beard, but he’d felt starkers without it all damn night, like a fucking lad who hadn’t even gotten a hair on his chest yet.

He took a sip from the mug—a father’s day gift with little scribbles all over that he’d been told were dinosaurs, complete with ‘From Jamie, to Gramps’ scrawled along the side in Ginny’s swooping script—then stared down at the little artistic masterpiece. 

He smiled to himself as his mind began to turn to mush, recalling the day Harry had told him, ‘You’re the closest thing to a Dad I’ve ever known, and this baby’ll need more than Arthur in the grandpa department. Who else is gonna teach him to smoke and curse behind Gin’s back when he’s a teenager, yeah?’ 

On the subject of smoking, he shot a hand out to summon his pack of cigarettes, but before he could light one, he heard the floo roar to life. He sighed and turned around to head into the sitting room, already knowing he’d find Remus standing by the hearth, brushing soot off his jumper.

“Moons!” he called out cheerily. “Come to fetch me, have ya?” 

“You’re an hour late, Pads.” Remus rolled his eyes. “And you look like shit.” 

“Well, you look absolutely smashing today, Moony. Say, that jumper really brings out the disappointment in your eyes.” Sirius laughed. “What did I do now?”

Remus parted his lips to respond, then seemed to think better of it, shaking his head slowly as he walked farther into the kitchen and snatched the mug from Sirius’s hand. He downed the contents in a few quick gulps and then set the mug in the sink before he turned to face him.

“What did you do?” He narrowed his eyes, then repeated, “What did you do last night?” 

“Ah. Ministry event, monkey suit, blah blah blah.” Sirius waved a hand dismissively. 

“And?” Remus raised an eyebrow. Sirius studied his face, taken aback by the scepticism he found there. 

“And… drank. Danced.” Sirius grinned, running his tongue over his teeth. “Shagged some lethal little thing. Came home and chugged half a bottle of firewhisky. Went to bed.” 

“Lethal little thing,” Remus repeated the words slowly. “Who—erm, who was she?” 

“Eh,” Sirius said with a shrug. “A Mystery Girl. Slytherin, though, all dressed up in green and silver. Finally won the all-house cup, my boy. Aren’t you proud?” 

“What the—Slytherin,” Remus snorted, shaking his head. “Right. A bloody Slytherin. Okay then.”

Sirius laughed and walked out of the room to move into the hallway as Remus followed along. He sat down on the bench, lacing up his boots in silence, then finally looked back up when he was done. 

“If you’re here to judge me for bedding a snake, Moony, then I’ll have you know there was no bedding. We only made it as far as a bathroom.” 

“You’re disgusting, Padfoot.” 

“You love me, Moony.” Sirius grinned as he stood to grab his leather jacket from one of the hooks lining the wall above the bench. 

He liked the hooks. 

The whole set-up was Ginny’s doing, in the renovations she’d been nuts about making them all do to the place when they stayed with him while she was pregnant with Jamie. Apparently, the little firecracker had been motivated by all the updates they were doing to restore James and Lily’s place in Godric’s Hollow to get it ready for when the baby came, but Sirius could hardly complain about the fact that her motivation had bled over into Grimmauld.

The place had sure as hell needed the update. With fresh paint, new flooring, a completely gutted and remodelled kitchen, and freshly updated bathrooms, you’d hardly recognise it as the crypt he’d grown up in. While all the big changes were welcome, though, his favourite changes were the little conveniences like this.

A bench with built-in shoe storage and hooks to hang your coat on was not only more useful than he’d thought, but it was sure as hell an improvement over decapitated house elves and haunted cupboards.

“Whatever,” Remus sighed, interrupting his musings. “You’re so fucking…never mind. Let’s just go help these kids get set up in their new place.” 

“Fine. But I’m going to complain the entire time,” Sirius teased as he followed Remus to the floo. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

She was a fucking distraction. 

Truly, the gods had to be playing some kind of trick on him. He was sitting on the floor of what would be Lydia’s bedroom—internally plotting all the ways he would hex Remus for convincing Daphne everything needed to be put together by hand—while he managed the tedious job of turning too many little screws into some bubble-gum pink bookshelf while she—the godsdamn vixen—taunted him. 

To be fair, he knew she wasn’t actually taunting him; at least, not on purpose.

Everything about her was just one giant, inadvertent tease. She was wearing some sort of skin-tight trousers—leggos, or whatever Ginny called them—and an oversized sweatshirt, her shoulder falling into view above the wide neck every time she moved her left arm while she sorted children’s books methodically. 

She’d twisted her hair up in a knot on top of her head and shoved her wand through it, and her tongue kept darting out to lick her lips every so often. 

So. Fucking. Distracting. 

Sirius tried his arse off not to be a creep, he truly did, but she was just so bloody stareable.  

“Alphabetical, or by subject matter?” he asked, his voice coming out a touch too gruff in his desperation to distract himself.

“Alphabetical, of course.” Hermione glanced up at him and smiled, then quickly looked back down at her work. “Lydia is still learning her ABCs, so it's preemptive, but it will help when she starts to recognise the letters.” 

“How are you so okay with this?” he blurted out, then sighed, scratching at his jaw. “Sorry, that was blunt.” 

“It’s okay, Sirius,” she laughed. 

Sirius. Sirius. Sirius. 

Fuck, he could listen to her say his name all day. 

“It's…” Hermione pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side as she seemingly considered her words. 

"Well, are you asking how I'm okay with setting up a bedroom for the child born of my ex-husband's affair? Or are you asking how I'm fine with playing such an active role in all three of their lives?”

“Well, shit, Kitten. Both, I suppose,” Sirius laughed and set the screwdriver to the side as he shifted in his spot on the floor to lean back against the wall. “You just seem so unaffected. Most witches would still be finding new and inventive ways to hex them both.” 

“Ron and Daphne fell in love. How could I ever hold that against them?” Her voice was laced with a tone of defensiveness that caught him off guard. Clocking his confusion, she laughed again. “I know, it seems foolish. But I don’t think we can help who we love, nor do I think we get to decide when that love comes. I never cheated on Ron, in the physical sense, but I fell in love with someone else while he and I were married, too. I never acted on it; I didn’t realise that's what it was at the time, and that ship…well, I don’t suppose I can say it sailed, because it never even hit the water.” 

He ignored the jolt of jealousy he felt snaking up his spine, reminding himself that he needed not to act like a brute. He could brood about it later. And drink about it. He would, most assuredly, be drinking away the thought of her loving some git who wasn’t him. 

Some git who probably didn’t even know her favourite books, who couldn’t tell that her favourite colour was actually blue, even if she always said it was purple, who wouldn’t appreciate the way she dug her teeth into her lip and pinched her brows together every time she got confused. Some immature little shit who probably wouldn’t even fuck her right—not like he would.

Fucking hell. New subject.

“Do you want to know a secret?” He leaned in and rested his elbows on his knees. “Just between you and me?”

“Ooohhh, I love secrets,” she whispered surreptitiously. 

“Devious little witch.” Sirius shook his head, biting back a grin at the gleeful look on her face. Fuck she was so cute when she got a bit bratty. Devious, indeed. 

“I’m serious, Kitten. This does not get back to Harry, deal?” 

“Deal,” Hermione nodded solemnly.

“Well, then. While we’re on the subject of not being able to help who you fall in love with…James and Regulus.” 

“What? Wait, what?” she gasped. “You mean they… what?” 

“Yep. Our fifth year, his fourth.” 

“But James and Lily…wait, did he cheat on Lily?” 

“No, it wasn’t as simple as that. James fell in love with Lils as soon as he saw her, the first day we arrived at Hogwarts. Caught one glimpse of her in the next boat over as we crossed the Black Lake and leaned in to whisper to me that he was going to marry that redhead over there someday,” Sirius laughed and shook his head.

“Lily, she loved him more than life, too. But that love came much later. She couldn’t rightly stand him for the longest. They didn’t actually get together until seventh year, when they were head boy and girl.” 

“So, he loved Lily, but he got with your brother anyway?” 

“He fell in love with my brother, too,” Sirius corrected. “I guess it’d be more accurate to say it started the year before. They had a lot of interactions, tension, whatever. Then they were together all of our fifth year. Though he didn’t confess that to me until after Reggie died.” 

“So what happened?” Hermione leaned forward and propped her chin in her hand, studying him with rapt attention. 

“Well, the summer after fifth year, my parents tried to make me take the mark, and I ran away. I tried to get Reggie to leave with me, but he refused. I guess he and James just didn’t… James wanted him to come stay with the Potters, too, and I guess Regulus declared his intent to take the mark, so they were done. After that, James was a right git for the first few months of sixth year. I guess he and Lils got closer when she noticed. She sort of stitched him back together, and they became friends, then that grew, and they were mad for each other.” 

“Holy fuck.” 

Sirius clenched his fist so tight his fingernails cut into his palm. He glanced away and shook his hand out as if he could shake off the memories of the night before. Fucking hell, he was nothing if not a lost cause.

“Is that common? ‘Holy fuck’? Or is it a regional thing?” 

“Oh, it's said all over. I thought you’d asked about this before?” Hermione asked. 

“Right. Silly me.” Sirius forced out a laugh. So much for trying to nail down where Mystery Girl might live. Fuck. Did he even want to see her again? The sex had been phenomenal, and he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head since, that much was true. But now, sitting here in front of her, he found himself even more confused about the whole thing. 

Had the sex even really been that great, or was it just because he’d been imagining Hermione the entire time? Regardless, he needed to get his thoughts as far away from last night as possible, lest he find himself struggling to hide an unfortunately timed erection like he was back in third year.

“So anyway, all that to say, I get it. You can love someone, and find a different kind of love with someone else. I think it’s—don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great that you’re so supportive, of course. But I still just wonder how you seem so content with everything, is all,” Sirius paused. 

“Are you happy, Hermione?” 

She chewed her lip and looked down at her lap briefly, then shrugged. She looked back up at him—fuck, he could drown in the dark abyss of her eyes—and gave him a small, soft smile.  “I am happy. For the most part. Ron and I were never a good match, but he and Daphne are brilliant together. Everyone around me is thriving, and I’m so glad I get to be a part of it all. I like my work, and my life in general. Maybe this is a bit strange,” she gestured to the books in front of her. 

“But what about my life isn’t? Some of my best friends used to be my worst enemies. My closest confidant is a werewolf in his forties, and I’m currently discussing my best friend’s dead father’s secret love affair while I alphabetise books for my ex-husband and his former mistress's kid. Who wouldn’t be happy in a life with this much excitement?” She laughed and pushed off the floor, then bent to pick up a stack of books. “Life isn’t perfect. It’s bloody weird. But it's a hell of a ride, yeah?”

“Yeah, Kitten,” Sirius laughed. He stood up and took the books from her arms, then turned around to place them on the shelf. “It’s a ride for sure.” 

They continued working in companionable silence—and occasionally pausing to tease each other, or because she’d get off on some tangent—for another hour or so, until Pansy popped her head in. 

“Daphne said we’re done for the day. Molly sent food, so I’m to tell you to come eat,” she barked out, then cocked her head at him. “Why on earth would you pair black jeans with black boots? Have you never listened to a thing I’ve said? Does colour blocking mean nothing to you?” 

“Nope.” Sirius shrugged. Pansy rolled her eyes, and Hermione giggled and stepped forward, looping her arm with Pansy’s as they headed out of the room. Sirius let loose a heavy sigh and leaned against the wall, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

Fucking…holy fuck, indeed. He had to figure out a way to get her out of his mind. She’d sunk so deep inside of him that he didn’t even know if it was possible, but Godric, he had to try. 

With every passing day, every little interaction, this fucking thing, this festering ache inside of him, grew exponentially. He’d done all he could to reason it away, to tell himself it was just because she was comforting to talk to, to shame himself for being a fucking pervert, so invested in a girl nearly twenty years younger than him. 

But then she’d laugh or smile at him, or go off on some rant about the Wizengamot or really, what message are we sending to little girls if every blasted book they read is about some inept princess who just has to have a man save her and he’d watch her hair spark and her eyes go wide and all he could think about was her being his. 

He sighed and dropped his hands, taking a few deep, calming breaths, then stepped out of the room. 

Dinner. 

It was just dinner. 

He could do this.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sirius leaned against the kitchen counter, slowly twirling the bottle of beer in his hand as he listened to everyone chatter on about Daphne’s plans for the house. He looked up from where he’d been intently studying his dragonhide combat boots, and took in the sight of Remus, leaning back in a chair with his fingers laced behind his head as he talked to Theo—who had joined the group after his shift at St Mungo’s ended—and Neville about some kind of healing herb. 

There was something to be said about the fact that both he and his best friend spent the majority of their time with people in their mid-twenties, he was sure. Some form of muggle psychoanalysis that would draw parallels between their lost youth and their current company, but honestly, intergenerational ties weren’t that uncommon in their little section of the world, where people lived twice as long as the muggles. 

He wasn’t blind to his own self-imposed hypocrisy. The age thing was a bit of a hurdle, but frankly, had he met her in a pub or through some other means, the hurdle would hardly be insurmountable. 

It was simply different in their world. 

Two decades mattered at some ages. At others, it was a drop in the hat. Really, when the average life expectancy for their kind was 137 years, nobody really cared if said 137-year-old shacked up with someone who was, say, 120.

If they were anyone else, the age difference would be nothing. But no, she had to be his boy’s best friend, which, in turn, made her insurmountable. 

A shame, really. 

Sirius thought it might be rather fun to mount her. 

He listened to the chatter for a bit longer, and his ears perked up when the conversation turned toward the masquerade ball. 

“I wish you guys had been able to go, Daph,” Neville said. “The ball was actually a lot of fun.”

“Yeah, it really was a good night,” Sirius chimed in. “Didn’t see you there, though, Hermione. Did you end up staying home?” 

Just as she opened her mouth to respond, a wispy, silvery-blue light filled the room as Harry’s Patronus burst through the wall. Sirius grimaced on instinct—it was always so godsdamn disconcerting to see it, even after all these years—and leaned forward as Harry’s voice began to boom out of the magically conjured stag.

“Hermione’s—shut up, Malfoy—Hermione, the fire…fuck, I’m so sorry. It’s your flat. We need you to get down here.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕨𝕖'𝕣𝕖 𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕥
𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕚𝕥 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕘𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘
𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖
𝕧𝕦𝕝𝕟𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕖, 𝕒𝕝𝕝-𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕘
(𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤)

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Sirius 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Hermione bolted up from her chair, pressing a hand to her chest as she drew in deep, gasping breaths, and Sirius moved toward her on instinct. Theo, having been seated right next to her, was already in action. In his best healer voice, he instructed her to breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth, so on and so forth, but being told what to do seemed to have the exact opposite of the intended effect. 

“Hermione,” Sirius said, stopping short of where she stood. He reached a hand out, cupping her chin, and forced her to look up at him. “Why? When someone panics, why do they instruct you to breathe like that?” 

“Oh my gods, Sirius, I can’t—” Hermione shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes, “How is this happening again? Oh fuck, Crookshanks—”

“Stop,” he demanded, “just focus on me, yeah? Tell me why Theo’s telling you to breathe that way.”

“Well, it’s—” Theo began, but Sirius cut him off with a wave of his hand, as if to say ‘be gone, you.’

“I didn’t ask you,” he told the younger man, turning his focus back to Hermione, who was still freaking out. “Kitten. Tell me why.” 

“It’s… It's a muggle medical tactic,” she forced out through gasping breaths. “It tricks your parasympathetic nervous system into thinking you’re calm, so your—” Hermione paused, drawing in another deep breath, and squeezed her eyes shut before she continued, “Well, there’s the vagus nerve, you see. It’s a major pathway the parasympathetic nerves use to send signals to the rest of the body, of course.” 

“Of course,” Sirius murmured. It was working already. Hermione was an exceptionally singular witch, and—well, to put it bluntly, breathing wouldn’t calm her frantic arse down even in a less worrisome situation. No, she needed to be distracted; to be given something to focus on; to let the swot out to play. 

“Tell me more,” he demanded softly, dropping his hand from her face as he felt the weight of all the eyes in the room boring into his back. He didn’t care. Fuck ‘em all. She needed him right now, and nothing else mattered. 

“A Muggle tactic, yeah? When and how did the Wizarding healers start using it?” 

“1974. A Muggleborn healer named Katerina Kardinale. After she left Hogwarts, she—” another deep breath, “she studied to become a medical doctor at the University of Edinburgh, and then returned to Wizarding society to train as a healer.” 

“She leads the healer training courses now, actually,” Theo remarked as he settled back in his chair, giving Sirius a subtle nod of thanks as Hermione visibly relaxed. “Healer Jokavski now, she married in the eighties.” 

“Right. Right, she’s a magimedical pioneer, and a…a benefit to our world as a whole. She even petitioned the Wizengamot in 1999 to require all healers to attend Muggle medical conferences—with altered credentials, of course—at least once every three years, to keep up to date on the latest scientific studies about the human body. 

Our spells and diagnostics are brilliant, of course, but she theorised that Healers would learn to sharpen their focus this way, and it’s already shown great success in the way St Mungos handles incoming trauma patients, long-term illnesses—hey!” Hermione’s eyes went wide, and she jabbed a finger against Sirius’ chest. “You distracted me on purpose.” 

“You’re welcome,” he laughed. “Better now, though, yeah?” 

“Yeah. Yes. Thank you. I need to…fucking hell, my flat.” She brought a hand up to rub her temples, and his heart lurched at the broken devastation written all over her face. He shoved his hands in his pockets, resisting the urge to reach for her and plant his arse in the chair she’d vacated to pull her into his lap and hold her. 

No, best not to be a complete and total fucking creep, he supposed. 

“It’s going to be alright, Kitten. One thing at a time, yeah?” he asked, in place of attacking her and adding another terrible thing to her already-full plate. “I’ll go with you so we can talk to Harry and figure out what’s going on.” 

“I–I’d like that. Thank you, Sirius.” She offered him a tentative smile, and Theo rose from his chair, slinging an arm over her shoulder. Sirius performed the greatest display of restraint he reckoned this kitchen had ever seen by not ripping his cousin’s husband’s arm away from his godson’s best friend—but restrain himself, he did, because of all the aforementioned family ties. 

Stupid fucking loved ones. 

“I’ll go, too. Drakey is there, and from the sound of Harry’s Patronus, he’s being an arse,” Theo told her.

“When is he not?” Neville quipped. 

Frank’s boy had a point, Sirius thought. He loved his cousin’s kid, and he was rather proud of the man he’d become—of course—but the Black family unhingedness in combination with that pratty Malfoy arrogance did make Draco a wee bit of—well, an arse. 

“Okay,” Hermione said, her voice resolute, “It’s going to be okay. If it were anything major, they would have told me sooner. I just… a fire? Again? I can’t—” 

“Hey, ‘Mi?” Daphne spoke tentatively, “Just try to breathe through it, okay. Whatever is going on, you have all of us to help manage it. We’re all here for you.” 

Hermione nodded, then turned, launching herself into Daphne’s arms. Sirius still didn’t get it. Hermione was the most forgiving witch he’d ever met—a trait he couldn’t share if his life depended on it. He’d always rather enjoyed holding a grudge—but somehow, this seemed beyond the reasonable scope of forgiveness. 

It was her life, and really, who was he in it, anyway? All the same, he worried about her constantly. She worked too hard, took far too much onto her shoulders, and seemed to have a penchant for suppressing her own needs to a fault. 

It was a godsdamn shame that he couldn’t help her out in the needs department. 

Fucking hell, Pads, get it together, he mentally scolded himself. The witch’s damn flat just caught on fire, and here he was, thinking about dragging her off to his bed to see how well she’d surrender to him. 

“Sirius?” Hermione’s voice rang out, pulling him out of his inward spiral. 

“Huh?” he responded, as eloquent as he always seemed to be when she was around.

“I asked if you were ready?” She sniffed, looking over with watery eyes from where she now stood in the doorway next to Theo. Fuck. Had he zoned out that badly?

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, let’s go.” He gave a stiff nod and followed along as she led him and Theo out of the house and beyond the wards, then turned back to face them. 

“Theo knows where to apparate. Is it okay if I side-along you?” she asked. He felt his heart crack in tandem with her voice. Gods, she was working so hard to hold it together, and something inside of him was screaming at the wrongness of it all. 

She deserved to fucking break if she needed it. She deserved a safe place to land, the comfort of knowing you could fall apart because someone was there to catch you. For all his longing, he often—at times like this, especially—found himself wishing she would find someone who could give her everything she deserved. 

Everything he’d never be able to give her. 

It was a wound to his boisterous pride to be able to admit that he wanted to see her find happiness with someone else. But it would never be him, and sod it all, he’d rather see her on the arm of some dumb, young bloke who would never truly know the gold he held in his hands than see her alone. 

When the time did come, he’d even be almost nice to the guy, he decided, simply because the idea of upsetting her made him sick. 

Love was a fickle bitch, wasn’t it? 

“Right on then, Kitten. Shall we?” He gave her a playful smile, pride blooming in his chest at the sight of her smiling in return, and he held his arm out for her to spin them away. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

“Crooks!” Hermione screeched at the sight of the Orange ball of fur in Draco’s arms as soon as she, Theo, and Sirius rounded the corner from the alleyway next to her building they’d Apparated into. 

“Yes, yes, the beast has lived to terrorise us all for another day,” Draco drawled with a roll of his eyes, though Sirius didn’t miss the split-second smile that crossed his face when she lunged forward and took the half-kneazle from his arms. “He was in the alley, so he must have been out being a menace.” 

“Beating up the rats, no doubt,” Theo added as he side-stepped Hermione and reached for Draco, pulling him in for a hug. 

“Down, pet. I’m working,” Draco grumbled. Still, he leaned in, cupping Theo’s face in his hand and planting an array of quick kisses over his husband’s mouth before he released him and stepped back. 

“How bad is it?” Hermione asked, glancing up at the building in front of them. Sirius followed her gaze, wincing internally when he saw the damage the fire had wrought. 

“Your kitchen and sitting room are utterly destroyed. The fire didn’t reach beyond the hall, though. Seems to have started in the flat across from yours, so I suppose the fireflies got here in time.” 

“Firefighters,” Hermione corrected sharply, “I…Gods, I know it sounds silly, but I lost all of my books last time. Second to Crookshanks, I was worried about those the most.”

“I get it, ‘Mione,” Harry said as he stepped up beside Draco. He gave Sirius and Theo a quick nod, then looked back at her. “It’s…fuck, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how it feels to deal with this all over again.” 

He stepped forward, enveloping her in a hug, and she cracked, sobbing against his chest as Harry dipped his head and began to whisper words of reassurance. Sirius stood awkwardly, shoving his hands back in his pockets as he looked around, taking note of the last few straggling muggles who had undoubtedly come out to watch the chaos, Dawlish talking to a man in some sort of yellow get-up with a hard hat on next to a big, red, boxy vehicle of some sort.

Fire engine, he thought it was called, as recognition dawned upon him. Hermione had gifted Teddy a plastic fire station with strange, roundish little people a couple of Christmases back. He remembered being enamoured with the way she’d sat on the floor for hours, playing with the then-toddler as she explained all the names and details. 

He let his eyes drift back to his boy, and his girl—Ginny may have been Harry’s wife, and she was brilliant at it, to say the least, those two were nothing if not perfect for one another, but Hermione was Harry’s lifeline, and he hers. It didn’t take any effort to see the bond between them. 

Yet again, as he rocked back on his heels and nodded along to whatever Theo was blabbering about, he found that familiar feeling swirling back to life in his gut, reminding him of why she was a line he could never cross. 

After a few minutes, Harry seemed to have calmed Hermione down enough, and she pulled back, squeezing his forearms and looking up at him as she nodded, then laughed at something he’d said. Harry reached up, brushing the lingering tears off of her skin with his thumbs, and Sirius had to look back down at the ground. 

Fuck. 

He’d never doubted he was the type that liked to inflict a bit of pain—just enough, though, he was always careful about the levels he pushed his partners to—but his mind was still reeling over that godsdamned Mystery Girl last night, over the way her tears had tasted on his tongue. The sight of her tears, now, even in a heavy moment, was shoving all sorts of fantasies and wrongness to the forefront of his mind. 

Fucking focus, Pads, he scolded himself. Forty-Five years old—though, he maintained that for all intents and purposes, he was a very young Forty-Three, thanks to that time lost to the veil, thank you very much—and here he was, jealous over his kid’s fucking thumbs? 

He was a fucking pervert.

“What happened?” Hermione’s voice cut through his internal bout of self-deprecation, and he snapped his eyes up to see that Ron had joined the fray.

“They think the girl across the hall from you left some sort of hair tool plugged in, and her cat knocked it off the counter,” Ron told her, glancing around before he covertly tucked his wand back into the holster beneath his jacket.

“Fucking Beth,” she scoffed with a roll of her eyes, “I was just telling Gin and Theo last week that she’s so reckless. She’s always leaving her door open and letting the cat out, and Crooks hates that cat.” 

At the mention of his name, the cat gave a grumpy little meow, then leapt from Hermione’s arms and prowled over to Sirius, rubbing against his calves as he wound himself around his legs. 

“There’s my best friend,” he cooed, leaning down to pick the cat up. He settled him in his arms, taking a step back from Draco, who was eyeing Crookshanks as if he feared the beast would lunge for him and claw his eyes out at any moment–which was ridiculous. Crooks liked to go for the neck, not the face. 

“Right, well, apparently, the Muggle flame-men got it handled, only your flat and hers were damaged aside from the smoke,” Ron continued on. 

“Firemen,” Harry and Hermione corrected in unison. 

“Honestly, Ron, Draco, the two of you have to work with Muggle emergency services often enough, you could learn a few simple terms,” she scolded. “If the damage wasn’t devastating, why did you wait so long to tell me? You left hours ago.” 

“Don’t look at me.” Ron held his hands up in defence. “I wanted to tell you as soon as we got here. Malfoy didn’t want to tell you at all.” 

“Draco!” She turned to glare at him, and he glared back, then sighed. 

“I didn’t think there was any reason for you to have to come see this,” he told her plainly, “but Dawlish wanted you down here, so Potter sent the Patronus. I wanted to at least tell you in person.” 

“Well, I appreciate that, but I’m still cross with you.” Hermione folded her arms over her chest. “Why does Dawlish want to speak to me?” 

“It’s, erm—” Harry reached a hand up to rub at the back of his neck and gave her a sheepish—placating, Sirius thought—smile. 

“It’s the second time one of your homes has caught on fire.” Dawlish’s voice snapped Sirius’s attention away from where he’d been looking down at the cat in his arms, scratching him behind the ears. He looked up as the Head Auror sauntered—the bloody bastard had always sauntered, so fucking full of himself—over to them and gave Hermione a far-too-appreciative once over. 

“Yes,” she said tersely, “I suppose that’s just my luck.” 

“Or it’s not a coincidence,” Draco mumbled.

“What? You mean…You think this was done on purpose? The firemen said it was a curling iron.” Hermione furrowed her brow, then glanced over at Sirius—no, not me, he corrected himself—as she moved to stand next to him and reached a hand out to pet Crookshanks, calming herself.

Still, he couldn’t help but reach a hand up to rub her back in what he hoped came across as a friendly gesture, nor could he help his reaction to the way she seemed to relax the second he touched her. 

“Given your high-profile status as the Golden Girl,” Dawlish began. 

Hermione stiffened. 

Crookshanks grumbled his disapproval. 

Harry rolled his eyes. 

Sirius thought about revisiting that time he’d socked Dawlish in fifth year for making Mary cry when he’d dumped her for a Hufflepuff girl the year below them.

“Given your high-profile status,” Dawlish corrected himself, “We would be foolish not to at least investigate the unlikely coincidence. While Potter and Weasley may disagree, Malfoy and I think it would be best to at least approach the situation with caution.” 

“I suppose that makes sense,” Hermione sighed, taking half a step closer to Sirius—no, moving her hand down to scratch Crookshanks’ stomach as he flopped over to his back in Sirius’ arms, was all—then looked at Harry for a moment before turning her attention back to Dawlish, “How can I be of help to the investigation, then?” 

“If you have the time, I’d love for you to come down to the station for questioning—not that we think you know anything, exactly, but it will just help to walk back through the events surrounding both fires, see if there are any connections between what you were doing, who you’d interacted with,” Dawlish paused, then added, “Any weirdness, things of the sort.” 

“Of course. I can meet you down there in an hour.” Hermione gave a polite smile, then looked back at Harry, who stepped forward to hug her again as Dawlish nodded and walked away. 

“I’ll owl Gin, have her meet us down there,” Harry told her soothingly. “Molly won’t mind popping through to keep an eye on the kids. Do you want me to let Pansy and Neville know?”

“Yes, thank you. Don’t bother Pansy; she’ll be exhausted this time of night,” she responded, then glanced up at Sirius, “Will you…well, um, you know Dawlish, and if you’re not busy…he can just get a bit, um—” 

“I’ll go,” he rushed out, then made a mental note to kick himself later for his over-eagerness. He didn’t like this one bit. She deserved the fucking world, and hers kept burning down. He wondered if Dawlish and Draco were onto something. There were a number of loyalists who had managed to escape capture or conviction, and save for a few incidents, they’d all been relatively quiet since his boy had done away with their nose-less leader, but it stood to reason that Hermione still had enemies out there. 

Between being the brains behind Harry’s ability to end the war and his biggest champion in all the years both before and after, the work she’d done in the Magical Creatures department, and her current role working with the families of Muggleborns, there were far too many reasons for her to be targeted. 

He knew he was being paranoid. She knew more about Muggle electricity than the lot of them—knew more about everything than anyone else, to be honest. Still, he didn’t like this shit, and if she was giving him an opportunity to stay by her side, then he abso-fucking-lutely would.

“I’ll make sure Dawlish has the paperwork with the police cops handled and drop by the house and check on Daph, then meet you guys there.” Ron walked over to give Hermione a stiff, only-slightly-awkward hug, then clapped Harry on the shoulder before waving goodbye to the rest of them. 

He followed along, still holding Crookshanks as he, Hermione, Harry, Theo, and Draco made their way toward the apparition point.

“Are you good to Apparate, ‘Mione?” Harry asked, flipping his wand in his hand as he turned to face her once they’d reached the alleyway. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I think…” she paused, glancing over at Sirius, then giggled, “I don’t think they’ll let us take him into the ministry.”

“I’d like to see them try to stop me, Kitten.” He flashed her a smirk, and he could have sworn he saw a faint blush creep across her perfect face—though he was sure it was just a trick of the light, given how dim the alley was. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hermione

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Slumping down onto one of the benches in the hallway outside of the Auror department, Hermione replayed her conversation with Dawlish and Harry.

It had been utterly ridiculous, and far beyond mentally taxing, to walk back through the days surrounding both fires. She didn’t see a link to be found at all. When the cottage burned down, she’d merely gone to work, met Ginny, Pansy and Millie for lunch, popped off to Flourish and Blotts to buy a new book they’d been holding for her, then returned to her paperwork, only to be called away with the news that her home was up in flames. 

This time around, she’d been at the ball the night before, then helped with Ron and Daphne’s move. She had, naturally, left out the little bit about getting shagged beyond any reasonable level of sanity by a masked stranger in the bathroom—the memories of which were still spinning through her mind, coming in little flashes every time she shifted in her seat and felt the delicious soreness between her legs, or turned her head and was reminded of the deep bruising she’d glamoured—but otherwise, she’d been entirely forthcoming. 

Draco and Harry agreed there didn’t seem to be any link between the two events, but given how fiercely protective they both were, they’d devolved into an argument about how best to protect her just in case, whilst Sirius—and Crookshanks, who had been allowed to stay after Sirius merely glared at the receptionist that tried to tell him animals weren’t permitted—had gone down to the Atrium to meet Ginny, so, she’d slipped off to the loo to re-cast her glamours and get a few minutes of peace. 

Dawlish had decided that things looked fine, but said he wanted to keep a closer eye on her movements all the same, and that she was to report any strange occurrences in the coming weeks. She thought it was all too much fuss. 

Sure, she’d received her share of open threats and vague, ominous letters in the first few months after the war, but by the fall, things had settled, and there hadn’t really been any sign that someone held a grudge for her. Still, she respected the need to follow protocol. 

Ginny arrived, then, with Sirius trudging behind her, already looking exhausted. Hermione smiled at the sight—Ginny was a lot, but gods, did she love her. 

“Hermione.” Ginny lunged at her, her swollen stomach knocking Hermione off balance, and she giggled in response. 

“Hi, Gin.” 

“Are you okay? I’m so glad you weren’t home!” Ginny rushed out as she took the seat next to her and reached over, taking Hermione’s hand in both of hers. 

“I’m fine. It’s surreal, though they tell me my books survived this time around,” Hermione joked, then shrugged. “It sucks, but it isn’t as if I still have a Time Turner, so what can I do?”

“Well, for starters, we can figure out where you’re going to stay while your apartment is being redone. We’re still working on the spare room at Godric’s Hollow, but we could transfigure a bed in Jamie’s room. Oh, he’d love to bunk with his Aunt Mimi! I bet he’d keep you up all night gabbing away about his dragons, like a slumber party! Wouldn’t that be so precious?” Ginny gushed, a bright smile on her face, and Hermione fought back a grimace. 

For as much as she loved to spend time with her nephew, the idea of sharing a nursery with a four-year-old was absolutely not her idea of a good time. Thankfully, before she’d been forced to gently let Ginny down, Harry spoke up as he, Ron and Draco exited the double doors that led into the hallway from the Auror bullpen—Theo having been called away for an emergency patient at St Mungo's soon after they arrived.

“Gin, she doesn’t want to share a room with Jamie,” Harry laughed. “Maybe Remus and Tonks? They’ve got a spare, and Teddy is a little less…energetic than James.” 

“Oof.” Hermione scrunched her nose. “I learned my lesson about that one when I stayed with them the summer after the war.” 

“I warned you,” Sirius chuckled, and she fought back the overwhelming urge to stick her tongue at him. 

Stupid, perfect, cocky prat, leaning back against the wall, looking like a walking orgasm as her cat lounged at his feet. He had warned her that staying with Remus would have its…challenges. Even knowing from her research that the sexual appetites of someone with Lycanthropy were rather…feral and insatiable, she had underestimated what it would be like to share a wall with him and Tonks, who she was nearly certain was even more wild than her half-beast husband. 

Those two wouldn’t know a silencing charm if it bit them on the arse. 

“I’d offer for you to stay with Daph and me, but, well, I know that might be awkward. Mum and Dad would have you at the Burrow, though, and we could keep Crooks so he doesn’t drive you crazy over the Garden Gnomes,” Ron offered.

“This is ridiculous,” Draco scoffed, “you’ll come stay at the manor. The gods know there’s plenty of room, and Mother would be happy to have you around.” 

“Grimmauld,” Sirius nearly yelled, causing Hermione to jump in surprise. She snapped her head forward, looking up at him as she pinched her brows together, and he seemed to take a moment to think, crouching down to scratch at Crooks’ jaw before he spoke again—softer, now. 

“You and Crookshanks can come stay with me. Grimmauld Place is still under the Fidelius Charm, and I have five extra bedrooms that are unused. You can work in the library, come and go as you please.” He shrugged, glancing up to meet her eyes, and she put on the best performance of her life as she pretended she wasn’t melting into a puddle right there in the hallway at the sight of his icy grey stare. 

“You need somewhere safe to be,” he continued, “and you need quiet, since you work from home so much. Come stay with me.” 

Hermione stared back, the answer forming on her tongue, but she couldn’t–for the life of her—force it out. 

