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The cauldron bubbles noisily over the flame and Hermione leans over it, stirring carefully. The room around her is dim, lit solely by candlelight.

Grimmauld sleeps, but Hermione can’t. It’s not something that comes easily to her anymore, not with the shouts and cries of the injured, or the whispered reports that arrive in the dead of the night. Weariness presses at the corners of her mind, thick and heavy as she ladles the potion into vials.

Behind her, the floorboard creaks.

She doesn’t need to turn. She knows it’s him.

“Long night?” His voice is smoke-scratched and quiet.

“Longer than usual,” she says, placing caps on the vials. “Ran out of dittany and Neville went on that—” She stops, sighing heavily. There’s no point reliving it. Instead, she turns.

Sirius stands in the doorway watching her, leaning one shoulder against the frame, casual as hell, as if he isn’t tracking burgundy all over the clean floor. As if he hasn’t a sharp gash over his brow, or dirt dashed across his cheek.

As if he hasn’t been missing in action for two full weeks.

“You look awful,” she says.

His smirk doesn’t reach his eyes. “I missed your bedside manner.”

“No, what you missed was two meetings with Kingsley and a recce to Epping Forest.”

His shoulders shrug under his ripped jacket. “Got a little held up. Nice of you to wait up for me, though.”

She scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. Merlin, she’d quite like to punch him in the face. “Where the hell were you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He pushes himself off the doorframe, stalking over the threshold, slow and deliberate.

Hermione forces herself to stand stock still. She hates that she knows his patterns now, the way he never looks her directly in the eye when he’s feeling guilty, or the way he lingers just long enough to reel her back in again, before disappearing like a ghost.

“You should sit,” she says tersely. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sirius. Sit.”

He does, with an eye roll and a grunt, wincing as he lowers himself onto the wooden chair. Hermione grabs the fresh dittany and moves closer, stopping when her thighs meet his bent knees.

He winks, and widens his legs.

“Don’t,” she mutters, but annoyingly has to step forward to reach his forehead. The inside of his thighs are warm even through the material of his jeans, and he presses them against the outside of hers, trapping her in.

This close, the scent of blood and battle clings to him. Lord knows what he’s been up to—nothing Order official, that’s for certain. There is a faint trace of magic lingering over his skin, mixed with leather and woodsmoke, that unique Sirius scent that haunts her every day in his godforsaken family home.

She dabs the dittany over the slash above his brow, and when satisfied with the job pulls back again. “Is that it?”

He presses a sharp canine into his wind-bitten bottom lip. “Not exactly.”

“Show me.”

He studies her for a stretched-out heartbeat, and then sits forward to yank up the black fabric of his t-shirt. It catches on his stomach and he gives a small groan. There’s a slash across his ribs, deep and angry, causing Hermione to gasp at the sight.

“For fucks sake, Sirius.” She bats his hands away. “You haven’t even tried to heal this yourself.”

“Knew you’d sort it for me, love.”

That word paired with the attitude sees Hermione grip the skin around the cut tightly, murmuring a stitching charm that she knows stings like a bitch. Sirius hisses through his teeth, hitching in pain.

“Next time, I won’t bother,” she snaps.

“Don’t be like that.”

She laughs, hollow and loud. “Oh, please, Sirius. Please tell me exactly how I should be.”

No reply. Just his dark-eyed gaze from under unfairly long eyelashes.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she says.

“Getting injured?”

“Disappearing. Storming off into the night like you’re the only one going through a tough time. It’s not fair. Not on Harry, and not on me.”

That gets his attention. He lurches forward, hand snapping out to circle her wrist. Jaw clenched, eyes burning. “This isn’t easy for me.”

“It’s not easy for anyone.” She shakes him off, taking a step backwards.

He’s up on his feet like a flash, closing in. “You deserve better.”

Her back hits the worktop, the edge digging into her spine. “I know that. I know I’m stupid for dragging myself down with you. But the really stupid thing is that I want you.”

