Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1

**Stained Hands**

Disclaimer - All the property of HRH J.K. Rowling.

**Rating/Warnings** \- M, for the inevitable smut, swearing, run on sentences and unforgivable tense/POV switching (Which is generally so egregious I felt it only fair to warn about). I worked on this in chunks so it's probably pretty stilted, but bear with me. Next chapter will be up soon, hopefully!

**Pairing **\- Sirius/Hermione

**A/N** \- Part of the Motorcycle Series in tandem with Impulse Point and hopefully some others. I'm sorry I've been so MIA lately - I'm in my senior year of college and the workload is bonkers. But I've got a queue of new stories ideas, which I'll do my best to keep up on. If that's not good enough I've got a slew of social media on which we can be friends (Twitter: RubyRaeScalera, Pinterest: Ruby Scalera, Instagram: RubyRaeMay)

For some **shameless self-promotion**, I've begun writing short stories through Amazon. They're short and such (there's only one up right now) - check it out if you want -

Holland-Rae/e/B00I2U24U4/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

**Stained Hands**

**Chapter 1 **

Hermione rubbed at her eyes, feeling the grease of her fingers and make-up and sweat of the first really warm spring afternoon wipe across her skin. She had been staring at the same page of Runes for what felt like an eternity, the once impeccably detailed images swarming before her in what was now blurry and indecipherable fatigue. She glanced to the clock, nearly time for a break, she told herself, one more paragraph and then she could go eat, go shower, go look at the sun just to see if there really was a world outside of her study.

And then she heard it. Slow at first, somewhat muffled by its sleepiness, but louder with each revving of the engine. In complete frustration she knocked her head on the table, realizing, only too late, that her forehead had fallen directly into a small puddle of ink that had not yet dried, smearing over her damp skin.

Hermione let out a sigh and glanced towards the window, wondering how much good it would do to go out and tell him to tinker somewhere else. His motorcycle had been the grinding cause of her frustration since she had first permanently moved into Grimmauld Place the previous year, loud, dirty and overall flashy in all the ways Sirius was that drove her crazy.

The bike revved another moment, the sound of metal on metal, clinking of spanners and lug nuts and oil cans echoing through the garden and into her study; then she heard one final shout from the engine before the bike shot off, zooming right past her window before heading for open skies. The sound grinded hard on her temples and it felt like her brain was throbbing. She needed a break.

By the time Hermione actually got downstairs it was nearly three hours later. The sun, beginning to set over the horizon, cast a light yellow shine over everything and she squinted in the natural glow. She had to wonder how, yet again, she had managed to become so caught up in her work that the whole day had passed her by. It had always been a habit of hers, to work until her fingers ached and her eyes strained at the images on the parchment.

But lately it had been bothering her just a little bit more, that she couldn't seem to let go of a quill and ancient text long enough to catch Ron and Harry for coffee, or spend an afternoon with Ginny at the shops. More than the activities, since she was wholeheartedly a tea drinker and hardly one for fashion, Hermione missed her friends. Her life since the War had become settled and calm, and for a while that quietness had been coveted. But in the five years that had passed, Hermione realized, she had begun to miss the wildness of camping and escape and never being sure where one would wake up or what they would encounter that day.

Of course, she would never wish for the trials of war, with losses that weighed in painful reminder on the most sensitive parts of her soul, but the adventure - the adventure. There was only so much one could learn from a book.

With her mind off in the cobwebbed fairytales of nostalgia Hermione didn't realize that the sun had set and dusk had settled until a roaring growl broke her concentration. She recognized it, how could she not? It was the sound that had been riding on her frayed and overly exhausted nerves since she'd first encountered it. It was a sound that drove her only slightly less mad than its owner did. It was the revving and angry engine sound of Sirius Black returning home from a day off doing only Merlin knew what while the rest of them actually worked for a living.

"You're home early," Hermione said curtly from the wooden swing. She hadn't meant to be so short with him, but her recent realizations of longing had been confusing and difficult to accept, and little more pissed her off than the sound of Sirius' motorbike. "I was sure you'd be off in Muggle London, chatting up some bird half your age and disappearing for the night."

"I was just home to change," Sirius admitted, climbing off the back of the gleaming bike, whose bright, shiny chrome glistened in the strands of moonlight. "But now it seems like I might actually have company at home." He paused and raised his eyebrow in the way only an aristocrat could. "Has the great and elusive Hermione Granger come to the world of the living at last?"

She pursed her lips at him. It hadn't been that long since she'd seen her flatmates, and it wasn't entirely her fault either. Harry and Ron were off in northern Scotland to finish up an Auror mission, and Ginny had seasonal training for the Harpies, which often took them far away from London. In fact, it had been just Hermione and Sirius living at Grimmauld Place for the better part of two weeks.

"I've been around," she said, the same sharp tone stinging her tongue, even though she almost wished it didn't. "I've just been busy with this text for the Ministry."

Sirius raised an eyebrow at her, and in the contouring light from the blanket of night sky Hermione had to admit that he looked really good for his age. The leather riding pants he wore were taut around what could only be tight muscular thighs, and the white t-shirt, half hidden under his leather jacket, was pulled across his chest just tight enough. For a moment Hermione thought about pulling that jacket off and pushing Sirius into the grass at their feet, finding the desperate need for human connection in the slick sweaty ride of skin on skin. She bit her tongue - where had that thought come from?

Sirius hadn't seemed to realize her distress, thankfully, and replied, "I haven't seen you in four days - seen you." He paused. "You spend all of your time locked up in that room and never come out. It's getting ridiculous how much you work, Hermione."

"My work is my business," she said briskly. "At least I'm quiet about it - and don't go waking up the whole neighborhood with my work." Sirius's eyebrows seemed to be permanently arched.

"You've got a problem with the bike?" He asked, and walked over to it, revving the engine with a low and rumbling growl. "That's predictable." Hermione's head shot up.

"Excuse me," she began, but he cut her off.

"You're locked in your room all day," Sirius began, "You never see your friends, you disapprove of anything fun and you're entirely obsessed with my bike."

"I am not obsessed with your bike!" She began indignantly, "And I do not disapprove of fun. I'm busy. I'm a hard worker. There is nothing wrong with that." She hated that she could feel herself getting hysterical, that maybe, just maybe, a sliver of what Sirius had said might have been true.

"Whatever you say, Wonder Girl," Sirius replied, rolling the term around his mouth in smooth and condescending sarcasm, and then disappearing with his bike without another word.

Hermione woke while it was still dark. Outside her window was the alarming sound of an exhaust, chugging away at the fresh air around it and spitting out the smell of leaking gasoline and motor oil. She opened her eyes groggily. It was Saturday morning and she had intended to sleep past seven, but it seemed like that wasn't going to be an option.

The sound got louder, coupled with the revving of an angrier than usual engine, and the rolling of gears clinking into one another. For fuck's sake, she thought to herself.

Finally, when the sound didn't stop and she could no longer ignore the steady hum of the engine, she pulled herself out of bed and threw up the window to the fresh chill of early spring.

"What in all holy hell are you doing?" She called down to the driveway. It was no surprise to see Sirius standing there, in those damned leather pants, crouched over the back wheel of the bike.

"I'm going for a ride," he replied, his tone calm and unnervingly even. "Just a quick repair and then I'm off. I'd offer you to come, but obviously you don't want to." She didn't bother to reply, simply slammed the window to the loud clunk of glass and wood, and tried to muffle the sound of the engine with the pillow - but even after he'd flown away she couldn't fall back asleep.

It happened again the following day. With the sun just peeking out from behind the horizon, Hermione woke to the obnoxious sounds of an engine revving, and the smug, smiling face of Sirius, who told her she wasn't invited in so many words, and then sped off.

