Some days, the voices are louder. They whisper in his ears, in his mind, and he can’t escape them. They follow him when he walks through his former home, taunting him with each step. They’re in his head when he tries to sleep, sending him images that make closing his eyes dangerous. The alcohol numbs it, makes it bearable, but he can’t lose himself in a bottle all the time.

It’s worse when she’s there. Sirius watches her constantly, studies her every move, and he listens to the voices tell him everything he should do to her, remind him what he wants when he skulks in the shadows to look at her. When he’s sober, he knows it’s wrong. She’s just a child still growing into the woman she’ll become with gangly arms and legs and soft curves that have grown since he saw her last. She’s his godson’s best friend, all bright eyes and encouraging smiles and far too smart for her own good. She’s everything he never used to want.

Now, she’s all he can think about.

Moony knows. It’s there when their gazes meet, an awareness that Sirius is on an edge that he very well could stumble over at any time. He tries to ignore the voices, but they’re so insistent that it’s impossible. Soft whispers become murmurs and he can hear his own heartbeat (thump, thump, thump) become louder as he watches her until all he knows is lust and need and darkness.

He stays away when he’s sober, or tries. She’s everywhere, though, and he can’t hide from the rush of feelings that just the scent of her causes. The voices were with him in Azkaban. They kept him company as he paced his small, cold cell, and he can’t ignore them no matter how desperately he wants to. When he’s drowning himself in alcohol, it’s even worse. The tenuous hold he keeps on his sanity is so tight that it could snap at any time. He keeps control for Harry’s sake, for Moony’s sake, for his own sake…but it’s a constant struggle on a good day and a true battle when she’s near.

With the taste of firewhisky on his tongue, he sees her beneath him. He hears her begging for more, feels her wet and tight and hot around him as he takes her over and over, and smells sex and sweat and desperation all around him. She watches him, too, and smiles at him, little smiles that he knows mean she wants it, too. The voices tell him she’s gagging for it, show him how she blushes when he looks at her, and encourage him to take what they both want. He imagines her broken at his feet, covered in his come and bites, marked as his for all to see, and he grips his glass of firewhisky tighter as he wanks hard and fast.

It’s never enough. He drinks more to block the visions and loses what little control he still has after years of fighting the darkness in his mind. Everything gets mixed up and he’s no longer sure what’s real or just a dream. Hermione knows. He sees it in her eyes when he’s sober. There’s fear and worry and an understanding that draws him closer and closer until he has to retreat into a bottle of firewhisky to escape her knowing gaze.

It’s becoming more and more difficult to ignore the whispers, to ignore his desire, and he can feel his hold slipping as he sits in the darkness of the library. This is familiar (the cold, damp dark) and he welcomes it as time slips away and he forgets or does he remember? He never knows for sure anymore. He only knows the act, the easy charming smile that so many expect, and the need to protect his godson, Harry is someone he’d do anything for. And he knows her. But having her will hurt Harry and he can’t have that, can never have that, so he ignores and drinks and escapes into familiar shadows to find some release.

Until the night when it finally becomes too much.

It’s all mixed up in his head but he knows (he knows) she wants it, too. The voices are roaring in his head as he puts down his glass. He can taste her on his lips, can feel her against him, and he thinks of nothing else as he slowly makes his way up the stairs.

The voices soften to a murmur, growing quieter with each step he takes until they’re barely a whisper in his mind. When he reaches her door, there’s a moment of doubt, of sobriety, but it’s fleeting. His head is foggy and the taste of firewhisky is thick in his mouth, but the voices are quiet now. He won’t need the alcohol anymore because he’ll be able to lose himself in her, just like the voices promise. He slowly opens her door and steps inside, quietly shutting it behind him.

It’s time.

End