Harry Potter 1. Sleepless

_Response to "sharing a cheesecake" drabble prompt._

**_All characters and their origins property of J.K. Rowling. Hermione is 18 or older unless otherwise stated._**

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Hermione let out a frustrated sound as she flopped over in bed for probably the fifteenth time in the last half hour. Sleep just wouldn't come. Looking at the clock and sighing, she got up and headed to the kitchen for a cup of tea. She was surprised and a little embarrassed to find the kitchen wasn't unoccupied; she hadn't bothered with a housecoat over her worn tank top and mismatched pajama pants. Any normal person would be in bed at 4am, not sitting at the kitchen table, eyes closed and moaning softly, lips pursed around a fork full of–

"Is that _cheesecake?_" Hermione asked incredulously, startling Sirius out of his culinary reverie.

He opened his eyes and slowly dragged the fork from between his lips, raising an eyebrow at the young witch standing barefoot in his kitchen. She looked too enticing with her curls in disarray, her shoulder and neck bare except for the tiny straps of her tank top. He licked his lips and smirked sexily, "Not just _cheesecake_, love. _Eileen's Special_ cheesecake, from Manhattan." He scooped another forkful and paused teasingly before taking a bite, "Want some?"


	2. Puppy

_Response to "Mercury" drabble prompt._

**_All characters and their origins property of J.K. Rowling. Hermione is 18 or older unless otherwise stated._**

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_Tyrant... Mad as a hatter... Raving..._

He knew how everyone talked now, but he no longer cared. He supposed, if he gave it a passing thought, it was his lack of concern for the opinions of others that probably spurred the reputation he had earned since his return from the Veil.

He didn't care.

One thing that his nearly two decades lost had taught him was that life was short and precious, and not to be wasted on pointless pleasantries. He was kind when his heart moved him to be so, aloof when it didn't, and absolutely brutal when a single person dared to cross him in the slightest way.

His loved ones, the few friends and family that remained after the war, he held close, more than a little protective of those precious few. With time, they had learned to accept his shifting moods, even when they couldn't understand them. "Mercurial" was the term Harry used, his soft smile echoing the wife of Sirius' deceased best mate.

It suited Sirius, with his quick grey eyes ever observing, sometimes judging the world around them, and always sharp, with only one exception.

With her, everything slowed down, softened at the edges. No one knew just how Hermione Granger had managed to tame the savage side of him, but they no longer questioned it. A touch of her cool soft hands, a murmured whisper, or a simple look into her warm dark eyes and the vicious Sirius Black was reduced to a content and sweet tempered puppy.


	3. Jumped

_Response to "snow" drabble prompt._

**_All characters and their origins property of J.K. Rowling. Hermione is 18 or older unless otherwise stated._**

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The chalk coloured sky was beginning to dust the land again. Hermione tilted her head back, closing her eyes as icy flakes gently kissed her face.

_Kissing._

I She felt a pang as she thought of the wizard currently frolicking in dog form with their friends in the valley below.

It was stupid, really, to feel so awkward and jealous. But ever since Sirius came back into their lives, she harboured this ridiculous crush on the older wizard that made her feel like a gawky adolescent all over again.

Hermione likely wouldn't have heard his approach even if she hadn't been so wrapped up in her thoughts. It was no wonder, then, that when the large black dog pounced her, she slipped and fell, causing them both to tumble down the other side of the hill and out of sight of their friends, her shriek lost in the distant laughter of their snowball war.

When they finally rolled to a stop, Hermione was spluttering angrily through the clumps of snow and wet curls that clung to her face. Her ire melted quickly, however, when a warm hand brushed her hair aside. Her cheeks flushed as she looked up into the face of the wizard who was now gently pinning her to the frozen ground. His grey eyes crinkled slightly with amused triumph, but his tone was soft and concerned.

"Are you okay?"

She blinked, then nodded hesitantly, her heart thundering at his proximity.

"No broken bones?" he pressed, but still not moving from his position above her.

She shook her head, mutely fascinated with his lips that were curving upwards at the corners seductively.

"Good," he whispered, dipping his head to slowly claim her mouth.


	4. Forbidden Fruit

_Response to "No-one is looking" drabble prompt._

**_All characters and their origins property of J.K. Rowling. Hermione is 18 or older unless otherwise stated._**

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Hermione moaned inwardly. _Strawberries._ It was her weakness, and there they were, plump and perfectly ripe, piled almost as high as her chin, on a huge platter at the end of the table. Worse yet were the multiple bowls of freshly whipped cream just begging to be slathered on the delicious fruit.

She fought with herself. Surely she could wait with everyone else? The reception didn't begin for another half hour, but it was _only_ thirty minutes.

She bit her lip and glared at the temptation. With every passing second, she grew more frustrated until she was rationalizing the irrational. No one else could possibly appreciate these strawberries as much as she. And besides, she wouldn't be able to properly enjoy them with everyone yammering around her and sticking their dirty fingers in the cream like a bunch of heathens. Strawberries like this deserved to be _cherished_.

Hermione gave an exasperated huff and muttered out loud, "Ridiculous. They're just strawberries and no one is looking anyway."

She plucked a single berry from the pile and dipped it into the sweet cream, closing her eyes in ecstasy as her lips wrapped around the seedy fruit before her teeth sank into its sweetness.

She was startled by a low growl close to her ear.

"Wrong, love, 'someone' is _always_ looking." Sirius grinned sexily, dipping another strawberry into the cream and pressing it to her stained lips.


	5. Breakfast After Ten

_Response to "hands" drabble prompt. Inspired by the song with the same title by the band Blue October, although this isn't exactly a song!fic.  
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**_All characters and their origins property of J.K. Rowling. Hermione is 18 or older unless otherwise stated._**

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It was the summer after graduation when Hermione made the switch from tea to coffee. After vacationing in Italy all summer she returned, hooked on the black brew.

The scent of it flickered into his slow pull from slumber now, creeping in like the memory of her. He used to smell it on her fingers when she'd come to wake him for breakfast, her soft hands brushing the hair back from his face.

But that was gone now, and he would move on. There would be no more muggle jazz piano playing softly in the background, no more sweetness lingering in his bed - she was gone and he wouldn't follow her.

Sirius frowned, eyes still closed, and rolled over, trying to shut away the ghosts that pressed in on him. The slight dip in the mattress was just another fucking dream, nothing more.

Still, he could hear random notes of a distant piano drifting up the stairs and under his door. He cursed inwardly, wondering who left the wireless on. The smell of coffee...

