Entanglement

by: carpetfibers

The Diary and the Locket

Part Two

I

Hermione had thought, given the shorter time in the prison, that Sirius Black might be more of the person spoken of in stories from his Hogwarts years: brave, charming, clever and loyal- that the man she remembered- reckless, selfish and regularly drunk- was due to the years under dementor watch, isolated and driven to near madness. She had thought, when planning during those months on the run, starving in the cold, and imagining a bettered future- she had thought, surely, Sirius Black would be the man she needed him to be.

She had thought wrong.

She flinched as the sound of breaking glass echoed up from the basement, followed by the muffled shouts of the enraged man. Lupin had resorted to physically binding Sirius in the basement to prevent the wizard from trying to leave yet again, intent on finding and killing Peter Pettigrew as quickly as possible. Sirius had raged all through the night, and the brightening of the morning sky had done little to soften his wrath. She heard Lupin's softer tones attempt to reply, but a combination of guilt and a history built on giving sway to his friend's stronger personality could do little to cull Sirius's fervor.

Hermione took the stairs carefully, listening more closely as their words came into better focus.

"-trust her, Moony? A young girl shows up and tells you some story about time travel, and you just accept it?"

"It does sound fantastic, Pads, I know, but she knows things about me- about you- that only James or Peter-"

"Don't mention his name!"

"All right, all right-"

"But you're not wrong. James is dead, and that rat is not. Is it not more likely that he fed her this information, to trick you into trusting her? And you did just that, didn't you? You've always been weak toward women, and he would know that- would know to send a young, pretty thing to tempt your weakness and play upon your feelings, and so easily you just took in a Death Eater's whore-"

"Peter Pettigrew did not send me." Hermione stepped down from the stair and into the patterned light from the basement's sole, gauzy window. Lupin glanced away, his lips down-turned, but Sirius faced her directly, his hard gaze greedy as it swept over her smaller frame, judging and accounting. "No one sent me."

"Time-turners can't go back years-"

"I didn't use a time-turner." Involuntarily, she clasped her still bandaged wrist, the wound having re-opened twice in the past month despite efforts to prevent otherwise. "There are spells that do much the same as a time-turner, but with a different cost. I weighed my options, and-" she paused, a stab of pain cinching along her brow causing her words to stutter, before fading away, "-and this was the best choice."

"Dark magic," Sirius spat at her.

She drew closer, near enough that the chain connected to the wall would not prevent him from violence if he so chose. She hadn't liked the Sirius from her past as much as Harry did; she wasn't clouded by the desperate love her best friend had had for his godfather. She had seen the kind of selfish and short-sighted man he was, but she had also known his deep unhappiness and helplessness. He'd been a Gryffindor once, loyal and brave, and she needed that part of him to return if they were to be successful.

"Is it dark magic if it's done with love?" She watched as his expression stilled, the anger and distrust melding into something harder. She couldn't place the emotion that twisted his lips, but his grey eyes cleared, madness and fury emptying from their gaze.

"Sirius, you should listen to her story." She felt Lupin's hand on her shoulder, his touch reassuring. "Make up your mind after."

And so Hermione recounted again the details of the future she hoped to undo, the truth her third year at Hogwarts had uncovered, and the tragic fate that followed. She could not meet Sirius's eyes when she spoke of the Department of Mysteries, of how his cousin had bested him, and of his slow descent behind the Veil. Her words fell flatly, her emotions hardened to them, until she neared the end of her story, of Harry's death and those dark months spent on the run. She could hear the howls of the spectral hounds again, feel their hot breath on her neck, the promise of their teeth in her throat.

She felt her stomach turn, and with a brief apology, she ran back for the stairs, to the small toilette where she bent over the commode, her meal from the prior night promptly lost. Hermione waited there, curled against the wall, until both her stomach and head finished spinning. She hoped Sirius would believe her, just enough to adhere to the plan at least. Without him, their chances of getting the diary or the locket would be much less.

She heard the murmur of voices from beyond the toilette door and weakly stood up, rinsing her mouth with water and splashing her cheeks with more of it. The mirror showed an only slightly improved face from the month prior. Regular meals and a warm bed had returned some of the color to her cheeks and removed the shadows from under her eyes. But still, the expression in her gaze disturbed her, and she could only look for so long before shuddering away.

