Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Time Room was humming. That was never a good sign.

Hermione adjusted the collar of her robes and glanced at the rotating timepieces suspended in mid-air, all ticking at slightly different rhythms. Even after all these years, the dissonance still made her vaguely nauseous. She could practically feel the temporal tension thrumming through the chamber, like plucking a harp string in a thunderstorm.

“Granger,” called a clipped voice from across the glowing console. “You’ve got a thirty-second window. Anchor the tether spell and step back.”

“Already done,” she replied briskly, eyes scanning the spellwork one last time. The new stabiliser they were testing was meant to prevent time fractures, not cause them—but magic had a delightful way of ignoring best intentions.

She slipped the modified Time-Turner over her head, the golden chain warm against her collarbone.

“Activating temporal field in five—four—”

The air changed.

Three.

The glow intensified.

Two.

A deep pressure behind her eyes—

One.

Snap.

The world didn’t shatter. It folded.

Hermione screamed—or thought she did—but there was no sound. Just spinning. Screaming clocks. A blinding, bone-deep cold, and then—

Nothing.

Heat.

Sticky, stifling heat.

Hermione gasped and jerked upright, lungs drawing in humid air that didn’t belong in November. Her hands scrambled against warm grass and uneven ground. Her fingers closed around something solid—her wand—and she gripped it instinctively, heart hammering.

She wasn’t in the Department of Mysteries anymore.

She was outside.

Her mind flailed. Had the stabiliser ruptured the anchoring field? Had she been ejected mid-transfer? That wasn’t even supposed to be possible unless—

The realisation hit her like a slap: the chain. It must have snapped. Sure enough, there was no Time-Turner around her neck.

She blinked against the harsh sunlight filtering through the branches overhead. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, but it did nothing to cool the oppressive warmth clinging to her skin.

“This… can’t be right,” she muttered. “It was the third of November. Cold. Rainy. I wore my heavy cloak this morning.”

She stumbled to her feet. Her bag, thank Merlin, was still slung over her shoulder. She pushed through the bramble-thick cusp of trees, hoping to find a sign—any sign—that would tell her where and when she was.

The trees gave way to a quiet road, flanked by neatly clipped hedgerows. It looked startlingly mundane.

A sign stood crooked by the roadside:

WELCOME TO LITTLE WHINGING

Her breath caught. No. No.

This was where Harry had grown up. Where Petunia and Vernon Dursley had lived. Hermione had only visited the one time, when they were extracting Harry before his seventeenth birthday, and certainly hadn’t had much time to look around, but she got the picture.

She moved stiffly toward the post box outside a squat, red-bricked house. A rolled-up Daily Mail sat half-spilt on the edge. Hermione glanced around—no one in sight—then snatched it up, her fingers trembling as she scanned the print.

14 August 1993

She felt like the air had been punched from her lungs. Her knees almost buckled.

“1993,” she whispered. “That’s… that’s not just a little off.”

This was more than a failed stabiliser. This was a full-scale temporal relocation—sixteen years into the past.

Her brain skittered through implications—Ministry protocols, temporal isolation, catastrophic paradox potential—but the panic was cut short by a low, guttural growl.

Hermione froze.

It came from behind her, in the hedgerow.

Slowly, she turned.

A large, black dog stepped out onto the pavement.

He looked half-dead—ribs prominent beneath his matted fur, paws cracked, eyes wild and far too human. He bared his teeth, a low snarl rippling through him as his gaze locked on her wand.

“Oh,” Hermione breathed. Her fingers went slack, and she tucked her wand slowly away into her sleeve. “It’s you.”

She knew that growl. That fur. That haunted glint.

Padfoot.

But not her Padfoot. Not the godfather she’d come to know and trust.

This was 1993. Sirius Black had broken out of Azkaban only weeks ago. He’d spent twelve years rotting in a cell, barely human, hunted and starved and mad with grief.

He didn’t know her. And even if he did, she looked nothing like the fourteen-year-old girl he’d one day meet in the Shrieking Shack.

So, she crouched.

She made herself small. Non-threatening. She kept her tone light.

“Hey, boy,” she said gently. “Easy now. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The growl didn’t stop, but the dog didn’t lunge, either.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Hermione said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She slung the bag off her shoulder and unzipped the front pocket. “Let’s see…”

She fumbled around the tangle of scrolls, emergency potions, and spell stabilisers until her fingers brushed something plastic-wrapped.

“Aha.”

She drew out a slightly squashed cheese and tomato sandwich, wrapped in waxed paper. The bread had gone a bit soggy from the tomato, but it was food.

“Here,” she murmured, unwrapping it and holding out a small torn piece. “I don’t have dog treats, but this is decent, I promise.”

The dog eyed her warily.

“Come on,” she coaxed, holding it out flat on her palm. “I won’t bite if you don’t.”

He inched closer. One step. Then another.

Then—he snatched the piece, retreating two paces to wolf it down.

“Thought so,” Hermione said, the corners of her mouth twitching. “You are hungry.”

She tore off another piece. And another. And watched as the most infamous fugitive in the wizarding world devoured her sandwich one cautious bite at a time.

She didn’t say his name.

Not yet.

Because Padfoot might be willing to accept food from a stranger. But Sirius Black? He might bolt.

Hermione’s mind was moving faster than a Firebolt on espresso.

She had currency—both Muggle and wizarding—in her bag. That was something. She could get by for a bit. Her emergency pouch, enchanted to be bottomless and mildly inaccessible by anyone but her, contained all the usual field essentials: spare robes, cleansing potions, a travel brush, parchment, and a truly absurd number of quills. It also, mercifully, held a few galleons and a wad of Muggle notes, crumpled but dry.

Survival? Manageable.

But the bigger question loomed: What the hell was she going to do now?

Stay in the wizarding world? Tempting. No one here would know her as Hermione Granger, war heroine. The people who mattered—Harry, Ron, Ginny—all barely teenagers, scattered across the country or prepping for another year at Hogwarts. Her thirteen—almost fourteen-year-old version of herself would be heading to Diagon Alley with the Weasleys soon. She could avoid the Ministry, stay under the radar, maybe even blend in with Muggles for now.

It would be safer.

Cleaner.

Simple.

Her eyes flicked to the dog currently licking sandwich crumbs off the wax paper with laser focus.

Well. Relatively simple.

What was she even supposed to do with him?

Padfoot looked up mid-lick, tongue still halfway out, as if catching her staring.

“You’re not exactly low maintenance, are you?” she murmured, more to herself than him.

Technically, he was safe in this form. The list of people who knew Sirius Black was an unregistered Animagus could be counted on one hand—Remus, Peter, and now… her. Dumbledore didn’t even know yet. The wizarding world still believed Sirius was a dangerous mass murderer, a loyal Death Eater, and absolutely, undeniably, human.

Which meant he could wander beside her in this form without raising eyebrows.

Still, the implications churned in her gut like a bad potion.

She was an Unspeakable. She knew better. She knew the dangers of meddling with timelines, the thousands of threads that could unravel from one reckless act.

But… gods, hadn’t she lost so much?

She had lived through the war. Survived it. Watched friends die. Held Teddy Lupin as a baby and thought about what he’d never get to know. Held Harry when he screamed about Fred. Held Ron when their relationship crumbled under the weight of what they’d all been through.

And Sirius.

Brilliant, reckless, sarcastic Sirius, who had only just gotten his freedom back before it was ripped away again. Who died not in a blaze of glory, but in a curtained fall.

She looked at the dog again.

Thin. Dirty. Alive.

And for the briefest, maddest moment, the what-if took root.

What if she could change it?

What if she could save him?

She didn’t even notice her hand drifting to stroke her bag again until his cold nose nudged it aside. Then again. And again.

Startled, she looked down to see Padfoot attempting to wedge his entire snout into the flap.

“Oh!” she blinked. “Sorry, I—no, that’s it. No more food in there. Just a half-used quill and a comb, and trust me, you do not want to chew on that.”

He huffed and gave her the most affronted look a dog could possibly give. Disdain radiated from every dusty, matted strand of fur.

“Right,” she said, smiling faintly. “Fair enough. Not the grandest meal for a half-starving dog. We’ll sort something better.”

Padfoot snorted again and looked away, which Hermione took as permission to make decisions on his behalf.

She stood and stretched, brushing grass from her knees. “We’ll head toward town. There’s bound to be an inn or bed-and-breakfast somewhere, and I’ve got enough on me to cover a night or two. After that, we’ll improvise.”

She paused. “Also, you smell like you’ve been rolling around in a pile of Hippogriff excrement. We are definitely getting you cleaned up.”

If dogs could look personally offended, this one certainly did. Hermione actually laughed. It wasn’t a big laugh—just a breathy, startled bubble in her chest—but it was the first honest laugh she’d had in months. Possibly years.

“I must look completely mad to you,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Talking to a stray. Inviting him to dinner. Planning your bath.”

Padfoot’s ears twitched.

“Well,” she added, with a lift of her chin, “you’re following a mad girl through Surrey, so that’s not exactly a vote for your sanity, either.”

She turned on her heel and began walking along the quiet road, adjusting the strap of her bag as the late-afternoon sun warmed her shoulders.

After a moment, the faint click-click of claws on asphalt joined her.

She smiled, not looking back.

“Come on then,” she said, as if he were just a dog.

As if she weren’t carrying the weight of two timelines and an impossible secret. Padfoot padded up beside her, silent and watchful. But he didn’t run.

It didn’t take long to reach the edge of town. Little Whinging was as ordinary as she remembered—rows of near-identical houses, pristine lawns, post boxes scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. It was the kind of place where a leaf out of place warranted an HOA letter.

Which made her new companion stick out like a Blast-Ended Skrewt in a teacup.

Padfoot walked slightly behind her now, keeping close to hedges and parked cars like he knew he didn’t belong. His head was low, tail tucked—not in fear, but caution. He was playing the role of a stray perfectly, though Hermione suspected it wasn’t really an act.

His nose twitched constantly. Every passing car made his hackles rise. He flinched at the sound of a dog barking in the distance.

Her chest tightened.

She hadn’t realised, not until now, just how badly Azkaban had broken him.

They found a modest Muggle inn near the edge of town, tucked between a charity shop and a bakery that smelled faintly of burnt sugar. The sign read “The Little Elm Guesthouse” in flaking gold paint, and Hermione decided it would do just fine.

She paused at the steps, glancing down at Padfoot. “Right,” she muttered, “this is where things get tricky.”

He stared at her with flat, unimpressed dog eyes.

“I can’t just waltz in with a stray, you know. They’ll ask questions. Might not let us stay.”

Padfoot blinked slowly. Hermione crossed her arms.

“I’m not leaving you in a bush.”

He blinked again, this time with more judgment.

“I’m not!”

Still, she hesitated. The receptionist behind the front desk—a woman in her fifties with a floral blouse and the perma-scowl of someone who had once smiled in 1982 and regretted it—was watching through the front window.

Hermione blew out a breath and drew Padfoot away from the window. “Right, let’s play this clever.”

A quick glamour charm later, Padfoot’s coat was less ragged, slightly shinier, and the filth crusting his paws had vanished. He still looked like a big mutt, but now more scrappy pet than rabid alley beast. Another charm took care of the smell as well.

“You’re officially a rescue,” she whispered. “Name’s... Snuffles.”

Padfoot gave her the dog equivalent of really?

“Oh, shut up, it’s short notice.”

She walked up the path, head high, fingers crossed.

The receptionist raised an eyebrow as they entered. “We don’t usually allow pets.”

Hermione smiled, pleasant and unbothered. “He’s well-trained. Rescue. Very quiet.”

Padfoot sat perfectly still beside her, tail thumping once against the floor with the slow, deliberate patience of a creature determined to behave long enough for sausages.

The woman squinted. “What breed is he?”

Hermione blinked. “Uh… Scottish Grim-Hound?”

The receptionist’s expression didn’t budge.

“They’re very rare,” Hermione added helpfully. “Very loyal. And quiet.”

A long pause. Then, a sigh. “So long as he doesn’t bark, shed, or pee on anything.”

“I can promise all of those things,” said Hermione brightly.

She handed over the Muggle notes, took the key to Room 3B, and resisted the urge to do a celebratory jig.

The room was small but clean. One bed, a narrow desk, a bathroom with surprisingly fluffy towels, and—miracle of miracles—hot water.

Padfoot immediately hopped onto the bed.

“No,” Hermione said firmly. “Absolutely not. You are not getting whatever that smell is into the linens.”

He stared at her, then flopped down anyway.

Hermione sighed, already peeling off her cloak. “Fine. But first, bath.”

That got his attention.

The moment she turned on the taps in the en suite, Padfoot was at the door, backing away like she’d conjured a banshee.

“Oh, no you don’t.” She followed him back into the bedroom, pointing her wand. “Don’t make me levitate you in there. I have no shame.”

Padfoot growled—a low, half-hearted thing that still sent shivers down her spine.

She softened. “Look, I know you’ve probably had... literal hell, but you’ll feel better. I promise. And you do smell like you tried to court a troll.”

That earned her a sharp huff.

“You want food or not?”

He grumbled but finally padded back into the bathroom. Hermione shut the door behind them both, braced herself, and cast a protective charm over her clothes.

“You know, I bathed Crookshanks when he fell into a doxy nest once,” she muttered. “He bit me. Twice.”

Padfoot leapt into the tub with the resigned dignity of someone walking to their own execution.

She smiled to herself as she turned on the spray. “Good boy.”

To Hermione’s surprise, Padfoot behaved like a proper, well-mannered dog throughout the entire ordeal.

He stood still—well, mostly—as she scrubbed years of grime from his fur. He even let out a long, pitiful groan when she began working shampoo into the patch behind his ears, as though he were resigning himself to the ultimate indignity.

She had fully expected a battle. Maybe a couple of growls. Possibly an attempted escape out the window.

Instead, he just… let her.

Hermione frowned as she lathered in another round of soap, watching suds turn a particularly unpleasant shade of grey.

It wasn’t just exhaustion, either. There was something aware in his stillness—something that said, this may be the only warm bath I get in ten years, so best let the witch scrub.

She sighed and reached for her wand.

“All right, don’t panic,” she murmured as she raised it. “This is just for—”

Padfoot flinched.

Her heart twisted a little. He hadn’t growled, hadn’t made to bolt. Just tensed, his tail curling slightly toward his flank and his eyes narrowing.

Hermione lowered her wand an inch. “Hey. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He blinked once.

“Just a few Scourgifies. You haven’t seen what’s behind your ears.”

Padfoot gave a dramatic sigh through his nose, flopped back down into the tub, and looked away as if to say, Fine. Do your worst.

She chuckled under her breath. “You’re lucky I like you, even when you smell like mildew and regret.”

With a careful flick, she began casting charm after charm—removing caked dirt, old blood (Merlin), even the early signs of what looked like a flea infestation. She caught them with a well-aimed Purgare Parasitum, and swore Padfoot’s eyebrows lifted in mild, if begrudging, respect.

“Oh, so now you’re impressed,” she muttered, rinsing out the final round of soap. “You didn’t think the Ministry’s best and brightest would’ve researched pest-banishing spells after the incident in the breakroom?”

Padfoot thumped his tail once.

An hour later—yes, a full hour—the water finally ran clear.

Hermione leaned back on her heels, arm aching, and surveyed her work. Padfoot was no longer a mangy disaster of a dog. He was still lean to the point of being underfed, and she could feel the ridges of his ribs when she brushed past, but at least now he resembled a survivor and not a corpse.

“There,” she said, setting down the sponge and wand with finality. “You’re officially clean. Possibly for the first time this decade.”

Padfoot’s response was to leap out of the tub, soaking wet, and shake himself out with full enthusiasm.

Hermione didn’t stand a chance.

“HEY!” she yelped as water exploded off him in all directions. Droplets hit her in the face, her chest, her hair—everywhere. She stumbled back, absolutely drenched, as Padfoot stood there looking far too pleased with himself.

“Of course,” she muttered, wiping her face with the hem of her shirt. “Should’ve expected that.”

Padfoot huffed. His version of a laugh, apparently.

With a wave of her wand, she began drying him with a warming charm, gently coaxing the water out of his thick black coat.

He sneezed once, violently, from the odd feel of the hot air lifting through his fur. Hermione paused mid-drying, stifling a grin.

“Ticklish?”

He gave her an affronted snort, then settled again, letting her finish. His eyes had drifted half-closed, his tail flicking lazily at the tip.

Hermione worked in silence, spell after spell pulling moisture and dirt from his coat until he was properly fluffed, sleek, and, most importantly, not a walking biohazard.

“There,” she said at last, straightening up with a sigh. “You are now approximately seventy-five per cent less feral.”

Padfoot padded over to the bath mat, circled three times with great ceremony, then collapsed with a huff. His head flopped down onto his paws, and he gave her a look that was somewhere between truce and thanks.

And just like that, Hermione’s heart twisted again.

This wasn’t just about scrubbing a dog. This was Sirius Black—who had laughed with James Potter, who had held baby Harry, who had howled at the moon with Remus Lupin—and who, at this point in time, was utterly alone in the world.

Well.

Not utterly.

She moved to the sink, still dripping slightly, and pulled a towel from the rack. “You rest,” she murmured, towelling her own face and neck. “I’ll go down and see if they’ve got something more substantial than a vending machine. I think you’ve earned at least one meal that doesn’t involve bin-diving.”

He made a low sound—something between a grumble and a sigh—but didn’t get up.

Hermione smiled.

It was bizarre. Impossible. Reckless.

But it was also kind of wonderful.

She opened the bathroom door, stepping into the cool air of the bedroom. “Be back in a bit,” she called softly.

The guesthouse’s dining area was modest—mostly full of quiet pensioners and the occasional road-weary tourist—but the kitchen still did takeout, thank Merlin. Hermione took stock of the offerings with a new lens, scanning for things that were bland enough not to upset a stomach unused to real food yet hearty enough to provide proper nourishment.

She ended up with two meat pies, a container of mashed potatoes, roasted carrots, a bit of ham, two slices of toast, and a small cup of broth—“for the dog,” she told the cook, who raised an eyebrow and gave her a butter packet with a shrug.

By the time she made it back upstairs, the smell of gravy and roasted meat warming the air around her, she was already rehearsing how to explain her presence here.

Hello, Sirius. I’m a thirty-year-old time traveller from 2009, and I’m not going to turn you in, but I do need your help in rewriting the future.

Yes. Perfectly sane.

She pushed the door open and stopped short.

Padfoot was gone.

Panic flared—for a heartbeat, she thought he’d bolted—but then she heard a small, tired huff. Her eyes landed on the bed.

A lumpy shape was curled under the duvet, only the very tip of a black tail sticking out from beneath the covers.

Hermione’s heart sank.

It was August, and the room was far from chilly, but Sirius Black had spent over a decade in the icy grip of Azkaban. Cold like that didn’t leave easily. It seeped into the bones, into the soul. Even sunshine could feel like frost when you hadn’t known warmth in years.

She set the takeaway containers down quietly and pulled out her wand, casting a gentle warming charm over the blankets. The duvet fluffed slightly, and she swore she saw the tail flick once in thanks.

Hermione crouched by the side of the bed and began unpacking the food, placing each item carefully on the floor within easy reach. She didn’t call him, didn’t try to coax him out. Just let the scent of gravy and roast drift into the room.

Padfoot’s nose poked out first.

Then one paw. Then another.

Within moments, a shaggy black head emerged, eyes bleary but alert, ears flicking forward with cautious interest.

Hermione smiled softly. “It’s not much,” she murmured, “but it’s yours.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. He padded down from the bed and nosed his way through the containers, starting with the broth. His movements were slow but deliberate, as if every bite was a calculated risk. She didn’t try to pet him, didn’t interrupt. Just watched.

She, on the other hand, didn’t feel hungry. Her stomach was too knotted with thought, her mind spinning through fragments of memory, timeline implications, and the fragile balance she was now juggling.

Harry.

He’d run away around this time, hadn’t he? After the Aunt Marge incident?

She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, trying to summon the exact events. Harry had fled, ended up on the Knight Bus, and then in the Leaky Cauldron. Fudge had been oddly lenient, more concerned with keeping Harry safe than punishing him.

It had all turned out fine.

But what if her interference had already changed something?

She glanced at Padfoot—at Sirius—curled beside the empty broth cup, licking the last smear of butter off the toast crust. Had her actions already diverted his path? Was Harry already in London? Was the Knight Bus still on track to find him? Or was Sirius somehow involved in that, and she had interfered?

She didn’t know.

And that was the problem.

She couldn’t afford to guess.

Her next steps had to be deliberate—no more playing things by instinct.

The most urgent issue: Peter Pettigrew.

The rat was at the Burrow. Ron would be heading to Hogwarts soon, and once Scabbers was within the castle walls, getting to him without causing a complete disaster would be very difficult.

She had a small window.

And she’d have to act fast.

Except… she couldn’t do it alone. Not completely. She’d need help. She’d need him for this to really work.

Hermione looked over at Padfoot again. He was watching her now, his head tilted slightly to the side in that very canine manner, food forgotten for the moment. His eyes were tired, wary, but there was a spark there—something intelligent, something present.

She reached out slowly and scratched behind one ear.

He stiffened.

Just a little.

But he didn’t growl.

Didn’t pull away.

Just… let her.

Her fingers moved in slow, soothing circles.

“That’s a good boy,” she murmured softly, her voice more breath than sound.

His tail gave a slow, uncertain wag, like it wasn’t quite sure if that was the proper response.

She tilted her head, subconsciously mirroring him as she watched him.

From his perspective, she must seem utterly mad. A stranger. A witch. Chatty, unpredictable, and apparently under the impression that bringing a huge, unkempt stray dog into a Muggle inn was a perfectly reasonable way to spend a Tuesday night. And yet—he’d followed her. Bathed without biting. Let her touch him.

She was mildly surprised he wasn’t more suspicious. But then, she supposed, why would he be? As far as Sirius Black knew, no one alive—aside from a traitor and one old friend—was even aware of his Animagus form. If Remus had betrayed him to the Ministry, there would’ve been wards and magical locks all over Azkaban to counter it.

But there hadn’t been, had there?

So, from his point of view, she was just… eccentric.

Overly helpful.

Possibly lonely.

Not a threat.

Hermione exhaled through her nose and leaned her head back against the bedframe.

She wasn’t sure revealing everything tonight was the right call. He needed sleep. Warmth. Time to realise she wasn’t about to hex him or drag him to the nearest Auror station. No matter how good her intentions, dropping I’m from the future and I know everything you’ve been through might be a little much for night one.

Her eyes flicked to the food containers on the floor.

He’d finished one of the meat pies as well. Cleaned it to the corners. She winced slightly, watching him eye the second.

“Alright,” she said gently, “how about I set the rest aside for breakfast?”

That earned her a low, grumbly noise from his chest. Not quite a growl—more like a canine tsk.

“I’m not taking it away permanently,” she promised, kneeling to scoop up the containers. “I just don’t want you to get sick.”

Padfoot stilled at that, eyeing her with faint suspicion.

Hermione chuckled internally. He was definitely acting too intelligent. Any casual observer would’ve assumed she’d brought along an animagus-impersonator or a cursed prince.

She placed the leftovers in the little fridge tucked under the desk and turned back to him.

“Alright, do we need to go outside for a walk to relieve yourself?”

Padfoot looked offended.

His entire posture shifted to pure indignation—ears twitching, spine stiff, tail flicking once in disbelief.

“Okay, fine,” she relented, hands raised in surrender. “Let me know if that changes.”

She tugged back the sheets and slid under the covers fully dressed, too tired to care. Her slacks were stiff, her shirt still faintly damp, but transfiguring a proper pyjama set felt like a tomorrow problem. Besides, sleep would come easier if she didn’t have to cast another spell tonight.

Padfoot leapt onto the bed after her with all the grace of someone who considered personal space a suggestion. He wriggled without shame, worming his way beneath the duvet with a single-minded determination that made Hermione laugh under her breath.

She turned slightly toward him. “Still cold?”

He didn’t answer, obviously, but a cold nose nudged under her arm in reply.

She smiled and lifted the blanket without hesitation. “I’ll take that as a yes. Come here.”

Padfoot hesitated for only a moment, then curled into her side, tucking his long legs under him and pressing into her warmth. Hermione adjusted, draping one arm gently over his back. His fur was warm now, soft from all the cleaning spells, and he smelled faintly of lavender soap and wet dog.

She exhaled.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t growl. Just let her touch him.

And she marvelled again—not just at how easily he trusted her, but at how easily she trusted him. She’d watched this man die. Had mourned him. And now he was here—broken, bone-thin, silent in his grief and trauma—and she was holding him like a lost pet needing shelter from the storm.

Which, in a way, he was.

“Sleep,” she whispered into the quiet. “You’re safe now.”

Padfoot didn’t move. His breathing slowed, deepened.

Hermione closed her eyes.

She hadn’t solved anything yet. Had no concrete plan. Still didn’t know where Harry was, or how to handle Peter, or what she was going to do when the sun came up.

But for now—for tonight, this was enough.

She held onto that small truth as sleep finally took her.

Chapter Text

The first thing Hermione noticed upon waking was the absence of warmth.

She blinked, groggy and squinting against the light filtering through the thin guesthouse curtains. Her hand slid across the bed instinctively, searching the space where Padfoot had curled up beside her the night before.

Empty.

Her stomach clenched.

She bolted upright, hair a tangle, heart galloping through every worst-case scenario—he’d run, someone saw him, he transformed and bolted, the Ministry was alerted—

A faint noise interrupted her spiral. Scratching. Then, a very unglamorous squelch.

She frowned, threw off the covers, and padded barefoot into the en suite—

Only to stop dead in the doorway.

Padfoot, heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, most-wanted fugitive in the country, was doggy squatting in the bathtub, taking an undignified and somewhat dramatic poo.

Hermione stared at him.

He stared back.

There was, truly, no graceful way to process the moment.

“Are you serious?” she asked, mostly to herself.

Padfoot froze mid-push.

There was a pause—tense, absurd—before his ears flicked back slightly. His eyes narrowed.

Hermione clapped a metaphorical hand over her mouth.

Right. Of course. Sirius.

She wondered, not for the first time, how many times the Marauders had abused that pun at Hogwarts. Likely until Remus threatened to glue their mouths shut with Honeydukes’ Fudge.

But she said nothing. Too much. Too soon.

“I asked you last night if you needed to go outside,” she grumbled instead.

Padfoot’s look was the canine equivalent of a shrug. Clearly, he hadn’t needed to then.

When he was done, he hopped out of the tub with surprising grace, shook out his fur, and trotted out of the bathroom as if the entire affair had been perfectly dignified.

Hermione sighed—exasperated, but not really angry. With a flick of her wand and a muttered Evanesco, the mess disappeared. She cast a thorough Scourgify for good measure.

“Well,” she said dryly, “at least it wasn’t on the carpet or duvet.”

Padfoot, entirely unbothered, made a beeline for the fridge and nudged it with his nose.

“Of course,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “You demand room service now.”

She followed, pulling out the leftovers and warming them with a flick of her wand, setting the plate on the floor.

He dug in like a creature starved—and he was. She winced as he devoured the food with such desperation it made her stomach churn. How he hadn’t vomited from sheer overload yesterday was a mystery. She made a mental note to pick up something for his digestion later—mild tonic, stomach-soothing tea, a Stomach-Settling Biscuit if she could find one.

While he ate, Hermione slid slowly to the floor and sat opposite him, legs tucked under her, her back against the bed.

She folded her hands in her lap.

“Alright,” she said quietly. “We need to talk. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t freak out, run, or—” she hesitated, “—bite me.”

Padfoot didn’t lift his head. Didn’t growl. Didn’t even twitch an ear.

But she knew he was listening.

“I know who you are,” she said.

That got his attention.

He froze mid-bite, chewing slowly, head still lowered, eyes watching her now with the careful, measured wariness of someone who had spent years waiting for betrayal.

“I know you’re Sirius Black. I know you’re innocent. I know Peter betrayed James and Lily. And I know you’re not here to hurt Harry.”

Silence.

Her heart pounded in her ears.

“I want to help you,” she added gently. “I’m not here to turn you in. I promise.”

And then, in a heartbeat—

Everything changed.

A pulse of magic, a blur of limbs—suddenly she was dragged off the floor and pressed hard against the wall, wand hand pinned, breath knocked from her lungs.

Sirius Black stood before her. Lean, pale, dressed in torn prison clothes. His hands were shaking, but his grip on her shoulder was iron.

His eyes were wild. Bloodshot. Starved in more ways than one.

“Who the fuck are you?” he hissed, voice hoarse and low from disuse. His breath was hot, stale, and ragged against her face. There was no warmth in his eyes. No trust. Only raw, cornered fury.

Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat, but she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t struggle.

Didn’t try to cast with her wand.

Instead, she met his eyes—steady, unwavering.

“You don’t know me yet. My name is Hermione Granger.”

His grip tightened.

“I’m from the future,” she said quickly. “From 2009. My younger self is Harry Potter’s best friend. Please—I’m not a threat.”

Sirius stared at her like she’d grown a second head. He was shaking, his whole body taut, a wire pulled too tight.

“Time travel on this scale is not possible,” he growled.

Hermione gave a short, bitter laugh. “That’s what the Unspeakables want you to think. I work in the Department of Mysteries. I should know. But this wasn’t planned. There was an accident in the Time Room. And now… here I am.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just looked at her—hard, calculating, furious.

“You could be a Death Eater,” he bit out.

“I could be,” she agreed. “But would a Death Eater know James used to charm your tea to scream if it had sugar in it because you refused to admit you liked it sweet?”

Sirius blinked.

“And that you used to read Remus Muggle horror stories after full moons to help distract him from the pain?”

His grip loosened.

“Or that you carried one-year-old Harry on your shoulders around the garden in Godric’s Hollow, singing him filthy parody lyrics to Celestina Warbeck songs?”

A beat.

A flicker.

A twitch at the corner of his mouth.

She swallowed thickly. “You told Harry those stories before our fifth year. 1995.”

She met his gaze, voice softer now. “You died protecting him in 1996. You didn’t deserve that. You deserved so much more.”

His breath caught—just slightly. Barely there.

Then he slumped—not completely, not in surrender, but like a man who simply didn’t have the strength to keep holding everything in.

His hand slipped from her wrist.

His forehead dropped, resting just above her shoulder, trembling.

“I don’t… understand,” he rasped.

“I know,” she murmured. “I will explain. Everything. Just give me time. Please.”

He didn’t speak.

But he didn’t pull away.

And in that exhausted silence, as her heart began to slow and the weight of the moment settled between them, Hermione allowed herself the tiniest, most fragile flicker of hope.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sirius still hadn’t moved. He was pressed against her like someone half-drowning, held together by sheer will and a thin layer of disbelief.

Hermione didn’t rush him.

But after a long moment, when she felt his breathing even out and the tremble in his limbs begin to subside, she gently lifted a hand and placed it against his upper arm.

He flinched.

Only slightly.

But it was enough to remind her of everything he’d been through—twelve years in Azkaban, hunted, starved, betrayed. Trust wasn’t just a gift anymore. It was a risk. A wound that hadn’t yet scabbed over.

“Do you want to maybe… take a shower?” she asked quietly. “As a human, I mean.”

That got a reaction. He blinked, lifted his head, and gave her a flat, sceptical look.

Hermione tried for a small, careful smile. “I’m not saying you still smell like mildew and emotional damage, but…” She tilted her head. “Actually, no, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Though it might just be the clothes. Or that apparently clean fur doesn’t equal clean skin.”

Sirius exhaled through his nose, something that might have been the ghost of a huff, if not quite a laugh.

“And I can go out while you do that,” she added. “Buy some things for you. Toothbrush. Clothes that don’t look like you broke out of Azkaban by digging through a grave.”

“Comforting,” he croaked, voice rough as gravel.

She shrugged. “Just trying to be accurate.”

He studied her for a long beat, as though deciding whether to let her out of his sight—or throttle her just in case.

Eventually, he stepped back. One foot. Two.

The space between them filled slowly with tentative air and the electric hum of uncertainty.

“You’d come back,” he said flatly, not quite a question.

Hermione met his gaze. “Yes. I will.”

“And you wouldn’t bring anyone else?”

“I won’t.”

“Not even—”

“I won’t,” she repeated, gently. “Not Dumbledore. Not the Ministry. Not even Remus.”

Sirius swallowed, jaw tight. “Remus thinks I’m a traitor.”

“Remus doesn’t know the truth yet. But he will,” Hermione said, quietly but firmly. “We’ll fix it. One step at a time.”

He ran a hand through his hair—long, tangled, his temple still a little slick from the sweat he had worked up in agitation—and looked down at himself with a frown, like he’d only just remembered he was dressed in torn, threadbare prisoner’s robes that hung off his thin frame like old curtains.

“…A shower might be good,” he muttered, with a grimace.

Hermione nodded, stepping toward the door. “There should be clean towels still in the bathroom. I’ll grab the food wrappers and vanish the rest of the evidence.”

She paused at the door, bag already slung over her shoulder.

“And when I come back,” she said, “we’ll talk. About Peter. About what comes next. We’ll make a plan.”

Sirius didn’t answer. He just looked at her—suspicious, exhausted, but no longer ready to bolt or strike.

Progress.

She gave him one last nod, then opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

Behind her, she heard the faint sound of running water.

And for the first time since arriving in 1993, Hermione Granger allowed herself to believe this might actually work.

Hermione had faced war. Death Eaters. A mountain troll in a bathroom.

None of that had prepared her for shopping for clothes for a thirty-three-year-old fugitive wizard with the metabolism of a starving wolf and the build of a haunted skeleton.

“What even is his size?” she muttered aloud somewhere between the third and fourth rack of men’s jumpers in a crowded Muggle shop just off Oxford Street. “Skeletal with shoulders?”

She frowned, holding up a dark grey hoodie and eyeballing it like she could manifest the answer through sheer willpower. She remembered how tall Sirius had been—still was—but the prison had stripped everything else. Muscle. Mass. Warmth.

She ended up buying a few things in multiple sizes. Comfortable, neutral jumpers, hoodies. Couple of Henleys. Elastic-waist joggers, just in case jeans were too rough on his still-healing skin. A couple of long-sleeved thermal shirts. Plain boxers, soft socks, a beanie she didn’t mean to grab but thought he might appreciate. A cheap pair of lace-up boots. Trainers.

And toiletries. So many toiletries.

Muggle toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant. Comb. Shampoo. Razor, though she doubted he’d want it just yet. Lip balm. She didn’t even know if his lips were chapped, but she bought it anyway. Just in case.

Then, bags in hand, she ducked into a grimy alley, pulled up her hood, cast a heavy glamour, and Apparated to the edge of Diagon Alley.

Her heart pounded harder with every step.

She stuck to the shadows, wand gripped in her pocket, glamour in place, every nerve on high alert. If Harry was already in the Leaky Cauldron—if he was here—one wrong turn and she could run face-first into her best friend’s younger self. And what would she even say?

‘Hey, don’t mind me, just Hermione from the future who’s supposed to be fourteen right now but accidentally tripped through time and kidnapped your godfather in Animagus form before he could do something stupid. Fancy an ice cream?’

No.

She slipped into the apothecary with her head down and her list memorised.

Nutrition potions. Bone and nerve tonics. Dreamless Sleep. Stomach-calming draughts, Blood-replenisher. A few low-grade calming elixirs that wouldn’t dull Sirius’s mind but might soothe the tension humming under his skin. She even bought a restorative balm for the cold burns caused by Dementors—not that she said the word “Azkaban” aloud to the shopkeeper.

By the time she returned to the inn, her arms ached, and her heart was hammering like she’d just smuggled contraband through Voldemort’s parlour.

Hermione stepped in and froze.

Sirius was sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but a towel around his waist.

Clean.

His hair was damp and pushed back from his face, darker now that it wasn’t caked with grease. His skin, still far too pale, looked less sallow in the soft light. And the tattoos—Merlin, the tattoos—twined across his chest and arms in sharp black ink. Runes, sigils, ancient protections. A compass rose over one shoulder. Something Nordic on his ribs. Not Azkaban marks. These were deliberate. Young Sirius. Rebellious Sirius.

She’d only ever seen a portion of the ones on his chest in the original timeline. They’d once peeked out from under his robes when he leaned over the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place, laughing with Ron. She hadn’t thought much of it then—just a hint of the man he might’ve been.

But now?

Now they felt like ghosts of a life never lived.

He was still gaunt—too thin, his collarbones sharp, his wrists bony—but the haunted look had faded just slightly from his eyes. A little less Azkaban. A little more man.

His prison clothes were nowhere in sight.

She didn’t ask.

Probably in the bin. Probably destroyed. Good.

“I, uh…” She cleared her throat, awkward in the doorway. “Hope they fit. I had to kind of eyeball it.”

She handed the bags over, one by one.

“I also got some toiletries. And, um… potions. For recovery.” She gestured to a smaller bag. “Stomach soothers, nutrient boosters, sleep aids. A few magical skin restoratives. Nothing sedative, I promise.”

Sirius took the bags without a word, expression unreadable. But he nodded once, and that was something.

He disappeared back into the bathroom.

Hermione collapsed onto the edge of the bed with a sigh, letting the quiet settle around her. A moment later, the sound of the shower running again reached her ears.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged.

Shaved.

Fully clothed.

In a black Henley and charcoal sweatpants, barefoot but clean-shaven, hair towel-dried and falling just past his chin. His skin looked freshly scrubbed, pink along the jaw, and his mouth twisted in something close to a grimace.

Hermione gave a small smile. “Teeth brushed?”

“To the point of gums bleeding,” he rasped, running a hand through his hair. “Thanks for the toothbrush. And the… everything.”

She nodded, then hesitated. “Do you want me to… give you a haircut?”

He looked up sharply.

She lifted her hands. “Just a trim. If you want.”

He stared at her.

Then, finally, finally, one corner of his mouth twitched.

“Only if you don’t shave off my eyebrows by accident.”

“Has that happened before?”

“Learned it the hard way not to let James experiment with cosmetic charms.”

Hermione grinned. “Deal.”

Sirius sat on the chair she’d dragged out from under the little writing desk, shoulders hunched, legs stretched out awkwardly in front of him. The Henley clung to his too-sharp frame, the sleeves pushed up past his elbows. His hands—long, elegant, and scarred—rested in his lap, gripping each other like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

He hadn’t said much since she offered.

Just, “Alright,” and a barely perceptible nod, like trusting her with scissors—or in this case, a wand—was only marginally more tolerable than a hex.

Hermione stood behind him, wand in hand, and took a breath.

She didn’t want to ask when he last had a haircut. She was fairly certain the answer was “before Azkaban.”

She conjured a mirror in front of him—half for practicality, half to give him a sense of control—and ran her fingers gently through his damp hair to separate the strands. He stiffened under her touch, but didn’t pull away.

“I learned this one while we were on the run,” she said softly, more to fill the silence than anything. “There’s not a lot of time for beauty salons when you’re being hunted by Snatchers.”

He made a faint noise that might’ve been a laugh—or indigestion. Didn’t ask about what she meant by those statements. She took it as encouragement.

She whispered the charm and began working slowly, trimming off the frayed, uneven ends. The strands fell in soft waves to the floor. She shaped around his ears, trimmed the nape of his neck, and left the length just long enough to suit him—still wild, still Sirius, but less like a man who’d clawed his way out of a grave.

The bags under his eyes were still there. His cheeks were still hollow. But when she stepped back, wand lowered, he looked—

Better.

Less shaggy, almost well-kept.

Hermione vanished the hair clippings and handed him one of the nutrient potions from the table. He took it wordlessly, uncorking the phial and downing it in two gulps, wincing slightly at the taste.

She placed the rest of the potions on the nightstand. “I’ll let you choose when to take the others. There’s a Calming Draught, a digestive tonic, a Mind Mender. I don’t know how they’ll mix with each other, so don’t take them all at once. And I don’t want you blaming me if your stomach explodes.”

His eyes met hers in the mirror, tired but sharp. “Noted.”

She reached past him to set her wand aside, her hand brushing the back of the chair. He didn’t flinch this time.

“Thank you,” Sirius said quietly.

It wasn’t just about the haircut. She knew that. He knew she knew.

But neither of them said more.

Hermione simply gave a nod, stepping around to face him.

“You’re welcome.”

And for the first time since she’d pulled him out of an alley and offered him a sandwich, she saw the faintest glimmer of something real in his expression—not just survival, not suspicion or numbness or weariness.

But gratitude.

Tentative. Raw. And real.

Not even ten minutes later, Hermione braced herself.

This was the part she’d been dreading.

She watched as Sirius sat back in the desk chair, hair still damp since he refused the drying charms, clean clothes doing little to hide the wiry tension in his limbs. He looked like a man halfway between storm and shadow, his eyes darting between her face and the wand she’d set on the nightstand, like he wasn’t sure which would betray him first.

“Peter,” she said quietly.

His jaw tensed.

“I know where he is.”

Sirius straightened. His voice, when it came, was low and sharp. “Where?”

“The Burrow. With the Weasleys. He’s still with them. Their kids haven’t gone back to Hogwarts yet.”

He shot to his feet, almost knocking the chair back. “Then let’s go.”

Hermione stood too, intercepting him before he made it to the door. “No.”

He blinked. “What? ”

“You’re not coming with me.”

“You’re out of your bloody mind if you think I’m letting you go and not me!”

“Sirius—”

“No!” he barked, stepping in close. “I’ve spent twelve years rotting in that hellhole, watching the world forget me. I have earned the right to put that bastard in the ground!”

“And if you try,” Hermione snapped, “you’ll ensure you rot for twelve more!”

His breath came in harsh bursts. “You think I care?”

“You should!” she shouted, eyes flashing. “Because this isn’t just about you!”

“Oh, of course not. Let’s make it about you then, shall we?” he sneered. “The time-travelling mystery girl with too many answers and no answers at all—”

“It’s about Harry!” she said, voice cracking. “It’s always been about Harry!”

That silenced him.

Hermione pushed forward, voice trembling now, not with fear—but with fury.

“In my original timeline, you didn’t get to kill Peter. You had the chance—and you let him go. For Harry. Because Harry asked you to turn him in instead. Because you loved him.”

Sirius staggered back half a step like she’d struck him.

She didn’t stop.

“He’s living with abusive relatives—the Dursleys. You know what they’re like. You know. He’s miserable. Alone. And if you stay a fugitive, he’ll keep being alone.”

Sirius stared at her, chest heaving, the edges of his fury starting to shake. She could see it—his hands, clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

“He needs you. I need you, Sirius,” she said, softer now. “Because Voldemort isn’t dead. Not really. He made Horcruxes. He’s still out there, waiting to rise. And I know where they are. But I can’t do this alone.”

His expression faltered. Confusion. Denial. Then, worst of all—hope.

“I need you free. I need you cleared. Not hiding in your Animagus form, not hunted. There are places we’ll need. Resources. Knowledge. But we can’t access any of that unless we clear your name. And for that… we need Peter alive. ”

Silence hung in the air like a broken curse.

Sirius turned away from her, pacing to the window, hands digging into his hair. He muttered something too low to hear. His shoulders were hunched, the way one looks right before they break apart or boil over.

For a long moment, he was still.

Then—

He slammed his fist into the wall.

Hermione didn’t flinch.

He breathed hard, head bowed. “He gets away again…”

“He won’t,” she said gently. “Not this time.”

Another beat of silence

Then Sirius turned, expression carved from something jagged. His voice was quieter now, but no less raw.

“I hate that you’re right.”

“I hate that I have to say it,” she replied.

And for one unbearable second, she saw it all on his face: the weight, the pain, the crushed fury barely contained by skin. He looked lost. Young and ancient at once. A man who had been caged for so long, freedom itself felt like a trick.

Hermione exhaled, relieved—and tired.

Without thinking, she stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

It was impulsive. Thoughtless. Instinctive.

His body went rigid.

Hermione froze halfway through wrapping her arms around him, realising too late—this isn’t the Sirius who knew her. This Sirius doesn’t know who she is. Not really. Doesn’t trust her. Doesn’t touch people.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, trying to step back.

But before she could—

One awkward, slightly stiff hand patted her back.

Once. Twice.

“Er… thanks,” Sirius muttered, as though comforting women was not his area of expertise. Not anymore.

Hermione smiled—just a little—and stepped back, adjusting her jumper. “You’re welcome.”

He looked at her then, wariness still in his eyes, but something else too.

A flicker of trust.

Maybe even the beginning of belief.

Chapter Text

Later that afternoon, Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, hair twisted up in a lazy bun, nibbling lightly on the feather of a quill. A roll of parchment was spread out in front of her, blank—tauntingly so—but her mind was already halfway through the letter.

Sirius paced like a caged dog behind her, barefoot and muttering, still dressed in the Henley and joggers she’d picked out.

“You really think this’ll work?” he asked, tone scathing. “A letter?”

Hermione didn’t answer at first. She dipped the quill in ink and began to write.

Dear Mr Weasley,

You don’t know me. That’s for the best. Please don’t disregard this, even if it sounds ridiculous. It isn’t. You work for the Ministry, and that means you understand how dangerous the smallest oversight can be.

“I mean, really, you think he’s going to read that and think, ‘Oh, of course, let’s interrogate the family pet?’”

Hermione ignored him.

You’ve had a rat in your family for over a decade now. Twelve years, if I’m not mistaken. Isn’t that strange? Rats don’t live that long. Most barely make it past two or three.

Sirius scoffed. “We should just go there. I can grab him myself. One Stunning Spell. Done.”

Hermione kept writing.

It’s been rumoured that Peter Pettigrew—yes, that Peter Pettigrew—was an unregistered Animagus. And what do you know? His form was a rat.

She paused to look up at Sirius. “And what if you’re wrong? What if Ron isn’t at home? Had taken Scabbers with him somewhere? What if Molly screams? What if someone sees you? Not to mention the wards. Their eldest son works for Gringotts as a Curse Breaker. You can imagine what kind of wards they have. You’ll be back in Azkaban before your wand knows what hit it.”

His nostrils flared. “If we wait too long, we lose him.”

“That’s why we do this now.”

She finished the draft aloud as she wrote it:

Can you do me a small favour? Please discreetly place your family rat in a cage warded against Animagus transformation and bring him to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for testing. If he’s just a rat—no harm done beyond a bit of inconvenience to you. But if he isn’t, if he really is Peter Pettigrew… well. That would raise quite a few important questions, wouldn’t it?

P.S. If it is Peter, please check his left forearm. You’ll know why. I’d be most curious as to what he would reveal under Veritaserum interrogation.

P.P.S. Sirius Black never received a trial. You can check that in the Ministry records if you don’t believe me.

She signed it with a neat, anonymous flourish and flicked her wand to dry the ink. “There.”

Sirius snorted. “You think Arthur Weasley’s just going to read some unsigned letter and do what it says?”

Hermione finally turned to face him, holding the parchment in both hands.

“He’s a Ministry man. And more importantly, he’s curious. He works in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. He’s been trained to spot the strange and unusual. He’s probably seen all kinds of cursed toasters and enchanted gnomes pretending to be lawn ornaments. I think if we nudge him in the right direction, just enough to plant the seed, he’ll want to know.”

He turned toward her, expression dark. “And if they ignore it?”

“They won’t.”

“You’re betting everything on that.”

Hermione met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “I’m betting that Arthur Weasley loves his family, trusts his instincts, and is smart enough to sense something’s off.”

Sirius didn’t argue further.

But he didn’t look convinced either.

She gave him a tight smile, grabbed her wand, and slipped her glamour charm over her features like a second skin.

“I’ll go to the Owl Drop in Knockturn. Less likely to be traced back to me that way.”

Sirius exhaled through his nose, arms crossed. “Just… be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” she replied, and before she could stop herself, added softly, “Someone has to be.”

His eyes flickered.

Neither of them said anything more.

Hermione walked briskly through the dim back alleys near Knockturn Alley, a charmed envelope tucked in her sleeve, her features masked by a clever glamour—light freckles, pale grey eyes, a slightly too-big nose. Just another errand girl for some private courier.

She found the Owl Drop—a peeling wooden box embedded in the crumbling brick wall behind a shuttered apothecary—and slipped the letter inside. It would be sorted and delivered anonymously, no signature required, no traceable return address.

Hermione pressed the lid shut and whispered the trigger phrase.

The latch clicked.

The letter was gone.

She exhaled slowly and turned back toward the inn, cloak tight around her shoulders, trying not to let her imagination spiral into every worst-case scenario. Arthur dismissing the letter. Molly intercepting it and burning it. Ron finding it and laughing it off. Scabbers slithering away in the night.

But mostly… she thought of Sirius.

Waiting.

Raging quietly beneath the surface.

Back at the inn, when she stepped inside, Sirius was sitting on the bed, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it owed him a duel.

“Well?” he asked.

“It’s done,” she said, dropping the satchel on the floor.

He nodded, once.

But his jaw was tight, and his foot bounced restlessly against the bed frame.

Hermione sat beside him, close but not quite touching.

“He’s going to do it,” she said, more to herself than him. “Arthur won’t ignore a rat who’s lived twelve years in his house. Especially not if the letter suggests Ministry procedures might’ve been ignored.”

Sirius made a sound—half scoff, half sigh. “He’d better. Because if Peter slips away again…”

“He won’t,” she said. “He won’t, Sirius.”

But even as she said it, her fingers curled into fists.

Because this wasn’t just about trust in Arthur, or justice, or letters written with careful logic.

This was about the razor-thin margin between setting things right… and losing everything again.

The room smelled faintly of stale tea and lavender soap.

Dawn had slipped in unnoticed, grey and sluggish. Hermione stirred awake with a stiff neck and the weight of something heavy against her hip.

Padfoot.

He was curled beside her again—this time without ceremony—his great black head resting on her blanket-covered thigh, breathing deep and uneven. He must have shifted sometime during the night, abandoning the narrow bedroll he’d had her conjure for him in the corner, refusing to sleep in the same bed as her in human form.

She gently shifted out from under him, causing Padfoot to grumble and stretch with a groan like an old hinge. He didn’t shift back right away. Just gave her a bleary look from under a paw, then flopped onto his side with a heavy sigh.

Neither of them had slept much.

Sirius had tossed and turned for hours, visibly battling ghosts Hermione couldn’t see. He’d rejected the Dreamless Sleep with a growled “No potions,” and shifted to his Animagus form sometime around three in the morning—his way of escaping memories, maybe. Of becoming something else, even for a few hours.

Now, with the letter sent and no answer yet, they were stuck in limbo.

Waiting.

Nerves crawling.

Eventually, Padfoot shifted again with a ripple of fur and magic, and Sirius sat up, stretching his sore limbs with a grunt. His hair was mussed, his shirt twisted around one shoulder, and he looked exhausted—but his eyes were sharper this morning. Watchful.

“Can I ask you something?” he said hoarsely, rubbing the back of his neck.

Hermione looked up from where she was folding the blanket. “Of course.”

Sirius gestured vaguely. “You said you knew me. In your… future. Past. Whatever. How?”

Hermione paused.

Then sat back down on the bed, tucking her legs under herself.

“Well,” she began carefully, “you had this harebrained plan to catch Peter at Hogwarts.”

His brows lifted.

“Didn’t work, by the way.”

“Shocking,” he muttered.

She smiled faintly. “You broke in. Multiple times, actually. It… escalated. Eventually, Harry, Ron, and I ended up chasing Scabbers across the lawn, then into the Whomping Willow—where we found you in the Shrieking Shack.”

Sirius looked stunned. “The Shack?”

“You dragged Ron and the rat into the tunnel as Padfoot. Honestly, you looked like a madman at first. Harry tried to kill you.”

He winced.

“But Remus showed up,” she continued. “And then Peter—well, he didn’t get away that time. We had him.”

“Had,” Sirius echoed darkly.

She nodded. “Until the full moon rose. Remus transformed. You held him off, tried to keep him from hurting us. Peter escaped in the chaos.”

He swore under his breath.

Hermione leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You were arrested again after being swarmed by Dementors by the lake. They were going to give you the Kiss.”

Sirius stilled, a coldness creeping into his posture.

“But Harry and I used my Time-Turner. We rescued you. Twice actually. Harry had cast a powerful Patronus at the Dementors from across the lake, then later we flew up to the Dark Tower where you were being kept on the back of a Hippogriff.”

His head jerked up.

“They gave you a Time-Turner? At thirteen?”

Hermione flushed faintly. “I wanted to take all the classes.”

He stared at her.

A beat passed.

Instead of laughing or teasing or making the obvious sarcastic jab, Sirius just… nodded.

And then, softly, Sirius said, “Thank you.”

Hermione blinked. Her breath caught in her throat.

“For what?” she asked, though she already knew.

“For saving me,” he said. “Then.”

He glanced at her, and for the first time, there was nothing sharp or guarded in his face. No flippancy, no bravado. Just quiet sincerity, raw and unvarnished.

“And now,” he added.

Her throat went tight.

That was the thing about Sirius—he might be reckless, volatile, a half-wild thing bound together by memory and fury—but when he meant something, when he felt something, it came through with startling honesty. Unfiltered. Undiluted. Like the truth had never learned how to hide behind his teeth.

“Don’t mention it,” she said gently, voice thickening. “Besides… I owed you.”

His brow creased.

“You would’ve died for Harry,” she said. “You did. At the end of fifth year.”

His jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt.

“And before that,” she went on, her voice soft, “you gave Grimmauld Place to the Order. You fought tooth and nail to help us, even while you were trapped in a house you hated, surrounded by ghosts and curses and people who didn’t always trust you.”

Sirius looked away, eyes dark.

