Ficcage
Title: Good Enough
Word count: 2593
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Don't own it, never will.
A/N: Written for inell's Holiday Drabble prompts, dedicated to inell, Mrs_Remus, catlove and everyone else who requested Hermione/Sirius on inell's post. Also thank you HUGELY to my lovely sister the_ladys_opal for getting rid of my block and giving me the ending. HURRAH!
Sirius Black. Sirius Black. Sirius sodding Black.
Hermione sighed as she sipped her glass of wine in the bar of the Three Broomsticks. She watched him standing amidst a group of people, men and women alike hanging off his every word. Why him? Why was it that the one man her stupid, irrational heart told her to go after was someone so utterly unattainable, so undesirable? Why couldn’t she have fallen for someone more suitable? Harry perhaps? Even Remus, dear Remus. Too old, certainly but at least they had something in common.
She didn’t know how to talk to those people even if she wanted to, those women with their undulate curves and silky, flowing hair who could dance until four in the morning and laugh without snorting. Even her drink was unsuitable, she thought as she watched a statuesque blonde catch Sirius’ eye. The woman flashed her eyes at him and ran her tongue seductively around the neck of her butterbeer bottle. Hermione sniffed and shook her head. It was a complete waste of her time and energy and all she wanted was to just get over it.
The problem was, whenever she told herself that, whenever she listed the reasons why it was impractical and foolish and nothing would ever come of it, she would see him; the sharp curve of his jaw, the smoky eyes that seemed to sear through her skin, the way he looked at her when they were alone that made her feel as though she mattered, and then all her resolve would go out of the window. It was nothing short of maddening.
She gradually became aware of someone watching her, and she turned to see Rosmerta eyeing her from behind the bar. Rosmerta tottered across the room on unfeasibly high heels, carrying a glass of wine, which she set in front of Hermione as she slid into the booth next to her.
“It’s on the house,” she said, waving away Hermione’s proffered coin purse. Hermione thanked her, wondering what the older woman was up to.
“He’s not all that, you know,” said Rosmerta with a smile. Hermione blushed. Was she that obvious?
“Who?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light.
“You know full well who, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but a warning glance from Rosmerta made her close it quickly.
“You’ve been staring at him for the past half hour. Let me guess: he makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the world as long as you’re the only woman in the room. Would that be about right?”
Hermione stared down at her lap, half torn between acute humiliation and a desperate need to get it out, to let someone listen. “That would be about right, yes,” she said finally.
Rosmerta waved her hand matter-of-factly. “Poppet, you aren’t the first and you certainly won’t be the last. He’s very good at making women fall for him left right and centre, but I don't think he even knows he’s doing it anymore - I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be such a bastard.” Hermione’s face crumpled, but Rosmerta carried on regardless. “Best advice I can give you is to keep well away if you don’t want to get your heart broken over and over. Trust me, this ain’t real magic. It won’t last long once you make a clean break.”
Hermione smiled to herself. “I feel like such an idiot.”
“We’ve all been there,” said Rosmerta, slipping an arm around Hermione’s shoulder. “’Course, I’m immune these days since I’m old enough to be his mother. More or less.” She tapped the side of her nose with a conspiratorial wink. “I’m sure you could sleep with him if you wanted to,” Rosmerta went on. “He’s hardly likely to complain. You wouldn’t get much more out of him than that, though, and I think you’re a little too clever for that. Or you could wait around for him to get over himself and realise he’s better off with someone like you than one of those idiots who stick to him like fly paper. ‘Specially that blonde - the wheel’s still spinning but the hamster died, if you know what I mean.”
Hermione giggled despite herself, but Rosmerta carried on talking. “Look, what I’m saying is that you could get a piece of him if that was what you wanted, but that would be all you’d get; a piece. He’s not a bad lad, he just hasn’t had the chance to grow up just yet and you’ll waste your life if you hang around mooning over him.”
Hermione felt a weight lift from her shoulders. “Thanks Rosmerta,” she said with the first genuine smile she had managed all evening. “I know you’re right really. Maybe I'll just go home and get an early night.”
