Quite Like Her

“Quite Like Her”

“Er--Mr. Black--Sirius?” said Hermione.
Black jumped at being addressed like this and stared at Hermione as though he had never seen anything quite like her.

--Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Sirius had been in his mother’s house for far too long--and yet, not long enough to begin to think of it as his house. Sixteen years he had wasted between these walls, and each day now seemed to be a meaningless addition.

When Dumbledore had first asked Sirius for the use of the house, he had been only too glad to be of help. That was, of course, before he had realized that he would have to inhabit the place as well the entire time the Order needed him to do so. Harry would arrive soon, they told him, which somewhat helped to soothe his temper, but only when he was in a good mood.

He wasn’t often in a good mood.

Remus showed up first, looking worse than ever. Only long years of knowing how to deal with Moony had kept Sirius’s tongue still upon seeing how shabby his friend was now, knowing that any sign of pity would be the worst thing he could display. The Weasleys arrived soon after, escorted by old Mad-Eye Moody and a girl who couldn’t possibly be his favorite cousin Andromeda’s daughter, for she was far too old, only a child...or at least, she had been when he had first gone to Azkaban. It was a stark reminder of how much more of life had passed him by since he had been shut up in that cell, consumed by the flames of a madness that was always just out of the corner of his eyes, waiting patiently for him to slip.

Then Hermione had rung the doorbell of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, and Sirius had known after ten minutes that the summer would change, not necessarily for the better.

Even before Azkaban, Sirius had had a liking (James had called it a fixation) for younger girls--not too young, just a couple years younger than himself, which he insisted was both common and normal. After all, witches frequently wanted older men. Why shouldn’t he oblige them? It was somewhat of a tip-off, he knew, that while he was attracted to girls in their mid-teens before he went to Azkaban, his tastes hadn’t changed much since he got out. Sirius knew that James wouldn’t have thought that a twenty-one year old bloke picking up barely-of-age witches wasn’t the same as a thirty-five-year-old convicted murderer perving on his godson’s best female friend.

Perving he certainly was. In his mind, he justified it to himself: She’s filling out nicely; If she’s old enough to save the world with Harry, she’s old enough to look at; Not like I’m touching her, is it?; Given the way she looks at Ron, she’s much more mature than most her age, etcetera. Thoughts like these consumed his mind, made him glad that he could wear wizard’s robes again instead of prison uniforms, which were both more constricting and more revealing for a wizard used to discreet clothing.

Hermione, on the other hand, seemed to have developed a taste for muggle clothing, which Sirius had always found attractive on young witches. The way that denim clung to their (her) lithe legs, the dip in her shirt, all these things made for occasions to run upstairs and “tend to Buckbeak” at every possible instance.

There were close calls. Once, while “decontaminating” the kitchen, Ron had accidentally dropped an unidentified-but-most-certainly-Dark object, resulting in a cloud of gas expanding rapidly to overtake everyone in the room. Everyone else had been on the far side of the table as Sirius and Hermione had heard Mrs. Weasley shriek, “DUCK!” and had fallen to the floor together in a tangle of limbs. His arm was around her waist, her buttocks pressed back against his thighs, and he blamed the gas in the room for the unbidden thought that said he should try, just once, brushing across the still-small breasts that were just an inch away from his hand....

He had resisted.

Once, after one too many butterbeers in celebration of some Order member’s birthday or another (not Moody, he was certain of that), Hermione had accidentally come into his room instead of her own, giggling enough that he suspected that someone had slipped a bit of firewhisky into her drink (he blamed Ron). Seeing her stumble, he had very much considered walking over to her, soothing her with his voice, running his hands over her body and--

He had resisted. He had gently steered her back out the door to her room, then resolutely pulled the covers over his head.

The hardest time had been when she had come upstairs to help him when he was actually tending Buckbeak. She had come to lecture him about his treatment of Kreacher, of all things, as if he didn’t have better things to do with his life than cater to a mad and disgusting cretin. She had tripped over one of Buckbeak’s deposits on the floor and had caught herself by clutching Sirius’s shoulders, bringing them close together, pressed body-to-body, and his mind raced with possibilities.

