Chapter 34: Unnatural Expectations

-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-

Chapter 34: Unnatural Expectations

Blankly he stared across sharp points of brilliance upon dancing waters. Mount's Bay jostled the small boat in earnest, yet neither Regulus nor his companions saw fit to remark. More silence filled this return trip to the mainland than their initial outing only that morning.

Had it only been hours since? Lifetimes pass in less, Regulus mused sadly. His had seemed to do just hours before, when certain death loomed before him at the tip of a scarred wand. Only seconds did it last, but in that breath everything of consequence flooded his conscious in rapid succession. Taking the Dark Mark still burning upon taut flesh; learning the Dark Lord's unconscionable intent; betraying his family's beliefs by turning traitor; thrown into a Muggle world of hiding.

But interwoven in those recollections threaded most curious fine silken knots in a tapestry of otherwise drab, rough wool. Slipping past house-elves for ill-gotten sugar biscuits; catching a black haired beauty's impish smile meant solely for him; of once more being called 'Regulus' after years of Stubby Boardman's identity; seeing his brother again... and being acknowledged as such. Such moments cleansed the palate, brought generous rays into caverns of self-imposed solitude and misery.

Sirius' warning had given only minutes to prepare, but those precious tick-tocks of timepieces had been enough. Preparations had been hastily made, and ambushing had given the upper hand. Swift fight full of anger and shock, deadly intent bordering on mania. Enough had been injured seriously or disarmed that respite could be seen. Until, in the midst, he'd come violently upon a familiar face.

"I'll be damned," Rabastan Lestrange whispered, eyes bulging at the sight of a very real, very alive Regulus Black.

Whirling blur turned him vertigo, the force of his body smashing heavily into the sandy ground, knocking breath from unprepared lungs. It was only seconds before clarity hit with all the shock of icy water to the face. Later he would learn it was Angus MacGregor who'd gotten off the shot against Rabastan, stunning him. But it had been only after Sirius had careened into his younger brother, knocking him from the line of fire, taking the curse meant for Regulus.

"Bloody Gryffindor," Regulus now murmured contemptuously beneath his breath, staring unseeingly toward the partially exposed causeway far to their left. Unnatural expectation it would have been to hope Sirius would have – for once – remained conscious of his own safety. His brother had jumped to save him, just as reckless and selfish as always. For it could only be selfishness to have moved Sirius to take the spell, to leave Regulus once again after they had only just found the other, had started to be brothers as not since early childhood. Three decades it had been since belonging of this sort had existed, and now dashed away on noblesse oblige. Only careless arrogance could have propelled Sirius to sacrifice himself, never giving thought to Regulus. Regulus... again utterly alone in the world. With Sirius gone, no family left would have him. And a family of his own was out of the question. One witch only among thousands had garnered his attentions, his respect in the last twenty years. And it was evident beyond all shadow she was in love with Sirius, not him.

Abundantly clear was that choice she had made, there on the dune grass before them all. Heart upon her sleeve, tears of gravest grief reddening expressive brown eyes. Her voice had been choked and anguished, pitiful, and no comfort was to be had for her once she'd seen Sirius.

Nearly unconscious, it was doubted Sirius could even comprehend surroundings or people, but Regulus had spoken so softly to him, kneeling near his ear, encouraging hand gripping tightly his brother's thumb like he had as a child his first flight upon a broom, Sirius behind him, promising he'd not let Regulus fall. Regulus loved his older brother, make no mistake. Open affection was never his strong trait, but always it was there. Sometimes hidden by pain, sometimes agitation, sometimes fear. But never ending.

And then Hermione was there, holding his head, cradling him, weeping over him. Moving all others away by mere sense they were imposing. And it was no longer about Regulus and Sirius; it was not about Ron and Hermione. And it was never about Hermione and himself.

-o-0-o-

Recovery seemed almost a fool's hope. Fever had taken hold, slumber fitful and aught but restful. Reddish-orange flames crackled into the growing darkness, bestowing warmth in tandem with the woollen cavalry blanket Hermione had draped upon Sirius. The second blanket Raj had left lay beneath them both in protection from cooling earth, allowing Hermione to kneel at Sirius' head with the loch-drenched kerchief she'd procured from the rucksack. Religiously the vial was tipped to his slack lips, drop by precious drop draining in effort for life.

Reverently fingertips grazed burning flesh between fresh douses. Sweat-dampened tendrils clung like a lover's scent to every sweep she made, clearing his brow whether or not it need be. Touch of his flesh was her second greatest need right then; knowledge of complete restoration of his health the grand winner by far.