“You do that,” said Rosmerta as Hermione stood up to leave.
She had almost made it to the door when a hand on her shoulder brought her to a halt. She knew it was Sirius before she turned around.
“Are you going already?”
Deep breath. Hermione turned to face him, determined to hang on to her resolve. If she just didn’t look at him…
“I’m tired,” she said to his shoes, “and I have a huge pile of work waiting for me when I get home. I really ought to get going.”
“I'll walk you home,” Sirius replied, and in her shock, Hermione glanced up for just a moment.
Tell him there’s no need, that you’d rather Apparate, tell him…
Apparently it was a moment too long.
“Thanks,” she said with a bright smile.
They left the bar, Rosmerta’s eyes burning a hole right through Hermione’s back and straight into her guilty mind.
It was a cold night, and Sirius gallantly offered her his arm. It seemed churlish to refuse it.
“I’m glad to get away, to be honest,” said Sirius as they walked. “There was a woman in there who seemed determined to glue herself to my arm for the evening.”
Hermione stifled a giggle. “Her hamster died, apparently.”
“Oh really?” said Sirius, missing a beat. “Should I send a card?”
The laugh burst from her mouth before she could stop it, and the reason that she never let herself laugh out loud in public happened. She snorted.
Sirius turned to look at her, an expression of utter confusion on his face. “What are you…?” He joined in, a deep, resonant, barking laugh that seemed to have a humour of it’s own. “You’re amazing, you are. You have no idea…” he said, shaking his head through his laughter.
“What do you mean?” she asked, still grinning from ear to ear.
“You’re just so… different, that’s all. You’ve no idea how nice it is to be around someone who isn’t just the same as everyone else.”
“Thanks, I think.” Perfect, she thought. You’re perfect. She kept her eyes straight ahead as she walked, her arm clutching his. “It’s funny, I seem to spend half my time wishing I was exactly like everyone else.”
“Why on earth would you want to do that?”
“Well, you know… It just looks like it might be fun to be one of those people for a while. Like the ones you were talking to tonight, just… sort of free I suppose.”
She hardly every talked about herself - it felt good to have someone care enough to ask. She heard Rosmerta’s voice in her ear: ”He’s very good at making women fall for him… I don’t think he even know he’s doing it…” Was this how he did it, this knack he had with giving you what you wanted most? Or was it as Rosmerta had said, had he finally realised that he was better off with someone like her?
“Free of what?” he asked.
“Of worrying about everything I suppose. Of thinking too much. Everyone always said I think too much.”
“And you think they don’t worry?” he said as he fell into step with her. “They just don’t worry about the same things, that’s all, and part of what makes you amazing is the things you worry about.”
“Really?” She said with a giggle. “Worrying about the fact that I haven’t cleaned under my sofa in two years makes me amazing?”
“Precisely.” He stopped. They had reached her front door.
Time to go, she said to herself, Rosmerta’s words echoing again: I’m sure you could sleep with him if you wanted to… He’s hardly likely to complain. You wouldn’t get much more out of him than that, though …
I’m sure you could sleep with him if you wanted…
“You can come in… if you like,” she said softly. “Anyway,” she went on as she unlocked the door, “it’s not like I don’t worry about the way I look or what people think of me. Just because I don’t walk around in tiny skirts or change the colour of my hair every two seconds -“
“- Because you’re too intelligent to let it rule your life,” interrupted Sirius, following Hermione through to the small kitchen. “Believe me, Hermione, there are plenty of people out there who don’t really have an awful lot else on their minds.”
Hermione flicked on the kettle and turned to face him, leaning back against the kitchen counter.
“So what do you worry about?” she asked him.
He grinned. “I worry that I’m just like everyone else, and that I’m never going to be good enough for someone like…” He trailed off and looked away, a flicker of uncertainty passing through his eyes.
“But you are,” she said before she could stop herself.
He took a step towards her.
“I am?”
“You are.”
He looked at her then, looked into her and she was lost, powerless, her feet rooted to the stark linoleum floor as he moved closer, tipping his head towards her.