And then Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons, as she sat at her desk, desperate for the answers behind texts she once understood, she heard the sounds of the stupid engine, the revving, the growling, the choking of old metal, and then the tell tale of Sirius speeding off to the sky.

Finally, on Saturday morning, a week after Sirius had first started revving his engine outside of Hermione's window, she cracked.

"What are you doing?" She asked him, when he walked into the kitchen. Even in her infuriated state Hermione had to admit he looked good. Those damned leather pants that hugged his defined, muscular thighs were incredibly distracting. She didn't have a good look at his behind, but she was sure it was just as delicious.

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about, kitten," he replied with a smirk, his eyes crinkling with mirth at her discomfort.

"You're purposefully distracting me," she said, feeling her temper rise. "You're trying to goad me."

"Into what, luv?" Sirius asked. For a split second she couldn't answer. Hermione Granger, always one with an answer, with a come back, with some sort of theory or document or book to back up her argument, was at a loss for words.

Sirius grabbed the opportunity with both hands and a smug smile.

"Face it, kitten," he began, leaning into the bike with cocked hips and perked eyebrows. "You're jealous of me and my bike."

"What in god's name are you on about?" she asked, feeling the panic ebb slightly once she had found her words.

"You're jealous of me," Sirius began, "Because I have adventures. I jump at opportunity. I walk the fine line." He paused, so much for effect that Hermione almost wondered if cameramen were going to pop out of the bushes. But no, it was just Sirius. "And you're jealous of my bike," he began, the twitch of his lips, the sinful look in his devilish eyes, the lazy confident look of a rebel aristocrat, all proving a dangerous combination when he said, "Because you'd love to have me riding you all night long."

Her first instinct was to slap him. Her second was to kiss him. Her third was to hex his bollocks from London to Kingdom Come.

Instead she settled on turning for the house and walking inside without another word.

Hermione tossed and turned, fidgeting all that night. Her sweat soaked sheets were wrapped around her in tangled fistfuls by the time the sun rose the next more. Her hair was matted to the back of her damp neck, and she hadn't slept a wink.

Something was unusual. Well, many things were unusual, to be fair.

She hadn't woken up, or rather, been alerted of dawn, to the sound of Sirius' motorcycle. It was the first time in a week where the morning air had been free of exhaust fumes and engine rumblings.

But she had spent the night with her mind whirling around what Sirius had said, before the disgraceful proposition, and found she could not longer ignore her own wanderlust. The desire to feel fresh air and see new cities, and meet new people was overwhelming and distracting. It was clouding her vision.

Hermione was desperate. She slipped into a pair of rarely worn jeans, it had been at least a week since she'd worn anything other than her lounge pants, and slid open her closet door, half expecting moths to fly from its depths. In the deepest shadowed corner of the closest, just where it had been hung months before when Hermione had fallen in love with it and bought it on impulse, hung the worn form fitting leather jacket.

It was a beautiful jacket. She'd seen the well loved sleeves poking out of the rack at the basement thrift store when her and Ginny had visited muggle London for the day, and she'd bought it without a second thought as to where she would possibly have occasion to wear it.

But today she did, sliding it over the plain white t-shirt she wore, and feeling the snug fit of the cool leather against her skin. It creased with her elbows as she pulled on a pair of lace up combat boots she had gotten as a Christmas present and never worn, and fell comfortably around her as she tied her mane of thick hair into a long braid.

Predictable, she thought, looking into the mirror. She laughed.

What wasn't predictable, however, was what she found when she got to the kitchen a few minutes later. Out on the table was a spread of pancakes and biscuits and jams and fruits and pastries. It was a feast that could only call to memory the breakfasts of the Hogwarts Great Hall.

"I shouldn't have said those things to you, 'Mione," Hermione heard Sirius, with his back turned to her, busily working away at the stove top. "It was inappropriate and crude," he turned to face her, wiping his hands on his apron, but stopped short of speaking when he saw her.

"Whoa," was all he could manage, and Hermione had to feel a slight victory for being able to surprise. "Wasn't expecting that," he mumbled.

"Take me on an adventure," she whispered to him. "Get me out of here." The look in Sirius' eyes could only be called delight, as he pulled the apron knots undone.

"I thought you'd never ask," he said.

A/N: Hope ya'll enjoyed! Drop a note or check out some of my other stuff. I love to talk to people! Thanks for reading – Ruby


	2. Chapter 2

Stained Hands

Part II

**Rating**: T, will be M soon

**Pairing**: Will be Hermione/Sirius

**Warnings**: Emotions

**Disclaimer**: La, La, La, I would not be worrying about my impending college graduation were I the owner of the Harry Potter saga.

**Author's Note**: As standard, apologies for the tardiness, and the fact that I didn't finish in this chapter. I'm graduating in May, and things are wild right now. Also - shameless self-promotion I have stories up on Amazon right now, one of which is the first of three books in the Motorcycle Series. Check out me out by Holland Rae _or The Triumph of Love,_ or share! As always, thanks for reading!

Stained Hands

Part II

_Was she insane_, the thought had occurred to Hermione, as she climbed onto the back of Sirius' bike. It bounced through her mind, as she wrapped her arms around his muscular chest, feeling the give of worn leather, trying not to feel the strong, built body under her arms. She must have been insane.

But then Sirius started the engine, and the whole bike roared to life, vibrating in a sweet rhythm beneath her. For the first time, in as many times as she had heard the growl of that blast motorcycle, it made sense. It was a low and husky sound, demanding something from its riders that kindled a feeling within her, a feeling Hermione hadn't had in a long time.

And then they were floating.

Hermione had never been very steady on a broom. For all her aptitude with quill and question, the basic skills of balance and dexterity had somehow remained just past her grip. But now, with her arms clenched around Sirius' body, and the strong, cool air playing with her skin, tugging loose curls free from her braid, she could understand why the boys had always called Quidditch pure freedom.

"Where to?" Sirius asked her, revving the engine just once more for good measure - a movement that sent a tingle of inexplicable sensation right through her. They were high up in the air now, something she hadn't realized until she looked down, seeing the disappearing houses below her feet, no larger than toys - flats for the dolls she'd played with as a child.

"Anywhere," she said, barely aware of the words spilling from her mouth. The pure awe of flying was as wild and new as she'd always believed it to be, growing up in a muggle world. She was flying. The thought made her laugh out loud. "Everywhere," she said.

Everywhere turned out to be Turkey, right in the middle of their annual hot air balloon festival. She saws the balloons far off in the distance, against the orange horizon, setting to blaze with rising sunlight.

"It's magnificent," she murmured. Sirius grinned.

"Want to get closer?" He asked, and without waiting for an answer he sped the bike up, shooting them straight into a cloud of massive, swirling hot air balloons.

The first thing that struck her was just how huge the balloons were. Logically Hermione knew that the physics of the matter requires an excess of fabric, but the theoretical knowledge paled in comparison to the reality of flying beside them. They floated by on every side, huge and slow, but graceful, like multi-colored whales caressing waves of sky that spanned on across the flat plains forever.

She never wanted to leave. The world had dealt her many blows, many losses. She'd said goodbye to her childhood in desperate search of good, and wouldn't have changed it, despite the heartache and the headache. But even with so many years of adventures, even with the knowledge of magic thrust upon her, and then taken with pride, even with the everyday spells she still marveled at, nothing could compare to this.