Silence. The cauldron spits and hisses suddenly, loud in the deathly quiet. There’s a faint crease between his brows, and she wishes—not for the first time—that she’d kept up the Legilimency lessons.

“Hermione—”

She can’t take the way his voice has softened, how his gaze has dropped to her mouth. “Forget I said that.”

His lips hitch in a faint smile. “I don’t think I can.”

“You need to—”

“Sirius?”

Their eyes whip round to where the door has just creaked open. Harry’s peering inside, sleep-mussed, and Sirius whirls away from her as if he’s just been hexed.

“Alright there, Harry?” Sirius bends down, sweeping his t-shirt up off the floor. “I was just coming up to see you.”

“You’re back.” Harry blinks, frowning at the slash on Sirius’ stomach as his t-shirt is pulled over the top. “What happened?”

“Nothing the good Healer couldn’t fix,” Sirius grins. He turns back to Hermione and gives her a small salute. “Cheers for that.”

He strides over to his godson, putting an arm around his shoulders and walking him out the door. It closes behind them with a sharp click.

Next to Hermione, the cauldron bubbles over with a loud splash.

***

The living room is quiet three nights later. Limned in firelight, feet tucked up beneath her, Hermione runs a slow fingertip around the rim of her glass.

“Stop lurking in the shadows.”

He isn't meant to be here. The job was posed as an all-nighter—same shit, different day. He’d groused and groaned his way out of the meeting, barely able to meet her eye.

“You knew I was here,” Sirius says, stepping into view. His wand spins in his hand, betraying his calm exterior.

“I always know when you’re here.”

He advances, circling her like smoke, trailing his wand across the back of the sofa before using it to nudge at the book lying open on her lap.

“You should be wearing gloves. The ink is cursed.”

Her eyes flick over him slowly. “I’ve handled worse.”

“Even so—” His wandtip traces along her forearm, over the top of her thumb where it rests on the edge of the book. “—turns out I’m quite fond of your fingers. Wouldn’t want you losing any to my wretched family’s library.”

She closes the book and considers him carefully. “I assume you didn’t come back here just to comment on my reading.”

“No.” The wand moves back and forth, a slow slide over her knuckle. “Turns out I missed you.”

Her hand twists, clamping the end of his wand between her fingers, stopping him in his tracks. Her eyes are amber-sharp in the low light. “Don’t play with me, Sirius.”

“What if I’m not?” He steps closer, around the front of the sofa. He lets go of his wand and it stays in her grip. “What if I said you’re all I can fucking think about. That you’re driving me insane.”

Eyes rolling, her fingers flex around his wand. “Then I’d ask what it is you’ve been drinking this time.”

Hands on his heart, dark hair falling over his forehead as he tilts his chin down to look at her. “I’m stone cold sober.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“You said you want me.”

Her reply is the last swing of her whisky. It burns the whole way down.

Pulling one arm at a time, he shucks his way out of his jacket, throwing it over the back of the wingback chair behind him. His t-shirt is worn, rough around the edges, layered over twists of ink that disappear under the short sleeves. As usual, she can’t tear her eyes away, the magnetic pull of him always too strong.

When he speaks it’s low and rough, words coiling around her like a serpent. “I want you too.”

She doesn’t have time to respond. He’s dropping to his knees, reaching out to tug each of her legs from
under her in turn. His palms are rough—calloused and worn from whatever it is the Order sends him out to do. She never asks. When they’re together the door is shut on war and death, sealed with the press of his body over hers.

The first time this happened he’d just returned from a week long job, bone-tired, and he’d barely been over the threshold before she’d forced him away from the group. She’d washed the dirt and blood from his skin and then sucked the hard length of him into her mouth, laving the hurt away as the shower cascaded around them. Since then it’s been months of secret fucks all over the house, avoiding prying eyes and whispered rumours. Acting like everything is normal, like she’s not pining for someone who kisses her like she’s the only thing he has left one moment, before slipping off into the night the next.

