Chapter Text
Potter Cottage looks a lot different than it did since he was last here twenty years ago, when the roof was blown away and the living room floor covered with shards of glass and debris. Repairs and renovations were completed a few months prior when Harry decided, after the war, that he wanted to fix up his childhood home and fill it with new memories— a new life. With time, they managed to make the cottage look the same it did before it was destroyed. It was important to his Godson that the home look exactly the way it did before that fateful night, enlisting both Remus and Sirius to help him bring it back to its former glory as best they could.
After months of reliving happy, special, and equally painful memories with his oldest friend, Harry moved into the cottage.
It’s been years since the small home was filled with this many people. Filled with smiling faces and laughter. Filled with love. So why’s he so miserable?
It isn’t like him to drink this much— enough to forget. Sure, there was once a time when Sirius drank alcohol like he was wandering the desert, desperate for water but these days he usually only has a drink here and there. A drink to relax after a long day, a drink to celebrate loved ones and their milestones and, although rare, maybe even a drink to calm his nerves.
The last time he got this pissed was three years ago, after the war ended, when Remus told him the truth about Regulus. About how his brother, his stupid brother, defied Voldermort and died while doing it. Guilt flooded him quicker than the firewhisky he poured into his glass and all he could think to do was drown himself in it. He gave himself time to feel sorry for himself, to reprimand himself for not trying harder, for not believing the best of his brother and for not realising that their ways of surviving the miserable and suffocating life that Orion and Walburga forced upon them were vastly different. Where Sirius rebelled and fought tooth and nail for his individuality and freedom, Regulus obeyed and followed the plans their parents had made out for him.
He’d woken up the next day with a random witch sleeping beside him, clinging on to him like a niffler that’d just found gold. He didn’t know who she was, he didn’t even remember leaving the house, but Sirius was polite. He woke her up, offered her use of his shower and a cup of coffee, then walked her out. He refused himself a Sober Up potion, instead choosing to spend the entirety of his morning sick over his toilet. Sirius purged out all of his guilt. Instead of spending the rest of his life regretting the choices he did or didn’t make, he vowed he was going to live it remembering his brother as the hero he was. He might have been a Slytherin, but he was as brave and courageous as a Gryffindor.
He promised himself then and there to never get that pissed or sick again.
So how does he find himself downing his eighth shot of Muggle vodka? Because he’s a bloody fucking liar and he’s weak, that’s why. Weak against long chestnut curls that he wants to run his fingers through to find out if they’re as soft as they appear. Weak against honey brown eyes that remind him of his favourite brand of firewhisky and plump lips he wants to kiss to find out if she tastes just like it, too. He’s weak against a button nose and cheeks covered in freckles that he wants to lose himself in, freckles that remind him of the nights he used to spend up in the Astronomy tower at Hogwarts, looking up at the stars and the constellations they held. The only way to keep his sanity at this blasted party with her wearing that dress that hugs her curves perfectly is to be so drunk he can’t think.
Except all he can do is think, and what’s worse is that all his thoughts are about her. Since his last binge, Wizard alcohol has since been unable to get him completely pissed which is exactly why he’s chosen to consume as much of the Muggle alcohol, kindly provided for his consumption, as possible.
He reckons about ten shots gets him to the point of no return.
Two more to go.
Sirius tilts his head, knocking back the shot he poured for himself. The liquid burns down his throat, down into his chest. He lets it settle for a moment, lets it warm him up as he takes a few deep breaths. For a moment, Sirius reconsiders his plan. He doesn’t have to be here. He could just leave and go home— where it's nice and quiet…and where his thoughts would be even louder and consume him. So, bollocks to that plan. Besides, he promised to be here – and stay – for Harry. Sirius’ presence at his Godson’s boyfriend’s party is important to him.
Sirius takes a final deep breath in and lets out a frustrated sigh. He shakes his head as he reaches for the bottle, about to pour another shot, when a scarred hand wraps around the bottle’s neck and pulls it away.
“You alright there, Pads?” Sirius’ mercurial eyes follow the hand up along its arm and is met with deep forest-green eyes watching him carefully. Sirius glares.