We’re all alone.
She’s not pulling away.
She’d like it.
Skin so soft.
Want to wrap my hands around her little body.
Want to kiss her hard, make her moan.

He wasn’t sure to this day what had made him resist, but in the end he had pulled away, not looking at her. The girl had enough to deal with, being top of her class and putting up with Ron Weasley. She didn’t need an escaped felon who was more than twice her age forcing her over the nearest hippogriff.

Remus had noticed, of course. He had noticed the look in Sirius’s eyes that he had seen so many times before, directed at one or another hot piece close by. Every time he opened his mouth to reprimand his friend, however, Sirius would counter, “Then stop staring at my baby cousin,” and Remus’s mouth would shut with a snap. The first time had been a stab in the dark, but it somewhat amused him now to realize that he had been right. If Remus kept a civil tongue in his head, Sirius thought he might even consider telling his friend that Tonks most certainly reciprocated the sentiment. Eventually.

It was increasingly more difficult for him to keep his thoughts to himself as the next three weeks crawled by. Unlike the Weasley boys, who hardly took notice of him except as a novelty (the twins always eager for stories of Azkaban), the Order members, who were alternately annoyed with him and patronizing towards him, and Mrs. Weasley, who outright seemed to dislike him lately, Hermione was always unfailingly polite to him. It reminded him of the first time she had spoken to him, a little more than a year earlier. She had called him by his first name, when all he had heard for twelve years was “The murderer Black.” He had almost forgotten his first name by that time, feeling that “Black” just suited him better.

Hermione was still polite to him, though she obviously didn’t feel above looking at him in either disapproval or despair when she thought it was appropriate. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw her eyes lingering on him for just a second, but she was never looking at him when he turned to face her.

Finally, when he thought he would have no choice but to explode with frustration, something happened. Owls were suddenly zooming in and out of the house, carrying tidings that Harry had cast a Patronus charm for some reason or another, and would be arriving as soon as Moody deemed it safe. Within the day or so, they thought.

Sirius wasted no time in getting rather drunk in celebration with the now-of-age Fred and George Weasley, who also seemed pretty excited about Harry’s imminent arrival. An hour, two hours, at some point later he stumbled upstairs to his room with the vague idea of getting something ready for Harry’s arrival, insisting to Remus’s skeptical amusement that he was not, in fact, intoxicated.

When he arrived in his room, however, there was someone sitting on the bed. “Sorry,” he muttered, pulling back and looking at the door as if he would see someone else’s name on the plaque. “Thought this is my room.”

“It is your room, Sirius.” It was Hermione, and her voice was quavering slightly. “I came up to tell you that you, ah, left this downstairs yesterday.” In her hand was one of Buckbeak’s treats that he had set down and forgotten to pick up again, dismissing the matter as inconsequential.

He reached out his hand, and she deposited the treat into it, face flushed. “I’ll just go to--”

Sirius caught her upper arm in his hand, and she gasped louder than his grasp warranted. “You didn’t come up here for that,” he informed her, hoping his breath didn’t smell too much of firewhiskey.

“I did,” she insisted. “You should let go of me, Sirius.”

“That’s not what you want. You came here for this.” It was true in his mind, the fact so clear, that he refused to listen to all the excellent arguments he had been forcing down his own throat for the last three weeks and kissed her instead.

She was supple, yielding, struggling at first but not as much as he had expected. He grinned inwardly---he had been right. He drew her bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it into his mouth as she let a sound escape that was somewhere between a gasp and a groan.

Then, her hands were in his hair, pulling him down, and she raised herself up on tiptoes to kiss him back, his hands pressed against her lower back, pulling their bodies flush. Lips, teeth, tongue, all seemed to be meeting in a frenzy as Sirius kissed Hermione with all the passion he’d been denying himself for the last fifteen years.

The girl’s smothered gasps against his mouth aroused him more, and when he broke away to breathe, she pulled him back almost immediately, forcing their lips together again, this time her hands clutching at his robes, twisted in the dark fabric.