In repose Sirius softened to childlike innocence, free of the horrors of a war he'd not been allowed to fight. Very much it was he who now appeared the inexperienced one, the dependent with troubled dreams and poor confidence. And so longingly Hermione wanted to care for him, soothe away his fears and worries, heal him.

"You've always been the courageous one, Sirius," she cooed to him, palm resting maternally in thick, long black tresses. "And so bold, so full of life!" A smile entered her voice, eyes brimming with tears of withheld emotion.

"You're daring and valiant, as well. Every obstacle thrown in front of you, you've passed. Circe, you've even beaten death. You've already died once – and you came back to us. You beat the Veil; that has to count for something." Dashing away the spillage from her eyes, she continued stroking his hair, commanding throat to ease and heart to settle. He would be okay; he had to be.

Finally collected, she rose to gather more fuel, the mundane chore comforting in mindless familiarity. Returning amid armful of wood and handfuls of dry needles, Hermione stacked heating provisions and refreshed the transfigured pot of loch water. Once more without duties, she sat beside Sirius' troubled figure, one leg stretched out alongside.

"They're going to do all right, you know," she continued, subconsciously seeking affirmation that he heard her, that he was just below the surface of waking. "They're meeting up with Remus and the Order. You know Remus; once Regulus sends the message, he'll have every detail worked out and then some. They'll dash to the ball and stop Voldemort once and forever. And in the morning, we'll both be there to greet them at Grimmauld Place to celebrate."

Territory forbidden was growing as the subject, and Hermione quickly searched for something else to say, something that did not involve their current predicament. Darkness encroaching, only vague resemblance formed through haze, fading his image to her. She shuddered, silently pleading it was not a new foreshadow of the hours to come. Memories rose to distract her.

"I remember when we first met. You were scary, actually." She chuckled lightly, running her left fingers down unshaven jaw, dwelling on each divot, each curve. "But I trusted Remus, and he trusted you. And I suppose that was all I needed. At the time.

"But then the next two years, you seemed... unbalanced." Unsure, bitten lip. Frown; brows drawn. "I really thought Azkaban had robbed your sanity. Always it seemed you treated Harry like he was his father rather than your godson. I think you wanted James back so badly you forgot Harry wasn't like him. He didn't even know him."

Casting about visually for words that would not materialize, Hermione allowed her monologue to drift into the dusk. Did she really need to tell him all this? Could he even hear her? Did it make any difference, really?

Yes. Yes, it made a difference, for she needed to say these things, to tell him what she could not say before. Why did it take this tragedy to bring to her lips honest feelings and open frankness? Had she not, upon first seeing him prone, blurted out in no uncertain actions her affections for him? Before everyone – even Ron – she had made abundantly clear that it was Sirius she loved, and loved so deeply. An admittance difficult even unto herself, Hermione had announced with such finality that Sirius Black was her world, her everything, and losing him again was not an acceptable option.

"I'm sure after all this is over, tongues shall wag with renewed vigor." Wistful smile creased her eyes. "Not sure if you're aware of it, but I've made a right spectacle of myself today." Softened words coupled with renewed caresses.

"You and your showmanship; simply had to make a draw of yourself, playing hero and saving your brother. But this time I couldn't let you steal the whole spotlight, I s'pose. Had to go and make a scene, you know. Had to make sure everyone and sundry knew I lo–" She faltered, syllables catching in her raw throat. Fingers stilled and she leaned down to him, inches from his pale face.

Searching for a moment, she found speech once more, a hoarse whisper of repressed emotion.

"When I was a little girl, I'd play librarian at recess. The few girls at school who were friendly to me would play at pretend boyfriends who met at the library to write love letters. They'd ask me what boy I'd marry. Of course, I said he'd be clever and witty and kind. I never thought... I never thought I'd fall so deeply with a reckless, temperamental, immature, brilliant man who called me a child and forgot my birthday..." Her voice broke and a single tear splashed soundlessly upon his cheek. Imitating his gesture from what seemed years prior, Hermione closed the gap and gently kissed his fevered forehead, murmuring against cherished skin.

"I love you so very much, Sirius Black..."

-o-

Burnt orange glow seeped betwixt eyelids, slowly drawing Hermione back into wakefulness. A distinct snap of burning log had roused her, and reluctantly she left dreams of forests and laughter, camp tents and bonfires. Peering lazily through half-open lids, the glowing fire reassured her its protective presence. Light and warmth – so often associated with safety and peace. Flames licked dispassionately to the fathomless black sky, dying a little before mingling with others and sprouting once more from reddened embers.