It didn’t mean anything. 

He was merely offering her a place to stay because her flat was ruined. Honestly, he was probably just excited about having her cat around. Those two had never quite un-bonded after the events of her third year. She was beginning to think they’d always be partners in crime. Grimmauld Place was always the first place she checked when Crooks pulled one of his random disappearing acts. 

It didn’t mean anything. 

She could make it not mean anything to herself. Really, she knew nothing would ever come of her stupid, soul-crushing…crush, as it were, and surely, she could ignore the inconvenient way her cunt throbbed and her heart soared every time she was in proximity to him. 

It didn’t mean anything, not to him. He was being a good friend, looking out for his godson’s best friend, and that was all. 

Still, the idea of living with him? Seeing him shirtless in the mornings, smelling him all over the townhouse, walking his floors, sleeping in his bed? Well, one owned by him, she corrected herself, but a girl could dream. 

It would be the sweetest fucking torture, and there was no part of her capable of saying no to the chance to just be in his presence a little more often.

Plus, the library was great.

“Okay,” she nodded, “I’ll come stay at Grimmauld with you.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕧𝕠𝕨𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕤𝕚𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕗𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣

𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕠𝕠𝕜 𝕚𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤 𝕞𝕖 𝕔𝕣𝕒𝕫𝕪

𝕚 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕓𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕜 𝕦𝕡𝕠𝕟 𝕙𝕖𝕣 

𝕚'𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕚𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕝𝕖𝕥 𝕞𝕖

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Hermione

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

#12, Grimmauld Place in Islington, London, had been a centric presence in Hermione’s life since she was fifteen. It had housed Order meetings, provided shelter when she, Harry and Ron fled Bill and Fleur Weasley’s wedding and began their long, arduous quest to find the horcruxes and end the war, and been the backdrop of too many major moments in her life to name.

But in the years since the war ended, Grimmauld Place became a different type of shelter. One filled with laughter and long nights sipping wine and laughing until her face hurt. When her marriage had fallen apart, her friends had pulled her out of the ashes—quite literally—and brought her back to Grimmauld, where she’d lain in Harry and Ginny’s bed and sobbed for days.

She’d been sitting at the kitchen table when they announced they were having baby James, and again when they found out he was a boy and asked her and Sirius to be his godparents. Really, if she thought about it, some of her greatest memories lived within the four walls of the old townhouse.

And, now, so did she. 

Or, rather, she would be staying there for an indeterminate amount of time, with the man she could barely even breathe around for fear that all of the things she could never say would start spilling out of her mouth.

It would be fine. She could do this. She’d been around Sirius a million times in a billion ways and had always managed to hold it together. Surely, living with him wouldn’t be any harder than anything else had been. 

He would only be there every minute of every day, smelling like leather and tobacco and sandalwood and doing that little grin where the left side of his mouth tilted up just a little farther than the right and laughing that deep, booming laugh that made his eyes twinkle like the stars, and he’d be lounging around in those sinful grey sweatpants—which, in Hermione’s humble opinion, were the sluttiest thing a man could wear—and he’d probably be shirtless and messy-haired in the morning, all gruff and sleepy voiced with the tattoos she’d had far too many dreams about tracing with her tongue on full display, and—

Fine. 

It would be fine. 

She could do this. 

Hermione stepped up to the door and raised a hand to lift the brass serpent knocker, but the door swung open before she could knock. She blinked in surprise and glanced around the foyer, then looked down, a broad smile breaking out across her face at the sight of the little house elf in a very pink, overly tulle-ridden, child’s dress-up gown. 

“Missy ‘Mione, missy ‘Mione, Posey got new princess shoes, she did,” the little elf proclaimed proudly, lifting the skirts of her dress to show off a pair of little plastic Cinderella shoes. 

“Oh, Posey, those are gorgeous,” Hermione cooed. “I think the blue goes perfectly with your complexion.” 

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” Posey nodded excitedly, “that’s what Mister Siri says to Posey when he bringed them.” 

“And I stand by that,” Sirius’ voice rang out from deeper within the foyer just as Posey reached for her hand and pulled her over the threshold. She looked up and felt a flash of heat snaking its way up her spine as she took in the sight of him leaning against the bannister of the staircase like some unfair apparition from a dream she should not have been having, all wild hair and wilder eyes. 

He was wearing a pair of soft-looking grey lounge pants and had the sleeves of his long-sleeved white shirt pushed up to his elbows, exposing his veiny, ink-covered forearms, and she began to wonder if it was normal to get this wet just at the mere sight of someone, or if she should consult a healer. Regardless, the issue she was currently having in her knickers could hardly be helped.

Sirius Orion Black was sex incarnate; mischievous, cocky, and so godsdamn handsome that her retinas burned if she looked at him too long. There was something to be said about how he was named after a star, and how the sun was the biggest star of all, so obviously staring at him was looking straight into that blazing ball of fire in the sky. Alas, Hermione was far too busy contending with the fact that her eyeballs had melted out of their sockets and were leaving a trail of eye-goop down the front of her sweatshirt. 

Metaphorically, of course. 

In reality, she realised she’d been staring at the spot where his silver necklace lay nestled in the little patch of chest hair left bare in the wake of the three undone buttons of his Henley-style shirt, and she quickly tore her only-sort-of-melted eyes away to glance up at his face. 

She could do this. 

“Hi-ya, Kitten,” he said slowly, a faint smile playing on his lips. His hand scratched at the scruff on his jaw as his eyes trailed down her body and back up, so-fucking-slowly that she felt as if she might combust under his gaze. She sank her teeth into her lower lip and hoisted her bag higher onto her shoulder, resisting the urge to squirm under his appraisal. 

Gods, he probably thought she looked wild. He must have been regretting his decision already after one look at how much of a mess she was. 

She’d met Harry and Draco at her flat to sort out what she could of the bedrooms and pack her things, then had a proper breakdown as she shrunk the last box of her books to send along with Draco for safekeeping at Malfoy Manor, and now here she stood, in Harry’s old hoodie and a pair of too-loose jeans, stained trainers on her feet and mascara remnants under her eyes, with the messiest hair on the planet to top it off. 

Not that her hair wasn’t always a bit of a mess, but the bun she’d haphazardly shoved her wand through likely resembled a bird’s nest more than an updo, and it was as bit hard not to stress about the way she looked when he just… kept looking at her.

Hermione realised with a start that she hadn't even responded to his greeting, so she nodded, clearing her throat.

“Right, um, hi. Thanks again for…this. Are you sure it’s okay? I can still see about staying with—” 

“Stop thinking so hard, Kitten. That little vein next to your eyebrow is going to explode,” he teased. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want you here, Hermione. I mean…” Sirius trailed off, mumbling something too low for her to hear before he continued, “No sense in making you bunk with a toddler or put up with Remus and Dora's antics when I’ve got this big place to myself. I’m just sorry you’ve got to deal with a grumpy old man for a roommate.”

“You’re not as old as you feel, Sirius.” She rolled her eyes, and he rolled his in response. Something tugged on her hand, and she startled, looking down to realise she’d forgotten all about Posey in her haze of horny-idiot-thoughts. 

“Missy ‘Mione, Posey’s mama and Posey’s papa says missy ‘Mione is to be living with us,” the little elf gushed. “Posey’s mama says Posey is to be a very good little elf and help missy Mione unpack her things, she is. But only if the missy tells Posey.” 

Hermione smiled and crouched down in front of the elf, who immediately flung her little arms around her neck. She scooped her up into her arms and stood, adjusting the little tiara on her head. 

Posey was only seventeen, which was essentially the house elf equivalent of a toddler. She’d been found hiding in a cupboard in the wreckage of the Lestrange estate when the aurors were clearing known Death Eater properties in the few days after the war, and had been taken to Hogwarts, given the fact that there were a hundred or so elves there who could help take care of her. 

Posey latched onto a now (thankfully) sober Winky, who raised her as her own, alongside a slightly less curmudgeonly Kreacher. Around five years ago, Winky and Posey had officially moved in, and Kreacher announced that he and Winky had wed—which was, apparently, a far simpler process for house elves. They just…decided they were married, and so they were. 

Sirius and Kreacher still barely got along, but things had shifted between them. Kreacher had served the Black family for centuries, and coming home after the battle to an empty house really solidified the fact that they were all nearly gone, save for Draco and Narcissa.

From what Harry had said, the elf all but had a breakdown, mourning the near-extinction of the bloodline his family had served for centuries.

Needless to say, when Sirius returned from the veil and came home just a few days later—after the Unspeakables and St Mungo’s had cleared him—he and Kreacher reached some sort of truce. They still talked shit to one another, but there was never any malice behind it. 

Winky seemed to thrive as a mother and loved having a household to ‘serve’ again, but given that Sirius had lived alone the last couple of years, coupled with the knowledge that he preferred to cook most meals on his own, Hermione wasn’t quite sure what, exactly, the elves did in the house. 

They were free, paid well, and after a few dozen lectures about his animosity toward Kreacher from Hermione herself over the years, Sirius handled them like a dream, so as far as she was concerned, things had worked out for the better all around. 

“Oh, oh, and Posey is to being helping Mama by being a very good little elf for missy ‘Mione,” Posey added excitedly, pulling Hermione’s attention from where it had drifted to the way Sirius’ shirt stretched across his biceps when he folded his arms over his chest.

Gods, how is it legal to be so bloody fit? 

“Well, Posey, I think Hermione should be able to settle in just fine,” Sirius said. “Why don’t you run along to see if your mama needs help baking, and I’ll show her to her new room?” 

“Oh yes, mister Sirius. Missy ‘Mione is going to love her new room. Posey helped Posey’ mama with the cleaning and make it perfect, she did.” Posey wiggled in Hermione’s arms, so she sat her down, then watched as she raced out of the room and down the hall, teetering on her little plastic dress-up shoes. 

“She’s a handful,” Sirius shook his head, “I swear they won’t be a bother. Stick to their quarters most of the time unless you call for them.” 

“No, they’re fine, really. Posey is a sweetheart,” she reassured him.  

As Hermione trudged up the stairs behind him, her hand sliding along the polished bannister, her mind drifted back to how creepy this place used to be. Ginny, Harry, and Sirius had all breathed new life into the old townhouse, and it was as comforting as it was unsettling to think she’d be living here now, for however long that lasted. 

Though, not nearly as unsettling as the fact that they’d stopped on the third floor.

“I figured you’d prefer to be close to the library, so I had the elves ready this room for you,” Sirius began, sounding tentative as he came to a stop outside of the door next to his, “but if you’d prefer to be on a different floor than me for, erm, privacy or whatever…” 

“No, no, this is fine,” she rushed out a bit too quickly. “Right across from the library is perfect. I do most of my work from home, so I can just set up a workspace in there, if that’s alright?” 

“Of course,” he replied, “I want you to make yourself at home, Hermione. Whatever you need to do to be comfortable, anything you need, I…well, yeah. It’s your home too, now.” 

He looked down at the floor, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, and Hermione took the moment to indulge in a bit of petulance. He was being a bit awkward, as if he’d been thrown off-kilter from his normal cocky, playful demeanour, and she felt horrible about the whole situation. 

Sirius was used to living alone, and for all his willingness to help a friend of Harry’s, she couldn’t imagine he was thrilled about sharing space with a girl half his age. The thought struck her that he probably likened it to babysitting, and she had to force back a groan. 

Sirius seemed to recover from his awkward pause quickly enough. He pasted a grin back on his face as he turned the knob, gesturing with his free hand for her to enter the room, and she forced what she hoped was a grateful smile as she took a step over the threshold.

A sense of warmth flooded her veins as she took in the space; the room was too lovely for words. 

A dark four-poster bed with ornately carved columns sat in the centre of the room, with the back to the wall across from the door, matching end tables on either side. 

There was a little vanity with a stool to the left of the door, and a big chest of drawers to the right. The bedding was a deep, earthy green, and matched the rug—a sort of abstract, swirling pattern laced with all the fall colours she loved so much, and the heavy, velvet drapes matched the deep autumnal shade of orange housed in the rug and in the throw blanket that had been slung across the foot of the bed.

It was almost too perfect. She hadn’t even been able to settle on an aesthetic she loved in her bedroom at her flat, but this room was everything. Hermione knew, of course, that it was just one of many spare rooms that had been redone in the last few years, but if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought it had been designed specifically with her in mind. 

She cast her eyes back down to the rug, visually tracing the lines of deep orange, mossy green, and various shades of browns and creams, focusing every bit of attention she could muster on memorising the pattern.

A rug was a silly thing to get stuck on, but she was still standing in the threshold, with Sirius in the doorway behind her, so close that she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck, and she needed something, anything to calm her mind enough that she could calm the hell down.

She needed to take a step forward. 

She knew it was the logical thing to do. Just walk further into the room and put some distance between them because he was too close and he smelled too good, and she was a fucking puddle, and the poor guy was trapped in the godsdamn doorway because her feet had somehow rooted her to her spot. 

Gods, he was so close. 

Too close. 

But Hermione had always been a little reckless, far too impulsive, and before she could help herself, she was turning to face him. 

So fucking close. 

So close that her breasts brushed against his chest, and the tilted angle of his head brought their mouths just centimetres apart. Hermione looked up into his eyes, heat coiling low in her stomach at the hooded, darkened silver she found there.

Their gazes locked, and she took a breath, then another, before her eyes—the fucking traitors—darted down to his lips just in time to see him clench his jaw. His eyes tightened, and he let out a shaky breath, a frustrated sort of groan escaping his lips. In an instant, she became hyper aware of their positioning and took a few big steps back. She spun on her heel and walked over to the window, peeling the curtains back to take a peek at the street below. 

“It’s…it’s a beautiful room, Sirius, thank you,” she rushed out, stumbling over her words. 

“Right.” He paused, clearing his throat, then added, “Glad you like it. I’ll leave you to get settled. I, uh, I like to cook. So if you like to eat–I mean, if you would like to eat, I’ll have dinner done around seven.” 

He left, closing the door behind him a bit too hard, and Hermione turned as soon as she heard the sound of his heavy boots on the stairs. She flung herself onto her stomach on the stupid, too-perfect bed. Thankfully, she seemed to have at least a single shred of common sense left in her hazy mind and managed to throw up a silencing charm with one hand before she grabbed a pillow, buried her face in the fabric and screamed. 

What had she been thinking? Had she really been about to kiss him, mere minutes after she showed up to become his new, likely unwanted roommate? She felt like a kid again, like she was back in fourth year, screaming into her pillow in the Gryffindor dormitory as she over-analysed every interaction she’d had with that lovable, idiot oaf of a Bulgarian Quidditch star. 

She needed to get her shit together. 

She had to get her shit together. 

She hadn’t even made it through the first night, and she was already doing a piss-poor job of hiding all the stupid fucking things he made her feel. Gods, no wonder he’d left in such a hurry. Maybe she could just blame stress? Exhaustion? Brain damage from smoke inhalation?

Well, piss. That wouldn’t work: he knew she wasn’t home when her flat caught on fire, because she’d been sitting at Ron and Daphne’s new table and staring at the way his hand gripped his glass while she thought about what it would be like to have him bend her over the counter he was leaning back against. 

After another—and very necessary—bout of pillow-screaming, she rose from the bed and brushed the lint off her jumper, forcing herself to practice the breathing exercises she’d learned from her time spent seeing a healer after the war as she reached for her bag. 

Too much had happened in the last two days. The ball, the fucking Stranger she still couldn’t get out of her head—the same one that still had her aching between the legs—then waking up first thing to help Ron and Daphne move, and of course, finding out that she’d nearly lost another home to a fucking fire. 

She’d crashed at the Burrow last night, after Molly caught wind of the situation and insisted she come ‘round for some doting, and then spent the day with a few of her friends as they helped her clear what she could out of her flat. Her books had been boxed up and sent to Malfoy Manor for safekeeping, where she knew Craney, the curmudgeonly old elf who preferred to spend his time working in the library, would take good care of them. 

Aside from that, she’d just packed a box of work essentials, another of toiletries, and two of clothing—Pansy had already decided she’d be dragging her out for a whole new wardrobe because Morganna forbid she be caught out smelling like smoke. 

Pulling the shrunken boxes out of her bag, she tapped her wand to the top of each, restoring them to their normal size, and began methodically unpacking, layering jumpers and lounge pants into spacious drawers before she made her way to the closet to hang the two sets of robes and two dresses Pansy had insisted she keep until she could take the time to go shopping.

Finally, she arranged the couple books she’d kept with her on the nightstand and placed the folded quilt she’d brought—one her grandmother had made years ago—onto the bench at the foot of the bed before she grabbed the final box and exited out into the hall to place her shower stuff in the bathroom. 

The bathroom she would shower in, next to the bedroom that shared a wall with his, in his house, where she would be living for an indeterminate period of time. 

The house where she had to go sit across the table from him and share a meal and pretend she wasn’t pondering the consequences of crawling onto the table and begging him to just fucking touch her. 

Gods, stop being so fucking dramatic, she scolded herself. 

It was just dinner. 

She would be fine. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hermione was absolutely not fine. 

Sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder if some Sirius Black-centric part of her brain was utterly fried. Maybe her old healer would have something to say about how she’d always been the obsessive type, then liken it to the trauma she experienced as a child soldier and round it all out by declaring she’d latched onto an older man because she was seeking a father figure to assuage her guilt over having permanently sacrificed her relationship with her own parents. 

Which was fair, she supposed, save for the last bit. She certainly wasn’t in the market for a father—though she would absolutely call that impossible man across from her Daddy if he insisted.

But it wasn’t any of that. It was just him. Everything he did was so perfect that she could hardly wrap her mind around it. How, exactly, did a man cut his steak perfectly, or sip his whisky perfectly, or smile perfectly, or fucking breathe perfectly, the light smattering of hair below his collarbone brushing against the open collar of his shirt in the exact right way every time his chest rose and fell?

Fuck if she knew, but he managed it all the same. 

Forcing her mind away from how it might feel to run her tongue over the runes tattooed down the side of his neck, Hermione shifted stabbed a piece of broccoli with her fork and took a bite, chewing slowly. 

“Food alright?” he asked as he set his fork down and pushed his plate away. “Wasn’t quite sure what you liked, but I had the pasta on hand, and remembered this is what you’d ordered at Harry’s birthday dinner, so…if there’s anything in specific you like, just let me know or add it to the list. I keep a notepad by the floo.” 

“It’s perfect,” Hermione replied. She’d always been blown away by how observant he was. Even with all the brightest witch of her blah blah whatever, she sure as hell couldn’t have remembered what someone had ordered over six months ago. 

Or… most of the time, she wouldn’t have been able to recall. She knew that Sirius had gone with the bolognese that night, but she only remembered that because she was a creep. 

Naturally. 

“Good,” he nodded and took a sip of his whisky as he tilted his hips up to dig into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and dropped the pack to the table, then paused halfway to bringing the stick to his mouth. 

“Shit, I didn’t think…do you mind if I smoke in the house? I don’t mind going outside if the smell bugs you. I used to smoke out back before Harry and Gin moved out.” 

“No, it’s fine.” Hermione blushed as she realised he must have caught her staring at his mouth—again. “I like the smell, actually.” 

Sirius raised an eyebrow in surprise and lit the cigarette with a snap of his fingers. He took in a long drag, and Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away when he blew it out slowly, smoke curling out of his nose and mouth in tandem. 

This was ridiculous. 

She was ridiculous. 

She couldn’t stop staring at him, and she was certain he’d noticed—he had to have noticed, because it seemed like every time she wasn’t staring at him, his eyes were burning holes through her flesh. She just knew she was making him uncomfortable, but he was far too concerned with being kind to his godson’s friend to say anything. 

Before she could muck things up even worse, she stood, her chair legs creaking against the floor as she shoved back from the table and began to gather dishes, then turned to take them to the sink.

“You don’t have to clean up. There’s this handy thing called magic, dunno if you’ve heard of it,” he teased lightly. She looked over her shoulder to find him leaning back in his chair with one hand running through his hair, smirking at her as he brought the cigarette back to his lips. 

Sinful, is what he was.

Everything about him, and every thought he elicited in her stupid mind, was a godsdamn sin. Not that she’d ever cared for Muggle religion, but all the same, if there was a hell, she had a one-way ticket from the thoughts she was having about straddling him in that fucking chair alone. She turned quickly, focusing her attention on the dishes as she rinsed them. Finally, when she’d taken a moment to collect herself and was sure she could open her mouth without drooling, she responded, “You don’t say?”

“Yep. Heard some people even use these little sticks. They just wave ‘em around and poof, the dishes wash themselves.” 

Hermione snickered, shaking her head as she grabbed a sponge. “There are just a few things that I can’t break my Muggle habits over. Dishes and laundry are the biggest.” 

“Laundry, really? How do you…Muggle laundry?” 

His arm brushed against hers, and she startled, that familiar heat pooling in her stupid gut all over again as she looked over to see him standing next to her with a dish towel in hand.

“What?” he asked, at what must have been a stupefied look on her face. “I know how to wash dishes. Lily made us learn to do a lot of shit the Muggle way during the first war. She was worried that if Riddle got a hold of the ministry, they could put a trace on people’s magic. Said ‘I’m not your mother, and I’ll be damned if I’m stuck with a bunch of twenty-year-old man-babies who can’t even sweep a floor’.” 

“I think I love her more with every story I hear,” Hermione said with a laugh, “and that was smart of her. To prepare you all like that, I mean. Is she how you learned to cook?” 

“She is. She tried to teach us all, but Remus’ hands shake when he tries to do…what's it called? Fine-motored stuff. And James could burn a meal just by looking at it, but I caught on pretty quickly.” Sirius took the dish she’d been washing out of her hands, and she watched as he rinsed it, then dried it carefully before he set it down on the counter next to him. 

“So you can do dishes, cook, and sweep a floor, but you don’t know how to do laundry?” 

“Nope,” he laughed, “Lils hated laundry. Said she’d use the charms for as long as she could and turn Potter Cottage into a nudist colony if the day came when she couldn’t.” 

Hermione’s shoulders shook as she tried to hold back a laugh.

“Hey now, don’t be mean, Kitten,” Sirius bumped her shoulder with his, and Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat at the contact. 

I’m pathetic, she thought. “Tell me how laundry works,” he said. 

I don’t want to talk about laundry. 

“There are machines,” she began, “but given the fact that we can’t use electricity, that’s obviously not helpful. My flat didn’t have the hook-ups for them, so I’ve gotten used to going to the laundromat on the weekends. There’s something about actually washing the clothes that I just prefer. They smell better, I think.” 

“Is that why you always smell so good?” 

He turned away as soon as the words were out of his mouth to begin putting away the dishes, and Hermione reached for the plug to drain the water as she responded, “Yeah, the lavender? It’s called fabric softener.”

“Well, I won’t cramp your Muggle laundry style.” He chuckled as he turned back to face her. “The elves handle most cleaning. I cook. I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything, but if there’s anything like that, anything you prefer to do on your own, just say the word. Same goes for…well, shit, everything, really. If you need something, you just ask, yeah, Hermione?” 

“Alright, I can—” she began, but was cut off when he grabbed her hands. Her eyes shot down, and it took a few seconds for her brain to catch up with whatever gland or system of the body caused one to turn into a feral, panting beast before she realised what was happening. 

“Oh, you don’t have to…” 

“Hush, Kitten,” he drawled. 

Hermione nodded, though she wasn’t exactly sure why she bothered, given the fact that his focus had homed in on the task at hand. 

Hands. 

Hands were such an intimate thing. She’d never given much thought to that fact, never realised. Now, though, as she stood with her hip pressed to the counter, watching him carefully cradle both of her hands in one of his as he dried them off with his dish towel, she rather thought this might be the most personal anyone had ever gotten with her. 

Hermione couldn’t get over the contrast between them; her hands were small, almost dainty in his grasp; smooth, where his were rough and calloused. Thick veins ran across his flesh, snaking up his forearms and causing the tattoos on the backs of his hands and knuckles to pulse beneath her gaze. 

His knuckles bore runes, as most of his tattoos were; strength, trust, hope, and protection on his left hand, desire, chaos, danger, and destruction on his right. The backs of his hands mirrored the theme—a scythe and scorpion on the left, a dove with an olive branch in it’s mouth on the right—and she could feel a comment bubbling up in her throat, something about contrast, or irony, or how badly she wanted to suck each of his fingers into her mouth, one by one, but she couldn’t look away from his careful handling of her long enough to force the words out of her mouth.

He worked slowly—torturously so, gently moving his left hand to circle one of her wrists as he ran the dish towel over her palm, between her fingers, down the back of her hand, before he grasped the other wrist and completed the action.

The act was almost reverent, as if he were worshipping every inch of her hands. She risked a glance at his face only to find that brow was furrowed in concentration, like drying her hands was the most important thing in the universe, and she had no idea how to make sense of all of it. 

The only thing she did know was that she didn’t want it to end, didn’t want him to stop touching her—fuck, she could have stood there in his kitchen, watching him dry her hands, for the rest of her life, and it didn’t make a single shred of sense that something so innocuous should feel like this. 

But then he dropped her hand and stepped back, clearing his throat before he turned and began to wipe down the counter. 

“Thank you.” Her voice sounded strangled, thick with emotion, but he didn’t seem to notice, merely nodding as he turned around and walked back toward the table to light another cigarette. 

“So you work from home, you said?” He sat back down in the chair he’d abandoned as if he hadn’t just etched himself into every crease and line smattered across her palm. She took a breath and forced a soft smile onto her face as she nodded and moved to sit across from him once more.

“Mostly. I need to go to the ministry here and there, but most of what I do is planning and correspondence, so I can work from anywhere.” 

“Planning. I can see that. How’s that proposal going that you were talking to Harry about a few weeks ago? Some kind of summer camp…” he paused, waving his hand in a ‘whatever’ sort of motion, “thing?”

“Oh, the day camp!” Hermione gushed excitedly and launched into a long-winded explanation of the integration efforts she’d been working on–a day camp for Muggle-born students that would span the two weeks before their first year at Hogwarts, as a way to integrate them into the world of magic in small doses. 

Sirius listened with what seemed to be rapt attention the entire time, asking questions here and there and praising all the work she’d put in. It felt good to just sit and chat with him, to be able to go on and on about something she was passionate about and not feel as if she were overdoing it or being annoying. 

It felt even better to be praised by him, but she tucked that thought to the back of her mind to focus on how good it felt just to talk to someone who seemed to care what you had to say.

Maybe this roommate thing wouldn’t be too bad. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕀𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕 𝕞𝕪 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕕

𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥

𝕀’𝕧𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕒𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕤𝕠 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘

𝔽𝕠𝕣 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕒𝕝𝕞𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Hermione

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Throwing the blankets off of her chest with a huff, Hermione squeezed her thighs together and brushed her hair out of her face. She’d been trying to fall asleep, but had only managed to toss and turn as her mind replayed the feeling of his breath across her lips in the doorway and the way his thumb had traced slow circles on her wrist while he dried her hands. 

She was twenty-five years old. A successful, important member of wizarding society with a meaningful job. A strong, independent woman who absolutely did not need a man, yet here she was, all throbbing cunt and soaked knickers over a man touching her godsdamn hands. 

Resisting the urge had proven futile for the better part of two hours, so she reached out to grab her wand off the nightstand and threw up a silencing charm as her free hand moved down her stomach. She traced a path over the worn cotton tee—an old one of Harry’s, leftover from the days when all his muggle clothing had been five sizes too big, that hung loosely off her shoulders and down to the middle of her thighs—then lower, sliding her fingers into her knickers. 

Sucking in a breath as she brushed her fingertips over her sensitive, sopping wet centre, she turned her wrist to get the right angle and sank two fingers inside of herself. She used the other hand to draw slow, lazy circles over her clit, applying just the right amount of pressure and increasing her speed every so often as she crooked the fingers that were buried inside of her cunt to hit the angle that she needed. 

Her mind was heavy, laden with need, and she couldn’t find the right thing to focus on. She was still sore, but in a delicious sort of way that had her replaying memories of the Stranger bending her over the sink, the way he’d sunk his teeth into her neck, the rough, desperate sort of frenzy with which he’d driven into her, over and over. 

But then the fantasy was gone, and she was standing in the doorway with her chest pressed against Sirius’s, and the look of obvious discomfort he’d worn earlier became nothing but white-hot need in her mind. She arched her back as her mind spun, flipping through a veritable montage of blue eyes behind a bluer mask and grey eyes searing through her skin to her very soul. 

The Stranger hooking his arm under her legs and folding her in on herself as she screamed. 

Sirius drying her fucking hands. 

Teeth on her shoulder, her neck, everywhere he could reach as he all but split her open on his impossibly thick cock. 

The fantasy of him, inside of her, the thought of what it might feel like to have his teeth in her skin, his hand fisting in her hair, his cock filling her so deep, stretching her so wide that she could barely fucking breathe, because with all due respect to propriety, she’d just seen the man in grey sweatpants and fuck, she knew it was big. 

Hermione curled her fingers, worked her other hand faster as she rocked her hips, desperately chasing the relief she needed, until finally, she fell apart with his name on her lips, thanking the gods for the magic of the Muffliato charm. 

Sagging back against her pillows, Hermione panted to catch her breath as she swiped at the mess of curls that had found their way back to her face. She glanced over toward the wall that separated their rooms, guilt already setting in.

It was hardly the first time she’d gotten herself off to the thought of him—or the tenth, or the hundredth—but something about knowing he was lying in bed, just on the other side of some plaster and paint, sleeping peacefully while she was in her bed being depraved and filthy felt so wrong. 

Get a fucking grip, Hermione. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss the idea of trading contact information with the Stranger. Her hand found its way to the side of her neck at the thought, and she pressed down, hissing in pain as she pushed on one of the bruises he’d left behind. 

She’d need to reapply the glamours in the morning, but tonight, she wanted to feel it. 

She wanted to remember.

Her Stranger was good; the perfect distraction, even if it would have only been about distraction, but she’d walked away because of stupid, nonsensical things like feelings and rights and wrongs, and finding him again wasn’t an option. 

So, clearly, she was doomed to languish unfucked, sweaty, and pissed off, while the one thing she wanted in the world had probably fallen asleep to the idea of how much he already regretted letting her move in. 

After a quick scourgify to clean her hands—because, for as disgusting she may have been over him, she wasn’t actually disgusting—Hermione rolled to her side and tucked an arm over her pillow, chewing her lip as she stared out at the moon through the window and thought, yet again, that her life would be a hell of a lot less complicated if she weren’t so indelibly in love with a man who saw her as some sort of obligatory, wounded bird to take care of. 

Being taken care of by him didn’t sound so bad, though. 

A girl could dream. With any luck, she’d dream of only that—if she could stop thinking about the way it might feel to be lying next to him instead of alone.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sirius

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

His fantasies of Hermione had always been more vivid than any other, but tonight was even more intense; he’d focused so hard on the memory of her lips wrapped around her finger when she’d absentmindedly sucked a bit of alfredo sauce from the digit during dinner that the sound of her moaning his name inside of his head felt so fucking real that it made his heart skip a beat as his cock throbbed so hard it was nearly painful.

He came with a groan, spilling all over his hand, little spurts of cum splattering across his stomach and chest as he stared at the wall to his left like it was his saving grace. 

In Sirius’s defence, he was trying to behave. He had tried so hard all evening, especially after the little… doorway debacle. The way she'd looked up at him, eyes wide, then looked down at his mouth like she was terrified he'd kiss her, had twisted the Hermione Granger-shaped knife that lived in his fucking gut. 

He'd managed to salvage the evening—or so he'd thought. Dinner had been good. Too good, if he were honest with himself. He'd behaved, despite his assuredness that doing so would be impossible in such close proximity to her, and sharing a meal just the two of them had been nice. 

But then he'd gone and gotten all fucking weird. She was just so easy to talk to, and she was right there, and the urge to touch her in any way was too strong to resist, so he'd dried her hands like a fucking creep. 

Gods, she was probably already plotting a way to kindly move the hell out before he could accost her again. 

He'd been determined to wait at least an hour after she declared she was going to bed to climb up the stairs and do the same, for fear that she'd think he was following her. But the longer he'd sat by the fire, smoking and nursing a glass of whisky while he tried to focus on the book in his lap, the harder his cock had grown in his trousers as he replayed the way her skin had felt so fucking right beneath his fingertips.

Once he'd made it into his room and thrown up a locking charm, followed by a Muffliato, he'd shucked off his jeans and wrapped his fist around his dripping cock before his back had even hit the bed. 

He wasn't going to survive this in one piece. There was no way this didn't end poorly—likely with a restraining order and a godson who would never speak to him again because he'd done something stupid like grabbed her arse the way he'd wanted to do so badly when he watched her climb the stairs on the way up to see her room. 

She'd liked the room, though. That counted for something. He'd never put so much thought into something so quickly, but the second they'd parted ways after the ministry, he'd brought Crookshanks home and passed him off to Winky before he'd spun right back around and headed off to the shops. 

Because he was pathetic. 

But sod it all, she'd just lost another home, and he just wanted her to be comfortable. 

Comfortable here, in his home, even if she was a room away from where he wanted her the most. 

He Scourgified the mess and summoned his cigarettes and the ashtray from the bedside table, scrubbing a hand over his face as he sat up and lit one in the hopes that it would calm him down, but it was no use. 

After a second, then a third, he gave up and rose from the bed with a groan. He needed a fucking drink. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sitting at the far end of the table, half-shrouded in darkness as he sipped his drink, had provided enough cover that Hermione hadn’t noticed him when she’d entered the kitchen—giving him ample time to be a dirty old pervert. 

He brought the glass to his lips and watched as she bent over, rifling through the lower cabinets. The hem of her t-shirt crept up as she leaned further into the cabinet, displaying the faintest glimpse of her arse. His vision zeroed in on the crease at the top of her thigh, and his mouth watered at the thought of dragging his tongue across her flesh, right there, maybe sink his teeth into the swell of her—

Fuck. 

He was actually, truly going to die. Not the weird, hazy, half-death veil experience, no, but something far more permanent. It had only been three nights that she’d been living under his roof, and he was already losing his mind, barely able to sleep, and was yet again nursing a bottle and wallowing in the darkness.

She was everywhere. He could smell her in every room, hear her light, airy laugh drifting through the halls like a siren’s song when she talked with Posey or used the floo to call one of her friends, and it was downright maddening. 

She let out a little cry of victory and held up a glass—it was cute, the way she was determined to do so many things the muggle way, when she could have easily summoned a glass rather than digging around until she found where he kept the barware—then turned to the cabinet under the sink and crouched down, arching her back like a wet fucking dream as she reached toward where he kept the booze stashed. 

Sitting back on her heels, she held a bottle up to the light and squinted at the label as the moonlight danced across her skin, making the curve of her lips and her upturned little nose glow as he studied her side profile. She groaned in frustration and set the bottle back in the cabinet, then stood and crossed her arms over her chest, mumbling something to the effect of ‘can’t even find a decent drink.’ 

“What’s the matter, Kitten?” he finally spoke, keeping his voice low so as not to frighten her. Hermione jumped anyway, spinning to face him fully as she squinted into the darkness. He waved a hand, lighting a single sconce on the wall to his left, and she visibly sagged in relief. 

“Sirius.” She laughed softly, clutching a hand to her chest as she shook her head. “You scared me half to death.” 

“Ah, sorry. Didn’t mean to make you go all jumpy. Just looked like you could use some help.” He pushed back from the table and stood, dangling the neck of the bottle between two fingers as he walked toward her. Hermione froze, her eyes tracking his movements until he came to a stop directly in front of her and reached for the glass in her hand.

