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May 2nd-3rd, 1998 – 12 Grimmauld Place
Hermione Granger had always been a planner. For as long as she could remember, she had planned to excel in school and have a successful and fulfilling career. On a more personal level, perhaps once she’d established herself in her field of choice, she planned for a family with an equal partner and fellow intellectual with a strong work ethic and a love of animals and literary discourse.
On top of being a planner, Hermione Granger had always valued her levelheadedness and ability to adapt under pressure. In fact, when she’d been informed by a complete stranger that the odd things that had been happening to her since earliest memory – a trick of the light here, déjà vu there – had a perfectly logical explanation, she’d been relieved. And then she’d taken hold of her destiny once more at the tender age of 11 and added ‘witch-in-training' to her carefully laid plans.
She managed to integrate herself into a completely new world with a steep learning curve. She overcame social obstacles such as being ostracized by some of her peers and bullied by others. She made the most loyal and steadfast friends. And she had gone on to aid them in defeating one of the darkest wizards of the last few generations.
When the dust cleared and the Second Wizarding War was over, the three of them were heralded ‘the Golden Trio’. But Hermione, ever the planner, was exhausted. She had been fighting since she was 11, and frankly thought she deserved a break. She had never been able to enjoy her youth like her peers, having to be the brains of the operation as it were. Hermione Granger had unwittingly become a non-entity as far as boys were concerned. She was known to the wizarding world as Harry Potter’s brainy best friend, or ‘the Golden Girl’ by the media. And while she valued the time spent fighting for a good cause, she found herself at the end of her mental tether and in need of some R&R.
It never would’ve occurred to any of the others that Hermione Granger was ‘lonely’ given her integral role in the defeat of Voldemort or her close friendship with Harry or Ron, or any of the others. And yet, there she stood on a bloody battlefield at the age of 18, taking stock of her life. She’d been to two whole parties – both school-sponsored events. She’d had three kisses, one of which was in the heat of battle when she believed she might not survive. And she’d never had a single boyfriend. She’d perhaps had an admirer in Victor during Fourth Year, but the war had made keeping up with pen pals impossible. Hermione Granger had never even been asked on a proper date.
And now that the pressing concerns of the war were over, and she finally had time and space to breathe… she found herself bereft. Hermione had been planning her life a decade ahead at a time, and suddenly someone had hit the brakes, and the young witch didn’t quite know what to do with all the free time ahead of her. She was sure she didn’t want to dive right in to applying to jobs. Part of her wanted to return to Hogwarts to finish out her last year properly and take her NEWTs. But after seeing the castle crumble around her and so many of her friends, peers, and teachers perish in the battle, she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to come back just yet.
The one thing she was sure of was that she needed a breather. After getting themselves seen to by the school mediwitch, the Golden Trio had elected to retire ‘home’ and recuperate. Ron was thrilled to be going back to the Burrow after so long spent on the run hunting horcruxes, breaking into impenetrable banks, stealing captive dragons, and being captured by snatchers and the like. She, too, would’ve desired all the comfort of ‘home’ if she still had one to return to. But after having wiped her parents’ memories and sending them off to Australia, she had none to speak of.
Mrs. Weasley had offered both her and Harry safe shelter, and while Harry had been tempted by her mothering ways, he had decided to stick with Hermione, and they returned to Grimmauld Place alongside Sirius, Remus, and Tonks. The irreverent heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and Harry’s godfather, was boisterous, joyous, and more than a little sloshed as the night went on. But Remus and Tonks were content to celebrate with him. Harry looked younger than Hermione had ever seen him.
She sat back on the periphery of the makeshift ‘party’ and nursed a single drink throughout most of the night until the Lupins had retired upstairs to one of the many spare bedrooms to sleep it off, too tired and inebriated to apparate or use the floo. Harry had fallen asleep at the scarred, oak table still holding his sixth glass of firewhiskey. Hermione rose from her seat and went to carefully remove his glasses so he wouldn’t roll over and crush them in the night, and she transfigured a serviette into a blanket to drape over his prone form.