The opened door revealed that Lupin had released Sirius from the chains; he sat, using his hands to scoop in mouthfuls of rice and beef, eating much as she imagined she must have those first few days after her arrival. He gave no pause at her entrance, his eyes flickering the once to her face and then back to his meal. Lupin offered her the other chair, but she aimed instead for the side of the counter, preferring still to position herself for the quickest departure.

Constant vigilance, as Moody would have said. Not that it'd done any good, not for him, in the end.

"There's been no news, yet, of Sirius's escape, at least not from The Daily Prophet," Lupin gestured toward the opened paper, its front page strewn with a large story on Minister Fudge's latest monument unveiling. Hermione eyed the familiar statue, the heroic wizard and cowering magickfolk, with revulsion.

"It won't be long before the Aurors show up here, you know. You'll be one of their first stops." She sighed, an echo of her earlier headache tracing along her scalp. "We should get the diary first, and then relocate to Grimmauld."

"No!" Sirius slammed the emptied bowl down hard enough to crack it, and with a patience that spoke of habit, Lupin repaired it with a silent flick of his wand. "I'm not going back there."

"It's empty, unplottable, and its ownership fell to you after your mother died last year. Give me one good reason we shouldn't use it." She waited, knowing that he hated her in that moment.

"Sirius, I know how you feel," Lupin broke in gently. Much as he done earlier for her, he placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. The soft gesture sent a tremble through the man. "But it serves a purpose. We'll only stay long enough to find the horcruxes and secure your innocence."

The tremble grew into a full shudder, and Sirius stood abruptly, shaking off his friend's hand. "That elf of hers will be there."

"Kreacher," Hermione supplied, and the part of her that had hardened, solidified into stone, felt a slight tremor at how easily she could dismiss the pathetic creature's existence. "He isn't to be trusted; he'll betray you as soon as anyone with the slightest Black blood wanders close enough to catch his attention."

She caught Lupin's gaze, surprised by the concern leveled at her, and held it for a moment more before returning to study her hands. "Besides, he'll not take kindly to our presence."

Sirius's jaw tightened in assent, the curt nod of his head his only sign of agreement before he made for the basement stair. Hermione waited until his back disappeared into the door frame before exhaling, the taut energy that had held her stiff and controlled weakening.

"Are you alright?" Lupin asked.

"Yes, thank you." She managed a wan smile before reaching for the emptied bowl and making for the sink, preferring to keep her hands busy and occupied."It's strange, really, how little has changed. He never cared for me much- before, that is. I think I always annoyed him a bit."

"You were, what, thirteen then?"

She remembered seeing Sirius's picture in the Prophet, watching as the starved and dirtied man screamed and raged in the photograph. How much had he must have felt for the magic to have captured so strong of an emotion... Perhaps the longer time in Azkaban had lessened some of that anger in her timeline. Perhaps, having freed him sooner, the passion here was stronger, more potent.

"Yes. I actually think I quite surprised him. I remember how shocked he had seemed when I called him Mr. Black."

Lupin laughed, his eyes brightening briefly before clouding back over, his attention returning to the basement. "We must be patient with him, Hermione. I've only been in Azkaban once, but it's an awful place. He's been there for five years; we can't expect him to be recovered after a few nights."

She shook the bowl slowly and placed it on the rack before twisting around. She considered the younger form of her once professor; the concern that laced his features was unchanged in the future, and Hermione felt a twist in her chest, a stab of memory that recalled the faces who had known it with her. "He's lucky to have you, you know."

When she touched his hand, a light pause meant more for his comfort than hers, she was surprised by the warmth of his fingers as they returned the kindness. Tears prickled, and with a few quick steps, she separated herself from him and brought the table as a safe space between. She avoided his gaze and instead reached for her beaded bag.

Another velvet pouch was retrieved, and the potion within it shone dully, thick and murky. The stasis charm was as stubborn as its caster, and Hermione smiled grimly. "Do you think you could come up with a reason to visit the Ministry? We're going to need a donor."

II

Remus had wandered the main floors at the Ministry for hours, pretending at having been sent first from one department to another, a thick stack of parchment kept as a prop in his hands. It was on the fifth floor that he finally ran into a likely candidate, a distant cousin of Sirius's named Marius Crouch who was loudly, and with a slight slur, complaining about a recent tariff imposed by Lithuania on its Veela brandy. Remus had pretended clumsiness, and in the disarray of his parchment and Crouch, stole the needed hair samples.