Soft fingers tenderly traced a lock of black hair, sweeping it away from his brow. His heart twisted. With heavy resignation, he forced his eyes open, bent on proving to his psyche one more bloody time that she was _not_ coming back.

The room slowly came into focus, pale midmorning light spilling through the bottom of his curtains, and he realized he wasn't alone. The sweetness and coffee remained in his senses, as did the hand lingering on the side of his face. He looked up and saw her then, sad brown eyes resting on him, hesitant and expectant.

"Hermione?" he whispered, and her mouth curved shyly before she sucked her bottom lip in, chewing it nervously. She nodded slowly.

"What are you doing here?" was all he could ask.

"I missed you," she answered simply.


	6. Madness

_Response to "therapy" drabble prompt._

**_All characters and their origins property of J.K. Rowling. Hermione is 18 or older unless otherwise stated._**

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_St. Mungo's,_ Hermione thought to herself, _I should really be locked away for this._ She shook her head, listening intently to the movements of the wizard in her bedroom. She had no idea what he was up to this time, only that it was yet another little game. Each time, it got a little more dangerous, well, dangerous to her anyway.

She was Hermione Granger, after all, the goody two shoes, the brainy little swot, the well intentioned bookworm. Everyone expected her to settle down with a nice young, normal wizard. Up until recently she herself expected the same. And yet here she was.

Her fingers fidgeted against the bindings holding her wrists behind her back. _What the bloody hell is he doing?_

"Sirius..." she began impatiently.

Calloused fingers pressed against her lips, the simple touch causing another wave of heat to pool between her legs. His scent enveloped her as his mouth grazed her ear, "Do I need to add a gag to that blindfold, my pretty little witch?"

Hermione shuddered, shook her head silently, and continued to wait, wondering vaguely if there was a magical equivalent to muggle therapy. _St. Mungo's. Definitely. _


	7. Sleeping Beauty

_Response to "wine" drabble prompt._

**_All characters and their origins property of J.K. Rowling. Hermione is 18 or older unless otherwise stated._**

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The door gave a final click behind the last of the stragglers, leaving Sirius alone to deal with the young witch who was slumped in an overstuffed chair in his parlour. The dying fire combined with the few oil lamps cast a soft glow over her features.

He sighed and quietly walked over, plucking away the half-empty wine glass that was wedged precariously between her curled legs and the arm of the chair, and setting it on the side table. He peered into her face, half obscured by the unruly brown tresses that had escaped their restraints hours ago. Without thinking he gently tucked an errant curl behind her ear, jumping slightly when she sighed and moved her cheek into his palm. Her eyes remained closed but her tongue darted out to moisten her wine stained lips as she muttered incoherently in her sleep.

Sirius exhaled and allowed himself a rare moment to outwardly admire the witch before him as a man, and not as her best friend's godfather. His thumb grazed the soft skin of her temple absently as he leaned in closer. _Oh, to taste those sweet lips..._

She shifted again, allowing him to slip his other arm under legs while he moved his hand under her shoulders, gently lifting her out of the chair. He closed his eyes briefly when she moved against him, her arms curling around his neck as she snuggled closer to his chest. He gritted his teeth and, convinced she was still asleep, trained his intent on the upstairs spare bedroom.

He was halfway up the landing when one of her hands slid seductively down his chest and he felt her lips nuzzling the sensitive spot just below his jawline, causing him to stumble.


	8. Sweetest Price

_Response to "debt" drabble prompt._

**_All characters and their origins property of J.K. Rowling. Hermione is 18 or older unless otherwise stated._**

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Tendrils of damp curls stuck to her temple as she lay silent, head resting on his chest. A soft content smile played her lips as her fingers idly traced tattooed muscles. The flesh beneath her was so real and solid, the heartbeat beneath her ear steady, strong, but calm now after their heated lovemaking.

The years of life that had been cruelly stolen from this man could never be repaid, the wrongs inflicted on him never righted, loved ones never returned from the dead. She marveled at his resilience now, whereas her younger self naively only saw the sullenness of a man trapped in a distant past.

How things had changed.

Now they rarely spoke of the old wounds. Sirius was ever intent on cherishing the present and looking with hope to the days ahead with his new bride.

Hermione, however, would not forget. After half a lifetime of unhappiness, the wizard in her arms was long overdue for some joy. Life owed him.

She stretched languorously as his calloused hand traced a path down her spine then caressed her bare hip and bottom before slipping into the juncture of her thighs, eliciting a moan as she opened to his fingers.

Hermione grinned naughtily against his chest, wondering just how many more times he was going to drive her, drive them both, over the edge this evening. It seemed that for Sirius, "cherishing the present" was more like making up for a lot of lost time, greedily sucking every moment's pleasure to fill the void that had been left so wrongly empty.

She tilted her face to his, gasping as his fingers slid deeper, finding their slick target. The tender smile on his lips and the dark heat in his gaze pulled at her soul. Wordlessly she shifted over him, sighing against his lips as she positioned herself above his hardness. She cried out in pleasure as he once again drove into her, the brief thought crossing her mind of what a sweet debt she would happily be covering for the rest of their lives.


	9. The Captain of Best Intentions

_Response to "pirate" drabble prompt._

**_All characters and their origins property of J.K. Rowling. Hermione is 18 or older unless otherwise stated._**

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Sirius tried. He tried so bloody hard. He knew how wrong it was, and how upset Harry would be. He knew his feelings, if he ever acted on them, would have him thrown back in Azkaban. He focused so much energy on keeping the high moral ground, even after she came of age.

The brightest witch of her age would have none of it, though. Her keen sense of logic, rationale, and stubbornness joined forces with her femininity. Add to that a newfound sense of living in the present, borne from too many battles and close calls at a young age, and he supposed he never had a chance.

The sneaking glances and arguments that filled the air between them with nearly tangible electricity escalated. And, when she finally knew beyond a doubt that their attraction was mutual, she pillaged his defenses and plundered the last of his good intentions, challenging him on the dim staircase when no one was looking.

Her close proximity and those damnable lips were only the beginning of his undoing. _It was nothing short of piracy,_ he thought as he watched the last vestiges of his so-called honor slip to the floor, along with yet another article of clothing.


	10. Wicked

_Response to "angel" drabble prompt._

**_All characters and their origins property of J.K. Rowling. Hermione is 18 or older unless otherwise stated._**

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A bark of laughter burst from the dark haired wizard as he stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, watching the flailing motions of the young witch laying on her back in the snow before him.

He was laughing so hard now that he had to wipe a tear from his eye, "Hermione, love, what in Merlin's name are you doing down there?"

