Name: Cake

Characters: Hermione Granger and Sirius Black

Rating: M

Summary: Settling back after a stint abroad, Hermione cannot seem to escape the events that transpired before she left.

The antique sign outside the 'Emerald Pig' squeaks ominously in the crisp winter air. She stands, outside, her hand shielding her eyes from the glare of the snow as she watches a young tabby carefully crossing the frosty roof. She draws her heavy, wool, wine cloak taut across her shoulders as a cold wind catches her unaware. It has been a particularly cold winter, the kind that freezes the plumbing in old houses and causes you to exhale thick whitish plumes of smoke with every breath. Hermione doesn't need to know the history of the building to know it has been apart of Hogsmeade for centuries. It has a settled look, almost tired, slowly sinking into the cobbles beneath. Hermione must duck to enter, dusting sparse snowflakes from her shoulders as she does so.

The heat of the room assaults her as she enters; bringing some warmth back to her icy cheeks and the dull buzz of a wireless resonates from behind the bar. Hermione quickly spots her friend waving frantically from a booth towards the rear. It has been almost a year since Hermione was in Hogsmeade, and she is delighted nothing has changed. Though she doubts it ever will, the sleepy little town that it is. She embraces her crimson haired friend in a tight hug and indicates to the bar. Placing an order, Hermione lowers her hood releasing her luxuriant chestnut locks, which seem to explode from her face.

"What'd you order?" Ginerva Weasley asks, while Hermione removes her cloak and leather gloves.

"Brown scone," she mumbles through her scarf. Looking around the almost empty bar, she asks, "Where did you hear about this place?"

The grubby windows of the 'Emerald Pig' make for a dimly lit lounge. Solitary candles flicker at each table, dribbling ivory wax over the polished surfaces. Gas lamps cast an ethereal glow above the larger booths. Rusting, old, iron butcher's tools can be seen nestled between the expensive whiskeys and brandy on the top shelf; an echo of the black-market business that made the bar infamous during the Forties. The surrounding walls are dotted with dark, yellowing photographs and ageing newspaper clippings.

"Someone at work mentioned it to me, said they did the best chicken soup in Hogsmeade and a butterbeer to rival Rosmerta and I must say," Ginny says tilting the bottle before her, "that they might very well be right."

Hermione chuckles pleasantly and helps herself to some of the younger's drink. "Mmm! This is good, but I'm afraid Rosmerta's are better," she says almost as an after thought.

"So Hermione, tell me something. What's it like, being back?" Ginny easily slips into her persona of journalist. The job has become so much apart of her life that she prides herself on being able to interpret sideways glances or decipher the twitch in someone's eye. She knows when and how far you can push a source for more information.

Hermione raises an impeccably shaped eyebrow. "I'm doing fine, just settling back into my apartment, really missed by bed. You know, I'd forgotten how cold England can be."

Ginny sniggers, her crimson hair falling over her shoulder. "Hermione, you weren't gone that long!"

"Nice to see you haven't changed," she remarks dryly as she tosses a cardboard beer mat at her companion. The famous Quidditch player advertising Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, is none too impressed.

"I bumped into Harry the other day," Ginny says, gulping slightly as she tries to calm the giddiness in her voice.

"And?" prompts Hermione.

"And! Nothing!" Ginny adds, looking towards the bar for her food. "We just said hello – I was in a rush. What? Don't look at me like that, I was! I had a meeting with the editor."

"Do you often bump into him?"

"How do you do that?" Ginny asks amazed. "How can you turn an ordinary question into an accusation? … And no I don't."

Hermione has always been guilty of this, another trait she fears she inherited from her father. "I didn't mean it like that."

Smiling Ginny replies. "I know… but you remember what it was like. We just –clicked." Ginny hates the way Hermione is looking at her, there is nothing she hates more than pity. "There was a spark; we could talk for hours about insignificant stuff; from whether lemon or sugar was better in tea to heated debates about Quidditch manoeuvres."

She waits but there is no response. "And then there was the sex."

"Please, spare me the details Ginny. How would you like if I went into in-depth detail about your brother?"