In every basket she saw the faces of strangers, smiling, happy, inspired strangers. A little boy pointed at a star patterned balloon as it strode for the sun. In a crisscrossed balloon of honey and auburn - almost Gryffindor colors, she thought with a smile, a couple embraced, kissing with a passion that went deeper than their bodies. Beside them, a pilot politely turned his head, waving to another pilot in a neighboring balloon.

What a scene, what a marvelous drama, all coming together before her eyes. Hermione was a rational woman, too rational if you asked her friends. She spent long hours staring at ancient texts; she spoke prudently at university lectures, and had contributed her findings to a number of academic essays and scholarly journals.

In the many years since she had first received her Hogwarts letter she had taken pains to work through each bout of magic, to understand, down to the most basic level, how something so incredible could happen right before her eyes.

And yet, this scene around her, this community of strangers paying little mind to the sparking, growling motorcycles weaving between them, had managed to reduce her back to the little girl, sitting on her father's knee and listening to fairy tales, wishing that magic existed.

To her surprised, Hermione realized she was crying. It had the effect of kaleidoscoping the scene before her, blending sky and sun, stars and plaids. Sirius seemed to sense her feeling of overwhelming, and turned the bike for the mountain opposite they'd come - saying nothing about the streaks she was sure he saw on her face in his mirrors.

A man with long black hair and an all white robe poured her tea and then bowed, walking back into the small wooden building and leaving them alone in the outdoor patio, sitting on cool down pillows and sipping local brews.

"You look happy," Sirius said, picking up a small dessert and eyeing it with mild curiosity. Hermione sipped her tea, sensing raspberry and ginger root and something earthy she couldn't quite place. How to explain, how to put into words that she felt as though her world had been opened up beyond closing again. She inhaled, reveling the deep intake of herb and earth.

"I missed the adventure," she admitted. Though they were simple, saying the words out loud lifted a force from her shoulders and soul, one she hadn't even realized she was carrying. "I don't miss the war," she explained quickly. That was part of it; to miss the adventure was to miss the war, the thick darkness that had brought such sorrow to all of them. She had been shrouded in the guilt of that wanderlust for so long. "But the idea of a new place, a new people." Hermione shook her head. "I haven't had the wind on my face in a long time."

Sirius took her hand, and while the gesture surprised her she didn't move away. He had calloused hands, big and capable, the hands of a workman. That wasn't how she saw him, Hermione knew. She'd always thought Sirius so entitled, even with the losses they'd all suffered, he'd acted the playboy, he'd embraced the role of aristocrat with all the ease of a young king. Perhaps she'd erred in her harsh judgment.

"You feel guilty?" He asked her, feathering the lightest strokes across her skin, which sent strange, pulsing sensations through her body. "Adventure is not a synonym for war, Hermione," he said.

"To me it is," she replied, before she could stop herself. How had she let that get through? How could she explain that a need for fresh air brought the nights of camping in tents, hidden off in the forest, all pummeling back to her. Fresh air meant running, it meant fear, it meant uncertainly.

Fresh air also meant freedom.

Sirius shook his head. "How long are you going to hide from the world?" He asked her. "Every whisper is a reminder, every shadow is a memory. The simplest design on a dress in a marketplace brings back the nights you couldn't sleep, the days filled with horror, sadness, desperation." He looked her in the eyes, and she could see that he'd felt every one of those moments, for so much longer than she had. They'd all endured. They'd all survived.

"You cannot live your life with your nose on a piece of parchment and your eyes desperate for something other than ancient ruins," Sirius said to her. "That is not a life worth living, 'Mione. Hiding from your past is not life."

Oh, how desperately she had needed someone to say those words to her, how completely they hit home to her soul. Live a life worth winning war, that's what it all meant.

But just because she heard the words, just because she understood them down to the depths of her very soul, didn't mean she could live their meaning out. She had been part, an integral part, of the War, and because of her hundreds of lives had been lost in fighting, because of her families still mourned, families she loved still mourned. True, had she not fought the war might still be raging around them, had she sat on the sidelines people still would have died, the ending might not have come in their favor. She wasn't immodest, but she knew her value in the fighting.

"I'm not hiding," she said, thinking of her parents, who would have no spark of recognition if they saw her now, and not because of the scar slipped around her left eyebrow, not because the war had aged her so. They'd all be forced to make sacrifices, of that she'd be all too aware. But even now, even so many years later, the idea of being happy was a hard one to fathom.

"I love my study and I love my position with the Ministry," neither of them lies, though perhaps omissions, leaving out the grander idea that she also loved the freedom of seeing the world, the freedom she'd felt that afternoon. But with her guilt, she could not reconcile.

"I think it's time you take me home," she told him, standing and straightening her jacket before Sirius had a chance to protest. "I appreciate the reprieve, but running away on a whim is not my life anymore."

Sirius boarded the bike without asking her any more questions, for which she was grateful. Had he looked at her face in the darkening sky he would have seen a river of tears flowing from her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Rating:** T - Thinking Hermione still has to work through some stuff before we get to the hot and heavy. M to come, I promise.

**Pairing:** Good old Hermione/Sirius

**Warnings:** Emotions, language, potential imbibment, long and winding interior monologues.

**Author's Note:** I can't believe the last time I was on this site was in April, so doubly sorry for the lateness! Hopefully I'll actually keep up with this one! Also, (shameless self-promotion) I have two new short romances up on Amazon, Winter Heat and Her Private Show, by Holland Rae. (URLs after the story.) As always, thanks for reading!

Stained Hands

Chapter III

After that Hermione avoided Sirius like he was the latest epidemic of Wizarding flu. How did one face a man like Sirius Black, when he showed, in every unabashed movement and confident smile, the life they themselves were running from? Because she was running. There was no way to deny that now, not after she'd nearly felt her heart break as they sped through an open sky to a freedom she had so long forgotten. Truly, how could she look herself in the mirror, a pair of loose lounge pants wrapped around thinning hips, a quill stuck haphazardly in her hair, and lie well enough to pretend she wasn't fading to the skin and bones version of herself? If she had been blind or ignorant of that fact before, then her impromptu adventure with Sirius had brought the disillusionment to light.

But what was there to do about it? She wasn't unhappy, not really. She was dissatisfied, unfulfilled, itching for something more than the pages of Ancient Ruins and unbreakable codes. For too long she had shunted herself into the category of Academic, ruled her personality by a single defining trait, and often let her more rebellious efforts slip by the wayside without further consideration. But that wasn't fair. She had broken rules and stepped over boundaries from her first year at school, up until the very final battle. She'd lied to authority figures, brewed illegal, and highly dangerous potions, in out-of-bounds territories, punched Malfoy in the face - that thought brought a small smile to her face.

But moreover, she had helped Harry cheat certain death, shunted around forest to forest to forest, as they searched for the Wizarding World's most dangerous artifacts, challenged the Ministry's positions on Elf Welfare and cheered along with the rest of Hogwarts when the Weasley twins made their grand finale from Hogwarts. Hell and damnation, the evidence of her arbitrary consideration for the rules was pacing his study right above her, the escaped mad man, Sirius Black, whom she quite literally turned back time to save from a fate worse than death, while simultaneously sticking it to Lucius Malfoy and the Ministry of Magic. At thirteen.

Where was thirteen year old Hermione now, she thought to herself. Or any of the years since, when she had faced danger with rationale and anticipation. That little girl, and the grown woman who would follow, they were hidden away in the darkest parts of herself, where the sadness of every loss gripped her soul and held on for dear and impossible life. For goodness sake, she was twenty-four years old. These should have been the good years. She was too young to be old.

