Doors of Perception

Chapter Three

The Doors that let the dark leap in

Across my sunny life!

(Fannie Stearns Davis)

Sirius stood for a second, unable to react, and then hurried the girl inside, out of the storm. "Here," he said, handing her a towel. "Dry your face." He tried to fill the empty air with words to prevent her telling him what was making her cry. He knew whatever it was he couldn't face it. "Let me find you some dry clothes, you will freeze like that. Would you like some coffee?" His words faded in his throat as the broomstick fell from her hand and hit the floor.

He didn't want to know. He dreaded her next words. What could have brought her here in this weather, on a broomstick? Hermione hated flying. Hermione knew the rules about Muggle transport. Hermione was standing here in his hallway, dripping wet with rain and tears. A sob shook her body, and without meaning to, Sirius reached forward to draw her into the comfort of his arms.

"NO!" she shrieked. "Don't touch me..."

He recoiled as if slapped. "I'm sorry... I..."

Another sob shook her body and then she flung herself at him, burying her face in his shirt. "No, I'm sorry... Sirius..." her sobs were now overwhelming her words.

He pulled back to look into her face, cold fingers of terror clutching at his heart. His head hurt, he wasn't thinking straight, he couldn't deal with this right now. "What happened, Hermione? Is it Harry?"

She shook her head violently. "No, not Harry... he doesn't... doesn't know where I am...didn't tell anyone..."

"Hey, ok... tell me when you're ready..." he soothed, stroking her hair, calming himself as well as her.

"I...I need a few minutes. Can I borrow something so that I can get out of these clothes?" Sirius was proud of the way that she pulled herself together and his heart surged in him when she smiled up at him through her tears, a rainbow through storm clouds.

"Yeah, I'll go find some of Harry's jeans and a shirt or something. Did you not bring anything with you?"

"I left in a bit of a hurry," she confessed. "I didn't think to bring anything."

He released her gently, steadying her with his hand. "Will you be ok?" Tell me... let me help you...

"Yeah. Can I have a cloth to wipe my face and a glass of water? My throat is a bit hoarse."

He furnished her with these, then went upstairs. Rifling through his godson's drawers he found a pair of faded jeans that looked like they would fit, although they would probably be too long. Harry's T-shirts all looked too narrow for her though, so he found a blue shirt of his own for her to borrow. Armed with these he returned to Hermione, who was standing at the kitchen sink, glass of water in hand, and gazing out through the window at the rain pelting down on the grey mountains. At first, she didn't hear him, so he cleared his throat reluctantly, not wanting to break her reverie.

She turned, startled, eyes like a deer in the headlights, until she recognised him and her relief was evident. Her reaction scared Sirius. What had happened to make Hermione, conscientious, organised Hermione, lose control so completely?

He held out the clothes to her, and without a word, she took them and went upstairs, the door to the room she often used shutting with its distinctive bang. As she passed Sirius he saw that there were tears in her eyes again.

* * *

He set about making something to eat, deciding on spaghetti as he remembered it was one of her favourites. The throbbing in his temples was easing slightly and having something to do took his mind off the anniversaries that kept threatening to flood his anxious mind. But Hermione in tears arriving with no warning was not what he had expected.

When she returned and saw him, standing over the stove with a wooden spoon, Hermione managed a strained smile. He watched her cross the floor and settle in the big chair at the end of the wooden table. She had spent some time pulling herself back together. She had washed her face and dried her hair, and although his and Harry's clothes hung loosely on her, Sirius was glad to see that she looked better for having taken the time to change. She was no longer shaking and her face had returned to the composed expression he was used to, albeit without the usual light in her eyes.

He finished cooking in silence and then spooned the pasta and sauce onto two plates, handing her one and taking the other to sit facing her at the other end of the table. "Thanks," she whispered.

He ate, watching her push the food around her plate until he couldn't stand it any longer. "Hermione." She looked up. "Please let me help you. I can't do anything if I don't know what's hurting you."

Her brown eyes clouded with tears once more. "You can't do anything anyway..."

He knew not to press her any further. So he stood and crossed to the sink with his empty plate. "Here," she held out hers too. "I'm sorry... I'm just not hungry..." he smiled sadly and took the plate.

"Sirius," she said after a few long minutes. "It hurts..." and he put down the plates and crouched by her chair, taking her into his arms like a little girl, patting her back, stroking her hair and letting her cry. What was it? Had something happened to her parents? To Ron? But then surely Harry would be here too... she said Harry didn't know where she was...

He moved back, allowing her to stand. She whispered something he couldn't hear, her eyes not meeting his. "What?" he murmured, moving closer again, gently touching her cheek to tilt her head up. Her eyes remained focused on a patch of floor between their feet, but this time she spoke louder. "I was raped."

"WHAT!" His hand dropped from her cheek as if he had been burned. Words and questions pounded to the forefront of his mind, blinding red rage overwhelming his senses as he tried to get out the words he needed. Oh, his head hurt! The words came hurtling out in an incomprehensible order, "When? By whom? Did you tell Dumbledore?"