"Well for one, Harry is not your brother…"

"He may as well be."

"And two, I'd be happy to know my brother wasn't a selfish lover!"

"You're a pig!"

The older witch picks at the label on the empty butterbeer bottle. She remembers well how things were but she is also very aware they are no longer the same people. "You sure you're not infatuated with a memory?"

Thoroughly horrified by the thought, Ginny replies angrily. "No! I really did like him, Hermione."

"I'm not denying that you did," the chestnut haired one counters. "Only that, perhaps you've idolised a memory."

"How so?"

Hermione gestures with her hands whilst she thinks of a suitable escape. "You broke up the first time because of Voldemort. You understood what he had to do. It didn't exactly end badly. In fact you were just as understanding the second time." Hermione takes a deep breath. She gets the distinct impression she is digging herself a hole. "The guy went on to defeat Voldemort! Merlin's sake he's a modern day hero. It hardly left time for you two. Can you even remember a thing he did that was bad, ever?"

"Well, I'm not too impressed with how he handles us running into each other."

"No," interrupts the older witch. "I mean while you were dating."

Ginerva shakes her head.

"See… no-one's that perfect. Not even Harry."

"I guess," says Ginny, not really following Hermione.

"Don't be so disheartened. He'll eventually cope on. The poor boy may have been blessed with skills as a wizard but when it comes to relationships… he was never the smartest!"

"That's true." Ginny laughs. "So the big old Ministry, what's it like?"

"Much the same as it was six months ago," she answers taking a bite of her wholemeal scone, smothered in strawberry jam. "Some new faces, but nothing I can't handle. I've been to see Harry and Ron. Their cubicles are tiny!"

"Yeah I know. So I suppose you've had you're obligatory tea and chat with Lupin? What about Sirius?"

Hermione picks up her coffee cup, swishing the contents that are rapidly cooling. "No I haven't."

"He was asking after you."

"Who?"

"Sirius. He was at the Burrow last Sunday."

"And how is he?"

"Seemed happy enough," Ginny remarks. "Actually a little too, if you ask me, especially for someone overworked. You should see Neville when he comes home some nights."

"Neville?" says Hermione tilting her head in confusion.

Ginny's brow furrows momentarily. "I keep forgetting you were away. The MLE are working on some case, they needed Longbottom's herbology expertise."

"Ah!" replies Hermione. "See now, that makes more sense. How's that working for you?"

"On the whole, it's great." She says her eyes betraying some annoyance. "Although my mother and his grandmother like to arrive unannounced, besides that, he's a great roommate or at least I keep telling myself that he is. With all the work recently he's been a bit grouchy. You'd swear someone threatened to sell Trevor!" Ginny nods in thanks to a young girl who is apologising for the delay in bringing the soup.

"Although," she continues, waving a soup spoon. "I'd say Black's partner may be part of the reason."

This piques Hermione's attention. "Why'd you say that?"

"She's only been assigned to him recently and it co-asides with his new cheerful demeanour. A few months back he was an absolute nightmare. Also it doesn't hurt that she is very pretty and young." She winks. "You might remember her; she was in Hufflepuff, four years ahead of me, average height with blondie-brown hair."

"You call yourself a journalist!" Hermione says dryly. "You realise, you have just described a large portion of the population. Anything more specific?"

"Her name's Camilla, but don't ask me her surname." Ginny pauses to drink some of her soup. "Anyway, I think she might be why he's so unbearably happy."

"Don't remember her." She can feel a lump developing in her throat.

Ginny leans in conspiratorially. "What do you think?" she says. "Romance for Black?"

"I don't know," Hermione mumbles, taking a sip of her coffee. She starts to drum her slender fingers on the warped wood of the table.

"Ok! What's wrong?" The freckled young woman asks after a few minutes of silence.

"Nothing," is her quite reply.

"Hermione," Ginny warns, sounding very much like her mother. "I've known you a very long time and I know when something is bothering you – out with it!"

"Honestly Ginny, nothing's the matter."

"He seemed fairly interested in what you were up to," Weasley comments glancing around the lounge of the bar for the young girl again.