He kissed her. He pressed against her, pushing her back against the cupboard, his hands in her hair, hers… everywhere; his face, shoulders, arms, hands, face… She drank him in, her hands flitting across his body, wanting… needing to touch all of him at once.
He pushed his hands between them and tore at her clothes, his hands finding her skin with consummate ease. Somewhere deep in her head, her ever-practical mind was telling her to stop, slow down, that she hadn’t thought this through, but she paid it no heed; she could barely hear it over the rushing whirlwind in her head, the lustful shouts from her flesh for more.
He placed his hands on her hips and spun her round, her half-worn clothes falling from her as she moved, and she barely stopped to think that she was practically naked all but for her underwear, here in her own kitchen, she was half-naked in front of him, because somehow it didn’t matter right now - nothing mattered except this driving force that came from within her, urging her on, willing her to take as much from him as she could get. He pushed her against the small kitchen table then lifted her deftly onto it, hooking his fingers around her knickers and pulling them off before pushing himself between her legs in one swift movement. He made no attempt to disrobe himself, but instead pushed her backwards onto the table, the hard, rough wood scratching against her shoulder blades as she arched her back towards him.
She felt suddenly self-conscious, exposed as she was, laid out like a meal before him, but he didn’t seem to care. He moved his hands to her thighs and ran his eyes over her body. She could feel the brush of his eyes over her skin as surely as she had felt his fingers and she shivered for a moment before insecurity crept in, and she reached up to grab his shirt, pulling herself up towards him.
He laughed softly into her hair. “You shouldn’t hide,” he whispered. She hushed him with a kiss, happier to feel him against her again. With a tentative hand, she reached for his belt and pulled it slowly undone.
“Sure?” he murmured.
And she was, God, she was, like she never had been before. She felt a rush of sudden bravado, of delicious wantonness at the thought of what she was doing, here, with him, so unexpected and yet so… perfect. It was freeing. In answer to his question, she fumbled with shaking hands at the buttons of his jeans until he put his hands gently on hers to still them.
In a second, his jeans were pooled around his feet, his shirt open and hanging loosely from his muscular shoulders. She had never touched a body like his before, never imagined that it would matter to her if she did. As he pulled her gently to the edge of the table, she ran her hands across his chest, letting her fingertips brush against the swells and hollows of taught muscle and sharp bone. She wanted to reach down between them and touch him, take him in her hand, but she hardly dared. She could feel his erection pressing between her legs, but even as she anticipated him pushing inside her, he pushed her gently back down and stepped backwards.
Panic cursed through her as he sank down lower, grinning at her horror-stricken face as he bent his head between her legs and then oh god she felt the warmth of his tongue sliding across her, god it felt good, but he couldn’t be, shouldn’t be… she felt it building up inside her and she couldn’t stop it. Half with fear and half with want, she wrenched herself up and then placed her hands in his hair, pulling him gently towards her.
He kissed her, and she could taste herself on his lips and she liked it, God, there was nothing about this she couldn’t like. She reached down to touch him but he took hold of her hand. He wanted her now; she could see it in his eyes, an almost frenzied craving to devour her.
She could barely work out what was happening after that. Her body took over, almost overpowering her every other sense. When she tried to picture it afterwards, she could only recall the feel of him inside her, the rushing sensation in the pit of her stomach that exploded throughout her body and sent her more out of control than she had ever allowed herself to be. She could remember disjointed images; the sight of his hand on her breast, the smile that spread across his lips as he threw his head back, a sheet of black hair hanging behind him, the look in his eyes as he came, half connecting with hers as if on a wire, half lost somewhere, out of control in his own way.
It was, she concluded after several days of a drug-like euphoria, the best sex she had ever had and (with a tinge of regret) that she would ever have with any other man. He didn’t proclaim true love the second they both collapsed onto the table, sparkling with sweat and out of breath as she had half imagined. Nor the next day, nor the next. But she hadn’t become one of them, those women that he kept on the sidelines, who never got close to him but got to cling on to a tiny piece that he acquiesced to her. She was different… he was different with her.
