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“Don’t say it,” Sirius grits his teeth and glares at his bandaged hands; betrayed.
“I didn’t say anything,” Hermione defends automatically, hands going up in a relaxed motion.
“You were thinking it,”
“Who are you? Remus?” she snorts and raises a brow, “Since when can you read minds?”
“I know women,”
“You think you know women,” Hermione corrects with a giggle and ignores his wounding glare, “Besides, no one told you to skip the last Wizengamot meeting to hide in Romania with Charlie. Look at your hands, Sirius! You’re lucky that it isn’t going to scar—shut up, you know what I mean!”
Sirius had opened his mouth to give a snarky reply but snapped it shut when she gives him a glare.
“You could’ve fried your nerves, Sirius!” Hermione scolds him because my keeping his mouth shut allowed her to have an open volley, “When Charlie called us and said you were attacked by a dragon, you scared Harry and I half to death!”
His eyes softened at that, and sighs, “I know, poppet.”
She sighs too and takes his hands in her lap. Running a diagnostic spell on his hands, she calculated the amount of time left he has until he can remove the bandages. She muses, “You have a week again before you can remove the bandages completely, but it looks like it’s healing quite nicely.”
Sirius perks up at that.
“You still have to take it easy,” Hermione warns him lightly and goes back to her book. He had eaten his lunch – soup because it’s much easier than using a fork – after pitching a fit to Remus, who escaped to go find Tonks, and Harry had made himself scarce with his Auror training.
He scratches his face with his elbow and sighs, “This is ridiculous.”
She gives him a look before going back to her book.
Sirius scratches his face again with the rough of his bandages, hissing when he can’t scratch that itch on his face, his foot shaking with each attempt and Hermione almost snickers at his canine habit. Instead, she puts her book down and sighs, “Do you want some anti-itch cream?”
“It’s not that,” Sirius scowls at his hands again, “It’s my beard, I haven’t shaved in almost two weeks and my skin feels like it’s on fire.”
Hermione blinks, “Oh,” she scratches her head, “Do you want me to call Harry? I think he can give you a shave or maybe Remus. I think I trust Remus more.”
He looks at her aghast, cheeks hot, eyes wide and his voice goes up a couple of octaves, “What?”
“What?” she frowns and crosses her arms underneath her chest, “Do you want Arthur to do it?”
“What?” Sirius demands again with horror.
“Why do you keep doing that?” Hermione scowls and her hair crackles at the edges, “My father never gave my mother this much trouble when he goes for a shave.”
“Wait—” he shakes his head in disbelief, “Is that normal? Muggles allow people to shave each other?”
She stares at him and purses her lips, “Is that not a thing here? Muggles get their haircuts in boutiques, I was under the impression the same thing happens here. Women get their eyebrows waxed, face cleaned, and plucked. Men get their beards and facial hair shaved there by professionals. It’s called a barber, it’s a pretty common thing.”
“Men willingly let a blade near their face?” Sirius asks slowly.
“Well yeah,” a pause, “They are paying for it.”
He falls back in his chair and rubs his face with the inside of his elbow. Then he explains, “Shaving – especially for men – is personal and intimate in the wizarding world because you’re letting a blade near your face, but times have changed so we use our wands to shave, and letting a wand near someone’s throat is not—is not proper. Or comforting, or appropriate and—it’s just not done, Hermione.”
Hermione blinks and leans back in her chair in thought. She presses her hand underneath her chin and thinks. He watches her warily, but uses the time to study her features and linger on the curve of her lips. She interrupts his observations to ask, “So if I had asked Remus to do this…”
“He probably would’ve said yes, but also would be uncomfortable doing it and I don’t want a hesitant werewolf near my face with a wand,” Sirius explains after a moment.
“Right,” she nods and then smiles sheepishly. She thought she would learn her lesson first hand with Bellatrix, but at the same time, the situation was different. “I didn’t know, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, poppet,” he waves it off awkwardly and inquires, “Your mother did this for your father?”