Hermione instantly ceases drumming and leans forward. "Really?" she asks eagerly.

"Yup… where's that girl?"

Granger grabs Weasley's hand roughly to attain the younger girl's attention. "Who cares about your hot chocolate, tell me what he said."

"Tea."

"What?" Hermione says increasing agitated.

"Tea not hot chocolate," Ginny replies indifferently. "I want herbal tea… you think they'd have it here?"

"Ginny! I don't care, just tell me!" Hermione uses all her patience and self-control not to scream and be able to ask in what she hopes is an off-handed manner.

"Nothing much, he just said he'd heard you were back and wondered how you were doing – settled back, that sort of thing."

"That all?"

"Why? What did you expect?" Ginny questions finally getting the young waitress' attention.

Hermione slumps in her seat and begins to chase a raisin about her plate. The youngest Weasley stares at her bushy haired friend. She tries to think of what she said to get such a reaction. Only one thing registers, and that is a silly rumour she heard a couple of months ago. Her brother had stuttered some theory of his, which was highly unbelievable. At the time she had put it down to the amount of alcohol that had been in Ron's system. Ginny had decided it was probably best to ignore him. However, now seeing her dejected friend slumped across from her, she begins to doubt her normally sound judgement. Perhaps there is some truth to the tale. Rubbing the palm of her hand to the nape of her neck she approaches the subject.

"Hermione," she begins delicately, a pair of chocolate eyes look up. "Did… em… did you, did something ever happen between you and Sirius?" she instantly regrets the words. Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.

Her stomach flips at the mention of his name and she can feel the tiny hairs on her neck lifting. She sits perfectly still, perhaps she could just disapparate. The heat is rising in her face as she begins to turn every shade of red. She's becoming frantic and wishes her friend doesn't notice. It is not that she wants to lie to her friend; she just does not want to burden her with the truth. From personal experience, she knows that sometimes a lie is the better option. "What makes you say that?" she squeaks.

"Forget it," Ginny waves her hand. "It's not really important." She can easily read Hermione's body language and is instantly aware that this is one topic she should avoid.

"It's ridiculous," Hermione continues to ramble in a high pitch. "I mean the age difference – Harry! Imagine what Harry would think. That's just rid-" Hermione stops to catch her breath and finishes attempting to sound nonchalant. "Why'd you ask?"

"Ron mentioned something," Ginny says apologetically. "I must have picked it up wrong."

Ginny notices Hermione visibly sigh in relief.

Donning a fake laugh; Hermione says, "And you believed him?"

"I know," Ginny says smiling. "It is silly really. I didn't believe it the first time I heard it… it's just the way you were – oh! Never mind." She shakes her head as a clear sign that the topic of conversation is over. She can live with the lie, if it saves her best friend guilt induced insomnia. "You never finished telling me about your work in Mexico."

Hermione gladly accepts the change in topic but before she can speak Ginny interrupts.

"Sorry to cut you off, but just going to go to the bathroom. Tell me when I get back."

Hermione closes her eyes in shocked relief and leans her face in her palms. That was too close; the shaking young woman sits back in the hard seat and calls over the waitress. She orders a Firewhiskey and knocks it back before Ginny returns. Running a finger over the rim of the glass, her mind begins to drift.

Her kitchen is full of the aroma of wilting basil and fresh rosemary wafting on the summer breeze. Sirius stands in the doorway, leaning casually against the sill, amused at the way she contently hums the 'Birthday Song'. Hermione looks at ease in her oversized, last season Canons jersey, speckled with the same paint that decorates her bathroom. Normally he would find it irritating but instead it's quite charming how she arranges her ingredients on the table. Carefully placed in the order they are necessary. No doubt some old habit she developed in Potions class. It's refreshing that she still possesses some youthful innocence when many others had been broken by that final year.

Plucking an orange from the fruit basket he begins casually tossing the fruit from palm to palm. He sniggers as her brow furrows when she triple checks the instructions before creaming the butter and sugar.

