Back for Good

The days and nights were blending together so that the only differentiation he had for the passing of time was exactly how tired he was. He didn't sleep at night; he didn't sleep for more than a few hours at a time, and what little sleep he succumbed to was listless and disturbed.

He felt sick. Ah, if only it were that simple. He felt bloody horrible. His joints felt swollen and jammed so that every movement was an exercise in brutal force. His body didn't want to do what he told it to. His head was more than aching—it was exploding. The simplest of thoughts sent him into a confused frenzy, so much that making food to satisfy his hunger was a near-futile feat.

But that was nothing compared to his other hunger.

Sirius’ body burned, yearned, for touch. It was unlike anything the bond had ever forced upon him. It was worse, but also better in a way. The intensity of it, the sheer demand, was much stronger right now. But the object of it was less specific.

In other words, he needed to get laid. But he didn’t need Hermione.

Before, when the bond had forced its will upon him, Sirius’ hunger had burned in an effigy of Hermione. His need was Hermione-shaped. Now, it was more general, if still all-encompassing.

Which was good, really. Because there was no way he could ask Hermione to get him off right now. Not that she’d entertain the notion for even a moment, after the way he’d treated her. He didn't really regret what he’d said, more the manner in which he’d said it. He did really care for the girl. After all, she’d saved his life, made it possible to be with his godson again. She’d sacrificed a lot for him, probably more than he’d ever know. He knew that.

But when he thought about that smarmy, greasy, fucking arsehole touching his love... his lover... it just made him so furious. Whenever his thoughts landed on Snape, it was as though his brain short-circuited. A rage unlike any he’d ever known roiled within him, turning thoughts of caring and respect toward Hermione into disgust and betrayal.

It was strange. He could think back to only days before their fight and remember her sweet laugh, her soft eyes, her enticing curves, and feel no anger. But the very second he thought about that owl from McGonagall mentioning Hermione’s visit to Hogwarts and their resident Potions prick, his veins pounded with hate.

It was hideous. He felt like two different people.

He needed to get fucking drunk.

---

Hermione was having the nicest dream.

Sirius... on his knees in front of her. That was always a good thing. But he was apologizing. And he was really sorry. She could feel it through some connection between the two, allowing her to absorb his emotions as though they were her own, but somehow separate.

And she forgave him, after a proper period of grovelling had passed. She was hurt by his actions, but so was he. And she really cared about him.

And then they were kissing. It was hard, at first, because she didn't want to submit too quickly, to give in, to surrender. But when she parted her lips to admit his tongue, she was flooded with the irrefutable knowledge that he loved her.

Suddenly, dream-Hermione was gasping as real-Hermione fought for breath.

Panting, she yanked the covers off of her sweat-slicked form, planting her feet firmly on the ground beside the bed and dropping her face into her hands.

Why, she despaired, why would her dream tease her so? It had felt so nice to be loved for that nanosecond, and now she was resigned to the heart-rending knowledge that Sirius didn't respect her, thought her a whore and a cheat. Even though she’d given him everything of herself. She’d never even thought about being with another man since she’d brought Sirius back, and certainly not Snape. The man was acrimonious at the best of times, and though she was finally able to see past his barriers, he was only a professor to her. She respected him and his opinion, but she couldn’t even call him a friend. The best way to describe it would be colleagues. Even thinking of Snape like that made her feel awkward.

Sirius was a real jerk.

As Hermione angrily dressed after a quick and thankless shower, she wished she knew better words to describe his total... jerkiness.

After preparing her list of questions for the last remaining Alensky, Hermione Apparated to the Daily Prophet office to meet Frankenhodge.

He was waiting for her, all business. She noticed that his hair was a little more in control today, but his unfortunate habit of tugging on the strands with inky fingers had caused what looked to be a permanent dyeing of the tips.

“Mr. Frankenhodge,” Hermione cordially greeted him, shaking his hand. She thought him to be very shrewd, an interesting character with a job unworthy of him. He would do better as a researcher for some benevolent company or school, rather than a starfish in a shark’s cage.

His eyes narrowed as if he’d heard her analogy, but he said, “Please, Mr. Frankenhodge was my father. Call me Jimothy.”

She nodded, walking with him to the nearest Apparition point. She had no intention on being on a first name basis with a reporter, especially for the Prophet, and she likewise did not intend to offer him the casual use of her first name.

“Side-along?” he suggested, offering his arm. She didn’t know the location, so she accepted, bracing herself against the squeezing disorientation.

They appeared in front of a Victorian style house, obviously well tended and loved. It was a fresh white with dark blue shutters and door. It was obviously a Wizarding home, judging by the tingling of the wards as the unlikely pair passed through.

Frankenhodge had asked Renworth Alensky if he would mind their stopping by, so the man was waiting on the front porch. He was rather tall, towering over Frankenhodge who was a few inches taller than herself. He was quite slender with long, light brown hair tied back with a simple black ribbon. He was dressed in casual robes of a dark, rich brown that set off his deep chocolate eyes. Hermione had the impression that he was a very down to earth man, and his tanned skin and colouring reinforced that idea.