“Most of my memories of you are from that summer,” she said. “Before Harry’s fifth year. You were loud, and angry, and reckless—but you were also kind. You made jokes when we couldn’t smile. You gave us somewhere to belong. And you listened, even when no one else would.”

Silence stretched out between them, but it wasn’t the brittle kind. It was softer now. Worn down by exhaustion. Filled with something quieter—something like understanding.

Hermione stood slowly, brushing the wrinkles from her shirt, her movements unhurried.

“I should go out,” she said, glancing toward the window. “Pick up more food. Maybe sneak into Diagon and grab a Daily Prophet. I doubt there’ll be anything yet—Arthur only got the letter this morning—but…”

Sirius nodded, slumping back on his hands, the lines in his face suddenly deeper. “Can you get bacon?”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “You’ve got your priorities straight, at least.”

As if on cue, his stomach gave a low, traitorous growl. He didn’t even pretend to be embarrassed.

She grabbed her satchel from the chair, fingers already sliding over the worn leather strap.

“I won’t be long,” she said.

He didn’t protest.

Didn’t offer to come as a dog.

Didn’t demand to know what she’d do if someone spotted her or if the Prophet printed something dangerous.

And that—more than anything—told her just how close to the edge he still hovered.

She made it halfway to the door before he spoke again.

“Hermione?”

She turned back.

He was watching her, eyes unreadable but no longer hollow. There was something there now. Unspoken. Frayed. A question not quite voiced. A hope not quite dared.

“Be careful,” he said.

She nodded once, something catching in her chest. “Always.”

And then, with a quiet click of the latch, she stepped into the hallway and disappeared into the morning haze—leaving behind a man who’d once died for a boy he loved, and who might now, for the first time, have a second chance to live.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Sirius stood in the silence for a long moment, listening to the faint sound of her footsteps fade down the corridor. He stared at the spot where she’d been standing just seconds ago, as if her absence had left a shadow behind.

It had been easier to pace.

Easier to growl and argue and throw sarcastic remarks like curses—keep everything moving so it didn’t have time to settle. But now, in the quiet, it was all sinking in. Too fast. Too deep.

He dropped into the chair by the little table, elbows braced on his knees, hands locking behind his neck.

A Time-Turner.

A bloody Time-Turner. At thirteen.

He let out a humourless laugh that cracked halfway through. Of course, she’d had one. Hermione Granger—bright, stubborn, frighteningly competent even as a girl. He could see her now, hunched over too many books, eyebrows furrowed, saving the world before curfew.

You saved me, she’d said. So now I’ve saved you.

And that memory—the one he didn’t have but she clearly did—hit harder than he expected.

Dementors hadn’t let him remember much with clarity. James’s laugh, Lily’s eyes, the weight of a baby in his arms—it had all been fogged, smeared like charcoal beneath rain. But now, sitting in a room that didn’t smell like sea rot and despair, hearing that someone had fought for him when he couldn’t, had gone back in time for him—there was a pressure building in his chest that he didn’t quite know what to do with.

Sirius dropped his head into his hands.

He’d dreamed of being exonerated so many times in Azkaban, he’d lost count. Fantasies of storming into the Ministry, wand raised, shouting the truth. But those dreams had always ended the same way: betrayal, silence, or the sharp, cold kiss of a Dementor.

Now, there was this girl—a grown woman, more like—who knew everything. Who knew him. Who knew things he hadn’t told anyone since he was twenty-one. Who’d somehow stitched together the shattered pieces of his name into something worth salvaging.

And she wasn’t afraid of him.

Even after he’d shoved her against a wall. Even after she’d seen him snap and snarl and rage like something barely human.

She’d hugged him.

That had been the worst part, really. The hug.

He hadn’t known what to do with it.

No one had touched him like that in over a decade. Not since James—James—had clapped him on the back and said, “You’re family, mate. You know that, right?”

He was still rubbing the back of his neck where her arms had wrapped around him, like it meant something. Not duty. Not pity. Something else.

Sirius exhaled, long and low, and leaned back in the chair. The cracked ceiling above him didn’t offer any answers.

How was he meant to live in this world?

He wasn’t healed. He wasn’t whole. He was barely stitched together with fury and shadows and sheer bloody-mindedness. He wasn’t the man she remembered. He wasn’t the godfather Harry deserved.

But maybe—maybe—he could become him.

If they pulled this off.

If Peter was caught.

If the Ministry listened.

If he got his name back.

If.

So many ifs, and all of them perched on the edge of one girl’s belief that the future could be different.

Sirius dragged his fingers through his hair and stood, moving stiffly to the window. The alley behind the inn was empty, save for a bin that had already been raided by crows. The sky was still grey, that dull sort of summer morning that didn’t know whether to rain or scorch.

He caught his reflection in the glass—still too thin, dark circles carved under his eyes, the tattoos on his arms barely hidden by the sleeves of the shirt Hermione had picked. But cleaner. Less haunted.

Almost human.

Sirius braced his hand against the frame and whispered to the empty room, “Don’t screw this up.”

Whether he meant Hermione or himself, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Chapter Text

Hermione returned just past nine, arms full and cheeks flushed from the summer heat. She kicked the door shut behind her with her foot and dropped three bags onto the small table with a breathless “Breakfast.”

Sirius looked up from the battered armchair where he’d been nursing a lukewarm cup of tea and chewing the inside of his cheek for the better part of an hour.

His eyes flicked to the brown paper bundle under her arm.

She shook her head before he could ask.

“No sign. No headlines. No quiet arrests. The Daily Prophet is too busy sensationalising the return of Celestina Warbeck’s farewell tour to bother with Ministry anomalies.” She said it flatly, with a tight frown, before adding more gently, “It’s too soon, Sirius. He only got the letter this morning.”

He nodded, slowly. Disappointed, but not surprised.

Hermione unpacked the food—a full fry-up from a Muggle café, carefully wrapped in preservation paper. Toast. Rashers of bacon. Sausages, grilled tomatoes, eggs, a paper cup of coffee with her name written on it in a curly, slightly confused scrawl: Hermyn.

Sirius’s stomach gave an immediate, grateful growl.

“Merlin,” he muttered, “I could kiss you.”

Hermione snorted. “Eat your bacon first. Then we’ll talk about body fluid swapping.”

He gave her a look—half-teasing, half-shocked—then grinned, biting into a rasher like a man newly reacquainted with the concept of joy.

They ate in silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. It wasn’t awkward. Just… heavy. The quiet before a storm neither of them could quite predict.

Eventually, Sirius pushed his plate aside and looked at her.

“Tell me about him.”

Hermione blinked. “Harry?”

Sirius nodded, one hand loosely curled around his now-empty mug. “I want to know. What I missed.”

She hesitated, folding the napkin in her lap with careful precision. “There’s… a lot.”

“I’ve got time,” he said, softer now. “Start with the Dursleys. What’s their deal? I couldn’t see much during the two days I spent skulking around Privet Drive, but I know Lily’s sister has always been a piece of work. Cold as ice. Who decided to put him there, of all places?”

Hermione took a breath, weighing how much to say.

“Dumbledore placed him there,” she said finally. “Said it was for protection. Some kind of ancient magic—Lily’s sacrifice created a blood ward. As long as Harry lives with someone who shares her blood, the magic holds. He’s protected.”

Sirius stared at her, brow furrowing. “That’s… I mean, yes, Lily’s magic would’ve been powerful, but—Petunia? Protected or not, she hated everything about our world. James told me she flat out refused to come to the wedding.”

Hermione nodded. “She hates magic. Hates Harry. She and her husband made sure he knew it.”

Sirius’s fists curled. “Then why not someone else? Why not—” He cut himself off, a sick look crawling across his face. “Frank and Alice. That’s what the will said. If I couldn’t take him, they would.”

Hermione’s heart twisted.

She reached across the table, laying a hand gently over his.

“Sirius… Frank and Alice Longbottom were attacked not long after Godric’s Hollow. Tortured into insanity with the Cruciatus. By the Lestranges and Barty Crouch Jr.”

He blinked. “No. No, that can’t—”

“They’ve been patients in the Janus Thickey Ward in St Mungo’s ever since. Long-term care. They never recovered.”

Sirius’s breath left him in a rush, like he’d been punched.

“Merlin’s balls,” he whispered, eyes going distant. “Frank... was solid. One of the best we had. And Alice, she—she used to duel Moody for fun. They were supposed to be safe.”

“They weren’t the only ones,” Hermione said quietly. “The war didn’t stop just because Voldemort fell. The Death Eaters kept going. Those who didn’t immediately renounce him and tried to claim the Imperius, that is.”

Sirius rubbed his face, palm dragging down over his stubble. “So Harry ended up with those Muggle monsters. And no one questioned it?”

“No one knew where he was,” Hermione admitted, voice low but firm. “The wizarding world didn’t even realise he was with Muggles until he came to Hogwarts. People assumed he’d been sent somewhere… safe. Secluded. Pampered. The Boy Who Lived, hidden away in luxury.”

Sirius made a low, disgusted sound. “He was hidden, alright.”

Hermione nodded grimly. “Ron and I started suspecting something was wrong before second year. That summer… Ron, Fred, and George stole their dad’s flying car and rescued Harry from a locked, barred bedroom. The Dursleys were starving him. Treating him like a prisoner. His owl was locked in a cage. No letters. No contact. He didn’t even know what was happening until Ron showed up at the window.”

Sirius went still, too still.

“I think Molly suspected,” she added softly. “She wouldn’t have said anything directly, not to Harry—she always tried to treat him gently—but I’m sure she asked Dumbledore. I’m sure she did. But nothing changed. Every summer he went back.”

Sirius’s voice dropped to a growl. “What did they do?”

Hermione swallowed.

Her fingers curled around her teacup as if to ground herself in the room. “They made him sleep in a cupboard until he was eleven. Gave him hand-me-downs that swallowed him. Food was withheld often. He was punished for the smallest things. I’ve seen him flinch when someone raises their voice.”

She glanced at him. “They didn’t hit him. I don’t think so. Not regularly, anyway. But it was constant control. Neglect. Isolation. They made him feel like a freak.”

Sirius had gone deathly quiet.

His hands were shaking.

“I didn’t know,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I thought—I thought Dumbledore had a plan. That he’d protect him.”

“He did,” Hermione said quietly. “But not from that.”

He stood again, moving to the window like he couldn’t breathe sitting down. His shoulders were tight, drawn like a bowstring, every inch of him coiled with fury.

“I should have been there.”

“You couldn’t have known,” she said gently. “And now you can be.”

“That’s not enough—”

“It is,” Hermione cut in, standing too. “It is, Sirius. Because you’re here now. You’ve got a second chance. You don’t have to wonder anymore. You don’t have to imagine what they did or didn’t do.”

He turned to her, anguish in every line of his face. “But I can’t undo it.”

“No,” she agreed, stepping closer. “But you can help make sure he never has to go back. You can help make sure no one ever lets that happen again.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly, breathing like it hurt.

Then, in a raw, broken voice, he whispered, “I’ll kill them.”

Hermione didn’t flinch.

But she reached out and placed her hand gently on his forearm.

“No, you won’t,” she said softly. “Because that’s not what Harry would want.”

Sirius laughed bitterly. “Harry’s not here.”

“But he will be,” she said. “And when he is… he’s going to need someone steady. Someone safe. Not a wanted man.”

He looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were red, but dry.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

Only once.

Hermione let her hand fall back to her side. “You’ll get your chance, Sirius. Just… not like that.”

He didn’t speak again. But the rage in his posture softened, just a little. Enough.

They stood in silence for a moment, letting the quiet settle between them. Then Hermione, her voice gentler now, asked, “Sirius… how did you even find out where Harry was?”

He let out a breath, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “Phone book.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“Phone book,” he repeated. “I remembered that Petunia married a man named Dursley—Lily used to rant about him. A lot. Loudly. Usually after a letter or Christmas visit. I figured if I couldn’t find Harry at Longbottom Hall—where he should have been—this was the next best guess.”

Hermione sank back into the chair, watching him. “You just… looked them up?”

Sirius shrugged, dropping back into the seat across from her. “Well, I knew the town, just not the exact address. I borrowed the book from a pub. Padfoot got some funny looks wandering out with a dog-eared directory in his mouth.”

She huffed out a quiet, incredulous laugh.

Sirius’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Remus wouldn’t have taken him. Not then. Not with the lycanthropy. He’d think he was a danger. Even though he’s safe every other bloody day of the month.”

“He could have asked for help,” Hermione said softly.

“Yeah.” Sirius looked down. “But he didn’t. And I don’t think Dumbledore would’ve endorsed that plan anyway. Too risky. Too complicated.”

She gave a thoughtful nod. “He always did have a talent for overlooking people’s trauma in favour of the greater good.”

Sirius snorted. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Then, after a pause, she tilted her head, teasing, “Wait—how do you even know what a phone book is?”

Sirius raised both brows and gave her a look. “Didn’t you say you knew me?”

“Right, sorry,” Hermione murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I keep forgetting you were a rebellious teenager once upon a time. And what better way to rile Walburga Black up than becoming intimately familiar with all things Muggle.”

“Especially the intimate parts,” Sirius said with a grin that was all sharp teeth and old charm.

Hermione nearly choked on her tea.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily like a cat who’d just found a sunbeam and some undeserved moral high ground. “What can I say? Muggle girls didn’t know who I was. Thought I was a misunderstood rockstar.”

“I’m not even surprised,” Hermione muttered into her mug. “Gods, I bet you were insufferable.”

Sirius winked. “Absolutely. And Remus had to pretend to be my manager at least twice when we snuck out to gigs.”

“Please tell me there are photos.”

“There were. But I think Peter stole them.”

Hermione’s smile faded just a little at that, but the mood didn’t die entirely.

The humour lingered like the first warmth after a long cold.

And for the first time since he’d escaped Azkaban, Sirius felt like he could breathe in more than survival.

Like maybe there was a person beneath the ghost.

“Okay,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair. “Harry’s with Petunia, of all people. They hate magic, they hate him—but at least he had something to look forward to. Hogwarts. That’s got to count for something, right?”

Hermione froze.

He noticed.

“Sirius,” she said carefully, “they didn’t tell him.”

His brow furrowed. “Didn’t tell him what?”

“About magic. About his parents. Any of it.” Her voice cracked slightly at the edges. “He didn’t know anything, Sirius. Not that he was a wizard. Not that his parents had died protecting him. He grew up thinking they died in a car crash. By their own fault. Driving under the influence.”

Sirius’s face turned to stone.

Hermione swallowed. “He let it slip once… that he didn’t even know his name was Harry until he started pre-school. They just called him ‘boy’. Never used his name.”

He stared at her, frozen in place, like something had been ripped open in his chest and the air had gone thin.

“And the letter,” she went on, her voice softening only in pity for Harry. “They wouldn’t give him his Hogwarts letter. The school sent dozens. They tried owls, post boxes, back doors. They shoved them through every crack in the windows. Pretty sure there was a fiasco with the fireplace. But the Dursleys kept destroying them. Burned them. Shredded them.”

Sirius’s fists clenched on the table, whitening at the knuckles.

“In the end,” Hermione said, “they had to send Hagrid to track them down. On Harry’s eleventh birthday. He found them holed up in a hut on a rock in the middle of the sea, in the middle of a storm. That’s how far they’d run just to stop Harry from learning who he was.”

For a long, long moment, Sirius said nothing.

Just breathed.

Once.

Twice.

Then he stood, slowly, like he was fighting the effort not to explode.

He walked to the window and gripped the sill so tightly she half-expected it to splinter.

“They locked him away,” he said, voice like gravel. “They took his name.”

Hermione nodded, unable to say anything past the tightness in her throat.

“All this time,” Sirius whispered, “I thought—at the very least—I thought maybe someone had loved him. Not like James or Lily would’ve. Not like I would’ve. But someone.”

Hermione looked down, hands curled around her teacup.

“He was never shown what love really looked like,” she said softly, “until he came to Hogwarts. Until he met Hagrid. And Ron. All the Weasleys really. And—”

She hesitated.

“And me.”

Sirius glanced at her then, a shadow of something unreadable flickering across his face.

His voice was rough when he spoke. “Alright. Tell me about all that. How did you become best friends?”

Hermione let out a slow breath and sat back, shoulders relaxing into the chair. A small, fond smile curved her lips.

“Well… I wasn’t exactly popular at first,” she admitted. “You’d probably be shocked to know I was… a bit of a know-it-all.”

“Shocked,” Sirius deadpanned. “Utterly stunned.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile didn’t falter. “I was bossy. Always had my hand up in class. I corrected people. I followed rules like they were sacred texts. And Ron and Harry… they didn’t exactly take to me.”

Sirius leaned forward slightly, interested now. “So how’d it change?”

“A troll.”

He blinked. “Sorry—a what?”

“A full-grown mountain troll,” she said with a little shrug. “Halloween. Quirrel, our DADA teacher that year, let it into the school. I was in the girls’ bathroom and didn’t know. They came to find me. Saved me. Well—we saved each other, really. It was chaos. Pipes smashed, spells flying everywhere. Ron levitated its club and knocked it out cold. Then I lied to McGonagall to cover for them.”

Sirius was staring.

“That’s how it happened?” he asked, incredulous. “You bonded over combat with a troll?”

Hermione laughed. “Not the most conventional origin story, I know. But something changed that night. I think they realised I wasn’t just some annoying swot, and I realised they weren’t just reckless idiots. We’d faced something big, together. After that… we were inseparable.”

Sirius gave a soft huff of laughter, but it was warm. “That sounds exactly like James. He once claimed his friendship with Remus was sealed after a mutual near-death experience involving Peeves and a transfigured mop bucket.”

“That sounds… deeply unsanitary.”

“Remus wouldn’t talk about it even years later,” Sirius grinned. “I suspect embarrassment.”

Hermione smiled at that, but her eyes softened with memory. “Harry was different after that night. Not just braver. Lighter. He started to laugh more. Ask questions. He still had a million walls up, but you could see he wanted to let people in.”

Sirius leaned back again, watching her with something quieter in his expression now. “And he let you in.”

She nodded. “Eventually, yes. I think… he’d never had anyone fight for him before. Not like that. I never stopped.”

“I’m glad he had you,” Sirius said. “Truly.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed faintly. “It wasn’t always perfect. We fought. A lot, sometimes. But there was love there. A real one. Chosen family.”

There was a pause. Then Sirius asked, a little more softly, “And Ron?”

Hermione gave a small, amused shrug. “Ron was always there. Loyal to a fault. Infuriating, immature… but also brave, funny, and kind. We had a connection, even if we didn’t always know what to do with it.”

Sirius smirked. “Sounds like a Gryffindor boy, alright.”

She didn’t respond right away.

But after a moment, her smile faded just a little, wistful and distant.

“We were kids,” she said. “Trying to make sense of a war that was never supposed to be ours.”

Sirius’s smile faltered. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just… a little too heavy for comfort. So, true to form, he cleared his throat with a gruff little ‘khm’, shifting in his chair like his skin didn’t quite fit right.

“So,” he said with forced nonchalance, “any other grand adventures in first year I should know about? I’m starting to feel a bit out-Maraudered here.”

Hermione blinked at him.

He leaned forward, brow raised. “You know about us—the Marauders, right? Me, James, Remus, and the rat. You said the other me told you stories. You clearly know about my Animagus form, and Remus being a werewolf and all that.”

Hermione smiled. “Oh, yes. Don’t worry. I know.”

He raised both brows, smirking. “Good stories, I hope.”

“Questionable. But entertaining.”

“I’ll take it.”

Hermione chuckled, tucking her leg beneath her as she settled back into her seat. “Actually, Harry’s supposed to get the Map this year.”

Sirius blinked. “The Map? Our map?”

“Yep. The twins, Fred and George, nicked it from Filch’s office—somehow—and they gave it to Harry in third year.”

“That’s bloody brilliant,” Sirius grinned, clearly delighted. “James would’ve been so proud. Wait, why do they give it to him?”

“Well…” Hermione drew the word out, mildly sheepish. “Because Harry didn’t have a permission slip for Hogsmeade, on account of his guardians hating him, you know. And the teachers wouldn’t let him go into the village because—well—you were considered a threat.”

Sirius blinked. “I—what?”

“You were the threat of the year. ‘Mass murderer escaped from Azkaban, probably after Harry Potter,’” she quoted grimly. “There were Dementors stationed all around the school.”

Sirius grimaced. “Right. Happy memories.”

“So the twins wanted to help Harry sneak out of the castle through the secret passages. They gave him the Map to make it easier.”

A slow grin spread across Sirius’s face. “That’s... beautiful. Completely irresponsible. Wildly dangerous. I love it.”

Hermione laughed.

But then her smile faded a little. “I wonder if it’ll still happen now. If we get you exonerated, and the danger’s removed, then—well, no one will stop Harry from going to Hogsmeade in the first place.”

Sirius gave a mock gasp. “You mean… you’re actually worried he won’t commit a minor act of magical lawbreaking? Who are you and what have you done with Hermione Granger?”

She gave him a look. “I’m simply saying the timeline might shift.”

“Tragedy,” he deadpanned. “All those proud Marauder traditions—map-stealing, castle-sneaking, hex-dodging—lost to the sands of time because you went and got me off the hook.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Would you like me to not get you off the hook, then?”

Sirius considered for a beat, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his chin. “Hmm. Tempting. But I think I’d rather not go back to being Dementor food in Azkaban, thanks.”

“Wise choice,” Hermione replied dryly.

He grinned then—one of those wide, reckless smiles that probably made half of Hogwarts swoon once upon a time—and leaned back in his chair, limbs loose, like for the first time in days, he wasn’t holding himself together with pure adrenaline.

“Still,” he mused, “if Harry doesn’t end up getting the Map… maybe I’ll give it to him myself.”

Hermione tilted her head, curious. “Really?”

Sirius nodded, a smirk reappearing. “Pretty sure I could convince the twins to hand it over if I tell them who I am. Reveal I’m Padfoot, one of the genius minds behind its creation.”

Hermione snorted. “Yes, I’m pretty sure they’d worship the ground you walk on.”

“They already should,” he said loftily. “Passing it to Harry like that… they’re clearly my spiritual successors.”

“They’re chaos incarnate,” Hermione muttered. “Brilliant, but completely unhinged. George once replaced all the Slytherin shampoo with ink that turned their hair chartreuse for two days.”

Sirius gasped with admiration. “Stars above, I love them already.”

Hermione shook her head, smiling. “Fred and George are more your kind of Gryffindor, to be honest.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I say that like it explains the number of detentions you and James racked up.”

“We were ambitious visionaries,” Sirius said, pressing a hand to his heart with mock gravity. “Tragically misunderstood.”

Hermione laughed, fully this time, warm and genuine.

It echoed around the room, softening its edges.

And Sirius, watching her, realised with a jolt that the laugh wasn’t just a sound—it was a balm. It made the silence afterwards feel less like waiting for disaster and more like a moment stolen from something better.

“I’d like to see him with the Map,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “James would’ve wanted him to have it. That freedom. That sense of control.”

Hermione looked at him. “He will, Sirius. One way or another, he will.”

“But you’re evading the question,” Sirius said, pointing his fork at her like it was a wand. “First-year adventures. Come on. What else did I miss? Trolls and deceiving professors can’t be the whole story.”

Hermione smiled, tilting her head. “Wouldn’t you want Harry to tell you all that? Once you finally get to meet him properly?”

Sirius paused, fork still in the air.

“…Right,” he said slowly. “Fair point. I suppose I should let him have his moment.”

“Exactly. He deserves to tell you in his own words. Not through me. And I promise—he’ll love bragging about the time he faced down a Dark Lord at age eleven.”

Sirius gave a low whistle. “Eleven. Merlin’s saggy left—”

“Language.”

“—ankle,” Sirius finished innocently.

Hermione gave him a long-suffering look.

“But fine,” he conceded, dropping the fork and leaning back in his chair. “If I can’t get a full dossier on Harry’s heroic escapades just yet… tell me about you. Surely you’ve had some of your own. Brightest witch of your age and all that.”

Hermione raised a brow. “Most of my ‘adventures’ were directly tied to Harry’s disasters. And I don’t think you’d find my library escapades particularly riveting.”

Sirius put on a look of mock outrage. “I love a good library escapade. Especially if it involves stealing restricted texts, evading curfews, and morally dubious uses of the Disillusionment Charm.”

She huffed. “Mine mostly involved colour-coded revision schedules and arguing with Ron about study priorities.”

“So scandalous.”

“I’m sure,” she said dryly, “that my daring act of researching the properties of Devil’s Snare while Harry and Ron stood there flailing will go down in legend.”

“To be fair,” Sirius said, “Devil’s Snare is tricky. James once tried to harvest a bit for a potion prank and ended up trussed like a chicken in front of McGonagall’s office.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “Please tell me there are photos.”

“There were. Remus burned them after James swore he’d haunt him if they ever surfaced.”

“Coward,” she muttered, sipping her tea.

Sirius grinned again, a little more real this time. “So you didn’t steal anything from the Restricted Section? Not even once?”

“I may have,” Hermione said primly, “accidentally kept a book I wasn’t supposed to have. For three years.”

Sirius blinked. “That’s… honestly impressive. And mildly concerning.”

“I took notes,” she said quickly, “and I returned it. Eventually.”

He leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. “What was it?”

“Magical Theory and Practical Applications of Time Magic,” she said, not quite looking at him.

There was a pause.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “You absolute nerd.”

Hermione grinned. “Guilty.”

“So there’s nothing else you can tell me?” Sirius asked, narrowing his eyes in that familiar Black family way—like he was halfway between charming you and interrogating you.

Hermione gave him a tight smile. “There’s plenty I want to tell you. Especially about Voldemort, and what we need to do to get rid of him for good. But first,” she said, folding her arms, “let’s get through the first hurdle of getting your name cleared, shall we?”

Sirius opened his mouth to argue—but just then, Hermione sneezed. Hard.

Once.

Twice.

She blinked rapidly, caught off guard, and rubbed the side of her nose with the sleeve of her jumper. “Sorry—dust,” she muttered, sniffling.

Sirius raised a brow. “You okay, Granger?”

“Yeah. Totally.” Her voice was too breezy to be convincing.

He didn’t push, but his eyes lingered on her a second longer than necessary. He’s not convinced, Hermione thought grimly, but to his credit, he didn’t call her out. Yet.

Instead, he leaned back again and asked, far too casually, “You said you’re an Unspeakable, right?”

Hermione nodded, already wary of where this was going.

“Sooo…” He stretched the word out like toffee. “How much trouble would you exactly be in if they found out you’re meddling with the timeline?”

Hermione hesitated. “Well…”

“That bad?”

“Oh, definitely that bad,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Time manipulation is one of the most heavily restricted areas of magical research for a reason. The kind of travel I did—accidental or not—is illegal, undocumented, and absolutely catastrophic from a bureaucratic standpoint.”

Sirius gave a low whistle. “So… Azkaban?”

Hermione shot him a sharp look. “If I were to be caught—yes. Possibly. Or… obliviated. Locked up. Assigned to a twenty-four-hour Ministry minder. Hard to say.”

He blinked. “And yet I’m the criminal in the room.”

“You were,” she pointed out.

“And you’re what? A rogue time agent with a head cold?”

Hermione glared at him. “It’s not a cold. It’s just—dusty.”

Sirius grinned. “Right. Dust sneezes. That come in pairs.”

She sniffled again and immediately regretted it when his smirk grew two sizes.

“Shut up,” she said, reaching for a handkerchief.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face said plenty.”

Sirius chuckled and leaned his elbows on the table, eyes glinting with that familiar, dangerous curiosity. “So let me get this straight. You travelled through time, are technically a criminal by Ministry standards, broke probably two dozen laws minimum by just existing here—and you’re still worried about my paperwork?”

“I like paperwork,” she muttered.

He laughed—properly this time—and it caught her off guard. It was rough and a little rusty, but real. It filled the room with something warmer than their stolen tea and secondhand chairs.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he said, “but I think I might be the least reckless person in this room.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Hermione muttered, flushing. “You escaped a high-security prison to murder a rat.”

“And you broke time.”

There was a pause.

Hermione sniffled again.

“Fair point,” she admitted.

They sat in the silence for a moment, her thumb brushing the rim of her teacup, his gaze lingering on the window like he was looking forward for the first time in twelve years.

“I’ll keep your secret,” he said quietly, without looking at her.

She looked up. “I know.”

And in that unspoken pact—messy, dangerous, absolutely illegal—something solidified between them.

Chapter Text

Sirius woke up alone.

The quiet was wrong.

It wasn’t the first time—he’d spent twelve years waking up alone, sometimes with his own screams echoing off the stone walls of his cell—but this time… it was different.

The bed beside him was cold. No lingering warmth. No slow rustle of blankets or murmured curse as Hermione reached for her wand before she was even fully conscious. No clinking of cups, no scratch of quill against parchment, no low mutter of “temporal ethics are not a suggestion, they’re a framework.”

Just silence.

And a yawning absence.

His heart stuttered.

She was gone.

And in the space of a breath—before logic could catch up, before memory could settle—Sirius Black spiralled headfirst into pure, unfiltered panic.

His mind snapped through scenarios faster than he could control them:

She left. She ran. She handed me over. She realised I’m a liability. She was never on my side. She’s a Ministry plant. They’ve already sent someone. She’s gone to make it clean. They’ll send Dementors. They’ll drag me back, and this time I won’t make it out—

He shot upright, blankets tangling around his legs. His breath hitched, sweat beading along his brow despite the cool morning air. His eyes darted to the window. No Aurors. No Ministry badges. Not yet.

Still, he stumbled to his feet, knocking into the side table, sending a glass crashing to the floor. He barely noticed. He crossed the room in three unsteady strides, bare feet slapping the wood. He’d need to transform. Run. Disappear before—

The door opened with a bang, and Hermione swept in, cheeks flushed, curls slightly wind-tousled, and nose definitely pink with that oncoming cold she kept denying.

“Morning,” she chirped, as if she hadn’t just sent his entire nervous system into cardiac arrest. She held up a copy of the Daily Prophet, triumphant. “You’re going to want to see this.”

She tossed it onto the bed. It landed front page up.

Sirius stared.

In bold, unforgiving ink across the top of the Prophet, the headline screamed:

PETER PETTIGREW FOUND ALIVE — DARK MARK ON FOREARM CONFIRMS DEATH EATER STATUS
Shocking Revelation Clears Sirius Black of All Charges?

Beneath it, a moving photograph showed Arthur Weasley and a team of DMLE officers escorting a rat-faced, terrified Peter Pettigrew out of the Ministry in magical shackles, one sleeve torn to reveal the unmistakable snake-and-skull mark.

Sirius blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then: “Sweet. Circe.”

“They’re going to want you to turn yourself in,” Hermione said gently, rolling up the Prophet and setting it aside, casting a silent Reparo on the shattered glass on the floor without a second thought. “For questioning, mostly. They’ll want to know how you escaped—though I’m sure they already have a theory.”

Sirius stiffened slightly where he sat, knuckles white around his mug.

She kept going, voice calm. “Peter’s probably told them everything by now. Including the bit about you being an unregistered Animagus.”

He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Of course he did. Anything to shift the spotlight.”

“I know it sounds bad,” Hermione said, “but honestly? I doubt they’ll care. At worst, you might get a slap on the wrist. Maybe a fine. But considering they wrongfully imprisoned you for twelve years without a trial, I really don’t think they want to push their luck.”

Sirius gave a quiet, bitter noise. “They’ll find something.”

“Then you sue them for reparations,” she said with a shrug. “Hell, you’re the heir to one of the oldest and wealthiest wizarding families in Britain. This is going to be scandalous for them. They’ll want to sweep it under the rug. My money is on they’ll make you register your Animagus form and call it a day.”

“I’m not the heir,” Sirius said flatly. “I was disowned.”

Hermione gave him a look. “Sirius. Just because your delightful mother threw a tantrum and burned your face off the family tapestry doesn’t mean it legally stuck. You owned Grimmauld Place in 1995, remember? In my time.”

He didn’t look convinced.

Hermione pressed on. “Maybe the title defaulted back to you after Regulus died in ’79. Or maybe your grandfather never formally disinherited you, and it fell to you in the first place. Either way, you were the rightful heir in 1981 when they locked you up—and you still are.”

He was quiet.

Still, even.

Hermione could almost see the thoughts crowding his head. The panic hadn’t entirely left him. He looked pale again, lips pressed into a thin line, hands twitching like he was about to bolt and Padfoot his way straight back into hiding.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “The thought of going back to the Ministry—even near it—feels like I’m walking back into a noose.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “That’s why you won’t go alone.”

Sirius turned to look at her, something like hope flickering behind the panic. “You’ll come?”

She shook her head, and his face immediately fell.

“I can’t,” she said gently. “Not without blowing everything. If they start digging into who I am, it puts us both in danger. They’d want answers I can’t give. I’d be risking everything—and possibly tearing a hole in the timeline we can’t stitch back together.”

His throat bobbed, and she could see the fear trying to claw its way back in.

“So,” she continued, voice firming, “if the anonymous tip comes up, just take credit for it. There’s nothing in that letter you couldn’t have reasonably figured out on your own.”

Sirius blinked. “You want me to lie?”

“I want you to survive.” Her tone was sharp enough to cut through his spiralling. “The Prophet Fudge gave you in Azkaban had that lottery photo of the Weasleys in Egypt, right? You knew Scabbers was Peter. It’s not a stretch to say you warned the Weasleys after your escape. The fact that it also clears your name is just… a very satisfying bonus.”

Sirius looked at her, quiet for a beat.

Still uncertain.

Still tangled up in the fear that the floor would drop out beneath him again.

Then Hermione tilted her head slightly, thoughtful. “You know who could go with you? Ted Tonks.”

His brows lifted. “Ted?”

“He’s a lawyer, isn’t he? We could try to contact him. Officially hire him. Make sure the Ministry doesn’t pull anything shady.”

A flicker of a genuine smile ghosted across Sirius’s lips. “Andi’s husband.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “Andromeda always struck me as a formidable woman. You could do with someone formidable in your corner.”

“Always been my favourite cousin,” Sirius murmured, the smile growing by a fraction.

“And their daughter—Nymphadora—is in Auror training right now. You could ask her to escort you. Think of the brownie points that would earn her with Moody.”

That wiped the smile clean off his face. “Moody’s still around?”

Hermione winced slightly. “Technically retired. But he’s training Tonks personally. Took her under his wing. Probably saw some chaotic potential.”

Sirius went pale. “Bloody hell. He’s going to gut me.”

Hermione smirked. “Don’t call her Nymphadora, by the way, and you might live through the day.”

He made a face. “I’ve made many questionable decisions, but even I know not to use the N-word around Andi’s kid.”

“Smart,” Hermione said, reaching for the Prophet again. “Now. Do you want to write to Ted, or shall I?”

Sirius hesitated, then sighed. “I’ll write. He’ll take me more seriously if I do.”

“Good.” She stood, brushing off her hands. “You’ve got this, Sirius. You’re not doing it alone.”

He looked up at her, something softer—grateful, maybe—passing across his face.

“Thanks, Granger,” he said. “For all of it.”

She gave him a small smile. “Just don’t make me come break you out of the Ministry, and we’ll call it even.”

Hermione hadn’t fully appreciated how bloody nerve-wracking waiting in this room could be.

Not until now.

She’d paced it hundreds of times over the last two days—hands clasped behind her back, nose in a book, fingers tracing the rim of a teacup—but today the silence pressed in like a weighted charm.

Sirius was gone.

Not in danger—at least, not immediately—but gone. He’d left early that morning, slipping out as Padfoot to meet Ted Tonks at the edge of a quiet Muggle park. From there, he’d transform, turn himself over to Ted’s daughter—Auror trainee Nymphadora Tonks—and the two would escort him to the Ministry for formal questioning.

Voluntarily.

Under his own name.

Just thinking about it made Hermione’s stomach twist.

She hadn’t been able to go with him. Too risky. One glimpse of her face by the wrong person, and everything could spiral. She wasn’t just an illegal time-traveller—she was a time bomb with a library card.

But that didn’t stop her from worrying.

And now, curled on the edge of the mattress with her forehead pressed to her palm, Hermione suddenly understood what Sirius must have felt every time she’d disappeared on an errand. Even when it was just for food or the Prophet. That bleak kind of waiting, where your thoughts grew teeth.

It didn’t help that she was sick.

The cold that had been brewing for days finally chose this morning to dig in its heels. Her throat was sore, her nose both blocked and running—a cruel paradox—and the pounding behind her eyes made concentration impossible. The warming charm she’d cast on her jumper earlier was now too warm, the air too dry, the room too loud in its quietness.

Still, she couldn’t just lie around all day.

She needed food. And at this point, something new to wear. The clothes she’d arrived in were well past the point where even the sharpest Scourgify could salvage them, and she didn’t fancy looking like a plague ghost when Sirius returned.

If he returned.

No, she told herself firmly. When.

So she dragged herself up, blurry-eyed and sniffling, slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way into town. The department store was harshly lit and over-scented, and she caught people giving her wide berths in the queue.

Either she looked dangerously contagious or slightly unhinged.

Possibly both.

She picked up the basics—shirts, trousers, underthings, a few fresh toiletries—and managed a steaming takeaway cup of watery vegetable soup from the café by the station. No energy for proper groceries. Not today.

By the time she got back to the inn, she was shaking. She barely managed to reheat the soup, force it down, and stumble into the bathroom for a quick rinse. The shower frizzed her hair and made her feel faint, but she didn’t care. Clean, changed, and wrapped in fresh clothes, she finally collapsed into the bed like a felled tree.

And didn’t move for the rest of the day.

She drifted in and out of sleep, dreams twisted and fever-warm—half thoughts of the Ministry dragging Sirius away, half memories of a younger Harry dragging his trunk up the stairs at the Burrow, face thin and eyes wide.

Sirius would be fine. He had to be.

But even the logic that normally grounded her felt distant now, like a spell cast underwater.

The Muggle park in Great Whinging was quiet—too quiet, if Sirius had anything to say about it. Early sun bled through the clouds, mist still clinging to the hedges, and a bench that looked just uncomfortable enough to suit the mood.

Ted Tonks sat on it, sipping takeaway coffee and looking like a man about to interview someone for a very high-stakes job he didn’t want to give them.

A large black dog loped up the path, paws silent on damp gravel. It sniffed, gave a faint huff, then padded around the side of the public loo.

Moments later, Sirius Black emerged in joggers, trainers, and a faded hoodie, his hair still slightly damp from the world’s fastest cold shower.

He looked at Ted, then the coffee.

“I know I look like a half-drowned alley cat,” he said by way of greeting. “But I’m a very grateful half-drowned alley cat.”

“You look like hell,” Ted said eventually.

Sirius let out a snort. “You’re a ray of bloody sunshine.”

Ted offered the second coffee. “Got your favourite. Still take it sweet?”

Sirius blinked at him, surprised. “How’d you remember that?”

“Andromeda made me memorise the tea and coffee preferences of every family member we don’t talk to,” Ted replied, deadpan. “For emergencies.”

Sirius took the cup with a soft, “Cheers,” and a grateful sip. Gods, it was perfect. Heat and sugar, and bitter roast all at once. Actual coffee. He nearly wept.

“Don’t get all weepy on me now,” Ted said. “We’ve got to make you presentable.”

“I am presentable. I’ve got clothes, don’t I?” Sirius gestured vaguely to himself. “I’m not wearing bloody Azkaban greys anymore. I had run into a generous witch who made sure I looked… marginally human.”

“You’re lucky she did. Ministry security’s not known for their sense of humour.”

“I can be charming.”

Ted gave him a long, unimpressed look.

“…I used to be charming,” Sirius amended.

“Mm-hmm.”

Ted raised a brow and handed over the second coffee. “You clean up... passably.”

“High praise from a solicitor.”

“From a solicitor who’s sticking his neck out for a known fugitive,” Ted corrected. “Drink the coffee and listen carefully.”

Sirius took a long sip, made a noise that was a little too close to a groan, and sat down beside him.

Ted opened his briefcase.

Sirius groaned again. “Oh, come on, it’s not even eight o’clock. You’re giving me paperwork vibes already?”

“No paperwork. Just legal advice,” Ted said crisply. “This is your official pre-interview prep. Think of it like—”

“—the world’s worst breakfast conversation?”

Ted gave him a flat look. “You want to walk out of this Ministry visit not in shackles, you’ll let me talk.”

Sirius mimed zipping his lips. “Proceed, counsellor.”

Ted pulled out a slim notebook. “You’re giving your statement voluntarily. That gives you some leverage. As Lord Black—which, by the way, I triple-checked, you are—you cannot legally be dosed with Veritaserum without consent.”

“Brilliant,” Sirius muttered. “Because if there’s one thing I want less than going back to Azkaban, it’s truth serum and a public audience.”

“Don’t joke about Azkaban,” Ted said without looking up. “Especially not in the Ministry.”

Sirius shifted. “Right. Sorry.”

“Speak clearly. Don’t embellish. Stick to what you did and saw. They’ll ask about Halloween ’81, your arrest, the escape. You tell the truth. Keep emotion out of it.”

“I’m a Black, Ted. Emotion is the only thing I do naturally.”

“Channel Andromeda, then.”

Sirius blanched. “Terrifying.”

“Effective,” Ted said smugly.

Before Sirius could reply, a loud crack echoed nearby, and a pink-haired whirlwind stumbled into view, tripping slightly on the path and righting herself with a sheepish grin.

“Wotcher,” Tonks greeted, straightening up. “Am I late? My alarm went off at six. Turned it off at six-oh-one. Then I woke up at seven-thirty thinking I’d been cursed.”

Ted gave her a look over his glasses. “Only by fifteen minutes and one lecture.”

“Perfect timing, then.”

She gave Sirius an evaluating look.

He gave her one right back.

“You’re taller than I remember,” he said. “And way less adorable than you were at eight.”

“You’re less deranged than I imagined,” she replied without missing a beat.

Sirius smirked. “Give it a few hours.”

“You are not going to be my problem in a few hours.”

Sirius tilted his head. “That the new regulation Auror trainee hairdo?”

She flipped a strand. “The Ministry says no visible tattoos, nothing about hair. Besides, it distracts people.”

“It is deeply offensive,” Ted muttered into his cup.

Tonks grinned at her dad and turned to Sirius. “So. Ready to get escorted into the Ministry by the most fabulous Auror trainee on staff?”

“Not sure I’m emotionally prepared for the fabulous part.”

“Too bad. Also—thanks, by the way.”

Sirius blinked. “What for?”

“For letting me take you in. It’s going to look fantastic in my file: ‘Tonks, N. apprehended Sirius Black without bloodshed. Excellent interpersonal skills. Good wand discipline.’ I might even get a bonus.”

Sirius laughed. “Well, anything for you, little cousin.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Just so we are clear, call me Nymphadora and I’ll break your kneecaps.”

Ted cleared his throat. “She means it, by the way.”

Sirius held up both hands. “Message received. Tonks it is.”

“Alright,” she said brightly, extending her arm. “Hold tight. I’m the clumsiest Apparator alive, so if we land halfway through a water cooler, you can’t sue me.”

“I’ve just been warned by my own lawyer not to make jokes about prison,” Sirius muttered as he stepped closer. “And now this.”

“Welcome back to society, Black,” Tonks chirped, then Disapparated them both with a loud crack.

The moment they landed in the Ministry Apparition Zone, Sirius regretted everything.

Everything.

It wasn’t the landing—though Tonks had dropped them six inches above the floor and half-turned into his shoulder with a muttered “Oops.” No, it was the sound.

Voices.

Dozens of them.

Rising, overlapping, turning like a murmuring tide.

They stepped into the atrium, and every head turned.

“Is that—?”

“Black—Sirius Black—”

“Thought he was on the run—”

“Didn’t he murder—?”

Flash.

A camera bulb popped in Sirius’s face. He flinched instinctively, shoulders tightening under the plain hoodie.

He’d prepared himself for this. He thought.

But knowing it would happen and being in it were two different things.

Sirius ignored them. Or tried to. His jaw was tight, shoulders taut—but he kept walking. His clothes helped. Muggle, yes, but fresh. He wasn’t wearing prison rags. His hair had been trimmed, face shaved, and—thanks to Hermione—he didn’t look like a madman on a rampage anymore.

He still felt like one.

But he could fake it.

He was not what they had made him out to be.

“I need to send her flowers,” he murmured as they passed the fountain. “And possibly a medal for cutting my hair. Could’ve looked like a feral Grim wandering in.”

“You still kinda do,” Tonks whispered.

Ted cleared his throat. “Let’s keep it moving, shall we?”

“Oi, Black!” someone called—probably a junior reporter, elbowing through the crowd. “Is it true Pettigrew’s alive?”

“Did you really escape by turning into a dog?”

“What do you have to say to the victims’ families—?”

“Enough!” Tonks snapped, wand halfway out. “Move along. Official DMLE business.”

The crowd parted, reluctantly. More flashes. A few gasps.

Ted Tonks fell into step on Sirius’s other side like a bodyguard in a suit, unassuming but unshakable. “You’re doing fine,” he said under his breath. “Keep walking.”

The lifts were mercifully close. They stepped inside, and the gates closed with a sharp clang.

Sirius let out a long breath. His hands were clenched so tight, his knuckles cracked when he flexed them.

“Well,” he muttered, “to think I once wanted to be a rockstar.”

Tonks made a face. “You wanted to be hounded by reporters?”

“Remind me to re-evaluate my life choices later.”

The lift rattled downward, clacking past floors—Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes… Magical Games and Sports…

“Next stop,” Ted said, “is paperwork and a no-nonsense witch with a monocle.”

“Can’t wait.”

The doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the sleek black-tile corridors of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

And there she was.

Amelia Bones.

She stood near the end of the hall, arms crossed, robes immaculate, monocle glinting beneath the glow of enchanted sconces. She looked like someone who ate Ministry incompetence for breakfast and washed it down with legal precision.

Her gaze swept over Sirius like she was measuring him for a coffin.

“Lord Black,” she said evenly. “Thank you for cooperating.”

Sirius opened his mouth—

—and Ted stepped forward. “As his legal counsel, I’ll be sitting in on the interview.”

Bones blinked once. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I think it is,” Ted said calmly. “Given that my client was imprisoned without trial for twelve years, I’d say this is barely meeting the threshold for due process. My client would also like to exercise his right under Section 234 of the Warlock convention of 1758 to not be questioned under the influence of Veritaserum.”

There was a silence.

Tonks winced.

Amelia’s mouth tightened into something just short of a sneer—but she inclined her head.

“Very well. But if he speaks, it’s on the record.”

Ted smiled. “Naturally.”

“Follow me.”

She turned, robe swirling, and led them down the hall toward the interview room.

Sirius leaned slightly toward Tonks. “She’s going to eat me alive, isn’t she?”

“She’s fair,” Tonks whispered. “But if you say anything stupid, she will skin you.”

“Charming.”

“Best behaviour, Black.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, but straightened his shoulders again and followed.

The interview room was clean, cold, and uncomfortably bright. No shackles, no restraints—yet—but it still felt like a cell.

Sirius sat on one side of the table, hands flat, spine stiff. Ted sat beside him, a Muggle pen and notepad appearing from his pocket like it was a courtroom, not a Ministry interview. Sirius was sure that was just for show. Or for the effect.

Amelia Bones sat across from them, her monocle glinting like a cursed jewel. A Ministry clerk in the corner readied a dictation quill. Two security wizards stood just inside the door, silent and stiff.

Amelia clasped her hands.

“For the record, this is the formal questioning of Sirius Orion Black III, dated August 18th, 1993, regarding the events surrounding the betrayal of the Potters, the explosion on West Fernworth Lane, and his escape from Azkaban prison. He has voluntarily turned himself in and is accompanied by legal counsel, Mr Edward Tonks. Questioning is led by Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“Good morning,” Ted said cheerfully.

Sirius gave a wave. “Hello. Just thrilled to be here.”

Amelia didn’t blink. “You understand, Lord Black, that your statements today will be used as testimony in the formal inquiry and, where applicable, the upcoming trial of Peter Pettigrew?”

“I do,” Sirius said.

“Let’s begin with the events of October 31st, 1981,” she said. “Where were you that night?”

“At home,” Sirius replied. “Drunk off my arse and worrying myself sick.”

Ted’s head didn’t move, but his left hand tapped once on the tabletop—a nonverbal tone-it-down nudge.

Sirius sighed. “I had been in hiding to keep up appearances, but we’d switched the Secret Keeper to Peter—Peter Pettigrew—at my insistence. I thought it would be safer. No one would suspect him.”

“And you did not inform anyone else of this change?” Amelia asked.

“Not even Dumbledore,” Sirius said. “That was the point. Keep it small. Keep it secret. Keep it—” he stopped himself. “Well. It didn’t work, did it?”

Her expression didn’t flicker.

“Continue.”

“I went to Godric’s Hollow early next morning,” he said. “Found the house. Found Hagrid. Harry was alive. James and Lily—weren’t.”

There was a pause. The clerk’s quill scratched faintly in the silence.

“I begged Hagrid to let me take Harry. He refused. Said he had orders from Dumbledore. So I gave him my motorbike and went after Peter.”

“And where did you find him?”

“In a busy Muggle street, naturally. Right in the middle of the morning rush.”

Amelia lifted a brow. “So you confronted him publicly?”

“I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly,” Sirius snapped. “I’d just lost my best friend. And there he was—smiling. He called out to me, accused me of betraying the Potters, and then blew up the street with the wand behind his back. Cut off his own finger. Transformed into a rat. Disappeared. Left me standing in a crater.”

Amelia flipped through a file. “Witnesses described you laughing.”

Sirius inhaled sharply. “I did. That’s true.”

She looked up.

“Grief,” he said. “Shock. Fury. I wasn’t celebrating. I was… unravelling.”

Ted nodded slightly beside him. Amelia made no comment.

“Let’s talk about Azkaban.”

“Oh, good,” Sirius muttered. “My favourite topic.”

“You were not given a trial.”

“Correct.”

“You were imprisoned for twelve years.”

“Also correct. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

Amelia narrowed her eyes. “Mr Black—”

“Apologies,” he said, more sincerely. “Old habits. Coping mechanisms. Please continue.”

“How did you escape?”

Sirius sat back slightly. “I’m an unregistered Animagus. I transform into a large black dog. Very large. Border collie mixed with ‘you-should-run’. Some say I quite resemble the Grim.”

“And this allowed you to evade the Dementors?”

“They couldn’t sense me properly in that form. Couldn’t feel thoughts the same way. Still wasn’t a picnic, but it helped, along with obsessively thinking about being innocent. It wasn’t a happy memory, so the Dementors couldn’t take it away.”

“And the physical escape?”

“I was so thin, in dog form, I could slip between the bars. Then I swam to shore.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “There wasn’t much security. You rely on Dementors, not common sense. Maybe time to review feeding practices too—it’s inhumane. No one should be that thin. Even your rats would revolt.”

There was an audible pause as the clerk glanced up, then back down to his parchment.

Amelia’s face remained unreadable. “How did you learn of Pettigrew’s whereabouts?”

Sirius leaned forward. “Minister Fudge visited Azkaban in mid-July. Left behind a copy of the Daily Prophet. There was a photograph—Weasley family, in Egypt. Pettigrew was in the picture, on the boy’s shoulder. I knew that rat anywhere.”

“And you didn’t go after him?”

“I wanted to,” Sirius admitted. “I really wanted to. But once I was out… away from the Dementors, I started thinking. Revenge wouldn’t help Harry, my godson. Wouldn’t fix anything. I didn’t want more death. I wanted truth. So I wrote an anonymous letter to the Weasleys, warning them. Told them to bring the rat in.”

“Why anonymously?”

“Because I was still a fugitive. Figured they’d burn the letter if they knew it came from me.”

“And you were certain the Weasleys were unaware?”

“They’re good people,” Sirius said fiercely. “They had no idea.”

Amelia regarded him for a long moment.

“Final question,” she said. “Why now?”

Sirius looked her dead in the eye.

“Because I want my name back. I want to stop hiding. And I want to be there for Harry.”

For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Even the clerk’s quill paused.

Then Amelia stood.

“No further questions,” she said. “Lord Black, you are required to register your Animagus form today. After that, you are free to go.”

She turned and walked out, robes sweeping behind her like a tide.

Sirius blinked.

“…Wait. That’s it?”

Ted exhaled, leaning back. “That’s it.”

“I thought she’d at least bite.”

“She wanted to,” Ted said dryly. “You kept talking.”

“Bad habit.”

“I’d say let’s work on it, but I have a feeling you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

Chapter Text

The pop of Apparition cracked through the quiet of the inn room, and Sirius landed squarely in the middle of the worn rug with a triumphant grin splitting his face.

“I’m officially a free man,” he declared to the ceiling, the floor, the bed, and the worn armchair, throwing his arms wide. “They gave me so many papers,” he added, dropping his hoodie onto the armchair along with a document packet thicker than his forearm. “Real ones. With my name on them. Not Prisoner 390. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.”

He spun once, still grinning like a madman.

“You should’ve seen Bones’ face. I mean—terrifying, obviously, like she could hex the truth out of granite—but fair. Firm handshake. Gave me that one-eyebrow look like she wanted to doubt me, but couldn’t. Gods, I love that woman. Not like that,” he added quickly, pointing at nothing. “Professionally. In an ‘I admire your terrifying competence’ kind of way.”

The duvet shuffled slightly. Sirius didn’t notice.

“And Ted was brilliant—all calm and reasonable and Muggle pen-in-the-pocket like a wizarding barrister in a BBC drama. Honestly, I’m thinking of keeping him on retainer. Or maybe just inviting him to every social event I attend until I die.”