The grin on the pretty brunette's face was childlike as she swept her arms and legs up and down, open and closed.

"Haven't you ever heard of making snow angels, Sirius?" she giggled, the giddiness of the season's first snowfall stripping her of any grownup-like dignity.

He regarded her there for a moment, taking in her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, his gaze drifting over her decidedly not-childlike figure. In one swift movement he was there, covering her body with his, his mouth just a fraction from hers.

"No, I haven't, angel," he whispered, "Perhaps you could teach me how to flail around in the snow too."

Hermione's breath caught, then she burst out in laughter, giving him a shove as she rolled them over, straddling him now. She quirked a teasing eyebrow at him as he moved his hips suggestively against her.

"Sirius Black, I don't think you're capable of making a snow angel. You are far, far too wicked for that."


	11. Star Crossed

_Response to "Twice a week" drabble prompt._

**_All characters and their origins property of J.K. Rowling. Hermione is 18 or older unless otherwise stated._**

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**Authors Notes:** _This is basically a little blurb I wrote with time travel in mind. I was playing with the idea of the tie between Hermione and Sirius drifting into child-Hermione's subconscious while they wait for time to catch up to them, if that makes sense. The star to the bottom and left of the constellation Orion is our beloved Dog Star._

The bushy haired little girl shivered, drawing her knees closer to her chest for warmth. The late October chill did not deter her from her perch at the open window, however. She curled her toes in her fuzzy blue slippers and sighed, gazing up again at him, her soldier, the dark warrior.

It was the only constellation she could recognize in the light-polluted skies of the London suburb where she lived: the three stars that formed his belt, the fainter ones that were his sword, the slightly brighter one at his foot, and the red one with the funny name in his armpit.

She'd had the dream again - the dark-haired man in an even darker place, screaming in agony. Sometimes it sounded like he was screaming her name. She had them so frequently - at least twice a week now, that they no longer frightened her. Instead, they filled her with the deepest sense of sorrow, she guessed because she couldn't help him.

It became her little ritual of comfort, climbing out of bed and gazing at the constellation that hovered over the large oak tree outside her bedroom window. She'd let her mind take fancy, imagining the black-haired man in her dreams to be an unjustly imprisoned soldier, or a knight held captive by an evil sorcerer. _Her_ knight. He looked so terrible in her dreams, yet she could still recognize the makings of someone who was once as handsome as a prince beneath his gauntness and filth.

She'd dissected the dream so many times while staring up at the sky in the early morning darkness, that she'd taken to calling the man Orion.

She sighed again and pulled the bedroom window shut.

Below and to the left of her constellation, the brightest star in the sky winked as Hermione returned to bed.


	12. Lolly

_**Notes:** Response to "candy" challenge for grangerblack100. Also this was my first drunken fanfic. _

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Sirius sat at the huge ancient kitchen table and glowered, silently cursing the dopey blonde Lovegood chit. Granted, it wasn't directly her fault that the young brunette witch across from him was doing things with an everlasting-lolly that made it impossible for him to stand up without embarrassing himself. However, it was Luna's bright idea to drag everyone on an impromptu expedition to Honeyduke's. The war was over, those who had decided to finish school were finally done, and it seemed everyone had settled into a rather droll uncertainty over what to do with themselves now. What better solution to ease everyone's angst than candy?

Sirius groaned inwardly as Hermione's tongue traveled another tantalizing path up the long red twist of hard candy before she closed her lips over the tip. Did she have any idea what the bloody fucking hell she was doing to him?

Suddenly he felt someone watching him. His grey gaze flicked up from cherry-stained red lips to chocolate-coloured eyes. They simply stared for one endless moment, curious and slightly suggestive brown observing storm-coloured danger and frustration. Slowly, one subtly well-groomed eyebrow arched upward before crimson lips slid down the now-obscene looking confection and back up again, pulling it from her mouth with a soft _pop_ while her eyes never left his.

"Sirius, would you like a lick?" Hermione smirked meaningfully.


	13. Good Morning

_**Notes: **Response to "shell" prompt for grangerblack100_

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_Beautiful._

His heart gave a familiar but deep tug as his grey eyes traveled the length of body next to him. The early morning light painted a picture of soft pale beauty: eggshell coloured sheets in folds and valleys, kicked and twisted aside during the night as their inhabitant wrestled with an individual sweltering heat, leaving only the silky fairness of naked flesh. Not flawless – his eyes swept over the slightly darker purplish lines that stretched in faint jags to the announcement of glorious round swell of belly, and he could not bite back the loving smile that always pulled at his lips when he saw it or the delicate hand that rested upon it, bearing two gold circles proclaiming her "_his._"

His gaze drifted further, over the large mound and down to linger lustfully on swollen breasts, heavy and he knew – frequently sore, darkened nipples that were more sensitive now than ever, and would soon no longer be solely 'his.'

Her other hand was endearingly tucked under her chin, lips in that pout of slumber creating the illusion of virginal sweetness and innocence that couldn't be more inaccurate.

His loving smile turned wicked as he thought of everything that contributed to her being like this, and the knowledge that though she slept so very peacefully, the moment he burrowed his face into the mass of bushy brown curls to whisper a simple 'good morning' (never simple, though, but honestly – who could expect him to resist nibbling that delicate pink shell of earlobe, especially when it elicited such a sweet sigh and heated response?)…

Sirius' thoughts were interrupted and a sharp breath escaped him as Hermione shifted, her backside rubbing wantonly against his hardness as she arched into him needily.

Merlin, he loved her pregnancies…


	14. Duet

_**Notes:** Response to "Resolutions" drabble prompt for the livejournal community "grangerblack100". This was an idea ceredwensirius suggested some time ago. Harder than I expected! As a musician, I know so many musical terms, but using them in a prose context is really challenging. In music, you just have a passage with a word or two over it, signifying 'this is how you should play this' - using those terms as adjectives, verbs, and nouns is something different._

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It begins with a single sound, a whisper ever so soft and hesitant, indistinct pitch of sheets and skin shifting, too uneven, too rubato, not yet the undercurrent it will eventually become to the rest of the nocturne.

Gradually an alto-pitched sigh joins and a slow, erratic but recognizable rhythm takes form, accented by a soft pizzicato of lips in syncopation with that growing ostinato of bedding and bodies sliding against each other. The sigh crescendos to a complex feminine improvisation – melodic, _dolce_ phrases of profanities accented by sharp cries and gasps, joined by a faint baritone weaving an accompaniment of soft encouragements, then a final, "_Sirius!_" that completes the first refrain.