Sirius' eyes stray to the compact dresser behind her head, the one she inherited from her grandmother. He notices a couple of paperbacks piled horizontally on the top shelf, only recognising one of the authors he surmises the others to be Muggle. He follows the spidery foliage of a potted plant down to a lower shelf where a silver photo frame, encasing a smiling shot of Harry, Ron and Hermione is half veiled by thick, green leaves. There are also a few popular recipe books nestled neatly between jars of dried pasta shapes. He isn't entirely sure what 'Goddess' and 'Naked' had to do with cooking, but he reasons he wouldn't mind discovering.

"You want a cold drink?" Her soft voice breaks his concentration and when he sees her smirking face he momentarily wonders if she has mastered Occlumency

He recovers swiftly. "Nah!" he says. "This orange'll do me fine." He digs a nail into the thick skin, the juice spraying slightly onto his thumb.

When he looks up again her attention has returned to the cake. She bites her lip as she looks intently at the mixture before her. Tilting the wooden spoon she allows the mixture to run off and splatter back into the bowl. She seems lost and her eyes once again meet the recipe book. Dragging a finger over the words she mouths them inaudibly and sieves in the flour, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face leaving a powdery residue on her cheek.

"I don't understand," she says, though it sounds like she is talking to herself. "According to the instructions this should be a pale colour and well… not runny!" She bangs the wooden spoon on the table causing a few pages of her book to turn.

"This -" Hermione indicates to the flour, egg shells and splotches of milk decorating the table. "Is supposed to be a cake, it's meant to work and be perfect." She lets out an anguished cry. "I hadn't intended on creating a midden!" The annoyance she felt evident as she roughly thumbs through the book and rereads the recipe.

"I don't get it; I followed it word for word."

A deep jovial laughter catches her attention and she looks up from the concoction she has created to see Sirius' eyes filled with mirth. She hates how casual he is about everything, how nothing seems to faze him. His cockiness has always annoyed her.

"When you're quite finished… you know I find your laughter very disconcerting."

"Oh come on, it's just a cake."

"It's more than a cake Sirius; I just wanted to make something nice for Harry. I'll miss his birthday." She can feel a headache coming on; she gets them when she's agitated. "Honestly, think I'm just nervous."

"Aren't you looking forward to your work experience?"

"Of course I am," she says assuredly, but Sirius still wonders if she is. "It's just, you know… I'm always claiming my independence but truthfully I've never actually been alone – I mean proper alone."

"You'll be fine – what's it Moony said… 'Smartest witch…'"

"Oh please don't, I get enough slagging from Ron about that, not you too!"

He does not want her to go, he has been denying it for ages, rationalising it.

"I know I'll be fine." She smiles over to him. "Wednesday's close and I'm just suffering from a bad case of the butterflies."

"Let me help you." Sirius offers, approaching her at the table.

"You can bake?" she says, her voice dripping with suspicion.

"Don't sound so surprised Hermione."

"Sorry, I never pictured you cooking; you grew up with house-elves."

"I'll ignore that! Mrs. Potter was a keen baker and anyway I've found it has its advantages when entertaining. Women love a good cook." He says with a boyish flick of his hair.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Do you want my help or not?" he asks rolling up the sleeves of his light shirt.

With a crooked smile she stands aside her hands held high and nods towards the mess she's created. "All yours."

"For a start," he begins. "You misread something; there is way too much milk in that. Stand aside," he says. Donning a faux accent he continues, "I'll teach you how to make my irresistible chocolate mousse cake."

Hermione rolls her eyes in response, but is secretly relieved that he offered to take over. She never understood baking despite the valiant efforts of her mother. She has scar on her knee from one occasion when she tipped boiling water on herself; Dr. Granger had given up after that.

"Do you have any brandy?"

"Ah! So your secret is to get the girl pissed!"

"You wound me"

"Actually," she says laughing. "I may have a little; the Twins had a bottle with them recently."

Sirius rubs his hands together in delight. "Excellent, I'll melt the chocolate and you separate the eggs." He pushes a half dozen carton of eggs along the table to her.

A low shriek makes him turn his attention back to Hermione just as he's about to add the brandy to the melted chocolate. He realises she's broken the yoke into the whites.