“‘M fine, Remus,” Sirius growls, reaching for the bottle once more only for the werewolf to yank it farther away. “What the fuck?”
“Think you’ve maybe had enough, hmm?”
He slams his fist on the table, coming face to face with Remus. “I’m bloody forty-two years old, Remus. I don’t need to be treated like a fucking child.”
“Then stop acting like one who’s throwing a tantrum over a toy he can’t fucking play with.”
Sirius fumes. He couldn’t give less of a shite about Remus’ concerns for how he chooses to deal with his problems but what he can’t and won’t accept is him calling her a toy.
“Fuck you.” He seethes, curling his lip and baring his teeth before he walks away, slipping and knocking into a few bodies.
Remus follows close behind him. “I… fuck. I didn’t mean it that way, Pads.”
He stops abruptly and turns on his heel, rounding on Remus, causing the werewolf to crash into him. “She’s not a fucking toy.”
“That’s not…” but Remus cuts himself off, taking a step back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How long is this crush going to last, Sirius?”
His chest is rising and falling, anger building up inside him, ready to explode.
Doesn’t Remus know that if he had the choice, he’d have rather had that blasted curse his psychotic cousin threw at him kill him instead of having to live with this crush? Fancying a woman twenty years his junior, a woman he’s known since she was a teenager because she’s his godson’s best friend, isn’t necessarily Sirius' idea of fun.
He’s about to yell some more but Potter Cottage is small and it’s full of people and although music is blasting and no one is likely paying any attention, he won’t risk anyone picking up on his conversation with Remus. Instead, without even thinking about it, his eyes find her across the room in the kitchen surrounded by Slytherins.
For the last year, no matter where she is, if they’re in the same place, he finds her. It’s as if she’s his North Star. As if he’s lost and all he has to do is look at her to find his way back.
Hermione’s compassion and selflessness is what has him feeling and acting so hopeless.
She’d taken him completely by surprise when she showed up at Grimmauld on what would have been his brother’s thirty-ninth birthday. Said she wanted to be there for him because she knew what it was like to have a day dedicated to someone who was supposed to be alive. A day that reminds them of what they’ve lost.
Hermione had brought him a cake she’d baked. Just a small one with white frosting and thin black cursive letters that said ‘Happy Birthday, Regulus.’ She said the tangible reminder that they had existed helped her when her parents’ birthdays came around and she thought maybe it’d help him too. Sirius was so moved by the gesture that he practically begged her to stay and celebrate with him.
Before last year, Hermione wasn't very open with her experience during the war. She opened up to him about finding her parents— dead in her childhood home. All of her childhood memories had been ruined in a single second and replaced with blood and devastation. How she didn’t do enough, how she didn’t get to them quick enough. How she carries so much guilt, it’s hard for her to breathe sometimes.
Sirius knew she sacrificed a lot of herself to help save a world full of people who hated her. That wanted her and other muggle-borns alike dead. A world of adult witches and wizards who failed her, her friends, and her classmates by letting them fight a war they were too cowardly to fight themselves.
A war that killed her parents.
And yet, in spite of all of that, she put her own pain aside and was there for her friends when they needed her. Baking them cakes with a smile on her face as if she came out unscathed.
He didn’t even know how she knew Regulus’ birthday. He’d never told anyone, not even Remus. Sirius kept a lot of his life very close to his chest. His life before Azkaban was just too painful. Yet, there was Hermione who had probably only had a handful of conversations with him before turning up at his door with a cake for his brother. To say that she took him by surprise was an understatement. It was like being hit by a curse all over again, only this time, there was no chance of recovery.
Sirius doesn’t realise he’s still staring at her until she walks out to the garden, the designated smoking area, arm in arm with Theo — the birthday boy — and is forced to look away. He lets his grey gaze fall on the forest-green eyes still looking at him. “Just…let me have this, yeah? I’m not going to act on anything so just let me have this so I can forget.” Sirius rubs the palms of his hands down his face and lets his arms fall limply at his sides. “Please.”