His fingers brushed against her wrist as he took it from her, and she looked up at him, her throat bobbing as she swallowed roughly, and that, right there, nearly unraveled him.

Fucking hell. 

Every once in a while, there were these tiny, singular moments, where it felt like some sort of gap had been bridged between what he wanted and what he knew. The slightest twitch of a hand, or a lingering glance that he could almost fool himself into believing was a sign she felt something, anything, too. 

He’d had too much to drink tonight. Not enough that he was drunk, but his body was warm, his movements just a little lazier, his head light with the faintest buzz. Just past sober enough that his control slipped, just a little. 

She hadn’t responded, and he was a fucking creep, so he placed one hand on the counter behind her, caging her in as she continued to stare up at him. 

“Do you want it, Hermione?” He tilted his head, just slightly, crowding in on her a bit more, and her lips parted as her breath seemed to stutter. 

“Do…do I want it?” She pinched her brows together as her tongue darted out to flick against her bottom lip, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to close the distance between them and sink his fucking teeth into her. 

“Do I, um, want what?” she squeaked. 

“The whisky.” He pulled back, holding the bottle up between them, and watched as she squeezed her eyes shut. 

She looked…rattled. 

Rattled by him.

He liked that. 

Hermione seemed frozen in place. Her eyes popped back open, a little V forming between her brows as she looked up at him with a confused sort of…longing? Wishful thinking on his part, undoubtedly, but he’d been starving for her for so long, and she wasn’t pushing him away, and he couldn’t fucking think. 

He couldn’t walk away. 

He couldn’t fucking help himself.

Reaching behind her, he set the bottle on the counter and braced his hands on either side of her hips, gripping the marble so tight he was sure he’d dent it as he stared down at her. 

She stared back, and in an instant, he was lost, suspended in this space with her that seemed to exist beyond the constraints of time. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but it could have been minutes or hours, all the same. 

He should have walked away. He knew he’d regret this in the morning, once the bravery-inducing buzz of the whisky had fled his veins, but she was so close, the smell of lavender and chamomile flooding his senses, and then—

“Sirius,” she nearly whimpered, needy and breathless. He swore under his breath and leaned in, pressing his nose to the side of her head as he inhaled the scent of her shampoo—something minty, though he couldn’t be fucked to parse out what it was. 

Hermione arched her back, pressing herself closer to him, and it took more control than he was certain he had ever wielded to resist the urge to release his death grip on the counter and palm the perfect fucking tits he could feel against his chest. 

Too far gone to care about propriety, too lost in the euphoria of being this close to her to be capable of stopping, he dragged his nose down the side of her head, over her jaw, to the spot just below her ear, sucking in deep breaths through his nose as if he could imprint the smell of her onto his very soul. She reached a hand up, moving her hair off her neck, and he had to stifle a laugh of disbelief. 

Something different was in the air tonight. 

Maybe he was drunk and misinterpreting the way her hips kept tilting forward to rub herself against him, maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he’d finally lost the plot and succumbed to the Black family madness, and she wasn’t even here; whatever the reason was, she was tilting her head back, as if she were begging him to move, and the million reasons why this was an exceptionally bad idea melted away. 

Sirius Black had always been a rather selfish man, and so in that moment, he was selfish. He closed his eyes and began to work his way down her neck—lips parted, teeth scraping, tongue pressed to skin. A middling action, somewhere in the centre between a kiss and a bite, as he savoured the feel of her, so soft and pliant under his ministrations. 

She fisted a hand in the side of his shirt, just above his hip, and let out a perfect, delicate little gasp. His eyes flew open, mouth poised to sink his teeth into her skin, but she let out another noise—pained, this time. He pulled back, looking down at her face in concern, then darted his eyes back to her neck, and his blood ran cold at the sight that awaited him. 

The shirt she wore hung loosely off her shoulder, just enough to expose a smattering of healing bruises in various shades of yellows, greens, purples and blues, complete with a very blatant bite mark. 

Someone else had been there. 

Several someone elses over the years. The Weasley boy, that fucking muggle accountant last year, fuck, Draco and his husband had even shared the witch and had no qualms about admitting it. 

The issue wasn’t that she’d been with others. Honestly, Sirius could hardly throw stones when he’d practically built the glasshouse of slaggery himself.

Hermione was a beautiful, brilliant witch who had been through far more than anyone her age should have had to endure. She poured love into the world like a faucet, endlessly flowing as she filled cup after cup to satiate the people she loved. She was witty, and kind, selfless, and, gods’ truth, fucking hot. 

Of course, she’d been with others. 

But it wasn’t him, had never been him, and the sight of another man’s marks on her skin sent anger burning through his veins. 

He stepped away abruptly, grabbing the bottle from behind her and twisting the cap off before he pressed it to his lips and took a few deep, burning pulls before he thrust it at her. Hermione accepted the bottle, her face a mask of confusion as she looked down at it and then back up to his face. 

She looked so fucking lost, and he wanted to pull her into his arms and apologise, to lift her up by those sinful hips and wrap her legs around his waist, to carry her up to his bed and spend the entire night confessing how he felt in between covering those fucking marks and erasing anyone who had been there before him. 

But it was the middle of the night. She was half asleep, and he was half pissed, and he’d nearly crossed a line he knew he’d never be able to come back from. 

“Sirius, did I…what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong, Kitten.” He forced himself to sound as unaffected as possible–normal, cocky, detached. “Have your drink and get back to bed. Haz and Gin and the rest’ll be over for breakfast in a few hours.” 

He turned and fled the room before his stupid heart could convince his hazy mind to stay, casting one last glance over his shoulder to where she stood, still leaning against the counter he’d wanted so desperately to make her scream on as she stared down at the bottle in her hands. 

She looked so lost that he almost broke and turned back around, but he couldn’t. She deserved so much better than to be treated like a quick fuck in the middle of the night, and he was acting like some pervy old man, caging her in and rubbing his nose all over her like the fucking dog that he was. 

Throwing himself down on his bed, he stared up at the ceiling and forced his mind to tick back through all the reasons this could never happen. Roommates. Harry’s best friend. Twenty-fucking-five years old. On and on the list went, but it was no use. 

She’d moved her fucking hair. She hadn’t pushed him away, hadn’t protested, hadn’t even indicated that she wanted him to stop.

Maybe she’d just been curious. Maybe she’d just been lost in the moment. Maybe she didn’t even know why she’d done it.

But she moved her fucking hair. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕀 𝕕𝕠 𝕓𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕧𝕖 𝕚𝕥'𝕤 𝕥𝕣𝕦𝕖

𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕣𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕤 𝕝𝕖𝕗𝕥 𝕚𝕟 𝕓𝕠𝕥𝕙 𝕠𝕗 𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕖𝕤

𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕚𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕚𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦

𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕀 𝕙𝕠𝕡𝕖 𝕚𝕥 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤 𝕞𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕠

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Sirius

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

She had moved her fucking hair. 

Less than eight hours ago, he had Hermione pressed against the counter with his mouth on her skin, and she’d grasped on to his shirt to pull him closer as if she were afraid he’d walk away, and she had moved her hair because, for however briefly and for whatever reason, she had wanted him back. 

Had. 

Now, she’d spent the last hour doing a stellar job of talking around him, but never to him, answering Ginny and Harry’s questions and giggling with Tonks and devolving into a debate about the application of charms in potion making with Remus as she picked at her breakfast.

She’d responded to the queries about how living together was going with polite platitudes, mentioned that they were getting along just fine, spoken of how comfortable she was working in the library, and even gushed about how much she loved her room, but she hadn’t fucking looked at him once. 

Remus seemed to pick up on the tension—stupid Moony and his stupid, wolfy observational skills—and had been looking between the two of them off and on throughout the meal, though to his credit, he at least had the sense to be subtle about it. Sirius doubted anyone but himself would have picked up on it; he just had the unfortunate pleasure of decades worth of noticing all of Remus’s tells. 

So now, he felt like he was under werewolf-microscrope, and the kitchen was too damn stuffy, and his skin felt too tight, and he was ready for this morning to be over.

He wanted the meal to never end because his position leaned back in his chair at the head of the table gave him the perfect view down her just-low-enough top from where she sat three down to his left. 

He wanted to kick everyone out and bend her over the table. 

He wanted to apologise and promise he’d never cross a line or make her feel uncomfortable again, because he was terrified he’d already reached the point of no return, and the idea of her moving out made him want to vomit. 

Or scream.

Or break something. 

Or break many, many somethings whilst he screamed until he puked all over the place. 

Whichever. 

Sirius nodded along to whatever Harry was saying, but Ginny broke him out of his internal trip down ‘I’m an idiot’ lane with a light shove to his shoulder. 

“Sirius! Are you even listening?” she laughed. 

“No,” he admitted sheepishly, “I zoned out somewhere around the fifth minute of you discussing paint colours.” 

“Oi!” Tonks threw a piece of her scone at him, and he dodged to the side, catching it in his mouth as he shot his younger cousin a wink. She rolled her eyes—clearly displeased he’d thwarted her efforts to pelt him in the head with breakfast food—and continued, “The colour of the nursery is important, you oaf.” 

“I’m sure it is,” Sirius laughed, “I’m also sure I’ll never understand all that nonsense. Best to let you ladies stick to the home design. Gin did a fine job on this place all on her own.” 

“I sure did,” Ginny boasted, “but I love the improvements in Hermione’s room. And so fast! Harry and I just slept in there…what, five nights ago, after the ball? It looks like a whole new room. Hermione, I’m impressed you managed to make it your own so fast.” 

“The room?” At the sound of the confusion in her voice, Sirius whipped his head to the side just in time to see Hermione furrow her brow. 

Shit. 

“Oh, um, I…” She glanced around as if she were at a loss for words, and finally looked at him for the briefest of moments before she turned back to Ginny. “I didn’t decorate it. It was like that when I got here.” 

Double shit. 

“My mistake,” Ginny drawled. She sat back in her chair and took a sip of her orange juice, then smiled. “I just assumed you’d done it yourself. I don’t think you could have designed a more ‘Hermione’ room if you tried.” 

“I thought the same,” Tonks added. She paused as Teddy, who had wandered in from the sitting room after being excused from the table, tugged at her sleeve. He held a hand up to cover his mouth and did a poor job of stage-whispering about whether or not he and James could have a biscuit, and she nodded, rattling off a teasing remark about how they should be sure to get crumbs all over the rug. Once the boys had procured their wares and stumbled back out of the room to continue playing in the box of toys Sirius kept around for them, Tonks turned back to look at him, tilting her head to the side and narrowing her eyes. 

He squirmed under her gaze—the damn witch was always too observant—and watched as a small smirk spread across her face. 

“Well, it’s perfect for you either way, Hermione. Do you think you’ll be staying here a while, or have you started searching for a new place yet?” Tonks asked smoothly.

“I, um…” Hermione paused and glanced over at him again, then looked down at her plate as if she weren’t sure how to answer. 

“She’s staying,” he said, a bit too loudly, then added, “No sense in her rushing out to rent something when her flat will be back in order in a few months. She’s fine here.” 

“Easy, Dadfoot,” Harry teased, nudging his foot under the table, “your protective is showing.” 

Protective. Right. Just a completely normal, not at all deranged, pseudo-father showing concern for his sort-of-son’s friend. That was all. 

“I think it’s brilliant,” Ginny declared. “Let him be a dad about it, Harry, he’s fine. Is that settled then, Hermione? You’re gonna stay here with Daddy?” She emphasised the last word, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Gross!” Tonks pulled an exaggerated look of disgust as she threw another piece of scone at Ginny, who caught it and threw it back. Harry laughed. Remus snorted. Sirius risked a glance over at Hermione, who was still staring down at her plate. The faintest blush crept across her cheeks, and he nearly felt bad for how clearly embarrassed she was—Ginny always had a way of turning everything dirty, though, so he was sure she was used to it. 

Before he could steer the conversation toward something that didn’t make him circle back to the thought of bending her over the breakfast table, Hermione spoke—a teasing tone, clearly playing into Ginny’s witticism—and he forgot how to breathe.

“Whatever Daddy wants.” 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Whatever Daddy wants.

Whatever.

Daddy. 

Wants.

Sirius died once. Sure, it was that sort of half-death veil…thing, but he was, for all intents and purposes, dead all the same.

It had happened so fast he barely had time to register it, a split second of recognition as he locked eyes with Remus while his old friend held their boy back, and then he was gone. 

This, though? This strange back and forth, her little fucking joke on the tails of what had happened in the kitchen just last night? Hermione fucking Granger calling him Daddy? 

This was the slowest, most torturous form of death he thought any man had ever endured. 

Sirius had never fancied himself as someone with a Daddy kink. Sure, a bird had pulled the moniker out of her bag of tricks a time or twelve over the years, back when he was in the glory days of slaghood, and he'd thought it was hot as sin, but he'd never actively felt the need for it, never sought it out. 

Now, though? That one word, from her lips? 

Gods, it took more restraint than he had thought himself capable of not to storm back into the house and throw her over his shoulder so he could take her up to his room and see what it would take to draw another Daddy out of her pretty little mouth. 

Honestly, he had half a mind to do just that, deranged as the idea may have been, but to his relief, the man who had been cock blocking him since they were teenagers intervened. 

“Are you out here being a drama queen in that shaggy head of yours, Pads?” Remus asked as he stepped out into the back garden. 

“Always. And smoking, two birds or what have you.” Sirius held up his hand, showcasing the cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, “Can’t smoke in the house when the littles are underfoot.” 

“We appreciate that.” Remus groaned as he sat down next to Sirius on the steps leading off of the little porch, and Sirius shook his head. 

“Starting to sound like a grandpa, there, Moony.” 

“Better than smelling like a wet dog,” Remus retorted. He laughed in response, then grew somber as he took a drag of his cigarette and looked down to pick at a loose thread along where the sole met the body of his dragonhide boot. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Remus teased, bumping Sirius’ shoulder with his. “New roommate not working out?” 

“That’s erm…that’s the problem. It’s working out too well. Having her here is just making it impossible not to…” He trailed off with a shake of his head and flicked his cigarette into the can next to him, then promptly lit another. 

He wasn’t sure what to say, how to explain the mess his stupid heart had gotten him into this time around, but he should have known better than to underestimate Remus’ perceptiveness. 

“Impossible to pretend you haven’t been head over heels for the girl since the night she walked into Harry’s twentieth birthday party in that little black dress?” Remus surmised. 

“Twenty. Fuck, I’m so old. And a creep, at that. She’s twenty years my junior, Moony.” 

“Tonks is thirteen years younger than me,” Remus began, “and you already know how I handled knowing she was meant to be mine. Fucked it all up, in my usual style. The age thing might be a bit of a larger divide with Hermione, but she’s always been years ahead of her peers anyway. It was rather like teaching a tiny forty-five-year-old when she was my student.” 

“She was your student,” Sirius groaned. “Gods, Moons, I’m so fucked. And she’s Harry’s best friend. What can I even—I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m an old man, what could I even offer her?” 

“The things you don’t know could fill canyons, Pads,” Remus replied. “But I’ve a feeling you could offer her more than you realize.” 

Sirius nodded at that and looked out across the garden, smoking and brooding—his natural state of being, really—as he mulled over Remus’ words. With all due respect to the man who had been his rock since they were kids, their situations could hardly be compared. 

Tonks had been a new face, someone without ties to Remus’ life, save for being Andromeda’s girl, and while he would never discredit the struggle Remus had faced with accepting love, he himself wasn’t exactly a self-loathing werewolf. 

Sirius knew he was fit for his age—fit for any age, really, if admittedly a bit vain. He was rich by societal standards, though he never really spent the money in his vaults. He had a stable home, a comfortable life, and a good family, found as it may have been. 

It was an inarguable fact that Sirius Black had a lot to offer in terms of being a suitable partner to some mildly unlucky lady.

Still, she was Hermione fucking Granger. She was all things good, all things perfect, and she deserved far better than to be tied down to someone’s—well, shit, he was someone's Grandfather.

Gramps, to hear James say it, but it was all the same. 

“She’s too good, Moons,” he whispered. 

“Oh, she’s absolutely too good for you. But since when have you let that stop you?” Remus challenged. When Sirius didn’t respond, he sighed and rose from the steps, grimacing as he twisted to pop his back. “Fine. Deny yourself. But what are you going to do about your obvious obsession with her, then? You’ve always been transparent to me, but even Dora noticed how much you were staring at Hermione through breakfast.” 

Fuck. 

Life would have been a hell of a lot more convenient if Remus didn’t have to be so…godsdamn right this time. He needed to shake this shit, at least to some degree; he needed to find a way to get Hermione out of his damn system. 

At the thought, his mind flashed again to the little witch from the other night. 

Mystery Girl. 

Gods, that’d been a mistake. Not the night, not her, but the part where he let her walk away again. He knew then that he’d regret it, even if he knew nothing real would ever come of it. Maybe that was what he needed, though; Someone else to sink inside of, to forget. 

Maybe, if anything, he’d feel guilty again after the fact, so he could properly avoid another incident like the kitchen counter situation. Luckily for him, he knew just the way to go about it. 

He’d visited a sex club a handful of times over the last few years, though it was primarily just out of curiosity or boredom. He rarely partook in the action, nor was he much of a voyeur, so he’d never been a very frequent patron. Nonetheless, it was a fun way to kill a Friday night or distract himself when it was necessary. 

“I just need to…” he paused, stamping out his cigarette, and gave a resolute nod, then pasted a grin on his face. “I’ll just blow off some steam. Then I’ll be fine.” 

“Blow off some steam,” Remus repeated with a knowing look on his face. “I thought you were done with that place?” 

“Ah, come on, Moons. You know me better than that.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hermione

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

“I love wine night,” Daphne sighed as she leaned back in her chair. 

“You can’t even drink,” Theo laughed. “Honestly, it’s a good thing Hermione and I are literally the best at drinking wine. What would become of us all if we couldn’t drink enough for the whole crew?” 

“We appreciate your service,” Pansy quipped, giving a mock salute before she turned her hand and flipped him off. “Now stop rubbing it in, bitches.” 

“Bitches?” Hermione gasped in mock indignation, clutching her wine glass to her chest. “I have done no…rubbing, thank you very much. That’s all, Theo.” 

“I have been known to give good rub,” Theo replied, nodding sagely. 

“Not since the ball, at least,” Ginny corrected, waggling her eyebrows. 

“That you do,” Hermione responded, reaching over to clink the rim of her wine glass against Theo’s. “And we’re not talking about the ball.” 

“Time and place, chérie.” Theo winked. 

“Wait, are you three still shagging?” Daphne asked with a grimace. “That feels so incestuous.” 

“No, she’s too busy with her new roomie,” Pansy teased. Hermione rolled her eyes, taking another sip of her wine.

“We were never shagging. We, as friends, shared a number of exploratory experiences to better understand ourselves as sexual beings,” Theo said. “And our time of exploration came to an amicable end.”

“So proper,” Ginny tittered. “But you did shag.” 

“Oh, we absolutely did. Backwards, forwards, upside down, and six ways to Sunday,” Hermione laughed. “But we had fun, and that’s all it ever was.”

“For you.” Theo sighed mournfully. “I, for one, am absolutely devastated that I shall never again know the joy of pinning you down in my lap while Draco—” 

“Quaffle!” Daphne interjected, waving her hands. “I shan’t be subjected to any details of your devious dalliances. I call Quaffle.” 

Hermione took another sip of her wine, stifling another laugh. Theo looked over at her and winked, and she reached out to squeeze his hand. For all their joking, what they’d shared had been incredible. Transformative, even. But at the end of the day, she wasn’t the type of girl to be a third, and Draco and Theo only had eyes for one another in terms of romantic love. 

It had been fun. She’d learned so much about herself in the nights spent at Malfoy Manor, and she wouldn’t trade it for the world. A part of her felt as if the entire affair had been exactly what it should have been: a woman in her twenties, exploring her body and figuring out where her boundaries lay in a safe, sane, and consensual environment with people she trusted more than life. 

For Draco and Theo, they’d only been with one another, having discovered their love through late-night dorm room exploration years before the war even started, and while they were more than happy in their marriage, they’d been curious, and she’d been curious, and they’d had their fun. 

But now that fun was over, and she was back to square one, still practically vibrating with the need to push herself, to find that thing she needed so desperately. 

Though, to be fair, she had nearly found it, if only for a single night. And maybe she’d never see the Stranger again, but in the weeks since that night, she’d felt something settle within her. The experience she’d had the night of the ball had been just shy of everything she’d ever wanted. There was still something she couldn’t put her thumb on, a missing link, but it had been as close as she’d ever gotten to that unnameable thing she was searching for. 

But it had only been one night, and there would be no repeat of the event, so she was doing her best to move on—and, for as difficult as it was, to reconcile the inexplicable feeling of guilt she got every time she thought about that night. 

“Earth to Granger,” Pansy said, snapping her fingers. Hermione jolted to attention, her cheeks warming as she glanced around to find all eyes were on her. 

“Shit. I must have zoned out. What were we talking about?” 

“I said, how is the roommate situation going?” Ginny prodded. 

“It’s, erm…very, erm…fine,” Hermione stuttered out. She raised her glass back to her lips and took a large gulp, casting her eyes up to the ceiling. 

It was a godsdamn lie. 

The roommate situation was, undoubtedly, the hardest, most torturous thing she’d ever lived through. Not to be mistaken, living at Grimmauld was nice. Posey was an absolute dream, Winky and Kreacher gave her a wide breadth, and Sirius was a wonderful cook. They had dinner together most nights, engaged in good conversations, and were respectful of one another’s space. 

But he was…there, always, with that stupid hair that made her fingers twitch with the urge to tug on the strands, and he worked out in the godsdamn cellar and came upstairs shirtless and drenched in sweat, and he fucking smiled at her and looked at her and gods, she was losing her mind. 

“Well, you certainly look absolutely fine.” Pansy arched a brow, turning to lay her head in Ginny’s lap. “If your demon spawn kicks me in the head, I’m calling the Aurors.”

“I hope he kicks you twice just for that,” Ginny replied, running a hand through Pansy’s hair. “Hermione, you look so tense all the time lately. Are you sure the roommate thing is working out alright? You know you can always come stay here.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione insisted. “Just…erm, stressed, with work. That’s all.” 

“I think you need to get laid,” Theo said. “You know you’re always welcome back at the Manor.” 

“Hot,” Ginny said.

“Gross,” Daphne groaned.

“I appreciate the offer, Theo. But I’m fine, you guys. I just got laid like…a month ago.” 

“An entire month?!” Pansy screeched. “How are you not dying? We need to get you laid, immediately.” 

“Oh! I could set you up with this new customer at the shop,” Daphne said excitedly. “He’s really—” 

Ginny made an exaggerated gagging noise, causing Daphne to turn in her chair and flip the other woman off. “What? She’s already said she’s sick of blind dates. You know what I think she needs?”

“A hot older man with a ton of money to fuck her on a balcony in Paris?” Pansy offered. 

“Love?” Daphne asked with a dreamy sigh.

“A proper orgy?” Theo questioned.

“Friends who understand the meaning of boundaries?” Hermione supplied.

“Yes, eh, maybe, no,” Ginny answered, waving a hand. “You need to find a stranger, like your guy from the ball.” 

“I don’t—” 

“No, no, hear her out,” Pansy insisted, sitting up and pulling her legs onto the sofa beneath her. “It’s perfect. You’ve been so clear about how burnt out you are with the dating scene, but you’re a hot-blooded woman, Hermione. You have needs, and you should just…go find some hot stranger and get laid.”

“I can’t exactly go find some random person to shag. I’m me,” Hermione insisted, shoving her hair out of her face. “The last thing I need is to let some guy take me home from the pub and find my entire arse splashed across the front page of every gossip rag in the wizarding world.”

“Wait, wait, I understand that, but let’s circle back to Pansy, because I love this idea.” Theo sat straighter in his chair, nodding vigorously. “You know, I can get you an invite to The Scarlet Lounge in an instant. You could even wear that cute mask you wore to the ball, charm your hair, whatever. Nobody would have to know it was you.”

“I am not going to a sex club!” Honestly, the idea was preposterous. Hermione shook her head and downed the rest of her glass, setting it on the side table as she rose to her feet. “I appreciate everyone being so concerned about my vagina—” 

“We just love her,” Theo sighed. “She deserves the world.”

“Exactly. We want the best for her,” Pansy added. “She has earned the right to be loved, Hermione.” 

“I can assure you, I give her plenty of love,” Hermione laughed. “An entire bedside table drawer’s worth of love. Now, can we go get some food and stop talking about my sex life?” 

“You used to be fun,” Ginny grumbled as Pansy stood and helped tug her from the couch.

“I have never been fun.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hermione stepped through the floo, tugging her jumper over her head and reaching down to kick off her shoes. As she straightened, she felt the air in the room shift, and she looked up, her throat going dry. 

Sirius sat in the armchair directly across from the fireplace, clearly fresh from another bloody workout. His sweat-soaked chest heaved in exertion as he took a long pull from a water bottle. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and Hermione—in an act she would later blame on far too many glasses of wine—heard a whimpering gasp seconds before she realised the sound had come from her own mouth. 

Sirius quirked an eyebrow, slowly lowering the waterbottle as he ran his free hand down his chest. Her eyes—the no-good traitors—tracked the movement as he skated his palm over the patch of hair on his chest.

“Alright, Kitten?” He tilted his head, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, and she took a step toward him before she remembered herself and cleared her throat, nodding. 

“I’m fine. Just…wine. I drank it. The wine, and I… and I’m quite dizzy. Because of the wine, so…goodnight,” she rushed out, already turning toward the staircase.

“Sleep well, pretty girl,” Sirius called out after her. 

Pretty. 

Had he actually, truly just called her pretty?  Her mind spun as she bounded up the stairs and into her room. Why had he called her pretty? Did he think she was pretty, or was it just…something he said, like how he called her Kitten or…something? 

Was she losing her bloody mind? 

Why the fuck did someone who looked that good have to always be working out and sweating and—honestly, it was quite whorish of him, to strut around shirtless, whether it was his house or not, and—

And, she was spiralling. 

She was absolutely, positively spiralling, and she needed to stop. She needed to take a shower, and go to bed, and— “I need to get laid,” she murmured, rolling her eyes. 

Before she could talk herself out of it, she crossed the room to her desk, reaching for a quill as she plopped down into the seat. 

  T,

Fine. Get me the godsdamn invite.

H.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕋𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖 𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤 𝕀'𝕧𝕖 

ℍ𝕖𝕝𝕕 𝕚𝕥 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕠𝕘𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣

𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕒 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 

𝕀𝕤 𝕓𝕖𝕘𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕡𝕦𝕝𝕝 𝕞𝕖 𝕒𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕥

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Sirius

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

For a place called The Scarlet Lounge, Sirius would have expected there to be a lot more…red. The first time he’d come here, roughly six months after he returned from his little trip beyond the veil, he’d expected it to be dreadfully gauche; he’d imagined red leather and strobe lights, something more akin to the Muggle SEVs he’d been to. 

But to The Scarlet’s credit, there was no gaudiness to be found. The place could only be described as sleek. With the polished marble floors, long black benches, and crystal chandeliers, he felt more like he was at one of the Manor parties his mother dragged him to in his youth than a seedy sex club. 

Or, it would have felt like that, if not for the low stage in the centre of the room, where a man with a ball gag in his mouth was currently strapped to a table whilst a leather-clad woman cracked a whip against his naked backside. 

The lower levels were never really Sirius’s scene, but the bartender down here had engaged him in a friendly chat, so he’d taken in the show for a while as they talked.

He wasn’t sure what he was in the mood for tonight; honestly, he wasn’t even sure what the hell he was doing here, or why on earth he’d thought this would be a good idea. Every thought he had seemed to circle right back to the fact that he could have been at home with her. But she’d left hours before him, heading off to Pansy’s for reasons he hadn’t bothered to ask—if only because he couldn’t seem to speak to her at all without stumbling over his own tongue ever since she’d said those damn words at brunch a few Sundays back. 

It played on a loop in his mind every time he looked at her.

Whatever Daddy wants. 

Daddy. Daddy, Daddy, and fucking Daddy, over and over, like she’d cast a fucking spell on him, and he knew he had to shake this, so he was here with one mission and one mission only: to fuck Hermione Granger out of his system. 

There was nothing else that could be done. He had to get her out from under his skin, but it was proving nearly impossible. The torrent of emotions that had built up inside his chest in the last few weeks had reached a boiling point, and it didn’t help matters that he still couldn’t stop thinking about that damn snake from the ball. 

He should have gone after her. 

He should have gotten her floo code, asked her for dinner or a coffee or…anything, really. Sure, he knew they’d never be anything real, but she'd seemed to understand that too, and the hours he’d spent with her had been the closest thing to relief he’d felt in ages. 

Honestly, where would the harm have been in seeing her again? They both knew it wouldn’t have gone anywhere, but they’d had their fun, and they could have kept up a good thing. But she’d left, seemingly uninterested, and he hadn’t followed her, so now he was here. 

Nodding his thanks to Eddie the bartender, he accepted another glass of whiskey and adjusted the blue mask on his face as he turned toward the stairs that led up to the third floor of the club. 

Masks were commonplace at The Scarlet. In the past, he’d worn a simple black eye mask, but honestly, he’d liked the way he’d felt at the ball, so he'd donned the same mask tonight. It was as good a cover as any, so he’d tied his hair back, shaved the damn beard—with a vow to himself that it would be the last time—and put on a suit, though he’d forgone the tie and merely glamoured away the tattoos on his collarbone. 

He felt…decent, though wholly unlike himself. But perhaps that was a good thing, tonight, in this place. 

When he reached the top of the stairs, Sirius moved to lean back against the wall, sipping his drink as he surveyed the room. There was another stage in the centre of the room that held a large St. Andrew’s Cross and a spanking bench, though the stage was currently empty. On either side sat a smaller, raised platform, each housing a pole, and each adorned with beautiful women—a set of twins, he realised upon closer inspection—currently sliding around the metal in tandem, as if performing a practised routine. 

It likely was practised; there was an art form to most of what went on here, especially amongst the regular patrons. He appreciated that about The Scarlet as opposed to the two other places he’d tried after his first visit here; being here felt a lot less like being a voyeuristic pervert and a lot more like being a patron of the arts, strange as it sounded to even think such a thing. 

There were several people watching the women dance, a couple practically mauling each other in one of the low, leather armchairs that set around the first stage, and what looked to be a small group of businessmen sitting between the two stages, their heads on a constant swivel. 

But it was the woman in a long, high-necked black gown who stood with her back to him as she seemed to be examining the centre stage that drew his attention. Formal attire was a requirement of the club, but the term held a loose interpretation. Most of the women wore silk gowns cut all the way to the navel in the front, delicate scraps of lace, and the like. 

But this woman, with her long, dark hair draped over one shoulder, didn’t seem to be interested in catering to the gaze of those around her. But she did all the same; there was something almost magnetic about her, and he found himself pushing off the wall, taking another long sip of his firewhisky as he watched her slowly walk around the stage.

She turned a corner, a flash of silver falling into his line of vision as her face became obscured by one arm of the large, wooden X. He neared the stage, pausing about a metre away as his eyes followed her movements. She tilted her head down, her hair falling like a curtain over the side of her face and momentarily obscuring her from view as he moved closer. 

As she rounded the corner of the stage, she looked up, giving him a full view of her silver-and-emerald mask, and he felt his fist tighten around the glass in his hand, his breath hitching as their eyes locked.

She let out a small gasp of surprise, her jaw dropping open before she quickly closed it and narrowed her eyes, as if she were unsure if she could believe what she saw in front of her. Sirius gave her a moment to recover before he took a few steps closer, stopping directly in front of her as he reached out, impulsively tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“Hi-ya, Mystery Girl.” He grinned. “Come here often?”

Her eyes brightened, a smile spreading across her face. “Hi-ya, Stranger. Use cheesy pick-up lines on random girls often?” 

“Are you considered random if,” he cast a glance to the side, ensuring they were out of ear sight before he lowered his voice, “I’ve already been inside of you?” 

“So it really is you.” She looked almost giddy at the thought, which made something ache inside his chest.

“And it’s finally you,” he retorted. 

“Finally?” She raised an eyebrow and reached out, taking the glass from his hand. Pressing it to her lips, she tilted her head back and took a drink, and there was something in the action—be it the boldness, or the fact that she didn’t even grimace when she swallowed the burning, amber liquid—that just…clicked something into place in his mind. 

Oh, he was absolutely going to fuck her tonight. 

Thank the fucking gods he found her.

“Finally,” he echoed with a nod, reaching over to take his drink back. “Don’t pretend you’ve been able to get me out of your mind, either.” 

“I must not—” she cut herself off quickly, lifting one shoulder in a shrugging motion. “I cannot lie. I have definitely thought of you. I mean…I meant what I said. I know we could never…” 

She trailed off, seemingly searching for the right words to say, but he didn’t need to hear the rest to know what she meant.

“I know.” Sirius turned and set his glass down on a nearby table and then reached for her hand, guiding her down into one of the chairs before he took the seat next to her. 

“I know,” he repeated. “Things with my…situation…my person, it’s gotten even more complicated. So I know this would be a bad idea.” 

“A terrible idea,” she agreed, reaching for the glass again. “But…”

“But…?” he prompted, watching her throat bob as she swallowed. 

“But we both know what we could never be. And we’re both here, tonight…” she trailed off again, letting the implication hang in the air, and he nodded. 

“Which brings me to my previous—albeit cheesy—question: Do you come here often?” Sirius asked, accepting the glass back as she passed it to him. He took a drink, downing the rest of the whisky as he waited for her response. 

“Never,” she admitted. “I let a friend talk me into coming.” 

“Is your friend here?” He felt a sudden, inexplicable wave of something possessive wash over him as he glanced around, but she merely let out a laugh. 

“Oh gods, no. The friend wanted to come, but I just needed…to explore, I guess. To see what it was without the pressure of knowing someone I knew was watching me,” she explained. 

“That makes perfect sense.” 

“So, what about you?” she pressed. “Do you come here often?” 

“Not recently,” he replied noncommittally. “I’ve spent my fair share of evenings here, but it's not something I do with any frequency. It’s been quite a while since I’ve come.” 

“Has it?” she teased, arching an eyebrow.

“Brat,” he quipped, settling back into the chair as he placed one foot on the opposite knee. “So what do you think?” 

“I think a lot of things, Stranger,” she replied. 

“See? You really are quite the brat, aren’t you?” he laughed, shaking his head. He lifted his hand slightly, the automatic urge to run his fingers through his hair kicking in, but he quickly corrected the action and reached for the glass. Picking it up, he tapped it against the table twice and then gave it a spin, watching as the glass refilled. 

“That’s incredible,” she laughed. 

“That’s magic, sweetheart.” He held the glass out to her, his eyes tracking the movement of her hand as she accepted it. “Now, what I meant was, what do you think about the club? Have you discovered anything you like during your…exploration?” 

“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted. “Though I do have to say, this is not the meet-cute I imagined us having.”

“Hey now,” he chuckled. “This is the cutest of meets.” 

“You might be right.” Her smile widened, and she tilted her head. “As for the club, I…well, I was trying to figure out what all of that is, honestly,” she said, waving a hand toward the centre stage.”

“Oh, it’s…BDSM equipment. That means—” 

“Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, Sadism and Masochism,” she fired off. “The D and S pull a lot of weight, I suppose.” 

“Do they ever?” he laughed. “Well, the big, X-like structure is known as a St. Andrew’s Cross. Do you see the straps on either end?” When she nodded in confirmation, he continued, “The person—the submissive, in this case—places their arms and legs against the wood, and the dominant secures them in place with the straps, and then they play.” 