Suddenly awareness struck her, and Hermione's eyes shot wide with shock. She'd lain down beside Sirius, the fire on his other side. Her view was clear to it, now, and –

He was off to her right, just inside the circle of light. Chest bare, feet bare, right knee high, supporting a forearm; left leg curled casually upon the damp ground. He was staring into the fire, its flickering casting sharp relief and shadow upon his wearily draped form, playing upon the curves and planes of his beautiful body. Locks of ebony blended into the evening, appearing only when breeze shifted their tendrils across his chiseled cheek or firelight reflected their strands.

His blanket... it was draped upon her, she realized to some concern. Beneath her head, cotton pillowed her from the ground. His shirt. Understanding cleared cobwebs of sleep, and Hermione suddenly started, taking in the full scene. He was awake. He was awake!

"Sirius! " she half shrieked, relief flooding her as she rose, the blanket falling discarded. He turned his head to her, leaving all but right high point of brow and cheekbone and jaw thrown into darkness. No expression could be deduced, but it did not matter; he was alive, he was awake.

Little more than a brief stand, stride, then return to her knees followed as she reached his still form, and she threw her arms about him in a vehement embrace of joy and pent stress. Clutching desperately to him, all she could do was chant repeatedly through her tears.

"Oh, God, Sirius... I thought you were gone... I was so scared... thought you were gooonnneee..." Sobs racked through her in release, her arms so tight about him his heartbeat could be felt with her own. It was only long moments later when his arms finally wrapped gently about her that she realized he'd not moved when she'd hugged and held to him.

But he did now. Comforting rubbing glided across her back, Sirius' hands easy and light.

"Shhh.... It's all right, now. It's all right." Cooing whisper, soothing hands. "I'm here, sweeting. I'm right here. Shhh..." Timbre of his voice, tonality, resonance... all were a safe haven into which Hermione longed to crawl and never to leave. Fluttering was his breath against her left ear, so close were his lips she felt their brush as he spoke reassuringly. Her grip tightened even more.

"I've not gone anywhere," he continued, calming speech growing marginally stronger. Endearing kisses of parent-like affection fell into her hair near her temple, blending with whispers of placation and nonsensical sounds. They did not matter their meaning; it was enough they were his, of his breath.

Rough stubble scraped against smooth skin as he pulled back slightly, whiskers of his jaw caresses of their own against sensitive temple, down across her cheekbone as he lowered his angle in effort to face her. Yet still he held close, did not pull away. This closeness she cherished, needed, his near permanent departure too overwhelming in its pain for anything less than constant reassurance of presence. Yes; perhaps now she truly was acting a lost child, but she would not apologize. This time it was a coming home to be in his arms. If that meant she was a juvenile to his adult guidance, then so be it. All she needed was him, safe and sound.

Hermione was not quite sure when the mood changed, when the soft hand-strokes on her back shifted to an atmosphere unlike before. But in that moment she knew beyond question that a new tension had just developed between them. Striking stillness of his kindly ministrations all but betrayed a subtle, distinct alteration. Beard growth once more rubbed bristly across her jaw, bringing him again near her ear. But the breaths that found their way against it had now grown shallow, brisk.

This time the reassuring peck of affection dropped to the soft plane before her ear. Soft breaths tickled, and a shudder danced down her suddenly sensitive body. Somehow all thoughts of paternal comfort fled her mind, replaced instantaneously with aching anticipation. She should have known, should have foreseen what her careless embrace of relief would bring her: torture. He was merely consoling her, yet Hermione's body would not leave be that which could not – could never – be.

Sirius slid back further, his lips finding her cold cheek. Nerves tingled, her own breath paused. A palpable something had arisen in the infinitesimal space between them, and Hermione's sobs weakened, time held in limbo.

Then... Another drop in angle; he pulled further away. Lips soft trailed down her cheek, hovering, finding the juncture of her lips. Light sigh against tender flesh. Soft, nearly non-existent...

His lips brushed hers.

-o-

What the bloody hell are you doing? his conscience pleaded answer. But Sirius could not offer explanation, could only feel his actions... feel hers.

The kiss had not been planned, had never even entered his thoughts. Her subdued breaths of anticipation upon his neck, however, had initiated his body to what his mind had refused to ponder. Only as natural course did it seem that when he had drawn round to face her, his lips took what hers were openly offering.