Sirius had watched as their house guest decanted a small portion of the polyjuice before adding the hairs in a practiced motion. Remus had thought nothing of an eighteen-year-old girl being well versed in a potion that was generally reserved for spy use, but Sirius added the display to the growing list of reasons to not trust her. If his friend couldn't see the dangers inherent with her arrival in their lives, then it would have to be up to him. He had noticed, with satisfaction, that she seemed to dislike his constant study of her, and he made a point of never allowing her to be alone.

She tried to leave once, while waiting for the date of the party to near, claiming an errand, but Sirius had insisted on accompanying her. He'd trotted along, in animagus form, growling for most of the trip, as she slunk into one of Knockturn Alley's seedier apothecaries. She used the purchased elixir to secure another dosing of the strange green potion that allowed Remus to keep his mind during his transformation. Remus had presented this fact as another reason to trust her, but Sirius had grown up in a family of Slytherins, and manipulation was a ploy he was well familiar with.

Securing invitations to the party had been another obstacle she offered to handle singly, and once again, Sirius insisted on joining her. Approaching Marius Crouch under the guise of an elvish wine broker had been clever, and she had done something to smarten her usual level of dress and appearance enough that the wizard had allowed his house elves to grant them entrance. Sirius had watched, in his altered form, as she smiled and flattered and brightened in a way he hadn't witnessed before.

For a brief moment, he was reminded of her age and youth; she should still have been in a school uniform, not charming a red-nosed Pureblood who spent half the meeting ogling her knees.

In his musings, he missed the moment when she knicked the invitation. It was a fairly exclusive event, held at Malfoy Manor, but hosted by the Crabbes. The manor's actual owners were still maintaining a semblance of social isolation, in the middle of a grand circuit of their various estates on the Continent. The Crouches, even the more embarrassing members, were guaranteed an invite by name alone, a fact Sirius had vouched for and the girl blankly accepted.

The samples of elvish wine she left behind were all heavily spiked with sleeping potions, and considering Crouch's eagerness to begin his exploration of the vintage, even before they left, Sirius felt confident that the wizard would sleep straight through whatever plans he might have had for the party. She remained silent during their return, touching only his sleeve during the disapparation. The remainder of the afternoon was spent on preparing for the party.

Remus chatted with her lightly, eliciting the occasional smile as he helped the girl with the needed glamours for her appearance. Sirius watched, quickly dressed, from the kitchen, as his friend casually touched her shoulder and hand, a slight tap on her nose as aid in changing its shape. An hour before the party, Sirius rose and downed the potion. He felt his body bend, his skin stretching and widening. The sensation was painless, but drawn out far longer than his animagus transformations; it left his scalp itching and his tongue numb.

That she knew where to apparate to was another reason Sirius found to not trust her.

III

Malfoy Manor's grand hall shared the same marble mantle pieces and ornate chandeliers of the smaller drawing room. Two massive fireplaces, the span of which stretched beyond his arms twice held aloft, centered the back wall, while floor-to-ceiling portraits decorated the wall opposite. It reminded him of his grandparents' summer home, with duplicates of many of the same paintings on its walls. Grandmother Melania had been kind, he remembered, with soft brown hair and wide gray eyes.

Whenever she laughed, his father had smiled, a happiness the man never shared at home filling his eyes. The only reason Sirius had known his father was unhappy was because of those rare moments spent at his grandparents' home.

He drank too deeply from his wine goblet and ignored the disapproval shot his way from his companion. She hadn't needed polyjuice for the party, relying instead on a few charms to change her hair color to a milky blond, straightening the lengths to a long curtain that she parted baldly and left running down her back. She'd done something with her nose, narrowing it, and her eyes had lightened as well. The effect bothered him in a way he didn't understand, but nearly everything bothered him now, and for not the first time that evening, Sirius fought the desperate urge to run.

It was madness being here, in the house of Death Eaters, surrounded by yet more Death Eaters, but it was a madness he had agreed to.

"Calm yourself, Jean," he said, pitching his voice so only her ears could hear. "It's a party, and no one's going to believe that Marius Crouch would skip on the opportunity to get pissed."

"Forgive me if I don't share your faith in your tolerance. Prior experience has shown me that you don't exactly have a limit."

He scowled and clutched the goblet more closely; another thing he could add to his internal list of things he did not like about the strange girl. She acted as if she knew him, and in that knowledge, she showed little other than regular disdain and a marked anticipation for failure. "As you're stuck with me, I guess you'll just have to deal with it."