Their movements drop off, _diminuendo_ breaths and voices forming a brief cadence, then, _Da Capo al Fine_ - this time _con fusco_…

The tempo increases as does the volume. Their opus grows into a complex theme and variations, now the voices a perfectly matched duet, a call and response and sometimes unison of two names - _Hermione… Sirius…_ over the percussion of flesh and floor and brass and discarded bedding. Their cries and movements become frenetic, almost dissonant, nearly losing any form until, in a cacophony of shouts and loving laughter, their masterpiece climaxes to its final resolution.


	15. Covert Recovery

**_Notes: _**Written for "Alone on a Saturday Night" challenge.

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The slight shudder of her flat's wards alerted her before the inevitable tapping at her door. Hermione gave an irritated sigh and hauled herself up from her very comfortable position on the couch to answer it.

Looking through the eyehole, she moaned inwardly at the sight of two heads – one with long ginger hair, the other with short black perpetually mussed hair and glasses. Thinking quickly, Hermione ruffled her own hair a bit and feigned a groggy expression before cracking the door open slightly.

"Harry? Gin? What are you doing here?" she mumbled sleepily.

"_Sleeping?_" Ginny asked shrilly. "You were sleeping? It's not even nine o'clock, Hermione!"

"We're terribly sorry," Harry interjected sheepishly, pulling gently on his wife's arm.

"No, Harry, this just isn't right," the redhead insisted, "It's been weeks since they broke up, and I'll not have my best girl spending another Saturday night at home alone!" She narrowed her eyes at Hermione with fierce determination. "You're coming out with us! Get dressed now!"

"Ginny, really," Hermione shook her head. "I barely got an hour of sleep last night from working on this new project, and I'm exhausted. I am more than over Ron, I'm just – busy and tired and I need to sleep," she said through a heavy yawn.

"I told you she was alright," Harry said, pulling harder on Ginny's arm now. He flashed Hermione a knowing grin as his wife finally relented.

"Next weekend, promise," Hermione called after them as they headed down the hallway, biting back a squeak as she felt a warm callused hand caress the back of her suddenly bare thigh before drifting upward.

"Are they gone, then?" Sirius' deep voice muttered in her ear, his lips nibbling at her lobe as he pulled her back to the couch.

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	16. Messy

_Written for "spoonful" prompt on a drabbles meme._

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Sirius gave a frustrated growl as the blissful sensations administered by Hermione's mouth came to a pause. He was so close, damn it...

"I don't know about this," the witch said hesitantly, now working her fingers over him slowly, not quite as stimulating, and he felt the wave in him recede slightly.

"About what?" he gasped.

Her silence forced the haze to clear from his brain a bit and he looked down at her. She blushed then and looked away, and he remembered their conversation just hours ago.

_"It's degrading! And... and messy!"_

_"It's barely a spoonful!"_

_"But you agree it's degrading?"_

_"I would never want to degrade you, love. It's sexy. Incredibly sexy."_

_"Sexy? Really? Why?"_

_"Because... I don't know, it just is! It's something you've caused in me, it's visual evidence of what we've done..."_

_"..."_

_"I get yours on me all the time and you don't hear me complaining."_

_A sigh. "Alright..."_

He was _so fucking close_ now, even with her fingers slowing.

"Hermione. Love. _Please_," he gritted out.

Something flickered in her coffee-coloured eyes, and he felt her grip tighten, her wrist now moving just the way he'd shown her so long ago, and suddenly she leaned in and flicked her tongue over him, just _there,_ and he was lost, a harsh groan escaping him as his release splattered forth.

_Dumb arse,_ he thought fleetingly, realizing that in his ecstasy he'd closed his eyes and missed it as it happened. He looked down just in time, however, to catch the sight of her tongue darting out to lap at a spot just above her lip.

"Liar," he teased smugly.

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	17. Resistance Training

_Written for "tell" challenge._

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Her heart was racing as beads of sweat slowly slithered down her face and chest. Every nerve and muscle in her body was keyed up, but she knew in order to fight it, she'd have to relax, so she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Another wave of tremors and chills wracked her body and she was reminded of when she was younger and suffering from a particularly nasty flu, the fever that made her skin so sensitive it was almost sore.

She forced herself to keep still, remain calm, to not struggle or pull against her bindings, because that would show weakness, it would show her torturer he had the upper hand.

And of course he had the upper hand, Hermione thought wryly. A sudden stroke of tongue across her most sensitive point elicited a harsh gasp, betraying the fact that he'd caught her off-guard again. She didn't think it was possible, but her nipples tightened into even harder points. Gods, she was so close now... But she mustn't. She knew he would hold her there, teasing her and keeping her on the very brink of insanity for as long as it took, but she wouldn't tell him. Not because it was such a big secret, really, but because she knew just how close _he_ was, and her refusal to speak kept him teetering on that very same brink as well...

Another swipe, this time agonizingly slow as he flattened his tongue over her sex like that of a big tiger. _Or a dog_, she thought with filthy amusement. A deep frisson of erotic pleasure shot through her whole body as his mouth continued upward, dragging over her clit. He didn't stop there this time though, but traveled up the length of her until his hardness was nestled just outside of her wetness.

"Tell me, Hermione," he purred against her neck as his hands reached up and wrapped around her bound wrists.

A whimper escaped her as he nudged himself just inside of her, causing them both to pant like animals when he forced himself to pause.

"No?" he asked with a teasing quirk of an eyebrow. "Very well, then," he said as he slipped back out of her and made his way back down her body.

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	18. The Silent Treatment

_Written for "finger paints" challenge._

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The dove grey silk stays cool and soft against her wrists, and she wonders vaguely if it's a side effect of the magical bindings. She feels him pull her legs apart and blushes furiously at the vulnerable position, leaving her every flaw exposed to his steel gaze.

A deep chuckle rumbles from the throat of her captor and he clucks his tongue teasingly while fastening the silk around each ankle, leaving her spread-eagle.

"Still bashful, my darling little bookworm?" he admonishes, planting an adoring little kiss against her instep. She sighs, but will not speak.

"And after all I've taught you." His ebony waves tickle her calf as he shakes his head, lips trailing further up her leg. "Would you feel better if I were to blindfold those pretty brown eyes?"

She doesn't reply, but a moan escapes her. Her head falls back against the pillow as the very suggestion sends another wave of wet warmth to her core. She hears him inhale through his nose, knows he smells her with his Animagus senses as he lets out his own moan of hunger.