“Yes, it’s more of an intimate thing? It’s sort of how you described it, but it’s…” Hermione trails off trying to figure out the best way to explain this and he watches with intense silver eyes, “It’s kind of like an act of service, to show my Dad how much my Mum cares for him. By you know, letting her groom him, it shows him that no matter what happens – age and illness which may be an issue later on – will not stop her from caring or loving my Dad any less. I mean, if you see it, you would understand.”
Sirius absorbs her answer with much consideration. He wonders, “Did you ever shave anyone?”
“Harry,” she answers immediately and shrugs, “When he broke his hand during a Quidditch match, I shaved him. He sneezed at least three times and once did accidental magic. He was the worst patient—er, customer.”
He guffaws, “Of course, prongslet, can’t sit still for more than five minutes.”
She rolls her eyes with amusement and then it’s quiet for a bit.
“Alright, poppet,” Sirius makes up his mind and breathes, “Let’s do it.”
She stares at him owlishly and questions him slowly, “And what are we doing?”
“I’m going to let you shave my face,”
“Didn’t we just have this discussion on how it’s not proper or appropriate for someone to shave another person?” Hermione retorts exasperated and incredulous.
“Yes,” Now Sirius rolls his eyes and points out off-handedly, “But you didn’t offer.”
There’s a pause – a moment suspended in time and three heartbeats flutter in between.
“I didn’t think you were comfortable with me,” Hermione says after a moment.
“Why in Merlin’s name would you think that?” he asks in disbelief and a part of him shrivels at the thought of her feeling discomfort with him—at him.
“I don’t know,” she’s frazzled and because she’s frazzled she doesn’t know how to answer him. As he explained and as she emphasized, shaving is an intimate thing. They didn’t really have the relationship where she would jump to do something like that, which is strange in hindsight considering that she lives with him, but then again, so does Harry. She has no true link to this house, other than being Harry Potter’s best friend and occasional verbal sparring partner with Sirius, but he does that with Remus too. “You don’t want to try Harry?”
“He’s at the barracks, remember and I wouldn’t trust him with a nervous cat,” Sirius raises a brow and rubs his face on the sofa, “Poppet, before I decide to rip off my bandages and scratch my face off, do something. I’ll look like Moony by the end of today if you don’t take responsibility! What will you do if I damage my handsome face?”
Hermione roots her hair in her hands and tugs for a moment. She groans with exasperation and drops her book on the table, “Fine! But I don’t want to hear any complaints!”
Sirius smiles triumphantly.
“Prat,” she murmurs and transfigures a nearby blanket into a towel.
“I heard that,”
“Good,” she shoots back and disappears into the kitchen for a glass of water. The animagus takes this time to pop the buttons of his shirt and toss the silk button-up over the sofa. He waits impatiently for the witch to come back as he lounges back lazily on the chaise, his chest and tattoos out for the world to see.
Hermione walks back into the living room with a cup of water and places it on the small table next to the lamp. She turns to look at him and glares at his bare chest, “Is this necessary?”
If he had fair use of his fingers, he would’ve tapped his fingertips together excitedly, so he sticks to resting the jut of his wrists against his jawline in excitement and nods, “Of course, that shirt’s spider silk and mulberry satin!”
She mutters something rude and incoherent, even with his canine sense, he couldn’t decipher it, instead, he watches her grab the towel and wrap it around his shoulders. Then she hesitates and looks at him quietly, “Are you sure you want me to do this?”
Sirius gentles granite eyes and taps the inside of her ankle with his foot in comfort. He tells her truthfully, “I wouldn’t trust anyone with this but you, poppet.”
Hermione’s eyes glitter with something and small, bashful smile curls at the corner of her lips.
And his breath catches in his throat at the gentle look.
“Er,” she looks at his face and then grabs her wand from her pocket, “Okay, I guess I’ll start then.”
He perks up like that – Padfoot gleefully making an appearance – and commands, “Go on, then. Make me beautiful.”
Hermione rolls her eyes, but bites her lip from saying something silly.
She puts her wand in his lap and wets her hands with some water. She pauses minutely before pressing damp hands on his beard, the cool of her hands soothe the inflammation on his skin and he sighs into her palms, “Poppet, you have no idea how good that feels.”
“So if I give you a scratch, you’ll bark?”