She shook her head, collapsing once more into tears. Sirius regretted shouting; he reached out towards her, but couldn't touch her. What if she resented him now, what if she feared his touch? "Hermione," he said gently. "Tell me who..." He needed an outlet for this bottled rage, that anyone, anyone, would touch Hermione...

"You will be so angry..."

"I am angry already," he replied calmly although her words chilled him. Dread filled him that he would know the name she spoke. Unreasonable, unsubstantiated dread that she would speak his godson's name.

"Draco Malfoy," she spat.

Relief and anger coursed through Sirius in equal, powerful measures. Why had he thought Harry? Just blind panic and alcohol tainting his thoughts. It was always his godson who was there in the forefront of his mind.

"Why the little... Of course I'm angry! If I could get my hand on him..." Words failed him as he tried to find something, someway, of expressing his fury.

Gentle hands took his. "But it is my fault..."

"Never let me hear you say that again!" Sirius roared. "It is not your fault."

"But," again she started to cry and Sirius's heart softened, bled for her. "I have been spending a lot of time with him. We work together in Arithmancy - there is nobody else of our... our ability in the class. Ron and Harry hate it but they know how much my studies mean to me..." she broke down and covered her face. Sirius stood helplessly. "He had stopped being cruel. We almost got along and I was almost starting to think that we might have been wrong about him, that I might have been able to be his friend..."

Sirius steered her down the step and across to the sofa where she sank gratefully, curling herself into a protective ball among the cushions.

"But this morning... I was standing at the table... we study in a room... an unused room... on the fourth floor... where we can work undisturbed... I was standing, working on a chart when he came in... he stood behind me and looked over my shoulder... then he put his arms around my waist and pressed against my back. I was surprised, and turned to face him... he pinned my arms behind me and kissed me. I was too surprised to react. He must have done something to my arms, because when he released me I still couldn't move them... and he was unbuttoning my robes, and his hands were on my breasts and then rubbing my thighs and..."

Sirius wanted to stop her, to break into her words, to stop them coming. But he knew that she had to tell him. She had to tell somebody. So he let her continue her narrative, punctuated with sobs.

"... pushed me back onto the table. I still couldn't move my arms, but I kicked him and I bit him... I tried screaming but I knew there was nobody there to hear me... that was why we picked that room... he held me down with his body... his knees on my thighs, stopping me from moving... so strong... kept kissing me, roughly, said 'Scream Mudblood. Go on - I want to hear you scream'... I bit him and he hit me, hurt my face..." her hand rose unconsciously to her cheek. "He had the front of my clothes open... squeezed my breasts... bit them... He had his own trousers down around his knees... he touched himself while he tried to get my knickers off... all the while I was pinned down, his knees holding my legs... I must have screamed.. I don't remember..." her sobbing rose to overcome her words. She sat shaking, her hands clutched to her face, trying to hold back the tide of tears.

Sirius was torn. He wanted to gather her into his arms, to protect her from the world, but he knew that that was probably the last thing she needed. He knew that rape victims found it difficult to trust even members of their family holding them. Rape victims... no he couldn't think of her like that. She was still Hermione. Gently he touched the back of her hand with his finger. Reflexively she grasped his hand. It seemed to calm her, her breathing slowed, became more regular again.

"He... he ripped..."

"No... enough. You don't have to tell me."

She looked up, her red eyes meeting his. "Yes I do. I need you to understand."

"He raped you. I know how terrible that is," Sirius growled.

"I need you to listen," she whispered regardless. "I know you don't want to hear - but I need to tell you."

He took her other hand and turned to face her. "Okay. Tell me."

She looked away at first, ashamed. Then she looked back up at him, unseeing, as if she was looking through his head and telling him what she could see. Emotionlessly, as if she was describing something happening to someone else.

"I couldn't move. I've told you that. He held my legs with his hands and wriggled down so that he was against me and... and pushed inside me...I felt like... No, you are right, you don't need to hear this..."

Her eyes refocused. "There is just one thing I do need to tell you. I didn't hate it. I... He hurt me... but he wasn't rough, just...thorough and emotionless. He didn't care what I was feeling. After a bit I stopped resisting. I thought it might hurt less if I didn't fight him."

Her eyes were locked with Sirius's. He knew it was difficult for her to speak from how slowly the words came. Each word was measured, weighed before she spoke.

"It did hurt less. I even began to get used to the feeling of his hands on me, of him...inside me. That scares me. Almost more than the fact that it happened. I stopped resisting and let him, I even let him kiss me when he finished. He didn't release me until he was dressed and leaving. When he was gone I just lay there. It felt like someone had turned the world around and I wasn't sure which way was up. Like drowning and not knowing in which direction the surface lay."

The seriousness of her tone, the flatness and lack of feeling scared Sirius. She turned away from him. "I ran back to the dormitory, found some other clothes and then left. I took a broomstick from the school shed and I came here. I didn't see anyone or tell anyone. I didn't know what else to do."

She squeezed his hands. "I couldn't go to my parents. I couldn't tell them. So I came here."