“And then they play,” she repeated, drawing the words out as she flicked her eyes back to him and then nodded toward the stage. “And the bench…thing?”

“Ah, that’s simple,” he replied, taking the glass from her hands to take a drink before he clarified, “It’s a spanking bench.”

“Spanking?” She looked surprised, yes, but there was something in her voice that sounded a lot like interest, and he felt his cock twitch inside his trousers, stirring to life at the mere thought of her being interested.

“Spanking,” he repeated. “Do you like to be spanked, Mystery Girl?” 

“I—I’m not sure,” she whispered. “I mean, I’ve had my arse smacked—”

“And bitten, if memory serves.”

“And that. But I’ve never really thought about being…spanked, spanked.” 

“But you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?” He took another step forward, reaching out to trail his fingers along her jaw. 

“Yes,” she admitted, leaning into his touch. 

“Would you like me to spank you, Mystery Girl?” Sirius turned in his chair, cupping her jaw in his hand. 

“Yes,” she repeated, her eyes darting to the side before she looked back at him. “But…here? In front of all of these people?” 

“Do you trust me?” he asked softly.

“Somehow, I do. Which is absolutely insane,” she said with a laugh. “I barely even know you, but…yes, Stranger. I trust you.” 

“Well then…” He leaned in, pressing his lips to her forehead before he pulled back and shot her a grin. “What do you say we do some exploring, sweetheart?”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hermione

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Hermione stepped onto the stage, her trembling hand held tightly in his as he followed her up and guided her toward the low bench.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, releasing her hand to stand behind her. He ran his palms up her bare forearms, sending a shiver down her spine, and honestly, there was nothing she could do but be honest. 

“Yes,” she admitted.

The Stranger leaned in, pressing an almost tender kiss to her temple before he murmured, “Good. That will make this even better. Would you like to use the colour system again, or would you prefer to set a safeword?” 

“The colours,” she responded. “If that’s alright with you.” 

“Of course.” He took her chin into his hand, gently turning her to face him as he ran a thumb over her lower lip. “Just breathe, sweetheart. It’s just us, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” she whispered, her eyes darting down to the bench. “How do I…?”

“You put your knees here, on this lower part. The padding should make it all fairly comfortable. Then you’ll lean over the top part, here,” he instructed, running a hand over the larger portion of the bench. “And your elbows go on the other side. This is a magical club, though.” 

“Oh, is it?” She blinked up at him innocently, fighting back a smirk when she watched his tongue flick over his top teeth, a smile curling across his lips. 

“Such a fucking brat,” he murmured. “Get on your fucking knees, sweetheart.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied primly as she stepped away. She placed a hand on the top of the bench and walked in a slow circle around it, and he tracked the movement, folding his hands together in front of his waist as he gave her time to follow the command. 

As she rounded the bench to stand in front of him, she watched as a few of the club’s patrons—an older couple, and a small group of men—moved closer to settle into the surrounding chairs, and she tensed, looking over her shoulder. 

The Stranger took a step forward, taking her chin into his hand again, and she could have sworn she caught the faintest hint of something familiar—just the slightest whiff of leather and sandalwood, but it was lost beneath the admittedly delicious cologne he wore. 

Her mind spun, conjuring an array of images in an instant—her back against the counter, Sirius looming over her as his eyes burned with something she’d almost fooled herself into believing was the same need she felt, Sirius shirtless, his chest soaked in sweat, Sirius and Sirius and Sirius—but she forced a breath, shoving them away as she looked up, meeting his eyes beneath the mask. 

“It’s just us,” her Stranger repeated softly. “Are you sure you want to do this here?” 

“I want to,” she responded, wrapping her hand around his wrist. “I need to. It’s just us.” 

“Good girl,” he murmured, releasing his hold on her face as he took a step back.  “Now,” he continued, his voice hardening. “I believe I told you to get on your knees.” 

Hermione hid her smile, dipping her chin to her chest, and turned to follow the instruction. Bracing a hand atop the bench, she sank down to her knees and sat back on her heels. She knew from his explanation that the expectation was for her to lean over the bench, but she wanted—no, she needed him to guide her, if only because there was something so bloody freeing about just being able to listen instead of decide. 

“Very good, pet,” he praised as he stepped up behind her and ran a hand through her too-straight hair. “Do I have your permission to lift your skirt above your hips, or would you prefer to remain covered?” 

“I…I would like to keep my knickers on,” she responded. “But you can pull it up.”

“Good girl. Lift up for me,” he instructed, bending down to reach for the hem of her dress. Hermione lifted one knee, then the other, allowing him to tug the fabric upward as she sent yet another fashion-related thanks to Pansy, as the job proved easy with the high slits on either side of her gown. 

Once the material pooled around her waist, he ran a hand up her back, flattening his palm against the space between her shoulder blades. “There is a box to your left. Do you see it?” 

Hermione glanced to the side, taking in the sight of a wooden crate, roughly half the size of her old Hogwarts trunk. “Yes, sir.” 

“There are a number of tools in the box. Floggers. Straps. A few paddles, a crop. Would you like me to use one of them on you?” 

Hermione didn’t answer at first, chewing on her lower lip as she continued to stare at the box. That wasn’t what she needed. Not tonight, at least. She’d played around with certain things, tried them on for size, of course. Draco was a rather big fan of toys. But now? Here, with this man?

No, that wouldn’t do at all. 

“I would like you to use your hands, sir,” she finally answered. 

“Gods, I was hoping you’d say that,” he responded, his voice sounding tight as he pressed his hand harder against her back. “Bend over and place your elbows on the other side.” 

Hermione leaned in, doing as she was told as she felt him tugging her skirt up higher. He let out a satisfied hum, sounding half-surprised, and she looked over her shoulder to find him staring down at her arse—nearly bare, save for the thin strings of the thong she’d worn. 

“Such a perfect little slut,” he murmured, running his hands over her arse before he grabbed her by the hips. “Turn your head back around and arch your back for me.”

Hermione listened again, because gods, he made it so easy to listen, and his accent was almost exactly right, and if she closed her eyes—

No. Focus. Just let one fucking thing not be about him. 

Drawing in a breath, she dug her elbows into the padded leather and let her eyes drift shut, ignoring the small crowd that had gathered to watch them. It’s only us. 

“I’m going to give you ten,” the Stranger informed her. “I want you to count them aloud. What is your colour right now?” 

“Green.” 

“Wonderful. If it changes, you are to let me know.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Are you ready to begin?” he asked, running his hands over the fleshy globes of her arse again. He gave her a firm squeeze, and she let out a small whine as she nodded.

“Use your words, pet.” 

“Yes. I’m ready.” 

He didn’t respond, and she braced herself for impact, screwing her eyes shut tightly as she waited…and waited…and waited, suspended in stillness for so long that she was beginning to doubt that he’d move at all. 

Just as she went to turn her head, intending to make sure he was even still behind her, she felt his hand come down on her arse with a hard, audible thwack, and she jolted, rocking her hips forward against the bench. 

Her eyes popped open, immediately locking with an ethereal-looking woman in a blush-coloured dress, who was leaning forward in her seat, watching with keen interest as the man next to her stroked her back. Hermione let out a surprised squeak, squeezing her eyes shut again as she felt her cheeks burn. 

“Count them, pet,” the Stranger reminded her, his hand gently rubbing at the spot where he’d spanked her. 

“O-one, sir,” she whispered. 

“Good girl. Louder next time. Don’t make me tell you again.” His hand fell away, only to return in an instant, cracking down on her opposite arsecheek even harder than the previous slap.

The noise she made this time was nothing short of lewd, and much to her mortification—and, admittedly, her fascination—she could feel her knickers growing wetter at the impact. 

“Two.” 

“Such an obedient little slut.” Smack. 

“Three,” she gasped, the number slipping out as more of a whimper than a word.

“Colour?” he murmured. Running his hand over her arse, he let his fingers brush over the sodden lace between her thighs, and she moaned softly, nodding. 

“Green, sir. Another, please.” 

He let out a hum of approval, pressing his fingers against her clothed cunt as if to emphasise that he knew the effect he was having on her before he withdrew, only to bring his hand back down again, and again. 

“Four.”

“Five.” 

“S—oh, fuck, six,” she moaned, dropping her head to rest her chin on her chest as she gasped. 

“Breathe, pet.” Both of his hands moved across her tender flesh, gently massaging her as his thumbs slid against the undoubtedly drenched fabric of her knickers, and she moaned again, her eyes flying open once more. 

More people had gathered now. A large, leather-clad woman, a man wearing a gaudy silk shirt with the buttons left completely open, one of the women she’d seen dancing on the smaller stages when she came in, and a few more still, over a dozen pairs of eyes on them, but she was surprised to find she didn’t care. 

If anything, some sarcastic part of her mind was glad that literally anyone else could see how bloody insane this man was, in the way he could take her apart in an instant. Where she’d expected to feel embarrassed, ashamed, she only found herself needing more, no matter how many people watched. 

“More. I’m ready, please, sir.” 

“So sweet when you beg, pet,” he responded in a tone almost akin to reverence as his hands left her skin once more. She whined in protest, arching her back to present her arse to him, and she could have sworn the sound he made was nearly a growl as his heavy palm slammed down against her arse. 

“Seven.”

“Eight, I—oh, gods, yellow,” she screeched as the next slap landed directly over her cunt. 

“Alright, pet?” he asked, running a hand over her spine. 

Hermione nodded, then shook her head before she nodded again. 

“Not there, please.” 

“Alright,” he repeated. “Thank you for letting me know. Just the arse, then. You’ve only got two left, sweetheart. Can you take it?” 

“I can take it,” she replied. “I will.” 

“So very eager to please, Mystery Girl,” he said with a bit of a laugh. He delivered the last two smacks in rapid succession, the final one seemingly harder than all the rest combined. 

The very moment the word “Ten”  escaped her lips, she collapsed against the bench, panting for breath. It was strange; it almost felt like her body had given up the second she knew it was over, like she’d been holding herself together, stretched thinner than she realised for far longer than she’d been positioned on the bench. 

Tears pooled in her eyes, blurring her vision, and she sniffled, raising a hand to swipe them away. She couldn’t explain it; she wasn’t sad, she wasn’t hurt. No, it was something different entirely, though she couldn’t quite put her thumb on it. 

“You’re alright, sweetheart. You did so well. It's perfectly normal to drop after a scene, okay? I've got you. Let it out.” He stroked a soothing hand down the side of her face before he gently guided her up onto her knees. Stooping down, he hooked an arm under her thighs to lift her bridal-style into his arms.

He carefully stepped off the stage, making a beeline for the L-shaped bench in the corner of the room as he held her securely in her arms. Once he’d reached the bench, he turned and took a seat, still holding on to her as he pressed his lips to her forehead, one hand sliding down to gently rub her arse, and she could only melt into his hold as he remained silent, giving her time to recover.

“Thank you,” she murmured, after a few quiet minutes. “I swear, I’m not sad, I don’t know why I got all…teary.”

“It’s perfectly normal after a scene. You were brilliant. How do you feel, sweetheart?” Reaching for her chin, he tilted her head back, forcing her eyes to his.

“So good,” she replied, a contented sigh escaping her lips. “It was a lot but…I really liked it.” 

“You did so well.” 

Hermione felt herself bloom back to life at the praise, all her previous exhaustion gone as she blushed, and he grinned, leaning in to brush his lips over hers as he murmured. “Such a good fucking girl.” 

“Gods, if you keep talking like that…” she trailed off. Glancing over her shoulder, she was glad to see the attention of the room at large had turned away from them once more.

“There are private rooms on the fifth floor,” he began, looking back down at her. “Would you like to—I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but—”

“Yes,” she rushed the response, then giggled, nodding. “I would really, really like to.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕚 𝕦𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕠 𝕨𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖 𝕞𝕪 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖

𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕓𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖

𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕚 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕨𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖 𝕚𝕥

𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Hermione

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

The Stranger gently guided her off his lap, running his hands up her sides and straightening her dress before he rose to lace his fingers with hers. 

“Will you be alright climbing the stairs?” he asked, nodding toward the staircase to their right. “If you’re sore, there are spells that can help—”

“No.” Hermione blushed and reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear. She overshot at first, grabbing blindly at the air next to her head before she redirected and found the errant lock of straight hair. “I, erm…I like that I can still feel you.”

“Is that right?” he murmured. He furrowed his brow as his eyes roved over her face, looking rather like he was trying to figure something out before he seemed to dismiss whatever it was with a slight shake of his head. 

“It is,” Hermione admitted. “After the ball, I could barely sit straight for a few days, and I found I quite liked the little reminders.”

“Godsdamn, sweetheart, if we don’t get you to a room right now, I’m going to take you on this couch for everyone to see.” He let out a strained, breathy laugh, uttering something too low for her to parse out as he reached down, lacing his fingers with hers to tug her toward the stairs. “Do you have a preference for what type of room we use?” 

“I wasn’t aware there were types,” Hermione replied. “I’ve…explored, as far as kinks go, but never anything like this, so honestly, I wouldn’t even know what to expect from the types of rooms.” 

“That’s okay. I can give you the tour, sweetheart,” he reassured her as they began to ascend the winding staircase.

“A tour?” She laughed as they reached the top of the staircase and tilted her head playfully. “Are you an expert, then?” 

“In many things, yes,” he shot back with an air of confidence that she could feel, down to the very core of her being—and, from the sting in her backside—he had every right to possess. “But as far as my experience here goes, if you’re asking if I’ve ever made use of the private rooms myself, the answer is no. I’ve simply observed.”

“Observed?” Hermione sank her teeth into her lower lip as she tried to process the thinly-veiled revelation. She’d assumed, from the expertise he’d shown on stage, that this was a common habit for him. Something about the fact that he’d broken his typical habit of observation for her made pride swell in her chest.

She felt…special. 

Which was, undoubtedly, a really fucking dangerous thing to feel, and she had to take a breath, reminding herself this was just one night.

“Observed,” he repeated with a nod. “Not to be mistaken, I’ve had my dalliances. But being at the club for me, it’s more…a way to blow off some steam, as my good friend calls it. A relaxed environment, people in their natural element, giving in to their basest desires. I’ve engaged in some play, but I’ve never taken it to a private space.” 

“You didn’t have to tell me that,” Hermione said, fighting back the inexplicable wave of jealousy she felt. She didn’t like it, not one bit—neither the idea that he may have taken other women on stage, done what he’d done with her, that others may have seen him with someone else in that setting, nor the way it made her stomach twist. 

She had no right to feel this way; she didn’t even know the bloke, and this was all just supposed to be a bit of fun. But he was too close. Try as she might to shove it down, the similarities were there, and she knew she was projecting all those twisted-up, bent-out-of-shape, Sirius fucking Black feelings onto the Stranger, and that—well, that just wouldn’t do. 

“But I appreciate that you did,” she added, forcing a smile as she glanced down the hallway. “As for the rooms…Honestly, I just think something simple would be best, if that’s alright with you?” 

“Simple. I like that.” He smiled down at her, and her brain tipped upside down again, the familiarity of the curve of his lips, the way the glittering of the candlelight bouncing off the crystal chandelier overhead almost made his eyes look grey beneath the blue mask—

Fuck, I need to stop.

He led her down the hall, and she followed behind, staring down to watch her heels tap against the marble as she cleared her mind. 

I need this. 

There is nothing wrong with this. 

I am a grown woman who is not beholden to a man who does not want me. 

I deserve this. 

I am going to let this man fuck me within an inch of my life.

I definitely deserve that.

She snort-laughed at the last thought as he came to a stop in front of an ordinary wooden door and paused with his hand on the knob to look back over his shoulder. 

“Something funny?” he asked with an amused smile. 

“My internal monologue can be quite ridiculous,” she admitted. He nodded at that, as if he understood, and turned his attention back to the door, pushing it open before he stepped aside to let her enter. 

The room was nice. A large, frameless bed sat against the wall opposite the door. There was a bench that ran the length of the mattress, pushed up against the end with another low, leather chair positioned directly opposite, and she stepped up behind it, running her hand along the back. 

“Odd place for a chair,” she mused. 

“Ah, that’s, erm…that’d be the cuck chair,” he laughed.

“The cu—oh.” Hermione laughed as well, shaking her head before she turned to face him. “You know, I think I quite liked that, downstairs.”

“Oh?” He took a step closer, cocking his head to the side. “What part, Pet? Being exposed? Bending over on stage and knowing that everyone was watching?”

“Not quite. Or…that’s not wrong, but it's more to the point that I, um…I liked that everyone got to see that you were the one doing it.” She felt a warmth rising to her cheeks again as she admitted, “And I liked that everyone knew that I was behaving for you.”

“You were so well behaved for me, pet,” he murmured, running his hands up her bare forearms.

“And then you took care of me,” she added, her voice breathy even to her own ears. “I liked that, too.” 

“Do you need someone to take care of you, sweetheart?” He took her face into his hands, and Hermione let her eyes drift closed as she gave a slight nod.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered softly. When she opened her eyes, he smiled, running his thumbs along the lower edge of her mask where it rested below her cheekbones. “Good girl. Now, answer the question: Do you need to be taken care of?”

“I do,” she confessed. “I think I need…I need it both ways, though. Out there, the way that you—and then the after, I—” 

“You’re a submissive,” he said, as casually as if he were speaking a well-known fact. “You liked submitting to me because of the power exchange; I was in control of the scene, but only because you allowed me the honour of taking over. And then after, when I held you, you liked the aftercare because it helped bring you back down to earth. Is that correct?”

“That’s exactly what it feels like,” she replied. “And I think I am. A submissive, I mean. I’ve always known I have submissive tendencies. But that was next-level shit.” 

“That was next-level shit.” He laughed and released his hold on her face, turning to walk over toward where a couch sat pushed against the wall. He set his whisky glass on the side table, and Hermione felt a faint pulse of magic. 

Before she could ask what he’d cast, he slipped off his suit jacket and turned back around, carefully rolling his sleeves as he began to slowly walk toward her, and she found herself immediately distracted as she watched him bear his forearms. 

“Do you know that’s literally one of the slaggiest things a man can do?” she asked teasingly. 

“Have forearms?” He took another step closer, then another, backing her up against the bench, and she giggled. 

“When they look like that, yes. But I was referring to the ‘rolling up the sleeves’ bit,” she laughed, nodding down to the bare skin. His forearms were a work of art; thick, veiny, the perfect amount of body hair—honestly, it was a crime that he could manage to be this attractive when she hadn’t even seen his face. 

She raised her arms at the thought, fingertips pressing against her mask, and his eyes tracked the movement before he reached out to tug her hand away. “It’s alright. We can keep them on,” he reassured her.

“Thank you. I’m just…recognisable, sometimes,” she admitted. 

“We have that in common, then.” Her interest piqued at that, brow furrowing beneath her mask as she looked him over again, but she deliberately shoved the curiosity away. This was about them—masked up, in this room, just as he’d said the night of the ball. 

Who they were outside of these four walls didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

“Sit down on the bench,” he commanded sharply. Hermione blinked in surprise, thrown off guard at the sudden command, but she listened all the same, taking another step back before she lowered herself onto the leather bench. 

“Good girl,” he praised as he took the seat opposite her, propping a foot on his leg. He shot a hand out, summoning the glass of whisky from the side table, and brought it to his lips to take a sip before he passed it to her. “Now, I believe I asked you a question.”

“A question?” Hermione raised the glass to her mouth and took a drink before the realisation dawned on her. “Oh. Right. The, erm…care thing. The submissive thing. I suppose I—I do need to be taken care of. Like that. Sometimes.” 

“You’re nervous,” he stated. “I like that.” 

“Well, I’m glad you do,” Hermione laughed, leaning forward to hand back his drink. 

He remained silent for a moment, his jaw clenching as he stared off to the side, seemingly lost in thought. Hermione waited, giving him time to work out whatever was going on in his head—if only because she understood that, at least for her part—

“This is a lot.” 

“I was just thinking the same thing,” she laughed. 

“I know I can’t give you more than this,” he admitted, his eyes meeting hers. “Even if…well fuck, sweetheart, every second I spend with you makes me wish I could.”

“I don’t need more,” Hermione reassured him. “I…I can’t have more. And I could never give you more either.” She drew in a breath, steeling her resolve. “But I quite like what we have. The anonymity, the lack of strings. The freedom to explore. I think I’d like to see you again, and I think I quite like the way you took care of me.” 

“Sweetheart,” he crooned, his voice taking on a teasing edge as he added, “Are you saying you want to be my fuck buddy?”

“Sure,” Hermione shrugged. “Call it what you want. I’m saying I like the way you made me feel that night. And I like the way you make me feel tonight. And I’d quite like a space where I can feel like everything isn’t so bloody—well, honestly, you have this way about you that almost manages to shut my mind off. You’ve no idea how freeing that feels.” 

“Trust me, I get it.” He reached down, setting the glass on the floor next to his chair before he straightened, scratching his fingers along his jaw. “You know, there are a lot of…arrangements in this world. A dominant and a submissive will often seek each other out, develop a dynamic together, and it can be far removed from any sort of actual romanticism. It’s about…need. And I think we could give one another what we need, pet.” 

“I think so, too.”

He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees as he met her eyes. “Then tell me what it is you need.” 

“I need…I need exactly what you have been. I need someone who will make me feel all of those things. The pain, the rush, the fever of being controlled. And then…the aftercare. Both worlds, I suppose.” 

“Both worlds.” He reached out, placing a hand on her knee. “Would you like me to take care of you now, sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir,” Hermione breathed. 

“Is that what you wish to call me?” He pulled away and stood, his hands falling to the buckle of his belt, and she felt her pulse begin to race. She didn’t know how to answer; she didn’t know if there was any specific way she was supposed to answer, and something within her needed to get it right, to please him.

“Do you have a preference?” she asked. 

“I—gods, I can’t believe I’m admitting it,” he said, half to himself as he cast his eyes to the ceiling for a moment before looking down at her. “There are a number of things you could call me. I want it to be something you’re comfortable with. Sir, Master…I quite like it when you call me Stranger. Though there is something else that I’ve recently found to be…intriguing.” 

His voice lilted on the last word, and somehow, she knew in an instant, but she needed to hear him say it; needed the permission to know the word she’d whispered in the night when her thoughts turned back to a similar, but very different man from the one who stood in front of her.

“I think I’d like to hear you say it,” she said, swallowing through the sudden dryness in her throat.

“I think…” he trailed off, his chest heaving as he drew in a sharp breath. “I think I’d like it if you called me Daddy. Even just…to see how it feels.”

“Daddy,” she whispered, trying the word on for size. She felt her face warm again as she squeezed her thighs together, and he let out a low chuckle before he took a step toward her.

“Oh, my girl likes that, doesn’t she?” he said in a soothing tone, reaching out to run his fingers through her hair as he brushed it back off her shoulder. 

“Yes,” she admitted.

“And you’ll let Daddy take care of you, won’t you, sweetheart?” 

“Yes, Daddy.” She felt a strange wave of emotion at the word. It was hard; half-freeing, half-damning, and altogether overwhelming. She needed this; she’d known it, hadn’t she? Hadn’t the word slipped out when she touched herself, when she thought of him?

But it had only ever spilt from her lips because of him, and the man before her was anything but, but…

Fuck it. 

I deserve this. 

“I’ll be very good for you, Daddy,” she said.

“Fuck, I know you will, Pet.” He stepped away, reaching for his belt again, and slowly slid the leather out of the clasp before he let his hands fall away. “On your knees, love. Take Daddy’s cock out.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sirius

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

He expected her to hesitate, to take a moment, but she didn’t show a single ounce of uncertainty as she slipped off the bench and fucking crawled to him, closing the distance between them before she sat back on her heels. 

Her hands moved at a nearly greedy pace as she pulled down the zipper of his trousers and gently tugged the fabric down his hips. His cock sprang free, and she gasped, darting her eyes up to his face. 

“You’ve already proven you can handle me, sweetheart,” he reassured her, trailing his fingers along her jaw. 

“I know,” she replied, tilting her head to lean into his touch. “It’s just a lot to have it…in my face. It’s daunting.” 

“Well, if it’s that scary, then I’d surmise that the only solution is for you to swallow it so you don’t have to look at it.”

“You’re so crass,” she laughed. 

“True,” he agreed easily, sliding his hand down to drift over the side of her neck before he tangled his fist into the hair at her nape, gripping the soft, silky strands tightly. “And you are far too talkative for someone who should already have their mouth full.” 

“I love it when you say things like that.” She reached out, taking his cock into her hand, and gave an experimental squeeze. Sirius looked down to watch her, his eyes going wide as he took in the way her fingers barely touched when she wrapped them around his shaft. 

There was nothing small about this woman, save for her height; she was all curves, fleshy in the best of ways, with a body that reminded him exactly of—fuck. 

This was going to be impossible, wasn’t it? To focus on her alone, his Mystery Girl. 

But there was something about her that made him want to focus. He needed to give her every bit of his attention, in this moment, just as desperately as he needed to force all thoughts of a certain curly-haired woman he could never have out of his mind. 

He was here, in the present, and she deserved his focus, so he focused his mind, carefully putting up the wall he’d built and rebuilt a million times over in the last few years. 

“Just like that,” he encouraged as she darted her tongue out, flattening it over the leaking head of his cock while she cast her eyes up to his face as if looking for reassurance. “Fuck, you look so pretty like this, on your knees for me.” 

“Thank you, Daddy.” She gave him another lick and then took his cock into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks. Sirius tightened his grip on her hair and brought his other hand up to wrap around the side of her throat, holding her in place as he slowly withdrew his cock and then gave a single, hard thrust. 

She gagged, and he began to pull away, but she shook her head the best that she could and grabbed his hip, pressing her face closer to him. He could feel the thick head of his cock nudging against the back of her throat, and he let out a staggered breath. “Fuck, your mouth feels so good, ki–keep still,” he quickly corrected, glancing up at the ceiling as he tried to get his stupid, traitorous thoughts to stop spinning. 

It’s not her. 

Don’t be a fucking prat. 

Don’t be the guy who shags a bird while he thinks of someone else. 

Don’t be a dick. 

It’s not her.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he murmured, looking back down at her. He watched as her eyes took on a shine beneath her silver mask as she preened at the praise, and he felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah, Daddy’s girl loves to hear how good she is, don’t you?” he continued, slowly tilting his hips back before he thrust forward again. She let out a hum of agreement, and he drew in a hissing breath through his teeth as the action sent a wave of vibrations through his cock. 

“I’m going to fuck your face now,” he instructed. “Keep your hand right there. One tap for yellow, two for red. Squeeze my hip and show me you understand.” 

She followed the order, squeezing once, and he continued, “I’m not going to take it easy on you, pet, because I know you can take it. Relax your throat and breathe through your nose.” 

She gave him another squeeze, and he began to move, gripping her hair harder, tighter as he drove his cock into her mouth at a brutal pace. She took it all, gagging on the impact and letting out a breath that ghosted over his cock every time he pulled back. 

Snapping his hips, he let out a groan and pushed deeper, squeezing her neck as he pushed and pushed until he felt his cock slide down her throat. She barely even reacted, her eyes locked on his face as she continued to take even breaths through her nose, and he nearly came undone on the spot. 

“Good girl.” He moved his hand to the front of her throat, huffing out a disbelieving laugh as he felt the slight bulge of his cock. “Fuck, you’re so perfect, pet.” 

Sirius dropped his hand from her hair and withdrew his cock, reaching down to wrap a hand around his shaft. She whined in protest, and he had to give himself a hard squeeze as he tried to think about literally anything short of blowing his load all over the delicate silver mask on her face, of watching his spend drip down her cheeks, over her jaw—

“Fuck, you drive me mad,” he rasped, jerking his head toward the bed. “In the centre. Get ready for me.” 

She scrambled to her feet, turning in an instant, and began to crawl onto the bed. She moved slowly, deliberately, and he fought back a laugh. “You keep showing off that perfect arse, and I’m going to sink my teeth into it,” he warned. 

“Maybe that’s exactly what I want,” she rebutted as she turned to kneel on the bed before him. She pushed up on her knees, reaching for the hem of her dress, and began to tug it up. Sirius placed a knee on the bed, his hand still tightly gripping his cock as he crawled toward her. 

He reached out, grabbing her wrist as she moved to pull the dress higher, and shook his head. “Clothes on,” he told her. “If I see all of you, I—” 

“It’s okay. I know.” She cleared her throat, glancing away for a moment before she looked back up at him, fire blazing in her dark eyes. “Are you going to kneel there clutching your cock like it’s about to run away, or are you going to—ahhh!” 

She broke off into a squeal when he lunged forward, knocking her back against the bed. Sirius covered her body with his and shoved a hand between her legs, roughly tugging the tiny excuse for a pair of knickers to the side, digging his fingers into her thigh and shoving her legs open as he settled between them. 

“Stop running your fucking mouth and take Daddy’s cock,” he ordered, snapping his hips as he filled her in a single, hard thrust. 

“Holy fucking fuck,” she gasped, one hand flying up to brace against the wall behind the bed as she arched her back, taking him deeper. “Just like that. Please don’t stop.” 

“Fuck yes,” he gritted out, sitting back on his heels to grab her by the hips. He lifted her pelvis from the bed, and she shifted, planting her feet against the mattress. Sirius looked down to where they were joined, watching as he dragged his cock out until only the tip remained inside of her, and then he went still, holding her there. 

“Move,” she whined, trying to rock her hips in his hold. “Please, please, I need you to move.” 

“There it is.” He moved forward, slowly sinking another inch of his cock inside of her impossible tightness, watching as she stretched around him. “I fucking love the way you beg, sweetheart. Ask me proper, and I’ll give you what you need.” 

He drove deeper, rolling his hips forward at a languid pace, and she gasped, nodding as she gripped his forearm, her nails digging into his flesh. “Please, Daddy. Fuck me. Make it hurt.” 

“Gods, you’re a fucking dream,” he groaned, lifting her arse higher off the bed as he sank the rest of the way inside of her. He pulled her closer, nudging his cock against her cervix, and she gasped, her nails digging into his flesh. 

“Yes, Daddy, please, just like that,” she whined, rocking her hips as if she couldn’t be full enough. It was too much; she was too much. The breathy little gasps she let out as he began to fuck her like a man unleashed; the way her moans grew louder when he used his hold on her hips to slam her down onto his cock with every hard, punishing thrust. The way she writhed on the bed beneath him, a string of yes and don’t stop and fuck, Daddy, right there falling from her lips. 

She was everything he’d ever imagined, but he’d imagined it with her, and his blood felt like it was boiling in his veins because it was sick, and it was so fucking wrong, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t force the thoughts away. He gritted his teeth, trying to focus as he trained his eyes on the wave of silky, straight hair spilling over the pillow. 

Not her. 

Don’t fucking think about her. 

“Daddy, please,” she whined. “Don’t stop, you feel so fucking good.” 

“Yeah?” He snapped his eyes down to her face, watching as her mouth fell open in a silent scream. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Such a perfect, greedy little slut for your Daddy. I bet you’d let me do anything I wanted to you, wouldn’t you?” 

“Yes,” she responded in an instant, nodding as she rolled her hips. “Anything. Everything. You feel so good, please don’t stop.” 

“You really are perfect,” he murmured, his voice a touch too tender. He shook his head, warring with his mind again in his determination to focus. He snapped his hips, driving so deep inside of her that she let out a shrill little scream, and he watched as her hand scrambled for purchase against the headboard. 

That scream. That fucking scream, gods, it was too close in tone, and his mind wouldn’t stop conjuring images of Hermione, but the little witch beneath him was clamping down on his cock like a fucking fist, taking every inch like she’d been made for it, and gods in all hells, he was the worst kind of man, because she barely even mattered when all he could see was her. 

“I fucking knew you’d love this cock,” he rasped, his pace nearly maniacal as his hands dug into her flesh hard enough to bruise. He guided her back down to the bed and covered her body with his, scraping his teeth over her throat as she tipped her head back to let out another scream. 

“I love it. Feels so good, please, Daddy, don’t stop, fucking bite me, I—” 

Sirius struck, biting down on the side of her neck, and he felt her fall apart around him, her cunt spasming, gripping him tighter and tighter as she screamed, “Fuck, just like that, make me come, I—oh fuck, Sirius.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕊𝕠 𝕘𝕖𝕥 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜, 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜, 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜 

𝕋𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣

𝕄𝕪 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥'𝕤 𝕓𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕗𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣

ℍ𝕠𝕝𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕠 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕒𝕞𝕖

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Sirius

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

“Oh, fuck, Sirius!” she screamed as he felt the warmth of her release coating his trousers. Sirius gasped and jerked away, rising back to his knees between her thighs. 

“Wh—what the fuck?” 

The Mystery Girl went perfectly still beneath him, her eyes wide as her face turned a deep shade of crimson. He stared down at her, his entire body teeming with confusion. Still, he couldn’t help himself, delivering another slow roll of the hips as it all came crashing down. 

“What did you just call me?” 

Her mouth. Her laugh. The curve of her fucking waist. 

“I—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—” 

She sputtered for an answer, and he thrust forward again, his heart lodging itself in his throat. 

Holy shit. The way she hummed when she took a sip of whisky. The way touching her felt like the most natural thing in the universe.

“Use your fucking words,” he ordered gruffly. “Why did you say that name?”

“I didn’t—I, um, I can explain. Sirius is, he’s my…he’s, um…” she drew in a shaky breath, tears filling her eyes, and he couldn’t take it anymore. With one hand still braced on her hip, he ripped his mask off, chest heaving as he stared down at her.

At her, gods, was it really her?

She gasped, shaking her head as she grabbed him by the arm. “You…” 

“You,” Sirius whispered back. He let the mask fall onto the bed and reached down, running his fingers along the edge of the silver shielding her face. He waited a moment, fully expecting her to protest, or run, or…anything, really, but she simply stared up at him as if in shock, a soft gasp filling the near-silence between them when he rolled his hips once more. 

With trembling hands, his breath held in his throat,  he slid the mask up, and up, revealing her face as tears sprang to his own eyes. She continued to stare up at him, the tightness around her eyes rife with tension as if she expected him to yell or run or…something. 

But he was rooted in place, still slowly thrusting inside of her as if his cock had a mind of its own, as if his entire fucking body knew he was finally fucking home. He carded his fingers through her too-straight hair, a whispered, “Finite” escaping his lips. 

He watched in astonishment as the formerly charmed hair sprang to life, tightly coiling around itself, and she let out a whimper as a tear slipped down her cheek. 

“It’s you. Oh, gods, baby, it’s really you,” he whispered in disbelief. He ran his fingers through her hair again, ghosting his touch along the curve of her jaw as his eyes moved back and forth, cataloguing the features he’d seen a million times over. 

The faint smattering of freckles spilling across the bridge of her nose, the dip of her cupid’s bow, the gold flecks in her eyes turning amber in the candlelight; he couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t stop drawing the comparisons. 

Hermione nodded, sucking in a breath as she pinched her brows together. “Is this real?” she asked, her voice a meek whisper. 

“It's so fucking real, Hermione.” 

“Oh my gods,” she choked on her words and raised her hands, touching his face before she buried her fingers in his hair to tug it free from the stupid band he’d tied it up in. “Sirius.” 

“Say it again,” he ordered urgently. “Please, Kitten, don’t stop saying my name.” 

“Sirius,” she gasped as he drove his cock deeper inside of her. Another tear slipped down her cheek, tinged black from her mascara, and he couldn’t help but lean in closer, dragging his tongue over the hinge of her jaw and tracing a path up to her cheekbone as he licked it away. 