He slides up her body, and she feels his hardness against her hip as he settles himself next to her. His grey eyes bore into hers intently, lovingly, and she feels herself flush again, wondering if she'll ever get used to, or tire of, that look.

His hands continue exploring, teasing only the most chaste paths of flesh as he simply watches her facial expressions, murmuring little endearments. Then, finally, when she's truly writhing in need, his hand finds her juncture, slipping between her soaking folds, eliciting a sharp cry from her before sliding back out again, leaving her more frustrated. Fingers wet with her desire paint a moist path to nipples before meeting his tongue. Again and again he does this, torturously slow, taking his little tastes of his witch, patiently biding his time until she finally breaks, finally utters the magic words, "Please, Sirius…"

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	19. Third Time's the Charm

_Written for "tango" challenge._

* * *

Remus heaved an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes at the all-too familiar slam of a bedroom door. They were at it again.

It had been going on for so long that any taboos about the unlikely couple were faded and worn into a unanimous impatience amongst their friends. Only, they were yet to officially _be_ an "unlikely _couple_."

Instead, his best friend and former student were caught in a constant battle of emotions, a months-long tango of conflict and attraction. Sirius had confided in him that he loved to make her angry, loved the flush of her cheeks and the dangerous glint in her brown eyes turning them to topaz. Hermione had confided in Tonks, well, things he'd rather not have known about a woman he once knew as a star pupil.

The uneven trot of footfalls jauntily descending the kitchen stairs accompanied Sirius' unmistakable whistle.

"Again, Padfoot?" Remus inquired wearily.

"Third time's the charm," the dark-haired wizard grinned as he reached into the refrigerator for the whipped cream and strawberries.

"Peace offering?" the werewolf asked archly.

"Making up's the best part," Sirius affirmed over his shoulder before heading back to the second floor.

* * *


	20. Tickle

_Written for "tickle" challenge. Also exploring dialog-only style. I think this is one of my favourite things I've ever written._

* * *

"I don't believe you."

"I'm not!"

"Oh, rubbish…"

"I'm serious, Hermione…"

"Yes, I know you are, but it's still rubbish."

"You can try all you want – it won't work."

"Everyone has _some_ place on them…"

"Not me."

"…one only has to be persistent enough in looking for it…"

"Well, I'm certainly not one to complain about a beautiful witch exploring my body from head to toe, but you still won't find it."

"…and of course different techniques will yield different results. For example, if I _poke_ you right here, it might not have any effect, but if I use, say, my lips… or my tongue, or…

…told you I'd find it."

* * *


	21. Toy Box

_Written for "candle" challenge._

* * *

One would think, living in the wizarding world, where electricity was almost impossible due to the magical energy buzzing around the air in such strong concentrations, that candlelight would be about as romantic or sexy as fluorescent bulbs.

The random, utterly out-of-place thought made her lips quirk with amusement.

"Something funny, Granger?" his voice rumbled from the shadowy corner of the room.

She didn't answer right away, but simply watched as he emerged, the soft golden light painting flickering shadows across his muscled chest, illuminating the markings she'd traced so many times with fingers and tongue. Just the sight of him sent a molten heat through her, anticipation causing her desire to quickly grow and lap at her senses like the small flames positioned throughout the room.

Shadows gave way to the warm dim light of the candles and fireplace, revealing more than just the gorgeous wizard who possessed her heart, body, and soul.

"Not at all," she answered weakly, her stomach fluttering with sudden nervousness as she realized what he was holding. _How on earth did he find those?_ she wondered in growing panic.

Reading her expression perfectly, his smirk spread into a filthy grin. "Oh come now, love – nothing to be scared of. It's not as if you've never seen these before…"

She _had_ seen them. They were _hers._ Anger at the breach of privacy warred with several other emotions as he came closer, his fingers slowly and suggestively tracing the outline of the first item he'd pulled from the box.

She jerked on the ropes fruitlessly, her cheeks burning. He really wasn't going to give her a choice but to endure this, she knew, so she took a deep breath and forced herself to remain calm. Closing her eyes, she said with forced coolness, "I _will_ make you pay for this, Black."

His voice came suddenly closer to her ear than she expected. "Yes, my love, I know you will. And I look forward to every minute of it," he whispered, smiling at her gasp as the warm pulsing head pressed intimately against her. "But first, we'll play with _your_ toys…"

* * *


	22. Wayward Bridesmaid

_Written for "dirt" challenge._

* * *

"Right here?" Hermione breathed as he found the spot just under her jaw that made her melt every time. The large oak tree at her back barely held her up with its scratchy trunk while her knees turned to jelly.

"No one will see us, love," Sirius murmured against her skin between delicious little nips. "Of course," he added with a smirk as his hands pulled her shirt out from her jeans, "they might _hear_ you if I do that thing I did to you last night…"

She blushed, both embarrassed and aroused at the memory. Gasping as he dropped to his knees, lips and tongue teasing across the fair skin of her stomach, she realized he _was _going to do "that thing," and she plunged her hands helplessly into his thick black hair.

His fingers slipped the hard metal button through the hole of her denim jeans, sliding them down over her hips, then tugged her down to join him on the forest floor.

"My blouse…" she protested weakly, and he huffed playfully as he removed it from her shoulders, gingerly setting it aside where it wouldn't get stained.

Quite some time later they lay in a mess of sweaty tangled limbs, catching their breath. Sirius let out a quiet chuckle, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, they heard the distant sound of Ginny's frantic voice calling for Hermione.

Hermione gasped as she looked at the delicate gold watch on her wrist. "Bollocks! They're starting in ten minutes!" she cried, shoving Sirius off of her and quickly gathering her clothes.

Sirius took his time getting dressed as he watched his witch hopping into her jeans, the movement causing her to jiggle in all the right places. When she turned and scooped up her blouse, spelling the buttons back onto it, he opened his mouth briefly to tell her something then closed it with a smirk, thinking better of it.

A miraculous seven minutes later, Hermione joined Ginny at the end of the long, decorated walkway in a violet strapless dress that matched hers identically. Still struggling slightly with her unruly curls, she whispered to her friend to help her while the last of friends and family took their seats.

"Hermione Granger!" Ginny hissed, sounding frightfully like her mother all of a sudden. "Why the bloody hell is your back covered in dirt?!"

* * *


	23. Recognition

_Drabble related to "Star Crossed," an earlier Time-Turner-esque drabble._

* * *

She couldn't look at them.

And yet, they were all over the place. "Wanted" posters, with that face – that terrifyingly familiar stranger.

She refused to acknowledge it, and had managed quite successfully to bury the truth throughout most of the year.