Sirius’s robes parted easily, falling away from his body with the flick of a clasp and one swift tug. He had considerably more difficulty with Hermione’s clothing, and she let out a small laugh as he cursed Muggle clothing. “How are you supposed to get girls out of this even if you’re sober?” he muttered under his breath, and she unhooked her bra for him. He had once been very good at that, he remembered in the dim way that he remembered everything that had happened to him before he had seen his first dementor.

He pushed the thought of Dementors firmly out of his mind--tonight, he wanted to have his mind whole and with him, not back in his cold cell on that blasted island. With more coordination than he had thought he still possessed, he managed to get the rest of Hermione’s clothing off of the pretty young witch, and somewhat unceremoniously dumped her on her rump on top of the covers. “You’ve been teasing me,” he accused in a low voice that was almost a growl, and the lust in his eyes did nothing to belay the shiver that he could see rippling over Hermione’s flesh.

“Not on purpose,” she insisted. “I was only trying to make sure you behaved.”

Only Hermione could sound bossy while naked and on the bed of a wizard more than twice her age, he thought with an almost wicked grin. “You didn’t do a very good job of it. You made sure we landed together after the gas escaped in the kitchen, I take it?” He crawled over to her on the bed, and pulled her hips downward, bringing their chests together.

“Yes,” she gasped.

He stroked a long finger from her lips down her neck, stopping to brush one of her nipples with a touch lighter than the breath from his lips. “You pretended to be drunk and purposely came into my room a week ago?” he demanded in the same growling voice, his teeth moving down to graze her neck.

“Not really,” she admitted, then squealed as he tugged on her nipple. “Ron really did slip me some Firewhiskey, but I would have come up here anyway.”

Sirius’s right hand was almost massaging her pert breast now, and his other hand ran up and down her side, not quite scratching, but certainly not gentle. “And you didn’t trip on purpose in the attic, did you?”

She almost didn’t answer, her eyes tightly shut, until he administered a sharp twist to her nipple. “Ah! Yes, I did it on purpose!”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he muttered, and lowered his mouth to suckle at her breasts, drawing shaky gasps and moans from her lips as his other hand finally slipped between her legs.

He was achingly, torturously hard, but wanted to attend to Hermione first. Sirius didn’t just want to sink his cock into her and have done--he wanted her to love it, this pretty young thing with a mind too old for her fifteen years. His barest fingertip slipped past her outer folds, brushing just slightly across the hard nub nestled between them, and Hermione’s back arched off the bed as she whispered his name.

“That’s it, little girl.” He had meant to sound husky, encouraging, but as always happened nowadays, his voice came out in an almost threatening growl. “Let me hear you.”

Her eyes met his, and there was a hint of warning in them. “I’m not a little girl,” she said reprovingly, then her eyes shut again as she cried out, one of Sirius’s long fingers slipping inside of her.

“Compared to me, you are. And this is your first time.”

It was a statement, not a question, but she nodded anyway. Sirius felt a slight pang of conscience, then pushed it hastily away as Hermione wiggled around his finger. He would have plenty of time to think about what an arse he was once he had thoroughly deflowered the girl that seemed so eager for him to do just that.

“And don’t you dare tell me I’m too young, Sirius,” she did her best to command, though her cheeks were flushed and her chest was getting dangerously close to heaving, “because I--”

“What makes you think I’d want to do that? I plan on being just as irresponsible as you and Molly keep accusing me of being.” With that, he lowered his head once again to her nipples and found her clit with his thumb, hoping to drown out her retort with moans.

She was too young, he knew deep down, and there probably wasn’t an appropriate age for doing quite this, but he couldn’t help the arousal he felt at seeing her fresh pale skin going pink as the frequency of her breath increased, and he couldn’t help how hard his cock was getting at the thought of his godson’s friend, all of fifteen years old, squirming around as if she wanted to be stuffed with more than a finger.

After a few more minutes of suckling on her nipples, switching every time he thought one of them might be lonely for his tongue, Sirius realized that Hermione was purposely stopping herself from climaxing. Raising his head for just a moment, he looked into the trembling girl’s face and said, “You can come, Hermione. I want you to.” He punctuated each word with a swipe of his thumb across her clit.

