This was inspired by Tarnationawaits who wrote a drabble with her least favourite pairing. I decided to see if I could do the same with mine, but as you can see, the drabble has become a ficlet.

For His Own Good

Hermione had never truly understood why Harry loved him so much. He'd been half-mad most of the time, confusing Harry with James, encouraging him to rash actions that were foolhardy at best, potentially fatal at worst.

She'd been sorry for Harry, of course, when his godfather had fallen through the Veil to his death that day in June, but really, it was for the best, and Harry would get over it. Hermione knew how grief was supposed to go – she'd studied it diligently that summer, so she could be prepared to help Harry.

But by the end of the summer, Harry was still wavering between Stage 1 (denial) and Stage 2 (grief) with occasional flashes of Stage 3 (bargaining), so when Hermione found the portrait lying forgotten at the back of a stack of canvasses in the attic of Grimmauld Place, she quietly moved it to her own room and did not mention it to Harry or anyone else.

The portrait was of a young Sirius, maybe 16 or so, and though she had seen pictures of him before Azkaban, the camera did not truly do him justice. It took the rich texture of oils to bring out the subtle shading of the midnight hair and dark, expressive eyes, and brushstrokes alone could reveal the shadows and hollows of his exquisite cheekbones. She'd never realised how truly beautiful he'd been.

He took the news of his death with stupid optimism, especially when he learned he'd died in battle, saving James' son. She very carefully didn't tell him about Azkaban or how James and Lily Potter had died, and when he asked to see Harry or Remus Lupin or Peter Pettigrew, Hermione distracted him in the only way she could think of.

It started with her fingers deftly unbuttoning her blouse, then hands cupping her breasts, teasing at her nipples, running down her flat stomach and into the waistband of her skirt. His question about Remus died half-spoken and she quickly learned that portrait people could take their clothes off and they had things under them, which made her a bit uncomfortable as she remembered a certain look Sir Cadogan used to give her.

But her discomfort transformed to something else entirely as she saw the easy grace of his body, lightly muscled and so utterly masculine. Already a man at 16, while Harry and Ron were still boys. The portrait lay propped up against her headboard as her fingers sought her secret places, whilst her other hand stroked the smooth surface of the canvas as he brought himself to violent, shuddering climax. Then his voice, so lovely and rich, whispered words of encouragement and desire as her own orgasm took her like fire spreading across dry grass.

When Hermione packed to go back to school, the portrait went too, wrapped in a silk nightgown, carefully stowed in the side of her trunk. It wouldn't do to leave it in Grimmauld Place where Harry might someday find it. Like the Mirror of Erised, Sirius' portrait could too easily become an obsession for Harry.

What it had become for her, she didn't examine too closely. Especially at night, when the hangings on her bed were drawn, shutting out Parvati and Lavender, and the silencing charm she'd perfected muffled the sighs and groans as she sought her release again and again whilst Sirius, eternally and always beautiful, immortal at 16, murmured his appreciation.