Back for Good

Over the next five days, Harry spent nearly every waking moment with his godfather. He’d essentially moved into the Black house, and was staying in a room on the third floor, with only a newly transfigured bed for furniture. He was making the most of his week off, and making up for lost time with Sirius.

Sirius had told Hermione that he wanted to stay in his own room instead of hers, and she hastily told him she needed to tidy it up a little.

The clean-up took nearly an entire evening before the room was put together enough for his return. Hermione was ashamed of her temper, having never lost control of herself to that extent before. She wasn’t able to repair a lot of the damage, but she did the best she could, figuring even with improperly repaired sheets and slightly rickety drawers and chairs, it was better than wherever Sirius had been.

The first night Sirius spent in his own room ended up being akin to torture. He had nightmares, and woke up soaked in sweat and incoherent with fear. He couldn’t recall what he’d dreamt of, except an overwhelming sensation of dispassion, detachment, and loneliness. He was hardly able to catch his breath after he’d awoken. On top of that, his skin felt like it was on fire, and his mind was jumbled. He felt a need, a need so strong and yet wholly incomprehensible.

When he’d gotten up to get a glass of water, he’d unlocked his door—locking doors behind him became a habit after his stint in Azkaban where privacy was a many-splendored thing—and Hermione’s sleeping form had toppled into his room. It appeared that she’d slept propped against his door. She fell on his feet, still slumbering, and Sirius was shocked to find he felt at peace, though a little embarrassed at her state of dishabille, as she’d been wearing only shorts and an oversized tee-shirt. She’d worn revealing clothing in the summers when she was younger, but it felt different now, especially since he was touching her.

He’d gathered her in his arms and put her back in her own bed, poured and drank a glass of water, and checked in on her again on his way back to his own room. She appeared to be asleep, but she was making small whimpering noises that Sirius recognized all too well as the evidence of a nightmare.

He’d crawled into bed with her, and they both slept peacefully. Thus began the pattern. Every night, they would attempt to sleep in their own rooms, but every night they ended up in one another’s beds, arms wrapped around the other in a desperate embrace.

Neither spoke of their strange need for the other, though both spent many hours reflecting on it privately. In the mornings, Hermione always woke up first, getting dressed in the near-dark and silently leaving for work. Sirius never awoke to her exit.

Hermione came home every day at lunch to play a few games of cards, or just sit in the living room reading while Harry and Sirius carried on. Their discomfort was bearable if they spent an hour together midday, but by the end of the day, both were invariably exhausted. Harry didn’t suspect anything was off, but realized that Hermione and his godfather seemed to be getting on better than ever.

On Hermione’s part, she spent every spare moment researching exactly what had happened. Obviously they were bonded and needed each other for comfort, but she needed to know how long it would last, and what would happen when they inevitably couldn’t be together at some point.

Her research efforts turned up fruitless. She could find even less on this mysterious bond than she found on the Veil originally. None of her studies even gave her a lead. She could only hope the mutual need would diminish, because she was starting to feel perverted caressing Sirius’ arms in his sleep to get relief for her itching skin and headaches.

For Sirius, the reason behind the bond was less important than the fact that it existed in the first place. Ever the man of action, Sirius didn’t care about the why of the matter—he just needed to know how to fix it or make it go away. Since he’d discovered that touching and talking to Hermione made the pain go away, that’s what he did. To him, it was a small thing in the grand scheme; he only had one family member in the world, his godson. He got to see him every day, so he was happy. He only had one friend, Hermione herself, and he had her as well. There didn’t seem to be much of a problem, when you got right down to it. However, he could tell Hermione was perturbed by her need for him, and he intended to make things go a little more smoothly for her. After all, what was more natural than touching a lover? So, it stood to reason that the only way to make Hermione comfortable, and make his life easier on all counts, was to get Hermione to agree to be his lover.

And what Sirius wants….



“Are you sure you don’t need me? I hate leaving you here.”