She looked back and smiled at him. How was she so calm? Inside Sirius was all mixed up. Rage boiled through his veins. Need to find Malfoy and pound his head into the ground. Need to talk to Dumbledore and assure him that Hermione was okay. Was Hermione okay? Need to respect her wishes and do what she wanted. If she didn't want to tell anyone what would he do?

His mind was in such a turmoil he barely noticed the girl had crawled closer to him, her expression one of such pain that had he seen he would have known that she was not calm, and he closed his arms around her reflexively, cradling her like a child against his chest. She was unresponsive and so they sat together for a while, Sirius trying to sort out what to do next. She had cried herself dry against his shirt, now she no longer shuddered and a blanket of calmness descended over them, smothering Sirius. He couldn't breath, he didn't know which way to turn, what to do, what to say.

"Thank you," she murmured against his shoulder. "I just needed someone else to help me deal with it."

"You know I will always do everything I can," he whispered in response, kissing her temple chastely, like soothing an infant. He was unprepared for the wave of emotion that this simple act released. Love and lust and need to protect. Hermione felt him shiver and she sat up, looking at him.

"Will you do anything?" she sounded mildly surprised.

Sirius was horrified. "Of course. I thought you knew that. I will talk to Dumbledore, tell him you are safe. I will concoct excuses for you to be here if that is what you want. But I think that you should tell Harry and Ron the truth."

She silenced him with a finger over his mouth. She was looking at him intently. "No! Not yet. I'm not ready. I need time to think, to come to terms with it myself before I tell them. And they will beat Malfoy to a pulp. I can't let them be in trouble for me. He is nothing, worthless. I can't let him get to them as well. I can't tell anyone, Sirius. It's as if their knowing will make it real. I don't want it to be real. I want it to go away." The sobs were threatening to rise in her voice again, panic and fear and anger, her fist balled so tightly that her nails were drawing blood, but she didn't notice, her other hand was still raised to cover his mouth, and he could feel her fingers shaking and he lifted his hand to take hers gently. "And if anyone beats Malfoy into the ground it will be me," she finished so heatedly that Sirius was almost afraid of her. "I think I have that right."

"Of course," Sirius agreed. It relieved him to see the fury inside her. Her apparent resigned calm had been far, far worse. Anger was natural; anger he could understand. He could try to protect her from fear, help her release anger, but that dreadful calm, that self blame, had made him helpless.

"Will you help me?" she repeated softly, the angry tears that had risen while she spoke now made her look vulnerable, not terrifying.

"I just said I would do everything I can," Sirius replied, confused.

He was totally unprepared for her to lean forward and brush her lips against his. "Even this?"

He pulled his head back, looking into her eyes. They looked dark, black with intent, red ringed from her tears. "Will you?" she sounded half challenging, half pleading. "It's what I need. If I don't I will be afraid forever. I have to face this now."

Somehow Sirius's brain had become cotton wool. No cohesive thought would stay. Her explanation almost made sense in a twisted sort of way. "Please... will you touch me?"

Moving purely by instinct and without thought he tilted his head down, and kissed her, letting her take the lead, letting her slid her tongue into his mouth when she ran it along his lower lip. His arms tightened around her, holding her gently, but firmly, revelling in the feeling of her wet tongue, her soft pliable mouth, against his own. Part of him was sighing with satisfaction. Part of him was screaming. Don't do this. It's taking advantage. She is young. She doesn't know what she wants. She is upset. You don't want to do this.

He broke the kiss. She looked up at him, leaning forward to kiss him again and frowning in confusion when he turned away.

"I don't think that this is a good idea..." he began.

Her dark eyes watched him, waiting for him to continue. He wanted her so much. "You are upset, that is no basis for..." again he trailed off. Somehow those eyes were breaking his concentration.

She moved slowly, purposefully, as if she was afraid of scaring him, like taming a wild animal. She eased her weight back from him and turned, sliding her legs around so that she was sitting in his lap, her knees either side of him, her hands on his chest. Damn her, she does know what she was doing. She knows exactly what hold she has over me and she knows that I can't say no.

He tried again. "Look. I think you should go upstairs and sleep. We can discuss this later if you want."

In reply she kissed him again carefully, controlled and focused. His insides melted, every atom of his being concentrated on the places where they touched, her warm lips, her wet tongue. Her hands bracing herself against his chest, her thighs, firm and warm, against his sides.

"Sirius," she breathed, her voice tightening in her throat again. "I'm afraid. If I don't get over this now then I will be a wreck. I won't be able to let any man come near me. I need to regain control. And anyway - it's the middle of the afternoon, I can't go to sleep now."

He rested his forehead against hers. "Hermione. I..." a thought struck him. "Were..." Shit, why was he blushing? How old am I? Why does she make me feel like a little boy with a crush? It's a sensible question to ask her!

"Were you a virgin...before...?"

She shook her head a tiny bit. "No..." she whispered. Sirius remembered her relationship with that Bulgarian Quidditch player. That had been months. "Viktor?" I have no right to ask that... It's not like it matters.

She smiled. "No. Viktor and I...touched...but we never had intercourse. I lost my virginity to Charlie Weasley last summer. It was stupid really. We both knew that it wouldn't be a proper relationship. Not with him living in Romania. But I wanted to. I guess I probably initiated it; he certainly would never have pushed me." It hurt Sirius that she was smiling at the memory. "Twice, in fact. Once again just before he went away. I didn't love him. But I don't regret it."