And it was enough.
For now.
Word count: 2593
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Don't own it, never will.
A/N: Written for inell's Holiday Drabble prompts, dedicated to inell, Mrs_Remus, catlove and everyone else who requested Hermione/Sirius on inell's post. Also thank you HUGELY to my lovely sister the_ladys_opal for getting rid of my block and giving me the ending. HURRAH!
Sirius Black. Sirius Black. Sirius sodding Black.
Hermione sighed as she sipped her glass of wine in the bar of the Three Broomsticks. She watched him standing amidst a group of people, men and women alike hanging off his every word. Why him? Why was it that the one man her stupid, irrational heart told her to go after was someone so utterly unattainable, so undesirable? Why couldn’t she have fallen for someone more suitable? Harry perhaps? Even Remus, dear Remus. Too old, certainly but at least they had something in common.
She didn’t know how to talk to those people even if she wanted to, those women with their undulate curves and silky, flowing hair who could dance until four in the morning and laugh without snorting. Even her drink was unsuitable, she thought as she watched a statuesque blonde catch Sirius’ eye. The woman flashed her eyes at him and ran her tongue seductively around the neck of her butterbeer bottle. Hermione sniffed and shook her head. It was a complete waste of her time and energy and all she wanted was to just get over it.
The problem was, whenever she told herself that, whenever she listed the reasons why it was impractical and foolish and nothing would ever come of it, she would see him; the sharp curve of his jaw, the smoky eyes that seemed to sear through her skin, the way he looked at her when they were alone that made her feel as though she mattered, and then all her resolve would go out of the window. It was nothing short of maddening.
She gradually became aware of someone watching her, and she turned to see Rosmerta eyeing her from behind the bar. Rosmerta tottered across the room on unfeasibly high heels, carrying a glass of wine, which she set in front of Hermione as she slid into the booth next to her.
“It’s on the house,” she said, waving away Hermione’s proffered coin purse. Hermione thanked her, wondering what the older woman was up to.
“He’s not all that, you know,” said Rosmerta with a smile. Hermione blushed. Was she that obvious?
“Who?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light.
“You know full well who, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but a warning glance from Rosmerta made her close it quickly.
“You’ve been staring at him for the past half hour. Let me guess: he makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the world as long as you’re the only woman in the room. Would that be about right?”
Hermione stared down at her lap, half torn between acute humiliation and a desperate need to get it out, to let someone listen. “That would be about right, yes,” she said finally.
Rosmerta waved her hand matter-of-factly. “Poppet, you aren’t the first and you certainly won’t be the last. He’s very good at making women fall for him left right and centre, but I don't think he even knows he’s doing it anymore - I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be such a bastard.” Hermione’s face crumpled, but Rosmerta carried on regardless. “Best advice I can give you is to keep well away if you don’t want to get your heart broken over and over. Trust me, this ain’t real magic. It won’t last long once you make a clean break.”
Hermione smiled to herself. “I feel like such an idiot.”
“We’ve all been there,” said Rosmerta, slipping an arm around Hermione’s shoulder. “’Course, I’m immune these days since I’m old enough to be his mother. More or less.” She tapped the side of her nose with a conspiratorial wink. “I’m sure you could sleep with him if you wanted to,” Rosmerta went on. “He’s hardly likely to complain. You wouldn’t get much more out of him than that, though, and I think you’re a little too clever for that. Or you could wait around for him to get over himself and realise he’s better off with someone like you than one of those idiots who stick to him like fly paper. ‘Specially that blonde - the wheel’s still spinning but the hamster died, if you know what I mean.”
Hermione giggled despite herself, but Rosmerta carried on talking. “Look, what I’m saying is that you could get a piece of him if that was what you wanted, but that would be all you’d get; a piece. He’s not a bad lad, he just hasn’t had the chance to grow up just yet and you’ll waste your life if you hang around mooning over him.”
Hermione felt a weight lift from her shoulders. “Thanks Rosmerta,” she said with the first genuine smile she had managed all evening. “I know you’re right really. Maybe I'll just go home and get an early night.”