“Harry, son, of course we need you. You have no idea how much I’ve enjoyed our time. But it’s hardly fair to Hermione to have to cook and clean for the both of us because Merlin knows I’m hopeless; besides, I know Ginny misses you, she owls you twice a day. Have a heart, man.”

Sirius said this good-naturedly, but the truth of the matter was he needed his godson to leave. The last day had been especially painful, and Hermione’s visit during her lunch break had not helped enough to get them through the day without extreme discomfort. His temper was wearing thin, and he would hate to snap at Harry because all he wanted was to touch his best friend.

“I don’t mind cooking!” Hermione protested half-heartedly, knowing Harry would feel guilty if she didn’t, but at the same time, wishing she could curl up on Sirius’ lap to stop the agony in her skull.

“No, Sirius is right. I can’t stay here forever, especially not if we want to keep Sirius’ return a secret for now. I’ll come back tomorrow night though, if that’s okay.”

He looked to Hermione, who technically lived in Grimmauld Place, and she looked to Sirius, who owned it. Everyone smiled awkwardly at the unusual situation, and it was agreed that Harry should return the next evening.

Harry Floo’d home to Ginny, leaving Sirius and Hermione standing in the sitting room looking like they’d been saved from the firing squad.

Sirius started to cross the floor to gather Hermione in his arms, for better or worse, but she stopped him with a raised hand.

“Did you know I performed the spell to bring you back an entire week before you actually returned?”

Sirius shook his head in denial. “No, I didn’t know. What does the mean? Where was I?”

“I’m not exactly sure, but it worries me. Why the delay?”

Sirius thought about it for a moment, wishing the talking would stop so he could get some relief. “Maybe it took that long for the Veil to accept your offering, or maybe the Veil couldn’t find me; it’s possible there are hundreds or thousands of souls like me on the other side, we just don’t know.”

Hermione thought the first concept had merit, but she wondered what about her offering might have been lacking. She had no choice but to shrug it off, as she would get no answers from Sirius, who had recalled nothing but intense emotions, and even those only came to the surface when he was sleeping, leaving mere impressions but no concrete details.

Hermione hugged herself with her arms, her body craving physical touch with Sirius, but her mind telling her it was wrong, that Harry would hate her, that Sirius would think her depraved.

Sirius could see the dilemma in Hermione’s face, and he instinctively knew that she was restraining herself from what they both needed. She bit her lip in consternation, and the decision was made for him.

He was in front of her in three determined strides, taking her upper arms in his hands. Both sighed with contentment at the contact, but it wasn’t enough.

Hermione put her hands on his chest, surprised at the strength she found there, despite having seen it in person whilst bathing him. She blushed at the memory, and Sirius was certain he’d never seen a more enchanting sight.

His hands moved up to her shoulders, then her neck. He cupped the nape of her neck in one hand, her jaw in the other. Tilting her head up, his eyes were drawn to her lips, which she was worriedly nibbling between sharp white teeth. He used his thumb to pull her lip loose, and it was white for a second before the blood rushed back to it. He had to taste it.

He brushed the softest of kisses against her sweet lips, barely grazing them, and he lauded himself on his restraint. She huffed a sharp breath against his lips, and her breath was minty and warm.

And as quickly as it happened, it stopped. She was out of his arms before he could even establish she was moving. She pulled at her hair with both hands, wishing she could run her fingers through it like normal people. She turned away from him and walked to the kitchen.

A drink would settle her nerves.

She quietly poured herself a glass of Firewhisky, and sat down at the table. This was an unfortunate situation, to be sure, but she was Hermione Granger, for Merlin’s sake! Nothing escaped her, nothing eluded her. She would find a way out of this, and Sirius would be free, actually free instead of this mock freedom that tethered him to her. A fate worse than the Veil, he probably thought.