Meanwhile, she felt the sensation of being watched and looked over near the hearth where the embers were barely glowing. In the shadows sat Sirius Black. He had long been a curiosity to her, then a boogeyman in the shadows during their Third Year when all they’d known about the man was that he had betrayed his friends and killed more than a dozen people. After the truth about Pettigrew had come to light, and she’d seen the way he’d supported Harry, Remus, and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix even at the cost of his own comfort and sanity, at times, she’d grown fond of the wizard.
Yes, he had a flair for the dramatic, and a temper. The pendulum of his mercurial moods swung wildly between mania and depression. He was often impulsive, reckless, and impetuous. He could be vulgar, loud, and opinionated. His tendency towards obstinance was well-known throughout their circle of… well, she wondered if he would consider her a ‘friend’. Given their history, it seemed appropriate. But given their age gap, perhaps not.
Yet she found herself curious about the man beneath all the swagger and overconfidence which she believed he often wore like armor. She had no concept of what Azkaban must’ve been like, even without dementors, but to have survived it for more than a decade by sheer will alone was an incredible feat in itself. And to escape and remain free for several more years only to risk his life in defense of his godson, friends, and the ‘light’, spoke to his determination, loyalty, and bravery. She had nursed a bit of a schoolgirl crush on him, it was true. And even on Remus back during Third Year when he’d only been ‘Professor Lupin’ to them. But that was long-past now, she told herself.
Remus was happily married and a father now. And Dora Tonks was a lovely complement to his often introverted, bookish, and gentlemanly ways. However, Sirius… he still managed to intrigue her. And she wondered briefly as she cleaned up after their ‘party’ what he would do with himself now that he was free for the first time in almost two decades. She found herself wondering the same about her. Did he have a plan? Part of her thought that he didn’t much seem like a planner so much as a ‘fly-by-the-seat-of-his-trousers’ type of man. But maybe he’d want to chat about it. Perhaps he’d like a sounding board so he could plan out his –
“I can hear the gears turning in that big brain of yours, Kitten,” he rasped, his voice low and gravelly as he sipped his firewhiskey right from the bottle. She had been trying to keep a mental tally of how many Harry’d had, but she couldn't very well chastise Sirius Black for indulging. Not after all he’d endured. Not in his own house. Not when he was finally free.
Hermione cleared her throat and cast a wordless muffliato over her sleeping friend so as not to disturb him. Then she closed the distance between herself and Sirius and took the seat opposite him by the hearth. When she gave a slight shiver, he waved his wand to stoke the fire in the grate and levitated over a fresh log. “Thank you,” she said softly and tucked her legs up underneath her.
“What has you firing on all cylinders after the day we’ve had?” he asked, his gunmetal-grey eyes lingering on the growing flames.
“I suppose I’m just thinking of what comes next.”
“Mm,” he hummed his agreement.
“Do you have any idea what you’d like to do now?” she asked, watching his profile and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swigged from the bottle once more.
“It’s been so many years since I had a say, I’m not sure.” His confession was raw and vulnerable.
She felt that familiar fire of righteous indignation stirring in her gut over what had been done to this man – what had been taken from him. “Well, I think once your name is cleared, you can do whatever you want.” Hermione turned what she hoped was a cheerful smile towards him.
“Perhaps,” he mused. “And what about you, Kitten? What will you do now that the world no longer needs saving?” He turned those smoky eyes on her and she had to swallow past the lump forming in her throat. His stare was intense, and it stirred something else up within her. Something warm, wicked, and… dangerous.
She looked into the fire and tried to clear her mind and focused on answering his question. “Once upon a time, I had it all planned out. School, a career, someday marriage and maybe a family if I was lucky enough to find someone who I didn’t want to smother in their sleep.”
He chuckled at this. “You’re funny. I don’t think I knew that about you.”
She looked at him sideways and arched a brow at him. “Now, why would you? For most of our acquaintance I’ve either been an anxious, uptight know-it-all with a habit of sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong or your godson’s best friend.”
“Mm, quite right,” he hummed to himself again, but this time his eyes remained locked on her as he brought his lips to the rim of the firewhiskey bottle and took a large swallow.