“You do that,” said Rosmerta as Hermione stood up to leave.
She had almost made it to the door when a hand on her shoulder brought her to a halt. She knew it was Sirius before she turned around.
“Are you going already?”
Deep breath. Hermione turned to face him, determined to hang on to her resolve. If she just didn’t look at him…
“I’m tired,” she said to his shoes, “and I have a huge pile of work waiting for me when I get home. I really ought to get going.”
“I'll walk you home,” Sirius replied, and in her shock, Hermione glanced up for just a moment.
Tell him there’s no need, that you’d rather Apparate, tell him…
Apparently it was a moment too long.
“Thanks,” she said with a bright smile.
They left the bar, Rosmerta’s eyes burning a hole right through Hermione’s back and straight into her guilty mind.
It was a cold night, and Sirius gallantly offered her his arm. It seemed churlish to refuse it.
“I’m glad to get away, to be honest,” said Sirius as they walked. “There was a woman in there who seemed determined to glue herself to my arm for the evening.”
Hermione stifled a giggle. “Her hamster died, apparently.”
“Oh really?” said Sirius, missing a beat. “Should I send a card?”
The laugh burst from her mouth before she could stop it, and the reason that she never let herself laugh out loud in public happened. She snorted.
Sirius turned to look at her, an expression of utter confusion on his face. “What are you…?” He joined in, a deep, resonant, barking laugh that seemed to have a humour of it’s own. “You’re amazing, you are. You have no idea…” he said, shaking his head through his laughter.
“What do you mean?” she asked, still grinning from ear to ear.
“You’re just so… different, that’s all. You’ve no idea how nice it is to be around someone who isn’t just the same as everyone else.”
“Thanks, I think.” Perfect, she thought. You’re perfect. She kept her eyes straight ahead as she walked, her arm clutching his. “It’s funny, I seem to spend half my time wishing I was exactly like everyone else.”
“Why on earth would you want to do that?”
“Well, you know… It just looks like it might be fun to be one of those people for a while. Like the ones you were talking to tonight, just… sort of free I suppose.”
She hardly every talked about herself - it felt good to have someone care enough to ask. She heard Rosmerta’s voice in her ear: ”He’s very good at making women fall for him… I don’t think he even know he’s doing it…” Was this how he did it, this knack he had with giving you what you wanted most? Or was it as Rosmerta had said, had he finally realised that he was better off with someone like her?
“Free of what?” he asked.
“Of worrying about everything I suppose. Of thinking too much. Everyone always said I think too much.”
“And you think they don’t worry?” he said as he fell into step with her. “They just don’t worry about the same things, that’s all, and part of what makes you amazing is the things you worry about.”
“Really?” She said with a giggle. “Worrying about the fact that I haven’t cleaned under my sofa in two years makes me amazing?”
“Precisely.” He stopped. They had reached her front door.
Time to go, she said to herself, Rosmerta’s words echoing again: I’m sure you could sleep with him if you wanted to… He’s hardly likely to complain. You wouldn’t get much more out of him than that, though …
I’m sure you could sleep with him if you wanted…
“You can come in… if you like,” she said softly. “Anyway,” she went on as she unlocked the door, “it’s not like I don’t worry about the way I look or what people think of me. Just because I don’t walk around in tiny skirts or change the colour of my hair every two seconds -“
“- Because you’re too intelligent to let it rule your life,” interrupted Sirius, following Hermione through to the small kitchen. “Believe me, Hermione, there are plenty of people out there who don’t really have an awful lot else on their minds.”
Hermione flicked on the kettle and turned to face him, leaning back against the kitchen counter.
“So what do you worry about?” she asked him.
He grinned. “I worry that I’m just like everyone else, and that I’m never going to be good enough for someone like…” He trailed off and looked away, a flicker of uncertainty passing through his eyes.
“But you are,” she said before she could stop herself.
He took a step towards her.
“I am?”
“You are.”
He looked at her then, looked into her and she was lost, powerless, her feet rooted to the stark linoleum floor as he moved closer, tipping his head towards her.