“Sirius…” Remus steps forward but Sirius takes a step back, away from his reach.
“I know, okay? She’s well-loved and cared for. Protected. I wouldn’t dare ruin her with my carelessness and lascivious ways.”
“That’s not what—” Remus tries to speak up but he cuts him off.
“Isn’t it enough that I’m leaving her alone? That I’m doing what you and Molly and Har…” He’s tired. He’s so incredibly tired. “Isn’t it enough?”
Sirius turns away, not giving his friend a chance to respond, and grabs the nearest bottle of vodka he can see.
Two more shots.
Two more and he won’t remember a fucking thing.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The bed underneath his cheek bounces, stirring him awake. Something tickles his nose and a wave of cool air passes over him as his blanket’s ripped away. The bright light shines through his uncovered window and Sirius does his best to bury the pains of a throbbing headache, thanks to what feels like a lingering hangover. He huffs, annoyed at whatever has dared wake him early on a bloody Sunday morning. He lets out a yawn and stretches — arms up, kicking his legs out — when his body comes in contact with another warm body and he freezes.
“Bloody fuck,” he whispers to himself. “Not again.”
He slowly turns his head to the space next to him and is immediately smothered by chestnut curls that fan out everywhere and smell faintly of cigarettes, alcohol, and jasmine. The chestnut curls look familiar, curls he’s daydreamed about many times before. He quietly blows and spits out the hair that’s made its way into his mouth in disbelief. Sirius props himself up on his elbows and slowly leans over to get a better look at the face beside him. He blinks once, twice, three times to get rid of the sleep that lingers and blurs his vision.
She looks peaceful. Long, dark lashes kiss the top of her freckled sun-kissed cheeks. Freckles that extend out, dusting the bridge of her button nose. Her pink, plump lips are slightly parted and chapped as she snores softly. All of these details he’s caught himself staring at for longer than he’s meant to. Details memorised that he knows better than the back of his hand.
“Crookshanks, go ‘way. ‘M sleeping,” she mutters, lifting the blanket further up to cover her face, and snuggles more into the pillow.
As If he had any doubts before, he has none now. The body occupying the spot next to him, sleeping soundly and hogging his blankets and space, is the much younger Hermione Granger: best friend of his Godson.
Fuck, he panics internally. Merlin’s bloody tits. How?
The second he questions himself, blurry flashes of hot, sweaty skin slapping against skin, of legs tangled together, of urgency, and sloppy tongues fighting for dominance flash to the forefront of his mind.
This time he groans, his cock twitching, threatening to thicken at the thought of what transpired last night but, before it hardens, he removes himself from the bed, slips on a random pair of sweatpants from the floor, and walks out of his room. He softly closes the door behind him so as to not wake her up.
He very carefully walks across the creaking hardwood floors of Grimmauld Place and when he’s far enough down the stairs where she won’t hear him, he runs the rest of the way down to the kitchen.
Instead of panicking, he decides to keep himself calm as best he can and stretches his arms out and up over his head. He twists his waist just enough, his back cracking as he bends over, fingertips touching his toes. He isn’t exactly young anymore and his morning stretches help keep his blood flowing, waking him a little faster.
Sirius goes on with his morning the way he would any other and sets the tea kettle on the stove, lighting the stovetop to let the water boil. Then he prepares his muggle coffee maker and lets it brew at the same time as the tea.
Sirius brackets the sink, head hanging low. If his head is pounding with a headache from a hangover — which he assumes is how they both got here in the first place — he’s certain she’ll wake with a hangover too. He rubs his hands down his face and rolls his neck, gathering his hair up in a bun before securing it with the elastic he always has around his wrist. He walks over to a small cabinet off to the side and pulls out two Sober Up potions, takes one in a single gulp, and sets the other down. Reaching into another cabinet, he plucks two mugs from the shelf and sets those beside the potion.
When the tea kettle softly whistles, he quickly turns off the stove before it gets any louder, making sure the sound doesn’t wake her up. He pours the hot water into her mug and drops a tea bag into the liquid, letting it steep while he busies himself with his coffee.