She turned to reply, her charmed features twisted in annoyance, when something caught her attention from across the room. In a second, she returned to the calm professional he also found himself disliking. "Come on, that's the hall that leads to the library."

She tugged on his elbow, spilling his wine, and Sirius noticed that far too quickly they were drawing the attention of the room's company. The last thing either of them needed was for someone to look too closely at his disguise as Marius Crouch, an infamous drunk and only son of Charis Black and Caspar Crouch. Improvising, he grabbed Hermione's hand and led her into the dance floor.

"What're you doing?" she hissed. Ignoring her pique, he tried to remember the proper count for the rondelle.

"Give it a minute- you were being far too obvious."

Her eyes rapidly darkened, an expression he understood too well clouding her gaze. Sirius followed the turn and mentally congratulated himself when he managed to not catch her toes in the difficult spin. "They'll forget it in a moment. From what I remember, it never took much to get Marius drunk. It'll be an afterthought before the song is even over."

A bit of the fear seemed to lift from her, and carefully, he adjusted her hand on his shoulder, shifting it to the right placement for the dance; the strangeness of physical touch still left him far too breathless. That he barely knew her hardly helped; his skin crawled, and beneath his chest, his heart raced. Sweat beaded along his back, and with intent, he tightened his grip on her waist, swallowing down the irrational panic.

A couple passed him, and he recognized the woman as a third or fourth cousin. Another nodded in greeting, and he was careful to only barely curl his lip in return.

"Thanks," she said, after another difficult spin. "I didn't think I'd be so affected, coming here, but-"

"Another adventure?" he prompted, more curious than he cared to admit.

Her laugh was brief and low, and he felt her nails curl into his shoulder. "Not an adventure-" she drew herself short, cutting off her words with a terse turn of her lips. "The library is our objective. Any chance people would believe Marius would be interested in browsing the shelves?"

"Unlikely. Blacked out on one of its couches, maybe, but to read?" He considered the hall door; only a handful of guests lingered near its entrance, but it was still enough of an audience that a plausible excuse would be needed.

"I suppose there's nothing for it then…" Hermione looked up, and for a moment her glamour flickered, and Sirius caught sight of a different sort of trepidation in her gaze. "You'll need to make a pass at me then."

He missed the count, and she used his stumble as a chance to slip his hand further along her back, sliding into his embrace. "Pretend to smell my hair or something," she suggested, cheeks aflame for all that her voice remained cool.

Sirius lowered his nose to her throat and felt another wave of panic tremor along his spine. He could well recall the last time he was this close to another person, and it had been a faceless Auror at the time, whose hands had been focused on checking Sirius's robes for hidden weapons. The wizard had smelled of perspiration and tobacco; her skin smelled like eucalyptus, like the oil Remus kept in his shower in lieu of proper shampoo. It filled his nostrils, and dizzily, he swayed into her, feeling the ghost-like graze of her skin on his cheek as his brow fell to her shoulder.

He heard the brief sound of her artificial titter and then her voice, pitched to be overheard: "Oh Marius, not in public!"

It was all too easy to let her guide him toward the hall, to pretend a deep interest in the scent of her throat and the feel of her dress robes along his flushed skin. Sirius spun again when she suddenly slipped out from under him. He straightened and blinked, taking in her heated cheeks and the studious way in which she avoided his gaze.

"You handled that well," Hermione said, after a moment.

"I've always been quite the actor," he answered, wishing for more of the wine to dull the strange buzzing clouding his thoughts.

He saw the dip of her shoulders in the dim lighting, and when she turned to face him, her gaze was once again controlled. In a voice laced with her earlier disapproval, she pointed down the hall. "Oh, I know. After you, please?"

Sirius took the lead, her words dampening the headiness in a way his own attempts hadn't been able to. She guided him, her voice low, through the hall and past two more doorways, to a large paneled double-frame. An iron fixture, modeled after a sleeping peacock, guarded the lock, and once again at Hermione's prompting, Sirius lowered his palm to it. Its iron eyes blinked vaguely into awareness, and as his blood registered against the wards, the peacock's feathers parted to open the doors.

Hermione pushed past him, a whispered current of what sounded like Greek passing her lips and setting her wand aglow. Her hushed chanting continued until the glow of her wand broke into a sputtering staccato at the fourth bookcase from the front. She doused the wand and reached for a nondescript book on the second shelf before pausing. She glanced back to where Sirius stood, her brow furrowed.