“I’ll deal with you later for that impertinent question, love,” Sirius sniffs when she slides a finger over his top lip, fingertip just barely catching onto the pink of his bottom lip.
She chuckles lightly and picks up her wand from his lap. She focuses on his skin for a moment and swallows, “Ready?”
He nods and she hangs over him like the moon.
Hermione lifts his head, finger under his chin as she tilts his head to the side, pulls the skin of his face up, and uses the wand to glide over his skin in one downward stroke. She hums at the clean slip of his face and rinses the wand in the glass of water before continuing slow, smooth strokes. Eventually, she gets to the corner of his mouth, but she skips it in to start on the other side of his face and continues until she reaches the other corner of his lips.
Sirius watches her carefully, thoughtfully, cataloging the features of her face in the silence of her concentration. He counts the freckles on her nose, the softness of her cheek, the tiny mole right underneath her left eye. The carnation of her lips, the soft mahogany of her lashes, and the cream of her skin. He’s never seen her up so close before, she smells like roses and parchment. The old parchment that they used to write pureblood ball invitations and draft laws on.
Her hands are gentle on his skin, even when she lifts his head to swipe down his jaw and throat. She squeezes his bicep in warning and comfort as she cleans the rest of his neck swiftly. She clears her throat and sits up to ease her lower back muscles, “Okay?”
“Yeah,” Sirius responds roughly, voice dry from lack of use.
Hermione stands up straight, thrusts her chest out, and pulls her back backward to ease the strain on her spine. Then she eyes his mouth carefully and then rubs the side of her cheek, “Okay, I’m going to do something and you’re not allowed to comment or tease or speak of this to anyone ever. If you do not agree to these terms I will let you look like a half-shaved hippogriff.”
He raises a brow at the threat and nods his assent, slightly miffed about her intentions.
But nothing could prepare him for Hermione to straddle him, bottom planted firmly on his lap, back arching to accommodate for the angle of her position. Sirius stills, arms immediately finding a way in the curve of her spine, her chest pressed against his as she looks at him intensely. She uses her wand to trace over his chin, removing a patch of hair smoothly, and dips the wand back into the cup of water.
Once she removes the more obvious patches of hair, she starts around the corner of his mouth. Sirius watches her mesmerized, because her eyes are even more gorgeous up-close, like two topaz lined with gold. The wand brushes over his bottom lip, his upper lip, the corners, the seams, and they tingle so delicately that he’s mildly surprised that he isn’t shivering at the sensation.
Hermione then puts her wand on the side table, takes some more water in her hands, and runs it over smooth skin. Sirius is nearly panting with anticipation, he would’ve never let her do this if he knew that this, was going to have this, much teasing, because her fingers are soft over his newly shaven skin, and they are divine as they gently caress his face. She picks up the towel and pats him dry.
Hermione leans back a little, his arms still snug around her waist and accio’s a mirror for him to look at. She lifts it until he’s eye to eye with the piece of metal, “What do you think?”
“I think,” Sirius starts off huskily and rubs his face with his forearm, “I think you do a better job than me, poppet.”
She chuckles at that and then shrugs, “I tried.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” he scoffs and squeezes her hips—bare skin against the thin of her top, “You’re good at anything you put your mind to.”
Hermione gives him a dry look, “I think you’re being biased.”
“I think so too,” Remus chimes in from the foyer with raised brows and a knowing smirk on his lips, “But then again, Sirius isn’t one to lie.”
Hermione jumps out of Sirius’s lap like she’s been burnt and demands, “How long have you been standing there?”
“Since half-shaved hippogriff,”
Sirius shoots him a glare.
She looks at the ceiling for a moment, silently asking for patience, and then asks after a moment, “Is your skin still itching, Sirius?”
“No,” Sirius rubs the side of his face and then smirks, “You have sufficiently scratched my itch.”
Remus muffles a snicker and Hermione glares at the two of them. She grabs her book, wand and stomps out of the living room muttering something dark about dogs.
“Thanks for the shave, darling!” Sirius calls out as she disappears up the stairs.
.
“You got it bad, Pads.”
“Don’t I know it, Moony.”