A sniffle came from the bed.

He kept going.

“I told them everything—the switch to Peter, the street explosion, the letter I sent to warn the Weasleys. I even got to make a joke about Azkaban security protocols. Didn’t land, but I’m calling it a win.”

Hermione stirred, blinking blearily at him.

He turned finally, fully, beaming as he strode toward the bed. “And you—Granger, you bloody brilliant witch—wouldn’t have been able to pull it off without you. I owe you—well, several lifetimes of gratitude and probably an entire vault of gold.”

He crossed the room in two quick strides, dropped to the edge of the bed beside her, and leaned in to press a quick kiss to her lips—

Hermione shoved a hand against his chest.

“Wait,” she said, pulling back a little. “Maybe… don’t do that.”

He froze, lips an inch from hers. “What—?”

“I’m sick,” she said. “Like, properly sick. Fever, aches, chills, the whole lot. I didn’t say anything this morning because you had enough on your plate.”

He pulled back, slowly, stiffly. “Right.”

The air shifted. It wasn’t angry or awkward exactly—but something in Sirius tightened. Like he’d walked into a room expecting a party and found a funeral. His shoulders pulled back just slightly, like armour settling in place.

“Right,” he said again. “Of course.”

Hermione noticed it. That flicker of doubt in his eyes. Did I read this wrong?

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said softly. “I just don’t want you getting sick.”

“We’ve been sleeping one foot apart in a room the size of a glorified broom cupboard for days,” he said, voice a little too light. “If I am going to catch it, I probably already have.”

“That’s not the point. You shouldn’t seek it out,” she said firmly, pushing herself up with a grimace. “Sirius, Azkaban wasn’t just soul-crushing. It physically wore you down. You’ve had no proper nutrition, no sleep, no sunlight—Merlin knows what that’s done to your body.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then shrugged, forced casual. “Wouldn’t be the first time I got sick. Probably won’t be the last.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m Sirius.”

But the grin was gone, replaced with something more thoughtful. More careful.

He studied her a little closer. “You always this protective of your walking biohazard status?”

“Only when I care whether the other person gets sick.”

That earned her a twitch of a smile. “Alright. No kisses for the fevered time-traveller.”

“Thank you.”

Sirius stood and moved toward the kettle. “So how does someone even manage to get the flu in the middle of bloody August?”

“I left 2009 in November,” she muttered. “Cold, damp, windy. Perfect flu weather. Probably already had this brewing before the Time Room accident.”

Sirius whistled lowly. “Brilliant. So you’ve got time-travel jet lag and seasonal mismatch. Love that for you.”

She buried her face in the pillow, then sneezed—three sharp little ones in quick succession.

“Bless you,” Sirius said immediately, reaching for a tissue and handing it to her. “Honestly, those are adorable.”

Hermione stared at him, nose buried in the tissue. “Don’t flirt with me while I’m disgusting.”

“You’re not disgusting. You’re… vaguely tragic and charmingly bedraggled. I have a type.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

“Yes. People who save me from Ministry persecution and sniffle with grace.”

“Ridiculous.”

“And free,” he said with a mock bow.

Hermione fixed him with the kind of look that could cause hexes to spontaneously manifest.

“Right, right,” he said quickly. “Tea, not talking. I shall be Nurse Black. Just don’t ask me for soup. My idea of a healing broth involves Firewhisky.”

“Noted.”

He got up and busied himself with the kettle, tossing his wand between his fingers like he was performing for a small, invisible crowd.

“I got my old wand back, by the way,” he said, throwing it a little too high and catching it with theatrical flair. “Cedar. Dragon heartstring. Still loyal. A bit offended I left her in Ministry lockup for twelve years, but we’re working through it.”

“That’s nice,” Hermione mumbled, eyes closed again.

“I also registered my Animagus form. Under duress. But now it’s official: Sirius Black, large black dog, prone to sulking and dramatic entrances that mostly involve scaring people to death.”

“You do sulk like a dog.”

“Thank you, I take pride in my brand.”

He returned a moment later with tea, sitting beside her again and offering the cup with both hands, as if it were a peace offering.

Hermione accepted it wordlessly.

They sat in silence, just the clink of porcelain and the sound of her sniffling into a tissue.

Then, out of nowhere, Sirius said, “When you’re better, I’m taking you out.”

She cracked one eye open. “Out where?”

“I don’t know. The Leaky? The Alps? A bloody carnival. Anywhere. You name it. Just—you and me. No rat. No Ministry. No death.”

She blinked. “That sounds… nice.”

“It will be,” he said, softer now. “You’ll see.”

“You seem… oddly competent at this,” she muttered into the tea as she sipped from it.

He gave her a look. “I spent seven years watching over James Potter with the man-flu and Remus Lupin post-full-moon. I’m very competent. But don’t let that get out. It ruins the mystique.”

She let the steam of the tea warm her soul a little. “Thanks.”

He hovered at the edge of the bed, unsure now, thumb skimming the corner of his wand. “You look awful, by the way.”

“I feel worse,” she admitted.

Another beat of silence. Then he scratched the back of his neck and said, too casual, “So. Um. Am I allowed to stay?”

Hermione looked at him for a long moment. “It’s probably not advisable.”

He nodded, a little stiff. “Right.”

“But,” she added, curling into the duvet, “I’m not kicking you out either.”

His mouth curved—slow, pleased, soft.

“Then I’m staying.”

The tea was hot, sharp with lemon and just enough honey to coat her sore throat. Hermione clutched the mug like it was anchoring her to the here and now, steam curling around her pink nose as Sirius watched her over the rim of his own teacup.

He hadn’t sat too close—just enough to be there. The almost-kiss hung in the air, unspoken but not quite awkward, like a book half-closed.

She smiled faintly, then coughed into her sleeve. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier. “We have to vacate tomorrow, by the way. Room’s only paid up until then.”

Sirius looked at her, blinking. “Alright. No problem—we’ll just extend it.”

“I’m out of Muggle cash.”

His brows lifted. “That’s not a problem either. I’m cleared, remember? I can just waltz into Gringotts—”

“Maybe first give the news of your exoneration a few days to spread before inviting the people of Diagon Alley to mob you.”

Sirius sighed, rubbing his jaw. “So what—you want to camp in a field?”

“No,” Hermione said, voice lowering. “I think it’s time we went to Grimmauld Place.”

Sirius stilled. “Absolutely not.”

“We don’t really have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice. And mine is not going back to that tomb.”

Hermione met his eyes evenly. “One of Voldemort’s Horcruxes is there.”

Silence.

His face didn’t change at first, not exactly. But the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

“You want to run that by me again?” he said quietly.

“One of Voldemort’s Horcruxes is hidden in Grimmauld Place. In the drawing room, actually. Hidden in a box on the cabinet along the south wall, if I recall.”

Sirius stared at her.

“You’re serious?”

She nodded, setting her mug down with a careful clink. It spoke to the gravity of the revelation that Sirius didn’t immediately deliver that as a pun. “I wish I weren’t. But it’s there. I need to destroy it.”

He blinked. “Wait—how the hell do you know that?”

Hermione folded her hands in her lap. “Because Regulus left it there. After he found out what it was. Well, technically Kreacher.”

Sirius looked like she’d slapped him. “Regulus?”

“He was the one who figured it out, Sirius. Before anyone else. Even Dumbledore.”

“That—” His voice cracked. “That doesn’t make any sense. He was just a boy. A coward. He joined the Death Eaters young and died even younger, probably when he tried to run—”

“No.” Her tone sharpened. “He wasn’t running.”

Sirius closed his mouth.

Hermione took a breath. “Voldemort made Kreacher test the defences around one of the Horcruxes. The cave. He left him to die. But Kreacher made it back because Regulus had ordered him to return once his task was done. Regulus was furious. He realised something was suspicious about the whole thing. Started asking questions. Found out about the Horcrux. He stole it.”

Sirius looked pale now, like all the air had left his lungs.

“He told Kreacher to take the locket and destroy it. Kreacher couldn’t—but he kept it safe. Regulus never made it out of the cave due to the Inferi in the lake. He gave his life to try and stop Voldemort.”

Sirius pressed both hands to his mouth and dragged them down his face. “I thought he… I thought he died scared. I thought he changed his mind too late.”

“He didn’t. He was the first to understand what Voldemort had done in order to become immortal. The first to act.”

There was a long silence.

And then, hoarse: “Dumbledore didn’t know?”

“He only figured it out recently,” Hermione said. “After the Diary.”

Sirius blinked. “The what?”

Hermione winced. “Right. I should probably explain that part. Um. Chamber of Secrets. Tom Riddle’s teenage diary possessed a girl and unleashed a Basilisk into the school. That was… just last year, actually.”

“Sorry—what now?”

She gave him a tired look. “You’re going to need more tea.”

Sirius stood immediately. “And possibly Firewhisky.”

“You’re not wrong.”

He conjured another cup with an unnecessarily dramatic flick. “Right. Start from the top. Tell me everything. And if the words ‘giant snake’ and ‘second-year’ go together more than once, I may require a sit-down.”

Hermione coughed again. “You’re already sitting.”

“I may require lying down.”

Despite everything, she smiled.

And began the story.

Hermione’s tea had long since gone cold.

She hadn’t noticed.

Her voice, which had started out gravelly, was now barely above a whisper, but she’d powered through the whole tale—Chamber of Secrets and all.

How Harry had started hearing voices in the walls. How students began turning up Petrified. How everyone suspected him because he could speak Parseltongue. How they feared he was the Heir of Slytherin, because—really—who else could talk to snakes?

Sirius had listened, mostly quiet, head slowly sinking into one hand. He muttered something about “Hogwarts being a cursed damn madhouse” when she got to the part where Ginny Weasley was dragged into the Chamber by a diary.

And then she told him how Harry followed her clues after finally finding her note in her petrified hand, fought a basilisk with a sword he’d pulled from a hat, was saved by a phoenix, and destroyed the diary with a basilisk fang—all at the age of twelve. They didn’t learn it had been a Horcrux until sixth year.

By the time she finished the last sentence, she had to pause to cough and sip from her forgotten mug.

Sirius, who’d mostly been reacting with raised brows and escalating concern, suddenly went very still.

“He’s a Parselmouth,” he said.

Hermione blinked up at him, bleary-eyed. “Yes. That was part of the issue.”

“But the Potters aren’t descended from Slytherin. And Lily—she was Muggleborn.”

Hermione’s hand tightened around the mug. Her eyes dropped.

“I know,” she said quietly. “It’s because he’s a Horcrux.”

Sirius didn’t speak.

Hermione looked up slowly. “An accidental one. Voldemort’s soul fragment latched on to the only living thing in the room when the curse rebounded on that Halloween.”

Sirius’s jaw clenched. “And no one noticed?”

“Not until years later. Not even Dumbledore,” Hermione rasped. “He had suspicions, but he couldn’t confirm it until fifth year, I think, when Harry could see inside Voldemort’s snake, which was also a Horcrux by that time. That’s when he started planning the final strike. We only found out amidst the final battle in 1998. At that point, the only option was for Harry to sacrifice himself like Dumbledore had planned. It’s a literal miracle he didn’t stay dead.”

He stared at her. “So Harry is… carrying a piece of that bastard inside him.”

Hermione nodded. “But I’ll fix it. I will. There has to be a way to remove it without hurting him. I just need time. Research. I’m not letting him die—not again.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. The strain, the fever, the weight of truth—it all caught up at once. She sucked in a breath, but nothing came out.

Sirius stood, gently took the mug from her hands, and set it aside.

“Alright,” he said, quiet but certain. “That’s enough story time for tonight.”

She tried to protest—maybe with words, perhaps just a look—but he shook his head.

“No. You need to rest. We’ll go to Grimmauld Place tomorrow.” He crouched beside her again. “We’ll deal with the locket. The house. Everything else. But you—you need to stop now.”

Hermione sank back into the pillow. Exhausted. Wrung out. Eyes glassy.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Sirius reached up and brushed a damp curl from her forehead, more gentle than she’d ever seen him.

“Sleep, Granger,” he murmured. “The world can wait a few hours.”

And she did.

This time, she didn’t fight it.

The morning air was cool, even for August, though Hermione suspected that might’ve been her fever talking.

They left the inn early. Hermione looked like she’d barely slept—pale, dark-circled, hair scraped up in a sad attempt at a bun. She wore the clean shirt and jeans she’d bought the day before, clutching a handkerchief and her concealed wand in equal measure.

Sirius transformed into Padfoot before they stepped outside the room—more out of habit than paranoia. Better not to be seen escorting a pale, feverish witch out of a guesthouse when he was still headline news in the Muggle world.

In an alleyway just behind the newsagent’s, he transformed back, wand already in hand. “Ready?”

“I look like death.”

He smiled gently. “Then you’ll fit right in with the décor.”

He took her arm carefully—trying not to jostle her or make her sneeze on his clothes—and with a sharp turn of magic, Apparated them both.

They landed with a jolt on the cracked doorstep of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Sirius let go and stared at the door.

Hermione watched him, silent. He didn’t speak—just looked up at the peeling paint and the warped frame like it might bite him.

He took one long breath through his nose.

And opened the door, the wards accepting him without issue as they had expected.

The hinges groaned like a wounded beast, revealing a hallway thick with dust and the faint, musty stink of a house left to rot. Cobwebs clung to the sconces. Something moved behind a pile of crates on the floor.

“It’s worse than I remembered,” Sirius muttered, extending a hand to her.

Hermione stepped in after him, coughing immediately. “We—cough—spent most of fifth year’s summer trying to make it bearable. This is… before all that.”

A shrill snap of magic pierced the air.

“BLOOD TRAITOR!” shrieked a voice from the wall. “SHAME OF MY FLESH! HOW DARE YOU SHOW YOUR FACE IN THIS HOUSE—BRINGING FILTH—A MUDBLOOD—”

“Ah,” Sirius said flatly. “There she is.”

He stormed down the hall and yanked the curtain shut over the portrait with such force it nearly ripped from the rail. “Still got the lungs, I see. Pity they never choked on your own bile.”

Walburga Black screamed once more, muffled now, then finally went silent.

Hermione winced. “Well. That was nostalgic.”

Sirius looked like he wanted to curse the wall out of existence.

And then—with a pop—Kreacher appeared.

The old house-elf blinked at Sirius with a sneer. “The blood-traitor returns. Consorting with filth, bringing shame to Mistress—”

Sirius’s wand was halfway raised.

“Kreacher,” she said, gently but firmly.

The elf turned a sneer toward her, hissing something under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like mudblood.

Hermione didn’t flinch. “We know about the locket.”

That stopped him.

Hermione took a step closer. “The one you helped your master—Regulus Arcturus Black—retrieve from the cave. The one he gave you. The one he told you to destroy.”

Kreacher’s bulbous eyes widened. He froze, his entire withered body going rigid.

Hermione knelt—carefully, with a wince—and looked him directly in the eye.

“We want to finish what he started,” she said. “We want to destroy it. To honour him.”

The effect was immediate.

Kreacher stared at her like she’d just opened a sealed chamber inside him. His mouth opened, then closed. His shoulders slumped. His expression—bitter and hard for so long—wavered.

Sirius, still tense beside her, muttered, “I’ll be damned.”

Kreacher slowly bowed his head.

“Miss speaks… of Master Regulus,” he whispered. “Of his wishes… of the locket.”

He looked up at Hermione again, something awed and mournful in his expression. “Miss will help destroy it? Truly?”

“I swear it,” Hermione said, softly.

Kreacher nodded once. Slowly. And then again, faster. His hands shook.

“I will show Miss,” he said. “I will show both. Master and Miss. It is still hidden… Kreacher has kept it safe.”

Kreacher popped away, and Sirius turned to her, utterly baffled.

“What the hell was that?”

She stood slowly, brushing dust off her knees. “Respect. And knowing how to apply proper motivation.”

Sirius let out a low whistle. “And here I was about to stun him.”

Hermione gave him a wan smile. “Yes, well. That might’ve gone differently.”

“I don’t like him!”

“You don’t have to like him. You just have to be smarter than him.” She leaned on the wall, exhausted. “And that, I do expect of you.”

Kreacher reappeared moments later with a black velvet pouch, which he held out reverently.

Sirius stared at it like it was a bomb.

Hermione took it instead. Her hands trembled slightly.

“I’ll examine it once we’ve had food,” she said. “I’m too knackered to even hex a Bludger right now.”

Kreacher brightened. “Kreacher will make breakfast. Tea. Toast. Porridge. Whatever the Miss desires.”

“…Right,” Sirius muttered. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

As the elf disappeared toward the kitchen, Hermione exhaled and glanced sideways at him.

“You okay?”

He gave the walls a grim look. “No. But we’re in.”

She nodded. “That’s enough for now.”

And together, they headed deeper into the house of ghosts.

Hermione coughed into her sleeve again, sniffling as she flicked her wand at the dust-covered couch in the sitting room. With a faint crackle of magic, the grime vanished—but she still eyed the upholstery suspiciously before lowering herself onto it like she was sitting on an unstable potion cauldron as she threw the velvet pouch onto the coffee table.

“You might want to hire an exterminator service,” she muttered, congested but level. “There are Doxies in the curtains in the parlour. A boggart in the study, if I remember correctly. And who knows what else.”

Sirius blinked at her from the doorway, arms folded. “Are you implying we stay here?”

Hermione looked up, arching an eyebrow. “I’m implying that unless you have a charming seaside cottage you’ve forgotten about that we can use as a safehouse, this is our best option.”

He made a face. “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m always serious. You’re Sirius.”

He groaned. “Merlin, even feverish, you’re a menace.”

Hermione sniffled. “How about this—you’re exonerated and filthy rich. Just hire a team to strip the place bare, blast out the walls—especially the one with your mother’s howling portrait—and remodel the whole thing until it looks nothing like the home of your childhood trauma.”

Sirius stared.

She leaned back with a sigh. “It’s structurally secure, Unplottable, and warded like a Gringotts vault. That makes it a decent base of operations. We’re going to need one.”

Sirius crossed the room slowly, scowling. He eyed the velvet pouch like it might detonate, then dropped into the armchair across from her. It gave a tired groan beneath him.

“Is this really happening?” he muttered. “I get cleared of all charges, and my reward is reclaiming this house of horrors?”

Hermione snorted. “Like I said, you can always redecorate. Maybe turn the drawing room into a Muggle gym. That alone would keep Walburga spinning in her frame.”

He let out a short, surprised laugh. “You’re devious, Granger.”

“Glad you’re catching on.”

The pouch on the table seemed to pulse softly, a wrongness in its presence that neither of them acknowledged just yet.

“I’m not ready to deal with that today,” Hermione murmured, her gaze flicking to the locket.

“Good,” Sirius said. “Because I’m barely ready to deal with the hallway.”

Another cough rattled her chest. She slumped back into the cushions, drained.

Sirius watched her for a long moment.

Then: “Fine. We stay. But if I hear so much as a whisper out of the attic, I’m personally burning this place to the ground.”

“Deal,” she said, tugging the blanket closer. “But only after I destroy the locket.”

He smirked. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Hermione let her eyes close, murmuring, “I usually win them, too.”

And for once, Sirius didn’t argue.

Kreacher popped into the room with a crack, holding a silver tray steadier than either of them expected.

“Tea,” he announced, voice gruff but strangely civil. “And sandwiches. And broth for the ill young Miss.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh. Thank you, Kreacher.”

He gave a stiff little bow. “Miss is most welcome.”

Sirius stared like someone had just started reciting Shakespeare in Mermish.

The tray floated down between them, cups steaming gently, and Kreacher gave the teapot a slight tilt to fill each one with precise care before setting down a bowl of broth that smelled warm, healing, and deeply welcome.

“Master Sirius wish the master bedroom prepared?” the elf asked, blinking up at him. “It has not been touched in some time, but Kreacher can clean it, if Master prefers.”

Sirius opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Er… no. No, thank you. I’ll take my old room.”

Kreacher didn’t flinch. “Very well. Kreacher will clean Master Sirius’s room and freshen the linens.”

He turned to Hermione and gave another of those tight, respectful nods. “Miss have a preference?”

Hermione, still cradling her tea like it was the last comfort left in the world, blinked tiredly. “Whichever’s on the first floor is fine. I don’t want to climb more stairs than I absolutely have to.”

“Miss is unwell,” Kreacher said with a faint scowl—not at her, oddly, but at the situation. “Kreacher will bring Pepper-Up. And lemon drops, if Miss does not mind them.”

“That would be lovely,” she said, a little hoarsely.

With another quick bow, Kreacher vanished with a pop.

Sirius was still staring at the space where the elf had been.

“Okay, I’ve officially entered an alternate reality.”

Hermione hummed quietly and took another sip of tea.

“I’m not joking,” Sirius said, still staring at the spot where Kreacher had vanished. “That elf has done nothing but insult me since I was eleven and sorted into Gryffindor. He once tried to trip me down the stairs. On purpose. I’m fairly sure he called me a blood-stained disgrace and offered to poison my shampoo.”

Hermione didn’t look up from her tea. “Mm.”

Sirius frowned. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought something.”

“I’m too sick to monologue about house-elf rights,” she rasped, adjusting the throw blanket from the back of the couch around her shoulders.

His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying it’s my fault he was nasty?”

“I’m saying threatening to kick him across the room probably didn’t help.” She finally looked at him, eyes glassy but sharp. “He was parroting your mother. You do remember the portrait that screams about blood traitors and filth every time someone opens a window?”

Sirius huffed. “He liked her.”

“No,” she said quietly, “he obeyed her. Because he was magically bound to. That’s not the same thing. I’d bet your whole Gringotts vault that on some level, Stockholm syndrome is involved.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling like it had personally offended him. His jaw worked like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t quite have the energy—or maybe the courage.

Hermione took a slow sip of her tea, both hands wrapped around the mug. Then, with a cough and a sniff, she murmured into the rim, “You do realise it only took some kindness… and honouring your brother… for him to be kind in return.”

Sirius didn’t look at her.

But after a long pause, he said quietly, “Yeah.”

And that was all.

But it was enough.

A little while later, with the sitting room bathed in soft, dust-muted light, Kreacher reappeared with another pop. This time, he held a small glass phial with steam curling faintly from the stopper.

“For the young Miss,” he said, voice gruff but—somehow—polite. “Pepper-Up Potion.”

Hermione blinked and sat up straighter. “Oh. Thank you, Kreacher.”

She reached for it gratefully, but Sirius squinted at the phial as though it might sprout legs.

“Hang on,” he said suspiciously, “where exactly did that come from? Because if it’s from the second-floor potions cupboard, I swear there are things in there that predate the goblin rebellions.”

Kreacher sniffed, scandalised. “No, Master Sirius. Kreacher is not a fool. This”—he held up the phial higher, as if offended by the accusation—“is fresh from the apothecary. The one on Knockturn Alley. They know Kreacher.”

Sirius blinked. “That’s not actually as reassuring as you think it is.”

Hermione bit back a smile and uncorked the potion. The sharp, spicy scent hit her like a broomstick to the sinuses, but she tipped it back anyway.

Steam shot from her ears.

Sirius raised both brows. “Attractive.”

“Stuff it,” she croaked.

Kreacher gave a satisfied nod, clearly pleased, then vanished with a final dignified pop.

Sirius leaned back again, arms crossed. “You realise the world may actually be ending. Kreacher’s running errands. For you.”

Hermione sniffled but managed a smug little smile. “Get used to it.”

As lovely as the Pepper-Up had been—and it was nice, in a sinus-clearing, head-thawing, steam-out-the-ears sort of way—it didn’t exactly erase all of Hermione’s symptoms. Her head still throbbed dully, her limbs ached with that telltale fever-weight, and even holding the teacup had started to feel like lifting a textbook one-handed.

When Kreacher returned (with considerably more ceremony this time) to announce that the guest room on the first floor was now prepared, Hermione exhaled with something close to relief.

“I’ll manage,” she mumbled, standing and immediately wobbling slightly.

“Sure you will,” Sirius said dryly, already at her side before she could protest. “And next you’ll be single-handedly storming Malfoy Manor.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Deeply.”

She gave him a look—half-exasperated, half-thankful—as he ducked under her arm and braced her against his side with surprising ease. He didn’t say anything else as they made their slow way out of the sitting room and up the stairs, just kept his grip steady, his stride matched to hers.

The hallway was musty and dim, lined with faded portraits of long-dead ancestors Hermione had no intention of getting to know. She swayed slightly as they reached the door Kreacher had indicated—already opened, a faint waft of clean linens and polished wood floating out.

Sirius guided her inside with a quiet, “Here we go,” and helped her sit on the edge of the bed.

It wasn’t fancy—barely furnished, clearly not used in years—but it was clean, with warm sheets and a high-backed chair in the corner. Hermione sank down like the mattress had personally saved her life.

“You didn’t have to carry me,” she murmured, already reaching for the duvet.

“You’ll notice I didn’t. That was a very dignified support operation.”

“I was mostly leaning on you like a sack of potatoes.”

“Well, you’re a very determined sack of potatoes.”

Hermione huffed a laugh, then coughed again, curling onto her side beneath the blankets. Sirius pulled them over her without comment.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

He straightened. “You’d do the same.”

She smiled faintly, eyes already closing. “I have, actually. You just don’t remember.”

Sirius paused, watching her for a moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes.

Then he said, softly, “Sleep, Granger.”

And she did.

Though she did wonder as she drifted off if this was going to be a thing now. Sirius Black ordering her to sleep, and she obeying like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Chapter Text

Sirius couldn’t sleep.

Not that this surprised him. The house creaked in all the same places it always had—behind the skirting boards, under the stairs, in the rafters like something old and long-suffering still dragged itself around. But it wasn’t the noises that kept him up. Or the stale smell of dust and mould and secrets. Or even the portrait that, thank Merlin, had finally gone quiet.

It was everything else.

He’d tried lying down in his old room. Even cast a couple of charm-based noise dampeners and a mild sedative spell, the kind he remembered Remus mumbling into existence on rough nights. Nothing helped. The second he shut his eyes, it was like the silence screamed at him. He was too on edge to take the Dreamless Sleep Hermione had gotten him.

So he got up. Barefoot. Hoodie thrown back on. Wand tucked in his sleeve, though he didn’t really know why. Habit, maybe.

He padded down the hall, dim light trailing after him from the sconces that lit automatically at his presence, warm gold against peeling wallpaper. Somewhere downstairs, something clinked in the kitchen—probably Kreacher, scrubbing floors for the thousandth time. Sirius wondered briefly if the elf had taken it upon himself to clean the whole place overnight like a sacrificial offering to the Muggleborn witch who had stepped up to honour his favourite Master’s dying wish.

He didn’t go to the kitchen, though.

Instead, almost without meaning to, his steps veered to the right, and he found himself in front of a door he hadn’t touched in over seventeen years.

Regulus’s room.

It was closed, of course. It always had been.

He stood there for a moment, one hand hovering just beside the knob. He half-expected it to be locked, or cursed, or sealed by some ancient spell tied to bloodlines and betrayal.

It wasn’t.

The door creaked open on well-oiled hinges.

Of course, Kreacher had kept this one room in working order.

The room was pristine. Untouched. Not in a dusty, preserved sort of way, but actively maintained. The bed was made. The desk neat. Shelves lined with books—books, Sirius realised, that weren’t even charmed to clean themselves. Someone had clearly dusted them by hand.

He stepped inside like a trespasser.

It was still the room of a teenage boy—tasteful but formal, dark greens and navy blues, not a single Gryffindor-red in sight. On the desk sat a crystal inkwell, half-full, a quill lying neatly beside it as if its owner had just stepped out and would be back before dinner.

Sirius let out a breath.

“You really were Mother’s favourite, weren’t you?” he murmured to the air, to the walls, to the ghost that lingered in this house more solidly than anything else.

No answer, of course.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands laced. The mattress gave a familiar creak.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asked aloud, voice soft. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

Still nothing. Just the faint smell of old parchment and floor polish and the lingering sharpness of whatever magical soap Kreacher used to keep the linens fresh.

“I would’ve helped you,” Sirius said. “Or—I want to believe I would’ve. But maybe you didn’t believe that. Maybe you were right not to.”

He looked down at the floor, at the neatness of it, the perfect polish and squared rug corners.

“I didn’t give you the chance, did I?” he asked. “I made up my mind about you. Sixth year. Probably earlier. Branded you a junior Death Eater and slammed the door in your face before you even knew which side you were on.”

There was a lump in his throat now. He swallowed hard against it.

“You were just a kid,” he whispered. “And you figured it out. Before Dumbledore. Before anyone. You knew something was wrong, and you did something.”

He let his head fall forward, hands dragging down his face.

“And I never even asked.”

The silence didn’t answer, but it settled heavier. Like the room itself was listening.

He stayed like that for a while, hunched over on the edge of a memory. Until the clock downstairs struck four, and the soft sound of coughing filtered faintly up the stairs.

Sirius stood.

“I’m sorry, Reggie,” he said to the stillness. “You deserved a better brother.”

He left the room with a quiet click of the door.

And for once, as he walked away, the hallway didn’t feel quite so haunted.

The hallway creaked beneath Sirius’s feet as he padded quietly along the landing, drawn by the soft sound of coughing. Again.

Hermione.

It wasn’t the first time that night he’d heard her stir. She’d been asleep almost all day since they arrived, pale and shivering, and now fever-warm and soaked through with sweat. The Pepper-Up had helped a little, but not enough. And that… worried him.

He stopped outside the guest room door, listening. Another wheezy breath. A quiet, restless whimper.

Damn it.

He cracked the door open and peered inside.

The room was dim, lit only by the moonlight slanting through a gap in the heavy curtains. Hermione lay curled beneath the blankets, face flushed, one leg tangled in the sheets. Her brow was damp, her lips parted as she took shallow, fevered breaths.

The sweat was a good sign. Meant the fever might be breaking. Still, she looked miserable.

Sirius hovered in the doorway, unsure what he was even doing. He couldn’t sleep—not in this house, not with the portrait still fresh in his ears, not with the ghosts of old memories in every corner.

And not with her sounding like she might drown in her own lungs.

He exhaled slowly, closed the door behind him, and in a ripple of magic and fur, dropped into his Animagus form.

Padfoot trotted softly to the side of the bed and, with a careful little huff, leapt up onto the mattress. Hermione didn’t wake—just stirred faintly.

Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, she shifted toward him, arm slinging across his furry torso. Her face pressed into his side with a soft sigh.

Padfoot froze.

Then relaxed by slow degrees.

She smelled like sweat and Pepper-Up and something vaguely herbal—maybe the remnants of the tea he’d forced on her earlier. She didn’t pull away, didn’t stir again. Just breathed.

He lay still beside her, warm and solid, heartbeat a slow metronome beneath her cheek.

Sirius had never been anyone’s comfort object before.

It was strange.

And… oddly nice.

He rested his snout on the pillow beside her and closed his eyes.

If she needed someone to keep watch, he would.

He owed her that much and more.

Hermione stirred slowly, groggy and stiff, blinking against the early light filtering through moth-eaten curtains. Something warm was curled around her. Solid. Breathing.

She shifted—and realised her arm was draped over a large, familiar shape.

Fur.

Her eyes snapped open.

“Oh—oh no.”

Padfoot was sprawled across half the bed like a particularly smug, overgrown heating pad. Her face had apparently spent the night buried somewhere in his neck ruff. And her hand—her hand was still resting on his chest like she owned him.

Before she could fully process the mortifying reality, Padfoot stirred and—in perfect chaos-dog fashion—licked her face.

Hermione recoiled with a gasp. “Sirius! Gross!”

With a shimmer, the dog vanished—and Sirius Black blinked down at her from his perch at the edge of the bed, human again and clearly not sorry.

“You say ‘gross,’ I say ‘affectionate morning greeting.’”

“You licked my face, and I’m ill,” she said, sitting up with a grimace. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

“I thought we’d established that list was too long to go over before breakfast.”

She stared at him, the full force of her unimpressed, sleep-rough glare hitting square in the face. “Do you have any regard for your own health?”

He blinked. “You’re the one with the flu.”

“Exactly!” she snapped. “I have the flu, and you just asked for it! You’re not invincible, Sirius! You’ve barely been free for a week, and your body’s probably still half-ash from Dementor exposure!”

He looked at her, amused—far too amused.

“What?”

“You’re yelling at me for caring more about you than me.”

“I’m yelling at you for being an idiot,” she said, crossing her arms.

Sirius grinned, but didn’t press it. “Fine. No more face licking. As a human or dog. At least not until you’re no longer a walking contagion.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That is not what I said.”

“Still. It’s a solid boundary. Well done, very mature.”

Hermione groaned and sank back into the pillow.

There was a beat of quiet. “You know, most people would be flattered that someone cared this much about their health.”

“I am flattered. And horrified. Mostly horrified.”

“I think you’re adorable,” he said, very matter-of-factly.

Hermione blinked.

“…What?”

Sirius shrugged. “I said what I said.”

She stared at him, throat catching for a moment.

Then: “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re warm. And possibly feverish. But you make an excellent cuddler.”

“That wasn’t on purpose.”

“I gathered that,” he said with a little laugh. “Still, I’m not complaining. Woke up to you snuggled up like a Kneazle in winter. Nose in the fur. Whole deal.”

Hermione groaned and collapsed back into the pillow. “I’m never going to live this down.”

“Oh no,” he said with mock seriousness. “I’m absolutely writing it down. First entry in the Memoirs of Padfoot: ‘Day Two of True Freedom—awoken by feverish war heroine hugging me like a stuffed bear. 10/10, would recommend.’”

She shot him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Deeply,” he said, still smiling. “But also—” his tone softened just a fraction, “—you feeling any better?”

She hesitated. “A little. I think the fever broke overnight.”

Sirius nodded, the amusement in his expression tempered now by something gentler. “Good. You had me worried, you know.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “You’re the one we should be worried about.”

“Does that mean you are kicking me out?”

“No.”

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll stay. Quietly. Respectfully. And with minimal tongue.”

Hermione squinted at him. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m very funny. You’re just too congested to appreciate my nuance.”

She snorted—then immediately regretted it, pulling the duvet up over her face as a fit of coughing took over.

When she finally surfaced again, bleary and red-nosed, Sirius was watching her quietly.

“I meant what I said,” she muttered. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

He looked down at his hands. “I’m trying.”

After a beat, he rose to his feet with a stretch. “Tea?”

“Yes, please. With lemon and honey.”

“Coming right up,” he said, heading for the door—then pausing just before leaving.

He turned back to glance at her over his shoulder, the grin fading into something a little more serious—quieter.

“You really did scare me yesterday,” he said. “All that sleeping. You’re usually too bossy to nap.”

Hermione blinked at him. “That’s your standard for health now? Me being bossy?”

“It’s surprisingly accurate,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a very scientific scale. ‘Snark per sneeze ratio,’ I call it.”

She gave him a long look. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Of course it is,” he said with mock offence. “James was a disaster with colds. I think I mentioned that already? We used to chart it. Snark went down, sneezes went up, boom—time to hide the broomsticks and send for Pepper-Up.”

Hermione shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Adorably so,” he added, then opened the door. “Hold on tight. Back in a few.”

He disappeared down the hall, whistling something suspiciously like A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.

Hermione let her head sink back against the pillows and muttered to the ceiling, “What did I do to deserve this?”

But despite her grumbling, her lips twitched.

And when the scent of tea started wafting up from the kitchen, she didn’t mind it quite so much.

Sirius returned carrying two steaming mugs with an expression halfway between baffled and impressed.

“Apparently, making tea myself is beneath me,” he said as he shut the door with his hip. “Kreacher nearly hexed the kettle out of my hands. Told me to sit like a proper master and wait. Which is the most backwards form of kindness I’ve ever experienced.”

Hermione, already propped against the pillows, reached for her mug gratefully. “He probably just didn’t trust you not to set the kitchen on fire.”

Sirius sniffed. “I’m a brilliant cook, thank you very much. My omelettes are legendary. In certain circles.”

“Of starving bachelors and werewolves?”

“Exactly.”

They lapsed into a companionable quiet, sipping at their tea, the morning light filtering in through the dusty curtains.

After a few moments, Hermione glanced over her mug. “Have you thought about… seeing Harry?”

Sirius blinked. “What?”

“Now that you’re free,” she said carefully, “you could. See him. Before he goes off to Hogwarts.”

He went very still.

His eyes dropped to his tea, fingers tapping lightly against the ceramic. “I—” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know if I should. I want to. Of course I want to. But I… don’t know what I’d say.”

Hermione watched him, gentler now. “You don’t have to say anything perfect. Just… be there. Let him meet you.”

Sirius hesitated. “I don’t think I can face Privet Drive. If I have to see those Muggles—”

“He’s not there,” she interrupted.

That got his attention. His head snapped up, alarm creeping into his expression. “What? Why? Where is he?”

“Act like you don’t know if it comes up,” she said quickly. “He’d be mortified if he knew someone found out.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “What happened?”

Hermione bit back a smile. “Let’s just say that a few days ago, Aunt Marge came to visit. Said some truly vile things about James and Lily, and Harry… well, he accidentally turned her into a human balloon.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Sirius barked a laugh. “He what?”

“She floated away,” Hermione said, lips twitching. “Harry panicked, ran away, and now he’s staying at the Leaky Cauldron until the Hogwarts Express.”

Sirius was still laughing under his breath. “Merlin’s pants. James would’ve been so proud. Lily, too, once she stopped laughing herself sick.”

“I imagine Marge has since been deflated and thoroughly obliviated,” Hermione said dryly. “But yes, Harry’s safe. And he’s just… wandering around Diagon Alley at the moment.”

Something warm flickered in Sirius’s expression—hope and hesitation mingling. “So I could just… see him?”

“You could,” Hermione said, a little softer. “Maybe don’t tell him everything all at once. Just… talk to him. Let him know you care.”

Sirius stared into his tea for a long moment.

Then, quietly: “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

Hermione smiled. “Good. Because he deserves someone who actually gives a damn.”

“And I’ve got a decade of making up to do.”

“Start with a conversation. You can plan the rest later.”

Sirius nodded, but there was something lighter about him now. Like the idea of seeing Harry had settled some part of him. He didn’t smile. Not quite.

But he looked like he might.

“So, how do I do this?” Sirius asked, drumming his fingers against the side of his mug. “Just stroll up to him in Diagon Alley like it’s a chance encounter? Or do I send an owl and hope he doesn’t toss it out the window with a howler-level panic?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow over her cup. “Both solid options, honestly. But let’s be real—the first one will definitely draw a crowd.”

Sirius made a face. “A crowd?”

“You’re you,” she said, gesturing vaguely at him. “Current hot topic of wizarding gossip. And he’s Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. Walking tabloid magnet. Combine the two of you, and it’s going to look like the Prophet’s front page and Witch Weekly had a scandalous baby.”

“Great,” Sirius muttered. “Exactly what a traumatised thirteen-year-old needs. Paparazzi.”

“Exactly. Which is why the owl might be better. Less chance of accidental fame trauma.”

He groaned and slouched back in the chair. “Right. Owl, it is. Merlin, this is worse than dating. What do I even write? ‘Hi, Harry, sorry about the whole convict on the run thing. Swear I’m not a murderer. I have the paperwork to prove it. Want to get ice cream?’”

Hermione tried not to laugh. “You could be slightly less dramatic. Maybe something like: ‘Dear Harry, I know this is a lot, but I’d really like to talk to you when you’re ready. I have a lot to explain. I care about you.’”

Sirius blinked. “That’s... incredibly earnest.”

“That’s what he needs,” she said gently. “He’s been lied to and left in the dark his whole life. What he doesn’t need is another adult trying to play things cool.”

“Alright, alright,” Sirius muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just—what if he doesn’t want to see me? What if he hates me for not being there?”

“He won’t,” Hermione said firmly. “Harry doesn’t hate easily. And deep down, he wants to belong to someone. He wants family. You don’t have to be perfect, just… real. Honest.”

Sirius stared at her for a moment, then gave a slow, solemn nod. “I can do that.”

Hermione smiled. “Good. And maybe leave out the part where you licked my face this morning.”

He grinned, cocky again. “No promises.”

“Sirius—”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Mostly.”

In the end, Sirius wrote the letter.

It took him three attempts and enough pacing to wear a trail in the drawing room carpet, but eventually, the parchment bore a message that felt right. Honest. Just enough truth without being overwhelming. He didn’t sign it with “Love,” though he wanted to. Settled for “Yours, Sirius,” and then stared at it like it might combust from the sheer weight of meaning packed into four sentences.

He’d expected to borrow one of the Ministry’s owls or sneak into Diagon without running into Harry to send it off from the Post Office or that Drop Box Hermione mentioned, but Hermione—nose still pink and wrapped in her blanket like an invalid Empress—suggested checking the Black family owlery first.

“You’re joking,” Sirius had said, halfway up the stairs already.

“Nope,” Hermione replied, coughing once. “Try the top floor.”

He hadn’t been up there since he ran away. The steps groaned, the wallpaper peeled, and when he finally opened the small door tucked beneath the roof gable, he was fully prepared for a nest of cobwebs and an owl skeleton.

Instead, something hooted in disdain and flapped irritated feathers.

“…What.”

The owl—old, grey-feathered, and narrowed-eyed—looked down at him with judgment Sirius hadn’t felt since his Hogwarts days.

“Kreacher,” Sirius muttered to no one, “I don’t want to know what you’ve been feeding it or how it’s still alive, but well done, you ancient lunatic.”

The owl, sensing it was about to be put to work, snapped its beak with an aggrieved click.

Sirius tied the letter to its leg with an apologetic pat. “To Harry Potter. Leaky Cauldron. Be nice.”

It took off with a huff and an impressive flap of wings.

Later, when Hermione went down for another nap, Sirius—reluctantly, but undeniably knackered—shifted into Padfoot and curled up at the foot of her bed. She didn’t even stir. Just mumbled something incoherent and turned over. He stayed. Warm, safe, unbothered. And, for the first time in what felt like years, he actually dozed.

When she woke, sometime after three, Sirius padded into the drawing room behind her and shifted back into human form, yawning like a wolf.

“You know,” she said, reaching for one of the potion phials from her satchel by the hearth, “you could just take one of these. The Calming Draught. Or the Dreamless Sleep.”

Sirius stretched, then rolled one shoulder like the question hadn’t quite landed. “Hmm?”

“You look half-dead,” she said, eyeing him over the rim of her mug. “You’re exhausted. Just take one of them tonight.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, maybe.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “That was evasive.”

“I’m not being evasive,” he said a bit too quickly.

“You definitely are.”

He flopped into the chair with a loud oof, rubbing his face. “I just don’t like them.”

Hermione blinked. “The potions?”

He nodded. “Had to take a lot of them. Calming Draughts, Sleeping Draughts, whatever else they had. Before Azkaban. When I got arrested. A Healer from St. Mungo’s was very enthusiastic about forcibly sedating me while I was in Ministry holding.”

Hermione winced.

Sirius glanced at the potion bottle in her hand and offered a wry smile. “It’s not about being stubborn. I just don’t like how quiet it gets in my head when I take one. Like everything’s gone, even me.”

Hermione looked at him for a long moment, then gently set the bottle back on the table. “Okay.”

“You’re not going to lecture me?”

“No,” she said simply. “But you could have just said so.”

He shrugged. “Old habit. Deflect, joke, charm, disappear.”

Hermione offered a soft smile. “You’re not disappearing now.”

He glanced sideways at her. “No. I suppose I’m not.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while after that, the house strangely still. Somewhere on the floor above, Kreacher was humming.

And far away, an elderly owl soared over London, carrying a letter that might just change everything.

Chapter Text

By late afternoon, it was clear Sirius was jittery.

He tried to hide it, pacing less, fidgeting more subtly. But his fingers kept drumming on every surface, his eyes flicked to the window every five minutes, and when the old Black family owl returned, feathers ruffled and eyes annoyed, but empty-taloned, he barely spoke for the next hour.

Hermione, who was finally starting to feel marginally more human, gave him space. She rested, read a bit, and even managed a shower to wash off the remnants of post-fever haze. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, she felt almost steady on her feet.

She made her way downstairs in soft socks and a fresh jumper, her damp hair in a loose braid, heading to the kitchen in search of something warm. Kreacher, ever observant, had left a pot of soup on the stove as if he knew she’d come down eventually.

She was ladling it into a bowl when the sharp tap of talons on glass startled her.

Hermione turned—and there she was.

Hedwig.

Snowy white, proud, and absolutely regal, she perched at the kitchen window like the Queen of All Owls, the faintest shimmer of twilight catching on her feathers.

Hermione set the ladle down and crossed the kitchen, her heart skipping.

“Hedwig,” she whispered, opening the window.

The owl swept in with barely a sound, flapping once and settling on the back of a chair like she’d done it a hundred times before. A parchment was tied securely to her leg.

Hermione untied it with careful fingers, running a hand briefly down the owl’s sleek back. “Thank you.”

Hedwig clicked her beak softly, watching her with pale gold eyes that somehow managed to convey both judgement and affection.

Hermione didn’t even call out—there was no need.

Sirius was already there.

He must’ve heard the flap of wings, or maybe he’d simply felt something shift. He appeared in the kitchen doorway like a ghost, eyes already fixed on Hedwig.

“She came?” he asked, voice low.

Hermione turned, parchment in hand. “She came.”

He stepped forward slowly, like if he moved too fast, she’d vanish.

Hermione handed him the letter without a word.

Sirius hesitated. His fingers trembled slightly as he took it.

He stared at his godson’s messy, slanted handwriting on the front for a moment longer than necessary.

Then, quietly, he opened it.

Sirius was still holding the letter five minutes later, like it might evaporate if he looked away.

“He wants to meet,” he said at last, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. “Tomorrow morning, at his room in the Leaky. Says Diagon would be too much, and he’s not supposed to wander into Muggle London without supervision.” He paused, brow furrowing. “Though I’m a bit concerned he invited a complete stranger to his lodgings. I mean—did no one teach this kid basic self-preservation?”

Hermione, spoon halfway to her mouth, snorted directly into her soup. She set the bowl down quickly, coughing with laughter. “Oh, Sirius. Stranger danger?”

“Well, yes!” he said, flinging the letter down on the counter. “He doesn’t know me! For all he knows, I’m some charismatic impostor posing as his long-lost godfather to gain his trust and—I don’t know, kidnap him or sell him to a collector of celebrity children!”

Hermione gave him a flat look. “Bit elaborate, that last one.”

“It’s not not plausible,” he grumbled.

Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed her soup aside. “First of all, the news of you being his godfather and having been exonerated is literally front-page material this week. I’m pretty sure even Rita Skeeter couldn’t twist that around.” She crossed her arms. “And second, who exactly did you think would have taught Harry about stranger danger?”

Sirius blinked at her. “Er… his aunt and uncle?”

“Petunia Dursley,” Hermione said dryly, “is the sort of person who would’ve gleefully handed him over to a stranger if it meant she could go ten minutes without seeing something magical.” She leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed. “Frankly, if someone had tried to snatch Harry off the street, I think the Dursleys would’ve celebrated with a roast dinner.”

Sirius winced, the lines around his mouth deepening.

“And Hogwarts,” Hermione continued, “has many strengths. Nurturing life skills and general safety awareness is not one of them. The staff is… shall we say, admirably hands-off.”

“I take it that’s sarcasm.”

“Oh, deep, biting sarcasm.” She tilted her head. “Honestly, I’m half-convinced Dumbledore encourages Harry to wander into danger. He’s got a bit of a… ‘sink or swim with a basilisk’ attitude toward education.”

Sirius ran a hand down his face. “Merlin’s bloody beard. This boy’s been raised by wolves.”

“Worse. He’s been raised by Petunia and then half-raised by chaos incarnate.” She lifted her spoon again. “It’s a miracle he hasn’t started referring to every near-death experience as a ‘Tuesday’.”

Sirius rubbed his chest like her words had left a mark there. “I should’ve been there.”

“I know,” Hermione said softly.

He looked down at the letter again, rereading the line near the bottom for what had to be the fifth time. “I’d really like to meet you.”

It hit different when it was written in the scrawl of a boy who had no reason to trust and every reason to want to.

Hermione nudged her bowl closer. “Eat something. You’ll need it.”

He sank into the chair across from her, brow still furrowed, but a flicker of something softer in his eyes now. “He’s really not afraid?”

“Harry?” She arched an eyebrow. “Harry once followed a trail of spiders into the Forbidden Forest just because Hagrid suggested answers would be found at the end. Spoiler alert, it was a giant Acromantula. He has a slightly different baseline for ‘stranger danger’ than most people.”

Sirius shook his head slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He’s James’s kid, alright.”

Hermione hummed. “And Lily’s. All the best parts of both of them. You’ll see.”

He picked up a spoon, finally. “I can’t believe I’m meeting him tomorrow.”

“And he can’t wait to meet you.”

For a long moment, they just sat in the quiet, the smell of soup in the air, the letter on the table between them like a bridge across time.

Sirius Black had never really been one for subtlety.

He’d left Grimmauld Place at an obscenely early hour, shrugging into the slightly-too-tight set of black dress robes he’d found stuffed in the back of his old wardrobe—the kind with embroidered silver runes along the cuffs that had once screamed rebellious teen attending his cousin’s betrothal banquet under duress. Now, thanks to twelve years of starvation chic, they fit like a tailored glove. Which was both depressing and convenient.

He didn’t linger.

No sulking in front of Walburga’s portrait. No second-guessing at the threshold.

He was going to meet Harry.

And nothing—not even a Black family curse or Kreacher accidentally poisoning the tea—was going to get in the way.

Diagon Alley was only just waking when he stepped out of the Floo, all soot-streaked confidence and dishevelled charm. It was the height of back-to-school season, and he had no interest in being mobbed by last-minute Hogwarts shoppers or gawkers murmuring about that Sirius Black.

So, priorities:

Gringotts.

He ducked into the great marble bank expecting a five-minute withdrawal. Instead, the goblins swarmed with polite-but-predatory grins the moment his name was confirmed, offering hushed conference rooms and muttering about scheduled vault audits, heir responsibilities, and something about estate portfolios and Black ancestral holdings that had been gathering dust for over a decade.

“I’ll come back in September,” Sirius said firmly, eyeing a goblin who looked ready to physically drag him into a meeting chamber. “I’ve got an appointment.”

“A social one?” the goblin sneered, unimpressed.

“A divine one,” Sirius said cheerfully. “With my godson.”

He made his exit before they could throw more scrolls at him.

Next stop: Quality Quidditch Supplies.

He didn’t even hesitate. The moment he spotted the gleaming display of the newest Firebolt, he marched up to the counter and said, “I’ll take one.”

The clerk blinked. “Er, sir, this is the Firebolt—state of the art—very few in stock—”

“Yes. I’m aware.” He tossed a pouch of galleons onto the counter. “And I’m also aware that I’ve missed twelve birthdays and a matching number of Christmases, so unless you have a time-turner and a personality charm, this is the next best option.”

To his credit, the clerk didn’t argue further.

Sirius left with not only the Firebolt, but a handful of smaller things—a broom kit, a limited edition Quidditch card set, some sweets, a couple of bottled Butterbeers, and a Gryffindor scarf so absurdly bright it could flag down Muggle aircraft. The kind of gifts that shouted, Please like me. I’m the cool godfather with emotional baggage and no understanding of restraint!

By the time the hour crept near, he was hovering around the Leaky Cauldron like a suspiciously well-dressed stray dog, pacing, fidgeting, rehearsing casual greetings and discarding each one immediately.

At 8:59 and thirty-five seconds, he strode down the corridor like a man on a mission.

At 8:59 and forty-nine seconds, he smoothed his hair in the cracked mirror on the stairwell.

At 9:00 and zero seconds, he knocked on Room Four.

Three short raps.

Then he held his breath.

He didn’t realise how badly he wanted this until that very moment.

Until the silence on the other side of the door felt longer than it should.

Until his fingers curled reflexively tighter around the Firebolt he held like a peace offering.

Please let him open the door.

Please let him smile.

Please let him look at me and not see the wanted man from the Prophet. Just… see me.

Sirius Black, infamous escapee, freshly-cleared wizarding citizen, stood at the door of a thirteen-year-old boy and felt more nervous than he had in his entire goddamn life.

Harry opened the door, and Sirius froze.

It was like the past and present collided, hitting him square in the chest with the force of a Bludger.

That hair. That mad, unrepentant, untamable mop of black hair that stuck out like it was actively trying to escape the confines of his skull. The round glasses perched on a nose that had probably been broken once already. The way he stood slightly off-centre, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

James.

Except—no. Not quite.

Because those eyes…

Lily’s eyes. Vivid, impossible green. The kind that had made professors pause mid-sentence and young men rethink every dumb thing they were about to say.

Sirius’s throat went tight.

He saw the faint edge of the lightning-shaped scar under the boy’s fringe, and something inside him twisted. He didn’t let himself dwell on it—on what it meant, what Hermione had said. Not now. Not here.

Harry blinked up at him, eyes wide and searching, and then, with a voice that was hesitant but unmistakably hopeful, said, “Hi.”

Sirius had to physically restrain himself from reaching out and wrapping the kid in a hug so tight it’d make headlines.

So instead, naturally, he blurted the stupidest thing possible.

“You’ve grown so much,” he said, blinking rapidly. “Last time I saw you, I could fit you in one arm.”

Harry glanced at the broom in his hand, then at the gift bag looped over Sirius’s wrist. “I mean, I could jump into your arms, but they’re kind of full.”

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. Actual, involuntary bark.

Merlin’s shaggy tail—he already loved this kid.