Renworth Alensky smiled broadly, extending his hand to Hermione as they approached. “You must be Miss Granger! I’ve read so much about you, mostly from the likes of this one,” he said, nodding with slight deprecation toward Frankenhodge.

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Hermione murmured, smiling before casting a pointed looked at the reporter.

“Hey,” he cried, holding up his hands in mock supplication. “I’m not all that bad!”

“Of course not,” Hermione said patronizingly, sharing a smile with the owner of the house they were being ushered into. She softened her retort with a genuine smile for Frankenhodge as well, since he was, after all, helping her. And he wasn’t the Skeeter type at all, from what she could tell. Though his article was slightly inflammatory and not completely fact-based, she suspected that was more the preferences of the current editor than an indication of his own journalistic integrity.

“Tea?” Renworth offered once they were all sitting around a deceptively comfortable parlour. Hermione and Frankenhodge both nodded, and a rather spry house elf served them. Schooling her features of disdain, Hermione thanked the elf graciously and tried not to sneer at Renworth.

“So,” said the slave owner, “shall we get right to it? I hear you have some questions regarding my ancestor, Rolpho.”

Hermione placed her tea on the table, taking up her purse and withdrawing her notebook with the questions. “Actually, it’s Sofie I’m mostly interested in. Or rather, their marriage.”

“Go on,” said Renworth congenially. He looked amused at Hermione’s notebook, as did Frankenhodge, who had a Quick Notes Quill poised for action—after he’d asked permission, of course.

“What can you tell me about Sofie’s return from beyond the Veil?”

“What do you want to know, exactly? I don’t have very many details, mostly from what I learned from her son’s journals. Josef was a meticulous note taker, most likely thanks to his profession.”

“Do you still have his journals?” Hermione asked excitedly. That would be much more helpful that asking questions to which Renworth might not have the answers. And it would provide impressions from the time, which might have been lost from so many years between tellings.

“I do,” Renworth said slowly. “But I’d rather not just hand them out. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “But if I made copies? Or perhaps if I read them in your company? I know this is asking a lot, Mr. Alensky, but I hope you can appreciate my position. You see, my... friend, Sirius Black, has returned from beyond the Veil, and we are experiencing a number of... difficulties.”

She had no problem divulging the problems to Renworth, who seemed genuine and trustworthy, despite having a house elf, but she just didn't trust Frankenhodge to not run the article without her express consent and with more details than she felt comfortable with.

“I read about Black’s return,” Renworth mused, looking at her carefully before fixing a scrutinizing eye on Frankenhodge. “However, I am not comfortable with anyone knowing the exact contents of the journal.”

Hermione sighed softly. She understood that it was Renworth’s decision, but she felt at a loss. “Well, do you mind if I still ask a couple questions?” she asked hopefully.

“Not at all,” Renworth said, gesturing for her to continue.

“Thank you.” She thought about her first question. “How did Rolpho know how to bring Sofie back? I found the spell in an old book, but it could not have been more than a couple hundred years old and therefore didn't exist for him to have seen.”

“True,” Renworth agreed, eyes on the Quick Notes Quill jotting down every word while Frankenhodge sat transfixed. “But it might not have been the first transcription of the spell. That information is not known to me.”

Hermione nodded. That had been mostly for her own curiosity. “How did Sofie react to being brought back? Do you know if they faced any major problems? Um, maybe regarding their Bonder?”

Renworth shook his head. “From what I know, Dr. Manilla, their Bonder, was an old family friend. He’d been very close with my relatives for nearly their entire lives. There were no documented comments on whether there were issues with their Bonder. Most of the knowledge we have on the concept of a Bonder comes from their very case. It’s rather an invented term for Dr. Manilla’s invaluable position in bringing Sofie back and his further relationship with Sofie and Rolpho. I don’t know if you and Sirius would have had a Bonder, or if you’d needed one.”

“When you say ‘relationship’...”

“Platonic,” Renworth assured. “They are remained very good friends until they died. Manilla helped Rolpho deal with his fears of suddenly being too old for Sofie—after all, seventeen years had passed. And he also helped Sofie cope with coming back into a world that had changed so drastically, and into a life that had moved on without her. I remember reading that she had a lot of difficulty with that: forgetting that certain people had died, or that family members were adults instead of children. She would become confused and angry, even, when she realized everyone had moved on except her. I imagine it must have been very difficult to come back into a relationship where the other person had grieved and moved on from your loss. I do remember hearing, however, that once they had Josef, her episodes dwindled and disappeared. I think it’s possible that having a child centred her and gave her something to anchor herself to.”

Hermione was quiet for a long time. There was a lot of information here, and she didn't want to overlook something that might be of importance. She scribbled notes quickly, thinking all the while that it would be so nice to believe that Sirius was being influenced by his frustration over his return, rather than a genuine belief that she was unfaithful to him. Either way, she was still devastated by his accusations. Even if the Veil was to blame, he’d struck her in the place she was most vulnerable to him.

Hermione suddenly felt an aching sadness. She missed Sirius. She wanted to be home with him, in their bed, in his arms. She would kick his arse first, of course. She only wished she knew how he felt.