“Get this off.” He pulled away, fisting the fabric of her dress in his hands, and began to tug it up. Hermione pushed up on one elbow, then the other as he tore it off and tossed it to the side. He looked down, taking in the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the freckles splashed over her collarbone. 

Reluctantly, he withdrew his cock and backed away, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of her knickers to pull them off as Hermione sat up, clumsily fumbling with the back of her strapless bra before she gave up and pulled it over her head. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” he groaned as he took in the sight of her, bare before him. “Hermione, you’re a fucking goddess.” 

He ran a hand up her stomach to palm her breast, and she let out a little whimper as she fisted her hands in the fabric of his shirt and ripped it open. Buttons went flying, and he had the passing thought that he’d have to repair it before they left, but he didn’t care, because the next words she spoke knocked him on his arse—both physically and mentally. 

“I want you,” she told him, running a hand over his chest as she banished the glamour he’d cast to hide his tattoos. She hummed thoughtfully, her fingertips tracing the lines of the runes on his flesh as she added, “I want you, Sirius.” 

“You want me,” he repeated, sitting back on his heels as he ran a hand through his hair. “Hermione, did you…did you know it was—” 

“No. But I—” she laughed as she rose to kneel in front of him, sliding her hands over the sides of his neck to bury her fingers in his hair. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Tonight, and at the ball. It’s why I said your name.” 

“Devious witch,” he remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Are you so gone for this old man that you think of me when someone else is fucking you?” 

“You were fucking me,” she corrected. “And I should have known, because all the other times I imagined you when I was with someone else, it never felt this real. I should have known nobody could make me feel like you could.” 

“Kitten,” Sirius groaned, sliding his hand over her hip before he let it rest on the small of her back. 

“I don’t want to pretend anymore.” She cast her eyes to the side as if she couldn’t bear to look at him as she continued, “I…even if this is only for tonight, I want it to be you, because you’re all I’ve ever thought about. You’re all I’ve ever wanted, and I know you probably don’t even think of me like—” 

“You are everything, do you hear me?” He grabbed her roughly by the chin, forcing her eyes back to his. “You’re in my fucking veins, Hermione. Do you have any idea how much self-control it’s taken not to bend you over the kitchen table or drag you off to my bed? You are the only thing I want. All of this…” 

He waved a hand over the bed, where the masks they’d worn lay discarded. “All I was trying to do was outrun the way you make me feel. Didn’t bloody work, because even when I thought I was buried in an inarguably tempting witch—” she rolled her eyes, huffing out an amused breath through her nose, but he ignored it and pressed on. 

“I hated myself because I couldn’t even focus on her and stop thinking about you.” 

“But it was me,” Hermione said softly.

“It’s always been you, Kitten.” He took her face into his hands and dipped his head, pressing his mouth to hers. The kiss was tender, nearly tentative as he traced his tongue along the seam of her lips, begging for entry. She opened for him, splaying her hand over the back of his neck, and he felt another tear slip down his cheek as he tangled his tongue with hers, groaning into her mouth. 

“You’re crying,” she murmured, pulling back to look up at him, her brow furrowed in concern. 

“You’re crying,” he retorted. Hermione laughed, rolling her eyes as she pulled away and swiped the back of her hand over her cheek. 

“Well, this is all very tear-worthy,” she said primly. “And I know we should talk, I—I have so much to say, and I don’t know what this all looks like tomorrow when the sun comes up, but I…” 

She trailed off, blushing again, and he reached out to turn her face back to his when she tried to look away. 

“Eyes on me, Kitten,” he murmured. “It’s just us. Don’t go getting all shy on me now.” 

“Okay, Daddy,” she whispered. 

“Godsdammit, Hermione,” he groaned, reaching down to fist his cock in his hand. “You’re going to make me lose my mind, and I—we should talk. There should be…words.” 

“I don’t want words.” Hermione reached out, sliding his now-open shirt off his shoulders and tossing it aside. Her hands fell to the waistband of his trousers, her eyes darting up to his for reassurance. He nodded and sat back, allowing her to pull them down before he took over and tugged them the rest of the way off. 

“Gods, your body…” she murmured, sliding a hand over his chest before she repeated, “I don’t want words. You’ve given me everything I’ve ever needed, Sirius, in the exact way that I need it. And know that I know it’s you…I want you to fuck me harder. I want you to take more, I…” she fisted his cock, running her thumb over the head, a cheeky grin on her face as she carefully enunciated, “I want you to hurt me, Da—”

His hand wrapped around her throat before she could finish, and she nodded as he used his hold on her neck to guide her back onto the bed. She hitched her leg over his hip, and he flexed his hand as his cock nudged insistently against her entrance. 

“Say it again.” He snapped his hips, forcing his way inside of her in a brutal thrust, and she let out a delicious little scream. “Say my fucking name, Hermione. Tell me who’s fucking you.” 

“Sirius. Sirius, oh, fuck, Daddy, I’m so full,” Hermione whimpered, arching her back. Sirius gave her throat a squeeze, grinning when the action caused her to gag. 

“Good girl, Kitten. Fuck, I knew you’d be so bloody obedient.” He wrapped his arms around her back to lift her into his lap as he settled back on his heels, and Hermione planted her feet on the bed, rocking her hips as she looped her arms around his neck. 

“You feel so good,” she whimpered. Sirius moved his hands to her hips, guiding her movements as he leaned in to scrape his teeth along her jaw, and she moaned, tilting her head back to grant him better access. 

“Don’t stop riding me, baby. Just like that. Such a good little fucking slut for this cock, aren’t you?” he spoke against her flesh as he moved his mouth down the side of her neck, pausing between fragmented sentences to nip and suck at the skin. “Fuck, I want to mark you up everywhere. Want everybody to see what the good little Golden Girl lets her Daddy do to her.” 

“Don’t call me that,” she groaned, then gasped as he rocked his hips, thrusting up into her dripping cunt.

“I’ll call you whatever I want,” he retorted, delivering a hard smack to her arse and earning a breathy whine before he began to roughly knead the tender flesh. “My girl. Perfect little fucking princess, with your smart mouth and this fucking body. Gods, do you have any idea how many times I’ve fucked my fist to the idea of filling you up?” 

“Do it,” Hermione pressed, chasing his mouth with hers until their lips collided. She bit down on his lower lip, and he groaned as he flipped her back onto her back. 

“I’m not going to last,” he warned. “But I’m going to give you what you need, baby, and then I’m going to take you home, to my fucking bed, and I’m going to breed this perfect fucking cunt until it takes. Keep you chained to the fucking headboard if I have to.” 

“I might like that,” Hermione gasped out. “But I’m on bir—oh, fuck, don’t stop, right there!” she screamed when he picked up the pace, impaling her on his cock over and over. He fucked her as hard as he could, savouring every sharp intake of air she drew as he palmed her breast. “I’m on birth control.”

“The arm thing? Take it out,” he ordered. 

“It doesn’t work like that, Sirius. It’s inside of my arm, and it lasts for two years, it—” she broke off into another moan, and he growled in frustration, pulling back to take her face into his hands. 

“Then I’ll carve it out my fucking self,” he threatened. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if he was serious; logically, he knew that probably wasn’t a great idea, for all he knew about Muggle birth control, but he didn’t care. “You think some flimsy fucking Muggle device is going to keep me from chaining you to me forever? You think there’s any world in which you don’t have my fucking kids, Hermione?” 

“No,” she answered, gripping his biceps as she rocked her hips. “I know I will. Fuck, it's all I want, Sirius.” 

“You better fucking want it,” he warned. “Because I’m not fucking around with you. There’s no slow here, between us. There’s no more pretending. You’re mine now, and I’m keeping you. Tell me—fuck, gods, Kitten, you’re so tight,” he gasped, grabbing her by the hip as he felt his stomach muscles tighten. 

“Keep me, Sirius,” Hermione breathed, her voice cracking as she reached up to fist her hands in his hair. She tugged him down, dragging his mouth to meet hers. 

“Keep me. Keep me. Please, please, I—oh, gods, don’t stop. Make me come, Daddy, please, I need to come,” Hermione begged against his mouth, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Sirius collapsed atop her, kissing her with a tenderness that belied the furious pace of his hips as he fucked her harder, faster, sliding a hand between them to press his fingers to her clit. 

“Come for me, Kitten. Let me—fuck, I need to see you,” he rasped, lifting his head. “Eyes on me. Stay with me. I can feel—gods, you’re so close, aren’t you? Gonna milk Daddy’s cock while I fill you up?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” Hermione whimpered, a little V forming between her brows as she nodded. “Sirius, I’m going to come, I’m—Please, tell me I can.” 

“Fucking gods, how was I stupid enough to think someone this right for me was anyone other than you?” He dipped his head, nipping at her shoulder as he added, “Come for Daddy, Kitten.” 

Hermione screamed the second the words left his mouth, her nails tearing into his flesh as she raked them down his back, her obedient little cunt fluttering around him as she tumbled over the edge. He fucked her through her release, his hips jerking erratically as he filled her again, again, until finally—mercifully—he began to spill inside of her, the throbbing of his cock almost painful while she continued to spasm around him.

Sirius wrapped his arms around her back, clutching her tightly as he rode at the final waves of his orgasm, his face buried against the side of her neck. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh, or cry, or fucking scream. His emotions were going haywire, misfiring and causing a haze of confusion to fall over his mind. 

The only thing he knew for certain was that he was utterly and completely terrified to let her go. As the last tendrils of euphoria seeped out of him, he could feel fear clawing at the inside of his chest, and he clutched her tighter for fear that if he let her go, the spell would break and she’d see him for exactly what he was: A man twenty years her senior. Harry’s fucking godfather. Her roommate. A directionless oaf with too much money and no actual responsibility, and she—she was everything; brilliant and beautiful and far too good for him.

“You’re shaking,” Hermione murmured, sliding a soothing hand up his back. “And you’re very heavy.” 

“Shit,” he laughed, pushing up on an elbow to look down at her face. With a trembling hand, he brushed her riotous curls off her face and let his palm rest against her cheek. “Are you alright, Kitten?” 

Hermione nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again, pressing her lips into a thin line. She let out a little squeak, her eyes going wide before she burst into laughter. Sirius was taken aback for a moment before he, too, began to laugh. 

“I’m sorry. It’s not funny,” she laughed, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes with the back of her hand. Sirius shook his head and darted his tongue out, playfully licking away a tear before he withdrew his softening cock and rolled off of her, collapsing onto his back. 

“We’re idiots,” he declared. 

“The biggest fucking idiots,” Hermione laughed. Rolling to her side, she pushed up on her elbow, resting her face in her hand as she trailed her fingers over his chest and softly pleaded, “Take me home, Sirius.” 

“I will.” Taking her hand into his and raising it to his mouth, he placed a soft kiss in her palm. “And I’m taking that fucking thing out of your arm.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hermione

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

The second they stumbled through the floo, Sirius grabbed her around the waist and pressed her back against the wall. His mouth came down on hers, hard and fast, and she braced her hands on his shoulders to push up off the floor. Sirius caught her, gripping her still-sore arse with two large hands as he began to walk backwards, and it took her a moment to realise they weren’t heading toward the stairs. 

“Wrong way,” she panted, breaking the kiss as he stepped into the kitchen. “Sirius, I want to go upstairs.

“Behave,” Sirius ordered, swatting her on the arse and causing her to suck in a breath through her teeth before he sat her down atop the long table. “Stay right here.” 

“What? Where are you going?” she protested. Sirius shook his head, leaning in to pull her bottom lip between her teeth, and bit down hard enough to make her gasp before he moved away entirely. 

“I said stay right here,” he reminded her. “Don’t move.” 

Hermione nodded—she could only nod, really, as she watched him walk across the room to dig around in a drawer of the sideboard that sat next to the hearth. When he turned back around, brandishing a long dagger, her eyes went wide.

“What are you doing?” 

“Do you trust me?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Well, that’s a really hard question to answer when you have a knife in your hand,” Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes. Sirius nodded and slowly set the dagger down on the table next to his hip before he reached into the pocket of his trousers and withdrew his wand to lay it down as well. 

“There you are. I’ve laid my armour down. So I’ll ask again: do you trust me, Kitten?”

“I do.” 

“Good girl.” Sirius patted her cheek and leaned in, kissing her quickly on the forehead before he reached for his wand. “Now tell me where in your arm this little…Muggle torture device is.”

“It’s not a torture device.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “It's a birth control implant.” 

“Well, it's torturing me,” he huffed, sounding thoroughly put-out. “I’m an old man, Hermione. I’m not long for this earth, and no Muggle torture device is going to keep me from seeing you round with my fucking kid, so you’re going to be a good girl and let me take it out.” 

“Please,” Hermione laughed. “You’re only forty-four. Your life isn’t even a third of the way over.” 

“My life has been over for a long fucking time, until you took my hand at that ball. Until you said my name tonight, and I’m not waiting any longer. I know what I need, and it's you. I know what we have, and I don’t care if it's fucking logical.” Sirius reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “I know we have a world at our backs to figure out. But nothing changes. You’re mine, and I finally have you, and I don’t need to take this slow. I refuse to. I know exactly what I want, Kitten. Do you?” 

“I do,” she admitted, reaching up to brush his hair back out of his face. “I want everything with you, Sirius. I don’t want to go slow, either.”

“Then tell me I can,” he urged. “I’ll be so careful, baby. I’ll take care of you.” 

Hermione pinched her brows together, studying his face for a moment. It was reckless—stupid, really, and if she weren’t so high on lust, so fucking lost over him, she would have said no in an instant. She should have told him they needed time to think, and she absolutely should have clarified that the birth control implant altered the chemistry of her body, and it was hardly as if he could yank it out and get her pregnant. 

It would have been the responsible thing to do, but Hermine had only ever done the responsible thing, so for the umpteenth time tonight, she thought, fuck it, if only because the sooner they get this over with, the sooner she could feel him back inside of her.

“It’s just here,” she said, holding her arm out as she pressed her fingers to the flesh, where she could feel the faintest bulge of the implant in her bicep. “You have to sanitise everything, and then just a small incision. Use your wand to draw it out.” 

“Oh my gods,” he laughed out, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re actually going to let me, aren’t you?” 

“Hurry up before I change my mind because this is fucking insane,” Hermione urged. Sirius kissed her again, smiling against her mouth before he moved his attention to her arm. She pressed her fingers over his skin, pushing down so he could feel where the implant was located before she let her hand fall away.

“Just a little sting, baby,” he murmured as he reached for the dagger. “I’ll cast a numbing charm first.” 

“No,” Hermione protested. “I want to feel it.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re a slut for some knife play,” Sirius teased as he carefully cast a series of sanitation charms over her arm, then the blade, then her arm again. He worked meticulously, pausing every few seconds to feel for where the implant was placed, and there was something in the care he showed that—despite the insanity of the moment, and despite the fact that she knew she’d wake up tomorrow wondering what on earth had come over her—made her want this even more. 

Maybe he was right. 

“I’d let you do anything to me,” she responded, mirroring his earlier words as she hooked her fingers into his belt. She scooted closer, sitting on the edge of the table to press herself against him, and Sirius let out a shaky breath, pausing with the tip of the blade pressed against her skin. 

“If you don’t stop wiggling, I’m going to hurt you. And if you—gods,” he groaned when she slipped her hand inside his trousers to palm his cock. 

“Come on,” she urged playfully. “Surely you can multitask.” 

“I hope you know I’m going to punish you for acting like a brat,” Sirius warned. “Don’t tense up.”

Hermione gave a single nod, squeezing her eyes closed as she wrapped her fingers around his cock, slowly stroking him within the confines of his trousers. Sirius cursed under his breath and pressed the blade into her skin. 

She gasped at the sting of the cool, sharp metal, gripping him tighter. The cut hurt, but not like she’d expected. No, there was something about the action—about any pain, at his hand, but especially this—that made her grow inexplicably wetter. 

It was intoxicating. Sure, it was insane, but it was real, because he couldn’t control himself around her any more than she could around him, because they’d spent too long controlling themselves and neither could take it anymore, even if it led to absolutely insane and likely permanent decisions on a kitchen table at two a.m. 

“Alright, Kitten?” Sirius murmured, flicking his eyes up to hers as he placed his thumbs against her flesh to feel for the implant again. Hermione watched as a bit of blood trickled down his hand, nodding. 

“Words,” he reminded her, sounding distracted as he set the dagger aside and reached for his wand.

“Yes. I just…I didn’t mean to bleed on you,” she replied. Sirius snorted, and she felt a brief flash of irritation at his dismissal of her emotions until he smiled at her. That damn smile could have melted even the most frozen of her resolves, and by the way his eyes darkened in the candlelight, she knew he knew it just as well as she did. 

“You think I’m worried about a little blood?” Sirius asked, arching a single eyebrow before he slowly raised his hand to his mouth. He darted his tongue out, flicking it over his wrist and dragging it up the side of his thumb, licking the blood away, and Hermione gasped. 

“You keep grabbing my cock like it’s a lifeline,” he said, his voice controlled as he ran a finger over her small wound, “and I’m going to use this,” he emphasised the word, holding his now bloody finger up between them for her to see before he sucked it into his mouth and then released it with a wet pop, “to lube myself up while I bend you over the table and claim that pretty little arse.” 

“Oh,” Hermione gasped again, sinking her teeth into her lower lip.

“Oh,” he retorted. He leaned in to kiss her, and she whimpered at the coppery taste of her blood on his tongue, running her thumb over the head of his cock. Sirius broke away with a groan, reaching for his wand. 

“Take your hand out of my pants so I can focus, and I’ll take you upstairs as soon as we’re done.” 

“Yes, sir,” Hermione replied in an instant, removing her hand and gripping the edge of the table as she watched him work. He pressed his wand to her arm and twirled it in a figure eight motion, then began to slowly pull it away. Hermione winced, biting down on the inside of her cheek as she felt the implant pulling beneath her skin. 

After a moment, it began to slide out of the cut he’d made, and Sirius pulled a face of disgust as he let it clatter to the table, then waved his wand again, vanishing it. 

“I can’t believe you let some Muggle Healer put that fucking thing in you.” 

“They’re called Doctors, Hermione corrected. “And I’ll have you know the birth control implant is perfectly safe, it was developed—” 

“I don’t care.” Sirius cut her off as he pressed his wand back to her arm to seal the wound. “I can’t stand the thought of…just, no more.”

“Okay,” Hermione responded—knowing all too well that the last thing she wanted to do right now was waste time explaining Muggle medical technology. 

“Good girl.” Sirius smiled, tapping his thumb against her chin before he wrapped an arm around her lower back. He grabbed her thigh and stood straighter, lifting her from the table, and Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist. 

“You can’t carry me all the way upstairs, old man,” she teased, pulling back to look down at him as one hand toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“I think the way you stare at me after my workouts is proof you know I could do exactly that,” Sirius shot back. “But we’re magic, baby.”

Hermione felt the pull of apparition before she could respond, a surprised yelp escaping her lips. One moment, they’d been standing in the kitchen, and the next, Sirius’s bedroom appeared around them. She barely had time to register the space before her back hit the wall, and, with another wave of magic, she felt her clothes vanish. 

“You don’t waste any time.” 

“I can’t,” Sirius responded, his voice tight with need. She felt his hand leave her back to slide between them before the broad head of his cock notched against her entrance, and she gripped her shoulders, rising her hips to position herself seconds before he slammed inside. 

“Sirius,” she groaned, tears stinging her eyes at the stretch of him pushing into her already-sore cunt. 

“Shhh,” he whispered against her lips, snaking a hand behind her to tangle in her hair as the other gripped her waist. “Poor thing. All achy for Daddy already?” 

Hermione nodded, biting down on her lip, and he used his thumb to tug it free as he soothed, “Take a breath, baby. I’m not close to done with you yet. But you can take it, can’t you, pretty girl?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” Hermione whimpered.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕀 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝 𝕒 𝕨𝕖𝕒𝕜𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕤

ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕟

ℕ𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕗𝕖𝕝𝕥 𝕤𝕠 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 

𝕋𝕠 𝕓𝕖 𝕤𝕠 𝕨𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕘

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Hermione

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Hermione awoke with a groan, stretching her arms over her head and pointing her toes toward the bottom of the mattress to try to ease the ache in her limbs as she yawned and glanced around the room. 

“Oh my gods,” she whispered, ducking her head beneath the covers as if she could hide from her location. 

She was in Sirius’s bed, in his room, wearing a baggy t-shirt that definitely didn’t belong to her. She couldn’t explain why she felt so…out of it, almost as if she were hungover, when she’d only had a few sips of whisky throughout the night. 

Every inch of her body was sore, especially between her legs, but she delighted in the ache. She’d felt it the first time she’d been with him, the night after the ball, but now, it was unlike anything she’d ever felt. Her stomach was sore, her thigh muscles ached, but every inch of her body seemed to radiate a satisfaction unlike any she’d ever known. 

“Oh my gods,” Hermione repeated, rolling over onto her stomach to bury her face in the pillow before she let out a squeal, kicking her feet. It was childish, sure, but it felt as if she was going to explode if she didn’t let out some of the bubbling energy built up inside of her chest, so she repeated the action. 

Once she’d sated her desire to act like a teenager who just bumped shoulders with her crush in the hallway, she sat up on the bed, blowing a lock of hair out of her face as she shoved off the blankets and finally took a look at the room around her. 

Last night, she hadn’t done much scrutinising of the space, despite her long-held curiosity over what his bedroom looked like. She’d been far too busy getting fucked within an inch of her life against the wall, then getting pushed down on all fours with a hand wrapped around her throat, before they’d finally migrated to the shower and their frenzy had melted into something akin to tenderness. 

After that, she’d been so exhausted she could barely move. Sirius had gently towelled her off and carried her back into the bedroom, slipping a shirt over her head and tugging a clean pair of knickers over her hips before he pulled her into his arms. She’d fallen asleep the second her head hit the pillow, satiated and utterly spent. 

But now, she was wide awake, alone in his bedroom, and while her curiosity over why she’d woken up alone was nagging at the back of her mind, she simply couldn’t pass up the chance to be nosy, so she slipped off the bed, carefully readjusting the bedding as she took her time to look around the room.

The bed was massive, a dark walnut four-poster with a cloud-like mattress covered in soft grey sheets and a deep burgundy comforter. The walls, which she’d once seen covered in the Quidditch posters and half-nude models of his youth, held a few tasteful pieces of abstract art in dark reds, greys, and blacks. The bedside tables and the chest of drawers all matched the dark bedframe, and the rug was a traditional medallion pattern in hues of gold and red. 

The entire space smelled like leather, sandalwood, and sex. It was all extremely Gryffindor and wholly masculine, but she loved it. It was exactly what she had conjured in her mind from the few glimpses she’d passed by him as he slipped in or out of the door. 

Hermione smiled to herself, biting down on the inside of her cheek as she made her way to the ensuite. She made quick work of relieving herself, smiling again when she spotted the tin of Fleamont Potter’s Groeazy hair replenishing balm on the vanity as she washed her hands. 

Thank the gods, she thought as she made her way back through the bedroom. She loved his beard, and maybe now that the truth was out, she could convince him not to shave it again—even if he could magically regrow it the next day. 

Crookshanks was in the hallway, and he meowed at her, giving her the closest thing to a judgmental look she imagined a cat could give, so she bent down to scratch the fur between his ears. 

“Mind your business, nosy kneazle,” she teased. He gave her a grunt and promptly turned on his heel, his tail swishing as he slipped into the library, and Hermione laughed.

Whatever. 

He was likely just mad she hadn’t made it to her bed last night, where he often slept on his throne—the pillow next to hers, of course—but he’d get over it.

She made her way down the stairs, running her hand along the banister, and she felt her stomach rumble when the scent of bacon wafted over as she stepped out into the foyer of the main floor. 

When she entered the kitchen, she found Sirius sitting at the end of the table nearest the stove, one hand scratching idly at the newly-formed stubble on his jaw as the other wrapped around a large mug of coffee. He seemed distracted, almost pensive as he stared into the flames of the fireplace, so she leaned against the doorframe, tugging down the hem of the oversized t-shirt she wore as she allowed herself a moment to appreciate the view. 

“Hi,” Sirius said after a long moment, finally looking over at her. She watched as his eyes narrowed and he ran a hand over his mouth, saying something under his breath before he dropped his hand and cleared his throat.

 “Good morning. I just finished breakfast a few minutes ago.” He spoke in a tone that felt far too formal as he rose from his chair and grabbed two plates off the counter, setting them down on the table. He nodded toward her seat, not looking back over at her as he sat back down, and Hermione furrowed her brow as she stepped into the room. 

“Good morning,” she repeated, sliding into her chair as she looked down at the plate of bacon, eggs, and toast. A simple breakfast, but it was exactly what she needed. “I’m famished. This looks wonderful, thank you.” 

“Yeah. You’re welcome,” Sirius said curtly. He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes drifting back to the fire behind her, and Hermione lifted her fork to take a bite, squirming slightly in her chair. 

He didn’t speak again, and neither did she. She was too lost in her head, now. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but post-hook-up awkwardness had absolutely not been on the list. The longer they sat, with no sound moving between them save for the occasional scraping of metal against ceramic as they ate, the more uncomfortable she grew—both emotionally and physically. 

She shifted in her chair, a slight, unintentional whine escaping her lips, and Sirius’s eyes finally shot to hers, his brows knitting together. “Are you sore?” 

“I am,” Hermione admitted with a blush. “But I…I don’t mind.” 

Sirius’s fork clattered against his plate, and he ran a hand through his hair, nodding. “Right. Well, if you need a salve for…anything, I’ve got potions in the linen closet upstairs.” 

“Thank you,” Hermione replied, her tone as formal as his had been. She pushed back from the table, trying to ignore the hurt as she gathered the dishes and made her way over to the sink, carefully rinsing them off. 

It wasn’t right. Something was off, and this wasn’t what was supposed to happen, not at all. She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d missed the mark somehow; if, perhaps, he’d just been caught up in the chaos the night before.; Iif now, in the light of day, he regretted having ever taken his mask off at all. 

She meticulously washed the dishes, working slowly as she felt tears begin to sting her eyes. Sirius remained silent throughout, and by the time she’d placed the last dish in the drying rack, she felt nauseous with anxiety. 

“I think I…” Her voice cracked, and she trailed off, drawing in a breath and squaring her shoulders before she turned to face him. Sirius still sat at the table, though he’d angled his chair toward the sink as if he’d been watching her. She wanted to find solace in the idea, but she was afraid that if she took even a moment to think at all, she’d lose her nerve. 

This wasn’t okay; something wasn’t right, and he was Harry’s godfather, and so much older, and she’d been foolish enough to believe, even if only for a night, that he’d wanted her back. 

But the truth spoke loud and clear through his silence, so she leaned back against the counter, gripping the edge to keep herself from fleeing the room entirely. 

“Our lives are very intertwined,” she began, forcing her voice to sound firm, despite the devastation gripping her lungs. “I don’t want there to be any awkwardness, and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable in your home. So if this…if we aren’t what it felt like we were last night, then I think it’s best I move out.” 

Sirius tilted his head, taking a long sip of his coffee before he set the mug aside and grabbed a cigarette out of the pack on the table next to his elbow. She watched as he snapped his fingers to light it, the motion highlighting the veins running down his forearm and over the back of his hand as he flexed, and she had to force herself to refocus, looking back up at his face. 

“Is that what you want?” Sirius asked, taking a drag of his cigarette before he continued, “To move out?” 

“Well, I just don’t want to make things…weird. I could go stay with Ginny and Harry. Or, I think I’d go to Malfoy Manor, actually, Theo and Draco have plenty of space and have already invited me, so it wouldn’t be—” 

“No, you will not,” Sirius responded, setting his cigarette down in the ashtray before he stood, the chair screeching against the tiled floor. 

“I won’t?” 

“You won’t.” He stepped in front of her, placing his hands over hers where she still gripped the counter. His grey eyes burned through her, and she swallowed roughly, her fingers flexing beneath his. 

“I just don’t want to be a problem. Or…or to blow up your life. Last night was—” 

“If you’re about to tell me it was a mistake…” Sirius interjected, his voice a low warning as he moved one hand to slide over her hip and lower, bunching the fabric of her shirt in his hand. “Then I’m going to bend you over that table and fuck you while I spank your arse until the only word you can manage to conjure is my name. I wanted you here, Hermione. I jumped at the chance to have you here. I busted my arse to give you the perfect room because having you under my roof was a dream come true. But now that I’ve had you in my bed?” 

He slid his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, giving a slight tug to the patch of curls between her thighs before he moved lower, stroking a single finger over her clit, and Hermione’s hips jerked forward as she let out a needy moan. 

“Sirius,” she panted. 

“There it is. Just like that,” he said, circling her clit again before he thrust two fingers inside of her. “My name. My woman, in my house, in my fucking bed, every godsdamn night. That’s the only way this plays out, Hermione. You don’t get to walk away.” 

He bent his fingers inside of her cunt, brushing against the spot that stole the air from her lungs before he continued, “I told you last night, I’m all in. This doesn’t go slowly now, and I’m not letting you go.” 

“But you were—gods, just…right there,” Hermione moaned. “You wouldn’t even bloody look at me through breakfast.” 

“Because I thought you were going to fucking run. I was positive you would wake up today and start overthinking, convince yourself this was a mistake, and I was trying to find the bloody nerve not to tie you to my fucking bed to keep you here,” Sirius said, leaning in to drag his nose over her jaw before he bit down on her neck. Hermione let out a whimpering scream, grabbing onto his forearm as he worked his fingers faster inside of her. 

“I was happy when I woke up, but then you were being so bloody weird and I—fuck. I just didn’t want to be in your way.” 

“No more of that,” he ordered, dragging his tongue over the spot where he’d bitten her before he took her chin into his free hand, tilting her head back. “No more overthinking, no more worrying about how I feel for you. You are it for me, Hermione. So you’re going to stay in this fucking house, and we’re going to do this, got it?” 

“Yeah.” Hermione nodded, gasping out the word as she felt her stomach begin to tighten. 

“Say, Yes, Daddy,” Sirius ordered. 

“Yes, Daddy.” 

“Good fucking girl.” He kissed her, hard and fast, biting down on her bottom lip before he pulled away. “Now say, ‘Please, Daddy, let me come on your hand’.”

“P–oh,” Hermione whined, her nails digging into his forearm as she tried to hold back her orgasm. “Please, Daddy, let me come on your—oh, Sirius, please.” 

“Gods, you beg so fucking well,” he groaned, nodding as his eyes locked on hers. “Eyes on me, Kitten. You can let go now.”

Hermione nodded, biting down on her lower lip as she stared into his eyes. Sirius held her stare, stroking his fingers along her inner walls as she gripped his arm harder. She could feel gooseflesh breaking out across her skin, her nipples pebbling beneath her shirt as a million little fireworks ignited beneath her skin, and then she was falling, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave as she moaned his name. 

“Good girl,” Sirius praised, slowing his pace as he guided her back down to earth. He kissed her temple, her cheek, her mouth, his lips moving all over her face as she let her eyes drift closed until she finally landed back on solid ground. 

“Better?” he asked, pulling his hand free from her knickers and lazily wiping his fingers off on the shirt she wore before he reached for her face.

“Better,” she agreed with a blissful sigh. 

“Good. Now, you’re going to listen to me,” he instructed, kissing her forehead once more before he stepped back and summoned his still-burning cigarette. “You don’t get to pull back, okay? We’ll sit down and talk things out. But we’re not going back to being alone now, and I’m not spending another night without you in my arms.” 

He took a drag and cast a quick Scourgify over his hand as he walked back to the table. Grabbing his mug, he took a sip before he continued, “You can spiral. You can question and doubt and worry and do whatever it is that it takes for you to wrap your mind around the truth. But you don’t ever threaten to leave again, got it? You stay right here, and we navigate this shit together.” 

“You’re very bossy,” Hermione quipped, a slow smile spreading across her face. “But alright. I’ll stay. I—I want to stay.” 

“Good girl.” He grinned. “And you like me bossy, thank you very much. Now, let’s—”

The faint pop of house elf apparition rang out, effectively silencing him, and he laughed as they watched Posey break away from Winky’s hand to launch herself in Hermione’s direction.

“Missy ‘Mione!” Posey squealed, wrapping her little arms around Hermione’s legs as Winky turned to head into the hallway. “Posey’s Mama is going to take Posey to Diagon to go to the market, and Posey be’s getting a new book, if Posey behaves.” 

“Well, of course you’ll behave.” Hermione smiled, running a hand over Posey’s head before the little elf broke away, skipping back over to Sirius with a twinkling laugh. 

“Mister Siri, Posey loves her new dress,” she said, holding the skirt of the child’s dress-up costume she wore—yellow, this time.

“I’m so glad you like it, Pose. Belle is the perfect choice for the bookshop, yeah?” Sirius said, reaching out to straighten the arm of Posey’s dress.

“You know the Disney princesses?” Hermione asked in surprise, leaning back against the counter once more. 

“Of course. I got all the videos for Posey when Zabini learned how to magick the tellys. They’ve got a little one in their quarters, but sometimes we watch them in the sitting room, ain’t that right, Pose?” he responded, as if a pureblood humouring a house elf child by watching animated Muggle films was just…a given.

“Oh, yes, yes. Missy ‘Mione, we must have a movie night with the popping corn!” Posey said excitedly, clapping her hands. 

“Well, count me in, then,” Hermione replied—rather cordially, she thought, given that her ovaries had chosen that exact moment to explode as she watched Sirius crouch down to hug the little elf before he stepped away.

Winky came back into the room, then, glancing around as she sniffed the air, and then let out a long-winded sigh. “Winky cleaned up the blood left on the table last night,” she announced, pulling on a set of gloves before she took Posey’s jacket off the hook by the back door and helped the youngling slip it on. “Winky is glad to be seeing the inhabitants of House Black have decided to stop being idiots.” 

“Oi! Are you allowed to call us idiots?” Sirius called out in mock indignation as Hermione stifled a laugh behind her hand.

“Winky is a free elf. Winky does as she pleases,” Winky deadpanned, looping a small purse onto her shoulder. “Will Master and Mistress require anything from the market? Winky is to be taking Posey out for a day at the shops.”

“I think we’re fine, Winky, thank you,” Sirius replied. “Unless Hermione can think of anything.” 

“Mistress?” Winky said, looking up at Hermione expectantly. “Shall Winky bring anything home?” 

“Oh, Winky, I’m not your mistress,” Hermione laughed, scrunching her nose. “And no, I’m fine, thank you.” 

“Oh, but Missy ‘Mione is Mistress now,” Posey said, rocking back on her heels as she tugged at an ear excitedly. “The magic says.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.” Hermione looked between the two elves, then back at Sirius, who shrugged. 

“Master Sirius drew Mistress’s blood with the dagger, there,” Winky said, waving a hand lazily to where the dagger sat atop the sideboard. “Master Sirius then consumed Mistress’s blood before he bedded the Mistress. Mistress is the Mistress now.” 

“Winky, what do you—” 

“Mistress is the Mistress now,” Winky repeated slowly, rolling her eyes as if annoyed by their inability to infer her meaning. 

“Come, Posey,” she continued, taking the younger elf’s hand into hers. Posey waved, giving them a toothy grin before Winky apparated them away. Hermione stood, rooted to her spot as she stared at the space where the elves had just disappeared, her mind spinning out of control as she tried to work out the matter at hand. 

“Well, shit,” Sirius laughed out. Hermione turned her head to find him standing next to the sideboard, turning the handle of the dagger he’d used the night before over in his hand. 