"Do Harry and Ron know?"

Her eyes widened. "No. I think Ginny suspects but she has never said anything. None of the others know. Well, Viktor and I were together for five months so I'm sure that the boys guess that we did more than kiss. But they are too embarrassed to ask, or they don't really care. They definitely don't know about Charlie though. And I would prefer it to stay that way."

"You can trust me."

"I know. I came here blindly when I needed someone, didn't I?"

"You did." He smiled at her, happy to have her in his arms, happy that she had stopped pressuring him for more. Talking he could do.

Her brow was twisted in thought. "It was me, you know," she said. "Charlie followed me, I had control. I don't suppose I really thought about it before...and with Viktor...it was me initiating it usually, although he always responded readily." There was a slight flush on her cheeks. Sirius felt burning jealousy in his veins. Stop it! How many women have you slept with? You've been married! Does she care? But she doesn't love you...a nasty part of his brain whispered. That's why she isn't jealous.

"Do you think... did I give Draco the wrong signals? Did he think that I wanted...?"

"No! I think he is a cruel bastard. And I think you should stop trying to shoulder the blame." The words came out more harshly than he had intended.

"But I ..."

He had to silence her. He sealed his mouth to hers. She responded eagerly, hungrily, her hands locking around his head. Something inside Sirius snapped. He pulled her against him, forcing himself to be gentle. His tongue calmly explored her mouth, his hands tangled in her bushy hair, trailed down her cheeks, rested on her shoulders. He pulled away just long enough to murmur, "Are you sure you want this?" She breathed agreement against his neck, her lips caressing his throat. His hands moved to the buttons on the oversized shirt she wore. He rained a stream of kisses down her neck, following his fingers, kissing the exposed skin as each button came undone. He hadn't thought that she was wearing no bra, that it must have been as wet as the rest of her clothes, that the soft cotton was straight against her skin. The fact that it was his shirt, made it seem even more erotic. She gasped with pleasure as his lips found her nipple, as his tongue carved tiny, tender circles in her soft skin. She pulled his mouth back up to hers. He wondered if all her underwear had been removed...

As his hands slid down to the waistband of the jeans, he realised she had gotten his shirt open as well. He could feel her warm, soft skin against his own, and her lips and her hands on his chest. His conscience still whispered in the back of his mind, telling him to break away, telling him to stop, but he was no longer capable of obeying.

She was naked and he was just wearing his jeans and straining to get them off, her mouth was hot and wet and demanding on his. And then her breathing stopped, cracked in the back of her throat, and she was sobbing once more.

With a deep sigh, Sirius pulled away from her, but she snuggled closer, wrapping herself motionless in his arms. There were no tears, but her whole beautiful body was shuddering with sobs, and he held her against him, her pain dampening his lust, softening his love to a desperate need to help her.

He didn't know how long he sat there, her head on his shoulder, his nose buried in her wild hair, kissing her temples over and over, soothing her, calming her, comforting her. Gradually the crying stopped and she lay without moving, he breathing easing, regularising, and then he realised that she had fallen asleep.

* * *

He carried her upstairs, amazed at how light and yielding she was, and tucked her into his bed. It probably wasn't the best place he thought, and decided to go put sheets on the bed that she normally used, but somehow he couldn't leave her. She looked too small, so fragile, tucked in his big double bed, the white sheets pulled under her chin, contrasting with the pallor of her skin, her wild hair, unruly, bushy as ever, spread messily on the pillow. She was calm asleep; there were no tears, although he could see the blurs around her eyes from before, the redness in her face, flushed from more than just crying.

He sat on the side of the bed, knowing that he had to go, watching her eyelashes flicker in dream, watching the sheet rise and fall gently with her breathing. Asleep she looked so vulnerable and so young, there was nothing to show her strength, her maturity and again he told himself to walk away, that she was just a child.

Why was it that she could make him happy? What was it about her that he loved? This little girl more suited to be his godson's girlfriend than his own. She was so young. It was wrong. He resolved not to give in to his feelings for her. Not only was he old enough to be her father, but she was hurt. She had come to him for comfort, run to him in panic. Surely it would be betraying her trust to even think of her in terms that were more than paternal.

He forced himself to stand, to walk away from the bed. He got to the door and paused. It took more strength of will than he possessed to leave the room without looking back over his shoulder, so he glanced, but kept his feet moving.

In the bathroom he gathered her clothes from the railing where she had put them to dry. He folded them gently, irrationally embarrassed at handling her bra, her plain cotton knickers. He put them outside the door and took a shower, trying to wash away the feel of her hands, her lips, the smell of her skin, trying to forget her mouth pressed to his.

He tried turning the water as hot as he could bear, then as cold as it would go, it hurt and set the hangover pain in his head throbbing again. But it did nothing to diminish the memory of her.

He wrapped himself in a towel and sat on the cold, tiled floor. He would help Hermione, he knew that, he couldn't turn her away, but when she left it would be the last time he saw her. It was the only way. He had to move on with his life, stop dwelling in the past.