Hermione's muted whimper of surprise mixed with pleasure drove all possible reason from him, and Sirius gave up any fight he had for propriety. She was no longer a child, and all proof needed was delivered before him.

He deepened the kiss.

-o-

Coherent thought fled Hermione's brain the moment Sirius' lips caressed hers, parting them ever so slightly with gentle pressure and mingling of breath. Shock fluttered through her, her reply simply to kiss back. Quickly confusion was replaced by an explosion of pure craving when the tentative pressure gave way to slow, possessive hunger. Her hands splayed: one clutched desperately to his broad, bare back; the other tangled itself deep within long locks, gripping with increasing urgency.

He was alive. He was here. He was making love to her mouth with each exquisite pass of delicate firmness, and when his tongue grazed hers in its new exploration, heat blushed throughout her body, settling in nervous energy within her stomach. This was beyond all magic she'd ever studied. It rose more befitting the level of that Ancient Magic Dumbledore had always spoken of to Harry. But this was a far cry from a life's sacrifice; this was life itself.

Intoxicated thoroughly by his mouth, Hermione became only vaguely aware the burn of flame near bare skin. Her shirt had been drawn up on the left, pushed by a strong hand barely skimming her side by palm. Then it lay there, solid yet light. The other cradled her head, steadying her. It was only as his thumb swept with callous pad across the underside of her breast did she realize he had undone her bra, chilled breeze dancing across exposed flesh. She shivered, a gasp escaping her otherwise thoroughly occupied mouth.

His lips left hers, trailing down the curve of her jaw to the hollow below her ear. Laying her head back to face the all-knowing stars, Hermione closed her eyes, drinking in the intensity of his oral ministrations. So involved was her mind to his darting tongue and grazing thumb that it was several long moments before she noticed the shudder in his breath. He was trembling.

"Sirius..." she whispered, concern lingering his name as her hands now pushed him from her. "You're shaking..." Firelight flickered across his pale face, and suddenly understanding clicked in her bookworm mind: he was still weak. Very weak. He had very nearly died, was still just coming round and here she was, a woman wanton and desperate and selfish enough –

"Hermione," he rasped, eyes semi-focused but staring into her own with sole intent. He was relying on reserved strength, each movement calculated and slow. His hand fell from her head to her shoulder, grasping. "You're not my idea of a late night rendezvous behind the damned Quidditch pitch." His eyes closed tightly, a forced swallow fluttering the muscles of his throat.

"You're something else entirely. You're not something I want... You're someone I need..." he finished hoarsely, opening his eyes once more for their gray to grow dark under furrowed brows. "And that is all together unfamiliar territory for me." Ragged was his inhaled breath. Shaky was his whisper. "It frightens me..." Imploring eyes pulled at her heart far greater than any spell could have done. She was bound to him by laws more powerful than magic. Hermione was in love with Sirius Black in a way such as she never had been with another in the past, or ever would be in the future.

Perhaps Sirius was not yet so attached to her as she was to him, but that did not matter. Her feelings were not about to change, and if forever was the wait for his reciprocation, then so be it, she decided. For even a small part of Sirius – with the eternal hope of more – was far grander than the entire heart and soul of a man for whom she felt mere affection. Such epiphany marked itself as a single tear gliding down youthful cheek.

"Calm yourself, Sirius," she breathed, fingers gently parting stray strands from his troubled features, fingers gliding easily through his hair. Her eyes softened, mouth quirked in unabashed love. Her head shook against his unspoken apprehensions. "I won't let anything bad happen to you."

Hermione would have then moved to kiss him, but she never got the chance. Sirius beat her to it.

And the night passed in such a fashion. Sirius was, indeed, weak from injury. But his touch was reverent, focused, every movement deliberate and meticulous. She lay before the fire, bare to him and vulnerable, yet no more a confidant could another be than he. One knee drawn up in self-consciousness, her exposure was treated as though a modest artist's hallowed study. He knelt before her, belt and denims unfastened from her brief opportunity before he had pushed her back to the blanket, soft admonishments to remain still.

Feathery kisses traced her sternum toward her navel, tress tips tickled skin in their wake. Excited tingles darted down her spine as they crossed flippantly over her chest, heightening exhilaration. Mixed reactions warred within her body: languid cat-like stretches of sheer pleasure; taut tension born of nerve-wracked expectation from unnaturally erotic sensations. Anyplace contact was made, Hermione felt in measures ten-fold. How could this be? How could such simple and often seemingly innocent caresses affect her so desperately? Experience limited, she had only her time with Ron to compare. But no comparison was there, not of this caliber, and she thought of that time no more.