“Don’t say ‘oh shit, ’” Hermione scolded. “Don’t hold some ancient familial dagger you used to cut into my skin and say ‘oh shit’ after your house elf just called me Mistress, when a house elf would only refer to me as such if I…oh. Shit.” 

“If you were the Lady of the House?” Sirius finished for her, his eyes going wide. 

“Sirius, what the hell did you do?” 

As if on cue—because clearly, the day had decided to throw every possible obstacle their way—Hermione heard the sound of the floo roaring to life in the living room. She felt herself pale as she looked down at her shirt—his shirt, gods, it was so obviously his shirt, with a hole just below the collar and a giant Led Zeppelin logo splashed across the front, and she hadn’t even had time to process any of this, and now somebody was going to know. 

She wanted them all to know; She also wanted to go hide back beneath the covers of his bed and pretend the world was only theirs for a little longer, but clearly, there was no time to choose. 

“Pads?” Remus’s voice rang out, followed by a deep, exasperated sigh before his back appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Hello, Hermione.” 

“Hi,” she squeaked. 

“You can turn around, Moony,” Sirius said, shoving the dagger into a drawer and tossing Hermione a wink as he lit another cigarette. “We’re almost decent.”

“Right.” Remus cleared his throat and turned, his cheeks a deep shade of crimson. “Good morning. I see you two…figured things out.” 

“Yes, we…um…” Hermione trailed off, her eyes darting to the doorway before she looked over at Sirius. “I think I’m going to…let you two talk. I told Ginny I’d come round for tea this morning.”

“Kitten…” 

“It’s alright.” She smiled, reaching a hand out to brush her fingers over his arm as she passed. Sirius caught her hand, dragging it to his mouth to place a kiss in her palm. 

“Be safe,” he told her—a formality, true, but it felt more like a command, and she bit her lip, nodding. 

“Yes, Da—” Hermione cut herself off, clearing her throat. “Don’t worry. I’ll be Alright.” 

She rounded the table, and Remus offered her a kind smile, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder before he stepped out of the doorway to let her pass through. At any other time, she would have stopped to talk to him—she loved her talks with Remus, but right now, she couldn’t organise her thoughts enough to formulate a coherent sentence. 

As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she took stock of her current predicament. Her neck was undoubtedly covered in hickies and bite marks, her lips were kiss-bruised, and her hair had to be a mess since she’d fallen asleep with it wet the night before. 

She didn’t have on any pants; just Sirius’s old t-shirt that fell mid-thigh, and he’d wiped her cum on the shirt after she’d drenched his hand, to boot. Remus could smell them, could—oh. 

He’d known. 

Of course, he’d known that day after the ball, when he smelled a man on her, when he’d acted so strange. If she weren’t so busy trying not to freak out, she might have had stronger feelings about that, but at present, she was far too preoccupied with trying to sort out the cacophonous confusion inside her mind. 

The entire thing felt like a fever dream. In less than twelve hours, she’d gone to a sex club, had a meet-cute with her Stranger, gotten spanked on stage in a room full of people, shagged the aforementioned stranger, realised he was Sirius, shagged him some more, came home, made a series of insane decisions, shagged a few more times and…somehow, possibly, maybe gotten slightly married, a bit?

Right. 

A perfectly ordinary Friday night, then.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕎𝕖'𝕝𝕝 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤

𝕀'𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕪𝕠𝕦

𝕀 𝕙𝕠𝕡𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕟𝕖𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕨

'ℂ𝕒𝕦𝕤𝕖 𝕀 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕀 𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕕𝕠

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Sirius

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

“Don’t say a word yet,” Sirius warned, holding up a finger. Remus nodded, holding his hands up in surrender, and Sirius stood, stretching his arms over his head before he grabbed his mug and headed back to the coffee pot. Taking his time, he refilled his cup and poured a second for Remus, turning to place it on the table behind him as Remus took a seat. 

“You know,” he began casually as he poured the rest of the coffee into a travel mug, adding way too much sugar and a bit of cream before he twisted the lid on, “I’ve half a mind to hex you where you sit. You knew I’d been with someone the night after the ball, and you had to have known it was her.” 

“I…I did know, yes.” Remus sighed, and Sirius turned to face him, leaning back against the counter as they each took a sip from their mugs. 

“And? You didn’t think that was information either of us wanted—or, deserved, moreover—to know?” 

“Listen, Padfoot, it’s…complicated. Having this,” Remus said, waving a hand toward his nose. “Do you have any idea what that’s like for me? All through school, having to know who was shagging who, walking past couples holding hands in the corridor, only to take a breath and realise the bloke smelled like her best friend. Hell, catching a whiff of Lily and realising she was pregnant before she and James even got to find out, it's…invasive. I’ve always felt like the nosiest man alive—pun only slightly intended.” 

“I get that. I do,” Sirius conceded, running a hand through his hair as he set his mug aside. “But I’m your best friend, idiot. You know how I feel about her, and you should have told me.” 

“Maybe,” Remus agreed. “But I couldn’t have predicted any possible fallout, and it’s hard not to feel like I’m overstepping. Nobody asked me to mind their business, you know? Though it seems—and certainly smells—” he added, wrinkling his nose, “like you two worked things out.” 

“Oh, we, erm…yeah,” Sirius laughed, scratching at the stubble lining his jaw. “And then some.” 

“Pads, what did you do?” Remus asked, his eyes narrowing.

“We just…connected,” he said tentatively. “In more ways than I thought we would.”

“So it, erm…it works for you? With her?” Remus asked, awkwardly shifting in his seat. “I know you’re a bit…aggressive. But she seems happy.” 

“Yeah. It works,” Sirius agreed, smiling lazily. “The pieces just fit. I haven’t the slightest idea what the hell we’re going to do about the fallout. I’d imagine Harry’ll want to kill me to defend her honour. Especially if he finds out I put her on stage and—” 

“Quaffle!” Remus called out, covering his ears. “I can’t…look, Harry is like a son to you, but that girl is the closest thing I have to a daughter, so this is the one time when you’re going to have to suck it up and not drown me in vivid details about your sex life.” 

“But she looked so pretty when she—” 

“Enough!”

“Oh, come on, Moony. Don’t you want to hear about how good she was for her Da—” 

“I swear to Godric, if you say what I think you’re about to say, I will vomit on your fucking shoes,” Remus intoned.

“Well, at least let me—” 

“Sirius, please. I’m an old man. My heart can only take so much stress,” Remus complained, rubbing a hand over his chest.

“Fine, fine, grandpa. I won’t tell you how I had the best sex of my life,” Sirius huffed, lighting a cigarette before he added, “Though I should probably tell you I, erm…might have accidentally married her.” 

Remus choked on his drink, sputtering coffee across the table, and hastily reached for a napkin to dab at the dark liquid now staining his shirt. “You fucking what? Tell me you’re joking.”

“Dunno,” Sirius shrugged. “I haven’t looked at the tapestry, but—” He cut himself off and held up a finger. Cocking his head, he followed Hermione by sound as she made her way down to the lower level of the house.

She stepped back into the kitchen, one hand braced on the doorway as she shifted on her feet, and he felt himself soften immediately at the sight of her. 

She’d thrown on a soft-looking blue sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and had wound her hair into a loose braid, draping it over her shoulder. A few errant curls hung free, framing her face, and as she gave him a tentative smile, he felt the sudden urge to throw her over her shoulder and carry her off to his room. 

With a restraint worthy of sainthood, he resisted as he continued his perusal.

Narrowing his eyes in irritation, he traced the skin of her neck, displeased to find she’d clearly glamoured away the marks he’d left behind, and it was only then that he realised it had been him. 

The night in the kitchen, right after she’d first moved in, when he’d seen the marks on her neck and felt a jealousy deeper than he’d ever known, he’d been looking at what he himself had done to her. 

That tracked, he thought as he took a sip of his coffee and raised a hand, beckoning her forward with two fingers. Of course, he’d been that much of an idiot.

“I…just wanted to tell you I was leaving,” she said as she stepped into the room, following his silent command. She cast Remus a tentative smile before she came to a stop in front of Sirius, and he reached for the travel mug, handing it to her.

“Oh, you…you didn’t have to do that.” Her tone sounded far too nervous for his liking. Sirius leaned in, kissing her on the cheek, and then pulled back to meet her eyes.

“It’s made to your liking,” he told her, gesturing down to the mug. 

“Thank you,” Hermione replied quietly, “We can…we should talk about everything when I get back.” 

“I can think of far more interesting things to do when you get back,” Sirius murmured, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

Remus gagged dramatically, and Hermione blushed, a small giggle escaping her lips. “I think we’re scaring pops,” she quipped. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius grumbled, reaching around Hermione to flip Remus the middle finger before he took her chin into his hand and forced her eyes back to his. “Be home by dinnertime. I’ll cook something nice, and then we’ll talk things out.” 

“Yes, D—” Hermione clamped her mouth shut, her eyes going wide before she quickly recovered. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.” 

She stepped away quickly, squeezing his arm before she turned and walked around the table to throw her arms around Remus. 

“I love you, and you’re not allowed to be mad at me, so you’re just going to have to be doubly mad at Sirius,” she instructed, ruffling Remus’s hair as she pulled away. 

“I’m not mad at you,” Remus reassured her. “Thoroughly grossed out, but not mad. Go have fun; tell Harry and Ginny I send my best.” 

“Will do,” Hermione said, giving a mock salute before she waved her fingers at Sirius and slipped out of the room. Remus and Sirius both remained silent until the floo sounded, and Remus reached for his mug of coffee once more, raising an eyebrow. 

“How domestic,” he noted. “Now, can we circle back to the part where you might have accidentally married your godson’s best friend?” 

“Ah, that.” Sirius scratched at his jaw. “Well, I went to the club last night. She was there. Things happened, and she…said my name. The masks came off, and I’ll spare you the details. But then we came home and I—I might have cut some Muggle contraceptive thingy out of her arm.” 

“You cut…wait.” Remus’s eyes narrowed, a flash of gold skating across his irises, and Sirius felt his spine straighten in response. 

“Moony…” 

“You cut her birth control implant out of her arm?” 

“She let me!” Sirius defended. “Listen, it was a crazy night; I own that. After the thing on stage, and then when she called me—never mind, the point is, I didn’t just go at her with a knife. It was a mutual decision, even if we’d both sort of lost our minds by that point.” 

“Fucking hell. You two are actually, certifiably insane.” Remus sounded half-impressed, half-disgusted, and Sirius couldn’t help but laugh as he nodded in agreement. 

“I just lose all control around her, Moony. It’s been hard enough keeping it all locked inside, and then last night—I can’t even put it into words. She was there, beneath me, all around me, and then she said my name, and everything clicked into place, and I think I just…snapped,” he admitted. 

“I’m not surprised,” Remus murmured. “Not that you losing control is utterly predictable, at least now, but…regardless, how on earth did you accidentally marry someone via…birth control removal? I’m afraid you’re gonna have to spell this out for me.” 

“Right,” Sirius sighed, pushing off the counter to approach the sideboard. He opened the drawer, carefully lifting the dagger, and turned to place it on the table in front of Remus.

“Don’t prick yourself with the blade. If I marry you, I’ve a feeling your wife might have some choice words for me. But the runes on the blade…I didn’t notice last night, in the heat of the moment.

“When Ginny remodelled the house, we moved all the sharp objects into that drawer over there and cast baby-proofing charms. There were a few random items from my father’s old study that I just shoved in there without thinking, and last night I grabbed the first thing I could find. I cut her arm with this, and I licked the blood off of my thumb—don’t give me that look, Moony—and then this morning, Winky told us that Hermione was the Mistress of the house, so…I don’t know.” 

Remus picked the dagger up by the hilt, slowly turning it over in his hand as he read the runes. “Mannaz…Ingus, Othalla, and that’s…is this Ehwaz or Dagaz? Would that even be enough to seal a marital bond? Just…putting her blood in your mouth?” 

“I’m not sure,” Sirius admitted. “It’s kind of faded there. I–I shouldn’t be surprised; blood magic is exactly like my ancestors. I’m just not sure if I enacted a betrothal or an actual marital rite. We…went to bed, after, so I’m assuming it’s the latter. That would have sealed it, of course.”

“Well, look at the bloody tapestry then,” Remus said in exasperation as he handed the knife back. “Figure out what you’ve done.”

“I will, I will. I just thought she and I ought to see it together.” Sirius tucked the dagger away again and walked back around the table, sinking into his chair as he ran a hand through his hair. 

Remus folded his arms over his chest, leaning back as he studied his face, and Sirius squirmed under his chair, lighting another cigarette. “What, Moony? You’re giving me that damn look.” 

“What look?” 

“The Lily look,” Sirius explained. “You know exactly what look. The way she used to stare us down like she had us all figured out.” 

“Gods, what I’d give to burn under one of her scrutinising stares again,” Remus said, sighing wistfully. “You know what she’d say right now?” 

“You mean after she got done beating me with a wooden spoon for defiling a promising young woman?” 

“Yes, after. She’d say, ‘Sirius Black, I told you that some woman would wrangle you into submission some day.’”

“Gods, has she ever,” Sirius laughed. “I think she’s ruined me.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hermione 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Ginny breathed a sigh of relief from where she lay on the sofa, the back of one hand pressed to her forehead. 

“Are you feeling unwell?” Hermione dropped her bag to the floor next to an armchair and crossed the room. Kneeling down next to the sofa, she knocked Ginny’s hand away to feel her skin for any sign of fever. “Is it the baby?” 

“Yes,” Ginny sighed dramatically, rolling over onto her side and tucking her hand beneath her cheek. “It’s me. I’m the baby. Harry took Jamie to the Burrow to play a pick-up game with the other kids, and I used your coming by as an excuse not to go deal with my mother, but now I’m bored, so we’re going.” 

“Oh.” Hermione nodded, sitting back on her heels. “Are you sure you want to go?” 

“No,” Ginny admitted. “But I want some of Mum’s blueberry lemon muffins, and I don’t want to wait until Harry brings them home later.”

“That’s valid.” Honestly, Hermione thought a busy day at the Burrow sounded like exactly what she needed and the last thing she needed, all rolled into one. But if it was what Ginny wanted, then she supposed she would endure. If anything, it bought her some time. 

She wasn’t sure what, if anything, she wanted to tell Ginny.

Speaking about everything with Sirius to her best friend almost felt like a given, but at the same time, there was something about talking about it all before they’d even had the time to sort it all out that felt…wrong, as if she’d been tasked with protecting something sacred. 

Maybe it would be best to wait to say anything, at least until she was sure what this thing between them even was. So, with her mind made up, she smacked her hands against her thighs and rose to her feet, reaching down to tug at Ginny’s arm. 

“Up, then. Let’s go so your Mum can overfeed you,” she ordered. 

“Okay,” Ginny sighed. “But I’m going to pretend like this was all your idea so I can be irritated with you when she dotes too hard.” 

“Deal,” Hermione laughed, reaching down to pick her bag back up. “But don’t hog all the muffins.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It never seemed to matter what day of the week or time of day it was when she found herself at the Burrow; The old house was always abuzz with energy, random kids and grandkids lounging around the old sitting room, running through the kitchen, or screaming on the makeshift Quidditch pitch outside. 

Molly and Arthur had an open-floo policy for all of their family—including Harry and Hermione, as even the gods themselves could not have told the Weasleys that they weren’t their children, too. Even the older Grandkids like Victoire knew how to floo to the Burrow and used the ability almost constantly, so there was never a dull moment. 

Normally, Hermione felt a bit overwhelmed by the chaos, but today, as she sat in an old armchair, nibbling on a muffin while she listened to Molly overload Ginny with yarn options for the new baby’s mandatory blanket, she could only manage to feel grateful for the distraction.

Sirius needed time to talk to Remus, and she…well, she wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to go back and figure out this whole maybe-possibly-accidentally-married thing just yet. 

While she would never admit it to anyone else, she wanted to spend just a little longer thinking about the fact that she might actually be Sirius Black’s wife before she went back to Grimmauld and the bubble potentially popped. 

She wasn’t sure how to feel about it. On one hand, everything had been way too fast. The whole birth control fiasco was easily the stupidest thing she’d ever done or let someone else do—even stupider than she’d anticipated, if Winky was to be believed. But on the other hand, if he was half as in this as she was, if it had been half as long for him as it had for her, if the way he looked at her when the masks came off spoke to the way he felt, then she didn’t think there could be such a thing as too fast. 

If you’ve been in love with someone for years, if you’d thought you’d never have the one thing you wanted, and it was finally in your hands, who in their right mind wouldn’t want to latch on to it as hard and as fast as they could?

But being his wife…if she was, or if the potential was there for her to become exactly that some day, it was something she’d never allowed herself to imagine, never believed she could have. And in the absence of any rationality, she just…liked the idea. 

A lot. 

Smiling to herself, Hermione resisted the urge to laugh when Ginny finally groaned and pushed herself up out of her chair, one hand braced on her swollen stomach. 

“Mum, I love you, you’re perfect, I’m going to fucking snap if you show me one more skein of yarn,” Ginny huffed. “I’m getting another muffin.” 

“Oh, Ginbug, let me—” 

“Mum, I can walk,” Ginny protested, turning before Molly could take her arm. She waddled—literally waddled, which caused Hermione to have to place her hand over her mouth as the lingering laugh threatened to bubble over—and Hermione watched her leave, something tightening in her chest. 

“You’ve got the look, dearie,” Molly hummed. Hermione looked up to watch as the older woman began to arrange the yarn back into her knitting basket.

“What look?” She paused, then, with a small laugh, added, “Molly, you aren’t even looking at me. How could you know what look I have?” 

“A mother always knows, Hermione.” Molly tucked her basket back into the space between her and Arthur’s favourite armchairs. Tilting her head, she folded her hands into her lap as she studied Hermione’s face. “You’re ready to have a little one of your own. Or, at least, you’re considering the idea.” 

“Well, I…I thought I was ready. Before, I mean,” Hermione said, nervously picking at a loose thread in her sweatshirt as she averted Molly’s gaze.

“I know, love,” Molly sighed. “And I am so sorry things worked out the way they did, though I can never say enough how proud I am of the strength you’ve shown through all of it. But that’s the past, now. And there’s nothing wrong with moving on with the future, Hermione. You’re ready, yes?” 

“I…I think I am,” Hermione confessed, biting the inside of her cheek as she glanced back up at Molly.

“Ah. So you’ve found yourself a gentleman, then,” Molly surmised, a rather pleased smile spreading across her face. 

“I wouldn’t exactly call him that,” Hermione laughed. “I…there is someone, yes. But to call it complicated would be the understatement of the century.” 

“He’s older?” Molly asked. “Rakish, and off-limits?”

“How did you—” 

“A bit of a shit, too, isn’t he? With an unhealthy attachment to a leather jacket?” 

“Molly,” Hermione gasped. “I—I’m sure I don’t know what you’re—” 

“A mother always knows, Hermione,” Molly repeated. “You know, everyone’s path is different in life, dearie. Why, when I met my Artie, I was betrothed to another. Though I conveniently forgot that a few times before I finally made my choice.” 

“Molly Weasley!” Hermione gasped. “How very salacious of you.” 

“Yes, well, when you know, you know,” Molly replied. “My point is, Arthur isn’t who I thought I would end up with. He certainly wasn’t the path that was expected of me, and there were people in our lives who didn’t understand at first. My brothers made it quite difficult, though I think that was mainly a bit of fun for them.” 

“So what did you do? To get people to understand?” Hermione asked, pulling her legs up into the seat beneath her. 

“Oh, nothing at all,” Molly said bluntly. “We just…loved each other. The rest fell into place.” 

“What if things don’t fall into place, though? What if people don’t get it, or…or Harry hates me?”

“Hermione Jean Granger, my son cheated on you and impregnated another woman during your marriage. Do you have any idea how many times his brothers quite literally kicked his arse? Or how determined half of us were to hate Daphne?”

“She’s impossible to hate,” Hermione remarked. 

“That she is. And eventually, everything fell into place there, too. Now, Daphne is like a daughter to me, and I would be lost without my granddaughter. But you endured all of that, and you still managed to find a way to keep your friendships intact. Everyone else followed your lead, as they always did. And this will be no different.” Molly reached for her basket, pulling it back into her lap as she began to rifle through her yarn again. 

“Now, as for your rakish leather addict, he’s the proper choice for you, and he looks at you like Morganna herself placed you into his orbit. Your friends will get over themselves and be happy for you,” she continued. 

“You make it all sound so simple,” Hermione sighed. “But he’s…he’s kind of everything I need. I’m really happy, Molly.” 

“Well, then. That’s all that matters, dearie. Everyone will learn to understand when you’re ready for them to know.” 

“And if they don’t understand?” Hermione pressed. 

“Then we apply an old Prewett family adage.” Molly looked up, a wicked grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Fuck ‘em.” 

“Fuck ‘em,” Hermione repeated. 

“Fuck ‘em,” Molly agreed. “Happiness is a gift from the gods that should be freely given, but you, my dear, have more than earned yours. So, fuck ‘em.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝔻𝕖𝕗𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕡𝕒𝕡𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟

𝕁𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕦𝕔𝕙 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕀'𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕚𝕟

𝕋𝕠𝕠 𝕕𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕠 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕤𝕨𝕚𝕞

𝔸𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕥

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Hermione 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Sirius was waiting in his favourite chair when she stepped through the floo, but she turned to head out into the foyer, where she deposited her shoes and bag before she stepped back into the room.

“Hi, Kitten,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. Hermione gave him a soft smile, and he watched her for a moment, his eyes never leaving her face as he took a drink and then held it out to her. She smiled, stepping forward to accept the proffered whisky. She took a sip, smiling against the glass when he patted his thigh in a silent command.

“Bossy,” Hermione teased as she settled into his lap, straddling him with her knees pressed to the cushion of the chair on either side of his thighs. She pressed the glass to his mouth, waiting for him to take a sip before she set it aside. 

“Did you have a good talk with Remus?” she asked, ignoring the nerves rolling through her stomach. He’d given her his drink and invited her onto his lap. Surely those were good signs. 

“I did. I…have a lot to say,” he said carefully. 

“Is it going to hurt?” 

“I thought you liked it when I hurt you,” he murmured, settling his hands on her hips.

“Sirius,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. 

“No, baby. It’s not going to hurt. I don’t think so, at least. I just…I think last night, we sort of went off the rails.” 

“Right.” Hermione felt her body tense, and Sirius seemed to notice. He frowned, rubbing slow circles over her hipbones with his thumbs.

“Hey. Don’t do that. Don’t pull away, yeah?” he asked. “Let me get this out.” 

“Okay,” she mumbled.

“I cut a fucking…Muggle thing out of your arm, because the very idea of there being a single thing that kept any part of you away from me for even a moment longer just…wrecked me,” he sighed. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Hermione. And I’ve spent years telling myself it was wrong. You were married, you’re Harry’s best friend, I’ve got two decades on you...”

“I like that, though,” Hermione confessed. “Your age, I mean. I think, through all of the dating I’ve tried—and failed—I always felt decades older than everyone else. I’ve never really connected with anyone like I have with you. And with you, it’s just…effortless.”

“It is,” Sirius agreed.  “But it scares me, Hermione. The way I feel for you. It's so big, and it overshadows everything. It just always sits right here,” he pressed a hand to his sternum, “like this fucking ache in my chest, and the second you said my name, I just…snapped. But it wasn’t right.” 

“It wasn’t?” She felt the fear kicking back in, but she tried to stuff it down; he’d asked for her to hear him out, and she was determined to do so—even if some not-so-small part of her wanted to run up the stairs and hide.

“I’m only talking about this,” he clarified, tracing a finger over the spot on her bicep where he’d removed the implant. “It wasn’t right to have done it like that, because we were both too caught up in the moment. And don’t get me wrong, I’d flip you onto your back and give you my child right now—” 

“I might like that.”

“Brat,” he teased, squeezing her hip. “My point is, you make me reckless, and gods help me, I want to be reckless with you. But I think we have to acknowledge that we’ve already established a shitty track record for thinking things through, and we should…well, at least try to take a minute to talk about big things like that, in the future.” 

“In the future,” Hermione repeated. “So you…you’re not saying you don’t want to do this?” 

“Not at all.” He took her face into his hands, running his thumbs along the curve of her cheekbones, and Hermione watched as his eyes softened. She wondered, then, if he’d always looked at her like that; like she was something precious, something worth keeping.

“I want this, Hermione. Every bit of this, with you, and only you,” he told her. “I am all-in, and that won’t change, do you hear me? But we have to think about everyone else. This thing between us is like a tornado, and I think we need time to find our footing before we bring it out into the open. But I don’t—gods, I don’t want you to think it's about hiding you.”

“No,” she agreed, brushing his hair back from his face. “I know it’s not. I feel the same way. I think I just…want this to be ours. Even for a few months—”

“One month,” Sirius interjected. “I can take a few weeks of pretending I’m not obsessed with you. I’ve done it for years. But now that I’ve had you? It's going to make it almost impossible not to scream it from the rooftops.” 

“One month.” 

“But you are mine. And you’re in my bed every night. Deal?” 

“Deal,” Hermione agreed. “I…I can go to the doctor and have my implant replaced. Or I can go on the potion, for a while, if you regret—” 

“Do you regret it?” He slid his hand down, splaying his fingers over the side of her neck as his thumb lightly stroked her jaw. “Do you want to go back on a contraceptive? Or do you just feel like it’s what you’re supposed to do?”

“No. I don’t want to,” Hermione confessed. “I feel like I should. But I….honestly? I’m sick of doing what I’m supposed to. I’m sick of overthinking every single decision, of not taking risks. I just want to be with you, Sirius. I’ve wanted this for so long, and I don’t want to move forward with things between us with some pre-conceived notion about how and when and why we should do things. I just…I want to be reckless with you, too. I want to be yours.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing. Considering the fact that you might already be my wife.” 

“Oh. Right. Is that…is that real?” she couldn’t hide the hope in her voice—illogical as it may have been. Sirius pursed his lips and reached for his glass of whisky, taking a sip before he passed it to her. 

“Fuck if I know,” he admitted. “The elves, their magic works differently than ours, as you know. Winky and Posey definitely picked up on some kind of binding. But when Remus and I examined the runes on the dagger’s hilt, there was one we couldn’t quite decipher. As it stands, I’m not quite sure if I enacted a marital binding or a betrothal.” 

“Well, shit.” Hermione took a big drink, chewing a piece of ice as she gathered her thoughts. “Is there a way to find out for sure?” 

“We could look at the family tapestry,” Sirius answered as he took the drink from her hand. He placed it on the side table and then reached for the hem of her sweatshirt, tugging it over her head before he continued, “But I don’t think I’m ready to get up from this chair, yet.” 

“Are you stalling, Mr Black?” Hermione teased, her voice shaky as his calloused fingers trailed up her stomach to cup her breasts. 

“Maybe,” he admitted, tugging the cups of her bra down, he pinched her nipples, and Hermione let out a squeak, squirming in his lap. “But mainly, I just want to play with these pretty tits before we have to go stare at all my shitty ancestors.”

“Sirius,” Hermione breathed, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as he palmed her breasts. 

“Shhh.” He leaned in, dragging his nose along the curve of her jaw, and then nipped at her chin. “It’s been a long day, Kitten. Let Daddy take care of you for a bit, and then we’ll go figure it out.” 

“Yes, Daddy,” she sighed.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sirius

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Yes, Daddy. 

Gods, she was so bloody perfect that it hurt.

He knew they should go look at the tapestry; since Remus had figured out the spell to repair the spots where he, Andromeda, and the others had been burned off years ago, it would have the answers they needed. 

But a part of him didn’t want to know; at least not yet. He wanted to sit with the idea of her being his wife for a little longer—and, most importantly, the only thing he could really focus on was how badly he wanted to take care of her right now. 

A memory replayed in his head: the night at the ball, when she’d been in his arms and he, like a fool, had still been searching the room for her. She’d confessed that the man she longed for had been through a lot and that she was concerned he didn’t have someone to take care of him.

When Sirius had asked who took care of her—her being the Mystery Girl at the time, because he really was a proper idiot—she’d brushed the sentiment off. But when he’d told her he knew people who often got so caught up in taking care of everyone around them that they forgot to take care of themselves, he’d been thinking of Hermione. 

She was everything to everyone, had always been everything to everyone, and he’d spent so long wallowing in his emotions, wishing he could be there at the end of the day to show her what it was like to be taken care of for a change. 

Now that she was here in his lap, the bloody tapestry could wait, because he was going to show her exactly what it was like to belong to him, in the way he knew she needed just as badly as he needed to give it to her. 

See, Hermione Granger was a very particular type of woman; a dream chaser, a caretaker, an ambitious, unstoppable force of nature. He’d always known it, but in the last few years, he’d noticed something else about her. 

She wanted to give up control. She needed someone who could take over, who could let her shut that pretty little mind off and do the thinking for both of them. She was a natural submissive, and he had every intention of teaching her exactly how well he could take care of her. 

He cupped her breast and lowered his head, sucking her nipple into her mouth as his other hand splayed across her lower back. Hermione moaned his name, and he released her breast, laving his tongue over the sensitive peak before he pulled away. 

“Stand up and undress, pet,” he ordered. Hermione scrambled off his lap, clumsily shoving her jeans and knickers down, and he stifled a laugh as he watched her hop on one foot to pull them off her legs before she undid the clasp of her bra and let it fall to the floor. 

“Good girl,” he praised as he looked her over. He’s gotten a good look at her in the shower the night before, as he ran his hands over every supple inch of her body, taking his time to learn every curve while he washed her. Still, he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on the softness of her stomach, her thick thighs and full breasts. “You’re a work of art, Kitten.”

“Stop it,” she blushed, biting down on her lower lip as she cast her eyes to the floor. 

“No, I don’t think I will.” He reached for his drink and leaned back in his chair, propping his foot on his knee as he took a sip. “Take your left breast into your right hand,” he instructed. 

Hermione’s eyes shot up, and she opened her mouth as if to protest, but seemed to think better of it. With a stiff nod, she placed her hand over her breast, and he continued, “Give it a squeeze, love. Do you feel how full it is? You can barely even hold it in your hand.” 

“Well, that’s why you should be the one touching me,” Hermione responded. 

“In a minute,” he said dismissively. “Pinch your nipple between your fingers for me, baby.” 

Hermione nodded, rolling her nipple between her thumb and forefinger, and her mouth dropped open in a silent oh. “Feels good.” 

“Yeah?” Sirius took another drink, nodding down to her other hand. “Now, I want you to trail your fingers over your stomach. Just lightly.” 

I’m going to have so much fun with this, he thought as he watched her follow the command. Her fingertips moved over her skin, shakily at first until she seemed to find her footing, and he reached down, adjusting his jeans over his hardening cock. 

“Lower,” he instructed. “Do you feel how good your skin feels? How soft you are? Do you have any idea what it feels like for me to get to take you in my hands?” 

“No. I mean, I…I know what it feels like to touch myself, but…” she let out a shaky exhale, and he pinched his brows together as he watched her fingers brush over her skin, just above her naval. 

“Colour?” 

“Yellow. I feel…exposed.” 

“Like you felt last night on the stage?” he asked. 

“No. It’s different. It’s…I feel anxious,” Hermione confessed. “I think I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that this is all happening with you.”

“Good girl. Thank you for letting me know. You can move your hands wherever it feels comfortable, but keep them on your skin.” Hermione adjusted, cupping both breasts in her hands as if to shield them from his view, and he took another drink before he vanished the glass. “Colour?” 

“Like…a light green, now,” she said with a small laugh. 

“Would you like to know what I think?” Sirius asked.

“Please,” she responded softly. 

“I think you’re not used to someone looking at you and knowing they’re the luckiest man alive because they get to touch you.” He stood from his chair and stepped toward her, taking her chin into his hand. “And I think you need to let go, baby. I think you need me to take over, don’t you?” 

“I do,” Hermione admitted, a faint blush creeping across her cheekbones.

“Good girl.” Sirius lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her softly, before he took a step back. “Pick your clothes up off the floor and fold them neatly.” 

“What? Sirius, you must be—” 

“Colour?” he interrupted.

“Um…green, I suppose,” Hermione replied, rolling her eyes.

“Then do as you’re told.” Sirius sat back down, watching as she knelt to gather her clothes into her arms. She walked over toward the sofa, giving her the perfect view of her arse as she began to fold the items. 

“I’m going to talk while you work, and you’re going to listen,” he began.

“Okay.” 

“Answer me properly, Hermione,” he scolded. 

“Yes, Sir.” 

Sirius smirked, deciding to let the attitude in her tone slide. For now. “You need me to take control, Kitten. And I need you to know that it will extend beyond the bedroom. Now, I’m not saying I’m going to try to run your life, nor am I going to tell you what you can and can’t do. But on nights like tonight, when I can tell your mind has been spinning all day, and you need some time where you don’t have to think for a while, I’m going to take over.” 

“And folding my clothes helps with that because…” she prompted as she placed her bra atop the neat pile of fabric resting on the sofa before she turned around. 

“It’s about getting you in the right mindset,” he explained. “It’s a simple act, sure. But you’ll find that small instructions help. Especially with a mind like yours. Getting you to relax into your subspace won’t be like turning a tap off and on. I think it will take more than that; a slow unwinding, just a little at a time.” 

“You know a lot about this,” Hermione murmured. Sirius raised his hand, beckoning her forward with two fingers, and she closed the distance between them until she was standing between his spread legs.

“I do,” he admitted, running his hands up the outside of her thighs and following the curve of her hips until he let them rest on her waist. “I’ve engaged in this dynamic before, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“With Marlene?” She trailed her fingers along his jaw, and he leaned into her touch, nodding.

“Yeah, baby. With Marlie.” He cleared his throat. “I was dominant, and she was submissive. But it was never to any structured degree. The, uh…Daddy thing, though, that’s only yours.” 

“I like that,” Hermione confessed. “That there’s something just for us.” 

“I do, too,” Sirius replied. “I’ve gone to the clubs, engaged in some other…situations. But the majority of what I know is from observation or from reading up on the subject. I haven’t really been active the last few years. Seems I couldn’t get a certain curly-haired swot out of my mind long enough to focus on much of anything else.”

“Who is she? I’ll cut her,” Hermione quipped. 

“Brat,” he teased, squeezing her waist. “I need you to know, none of this is a demand. This isn’t a condition of being with me. This is just…a need I have, and I see that need in you as well.” 

“The need to be your submissive?” 

“The need to belong to me,” he answered frankly. “You can call it anything you like. We don’t have to call it anything at all. But I think you liked submitting to me on that stage last night, and I think you’ve been taking care of everyone else for far too long. Here, with me, I just want you to be able to relax and let yourself be taken care of for a change.” 

“But I want to take care of you, too.” Her brows pinched together as she worried her bottom lip between her teeth. 

“Oh, baby,” Sirius cooed as he reached up to tug her lip free. “You already do. And right now, you can take really good care of me.” He moved his hand to rest on her jaw, tangling his fingers in her hair. “Would you like to do that, pet?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” she responded sweetly. 

“Good girl. Take Daddy’s cock out, Kitten.” 

Hermione dropped to her knees in an instant, as if she’d been waiting for this exact moment. She wasted no time unbuckling his belt, and he lifted his arse from the seat as she tugged his jeans and pants down, then tossed them onto the floor. Her hands moved to the hem of his t-shirt, and she looked up to meet his eyes, waiting until he nodded his approval before she took the shirt off. 

Without being told, she folded it, then his jeans, and stood to place them onto the sofa before she came back to stand between his legs once more, a shy smile on her face. “Did I do well, Daddy?” 

“You did very well, baby,” he agreed, wrapping a hand around his cock. “I’m very proud of you.” 