Of course, Divination Lessons didn't help, and Hermione was all too happy to have an excuse to quit that class. It hit just a little too close to the bone, even though the things Professor Trelawney was teaching really _were_, for the most part, rubbish. She didn't need the reminder. Not when he was waiting around every corner, peering out of an emaciated face, haunting grey eyes (and deep in her heart, she knew they were grey), raven black hair that hung a long matted curtain…

From the time she was a small child, she'd known that face. She'd known that image so well, she'd long since outgrown the fear and had even romanticized him at times. _The dark, tortured prince, held captive against his will…_ 'Her'_prince, the one she pondered as she stared up at the familiar constellation above her bedroom window, almost like clockwork, almost weekly, every time she'd had the dream…_

She was mortified by the truth, so she buried it, convinced herself it was all in her head, that the man she'd seen in her dreams for years on end could have been anyone, that people who were held prisoner, tortured and starved for years at a time, all started to look the same anyway.

And regardless, none of that mattered, because even if the man in her dreams _had_ been Sirius Black, it certainly didn't change the fact that he was a serial killer, the man who had sold out her best friend's parents to Voldemort, the man who was now, currently, on the loose with the sole intent of finishing the job and murdering Harry Potter himself.

She couldn't look at him.

She had no choice, however. He had them at wand-point now, would surely kill them all. But no, he apparently only wanted Harry. Well, he _couldn't have him._

Hermione stepped out in front of her friend in an act of brave defiance. She was angry, _so angry_. Why did she feel betrayed? She couldn't help it as she faced down the wand pointed at her, held between fingers that looked shockingly graceful for all the dirt and cuts and grime. Fingers that looked like they could sculpt fine art from thin air…

And suddenly everything shifted. _Scabbers… a man named Peter Pettigrew…. Oh, gods…_

Hermione felt her heart break for the raven-haired 'prince,' as Truth began to bleed through the big picture. And still she stood by her friend as he tried to work through the facts, even as an escaped convict and a werewolf stood in that broken down shack, snarling like mad dogs at the simpering rat before them.

"Excuse me, Mister Black… Sirius…" she finally said, having summoned every ounce of nerve in her fifteen-year-old self just to address _him_ directly.

When he turned to answer her, his grey eyes flashed briefly, a flicker of something, something that mirrored her thoughts for such a short moment, she might have convinced herself she'd imagined it, but for the feeling of ice water seeping down her spine and pooling in her heart.

_We've met before..._

_

* * *

  
_


	24. The Walk

_Written for "taut" challenge._

* * *

The hulking black beast gave the briefest glance to the prim little witch holding the leash. A soft growl rumbled in his throat.

_Bloody fucking bollocks,_ he cursed inwardly, his ire increasing as the brunette tilted her head up slightly and gave a small sniff through her pert little nose.

"I won, fair and square, you know," she reminded him quietly.

_Yes, yes I fucking know, princess,_ the Grim answered silently, his lips almost curling in a sneer that would most certainly have come out as a snarl.

Suddenly, she knelt down next to him, grabbing his big, shaggy head between her small, graceful hands and forcing him to look at her.

"You don't have do this, you know," she whispered. "I was mostly teasing about the leash. If it makes you uncomf - "

He cut her off with a big, slobbery stroke of his tongue along the length of her nose, causing her to splutter unhappily. He sat back on his haunches with a satisfied doggie grin and gave a low 'woof'. He knew she hated that, just as she knew he hated the idea of a collar and leash. _Usually._

However, Sirius Black did not back out of a bet, nor renege on an agreement. Hermione was right – she won, fair and square. And so, he would be spending the day traipsing around London as her pet dog, Snuffles, jingling of a metal tag against the buckle of the fine leather collar, clinking in his ears for hours on end. And a motherfucking _leash_.

He watched and waited expectantly as Hermione huffed and drew herself upright again, looping the long cord of leather in her hand. She gave him a cool glare as she straightened her shoulders. "Shall we, then?" she asked, and headed off down the street.

He paused just long enough to admire the sway of her hips encased in the skirt that was his favourite, her shapely legs making graceful strides despite the ridiculously tall heels she wore. He wondered briefly which knickers she was wearing today, if any. He couldn't wait to find out…

He felt his salivary glands kicking in, just before the leash pulled taut, tugging him out of his reverie.

* * *


	25. Six Steps

_This is a series of six drabbles that wound up being related. The drabble prompts are shown before each section._

_

* * *

_

"_Purple"_

The dull quiet of early morning is broken by the squeak of flesh against wet glass as she uses her forearm to wipe away the post-shower fog from the mirror.

Hermione stares at her reflection, the barest suggestion of a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

_Oh, what have we done now?_ she thinks lazily, though the pleasant ache between her legs and the tired muscles in her back give no hint of remorse.

Her eyes fall on the first of many marks – this one situated right at the edge of where she knew it _could_ be visible even clothed. Two red crescents surrounded by a faint purple that would only darken throughout the day. She should cast a healing or concealment charm on it, but the softer side of her wants to keep that souvenier.

Her thoughts wander pleasantly to the older wizard on the other side of her bathroom door. She'd left him sprawled in her bed, snow-white sheets stark against his tattooed skin and raven hair.

The slight smirk on her lips widen into a mischievous grin as she thinks of how best to wake him up. When she opens the door, however, her smile falters as she finds an empty bed. Eyebrows furrow as her gaze searches the room and finds no trace of him – gone are the heavy leather boots he wears for his motorcycle. The faded denim jeans tossed on the back of her grandmother's rocking chair in the corner – also gone. No shirt, no socks, no jacket – not a trace of him is left.

Her lips press together in a thin, cold line as she turns back to the bathroom to continue getting ready for work.

_"Omelet"_

Crookshanks looks up lazily from his perch in the window as a burst of green flame fills his mistress's fireplace. He lays his head back down with a satisfied purr at the sight, sound, and smell of his familiar old friend.

The crinkle of paper against take-away boxes intermingles with a cheerfully whistled tune as Sirius Black steps out onto the hearth, brushing any stray soot from his clothes. With a flick of his wand, two breakfast places are set on Hermione Granger's small dining table. Another flick, and the plates are filled with far more food than is necessary.

_Of course,_ the dark-haired wizard thinks to himself with a satisfied grin, _we did work up an appetite last night…_

He conjures a sprig of parsley and dill, and carefully garnishes the fat, fluffy omelet on _her_ plate and stands back, assessing the layout with approval. Then, certain she'd be finishing her shower by now, he stealthily creeps down her hallway and back into her bedroom.