“Alright, alright,” he said, shifting the Firebolt to his other arm. “Fair enough. Still, it’s weird, you know? You go twelve years picturing someone frozen in time, and then suddenly—boom. He’s a sarcastic teenager with elbows and a jawline.”

Harry grinned. “You’re late, by the way. I was convinced you’d changed your mind.”

“Please, I was right on time,” Sirius said, waving him off. “And if I’d changed my mind, I wouldn’t have spent half the morning dodging goblins and mad salesclerks to get you this.” He held out the Firebolt like it was a sacred artefact.

Harry’s eyes went wide. “Is that—?”

Sirius grinned. “Yep.”

“You got me a Firebolt?”

“Yep.”

Harry stared at it like it might vanish if he looked too hard.

“Why?” he asked, breathless.

Sirius shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant, but his voice still too soft around the edges. “Because I missed about a dozen birthdays and Christmases. And also because I’m trying to buy your love.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “It’s working.”

Sirius laughed again and something warm settled under his ribs—an anchor in a life that had, until now, felt like driftwood on a stormy sea.

“Good,” he said, more serious now. “Because I’ve waited a long time for this.”

“Oh—we should probably go in,” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck as he stepped aside to finally let Sirius into the room. “We’ve sort of been… standing in the doorway this whole time.”

“Blame the dramatics,” Sirius muttered, brushing past him with the Firebolt still in hand. “Also, bit of friendly advice? Maybe next time, don’t just open your hotel door to a possibly unstable stranger.”

Harry closed the door with a soft click and turned around, brows raised. “But you’re not a stranger, are you? Not really. If the Prophet’s got it right—and it usually doesn’t, but let’s give it a point this time—you’re my godfather.”

Sirius blinked at that. The matter-of-fact delivery. The complete lack of fear. “Well, yes, but—”

“So what did you want me to do?” Harry said, tilting his head. “Greet you with a wand drawn? Ask for three forms of ID and a character reference from someone not in Azkaban?”

“Not… all that,” Sirius muttered. “But maybe just, I don’t know—some suspicion. What if I wasn’t me?”

Harry shrugged and dropped into the small armchair by the fireplace. “I have a good hunch about people. Comes with the territory of growing up around the worst sort.”

Sirius opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn’t have a response to that. Not one that wouldn’t either start an argument or a full-blown breakdown. Neither seemed appropriate for a first reunion.

He cleared his throat instead, sat on the edge of the bed, and opted for neutral ground.

“So… uh… tell me everything,” he said.

Harry blinked. “Everything?”

“Yeah. You know—about you. Start from the top. Favourite colour, most hated class, owl’s name, friends’ weirdest habits, worst teacher, favourite Quidditch team, thoughts on jelly slugs—give me the full Hogwarts experience.”

Harry looked momentarily stunned, then let out a breath of laughter. “That’s… a lot.”

“I’ve got time,” Sirius said with a half-grin. “You’ve got twelve years to catch me up on. Better get started.”

“Well,” Harry said, sitting up straighter, “my owl’s name is Hedwig, and she’s amazing. Very judgey though. Stares like she knows exactly how much homework I’ve skipped.”

“Smart girl.”

“And I like Defence Against the Dark Arts best, but I’ve had a new teacher every year so far. First one tried to kill me. Second one was a narcissistic fraud. Third one… well, jury’s out. Hopefully better than the last two.”

Sirius blinked. “You’ve had three teachers in three years?”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, they don’t tend to last. It’s cursed or something. You know. Typical school stuff.”

“Right. Remind me to burn Hogwarts to the ground later.”

Harry grinned.

Sirius leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of that smile settle over him. For now, he wouldn’t ask about the darker stuff. Not the scar. Not the prophecy. Not the other thing Hermione had told him.

Just this. A kid on a too-small armchair, talking about his owl and his classes like he hadn’t already faced death three times before thirteen. Sirius didn’t feel like talking about himself. Not even a little.

Sirius could work with that.

“So,” he said, trying for casual, “tell me about your friends. I assume you have friends?”

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “No, I’ve spent the last two years in a broom cupboard writing sonnets to my loneliness.”

Sirius chuckled. “Excellent. Sarcasm intact. You really are James’s kid.”

Harry gave him a flat look. “What, did you think I was just sitting in a corner somewhere feeding spiders?”

Sirius grinned. “Well, I was hoping you had some social life. Being raised in a cupboard doesn’t exactly scream thriving extrovert.”

Sirius realised a moment too late that he revealed something he shouldn’t know, but Harry didn’t seem to notice, probably on account of thinking Sirius was just running with what Harry had tried to pass off as a gag.

Harry laughed, but it was quiet. “Yeah, fair. I do, though. I’ve got Ron—Ron Weasley—and Hermione Granger.”

Sirius nodded slowly, pretending to file the names away for the first time. “Weasley, I know the family. Big brood. Red hair. Good people. What’s he like?”

“He’s… brilliant. Loud, a bit thick sometimes, but he’s got my back. Always has.” Harry smiled faintly. “Bit rubbish at keeping his cool when he’s angry, though. Or hungry.”

“So a Gryffindor through and through,” Sirius said with a grin.

Harry nodded. “Exactly.”

“And Hermione?”

“Top of the class,” Harry said at once, his expression softening. “She’s… something else. Knows every rule in every book—and every time we break one. Which is often.”

Sirius snorted. “Sounds terrifying.”

“She can be,” Harry admitted. “But she’s also really kind. Always has a plan. I wouldn’t have made it past first year without her.”

Sirius raised a brow. “Really?”

“She stopped Snape—well actually Quirrell—from jinxing my broom when I didn’t even know what was going on,” Harry said. “And that was like—our second week of flying. She’s always saving us. Even when she’s mad at us.”

Sirius hummed thoughtfully, hiding how deeply the words struck him. Hermione had already begun protecting Harry from the very beginning, then.

“And this Hermione…” he said carefully, “she’s Muggleborn, isn’t she?”

“Yeah.” Harry tilted his head. “How’d you know?”

Sirius shrugged. “Just a hunch. You said she memorises every rulebook—classic sign of someone trying to prove they belong. Lily, your mum, had been a bit like that.”

Harry blinked. “Huh. Yeah, I guess.”

“Bet she’s brilliant, though.”

Harry grinned. “She really is.”

Sirius didn’t let any of what he was actually thinking show. He kept his expression neutral, his tone light. But inwardly, he was reeling. Hearing about Hermione from Harry’s perspective—unfiltered, genuine—only made Sirius trust her more.

“She sounds like a good one,” he said finally.

“She is.” Harry hesitated, then asked, “You’ll meet them, right? Ron and Hermione?”

Sirius’s throat tightened. “Yeah. I’d like that. Soon.”

He hoped it was true. That they really had time for things like this now.

That this time, they might get it right.

“Uhm, Harry,” Sirius said, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to scrub the nerves out through his skin. “I want to run something by you.”

Harry, who had just taken a sip of butterbeer, looked up curiously from where he was lounging in the armchair of his Leaky Cauldron room. “Yeah?”

Sirius shifted in his seat. “And this is completely hypothetical at this point, alright? Completely. There are… a lot of legal hoops to jump through first. Bureaucracy. The fun kind. Plus, the house—my house—is currently one broken stair away from being declared a health hazard by the Department of Magical Catastrophes.”

Harry blinked. “Okay…”

“I’m not promising anything,” Sirius said quickly. “I don’t want to get your hopes up for something that might not even happen. But—if it did… would you be open to living with me?”

The silence stretched.

Harry blinked once. Then again.

“You mean like—with you?” he asked, clearly trying to process it. “Like… permanently?”

“Eventually,” Sirius said, hands raised in placation. “Once we get it cleaned up. Once I can legally apply for guardianship, and your school term is done. Like I said—there’s a mountain of red tape. And Andromeda would probably have to vouch for me, and I have been reliably informed that the study has a boggart in it—”

“You want me to live with you?” Harry asked again, very softly.

Sirius froze. “Only if you want to.”

Harry stared at him. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, stunned and uncertain and impossibly young all at once.

Sirius felt his stomach knot.

“I just—after everything,” he said, voice quieter now, “I thought maybe… if you didn’t want to go back to the Dursleys…”

“I don’t,” Harry blurted out, fast and a bit too loud.

Sirius blinked.

Harry’s hands curled into the fabric of his trousers. “I mean… I don’t want to go back there. Not if there’s another option. Not if—” He looked up, hesitant. “You really want me?”

Sirius’s breath caught in his throat.

“Harry,” he said, and the name came out a little rough. “I’m your godfather. That means something to me. I’ve wanted to be part of your life since the day you were born.”

Harry’s face twisted for a moment—relief, disbelief, hope, all fighting for space. “Even after all these years?”

“Especially after all these years.”

There was a beat of silence before Harry gave a crooked smile. “Well… yeah. I’d be open to that. Definitely.”

Sirius’s grin returned—slow, wide, and slightly disbelieving.

“Brilliant,” he said. “But remember, hypothetical.”

“Right,” Harry agreed, but his smile didn’t fade.

They both sat there for a moment, letting the quiet settle—lighter now, warmer.

Then Sirius added, “Also, you may be morally obligated to help me clean out a cursed attic full of cursed Black family heirlooms.”

Harry shrugged. “That’s fair.”

“Good lad,” Sirius said, and for once, he really felt like one.

“Do you want to go for some ice cream?” Sirius asked, a bit too casually, like he hadn’t just offered to share the most sacred bonding ritual known to wizardkind.

Harry blinked. “I mean, I would, but I’m pretty sure Mr Fortescue would faint from the number of reporters that would show up. You haven’t heard the gossip in Diagon these last two days. Everyone’s vying to get a glimpse of you.”

Sirius smirked. “And here I thought you were the resident celebrity.”

“Please do not mention that,” Harry groaned, sinking deeper into the worn chair by the window. “Seriously.”

“I’m always Sirius.”

Harry let out a soft snort. “That’s an awful pun.”

“Hey!” Sirius clutched his chest like he’d been wounded. “You wound me. And here I thought we had a rapport.”

“I call it like I see it, sorry.”

“Don’t ever apologise for your truth, Harry,” Sirius said, mock solemn, placing a hand on his shoulder like he was about to deliver an inspirational speech. “Speak your truth. Even if your truth is that I’m a menace with a charming smile.”

Harry nodded awkwardly, but his lips twitched at the corners.

“We could always go into Muggle London,” Sirius offered, shrugging as he leaned back. “I went by Gringotts this morning, had some galleons exchanged. Figured it might be smart to have some of their paper money in case I needed to bribe a bouncer or buy a really overpriced sandwich.”

Harry hesitated. “I’m… technically not supposed to.”

Sirius raised a brow. “Minister’s orders?”

“Yeah. Fudge said it’s too dangerous because of…” He trailed off.

“My escape?” Sirius finished flatly. “Pretty sure that’s been sorted. You’re looking at one thoroughly exonerated and freshly papered man. Got the documents to prove it.”

Harry looked at him for a beat. Then his expression shifted into something unreadable—neutral, almost suspiciously so. He leaned forward slowly, hands clasped between his knees.

“Yeah… about that,” he said, voice dry. “How do I know all this—the supposed exoneration and everything—wasn’t just a very elaborate, clever ruse to lure me into Muggle London so you could kidnap me?”

Sirius blinked.

Harry’s face remained perfectly serious.

Sirius blinked again.

“…You’re joking,” he said eventually.

Harry broke into a grin.

“Oh, you little—” Sirius let out a bark of laughter, tossing a cushion at him, which Harry caught with far too much smugness for someone his size. “You actually had me for a second. I was about to launch into a whole ‘trust is the foundation of all relationships’ speech.”

“Dodged a Howler there,” Harry said, grinning.

Sirius shook his head, still laughing. “You’ve got a real evil streak in you, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

Sirius ruffled his hair. “That’s my boy.”

Harry grinned, cheeks flushing faintly.

“Right then,” Sirius said, standing with a stretch and an exaggerated crack of his shoulders. “Come on, partner in crime. Let’s see what Muggle London has to offer.”

Harry eyed him warily. “You’re really going to wear wizard robes into London, aren’t you?”

Sirius gave him a look of deep offence, hand to heart. “Are we wizards or not, Harry?”

“Exactly my point,” Harry said, crossing his arms. “You’re going to stand out like a sore thumb. A very dramatic, possibly dangerous sore thumb.”

Sirius just huffed in mock indignation, then drew his wand with a casual flick. “Oh ye of little faith.”

He gave a small, precise wave, and the rich dark robes shimmered—folded and retracted in on themselves like water down a drain—and reformed into black jeans, scuffed boots, and a battered leather jacket that looked like it had last seen action at a punk gig in 1980. Underneath, a soft grey Henley peeked through. He tousled his hair—because of course, he did—and raised an eyebrow at Harry like ta-da.

Harry gaped. “You look like someone who’d sell illegal dragon parts in a Camden back alley.”

“Thank you,” Sirius said proudly. “This was very fashionable in my day.”

“I—no, I mean—I think I saw a bloke wearing that outside the Leaky just this week.”

Sirius grinned. “See? Timeless.”

Harry shook his head, laughing. “I still can’t believe you just… changed your entire outfit with one spell.”

“You’ll get there. In the meantime, bask in the glory of my superior wardrobe transfiguration.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You do realise you’re going to get looks, right? That hair, those clothes—people are going to think I’m being dragged into a very questionable mentorship programme.”

Sirius clapped him on the back. “Exactly. Helps with the whole ‘cool godfather’ image.”

“I thought you said you weren’t trying to buy my affection.”

“I said I wasn’t only trying to buy your affection. There’s a difference.”

Harry snorted, pulling on his jacket. “You’re completely mad.”

“And you’re just now figuring that out? Merlin’s trousers, they really don’t teach critical thinking at Hogwarts anymore.”

Harry tried and failed to smother a laugh. “Come on then. I want ice cream before we get mobbed by Muggle pigeons or wizarding paparazzi.”

“Ah, yes,” Sirius said dramatically, heading for the door. “The noble quest for sweets. Our first father-son bonding adventure.”

“Godfather.”

“Technicality.”

And just like that, they stepped out into the bustle of London—an ex-con, a boy hero, and all the space between them narrowing by the minute.

Chapter Text

When Sirius returned to Grimmauld Place, he was practically glowing—in the most rugged, manly, definitely-not-emotional way, of course. The meeting with Harry had gone better than he could’ve imagined. The kid was brilliant. Witty. Brave. Snarky in a way that was pure James, but thoughtful and dry like Lily used to be when someone said something truly idiotic in Charms class. Sirius was still buzzing with the sound of Harry’s laughter in his ears, still tasting the chocolate fudge sundae they’d shared in the Muggle café near Charing Cross.

He was pretty sure he could conjure a corporeal Patronus on the first try now. Hell, it might take two Dementors just to stop him from smiling.

Which was why the sight that greeted him when he stepped into the sitting room of Number Twelve felt like hitting a brick wall at full speed.

Hermione was curled up on the threadbare couch, bundled in at least three blankets and one oversized knitted jumper he didn’t remember owning. Her cheeks were flushed again—too flushed—and a faint sheen of sweat clung to her brow. Her hair was a frizzed halo around her face, and her nose looked dangerously close to going full red-Rudolph again.

That alone was enough to dent his good mood.

But it wasn’t just the fever returning that gave him pause—it was the books.

Piles of them.

Sprawled across the coffee table, stacked on the armrest, balanced on the floor, and one even open on her chest as she dozed restlessly. Old, thick, leather-bound grimoires with faded spines and Black family crests. Some of them looked familiar, which meant he definitely didn’t want her handling them without gloves. Or a flame-retardant curse breaker’s kit.

He strode forward immediately, nudging the nearest tome with the end of his wand like it might bite him. “Tell me you at least checked these for curses,” he said, not really expecting an answer, as she blinked herself awake with a groggy little hum.

“Sirius?” she rasped, voice gravelly from disuse and illness.

“You’re supposed to be resting, not summoning the ghosts of blood purists’ past for tea,” he chided, crouching beside the couch. “What are you doing?”

Her eyes were glassy, but there was that familiar stubborn glint in them. “Research.”

He huffed. “Of course it’s research.”

“For Harry,” she added, as if that explained everything. “Horcrux removal… without, you know… killing him.”

Sirius sat back on his heels, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Brilliant. You’re burning up, haven’t shaken your fever properly, and instead of sleeping it off like a sane person, you decided to deep-dive into Dark magic literature in a house that used to literally breathe murder.”

“Didn’t have anything else to do,” she mumbled, attempting to pull the blanket higher like it was a perfectly valid excuse.

“You could’ve done nothing. That’s an option. A very underrated one.”

Hermione coughed into the sleeve of her jumper. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He stood and began carefully nudging books off the couch, muttering a charm as he tapped each one. “I know these titles. This one made my third cousin vomit spiders for a week.”

“Useful, then,” she murmured weakly. “Not the spiders. The… knowledge.”

“You’re infuriating,” he said, though his voice had lost its bite.

She sniffled and offered a wan smile. “And you’re late. Did Harry like you?”

Sirius paused.

Then, quietly: “Yeah. He really did.”

Hermione’s whole face softened, even in her feverish haze. “Good.”

Sirius cleared the rest of the books away with a few more waves of his wand, conjured a fresh, cool compress with a mutter, and pressed it gently to her forehead. She closed her eyes with a sigh.

“You’re not going back into that library until you’ve taken a potion, eaten something without staring at a footnote on soul anchoring, and slept for at least six consecutive hours.”

She didn’t argue. Just murmured, “Bossy,” under her breath.

Sirius grinned. “Better than letting you expire surrounded by cursed literature. That’d be so on brand for this house.”

She chuckled weakly—and promptly sneezed.

He fetched the tissues without a word, then got up to make more tea. And possibly banish all the books back to the library where they belonged.

She might be relentless, but so was he.

Especially when he cared.

“I did check them for curses, by the way,” Hermione said, her voice scratchy but carrying that unmistakable edge of exasperated intelligence that made Sirius grin despite himself.

He froze mid-step, one brow raised, holding a particularly grimy, spine-cracked tome halfway in the air with his wand. The Eternal Chains of Obedience. It had that special, sinister shimmer that only truly problematic magical texts had.

She pushed herself up slightly from the nest of blankets on the couch. “I think you forgot I already lived through one purging of this house with the Order. Or that I’m an Unspeakable. Not some overeager intern with delusions of grandeur. A full-fledged, worked-in-the-Death-Room-and-lived-to-complain-about-it professional.”

Sirius blinked, slowly lowering the book onto a safe spot. “Right,” he said. “My mistake. Forgive me for momentarily forgetting your terrifying competence.”

She sniffled, unimpressed. “I’m sick, not stupid.”

“I never said you were stupid,” Sirius replied, carefully setting the cursed book down on a table now that he was no longer worried about it melting through the floor. “I just… have a long-standing distrust of this house and anything it’s ever produced. Especially books. Especially ones with titles like that.”

“Fair,” Hermione allowed, reaching for her tea with a slight wince. “Although I’m not the one who nearly used a goblet from the drawing room that had ‘do not touch’ runes on it in glowing red script.”

“I thought that was decorative!”

“You’re lucky your fingers didn’t fall off.”

He shrugged, flopping into the armchair opposite her. “Would’ve made a hell of a conversation starter. ‘Hi, I’m Sirius Black, recently exonerated, formerly dismembered by my mother’s glassware.’”

“True,” she muttered, dabbing at her nose with a tissue. “But don’t try to act like I’m the reckless one here.”

“I’m not the one elbow-deep in the Necronomicon collection while running a fever of probably a thirty-eight point seven.”

“It’s fine,” she said again, nose scrunching as she reached for her tea.

“It’s not fine,” Sirius said, grabbing a coaster and sliding it under her cup like she was going to be graded on cohabitation etiquette. “You’re coughing like a dying Victorian heroine, and you’re still reading about soul splitting.”

She glanced sideways at him, eyes tired but amused. “And yet you just called me adorable yesterday.”

“I also licked your face. My credibility’s in shambles.”

Hermione chuckled softly, though it morphed into a cough. When she recovered, she nodded toward the stack of books still nearby.

“There are a few promising leads. I think most of the literature on soul magic is either theoretical or so far off the rails it belongs in a fiction section, but some of the Arithmantic breakdowns… they make sense. I think I might be able to cross-reference with some of the stuff in the Department’s restricted vaults—if I can remember half the protocols to reconstruct it.”

“You’re not going back to the Department,” Sirius interrupted sharply.

“I meant mentally. I’m not planning a break-in while running a low-grade fever.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That better be a promise.”

She offered him a wobbly smile. “It’s a… fever-dampened intention.”

Sirius groaned and rubbed his face. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Unlikely,” she muttered. “I already saved you once. Or twice, really, if we count the Hippogriff stuff that is never going to happen now.”

That earned her a reluctant grin. “Touché.”

They sat in a brief lull, Hermione sipping her tea like it was anchoring her to the room, Sirius eyeing the book pile like it might collectively attack him.

“Alright,” he said finally, “you’ve checked the books, you’re qualified enough to lecture half the Ministry, and you’re apparently capable of academic thought even when sick. But you’re also glassy-eyed and about three pages from face-planting into Maleficarum: The Joy of Binding Souls. Maybe take a break?”

“I was just cross-referencing the footnotes—”

“No footnotes until you eat solid food,” he interrupted, waving a hand. “Soup doesn’t count.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “We’re out of anything solid unless you count the bricks of horror in your mother’s pantry.”

“I’ll send Kreacher,” Sirius said breezily.

“Be nice to Kreacher,” she called after him. “He’s trying.”

Sirius snorted. “He threatened to drop a Black family heirloom on my head when I was twelve.”

“Speaking of Kreacher,” Hermione said, setting her mug down carefully, “I meant to bring this up two days ago, but apparently, fever-induced brain fog is a thing. You’ll need to give him a direct command not to reveal my presence—or identity—to anyone. In any way. Not even hints.”

Sirius frowned. “You really think he would? You turned him with the whole Regulus locket thing. I mean… he brought you Pepper-Up.”

Hermione shook her head. “You’re missing the point. Yes, he’s cooperative now, but he’s still magically bound to the House of Black, not you personally. That loyalty can be exploited. He could be manipulated.”

“By whom? There’s no one left.”

Hermione sighed, then coughed once into her sleeve. “You’re not the only Black alive, Sirius.”

Sirius raised a brow. “Er, I think I am, actually.”

She gave him a flat look. “Right. So the moment a female relative marries and changes her name, she just… ceases to exist?”

Sirius had the decency to look sheepish. “I forgot. Sorry.”

“Bellatrix is in Azkaban,” Hermione said, ticking it off like an item on a list. “Andromeda’s technically disowned, yes, but she’s still got the blood. Not that we have to worry about her. But Narcissa—well. She’s very much alive, not disowned, married to a man up to his neck with Voldemort, and still fully capable of exploiting the family’s magical legacy if it suits her purpose.”

Sirius made a face, his expression tightening. “You think she’d go that far?”

“I think she’s a Slytherin married to Lucius Malfoy. She doesn’t have to go far. She just has to be clever. And if she suspected Kreacher was hiding something important?” Hermione leaned forward slightly, voice low. “She wouldn’t need to threaten him. She’d just need to suggest that helping her would honour your mother’s legacy. That Regulus would’ve approved. That’s all it would take.”

Sirius’s face had gone carefully blank, the kind of blank that suggested something boiling beneath it.

“I’m not saying she would,” Hermione added gently. “But why leave the possibility open? House-elf magic is old and strange and bound up in family magic. Kreacher’s loyal—but not always in the direction you’d expect. He’s got loopholes built into his bones.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she added, softer, “Remind me to tell you about Dobby sometime. Or… how we got tricked into going to the Department of Mysteries in fifth year on a fool’s errand.”

Sirius blinked. “Who’s Dobby?”

“A very excitable elf with a fondness for pillowcases and endangering himself.” She hesitated. “Let’s just say, some of us learned the hard way that house elves can pass along information to the wrong people—indirectly. Under influence. And it can go very, very badly.”

“Do I even want to know about the Department of Mysteries?”

She nodded, but didn’t elaborate. “Later. When I don’t feel like I’ve been steamrolled by a Thestral.”

Sirius hovered in the doorway, fingers flexing once on the frame. He looked like he wanted to press her, to demand more right now, but something in her voice—maybe the weariness, maybe the old pain buried in it—stopped him.

He swallowed once, then gave a short nod. “Right. I’ll talk to Kreacher.”

He hesitated again, then glanced back at her, lips twitching in a way that tried for casual but landed somewhere far more genuine.

“Have I mentioned recently how glad I am you’re here?”

Hermione blinked, surprised.

“No,” she said, her voice thick but wry. “But you just did.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly. “Good.”

Then, with a half-sigh and a mumbled grumble about manipulative women and terrifying witches, he vanished down the corridor toward the kitchen—his steps lighter than they had any right to be.

The next morning, Hermione woke to the unmistakable sound of chaos.

It started as a faint thud beneath the floorboards—rhythmic and deliberate, like someone attempting to charm the foundations into submission. Then came the sizzle of contained spellfire, a screech that could’ve belonged to a Banshee choking on doxy dust, and, most damningly, a jubilant cry of, “Got it! Bag that little bastard before it mutates again!”

Her eyes snapped open.

For a brief, delusional second, she considered the possibility that it was all a fever dream—the magical pest hunting, the Black family library’s light necromancy, Sirius’s face lick—but then she moved and felt every aching joint complain. Her sinuses throbbed like a percussion section, and the crumpled tissues scattered across the bedclothes painted a stark and mucus-filled picture of reality.

Someone downstairs shouted, “Oi! That’s not a Puffskein, that’s my lunch!”

Hermione groaned into her pillow. “I hate this house.”

Still, curiosity—and a slightly ominous sense of self-preservation—won out.

With a sigh, she reached for her wand and muttered a quick glamour, smoothing the blotchy flush on her cheeks, deflating the puffy shadows under her eyes, and taming her hair just enough to not be mistaken for a sentient mop. The illusion wouldn’t hold under direct scrutiny, but it would at least spare her the indignity of being seen by strangers looking like a sneezing ghost of Christmas future. Or, worse, like a grown-up version of her own younger self.

She threw on a thick house robe and cinched it tightly around her frame, wand still in hand—more from reflex than any genuine belief she’d need it—and padded downstairs.

The moment she reached the base of the staircase, she froze.

The entrance hall of Grimmauld Place had been transformed into a war zone of magical upheaval. Half a dozen witches and wizards bustled through it in various uniforms—curse breakers, structural charmwrights, and what looked like the magical equivalent of an exterminator with a disturbingly large cage and a wand holster shaped like a crossbow. Charmed scrub brushes were scrubbing graffiti off the bannisters (some of which definitely hadn’t been visible before). Doxy traps hovered ominously near the ceiling, vibrating with restrained menace.

A levitating blackboard floated in one corner, inscribed with an itinerary labelled INFESTATION PRIORITY LIST in neon green chalk. Underneath were ominous bullet points:

• Kitchen: Undead mould colony
  
  
• Drawing Room: Screamer, Banshee-adjacent
  
  
• Second-floor study: Particularly aggressive boggart

Several things were already crossed off, like the Doxies in the sitting room curtains, the ghoul in the attic, and something called a Chizpurfle that she had never even heard of before.

Hermione blinked at it, then at the two magical workers attempting to subdue something under a sheet in the parlour. It shrieked again, muffled, then turned into what might’ve been sobbing.

In the middle of it all stood Sirius Black, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair wild, and shirt lightly dusted in ceiling plaster. He was gesturing animatedly to a stern-looking witch with her wand tucked behind one ear and a floating clipboard trailing obediently after her. An unrolled floor plan of the house hovered beside them in mid-air, gleaming with moving notes and animated curse-locations that blinked red and gold.

“I want the entire wall knocked out here,” Sirius was saying, tapping at a section labelled Dining Room (Cursed?), “and maybe install one of those Muggle windows with the crank, you know? The twisty ones. Also, this hallway is haunted. Probably. Salt the corners anyway.”

Hermione cleared her throat, loudly.

Sirius turned, blinked once at her, then quickly muttered to the witch, “Excuse me for a moment,” and strode across the hall to intercept her.

“What are you doing up?” he asked, not unkindly, but clearly surprised.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Kind of hard to sleep with all this going on. You want to tell me what’s happening, or should I just assume the house is finally staging a coup?”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair—now lightly dusted with ceiling plaster. “I’m following your advice.”

She gave him a long, unimpressed look.

“You said I needed to make this place my own,” he said with faux innocence. “Purge the past. Knock out the trauma. Sprinkle in a little self-actualisation. You know, healing through aggressive architecture.”

“Yes, I remember,” she said, rubbing her temple. “But I imagined that being, I don’t know… staggered? Over a few months? Not... a Sunday morning renovation blitz. While I’m still running a fever.”

He winced slightly. “Okay, valid. But I couldn’t sleep.”

“And so you hired half of Magical Maintenance to what? Emotionally exorcise the wallpaper?”

“Also valid.”

“Sirius.”

“I may have hinted to Harry that I wanted him to come live with me.”

Hermione stared. “Okay, but that still doesn’t explain the urgency. Harry’s going to Hogwarts in ten days. Surely you are not expecting him to come by before Christmas.”

Sirius shrugged, that maddeningly casual air overtaking him again. “I don’t know. I guess I just thought… why wait? I’ve wasted enough time already.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, breathed in through her nose, then pinched the bridge of it. “Right. Okay. Fine. But tell me you at least secured the you-know-what in a properly warded room?”

Sirius straightened. “Do I look like an idiot?”

Hermione opened her mouth, then clearly thought better of it.

“I locked the locket in the cellar behind three separate curse locks, a warded containment field, and a ward Kreacher helped reinforce. He’s very possessive of it, actually. Didn’t want to part with it.”

“He would be,” Hermione muttered. “That locket has power over him. Subtle but insidious.”

“I figured. That’s why I didn’t let him touch it directly. Just let him recite the house incantation while I did the magic.” Sirius paused, brow furrowed. “The thing… hummed. When I brought it near the wards. Like it wanted to get out.”

Hermione nodded grimly. “That’s how you know you’ve done it right.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “You’ve got a very twisted definition of success.”

“I work in the Department of Mysteries,” she said flatly. “Our definition of success is ‘no spontaneous combustion.’”

Sirius laughed. Then sobered. “Thanks for reminding me about Kreacher’s boundaries, by the way. I gave him a direct order this morning before everyone arrived. He won’t speak about you, your presence, or your real name to anyone. Not even whisper it to the doxies.”

“Smart.” She swayed slightly where she stood.

Sirius caught her elbow before she could pretend she wasn’t light-headed. “You should sit. This isn’t your battle today.”

“But the house—”

“Is mine,” he said gently. “Let me be reckless and overly ambitious on your behalf for once.”

Hermione gave him a long look. “You’re still infuriating.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m your infuriating project now, aren’t I?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. “Apparently, one I’m cursed with.”

“And yet, here you are.” He nudged her gently toward the stairs. “Now go rest. I’ve got a possessed music box to duel.”

She stared at him. “That’s not a real thing.”

He gestured toward the parlour. “Is now.”

Hermione groaned. “Merlin help me, I’m going to start liking you.”

“Too late,” Sirius said, already calling over his shoulder to the renovation witch. “No, that bannister can’t stay, it bit me once as a child!”

And despite herself, Hermione laughed. Then coughed. Then shook her head and turned for the stairs, muttering, “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

But she was smiling. And that was something.

On August 23rd, Hermione awoke feeling… better.

Miraculously so.

Her head still throbbed a bit, and her nose was still a touch too red to be considered polite company, but compared to the previous days, she felt like a whole new woman.

A quick look in the mirror confirmed it: still a little pale, still tired around the eyes, but not contagious. Not tragic. Not terrifying. Good enough for Grimmauld Place, anyway.

She pulled on a soft jumper and padded out of her room, drawn by the distant clinking of cutlery and the unmistakable, comforting scent of fresh bread and coffee.

And when she descended the stairs, she nearly stopped dead in her tracks.

Grimmauld Place… was lovely.

Gone were the oppressive dark greens and suffocating velvets. The heavy drapes had been replaced with lighter, airy ones that actually let in daylight. The walls had been repainted—yes, repainted—in soft, neutral tones that made the house feel more like a place where living happened, not just withering. Several walls had been completely removed, although apparently not the one that had formerly housed the screaming portrait of Walburga Black.

And where there had once been centuries of magical pest infestation, damp, and gloom, now stood—a modern kitchen.

She actually paused in the doorway to marvel at it.

The counters were a clean, deep walnut, accented with slate-grey tilework. Stainless steel appliances gleamed, charmed to work around even the most temperamental household enchantments. The Aga range had been replaced with a sleek, magical-muggle hybrid oven that could roast a chicken and enchant it to carve itself, apparently. There was a new charmed fridge. A fridge. In Grimmauld Place.

And most shocking of all?

It was spotless.

Not a single cobweb. Not a trace of cursed mould. Not even a whisper of doxies. Molly Weasley and a gaggle of teenage delinquents had once spent weeks trying to get the place to this standard, and failed quite frankly, and Sirius had managed it in less than two days.

She was equal parts impressed and horrified by what could be achieved with powerful magic, relentless motivation, and what was essentially an open vault of old money.

She found Sirius standing by the newly installed centre island, in deep discussion with Kreacher. The house-elf stood with a small notepad (Merlin, a notepad), nodding seriously as Sirius gestured toward the pantry.

“…And no steak and kidney pie, ever. I don’t care how traditional it is. It smells like wizarding indigestion,” Sirius was saying. “Also, maybe ease up on anything that reminds me of Christmas dinners where someone got hexed under the pudding.”

Kreacher made a noise that sounded like a long-suffering tsk but scribbled something down.

“Liver is also banned. And tongue. And kidneys. Really, let’s just draw a firm line at any ingredient that reminds me a dish was once sentient.”

Kreacher, eyes darting to Hermione as she entered, gave her a small, measured bow and then disappeared with a pop, leaving behind the lingering smell of rosemary and something deliciously yeasty in the air.

Hermione leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So I take it you’ve started meal therapy?”

Sirius turned toward her, grinning. “Trying to work through my culinary trauma, one banned organ at a time.”

“I saw someone managed to unstick your mother without having to tear out half the structure,” she said lightly, nodding toward the now-missing hallway of hell.

Sirius’s grin twisted wryly. “Yeah, Kreacher made me a deal. Let him handle it himself, with elf magic, and he’d relocate the portrait without resistance.”

Hermione blinked. “That worked?”

“It did,” he said, walking over to pour two mugs of coffee. “I think it was… symbolic. Or ritualistic. Or possibly just deeply Kreacher.” He handed her a mug. “She’s in the attic now. Silenced, of course. Probably furious.”

“Probably reciting family lineage to the rafters.”

“She’s going to be stuck up there with the ghoul. Let them annoy each other into oblivion. Oh, wait, the ghoul was exterminated.”

Hermione took a long sip of coffee and sighed. “It’s hard to believe this is the same house.”

Sirius looked around, just briefly, and something soft passed through his expression. “Yeah. Feels different. Like the ghosts are backing off a bit.”

She studied him. “How do you feel?”

“Honestly?” He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Like I finally kicked something in the teeth that’s been snarling at me since I was sixteen.”

She smiled behind her mug. “It suits you.”

He tilted his head, mock-innocent. “The house? Or the triumph over intergenerational curses?”

She narrowed her eyes. “The quiet competence.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “but I might actually be good at this whole… not being a total disaster thing.”

Hermione sipped again, nodding. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Deal.” He paused. “Now sit. I think Kreacher’s working on actual bread that doesn’t smell like dark magic. And I might even allow you to check your footnotes again.”

She chuckled. “If you try to confiscate my research materials again, I will hex your favourite chair.”

Sirius raised a brow. “Joke’s on you. I don’t have one yet.”

Hermione smiled, easing into the stool beside him. “You will.”

They sat for a long moment in companionable silence, the clinking of spoons against mugs and the gentle hum of kitchen charms the only sounds in the room. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand filling.

“So what’s left?” Hermione asked eventually, glancing toward the ceiling like she could see the structural schematics through the plaster.

“About half a dozen private rooms upstairs, at least two more bathrooms,” Sirius said, nudging a croissant toward her like a peace offering. “But you’re right—we can stagger those over the coming weeks. I want to get Harry’s input on his room, anyway. Let him pick the colour, curse the wardrobe if he wants—whatever makes it feel like his.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “He’ll love that. You’re giving him a choice. That’s not something he’s had much of.”

Sirius looked thoughtful for a moment, swirling the contents of his mug. “That’s the idea. He deserves one space that’s his. Not a cupboard. Not a dormitory. Not somewhere borrowed or temporary. His.”

“You’re really going to be good at this,” Hermione said, without teasing. Her voice was soft but sure.

He blinked at her, like the thought had never quite landed that way before. Then, naturally, he had to ruin it with a smirk.

“Was that a compliment? From you? Merlin, is the fever back?”

She kicked him lightly under the counter.

He grinned wider. “I’ll write it down in my journal. Day Three of domestic life: Hermione Granger voluntarily said something nice. Witnessed by bread and mild coffee.”

“Bread was excellent,” she said primly, tearing a corner of it. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

Sirius held up his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

A few more moments passed in that stillness until Hermione tilted her head at him again. “So… any plans to see Harry again soon?”

Sirius’s expression brightened instantly, like someone had cast Lumos inside his chest. “Actually… yeah. I’ve been invited to tag along for back-to-school shopping tomorrow.”

Hermione blinked. “Really?”

He nodded, setting his mug down with a clink. “The Weasleys extended the invite. Apparently, Molly thought it was important for me to ‘have a proper reintroduction to respectable society.’”

Hermione smirked. “I’m amazed she said it without combusting.”

“Oh, I’m sure she was clutching pearls the whole time,” Sirius said dryly. “But I think Arthur talked her down. And Harry vouched for me. Said I was ‘reasonably safe’ and ‘only mildly mad.’ High praise, really.”

“And I’m tagging along?” Hermione asked, a brow rising.

“Well. Younger you,” Sirius clarified, with a wry look. “Unless you’d like to try and exist with the two of you in the same place at once. I’m told that ends badly.”

She made a face. “Yes, it does. Especially if time travel is involved. Which, incidentally, it always is.”

Sirius leaned back in his chair, stretching with a groan. “It’s going to be weird. Seeing her—you—but not saying anything.”

“You’ll manage,” Hermione said, watching him over the rim of her mug. “You’ve gotten good at pretending not to know things.”

He looked smug. “Years of practice. Also, it helps when the person you’re lying to is barely fourteen and preoccupied with book lists and the ethics of buying a cat.”

“That tracks,” Hermione muttered.

Sirius tilted his head. “Any advice?”

She gave it a moment’s thought. “Be kind. Be patient. Don’t try too hard. And don’t give her a reason to side-eye you—she will, and it’s deadly accurate.”

Sirius looked mock-affronted. “I am naturally charming.”

“You are naturally suspicious,” Hermione corrected. “She’s smarter than she looks and was already worrying about Time-Turner restrictions and magical ethics before her third year.”

“Well then,” he said, exhaling, “guess I’ll just be myself.”

Hermione gave him a look.

“…But maybe dialled down by twenty per cent,” he amended.

“Fifteen,” she allowed. “You’ll want her to like you, after all.”

“Oh, she’ll love me,” Sirius said breezily. “Eventually. Just like someone else I know.”

Hermione pretended to cough into her tea. “Delusion is a powerful thing.”

“Yep,” he said, smiling down at his now-empty mug. “And I’m just getting started.”

Hermione finished the last of her tea and set the mug down with a soft clink. Her fingers fidgeted for a second against the rim, then stilled. Sirius, who had been lazily levitating a spoon in the air and watching it spin like a Quidditch Snitch on a tea break, glanced over at her.

“You’ve got that look,” he said. “The one where your brain’s moving at about a hundred miles an hour and I’m about to be either extremely impressed or slightly terrified.”

Hermione hesitated. Then, with a sigh, said, “I’m going to need an alias.”

Sirius blinked. “Already tired of ‘Hermione Granger’? Thought you might be. Bit too bookshop-in-Oxford for a career in espionage.”

She shot him a look. “I’m being serious.”

“No, I’m being Sirius.”

Another look. “The point is,” she said, determined to carry on, “I’m going to be in and out of the wizarding world more visibly now. Especially if I’m helping you, and eventually Harry. And I’m not going to keep pulling glamours every five minutes just to avoid someone going, ‘Oh, you look exactly like that third-year from Hogwarts who always hangs out around the Boy Who Lived.’”

“True,” he said, sobering slightly. “Glamours help for casual glances, but if someone stops to talk to you for more than a minute—”

“Exactly,” she said. “So I’ve been looking into… alternatives. Longer-term solutions.”

Sirius leaned forward. “Like what?”

She shifted a bit in her seat, looking… shifty. It wasn’t a good look on her. Hermione was many things—decisive, direct, blunt—but secretive? That wasn’t in her top five.

“I found,” she said, drawing the word out slowly, “a magical adoption ritual. Old. Obscure. Involves lineage-binding magic. It wouldn’t just change my name—it would shift my appearance slightly, just enough to confuse recognition spells and genealogical tracking. Not like Polyjuice. More like… subtle magical inheritance.”

Sirius stared. “You want to be adopted?”

“Well—not actually adopted,” she said, though her ears were already pinking. “It’s symbolic. Magical. Mostly about creating cover and protections.”

He folded his arms. “And you want me to pretend to be your long-lost cousin or some such rot?”

She immediately shook her head. “No. That wouldn’t work. The Black family tree is too well-documented. Anyone remotely close to this house would sniff out a fake within a day.”

Sirius let out a breath of relief. “Thank Merlin. For a moment, I thought you were going to ask me to pose as your uncle and start calling you ‘kiddo’ or something equally awful.”

Hermione grimaced. “Gods, no. You’d be the worst uncle. You’d buy me knives and teach me how to pick locks.”

Sirius looked offended. “That’s good uncling.”

“I was actually thinking,” she said, pushing forward before he could argue further, “about Remus.”

He blinked. “Remus?”

“Yes.”

“As in, Remus Lupin? Moony?”

“Yes, Sirius, thank you for the clarification.”

He leaned back slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t even know if he wants to talk to me, Hermione. Last I heard, he was out of the country. Probably off brooding on a cliff in Romania or something. Moony style.”

Hermione slapped her forehead. “Merlin—I meant to tell you. He’s back. Or at least, he should be. Dumbledore tracked him down the moment you escaped Azkaban. Offered him the Defence post at Hogwarts.”

Sirius stared. “What?”

“He’s going to be the DADA professor this year. Probably already preparing lesson plans.”

“That doesn’t answer my other concern,” Sirius said, crossing his arms. “You think he wants to see me? I’ve been a wanted man for twelve years, and Remus… he believed it. He thought I betrayed James.”

“He’s probably been drowning in guilt ever since the article came out that you didn’t,” Hermione said gently. “You know how he is. Prone to guilt, the way James was prone to catching colds, according to you.”

Sirius didn’t answer. He just looked away, jaw tight.

“I think he wants to reconnect,” Hermione added, softer now. “He just doesn’t know how. He’s too good at convincing himself people are better off without him.”

There was a long silence. Then Sirius muttered, “You sound like you’ve known him for years.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “I have.”

His eyes flicked up to hers. “And you want to tell him the truth? About everything?”

“We need him,” she said simply. “One of the Horcruxes is in Hogwarts.”

Sirius groaned. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“And you think Moony’s just going to… roll with all this? The time travel, the adoption, the evil soul fragments?”

“I can be very convincing,” Hermione said, straightening her shoulders. “And once I lay out the logic, he’ll understand. The adoption ritual offers cover, ties me magically to someone trustworthy, grants me a legally distinct identity, and since he’ll have access to the castle, he’ll jump onto retrieving the diadem the moment I explain what it is and why it needs destroying.”

“You really think he’ll go for it?”

“I do.”

Sirius stared at her for a long moment. Then: “Damn. How did I not see this before? You’re like a female Moony.”

Hermione beamed. “Thank you. That’s one of the highest compliments anyone’s ever given me.”

“Careful,” Sirius warned. “You’ll be stealing his ‘most responsible Marauder’ title before term even starts.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Hermione said breezily, already flipping through one of her notebooks with a gleam in her eye. “He’s still got a few years on me. But I’ll give him a run for his money.”

Sirius smirked. “And people say you’re not ambitious.”

“No one who’s ever met me says that,” she replied primly, quill already uncapped.

She stood with purpose, collecting another stack of parchment like a general preparing for war. “I’m going to start drawing up what I need for the ritual. And maybe a short persuasive essay for Remus, in case he needs a nudge.” She glanced up. “And you should write him a letter.”

Sirius groaned theatrically. “Is this whole Horcrux hunt going to be handled through correspondence? Between your anonymous letter to Arthur, me writing to Ted, Harry, and now this, I feel like we’re running a remote operation. Death to Voldemort by owl. ”

“Don’t worry,” Hermione said without missing a beat, her quill already flying across the page. “There’ll be plenty of field work. Derelict shacks, cursed artefacts, possibly breaking into Gringotts—real boots-on-the-ground stuff. A touch of Fiendfyre. Maybe a dragon.”

Sirius gave her a flat look. “Of course there’s a dragon.”

“I’m just trying to get the easy stuff out of the way first.”

“She says the easy stuff,” he muttered, watching her with the same expression he might’ve worn watching a slightly unstable spell run its course—half fascinated, half braced for impact.

Hermione was already scribbling, brow furrowed in focused determination. “He’ll come around,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Sirius watched her in silence for a beat longer, leaning back in his chair with a sigh that was half-weary, half something softer. He ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck like the enormity of the last few days was finally catching up to him.

“Moony’s not going to know what hit him,” he said quietly. “Moony’s not going to know what hit me, either.”

Then, under his breath—low, but not low enough—

“I’m living with a younger, bossier, prettier version of him in cardigans.”

Hermione didn’t even pause. “I heard that.”

“Good,” Sirius said, smirking now, his chin propped in his hand as he watched her. “You were meant to.”

Chapter Text

By the time the morning sun filtered through the new curtains of Grimmauld Place, Sirius was already half-dressed and humming under his breath, unusually chipper for a man who’d barely slept the night before.

Today was the day. Diagon Alley again. Back-to-school shopping. Harry, Ron, the entire Weasley entourage. And—if Hermione’s vague scheduling memory was accurate—the younger version of her, all frizzy hair and righteous indignation, would be trotting around somewhere between Flourish and Blotts and Florean Fortescue’s.

It was going to be an experience.

He bounded down the stairs two at a time, already slipping into his boots when Hermione shuffled into the entryway, still in her house-robe and wrapped in the smell of mint tea and eucalyptus potion.

“You look... far too awake,” she muttered.

“And you,” he said cheerfully, “look like you’ve finally evicted the boggart that was living in your sinuses.”

“I’m definitely not contagious anymore,” she sniffed. “So technically, I win.”

“Oh no, no. I win.” Sirius grinned, straightening his collar with a flourish. “Not only did I not get sick despite sharing a room and a house with you for over a week, but I survived the Granger Fever Plague of ’09 without so much as a sniffle. That’s a victory for Marauder immunity and sheer stubborn charm.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “That is not how immunity works.”

“Don’t ruin my moment.”

She smirked. “It’s probably because I dosed your tea with three immune-boosting tinctures and that lemon-ginger concoction Kreacher made smelled like it could dissolve your nasal passages.”

“I prefer the idea that my rugged constitution rejected illness out of spite,” he said smugly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. “Honestly, you were fretting about me catching it. You even warned me when Padfoot licked your face—”

“Ugh, Sirius—”

“—and yet, look at me. Healthy as a Hungarian Horntail.”

She groaned. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Not a chance.” He stepped toward the door and turned back with a grin, far too pleased with himself.

Then, just as she opened her mouth to throw one final sarcastic remark his way—he leaned in.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t performative. Just a quick, soft kiss on the corner of her mouth. Not quite her cheek. Not quite her lips.

It lasted barely a second.

Hermione froze.

And then he was gone—grabbing his jacket, slinging it over one shoulder with casual flair, and breezing out the door with a cheerful, “Don’t wait up!”

The door clicked shut.

Hermione stood there, blinking at the spot he’d just vacated, one hand still hovering mid-air like her brain hadn’t fully caught up to her reflexes.

It wasn’t that it was a kiss.

It was that he’d kissed her—and then had the audacity to leave immediately after, like he hadn’t just set her brain on fire and walked away whistling.

She stared at the door for a full minute.

“…He is so dead,” she muttered, cheeks still warm.

But she was smiling.

Even if she wouldn’t admit it until at least tea.

Sirius arrived at the Leaky Cauldron early—early enough that Tom gave him a suspicious look, like he wasn’t used to seeing Sirius Black at any hour that could be described as “civilised.” But Sirius just ordered a strong black coffee, drank half of it standing up, and paced near the stairs until a very rumpled, very teenage Harry Potter came down.

“Alright,” Sirius said, barely giving the boy time to straighten his glasses before pulling him into a brief, one-armed hug. “Before the madness begins—got something for you.”

He handed over a slim packet, carefully charmed to stay flat and weather-proof.

Harry blinked down at it. “What is it?”

“Photos. Found them in my old room. Couldn’t sleep the other night and got nosy.” Sirius didn’t mention the long hours spent sitting cross-legged on the floor, going through shoeboxes of memories he’d nearly forgotten he had. “Some are from your parents’ wedding. A few from the Order. One of you—tiny you, with a bottle and wild hair. Probably trying to wail James into submission.”

Harry was silent as he opened the packet. The first photo was of Lily, mid-laugh, flowers tucked into her hair and her veil askew. James was beside her, making a face like he’d just been hit with a Confundus charm, Sirius himself photobombing in the background with a champagne flute and an unrepentant grin.

“Merlin,” Harry whispered, blinking hard. “She was so—”

“Beautiful,” Sirius said. “Yeah.”

Harry flipped through slowly, reverently, pausing on each frame. His eyes were suspiciously shiny, but he cleared his throat and didn’t speak again until the last photo—one of the Potters holding baby Harry, Lily trying to keep his tiny fists from grabbing her earrings, James looking down like he’d invented magic just to hold that boy.

“Thanks,” Harry said finally, voice thick. “Really. Hagrid made me an album, but these are new.”

Sirius clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Anytime, kiddo.”

Moments later, the fireplace roared—and the Weasleys began arriving in a flurry of ash, red hair, and overlapping voices.

Arthur emerged first, brushing soot from his sleeves. When he spotted Sirius, something in his expression shifted—softened.

“Lord Black,” he said warmly, stepping forward to shake his hand. “I just wanted to say—thank you. For the letter and for speaking up at the hearing. It meant a great deal to us. We were… worried, for a while there.”

Sirius, thoroughly unprepared for gratitude from a man he’d once almost hexed during a post-Yule Ministry brawl over Muggle vehicle enchantment regulations, blinked. “Er. Of course. It was nothing. Please call me Sirius.”

Arthur shook his head. “It wasn’t nothing. Thank you.”

Sirius flailed for something to say and landed on the youngest son, “So—Ron.”

Ron, who had just tripped over a fireplace grate, straightened warily. “Er—yes?”

“Fancy a new pet? Something that isn’t a rat-shaped Death Eater?”

Ron lit up like Christmas. Molly, behind him, frowned with all the force of a woman who had once scolded a banshee into submission.

“We don’t need any more animals, Ronald—”

“How about an owl?” Sirius cut in. “Harry mentioned yours—Errol, right? Sounds like he should’ve retired three years ago.”

Arthur coughed to hide a laugh. Ron looked pleadingly at his mother. Molly looked at Sirius. Then at Harry. Then at Ron, whose expression could have melted granite.

“…Fine,” she sighed. “But no monstrous birds. And you are cleaning its cage.”

“Yes!” Ron fist-pumped.

“Great,” Sirius said, a bit too quickly. “I’ll even charm it to deliver Howlers back to your mum unopened.”

Molly narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

Once they’d wrapped up introductions at the Leaky Cauldron, the group moved en masse through the back wall into Diagon Alley proper. As expected, the moment Sirius and Harry stepped out, the murmurs began.

People stared. Some subtly, some not at all.

Sirius caught at least three wizards elbowing each other and whispering behind conjured newspapers. One witch dropped her ice cream cone in slow motion. An older man hissed, “That’s Black, isn’t it?” while peering around his wife’s hair like they were birdwatching.

It should’ve made him twitchy.

But being surrounded by so many Weasleys was like travelling with a red-haired security blanket. Even Ginny, small as she was, had the aura of someone who would hex a stranger in the shin if they got too nosy.

The group split briefly inside the Apothecary. Ron and Harry were poking around the shelves with all the enthusiasm of boys contemplating pickled things in jars, and Sirius, ever the opportunist, caught a brief, golden moment.

Fred and George were hanging back by the drying racks of shrivelled rat tails, whispering about Boomslang skin logistics.

He drifted over casually, leaned against the wall, and murmured low enough for only their ears: “Got the map on you?”

They stiffened.

“What map?” they said in perfect, infuriating unison, faces the picture of twinly innocence.

Sirius arched an eyebrow. “Don’t play coy. I know you have it. You know, the one I helped make?”

Fred blinked.

George blinked.

“You—” Fred began.

“—made the Marauder’s Map?” George finished.

“Padfoot at your service,” Sirius said, tapping his chest with a slight nod of the head.

“Wicked,” they breathed, synchronised and awestruck, like he’d just turned water into firewhisky.

“I want to give it to Harry,” Sirius said, voice quieter now. “I know you’ve been brilliant with it. But it’s a family heirloom. His dad—Prongs—was one of the other creators. It should come from me.”

The twins didn’t argue.