"I don't think I should touch it."

"But it's safe if I do?"

"Well-" and she hesitated, something like shame touched her lips. "I'm a Muggleborn, you see, and this was his first. The only other people to touch it were all Purebloods, so-"

He understood, truly, but something of her effect on him in the dancehall forced him to pretend at an anger he didn't have. "And that's what I'm here for, after all, right? My blood?"

She winced, but didn't attempt to argue otherwise. Steeling his jaw, Sirius grabbed the book, and feeling nothing spark in response, tucked it into an inner pocket on his dress robes. He didn't spare her a glance, heading back for the entry and what he hoped was another glass of wine before they could make their final escape.

He turned, expecting her behind him, but instead caught the edge of her gown as she tucked behind another of the bookcases. Seconds later, she walked back into view, her hands pressing down the creases in her skirts. Her movements were quick, but his eyes caught the tale-tell outline of a book before her fingers could smooth the bulge out.

Sirius's eyes narrowed; Remus be damned. He couldn't trust her, and until he forced every last secret from her, he would remain wary. Careful to avoid touching her, he swept past her in the hall, retracing their steps. He made a point of adjusting his robes as he re-entered the dance hall, and relished the embarrassed flush that filled Hermione's cheeks when more than one party goer graced them with knowing glances.

He took a small pleasure in drinking another two glasses of wine before finally agreeing to leave.

IV

Being both a half blood and a werewolf had been grounds enough for the Blacks to never extend him an invitation during those years when Sirius was still part of the Family Tree and not a blasted spot. For all that Sirius loved to talk, he rarely shared details from his home. Remus had known his friend was unhappy and that Walpurga Black held little love for her disappointment of an eldest son. There had been bruises along Sirius's neck at the beginning of their second year, and a broken arm at the start of their fourth.

Remus hadn't asked, but he spent much of his free time that fourth year reading books on healing spells and talismans. The iron amulets he gave his friends before separating for summer had been imbued with various runic spells, but Sirius's had been especially layered with charms for healing, bone strength, and deep sleep. It took most of Remus's fifth year to build up enough magical stores to properly craft a talisman, and Sirius had sworn it was the twisted piece of metal that had saved his life the night he finally left Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

James had written of Sirius's bloodied body falling through the Floo, a deep gash running from his shoulder to hip, and an oozing curse that left Sirius screaming in pain whenever touched. James's mother, a Black herself, had recognized the spell, and it was only her skill in potions that had driven the dark magic from Sirius's skin. The scar remained, though, a thin crooked gorge that tore through his unblemished chest.

Sirius got his first tattoo that year, taking Remus's amulets and painstakingly tracing them into his flesh with a bespelled blade. The tattoos were a gray sort of magic, not quite dark, but certainly not white, and their existence on his skin had been used as evidence of his Death Eater membership.

"Let's not forget who else uses tattoos on skin!" Remus remembered the Daily Prophet writing.

Remus watched, now, the three of them gathered in the mouldering kitchen at 12 Grimmauld Place, as Sirius rubbed that same spot, his eyes red and voice thick with anger.

The thin diary sat on the table, its occupied space the only section not covered in a film of dust and disuse. At the table's base, near the open archway, motionless and silent, laid a bound house elf. Remus avoided looking at the pathetic creature, his stomach still turned by Sirius's sudden and vicious violence when the house elf first greeted them.

"Blood traitor! Werewolf filth!" The wizened and gnarled Kreacher had howled at their sudden entrance, his large eyes looming with a feverish glee. When Hermione stepped up behind them, sealing the door in their wake, the elf shuddered in revulsion. "You would dare- a Mudblood!"

Sirius's wand cut with loud sparks, and it was with wrathful hands that he plucked the still body and threw it down the short flight of stairs that led to the basement kitchen.

Hermione blinked rapidly, her fingers plucking at her wrapped wrist. Remus's eyes traced the brief snatch of skin from above the bandage; he had only seen the scar the once, after she first forced her way into his home, but he knew the shape and length of the letters.

It had been that carved word, scarred into her pale skin, that had convinced him to give her a chance, to wait for her to wake and ask his questions.

"Save your sympathies for better," Sirius muttered. "He'll wake soon enough."

"I-" Hermione shook her head, biting back her words. "Never mind. The locket should be here- he kept a den in the back cupboard."

