A/N: A few things:

1.) I wrote this in an hour. It's unbeta'd, but it's raw & honest & I needed to kick myself out of a writing blackout so I did a little exercise in free-writing. Yes, it's inspired by the eponymous song. It's edited solely for continuity, but even that is my own judgment, not anyone else's.

2.) There will be no sequel. None. So don't ask.

3.) This is a birthday gift for the exceptional GrandeVanillaSkimLatte. I know you're used to having me write fluffy, lemony goodness for her birthday, but Amy was the first person to truly tell me it was okay to write the angst, so this is a testament to her tolerance to that.

Can't Remember to Forget You

Even in the throes of passion, some small part of Hermione Granger's mind reminded her that she shouldn't be there.

It floated in and out of conscious thought, telling her that she shouldn't be there, in that bed, naked and flushed and writhing with pleasure beneath that man. He was the one man she had sworn, over and over again, that she would never return to; the man that she had promised herself would never again thrust deliciously between the softness of her thighs. She had been so resolved. She had always been resolved.

But then she forgot. She forgot that she wasn't allowed to remember him.

She wasn't allowed to let her body sing, moaning her pleasure to the deep, penetrating rhythm of his exquisite body. She wasn't supposed to dig her fingers into his shoulders, so broad and strong, and roll her hips to meet his in a dance she had learned all too easily. Her nerves, sizzling sweetly from his unique brand of dizzying sexual energy, were forbidden from exploding in mind-bending orgasm; his name too swiftly tripping from her tongue as she shattered into a million metaphorical pieces.

Her body betrayed her, convulsing as ecstasy drove the 'shouldn'ts' and 'nevers' from her brain.

His groan wasn't supposed to sound so tender, the rich baritone banned from making her shiver while his body went rigid above her, large hands tangled in careless curls and tugging gently as he slipped into his own nirvana. He wasn't meant to collapse upon her, warm fingers caressing down her body as his head rested upon her heaving breasts. She shouldn't revel in the feel of his soft ebony locks teasingly tickling her sensitive skin.

Perhaps logically, it all should not have happened. But as they panted in tandem, sweat-slicked skin fusing to sweat-slicked skin, her hands running down the expanse of sparsely-inked muscled back, Hermione knew that the smooth warmth of his skin was as familiar as her own reflection. It had happened before. It would happen again, in spite of her logical mind.

Dawn was peeking through the heavy black curtains and a thin slice of sunlight escaped just enough to cast shadows on the dark walls. She contemplated those shadows as her heart slowed. How many times had she promised herself that she would never witness this sight again? How many times had she hated herself for breaking that promise?

As usual, he said nothing as he rolled to the side and she mourned the sudden distance, despised the sudden chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Silence hung for a long moment. She wouldn't dare hope that he ask her to stay. She knew he never would and she never had the courage to ask, knowing that the answer would always disappoint her.

As was routine, she forced herself to sit up, keeping her back to him as she schooled her face to one of emotionally-apathetic physical satisfaction. His fingers briefly caressed her spine but she knew better than to assume it was affection. This was Sirius Black, the lord of the manor; the handsome, fun, brave, rebellious aristocrat.

The scarred, emotionally-stunted, perpetually-unavailable Sirius Black.

She knew better.

She found her clothes and dressed, not bothering to make conversation. There was nothing either of them could say to the other that they were willing or able to hear. Perhaps once, back when the routine had been new and fresh, she would have spoken to try and fill the heavy silence. But while Sirius was a man of many words while clothed—and not at all shy about sharing his command of language with anyone within earshot—he was strangely quiet after sex.

She didn't know why. She never asked, and he never offered an explanation.

She left his room without a word or a glance. She had learned quickly that a hasty, soundless exit was best for both of them. Once the door was closed firmly behind her, however, she took a moment to herself, leaning against the wall and taking three deep breaths. Grimmauld Place was quiet, though she knew it wouldn't be for much longer. Once upon a time she would have made a mad dash for her room two floors below, praying she wouldn't meet anyone on the stair.

Now, she was slower; measured.

She reached her room without incident, though now it would hardly matter if she had come across a fellow housemate. They all knew about her occasional forays to that fourth floor bedroom. They tried their best to hide their concern, or their pity, but some were better at it than others. Still, she didn't care much anymore one way or the other. She was too caught up in her own personal maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and emotions to shoulder theirs.

Even on those intermittent nights when she indulged in the forbidden fruit of Sirius Black's bed, Hermione's morning routine rarely wavered. After collecting her thoughts in a shower she would wrap herself in a warm, thick towel and sit at her desk to write in her diary. On those quiet morning-afters, she always started her entries with the same seven words: 'Why can't I remember to forget you?'

The march of time had filled many diaries with many entries beginning with those seven words. In her mind she would relive each entry, revisit each memory and each heartbreak, moving backwards in time and dusting off each captured moment until they were new and raw once more. And when she thought she had reached her capacity, she painted another picture with her words, fleshing out the details and the shame and the promises to never, ever let it happen again.

And still her mind would wander to that first entry—the one that had sparked so many painful morning-afters—taking her back to a time when she was less embattled and still wide-eyed and relatively innocent. That first entry recorded the only memory she had that seemed to perpetually stick in her mind; the only memory that clung to the front of the ever-expanding file marked 'Sirius Black' in the cavernous reaches of her brain. It was the night they had first kissed beneath the moonlit sky; the night that smelled of early autumn and late blooming flowers.

The night that had simmered with promise and dark, sensual desire.

The memory was funny. She couldn't recall how they had both come to be at that dark patch of garden, or the circumstances leading up to that first, life-altering kiss, but she remembered every second afterwards with blinding clarity. She had memorized the smell of him, the feel of him, the taste of him; the sound of his voice and the spellbinding, piercing gaze of his silver-green eyes when their lips finally parted. That gaze, filled with heat and desire and purest sensuality, was inscribed in excruciating detail upon pages well-worn and well-read.

And even when, the next morning, it become clear that the night and the kiss and his penetrating eyes had been about lust rather than love, Hermione still chose to remember the scent of roses. She chose to cling onto the promise instead of the reality; the moonlight instead of that slice of sunlight that cast those shadows on his wall.

'Why can't I remember to forget you?'

It would have been so easy to chalk each relapse up to foolish behaviour; to hormones or alcohol or the consequences of modern chemistry. But she had been sober the night before, just as she had been all the times previous. She just couldn't stay away.

She wasn't even sure she wanted to.

Closing her diary on another page of painted pain, she stood to dress, momentarily clearing her mind as if it had all just been a bad dream. Every time, she vowed that it would be her last entry. But as she threw the towel carelessly onto a stack of forgotten diaries in the corner, a part of her somehow doubted that the entry she had just completed would be the last to hold those seven words. It was a phenomenon as routine as those fateful morning-afters; with the scratch of a pen, she would once more abandon her promises.

Because in reality, those diaries stood as a testament to the one thing she would not write; that she couldn't remember to forget him.

Again, there will be no sequel. Again, please don't ask if you can help it.

I hope you enjoyed it. Or at least read all the way through it.