Fred reached into his robe pocket with the dramatic flair of someone producing a crown jewel.

George stood sentry, glancing around theatrically as the folded parchment changed hands with the reverence of a sacred object.

“We solemnly swear—” Fred began with a wink.

“That we were up to no good,” George finished.

And then—

“Oi!” Ginny’s voice cut in.

They all jumped.

She stood a few paces away, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

The twins waved her off frantically like swatting at a sentient Howler.

“Go bother Mum!” George hissed.

“Tell her Ron’s poking the Flobberworms again!” Fred added.

Ginny didn’t move. She didn’t say anything.

But her expression said it all.

I saw that. I will remember this. Sleep with one eye open.

Sirius gave her a mock salute, trying not to laugh.

A little later, they made their way into Flourish and Blotts. It was crowded, warm, and smelled gloriously of ink and parchment—one of the only shops Sirius didn’t mind loitering in. Harry and Ron had wandered off to gawk at the latest Defence Against the Dark Arts bestsellers, while Sirius hung back near a display of gaudy, overpriced quills, flipping through a book on magical cartography.

That was when he saw her.

Hermione Granger. Thirteen years old. Almost fourteen, really. Barely a month away. Brown curls wrangled into a heavy braid, one knee braced against the edge of a bookshelf for balance as she flipped through a thick tome titled Theories of Ancient Runes: First-Year Foundations. Her parents stood nearby, looking gently dazed, as though they had wandered into a particularly eccentric science museum.

She was exactly how Hermione had described her younger self—bright-eyed, intense, powered by a brain moving at unsafe speeds.

Sirius drifted closer, still thumbing through his book but angling himself just into earshot.

“I promise I’ll only get five books,” Hermione was saying, with the crisp earnestness of someone negotiating in good faith. “Well—five extra books. These are just the required ones. I mean, it would be irresponsible not to be prepared for electives, wouldn’t it?”

Her father looked like he was quietly calculating whether her trunk could double as a second-floor extension.

Across the aisle, Harry spotted her first. “Hermione!”

She looked up, her face brightening. “Harry! Ron!”

Harry jogged over, Ron trailing behind with the energy of someone already dreading a lecture. “You’re here early.”

“I convinced my parents to come before the worst of the crowd,” Hermione said, setting her books down in a neat stack. “And I wanted time to compare translations. The Arithmancy textbook’s surprisingly good—I’ve read the first chapter while Dad wrestled a copy of the Monster Book of Monsters into submission.”

Ron groaned. “You’ve had it ten minutes.”

She gave him a look. “And you haven’t even bought yours.”

Harry glanced over her shoulder and called, “Sirius! Come meet Hermione!”

Sirius approached with a half-grin, raising his eyebrows at the impressive pile of books. “Blimey. That’s a serious stack. Planning to build a fortress or a footstool?”

Hermione straightened a little, clearly fighting the instinct to defend her reading list. “These are just my course books. Plus a few extras. I like context.”

Ron muttered, “She likes winning arguments.”

Hermione turned her head just enough to raise one eyebrow at him, then looked back at Sirius. “Harry mentioned you used to be close with Professor Lupin?”

“I did,” Sirius said, a little surprised by the pivot. “We were best mates at school. Why?”

“Oh—just curious. I’ve been trying to find more of his writing. There’s a brilliant annotated guide to curse classifications from the eighties, but it’s out of print.”

“You’ve read that?” Sirius asked, impressed despite himself.

“Trying to,” Hermione corrected. “I borrowed it from the library once, but someone had spilled ink over half the hex logic charts.”

“I’m going to tell him he has a fan,” Sirius said, smiling. “He’ll be mortified. Or smug. Depends on the day.”

Hermione ducked her head to hide a smile.

Sirius tilted his head, nodding toward the book still in her hand. Numerical Arithmancy: Foundations and Frameworks. “That one’s a solid choice. I remember Moony used to scribble all over his copy with theories about temporal distortion.”

Hermione’s eyes lit with interest. “Really? You studied Arithmancy?”

“Enough to pass,” Sirius said modestly. “But Remus was the one who actually understood it. I just memorised the charts and let him rant about prime patterns in wandwork.”

“I’m hoping it’ll be more practical than Divination,” she said, then paused. “No offence.”

“None taken. If I wanted to be told my future, I’d rather pay someone not to throw tea at me.”

She smiled again, warmer now. “Well… you seem different from how the papers made you out to be.”

“That’s the idea,” he said quietly, then offered her a wink. “But keep me under observation. If I start shouting about conspiracy theories, notify the nearest Auror.”

“Noted,” Hermione said, hiding her laugh behind the book.

“Come on,” Harry said. “We’re heading to Madam Malkin’s next.”

Sirius gave Hermione a small, two-fingered salute and let Harry and Ron lead her away with a faint grin tugging at his mouth.

Yep. She was exactly what future-Hermione had said—and perhaps even more terrifying at thirteen.

He couldn’t wait to see Remus’s face when they met.

The gentle clatter of measuring tapes and the occasional shriek of a pinprick filled the air in Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. Robes swished, bolts of fabric levitated across the shop, and a young witch near the front was arguing with her mother about whether dragonhide sleeves were too much for a school cloak.

Sirius lingered near a rack of colour-changing cloak linings, glancing sidelong at Harry as Madam Malkin fussed over Ron’s hemline.

Harry was perched on the edge of a small dais, his arms out as an enchanted measuring tape zipped around him with military efficiency. He looked faintly uncomfortable, mostly because he always did when attention was pointed at him—though Sirius had a hunch that wasn’t the only reason.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You know,” he said conversationally, “they’ll take your measurements anyway. If you ever wanted to get… well, anything besides school robes.”

Harry blinked at him. “Like what?”

Sirius shrugged, keeping it casual. “I don’t know. A few decent shirts. Trousers that weren’t originally designed for your cousin Dudley the Human Tent. Maybe even a jumper that wasn’t part of a charity campaign.”

Harry flushed a little and looked down. “It’s fine. I’ve got enough. Don’t want to hold everyone up.”

Sirius tilted his head. “Harry. It’s not about holding people up. You deserve to have clothes that fit you. Not just robes. You’re allowed to have things that are yours.”

Harry shifted on the spot. “I don’t know. I don’t really know what to ask for.”

“Here’s the trick,” Sirius said, voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “Let Madam Malkin take your measurements like she already is. Then just quietly give her a list of the basics—shirts, trousers, maybe a decent jacket. Doesn’t need to be fancy. She’s been dressing Hogwarts kids for decades. She’ll know what works. And if you’re worried about carrying it all back on the train, just have it owl-delivered to the castle after term starts.”

Harry looked dubious. “Is that… allowed?”

Sirius snorted. “You think she’s never had a panicked fifth year beg for formalwear two days before the Yule Ball? Happens every year, I guarantee it.”

“But—” Harry started, then frowned. “Wait, how did you—?”

Sirius just grinned. “Trade secret.”

Harry hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t want to use—”

“You’re not using anything, Harry,” Sirius said, more serious now. “It’s your money. Your vault. Your life. Your mum and dad didn’t leave it sitting there to gather dust—they left it for you.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Right.”

Sirius clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Trust me. Madam Malkin can do wonders if you just let her. And I won’t even ask for fashion shows.”

Harry laughed, and some of the tension melted from his posture.

“Just think about it,” Sirius added, softer now. “You’ve got enough weighing on you. You don’t need to be tripping over someone else’s shoes at the same time.”

Harry gave a small, quiet nod. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

Sirius smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

He stepped back just as Madam Malkin clapped her hands and declared Ron’s robes passable, in that exact tone that suggested she’d stopped fighting long ago and simply learned to accept wrinkled ginger chaos as inevitable.

Sirius gave Harry a wink and let the moment pass, already making mental notes to check if Madam Malkin stocked demiguise fur-lined winter jackets in subtle Gryffindor red.

Just in case.

As the group began trickling out of Madam Malkin’s, chattering about ice cream and what Fred claimed was a highly experimental new range of Extendable Ears, Sirius noted that Harry had not in fact asked for any other clothes and hung back.

He caught Madam Malkin’s eye with a casual flick of his fingers, nodding toward the side counter where she was reorganising a stack of neatly wrapped robe bundles. She stepped away from a disgruntled witch complaining about sleeve length and met him halfway.

“Mr Black,” she said, dipping her head politely, though she eyed his leather jacket like it might bite her.

“Madam Malkin,” Sirius said, flashing his most rakish not-actually-charming grin. “Always a pleasure.”

She arched a brow but said nothing.

He slid a neatly folded bit of parchment onto the counter between them. “Measurements are already on file,” he murmured, just above a whisper. “This is for Harry Potter.”

Madam Malkin glanced at the list. Practical items—nothing flashy. A few jumpers, proper winter robes, jeans, well-fitted shirts, a sturdy coat, gloves, pyjamas that didn’t look like they’d been wrestled off a Victorian scarecrow. Everything Harry wouldn’t ask for himself.

“I’d like it charged to my account at Gringotts,” Sirius added, tapping the edge of the parchment. “And send the finished parcel by owl to Hogwarts. Week after the start of term, so it doesn’t draw attention.”

Madam Malkin gave a slight, approving nod, folding the list into the ledger beside her. “Discreet service is our hallmark.”

“Brilliant,” Sirius said. “And if he asks… tell him he must’ve filled out a form and forgotten.”

She didn’t even blink. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He grinned. “You’re a national treasure.”

And with that, Sirius slid his hands into his pockets and strolled out to join the others, whistling faintly under his breath. Harry was up ahead, laughing at something Ron had said, and for a moment, Sirius felt lighter than he had in years.

Because maybe Harry wouldn’t notice today.

But one morning in early September, he’d wake up to find a box on his bed at Hogwarts full of clothes that actually fit—and no one to thank except a note from Madam Malkin that simply read: Your order, as requested.

Sirius could live with that.

After their last stop—the Magical Menagerie, where Hermione unsurprisingly bought Crookshanks and Ron had received an owl as promised—Sirius whistled sharply, the kind of sound that could’ve summoned Hippogriffs.

Heads turned. Children froze mid-bicker. Adults blinked.

“Oi!” Sirius called, hands raised. “Final stop of the day! Fortescue’s. Everyone’s order is on me.”

He said it with the unshakeable confidence of someone who hadn’t quite priced out a double-scoop sundae in a while.

Predictably, the younger Weasleys let out cheers. Even Ginny gave a rare whoop. Fred and George looked like they’d just been handed a Hogwarts-wide prank licence.

Only Percy seemed to frown slightly, muttering something about dental hygiene and sugar content under his breath.

Molly arched a brow, her lips pursing into the beginnings of a Mum Look. “Sirius Black, you should’ve—”

“Too late!” he said brightly, already herding the children in the general direction of the ice cream parlour like a rogue sheepdog. “Non-refundable generosity in progress!”

Oddly enough, Hermione’s parents didn’t protest. In fact, Mr Granger looked rather intrigued by the floating menu in the Fortescue window, and Mrs Granger was already pulling out a Muggle pen to take notes.

“Dentists,” Sirius muttered to Harry. “Full of surprises.”

As they walked, Harry nudged Sirius lightly with his elbow and said under his breath, “You do realise the twins are going to try and order the most expensive item on the menu?”

Sirius smirked without missing a beat. “If those two can put even a tiny dent in the Black family vault in one sitting, I will personally hand them five thousand galleons. Gift-wrapped.”

Unfortunately, Fred and George were only about four feet behind them.

“Did you hear that?” Fred hissed.

“Was that a challenge?” George grinned.

“Did you just offer us money—real money—to eat excessive quantities of sugar?”

Sirius threw them a lazy look over his shoulder. “If you make it to forty scoops each without imploding, I might even throw in a commemorative plaque.”

“We are so going to die happy,” Fred said.

Hermione, who had fallen into step with them, rolled her eyes. “You might want to save yourselves the stomachache. The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black is one of the wealthiest wizarding families in Britain—along with the Malfoys, Lestranges, and Notts. Even if everyone in our party ordered twelve sundaes each, it wouldn’t put so much as a crack in it.”

Fred blinked. “How do you know that?”

“I read.” She said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

George turned to Sirius. “Are we allowed to adopt her?”

“She’s not a dog,” Sirius replied, “but I’ll put in a good word with the Ministry.”

Harry chuckled beside him, and Sirius thought—not for the first time—that this, right here, was the good part.

A godson at his side, a loud and ridiculous found family trailing behind them, and a warm summer day that ended in sugar.

Not even the twins on a suicide mission via banana fudge swirl could ruin that.

After a day well spent corralling Weasleys, dodging whispers, and watching the twins attempt to bankrupt him via ice cream, Sirius stepped through the door of Grimmauld Place with a sharp, “Honey, I’m home!”

He tossed his jacket toward the rack—it missed—and was halfway to making some snarky comment about Kreacher’s housekeeping when voices drifted in from the sitting room.

One was Hermione.

The other stopped him cold.

Familiar. Low. A bit rough around the edges.

Sirius padded toward the doorframe and leaned in.

Sure enough—Remus bloody Lupin, standing awkwardly by the hearth like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome or on trial.

“I took the liberty of inviting Remus over,” Hermione said breezily, glancing up from her cup of tea.

Sirius blinked. “You what?”

“His owl showed up right after you left,” she said, unapologetic. “Didn’t seem like the kind of thing we should sit on.”

Remus looked up, his posture tense, hands shoved into the pockets of his threadbare coat. “Hey.”

Sirius stared at him. “Hey.”

A beat of silence.

“Right, brilliant,” Hermione cut in, standing up. “You’ve said hello. Now maybe move on to the part where one of you apologises and the other gets misty-eyed?”

Sirius arched a brow. “You told him?”

“Only the Cliff Notes. Didn’t want you both sulking in separate corners.”

Remus exhaled, stepping forward. “I owe you an apology. A massive one.”

Sirius folded his arms. “You didn’t exactly owe me anything.”

“I didn’t ask questions,” Remus said. “Didn’t visit. Didn’t write. I just… assumed.” He swallowed. “It didn’t even occur to me that it might not have been you.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t tell you about the switch. That was on me. I convinced James to keep it quiet. I was so sure it would work. And I picked Peter.” He laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Great instincts, me.”

Remus shook his head. “No one saw through Peter. And I get it—why you’d suspect me. I was always off with the packs, always a little more worn down when I came back. You had reason to worry.”

“But you were always solid,” Sirius said quietly. “Always loyal. Never needed to prove anything. Not like him.”

Remus met his eyes. “I can forgive you. If you can forgive me.”

There was a pause. Then Sirius crossed the room in three long strides and hauled him into a hug so tight it made Remus stagger back half a step.

“You’re still a moody bastard,” Sirius muttered into his shoulder.

“And you still talk like you’ve just downed a bottle of Firewhisky,” Remus shot back, arms wrapping around him.

They clapped each other on the back once—twice—then pulled apart.

“Well, that’s sorted,” Hermione said, folding her arms. “Took you long enough.”

Sirius turned to her. “You really don’t waste time, do you?”

She smirked. “Ticking clock, remember?”

“Right,” Remus said, glancing between them. “And now you’re going to tell me what this is really about.”

Hermione nodded. “We will. But maybe sit down first. This might get a bit… mythic.”

Remus blinked. “Mythic?”

Sirius flopped onto the couch. “Yeah. Welcome back, Moony. You’ve just rejoined the world’s most dysfunctional treasure hunt.”

“Yes, but first—” Hermione slapped Sirius across the face.

Not hard. Just enough to make a point.

“Oi!” he barked, recoiling half a step. “What was that for?”

“For this morning,” she said crisply, not elaborating.

“What did I—? Oh.” His expression shifted through confusion, then recognition, then a sheepish smirk. “Right. That.”

“We’ll talk about proper first kiss etiquette later,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

Remus blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Long story,” Sirius said quickly. “It’s a bit of a running gag at this point—me trying to kiss her while she’s sick, her worrying I’ll spontaneously die of contagion. Something-something: mouldy Azkaban bread doesn’t confer immunity.”

Hermione gave him a look over the rim of her tea. “You forgot the part where you licked my face as a dog.”

“Right. That too.”

Remus stared between them, clearly trying to decide whether to be concerned or just call an exorcist. “That sounds… healthy. And not mildly suicidal at all. On multiple fronts.”

“I was charming,” Sirius defended, then paused. “Ish. Mildly charming.”

“You were feral,” Hermione corrected. “With delusions of grandeur.”

Remus raised a hand. “Can I just clarify—are you two…?”

“No,” Hermione said.

“Yes,” Sirius said.

They turned to glare at each other.

“It’s complicated,” Hermione offered after a beat.

Remus sighed into his hands. “Merlin, I missed you both. I think. The dynamic is strangely nostalgic in any case.”

“Don’t worry,” Sirius said brightly, draping an arm over the back of the couch. “It only gets worse from here. Wait till she tells you you’ll be teaching her third-year self this term.”

“What.”

“I thought you said you told him!” Sirius turned to Hermione.

“I thought you meant the details about your innocence!”

“I am deeply confused,” Remus said flatly.

Hermione stood, cleared her throat like she was announcing herself at a Ministry hearing. “Right. Let me reintroduce myself. Hermione Granger. Unspeakable from the year 2009. Hermione Granger of 1993 is currently preparing to attend her third year at Hogwarts, where you will become one of her favourite professors. No pressure.”

Remus blinked. “There are so many things wrong with that sentence, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Hermione Granger of 1993,” Sirius added helpfully, “would also very much like a copy of your guide to curse classifications from 1980.”

“What?” Hermione frowned.

“I spent the day with your younger self, remember?” Sirius said with an innocent shrug. “She already figured out Remus Lupin is going to be her DADA professor this year. She’s a big fan, by the way.”

“But… I didn’t find that out until the train…” Hermione trailed off, brow furrowed.

“Apparently, your timeline meddling of freeing me and getting me into Harry’s life has led to Harry talking about me. That led her to dig into my past. That led her to discover the identity of my school friends. That led her to a defaced book she once tried to read, authored by one of said friends. And now she’s connecting dots faster than you did at thirteen, which is—honestly—terrifying.”

Hermione rubbed her temples. “How is it my thirteen-year-old self is managing to terrify me?”

“Doesn’t she terrify us all,” Sirius said with feeling.

“Am I even needed here?” Remus muttered.

“Oh, absolutely,” Hermione said, already reaching for a folder. “We need you for your access, your knowledge, and possibly your magical adoption paperwork.”

“I’m going to need a drink,” Remus said, glancing toward the kitchen.

“Already brewing,” Sirius said cheerfully.

Chapter Text

“Okay,” Remus said slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight.”

Hermione and Sirius both looked at him expectantly.

“You accidentally time-travelled. Took in a feral stray who looked like the Grim from the street, proved said stray was actually an innocent Animagus, and now you’re telling me Lily and James died for nothing because You-Know-Who isn’t even properly dead—but you know how to fix that?”

“Mostly,” Hermione said, folding her arms. “I’m working on the last crucial part. The original parameters of success were, uh… practically non-recreatable.”

“What she means,” Sirius chimed in helpfully, “is that in 1998 we won by sheer dumb luck.”

“Yes, thank you, Sirius,” Hermione muttered. “That was… extremely helpful.”

“And apparently everyone was dead,” Sirius added with a shrug. “So, whatever.”

“Not everyone,” Hermione said, her voice quieter. “But… yes. Many people. Including both of you.”

“Right.” Remus nodded, slowly absorbing that. “And now, in light of all that, you’d like to perform an obscure blood magic ritual with me. So that by magically adopting you into the Lupin family, you’ll have an identity in this time that isn’t ‘Hermione Granger.’”

“Yes.”

Remus stared at her. “You do realise I’m a werewolf, right?”

“I do, yes,” Hermione said evenly. “I figured it out about two months into third year. I don’t see your point.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Blood ritual. Werewolf.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You do realise lycanthropy isn’t in your blood—it’s in your saliva? And only on the night of the full moon.”

“Tell that to Fenrir Greyback. He can partially transform on non-full moon days and cause partial infections.”

“Fenrir Greyback,” she said crisply, “isn’t a bitten werewolf. He was born—a child conceived between two werewolves on the night of the full moon. He’s a special case. And also a sadistic psychopath who deliberately lurks near children’s homes during transformations.”

“How do you even know that?”

Hermione gave him a flat look. “Did I not mention I’m an Unspeakable? Been one for seven years. I’ve worked in every subdepartment—including Magical Pathogenesis. I practically wrote St. Mungo’s patient care manual for lycanthropy in 2007.”

“So… you’re not concerned?”

“Remus John Lupin,” she said, stepping forward, “I’m only going to say this once. You are not a monster. You have a medical condition that makes you dangerous to others exactly one day a month. And you go to absurd lengths to make sure no one gets hurt. I know what the transformation looks like. I know how bad it gets. And I’m still standing here telling you: I’m not afraid of you. Get over yourself.”

A pause.

She added, “And I mean that in the kindest way possible.”

There was a long silence.

“I could kiss you right now,” Sirius said, slightly awestruck.

Hermione didn’t miss a beat. “Maybe try that when I’m not still mad at you for attempting it without my consent.”

Remus blinked at her, looking oddly… hopeful. Like he couldn’t quite believe someone would ask him for something like this.

“So,” he said slowly, “you really want me to adopt you?”

“Not in a father-daughter sense,” Hermione clarified quickly. “More like… cousins, on paper. Not that I wouldn’t want to be your daughter,” she added, “but we can’t exactly sell that. For this to work, I’d have to have been born in 1962 to match my current age, and that would make us just over two years apart.”

She gestured vaguely. “The cousin angle makes more sense. Gives me a surname. An excuse for why I’m staying with you both. A way to explain my, er… familiarity with the two of you.”

Remus nodded slowly, clearly already sorting through the logistics in his head.

“I’d still need to ask Moony for your hand in marriage, right?” Sirius cut in, voice far too casual. “No other Lupin relatives around to do the honours.”

Both Hermione and Remus turned their heads in perfect sync to ignore him.

Hermione continued smoothly, “There’s also a sort of permanent glamour woven into the ritual—subtle, but it’ll help obscure certain recognisable features, shift them a little to resemble yours. Anyone who knows both versions of me won’t immediately connect the dots.”

“I can see the sense in that,” Remus murmured.

Sirius, now visibly pouting, muttered, “So no dowry negotiations either, then? This whole system’s broken.”

Still no response.

Hermione tilted her head at Remus. “So… is that a yes?”

He gave her a small, thoughtful smile. “It’s a yes.”

Sirius immediately threw his arms in the air. “Brilliant. We’ll be one big, strange, time-displaced family. What could possibly go wrong?”

“I’ve got a list,” Hermione said mildly.

Remus sighed. “Of course you do.”

Sirius raised a brow. “Can I be in charge of the family motto?”

Hermione gave him a withering look. “Only if it’s in Latin and doesn’t involve the words ‘naked’ or ‘glorious doom.’”

“No promises.”

“When are we doing this?” Remus asked, still looking like he couldn’t believe any of this was happening.

“Does tomorrow work for you?” Hermione asked. “It’s kind of late now, and the ritual needs proper prep. I’d like to get the circles right the first time.”

Remus blinked. “Tomorrow’s fine.”

“Great. Will you stay for dinner?” she added, already halfway to the kitchen before glancing back. “Where are you staying, by the way? Because you’re more than welcome to stay here. Merlin knows we have more than enough space.”

Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn’t decide if he should be offended that she had offered his house before he did—or just relieved she had. Realistically, he’d meant to ask. He just… hadn’t. Yet.

Remus looked vaguely startled. “I—er—thank you. That’s generous.”

He clearly had no idea whether accepting would make him look needy or presumptuous.

Hermione waved it off. “Think of it as a professional exchange. I can even offer some constructive criticism on your lesson plans. You know. Having attended your classes and all.”

Remus groaned softly. “Merlin help me.”

“Hear that, Moony?” Sirius said with a grin. “Advance feedback. Bargain of the century.”

“Advance judgement,” Remus muttered under his breath.

“This is a judgement-free zone,” Hermione quipped.

Sirius coughed pointedly. “Since when?”

“Since now,” she said crisply. “I just declared it.”

Remus glanced between them, lips twitching. “Brilliant. I’ve walked into a two-person cult.”

“You’re just jealous we have matching robes,” Sirius said airily.

“I swear to Merlin, if you two have matching robes, I’m sleeping at the Leaky.”

“You’re not,” Hermione said, already heading for the kitchen. “There’s curry, if Kreacher didn’t spontaneously declare war on cumin again.”

Dinner was warm and oddly pleasant—herbs in the stew, Kreacher’s sullen efficiency, and the occasional clang of a dish from the kitchen. The kind of domestic quiet Sirius hadn’t realised he’d missed.

Until his brow furrowed mid-bite.

“Wait a minute,” he said suddenly, setting down his spoon. “Hermione—how did Remus get inside?”

She looked up, confused. “What do you mean? He just walked in.”

Sirius squinted at her. “No, I mean—how did he get through the wards?”

“I assumed you’d keyed him in,” she replied, setting down her fork.

Sirius shook his head. “I can’t key someone in unless we’re both physically present. And you can’t do it at all. You’re not a Black by blood or bond.”

There was a long beat of silence. Then Remus cleared his throat. “I knocked. The door opened.”

Sirius stood so fast his chair scraped back with a screech. “Merlin’s flaming—bloody—I took the wards down for the renovators!”

Hermione’s voice rose a full octave. “And you forgot to put them back up?”

“I got distracted!” he yelped, already scrambling to his feet. “There was plaster everywhere! Kreacher made a list of forbidden meats! It’s been a week!”

“We’ve been sitting in a wardless house with a Horcrux in the cellar, Sirius!” Hermione shouted, standing so abruptly her chair scraped backwards. “For days!”

“I’m going to fix it right now,” he called from the hallway, already halfway gone. “No one’s died! Yet!”

Hermione flopped back into her seat, muttering something distinctly uncharitable under her breath.

Remus watched him disappear, then turned to Hermione with the serene resignation of a man who had seen things.

“So,” he said mildly, “how long have you been training him?”

Hermione didn’t even look up from her plate. “Not nearly long enough.”

Remus nodded, sage-like. “Is he food-motivated? Praise-driven? Or do you have to use a squirt bottle?”

“Mostly threats and disapproval,” she replied. “Sometimes I dangle the concept of common sense in front of him like a carrot.”

“Ah, the classic ‘shame and sarcasm’ method. Very effective with Marauders. Slow results, but deeply satisfying.”

Hermione gave him a tight smile. “He’s lucky he’s charming.”

“He’s lucky you haven’t hexed him into a decorative wall sconce,” Remus muttered. “That man has the self-preservation instincts of a Crup chasing fireworks.”

“He put a tracking charm on a loaf of bread yesterday,” Hermione added, deadpan.

Remus blinked. “Why?”

“He said it kept disappearing.”

“…And did it?”

“No. He was just slicing too much of it and forgetting.”

There was a pause.

Remus nodded solemnly. “We’re dealing with an advanced case.”

From the next room came the distant sound of Sirius shouting, “I FIXED IT! WE’RE FINE. NOBODY PANIC.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “He says that a lot.”

Remus leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. “Ah, yes. The domestic phase. First come the quirks, then the chaos, then the quiet resignation.”

Hermione gave him a sideways glance. “So you’re saying this is normal?”

“I’m saying you’ve achieved the Sirius Black Full Experience™. Congratulations. You’re now entitled to exclusive access to the coping circle.”

“Is there cake?”

“No, but we do meet weekly to mock him.”

Hermione grinned. “I’m in.”

The next morning, Hermione was deep in the process of setting up the ritual chamber in Grimmauld Place—something she’d never even known existed in her original timeline. Then again, why would she? The room had only opened at Sirius’s touch, thanks to the Black blood that recognised him as a family member.

It had revealed itself off the second floor, behind what she’d previously assumed was a wardrobe and not, in fact, a door with interlocking runes keyed to one family line and three centuries of questionable magical ethics.

Now that it was open, Hermione rather wished it weren’t quite so on-brand.

Circular. Low-ceilinged. Etched with stone grooves that whispered magic even before she’d drawn the chalk. A wall of old cupboards filled with labelled jars, many of which she’d opened with great suspicion. (Bloodroot, tallow, powdered silver, bone fragments, and one jar unhelpfully marked “Urgent Use Only”.) Still, the space was undeniably ideal for rituals of this nature—precise, enclosed, magically attuned.

Remus stood nearby, arms crossed, watching her with a blend of curiosity and faint alarm.

“Should I be worried that some of those candles are giving off actual menace?” he asked.

“They’re symbolically ominous,” Hermione replied, carefully inscribing a protection sigil at the outer edge of the chalkwork. “They represent transition and bloodline anchoring.”

“Right. And how many candles don’t represent something ominous?”

“…Two.”

From the doorway, Sirius popped his head in, surveyed the scene, and made a face. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“Oh for—” Hermione looked up from her blood-binding glyph. “It’s not Dark magic.”

“It’s not not Dark magic,” Sirius said, pointing at a ceremonial knife with exaggerated offence. “There’s blood and Latin and whatever that green candle is doing. That’s textbook gateway stuff.”

“It’s a legal, Ministry-archived ritual—”

“That involves pricking thumbs and chanting over fire,” Sirius countered. “That’s how half the worst stories start.”

Remus looked mildly amused. “You’re just upset it’s not your aesthetic. If it were covered in leather and recklessness, you’d be all over it.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Sirius declared, already turning on his heel. “Making breakfast like a normal person. Let me know if you accidentally summon a revenant. I’ll bring tea.”

He vanished.

Hermione sighed, stood, and turned to Remus. “Is he always like this in the mornings?”

“No,” Remus said dryly. “Sometimes he’s worse.”

She grinned and bent to light the first candle. The circle pulsed softly in response.

By midday, the ritual would be complete.

And if all went well, she’d finally have a name, a cover identity, and a magical bond tying her to this time.

Lupin, by ritual and by blood.

She rather liked the sound of that.

The adoption ritual went off without a hitch.

Which, considering the amount of magical symbols drawn in blood, candles that flickered against logic, and chants that made Sirius mutter “this is fine” under his breath several times from the hallway, was saying something.

When the last word faded from the ritual circle and the soft hum of completed magic settled into the stone floor, Remus was the first to rise and helped Hermione to her feet.

There was no dramatic change. No glowing eyes or sudden thunderclaps. Just a subtle shift—her hair now leaned more toward a sandy brown than chestnut, her eyes glinted a little more hazel, and her features had softened and squared just enough to suggest familial ties with her favourite professor. Still recognisably Hermione—to them at least—but altered in a way that if her younger self were suddenly aged up, they would more resemble sisters than be identical.

The magic in the air buzzed differently now. In tune with Remus. A quiet, invisible tether.

Sirius leaned into the doorway like he was expecting horns. Or wings. Or both.

“So that’s it?” he asked, looking between them. “She’s Hermione Lupin now? Officially?”

Hermione nodded. “Definitely not officially yet—still have to go to the Ministry, register my existence in Britain, all that.”

Then she hesitated. “Though… I’m not sure I can go by Hermione anymore.”

Sirius tilted his head. “Why not?”

“It’s too distinctive,” she said, brushing off her sleeves. “There aren’t exactly a lot of Hermiones running about. Anyone hearing that name will immediately start connecting dots. Especially if I’m anywhere near Harry.”

“Fair.” Sirius tapped his chin. “Alright, let’s brainstorm. Mina?”

Hermione pulled a face. “Ugh. No.”

“Short for Hermina. Or Wilhelmina, if you want to sound like an old governess with opinions about elbows on the table.”

“I’d rather be cursed.”

“Alright, alright. Mia?”

Hermione shook her head, unimpressed.

“Nina?”

She visibly recoiled. “That gives me actual chills.”

“I know!” Sirius brightened. “Arsène. Arsène Lupin. Very on brand.”

Hermione gave him a long, flat look. “Yes, because what I need right now is to share a name with a gentleman thief and master of disguise.”

“You’ve already got everything else down but the ‘gentleman’ part.”

“Not sure we want to advertise that,” she muttered.

“Oh, come on, how many people in the wizarding world actually know Muggle fiction?”

“Surprisingly many,” Remus said mildly, not looking up.

“Okay, okay, let me think… Ione?” Sirius offered.

Hermione froze mid-scoff. Tilted her head.

“…That almost sounds like ‘Mione.’ Ron’s old nickname for me. Just without the ‘M.’”

“Why do I have the feeling you hated being called that?” Remus said gently.

“I didn’t love it,” she admitted. “But I answered to it. Ione’s close enough to feel… natural. Recognisable. It could work.”

Sirius clapped. “Brilliant. Ione Lupin. It even sounds academic. Like someone who drinks too much tea and owns several editions of the same textbook.”

“It actually fits,” Remus said, a little bemused. “My father’s side of the family was obsessed with mythology. I’ve got long-dead relatives named Castor and Eurydice.”

“Explains so much,” Sirius muttered.

“But before any of that,” Hermione said, standing straighter, “we have to go to the Ministry and register me. I’ll claim I was homeschooled abroad—say, Switzerland. Vague, neutral, slightly expensive-sounding. And I should conjure a basic transcript to back it up…”

She pulled out her wand and murmured a spell.

The parchment appeared… and immediately flopped to the ground blank.

She frowned and tried again. The magic fizzled like a faulty sparkler.

Her brow furrowed. She turned her wand in her hand, testing the weight. Something felt… off.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh. Of course.”

Remus took a step closer. “What is it?”

“I didn’t consider… the magical core,” she murmured. “A ritual like this—it doesn’t just alter your blood. It binds you magically. And my wand—my wand was attuned to me, my magic as Hermione Granger. Not Ione Lupin.”

There was a beat of silence.

Remus placed a hand on her shoulder. “That might not be a bad thing.”

She glanced at him.

“If someone saw you with the same wand your younger self is carrying… well. That might raise even more eyebrows than your name.”

Hermione let out a long breath. “You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s just—”

She glanced down at the wand in her hand.

“I’ve had this since I was eleven. It’s… it’s mine. Like a limb. Losing the connection to it feels like…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

Sirius, feeling the mood tilt into dangerous territory, jumped in.

“Well then. We’ll just have to go wand shopping together. Make a whole mystery out of it—‘enigmatic academic seeks replacement wand for entirely non-suspicious reasons.’”

Hermione cracked a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet so charming.”

“Debatable.”

But even as she tucked her wand away, her posture straightened a little. Her steps felt steadier.

The girl she’d been was gone. But something new was forming in her place—something not lesser, not weaker. Just different. Rooted now not just in who she had been, but who she had chosen to become.

They agreed it was best to get Hermione a new wand as soon as possible.

She hadn’t said it aloud, but Sirius could see the way she kept glancing at her old wand with a mix of guilt and grief—like it was a beloved pet she could no longer take on walks. Every time she tried a spell and it stuttered, her jaw tightened just a bit.

Remus volunteered to take her.

“It makes sense,” he said with quiet finality over breakfast. “If you’re going to be using the Lupin name, better that people associate you with me first. It’ll hold up to scrutiny if someone starts asking where you’ve been all these years.”

“Right,” Hermione agreed, nibbling a piece of toast. “And it’d be a bit odd if I were seen out with Sirius without an obvious introduction point. People know who he is. And… where he’s been for the past decade.”

Sirius slumped into his chair with a theatrical groan. “I know I’m a walking cautionary tale, but must we keep pointing it out?”

“Think of it as your contribution to national wizarding awareness,” Hermione said sweetly.

He gave her a flat look. “I wanted to be the one to take you wand shopping.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But this makes the most sense.”

Sirius harrumphed into his tea. “Fine. But I expect detailed reports. Length, core, wood grain, number of sparks—everything.”

Remus hid a smile behind his mug. “We’ll write you a full summary. Possibly with diagrams.”

“Better include a pie chart.”

Hermione, meanwhile, was already flipping through a spare notebook, jotting down a quick sketch of her “cover story,” as she called it.

“Okay, so,” she began, tapping her quill against the parchment. “I’m Ione Lupin. Distant cousin of Remus. Raised abroad—let’s say France for the magical education laws, but lived in Switzerland the last few years for the neutrality. Reconnected with Remus during one of his trips through Europe, and came back with him when he accepted the Hogwarts teaching post.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot,” Sirius observed, squinting at the notebook.

“Well, of course,” Hermione said primly, eyes still on her notes. “It has to be believable. Grounded in real patterns of wizarding migration and school transfers. The French magical education system is stricter on certain subjects, especially Transfiguration and Arithmancy, so it lends credibility to the academic over-preparedness. Even if I was supposedly homeschooled, it would be based on that same system.”

Sirius squinted at her. “Do you even speak French?”

Hermione didn’t even look up as she replied, in fluid, perfectly inflected French, “Je parle cinq langues, dont deux mortes et j’ai lu ‘Les chants de Maldoror’ en version originale. What do you think?”

Sirius blinked.

Then blinked again.

“Right,” he said slowly. “I was going to say something sarcastic, but now I just feel underqualified to exist.”

Hermione finally glanced up at him, arching one brow.

Sirius clutched his chest. “Marry me.”

Remus didn’t look up from his tea. “She’s not accepting proposals until you stop using kitchen knives to open post.”

“I told you, the letter was hexed!”

“It was a coupon for a new laundry detergent potion.”

Sirius turned back to Hermione, deadpan. “You see what I have to live with?”

“Constant domestic sabotage?” she said dryly.

He nodded. “Exactly. We’re perfect for each other.”

“Riiight, getting back to business…” Remus said, clearing his throat loudly, clearly done indulging Sirius’s proposal spree. “The Switzerland story isn’t too far-fetched. I’ve been travelling for years—no fixed address, minimal contact. No one would question me reconnecting with family abroad.”

“I knew I liked you,” Hermione said, pointing her quill at him.

Sirius, still sulking in his chair, muttered, “I should be insulted that you’re having more fun building your fake identity than being part of my tragic backstory.”

Hermione grinned. “Who says I can’t enjoy both?”

Remus stood, stretching. “Alright, let’s get going before Ollivander closes. You’ll want time to test a few options.”

“And possibly incinerate a few displays,” Sirius added helpfully.

Hermione gave her old wand one last lingering glance, then tucked it into her coat pocket. “Let’s go buy me a new limb.”

“See?” Sirius called out as they headed for the door. “That sounds so healthy.”

They didn’t disagree.

The Floo was already flaring to life when Sirius pressed a small velvet pouch into Hermione’s hand.

She immediately tried to give it back. “Sirius, I don’t need this.”

“You said your money ran out. This’ll cover a new wand,” he said, completely ignoring her outstretched hand. “And maybe lunch if Moony insists on ordering something tragically bland.”

“I said my Muggle money ran out,” Hermione snapped, trying again to hand it back. “That’s why we had to leave the inn. In no way was it implied that I’m destitute.”

“And now you’re living in my ancestral house, eating my food, and replacing your wand because your magical core rewrote itself like a sentient crossword puzzle so that you can blend in while saving my godson. Just take the bloody gold.”

“Sirius—”

Sirius crossed his arms. “I’m still going to worry about you, you know.”

“You worry loudly.”

He grinned. “You’ll miss it when I’m gone.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but pocketed the pouch with a muttered, “Fine. But I’m paying you back, possibly in advance investment tips.”

“I’ll bill you in emotional labour.”

Remus, already dusted in soot from a test Floo flare, cleared his throat with an amused look. “Are we ready, or should I give you two five more minutes to snark?”

Sirius waved them on dramatically. “Go! Get her a wand before she tries casting anything complicated and blows up my newly renovated kitchen.”

Hermione gave him a mock salute and stepped into the green flames beside Remus.

“Diagon Alley!”

Diagon Alley was at the height of its back-to-school rush, its cobblestones sun-warmed and dappled with movement. As they emerged from the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron and made their way out into the street, the buzz of the crowd washed over them—shopkeepers shouting, children laughing, a few cauldrons exploding in the distance with the kind of cheer that only accidental magic could inspire.

Halfway toward Ollivander’s, Hermione slowed.

Across the square, at Fortescue’s, sat Harry. A half-eaten sundae on one side, a parchment sprawled before him, he was bent in concentration over what looked suspiciously like homework. Quill tapping his lip, tongue sticking out in focus.

Remus halted beside her, eyes softening. “Should I say hello?”

Hermione hesitated. “You’ll have time at Hogwarts,” she said gently. “You’re his professor now. And sort of his uncle. Let him meet you there, when it won’t make either of you self-conscious.”

Remus nodded slowly.

Hermione’s gaze lingered on Harry for a moment longer, then turned away. “I’m not quite ready to test whether my new face holds up under close scrutiny. He knows me too well.”

“No one else would guess,” Remus murmured, glancing at her sidelong. “But he might.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Let’s get my wand before I start crying into Fortescue’s whipped cream.”

“Deal,” Remus said, and steered her gently down the alley.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Hermione and Remus stepped into Ollivander’s.

The shop was as she remembered: dusty motes floating in shafts of light, the air somehow filled with the scent of old magic and polished wood. Thousands of slender wand boxes lined the shelves like sentries. It felt like stepping into a library where every book was staring back at you.

Hermione kept her breathing steady.

She didn’t flinch when Mr. Ollivander appeared from behind a shelf like some ancient ghost. But the moment his pale eyes locked on her face, she felt the unmistakable press of something cool and probing against her mind.

She didn’t let him in.

Thank you, compulsory Occlumency training, she thought. One of the many gruelling perks of being an Unspeakable. She’d suspected for years that Garrick Ollivander was a Legilimens—he wasn’t exactly subtle—but that silent confirmation as his gaze skittered off her mental walls was oddly satisfying.

“Ione Lupin,” she said smoothly, before he could ask. “I need a wand.”

Ollivander blinked slowly. “Indeed? It’s not often we see adult witches in need of a new one. Might I ask what happened to your previous one?”

“Tragic snapping incident involving the nostril of a mountain troll,” Hermione replied, utterly deadpan. “Best not relive it.”

His silvery brows rose in quiet judgement. “How… unfortunate.”

“Truly scarring,” she added with a faint sniff.

“And the wand?”

“Vinewood. Dragon heartstring.”

“Ah, yes. I remember making a combination like that. Sold… two years ago, I believe. Who was the maker, if I might ask?”

“Gregorovitch,” she lied effortlessly.

“Mm. Step up here, if you please.”

The measuring tape launched itself into the air before she’d taken a step, winding around her arms, elbow, neck, even the bridge of her nose, as if trying to determine if she were secretly a velociraptor.

Ollivander disappeared into the back with a rustle of robes.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Remus leaned in. “You call that a subtle cover story?”

Hermione kept her expression neutral. “Sirius has rubbed off on me.”

“Infectious, isn’t he?”

“In my defence,” she whispered, “the story’s technically true. There was a troll. The wand did end up in the nostril. But it wasn’t mine. It was Harry’s. And it didn’t break.”

Remus blinked slowly. “What happened to the troll?”

“Knocked out with its own club. Excellent creative use of Wingardium Leviosa, by the way. You should make a note of that for your classes.”

He just stared at her.

Hermione smiled sweetly. “Welcome to my first year.”

Remus muttered, “I take it back. I don’t want advance feedback on my lesson plans. I just want plausible deniability.”

Hermione patted his arm. “Too late. We’re family now.”

Ollivander returned with a small selection of wand boxes cradled in his arms, his gaze sharp as he set them on the counter. “We shall see what speaks to you now, Miss Lupin.”

Hermione stood tall as he opened the first box—a sleek, pale wand with a supple curve. “Cedar, unicorn hair,” he announced. “Resilient. Loyal.”

She gave it a flick. A feeble sputter of sparks escaped the tip before it fizzled out like a dying firecracker.

Ollivander didn’t look disappointed. If anything, he looked delighted. “Not that one, then.”

Next came a darker wand—walnut, rigid, with a spiral-carved handle. “Dragon heartstring,” he said with something like nostalgia. “Powerful. Demanding.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. She gave it a confident swish.

It hissed.

Quite literally.

Remus coughed and took a subtle step sideways.

“Definitely not that one,” she muttered, carefully returning it to its box.

After two more lacklustre attempts—one that caused a shelf to rattle ominously and one that made her hair stand on end—Ollivander finally opened the last box.

“This one… might be of interest.”

The wand was a rich, warm chestnut wood with a gentle, natural grain and a slightly tapered handle. Simple. Elegant.

“Phoenix feather,” he said softly. “Unicorn hair may be the most consistent. Dragon heartstring, the most forceful. But phoenix feather? The rarest core of all. Capable of great feats… and only choosing those who are destined for them.”

Hermione reached out and closed her fingers around the wand.

A pulse of warmth surged up her arm—bright, alive, and unmistakably hers.

The tip sparked with golden light, then shimmered briefly in a halo before settling into a steady glow.

“Well,” Ollivander said with quiet reverence. “There she is.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. Her fingers tightened slightly around the handle. It didn’t feel like her old wand. Not quite. But it felt… right.

“You must have gone through some rather radical change recently,” Ollivander mused, tilting his head as he watched her. “Phoenix feather is drawn to transformation. Renewal. Rebirth.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “You could say that.”

Ollivander blinked slowly, as if weighing how much more to ask. Then, in true Ollivander fashion, decided to file the mystery away for later. “Chestnut and phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches. Supple. Responsive. A fine match.”

Hermione nodded, still holding the wand, her expression unreadable. “I’ll take it.”

Remus paid, casually sliding the galleons across the counter before she could protest. She gave him a look; he gave her a shrug.

As they stepped out into the sunshine of Diagon Alley, Hermione held her wand up, just slightly, letting the light catch on its polished surface.

A wand for Ione Lupin.

It still felt strange.

But it didn’t feel wrong.

And maybe that was enough for now.

They landed just outside the entryway of Grimmauld Place with a faint pop and a slight stumble—Remus blinking as his boots hit the landing, and Hermione let go of his arm.

“Still don’t like Apparating,” he muttered, smoothing down the front of his robes.

“You’d think after years of hopping around the country, you’d be used to it,” Hermione said, brushing a bit of dust off her sleeve.

“Side-Along’s different,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It’s like being stuffed into someone else’s boot.”

As he stepped inside, she made her move—quick, subtle, practised. The small pouch Sirius had given her that morning, still jingling faintly with galleons, disappeared into the folds of Remus’s outer pocket with a flick of her fingers.

Or so she thought.

She had just started feeling smug about it when something brown flew through the air, and she instinctively caught it.

The pouch.

Remus gave her a flat look and tapped one finger against his ear. “Werewolf, remember?”

Hermione huffed. “I was subtle.”

“You were trying to be,” he said, and then quirked a brow. “Which was adorable, but I could hear the coins from three steps away. And smell Sirius’s smugness on the drawstring.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It absolutely is,” he said, deadpan. “It’s like cheap cologne and unearned confidence.

Hermione sighed and stuffed the pouch into her own pocket with all the drama of a sulky Victorian heiress. “Fine. But don’t be surprised when I use it to buy you socks.”

Remus gave her a wry smile. “Not the worst outcome, honestly.”

From across the hall, Sirius’s voice rang out, loud and cheerful: “If you two are done flirting through financial manipulation, dinner’s ready!”

Neither of them answered.

But Hermione rolled her eyes, and Remus was already fighting a smile.

As they stepped into the dining room, Sirius barely looked up from where he was pouring wine into mismatched goblets.

“You two might want to ease off the mutual admiration,” he said, with exaggerated casualness. “Bit weird now that you’re cousins by blood magic, isn’t it?”

Hermione snorted as she dropped into a chair. “You’re one to talk with a family tree that folds in on itself like bad origami. Your parents were second cousins.”

Sirius lifted a hand in lazy acknowledgement. “Yeah, and look how well I turned out.”

Remus choked slightly on his drink.

“And for the record,” she added pointedly, “we weren’t flirting. You’re just jealous.”

“I am not jealous,” Sirius replied, entirely too quickly.

Remus raised an eyebrow as he sat down. “You do sound a little jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Sirius insisted again, jabbing the cork back into the bottle. “I’m simply making a reasonable observation about the social implications of magically adopted cousinhood.”

Hermione smirked. “Well, thank you, Lord Black, for your riveting commentary on magical genealogy. Now sit down and pass the bread.”

Sirius muttered something under his breath—possibly “this house used to be mine”—but complied. Dinner was served under the faint crackle of candles, clinking cutlery, and the lingering presence of Sirius trying very hard not to pout.

Remus leaned slightly toward Hermione, voice low. “You realise you’ve weaponised both logic and ancestry against him in under a minute.”

Hermione buttered her roll with perfect composure. “I consider it a warm-up.”

Sirius sighed, his head dropping into his hands. “Merlin help me, I’m living with two Moonies.”

Chapter Text

Sirius padded into the sitting room, yawning into one hand and scratching the back of his neck with the other, still in the too-soft cotton shirt he swore he didn’t sleep in on purpose. The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

A massive blackboard had been conjured in the middle of the room, half-covered in tightly written chalk notes and a web of names, dates, and magical symbols. Hermione was pacing in front of it like a general preparing for battle—barefoot, hair pulled up in a precarious bun, wand tucked behind one ear.

She looked up mid-step and froze, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Have you slept at all?” she asked, tilting her head.

Sirius hadn’t glanced in a mirror that morning, but her tone suggested his general state of dishevelment had crossed from ‘charming rogue’ to ‘escaped cryptid’.

He shrugged. “I slept. Technically.”

She gave him a long, evaluating look. “Why didn’t you come over as Padfoot last night?”

The question caught him off guard, his mouth opening before he had a real answer.

It had become a habit, he realised—ever since the fever, ever since she’d curled up under a pile of blankets and he’d flopped down beside her in dog form. At first, it had been practical. She’d been sick. He’d been twitchy. Padfoot could sleep where Sirius couldn’t.

But last night, for some reason, he hadn’t transformed. Couldn’t bring himself to.

He rubbed the back of his neck again. “I dunno. Didn’t feel like a dog nap night.”

Hermione stepped closer, frowning a bit, like she could read the spiralling thoughts he was failing to lock down.

“Sirius…” she said softly.

He waved a hand. “It’s nothing. Just—” He looked away, jaw working. “It’s weird, isn’t it? You’re always fine with him. Padfoot. You don’t pull away when he gets close. You let him curl up next to you. But when it’s me, it’s like you remember to be careful.”

Hermione’s expression shifted. Not guilty, exactly, but something close. She hesitated.

“That’s not—” She paused, choosing her words. “It’s not that I’m not comfortable around you. I am. But Padfoot doesn’t look at me like you do.”

Sirius lifted an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure out what it would take for me to let you kiss me again,” she said, blunt as ever.

That caught him. He blinked, lips parting in surprise.

She went on, quietly, “And when you’re Padfoot, it’s safe. Simple. You’re not trying to read me. You’re just there. No agenda. No tension. No expectations.”

Sirius folded his arms, suddenly more awake. “You think I have an agenda?”

“I think you’re used to charming your way into people’s… knickers,” she said, matter-of-fact. “And I think I’m not quite ready for… whatever that means when it comes to us.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded once. “Okay. I can respect that.”

There was a pause.

“Still,” she added, crossing her arms. “You look exhausted. You could’ve come. As Padfoot. I wouldn’t have minded.”

Sirius huffed a dry laugh. “You’re giving me joint custody of your bed, but only in dog form. Got it.”

Hermione cracked a smile. “Well, you are objectively less annoying as a dog.”

“Debatable,” he muttered, then glanced at the blackboard dominating the sitting room. “So… what’s the plan, General?”

“We should wait for Remus,” she said briskly. “I’ll give you the rundown of everything we’ll have to do regarding the Horcruxes.”

As if summoned by the uttering of his name, Remus padded into the room carrying two cups of tea. He looked at the blackboard, then at the expressions on their faces, and just sighed as he handed Hermione her mug. “Merlin help me.”

Hermione gestured them both to sit.

Sirius tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know, this is the weirdest sleepover briefing I’ve ever been to.”

“Focus,” Hermione said, though her expression softened as she glanced toward Remus, who was now settling into the worn armchair.

“Right,” she said, pressing her palms to the table like a general preparing a war council. “We’ve got a lot to cover, but first things first. I should’ve checked this before I started talking Horcruxes with either of you.” Her eyes slid to Sirius. “How’s your Occlumency?”

Sirius raised a brow. “Is that a trick question?”

“I know Remus is relatively safe,” Hermione continued briskly, ignoring his dry tone. “Legilimency doesn’t work properly on werewolves. Not unless it’s a full moon and they’re mid-transformation, and even then, it’s unstable. Not to mention suicidal for whoever wants to read his thoughts. But you—” she pointed at Sirius “—grew up in a pureblood household. And I know most of them at least introduce Occlumency early, but I don’t know how far the House of Black went with it, or whether you retained any of it post-Azkaban—”

“You’re rambling,” Sirius said, deadpan.

Hermione blinked. “Right. Sorry.”

“And to answer your question,” he continued, “solid enough. I was tested for it when I was fifteen—my mother was very interested in making sure no one in the House embarrassed her by spilling family secrets. I kept up the habit a bit, mostly to block out thoughts of her. And Azkaban, well…” He shrugged. “Let’s just say I had plenty of time for mental discipline. Maybe not Dumbledore-proof, but I’m no open book either.”

Hermione nodded, reassured but not entirely satisfied. “Good for now. But we’ll still work on strengthening it. I’m not that worried about Dumbledore reading your mind. It’s Voldemort I’m worried about.”

Remus leaned forward. “You think we won’t finish this before he returns?”

“I hope we will,” she said. “But I’m planning for the possibility that we won’t. And Voldemort doesn’t read minds the way other Legilimens do. You can’t lie. He feels deception even passively. As far as I know, only one person has ever fooled him.”

Sirius exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “So we either succeed quickly or become mental fortresses.”