She muttered something through clenched teeth, and he barked a laugh, startling her into opening her eyes. “It won’t end just because you finish, silly girl,” he assured her. “I fully intend to take you, and not just with my finger.”

Hermione’s breath hitched then, as if simply seeing his face in what must have been the very height of arousal mere inches from her own pushed her to the edge, cried out, shuddered violently, and came all over his hand, still firmly stroking between her thighs. “Good girl,” he murmured into her ear, and she leaned into the contact. Probably she would want to be held, Sirius thought, and reached to take her into his arms....

Only to find himself suddenly on his back, Hermione leaning over him with a slightly mischievous look on her face. “I haven’t read nearly as many books on fellatio as I have on intercourse, so we’re going to skip straight to that,” she informed him almost primly.

“Um,” he said in surprise, not very articulately. “A-all right,” he agreed, feeling that somehow the balance of power had shifted, and not subtly.

With that established, Hermione straddled his hips and planted her knees on either side of his pelvis. “Don’t move,” she told him firmly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured her. In all of his fantasies, he had been very much the aggressor, taking her bent over a chair or his bed or flat on her back and staring up at him with wide eyes. But if the hardness of his erection was any indication, he wasn’t thrown in the slightest by this twist of events.

Sirius saw Hermione fumble in the discarded heap of clothing for her wand, point it between them, and mutter a quick spell, he supposed against conception or disease or something useful like that, before the witch discarded it once again, rested a hand on his chest to steady herself, and wrapped her other hand around him.

“Merlin,” he choked out, then the word turned into a whine as she lowered herself down onto him, seeming to suck him into her tight heat.

“That’s--aah!--not my name,” she lectured in between a gasp and a moan as he breached her walls for the first time. She had the same look of determination in her eyes that he imagined she would have shown in a subject she was determined to do well in, and Sirius resigned himself to laying back and enjoying the ride for all it was worth.

“Hermione,” he breathed, and she gave him a little nod as she raised herself up again.

“Better.” She lowered herself again, speed increasing slightly. He attempted to put his hands on her hips in order to help, but she slapped them away. “I’m doing this.”

“Whatever you say,” he agreed readily. “As long as you--God!--keep doing it right like that, please, Hermione, please!” He knew his voice was rising to an almost alarming pitch as she lifted up then virtually slammed back down, making him groan, and repeating this over and over.

She’s going to kill me, he thought in a sort of ecstatic panic, and now Hermione’s body was bent low over his, her hips moving ever faster, and he wasn’t going to be able to hold on for much longer in the tightest cunt he’d ever felt, she wasn’t going to let him...

With a shuddering cry that dwarfed the one she had released earlier, Sirius spilled his essence deep within the teenaged witch, dimly registering the fact that she followed him over the edge within a space of seconds. They clung to each other, shaking and panting, bodies giving one last spasm before finally subsiding into bonelessness on top of the bed.

It was long minutes before Sirius felt ready to speak. When he did so, it came out as a croak at first, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “That was...incredible.”

“It was certainly better than I had expected my first time to be,” Hermione agreed. “I was slightly afraid I’d have to tie you to the bed in order to keep you well-behaved.”

“We can try that next time,” he said hopefully, then the words died on his lips as she sat up.

She shook her head as she tied her hair back, foraging on the floor for her robes. “There is no next time, Sirius. Harry arrives tomorrow, and you certainly can’t go around sleeping with your godson’s friends right under his nose.”

Sirius felt his hopes sink. “Then...why didn’t you make certain this happened sooner?” he demanded, then stopped as she shot him an impatient look, and sighed in understanding. “You did this on purpose. So it would have to be the only time.”

She nodded in a way that was so reminiscent of Professor McGonagall that Sirius unconsciously reached to cover himself. “I wanted it and you wanted it,” she said practically. “But I didn’t think it would be a good idea for it to happen more than once. She found the rest of her clothing, fastened it all until she appeared quite proper, and headed for the door. She stopped with her hand on the doorknob, turned, and said, “Thank you, Sirius. It was just what I wanted.”

Then she was gone, and he was alone in his room once more.

No, he had never met anyone quite like her.