She put down the text she had been holding and looked in the mirror. Had her eyes been that sunken in last week, so devoid of the deep chocolate color that she loved - one of the few feature she had never wanted to change? Yes, any academic and any rebellion leader could read the signs on her face. There needed to be some kind of change, and it was going to have to be a big one. But how did one grapple with the need for adventure, when all they could do was equate it to the destruction of so much? Where did one begin?

There was a knock at the door, and Hermione jumped. She was going to have to face Sirius sooner or later.

"Come in," she called to the closed door, and it slid open to the squeaking melody of old wood.

He stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame as if that were exactly where he belonged. Dark jeans hung slightly from his hips, and even under his loose v-neck she could see the ripple of muscles, undaunted by age. His hair was getting longer, just dusting his shoulders in wild rings of black, and when she finally met his eyes she was struck, even after all these years, by the vivacity, the life behind them. He was everything she wasn't - youthful, despite years, wild and exposed to hurt and joy and life, unabashed in his desire to make the losses count, and willing to open himself to whatever came along. Sirius Black put himself into an adventure, and for a fleeting second Hermione felt the jealousy as an overwhelming attraction, magnetic in its force to be with him, to learn and follow and take from him. The feeling subdued, but lingered.

"You're avoiding me," he said to her, the smoothness of an aristocrat's speech slipping charm behind every letter. "I want to know why." Damn him, did he have to be so comfortable in his freedom? Did he have to make it look so easy?

"Of course," he added, "I have my own suspicions about why." She was sure he did, and was very willing to tell him where to put those suspicions. "So the deal, either you tell me why you've avoiding me, or you do something that will drag you kicking and screaming from you comfort zone and join me in the library for a drink."

He was goading her, trying to force her to take the steps that she didn't want to take. Fine. She'd play along. For now.

"Am I allowed to go like this?" She asked, considering the ink stain on her pants. He gave her the kind of smile that had made weaker witches wilt.

"You look delightful, my dear," he said.

Of course, it had been a terribly dangerous idea to say yes to drinking with Sirius Black, but certainly it was too late to back out now. She still had her pride, dammit, the fact that she had gone ahead and changed her clothes was testament to that. Sure, it was jeans and a loose blouse, but at least she changed at some point during that day, it was all in the baby steps, was it not?

Sirius was sitting by the fire when she got to the library, his great hulk of body stretched across the couch, a drink in his hand and the reaching light from the flames shooting shadows across his chin, dusted with a shade of dark hair.

"Did I say delightful?" he asked her lazily, swirling his drink, "I meant ravishing." She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Did you know," she began, pouring herself a glass of the Firewhiskey that sat in a decanter on the side bar, "that I was reminiscing today?"

"Anything worth sharing with the class?" He asked, and the way the flames played across his skin did funny things to the inside of her stomach.

"That time I helped save your soul," she said with a smile, enjoying the upper hand, however fleeting it was. "Would you like me to tell the story?"

Sirius's eyes clouded over slightly, and Hermione had to laugh.

"Brazen, witch," he said to her, "I'm teaching you well."

"Truly you don't believe to be the source of the totality of my insubordination?" She asked without hesitation. Sirius shook his head.

"Not for a moment. I fully expect Moony had some influence, given your loquacious, albeit witty, repartee.

She sat down on a large arm chair before the fire, loving the way it contoured to her body, unlike the wooden desk chair in her office.

"Is that a hint of jealousy I detect, Mr. Black?" She asked, emboldened by the Firewhiskey as it warmed her blood. "Wishing you had been the source of my education?" Was flirting with Sirius Black considered an adventure, she had to wonder, and quickly decided it was. He was like fire, himself, glowing, intoxicating and hypnotic, dangerous to the touch, but with a natural ability to warm the skin and set the senses to heat. Perhaps a little open banter was just what she needed.

Sirius slid to sit, his arms stretched across the leather couch, affording her a rather unobscured view of his taunt arm muscles. His eyes were wicked, dangerous, and fully inviting.

"I'd much rather teach you now," he murmured. Her cheeks were flush at the comment, and she felt the light sweat pooling across her palms.

"I've been called the Brightest Witch of my Age," she said with a smirk. "What would you like to teach me about?" The boys had been so proud of their little bookworm when the nickname had first surfaced, but Hermione had found it to be hilarious - for the first time in her life she could actually laugh at being the smartest one.

"I have tricks," Sirius replied, snapping his fingers and refilling his glass. "I know more than you would think about opening the mind." Her own mind had gone uncharacteristically blank, as if she'd been expecting him to say something profane, something insinuating. As if she had wanted him to. The thought was so absurd, so out of her realm of understanding that she did the only thing she could think of - she drained her drink and ran.

A/N: This ended up being a bit of a filler chapter, which wasn't the intention. I've got the next chapter sketched in my mind though, so I'll make it up to you all, I promise!

For anyone interested in checking out my short stories you can find them here:

** Holland-Rae/e/B00I2U24U4/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1418614238&amp;sr=8-1 **

They're free for Prime Users, yay!

Anyway, thanks for reading, as always! - Ruby


	4. Chapter 4

**Rating:** T - This must be the longest I've stayed away from an M rating

**Disclaimer:** Would not be worrying about my student loans if I owned this franchise.

**Pairing:** My favorite Marauder and Gryffindor's Golden Girl

**Author's Note:** Thank you all my new followers! I think I've finally figured out the direction I want this story to go in! I'm actually rereading the series right now, so that's where the oddly specific details are coming from. (Reread with me. You know you want to.) P.S. When I was studying in Europe we went to the market mentioned in the story, and I highly suggest you look up pictures, because it's amazing!

Also, I'd be forever in your debt if you followed my romance novel accounts on Pinterest and Twitter! ( RaeRomance and Holland Rae). Thanks for reading!

Stained Hands

Chapter IV

The problem, Hermione thought to herself, was that she really couldn't say no to Sirius, even if he didn't explicitly ask. She was drawn to the man like a storm hunter - aware that at any moment she could be swept off her feet and thrown around like a toy. She knew that, and yet she said yes to him anyway.

And sure as she hated Divination there was an early evening knock at the door to her study. She hated the way he just leaned against the door frame, like the house's whole purpose was to allow him a little extra lean, one more inch of hip tilt to get the perfect devil-may-care jaunt that he achieved so effortlessly. Part of her wanted to push him over, just to see the great Sirius Black stumble. And part of her wanted to push him up against that door frame and -

She had to get that thought out of her head. Adventure was flirting with Sirius, surely. Adventure was holding onto his snug leather jacket as they rode an enchanted motorcycle through a hot air balloon festival. Adventure was actually agreeing to the mad things he suggested in so few words. But taking him up on the sinful smirk and fevered glances, actually acting upon her inner base instinct of throwing caution to the wind and sliding fingers against skin - that was not adventure. That was disaster.

"I can see the cogs in your brain working," he teased her from the door. "Must be an awful lot of work being as smart as you." He could be such an ass, sometimes she could hardly even believe it. "So I've come by with a distraction. You might want to…" he paused and gave her a once over glance, "bring a jacket." It was a lame finish, even for him, but she appreciated the effort.

"I'll change," she conceded. "How are we getting there?" Never mind that she had no idea where there was.

"How else?" He asked her, "we're flying of course."

It was truly a shame she'd never be good on a broom, Hermione thought, as the bike lifted up from the ground and shot towards the expanse of blue sky. She thought about a conversation she'd heard many years back, at the Quidditch World Cup, in fact - something about making Flying Carpets illegal, too much work for the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, or something to that effect. Perhaps she'd bring it up with Arthur Weasley next time she went around the Burrow.

"I can feel you thinking, Granger," she heard Sirius say. "For the next few minutes don't think. Just feel." And so she did, felt the ripples of cool air as they slid across her face, smelled in the deep and sweet sky, like nectar to the lungs. There was no way they were still in England, not with the way the air smelled. It wasn't dewy at all, no hint of the wet weather she knew so well.