“Exactly.”

She turned to the blackboard, which was covered in lists, diagrams, timeline estimates, and something that might have been a miniature sketch of a basilisk wearing a monocle.

“Now,” Hermione said, tapping her wand to the board with purpose. “Let’s talk Horcruxes.”

Remus raised his mug in a mock toast. “Cheerful.”

Sirius leaned forward. “Alright. How many are we talking?”

“Let’s start with the basics,” she replied. “Do you both know what a Horcrux is?”

“Yes,” said Sirius without hesitation.

“No,” said Remus at the exact same time.

He blinked and glanced sideways as Sirius smirked, for once on the right side of obscure magical knowledge.

“Don’t ask,” Sirius said. “My family’s hobby was studying horrible things over dinner. ‘Pass the potatoes, darling, and tell me your favourite way to mutilate a soul.’”

“Charming,” Remus muttered.

“Right,” Hermione continued briskly. “A Horcrux is a physical object in which a dark wizard can anchor a fragment of their soul. The process to create one is foul. Requires murder and a ritual that makes most Dark magic look tame. Voldemort, in my time, created a total of seven. He aimed to split his soul into seven pieces—six Horcruxes and the bit that stayed in his body. You know, for Arithmantic significance.”

“But?” Sirius asked, already grimacing.

“But due to some… unplanned consequences, it ended up being seven Horcruxes. So: eight pieces of soul. He overshot.”

“Of course he did,” Sirius muttered. “Because when you’re evil, more is always more.”

Hermione pointed to the blackboard. “As of right now—this point in time—only six exist.”

“Wait, only six?” Remus asked. “What happened to the seventh?”

“He hasn’t made it yet,” Hermione explained. “In my timeline, he kills a Ministry witch named Bertha Jorkins while abroad and uses her death to create his final Horcrux—Nagini, a maledictus sometime during the summer of 1994.”

“Wait—his snake?” Sirius looked mildly offended on behalf of snakes everywhere.

“Yes,” Hermione said grimly. “But we’re not there yet. So. Number one: Tom Riddle’s Diary. Already destroyed by Harry in June.”

Remus frowned. “Harry destroyed a Horcrux? In second year? How?”

“Kind of a lucky break,” Hermione said. “He used a Basilisk fang. Basilisk venom is one of only two known methods that can destroy a Horcrux—the other being Fiendfyre.”

Remus looked utterly bewildered. “I feel like I’m missing some critical information. Like… all of it.”

“I’ll explain it later,” Sirius whispered, leaning over. “Just picture giant snake, chaos, and Harry stabbing things. You’ll love it.”

“Second,” Hermione said, already moving on, “Slytherin’s Locket. It’s currently sealed and heavily warded in the basement. Safe for now.”

“‘Safe,’” Remus repeated, unconvinced.

“Third: Ravenclaw’s Diadem,” Hermione continued. “It’s in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts. Remus, I’ll give you instructions on how to access it. It’s basically a magical lost-and-found dumping ground. Be prepared for… chaos. Lots of broken furniture. Possibly a couple of Nifflers. And weird socks.”

“Lovely,” Remus muttered. “Sounds like a dream.”

“Fourth: the Gaunt Ring,” she said, tapping the next entry on the board. “It’s in Little Hangleton, at the Gaunt family shack. Guarded by curses, but not mobile. So that one we can approach strategically.”

“And the last?” Sirius asked.

Hermione sighed. “Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup. That one’s the nightmare. It’s stored in Bellatrix Lestrange’s personal vault at Gringotts.”

Sirius groaned. “What is wrong with my family? Why are two of Voldemort’s soul chunks somehow tied to us?”

“Technically three,” Hermione corrected. “The diary was in Lucius Malfoy’s possession until he panicked and tried to offload it. And he’s married to Narcissa.”

Sirius made a face. “Ugh. Of course.”

“And Voldemort didn’t give the locket to Regulus,” Hermione added, “he entrusted it to the cave. Regulus just got it out using Kreacher.”

Sirius nodded, expression dark. “He died for that.”

“I know,” Hermione said softly. “But it matters. It all matters. We have the information now. And a head start.”

Remus frowned, counting silently on his fingers. “Wait. That wasn’t the last one. You said six Horcruxes. That was only five.”

Hermione’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes. The sixth is the… unforeseen one. The one he never meant to make.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “And?”

She hesitated. “It’s Harry.”

Remus stared at her. “Come again?”

“Sirius already knows,” she said gently. “I’m working on how to deal with it safely. He doesn’t know. He can’t. You don’t need to worry about that one right now. Just focus on the others.”

There was a long beat.

Then Sirius clapped his hands once, too loudly. “So! Fancy a trip to a decaying shack in the middle of nowhere where the most inbred family in magical Britain used to live in unwashed squalor? Could be fun. Very nostalgic.”

Remus blinked at him.

“Talking about the Gaunts,” Sirius added, as if that somehow clarified anything.

“Of course,” Remus said dryly. “Sounds charming. Shall I bring snacks? Maybe a tetanus potion?”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Sirius replied. “Place is probably held together by curses and Bundimun.”

Hermione muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Idiots,” but she was smiling.

Just a little.

“Just out of curiosity,” Sirius said, leaning back in his chair with a lazy sort of suspicion, “what was your plan for the diadem if Remus here had decided he didn’t want to have anything to do with me, regardless of all the compelling ‘not a traitorous murderer’ evidence?”

Hermione didn’t miss a beat. “I would’ve had you ask Harry for his Invisibility Cloak, and we would’ve snuck in through the Honeydukes tunnel.”

“Oh good,” Sirius sighed in relief. “I was afraid you’d want to directly involve Harry somehow.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I’m not Albus Dumbledore, thank you very much. I don’t make a habit of sending thirteen-year-olds on life-threatening quests.”

“I detect a bit of resentment in that statement,” Remus said, brows raised at her sudden bristle.

Hermione folded her arms. “Let’s just say he has a long history of questionable judgement calls.”

Remus blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and faint betrayal. “But… he let me into Hogwarts. Despite everything. I owe him that.”

“I’m not denying the gesture,” Hermione said, more gently. “The initiative was great. The execution? Abysmal. ‘Here’s a shack, let’s plant a murderous tree. That’ll keep the werewolf student totally under control. Oh look, four teenagers are sneaking in and out of it regularly—this is fine.’”

“Hey!” Sirius said indignantly. “He didn’t know we were doing that, and we kept Remus in line!”

Hermione raised a brow. “You also sent Snape right through the tunnel on a full moon because he pissed you off.”

“…I mean—”

“And Dumbledore just gave you a slap on the wrist.”

“I—okay, yes, that part was dumb,” Sirius admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But we were kids.”

“I know,” Hermione said quickly. “That’s my point. You were kids. Dumb decisions are practically a rite of passage. But Dumbledore? He was the adult in the room. And he made just as many reckless choices. Sometimes more.”

There was a long pause.

“That’s not even my biggest issue with him,” she added. “He practically raised Harry to be a strategic sacrifice. Gave him just enough tools, just enough hope, to make it to the moment when he could walk willingly to his death—and surprise! He survives, thanks to a very delicate magical loophole. But it was always a gamble.”

Remus looked a little pale. Sirius just stared at her, quiet.

“And leaving Harry with the Dursleys? Letting him face down Quirrell at eleven? The Chamber of Secrets situation? The Triwizard Tournament? Then, completely avoiding him in fifth year right after he had witnessed Voldemort’s return…” Hermione’s jaw clenched. “And don’t even get me started on his thing with Grindelwald.”

“Oh, Lily mentioned something about that once,” Sirius muttered. “Bathilda Bagshot was their neighbour, used to gossip. I thought she was just senile.”

“Pretty sure she was right,” Hermione said grimly. “They were lovers. But if not that, then at least besties. Then Ariana died during a three-way duel between Albus, Aberforth, and Gellert. After that? Albus devoted himself to ‘the greater good,’ but people still ended up as pawns on his chessboard. Pawns don’t always know they’re being played. Did I mention he only went and duelled Grindelwald when he had absolutely no other choice, first letting him build a following for about two decades?”

“Wow,” Remus said softly.

“I’m with Hermione on this one,” Sirius said, voice rougher now. “He was Chief Warlock already in ’81. Could’ve spoken up. Could’ve done something. I gave everything to the Order, and he let them toss me in Azkaban without lifting a finger to at least ensure due process was met.”

There was a heavy silence.

“So…” Remus said carefully, “I take it you don’t want me to talk to Dumbledore about any of this?”

Hermione looked at him evenly. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Remus shook his head without hesitation. “No. I trust you.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment, then muttered, “Oh, sod it,” and launched herself into his arms.

Remus startled, but caught her easily. He sat stiff for a beat, then wrapped his arms around her awkwardly, patting her back as she sniffled into his shoulder.

“I mean, we’ve got the brightest witch of her age on our side,” Remus said awkwardly, patting her back as her hair engulfed him. “What else could we possibly need?”

“You called me that at the end of third year,” Hermione murmured into his shoulder, her voice watery.

“Hey!” Sirius cut in, mock-offended. “I called you that first. Back at the inn.”

Hermione let go of Remus and promptly switched targets, wrapping Sirius in a second hug. “Yes, yes. You can claim all the glory in this timeline. Happy now?”

Sirius grinned over the top of her curls. “Ecstatic. Don’t tell Harry, though. He’ll get jealous.”

Hermione pulled back with a snort. “Speaking of Harry… I still can’t believe that, after everything, he went and named his second son Albus Severus. I swear, the boy has no concept of holding a grudge.”

Remus blinked. “He… what?”

Sirius looked mildly disturbed. “Wait. Severus? As in Snivellus Snape? That Severus?”

Hermione nodded gravely. “Full-on tribute. Said he was the bravest man he ever knew.”

“Why? Just why?”

She sighed. “Look, to be fair, he was in love with Lily. Since they were nine. He switched sides when he found out Voldemort was going to target her. Spied for the Order. Fooled Voldemort to the very end. He did a lot of good.”

“Still sounds like a bitter bat with a saviour complex,” Sirius muttered.

“Oh, he absolutely was. But he died trying to protect Harry. Or rather, trying to protect Lily’s memory through Harry. It’s… complicated.”

Sirius scowled. “So’s a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Doesn’t mean I want to name a child after one.”

Hermione let out a sharp laugh. “Trust me, I had opinions. I told him all of them. I’m not saying we don’t owe him. But he also bullied Harry relentlessly. And Neville. And honestly, just about every student not in Slytherin.”

“And yet Harry still named his kid after him?” Remus said, frowning.

Hermione nodded. “Yeah. And after Dumbledore, too. But Harry’s heart is enormous and deeply confusing. He forgives people like it’s a competitive sport.”

Sirius rubbed his face. “That boy. No concept of poetic justice. Or irony. Or trauma. Honestly, it should’ve been Sirius Remus Potter. Strong. Dignified. Slightly unhinged, but lovable.”

“Why do I feel like you’ve thought about this before?” Remus asked.

“Because I have.” Sirius paused. “Also, not that it’s a contest, but… did anyone name a child after you, Moony?”

Remus looked contemplative. “Not that I know of.”

“Travesty,” Sirius declared. “We’ll fix it. We’re raising the next generation of traumatised war orphans the right way.”

“I hope not,” Hermione said flatly.

Sirius blinked. “Right. Yes. Ideally, no war, no orphans. But if there were.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Sirius said smugly, “you’re still hugging me.”

“Don’t ruin it,” she murmured.

Remus took a sip of his tea and watched them over the rim of his mug. “Merlin help me, you two really are like a married couple.”

“Don’t start,” both of them said at once, without moving.

Remus chuckled. “Just saying. If you two ever do get married, don’t name a kid after me. No kid needs that much wolf energy baked into their birth certificate. It’s almost like asking for trouble.”

Sirius smirked. “We’ll call him Moony. Full name.”

“Not funny,” Remus deadpanned.

“By the way, his firstborn is James Sirius, and his daughter is Lily Luna.”

Sirius paused mid-rant, blinking. “Wait—his firstborn is named James Sirius?”

Hermione nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yes.”

He straightened, visibly preening. “Well. I suppose all is forgiven, then.”

“You didn’t even know he needed forgiving.”

“Details.” He waved a hand dismissively. “James Sirius. That’s got a ring to it. Bet the kid’s a heartbreaker. Or a hellraiser. Or both.”

“He is five. Well… was when I left.”

“And the daughter?” Sirius asked, suddenly suspicious. “You said Lily something?”

“Lily Luna,” Hermione confirmed.

“Why Luna?”

“Luna Lovegood,” Hermione smirked. “A Ravenclaw in Ginny’s year. You’ll like her. Or be utterly confused by her. Probably both.”

“That’s very reassuring,” he muttered. “Still. Lily Luna. Alright, that’s actually kind of sweet. James Sirius. Lily Luna. Then… Albus Severus.”

“Bit of a nosedive there in the middle, I know,” Hermione said, sighing. “But I guess Harry thought it was his way of honouring all sides. The brave, the misunderstood, the controversial...”

“He could’ve honoured me more. Just saying.” Sirius huffed. “I died for that kid.”

“You also licked his best friend,” Remus pointed out.

“As a dog. Entirely different moral territory.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “This conversation is rapidly going off the rails.”

“That’s because we’re emotionally well-adjusted men,” Sirius said cheerfully.

“Emotionally well-adjusted people don’t say that sentence,” Hermione replied without looking up.

“I feel like a perpetual third wheel here,” Remus muttered into his tea. “Honestly, it’s worse than when James got going with Lily.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said, not sounding particularly sorry. She turned to Sirius. “So—unless you’ve got plans with Harry tomorrow—how about we go to the Gaunt shack and get that over with? The sooner the better.” She glanced back at Remus. “It’s only five days to the full moon, and I know it gets rougher for you the closer we get.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” Remus said, with a smile that was equal parts grateful and resigned.

Hermione shifted, still wedged on the sofa between them, knees tucked up under her. “Speaking of the full moon…”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “That tone never leads anywhere relaxing.”

“I was just going to suggest,” Hermione said sweetly, “that you and Remus could use the basement here for the transformation. It’s secure, and once I’ve finished layering the wards, it’ll be safer than the Shrieking Shack ever was.”

“Absolutely not with you in the house,” Sirius said flatly. “I don’t care how many wards you put up. It’s not happening.”

Hermione sighed dramatically. “I’d hardly be in the same room. And anyway, I’m not exactly helpless.”

Sirius arched a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m an Animagus.”

There was a beat of silence.

Remus blinked. “You’re what?”

Hermione gave him a smug little nod. “Siamese cat. Registered, too. Not that the Ministry’s records are worth much at the moment.”

“You’re a bloody kitten,” Sirius gaped. “I’m calling you Kitten from now on.”

“If you call me that again,” Hermione said with deadly calm, “I’ll bat-bogey hex you.”

“That’s not a real hex.”

“Oh, it is. Ask Ginny. In two years.”

Sirius laughed, then looked half-offended. “A Siamese, though? Really?”

“Elegant, intelligent, efficient.”

“Smaller than my paw,” he muttered.

Remus was still catching up. “Wait—how did you even manage it? Becoming an Animagus is no small feat.”

“There was an elective Unspeakable seminar on it,” Hermione said casually, like it had been a knitting class. “They provided guidance, even the rare ingredients. Step-by-step know-how to avoid the usual pitfalls.”

Sirius looked personally affronted. “That’s cheating.”

Hermione arched a brow, her teacup halfway to her lips. “Excuse me?”

“The whole Unspeakable seminar thing,” he gestured vaguely. “Detailed instructions? Ingredient kits? Where’s the struggle? Where’s the drama?”

“It was a heavily monitored magical transformation with controlled risk parameters,” she said primly.

“Exactly!” Sirius threw up his hands. “Becoming an Animagus is supposed to be hell! It builds character! You think we had a user manual?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t suffer enough for your aesthetic.”

“No, listen—first ingredient we needed? Death’s-head hawkmoth chrysalises. Filch was hoarding them in the rafters of his office for Merlin knows what reason. We had to sneak in, levitate up into the dustiest part of the ceiling, and convince them not to hatch prematurely. James nearly sneezed himself into detention.”

“I remember that,” Remus muttered. “Had no idea what that whole fiasco was for at the time.”

“And then—then—there’s the dew. You’re supposed to collect it under very specific conditions, right? Dew from a place untouched by sunlight or human feet for at least seven days. Do you know how hard that is to find in a castle full of meddling teenagers?”

“I’m going to assume… difficult?” Hermione said sweetly.

“We found a cave in the Forbidden Forest,” Sirius continued. “Warded it up to keep out creatures and light, and then had to go back after exactly a week to collect the dew using a broom because touching the ground voided the whole thing.”

Remus nodded sagely. “There were spiders.”

“There were so many spiders. And then you’ve got to keep a mandrake leaf in your mouth for a full lunar cycle—without swallowing it or losing it. Try managing that with regular Quidditch practices.”

He paused dramatically.

“I swallowed mine. Twice.”

Hermione was very clearly trying not to laugh. A sticking charm would have solved that, no problem.

“And the worst part? You need a thunderstorm after the final night of the lunar cycle to charge it with magical tension. Do you have any idea how rare bloody thunderstorms are in the Scottish Highlands when you actually need one? We had to wait three months! Imagine three teenagers full of mischief having to remember to do the incantation at every sunrise and sundown for three months straight under the threat of starting all over if we forgot it just once!”

Hermione took a long sip of her tea, then coughed into the rim.

It suspiciously sounded like: “Weather manipulation spells.”

Sirius froze. Remus blinked.

Hermione didn’t even look up.

“You did not—” Sirius sat forward. “Tell me you did not just summon a bespoke thunderstorm.”

Hermione finally glanced up, all innocence and not an ounce of regret. “We also had lunar visibility guarantees in case of overcast skies when we had to assemble the phial. It was standard procedure.”

Sirius looked personally offended. “That’s criminal. You took the soul out of it.”

“I took the unpredictability and unnecessary suffering out of it,” Hermione countered. “Same thing, apparently.”

Sirius threw his arms toward Remus. “Do you hear this?”

Remus calmly sipped his own tea. “Honestly, I’m just trying to imagine how much less traumatised we’d be if we’d had a Hermione in charge back then.”

Hermione raised her mug in salute. “Glad to be of hypothetical service.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “You may be smug, but I bet your cat form still gets tangled in yarn.”

“I will hex you.”

“You’ll have to catch me first, Kitten.”

Remus sighed. “It’s going to be a very long five days until the full moon.”

Chapter Text

Since none of them had ever been to Little Hangleton before on account of Dumbledore being the one who had destroyed this particular Horcrux in Hermione’s original timeline, Apparition was off the table. So was the Knight Bus, as they did not want anyone in the wizarding world possibly remembering where they had gone exactly. So they Flooed to the nearest wizarding pub in Plymouth, then took a Muggle train out to the sleepy little village that looked like it had last updated its infrastructure in 1923.

Hermione stubbornly refused to ask any locals where they might find a “shack at the edge of town,” lest they draw attention and end up being the talk of the village knitting circle. Thankfully, both Sirius and Remus knew how to blend in among Muggles—faded jeans, worn jackets, and enough effortless cool to pass for eccentric dog walkers.

They wandered for the better part of an hour, winding through narrow lanes and tree-lined paths, until they passed the small, overgrown cemetery.

“We’re definitely coming back here later,” Hermione muttered, glancing over the iron gate.

Sirius slowed his step. “That sounded… vaguely necromantic.”

“Don’t ask,” Remus advised.

Eventually, Hermione’s senses—and the faint, crawling itch of residual dark magic—guided them out toward the edge of a wooded copse. The trees pressed close together, casting long shadows despite the midday sun, and a dirt track led up to what could generously be described as a structure.

“Very inviting,” Sirius said dryly, eyeing the shrivelled snake that had been nailed to the front door like a deranged Parselmagic knocker.

“We can’t just set it all on fire with Fiendfyre,” Hermione said, crouching to inspect the ground around the doorway. “It would be visible from the village. We’ll have to dismantle the wards and curses first. And under no circumstances are either of you to touch the ring with your bare hands. There’s a necrotising curse on it.”

“And you know this how?” Sirius asked, brow raised.

“Because our illustrious headmaster once took one look at the stone in that ring and chucked every ounce of caution out the window and decided to put it on,” Hermione replied grimly. “Let’s just say the effects weren’t pretty.”

“What’s the stone?” Remus asked.

“Story for another time,” Hermione said briskly, rising. “Let’s do this.”

She and Remus worked quickly and efficiently, peeling back layers of curses and ancient wards with the kind of seamless precision that left Sirius mostly standing there, feeling vaguely useless and increasingly annoyed about it.

About an hour later, the last ward cracked like a snapped icicle. The oppressive atmosphere inside the shack hit them like a wall. The air was thick with old dark enchantments that prickled across their skin.

Hermione’s steps were sure. She could feel it—like a pulse under the floorboards, drawing her in. The soul signature of Voldemort, foul and oily, clawed at the edge of her consciousness. She followed it straight to a corner of the room.

Who knew enduring another one of these around her neck on and off for months would be useful one day?

“Here,” she said, tapping her wand against the wood. The boards creaked, and with a careful incantation, she peeled them back to reveal a small, iron-bound box.

Another set of protections came off layer by layer. Finally, with a whispered command, the box hovered up into the air and popped open with a soft click.

And immediately, Hermione felt it.

A pressure—not physical, but mental—slamming against her Occlumency shields. The ring was trying to seduce her, to whisper to her, to plant the urge to touch it.

She pushed it back, jaw tight. Remus was fine, his mind closed, controlled.

Sirius, however… wasn’t doing as well.

From the edge of her vision, she saw his eyes go glassy. His hand twitched forward, reaching for the ring.

“Sirius—!”

Too late.

She slammed the box shut with her wand, but the compulsion held fast. Sirius didn’t stop.

Remus moved in a blur, tackling him to the ground just as his fingers were about to brush the iron casing. They landed with a thud and a muffled curse.

Hermione didn’t hesitate. With a sweep of her wand, she conjured a tight ring of Fiendfyre, flames swirling gold and crimson as she kept the blaze small and contained around the box.

The ring screamed.

Not audibly—but in the magic, in the air, in their very bones. And then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

Hermione let the fire collapse in on itself, leaving only ash… and the stone.

She stepped forward slowly, using the edge of her sleeve to retrieve it. The Resurrection Stone. Still intact. Still humming with old, strange power.

She stared at it for a moment, marvelling—not for the first time—at how the Peverell brothers had forged something that could withstand even Fiendfyre. Dumbledore had destroyed the ring with the sword of Gryffindor in her timeline. This was a better option.

Only once it was safely pocketed did she turn and hurry back to Sirius, still pinned under Remus and looking vaguely disoriented.

“Hey,” she said, crouching beside him. “You with us?”

Sirius blinked, his voice hoarse. “What just happened?”

“You scared the absolute life out of me,” she said, offering him her hand. “That’s what.”

Remus rolled off with a groan, and Sirius took Hermione’s hand, letting her pull him upright.

“No more cursed jewellery for you,” she said firmly. “And I retract what I said about your Occlumency. We are starting training tomorrow.

“Noted,” Sirius muttered, wincing. “I liked it better when cursed heirlooms just screamed at you.”

“Welcome to 1993,” Hermione said dryly. “Where everything’s awful, and nothing is simple.”

“And this,” Remus said, brushing ash off his jacket, “was the easy one, wasn’t it?”

Hermione just looked at him.

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

The sun was beginning to dip when they trudged back through Grimmauld’s door, Sirius trailing ash and Remus muttering about the lingering headache of soul magic. Hermione looked like she wanted to throw herself into a cold shower and then sleep for twelve hours.

Instead, Sirius clapped his hands and said, “Right. Pub.”

Hermione blinked at him. “Pub?”

“Pub,” he repeated with a grin. “We’ve just destroyed a piece of Voldemort’s soul and lived to tell the tale. That calls for drinks. I promised you, remember?” He pointed at her. “Once you got over hacking up a lung, I said I’d take you out.”

She hesitated, tugging her jumper sleeves down. “Are you sure… that’s wise?”

Sirius’s grin faltered just slightly. But he waved a hand. “I’m not planning to drown myself in Firewhisky and bad decisions. Just a pint. Or two. Some fresh air. A laugh. You deserve it after today.”

Hermione still looked uncertain, but Remus, already lounging in one of the armchairs with a cup of tea, gave her a mild nod. “You could use a break. We all could.”

“I know just the place,” Sirius added, eyes gleaming. “Bit of a jump. You two up for Liverpool?”

Hermione arched a brow. “Liverpool?”

“It’s got character,” Sirius promised. “And a jukebox.”

That… was not what she expected.

The pub in question, tucked into a quiet side street in the heart of Liverpool, was not the rowdy wizarding dive bar Hermione had imagined when Sirius Black said the word pub.

No, this was something else entirely.

The exterior featured an unassuming brick facade, with a wooden sign that read “The Cauldron & Cask,” in a tasteful font that tried a little too hard. Inside, it smelled faintly of hops, worn leather, and cinnamon. The lighting was warm, and the bar back was stacked with rows of gleaming glass bottles and Muggle craft brews with labels like Bewitching Blonde and Hallowed Porter.

“This is… not what I expected,” Hermione said as they were led to a corner booth. There was something dissonant yet charming in the way they were using wizarding terminology (more or less correctly), but the place was undeniably Muggle.

“What? You don’t think I have taste?” Sirius flopped into the seat opposite her, looking around fondly. “I found this place a couple o’ years before Azkaban. Came here once on a dare. Turns out I liked it better than half the wizarding places in London. No enchanted darts flying at your head. And the beer’s decent.”

“It’s very…” Hermione trailed off. “Crafty.”

“You mean it has chairs that don’t scream when you sit in them,” Remus said dryly as he joined them. “Weird, I know.”

Sirius waved over a server, ordered three pints of the “stormy stout” on tap, and raised his glass when they arrived.

“To one down,” he said.

“To not touching cursed objects,” Hermione added wryly.

“To doing things the moderately safe way for once,” Remus concluded.

They clinked glasses.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, Hermione let herself lean back into the booth, sip her pint, and exhale.

The fight wasn’t over. Not even close.

But for a few hours, in a warm little Muggle pub where no one knew their names or their battles, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

And Sirius—smiling without shadows, tapping along to the beat of a Bowie song on the jukebox—looked almost like the version of himself he might’ve been, in another life.

One pint turned into two.

Two pints turned into three.

By the time the condensation on their third glasses began to run rivulets down the sides, Remus tapped out, rubbing at his temples with a grimace.

“I’m starting to feel the moon,” he muttered. “That, and I’m officially too old for this.”

“You’re thirty-three,” Sirius pointed out, slurring only slightly.

“Exactly,” Remus replied, standing. “I’ll see you both at Grimmauld. Try not to get arrested.”

Hermione slid out of the booth, too. “We should go with him.”

But Sirius shook his head, slapping a few Muggle notes on the table (how he had them, she didn’t ask). “Not yet. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Sirius—”

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’ and grabbing her hand. “No arguments. I’m not kidnapping you, I’m apparating you somewhere extremely important.”

“You’re tipsy,” she said.

“I’m poetic,” he countered, very much not wanting to admit that weight did correlate with alcohol tolerance. “Big difference.”

Before she could object further, he pulled her into the empty corridor leading to the loos and Apparated them with a soft crack.

The landing was… wobbly. Sirius stumbled, muttering something about gravity being a prat, and Hermione had to catch his elbow to keep from ending up on the grass. When she looked up, blinking against the sudden wind, she realised they were in a quiet park nestled beside a broad, dark river. A stone bridge arched in the distance. Fairy lights twinkled in the trees, and the breeze carried the scent of water and late-summer blooms.

It was… romantic.

Suspiciously so.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“Found it once, years ago,” Sirius said. “Never brought anyone. Too nice. Didn’t want to ruin it.”

He looked at her then. A little flushed from the walk, or the drinks, or something else entirely. There was a softness in his expression she hadn’t seen before—something almost boyish beneath the usually brash exterior.

She swallowed. “Sirius—”

He kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed or dramatic or wild.

It was slow. Intentional. The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove anything, only ask—is this okay? Do you feel it too?

And Hermione, tipsy and full of warm stout and adrenaline and relief, let herself kiss him back.

Oh. Her mind offered a belated update. Oh no. He’s actually very good at this.

She wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, under the fairy lights and the soft hush of the river. But when they finally pulled apart, her breath caught in her throat.

She looked at him. Really looked at him. Shadows under his eyes. Bruises from the past still hiding behind the grin. She remembered the way his fingers had curled, reaching for the ring. The blank look on his face. The way it had taken a tackle from Remus to snap him out of it.

“You scared me today,” she said quietly.

Sirius’s expression shuttered slightly, but he didn’t look away.

“At the shack,” she clarified. “With the ring. I thought we’d lost you.”

“I’m still here,” he said, voice low.

“You didn’t look like you were,” she replied. “You looked… gone.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “Yeah. Well. That’s what it does, doesn’t it? Twists something good into a reason to bleed.”

She reached out, brushing her fingers over the back of his hand. “You scared me,” she said again, softer this time.

“I won’t let it happen again,” he said, and then, after a pause, added with a crooked smile, “So I guess you do like me.”

“You’re alright,” she said, sniffing, eyes suspiciously wet. “When you’re not licking people or accidentally getting possessed.”

“High standards,” he murmured. “I’ll do my best.”

They sat there a while longer, not touching, just existing next to each other while the river moved past.

Maybe tomorrow would bring chaos again.

But for now, there was this.

Hermione shivered slightly, though the air was warm and still. A moment later, she sneezed—just once, but loud enough to make Sirius flinch.

“Oi,” he said, already shrugging out of his jacket to place it over her shoulders. “Are you getting sick again? I swear, I’ll start boiling potions and stuffing you with Pepper-Up myself.”

“I’m not,” she insisted, voice muffled as she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Probably just the river air. Or residual trauma from your kissing.”

Sirius smirked, draping the jacket over her shoulders anyway. “Admit it—you swooned a little.”

“I sneezed.”

“Same thing, if you think about it very romantically and ignore basic biology.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t give the jacket back. “Alright, Casanova, we should head back.”

“Agreed,” Sirius said, already cracking his knuckles. “Where to—”

“No,” Hermione said firmly, cutting him off with a raised hand. “I’m apparating us. Your last attempt was already skirting dangerously close to splinching. I don’t fancy arriving at Grimmauld Place minus a toe or worse.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to think better of it. “Fair. I was aiming for that bench, and we landed in a flowerbed.”

“I’m pretty sure it was more like shrubbery.”

“I said poetic, not precise.”

Hermione sighed, stepping closer. “Hold on, drama king.”

Sirius grinned and grabbed her hand. “Lead the way, General.”

And with a quiet crack, they disappeared into the night.

The next morning, Hermione stood at the top of the cellar stairs, arms crossed and hair still damp from a shower, looking very much like someone mentally reviewing a checklist titled “How to Destroy a Piece of a Dark Lord Before Breakfast.”

“Kreacher,” she called, “can you and Sirius help remove the warding from the cellar door?”

The house-elf appeared with a soft pop, eyes narrowing slightly, as he muttered something about “finally honouring Master Regulus,” but he obeyed without complaint. Sirius, hair askew and mug of coffee in hand, followed with a slightly less cooperative expression.

“Do we have to do this now?” he muttered. “I haven’t even finished my tea.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who wanted the cellar clear for the full moon. And I’d rather not share breathing space with a locket radiating dark energy for another day.”

“Fair point,” he grumbled, sipping his tea. “Kreacher, you heard the general.”

It didn’t take long. Once the wards fell with a faint shimmer and the last layer of magical protection peeled away, Hermione descended the cellar steps with Sirius at her heels and Kreacher staying at the threshold, as if the room offended him on a molecular level.

Hermione knelt and opened the charmed box where the locket had been stored. She carefully lifted it from the velvet pouch, the ornate “S” gleaming dully in the low light.

“There’s something on it,” she murmured, turning it over in her hands. “An enchantment. Protective layering—it’s shielded while it’s locked.”

“You sure?” Sirius asked, leaning closer.

“Yeah.” She frowned, squinting. “I remember Harry had to speak Parseltongue to it. He said open, and that triggered the Horcrux’s defences. Only then could the sword actually destroy it.”

“So we unlock it first, and then destroy it?”

“Exactly,” Hermione said grimly. “And I’m guessing the same applies to Fiendfyre. Otherwise, it just bounces off.”

She took a deep breath and tried to recreate the guttural hiss Harry had once used.

“Hessh ha saaah?”

The locket didn’t so much as twitch.

She frowned, tried again, modulating the tone. “Hyeeshh haa sah”

Still nothing.

Hermione exhaled sharply through her nose. “Honestly, the irony’s killing me. Ron managed to do it to get us down Chamber of Secrets in the middle of a bloody battle, and I can’t get the vowel stress right.”

Sirius blinked. “Why is that ironic?”

She shot him a flat look. “First year. Charms class. ‘It’s Leviooosa, not Leviosaaa.’ I corrected Ron. Loudly. Publicly. We weren’t even friends yet. And now look at me—defeated by vowel placement.”

Sirius nodded at the locket. “Well, if you really need help, we can always bring in Harry. Let him hiss at it for five minutes.”

“No!” Hermione nearly dropped the locket. “Absolutely not. He’s not coming within fifty feet of this Horcrux. It’s nasty. It messes with your head. I don’t even want him to know it’s in the house.”

Sirius held up his hands. “Alright, alright. No Parseltongue teen saviour. Got it.”

Hermione sighed and rubbed her forehead. “There has to be a way I can replicate it. If I could just hear it again—objectively. From the outside, not how I remember it sounding in my head.”

Sirius tilted his head. “Well, there is always rewatching memories in a Pensieve?”

“Yes!” Hermione lit up. “That would be perfect. If I could view the memory from a third-person perspective, I could pick up the exact sound.” Then she paused. “But do the Blacks have one?”

“Not that I know of,” Sirius said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Though my family did keep a cursed music box that made people hallucinate they were drowning, so… close?”

Hermione grimaced.

“But,” Sirius added, snapping his fingers, “as you so eloquently put it once—I’m filthy rich. I’ll buy you one.”

Hermione blinked. “You can’t just… buy a Pensieve. They’re incredibly rare.”

Sirius just shrugged. “So is common sense in this house, and yet we make do. I’ll pull some strings. Worst case, I call in a favour from Gringotts.”

“You’re being absurd.”

“I’m being useful,” he said smugly. “Which, let’s be honest, is rare enough that you should take advantage of it.”

Hermione didn’t smile. Not really. But her lips quirked ever so slightly as she muttered, “Fine. But no cursed music boxes, Sirius.”

“No promises.”

“You didn’t come as Padfoot last night,” Hermione said softly, not quite looking at him as she tucked the locket carefully back into its pouch. Apparently, this wasn’t going to be today’s project after all.

Sirius leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. “Wasn’t sure if I was invited,” he said after a pause, voice rough around the edges.

She didn’t answer right away; she just drew the velvet cords tight and tied them off with a precise little knot. “I thought we clarified already that you are always welcome as Padfoot. Especially if it helps you sleep. Did you sleep?”

“Like a baby for the first time in... Merlin, I don’t even know how long. Bit hungover, though. Probably shouldn’t have had that third pint. Or the fourth. Or whatever came after the thing in the copper mug.”

“That was mine, and you stole it,” Hermione pointed out, tone dry.

Sirius grinned faintly. “You looked like you weren’t going to finish it.”

“I wasn’t. Because it had chilli in it.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Explains the fire. I thought I was having an epiphany.”

Hermione finally glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. “You know,” she said, quietly now, “it was nice.”

“Which part?”

She gave him a look. “Don’t push your luck.”

Sirius held up his hands. “I’m not. I swear. Just... didn’t want to make it a thing if you didn’t want it to be a thing.”

Hermione closed the trunk with a click and rested her hands on the lid for a second too long.

“Maybe it is a thing,” she said. “Maybe we just don’t know what kind yet.”

Sirius nodded, something softer flickering behind his eyes. “Alright. I can live with that.”

“Good.” She stood, brushing off her knees. “Now come and let’s figure out where you are getting a Pensieve from as you promised, or we’re raiding a Department of Mysteries storage room by Tuesday.”

He smirked. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

“Oh, it is,” Hermione said, already marching out of the cellar. “I’ll bring the thunder spells.”

“Godric’s flaming ghost, I love a woman with contingency plans,” Sirius muttered, and followed her up the stairs.

Remus shuffled into the kitchen with a robe that had seen better days and hair that looked like it had fought a small thunderstorm and lost. He blinked blearily at Hermione, who was halfway through her second cup of tea and surrounded by what looked like six separate to-do lists, a diagram of the Gringotts vault system, and a hand-drawn map of Hogwarts that had somehow acquired moving doodles of instructions on how to get the Horcrux.

“Morning,” he rasped, voice still rough with sleep. “Or whatever time it is.”

Hermione looked up with a bright, too-awake smile. “Morning! There’s fresh tea.”

Remus glanced at her, then the avalanche of parchment, then back at her.

“…We never went to the Ministry.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“To register you,” Remus clarified, pouring himself a cup and sinking into a chair. “We got your wand, remember? Then you… how do I put this… skipped merrily into War General mode and decided, in your infinite Gryffindor wisdom, that yesterday was the perfect day to hunt a Horcrux.”

Hermione winced slightly. “Oh.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he continued, stirring his tea. “Destroying ancient soul magic was very productive. Very cathartic. I feel closer to both of you now that I’ve tackled Sirius into the dirt.”

“I’d argue that was medically necessary.”

“Oh, it was. Still felt very team-building.”

Hermione sighed and rubbed at her temples. “Right. Ministry. Today. I’ll reshuffle the list.”

“Excellent,” Remus said, taking a long sip. “Before you declare war on Bellatrix or convince us to rob a bank.”

“…That’s next week.”

“I figured.”

Sirius wandered in at that moment, yawning. “Is she back to reorganising our calendar with blood and colour-coding again?”

“Always,” Remus said, without missing a beat.

Hermione just pointed at him with her quill. “You’re not wrong.”

Sirius snagged a slice of toast from the table like it had personally offended him. “You two go do the whole Ministry shebang. I can live without another round of cameras flashing in my face.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You’re not exactly famous for avoiding the spotlight.”

“True,” he said through a mouthful of toast. “But there’s a difference between heroic spotlight and bureaucratic hellscape. Paperwork doesn’t come with applause. Or fan mail.”

“Or criminal charges,” Remus muttered.

Sirius pointed his toast at him. “Exactly. Also, if I never have to fill out another ‘Statement of Magical Intent’ again, it’ll be too soon.”

“Noted,” Hermione said dryly. “You’ll stay here and do absolutely nothing irresponsible, dangerous, or laced with potential consequences, right?”

Sirius blinked at her with exaggerated innocence—an expression that, on him, somehow looked like a dog caught mid-bin raid while still denying it. “Define ‘consequences.’”

Hermione didn’t even flinch. “Anything that ends with paperwork, blood, or an unscheduled visit from the Department of Magical Catastrophes.”

He lifted a finger as if to bargain. “What about mild emotional trauma and highly questionable decision-making?”

“That’s your baseline,” Remus muttered, without looking up from his copy of the Daily Prophet.

Sirius beamed at him. “See? Moony understands me.”

“Also explains why I drink,” Remus added, sipping his tea.

Hermione closed her notebook with a decisive snap. “Go on then, what are you planning?”

Sirius leaned forward, lowering his voice as if they were conspiring. “I was thinking of seeing Harry.”

Hermione’s expression immediately shifted from sceptical to something suspiciously maternal. “Oh?”

“Before going to Knockturn, that is,” he added, far too quickly, “to hunt down a black-market artefact dealer who can get us a Pensieve.”

There was a short, tense silence.

Hermione stared at him. “Are you seeing Harry before or after a jaunt with some shady characters who sell cursed objects out of reinforced trunks?”

“Before, obviously,” Sirius said, as if that settled the matter entirely. “I want to take him to a public Quidditch pitch in Salisbury so he can try out his new Firebolt before term starts. Thought it’d be a nice bonding experience.”

“You bought him a new broom?” Hermione blinked, the sarcasm stalling for a beat. “That actually sounds… kind of nice.”

Sirius preened slightly. “It’s top-of-the-line. Fast, sleek, almost definitely not cursed.”

“I was actually wondering if he was going to get a new broom now that, with you cleared, his Nimbus 2000 wouldn’t get swept into the Whomping Willow by the wind after he fell off it from Dementor exposure.”

“Bit of a bleak way to phrase it,” Remus muttered around his toast.

“Oh, it gets better,” Hermione continued, undeterred. “Now, younger me doesn’t have to get that Firebolt confiscated by McGonagall either—no suspiciously anonymous Christmas packages to raise red flags.”

“That improves her quality of life by about fifty per cent, I bet,” Remus said thoughtfully. “She’ll still have a Time-Turner, though, right?”

“Unfortunately,” Hermione sighed. “She’ll be overcommitted, underfed, and one mistimed sneeze away from paradoxing the entire timeline.”

“Sounds familiar,” Sirius muttered into his coffee.

“And,” Hermione added, “I guess Ron won’t get mad at her for Crookshanks’s antics either, since Scabbers isn’t around anymore.”

Sirius perked up. “Hey, look at that! We’re making real progress. Timeline repairs and improved teenage social cohesion.”

“Now if we could just avoid the whole Buckbeak trial thing…” Hermione trailed off, rubbing her temple. “Remus, can you remind Hagrid—gently—that Hippogriffs are not appropriate first-lesson material for Care of Magical Creatures?”

“Trial?” Remus asked, blinking.

Hermione waved a hand, exasperated. “Draco Malfoy decided to get cheeky with Buckbeak despite clear instructions on being polite. Got a talon slash on his forearm for his troubles. He then ran to daddy dearest, who pulled enough strings to get the poor thing sentenced to death.”

“I was researching trial cases for Hagrid in the middle of the night during second term, like it was my N.E.W.T. project,” she added, rubbing her eyes. “And this was on top of dealing with time travel, a potential murder plot, and two boys who thought emotional maturity was a kind of magical creature.”

“Sorry, you lost me at the point where you had Harry’s broom confiscated,” Sirius said, brow furrowing.

“I was worried for his safety, alright?” Hermione said defensively. “You were supposedly after him, and suddenly he gets a top-of-the-line broom with no note or sender? I was having first-year flashbacks—Quirrell trying to jinx Harry’s broom mid-air, remember?”

“Fair enough,” Sirius said after a beat. “Did he get it back, at least?”

“He did,” Hermione confirmed. “Eventually. But Harry and Ron didn’t speak to me for weeks between that and the Crookshanks versus Scabbers incident.”

She gave him a wry smile. “I’m honestly relieved she—well, younger me—gets to skip all that this time around. Honestly, it’s already shaping up to be a better year.”

“Good,” Sirius said softly, then grinned. “Although I feel cheated I didn’t get to see you take on Lucius Malfoy in a legal argument. I bet you were terrifying.”

“I mean, I only did the research for Hagrid, but I would have quoted obscure case law and cried on command like a pro,” Hermione said matter-of-factly.

“I knew I liked you,” he said with feeling.

“Alright, enough sentimentality,” Remus interjected mildly, though his eyes crinkled at the edges. “If Sirius is going to be playing Quidditch dad and illegal artefact buyer, I’d like it on the record that I’m staying far away from Knockturn Alley.”

“Wise choice,” Hermione said, jotting something down on one of the many scrolls now scattered across the kitchen table. “We should head to the Ministry and get my paperwork sorted.”

“Joy,” he muttered. “I do love a good bureaucracy.”

“And Sirius,” she said, fixing him with a sharp look. “If you are going to Knockturn, at least take a glamoured appearance and do not engage in polite conversation with anyone who has visible skull tattoos.”

“I’m not an amateur, Hermione,” he said, affronted.

“You’re a Black,” she replied.

Sirius sighed, flung his toast crust back onto the plate, and stood. “Fine, fine. Glamour up, be charming, don’t get arrested. Merlin, you’re bossy in the mornings.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly. “It’s why we get things done.”

Remus stretched and stood, mug in hand. “I’m going to find something resembling decent robes before we descend into the Ministry pit. Sirius, try not to trade your wand for a cursed kettle or something while we’re out.”

“No promises,” Sirius called after him, already heading toward the door. “I hear cursed kettles are very in this season.”

Hermione just rolled her eyes, gathering up her parchment. “Honestly, it’s like working with a hyperactive Kneazle.”

“And yet—” he spread his arms wide “—you keep me around.”

“Only because Remus keeps vetoing my darker suggestions.”

Remus gave a sage nod. “That’s true. I do enjoy vetoing things. It’s the closest I get to power.”

The Ministry’s atrium was as bustling and bureaucratic as ever—brass doors swinging, witches in heeled boots clacking past, the occasional memo-winged paper dive-bombing a distracted intern. Remus pretended to guide Hermione through the crowd with the ease of someone who had been there too many times and developed a mild allergy to every department except the Archives. In all actuality, Hermione probably knew the whole building better than anyone alive.

They ascended to Level 5, Department of International Magical Co-operation, where the Residency Affairs Office in room 503 hummed with quills, filing cabinets, and the slightly desperate energy of wizarding red tape.

Behind the main counter, a witch with sharp eyeliner, an impressive teal hair wrap, and a name tag that read “Sloane Blair” was flipping through a pile of parchment like it had personally offended her.

Remus stepped up to the desk with his most patient smile. “Hi, Remus Lupin. My cousin would like to apply for British magical residency.”

Sloane glanced up, eyes flicking between him and Hermione. “Right. Name?”

“Ione Lupin,” Hermione said smoothly.

Sloane tapped her quill against a register. “And where are you coming from?”

“A small conclave near Geneva,” Hermione replied. “You wouldn’t know it.”

“Ooh, that’s nice,” Sloane said brightly, scribbling something down. “I always wanted to try that Muggle sport. Skeeting.”

Hermione blinked. “Do you mean skating or skiing? Both are valid options, almost all year round in Switzerland.”

“Which is the one where you throw yourself down the side of a mountain on two thin planks of wood?”

“That would be skiing.”

“Right.” Sloane nodded sagely. “Sounds terrifying. Anyway, do you have your official educational records with you?”

Hermione tried to look apologetic, though it came off more like politely exasperated. “Unfortunately, I have none. I was homeschooled.”

Sloane made a face as if Hermione had said she was educated by feral goats. “Eeh, that’s going to be a problem. You’re required to have at least O.W.L.s or equivalent certification to legally perform magic in Britain. Standardised measures, you understand.”

“Are there N.E.W.T.s being administered next week by any chance?” Hermione asked innocently. “I’d like to sign up to take all of them. Except Divination.”

Both Remus and Sloane turned to look at her like she’d just suggested she could apparate to the moon if given enough parchment.

Sloane blinked. “You… want to take all the N.E.W.T.s?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, tone cheerful. “Except Divination. I refuse to be graded on how convincingly I can pretend a teacup has a personality disorder.”

Sloane opened her mouth. Closed it. Then flipped open a schedule book. “Er… right. Well, there’s an exam session starting Monday. Two days. All-day testing to fit everything in. I think Divination is a two-hour block on Tuesday, unfortunately, in the middle of the day, so that doesn’t really help you. Normally, we need transcripts from a formal institution, but…” She eyed Hermione as if she were uncertain whether she was dealing with a genius, a lunatic, or both. “…I’ll put you down for provisional status. Fill out the Residency Request Form and the Exam Application. It’ll be two Galleons per subject.”

Hermione reached into the little pouch Sirius had given her for the wand purchase that she had never used because Remus decided to be gallant at Ollivanders. She retrieved the ten Galleons there, then added another twelve from the stitched leather purse she’d brought from the future. She dropped the coins into the tray with a soft clink, which made Sloane’s eyebrows inch even higher.

“Er. Right then.” The witch took the payment and slid over a pair of densely worded parchment scrolls and a self-inking quill. “Have at it. Try not to hex anyone while you’re here. The DMLE would have to arrest you if done before exam results are in.”

“No promises,” Hermione muttered, already scanning the small print like it was a casual crossword.

Remus leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching with a faintly amused smile as Hermione filled out half the form in under a minute.

“She’s not joking, you know,” he said to Sloane. “She could take them today if you let her.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Sloane replied, watching Hermione’s quill flash across the page. “We had a bloke once who tried to bribe his way through with Firewhisky and a bribe in the form of interpretive dance. This one’s a breath of fresh air.”

“Terrifying fresh air,” Remus said with a chuckle.

Hermione handed the stack of forms back exactly ten minutes later—every page filled out in perfect block lettering, initialled where required, and annotated with neat footnotes clarifying ambiguous phrasing and correcting a typo on subsection C-4.

Sloane blinked at the documents, then looked up at Hermione as though she’d just been handed the sacred scrolls of Merlin himself.

“These are… pristine,” she said, with something approaching awe. “Did you cross-reference statute 462-B with subsection eleven on magical ancestry documentation?”

“I did,” Hermione said politely. “And added a clarification on clause E for future applicants. It was a bit unclear whether ‘guardian’ included magical guardianships sealed by ritual.”

Sloane cradled the folder with the reverence most wizards reserved for heirloom spellbooks or particularly difficult pub quiz victories. “I’ll… pass that on.”

Hermione smiled faintly.

“I’ll just need to register your wand, and we’re done,” Sloane said, shaking herself a little as she reached for a slim brass rod.

Hermione offered her new wand—chestnut and phoenix feather, still unfamiliar in her hand but humming with responsive magic.

Sloane tapped it with the brass rod, murmured a series of incantations, and recorded the wand’s magical signature on a floating scroll before giving a firm nod.

“All set.” She reached for her wand, flicked it once, and a glowing Ministry seal stamped itself across Hermione’s documents. “Congratulations, Miss Lupin. You’re now an official magical resident of the United Kingdom, pending successful completion of your N.E.W.T.s.”

She handed the bundle back with a small but genuine smile. “Good luck. Though something tells me you won’t need it.”

Hermione nodded, accepting the stamped documents with steady fingers. “Thank you. I’ll do my best anyway.”

Sloane leaned over the counter and whispered conspiratorially, “If you want to get on the good side of the Charms examiner, bring a coffee. Strong. No sugar.”

“Duly noted.”

As they stepped back into the lift, Remus turned to her with a faint shake of his head. “All the N.E.W.T.s, really?”

Hermione gave him a look. “After working nearly ten years as an Unspeakable, this is going to be like filing regular paperwork.”

He laughed. “You’re going to terrify the exam board.”

“That’s the goal,” she said primly.

The lift dinged, and they were off again—another box ticked, another identity made slightly more real.

Now, all that was left was not accidentally toppling the Ministry in the process.

But they’d save that for next week.

When they stepped through the front door of Grimmauld Place, the house greeted them with its usual creaks and sighs, like it was mildly annoyed to have occupants again, despite the renovations. Or maybe because of them.

Sirius, however, greeted them with far more enthusiasm.

“I managed to convince Harry to speak Parseltongue for you,” he announced, like he’d just returned from a diplomatic summit instead of whatever ridiculous errand he’d actually been on.

Hermione stopped dead. “You what? I thought I told you I don’t want Harry anywhere near the Horcrux,” she said, barely keeping her voice in check. Her rant was fully primed and ready to fire.

“No, no—I know,” Sirius said, holding up his hands as if she were a particularly irate Hippogriff. “I wasn’t going to let him sniff dark magic or anything. I just told him I have a mysterious, academically inclined friend who’s very interested in obscure magical languages. Totally safe. First, of course, I had to explain to him that it’s actually a learnable language. Apparently, he thought it was something only passed down through bloodlines, like male pattern baldness or the ability to glower like Snape.”

“That’s... actually a common misconception,” Hermione admitted reluctantly, rubbing her temple.

“Thank you,” Sirius said, pointing as if to say, see, I did a thing.

Hermione stared at him.

Remus stared at him.

Sirius looked between them, mildly offended. “Why does everyone assume I don’t read?”

“Because you usually don’t,” Remus said mildly, hanging up his coat.

“That is slander,” Sirius sniffed. “I’ve read plenty. Mostly racy magazines and stuff. But still.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “You told Harry about Parseltongue being teachable?”

Sirius nodded, clearly proud of himself. “Yep. And after that, I reassured him that he wasn’t a budding Dark Lord just because he could talk to snakes. Told him his abilities don’t define him, his choices do. Peak parenting skills, if I say so myself.”

“That’s... surprisingly wise,” Remus said, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m full of surprises,” Sirius replied, and then ruined it by adding, “Also, I may have accidentally compared him to me, which I think terrified us both a little.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sirius.”

“Look,” he said, waving a hand, “he asked if I ever knew anyone else who could speak Parseltongue, and I panicked. I didn’t want to lie.”

“You could’ve just said ‘not personally,’” Hermione muttered. “Like a normal person.”

“I’ve never done anything like a normal person,” Sirius replied proudly, then dunked his biscuit with a flourish.

Hermione slumped into the chair opposite him, her stack of Ministry forms nearly toppling over. “So now Harry thinks I’m a mysterious witch with a Parseltongue fetish?”

“Only academically,” Sirius said. “Probably.”

“That’s not better.”

“It’s slightly better,” Remus offered diplomatically, taking the seat between them. “And I’ll admit, if this means you can finally get the vowel stress right and open that locket without risking your soul or your sanity, it’s worth the minor panic attack.”

“I just wish you had asked me first,” Hermione said with a sigh to Sirius.

Sirius’s expression shifted slightly—still smug, but softer now. “I knew you’d try to talk yourself out of it,” he said. “And you’d probably try to protect Harry’s feelings, and make a spreadsheet about emotional risks, and draft a letter of magical consent, and by then it’d be September and he’d be back at Hogwarts.”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again. He wasn’t wrong.