He couldn't live on memories alone.

Memories of Hermione, memories of Vivian. So clear, so separate, so painfully needed. His heart was still sore from the day before and the tears came easily to his eyes. He had to move forward. Harry would understand when Sirius told him. Harry wouldn't ask questions. After all, next year everything would be different anyway.

He scrubbed at his face, angry with his tears, accepting his weaknesses but needing to harden them, conquer them. If his years in Azkaban had taught him anything it was that weakness could be overcome by resolve. He stood and pulled on his trousers, washing his face to clear away the tears, and meeting his own gaze in the mirror.

But then he heard her voice calling out in her sleep and it sounded like his name. Or was it his imagination? Was it Vivian - the long haunting tone she used when beckoning him to bed? Was he hallucinating? He thought that he could see the face of his angel in the mirror, standing behind him, but when he turned there was no one there. "Vivian?" he whispered to the air. "My love?"

But all was silent.

He shrugged on his shirt and went out into the hallway, gathering the pile of Hermione's clothes and taking them into the bedroom so she could dress when she woke up. He would have to do something about clothes for her, particularly underwear. She had brought nothing. He would have to contact Dumbledore. Perhaps he could risk fire-speaking, just this once, for an emergency.

But she hadn't been ready yet. He should wait until she woke. But she might sleep for ages, exhaustion brought on by trauma and her ride through the rain. And at school they would be worried.

He crept over to the bed to see if she had moved. Her lips were parted and her eyelashes cast bronze shadows on her white skin. He didn't want to disturb her, he didn't mean to touch her, but without intention his hand alighted briefly on her shoulder. She murmured in her sleep and he made as if to withdraw, but she was faster and her hand, tight with the grip of sleep, took his. Gently he tried to ease away without waking her, tried to pry away the soft, firm fingers. But they held tight. There was no choice, he would have to stay until she woke or until she released his hand. Or so he convinced himself.

Ever so carefully so as not to wake her, he lifted his weight onto the bed and lay down beside her on top of the blankets, his chest to her back, with as much space in between them as he could manage in the circumstances. His wrist rested on her left shoulder and his hand hung down to meet hers. It was cold in just a shirt and trousers and he wished that he had put socks on his feet, but there was no way that he could clamber under the blankets to join her. No, he would live with being cold.

From here he could see her back and the curve of her hips under the blanket, her brown hair, falling away from the whiteness of her neck and cheek and her delicate, curving left ear. He shut his eyes to prevent himself leaning forward to brush that ear with his lips. The insides of his eyelids were red and purple, and his loss of sight heightened his other senses. He could hear her breathing, feel the warm pressure of her hand, and he was uncomfortably aware that she was naked under those blankets and that he was the one who had undressed her.

How long he lay, chasing elusive sleep, he did not know. His mind wandered, empty, uncaring, unthinking. Sometime in the past few hours he must have passed into a dream-state, into a hallucination. Perhaps a nightmare.

Surely none of this was real?

When the dreams came they were of Vivian, his beloved wife, always, always out of reach. But this time she came almost close to him, whispering to him, kind and gentle and loving, but painfully, painfully sad. Her ghost was familiar, a constant companion. Only in Azkaban had he failed to feel her presence. She was intangible, an essence of love, of protection. In her embrace nothing could touch him.

She was going, vanishing, fading as the memory of her face faded. He tried to pull her back, tried to call to her, but without a voice. She was crying, but her eyes spoke of love and trust and then he knew. She would always be there, his angel, but she was relinquishing his care to another, stepping back to a respectful distance and in his dream he accepted this was Hermione.

He woke with tears on his face, knowing that it had been a dream, a projection of longing.

It was dark now, and his arm was numb from the weight of his body. Was it possible to love someone and still be faithful to a memory? Hadn't he only hours before been telling himself to cut free of the memories? He knew now that wasn't possible, they were part of him, his wife, his son, and they always would be. And his love for them couldn't diminish just because he loved others. As his love for Harry didn't supplant his love for Robin, so his love for Hermione wouldn't alter his love for Vivian. Because love it was, he knew that now as he looked down into the face of the sleeping girl beside him.

She had released his hand. He went to the door and turned out the light, then returned to lie on the bed, still chastely above the blankets, not caring how awkward it would be when she woke, not caring that he would have to face embarrassment, not caring, for now, that she could never love him. All that mattered for the moment was the peace that the sound of her breathing could bring him and the love and happiness that swelled his heart.

Once more he let sleep overtake him.

* * *

He was woken in the early hours before dawn by the feeling of her bare arms around him, her soft body pressed against his through the layers of blankets and her gentle lips brushing against his as she whispered his name.

There wasn't any light and even opening his eyes he could barely make out her outline against the curtains. The air still had that heavy, dreamlike quality, or maybe it was just the surfacing from sleep. "Sirius?" she whispered again, and he knew that she was awake.

Which meant that he was too.

She kissed him again, more insistently this time, pulling him even closer to him and instinctively he kissed her back, leisurely, lovingly, not like the fire earlier, or the drunken kiss before that. This was like glowing embers, lasting, warming, gentle, but still capable of kindling a flame.