Hermione seemed to bloom under his praise, her smile spreading wider as her eyes seemed to sparkle in the low light, and he gave his cock a tug before he nodded down to his lap. “Get up here and warm Daddy’s cock.”

She leaned in, bracing one arm on the back of the chair as she placed one knee on the cushion next to his thigh, then the other, and he gripped her hip as he angled his cock toward her entrance. 

“Slowly,” he instructed. “I want you to feel every inch.” 

“Okay.” Hermione sucked in air through her teeth as he pressed the head of his cock inside of her, and her hand fell to his shoulder as she took him deeper, sinking inch by inch until her arse met his thighs. She let out a needy little sound—half whine, half sigh of relief—and he wrapped his arms around her to pull her flush against his chest. 

“Don’t move,” he instructed. Lightly grazing his fingertips over her back, he traced the ridges of her spine as Hermione sighed and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. He could feel her entire body relaxing into his hold, her relief so palpable he could nearly taste it, and he felt an overwhelming wave of emotion crashing over him. 

“I can’t believe this is real,” Hermione said softly, putting words to the thought that had been on the tip of his tongue. 

“Me either,” he confessed, nudging her forward until she was sitting up in his lap. He reached for her hands, lacing their fingers together and pressing them to the arms of the chair. “I…Gods, Hermione, do you have any idea how much I…” 

“I do,” she rushed out, her brows pinching together as a slight frown tugged the corners of her mouth down. “I know, Sirius. Me too. But not…not like this, when you’re inside of me, okay? Can you just kiss me?” 

Sirius broke at the tender, anxious sound of her plea, and he nodded, squeezing her fingers as he leaned forward to press his lips to hers. Herminoe sighed into his mouth, her cunt clenching around his cock and eliciting a groan as he deepened the kiss. 

He tried to make her feel it, to pour everything he couldn’t yet say into the kiss, his hands holding on to hers like a lifeline as she sat in his lap, impaled on his cock. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that—seconds, minutes, hours, time lost all meaning until she began to rock her hips, and he finally broke the kiss, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

When he’d settled into the chair by the floo to wait for her, he’d had the night all planned out; he was going to fuck her within an inch of her life, make her scream so loud her throat burned. Then, he was going to feed her a plate of the roast he’d put under stasis until they found their minds, and take her up to bed to do it all over again. 

But now, with her in his lap, all thoughts of hardness had seeped out of his mind. “Just like this,” he instructed softly. He gave her hands a final squeeze and released them, then took her face into his hands, holding her steady. 

Hermione mirrored his movements, her hands splaying over his jaw and the sides of his neck as she echoed, “Just like this.” 

She rolled her hips again, torturously slow, and he groaned, fighting the urge to thrust up into her. “There you go, baby. Eyes on me. Take what you need.” 

“You feel so good,” Hermione moaned. Her fingers dug into his face as she gripped him harder, but her eyes remained locked on his. He’d never really had this, he realised. This wasn’t fucking. It wasn’t sex. It was something different, something transcendent, and he knew, then, that there really was no going back. 

He’d take her hard tomorrow, or later tonight. He’d pin her down, wrap his hands around her throat, sink his teeth into his flesh, fuck, he’d do anything she wanted, anything she’d let him do. But right now, the need to just feel her overpowered any thought of dominance.

Hermione continued to ride him, her movements growing erratic as he felt her cunt begin to twitch around his cock. He was so close, and could tell she was too; small, soft moans escaped her lips, so he wrapped his arms around her again, burying a hand in her hair. He kissed her, slow and soft as he began to thrust up into her dripping cunt, filling her with long, deep strokes.

It was everything. She was everything, and he could have cried in relief over the fact that he finally got to have her, that she was truly his, that she very well might be his fucking wife, but then she moaned into his mouth, warmth flooding his lap as she tumbled over the edge. Sirius thrust once, twice, dragging his teeth over her bottom lip as he followed her down and began to fill her. 

The second she came down, she collapsed against his chest, her breathing ragged as she tried to calm herself down, and Sirius pressed his lips to her temple, stroking a hand over her back. He lost track of time as he held her until she finally seemed to have recovered and pulled back, brushing his hair back out of his face. 

“I want to know,” she told him. “Can we go look?” 

“Of course, Kitten.” He kissed her quickly, tapping her on the arse, and she climbed off his lap, her legs a bit unsteady as she walked over to the sofa and pulled his t-shirt over her head. Sirius stood as well, running a hand through his hair before he pulled his jeans back on and took her hand into his. 

They didn’t talk as they headed down the hall and into the drawing room, but she squeezed his hand as soon as they stepped over the threshold, looking over at him with a smile. 

“Are you ready?” she asked. 

“Gods, I’m so fucking ready,” he admitted with a laugh, raising their joined hands to his mouth to place a kiss on her knuckles. He guided her farther into the room, purposefully keeping his eyes trained higher on the tapestry until they came to a stop.

“Well?” Hermione pressed, and he looked over to find she’d squeezed her eyes shut. 

“You’re not doing a very good job at looking,” he remarked.

“You have to look, Sirius.”

“No, you,” he insisted.

“Oh, okay, but I’m the brat,” she laughed. “Fine. On three, yeah?” 

“Alright,” he agreed. “One…two…three.” 

Sirius forced his eyes down, following the path of the vines woven into the tapestry, and he felt Hermione’s hand tighten in his when he finally looked at his name.

“Oh.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕀 𝕞𝕖𝕒𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕤𝕖 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕤

𝕀 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕥𝕠 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨

𝕎𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘

𝕀 𝕨𝕠𝕟'𝕥 𝕝𝕖𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕘𝕠

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Sirius 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Hermione released his hand and took another step forward, running her fingers along the old fabric, and Sirius shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he continued to stare at the old tapestry. 

Sometimes, it still felt unnatural to see his name and likeness where there had once been a scorched, vacant hole. He’d never quite cared for the rubbish before him; he had, in fact, thought it rather haughty, the way all purebloods had some version of a magical display of their lineage. 

But now, as he watched Hermione kneel, her fingers tracing the edges of the little scrolling banner that had appeared below his name, he had never been more grateful for a magical artefact in his life.

“Hermione Granger,” he said softly, reading the words aloud. 

“I think…” Hermione trailed off, dragging her fingertip along the script that bore her name before she turned her head to look up at him. “I think this means it might be Hermione Black now.” 

Sirius nodded, swallowing through the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat, and he moved forward, crouching down behind her as she turned her face back to the tapestry. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back into his lap, propping his chin on her shoulder as she extended her arm to move her hand over their names again. 

“It’s real,” she whispered in awe. 

“It is. How do you feel?” he asked, turning his face to press a kiss to her jaw. 

“I…I’m not sure,” Hermione confessed. “It feels…I don’t know if I should say it.” She broke off into a laugh, and Sirius reached for her chin,  angling her head back to look up at him. 

“I reckon we’ve already done and said a lot of things we shouldn’t have, Kitten. Why stop now?” 

“Right.” Hermione sighed, casting her eyes to the side to look at the tapestry again as she confessed, “I feel kind of…relieved.”

“Relieved,” Sirius echoed. “I don’t think I expected that to be your response.” 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Hermione turned in his lap and planted her knees on the floor, looping her arms around his neck. “I told you, I want this, too, Sirius. All in, just like you said. And sure, I can’t exactly say this is the way I would have chosen for things to go, but I…Gods, Sirius, I’ve been in love with you for so long that I don’t even care how it happened, and I certainly shouldn’t have blurted that out, but I’m not taking it back, because it’s true, and that’s not even the point right now. The point is—” 

Sirius clamped his hand over her mouth to shut her up. “You love me?” 

Hermione’s eyes went wide, a brief wave of panic flashing across her amber irises before she slowly nodded.  

“You love me,” he repeated in a sing-song tone. Hermione rolled her eyes and huffed out an annoyed breath, shoving his hand away. 

“I swear to the gods, Sirius, if you make fun of me for saying it, I’m going to hex you bald,” she scolded, shoving at his shoulder as she tried to move off his lap. He caught her around the middle, tugging her closer as he smiled. 

“You wouldn’t dare touch the hair. You love it too much.” He kissed her before she could respond, and she tried to resist, pressing her lips together in a thin line, but when he whispered, “Baby,” against her mouth, she relented. 

Sirius buried his hands in her hair, holding her steady as he deepened the kiss, and she settled back into his lap with a contented sigh against his mouth. Once he sensed that she’d calmed down enough, he pulled back, meeting her eyes. 

“I love you more than life, Hermione. I have loved you so hard, and for so long, that it doesn’t even make any bloody sense. But it's there, and it’s real. And so is this,” he said, nodding toward the tapestry behind her.

“I love you, too,” she whispered back. “Are you…Are you okay with this?” 

“With what? Getting to call you my wife?” He tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling again as she nodded. “Well, it's bloody insane, and I reckon I would’ve liked to do the whole thing with the knee and the box and the tears. But that feels a bit out of character for us, doesn’t it?” 

“I don’t think we’ve even had the time to figure out what is in character for us,” Hermione laughed. 

“Well, looks like we’ve got forever now, Kitten.” 

“Forever. Gods, this is…this is insane,” she laughed again and leaned in, kissing him quickly before she climbed off his lap and stood to turn back to the tapestry. “You know, if I were a sane woman, I’d be mad at you for accidentally marrying me without my consent.” 

“If you were a sane woman, Hermione,” Sirius began, pushing himself up off the floor, “you wouldn’t have let me cut a hunk of Muggle plastic out of your arm on the table where we eat our meals.”

“That’s fair,” she replied. Turning back around, she reached for his hand, running her thumb over his knuckles. “So we’re doing this, then? Married life, and a month in our own little bubble before we make all of our family and friends’ heads explode?” 

“Sounds like a dream, baby.” Sirius raised their hands, kissing her on the wrist. “Now, let's go get some dinner. You’ll need your energy for later.” 

“What's later?” she asked as he began to tug her out of the room. 

“Well, we have to consummate this thing, don’t we?” 

“I’m pretty sure we did that last night against the wall. And on the floor. And in the shower. And then again, just now in the chair,” Hermione rattled off. 

“True. But I haven’t had you in our bed yet.” 

“Our bed,” Hermione repeated. “I like the sound of that.” 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hermione 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Hermione sighed, rubbing her cheek against his chest, and Sirius brushed her hair off the side of her face, smiling down at her as she peeled her eyes open and stifled a yawn. 

“You’re staring,” she mumbled, one hand blindly reaching up to playfully shove at his face. “Creep.”

“Legally, I think I have every right to stare,” he replied, guiding her onto her back. He settled between her legs, one hand braced against the mattress to hover over her as he watched her stretch her arms over her head and slowly blink, adjusting her eyes to the light.

“On whose authority, Mr. Black?

“On mine, Mrs. Black. Don’t you know I’m the boss?”

“Only because I let you be.” She reached up, touching his face, and her voice softened before she implored, “Say it again.” 

“I’m the boss?” Sirius grinned, leaning in to nip at her lower lip, and she spread her legs wider, allowing him to fully settle atop her. 

“Sirius,” she huffed, pulling back to glare at him. “Be serious.” 

“I’m always—” 

“I’ll cut you.” 

“I believe I’m the one who cut you,” he quipped. “That’s why you’re Mrs. Black, yeah?” 

“Mrs. Black.” Hermione smiled, slipping her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Again.” 

“Hermione Jean Black.” Sirius kissed her, tugging her lip between his teeth as he pulled away and added, “My wife. Do you like the sound of that, pet?” 

“I do.” She sighed happily, teasing her fingertips along the curve of his hip bones. “But I think I’d like this whole situation a bit better if you were wearing far less clothing.” 

“I’m wearing a singular piece of clothing.” 

“Which is far too much. You’re only proving my point.” Hermione moved her hand, slipping beneath his pants to palm his cock, and Sirius groaned, his hips jerking forward as he thrust into her hand. 

“Insatiable little witch,” he crooned, dragging his tongue up the side of her neck. 

“Are you complaining?” Hermione retorted, her free hand working his boxers down beneath his arse. 

“Never, Kitten. Though I do have half a mind to tie you to this headboard and—” 

“Good morning, Mister and Mistress,” Kreacher intoned, causing Hermione to gasp and jerk her hand free from the confines of Sirius’s boxers. She had been so distracted by the weight of him against her, in her sleepy morning haze, that she hadn’t even heard the pop of apparition. 

“I’m sorry, I…good morning, Kreacher. I’m…erm, sorry,” she stammered out, smacking an amused-looking Sirius in the chest to shove him off of her as she reached for the blanket. 

“Kreacher does not need an apology,” Kreacher sighed, sounding as if he were contemplating the cost of bleach to cleanse his eyes. “Kreacher lives to serve the Noble House of Black. Kreacher has only entered the Master’s chambers to deliver a missive from the Ministry.” 

The elf snapped his fingers, and a thick, official-looking envelope appeared on the bedside table. Hermione sat up, clutching the blankets to her bare chest with one hand as she reached for the letter, but it levitated off the table just as her fingers brushed against the envelope, hovering in mid-air before it began to speak. 

Dear Miss Hermione Granger, 

Your presence is requested in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at 9 o’clock sharp on this, the 7th of February, in regards to your open arson investigation. Upon your arrival at the Ministry, please proceed directly to the DMLE on Level 2 to meet with Head Auror John F. Dawlish. 

Have a lovely day, 

Philodendra Palmington, Lead Administrative Assistant

The envelope dropped back onto the table, and Kreacher let out a long-winded sigh. “Is there anything required of Kreacher, or may he be dismissed to his quarters?” 

“No, we won’t be needing anything else, Kreacher. Thank you,” Hermione responded, reaching for the envelope to pull it into her lap so she could re-read the instructions as Kreacher snapped his fingers and disappeared. “What time is it?”

Sirius reached around her to grab his wand off the table, casting a quick Tempus before he responded, “7:49. I suppose the ropes will have to wait. We need to get ready to go.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to come with me,” Hermione said, dropping the envelope onto the bed as she shoved the blankets away. “I’m sure it's just paperwork, or some boring status meeting.” 

“I didn’t ask if you wanted me there,” Sirius replied, tugging at a lock of her hair before he climbed off the bed. “I said I’m going. If they’ve got a lead on the case, then I want to know the details. I’m not going to let my wife go sit through a meeting where she might find out someone is fucking after her alone, so get your arse out of that bed so I can go down on you in the shower before we leave.” 

“Say that again,” Hermione ordered. 

“That I’m going to sink to my knees in the shower and eat your cunt until you scream?” Sirius asked, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and shoving them to the floor.” 

“No,” Hermione murmured, her eyes locking on his cock as it sprang free. “Well, yes. But the other part.” 

“My wiiifffeee,” Sirius drew the word out, wiggling his eyebrows. “Now come the fuck here.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sirius reached around her, holding open the door to the Auror bullpen, and she gave him a grateful smile as she stepped inside, pausing to look around. Harry was standing just to her left, his arms moving as he talked animatedly to Draco—because that was absolutely her luck—and she pulled her hair over the side of her neck on instinct. 

She’d glamoured away the bruises on her neck, much to Sirius’s grumbling displeasure, but she still felt exposed as the two men rounded on them. 

“Sirius, Hermione, good to see you,” Draco said cordially.

“Hi, Draco,” she responded, stepping forward to give him a one-armed hug before she turned to Harry. Harry grinned, wrapping his arms around her to lift her up into a tight hug before he set her back down and side-stepped her to hug Sirius.

“Hey, boy. Working hard?” Sirius asked as they broke apart. 

“It never stops, I fear,” Harry sighed. “We were just about to head out to question a suspect on a misuse of magic case. What are you two doing here?” 

“Oh, I, erm…I was called in to meet with Dawlish, and Sirius offered to accompany me. I wasn’t sure what it would be about, so…” 

“Thank you for coming in with her,” Draco said, reaching out to shake Sirius’s hand—the formal prat, she thought, as she bit back a laugh.

“You don’t need to thank me. What are roommates for?” Sirius responded. Hermione shot him a quick glare over her shoulder, and she could have sworn the bastard winked before he continued, “The secretary said Dawlish would meet us in conference room three. Could you point us in the right direction?”

“Sure,” Harry said, raising a hand to point toward a blue door on the other side of the room. “It’s just there. We’ve got to head out, but he should be right in.” 

“Thanks, Harry. We’ll see you Sunday, yeah?” Sirius asked. 

“You know we’d never miss a brunch,” Harry replied, leaning in to give Hermione another hug as Draco waved goodbye. 

“Come out to the manor sometime, Granger. Craney would love to see you,” Draco said, nodding to Sirius before he and Harry took their leave. 

“I’m sure Craney’s the one who wants to see you,” Sirius grumbled lowly as they made their way across the bullpen. Hermione rolled her eyes, reaching for the door of the conference room, and held her arm out with a flourish, gesturing for Sirius to enter. 

“Are we going to have a jealousy issue?” she asked, planting her hands on her hips as she watched him take a seat at the table. “Craney oversees the library, and we talk about books. You…you know Draco and Theo and I, that was just…” 

“I know, baby.” Sirius sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I trust you. I just hate that anyone at all touched you before me. I’m a bit possessive.” 

“It’'s the dog in you,” Hermione teased, taking the seat next to him. She reached over, squeezing his leg in reassurance. “For what it’s worth, you’re the only one I plan to let touch me ever again.” 

“Good,” Sirius replied with an exaggerated sigh. “I found my time in Azkaban to be terrible for the complexion.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and laughed, reaching over to give his arm a playful shove just as the conference room door swung open.

“Sirius, Miss Granger,” Dawlish greeted them with a kind smile as he stepped into the room. He took the seat across from her, his eyes flicking to the file sitting on the table, and he flipped it open, furrowing his brow. “Or…forgive me, Mrs. Black, I suppose?” 

“How did you…” 

“Magical documents,” Sirius cut her off. Reaching out to squeeze her hand, he gave her an apologetic smile before he looked back at Dawlish. “Which, I’ll remind you, are confidential, yes?” 

“Huh? Oh, yes, of course. I take it the news isn’t…public knowledge, yet?” Dawlish asked carefully. 

“Nah. You know me, John. A bit overprotective. The truth will be out soon enough,” Sirius said with an air of casualness. “Now, I believe you called Hermione here today for something other than her recent name change?” 

“Oh. Right. Right.” Dawlish cleared his throat, drumming his fingers on the table as he leafed through the file. “First, Hermione, I’d like to thank you for your cooperation with our investigation, and to apologise for any inconvenience we’ve caused. I’m sure I don’t need to reiterate how important this case was to our department, given your status.” 

“I understand…” Hermione paused, shifting in her seat. “And I appreciate your efforts. But I take it that we’re here today because you either have something to tell me, or nothing at all?” 

“That’s exactly right,” Dawlish said, settling back into his chair as he flipped the file closed. “I personally worked closely with a connection in the Muggle Fire Brigade, and had an entire team investigating any movement from those suspected to still be aligned with Voldemort’s agenda. But the final ruling is that, while a terrible coincidence, there seems to be no connection between the two fires.” 

“So my cottage and the apartment both just caught on fire?” Hermione nodded slowly. Oddly enough, it didn’t surprise her to hear as much as she might have thought it would. Housefires were a tragedy, but they were often spontaneous. Things had been quiet since the war, and honestly, she rather thought that if some rogue Death Eater apologist had circled back to target her, they surely would have gotten more creative than to stage a Muggle electrical fire.

But she understood the need for investigation, protocol, so on and so forth; she was just glad to know it was over. 

“The best that we can come up with is that even with all of the recent advances, Muggle electricity and magic still don’t mix well. I’m sure you experienced some power surges, lights flickering, things of that sort, in your former homes?” Dawlish asked. 

“Oh…yes, I suppose. I never really paid much attention. I think you just get used to it over time,” Hermione confessed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“Makes sense.” Dawlish pushed his chair back from the table and ran a hand down the front of his robes. “I don’t think it’s any secret that you’re a very powerful witch, Miss Gr–Mrs. Black,” he quickly corrected. “It stands to reason that the Muggle-tricity simply didn’t respond well to the strength of your magical core, leading to the systems to wear down over time, and resulting in the fires. My advice would be to consider living in a wizarding home, to avoid any further issues; though I assume, given your name change, that’s already been sorted?” 

“It has,” Sirius answered for her. He squeezed her hand again and stood, reaching out to shake Dawlish’s hand. “Though we would greatly appreciate it if you could keep the paperwork from certain members of your team. We’d like to be able to tell people on our own time, you’ll understand.” 

“Consider it done, Sirius.” Dawlish smiled, clapping Sirius on the shoulder. “We’ll call it payback for my Seventh year. As far as I’m concerned, the case is closed. I’ll do the final write-up myself and re-seal Hermione’s file.” 

“There’s a good man.” Sirius grinned, and Dawlish nodded goodbye to Hermione before he slipped out of the room. 

“What on earth did you do during his Seventh year?” Hermione asked, arching an eyebrow in suspicion. 

“Why do you assume I was the culprit?” he asked, sounding thoroughly offended. “Dawlish was a year above us in school, and the captain of Ravenclaw’s Quidditch team. He was in an alcove with Marybeth Sunderwold after curfew, and I might have been trolling the halls because of a prank. When Slughorn almost caught them, I set off a firework spell to divert his attention away from the tapestry they were snogging behind.” 

“That’s very noble of you,” Hermione remarked. 

“Yeah, well, if he’d gotten suspended from the team the night before the championship game, then kicking their arses wouldn’t have been half as satisfying,” Sirius finished, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he held his hand out. “Now, what do you say we get you home, Mrs. Black? I believe our month of bubbling starts now.” 

“You’re so ridiculous,” Hermione rolled her eyes, laughing as she took his hand. “Take me home, husband.” 

“Gladly, wife.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕎𝕙𝕠 𝕙𝕒𝕤 𝕥𝕠 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨?

𝕎𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕔𝕙 𝕗𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕤

𝕀𝕥𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕪 𝕨𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕧𝕚𝕧𝕖

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Sirius 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Hermione leaned across the table to pass James a napkin, dragging her toes up his calf, and he tightened his fist around the handle of his fork, adding another line to the running tally in his head. She’d been teasing him all through brunch, and he had no doubt she knew exactly what she was doing—just as she had to have known what would happen as soon as everyone left. 

For now, though, he was perfectly content to let her keep running the numbers up, so he used the years of practice he had under his belt to yet again pretend as if he were completely unaffected by her as he nodded in response to Remus’s question. 

“Yeah, I think we’ll be fine to host a game night,” he said, spearing a bit of egg on his fork. “So long as that one over there can keep the dramatics in check this time.” 

“Oi!” Draco huffed. “I have never acted dramatically in my life.” 

“I know this, darling, and I love you,” Theo said soothingly, stroking a hand over the side of Draco’s face and then covertly pointing at him as he looked at Sirius, mouthing drama queen.

“Traitorous husband,” Draco huffed, sitting back in his chair. “I wasn’t dramatic last time; I simply have a distaste for when people break the rules.” 

“He’s four, Malfoy,” Ginny laughed. “If he wants to skip over the Bog Beast card in a game of Bedknobs and Broomsticks, then he gets what he wants.” 

“Yes, well, there’s a simple solution if board games are a point of contention,” Tonks said casually.

“Oh my gods, can we?” Hermione perked up, her eyes flashing over to Sirius before she looked back to Tonks. “Do you think they’ll let us?” 

“Not again,” Harry groaned. 

“Oh, don’t be a drag,” Ginny said dismissively, nudging her husband in the shoulder. Sirius reached for his glass of pumpkin juice, already knowing the argument had been won before it even began. 

“If we do this,” Remus began tentatively, gesturing between Hermione and Tonks with his fork. “You two have to promise not to be overcompetitive. It's just a game.” 

“Competetive? That’s just rude,” Tonks said, pressing a hand to her chest in mock indignation. “Hermione, have we ever been competitive even once?” 

“Never,” Hermione sniffed. “Honestly, I resent the implication.” 

Sirius added another line to his tally on the grounds of general brattiness.

“Right,” Harry laughed. “You two are as competitive as Malfoy is dramatic.” 

“So, not at all then,” Draco remarked. “Glad we all agree.” 

Hermione placed her elbows on the table, pushing her breasts together as she met his eyes, and Sirius tilted his head in a silent warning. She smiled—the godsdamn minx—shrugging as she popped a piece of pineapple into her mouth, and Remus cleared his throat, drawing Sirius’s attention away from the wildly inappropriate thoughts involving his wife and a bowl of fruit. He looked over at the other man, fighting an eyeroll at Remus’s smug expression. 

It didn’t help that Moony knew everything; even if he took relief in knowing that his best friend was privy to the knowledge of the recent change in his life. It was hard enough to keep himself in line around everyone, but all of Remus’s amusement wasn’t helping the case. 

Gods, what he would have given just to be done with it; to have already crossed the bridge and let the truth out so he could pull his wife into his lap, and damn anyone who had a problem with it. But they had an agreement; they were only halfway through their bubble, and honestly, he was having a fair amount of fun keeping her all to himself. 

Hermione reached for a cherry, letting it rest on her tongue for a moment before she closed her lips around it. Sirius added another tally. 

“Fine,” he agreed. “We can play Charades. We’ll say…Saturday after next.” 

 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sirius leaned back against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankles as he lit a cigarette. He and Hermione had just finished washing the dishes after everyone left, and she had busied herself with putting away the last of the leftovers. They hadn’t spoken much since the last of their guests had filed through the floo, and he could see it was bothering her, but he rather liked to make her sweat, so he took another drag and watched her work. 

“So…” Hermione finally began as she closed the cooling cabinet, turning to face him. “How much trouble am I in?” 

“I guess you’ll find out, won’t you?” He turned toward her, taking her face into his hands, and kissed quickly, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Go upstairs and get ready for me, pet.” 

Hermione let out a soft whimper, nodding up at him as excitement danced in her eyes, and he had to force himself to step away as she immediately turned to exit the room, lest he bend her over the counter and take her right there. 

No, she’d worked hard for what she was about to get, pushing all the right buttons like an expert the entire morning, and he wouldn’t dare to be lazy about what she had earned. 

They’d only been at this for two weeks, but she was as quick a learner as she was in all other areas of life, so after Sirius waited her out a bit before he climbed the stairs and stepped into their bedroom, the sight that awaited him was no surprise at all. 

But he knew he’d never grow tired of it, all the same.

Hermione knelt before him on the rug near the foot of the bed, with her hands on her knees and her head bowed. He watched as she drew in a steady breath before slowly blowing it out. Closing the door behind him, he approached her at a leisurely pace, pulling his shirt from his head and unbuckling his belt to shuck off his jeans. 

When he reached her, he ran a hand through her hair, and she sighed, leaning into his touch as her eyes drifted up to meet his. 

“Hi, Daddy,” she said softly. 

“Hi, Kitten.” His chest tightened; a feeling he was used to by now. Every time she looked at him, it felt like the first time his eyes had ever truly been opened. Idly, he wondered if that feeling would fade over time, though he doubted that it would. She was like the first sip of water after a three-day trek through the desert; like the first time he’d felt air on his face that wasn’t tinged with the scent of rot after he escaped Azkaban. 

She was freedom, and nourishment, and she was so completely his, and godsdammit all, he was so soft for her that he felt like one of those squishy Muggle cylinders Harry melted onto crackers for the younger kids when they’d had a fire out in the back garden last summer. 

But right now, she didn’t need his softness, so he fisted his hand in her hair, delighting in the relief in her eyes when he gave her curls a tug. 

“Were you deliberately trying to earn yourself a punishment today, or does being a brat just come naturally to you, Kitten?” 

“Yes,” she replied, pausing briefly before she added, “both.” 

“You know if you want me to spank you, you only need to ask. No need to be a tease,” he told her, releasing her hair and taking a step back. 

“But where’s the fun in it all if I don’t work for it?” Hermione said, her voice low and sultry as she looked up at him through her lashes. 

“Fucking brat,” he laughed, nodding toward the bed. “On your feet. Bend over the bed.” 

“Yes, sir,” Hermione replied, visibly fighting a smile as she stood and walked around to the side of the bed. She planted her feet hip-width apart and made a big show of arching her back as she pressed her torso to the mattress, stretching her arms over her head. Sirius shook his head and peeled off his trousers and pants before he stepped up behind her, dancing his fingers over the small of her back. 

“Do you have any idea how many times you teased me today?” he asked, moving his hand lower to tease at the crease where her arse met her thigh. 

“Seven,” she replied breathlessly. 

“Eight,” he corrected. “But we’re going to make it an even ten, because I didn’t miss the way you kept sighing while we did the dishes, and you know impatience only earns you more.” 

“Ten, then,” Hermione repeated. “I can take it.” 

“Oh, I know you can, Kitten,” he chuckled, wrapping a hand around his cock to line up with her entrance. “But we’re going to make this a bit more interesting.” 

Sirius snapped his hips forward, burying his cock to the hilt in her already-soaked cunt, and Hermione moaned, dropping her forehead to the mattress. 

“Colour?” he asked—a formality, really, but it was always best to establish where she was to begin with. 

“Green, Daddy.” 

“Good girl.” He gripped her arse cheeks, spreading her open to watch as he dragged his cock back until only the tip remained inside and then thrust back in, earning another quiet moan. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he murmured, his eyes still transfixed on her glistening cunt as she twitched around the intrusion of him. “I’m going to stay just like this, buried inside of you, and you’re going to count each smack. When you reach ten, you’re going to come for me.” 

“I…I don’t think I can come just from that. If you’re not going to move, I—ohhh, one,” she gasped as he brought his hand down on her left arsecheek with an audible crack. He took a moment to run his palm over the spot where her skin was already blooming with colour before he raised his other hand and repeated the action on the other side. 

“Two.” 

Her cunt spasmed around his cock, and he smirked to himself. Oh, she was absolutely going to come just like this, and he couldn’t wait. The next few slaps came quickly as he alternated sides, and he could feel her growing wetter with every strike.

“Seven…Ni—oh, Eight, oh fuck,” she whined, arching back against him. Sirius placed his palm against the centre of her back, pinning her in place as she began to squirm. “I’m close, I…please, Daddy, I need you to move.”

“Nope,” he replied casually, as if it wasn’t taking every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from giving in. “Two more, and then you are allowed to come for me. Be a good girl, Hermione. You can do it.” 

“Hurry,” she croaked, dropping her forehead back down to the mattress. Sirius raised his hand and smacked her arse for a ninth time. She moaned, and he slowly dragged his cock back and then thrust forward as he delivered the final blow. Hermione let out a perfect, tortured little scream as she came undone with a single stroke of his cock, shattering around him like glass on stone. 

“Fuck, you’re squeezing the life out of my cock,” he groaned, grabbing her by the hip to steady himself as he snaked the other hand underneath her. Gripping her shoulder, he pulled her up so that her back hit his chest, pressing a soft kiss on her jaw before he wrapped a hand around her throat. 

“Yes. Gods, please, choke me,” she whined, tilting her hips back to take him deeper. Sirius cursed under his breath, releasing her hip to band his arm around her waist. He tightened his hand around her throat and began to piston his hips, each stroke harder, deeper than the last, until he bit down on her shoulder, tearing another screaming orgasm out of her as she shook in his arms. 

“Good girl, baby. You’re so good for me,” he praised. Pressing his forehead to her skin, he splayed his hand over her lower stomach as he followed her over the edge. “There you go. Take it all. Let me breed this perfect little cunt.” 

“Gods, Sirius, you feel so good,” Hermione whined, raising a hand over her head to bury her fingers in his hair before she mumbled, “Stay.”

Sirius nodded against her shoulder and braced a hand on the bed, carefully guiding her up the mattress before he settled onto his side with her in his arms, his cock still buried inside of her. Hermione sighed in contentment, summoning a throw blanket from the bench at the foot of the bed, and he caught it midair to drape it over them as she nestled further into his hold. 

“I like this,” she said after a few minutes of quiet. Sirius laughed, withdrawing his softening cock with a quiet hiss before he nudged her onto her back. Lifting one hand, he brushed her hair out of her face and let his hand rest on her jaw, stroking his thumb over her lips. 

“Do you, now?” 

“I do,” she giggled. “And not just your cock, though, ten out of ten on that front.” 

“Couldn’t do it without you,” Sirius quipped.

“Well, surely that’s not true. I’ve a feeling you’re a proper slag.” 

“Was,” he corrected, leaning in to kiss her swiftly. “But that doesn’t matter now; nothing that happened before you counts, anyway.” 

“Oh? And why doesn’t it count?” Hermione gave him an amused smile and lightly shoved him away, manoeuvring the blankets out from beneath her before she lifted them expectantly. Sirius shifted closer, pulling the heavy duvet over them as he gathered her in his arms once more, kissing her forehead. 

“Because,” he began with a yawn. “The past sucks. It's all full of war and death and shitty coping mechanisms. But I’ve got the future in my arms now, and I see no sense in dwelling on what got me here; I’m just so fucking grateful to be here.” 

“You’re a sap, Sirius Black.” Hermione paused, lacing her fingers with his where his hand rested over her stomach. “But I’m glad you’re my sap.” 

“Speaking of being yours…” he began, unable to hide the uncertainty in his voice. Hermione craned her neck to look back at him, a question in her eyes, and he quickly assured her, “It’s nothing bad. I just…I’d like to get you a ring. Er…I have a ring.” 

“A family ring?” she asked sceptically. “I don’t know if I fancy losing a finger.” 

“Gods, no. I wouldn’t even trust the cursebreakers with something from the family vaults. I…I have a few things from other means.”

“That sounds ominous,” Hermione yawned.

“Nah. All good things, Kitten,” he reassured her. 

“Hmmm,” she hummed. “I think I like the idea of wearing your ring. But we should probably wait until the truth is out there, you know? Then you can give it to me. It’ll be something to look forward to.” 

“Right,” Sirius sighed, releasing her hand to trail his fingers over her stomach. “We should probably get on that; get the news of our married bliss out there before you start to show.” 

“Sirius,” she laughed. “I’m not pregnant.” 

“That you know of,” he corrected. “Take a nap. You’ll need your rest. I’d imagine growing my kid is going to be exhausting.” 

 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hermione 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Hermione leaned against the arm of the sofa as she watched Sirius carefully tuck a blanket around a sleeping Posey before Winky snapped her fingers, apparating the little elf back to their quarters. They’d just finished a princess movie double feature, complete with snacks and a sing-along, during which the fact that Sirius had watched so many princess movies with a house elf that he knew every word caused Hermione’s ovaries to do a backflip. 

She’d already known Sirius would make a good father; she’d thought about it too many times to count, watching the way he acted with James and even with Harry. She’d also already accepted her fate; they’d gone down the rabbit hole, and she was too far gone to care about timing or propriety. 

But now? It was like something had solidified within her mind. 

She was going to give him as many kids as he wanted, as fast as she could. 

“You’ve got that look,” Sirius remarked as he settled back onto the other end of the couch, pulling her feet into his lap. 

“What look?” Hermione asked, raising the remote to hit play on the movie they’d chosen for after their Posey time. 

“The ‘Hermione Granger is Scheming Again’ look.” 

“That’s Hermione Black to you, husband,” she teased, nudging his thigh with her foot. 

“You’re godsdamn right it is.” He grinned, taking her foot into his hands to run his thumbs along the arch. “So tell me, what’s your scheme, Kitten? And does it have anything to do with your insistence upon wearing these hideous socks?” 

“Why would I scheme about socks?” Hermione laughed. “And I’ll have you know fuzzy socks are cosy.”

“Then what’s your scheme?” 

“I’ll never tell,” Hermione sing-songed, crooking a finger at him playfully.