“I thought you were getting a Pensieve,” Hermione said, completely resigned to this madness.

“But this is better! Directly from the source instead of trying to learn from a what? Decade-old, possibly waterlogged, highly subjective memory?” Sirius gestured broadly, like he’d solved magic itself.

“Alright, hand over the recording orb then,” she said, extending her hand palm up.

Sirius raised a brow. “Who said anything about a recording?”

She froze. “…You mean you didn’t record it?”

“Nope.” He looked very pleased with himself. “Because Harry’s going to teach you. In person. Face to face. I’ve set it up for tomorrow, before he goes back to Hogwarts.”

Hermione stared at him, visibly short-circuiting. “You what?”

Sirius blinked innocently. “Arranged a very helpful educational moment with your favourite Parselmouth. You said you needed to learn the proper intonation. Who better to coach you through saying ‘open’ than the bloke who’s done it in a life-or-death snake vault scenario?”

“That’s not the issue,” she said, clearly spiralling. “What exactly are we going to tell him? About me?”

Sirius shrugged. “Didn’t we already establish your identity as Remus’s cousin? Went through the whole magical adoption and everything?”

“Yes, but—!” She rubbed her temples. “He’s not stupid. What if he recognises me?”

Sirius tilted his head, giving her a once-over. “Pretty sure if we took current Hermione and aged her up seventeen years, she wouldn’t look exactly the same as you. You’re taller, your face is sharper, your hair behaves now—mostly.”

“Thank you,” she muttered, not entirely mollified.

“You’re welcome. I’m saying he might clock the vibe, sure, but visually? You’re maybe, maybe, mildly related. The disguise is holding.”

Hermione sighed and sat down hard on the couch, muttering, “So are we somehow pretending the Grangers are related to the Lupins now?”

Sirius flopped down beside her, stretching like a smug housecat. “Only if anyone asks.”

Remus re-entered at that precise moment, handing out tea with all the grace of a man used to navigating chaos before his first full cup.

“What did I miss?” he asked.

“Hermione’s worried Harry’s going to realise she’s not really your cousin.”

“Well, you are now in every way that matters,” Remus said, settling into his chair. “Magically and bureaucratically. Which makes the truth… subjective.”

“I hate that that sentence makes sense,” Hermione muttered.

Remus raised his cup in a toast. “Welcome to wizarding legal logic.”

Sirius clinked his mug against hers, unbothered. “You’ll be fine. He won’t see you as her. He’ll see you as you. The helpful, slightly terrifying witch who helped clear his godfather’s name and might make him hiss at a locket.”

“…You’re terrible at reassurance.”

“True, but I am bringing snacks to the Parseltongue lesson.”

“Great. Maybe I’ll choke on a biscuit and die of secondhand embarrassment.”

“You’ll do great,” Remus said dryly. “Just don’t call the teacup ‘mother’ by accident.”

And despite herself, Hermione laughed.

Chapter Text

After Remus had trudged upstairs—his joints stiff, his patience thinner than the moon that was slowly swelling overhead—Hermione and Sirius remained in the parlour, nursing what was left of their drinks. The fire crackled softly, casting lazy amber shadows across the threadbare carpet and up the walls.

The memory of last night’s kiss was still there. Unshakable. If anything, it felt closer now than it had that morning, like the echo of it had only been waiting for the quiet.

Hermione tried to focus on her book.

Tried.

She hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

Sirius, sprawled across the other end of the sofa like it was a throne built for one particularly dishevelled prince of anarchy, hadn’t spoken in just as long. His eyes weren’t on the fire. Or the book she was pretending to read.

They were on her.

She finally glanced up. Met his gaze.

The look in his eyes wasn’t playful. It wasn’t teasing.

It was hungry.

She swallowed.

And then he moved.

Crossed the space between them in one fluid motion, taking the book from her hands—gently—and tossing it onto the side table without ever breaking eye contact.

And then he kissed her.

There was no hesitation this time. No tentative testing of boundaries. Just the press of his mouth against hers—firm, sure, like he knew she wouldn’t pull away.

And she didn’t.

When his hand slid into her hair and he deepened the kiss, Hermione made a sound low in her throat, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. It had been so long since anyone had looked at her like this. Touched her like this. Like she was not just wanted, but needed. Like he had no idea what he’d do with himself if she said stop.

His body pressed closer, and she let him guide her gently back onto the cushions. One knee settled between her legs, and his hand found her hip, steadying himself—and her—as their kisses grew hotter, more urgent.

She gasped into his mouth when his hand slid up the curve of her waist, fingers skimming under the hem of her shirt.

And still, she didn’t stop him.

Gods, this was probably a bad idea. She still wasn’t entirely sure where they stood, what this was becoming. But pushing him away now felt impossible.

Wrong.

Because Sirius—haunted, sharp-tongued, lonely Sirius—needed something solid. Something real. And she knew what rejection would look like on his face.

She wasn’t being charitable, though. That would’ve been a lie.

Because she wanted him too.

His hand cupped her breast, fingers curling gently through the fabric of her bra, and she let out a shaky breath against his neck.

And then—

Pop!

Kreacher appeared in the room like an unwanted moral compass. His nose crinkled with offence, and his voice snapped through the tension like a curse.

“Master’s doing is unbecoming of House of Black,” he said, scandalised, “especially in the parlour. Master Sirius ought to remember that the sofa was hand-stitched by Mistress Walburga’s aunt—”

“Bloody—KREACHER!” Sirius barked, twisting around. Why he had decided to keep this one couch, he didn’t know, but it felt like a mistake now.

But the house-elf had already vanished with a soft, disapproving crack.

Hermione, frozen beneath him, burst into laughter. Full-bodied, chest-shaking, helpless laughter.

Sirius sighed, dropping his forehead to her shoulder with a long, theatrical groan. “I can’t believe I got cock-blocked by a sentient tea cosy.”

“Welcome home,” Hermione said, breathless from laughing.

He rolled off her with a huff, flopping beside her on the sofa like a man who’d just had his dreams personally hexed by his ancestors.

There was a long silence.

Then Hermione turned slightly, brushing a kiss—soft, brief—against his cheek.

“Maybe we shouldn’t rush,” she said gently. “It’s… it’s not that I don’t want to. I just…”

He nodded once. Didn’t push. Didn’t pout. Just sat up slowly, his fingers laced together between his knees as he stared at the fire.

“You’re right,” he said after a beat. “I’m just…” He shook his head. “It’s been a while since someone didn’t look at me like I was about to break something.”

Hermione looked at him—really looked at him.

Tired. Thinner than he should be, though not quite as severely. Still handsome, yes, but in a way that made you ache a little. Not just for who he was, but for who he could’ve been if the war hadn’t hollowed him out.

“Well,” she said softly, “I’m not made of glass.”

He glanced over. Smiled faintly. “No. You’re made of iron filings and fire and 3 a.m. research binges.”

“You forgot tea,” she said, standing and stretching.

“And tea,” he amended. “Terrifying amounts of tea.”

She paused at the parlour door. “I’ll leave it cracked.”

His eyebrows raised.

“I meant for Padfoot, not you,” she added pointedly, smirking as she left.

Later that night, when she turned over in bed, something warm and heavy bumped against her legs with a huff. A moment later, a large, black dog nosed under the duvet like he owned the place and curled himself along the curve of her spine.

She didn’t say anything.

But she reached back without looking and let her fingers curl into his fur.

He didn’t move.

And for the first time in a very long time, neither of them had a hard time falling asleep.

The private parlour at the back of the Leaky Cauldron was quiet save for the occasional creak of floorboards above and the distant clatter of crockery in the pub’s kitchen. Hermione sat at the little writing desk, attempting to look like a woman doing research and not a time-displaced witch waiting for a meeting with her teenage quasi-brother.

Sirius was sprawled in an armchair in the corner like he owned the room—or perhaps like he was considering starting a band in it. He was polishing an apple on his sleeve with the kind of focus usually reserved for enchanted blades or illicit magical artefacts.

The door creaked open, and Harry stuck his head in.

“Hi. Is this the room for weirdly specific linguistic research or amateur snake impressions?”

Hermione glanced up sharply, her mouth twitching.

Sirius waved the apple in greeting. “Come in, Professor Parselmouth. We’ve been waiting.”

Harry stepped inside, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, and nodded politely at Hermione. “I rather hope Sirius didn’t Apparate you here. Because I’m still traumatised from yesterday. Took me to Salisbury to test out the Firebolt, spun us through five counties, and I think my stomach migrated to my left foot.”

Hermione managed a small, perfectly polite smile. “No, we walked. Everyone’s spleen is safe.”

Harry grinned. “Glad to hear it. I’m Harry.”

“Ione Lupin,” she said, shaking his hand. “Remus’s cousin.”

He was so young.

Not the hardened boy who’d walked into the Forbidden Forest to face death—not yet. Still gangly, his hair wind-tousled, his trainers scuffed, but his eyes were bright, curious, kind.

Hermione smiled, trying not to visibly panic.

“That’s a really cool name,” Harry said as he sat down. “I’ve never heard it before. Kind of reminds me of my friend Hermione’s, actually. Ron’s just started calling her ‘Mione,’ which she hates. Says it’s not a real name, which… fair.”

Hermione fought not to react.

Instead, she cleared her throat lightly. “I’ve… heard about her. Sirius has mentioned you all. And I understand my cousin will be teaching you this year?”

“Yeah! Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Harry said, brightening. “That’ll be loads better than last year. Our last teacher was—well, he didn’t really teach. Just sort of glittered and screamed.”

Hermione smiled. “Well, I’m very grateful you’re willing to help me. I know this is a bit odd.”

Sirius gave her a look from the corner that said understatement of the decade, but wisely said nothing.

Harry shrugged. “No problem. You want to learn Parseltongue, right? Sirius said it’s for some kind of magical research?”

“In a way,” Hermione said carefully. “There are certain magical structures—wards, spells, artefacts—that are only responsive to commands spoken in Parseltongue. It’s incredibly rare, but it’s old magic. Older than most wizarding languages. And the vocal resonance is tied to the activation.”

Harry blinked. “So like… saying stuff in Parseltongue actually does something? Besides sounding weird?”

“Precisely,” Hermione said. “Which is why I wanted to learn a few specific phrases—if that’s alright with you.”

“Sure, yeah,” Harry said with a grin. “You don’t have to act like I’m doing you a favour or something. It’s not like I get asked to teach Parseltongue often.”

“I imagine not.”

“And hey, if you like research and complicated magic, you have to meet Hermione,” Harry added suddenly. “She’s brilliant. She’d have so many questions for you.”

Hermione nodded quickly, lips pressed into something she hoped passed for a smile. “That would be… interesting.”

Sirius let out a muffled cough from the armchair, which suspiciously sounded like, putting it mildly.

Harry didn’t seem to notice. “Alright, so… the thing about Parseltongue is, it’s less about words and more about intent and pronunciation. It’s kind of like singing and hissing at the same time.”

“Comforting,” Hermione muttered.

“Try this,” Harry said, leaning forward. “Just repeat what I say. Sss-haaahhh. That means ‘speak.’”

She mimicked it, her mouth moving uncertainly. “Sss… haah?”

“Not bad,” Harry said encouragingly. “Okay, now try hessshh… hhh saaih. That’s the closest thing to ‘open.’ At least that’s what worked when we had to get into the Chamber.”

Hermione’s breath caught slightly. The phrase.

“Hessshh ha saaah?” she echoed, testing it.

“Closer,” Harry said, nodding. “More emphasis on the second hiss. Kind of like… dragging it from the back of your throat.”

She repeated it again.

This time, the air around them felt different. Charged. Like a door was listening from a distance.

“Yeah!” Harry beamed. “That’s it. You’ve got it.”

“You’re an excellent teacher,” Hermione said, and she meant it.

Harry ducked his head, clearly pleased. “Thanks. I mean, I’ve never taught anyone anything before—well, not properly.” He paused.

Hermione chuckled softly. “Still. You’re patient. Encouraging. That’s more than a lot of actual professors can say.”

Harry tilted his head, studying her. “You talk kind of like Hermione, too. Not just the name thing.”

Sirius choked slightly on his apple.

Hermione shot him a warning look before smiling tightly at Harry. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Harry said thoughtfully. “You sound like someone who reads a lot of books and corrects people’s grammar. And probably doesn’t sleep much.”

Sirius muttered, “She really doesn’t.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Well, that’s very observant of you.”

Harry shrugged, grinning. “Hermione would say it’s logical deduction. I think she just likes being right.”

“Some people do,” Sirius drawled.

Hermione folded her hands in her lap. “Thank you again, Harry. This will be immensely helpful for my research.”

He waved it off. “No worries. Do you want me to write down any of the phrases or…?”

“That would be lovely, if you have the time.”

“Sure,” Harry said, already fishing around in his satchel. “I’ve got parchment upstairs. I’ll grab it.”

He stood and padded toward the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a tick!”

The moment the door shut, Hermione slumped in her chair like someone who had just been released from a full-body bind.

“Oh. My. God,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands. “That was… surreal. Horrifying. Wonderful. I don’t know whether I want to hug him or go lie down in a dark room.”

Sirius, still perched in his chair with the unbothered air of a man who had once tried to prank a Slytherin prefect with a charmed ferret, gave her a fond smile. “You did great.”

“I kept waiting for him to recognise me,” Hermione said, voice muffled through her fingers. “I thought any second now he’d look at me and go, ‘Hang on, aren’t you—’ and then the universe would explode.”

“Well, it didn’t,” Sirius said, stretching. “He didn’t. And you didn’t even call him sweetheart or start lecturing him about his Potions notes, so I’d call that a win.”

Hermione groaned. “He said I sounded like myself.”

“Yeah,” Sirius said with a shrug, “but like yourself disguised as Remus’s Swiss-raised cousin with better hair. You’re fine. Plus, he’s thirteen. No offence, but the boy still thinks his trainers are sentient.”

Hermione gave him a baleful look. “You’re not helping.”

“I never am,” he agreed. “But seriously—he likes you. Thinks you’re clever, kind, a bit mysterious. Honestly, if he had figured it out, he probably would’ve just offered to help you break into the Department of Mysteries by now.”

“I hate that that’s probably true.”

Sirius smiled, then rose from his chair and crossed to her. He rested a hand on the back of her chair, voice lower now.

“You did something brave. Again. Facing him like this? Helping him, without slipping and giving anything away? That’s not easy.”

Hermione glanced up at him, eyes soft. “Thanks.”

The door creaked again, and Harry returned, holding a rolled parchment and a pencil stub. “Alright, I wrote out the pronunciation guides like you asked. I added some notes on inflection—sort of a cheat sheet, really.”

Hermione accepted it like it was a sacred text. “Thank you, Harry. This is perfect.”

He beamed. “Happy to help.”

“Now,” Sirius clapped his hands. “I believe we’re overdue for ice cream, aren’t we?”

Harry’s face lit up. “Yes! Triple scoop tradition.”

“You coming?” Sirius asked Hermione.

She hesitated for half a second. “No, I’ve got some reading to catch up on.” She smiled. “Besides, it sounds like a tradition.”

Sirius tilted his head, eyes lingering. “Next time, then.”

“Next time,” she agreed, eyes drifting to Harry, already halfway out the door with a grin.

As they left, she watched them go, heart caught somewhere between pride and heartbreak.

You’re doing alright, she thought silently, watching the boy disappear into the pub.

And then she turned back to the parchment, whispering under her breath once more:

“Hessshh… hhh saaih”

This time, it felt right.

The cellar was cool and dim, lit only by a faint wand-light hovering behind Hermione’s shoulder as she stood at the top of the stairs, her hand hovering over the doorknob still, knuckles pale. Dust hung in the air like suspended time. Shadows stretched across stone walls, flickering with every tremble of her breath.

She hadn’t told anyone she was doing this now—not Sirius, not even Remus. Especially not Remus.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them. Quite the opposite. But Remus was three days out from the full moon, his skin already tight with pain and his patience fraying at the edges. He’d smiled at her over his tea that morning, like it took effort not to flinch at the weight of the cup. The combination of joint pain, exhaustion, and pure bloody stubbornness had turned him into a soft, cardigan-draped ghost of himself. She wasn’t going to ask him for anything. Not today.

And Sirius…

Sirius had lived through twelve years of soul-rot behind bars. She’d watched how the ring’s influence twisted around him. How he’d stared at it like it knew his name and was whispering secrets he almost believed. She wasn’t going to risk that again. He was still out—spending time with Harry, somewhere in Diagon Alley, hopefully eating something that wasn’t toast for once.

So it was just her.

Her and a Horcrux.

She squared her shoulders, set her jaw, descended the steps slowly, the wooden treads creaking beneath her weight. The velvet pouch lay exactly where she’d left it—tucked into the warded box on the table against the far wall. It looked harmless. Elegant, even. But she knew better.

The locket inside was poison.

Hermione set her wand down for just a moment, flexing her fingers to shake off the chill in her skin. This needs to be done, she reminded herself. Before Sirius gets back. Before Remus drags himself downstairs and tries to pretend he’s fine.

Harry—her Harry—had told her what happened when they opened it. He and Ron had described it with the uncomfortable casualness of people trying to make horror palatable. The way it had whispered to them. Shown them things. Lied. Twisted the truth into daggers.

“It showed Ron the two of us,” Harry had said quietly. “Cruelly mocking him, saying that his mother would have preferred to have had me as her son instead of him, calling him stupid, cowardly, presumptuous, and inferior to the “Chosen One”, and proceeded to show us passionately kissing.”

Hermione had nodded, filed it away, and not told him that hers would likely show her nothing at all. Just an empty space where her parents once lived. Or worse—an empty future.

Occlumency would help. It had to. But there was a difference between shielding your thoughts and shielding your heart. And Horcruxes didn’t attack the mind.

They went for the soul.

Her hands trembled slightly as she retrieved the locket, heavy with its own intent, and laid it on the bare stone table. Her breath fogged in the cellar’s cold. She could still feel the ghost of Harry’s voice from this morning’s lesson, echoing in her skull.

She took a breath.

And hissed the phrase in Parseltongue.

“Hessshh… hhh saaih.”

The locket clicked.

A soft, metallic sound. Innocuous. Deceptive.

Then it opened.

And the world tilted.

From the heart of the locket, a shadow spilt forth like ink in water. The air dropped ten degrees. A voice—silken, oily, cold—uncoiled in her mind.

“Hermione Granger. I have seen your heart… and it is mine.”

Her fingers curled tightly around her wand.

Smoke shaped itself into visions—too real, too cruel.

Sirius emerged from the gloom, his expression unreadable at first. Then cold. Distant. Disdainful.

“What? You thought you meant anything to me?” His voice was flat, cruel. “You thought I could open my heart to anyone after twelve years with soul-sucking monsters? You’re just a warm body to fuck. Nothing more. I don’t care about you—only what you can do for Harry.”

Hermione felt her heart clench.

It’s not real. She knew it wasn’t real.

But it sounded real. The cadence of his voice, the sharp twist of each word—it was everything Sirius would never say, and yet it was precisely what her worst fears whispered in the back of her skull on sleepless nights.

The shadow shifted again. Became Remus.

He looked at her with disgust, curling his lip. “You are no cousin of mine,” he said with quiet revulsion. “Just a pathetic, desperate witch clinging to damaged men because no one in your own time ever truly loved you. You sicken me.”

Hermione took a step back, breath ragged.

The stone pressed into her spine as she fought to stay upright.

Her Occlumency walls wavered—just for a moment. Her instincts screamed at her to react, to scream, to run.

But she didn’t.

She shut her eyes.

And pushed.

The shields slammed into place with the soundless weight of magic and willpower, a fortress forged from years of war, of loss, of survival. She knew these men. She had fought beside them. Held them when they were broken. Laughed with them. Bled for them.

They would never say those things.

This was Riddle. Twisting truth into poison. Weaponising fear.

And she was done listening.

Hermione’s eyes snapped open. Fire danced on the tip of her wand.

“Incendio Furens,” she said, voice low but deadly.

The cursed flame of Fiendfyre ignited with a roar, golden-red and wild, but she shaped it like she had with the ring. Contained. Precision-forged. It curled around the locket like a predator.

The locket screamed—not a sound, but a pressure, a psychic screech that set her teeth on edge. The visions buckled, writhing in the fire, clawing to remain in her mind.

It cracked with a sound like splintering bone. Smoke burst out in a final, choking gasp. The shadows vanished. The voices fell silent.

And then… nothing.

No locket. No vision. Just ash.

Hermione collapsed to the damp cellar floor, knees buckling beneath her, wand clattering beside her fingers.

Upstairs, the slam of a bedroom door echoed like a thunderclap, followed by hurried footsteps—then the cellar door flung open with a sharp creak.

Remus was there. Dishevelled, pale, breath sharp as he half-fell, half-ran down the stairs, wand drawn and worry carved deep into his features.

“Hermione—Merlin—what happened?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her chest heaved with the remnants of adrenaline. The cellar was thick with residual magic, the kind that clung to skin and soul alike.

Remus dropped beside her without hesitation, ignoring the groan of his knees and the tension already beginning to pull at his spine with the full moon three days out. His hand came down gently on her shoulder, grounding her. Steady. Present.

“Hermione?” he prompted again, softer now.

She blinked up at him, throat dry. “It’s gone,” she rasped. “The Horcrux. I destroyed it.”

He stared at her for a beat longer, then his eyes flicked to the blackened remains on the concrete—twisted bits of chain, a scorch mark where the locket had once pulsed with malicious life.

“You did it alone?” he asked, and now his voice held more than concern. There was disbelief there. Frustration. Fear.

“I didn’t want Sirius near it,” she said, voice steadier now, though still faint. “Not after what happened with the ring. I didn’t want him… compromised again.”

Remus’s brow furrowed. “And me?”

“You’re not well,” she replied. “You’re close to the moon, you’ve barely slept, and I didn’t want you pushing yourself into danger on my account.”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “You still should’ve asked me.”

Hermione looked away. “I didn’t want to wait.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the distant creak of Grimmauld Place settling around them, old and secretive.

Remus finally asked, voice low and careful, “Did it… do anything? When it opened?”

Hermione was silent, her gaze fixed on the scorch mark. Then, with the deliberation of someone unspooling a very tightly wound thread, she said, “It tried to get inside my head. Played on… insecurities. Fear. The kind that makes you freeze instead of act.”

Remus’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I knew it wasn’t real,” she added. “I knew it. But it felt like being skinned from the inside out. I had to fight just to cast.”

He nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he extended his hand—gentle, unspoken.

She took it, let him pull her to her feet.

“We should tell Sirius,” he said quietly.

“Later,” Hermione murmured. “He’s with Harry. Let him have the moment. Let Harry have it.”

Remus gave a soft hum of agreement, slinging an arm around her shoulders to guide her up the steps. She didn’t protest the support.

The locket was gone. But the weight of what it had shown lingered.

She would tell him later.

Just… not yet.

The front door slammed shut behind Sirius as he stepped into Grimmauld Place, still half-laughing from something Harry had said just before they parted ways. The house, however, was quiet. Too quiet.

“Moony?” he called, toeing off his boots with a frown.

Remus appeared in the hallway, leaning against the bannister. His face was drawn, tense. Not quite pale, but there was something about the angle of his mouth that immediately made Sirius’s stomach clench.

“Where is she?” Sirius asked, the humour draining from his voice. “Hermione—where is she?”

“In her room,” Remus said quietly. “She’s resting.”

Sirius was already moving, brushing past him toward the stairs. “I’ll go see her—”

“Padfoot,” Remus said sharply, and Sirius stopped mid-step. “Give her a little space.”

“Why?” The word came out more defensively than he meant, but something cold had settled behind his ribs.

Remus hesitated. Then: “She destroyed the locket.”

Sirius turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“Alone,” Remus added, with a tightness that said he’d already had this argument in his own head a dozen times.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Sirius swore—viciously—and turned back toward the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Of all the reckless, stubborn, brilliant—” he muttered under his breath as he climbed.

He reached Hermione’s door and tried the handle. Locked.

He pressed his hand to the wood and felt the faint tingle of warding—subtle, but firm. She didn’t want to be disturbed.

That didn’t stop him.

“Hermione?” he called, knocking lightly. “It’s me. Open up, Kitten, please.”

No answer.

“Hermione, come on,” he said, knocking harder now. “Just let me see you. I swear I’ll shut up, I just… need to know you’re alright.”

Still nothing.

He rested his forehead against the door, voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t shut me out. Not after this morning. Please.”

Behind him, footsteps approached quietly. Remus stopped a few feet away, watching Sirius with weary sympathy.

“She needs rest,” Remus said gently. “Whatever that locket threw at her… it took something out of her. She fought it alone, Sirius.”

“I should’ve been here,” Sirius growled, still staring at the door as if he could will it to open. “I never should’ve left her alone in this godsdamned house with that thing.”

“None of us wanted her to face it alone,” Remus said. “But you know her. Once she decides something’s necessary…”

“She’ll bleed for it,” Sirius muttered. “Even if no one asks her to.”

Silence hung between them.

Remus sighed, soft and tired. “Come on. Let her sleep. We’ll talk to her in the morning. When she’s ready.”

Sirius didn’t move at first, fingers still curled against the frame. But eventually, he pushed away, every line of his body stiff with reluctant retreat.

“I’m not leaving this hallway,” he said stubbornly. “She opens that door in the night, I’ll be here.”

Remus didn’t argue.

Instead, he sank down onto the top step, folding his arms over his knees.

And quietly, without a word, Sirius sat down beside him.

The sharp click of a door opening jolted Sirius awake.

He sat up from where he’d been half-dozing against the bannister, legs stretched out awkwardly on the upstairs landing, Remus curled nearby like a cardigan-clad gargoyle. His neck protested the position with a fierce twinge.

Hermione stepped out into the hallway in full robes, wand tucked neatly into a side holster, hair tied back in a flawless twist, not a strand out of place. Her expression was composed, remote—very much not like her.

Remus blinked up at her. “Morning…”

Hermione barely glanced at them. “Good morning,” she said briskly, stepping over Sirius’s outstretched leg like it was an inconvenient rug and not a sleeping Animagus.

She was halfway down the stairs before Sirius scrambled upright.

“Wait—wait, where are you going?” he called, thudding after her down the steps.

She didn’t pause. “Ministry. N.E.W.T.s. Don’t expect me before seven.”

“N.E.W.T.s? ” Sirius echoed, stopping dead on the stairs as the front door clicked shut behind her.

He turned back to Remus, who was rubbing his eyes and yawning into his sleeve like a man who knew he was about to explain something absurd before his first sip of tea.

“Did she just say N.E.W.T.s?” Sirius asked again, baffled.

“Yes,” Remus said, sounding mildly resigned. “Part of her residency request. She doesn’t have official schooling records. Apparently, you need at least O.W.L.s to legally use magic here.”

“So she’s doing… N.E.W.T.s?”

“Eleven of them,” Remus confirmed. “Everything but Divination. She doesn’t believe in being graded on how well she can interpret tea leaves and existential dread.”

Sirius let out a low whistle, leaning against the bannister. “I scraped by with five.”

“I know,” Remus said dryly. “I did six, and we all thought Lily had completely lost the plot when she signed up for seven.”

“Eleven,” Sirius repeated. “She destroyed a Horcrux yesterday, nearly got eaten alive by shadow-magic hallucinations, and today she’s off to sit for eleven N.E.W.T.s?”

Remus gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Well, today and tomorrow. And she did mention it would be like filing paperwork compared to her job as an Unspeakable.”

Sirius blinked. “She wasn’t being sarcastic? ”

“No, Sirius. That was her being humble.”

Sirius looked toward the door again, then ran a hand down his face. “We should’ve stopped her.”

“We couldn’t have stopped her if we’d chained ourselves to the door,” Remus muttered. “Besides, she probably reinforced the wards.”

There was a beat of silence as they stood in the empty hall.

Then Sirius asked, faintly, “Is it normal to feel both proud and slightly terrified of your maybe-girlfriend?”

Remus gave him a pointed look. “Welcome to the Hermione Granger experience.”

Sirius groaned and let his forehead thunk gently against the bannister post. “She didn’t even look at me properly.”

“Occluding,” Remus said knowingly. “Very tightly.”

“I should’ve been there yesterday.”

“You will be next time.”

Sirius sighed. “There’s going to be a next time, isn’t there?”

Remus took a long, slow breath. “It’s Hermione. Of course, there’s going to be a next time.”

They stood in silence again. Then:

“Eleven N.E.W.T.s,” Sirius said one last time, in the tone of someone trying to convince himself it hadn’t just been a fever dream.

Remus patted his shoulder sympathetically. “We should start preparing congratulatory butterbeer now. And possibly a celebratory fireproof cake.”

Sirius nodded solemnly. “And I’m going to have a damn nap before she gets back.”

“You’re learning,” Remus said approvingly, heading toward the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Only if you spike it.”

“Don’t I always?”

When Hermione returned home from the Ministry that evening, she didn’t say a word.

She walked past them in the drawing room with the quiet dignity of someone balancing a world on her shoulders and daring it to slip. Robes still immaculate, hair still neat, expression blank in a way that had nothing to do with politeness and everything to do with Occlumency.

The click of her bedroom door locking behind her might as well have been a warded wall slamming down between them.

She didn’t come out again.

Sirius stood in the hallway for a long time after that, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, heart lodged somewhere in the back of his throat. He didn’t try knocking this time.

The next morning, she was gone again for her second round of exams before sunrise—no eye contact, no greetings, no trace she’d even been there apart from the faintest smell of soap and parchment in the air.

If Sirius hadn’t caught the creak of her door opening or the faint shuffle of her boots on the floorboards, he might have thought he’d dreamed her entirely.

By the time he and Remus properly roused themselves, there was no point chasing after her. Hermione had made herself an unstoppable force of tightly wound purpose and self-imposed solitude. Sirius could only hope she’d let them back in before she broke under the pressure she refused to share.

So, he turned instead to the more familiar rhythm of another impossible task—keeping Remus Lupin functional in the final stretch before the full moon.

“Cushions fluffed, blanket charms layered, fire stoked,” Sirius muttered under his breath, moving around the sitting room with his wand in one hand and a teapot in the other. “And now for today’s literary distraction.”

Remus, tucked into the well-worn corner of the couch, was bundled in enough jumpers and scarves to pass for a stylish scarecrow. He sipped his tea with the solemnity of someone who believed it might be holding back the tide.

“What’s on the menu?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Sirius held up a thick paperback with a lurid cover and a title in red that promised all sorts of delightfully terrible things. It, by Stephen King.

“This one’s new,” Sirius said, flopping onto the opposite armchair and crossing his legs. “Well—new for me. Missed its release. Was busy having my soul gnawed on.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Weird choice for a distraction.”

“Come on,” Sirius grinned, flipping to the first page. “It’s a classic now. You remember The Shining, don’t you? You were obsessed with that haunted hotel phase for months.”

“I remember Lily screaming at me when I left that book in the nursery.”

“She thought it’d curse the baby.”

“It had a demonic toddler in it, Sirius.”

Sirius shrugged, settling in. “Well. This one’s got evil clowns, sewers, and interdimensional monsters. Real bedtime stuff.”

Remus gave a faint chuckle and closed his eyes, letting the warmth and the cadence of Sirius’s voice settle over him like a second blanket. The pre-full moon aches were setting in harder than usual this cycle, and the fog behind his eyes never quite cleared these days. But Sirius was here. That was something.

Then, out of nowhere, Remus said, “This is nostalgic.”

Sirius looked up from the book.

“Sorry, I couldn’t be here,” he said softly. “Back then. For all those moons.”

Remus opened his eyes again. Tired. But clear.

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“I should’ve been there anyway.” Sirius’s voice cracked a little, just at the edges. “I should’ve found a way. Anything’s better than going through it alone.”

Remus stared into his tea for a long moment. Then: “I got good at pretending I wasn’t.”

Sirius leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But you were.”

Remus didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They sat in silence for a few beats, the only sounds the quiet hiss of the fire and the weight of a memory neither of them could voice.

Then Sirius, perhaps sensing the moment had grown too sharp, cleared his throat and held the book up again.

“Right. Chapter One. Creepy balloon time.”

Remus huffed a quiet laugh and leaned back into the cushions. “Lay it on me, Mr Black.”

And Sirius did.

He read until the tea went cold and the light dimmed, and Remus dozed off to the sound of a Maine summer storm and the murmured promise of things in the drains.

Because if Sirius couldn’t undo the past, he could at least make sure the present was softer. Warmer.

And maybe—eventually—Hermione would let them do the same for her.

“Think she’s going to make it back before moonrise?” Sirius asked, his voice low and uncertain as he glanced toward the parlour clock. The hour hand was already tipping toward dusk. Shadows stretched long across the floor. They’d need to head downstairs soon—before the change began, before Remus lost control of his limbs, his thoughts, his name.

Remus didn’t answer immediately. He was nursing his fourth cup of tea, hunched slightly on the settee with a blanket slung over his shoulders like a reluctant monarch.

Then—just as Sirius opened his mouth to suggest giving her another five minutes—the door opened.

And Hermione walked in.

She looked… different. Not just physically, though she was wind-chapped from the cold that the summer storm brought and trailed the scent of London soot and ink. No, it was something else. Something in the way her shoulders were no longer locked in that rigid, defensive line. Her expression was no longer distant. She looked… like herself again.

Warm.

Whole.

“Merlin,” Sirius muttered. “She’s glowing.”

“Oh good,” Hermione said brightly, pulling off her outer robe and tossing it over the back of a chair. “I didn’t miss you two.”

Remus blinked at her, surprised. Sirius sat up straighter.

Hermione beamed at them as she shook the last of the drizzle from her curls. “Remus, tomorrow morning I can Side-Along you to Hogwarts if you’d like. No need to suffer through a six-hour train ride with a few hundred sugar-charged teenagers.”

Remus raised a brow. “How did you know I was planning to take the train?”

“You did in my time,” she said breezily. “Though I never really understood why a teacher would—”

Then she paused.

Her eyes widened.

And Sirius watched as the realisation bloomed across her face like a slow-moving sunrise.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Remus tilted his head. “What?”

“You were just post-transformation,” she said, stunned. “You still got on that train… after the full moon. You cast a Patronus. In front of us. Chased away the Dementor that had boarded in search of Sirius. While barely even on your feet.”

There was awe in her voice now—no, reverence. She looked at him as if she were seeing him properly for the first time.

Remus flushed slightly and glanced down at his tea. “Well. I suppose I couldn’t let the students fend for themselves. Knowing myself, I probably didn’t trust anyone else to help if a Dementor actually did show up.”

“You never should’ve had to,” she said quietly. “I’m glad that’s not going to happen again.”

There was silence for a moment.

“I still don’t want to Side-Along,” Remus added, with a small smile. “Too far right after transforming. I’d rather take the train.”

Hermione’s shoulders drooped slightly in disappointment, but she nodded. “Oh. Okay. That makes sense.” She moved closer, then, hesitant. “Can I…?”

He didn’t answer, but she moved into the hug anyway.

It was brief, careful. Remus remained stiff at first—his joints ached, and her arms were warm where his skin felt cold—but he didn’t pull away.

“Sorry,” Hermione said, stepping back. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No, it’s alright,” he said softly. And he meant it.

“I can take you to the station, at least,” she added. “Apparating alone tomorrow morning isn’t a great idea, and I doubt the Underground’s appealing. Sirius is going to be busy with Harry.”

“Fine. But let’s go early, before all the students start flooding in.”

“Agreed.”

Sirius, who had been quietly observing this entire exchange like he’d stumbled into a play halfway through Act II, clapped his hands together and stood.

“Alright, kids. This has been very touching. But we’re cutting it close, and Moony needs to go downstairs. Full moon waits for no wizard.”

He turned to Hermione. “You be a good little Siamese and stay in your room, yeah? We don’t need any accidental run-ins with an unfamiliar Animagus for Moony.”

Hermione opened her mouth as if to protest—just briefly. Her gaze flicked to Remus, who was already pushing himself to his feet, pale and wincing. The words caught in her throat.

She wasn’t part of this bond. Not really. Not tonight.

Her walls went back up, just a little.

She nodded. “Be safe, please,” she said softly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

And she turned and disappeared up the stairs without another word.

Sirius stared after her, utterly baffled. “What just happened?”

Remus, now leaning heavily on the wall as he made his way toward the cellar, only shook his head.

“She saw something the day before yesterday,” he said quietly. “And I think she’s still figuring out what it meant.”

Sirius followed him, frowning. “I thought she was fine again.”

Remus didn’t answer for a long moment.

“She’s functioning again,” he said finally. “That’s not always the same thing.”

And together, they descended into the dark.

Chapter Text

Hermione stretched across the duvet like a sun-drenched queen, front paws extending into the warm patch of morning light spilling in through the curtains. Her Siamese tail flicked lazily once, twice, then curled in around her flank as she yawned—a wide, whisker-twitching yawn that could’ve swallowed a mooncalf.

It was quiet. Peaceful.

More importantly, it felt safe.

After a final stretch and a satisfied chirrup, she shimmered—bones reshaping, fur retracting, until she stood human again, barefoot and blinking sleep from her eyes. The air was cool against her skin, and she tugged on her dressing gown as she padded over to the window. Judging by the angle of the light, it was well past dawn.

No sounds from the cellar.

She allowed herself a small exhale of relief.

It wasn’t much, but after everything—the Horcrux, the exams, the moon—it was something.

She moved quietly down the hallway and into the kitchen, her thoughts already occupied with what Remus would need. Recovery days were always delicate.

“Kreacher?” she called gently, not raising her voice.

The house-elf popped in a second later, bowing low. “Miss Ione,” he said, with something close to reverence in his voice. His large eyes gleamed with something more than simple loyalty—gratitude, maybe. Since the locket had been destroyed, his regard for her had shifted into something that felt almost sacred.

Hermione found it interesting that the elf had taken to calling her by her new name ever since the magical adoption.

“Good morning,” she said softly, crouching a bit to speak at his level. “Would you be willing to help me put together a care kit for Remus? Just the usual things—pain relievers, joint balm… the one from my satchel in my room as well, please, a calming draught… oh, and a few bars of chocolate, if we have any left. The dark kind, preferably.”

Kreacher looked as though she’d asked him to carry the crown jewels. “Yes, of course, Miss Ione. Right away.”

“Thank you,” she said with a gentle smile. “You’re a treasure.”

Kreacher vanished with a proud pop and returned not a minute later with everything she’d asked for, arranged with surprising elegance on a folded cloth.

She gathered the potions and salves into a little woven basket, added a fresh flannel and a second mug of hot tea from the stove, and made her way quietly to the cellar door. She paused, knocked softly, and called down:

“Is everyone decent?”

A familiar voice floated up. Sirius, dry as toast. “He’s got trousers on, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’ll do,” she said, lips quirking, and she dismantled the wards before descending carefully with her basket balanced in both hands.

The cellar was cool, dim, and blessedly quiet. Remus was propped against the wall, shirt hanging open, skin pale and damp, but his eyes alert. Sirius was perched nearby, barefoot and rumpled, looking like he hadn’t slept much but was mostly intact.

“Oh good,” Hermione said, stepping down onto the final stair. “You left me access.”

Remus gave her a faint smile. “You’re very punctual for someone who had to transfigure herself back from feline form.”

“I have a schedule,” she said lightly, not taking the jibe at cat napping habits to heart, kneeling beside him and setting down the basket. “And I’ve done this before.”

Sirius blinked. “What is all this?”

“My patented werewolf care routine,” Hermione said, rolling up her sleeves. “And I do mean patented. I published the protocol through the Lycanthropic Support Foundation in 2007. Did I not mention that already? It’s the gold standard in post-transformation relief. At least, it was when I left.”

“You wrote the gold standard?” Remus asked, genuinely curious.

“I didn’t just write it,” she said, already warming the balm in her palms. “I trialled it. Developed the salves, too. Spent a whole year partnering with werewolves who’d never had proper recovery care. I wasn’t about to let another generation suffer like you did.”

Remus inhaled sharply when she touched his forearm, but only because the balm’s magic kicked in fast—sinking into his muscles and soothing the inflammation beneath. His head tipped back, and he let out a quiet breath.

Hermione smiled softly. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Unreal,” he murmured. “How is it warm already?”

“Thermal charm,” she said. “And some chamomile oil. You’d be amazed at what you can do with the right ingredients and a decent potion base.”

Sirius watched them, quieter now, not interfering. There was something in his eyes—pride, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.

Hermione didn’t comment. She just kept working, gently and efficiently, her fingers steady as she rubbed balm into Remus’s aching shoulders. Her touch was kind, confident, familiar in a way that made even the post-moon shadows feel a little less sharp.

She passed him a potion. “This is for the headache. And the chocolate’s in the basket—eat all of it.”

Remus reached for it with a shaky hand. “Yes, Healer Granger.”

Hermione laughed under her breath. “You’re not far off. I did qualify before they made me an Unspeakable.”

Sirius snorted. “You’re insufferably accomplished, you know that?”

“And I didn’t even tell you about the year I worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures right after the war, rewriting house-elf and werewolf-related laws,” she said with a shrug. “When the system fails you, you either burn out or rebuild it better.”

And for once, Sirius had no snarky comeback.

Just the quiet sound of Remus unwrapping a chocolate bar. The scrape of balm jar lids. The soft warmth of morning trickling down the cellar stairs.

Peace. Hard-won, but here.

The cellar was warm now, not just from the soft glow of the conjured lanterns or the faint lingering scent of magical balm and chocolate, but from something quieter—something steady. Hermione sat cross-legged beside Remus, sorting the remaining items in her little care kit, while Sirius lounged nearby against a support beam, legs stretched out, idly rolling an empty potion phial between his fingers.

Remus, for his part, was slowly buttoning his shirt, moving with the unhurried caution of someone who knew every joint in his body would protest if he rushed. The faint purplish bruises that climbed up his ribs had already begun to fade, but Sirius had noticed the wince when Remus reached too far, and Hermione certainly had too, though she hadn’t said a word about it.

There was a quiet comfort to the silence—one born of familiarity and shared trials—but Sirius couldn’t shake the feeling that something between them was… off. The warmth she’d shown the night before, the way her walls had dropped just enough to hug Remus and joke about side-along travel, had vanished again. She was polite. Efficient. But her eyes were Occluded steel.

“I completely forgot to ask yesterday,” Sirius said, voice pitched with casual lightness, “but how did the exams go?”

“Fine,” Hermione said without looking up.

Just that. Fine. Nothing else. No rant about examiners or essay topics or obscure counter-hex theory. Not even a sarcastic jab at the Ministry’s bureaucratic nonsense.

Sirius blinked, thrown. “Just… fine?”

“Mm-hmm.”

A silence settled again, heavier this time. He shifted forward slightly, watching her hands move with practised precision.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Hermione…” His voice was gentle now, low with something more than concern. Something closer to guilt.

She exhaled through her nose, very slowly. “It’s the locket,” she said finally. “It showed me things. You and Remus—casting me aside.”

Sirius sat up straighter, the potion phial forgotten. Remus looked over, startled.

“And I know it was manipulation,” she rushed on. “I know it was a Horcrux, that it wanted to get under my skin. And it did. Because then, right after, when you told me to stay out of the cellar—” her voice caught slightly “—it didn’t feel like protection. It felt like confirmation.”

Sirius’s mouth opened, but she held up a hand, shaking her head.

“I know what it was supposed to be. I understand. The cellar was for Remus. It’s not a safe space for anyone else. You were there because you have done it a couple of dozen times before. Moony knows your scent. But logic doesn’t matter when your emotions are still reeling. And in that moment, it felt like—like I wasn’t part of what the two of you have. Like I was watching something from the outside. And after what the locket showed me…”

She gave a brittle, breathless laugh. “It was like primary school all over again. When the other girls formed a circle and told you there’s no room for one more. Go sit in the corner, Granger. You don’t get to play with the cool kids.”

Her smile twisted. She finally looked up, eyes too bright with the emotions she’d kept buried for two days. “Wow. Childhood trauma really does linger.”

Remus stared at her in quiet shock, but Sirius had already scrambled to her side.

“Hermione, you weren’t kept away because you don’t belong,” he said urgently. “You were kept away because I couldn’t think straight about you getting hurt. That cellar was for Remus. For his safety. And for mine. Because if anything had gone wrong—if you’d been there—I wouldn’t have been able to focus. I’d have been useless.”

Hermione kept her eyes down. Her fingers stilled on the edge of the care basket.

“Even in your Animagus form,” Remus added gently, “you would’ve been vulnerable. The wolf doesn’t always distinguish friend from foe right after transforming. I didn’t want to risk it. And Sirius—” he looked at his friend “—didn’t want to either.”

Sirius reached out, brushing her wrist lightly. “I wasn’t pushing you out, Hermione. I was trying to keep you safe. You are part of this. You’re part of us.”

She didn’t pull away, but her voice was quiet. “It just felt like I wasn’t. After everything.”

“You destroyed a Horcrux alone,” Sirius said. “You aced eleven bloody N.E.W.T.s without breaking a sweat. You take better care of Remus than I ever figured out how to, and you keep this madhouse functioning. That’s not someone on the outside. That’s family.”

Hermione’s eyes shimmered, but she gave a half-hearted scoff. “I wasn’t expecting a loyalty speech from Sirius Black today.”

“Well,” he said, nudging her gently, “you earned it.”

She gave a sniff of a laugh. “I just needed control. After the locket. To focus on something single-mindedly. The exams gave me that.”

Remus nodded slowly. “Understandable. But just so you know—you don’t have to earn your place here, Hermione. You already have it.”

Sirius grinned. “Besides, if you keep outscoring Lily’s record, we’ll be forced to build a shrine to your academic prowess. Probably in the pantry.”

Hermione finally looked up, eyes glassy but smiling. “Eleven N.E.W.T.s. No Divination.”

“Monstrous,” Remus said, fondness thick in his voice.

Sirius clutched his chest. “I’m terrified and aroused.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but leaned into Remus’s shoulder just a little. “I missed you two,” she said softly. “Even while avoiding you.”

“And we missed you,” Remus murmured.

“Terribly,” Sirius added. “Honestly, the house got too quiet without someone sighing loudly at my every suggestion.”

“Your suggestions are usually idiotic.”

“See?” he beamed. “All’s right with the world again.”

And for the first time in days, Hermione felt like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t outside the circle anymore.

The journey up the cellar stairs was a slow one. Remus leaned heavily against Sirius, his legs still unsteady, every movement seeming to pull at muscles that had been stretched beyond their limits just hours ago. Sirius bore the weight without complaint, his grip steady and careful, offering quiet murmurs of support when Remus’s breathing hitched or he stumbled slightly.

“You’re heavier than you look,” Sirius muttered, more out of habit than actual irritation.

“That’s what happens when you don’t sleep through your transformations,” Remus rasped.

“Could’ve fooled me. You collapsed like a sack of flour after trying to bite my arse. Very dramatic.”

“Comes with age.”

“Cheek.”

They made it to the ground floor with effort, and as Sirius steered Remus toward the kitchen, the unmistakable scent of strong tea and warm toast drifted toward them.

Hermione was already in there, sleeves rolled up, hair hastily braided over one shoulder, a determined look on her face as she flipped something in a pan with a little too much vigour. Kreacher hovered at the edge of the table, arms crossed and muttering under his breath—though his tone held none of its usual acidity. If anything, it was… grudgingly doting.

“Miss Ione should let Kreacher do it,” the elf grumbled. “Miss is tired. Miss is clever. But Miss should not be doing elf work.”

Hermione didn’t pause what she was doing. “You can do the dishes,” she offered cheerfully. “And tomorrow breakfast is all yours. But today, I need to move.”

Kreacher made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a harrumph, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he floated a tray closer with a flick of his fingers, lining it neatly with plates and clean mugs.

Sirius stopped just inside the doorway, momentarily frozen. It was the first time he’d truly seen it. The full extent of it. Kreacher’s attitude toward Hermione hadn’t just shifted—it had transformed.

Ever since she had declared her intention to destroy the locket, Kreacher had softened. But this was different. This was reverence. The elf didn’t just tolerate her anymore. He hovered like she was some long-lost Black heir he’d finally approved of. There was loyalty in his every movement now—not to the house, not to Sirius, but to her.

Sirius blinked. “Huh.”

Hermione turned at the sound, setting a steaming pot of tea on the table and motioning for them to sit. “How’s the patient?”

“Surly and smug,” Sirius said, helping Remus into a chair.

Remus offered a weak smile. “I can hear you, you know.”

“That’s the idea,” Sirius quipped, then looked back at Kreacher, who was now carefully buttering toast like it was a sacred ritual. “He really likes you.”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder. “Kreacher? We’ve come to an understanding.”

Sirius raised a brow. “Did that understanding involve a blood pact or a hostage negotiation?”

“No,” Hermione said simply, pouring three cups of tea and handing one to Remus first. “Just kindness. And listening.”

Kreacher, still buttering toast, gave a slight nod, as if to confirm this.

“Merlin,” Sirius muttered. “I’m going to have to rethink everything I ever believed about house-elves.”

Hermione gave him a pointed look. “You were overdue anyway.”

Remus chuckled quietly, sipping his tea.

The three of them sat around the table, the morning light casting long shadows across the battered wood. For a moment, it was quiet. Peaceful. Hermione bustled around, setting out eggs and toast, fruit, and more tea. Kreacher didn’t argue. He just cleared the used pans, muttering about how Miss had already done too much, but not making a move to stop her.

And Sirius just watched her—watched the way she moved through the kitchen like she belonged there, like she’d always been part of this strange little patchwork family. Watched Kreacher orbit her like a planet finally drawn to a steady sun. Watched Remus relax into his seat with a grateful sigh as Hermione handed him a warm cloth for his shoulder.

Yeah. Whatever the Horcrux had tried to tell her, it was rubbish.

She belonged.

More than most.

After breakfast, Hermione rose from the table and dusted off her hands as if checking off another item on a mental to-do list.

“Sirius, you should go be with Harry,” she said with a little smile. “Help him pack, take him to the station. Make sure he doesn’t end up running through the barrier like it’s an action film. Or worse—left behind.”

Sirius blinked. “You’re taking Remus?”

“Yes,” she said brightly, turning to where Remus was still slowly finishing his toast like a man not yet convinced his limbs were entirely attached. “We’ll leave shortly. That way, you can avoid the glorious chaos that is the Weasleys showing up exactly three minutes before departure. And Remus can get settled into an empty compartment without a gaggle of third years poking their heads in to ask if he’s the new professor.”

Remus arched a brow. “I feel like I’m in some sort of strange custody arrangement,” he murmured. “Sirius had me for the night, now I’m being handed off.”

“Shared responsibilities,” Hermione said, clearly unfazed. “Like proper adults. And don’t worry—we’ll fill out the visitation schedule in triplicate by the end of the week.”

“She’ll probably have a colour-coded chart,” Sirius muttered.

“I already have one,” Hermione said primly, tightening the clasp on her cloak. “Now go, Sirius. Harry’s waiting. And try not to let him sneak that cursed deck of Exploding Snaps into his trunk again.”

“I feel like I’m being dismissed,” Sirius grumbled.

“You are,” she said with a grin.

He looked like he might protest, then glanced between Remus and Hermione—Remus, still a bit pale but clearly steadier than he’d been hours ago, and Hermione, who looked a bit more like herself again. Less brittle, less distant. Just tired. The kind of tired that came from shouldering too much and refusing to complain.

“Alright, alright,” Sirius finally sighed, standing and ruffling Remus’s hair gently. “You take care of my werewolf.”

“Always,” Hermione said quietly.

“And you,” he added, tapping her chin with his finger before she could duck away, “take care of yourself.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Not good enough,” he said, giving her a pointed look. “But I’ll allow it. For now.”

He swept out with a little too much dramatic flair, coat swirling like he fancied himself some kind of trenchcoated warlock from a pulp novel.

The moment the door shut, Remus exhaled. “That man is exhausting.”

Hermione chuckled. “Yes, but he means well.”

“Too well. Sometimes I think he’s trying to mean well for everyone.”

“That’s why we love him.”

Remus tilted his head, eyes warm. “Speak for yourself. I just tolerate him with tea and sympathy.”

Hermione offered her arm like a proper escort. “Come on, Professor Lupin. Time to catch your train before the mob arrives.”

The Apparition had gone smoothly, the soft crack barely echoing through the alley behind the station. Hermione landed with her arm looped through Remus’s, steadying him instinctively. King’s Cross was its usual chaotic mess of rolling luggage, bustling families, and the occasional near-miss between a luggage and someone’s knees, but the pair of them passed unnoticed. Hermione shifted her grip to carry Remus’s small trunk in her free hand, careful not to let him bear too much of his own weight. He was walking, yes, but only just—and after last night, she wasn’t taking any chances.

They made it through the barrier between platforms 9 and 10 in a blink. The quiet of Platform 9 ¾ was jarring in contrast. It was only just past half ten, and the platform was deserted save for the gleaming red engine of the Hogwarts Express already puffing gently at the far end. No students had arrived yet, which suited Hermione perfectly. The peaceful moment felt suspended in time, like a breath held before the storm of a new term.

She helped Remus aboard the train, careful with the steps. “Back car,” he murmured, already looking half-asleep on his feet.

The last compartment on the train had clearly been his destination in mind. Hermione eased open the sliding door and guided him inside. He sank down into the window seat like it was the softest bed in the world.

“This used to be our compartment,” he said after a beat, his voice low and warm with memory. “Every trip. Me, James, Sirius, Peter. Same spot. Every year.”