Dropping her head in her hands, Hermione fought back the tightening in her throat. It mattered to her whether he liked her or not, something she’d never felt before with anyone, let alone him. She’d never even registered him as more than Harry’s godfather in all the time she’d known him.

While Hermione was indulging in some liquid amnesia, Sirius was pacing the hallway by their bedrooms. It was very strange, this attachment. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant. He’d expected to be free, sure. If he’d been in a position to expect anything at all, that is. He knew he’d been gone for five years, but it was only a day to him, no time at all.

He also knew he’d have to return to the real world eventually. People would expect that of him, and though he felt a divine rush in not giving people what they wanted, he knew the members of the Order, as well as the Weasley family and other people who considered him a friend would want to know. He only hoped Hermione was ready for the backlash that would come when people discovered exactly how he’d been brought back. Blood magic was illegal for many reasons, and she could be in serious trouble. Hopefully she’d thought of that, like she thought of everything. He smiled affectionately.

She hadn’t told him all the details about the spell and potion, namely the virgin blood part. She kept that to herself, not even telling Harry. It just wasn’t important. She also didn’t reveal how much blood she’d used, or that she’d scarred herself fairly badly in the process. The wounds wouldn’t heal, despite her working knowledge of healing charms. The scar on the palm of her hand and her fingertips were mangled as well, though they should have healed nicely even without the aid of magic. But never one to dwell on appearances, Hermione tried not to give it a second chance. It wasn’t as though she wore shirts that revealed her décolletage, anyway; the scar on her chest would be hidden from view.

Hermione was on her third glass, wishing Sirius would stop pacing above her head. She clicked her finger. It still looked a little funny, and was as annoying as hell. One more battle wound, she thought self-pityingly. She tried to ignore the now-familiar sensation of her flesh crawling, tried to drown it in alcohol, but to no avail. She felt like giving up, giving in. it was too hard! Was she supposed to spend the rest of her life following him around like a puppy, desperate for scraps? What happened when he found someone, kicked her out on her butt, and she was left with these cravings?

It was on her fourth drink when she remembered she had barely done any research today, and had not even opened her briefcase to do any real work. She still had one day before the weekend, and Fridays were always full of last-minute demands on her time. She would be behind before she even began! She allowed a dramatic moan to escape her lips, and wondered not for the first time why she hadn’t accepted a more prestigious position when they’d been offered to her after the war. She really was a glutton for punishment, always doing everything the hard way.

Sirius felt more than heard Hermione’s displeasure. It felt like a sudden curtain falling over his good mood. When her groan reached his ears, he was down the stairs before he knew it. Seeing her head cradled in her arms with one hand clutching a near empty glass of familiar amber liquid, Sirius had to smile. She always took on so much, he thought, wondering how he knew that but knowing it was true.

He confiscated her glass and the bottle of Firewhisky, relocating it to a more elusive hiding place. He pulled up a chair directly beside her and pulled her limp body into his arms. She leaned gracelessly against his chest, and both sighed in relief at the contact. She was flushed and her skin was clammy, and he knew she’d regret drinking come the morning, as it appeared she did not hold her liquor well.

Heaving her body into his arms, he carried her to her bed. It was still early to go to sleep, and she hadn’t even had dinner, but Sirius knew she’d be out of commission for the night. She tried to deny it, but her words were slurred, and she giggled at her own incoherence. Certain he’d never heard her giggle, hadn’t even been certain she knew how, Sirius had to laugh out loud. What an outrageous situation for an old man like me to be in, he thought musingly. Bet she never would have brought me back if she’d known I’d be her ball and chain. His thoughts were resentful toward himself, but he felt only the sincerest gratitude toward her.

That night, there was no self-deluded attempt to sleep apart. Partly because he didn’t want her falling down the stairs in search of his room, but mostly because Sirius longed to hold her in his arms, feeling her breath on his neck and her silky skin under his rough palms.

He fell asleep holding on to her like an anchor in an uncertain world, and there were no nightmares that night.