Now, moving closer on the floorboards, Sirius settles between her knees, pulling her limbs each side of his waist. His lips press the inside of her knee and then climb higher and higher, joining up the freckles dotting her thigh. He’s just running his tongue at the edge of her sleep shorts when her hand flicks out, halting him in his path with his own wandtip pressed to the blade of his jaw.

Her chest heaves, breath quickening, gazing down at him in defiant wonder. When he grins it is dagger-sharp.

“Are you going to hex me with my own wand, love?”

“Don’t tempt me,” she says, using it to tip his chin higher.

“What do you want, Hermione?” He swallows, the long line of his throat bobbing with the movement. “I’m literally on my knees for you. All you need to do is just—”

“Stop,” she gasps. “Just stop talking. All you do is run your mouth and I can’t bloody think.”

“Don’t think,” he says, and he nudges the wandtip away with a lift of his head. Once more, his lips press kiss after kiss to the inside of her thigh, fingers edging underneath the hem of her shorts. “Let yourself have this.”

It’s hard to argue when he’s like this, soft-edged and seductive, levelling her with silky eyes and a voice that drips down her spine like honey. She wants to protest, wishes she was strong enough to not want him so desperately, but she’s worn down, piece by piece. He’s tethered himself, bone-deep, and she knows she was wrong in what she whispered a few nights ago.

She doesn’t want him. She needs him. They’re as broken as each other, crushed and cracked right down to the soul.

He’s waiting, lips floating above her skin, fingers curling around her waistband.

She drops the wand.

Fabric is pulled from her body instantly, and his hands scoop underneath her backside to bring her core straight to his mouth. He devours her, tongue and teeth slicking her glossy and wet, licking broad strokes up and down her cunt.

Her head hits the back of the sofa, like every last bit of energy she had has been yanked from her. She’s boneless, sinking into the cushions, mind blanking for the first time in weeks. All she can focus on is the feel of him, the rough glide of his stubble on the inside of her thighs, of his nails leaving half-moons in her skin. He digs them into the meat of her arse, forcing her hips to tilt even more.

Moans stutter from her lips. He’s pleased about this, she knows. She can feel the grin against her clit, as he dips and slips his tongue until she’s writhing against him.

“Please, Sirius, please—”

“That’s it, love. Tell me what you need. Make some noise for me.”

“More,” she gasps. “I need more.”

He complies immediately, two fingers entering her roughly. He pumps them deep, in and out, and then lowers his mouth around her once again. It’s too much—she’s biting her lip so hard she wouldn’t be surprised if she’s blood-soaked. But still, she needs more.

“I want you,” she cries. “I want you so much.”

He pulls away, hands at his belt, yanking it open and pushing down his jeans. “Up for me.”

She’s on her knees, turning, hands gripping the back of the sofa. His hands glide over her spine, squeeze her arse, as he groans at the sight of her bent over. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

One quick slide and he’s back inside, pressing deep to the hilt, his chest against her back so he can nip at her throat as he fucks into her with unrelenting strokes. He knows by now how she likes it, hard and quick, and his hand reaches around to rub at her clit.

Her voice is gone, reduced to nothing more than whimpers and sighs as he talks her through it, nail-rough voice encouraging her along. The pressure is building, spiralling up and up and it only takes one more particularly hard thrust to see her crumble, as she shakes and shudders through her release.

“Fuck, yes,” he groans into her neck, and he pulls her back against him as he empties inside of her, hands flexing on her hips.

The silence feels particularly heavy when they part, sweat-slicked and sticky. Hermione waves a cleaning charm over them, and he watches her carefully as she climbs back into her clothes. His jeans are still open, shirt rumpled, and she walks back over to him, her hands finding his zip.

“Careful there.” His grin is sharp-toothed and wicked.

She bends, picking up his wand, and presses the sharp point of it against his chest. His eyebrow raises.

“Don’t run again,” she says firmly.

Sirius leans forward, the wandtip pressing deeper into him through his t-shirt, dimpling the fabric. He kisses her hard on the mouth.

“I can’t promise,” he mutters. “But for you I will try.”

She lowers the wand, mouth finding his once more.

It’s enough. It has to be.