"Can't get good help these days," he mocks. "Here, give me your hand." He cracks an egg into her palm to the slight sound of disgust. "You can't give out. Seeing as you cocked up the other way." He gently moves her fingers allowing the white to slip through the digits, leading her palm over to an empty bowl he turns it over encouraging the yoke to slide off her fingers. "Do that with another five eggs."

"I measured out some sugar there; mix it into the egg yolks," Sirius demands. "Whilst, I use my superior strength to whisk these egg whites." He smirks, brandishing a whisk.

"Berk!"

"For that, when you've finished, you can add the melted chocolate."

They work as a team finishing the batter for the cake, although if questioned she would freely admit that he did most of the work.

"Thanks Sirius, without you I'd never have gotten this done," Hermione calls gratefully over her shoulder. Sirius only responds in a grunt as his eyes are drawn to the slight swagger of her arse, as she deposits the mixing bowl and utensils in the sink.

"You know you still have some flour from your earlier disaster on your face," he says trying to distract his mind.

She tosses the closest thing to hand, a tea-towel, at him playfully.

"Oh! You want to play like that!"

"Actually," she says waving her wand and filling the sink with warm soapy water. "I was going to suggest you do the drying."

He quietly and obediently stands beside her at the sink. Sirius can have anyone he likes, he knows this, but none of them are how he imagines it could be with her. He can no longer find pleasure in the curve of a breast or the caress of a hip. There is no comfort to be found in the female form. She has unknowingly turned his women to ash. Her innocent affections have poisoned him.

Hermione hands him a glass. "I really mean it Sirius; it would have been such a disaster. Very much appreciated."

He can't help himself; he leans down and kisses her. The wet glass slips from her shocked grip and sinks back into the soapy water.

"Sorry," he says out of politeness. It is obvious he does not mean it. She knows this because he wipes the powder from her face with intense tenderness. Hermione is surprised that she is not bothered like she thought she would be. Maybe it is gratitude, but she is curious to see where this is heading.

Sirius searches her face; he only needs the tiniest encouragement. A certain smile, tilt of head or momentary look will do it. Padfoot's instincts have taken over recently, he finds himself in need of her company, almost drooling at her feet begging for scraps. He just wants her; he needs to expel her from his system. Sirius hates how she has upset the order of things.

She gently reaches out a hand to his face as though afraid to touch him, but it's enough for him and he captures her lips again. It is rough, uncontrolled. There are hands everywhere, frantically roaming over each other's bodies. No order, just need. They break away momentarily, her hands cupping his face; his unshaved jaw coarse against her palms. Taking a deep gulp of air they resume. Sirius presses against her and they walk as one until the back of her knees knock against wood. The jolt breaks them apart, Sirius' eyes catch the 'Goddess' and 'Naked' again. A devilish smirk tugs at the corner of his bruised lips. He picks her up onto the table, her knee knocking over the milk as she hooks her ankles around his slender hips. The liquid cascades over the edge soon followed by the distinct sound of cracking egg shells. His rough hand slides up along her naked thigh, his thumb nail scratching her hip as he hooks the elastic of her knickers. All inhibitions have evaporated; she'll go with the flow. He looks down at her, his grey eyes glazed over, about to remove the flimsy fabric; Hermione runs a hand tenderly through his fringe removing it from his smoky gaze.

"What happens if we leave the mixture out?"

"I don't know," he replies kissing her neck. "Nothing? Why?"

"What if we were to-" She gasps as he slips his fingers inside her cotton underwear. That is what she gets for asking about cake at a time like this. "To leave it uncooked… for an indefinite period of time… could we… cook it late?" She tries to say, attempting to stall her moans.

Sirius freezes. "Probably not." He grins against her ear. "We could always make it again."

He stands taking her by the hand and allows her to lead him to her bedroom; the sound of their laughter fills the hallway.

"My chocolate mousse never fails."