“Hmmm,” Sirius hummed noncommittally as he lifted her foot over his head, draping her leg over the back of the couch. His hand fell to her thigh, his fingers lightly trailing over her skin, and Hermione let out a breathy sigh as his touch moved beneath the leg of her shorts, brushing over the gusset of her knickers.

“We’ll see about that, won’t we? I’ve a feeling I can make you speak.”

“Sirius,” she whined, rocking her hips.

“Shhh.” He pulled the gusset aside, trailing a single finger through her slick folds before he circled her clit. “Be still, pet. Watch the movie.” 

“You’re insufferable,” she grumbled, fighting the urge to squirm as she watched the opening credits flash across the screen. Sirius continued to move his finger lazily, slowly circling her clit until she could feel her lower stomach begin to tighten, and she let out a whine, rocking her hips again. 

“Sirius, please.”

“Not yet, Kitten.” He slid a finger inside of her and began to thrust it in and out, torturously slow. She could feel her orgasm building, could feel how close it was, but she needed more, so she pulled out the big guns.

“Daddy, please. I’ll be so good.”

“Aww, poor thing,” he crooned, rewarding her with a single stroke of his finger against her G-spot. “Are you that desperate to come for Daddy?”

“Yes,” she huffed. “You’re being a tease.”

“You know you take it better if you let me get you ready,” he supplied. “But if you’d just tell me about this little scheme, I’ll gladly let you come.”

“I am ready,” she grumbled, her head tipping back against the arm of the sofa as his thumb brushed against her clit. “Gods, please, you’re killing me.”

“Not yet,” he repeated. “Not until it's time.”

“When is it time?” Hermione panted.

“Whenever I say.” He dropped his free hand to the waistband of his joggers and tugged them down, freeing his cock, and Hermione sucked in a breath as she watched him wrap his large hand around his thick shaft. Slowly stroking himself, he turned to kneel between her spread legs and pulled his hand away from her cunt, tugging her shorts and knickers roughly to the side. 

Hermione sighed in relief as he lined his cock up with her entrance, but just when she thought she might finally get some relief, he shifted, pressing the head of his cock against her clit. She gasped, gripping his shoulder as she shook her head. 

“Don’t be mean,” she scolded. “I need you so bad.” 

“Then tell me why you were looking at me like that,” he ordered, rolling his hips to drag the head of his cock over her swollen clit again. Hermione gasped, already knowing she’d lost.

“I want…” she whimpered as he pressed inside of her, barely giving her an inch. 

“Go on…” Sirius murmured, his eyes locked on where they were joined. 

“I just mean, I need…” He gave her another inch, drawing a gasp from her lips, and she let go, gripping his bicep. “I want you to get me pregnant.” 

“Good fucking girl,” Sirius praised, snapping his hips. His cockhead nudged against her cervix, sending a slight twinge of pain across her stomach, but she relished the ache, rocking her hips to try to take him even deeper. 

“You can’t stop thinking about it either, can you?” he asked as he began to move. “Fucking desperate for me to breed you, yeah?” 

“So desperate,” she agreed, tilting her hips to meet him thrust-for-thrust. “I want you to fill me up until it takes. Want—fuck, right there—I want you to make it take. I’ll be so good. Please, Sirius, let me have it.” 

“Fucking gods, Hermione, I’m not going to last if you talk like that,” he warned, planting one hand on the arm of the couch above her head as he reached down to rub her clit. “I need you to come.” 

“Kiss me,” she ordered desperately. Sirius crashed his mouth to hers, and she gasped against his lips before she tangled her tongue with his. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt like she was losing her mind; like the only thing in the world that would cure the ache building in her stomach was to feel him throbbing inside of her, so she rocked her hips harder, a series of stuttered whines escaping her lips. 

“Baby,” Sirius cooed, pulling back to take her hands into his face. “That bad, hmmm?” 

“Yes. Gods, I just…I need it,” she confessed. They’d done this easily a hundred times now, and almost every time, he’d devolved into promises to get her pregnant. She’d agreed easily, but now— “Please, Sirius, I need you to get me pregnant, I want you to—fuck, don’t stop, please don’t stop.” 

“Such a needy thing.” He rose to his knees, reaching down to take the bunched-up fabric of her shorts and knickers into his hands, and she heard the material tear before he shoved it up over her hips and hooked his arms beneath her legs. 

He lifted her arse from the couch and began to fuck her harder, his jaw set tight as he watched his cock fill her, over and over again. “Fucking knew you needed this just as bad as I did. Gonna make it stick, baby. Be a good girl and come on Daddy’s cock so I can breed you, yeah?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, just…hurt me. Something, anything, I need—” Sirius’s hand wrapped around her throat before she could finish her sentence, and she snapped, squirting all over his cock as she came with a strangled scream. 

Sirius groaned, dropping her legs back to the couch to grab her hips, and she felt his thumbs digging harshly into her flesh, keeping her in place as he filled her. 

He held her there for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut as his breath came in sharp, ragged heaves of the chest before he pulled her up against him and sat back against the couch, his arms banded tightly around her back. 

“I love you so much,” he rasped. “You’re so fucking perfect, Hermione. How the hell did I get this lucky?”

“I love you, too,” she responded. “And I don’t know how we got so lucky, but I swear to the gods, Sirius, I’ve never been so happy. Although…” 

She pulled away to meet his eyes, twirling a lock of his hair around her finger. “We should probably tell people before I start to show.”

“You think?” He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers as he nodded. “Alright, baby. I guess it’s time to pop the bubble. Game night is going to be really interesting, yeah?”

“Gods, they’re going to kill us,” she laughed.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕟𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖

𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕖𝕟𝕕

ℍ𝕠𝕨 𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕫𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕥 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝𝕤

𝕁𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Hermione 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

“No, you fucking numpty, I said two words,” Tonks yelled, throwing her hands up in exasperation. 

“I don’t know why you’re acting so put out when you and Hermione are already winning,” Harry huffed. “Remind me again why we let these two partner up when we play?” 

“Don’t be jealous that some of us actually know how to play the game,” Hermione teased, leaning in to grab a sheet of paper from the bowl in the centre of the table.

“So mean,” Harry sighed. “Honestly, this is how my so-called best friend speaks to me?”

“You love me,” Hermione teased, kissing him on the forehead and ruffling his hair before she climbed to her feet. She walked around the table, covertly trailing her fingers across Sirius’s back before she came to a stop in front of the Black family tapestry. 

Right next to where her name had been forever attached to his. 

For the fifth fucking time in the last two hours, and still, nobody had even seemed to notice. 

She and Sirius had decided to host game night in the drawing room, specifically because they thought it might be fun to just sort of…wait for someone to notice the change. 

She was growing frustrated, so she ignored the missive on the scrap of parchment she'd plucked from the bowl and decided to make up her own. Tucking the paper into her back pocket, she held up her right hand, splaying her fingers wide. 

“Three words,” Ginny yelled. Hermione nodded, pointing a finger at Ginny excitedly before she pointed at her own chest. 

“Okay, first word is…my?” Tonks asked. Hermione shook her head, gesturing with her finger again, and Tonks tried again. “I. Three words, the first word is I. Oh! I’m a robot!?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes, shaking her head, and Tonks huffed, sinking back in her chair as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Dunno. I’ve got nothing, then.” 

Taking a step back, Hermione purposefully leaned against the wall, letting her free hand hover just above the names on the tapestry as she yet again wondered how daft her friends truly were. She pointed at her chest again and began to move her finger, repeatedly drawing a heart. 

“I love…” Pansy inferred, nodding as if she’d figured it out. “She loves something!” 

“Well, obviously she loves something,” Remus sighed. “Is it… I Love Lucy?” 

“Who’s Lucy?” Neville asked, furrowing his brow. Hermione rolled her eyes again and risked a glance at Sirius, who appeared to be biting back a laugh as he gave her a single nod of encouragement. 

“Muggle tv show,” Harry said dismissively. “Keep going, ‘Mi.” 

Hermione started from the top, pointing at herself and drawing a heart before, in a bold move, she pointed directly at Sirius.

“Oh. OH! I’ve got it!” Pansy proclaimed, smacking her hand on the table. “You love being serious!” 

Hermione felt, then, if this was ever going to end. She shook her head, pointing at him again, and watched as he leaned forward to brace his elbow on the table, covering his mouth with his hand. His eyes danced with mischief, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to kiss him or kick him, but she had a game to focus on. 

“She said three words,” Draco corrected. “The statement is clearly ‘I love leather’.” 

“Why on earth would the statement be I love leather?” Tonks scoffed. “I love…” she turned, looking behind Sirius, and then let out a whoop, as if she’d solved it as she pointed at the window on the far wall. “I love the nightlife! No, shit. That’s four words. Or is it? Is nightlife two words or one?” 

Hermione groaned, pointing from herself to Sirius in rapid succession before she slapped her hand against the tapestry, and Theo sprang to his feet, pointing back at her. 

“I love yarn!” 

“What?” Ginny laughed. “Where on earth did you even get yarn?” 

“From markets, mostly,” Theo defended. “But she was smacking the tapestry.”

“Well, the tapestry is woven, so yarn may have been a part of the process,” Draco defended, then shrugged as he took a sip of his drink. “Fuck if I know, though. That thing has to be older than time.” 

“Perhaps she’s trying to say she loves beards,” Remus supplied—the cheeky fuck. He seemed to be having just as much fun with this whole charade of…charades as Sirius was. 

“It is a good beard,” Sirius added, running his hand over his cheek as he tossed her a wink. Hermione rolled her eyes again—growing rather worried they’d detach themselves from her skull and roll across the floor if this shit didn’t get resolved soon—and stepped forward, slapping a hand against the table. 

She pointed to her chest, slowly and deliberately, before she drew a heart and then leaned in, reaching her pointer finger across the space between them until it hovered directly in front of Sirius’s face. 

“I…” he began, reaching out to snatch her hand from midair. “Love…Sirius.” 

“I love Sirius? How was that even an option?” Harry asked, reaching out to snag the bowl of prompts from the middle of the table. 

“Whatever. Point to Sirius, then,” Neville said, grabbing his ink pen to mark down another tally on the score sheet. 

“Right. Who’s next?” Draco asked. “Theo?” 

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Hermione groaned, snatching her hand back from Sirius. She walked around the table, coming to a stop behind him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. “I love Sirius.” 

“Yes, we figured it out,” Ginny said dismissively. “Now take your seat so Theo can have a go.” 

“No, you—gods, are you all that daft?” Hermione screeched. Sirius reached up to place his hand over hers, tapping her wrist before he gestured for her to take a step back. She did, and, once he pushed his chair back from the table, he reached for her arm, tugging her down into his lap. 

“What are you—” Harry began, holding up a hand as he cut himself off. “The fuck?”

“Ah. You two got your shit sorted, then?” Pansy grinned, lacing her fingers together behind her head as she leaned back in her chair. Neville shot his hand out as the chair tipped back on two legs, quickly righting her seat before he splayed a protective hand over her stomach. 

“Sorted?” Hermione furrowed her brow. “What do you mean—”

“Wait, wait, hold the fuck up,” Harry rushed out, glancing pointedly around the table. Hermione followed his path, meeting each set of eyes, only to realise that not a single person—save for Harry, of course—seemed to be the least bit surprised that she was sitting on Sirius’s lap. 

“You all knew,” Sirius remarked, stealing the words from her throat.

“That you two are absolutely insane about each other? Of course, we knew. So glad you finally caught up,” Pansy replied. 

“You knew?” Harry sputtered a bit, tugging at the hair on the side of his head. “You…they’re together, and you all knew, and nobody told me? Pansy, you—you were just talking about setting Hermione up on another date last night.” 

“Yes, well…” Ginny sniffed. “Pansy has been working on a theory that if we send Hermione on enough bad dates, she’ll eventually stop pretending she doesn’t already know who she wants.” 

“Wait, wait…” Hermione leaned forward to look down the table at Pansy. “You’ve been sending me on shitty dates on purpose?!” 

“Well, Ginny burned your flat down!” Pansy blurted, flinging her arm out to point at the offending arsonist.

“And the cottage,” Theo added, popping a chip into his mouth.

“You—you what?” Harry yelled. 

“Harry, love, you know my mood swings get bad when I’m pregnant,” Ginny defended in an innocent tone as she ran a hand over her stomach. “Besides, I took that stupid vow with Ron when we were kids, when the twins tricked us into never being able to tell on each other, so when I found out he was having the affair, I had to get creative.” 

“And the second time?” Harry challenged. 

“They were being idiots,” Ginny huffed, throwing her hands up before she gestured to Sirius and Hermione. “Honestly, we did all that work to get them together at the ball, and the next day Hermione’s all ‘ohhh, such a mystery’ and—and I’ll remind you, mood swings are a very serious thing.” 

“Gods, I’m married to an arsonist,” Harry groaned. “I’m a cop, and I’m married to a bloody criminal.” 

“What’s a cop?” Draco asked, a look of distaste on his face. 

“It's the Muggle term for an Auror,” Neville explained. 

“Wait. Everyone just…back up,” Sirius finally interjected, wrapping his arms around Hermione’s waist to pin her back against his chest, as if he knew she was about to jump to her feet and hex the room at large. “What do you mean you ‘did all that work’ for the ball?” 

“Shite. We’ve been busted,” Theo sighed. “Well, I chose the masks, of course. Everyone is always so obsessed with Hogwarts houses, even now, so I knew it would be misleading. But Pansy is the one who put you in a gold dress to push you over the edge so she could play with your appearance.” 

“Yeah, well, Ginny basically threatened Sirius to make him shave,” Pansy defended once more.

“It’s true. She came at me with a razor. I feared for my life,” Sirius said in a grave tone. Hermione elbowed him in the stomach, rolling her eyes. 

“Be serious,” she scolded. 

“I’m always—right, right, sorry, Kitten,” he rushed out when she pinched his arm.

“Alright.” Neville sighed, leaning forward to rap his knuckles on the table, drawing everyone’s attention. “The point is, we’ve all seen this thing between the two of you; you’ve danced around it for…three years? Four? Honestly, I’ve lost count. But no amount of trying to coax it out of you worked. So those three,” he said, pointing to Pansy, Ginny and Theo, “meddled, because they’re schemers. I would like the record to show that I did nothing, but the fact remains; it all happened. So where do we go from here? Do you intend to press charges?” 

“What?” Hermione blinked in surprise—not at the way Neville had taken over and steered the conversation back toward solid, semi-rational grounds, but at the thought of pressing charges. Honestly, she had half a mind to say yes, if only to make them sweat it out. 

But what would the point have been? Try as she might, she couldn’t even bring herself to feel angry. She was just relieved everything was out in the open, and—twisted as it may have been—she found it almost endearing that their friends had worked this hard to bring them together. 

It was sweet, even. If not a bit deranged. 

“No, we won’t be pressing charges,” Sirius sighed, propping his elbow on the table as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Though I would like to officially declare a moratorium on any and all meddling in our marriage.” 

“In your what?” Harry screeched. “I’m not—of course you’re getting married. Of course. Everyone around me has completely gone around the bend, haven’t they?” 

“Oh, darling, we’ve never been quite sane,” Pansy laughed. 

“So you two are… you’re actually going to get married?” Harry asked.

“We sort of already did.” Hermione reached out, taking Sirius’s hand into hers. “It, erm…was an accident.” 

“How the bloody hell do you accidentally—no. Nope.” Harry stood from his chair, pointing a finger first at Hermione, then Sirius. “I’m going to get a drink, and then you two are going to start from the beginning. But leave out all the…gross bits.” 

“Oi! I’ll have you know we are not gross,” Sirius protested. 

“You two, together? You are absolutely into a million gross things, in a million ways I refuse to think about,” Harry sighed, shaking his head. “I love you both. I…I’m happy for you, but I want answers. No more of this secret, scheming shite.” He paused for a moment, running a hand through his hair, before he turned to head toward the bar cart. “And I’m not calling her Mum.” 

“You may not be calling her Mum, but—” Remus cut himself off, his eyes going wide. “Fuck.”

“Wh-what?” Hermione sputtered. “Remus, what were you going to say?”

“Hermione…” He gave her an apologetic smile, touching his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Sirius, I hope you'll both forgive me. I'm sure you intended to tell everyone on your own time.”

“Tell everyone what?” Neville asked, popping a chip into his mouth. 

“That she's pregnant,” Sirius answered proudly, splaying a hand over her stomach. Hermione blinked rapidly as her nostrils began to sting, and she tilted her head back to look up at Sirius before she looked at Remus.

“Am I really? You can smell it?” She reached a hand down to cover Sirius's, and Remus's eyes followed the movement.

“You didn't know.” He sighed, slumping back in his chair. “I truly am so sorry.”

“No, it's alright. We've been, um, trying,” Hermione replied. “Its not a shock, just… a surprise.”

“A damn good one,” Sirius added, trailing his fingers over her stomach.

“Okay. So…married, with a baby on the way. Right.” Harry took a long swig of his firewhisky as he sank back down in his chair. “And how did this…’my pseudo-dad accidentally married my best friend’ shit happen, exactly?”

“I'm not sure you want the details, Haz,” Sirius responded. “But it's real. She's my wife, and I love her. And now we've got a baby on the way. I'd say that's pretty self-explanatory.”

“Two babies,” Remus corrected, then winced. He looked down at the glass in his hand, shaking his head. “Shit. I really shouldn't drink and... sniff.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sirius 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

“That didn’t go as badly as I’d thought it would,” Sirius remarked as he slipped into the bed, tapping his hand nervously over the pocket of his sweatpants. Hermione looked up from her book, rolling her eyes as she let out a laugh.

“Our friends have all been meddling for ages. Harry looked like he swallowed an entire box of vomit-flavoured Bertie’s, and Ginny burned down two of my houses.” 

“She had good intentions,” Sirius defended, glancing around the room. “Though I suppose we should refrain from pissing her off the next time she’s pregnant. I rather like this house now that it’s not all creepy.” 

“Pregnancy hormones do not make one an arsonist,” she huffed. 

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” he teased, reaching out to splay a hand over her stomach. 

“I still can't believe it.” Hermione smiled, watching as he stroked his thumb over her skin. “Do you think Remus is right? That it's twins?”

“Moony's nose never lies.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then pulled back, taking her hand into his. “I’m going to give you a ring now. And you’re not allowed to tell me no.” 

“That is, quite possibly, the most romantic post-marriage marriage proposal of the decade,” Hermione quipped, waving her free hand lazily in the air between them. “I’ll allow it.” 

“I’ll have you know it’s plenty romantic,” Sirius sniffed. “I’ve a speech prepared and everything.” 

“Oh, a speech?” Hermione arched an eyebrow, looking impressed, and he rolled his eyes, leaning in to kiss her before he pulled the little velvet box out of his pocket. 

“There’s a story behind this,” he said, placing the box on the bed between them. “What do you know of Harry and Ginny’s wedding rings?” 

“They were his parents’, right?” Hermione asked, her brows pinching together. “You went to the Potter vault and helped him find them, I think.” 

“I did. But that day…listen, you have to know three things about James and Lily Potter. They were the greatest people I’ve ever known, they were infallibly in love, and they were complete and total idiots. James especially.” Sirius smiled, shaking his head as he pulled the box into his lap and ran his thumb over the red velvet casing. 

“Of course, you’ve heard about his five million attempts to win the affections of one Lily Jane Evans. But what you may not know is that she made him work just as hard to win her hand in marriage. This ring was his first attempt.” Sirius opened the box, revealing the ring. 

It was a beautiful piece; intricate and understated, all at once, with vines wrapping around a simple, round ruby. 

“Sirius, it’s beautiful,” Hermione breathed.

“It was Effie’s,” he told her. “James’s Mum. When I showed it to Harry and told him the story, he said I should keep it for when I got married. Which I never thought would happen, but…anyway, here we are. James tried to propose to Lily with this during our Seventh year. The ring wasn’t the reason she turned him down, of course; she told him in no uncertain terms that he was an idiot if he thought she’d marry him when they hadn’t even finished school.” 

“Smart woman,” Hermione mused. 

“She was utterly brilliant,” Sirius agreed, reaching for Hermione’s hand as he lifted the ring from the box. “James proposed again the day of graduation, and three more times after that, before Lily finally announced one evening when they were over at my flat that she was ready to get married. I think she just…needed it to be her choice. But James, spoiled rich kid as he was, presented her with a different heirloom ring every time. In the end, they went and picked out their own from a Muggle jewellery shop. She wanted something that was only theirs.

“And I wondered if I should even give this to you; if maybe Lily had the right idea, and a ring should be a clean slate. But I couldn’t stop thinking about this one, because of Effie. My own mother may have been a nightmare, but I was lucky to find the best of surrogate mothers in her, and I think—I know she would have loved you.” 

He met her eyes, swallowing through the lump in his throat as he slipped the ring onto her finger. “Hermione Jean Granger. I know that’s already not your name, but if I’d had the time to do this properly, I would have gotten down on one knee and begged you to be my wife. I know we’ve moved fast, and I know this has all been a whirlwind. But accidentally marrying you was the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

“So, while I can’t ask for your hand, I’d like to ask that you let me keep it. That you let me love you until the last breath leaves my lungs. That you let me be good to you for the rest of our days, because I swear to the gods, you are the greatest thing I’ve ever held in my hands, and I never knew love could feel like this, but now that I’m in this, with you? There’s no place I’d rather be, Kitten. So wear my ring, Mrs Black. Let me keep you.” 

“Sirius, of course I’ll let you keep me,” Hermione sniffled, reaching up to wipe a tear from her eye with the back of her hand. “But if you don’t kiss me right now, I’m going to fucking scream.” 

“Aww, baby, if you need me to make you scream, just say the word,” he teased, trailing his fingers up her thigh as he pressed his lips to hers.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕎𝕖'𝕧𝕖 𝕗𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕟 𝕚𝕟 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖

𝕀𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕚𝕕𝕖𝕒

𝕀 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕙𝕒𝕕

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Chapter Text

Hermione 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

31𝘴𝘵 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 2009

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sirius ran a hand down her back as he turned her in his arms, softly swaying to whatever song the orchestra had begun to play. Lifting her head from his shoulder, she looked up to find he was already watching her, and she smiled, wrinkling her nose beneath her mask. 

“Hi, Stranger.” 

“Hi-ya, baby,” he replied, smiling lazily before his eyes darted around. “Hell of a ride, yeah?” 

“Gods, how has it already been five years?” Hermione laughed, reaching up to trail a finger along his jaw. “And how the hell was I stupid enough not to know it was you?” 

“You know, I ask myself that all the time,” Sirius responded. “But now…I don’t think I care to wonder anymore. We were never going to get out of our heads and say anything to each other if we hadn’t had that night. We needed the anonymity to let go, I guess.” 

“I guess,” Hermione agreed, pulling back when the song ended to reach for his hand before she turned to exit the dance floor. “But I like to think we would have eventually gotten the balls to confess to one another. Maybe in another fifty years or so.” 

“You would have liked that, wouldn’t you?” Sirius teased, pinching her arse and causing her to yelp as he fell into step behind her. “Old man lover.” 

“You’re not that old,” Hermione replied, turning to face him as they reached the bar. She raised a hand, tugging at a lock of his hair as she added, “But I do see a few greys.” 

“Woman, hold your tongue!” Sirius gasped affrontedly as he placed a protective hand over his hair, and she laughed, turning to the bartender to order two waters. 

“No booze tonight?” Theo asked, stepping up to Hermione’s side to pull her into a hug. 

“We have plans,” Sirius answered. He and Hermione exchanged a look, and she blushed, clearing her throat as she passed him a bottle of water and stepped away from Theo to hug Draco. 

“Where is everyone else?” she questioned, quickly changing the subject. 

“Ah. Ginny and Harry headed out early. She’s still worried about Orion’s cold,” Draco responded. “Everyone else is around somewhere.”

“Gods, I’m still so jealous,” Theo groaned. “That was my favourite baby name.” 

“Hey, it was that or Albus Severus,” Sirius said with a grimace. “You’ll thank me for guilt-tripping the boy out of it. Besides, I think the names all round out nicely. James, Orion, Lily. We’re all in there.”

“All Harry’s parents.” Hermione smiled, squeezing his hand. “Though I’m still surprised you advocated so hard for Orion, given that your father was such an arse.” 

“Yeah, well, we’d already called dibs on the good star names,” he responded, winking at her as he took a sip of his water. “Besides, anything is better than fucking Albus.”

“Too true, cousin,” Draco agreed, slapping Sirius on the back before he reached for Theo’s hand. “We’re having a girl, anyway, love. I think Cassiopeia will work a bit better than Orion would have, no?” 

“Baby Cassie,” Hermione sighed happily. “How is Tracey feeling?”

“Miserable, per her last letter,” Theo replied, pinching his brows together in concern. “But the surrogacy specialist has all the paperwork in order, and the Healer says everything looks marvelous, so now we just wait these last few weeks out.” 

“We gifted her with a long spa weekend for Christmas,” Draco boasted. “And we’re sending her and Greg on an all-expenses paid trip to the villa in France for a month after she recovers.” 

“A push present.” Theo added with a smile. “It’s the least we can do for all she’s done for us.”

“She’ll love that. She’s always wanted to see the—” Hermione felt a vibration against her leg, and she pulled her skirt aside. Tapping thrice on the end of her wand, she silenced the alarm she’d set before she repositioned it in her garter holster and locked eyes with Sirius. 

“We need to go check on—”

“We have to relieve the—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco drawled, waving a hand to cut them off as they spoke over each other. “Go have fun, you crazy kids.”

Sirius grabbed her hand without a moment’s pause, dragging her across the room toward the floo-lined hallway, and she giggled as she let him lead her along. 

She’d found, more and more as time went on, that being led by Sirius Black was the thing she valued most. He never bossed her around, never told her what she could and couldn’t do, and he took care of her like nobody ever had before, but there was no doubt who was in charge. 

And for as much as she’d always valued her independence, she’d never realised how badly she needed exactly that; someone to come home to at the end of the day who would take the reins and let her relax, a space where she didn’t have to be the one leading.

It had been five years since they’d attended this same masquerade ball and found comfort in the people they thought to be strangers. Four years and eleven months since they’d found one another again at The Scarlet Lounge and then promptly accidentally married each other; three years and eleven months since she’d learned what it was like to have your heart living outside of your body, twice over, and a mere seventeen weeks since they’d had their third, and through it all, Sirius had been nothing short of everything she’d ever needed. 

They were a mess; the idiocy abounded, but gods, she loved that difficult, brat of a man. 

As they neared the floo, Sirius turned, running his thumb over the rings on her left hand before he leaned in to kiss her. 

“Are you ready, Kitten?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” she responded softly, smiling against his lips.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sirius 

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

Hermione looked like a fucking vision splayed out on the St. Andrew’s Cross, and he took a moment to admire her, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he walked a slow circle around the wooden stage. 

The lingerie she’d worn under her dress fit her just as beautifully as he knew it would when he presented it to her before the ball. He’d had to go to Pansy for help, of course; if he had it his way, he’d have her at home, dressed in nothing. 

But the last four months had been a whirlwind of sleepless nights and tears and sweatpants, all over again, and he wanted her to feel how beautiful she was even now—especially now. The pale blue lace top fell to her hips, the corset shoving her tits up to the high heavens, but her arse was on full display beneath the stringy excuse for a pair of knickers, and he reached a hand out as he walked behind the cross, trailing his fingers along the top of her thighs.

A part of him wondered if it was too soon; she’d been vulnerable, still finding her footing as her body recovered from having Lynx just a few short months ago. The first pregnancy, with Leo and Lyra, had taken a lot out of her, but she’d bounced back quickly. This time around, things had been rougher, but she’d been determined to celebrate their unofficial anniversary in style, and who was he if not a man hellbent on making sure his wife had everything she could ever possibly want? 

“Colour?” he asked as he came to a stop in front of her, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Green, sir,” Hermione breathed. Her eyes cut to the side, taking in the room around them, but he pressed his thumb to her lip, dragging her mouth open before he slipped it inside, and her eyes fell back to his in an instant. 

“It’s only us,” he whispered, hooking his thumb into her cheek to drag her mouth toward his. Hermione whimpered, arching off the cross as their lips met, and he kissed her quickly before he stepped back to begin. 

He wasn’t big on toys, or tools, or whatever one might call the little accessories so many at the club liked to play with. It was never like that with them. Sure, he’d tied her up a few times, but their dynamic was more…raw. That was the only way he could think to put it. 

Five years ago, on this very night, she’d stood in front of him in that sinful green dress and confessed that the only thing she wanted was for someone to be so lost for her that they couldn’t control themselves; That she wanted to be desired.

‘Not just wanted, but…needed, so badly that he can’t help but tear me apart.’

He’d known then, even shrouded in secrecy, that the witch he had in his hands was something special. But now and forever, she was his, and he couldn’t stand the thought of having anything between his hands and her skin, no matter how good a show it put on. 

Being up here like this wasn’t about the people lounging around the stage; it was about him and his wife. And, sure, maybe a little bit about the way it made him feel to have an entire room full of eyes on them; to know that every man around him would kill to stand where he stood; to know that he was the only one who got to take her home after, but that was beside the point. 

“Good girl,” he finally replied, releasing his hold on her face as he took a step back and began to circle her once more. He took his time, ghosting the very tips of his fingers over her skin, tracing the line of her collarbones and the upper swell of her breasts, letting his presence linger over every inch of her. 

It was a practised routine; one that he knew drove her even wilder with need than a typical round of edging. Hermione was someone who needed her mind to be stimulated in time with her body, and he knew that the anticipation of never knowing where his touch would land, combined with the need that climbed higher every time he teased the lace over her hips or let his fingers dip beneath the cups of her bustier, stopping just short of touching her in all the spots where he needed her most, would work her up into a frenzy far beyond the effects he would receive just from touching her cunt. 

The room at large was almost entirely silent, save for the soft jazz music drifting from the speakers in the corner, as if the crowd, too, were anticipating his next move with bated breath. Hermione began to tremble beneath his touch, her chest heaving with every breath, and he paused in front of her, trailing a single finger over the gusset of her knickers. 

“You’re soaked, pet,” he murmured. 

“Mmhmm,” she responded, licking her lips. “I need…” 

Hermione trailed off, blushing as her eyes darted around, and he tutted his tongue, drawing her attention back to him. “Use your words.”

“Red,” she whispered. “I want to be alone.” 

Sirius nodded, giving no argument as he knelt to unbuckle the restraints around her ankles, taking great care to massage the skin beneath where the straps had been before he repeated the action with her wrists. 

He’d expected her to last a bit longer; he hadn’t even gotten started, but he felt no disappointment. All of this—the club, the lights, the people—was merely a backdrop, and he could take or leave it all. She was the only thing that mattered at the moment. The centre of his universe, and if his girl wanted to be alone, that’s what she’d get. 

As soon as he unbound the last of her restraints, Hermione slumped forward, and he lifted her into his arms, carrying her bridal-style toward the staircase. 

“I’m bigger now,” she protested feebly. “You should let me walk.” 

“Hush,” he commanded, pressing his lips to her temple as he began to climb the stairs. “Are you alright? I can take you home, instead, if—”

“I’m okay, love,” she promised, cupping her hand around the back of his neck. “My body is just different now, and I think maybe I wasn’t as ready as I thought for that much exposure.” 

“Your body is perfect,” Sirius protested as he stepped out of the stairwell and into the hallway. “But you did so well, kitten. Thank you for letting me know when you’d reached your limit.”

The very second they entered one of the private rooms, Hermione wiggled free from his hold and hopped down to her feet, tugging at the hem of her lingerie. For a moment, he thought she was panicking, and he felt his brow furrow in concern, but when she tugged her wand free from its garter to fire a precise slicing hex down the centre of the lace and quickly shoved it off of her arms, all rational thought escaped him. 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he groaned, reaching out to take her breast into his hand. 

“Shut up and fuck me,” Hermione ordered, sounding utterly exasperated. He grinned, lifting her into his arms again, and took several steps back to drop her onto the bed. She waved her wand again, vanishing his clothing before she dropped it onto the mattress, and he reached for her knickers, tearing away the flimsy lace with a single tug before he thrust inside of her. 

Hermione screamed, her back arching off the bed before she gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh as she began to rock her hips. 

“Fuck, kitten, were you that desperate for me?” he teased. Sliding his arms around her back, he sat back on his heels, lifting her along with him, and Hermione whined, giving another needy roll of her hips. 

“Yes. Gods, please, I need you to fuck me,” she begged. Her head tipped back, wild curls spilling over her face, and he ran a hand up her stomach, tracing the lines he’d left on her flesh before he palmed her breast and began to thrust his hips. 

“So fucking beautiful like this,” he groaned. “Fuck, baby, you take me so well.” 

“Don’t stop,” Hermione begged. “Please, don’t fucking stop. I need to come.” 

“Gods,” Sirius rasped, grabbing her by the hips to pull her off his cock. She whined in protest, but quickly shut up when he flipped her over onto her stomach. He covered his body with hers, using his knee to knock her legs farther apart before he thrust back inside of her tight heat. They groaned in tandem, and he wrapped her hair around his fist, tugging her head to the side as he scraped his teeth over her shoulder. 

“I’m going to breed this perfect fucking cunt all over again,” he warned, his words stuttering out through laboured breaths as he snapped his hips. “Gonna keep you trapped on my cock until you can’t fucking breathe without me.” 

“I already can’t,” Hermione replied, her voice tight. He could feel her body reacting to him, each hard glide of his cock smoother as she grew wetter with every thrust, and he groaned, grabbing her hips to pull her up onto her knees before he fisted his hand in her hair once more. 

“Harder, Daddy,” she begged breathlessly. “Don’t stop, fuck, I’m gonna come.” 

“Let me have it,” he demanded. “Fucking give it to me, baby. Let me feel this perfect little pussy milk my cock. Be a good girl for Daddy, pet. Let go.” 

Hermione gasped, then moaned, her back arching almost violently as he felt her come undone, warm heat flooding his thighs. He followed her over the edge in an instant, pressing her back down against the bed as he wrenched her head to the side and captured her mouth in a hungry kiss.

She shook beneath him, a whine ghosting across his lips, and he reluctantly pulled away to roll her onto her back. Bracing his forearms on the bed, he caged her head in, peppering soft kisses over her face, whispering praise against her skin, and Hermione seemed to relax with every ‘good girl’  he murmured. 

“Alright, baby?” he asked, reluctantly pulling away to summon his shirt. He helped her sit up, slipping the shirt onto her arms, and began to button it as he waited for her to respond.

“I’m just…emotional,” she confessed with a laugh. 

“Sub drop?” Sirius took her face into his hands, his brow furrowed in concern, but she squeezed his wrists, smiling as she shook her head. 

“No. I just can’t believe we’ve been this lucky,” she told him, running a hand through his hair. “Or that it’s already been five whole years.” 

“Imagine where we’ll be in five more, then. Or ten. Or fifty.” 

“You’re going to be insufferable about your oldness then, aren’t you?” Hermione laughed. 

“Oh, undoubtedly. But I suppose it’s a good thing you love to suffer me, hmm, Kitten?” Ignoring her responding eyeroll, he climbed off the bed, reaching for her hand. “Now, come on. Andromeda has given strict instructions that we aren’t allowed to pick the kids up until noon tomorrow, and I intend to spend every free moment we have buried inside of my wife, in our bed.” 

“I like the sound of that,” Hermione responded. “Take me home, Sirius.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝕀𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖'𝕤 𝕟𝕠 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕤𝕚𝕕𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦

𝕎𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕝 𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕤

𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕀'𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨 𝕪𝕠𝕦

𝕀𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕣𝕜

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