the_debt_of_time

Viktor had been nothing but a gentleman when he had escorted her to the Yule Ball
fourth year, and despite what Ginny had told Ron, he had left Hogwarts with a mere kiss
to Hermione's knuckles in farewell, nothing more. Cormac McLaggen had gotten close,
going so far as to attempt to trap her beneath charmed mistletoe at Slughorn's Christmas
party, but Hermione had escaped without ever touching his lips—though his hands had
gravitated toward her arse more than she would care to admit. Everyone had assumed that
she and Ron would end up together, but seeing what happened last year with Lavender put
him in a new light, and whatever mild childish feelings she had formed for the redhead had
turned familial all too quickly.
Her previous fancies and suitors had all been boys, save for the embarrassing
infatuation she had once held for Gilderoy Lockhart—as well as a more secretive crush on
a different Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher her third year. But this... this man in her
arms was just that. A man. He did not fumble with his movements and did not touch her
with hesitation. His affections were not clumsy or rushed; he was precise without being
predictable—surprising considering how reckless and impulsive he often could be. His
ministrations lit a fire in her belly. As his fingers grazed the side of her breast, her head fell
back, and she let out a soft cry. A shiver descended her spine like cool water on the hottest
day of summer.
Something fluid burned inside of her like liquid fire. It felt like it was flowing out of
her and into him, returning to her body and bringing something with it that sparked with
energy. The sparks went off in time like morse code, tap tap tapping between them, spelling
out: Mine.
Sirius forced himself to pull away from her; the pulsating tone he felt more than
heard inside of him was too reminiscent of moments from his past, and he needed to
remind himself that this was still Hermione in his arms, and she was not ready to know
everything that he knew.
He could hear her panting in the darkness, gasping for air, and a part of him felt
guilty for depriving her of oxygen, considering the lack of such had literally almost killed
her minutes ago. Though their lips no longer connected, he felt incapable of releasing her,
knowing that the moment he did, she would leave his arms forever.
He had kissed her. He had just kissed Hermione, the eighteen-year-old best friend of
his godson. And he had not just kissed the girl, he had properly and thoroughly snogged her.