“There was that one time I saved your arse from being Kissed in Third Year,” she added in and in catching him off-guard, he snorted some whiskey and end up coughing up the rest. She chortled in her seat, one arm wrapped around her midsection, as she doubled over with laughter.
“Merlin, witch! You could warn a bloke!” he wheezed, his eyes watering.
“Where’s the fun in that?” came her cheeky retort. “Must keep you on your toes, Mr. Black. What was she doing? She asked herself. Was she… flirting with him? Hermione Granger didn’t flirt! She didn’t know how to flirt. She’d never flirted a day in her life. And yet here she was flirting, she supposed with no small amount of dismay and mortification, with a reputed ladies’ man like Sirius Black. Oh, well. In for a penny, in for a pound. “How else will you know you’re alive?” she tacked on at the end.
She didn’t know how it happened, really. One moment they were making idle chatter, which typically bored her to tears, by the fire, and the next they’d retired to the parlor and turned on some soft music. Then they were dancing. She was in his arms and swaying on bare feet. The music swelled and they leaned into one another. She laid her cheek against his chest and murmured softly, “I’m so glad that we both made it out. Harry –” She hadn’t been permitted to finish her sentence because he was lifting her face with a knuckle under her chin, and then his eyes were searching her face. He must’ve found whatever he was looking for because the next thing she knew his lips were claiming hers.
His stubble was rough and his hold around her tightened. Everywhere he touched, it was like he traced a blazing path over her nerve endings. But she felt more alive in his arms than she had in years. Losing friends, losing her parents, losing her childish innocence when choice and circumstance had forced her to become a child soldier, living in survival mode for the last year, being captured, tortured, and having to fight in an actual battle, it had all taken its toll. And until that moment, Hermione Granger hadn’t realized how hollow she’d felt.
One dance turned into a caress which turned into a kiss. One kiss turned into a snog which turned into heavy petting. Eventually they lost their clothes, their inhibitions, and their minds. He had been her first and taken on the role admirably. He had checked in with her throughout, fetched himself a large sober-up potion, and been patient with her. Every look and touch had been for her benefit, to make sure she enjoyed the experience.
And by the end of it, she had turned into a whimpering, satiated puddle of a witch, melting in his arms and crying out his name until her throat went hoarse. After that, he had bathed her tenderly in his massive clawfoot tub, dumping pain relief potions into the warm water so she could soak, massaging her shoulders and washing her long curls which had likely been matted with debris from the Final Battle, come to think of it. She must’ve looked affright, and yet he hadn’t said a word. She hadn’t noticed the state of him either if she was being honest with herself, which she always tried to be.
They had finally collapsed in exhaustion in his king-sized bed draped in Gryffindor-crimson satin absolutely starkers. Sirius had curled himself around her nude form, one arm banded around her waist to pull her back against his chest, and they’d dozed for hours until the sounds of the house stirring around them woke them. It had been the most restful sleep Hermione had had in over a year. She had felt safe in his arms. And with the dawn came the clarity that this had been a one-off and couldn’t be allowed to happen again.
It must’ve been the adrenaline, the alcohol, or the high of victory, she told herself. Just like the kiss with Ron. But as Sirius stirred, she felt him stiffen behind her, and not in a suggestive way. He removed his arm, swung his legs off the side of the bed, went to his wardrobe to dress in complete silence, and left the room altogether.
The previous warmth she’d felt in his embrace all but vanished. Hermione rubbed the sleep from her eyes and tried to will herself not to cry even as her sinuses burned, and her vision blurred with unshed tears. It was a one-off. Just to get it out of their systems. That was all. The man had been celibate for more than a decade in Azkaban and she’d been the first familiar, willing witch to fall into his arms. She felt cheap now just thinking about it. Hermione went into his ensuite bathroom to set her hair to rights and cast a breath-freshening charm on herself. She splashed cold water on her face and tried to muster the moxie to go downstairs to breakfast and face the others while pretending that nothing had happened.