"Almost there," Sirius said, and began to lower the bike slightly. They were nearing a city, though not yet close enough for her to make out the language of the street signs. "And touch down." She couldn't help but laugh, taking a brief moment to simply be happy that Sirius managed to maintain a sliver of boyish innocence, despite.

"Come on then," he told her. She got off the bike, only to realize that they were on a rooftop, some three stories above the ground. He grabbed her hand and moved towards the fire escape.

"Sirius," Hermione called, trying to match his pace, "where are we?"

"Come on, Bookworm," he teased, "surely you can figure it out." He lowered himself down the first ladder onto the fire escape stairs. "I'll catch you." She looked out to the city, trying to place images and landmarks in her mind. Then, half because he was waiting so expectantly for her, she lowered her own body down beside his in one motion. He smirked. "Figure it out yet?"

She was so close - she could read the signs now, and there was color everywhere. Like searching a book she scanned her memory for something recognizable.

"We're in Barcelona!" She nearly screamed it, and clutched his arm.

"Brightest Witch of Her Age strikes again," Sirius teased. "Come on, let's go!" They lowered themselves the final way to the ground and he grabbed her hand, darting through the mass of people. Finally, finally, he stopped before a large open building.

"Mercado de La Boqueria," he explained, "James and I used to sneak across the border a lot when we were growing up. Always fancy that his folks knew though." He shook himself out of the memory. "Anyway, we're going in and you're going to try a bit of absolutely everything we buy." And before he gave her a chance to respond they were weaving their way into the enormous covered market.

She was hit with smells and sounds and sights from every angle. Fishy scents oozed into her nostrils and mixed with the confections of home spun taffy. There were fruits she'd only ever seen in books, walls of candy cubbies, dishes of enormous mushrooms, and small sticks of grilled meats.

"I'll start easy on you," he began, and walked up to a vendor selling trays of fruit drinks, before picking out two.

"Strawberry coconut," he pointed to the one, "and orange mango, take your pick." She tried them both and picked the second. Sirius smiled. "How'd I know?" he asked.

Hermione was deep in the bliss of her fruit smoothie. Spain was known for its fresh produce, after all, and the smoothie was delicious.

"My turn," she said with a smile, and before Sirius could stop her she made her way to a vegetable stand she had been eying, and picked out two thin red peppers. She smelled them before handing one to Sirius. He smiled.

"How spicy is it?" He asked her, though the pepper was already halfway to his mouth. She let out a laugh.

"I have no idea," she replied, and they both took a huge bite.

It turned out they were very spicy. The two of them sucked down the rest of their smoothies before picking up some mangoes, which served to dull the senses enough. After that Sirius bought them fresh figs, then Hermione picked out long, striped taffies, then Sirius goaded her into trying anchovies, and then she teased him until he took a bite of a jerkeyed pig ear.

Hermione was enjoying herself so much that the whole evening passed before she looked at her watch, only to discover that it was nearly nine at night.

"They'll be closing up soon, I imagine," Sirius said from behind her. "Shall we pick one last sample together?" They decided on thick, delicious ice cream. She picked mocha, and he picked black cherry, and Hermione had to admit that said plenty about him. They strolled through the city enjoying their final desserts and taking in the sights.

"I wish I could come here all the time," Hermione admitted, as they watched the summer sun sink deep and heavy behind the horizon.

"What's stopping you?" Sirius asked her. For a moment she wracked her brain, trying to find the excuses that had so long served to keep her safe at home. But for the moment none appeared.

"I," she faltered. "I don't know." And damn, if admitting that wasn't even more dangerous than the man she admitted it to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Rating: **I'll up this one to M. Got a little tired of seeing how long I could put on the pretense of propriety.

**Disclaimer: **Again, student loans. I'll say no more.

**Pairing: **I love me an ill behaved aristocrat and a brilliant bookworm.

**Warnings: **Heavy imbibing, sailor's vocabulary, bumping and grinding, and a handful of illicit inner monologues. Oh, and a blatant disregard for the cannon deaths. Oh, and stopping before things get good.

**Author's Note: **I'm moving so fast on this story! (Enjoy it while it lasts, ha!) Thanks to everyone keeping up with me. If you'd like more illicit writing I do pen some dirty novels, which can be found here, but I'd be very grateful for a follow on Pinterest or Twitter. Many thanks for reading!

Stained Hands

Chapter V.

It had been an interminably long day at work. Hermione had come into the office early, only to find that the Ministry's Foreign Ambassador of Ruins and Code-Breaking for the West Asia region, Mr. Xing, had stormed into the building at around three in the morning, and had been waiting for her to arrive since. She had to assume he had been angry when he had first arrived, but having paced the floor outside of her office for five hours straight he was positively livid by the time she got there. And, while his English was impeccable, making Hermione regret, yet again, that'd she'd never studied any of the Asian languages, he spoke with such a wild ferocity that she barely managed to catch every other word.

In the end it took two calming draughts, two hours, and a full pot of sleepy time tea for her to finally understand his grievance, and it was a potentially explosive one at that. An enormous temple of hidden ancient texts had been discovered just the previous morning by a team of researchers and archeologists. Unfortunately, the expedition leader had been a Frenchman by the name of Jacques St. Pierre Babineaux, who had promptly sent the texts back to France without so much as a by-your-leave. Hermione had experience troubled with Babineaux in the past, and finally managed to convince Mr. Xing that she would sort the matter out. By then it was nearly half-three in the afternoon. Grateful, if still irate, Xing had left her office, and she had begun firing off letter to Babineaux and the people who might influence the man in question.

She hadn't gotten to the work originally intended for the day until five. It was nearly ten now, as she stepped through the front hall of Grimmauld Place. Most of her was absolutely desperate the warmth and comfort of her bed, and, if she could keep her eyes open, a good book. It was Friday night and she wasn't going to set an alarm for the following morning. Alright, fine. She wasn't going to set one for before eight o'clock. But despite the sheer exhaustion settling throughout her body, and the reoccurring string of dialects she could never understand racing through her brain, there was a tiny, minuscule part of herself that didn't want to go to bed, didn't want to go to the library, and didn't ever want to read another word ever, ever again. That feeling would pass, certainly.

What she did want, well of that she wasn't too sure. It was just that after a day like that one she needed an escape, some form or distraction to get her blood pumping, something to ease the weight of work from her shoulders. She was just considering what that might be, and whether it might include drinking a bottle of wine, when she slipped into her room and saw something on the bed. She lowered her bag, and tossed her jacket over the shoulder of a chair before investigating. Atop a small pile of clothes there was a note.

_Golden Girl, _

_We're going on an adventure tonight. Ginny gave me advice on the clothes to pick out, and I accioed them from your drawer. Promise I didn't peek. When you're ready to come meet me in the drawing room for a drink. _

There was a paw print on the bottom of the page, and her disapproval at the nickname turned into a slight smile. It turned right back into disapproval though, when she saw the clothes that her supposedly best friend had picked out for. Two years earlier she and Ginny had helped host Luna Lovegood's hen party, and what had started out as a few drinks had ended with a ginger-haired twin curled up around her on the couch, a Russian stamp in the passport clutched in her left hand, and a pair of leather pants that she had no recollection of buying. Those leather pants were now sitting on her bed. They seemed to be laughing at her, as if to say _you won't do it. You haven't got the guts._ She tossed them aside for a moment to glance at the top, better. Not great, but better. It was a dark raspberry color with cut sleeves, and a deep neckline. There was far more material than there would be coverage, considering that the back was entirely open.

