Disclaimer: Any recognizable situations and characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, etc., and were used without permission. I'm not claiming them as my own nor am I using them for profit. It's Rowling's universe; I just play in it.

A/N: This is a repost and extension of a one-shot I wrote a couple years back. I wanted to explore situations with various couples, canon and AU, surrounding the phrase "I love you more than you know." Reviews are welcome, as always. Enjoy!

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He came to her, his black hair wild. She reached up and ran her hand through it. She loved his hair long like this. She smiled. Oh, Sirius… she said to herself, sighing. "Happy anniversary, love." Placing a steady hand on his chest, she felt his firm heartbeat under her palm.

"Hermione." He drew her forward, bending his head to touch his lips to her neck, tasting her soft, fragrant skin. She looked up. There was a question in his eyes that glittered in the darkness, like hard obsidian.

They moved together, caressing each other and tugging loose their clothing, until she felt the bed behind her knees. Giggling, she threw her arms around his neck and brought him down on the bed with her. Bracing himself over her, he smiled softly, watching the moonlight on her fair skin, turning it milky white.

"By Merlin, Hermione, you are beautiful."

She smiled and drew him down for a deep kiss. "I love you," she whispered against his mouth. His hands came up to knot in her thick auburn hair, and her own hands ran up his chest and down his back, tracing the scars from the war she felt along the way. It always pained her remembering the horrible things Sirius had gone through. She kissed each one reverently.

"I love you," he whispered back, his hands exploring her body as he had done countless times before. She gasped at his touch. He couldn't help but smile at the soft noises she made when he wove his magic on her skin.

Uncontrollably, she flung her arms out, pushing herself against his hands. "Now," she whispered—begged. "Now, please!"

He couldn't deny her, nor himself, and he complied readily with her demand. Years of marriage couldn't quench this thirst he had of her, the heady delight he felt at being in her presence. He longed for it, he needed it, needed her more than anything else in his life.

Even if she… no, he wouldn't think about that now. It might not even happen tonight, as it sometimes didn't. Right now it was just him and her, and that was all that mattered.

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at her. Her grey eyes were cloudy with longing. He loved seeing her like this, her eyes feral and dancing, her hair spread out against his pillows, her fingers raking livid marks on his shoulders.

One of the things that he love and hated was that whenever they made love, Hermione would lose herself completely. Nothing apart from what was happening between them existed, and she allowed herself to be free. He couldn't blame her, and he didn't.

She didn't know how out of control she could get, and he would never tell her. He wouldn't allow her to feel the horror he knew she'd feel if she ever found out. He knew that if he told her, she'd leave him thinking it was only fair, only right. She'd tell him that they couldn't live a lie.

But this one lie was better than all the truths he'd ever known.

She was reaching her climax, and he braced himself for it, praying fervently that it wouldn't happen, not tonight. Not on their anniversary. "S—Sirius!" she screamed, and then gasped in horror.

His hopes were dashed, as soon as the word escaped her mouth—the word he had feared since their wedding night. Quickly, he reached for his wand and pointed it to her temple. "Obliviate!" he hissed. Her face, contorted in shock, a half-formed apology on her lips, burned the memory forever into his mind.

• • • • • • • •

Bitterly, he watched her still, sleeping form underneath the sheets, as he drank from a bottle of firewhiskey. After they had made love, she fell promptly to sleep, as was her habit. And he, used to her behavior, had taken to stowing away bottles of hard drink in his bedside drawer. In nights like these, he could never go to sleep without aid.

In the beginning he thought he could deal with it. He loved her, he truly did. Dumbledore always touted the mantra that love would conquer all things, so he had thought his love would be enough for her. Enough for them both.

But through the months, and years, it wore away at him. He did not begin to love her less—that was impossible. He did, however, begin to dread the days they made love. Because he knew that she would not be able to control herself. And he would be hurt again. And she would never know…

Taking another swig of firewhiskey, he said aloud, "I love you, Hermione. More than you know."

He loved her more than anything. He loved her beauty, her intelligence, her compassion, her quirks. He loved everything that made her Hermione, even if it hurt him, which it inevitably did. His only wish was that one day, she would be able to love him as well… and not the memory of his dead godfather.