She was still Hermione Granger, after all. And the Brightest Witch of the Age did not engage in one-night stands or flings with notorious rakes and ex-convicts. She squared her shoulders, held her chin high, collected her clothes from the night before, and scampered noiselessly – she hoped – down towards the room she’d shared with Ginny back in Fifth Year. Luckily, she found an old Holyhead Harpies jersey and a pair of dark-washed denims of Ginny’s that she was able to transfigure to fit her smaller stature. She scourgified her undergarments and hoped that one morning without deodorant wouldn’t offend those with heightened olfactory senses.
Where was her beaded bag? Had she left it in the kitchen last night, or the parlor while they got swept up in dancing and all the rest of it? A knock at the door interrupted her spiral and she went to answer it. “Yes?”
Harry was standing there with her beaded bag and a fond smile, his characteristically messy hair in more disarray this morning than usual. “I think you must’ve left this downstairs when you went up to bed last night,” he said, holding it out for her to take.
She blushed from the roots of her hair to her toes and snatched the bag from him. “Y-Yes. Where is my head at this morning?” Her voice came out much higher than normal, and Harry made an odd face like he could tell something was wrong.
“Mione, what’s the matter?”
“N-Nothing. I’m just… jittery, you know. We were on the go for so long and now it’s just –” she clung to that old chestnut.
He sighed and nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I don’t know what to do with myself now.”
“Exactly.” She sincerely hoped he would drop it. She ducked into the room for a moment to apply some deodorant she summoned from her bag, and set it down on the dresser, twisting her vinewood wand up into her messy curls atop her head.
“Well, Remus is cooking up a storm now that Kreacher’s been to the market. He had to relieve Tonks of breakfast duty before she burned the house down,” Harry joked. “Not that Sirius would’ve cared, mind you. But Kreacher might’ve had a stroke.”
Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing and stepped out into the hall to swat him. “Harry, be nice.”
“I’ll be nice after I’ve been fed. I reckon I’ve earned a little goodwill having taken down old Snake Face and all,” he teased.
Hermione thought he seemed lighter. Younger. More carefree. And she was so happy for him. He deserved all this and more. Now they just had to get through a potentially awkward breakfast and then she could make plans for what to do next. Her mind raced as they walked down to the sublevel kitchen side-by-side. She couldn’t stay here indefinitely. Not after the events of last night, she told herself. Hermione would have to find herself a flat, or perhaps she could see if her childhood home was still standing and reside there if she could bear it. If not, she could probably sell it for a pretty penny –
“You’re leaving?” Her thoughts were interrupted by the exclamation of one Nymphadora Tonks.
“Yes, Dora. I’ve been cooped up in one prison or another for decades. It’s time to finally spread my wings and get out there,” came Sirius’ explanation just as she and Harry reached the top of the kitchen stairs. “I just need to get my bike back from Hagrid and get my name cleared.”
Harry turned to look at her and she could see the sadness well up in his eyes. His only family in the world and now his godfather wanted to leave him too.
Breakfast was awkward, of course. But not because of their fling, it turned out. It was awkward because in all of Sirius Black’s excitement to ‘spread his wings’, he seemed to have forgotten Harry. They finally had all the time in the world to get to really know each other, and Sirius wanted to leave Britain altogether. Viewed objectively, Hermione couldn’t blame him. But being Harry’s best friend, she could only see Sirius’ decision as selfish. He could at least offer Harry the chance to come with him!
In the end, Harry was too kind to rain on his godfather’s parade and after two weeks of the wizard practically climbing the bars of his ‘enclosure’ (read: childhood home/ancestral seat), the Ministry had his name cleared and even awarded him an Order of Merlin, Second Class alongside several members of the Order of the Phoenix. The Golden Trio had received an OoM, First Class, along with many of their classmates. The three of them had even received several offers of employment, and it appealed most to Harry and Ron to join the Aurors in hunting down any remaining pockets of dark wizards that had fled the Final Battle and evaded capture.
Hermione had opted for a gap year herself and then wanted to return to Hogwarts after she’d taken some time to process and grieve, so she could finish her Seventh Year and take her NEWTs. She might be taking a break, but she still had a plan. It was the one constant in her life. And yet the universe seemed to laugh at her hubris in this because a month after the Final Battle, and two weeks after Sirius Black had departed Britain altogether, Hermione Granger found out she was carrying his child.