He's met with silence, and his stomach drops.

"Hermione?" he calls hesitantly, and is answered by more silence.

The bathroom door is open, still somewhat damp from her shower. His eyes travel the room and find telltale proof that she's gone.

_"Excuses"_

"He's selfish, arrogant, condescending, manipulative, immature, irrational, a womanizer, and a perv!"

Hermione's face grew redder with each word she angrily spat out at Luna and Ginny as she stormed around her bedroom. The two witches watched as their friend took out her anger on the basket filled with laundry.

"He gave Grimmauld Place to the Mission for Orphans of the War, you know," Luna said off-handedly.

"HA!" Hermione answered, flicking her wand at her wardrobe so hard the doors flew open with a loud bang. "He always hated that house – it was just an excuse to make him look good!"

Luna and Ginny traded glances.

"Hermione," Ginny began cautiously, "those are all valid excuses I'm sure, but… well, I could probably list just as many problems with Harry…"

When she was met with silence, the redheaded witch nudged Luna with a pointed look.

"Oh! And, of course Ronald has dozens of faults, too… I mean, he does tend to attract the worst sorts of Wrackspurts," the blonde witch chimed in.

Hermione whirled around and crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes," she said with a smirk, "but neither Harry nor Ron hold a candle to… to that… that…" She gave an aimless wave in the direction of her door. At a loss for the right word, she shook her head in frustration and gave an angry huff before turning back to her wardrobe.

The two witches on the bed shared a hopeless look.

"I mean, _honestly_," Hermione continued, punctuating her words with the slamming of drawers, "if Sirius Black thinks that one sodding, lousy, drunken shag is grounds for… for _whatever_ it is he was implying…"

"Hermione - "

"…well, I'm not _stupid,_ am I? How utterly insulting, how – how _patronizing_ to think I'd be taken in by that…"

"Hermione, he's not - "

"…and if I can openly admit it was just a casual one-nighter, then he bloody well can, too! 'Date,' indeed – just because I'm his godson's best friend…" Hermione grumbled, then added, "He can own up to his mistakes and be an adult, for once!"

"_HERMIONE!_" both Luna and Ginny exclaimed from the foot of their friend's bed.

"What?" Hermione snapped, whirling around.

Ginny's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Listen. I've had to listen to Harry whinge and cajole me for the past seven days to come over here and talk some sense into you. And after spending one evening in the company of Sirius Black at his self-pitying worst, I can't honestly say I blame my husband. For as 'adult' as you're claiming to be, it's one sodding date, and if it was really as _casual and meaningless_ as all that, then I'd suppose you'd just suck it up and go."

"The lady doth protest too much?" Luna quoted lightly.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "I told Sirius and Harry I'd have you ready by seven. It's six fifty-five now. Just put on the bloody dress and we'll go, yeah?"

_"Nervous"_

Sirius jerked on the bottom of his leather jacket and ran a hand through his hair, his lips curling in a miserable sneer even as his gut twisted for the fiftieth time that evening.

_Bloody fucking ridiculous – get a hold of yourself, man,_ he thought derisively. He was Sirius Black, damn it, and Sirius Black did _not_ get_nervous_. _Certainly not over some bossy little bird,_ he mentally added.

Even still, his mouth went dry as age-old parchment as the doors to the restaurant's main entrance swung open once more, this time admitting three familiar figures. His godson – looking all for the world like James with that messy shock of black hair and spectacles, Ginny Potter – looking nothing like Lily, really. The colour of her hair was lighter, her complexion freckled, not that pale cream of Harry's mother. And then there was _her._

He felt his pulse kick into overtime, hammering in his neck and temple like an angry drummer on cocaine. The remains of the whisky he'd been nursing went down in one fiery gulp as the three guests were shown to his table.

Sirius bit back a groan, his eyes following the long, shapely legs and slightly curvy figure in a 'little black dress' that would have been boring on anyone but her. He noticed she was almost the same height as Harry this evening, and his eyes wandered back down to catch a glimpse of black, strapped heels that would make any man develop a fetish.

The door to the private veranda swung open, and suddenly they were there and he was standing, pulling out a chair for her just as Harry did for his wife.

"Sirius," she greeted him, her lips curving into a cool smirk.

The faint but familiar scent of jasmine wafted past him for a brief second and he was reminded of the last time he saw her. It was that scent, mixed with the salt and musk of sex and heat that he remembered from barely a week ago. And then the smirk on those delectable lips had been not cold, but beautifully smug, satisfied, cat-like.

Oh, he had it _bad._

Sirius swallowed and offered a weak smile in return.

"Hermione," he answered with a nod before taking his seat.

_"Sunshine"_

Hermione stabbed at another tortellini, pretending it was her _friend's_ head. This was all clearly a set-up, as Sirius was obviously even less thrilled about their 'date' than she was. The evidence of that fact hung over them in a miserable cloud of tension and awkwardness. From his bland, almost pained smile when she'd arrived, to his refusal to take off his sunglasses at the table, his disinterest and discomfort with the situation was more than clear.

Despite the fact that it all tasted like sand to her, Hermione chewed and swallowed another bite of food, smiling forcefully at something Harry said that was supposed to be humorous. She refused to sulk, refused to appear the least bit bothered by this whole debacle. So she had sex with Sirius Black – so what? So not a god damned thing. His cowardly little disappearing act the morning after made it apparent where he stood on the matter, and it wasn't as though she had asked for this ridiculous dinner date.

On perfect cue, Hermione let out a casual laugh at Ginny's response before bringing her wineglass to her lips. She indulged in a brief glance at the raven-haired aristocrat who had barely touched _his_ food, but was lounging sullenly in the fading afternoon sunshine as he nursed his drink. She couldn't help the tiny thread of superiority that wriggled smugly inside of her. She supposed he'd expected her to be crushed, or worse – earnestly attentive and needy. At least, that was what usually remained of his 'victims' in the past.

Perhaps it wasn't such a bad date, after all.

_"Razor's Edge"_

Dread slipped in and created a slow leak in Hermione's balloon of smugness as she watched her two friends walk out to the dance area of the restaurant, leaving her alone with Sirius.

The silence dragged out uncomfortably until they both spoke at the same time.

"Hermione - "

"We really don't have to do this - "

"Do what?" Sirius asked, his eyes narrowing.

_At least he's finally taken off those ridiculous sunglasses,_ Hermione thought irritably. She hated not being able to see his eyes or read what little expression he allowed to flicker in them. With a sigh, she placed her napkin on her plate and looked at him levelly.