Before she could deny to herself the potential adventure, make up whatever excuse it might take to get out of whatever den of iniquity Sirius was going to drag her to, she heard a tap on the window. When she opened it a small grey owl tumbled head over claws trying to carry an object three times its small size. There was a note attached.

_'Mione, _

_Firstly, you're going tonight, don't even pretend you're not. And there are no clues in this letter, so don't look for them. More importantly, got you an early birthday present. It might be straight from the distributor regarding a certain autograph of a certain Boy-Who-Married-Me, but no one needs to know. _

_ Can't wait for details. – G_

Hermione unhooked the parcel from the owl's leg and opened it. Packed inside was the latest in magical make-up application kits. She had to admit that she'd been eyeing the last one for months on the shelf, but with no reason to use it, she'd never caved. Now she had to go. Damn Ginny, and her perfect ability to hit Hermione in her weak spots. She penned off a quick letter to her friend, and sent the owl off with a treat.

Now to actually go through with it. The leather pants slid up her thighs with absolute ease, and she could see how she might have bought them in a state of deep intoxication. All in all, the outfit really was beautiful. But she couldn't wait to try the make-up. Thankfully, despite the added stressers, her hair had maintained some of its straightness from the morning styling, so it fell in loose curls around her bare shoulders. She propped up the make-up kit on her desk, then opened it.

Suddenly the whole room sprang into a mad frenzy. There were fireworks going off, and a bout of confetti that mostly all fell down her cleavage. After a moment the fuss died down a bit, and she could see that where the small kit had been sitting only a moment before there was now three mirrors arranged around her in classic Hollywood style. Two long arms shot out from the side mirrors and pushed her into the chair, as a face in the middle mirror began to talk.

"You're got excellent cheekbones, my dear, we won't need to do much with these. I'm thinking charcoal would fit your pants splendidly." As she murmured, more to herself than Hermione, hands were shooting out from the three mirrors, dusting off her eyebrows, rouging her cheeks, adding color to her lips. The whole thing was starting to feel rather strange, and somewhat invasive, when the mirror asked how she felt about her bikini line, when the mirror said, quite quickly, "done." And then the whole contraption slipped back into the box.

She stood herself up to peer into the full-length mirror. By god, she really was beautiful when she put some effort it. The make-up was smoky, with a hint of gold coloring around the corners of her eyes, which served to draw out the darker color of her summer skin. They'd added a slight extra bounce to her hair, and she felt absolutely wonderful, and absolutely indecent. No researcher ministry worker went around looking like that. But then she thought of Sirius in the drawing room, and thought that maybe tonight could be an exception.

Sirius was standing before the fire looking a little like the devil himself. Dark, fitted jeans clung the expanse of thick muscled thighs, and he had on a well tailored silver button-down, rolled at the sleeves. When he turned she could see that he had left the top few buttons undone, and there was the smallest hint of winding, black ink visible from where she stood.

"I hope you haven't drunk it all," she said, with more confidence than she truly felt. Ginny had also left her a pair of dark red heels, which were taking some getting used to.

"I don't know," he replied, drawling that whiskey voice, "from where I'm standing there's a tall drink of water that could be next." She raised an eyebrow.

"Has that ever worked on anyone?" She asked, walking towards the bar. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved.

"You'd be surprised," he replied. Then drained his drink. "Fine, no it hasn't." She laughed, and went to pour herself a glass of wine, when Sirius stepped up beside her. How had he gotten across the room that quickly, she had to ask herself.

"Where we're going," he began, taking the wine bottle from her hand, "is going to require something a little more potent." He pulled out a decanter and poured her a generous shot.

"What are we toasting to?" She asked, watching the clear liquid swirl into his glass. She should probably ask what it was.

He laughed. "To Ginny Wealsey?" She couldn't stop the smile spreading across her face.

"To Ginny Weasley," she said.

"Bottoms up," Sirius said, and she knocked her head back, letting the cool rush of smooth liquor shoot straight through her body. It seemed to wake her at the same time it loosened her.

"Now," Sirius said, taking her hand, "let's go."


	6. Chapter 6

**Rating: **M – For the good stuff. (Ha, maybe, maybe not. You won't know until you read!)

**Warnings: **Heavy imbibing, cursing like a 15th century pirate, all a matter of high school dance bump and grind, winding, endless inner monologues, blatant disregard for cannon deaths.

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for everyone's support and my new story followers! You are all wonderful! I realize that last chapter didn't actually post the hyperlinks for my dirty novel writing alter ego, so if you want you can find me on Pinterest as Holland Rae and on Twitter RaeRomace. If you're looking on Amazon just search by Holland Rae. Thanks so much for reading!

Stained Hands

Chapter VI

At first Hermione thought she had banged her head. The music around her was so wildly loud that the very vibrations pulsed through her skin, made her whole body prickle in bass and drum. And what kind of music was it anyway? Some form of techno dub-step beat that put every single one of her senses on high alert – though much good they were going to do with the music as loud as it was. She looked around at the room for the first time since they had arrived, and saw that it was filled corner to corner with people, their bodies all intermingling and twisting and winding and moving to the pulse of the room, and it looked more like the cresting of one enormous wave than hundreds of people, more like the moving back of a dragon preparing to pounce than individual dancers becoming intimate with people they'd never know by name.

Sirius must have known that this wasn't really her scene. It wasn't that this was out of her comfort zone. She just didn't like it – didn't like the idea of a stranger's sweat sliding down her own arms, or the thinly cloaked sexual attraction that honed so accurately to her rear. She wanted more than a night of reckless bumping and grinding, and she felt herself growing hot with vague discomfort.

"Damn it," she heard Sirius say behind her, though his usually smoky, cool voice was hard to make out over the dull roar of the room. "We landed it a bit off. Come on." he grabbed her hand, seemingly without thinking, but Hermione couldn't help but notice the pulse of electricity that when through her when their skin touched, one that had nothing to do with the over enthusiastic DJ and his twitchy volume finger. For a second Hermione felt the whole scene slip out from around her, the dripping away of images in her peripheral, and then her feet hit the floor and the images slowly came back.

"That's a bit better," Sirius mumbled beside her, and she was surprised to find how close her was to her body, and how little she minded that. "I must be getting rusty." She resisted the urge to fire a well-aimed shot at his age. He was her lifeline here, and she'd like to make sure he stayed close. The thought had distracted her for just a moment, until she realized that the sounds of this room were nothing like the ones she'd just heard. There was no pulsing, impossible bass to make her skin jump. Instead, she heard smooth jazz, with a mix of some sort of Caribbean tide, pulling her body to the dance floor.

Sirius brought her into the main part of the room, where they settled in a small booth that had the perfect view of a wooden, old-fashioned dance floor, and ordered drinks. There were blue and purple accent lights around the room, which was dim and hazy and utterly unapologetic. On the dance floor a couple faced each other, and Hermione was reminded of the disaster dual Harry and Malfoy had been in during their second year at Hogwarts. She stifled a laugh. But then all desire to giggle disappeared, as the woman, her body slinky in a long red halter top gown, wrapped herself around the man, who wore a grey vest atop a button down, with the sleeves rolled up. Their bodies were moving now, a sinful display of utter distraction, wrapping thigh and arm around hip and shoulder and waist, dipping, spinning, catching, moving as a single body to the tune of old American jazz – New Orleans style crossbreeds, music to make the soul feel free and the body long for movement.