He takes a deep breath, gripping the countertop too tightly, and stares down at the coffee, steam rising from the hot liquid. Frustration slowly begins to build up inside him. How could he have let this happen? Not only has he gotten completely pissed and woken up next to a one night stand he can’t fucking remember, but his one night stand is Hermione fucking Granger.
Sirius shakes his head and proceeds to make his coffee. He’s done this the same way many times before, not needing to pay attention to what he’s doing, letting his mind continue to wander. He’s trying to remember how it happened. How the witch he’s been so infatuated with ended up in his bed. He’d purposefully gotten himself so bloody drunk in order to forget— he now regrets every second of it because he can’t remember anything after his argument with Remus. He can’t fucking remember being with her.
Still, Sirius doesn’t want to get his hopes up. He’s been relentlessly flirting with the much younger witch since she brought over that cake and although she’s sleeping upstairs in his bed, he’s not sure how much of it she remembers or if it meant anything to her at all.
While everyone thought his flirting was just Sirius-being-Sirius, they didn't know what she’d done for him. They didn’t know what it meant to him, but Remus knew him well enough to know the difference. Remus was the only one who knew about Hermione’s visit the year prior and still the werewolf pulled him aside and warned him of the repercussions his pursuit would cause.
A part of him felt like arguing back. It was never in Sirius’ nature to care about what others thought or to do what others wanted, especially his oldest friend who has already misjudged him once before. Sirius felt it was somewhat hypocritical of Remus to react the way he has been about his crush on the witch, given that Remus’ own wife, Sirius’ cousin, is thirteen years younger than the werewolf. All in all, though, he thought of his Godson and how much it would break him if Harry cut him off because of something he did. Sirius worked hard to repair the damage his impulsive decisions caused and he would probably never stop hating himself for missing so much of Harry’s life, for allowing himself to be taken away from him for an entire decade.
For as long as he can remember, there’s never been a part of him that’s wanted to pursue anything serious with anyone. Most, if not all, of his exploits are simply to satisfy his most primal needs. A single night of meaningless sex with anyone who is willing to take him for a ride. Some have wanted more and Sirius kindly reminds them that it’s only a one-time deal. He just isn’t that guy.
Being thrown head-first into two wars, though, has a way of making him reconsider things. Time is fleeting and, although twelve years in Azkaban did seem like a long time, it feels like it was only yesterday that he was thrown into the wizarding prison with nothing but the clothes on his back. There was nothing else for him to do but think. Nothing but what if’s and regrets. Maybe he should have taken his past lovers more seriously. Maybe he should have settled down right after Hogwarts and had kids, given them the life he didn’t have. A loving parent, a home full of love, acceptance, and support. A wife to dote on and give the entire fucking world to. He often made fun of James, of his loyalty and devotion to Lily, but the truth of it all is that deep down inside, a part of him craves that— has always craved it. He saw the way he looked at her, like she hung the stars and moon, like she was the sun and he orbited around her.
He tried his best to hang on to those hopes and dreams. To keep them away from the dementors and wear them like a warm blanket as he slept as Padfoot, seeping into and filling his body, keeping him warm and dry from his cold and damp cell.
As much as he tried, sometimes he lost his battle and was racked with fear that he would die, cold and alone, in that very cell. Never to be remembered again.
There’s something about Hermione. It’s as if she’s the physical manifestation of everything he’s fought so hard for. All the love and hope he carried with him when he thought he couldn’t continue on any longer. She’s always had a spark in her that reminds him of his own fire. A desire for more. To want more, to know more, to be more, and Sirius wants to help her accomplish it. His every interaction with the witch after they celebrated his brother’s birthday meant so much more. Sirius doesn’t know if she makes it a hobby to bake goods for her friends in the way that connected them both. Who’s he kidding— Hermione is the kindest, most thoughtful witch he’s ever met aside from Lily, but something about that day was different. It changed things between them. For him, at least.
