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Manus Nigra

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Manus Nigra (Black Hand)

 

She occupies his thoughts.

Her eyes, nose, lips, and her body – her smell, her.

Everything that makes her up – Hermione Granger, drives him absolutely insane.

He stands now by her bedside, watching her as she slept.

Ever since that fateful evening when his best friend, James Charlus Potter, arrived at his doorstep with an unconscious form of a girl.

It was raining heavily that night.

He thought his best friend killed her.

He’d have gladly hid the body with him then… but that was not the case.

“Ennervate,” he remembered James saying as he watched him point his wand at the chest of the girl’s lithe form.

He was beside them in an instant – watched as the girl opened her brown eyes which darted from James to him, a flash of recognition immediately reflected on her eyes as they heard her sucked in a breath as he heard her mention his name.

“Sirius,” he heard her say again, much clearer this time. Next thing he and James knew, the girl was sobbing uncontrollably from where she sat as she mumbled an apology after apology.

Dumbledore came later and confirmed her identity to them and relayed her story – then at the Order meeting, her entire story.

He lowered his body to her bed.

“My brave brave wonderful witch,” he utters as he drags his hands on the woman’s sleeping body.

“I want to taste you,” he breathed as his hands continued to roam her body.

The sleeping witch shivered in her sleep as piece by piece, the raven-haired wizard vanished her clothes.

Her soft-pink pajama top made out of silk.

It’s matching bottoms.

Her undergarments.

He breathed her in as his mouth watered at the sight.

His friends told him he should stay away from her – that she doesn’t need a Sirius Black dogging at her, or leering at her with eyes that undresses her with every stare.

He told them they were insane.

The witch was clearly his.

His.

From the moment she breathed his name, she became his.

She was an enigma.


She was his thirst.

He wanted to know everything about her.

He wanted to do everything with her – to her.

He obsessed about her, too much – too much, until it came to this.

It’s been a year and a half since that night.

Four months since war ended with all the Horcrux gathered and destroyed along with Voldemort when the sleeping witch unleashed a fiendfyre so strong that the Parkinson Manor, where the Death Eaters were formerly convening and using as hide-out, is still burning and on fire to date.

As soon as the war ended he urged her to continue living with him.

Begged.

Pouted.

Everything – everything to make her stay.

She did.

“Sirius? What are you doing?” she asked groggily as she started to come to