He kissed her. He pressed against her, pushing her back against the cupboard, his hands in her hair, hers… everywhere; his face, shoulders, arms, hands, face… She drank him in, her hands flitting across his body, wanting… needing to touch all of him at once.
He pushed his hands between them and tore at her clothes, his hands finding her skin with consummate ease. Somewhere deep in her head, her ever-practical mind was telling her to stop, slow down, that she hadn’t thought this through, but she paid it no heed; she could barely hear it over the rushing whirlwind in her head, the lustful shouts from her flesh for more.
He placed his hands on her hips and spun her round, her half-worn clothes falling from her as she moved, and she barely stopped to think that she was practically naked all but for her underwear, here in her own kitchen, she was half-naked in front of him, because somehow it didn’t matter right now - nothing mattered except this driving force that came from within her, urging her on, willing her to take as much from him as she could get. He pushed her against the small kitchen table then lifted her deftly onto it, hooking his fingers around her knickers and pulling them off before pushing himself between her legs in one swift movement. He made no attempt to disrobe himself, but instead pushed her backwards onto the table, the hard, rough wood scratching against her shoulder blades as she arched her back towards him.
She felt suddenly self-conscious, exposed as she was, laid out like a meal before him, but he didn’t seem to care. He moved his hands to her thighs and ran his eyes over her body. She could feel the brush of his eyes over her skin as surely as she had felt his fingers and she shivered for a moment before insecurity crept in, and she reached up to grab his shirt, pulling herself up towards him.
He laughed softly into her hair. “You shouldn’t hide,” he whispered. She hushed him with a kiss, happier to feel him against her again. With a tentative hand, she reached for his belt and pulled it slowly undone.
“Sure?” he murmured.
And she was, God, she was, like she never had been before. She felt a rush of sudden bravado, of delicious wantonness at the thought of what she was doing, here, with him, so unexpected and yet so… perfect. It was freeing. In answer to his question, she fumbled with shaking hands at the buttons of his jeans until he put his hands gently on hers to still them.
In a second, his jeans were pooled around his feet, his shirt open and hanging loosely from his muscular shoulders. She had never touched a body like his before, never imagined that it would matter to her if she did. As he pulled her gently to the edge of the table, she ran her hands across his chest, letting her fingertips brush against the swells and hollows of taught muscle and sharp bone. She wanted to reach down between them and touch him, take him in her hand, but she hardly dared. She could feel his erection pressing between her legs, but even as she anticipated him pushing inside her, he pushed her gently back down and stepped backwards.
Panic cursed through her as he sank down lower, grinning at her horror-stricken face as he bent his head between her legs and then oh god she felt the warmth of his tongue sliding across her, god it felt good, but he couldn’t be, shouldn’t be… she felt it building up inside her and she couldn’t stop it. Half with fear and half with want, she wrenched herself up and then placed her hands in his hair, pulling him gently towards her.
He kissed her, and she could taste herself on his lips and she liked it, God, there was nothing about this she couldn’t like. She reached down to touch him but he took hold of her hand. He wanted her now; she could see it in his eyes, an almost frenzied craving to devour her.
She could barely work out what was happening after that. Her body took over, almost overpowering her every other sense. When she tried to picture it afterwards, she could only recall the feel of him inside her, the rushing sensation in the pit of her stomach that exploded throughout her body and sent her more out of control than she had ever allowed herself to be. She could remember disjointed images; the sight of his hand on her breast, the smile that spread across his lips as he threw his head back, a sheet of black hair hanging behind him, the look in his eyes as he came, half connecting with hers as if on a wire, half lost somewhere, out of control in his own way.
It was, she concluded after several days of a drug-like euphoria, the best sex she had ever had and (with a tinge of regret) that she would ever have with any other man. He didn’t proclaim true love the second they both collapsed onto the table, sparkling with sweat and out of breath as she had half imagined. Nor the next day, nor the next. But she hadn’t become one of them, those women that he kept on the sidelines, who never got close to him but got to cling on to a tiny piece that he acquiesced to her. She was different… he was different with her.
And it was enough.
For now.