"Act like this is more than what it is, Sirius," she answered, struggling to keep her tone casual. "You made things perfectly clear when you left - "

" – To _get us breakfast_, Hermione," he interrupted with a smirk. "You were gone by the time I got back, and who the bloody hell works on a fucking Sunday, anyway?"

"I - "

"Dance with me," Sirius growled impatiently, grabbing her wrist and hauling her to her feet before she could protest.

She already _was_ dancing with him. She'd been 'dancing' with him for months, actually, perhaps even years if she counted the hopeless little crush from her youth that had never completely gone away. It was easier then, of course, because she'd been 'too young,' and he'd been 'too broken,' and there was no flirting, no heated glances or casual brushes that lasted a moment longer than they should have.

Now, however, it was a constant ballet on a razor-thin edge whenever she was around him, a never-ending balancing act to keep her poise and pride in tact. And finally, after one too many drinks on an unexpected outing with Sirius, her footing had slipped. It had taken the better part of the week to get it back, and as his hand slid around her waist to press intimately against the bare skin of her back, she felt that footing slip once more.

Hermione told herself she simply didn't want to cause a scene, so rather than pulling away and fleeing from the restaurant, she let him take her hand as she slid her other hand up over his shoulder. A stray lock of glossy black had fallen from the short ponytail at his nape and brushed the backs of her knuckles. A flash of recollection made her gasp inwardly, memories of that hair, fisted in her fingers as he slid between her legs.

She closed her eyes as he pulled her closer, leading her in a slow, rhythmic almost-tango. A sigh escaped her, mingling with his own as his rough jaw grazed her cheek. When the song ended, he pulled back slightly, but didn't let her go.

"Come home with me," he murmured, his grey eyes searching hers, but not pleading.

"Why?"

"Because you owe me breakfast."


	26. The Attic

Broken glass crunched softly into the dust-covered floor as Hermione stepped into the dark attic of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. She should have been scared. The house had always felt somewhat menacing, even when filled with Weasleys and Order members years prior. The cleansing charms had only kept the darkness at bay so much, and now they were alone – she, Harry, and Ron. And the old mansion seemed to lord its generations of darkness and blood mania over her.

Oh, she'd been scared. Too scared to sleep, again.

But up here there were memories. Memories tucked deep away in the secret corners of her heart, memories of arms that made her feel safe and cherished. Here there was no 'darkness' other than lack of actual light.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure the door was locked, Hermione turned to the huge slanted panes of glass. They'd been filthy with age and soot then, and now they were so obscured that not a thread of light peeked through. With a wave of her wand, they swung outward, letting in starlight and the cold night air. Closing her eyes, Hermione inhaled deeply, wrapping her arms around herself as she remembered the first time.

_She couldn't sleep. Slipping out of the room she shared with Ginny, Hermione started towards the kitchen but jumped when a sudden _bang _sounded from high above her. After a moment, when no one else stirred, she decided to investigate, creeping silently up the stairs to the source._

_Sirius_…

Even then, she'd worried for him, despite feeling powerless to help.

He'd been standing almost in this exact same spot, his face upturned to the open window as if he'd been starving for the sky…

_"Can you hear it?" he asked without even looking at her. "The music…"_

_Hermione fidgeted in the doorway, uncertain if Sirius was drunk or having a fit of madness. She wondered if she should call one of the others, but when he turned and smiled at her, she stopped. No, there was no madness there, no drunken stagger in his walk as he approached her with an outstretched hand, either._

_"Godforsaken house," he muttered with a rueful smirk. "Used to hear it everywhere. In the wind... in the air... in the light. This is the only place where I can hear it now, though…"_

He'd given her no choice but to let him lead her in a silent dance. At first she'd been clumsy, shy, uncertain. But with enough practice she'd almost believed she could hear it too.

The night before they'd left, however, their dance was different. Slow, forced out of need despite the dread of being alone once more.

_"I can barely hear it now," he whispered sadly against her cheek, the tickle of his lips causing her heart to race despite the 'safe,' platonic distance he always kept._

_"No," Hermione insisted, "it's all around us. All you have to do is open yourself up. All you have to do... is listen."_


	27. Empty

The house was finally, blissfully, empty. Well, empty but for two humans and one bitter old house-elf who was doubtlessly wallowing in the former suite of Walburga Black. But, compared to the relentless cacophony of Order members and Weasleys, it may as well have been empty.

As Sirius descended the stairs, he heard the sound of the shower running in the second floor bathroom. He paused, closing his eyes, indulging his filthy imagination for one long, heavenly moment. He'd glimpsed her several times now, wrapped in a huge blue terrycloth bathrobe, her face slightly flushed from the hot water, her hair a dark brown mop of springy wet curls. The image was burned into his memory and yes, he'd embellished it enough with practice that he could practically taste the water as it ran in little rivulets over her perfect breasts and onto his tongue.

_All just a dirty old man's fantasy, of course…_

Heaving a sigh, he continued down the stairs until he reached the landing. He could hear the uneven slaps and shimmies of water against tile as she cleaned herself. A frustrated groan escaped him as his cock stirred in his jeans. Across the hall from the bathroom, her bedroom door was ajar. He peered inside and smiled at the state of _almost_ perfect order.

She always waited until after her shower to make her bed – it was one of a thousand little quirks he'd picked up about her. He felt a pang of longing at the sight of that indentation in the mattress and the rumpled sheets where her body had spent its night.

Without a second thought, Sirius shifted and padded silently into the room. When he reached the side of her bed, he inhaled deeply, letting her scent fill his nostrils until his brain was soaked with her. _Gardenias and almonds…_ It should have been an odd combination, but he knew the almond was from the lotion she'd taken to using over the dry winter months. The gardenia was a new development, though – it used to be something lighter, more innocent – honeysuckle.

Without realizing it, he'd climbed onto the mattress, burying his head in her pillow and drinking deep gulps of her scent. It was more than just lotion and that little dab of perfume, though. He slinked further down, closing his eyes with a soft whine as the saltier, muskier smells of her reached his senses. He'd heard her earlier that morning – had he just imagined the sibilant murmurings of his name in those sweet gasps?

"Mrs. Weasley would have a fit if she ever found you in here, you know," Hermione's voice rang from the doorway. "Dogs in her freshly cleaned bedding and whatnot."

Sirius opened his eyes to find her quirking that wry grin at him, one hand on her hip as her hair dripped onto her shoulders.

He shifted and propped himself up on his elbow. "Is this better?"

There was a spark in her eye as she answered, "Much."


End file.