She led them around the heavy table and back behind the ash-filled fireplace. Soot and charred remnants from a year-old fire littered the hearth. She reached for a small handle, nearly hidden in the gloom, and opened the clotted cubby hole. Pieces of black silk that might have once made up a dress robe, a cracked cane, a torn half of a third year charms primer- litter and debris filled the cupboard.

Abruptly, she straightened, pushing her way roughly from between them. "It's silver with a gold center and a green S. Be careful not to touch it."

Sirius crouched to take her place, poking gingerly through the refuse with a disgusted curl to his lips. Remus stared out after Hermione as she slipped back through the doorway, stumbling briefly as she stepped over Kreacher's prone form. "It's easy to forget that she's still so young."

"And it's her age that makes you far too careless, Moony." Sirius leaned further into the cubby. "You shouldn't trust her."

"She's the reason you're out of Azkaban, Sirius. She's done nothing to deserve the way you treat her. All she's done is help you." He couldn't understand his friend's continued suspicion.

Sirius's gray eyes met his briefly, a stubborn glint to them. "The wards she used to reset our entrance? Those were Black wards."

"She used to live here, more than likely she was taught-"

"I can't believe that I'd fall enough that I'd teach a kid how to make blood wards. Black wards are not Light. She didn't even blink."

"There's a reasonable explanation, I'm certain of it." He wondered if Sirius knew about her scar- he wondered if that would be enough to convince him away from his distrust.

With a grunt, Sirius stood up, the tip of his wand dipped by the extra weight of a thick chain hanging from it. Gingerly, he carried the locket over to the table and let it slip out to sit next to the diary. Unlike the book, which had displayed nothing beyond an unprepossessing stillness, the locket released a slick chill. Remus felt a faint whisper of it, a hushed call that found his hand lifting from his side unconsciously.

"The truth is that you're weak against it, friend- you've always been weak against it."

His stomach clenched, and unbidden, he thought of her as she stood above him, fresh from that first shower, her hair damp and dark. He'd felt the wet of her hair touch his cheek, felt the warmth of her skin near his neck. "She's just a kid-"

"Not that." Sirius shook his head and backed away from the table. "She knows you're a werewolf and doesn't care. That's all it's ever taken for you to forget your sense."

For a moment, Remus considered it. He let his thoughts run through the doubts, trace through the possibilities. There was a chance Sirius was right, and if he was right, then perhaps these horcruxes- this hunt she had them helping her with- were to serve a very different end than what she had described. Perhaps she wanted their power for something more personal. Had he even attempted to check her story? She mentioned Muggle parents- he could find them in a directory and at least confirm their existence- her existence.

And then there was her continued refusal to brook the aid of Albus Dumbledore; she'd insisted that they not include him, and even though it was only in this single instance that Sirius seemed to agree, Remus could not understand why they wouldn't want the help of the powerful wizard. Dumbledore had been the first to truly offer him a home, a chance at normalcy and friends- the dark distrust Hermione had for the wizard did not rest well with him.

There were sound reasons to have doubts, Remus agreed, and yet-

The letters had been traced more than once. The blade that had torn through her forearm had repeated the word at least twice. The pain would have been tremendous- and the hate that it must have taken to carve the letters so carefully even more so. He knew what it was to be reviled, and he knew with a certainty the sort of person that feeling creates.

Her acceptance of his lycanthropy was not subterfuge but an honest kindness.

"You're not wrong," Remus admitted, lifting his eyes and meeting his friend's hard gaze. "But that doesn't make you right."

His friend had no reply, and in equal silence, they left the kitchen, Sirius pausing long enough to spell Kreacher's unconscious body back up the stair and to a shuttered room on the second floor. Remus followed the path of flickering light on the ground floor that led to what must have been the Black library. Hermione had lit the hearth, and she sat in a tumble before the fire, a blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

When she failed to notice his entry, he lingered, considering the bow of her head and the shadow that curved along her cheeks. Her mouth rested slightly parted, and one of her slender fingers traced the lower lip; the gesture, surely unconscious and without guile, sent a shivering thrill along his spine. A dark rush of something leaner than mere admiration coiled beneath his chest, and too keenly, Remus realized that whatever the basis of his feelings were for her, whether it be an empathy or understanding, or a weakness of her easy acceptance-

In the fire light, he only saw a woman, and in her warmth and shadow, he began to want.

.