Sirius must have senses her desire, so, without asking, he pulled her hand to the floor and wrapped slid his fingers through her own, braiding their hands together. Oh, this was a wild and dangerous game they were playing. She could feel every ounce of muscle in his arms, as the band started up a sort of jazzy tango medley, and he began to move. His hand was wrapped around her waist, the other still entwined with her own, and Hermione knew she was going to succumb to the call of the music. So she slid her own hand around his waist, feel the generous curve of muscle and taunt, taunting behind.

Sirius shot her a teasing glance and used one hand to move her own slightly away from his behind, then he winked. She blushed slightly, but didn't have the time to consider the matter further, as the music picked up pace and he led her through the crowed dance floor, moved her body close to his own, twirled her near the end of the wooden floor, and brought her back in the other direction, keeping pace with the jaunty, dangerous medley of Caribbean influence and Louisiana design. Their bodies were so close Hermione could smell the aftershave he'd used, a hint of wood and lemon, and something so inexplicably Sirius that Hermione couldn't place it, only allowed herself to breathe it in.

This was playing with fire, if the term had ever applied to anything before ever. Sirius may have been born a Black, an old money aristocrat, who knew a waltz from a tango, and, despite twelve years in the world's worst prison, still tilted his soup bowl away from himself at meals. He may have been a fugitive, pacing circles around his fellow prisoner in the attic at Grimmuald Place before they'd been able to clear his name. He may have been a lot of things, but right now none of them were coming to mind. All she could focus on was the brightness of him, the lightness of him, the full and complete and dangerousness of him. He would break her heart and not ever realize. He was would invade her senses and steal her carefully protected soul from right out from under her and welcome her for breakfast the next morning none the wiser. She had always found him attractive, once he'd been cleared of all charges and allowed to live a normal life. But she'd never thought it was anything more. Surely, they fought – but a lot of people fought with Sirius Black. He was terribly good at goading.

But then what was this? And what was her problem, really? Did she wanted him for anything other than a friend, a drinking partner late at night, a fellow adventurer, and of course, the sinfully constructed body that was so close to her hands she nearly threw in all of her cards and groped him right there? There were options, if skin and flesh and muscle was all she was after, but was she?

Sirius placed his hand around her waist, and Hermione was pulled from her thoughts by the feel of him lifting her, sliding her head close to the floor and moving her legs towards the ceiling. He was incredibly strong, his body didn't even quiver under his weight, and her dance classes from childhood had done her little good in helping ease the weight for her partner. She moved her mind back into the dancer, away from Sirius, and the complications of his proximity, and away from her overly analytical brain.

Because Sirius was behind her now, moving her body in tune with his own – a brilliant and well behaved sort of debaucherous dance, and she had to admit that she enjoyed it, enjoyed the feeling of him behind her, the pure muscle of his legs as they brushed her own. He was so wild, untamed and impossible to ignore. And why should she want to ignore him – Not when he was causing the delicious sensation in her legs, not when he was giving her her life back.

The song end and Sirius took a deep bow, the smirk on her face entirely too self-aware for her liking.

"You dance marvelously," he whispered in her ear, the honey of his voice sending a deep shudder of warmth through her body. Then he moved to brush his lips on her cheek, presumably, but at the last second Hermione moved her head, and the two were caught in a deep kiss.

For a split second neither moved, and then Sirius took control, pressing his lips to her own with a force and desire that she knew she could mirror. They kissed until the air had run out, and it was just the two of them on the smoky dance floor, depending on each other for dear might.


	7. Chapter 7

**Rating**: M – For continuity, swearing, and drinking.

**Warnings**: See above, and also perspective change, I'm sorry.

**Author's Note**: Thanks so much for sticking with me! I'm trying really hard to keep up with this story and I appreciate the support. If you're looking for more of my dirty writing check out Holland Rae on Amazon, or on Pinterest, or follow me at RaeRomance on Twitter. Cheers!

Stained Hands

Chapter VII

He was a goddamn, stupid, arseheaded idiot, Sirius thought to himself, taking another larger chug from a crystal Firewhiskey decanter and recounting the events of the evening that lead him to be where he was now – sitting on the floor in the corner of his study, back up against the hard wooden wall, and half a bottle of poison soaking shame through his increasingly despondent system. She'd just been letting him, just been allowing him to show her the world again – and Merlin knew she needed to see the world again, and he'd gone and turned the whole thing arse over heels, let himself lose control of the situation, lose control of every inhibition he had ever thought he might have, which arguably wasn't a massive number, but the sentiment remained.

To be fair, he reasoned for a moment, stronger men would have lost their control around her too. She was classical in her beauty, the kind of glorious rose-stained skin one would see in a Botticelli, with the hips of some ancient Greek goddess, half draped in wet cloth and begging to seduce the mortals around her. For a moment Sirius considered that. Hermione Granger truly was surrounded by mortals. Over the last few weeks in her close company he'd come to understand a little more of her, the way cogs in the great grand machine of her mind turned over and around and twisted themselves into theory and debate and reference. She must have had some form of photographic memory, graced as she was with the ability to recount information in a breath, and use it to her best advantage, whether her company was interested or not. Sirius was always interested. But she was more than simply intelligent, more than brilliant, even. She was like a lion, in his mind, all the power and grace of the king of the jungle, yet with the good sense to save her predatory nature until absolutely necessary.

He sighed. Thinking about her, about the beautiful ringlets that tickled her nymph like ears, about the hallow of her neck when she laughed, about the way she felt against him when they had danced in the club, the way she'd kissed him back, like he had any right at all to kiss her in the first place, it wasn't helping the situation. They'd slipped out of the club, apparated home, and in the starch light of the living room in his old parent's manor Sirius realized he'd made a terrible mistake. The age hardly factored in as an issue when he was busy chastising himself for the complete and utter disregard that one kiss had meant for her trust. He'd spent weeks working towards that trust, trying to coax her from the shell that was eating her alive, the guilt and the fear and the left over heartache of war, a war which had stolen so much more than her youth.

And he'd ruined it. He'd gone and taken advantage of her weakness, taken advantage of her guilt and vulnerability, and kissed her right on the dance floor for anyone to see. Images of her swollen cherried lips sprang to mind, and Sirius bit back a groan. In addition to being wonderful at everything else, Hermione Granger was a delightful, sinful, and utterly delicious kisser.

What in hell and damnation was wrong with him? A hundred years ago he would have laughed her off like every other girl, another beautiful smile, pretty eyes, lovely lips. There would be more like her. There always was, at least, that was how he used to feel, when his troubles were light and he ran wild through the woods with the people he'd love most – none of whom were still here.

But there was no one who was like Hermione Granger. There would be no replacing her, and that thought scared him more than all the rest.

There was a light knock on the door, so soft it was barely perceptible, and it took a moment for Sirius to pull himself back to attention.

"I know you're in there," he heard her say. Moving was going to be very difficult – he could practically anticipate the sloshing sound his body would make when he finally stood, a sea of whiskey swimming in his stomach, as if offering respite for him to drown in.

"No, I'm not," he replied. If he hadn't been roiling in his own guilt he would have thought that impossibly funny.

"Sunny told me you took the Firewhiskey from the library," she said after a moment. Damn, he'd have to do something about the big mouth on his house elf. But not in front of the woman standing outside the closed door. "Sirius can I come in?" She tried the handle, probably knowing it was locked – not like she couldn't unlock the damn thing.

"It's probably best that you don't," he told her, feeling the words like ash on his tongue. "Maybe we should have some space between us for a bit." Even despite the whiskey fog he knew those words were going to hurt her, though likely no more than they were hurting him, like a sword straight to the stomach, twisted and churning and let death come slowly and at the price of pain most men would never know. But hurting her wasn't as bad as taking advantage of her, of using her to his own devices, of not being able to control the feelings he was beginning to sense, under all of his bravado and pomp. They needed to be apart from one another, or he'd go much further than a kiss on a dance floor, and that would ruin everything.