She was suddenly very weary. She could always come back if she had more questions, after all. “Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Alensky. You’ve been a great help.”

Frankenhodge looked shocked that she planned on leaving so early, but Renworth only smiled sympathetically at her. The man seemed to be very intuitive and empathetic, for which she was grateful.

“I’d love to do an article on the longstanding results of the work of Josef Alensky, if you’d allow me to interview you on another occasion,” Frankenhodge suggested, standing and packing up his quill and papers. Hermione did the same.

“Ah, the miracle child. Of course. I follow your work, Mr. Frankenhodge. I know you are an intrepid and veracious reporter. I would be happy to give you your interview.”

Frankenhodge absolutely beamed, and Hermione had to smile. “Miracle child?” she queried.

“Yes,” Renworth said, walking them slowly to the front door. “From what I read, Dr. Manilla had been absolutely certain that Sofie was infertile. She and Rolpho had been married for years with no results, and Manilla had given her every treatment under the sun, many of which he had invented. But a few years after her return, she got pregnant and had Josef. It baffled Manilla, especially since she could have had many more children, had they wanted to. Her infertility had seemingly cured itself.”

“Interesting,” Hermione murmured, thinking hard but finding no underlying importance to this very curious fact. It was a long time ago; it was possible their capabilities for diagnosing such issues were merely faulty or insufficient.

“Very,” Renworth agreed, imbuing the word with more meaning than Hermione felt capable to decipher.

She shook his hand warmly before Apparating directly to Godric’s Hollow without a word to Frankenhodge.

---

When Hermione approached Harry’s front door, she could hear, even through the barrier, the low, vibrato tones of her former Potions professor. She sighed wearily before reaching for the knob. She was not in the mood to deal with Snape’s brutal mannerisms.

She was surprised to see him and Harry in deep conversation on the sofa. It hadn’t occurred to her that the two would actually be in touch, but it made sense. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d recognized the changes war made in people.

“Hermione,” Harry said softly, “have a seat.”

She entered the room guardedly, unable to shake the sensation that some sort of intervention was about to begin.

“Potter has told me that Black...” Snape trailed off, looking, for once, at a loss. He continued, stiltedly, “...has acted uncouthly. I am not surprised. I am also not certain how I am supposed to be of assistance, but your friend insisted I speak with him.”

“Harry,” she said lowly, “you don’t actually believe Sirius’ accusation, do you? I swear to Merlin—”

“No!” Harry exclaimed. “Listen, I know Sirius has been a little out of it since his return. I first saw it quite some time ago with his episode at the Three Broomsticks where he nearly fainted, and now this... I don’t think everything’s as back to normal as he’d like us to think. And then I saw the article in the Prophet, and while I still think they are utter trash, I’ve heard good things about that reporter. Anyway, I knew Snape was the Bonder because I know he’s been helping you. And I... I just didn’t know what else to do, ‘Mione. I want to help. I want you both to be happy.”

“I really don’t see how I fit into this lover’s spat,” Snape intoned, looking bored and possibly a little angry.

“Neither do I,” Hermione agreed. “Harry?”

Harry slumped against the sofa, looking defeated. “I don’t know, either. I thought one of you might have some ideas.”

Hermione sighed with the weariness of a lone traveller. “Thank you for trying, Harry. I think this is something Sirius will need to work out on his own. Whether the Veil made him do it, or his comments were the result of jealous male idiocy, I don’t see myself forgetting them anytime soon. I want him back, I won’t lie about that. But he has to want it first.” She drew a fortifying breath before continuing. “I’m going to bed. I’ve had a trying day and I’m just not up to dealing with anything right now. And I have to work in the morning.”

Snape nodded curtly at her, rising as well. “If you intend to demand my company again, Potter, I suggest that you have at least an inkling of an idea of what I’m to do.”

Harry looked properly chagrined. He saw Snape to the Floo before returning to walk with Hermione up the stairs. He stayed in the doorway, looking away while she undressed and crawled beneath the sheets.

“I was just trying to help,” he said softly, closing his eyes and looking incredibly tired.

“I’m not upset with you, Harry. Not at all. I’m grateful for your help, yours and Ginny’s. I know it hurts you when you aren’t able to do anything. But I really do think this is something Sirius will have to face before we can think about moving on.”

“He really cares about you, you know. I think he’s just confused, or scared, or something.”

“I don’t doubt that you’re right,” Hermione said, yawning and clutching a pillow against her chest, unconsciously moulding it into a Sirius-shaped mound. “But he needs to learn to be rational when he’s confused and scared, and not lash out at those who—those who want to help.”

“When’s the last time Sirius ever did anything rationally?” Harry tried to joke, wincing after the words left his mouth.

“Well, now would be a good time to start, wouldn’t it?”

Harry agreed. Hermione succumbed to sleep, feeling so dizzy and nauseous it was as though she’d drunk an entire bottle of Ogden’s.

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Thank you for reading! If anyone is... *sad eyes* Please review! :)

Thanks to kazfeist for the beta!