"Um," he murmured. "I thought that we agreed this wasn't a good idea?"

"Hmm?"

"I thought that we had agreed this wasn't the way to overcome your fear."

He felt her smile against his mouth. "You're right. We're right. It's not. Fear of Draco, fear of men belongs on another plain of existence, banished from this room. I am safe here. Nothing can reach me." For all her brave words he felt her shiver.

"Okay, then just let me hold you and you can go back to sleep. I won't let anything happen to you. In the morning we can contact Dumbledore and you can phone your parents. I'll keep you safe, I promise."

She was snuggled against his chest, her arms holding him to her.

"I think that you should see a doctor too. Will you let me take you to a doctor? Just in case? I would hate it if anything happened to you..."

She stroked the side of his face, sleepily, lazily. He couldn't tell if her eyes were open because it was dark, but somehow he was sure that she was looking at him. Her thumb ran across his lips and he shivered, trying to pull away, knowing that he shouldn't, couldn't, give in to this. She was too young; she was hurt; it wouldn't help her. Over and over his mind kept flashing to that moment of pain on New Year's Eve when she had turned to the others after kissing him, triumphant, successful. He had felt betrayed. He couldn't let himself be hurt again. She would be hurt too. He had to protect her from hurt.

"Hermione. You're half asleep and very upset. You're not thinking rationally. This isn't what you want." He tried to tell her gently, trying to extricate himself from her arms, trying to sound as if it wasn't taking every ounce of resolve he possessed to say it.

She kissed him, twining her arms around his neck. "It is what I want and what you want and I have tried to hide it and I won't run away any more." He hardly heard the words, his brain unable to comprehend her sleepily murmured words. She slid her hand inside the top of his shirt and slowly began to unfasten the buttons. He thought he heard her say something else in a breath of air before he gave in and lowered his lips to hers, but he could have been mistaken.

"Don't you think that this would be easier without blankets between us?" she asked, smiling against his neck.

As he moved he asked her, "For the last time: are you sure? I mean, so soon after Draco..."

"Don't mention that name here!" she replied, the words harsh and sudden. "I told you: that is banished to the outside world. To somewhere I can deal with it later, in another place. Now I only want to think of you. Just... be gentle. I'm ...sore."

It wasn't like a dream, not really. Dreams were transitory, elusive; they vanished on awakening. This was real, tangible, earthy. He held a living, breathing woman in his arms, not a memory. Real hands, real lips, real skin, real Hermione.

He had always thought that her skin would feel like silk, but he was wrong. It felt like skin; in comparison silk was lifeless and cold. She was warm and strong and she wanted him and he was still struggling to realise that fact. He surrendered his thoughts, relying instead on instinct and need and the delicious little sounds that she was making. And he stopped wondering and allowed himself to believe.

But what really brought it home was that she was still there when he opened his eyes in the morning: real Hermione, curled against his naked chest, her unkempt hair tickling his face and making him want to sneeze. He eased away from her, laying her back on the pillows and pulling the blankets around her, watching the way the sunlight from the window played across her face.

A glance at the clock told him it was past eleven, but he left her to sleep anyway. Dressing silently he went to the dresser on the other side of the room and opened the top drawer. Inside his fingers scratched at the back board, which came away and revealed a small compartment. He drew out his wand, holding lovingly in his hands. Even after these months it still felt instantly familiar, comforting and soothing. He descended to the little sitting room as quietly as possible and, leaving the wand on the table, lit a fire.

Then he retrieved the wand. He stood for a moment in contemplation. It was a risk to use this spell here, but perhaps just once he could get away with it. It was a risk, but one that he had to take.

A whispered word and a flash of light lit the fireplace and after a few seconds Professor Dumbledore's face appeared.

"Sirius!" The headmaster sounded shocked and anxious to see him.

"Headmaster. You may be aware that Hermione Granger is missing from school," Sirius spoke fast to inform the other man without allowing time for questions. "She is safe. She is upstairs asleep. She arrived last night by broomstick in great distress," here he faltered, unable to continue, the pain and anger from the day before building up again as a pressure in his chest. "She was raped by Draco Malfoy," he said shortly.

Dumbledore's eyebrows lowered in a frown, which was the only indication that he had registered Sirius's words. He didn't waste time sending his condolences to Hermione or inquiring after her well being. In other circumstances Sirius would have been proud of this obvious acknowledgement of his capabilities, but today it just demonstrated that Dumbledore's thoughts had focussed instead on how to deal with the problem. Then the headmaster began to speak.

* * *

Some time later Sirius was sitting at the kitchen table with a sandwich and a mug of coffee. His thoughts still dwelled on the girl asleep upstairs. Dumbledore had suggested that she stay at Plas Isaf for the remaining three weeks of the term. He had indicated that her parents should be immediately notified and that should Hermione wish too, she could spend the rest of the term at home. Sirius didn't want to let her go, but he knew that she might feel happier with her parents. He had already mentioned to her that she should phone her parents. He had taken responsibility for her, but he had to remind himself that it wasn't his place to do so.