He waited for a moment, listened to the crackle of the air between them, and then he heard the faintest whisper of a muffled, muted sob, before the whole world was silent, and Sirius was alone again, with his whiskey and his guilt.

A/N: I didn't think that this was where this chapter would go, but I actually kind of don't mind. I'll do my best to keep updating. Thanks for reading, and be sure to drop me a line if you have suggestions or requests!


	8. Chapter 8

**Rating: **M – For swearing, drinking, and general bad behavior.

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay between chapters! I'm doing the best I can! Also, if you're following Holland Rae on Amazon, (my dirty story alter ego,) I will have a new story up by the end of the week! Now, onward! Thanks for reading!

Stained Hands

Chapter VIII

It was the same old chair, the same old wooden desk, the same pile of papers organized to the corners beside the same fresh inkwells. She had arranged and rearranged her same old quills, opened and closed the same old drapes, and checked and rechecked the same ancient drawers, as if looking for something in them she knew she couldn't find. Her life would never go back to the way it was before Sirius had taken her on the back of his bike and opened her eyes again, and Hermione knew it. She could stare at her rolls of Ancient Runes for as long as they had been around, and still her mind would be far away, contemplating the logic behind one man changing absolutely everything in her life.

She hadn't spoken to him in three days, and not for lack of trying either. In what she could only determine to be a bold and noble self-sacrifice, likely for her honor and protection, he'd taken to holing up in his room and avoiding her as if she were the very reincarnation of the Dark Lord himself. Ron and Harry hadn't yet returned from their trip, and Ginny had been back and forth between the Burrow and Grimmauld Place so often that Hermione caught little more than the swish of red hair as it flung itself into a fireplace, but at least she didn't get the impression that her dear friend was actively, obviously, avoiding her.

Part of the problem was that Grimmauld Place was very large when you were alone it in, and, for all intents and purposes, she was alone in it. Despite their best efforts, the house still drafted about with remnants of its former tenants, and every once in a while Hermione would be overcome with the memory of the summer before her fifth year, when she, and Harry, and the Weasleys had tried desperately to listen in the Order's meetings, and when the naivety of what would come, both that year and in the war following, hung like a heavy, protective cloak around them. With little recourse for distraction, having thoroughly opened and closed each drawer on her desk at least a dozen times, her thoughts drifted towards those days, and inevitably, towards the wholeness of the Weasley family, towards the young, if scarred, face of Remus Lupin, towards the wonderful magic of Tonks' dinnertime entertainment.

She didn't allow these thoughts to surface much, but when she did they stung, eating away at her heart and soul as if she would never again feel the complete wholeness of happiness. The backs of her eyes grew hot, and she tried to will the tears away. What good would it do to allow more sadness into her life? What good would it do to wallow in pity and guilt, when those that had left them would have wished for nothing less. She could practically picture the grinning face of Fred Weasley, and knew he would never let her cry over his passing, knew he would have never wanted them to think of him with sadness.

And with that thought her sadness turned itself to anger. What right did Sirius Black have to be shutting himself in his room all day, when there were those that had fought and lost their lives for his, for their, freedom. She had spent too long in a state of guilt and longing for innocent times, and Sirius had shown her a light at the end of the tunnel, and then he'd gone and shut himself off, in some dumb male move of protection.

But what was she going to do about it, Hermione thought to herself. She was sitting in her room sulking just the same as Sirius was. That wasn't going to do at all, not in the sense of honoring those who have given themselves for the greater good. And then she had an idea. She had a wild, ridiculous, utterly dangerous idea. She was going on an adventure and Sirius Black was going to come with her, whether he wanted to or not.

She quickly changed into a pair of jeans and boots, sliding on her wonderful leather jacket that she had worn only once, only when she and Sirius had flown around between the hot air balloons. Then she slipped out to the standing barn behind Grimmauld Place. It had long since become a storage shed, and she had to wonder how many of the decrepit looking objects on the shelf had once housed old, dark magic. They'd never gotten around to cleaning the shed, and the whole room was lit in a sort of black blue light that made her hair stand on end.

But then she saw what she was looking for, and her heart began to pound like a bullet ricocheting off her chest. In the safety of her study this had seemed like a brilliant idea, but now, standing here in the shed, she couldn't have imagined a less well-conceived plan. Still, she took a deep breath and willed herself forward. She was Hermione Granger – brightest witch of her age, one-third the Golden Trio, partly responsible for bringing down the Dark Lord, and for goodness sakes, she could get on a flying motorcycle.

It was the only thing in the room not coated in ten years of dust, and so it gleamed even more fiercely for that uniqueness. She looked at the piles of lamps and tables surrounding her and decided that beginning her flying motorcycle lessons would be better in the open air, so she muttered a quick spell under her breath and the bike came to life, following her obediently out to the yard.

She glanced up, spotting the corner of Sirius' study, and willing herself to remain calm. She was doing this because she refused to hang onto the sadness that always consumed the survivors. She was doing this so she smiled when thinking of Fred Weasley. So, with one final breath, Hermione hoisted one foot over the bike and slid into the seat. It seemed to run close to a regular motorcycle, with the simple difference of its anti-gravitational ability, and she oriented herself with the dials and badges for a moment, before sliding her finger across the button she'd seen Sirius push on their last adventure.

At first nothing happened. But then the bike jumped into movement. Unlike a broom, the motorcycle rose with regular and consistent speed, and soon she found her feet lifting from the ground. She was sliding up, up, up, past her study window, past the window to the bedroom Harry and Ginny shared, and then to the window of Sirius' room. The blinds were drawn, but a simple spell pulled them open, and she moved the bike closer to tap on the window.

Had she not been utterly focused on staying afloat, Hermione would have found Sirius' expression utterly hilarious. He had been sitting in his sleep pants all day, and wore no shirt, which gave her eyes pause, if for a fleeting second. But his hair was vaguely messy, and she had to hate that it looked good that way while hers would have looked like a nest, and his eyes nearly crossed over themselves when he finally realized what was going on outside his window. He slid the glass up quickly and stuck out his head.

"What in hell and damnation do you think you're doing on my bike?" He asked, his voice was steady, but his tone was one of complete seriousness. "You're going to hurt yourself, Hermione." She slid a little closer to the window and hoped he couldn't see how tightly she was gripping the handlebars.

"I'm trying to get your goddamn attention," she said, feeling the unfamiliar curse word slip from her mouth. "You know, someone once told me that hiding from your past isn't a life." He winced as he recognized the words he had said to her getting thrown back in his face.

"That was different," he shot back.

"How?" She asked, "you're hiding right now, aren't you?" He shook his head.

"I promise it's different," he said slowly, almost sadly. She shrugged.

"I don't really care. I'm taking your bike on an adventure with or without you." She paused and widened her eyes for effect. "I hope nothing happens to it." Another pause. "Or me." She watched the vein in Sirius' neck pulse as he realized what she was getting at.

"Hermione," he growled. "Off the bike." For the drama of it, she looked down to the ground and gasped.

"Quite a long way to go, don't you think?" She asked him. She could practically hear his teeth grinding together, and the thought brought her a surprising amount of pleasure.

"Goddamn it," he said slowly. "Fine. I'm coming. Just let me get dressed." She hovered outside his window, tried to avert her eyes as he slid into a pair of tight jeans, and hid her smile. Yes, Hermione thought to herself, as Sirius finally climbed out the window, all the while muttering about _being too old for this shit,_ they were going to be okay.


End file.