Rough-tipped fingers glided along the underside of her arm, the limb flung above her head in a grasp for the blanket's edge. So lightly did they trail down from elbow to side, gooseflesh rising immediately. Daring herself, Hermione peered through half-closed eyes to the cause of her swinging emotions. The sight entranced her. Flame caught glimpses of his aristocratic face, and never before had she seen a man so mesmerized with his task before him. Sirius' eyes glistened with the watering of intense focus. Outside of diligence, his expression was unreadable, yet it scared her. His whole world, at that moment, was her. Entirely her.

It was humbling.

Hermione sucked a breath in violently, her body stiffening then drawing up in abrupt response. All the gods of time, she thought tersely, teeth grit in exquisite pain. His palm secure upon the curve of her lower hip, his thumb had brushed across the highly sensitive plane just above the rise of her lower abdomen. Sirius was a master musician, her skin the delicate instrument. She was going to perish from anticipation if he did not cease this tease soon. She just knew it.

The following methodical strokes left her wriggling, deft fingers riding from hip down her left hamstring, coaxing her knee upward to match the right. An aching urgency building deep within elicited a lament from the back of her throat. Biting her lower lip, fingers digging deeply into the blanket, Hermione tossed her head side to side, attempting to steady her reactions. She was doing well, considering, as his left hand visited her neglected right side, short nails lightly scraping their backs along curve of hip, dip of waist, rise of rib. Riding out the compelling need to move into his touch, she held her breath, slowly easing it out.

Until his lips blessed her inner thigh midway, moist tongue anointing the flesh with a sign of reverence. The squeak came unbidden and loud, followed directly with a long, low moan she could not hold back.

"Siriuuus..." Eyes closed in concentration, head thrown back to the sky, back arched from the ground, tear escaping to one side. So powerful was her yearning she could express in neither words nor action the tide of emotions he brought. Exhausting this turmoil was, yet no cure would she seek. Torment so desirable as to claim rapt attention; pain so sweet as to border masochism. Delirium swept away all thought but of Sirius, of this moment, and nothing could ever match –

She froze. Her mind blanked, eyes shot wide, staring unseeingly. She could only feel, not think. God, could she feel. And what she felt was the culmination of every second of longing, every whisper of desire, every hint of need deeply fulfilled in one glorious motion. The joining of two hearts, of two souls, of two bodies.

He moved then, a gentle, slow rocking driven only by his delicious weight.

And it would only get better.

-o-

The rucksack presented itself as a suitable enough pillow to his back, and Sirius lounged against its giving canvas with satisfied weariness. Embers flared with hungry laps at several branch pieces he'd fed the dying fire minutes earlier. It would be some time before flames rose enough to grant them warmth in the chill of pre-dawn, several hours remaining before the rise of the sun. The woolen blanket draped upon them, however, would serve, and Sirius doubted Hermione much noticed – or cared – at that moment.

She lay between his drawn knees, back snuggled down against his bare stomach, long, thick curls shielding his chest from damp breezes. Her breathing had settled, and he knew she was drowsing, content as she ought to be. He'd made love to her for what the heavens told were hours, but no time could be tracked in his mind. It had seemed too short a span, though moments there were when the very breath of him hung upon the air, timeless. He'd not been spouting fanciful lines when he'd told her she was different. She was. Or when he'd told her he was frightened.

He was.

A man did not learn he'd fallen prey to an incurable need for a woman and not feel he'd lost all control over his life. Uncharted waters, with nothing beneath him but endless ocean, clutching to driftwood claiming the name of Love. What wasn't there to be frightened of?

Shifting her position, Hermione mewed slightly, drew the blanket more securely under her chin, then lay still once more. He chuckled to himself, giving in to bend over her untamed locks and pressing an endearing kiss upon her head. So many snags lay before them, so many hurdles they would have to pass. But those matters could wait until the morrow, when a new day would greet them, hopefully with news of a safer, more secure world. This business of love was dangerous enough.

"Hermione?" he finally said, a lazy drawl betraying his body's insistence for rest. His hold about her ribs tightened fractionally.

She stirred, eyes flickered. A sleepy, noncommittal, "Hmmh?" managed to creep out lips crooked in a sated smile.

Sirius returned the smile gently, eyes softened as her features shimmied in the firelight.

"I'm sorry I forgot your birthday."