It was a grey day, the sky and the water colourless and drab, matching Sirius's feelings. He knew that Hermione had been in shock the day before, and that today the full impact of what had happened would hit her. He knew that it would be a difficult day for both of them, and it was just an added weight on the day of the year that he dreaded more than any other.

He had a vague recollection of a dream of Vivian. And, having done all that he could for Hermione for the moment, he had allowed himself to relax. As soon as he had done so the emotional barrier that he had constructed around himself began to crumble, his indifference cracking under the burden of his pain. He curled in his chair nursing his mug and remembering.

Beautiful, beautiful Vivian, half her face scarred and bleeding, her corpse mangled and bent, burned when she had turned to use her body to unsuccessfully shield her infant son. Over and over the image flashed through his mind like the soundless, scalding lightning that ended their brief lives. He tried instead to remember the happy times, to remember the feeling of holding his son in his arms for the first time, to remember that moment in early May when Vivian agreed to marry him, to remember them all together, happy and content. But the memories were caged within him in some box without a key, each time he conjured Vivian's blurry face it would twist and scar in front of his eyes and over and over he beheld the dead body of his son.

March 6^th, Day of Death.

Again and again he told himself they might have felt no pain, but he knew it was himself that he was soothing, not them. He knew that he hadn't been there when they needed him. He didn't know if his son had been screaming when he died, or if his wife had been crying out his name. He knew nothing, nothing except that Vivian, with a maternal instinct that would later be echoed by her close friend, had spent the last moment of her life trying to protect her child, trying to keep him alive. But unlike Lily she had failed. He didn't know if she died first, not knowing that her son would share her fate. Or had he died first, and she succumbed, cradling his body in her arms. He didn't know; there was no way of knowing what had happened in those final chaotic seconds of their lives. He hadn't even known until hours later that they were gone.

The first he had heard had been on the wireless, an attack by Death Eaters on a Muggle shopping centre. Appalling but hardly unusual for the time. But then he had learnt from Vivian's Muggle mother that his wife had been shopping at the time.

He had thought that the waiting would be the worst part, the uncertainty, the anxiety, the sickness that spread in his stomach and threatened to spill out whenever someone brought news of other casualties, of other survivors, but no news of his family.

But of course, he had been wrong. Hearing those words had been far, far worse than waiting, fearing to hear them. Because while waiting, there had always been, however slim, the hope that he would never hear them.

His ghosts taunted him, chased him, tortured him. When he forced them back it was to the realisation that his life now centred around something else. The pain was still there, a sharp thorn in his heart, but thoughts of Hermione were the salve. So sweet, so soft, and so strong.

And yet to ask that much of her would be wrong. She was a child. Shackling her to man such as him, a man who could only bring her pain and misery, was a crime. When she woke he would tell her. He would try and forget the calm that he had felt in her arms, the rest that had come sleeping beside her, and he would fight on as he always had done.

* * *

A frantic knock on the front door followed by a feverish calling of his name drew Sirius back to now and his kitchen. He walked to the door in a half-daze, his hands moving automatically on the catch.

"Uh, Harry." He could hardly summon surprise to his voice. Nothing was an astonishment, nothing mattered. Had he been thinking he might have expected Harry to appear. Now all who was left was Ron.

"Sirius have you seen Hermione? She's gone missing. She's not at school or at her parents' and..."

"She's here."

Harry's body sagged with relief. He pushed past Sirius into the house, "Her -"

"She's asleep," Sirius interrupted.

"Oh," Harry paused and looked back at his godfather who was still standing in the doorway in his bare feet. "Why is she here? Why didn't I know?"

Sirius ran a hand through his messy hair. "I think it's not my place to tell you why she's here. She will tell you when she is ready. And had you gone to your headmaster instead of flying here in blind panic then he would have told you that Hermione is perfectly safe."

Harry had calmed now, but still looked confused. "Why is she asleep? It's past noon. Can I go wake her?"

"No, she's..." in my bed, "Um, upset. I'd better be the one to wake her because she won't expect to see you." Even as he said it he knew how lame it sounded, but Harry accepted it and wandered through to the kitchen with a nod.

Sirius leapt up the stairs and went into the bedroom, hoping that Harry wasn't really listening to the location of his footsteps or he would have some awkward questions to answer.

"Hermione?" he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed and touching her shoulder.

She murmured sleepily and turned to face him, her eyes opening blearily. She smiled when she saw him and Sirius's heart turned over.

"Hermione, Harry is downstairs. You need to get up."

"Harry?" she murmured confused.

"Yeah," he teased. "My godson. Dark hair, glasses, scar..."

"Oh!" she said suddenly, sitting bolt upright. She was still naked and the sheets fell to her waist. Sirius averted his eyes. It wasn't his place, even now, to look at her, he thought.

"Where are my clothes?" she asked, not looking at him. She's remembered, it's all come crashing home, Sirius thought. She regrets it. It hurt, but he was determined to put it behind him and continue.

"He wants to know what you're doing here. I think that you should tell him," Sirius told her.

"About us?" she turned back as she fastened her bra.

There's an us?

"No, I meant about Draco."