Bidding farewell to her red haired friend, Hermione exits. She neatly tucks a brown paper package tightly under her arm enabling her to rub her gloved hands together for warmth. Hogsmeade is remarkably quiet for a Saturday, with a few solitary wizards braving the biting air and light showering of snow. She hasn't noticed him, even with her lack of company. She is too busy concentrating on where her feet are placed on the icy cobbles. It isn't until she hears her name called in a familiar sonorous voice does she turn.

Hermione was barely nine, and full of youthful confidence. She can remember confiding in her cousin the location of her secret stash of candy. She vividly recalls crawling beneath her bed; it had My Little Pony sheets. Venturing into the darkness, it was dusty and she sneezed, but nonetheless she emerged triumphantly box held tightly in her hands. She showed her cousin the secret compartment, the one she had seen on Blue Peter, and they had proceeded to gorge themselves on Rosie Apples, Black Jacks, Rhubarb and Custard boiled sweets, Mars Bars and various other types and shapes of chocolate. The two spent hours giggling about her cleverness and how silly her parents were, that she had outsmarted the dentists. Within a week it was discovered. That is how she feels now, standing in the slush, fully conscious of the icy liquid seeping through the hole in her boot.

"Hello Hermione," he says, replacing a handkerchief in his pocket.

"Hey," she replies. Her throat goes dry and the pulse of an earlier headache fills her ears, she fears she'll faint. She barely recollects what he said as she feels herself stumbling forward.

"Let me help you. Are you ok?" Sirius extends a hand, which she accepts gratefully, avoiding his eyes and wiping slush from her cloak.

"Thanks," she says gratefully. "Migraine." She adds by way of an explanation, for the first time taking notice of him. She's not sure what Ginny had meant earlier, because the man before her is so altered. She has never seen someone age so fast in just seven months. He looks thinner though she wonders if that is due to the oversized cloak he wears. She observes how loosely his hand holds his bamboo handled umbrella and that he needs to shave, the first specks of silver are also apparent in his hair. She notices the dark circles marring the skin beneath his eyes and wonders when he last slept.

"Here," he offers back her package, breaking her thoughts. She must have dropped it.

The snow was beginning to fall again; miniscule flakes melt on the tip of his nose while others vanish in his shiny hair. Hermione laughs nervously at the awkward silence descending upon them, her fingers absentmindly playing with the corner of her drenched package. She is aware that she should give him a hug or something but unknowingly she has done the opposite and created a defensive distance between them.

"How are you?" she asks desperately, more for her sake than his, unable to bear the silence any longer. "And work? Camilla?" she begins to back off realising she has said too much. His cheeks are rosy from the winter air and his lips are chapped.

He looks at her oddly, "Great, you? How long have you been back?"

"Almost three weeks!" In reality it's not even two.

"Three weeks! That long…" he trails off, his free hand running through his damp hair. He looks about him. "It's cold out." Sirius indicates towards The Three Broomsticks, coughing to clear his voice. "Have you time for a quick drink and a chat?"

"No," she replies without thinking. "I'm in a hurry." She can lie without guilt now and it disturbs her greatly, she doesn't even know why she says it. "I've to go to the supermarket." She tells herself it is because she was never good at dealing with these situations. "Maybe another time?"

"Yeah, sure." He sighs. "Another time."

Hermione glances at her watch. "It was great seeing you again Sirius, we could always." She stops realising she is standing alone; the snow was heavy now, twirling around her cold form.

Hermione slams a carton of eggs to the table with such abandonment it takes her a few moments to realise she has cracked an egg. She can feel a tick in her neck, she is angry with Sirius for just abandoning her like that. Disappearing mid sentence, but mainly she is annoyed with herself for her bloody defensive nature, for really screwing it up.

A mischievous gleam appears in her eyes, she pauses, hand hovering over the sink as she rubs the translucent residue on her fingers. Quickly she rinses the egg white off and throws open the dresser drawer. Rummaging until she finds some stained, scrap parchment. Grabbing a quill she quickly scribbles a note, attaches it to her owl and watches as it soars over the rooftops.

Sirius,

Sorry for earlier. If you aren't too busy, perhaps you could come over later.

I'm making cake.

Hermione.