It’s not lost on him that at the age of forty-two, he’s ready to settle down with someone twenty years younger than him. It’s cruel, even. She still has so much more to live, to experience, but he so badly wants to be a part of that journey. To give her everything and show her everything. A part of him can’t help but wonder if their night together bollocksed everything he hopes he can have with her. Will she think less of him? Will she think their night together is all he ever wants from her? This is all uncharted territory for him.
He wants fucking cheesy long walks along the beach with her, coffee shop dates, and boring nights in. To write her love letters that leave her speechless and wanting. He wants picnics and long talks when they both can’t sleep. He wants to cook with her and come home to her. He wants to fall asleep and wake up with her in his arms. And he really, really wants miniature perfect mixtures of themselves — wild hair like hers, but black as night like his, with her warm honey brown eyes — running around, driving him barmy. Too smart for him, just like their mother.
He hopes more than anything that she doesn’t think all he wants from her is a fuck. He wants more than that. So much more than that.
Sirius shakes away his thoughts, deciding to instead focus on the present and where to go from here. He places the mugs on a platter, along with a fruit cocktail of strawberries, pineapple, oranges and watermelon to take up.
He takes a deep breath, musters up his Gryffindor courage and wandlessly summons the platter to follow behind him. He’ll talk to her: ask her if their night together could lead to anything else. Simple. Hermione has always been reasonable, willing to talk about anything logically.
He’s halfway down the hall, about to approach the stairs when he halts, coming face to face with Hermione.
She’s looking at him like a deer caught in headlights. Her mouth is ajar, and eyes are wide, mascara smudged around them. Her hair is a mess. She has creases on the side of her face from sleep, her dress is on backwards, and her heels are in her hands.
Is she…running away? He panics but doesn’t let his face show it.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” He smiles. “I was just bringing up a spot of tea and some fruit for you.” Hermione flinches at the volume of his voice, almost dropping her shoes, and shields the sun from her eyes, hissing like a vampire. Sirius chuckles. “And a Sober Up potion.”
She looks behind him where she spots the platter floating, carrying their two mugs, a vial, and a plate of fruit. Without a word, she backs away from him and slowly walks backwards into the sitting room.
“Hermione, sweetheart. We-we have to talk about this. Why don’t you sit, drink your tea, potion, and have a bit of fruit.” He’s approaching her, his arms up before him, as if she were a wild animal.
“No, I…I have to go. We…fuck.” She looks away from him worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
“We did indeed.” Maybe he shouldn’t have said that but she’s freaking out and all he knows is humour during awkward times like these.
Hermione shakes her head. “This was…no, this was a mistake. He’s going to be so mad,” tears begin to pool in her eyes, her bottom lip and chin quivering. Sirius steps forward to try and console her, but she steps back. “You…you can’t tell him this happened. Harry, you can’t tell him.”
This was a mistake. Her words echo inside his head over and over and there’s an ache in his chest that he hasn’t felt since 1981. “Hermione, sweetheart, calm down. It’s okay. It’s okay, we can talk about this.”
“No! This was a mistake, Sirius! And you have to promise me that no one will know. This shouldn’t have happened and no one can know.” Her voice is stern, giving no room for argument, no room for discussion.
“Okay, Hermione,” he nods, defeated. “I won’t tell anyone. If you really want to forget that this happened, then I suppose I can pretend. No one will know.” His voice sounds weak, deflated, and the ache in his chest gets tighter.
“I…I’ve got to go. I can’t. I’m sorry.” Without another word, Hermione grabs a handful of floo powder and disappears within the emerald flames.
The echo of the floo fills the room, and he shakes his head in confusion.
What the bloody hell just happened?
She left. She just… left. Not only that, but she begged him not to say anything. Begged him as if she were embarrassed of him. As if sleeping with him was just about the worst thing she could’ve ever done.
Rationally, he knows it’s because of Harry. He hopes it’s because of Harry. He hopes it’s only because she’s scared, because he’s his Godfather, because he’s twenty years her junior but…why does it feel like it’s so much more than that?
She left leaving nothing but a trace of her jasmine shampoo, taking all his hopes and desires with her, setting them ablaze with the flames of the floo.