"Oh," she went quiet and her face fell as the memory flickered across her features, darkening them with a shadow that didn't die away. "Yes, I suppose I should. I have to face it, don't I?"

"You do."

She finished dressing quietly, then moved towards the door. "Are you coming with me?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Please. It's time to face what happened to me and I would like you to support me."

He smiled although he felt like crying. "Of course, you know I will do whatever I can." He winced at the repetition of his earlier words, but she was still smiling.

"Thanks," she whispered, brushing her lips against his as they went out the door.

Sirius stopped, Hermione took his hand and urged him towards the stairs. His heart was thumping. How did she feel about him? Surely she didn't mean to tell Harry that as well? The boy could only take one shock at a time. But Hermione dropped his hand at the bottom of the stairs and pushed open the door to the main room. She took a deep breath and went in to talk to Harry.

It took a lot of will-power to follow her into that room. Today of all days he didn't want to face people, anyone except Lupin, who knew, who understood, and here he was having to deal with this. He quashed that selfish thought, he must put the living ahead of the dead.

Hermione was speaking softly, earnestly, to Harry whose face was getting whiter and whiter and whose jaw was tightening to the point that Sirius wondered how he could stand the toothache. Then Harry leant forward and enfolded Hermione in his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder briefly, then stood away, still speaking, still within the circle of his arms. On hearing Sirius enter, she looked back at him with a smile trying to break through the shadow on her face.

"I'll kill him!" was all Harry said, but the emotion was so chokingly intense that Sirius knew it was no idle threat.

"That won't solve anything," Sirius said gently, trying to hold them all together with his placating tone.

"It will make me feel better," Harry growled.

Hermione put her hand across her friend's mouth and looked into his eyes solemnly. "Draco Malfoy is not worth putting yourself in Azkaban over. He is nothing. He is scum. He is shit beneath our shoes. He is insignificant and unworthy of our notice. We will not speak of him again. His name shall never cross my lips."

Sirius was proud that she had said his name then without fear. He remembered something Dumbledore had said: fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself. An adage Hermione had clearly taken to heart. He saw her standing there, where she had sat the night before, broken, and she was stronger than both he and Harry. It was she who was holding them in one piece, she who held the burden, and she who by rights should be supported by them. And yet, the fire in her eyes had not been diminished by the shadow on her face, and her determination shone through. Sirius loved her as she stood there, with a passion that he couldn't describe.

Harry too must have felt her strength because he nodded, submitting to her pronouncement and she released him. They sat together on the sofa, like plotters hatching a scheme, like spin doctors planning a cover up, like co-conspirators devising an idea. It was still Hermione who held them together, her strong words tying them to her as she set out terms, strategies for dealing with her trauma.

It was backwards. Sirius knew that they should be helping her, not her advising them on how to deal with the fact that she had been raped. But there was that steam-rollering effect that Hermione had, demolishing any protest that got in her way. By the end of the afternoon it was well and truly clear who was in charge, and, much as he hated to admit it, Sirius felt some relief that she had taken away the strain.

It was only when Harry ran to the bathroom and when she thought that he wasn't looking that Sirius saw, for one brief instant, the façade flicker and the mask crack. Her face aged decades, grey and exhausted, and she shut her eyes, wrinkling her face in agony. Then she wiped her face with her hand in a blink she was back to normal.

But it was long enough for him to see through the act.

* * *

Sirius had put forward Dumbledore's proposal that Hermione go home, and a look of discomfort had come into her eyes, and, Sirius almost thought that he saw fear.

"No," she had said softly. "I will tell them I am happy here where I don't have to face anyone until I am ready. I will tell them...tell them my strength is here."

And then Harry had risen to leave and they had all walked to the hallway, Hermione putting her hand ever so briefly on Sirius's arm as he held the door, so briefly that it almost appeared to be unconscious formality, but he saw her draw strength from his touch, and strength imbued him from her fingertips. And yet Harry saw nothing, and no comment was made.

Something inside Sirius felt as though it was twisted tight and it made him feel sick. But he couldn't say anything to Harry. He didn't know where his relationship with Hermione was going, whether he even had a relationship with her. He knew he couldn't have a relationship with her. They hadn't had a chance to discuss it. Speaking to Harry would be jumping the gun, and yet he still had the uncomfortable feeling that he was hiding something from his godson, and it made him feel sick with self-disgust.

He knew Harry would be horrified, revolted, and yet he knew now that there was nothing to be repulsed by. He loved Hermione without question and that it was not some perverted lust as he had feared, it had not faded on neglect, but instead grown stronger, burned brighter, and he knew that he had once feared that there was no place for him in her life and that she would break his heart if he were foolish enough to entrust it to her. He knew now that it was too late, that she had owned it all along, and that he couldn't revoke that gift. If she chose to hurt him there was nothing he could do, he was confirmed for the ride although he still feared that she wasn't fully interested. He was insecure and he could not confide in Harry.

He didn't even know if he could confide in Hermione.

And yet, as he shut the door behind his godson and rested his forehead against the wood, not yet turning to see his lover, not yet wanting to see what expression was held in her eyes, one other question lingered in his mind. Could he face living another lie?