Hermione smiled, setting his trunk beside the seat and lowering herself beside him for a moment. “Of course it was. You were creatures of habit.”

“Some would say chaos,” Remus chuckled faintly. Then, with a small wince, he reached beneath the little wooden ledge under the window. “Here—look.”

Hermione leaned forward as he pointed. Faintly etched into the underside of the shelf were four sets of initials. JP. SB. RL. PP.

She groaned, half-playful. “You defaced school property.”

“It was tradition,” Remus said, not at all apologetic. “James thought it was very noble of us. ‘Immortalising the Marauders,’ he said. I think he meant it more like a prank than a legacy.”

“Well… it’s a bit of both,” she murmured, fingers brushing the aged letters. “Thank you for showing me.”

Remus just hummed, his head tilting to rest against the wall. “Didn’t want to forget. Any of it.”

Within another minute, his eyes were fluttering closed.

“You should sleep,” Hermione said softly, reaching for the cloak he’d draped over his knees. She tugged it up gently over his shoulders like a blanket and tucked it in, fussing with the collar as if that would somehow erase the pain of the transformation.

Before she stood, she pressed a light kiss to his temple.

“Oh, and—” she hesitated, then said quickly, “When you teach the third years, don’t make them face the Boggart in front of the whole class. Not all fears are… safe to reveal. Especially when you’re thirteen.”

She didn’t know if he heard her. But she’d said it. That was all she could do.

Hermione slipped out of the compartment, then the train car, and started down the platform, intent on Disapparating from the far end—

And froze.

A familiar voice, chipper and high-pitched with the excitement of a new school year, rang out from the entrance archway.

“Oh, look! The train’s already in!”

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, no.

She ducked behind the nearest column with all the grace of someone trying not to spontaneously combust from panic.

Little me. Why is little me already here?

Of course, she knew why. Her parents always dropped her off ridiculously early. They thought it was polite. She and her mother would spend an hour admiring the architecture and rechecking her luggage six times until Harry and Ron arrived.

Hermione cursed under her breath. She should have remembered that. Should have known better. Should have planned better. Now she was trapped behind a column like some sort of lurking gremlin in slightly out-of-fashion robes.

She glanced down at herself. Her appearance was different—older, sharper features, lighter eyes now from the magical adoption, different hair—but what if her younger self still recognised her? What if the paradox rules of Time Turners did apply? What if her thirteen-year-old self saw her and dropped into a panic spiral so severe she triggered a magical feedback loop and—

Okay, calm down, she told herself. She would probably just think you look vaguely like her weird Aunt from her father’s side that no one talks about. You’re fine. Just… stay put.

She leaned back against the column and sighed.

One hour.

She’d just wait. Quietly. Like part of the scenery.

And if any curious parent or Prefect asked what she was doing, she would lie. Eloquently.

Because the absolute last thing she needed was to be spotted by a younger version of herself before the school year even started.

Somehow, that felt like the worst possible way to start the term.

Hermione had stayed hidden behind the wide iron column for what felt like hours, even though the second hand of her borrowed Muggle wristwatch told her it had only been about twenty-five minutes.

Just as she was counting down the seconds to make a dash for the exit, she heard a familiar voice float down the platform.

“—Mr and Mrs Granger, it’s an honour, truly.”

Her breath caught.

Sirius.

“Sirius, please, we told you last time, call us Helen and Richard.”

He was laughing easily, that warm, infectious sort of laugh that she hadn’t heard much in her own timeline. It made her chest ache. She peeked out just enough to see him chatting with her parents. Her parents. And there was her younger self—blushing furiously as Sirius ruffled her curls and promised that if they ever had any questions about the wizarding world, they could owl him directly.

“I know it can be a bit much,” he was saying with a grin. “Especially with a daughter like Hermione—brilliant, but she does like to explain things like she’s been hired to give a lecture at the Ministry. I should know. I live with a witch just like her.”

Little Hermione huffed quietly. “I do not explain everything. ”

“Right,” Sirius said solemnly. “Only the things that move, breathe, or exist.”

Her parents laughed. Harry laughed, but said he appreciated her explaining everything.

Hermione, behind the pillar, had to bite her lip to stop from crying.

She hadn’t expected it to hit her so hard—the simple kindness of Sirius Black reaching out to her parents. Her parents, who had once looked at her with pride and awe and growing distance. Who had smiled less and worried more as she’d disappeared further into the war. Whom she’d sent to Australia. Whom she’d obliviated.

She had gotten them back eventually, restored what she could… but the relationship was never the same.

And Sirius—he didn’t even know what he’d done. He was just being good. Kind. Present. Making himself accessible to two Muggles who had no map for the world they’d dropped their daughter into. She sniffled, wiping her eyes hastily. She hadn’t meant to get emotional. Not here. Not now.

Then came the chaos.

The unmistakable sound of the Weasleys descending on the platform like a small tornado. Her heart clenched affectionately at the sound of Mrs Weasley chiding Fred and George, Ron’s voice echoing over the din, Percy muttering about Head Boy duties. It was so familiar. So normal.

Too normal.

She was still wiping her eyes when the train began pulling away, smoke and steam curling through the air as children waved and parents shouted their goodbyes.

And then—

“What are you doing lurking in the shadows?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin.

Sirius.

He was beside her suddenly, eyes dancing with amusement, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Several passersby turned at her startled yelp, and she had to compose herself quickly.

“Sirius!” she hissed. “Don’t sneak up on people like that!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t sneak. I walked. You were too busy loitering like a Victorian ghost to notice.”

She glared. “How did you even know I was here?”

Sirius tapped the side of his nose with mock gravity. “Animagus perks. Some characteristics stick, even in human form.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You sniffed me out.”

He had the decency to look only slightly sheepish. “In my defence, it’s not like I was looking for you specifically. I was trying to make sure Harry got on the train without forgetting anything important, like shoes. And then I caught your scent.”

Hermione made a face halfway between baffled and flustered. “You sniffed me.”

“You have a very nice smell,” he said simply, shrugging. “I’d recognise it anywhere.”

Hermione’s mouth opened. Closed. Something about the way he said it—so casual, so earnest—made her feel like the floor had tilted beneath her slightly. There was an implication hanging in the air, quiet but heavy, as if he didn’t quite realise what he’d just admitted.

And then she did realise.

The smell. The scent recognition. How he could pick her out in a crowd.

It wasn’t just recognition.

It was instinct.

Amortentia.

Hermione had once described its scent as fresh parchment, peppermint, and something earthy and elusive she could never quite name. She’d smelled it for the first time in Slughorn’s classroom, her sixth year. Sirius had already died by then.

But the moment had felt familiar.

Now, standing beside him on the nearly empty platform, his voice warm with humour and something unspoken, she realised—she’d known it all along.

The third note. The elusive one that had clung to her memory like the ghost of a dream.

It had been him.

Not the scent of Sirius Black’s cologne—he didn’t wear any. Not after Azkaban. Not the leather of his jacket or the smoke on his breath. It was him. Whatever strange amalgamation of man and Animagus he had become. Earthy. Wild. Warm. Home.

Her ears felt hot. So did the back of her neck.

She blushed a vivid, unmistakable shade of red, flustered right down to her fingertips.

And Sirius was watching her with increasing amusement, head tilted slightly, eyes gleaming with something that looked suspiciously like triumph.

“Ah,” he said softly, voice curling like smoke. “You do know what I mean.”

Hermione fidgeted. “Does me—” she cleared her throat, “I mean, her—did you ever…?”

It came out in a babble, horror dawning behind her eyes. She’d never let herself even ask that question until now.

“Did I ever what?” Sirius asked, arching an eyebrow, clearly not understanding what she was getting at.

“Did you… feel this way toward me—before? I mean, back when I was still—” she hesitated, not wanting to offend him by asking if he was also attracted to her younger self, so she pivoted. “Hermione Granger. Was that why you came to me in Little Whinging, as Padfoot? Why you trusted me so quickly? Was it the scent?” Her voice cracked just slightly. “Did I smell like that then? ”

Sirius blinked, and for once, the grin slipped. His voice was low and serious when he answered.

“No. Not quite.”

Hermione blinked, startled. “No?”

“Your scent changed after the adoption ritual,” he said. “It was subtle. Still you, but… not the same.”

Something loosened in her chest. She hadn’t even known she’d been holding her breath.

“Oh.”

He shrugged lightly, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes never leaving hers. “Though I’m not going to lie—I did think you were very competent the first time we met. Even covered in dog hair. But love at first sniff?” He tapped his nose. “That came later.”

Hermione suddenly understood.

Understood the sudden marriage proposal he had made half-jokingly—except now, it was clear he hadn’t been joking at all. The way he sometimes looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. The odd protectiveness. The way he’d let her sleep half-curled into his side as Padfoot without moving a muscle for hours.

“Oh,” she said again, a little dazed.

“You’re very cute when you blush,” Sirius added, grin returning in full force.

“Sirius.”

“Yes?”

But Hermione had no words.

No witty retort. No sharp-edged comment. Just her heart beating loud enough to drown out the last of the steam from the now-departed train.

He stepped closer, just a breath, his arm brushing hers, and held it out with an easy, careless sort of charm.

“Let’s get some lunch,” he said, as if he hadn’t just practically confessed to being in love with her. As if they were ordinary people on an ordinary Wednesday.

Hermione hesitated for half a second longer—and then slipped her arm through his.

His smile widened like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

And together, they walked out of the station and into the afternoon, a girl who smelled like love and a man who would follow that scent anywhere.

Lunch had been simple—an unassuming corner table at a little bistro tucked into a quiet Muggle street, the kind of place Sirius had probably never set foot in when he was younger, all pressed linen and artisan sandwiches. But the moment they sat down, something in the air shifted. The world outside the window had taken on a softened hue, all golden light and mellow noise. Hermione’s laughter, low and surprised, had bubbled up over the rim of her glass when Sirius called the roasted beetroot salad a “textural betrayal.”

By the time they paid the bill (Sirius insisted, naturally, and made a big show of tipping the waiter in “the exact number of pounds it would take to buy your freedom from an Azkaban meal”), they were walking side-by-side along the Thames, the bustle of London around them barely registering.

“Did you always like the city this much?” Hermione asked, clutching her cardigan tighter as a breeze pulled at her hem.

Sirius glanced sideways, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “I used to think I didn’t. Grew up thinking it was just a noisy pit full of Muggles and Ministry offices. But now? It’s alive. Free. Everything’s out in the open. No curfews, no portraits screaming at me for stepping outside without a cravat.”

Hermione snorted. “You wore a cravat?”

“Once. Regulus threw up on it.”

She let out a burst of laughter, warm and startled, and they kept walking.

At some point, their hands brushed—once, twice—until Sirius took hers like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Hermione let him.

They didn’t talk about it. Didn’t need to. Their hands just stayed linked, swinging lazily between them as they wove through narrow lanes and crossed quiet bridges, the sun spilling gold across the river. Every now and then, Sirius would make some quip about the boats passing by (“Ten Galleons says that one’s smuggling gillyweed”) and Hermione would roll her eyes, but she didn’t pull away.

A few hours later, somewhere near Westminster, they paused by the railings to watch the water. The wind had picked up a little, tousling Sirius’s hair until it started tangling (Hermione was very glad she had braided hers), and Hermione reached over absently to smooth it down, her fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“I like this,” she murmured.

He looked at her, one brow raised. “My hair? I knew it. You’re a woman of excellent taste.”

“This,” she said, giving his fringe a final push, “and yes, that too. But mostly the day.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching a barge drift under the bridge.

Then, as if the universe had been waiting for the perfect cue, a street violinist appeared—an older man with a soft grey beard and a coat patched at the elbows. He began to play, the notes rising mournful and sharp above the hum of passing traffic. Something sweeping and sad, a melody that clutched at the ribs and pulled.

Sirius tilted his head, eyes distant. “Gods, I’m going to write a tragic ballad if you ever leave me.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

He straightened up dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “A lament. A full-on, orchestral-level heartbreak dirge. Probably in D minor. The saddest of all keys.”

“You can’t play the violin,” she said, eyes twinkling.

“I’ll learn. Badly. Out of spite.”

She burst out laughing, sharp and sudden and so full of joy it startled a pigeon into flapping violently between them. She nearly tripped backwards, but Sirius caught her around the waist, steadying her as her shoulders shook with laughter.

“I’m serious,” he added, only for her to choke on a new wave of giggles.

“Obviously.”

They didn’t resume walking right away. Not because they couldn’t, but because something in the moment felt too solid, too beautiful to rush. The late sun painted Sirius in warm tones, gold tracing the stubble on his jaw and lighting up the streaks of grey in his hair.

He was still holding her hand.

And when he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed her temple, he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Just rested his forehead against hers for a moment.

“I think I needed this,” he said quietly. “A normal day. Or something close to it.”

Hermione smiled. “This isn’t exactly normal.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s better.”

They stood like that until the violinist’s song faded into something softer, something made of light and wind and the low hum of city life. And then they walked on again—hand in hand like teenagers, no destination in mind, letting the afternoon carry them.

Lunch with Sirius hadn’t been a date, not on purpose.

But somehow, it had become one.

And Hermione wasn’t sure when she’d started smiling this much—but she wasn’t about to stop.

Chapter Text

The previous day had been so lovely, Hermione had thought—too lovely, in fact. Lunch with Sirius had somehow turned into an accidental date: long walks along the Thames, holding hands like teenagers, light teasing under golden afternoon sun. There had even been a street violinist near Westminster, playing something sweeping and sad, and Sirius had muttered dramatically about composing a tragic ballad if she ever left him. She had laughed so hard she nearly tripped over a pigeon.

Yes, it had been that good.

Which is probably why karma decided she’d had too much fun and promptly punished her with a head cold.

She woke up the next morning in bed, tangled in sheets, her nose stuffy and throat raw, blinking blearily at the canopy above her head and thinking, No. Not again.

She sniffled. Loudly. Pathetically.

Padfoot—curled up beside her, tail twitching and snout pressed against her hip—lifted his head the moment she stirred. Within seconds, the dog shimmered and shifted, and Sirius sat up, rubbing his eyes.

Then he looked at her.

Squinted.

“You’re sick again,” he said, voice low and almost insultingly unsurprised. “How do you do this? It’s like you collect viruses as a hobby.”

Hermione groaned and buried her face in her pillow. “It’s just a cold,” she said, voice muffled and distinctly less convincing than she hoped. “Probably from the station. All those children sneezing into the air like feral Cornish Pixies.”

Sirius didn’t laugh. He leaned over her, hair falling into his eyes, and kissed her square on the mouth before she could protest.

Hermione blinked at him, stunned. “Sirius!”

“Don’t even try the quarantine routine with me this time,” he said firmly. “I’m not relinquishing kissing rights ever again. I’ve already lost too many days to your martyrdom.”

“You’ll catch it,” she warned, though she didn’t exactly push him away.

Sirius grinned, annoyingly handsome for a man with bedhead and a bite scar on his collarbone. “I didn’t catch the last one, did I? Despite the face licking, as you so delicately put it.”

“That was your choice!” she squeaked, trying to wriggle away as he leaned in again. “You were warned.”

He caught her around the waist and pulled her gently against his chest. “And yet, here we are. Still no fever. No sneezing. And still enjoying the view.”

Hermione gave him a dry look. “You’re insufferable.”

“Possibly. But you’re still the one tangled up with me every night. I think we both know who’s winning here.”

She rolled her eyes but allowed herself to press her face into his shoulder for a moment. He was warm. Comfortingly solid. And Merlin, he smelled good. Not cologne—just soap and old books and Sirius.

Her fingers drifted to the hem of his t-shirt, absently tracing the edge. It was then she noticed it.

“You’ve gained weight,” she said, surprised.

He pulled back, startled. “Oi. Rude.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” she said quickly, sitting up. “I mean… you look better. Healthier. The potions are working.”

Sirius gave a little smile that was less smirk and more soft pride. “Yeah. I figured. I don’t get winded going up the stairs anymore. And I actually wanted breakfast yesterday. That’s new.”

Hermione reached out and touched his cheek, brushing her thumb under his eye where the shadows weren’t as deep as they’d once been. “I’m glad.”

He leaned into her touch.

“Though,” she added with a sniffle, “you might want to keep gaining weight. You’ll need the reserves for when I inevitably infect you with this.”

He grinned. “Challenge accepted.”

She coughed into the crook of her elbow.

Sirius didn’t flinch.

“Seriously?” she asked, incredulous.

“Absolutely. Ride or die, sweetheart. And if I’m going down, I’m going down kissing you stupid.”

Hermione groaned, but she was smiling.

A second later, Sirius was pulling the blankets up around them and wrapping her up like a smugly contented heating pad. He tucked her head under his chin and murmured something about Kreacher making her ginger tea with extra honey.

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, already dozing back off against his chest.

“You love it,” he said.

And though she didn’t say it aloud, she did.

So much more than he probably knew.

Hermione must’ve dozed off again, because the next thing she knew, she was blinking up at the bedroom ceiling with a warm arm flung over her middle, and Sirius snoring softly into the pillow beside her.

She sniffled pitifully.

The snoring stopped.

Sirius sat up with the grim resolve of a man preparing for war. His hair was a disaster. One side stuck up in a defiant curl while the other was smooshed flat to his head. His t-shirt read “Snitches Get Stitches,” and it was on backwards.

“You’re still sniffling,” he said, squinting at her.

Hermione nodded miserably. “Also sneezing now. Add that to the list.”

Without another word, Sirius threw the blankets aside like a dramatic debutante fainting on cue and launched himself from the bed. “Kreacher!”

The elf popped in with a loud crack, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Yes, Master Sirius?”

“Code Red,” Sirius said solemnly. “Catwitch has fallen ill again. We require tea. Ginger. Honey. And whatever that potion was last time that made her stop looking like she was dying from the lungs out.”

Kreacher turned to Hermione with an almost reverent nod. “Miss Ione should stay in bed. Kreacher will fetch everything. Kreacher will also warm the socks.”

Hermione blinked. “The socks?”

Kreacher vanished with another pop, apparently offended that she even questioned the sock situation.

Sirius turned to her, hands on hips. “Right. You, Miss Lupin, are going to be pampered until your immune system decides to act like it went to Hogwarts.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione croaked.

“You sound like a harpy gargling gravel. No offence.”

“Some offence taken.”

Sirius leaned down and kissed her forehead, then her nose. “You’re adorable when you’re feverishly indignant. Stay put.”

Ten minutes later, Kreacher returned with a tray stacked higher than a Hippogriff’s nest. Tea, potions, warm socks—charmed to gently pulse with comforting heat—and what appeared to be a miniature cauldron of soup that smelled suspiciously like her grandmother’s recipe, which Kreacher had no earthly way of knowing. The elf, now deeply invested in his self-appointed role as Florence Night-Kreacher, insisted on tucking the blanket around her shoulders just so before retreating with a glare that dared Sirius to so much as breathe incorrectly near her.

Sirius waited exactly one minute before causing trouble.

“Right. You need cheering up.”

“I need you not to breathe directly on me.”

“Impossible,” he said. “But what I can offer is a dramatic reading of this fine scholarly text.” He reached over to the bedside table and pulled a book off the stack—Hogwarts: A History.

Hermione stared. “That’s my copy.”

“Exactly. Peak entertainment.” He cleared his throat, opened the book to a random page, and adopted the voice of an overenthusiastic tour guide. “‘Chapter Twelve: Chamberpots and Charms: Sanitation in the Seventeenth Century—’”

Hermione groaned and pulled the blanket over her head.

“—‘While many wizarding households preferred the traditional Vanishing Charm to dispose of waste—’”

“You’re the worst.”

“—‘Hogwarts pioneered the installation of magical plumbing, complete with shifting taps that could also function as hex dispensers.’ I mean, Hermione, this is poetry.”

“You are desecrating sacred text,” she mumbled from beneath the covers.

Sirius closed the book with a reverent snap. “You’re right. This deserves a proper voice.”

She peeked out, eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare.”

But it was too late. He was already halfway into his seductive librarian voice—the one he used whenever he wanted something and thought charm might work faster than common sense.

“‘The Great Plumbing Reformation of 1738 was ushered in by Headmistress Euphemia Bladdersby,’” he purred. “‘Who reportedly declared, “No more shall my halls reek of adolescent terror and improperly vanished dung!”’”

Hermione wheezed—either from laughter or a blocked nose; it was hard to tell.

“You’re an idiot,” she said, wiping her eyes. “A very handsome, dramatic idiot.”

Sirius beamed. “I accept this title with grace.”

She leaned back against the pillows, sipping her tea, the warmth of it settling in her chest. Between the potion, the socks, the food, and the utterly absurd performance, she already felt… not better, exactly, but less awful. Which, all things considered, was something.

Sirius climbed back into bed beside her, propping himself on one elbow, still watching her like she might float away if he blinked too long.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re here,” he said simply. “Even sick. Even grumpy. And I like that.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “I like being here, too.”

He reached over, brushed a thumb along her cheek. “And I like you liking it.”

She blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “Are you quoting Hogwarts: A History again?”

Sirius grinned. “That depends. Is it working?”

Hermione snorted and curled back into his side. “Ask me again when I can breathe properly.”

Sirius kissed the top of her head.

“Deal.”

The following morning, Hermione woke to find that, miraculously, she could breathe through both nostrils again.

A little congested, yes. A bit raspy. But the bone-deep exhaustion from the day before had faded to something manageable. Her head no longer felt like it was full of flobberworms, and her throat didn’t burn like dragonhide.

Excellent. She was cured.

Mostly.

She slid carefully from the bed, tugged on her robe, and tiptoed toward the library. It had been days since she’d touched her research. Actually, probably more than a week. Something was always happening. First the flu, then the magical adoption, then the locket and the exams and the quiet horror of nearly bumping into her younger self—oh, and a few casual life-altering conversations with Sirius. You know. Minor detours.

But her notes on soul fragments and magical extraction rituals were waiting. She’d left off mid-analysis, right before the hypothesis that the fragment tethered to Harry’s scar might be partially responsive to rituals that induce possession. If they could just coax Voldemort’s mangled soul to possess something other than Harry.

She was halfway through spreading her parchment across the library table when she heard it.

The creak of the floorboard behind her.

Followed by an unmistakable sigh.

“I can smell you, you know,” she said without turning. “You smell like cedarwood, broom polish, and cheek.”

Sirius strolled in behind her, arms folded over his chest. “You smell like honeyed tea, singed parchment, and trouble.”

“I’m working,” Hermione said firmly.

“You’re recovering.”

“I was recovering. Now I’m researching.”

Sirius raised a brow. “Is this the bit where you pretend you weren’t too dizzy to stand yesterday?”

“I was dizzy. Past tense.”

“You coughed yourself awake three times last night.”

“Only twice,” she muttered.

Sirius sighed again and plucked the ink bottle out of her hand, holding it above her head. “Kitten, come on. You’ll have Harry’s soul fragment out by Christmas, but not if you give yourself pneumonia before the equinox.”

Hermione scowled. “That’s not how pneumonia works.”

“Medical expert and soul magic researcher. Truly, you are a one-witch Ministry replacement plan.”

“Give me back my ink.”

“No.”

Hermione made a grab for it and missed. She nearly overbalanced and had to brace a hand on the table to steady herself.

Sirius gave her a look.

“That was gravity,” she said, flustered. “It happens.”

He set the ink aside and stepped into her space, taking her hands in his. “What’s the rush?”

“I haven’t worked on this in days, Sirius,” she said, exasperated. “Every delay matters. The closer we get to 1994, the more dangerous it gets. We’ve destroyed two Horcruxes, but there are still more. And this one—this one is in Harry. We can’t just sit around waiting for inspiration to strike.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But you’re not going to be any help to Harry if you’re running yourself into the ground. I know what it looks like when someone starts chasing the work because the fear gets too loud.”

Hermione flinched slightly at the accuracy. “It’s not fear.”

Sirius gave her a patient look.

“Okay,” she relented, “it’s mostly not fear.”

He stepped closer, hands brushing her elbows now. “Come back to bed. Or the sofa, at least. Let me read to you. I’ll even do the voice.”

“Which voice?”

“The one that makes you look at me like you’d burn a library down just to hear me say ‘Chamberpots and Charms’ again.”

She laughed despite herself. “That is an obscene exaggeration.”

“I’ve seen the glint in your eye. Don’t lie.”

At that exact moment, Kreacher popped into the room with a tea tray. He took one look at the parchment spread out, at Hermione’s flushed cheeks, and at Sirius looming protectively over her—and sighed.

“Miss is not yet well enough to conduct necromantic counter-ritual research,” he announced like a long-suffering nurse. “Miss should be resting.”

“I am fine,” Hermione tried again.

“Miss said the same thing when she had a fever and tried to decipher Ancient Runes sequences backwards. Miss fell asleep in the inkpot.”

Sirius gave her a smug look.

Hermione groaned and gave in, flopping into the reading chair by the fire. “Fine. But I’m not taking the sleeping draught again tonight. I woke up thinking I was being attacked by the furniture.”

“That’s because I transfigured your throw pillow into a Puffskein by accident,” Sirius admitted.

Hermione blinked. “You what?”

“It was supposed to be comforting!”

Kreacher made a sound that could only be described as a scandalised scoff and disappeared with a snap.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Sirius.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to hex you.”

Sirius pulled her blanket up over her lap and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Admit it. You like having someone fuss over you.”

“I don’t hate it,” she murmured.

“I’ll take it,” he said, and curled up beside her with a well-worn copy of Magical Mischief Through the Ages, already flipping to a page he knew would make her groan.

Sirius had one arm slung lazily around her shoulders, fingers trailing idle circles on her upper arm, a smug look of victory still lingering on his face after successfully wresting her research notes away—for now.

Hermione sighed into his shoulder, trying to look content and relaxed, even as her eyes kept flicking longingly toward the nearby stack of books and parchment that mocked her from the coffee table.

Sirius followed her gaze with a smirk.

“You’re not subtle, you know.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Hermione muttered, then added, “It’s not like I was going to summon them. I was just… looking.”

“Mm-hmm.” He tapped her nose with a lazy finger. “Like you were just looking at soul curse theory the last time you had a fever.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You make it sound like I’m doing something reckless.”

“You’re sick. Again. And the last time you were sick, I came home to find you buried under twenty books on Horcruxes, muttering about resonance fields while your nose tried to secede from your face.”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were quoting your own thesis paper at a portrait of Phineas Nigellus,” Sirius said flatly. “In iambic pentameter.”

Hermione groaned and dropped her forehead to his shoulder. “That did not happen, but I get your point.”

He grinned, utterly smug. “So I ask again—why is it you only decide to do deep magical research when you’re ill?”

“I don’t!” she insisted, muffled by his jumper.

He didn’t even need to say anything. She could feel the look he was giving her.

“…Okay, maybe I do,” she muttered. “But only because there’s so much to do. I don’t sit still unless I have to. And I finally sat still.”

“You sat still, and immediately thought, ‘ah yes, now’s the time to solve magical soul extraction.’”

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “it is rather pressing.”

Sirius gave a low groan and tugged her closer. “You’ve destroyed two Horcruxes, sat eleven exams, and adopted a Lupin in the span of two weeks. I don’t think anything is pressing today.”

She huffed a laugh against his shoulder. “I didn’t adopt Remus.”

“Didn’t you?” he said casually. “You keep feeding him, fussing over him, and threatening to Side-Along him everywhere like a clingy magical nanny.”

Hermione smiled, eyes half-lidded now. “He’s earned a little fussing.”

“You’ve all earned a little rest,” Sirius said, softer now. His hand moved from her arm to her back, slow and warm, and Hermione sighed as the tension eased from her spine like he’d cast a spell. “I just don’t want to watch you fall apart again. You hide it better than Moony does, but it’s still there. And you don’t have to be strong every single day, Kitten.”

The nickname, usually said with a smirk, was gentler now—affectionate and warm and grounding.

Hermione closed her eyes. “I know,” she said quietly. “It’s just… when I’m sick or still, my brain doesn’t switch off. It races. So research helps. Even if I never find the answer, it makes the noise stop.”

Sirius nodded slowly, brushing his lips over the crown of her head. “Okay. That I understand. But how about this?” He tilted her chin up. “You nap with me now. And if you wake up and still want to read soul theory, I’ll help you.”

Hermione blinked up at him, surprised. “You will?”

“Sure,” he said with a cheeky grin. “I’ll do the voices. Evil soul fragments always sound better with a posh accent.”

Hermione laughed, the tension cracking open like a window letting in light. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. “But you’re smiling now, so I must be doing something right.”

She shook her head, burrowed into his chest again, and let her eyes drift shut. “Just thirty minutes.”

“Sixty,” he whispered.

She didn’t argue this time.

And the parchment lay untouched, for once.

In the end, Hermione didn’t go back to researching that afternoon.

She could have. The books were still stacked neatly on the table, her notes sorted and bookmarked, and just begging to be read. But Sirius had been right—again. Her body still ached with the dull weight of recovery, and her sinuses were at war with her face. The Horcrux theory wasn’t going anywhere. It could wait.

Instead, she lay curled up on the sofa with a blanket over her knees and a steaming mug of broth at her side. And when Sirius—forever the tea tyrant—got up to make her another cup, she decided it was time to cause a little trouble.

Just a little.

She padded quietly across the room, stifling a sniffle, and slid down behind the armchair. The moment he was out of sight, she shimmered into fur and whiskers, tail flicking mischievously. As a cat, she barely made a sound as she tucked herself in, paws neatly tucked under her belly, ears pricked in anticipation.

A minute later, the door opened again.

“Hermione?” Sirius’s voice rang out, light with mild confusion, as he stepped inside holding a chipped floral teacup. “Where’d you go, love?”

No answer, obviously.

He wandered in further, looking around the room, frowning when he noticed the blanket was now empty and her notes untouched.

“I swear,” he muttered, “if you’ve snuck off to research soul magic while pretending to nap, I’m going to—” He paused, cocking his head, then stepped back out into the hallway, listening for movement in the bathroom.

Nothing.

He reappeared with a frown and a huff. “I leave for five bloody minutes to be nurturing, and what do I get? A vanishing act.”

Then, from behind him—

“Mrrrow.”

Sirius jumped. Actually jumped. The tea nearly sloshed over the side of the cup.

“What the—” He spun around.

By his leg, a sleek, chocolate-point Siamese face peeked up, its pale fur pristine and stark against the cocoa-coloured patches around her ears, mask, paws, and tail, bright blue eyes blinking with pure mischief. The cat let out a tiny, suspiciously dainty sneeze, then began winding herself around his ankles, tail upright with smug grace.

“You little—” Sirius exhaled a breathless laugh, crouching down as she rubbed her soft head against his leg. “You’ve been hiding somewhere this whole time just to scare me?”

Hermione, still a cat, gave him a look that could only be described as smug. Then she chirped once and pressed her cold nose to his wrist.

“Oh no, I see how it is,” he murmured, setting the cup down carefully on the side table before scooping her up into his arms. “This is payback, isn’t it? Because I wouldn’t let you dig through soul fragmentation rituals with a fever.”

She purred. Then licked him on the face. Sirius had never realised how scratchy cat tongues were.

“Admit it,” he said, now grinning like an idiot. “You like it when I fuss over you.”

The purring got louder. Her tail curled neatly around his forearm, and she blinked up at him innocently.

“Merlin help me,” Sirius said, shaking his head. “You’re already the cleverest witch of our age. And now you’re adorable too? That’s just unfair.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her furry head, then carried her back to the sofa, where he gently set her down and settled beside her, lifting the blanket back over both of them.

“If you sneeze in my tea, I’m still drinking it,” he warned.

Hermione gave a sneeze suspiciously close to a snort of laughter, then curled up beside him with a feline sigh of contentment.

Sirius leaned back with a chuckle and scratched gently behind her ears. “Just don’t lick my face again. I still don’t know what that was about.”

Her tail thumped once across his thigh, but she didn’t stop purring.

They stayed like that for a while—Sirius cradled in one corner of the sofa, legs outstretched, and Hermione curled like a comma beside him in feline form, warm and light against his side. The steam from his tea mingled with her soft purring, the quiet ticking of the clock the only other sound.

At some point, she shifted.

There was no warning—just a shimmer of magic, a ripple like warm air over a summer road—and suddenly there was Hermione again, very much human and now sprawled half across Sirius’s lap with the blanket tangled around her knees.

“Oh,” she said innocently, blinking up at him.

Sirius looked down at her with wide eyes. “Are you trying to kill me?”

She yawned and stretched one leg. “You’re comfy.”

“You were a cat two seconds ago. You can’t just turn back into a witch while you’re on my lap, Hermione. That’s not fair. You’ve got elbows.”

“Soft elbows,” she mumbled, nuzzling her cheek against his shoulder.

“Pointy elbows,” he countered, though he didn’t make even the slightest effort to push her off.

She smiled into his jumper. “You didn’t drop your tea.”

“Barely.”

“Impressive reflexes.”

“Don’t try to charm your way out of this.”

“I’m literally made of charm.”

Sirius snorted and wrapped an arm around her waist anyway, holding her gently in place. “You’re also running a low-grade fever and making poor life choices.”

“I only transformed to prank you a little,” she said. “Call it enrichment. You were getting bored.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you haven’t moved.”

He hummed, brushing her hair back from her face. “I don’t want to. You’re warm. It’s nice.”

They stayed that way for another minute, the weight of the day beginning to settle around them again.

“You know,” he murmured, “if this is what sick days with you are like… I might need to start licking doorknobs to catch up.”

She snorted. “Absolutely not. That’s disgusting.”

“Just saying. You’re oddly fun when you’re ill.”

“Oddly fun?”

“You know. Chaos in a dressing gown. Mischievous feline sneak attacks. Ridiculous sneezes.”

“They’re dainty.”

“They sound like a teacup exploded.”

Hermione elbowed him gently—soft, not pointy this time—and he caught her hand, kissed her knuckles.

“You’re lovely, even sick,” he said quietly, the mischief softening into something sincere.

Her breath hitched slightly, and for a moment, she just looked at him—really looked. His face was no longer quite so gaunt. There was a new fullness in his cheeks, and the creases beside his eyes—when he smiled like that—were the kind of lines a life could settle into.

Her fingers curled around his.

“I’m really glad I found you,” she whispered.

Sirius leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I think I sniffed you out first, Kitten.”

She laughed—a real one this time, breathless and bright.

And in that little pocket of domestic magic, they stayed wrapped in blankets and quiet affection, tucked away from the looming shadows of Horcruxes and time travel, just for a while.

The morning light spilt lazily across the kitchen table, turning the worn wood golden. Sirius sat barefoot in his dressing gown, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee, the other holding a letter. His expression was one part smug, two parts ridiculously pleased with himself.

Hermione wandered in, still wrapped in her own cardigan and nursing a mild sniffle, looking a little more herself. Her hair was up in a messy bun, eyes brighter than they’d been the last two days. She paused when she caught the look on Sirius’s face.

“What are you grinning at like that?” she asked, walking over and peeking over his shoulder uninvited. “Letter from Harry?”

Sirius tilted the parchment so she could see. “Yep.”

Her eyes scanned Harry’s familiar, half-legible scrawl until she caught the line that made Sirius chuckle aloud.

‘The Map is bloody brilliant. You should’ve seen Ron’s face when he realised Filch was two corridors away and we still managed to sneak past him with a tray of pumpkin pasties. I solemnly swear I am NOT using it responsibly.’

Hermione snorted. “So you did manage to get the Map back from the twins?”

Sirius grinned. “Of course. Gave it to Harry just before we left for King’s Cross.”

“I’m shocked Fred and George gave it up.”

Sirius nodded, his grin widening. “They were all for it. Just told them it’d be poetic if it ended up in Harry’s hands. Gave it back with a wink and a bow.”

Hermione blinked. “They didn’t argue?”

“Nah. Said they’d ‘outgrown it,’” Sirius said with a smirk. “But they were definitely holding onto it until they had someone ‘worthy’ to pass it to. Apparently, Harry ticked all the boxes.”

“Well… I can’t exactly disagree with their logic,” Hermione murmured, amused.

Her eyes skimmed further down the letter. Another line caught her attention.

‘Also, it came. You are not subtle at all. Thank you.’

Her brow furrowed. “What came? What’s that about?”

Sirius tried—and failed—to hide the growing smugness radiating from his whole body.

Hermione turned fully toward him, arms crossed. “What. Did. You. Do.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “I may have arranged for a few—minor—additions to his wardrobe.”

“Minor? ”

“Alright, a full wardrobe transformation.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Sirius…”

He chuckled. “He didn’t want to buy anything new at Madam Malkin’s. Got all awkward about it. Didn’t want to draw attention or make the Weasleys uncomfortable, I think. So I had the whole order sent straight to Hogwarts.”

Hermione blinked. “You—what?”

“Custom package. New winter cloak. Sturdy boots. Some proper casual robes. Shirts, trousers. All measured to fit. Malkin already had his measurements on file for his school kit, so it was easy to just slide a list to her.” He paused, then added with a note of pride, “And I paid for it. Quietly. Malkin was supposed to leave a note to make him think he ordered it, but apparently, he is harder to fool than I thought.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment, then softened. “That’s… actually really thoughtful.”

“I have my moments,” Sirius said modestly, sipping his coffee.

Hermione’s smile curved. “So what, you’re moonlighting as a secret stylist now?”

“I prefer fashion benefactor, thank you.”

She laughed. “You’re setting a very high bar for godfatherhood, you know.”

Sirius shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Someone has to. Besides, he deserves nice things. Ones that actually fit and haven’t gone through a whale of a cousin first.”

Hermione rested her chin on her hand, watching him. “You’re very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Caring,” she said simply. “Even when you try to act like you’re too cool to care.”

Sirius glanced down, looking suddenly bashful. “Well. It helps when I have the right reasons.”

“You mean Harry.”

“And you,” he added, not quite meeting her eyes.

Her heart did an annoyingly soft little flip. She covered it by reaching over and stealing the rest of Harry’s letter.

“I’m keeping this,” she said primly.

“Oi, I was reading that!”

“You already know what it says,” she replied, grinning. “Besides, if you’re going to be secretly upgrading wardrobes and redistributing Marauder heirlooms, someone needs to keep track of your antics.”

Sirius leaned across the table, chin in hand. “That sounds suspiciously like flirting, Miss Lupin.”

Hermione arched a brow. “You started it, Mr Black.”

Sirius rounded the table in a blink, eyes gleaming with that dangerous mix of charm and mischief that always spelt trouble—and probably snogging—for Hermione.

“Oh no you don’t—” she started, but the words barely escaped before he was on her, pressing her back gently against the wall.

His hands slid down to her thighs and, with a sure grip, lifted her up until she was perched snugly at his hips, legs wrapped around his waist. Her back thudded softly against the plaster as he settled her in place.

“Honestly,” she muttered, cheeks already flushed, “you are incorrigible.”

“I prefer boldly romantic,” he murmured, nose brushing the delicate skin under her jaw. “Besides, you flirted first.”

“I did not—ah—” Her breath caught as his lips found the soft spot below her ear, warm and purposeful.

“You absolutely did,” he whispered, voice low and amused, as his mouth trailed along her neck. “Talking about keeping tabs on my antics… Miss Lupin, you wound me.”

“I was talking about your godfather duties, you maniac,” she said, though her fingers were already tangled in his hair.

“Oh, I’ll show you godfatherly dedication,” he said, and kissed her full on the mouth.

It was heady. Sirius always kissed like he was afraid it might be the last time—urgent, intent, all-consuming. She melted into it, curling tighter around him, her hands slipping under the hem of his shirt as his body pressed flush against hers.

But just as his lips began to travel downward again, he froze.

And then—

“hh’HESSCHhhhoo!”

Sirius twisted to the side and sneezed into his shoulder.

There was a pause. A distinctly damp, slightly disgruntled pause.

Hermione blinked, dazed, hair mussed and lips kiss-bitten. “Was that—?”

“Bloody hell,” Sirius groaned, pulling back slightly, rubbing his nose into her shoulder, his arms being occupied with holding her up. “Tell me that wasn’t poetic justice.”

She stared at him for a beat.

Then burst into laughter.

Sirius narrowed his eyes dramatically. “Don’t you dare—”

But it was too late. Hermione was giggling so hard she could barely hold herself upright, her legs loosening around him as she buried her face in his shoulder.

“You—you made such a fuss about my cold,” she gasped between fits of laughter, “and now look at you—!”

“I kissed your disease-ridden mouth because I love you,” Sirius said grandly, though his voice was starting to sound a bit congested. “This is betrayal.”

Hermione wheezed a laugh. “Love, is it?”

He froze again. Just briefly. Then cleared his throat—into his sleeve. “Figuratively speaking.”

She smiled, still cradled in his arms, still breathless and grinning. “Well, figurative or not, I’ll get you some Pepper-Up if the sneezing continues. You’re not allowed to be sick and smug.”

“Oh, I can do both,” Sirius said with a crooked grin, pressing a kiss to her temple. “But for the record—I regret nothing. ”

Hermione leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Not even the part where you dramatically infected yourself for the sake of a kiss?”

“Especially that part,” he said, setting her gently down but not stepping away. “Though if I sneeze myself into unconsciousness later, you have to nurse me back to health.”

“I already have a colour-coded chart for your medications,” Hermione replied sweetly. “It’s under ‘B’ for ‘Buffoon with Terrible Impulse Control.’”

Sirius looked positively smitten. “Merlin, I love you.”

She blinked.

He blinked.

“…Figuratively speaking,” he added hastily.

“Right,” she said, cheeks pink again. “You’ve already said.”

But her smile lingered, warm and secret and very real, as she leaned in and kissed him again anyway—sneeze be damned.

Hermione wasn’t terribly worried that Sirius had caught her cold.

It had been a fairly mild one in the grand scheme of magical ailments—her fever barely lasted a day, her cough had never gotten that bad, and by day three, she was more annoyed than actually unwell. Compared to the unholy flu she’d contracted right as she got tossed into this time period, this had been a polite little sniffle.

And, to her quiet relief, Sirius wasn’t being dramatic about it either. Not that she’d expected him to be the stoic sufferer type, exactly—but he seemed perfectly content to sniffle into his tissues and curl up beside her on the sitting room couch, their limbs tangled comfortably under a shared throw.

By early afternoon, his congestion had clearly settled in—his sniffles more frequent, his eyes a little glassy—but he didn’t complain. He just nestled closer, one hand tucked beneath her knee, the other holding his book propped lazily on the armrest. A fresh cup of tea steamed on the table beside him. A little stack of neatly folded handkerchiefs (thanks to Hermione and Kreacher) lay within reach, along with a conjured rubbish bin that occasionally made a judgemental tsk whenever Sirius missed it with a crumpled tissue.

Hermione was reading too—Advanced Arithmantic Applications in Curse Theory. For light reading, she said.

Sirius had stared at the runes on the first page and announced that she needed her head examined. Then he looked back at the book he was holding—It by Stephen King—and admitted, reluctantly, that compared to the grimoires and soul-splitting treatises Hermione dragged around nowadays, yes, maybe Arithmancy was technically “light.”

Still, he was barely paying attention to the book.

He kept thinking about Remus.

“Hey,” he said after a minute, voice thick with congestion. “Do you think I could sneak into the castle during full moons? Like… sneak into the Shack again, keep Moony company like in the old days?”

Hermione didn’t look up from her page, but her brow rose ever so slightly. “Sirius, you do realise there’s a potion for that now, right?”

He blinked at her. “A potion for sneaking into Hogwarts?”

“A potion for werewolves, darling.” She finally glanced up, giving him a gently exasperated look. “Wolfsbane. Introduced in ’84, though they didn’t perfect the brewing protocols until about ’89. Remus has taken it a few times when he’s managed to procure it. It’s rather expensive and difficult to brew properly.”

Sirius looked deeply offended. “Why has no one told me about this?”

“I assumed you knew! I mean, you’ve been out of Azkaban for a while now—”

“Not exactly subscribed to Potions Quarterly, Hermione!”

Hermione huffed a laugh and nudged him with her foot. “Well, anyway. He’ll be taking it by the next moon. Snape has been tasked to brew it for him while he’s teaching.”

Sirius choked on air. “Snape?!”

Hermione didn’t even blink. “Yes. Severus Snape. Potions Master. Brewed his required curriculum, maintained his credentials. Also brews Wolfsbane. He’s actually quite good at it. I would’ve done it for the August moon, but by the time Remus arrived, it was too late to start. He has to take it every evening for the entire week leading up to the full moon, or it’s useless.”

Sirius sat there in stunned silence for a beat, blinking slowly.

“So he’s not transforming in the Shack, then?”

“Nope,” Hermione said, turning another page. “He wards his office and curls up like a tame wolf on a conjured rug by the fireplace. Naps, from what I’ve heard.”

Sirius looked deeply betrayed.

“He naps?”

“Yes.”

“During the full moon?”

“Yes.”

“He used to try to eat us.”

“Well, now he tries to nap. Progress.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Is he even Moony anymore if he’s not at least a little bitey?”

Hermione gave him a flat look. “Would you like to be a little bitey right now?”

Sirius considered. “Well, I am sick. And you’re very pretty.”

“You’re also full of snot.”

“Tragic but true,” he sighed, reaching for a tissue.

Hermione turned back to her book, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Honestly, Sirius, he’s better off now. And safer. That potion changes everything for him.”

Sirius wiped his nose, then stared off toward the fire. “Good. I’m glad. I just wish we’d had it back then. Maybe things would’ve been different.”

She looked up again, softer now. “They’re different now. That matters too.”

He smiled a little at that and nudged her shin with his foot again. “You always know what to say.”

She smiled back. “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t sneak into Hogwarts and scare the staff to death.”

“You wound me.”

“I’m a menace.”

“And an adorable one.”

“Get better, and maybe I’ll let you come with me when I visit him next weekend. He should have the diadem by then.”

“Deal,” he said, and then promptly sneezed again into his elbow.

Hermione reached for the tea and handed it to him with a fond sigh. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re miserable.”

He grinned sleepily behind the steam. “Don’t I know it.”

Sunday was, by unanimous and unspoken agreement, a bed day.

Sirius had woken up feeling a little worse than the day before—nothing alarming, just the predictable next stage of the cold. His voice had gone gravelly, his nose was redder than Rudolph’s, and the congestion had settled deep in his chest, making him sound a bit like a very tired motorcycle.

But while Sirius himself remained admirably non-dramatic about the whole affair—stoic, even, in his own roguish, sniffling way—his sneezes were another matter entirely.

They were monumental.

The first time it happened that morning, Hermione had physically startled, spilling a bit of tea on the cover of her book.

“Merlin’s—Sirius!” she gasped, clutching her chest. “What was that?”

He sniffled miserably and half-buried himself under the duvet. “S’not my fault,” came the muffled groan. “It’s the kind with build-up. You feel it coming for a full minute. Then you either sneeze or combust.”

“No one should be able to shake the rafters with a head cold,” Hermione said, daubing at the tea with her sleeve.

Ten minutes later, it happened again. A long, slow inhale… a pause that seemed to stretch the very fabric of reality… and then:

“hh-HHESHHHhhhuuh!”

A beat.

“hh’EHHhtCHSHHoo! …hhrKTSHHH!”

“Bless you,” Hermione said faintly, trying not to laugh and failing spectacularly.

Sirius surfaced just enough to grumble, “I feel like I’m exploding.”

“You sound like you’re exploding.”

“I resent that. I explode gracefully.”

“Like a peacock with a sinus infection,” she said, utterly deadpan.

He snorted—then winced as it backfired into a congested cough.

Hermione gently coaxed him back down against the pillows, threading her fingers into his hair with practised tenderness. He closed his eyes and let her, his head heavy on her thigh, breathing shallow but slowly easing.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice rough, “this is not how I imagined spending a Sunday morning with you in bed.”

“No?” she asked, voice teasing.

“No,” he sniffled. “There was a lot less mucus in the version I had in mind.”

Hermione chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “Well, I find you quite charming even in your mucus-covered glory.”

“Really?”

She smirked. “Really. I might even keep you.”

“Good,” he mumbled into her leg. “Because if I sneeze again, I might die. And I want to be somewhere nice for it.”

“You’re so brave,” she said dryly, reaching for the tissues.

“Tell my story,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed again.

She grinned and settled back against the pillows with her book. “Only the dramatic bits.”

“Those are the only bits.”

And so Sunday passed—quiet, slow, and full of loud sneezes, warm blankets, soft hair strokes, and the occasional exaggerated groan from beneath the duvet.

It was, all things considered, one of their better days.

Chapter Text

Monday morning began just like Sunday morning had—with Sirius curled around Hermione under a tangle of blankets, his head tucked under her chin and one arm slung over her waist like he’d rather fuse them together than face the world. He was still a bit sniffly, but noticeably better—less dragon-in-a-tunnel and more mildly congested rogue.

And then, out of nowhere, he bolted upright.

Hermione blinked awake, bleary and disoriented. “Wha’s wrong? Did Kreacher set something on fire?”

Sirius was already flinging off the covers and stumbling toward his trousers. “Appointment. Gringotts. Buggering bollocks.”

Hermione propped herself on her elbows, hair a lion’s mane around her shoulders, watching him with sleepy confusion. “It’s not even seven. What are you talking about?”

“I have an appointment with my account manager. I have to go.” He pulled on his shirt with frantic energy. “You don’t miss Gringotts appointments, Hermione. Ever. The goblins do not care if you’re half-dead or on fire or both. If you don’t show and didn’t cancel properly in writing with three days’ notice, they assume you’re forfeiting whatever it was you were coming in to claim.”

“Which could be?” she asked, yawning.

“No idea. But I’m supposed to review the expanded family holdings as the newly reinstated Head of House Black.” He paused, turned, and gave her a sheepish look. “They don’t like me.”

Hermione arched a brow. “They don’t like anyone.”

“True, but they especially don’t like me.”

She groaned, sitting up. “Let me get you some tea at least.”

“I don’t have time.”

“You have time for tea or you’ll sneeze your way through the entire meeting, and they’ll curse you on the spot.”

Sirius grimaced. “...Alright, five minutes.”

As she swung her legs out of bed and padded barefoot into the hallway, she called over her shoulder, “Wait, before you go—remember how I told you we eventually need access to Bellatrix’s vault?”

“Right,” he called back, pulling on boots. “The one with the Horcrux. Delightful little project.”

“What happens to that vault,” she said, reappearing with two mugs, frighteningly quickly, Sirius imagines Kreacher had been involved, “now that she’s married and incarcerated in Azkaban, if you disown her from the House of Black? Was it part of the dowry, or just her personal trust fund, so to speak?”

Sirius paused mid-lace, blinking at her. “...Huh. I don’t actually know.”

Hermione handed him his tea. “Can you… find out? Subtly?”

He took the mug, still frowning. “You mean without declaring, ‘Hi, I’d like to dig through the vault of my homicidal cousin to see if she left behind any murder trinkets?’”

“Exactly. Just ease into it. Casually. As if you’re a responsible lord and not a man who forgot he had a Goblin appointment until twenty seconds ago.”

Sirius sipped his tea and smirked at her over the rim. “You’re kind of terrifying, you know that?”

“I just plan ahead. Someone has to.”

“Terrifying and sexy,” he added, pulling his robes on and leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Wish me luck.”

“Don’t sneeze on anyone.”

“No promises.”

As he Disapparated with a soft crack—because he can apparently do that as lord of this house, unlike everyone else—Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed into her tea.

It was barely dawn, Sirius was on a covert mission to suss out ancient goblin inheritance laws, and she was still half in pyjamas.

This was her life now.

And oddly enough… she wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Sirius appeared in Diagon Alley with a crack—and was immediately, thoroughly, and unapologetically drenched.

A torrential downpour greeted him like a slap in the face. The cold kind. With extra wind. What happened to Autumn as a transitional season? It had just been swamp-butt weather two days prior.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, hair already sticking to his cheeks, robes sodden within seconds. “Absolutely bloody perfect.”

In his haste, he hadn’t even thought to check the weather. Which, now that he was standing in the middle of the alley with his boots already squelching and water dripping down the back of his neck, felt like a gross miscalculation.

He fumbled for his wand, casting an Impervius charm that might as well have been a polite suggestion to the rain, followed by a Siccatus drying spell that did a decent job on his sleeves but utterly failed against the soaking of his trousers. Nothing short of a full disrobing and a roaring hearth was going to help with that.

“Good morning, London,” he grumbled, pulling his collar up and hurrying his pace down the cobbled street. The shops were mostly closed still—too early for the crowds—but Gringotts, naturally, was open. Goblins kept banker’s hours. By which they meant their hours. And being late was… unwise.

The massive doors of Gringotts loomed ahead, blessedly dry under their extended overhang. Sirius nearly jogged the last few steps up the stairs, taking them two at a time. As soon as he crossed the threshold into the marble-floored atrium, the change was instant.

Warm. Dry. Blessedly goblin-climate-controlled.

He paused just inside the door, dripping quietly onto the ornate tile. The moment he stopped moving, the chill set in. A full-body shiver rippled through him as he muttered another Siccatus under his breath, trying to look presentable before he made eye contact with anyone holding a cursed quill.

His hair was a lost cause—damp, curling slightly at the edges—but he slicked it back anyway. His robes stopped steaming, which was an improvement. He tried not to sniffle, because nothing said “trustworthy Head of an Ancient House” like a sniffling, wet dog of a wizard with a bad track record and worse punctuality.

He adjusted his cuffs, squared his shoulders, and forced a crooked sort of smile. “Alright,” he muttered to himself, “let’s talk about murder vaults. Casually.”

And with that, Sirius Black stepped forward into the gold-and-marble domain of the goblins, trailing dignity and residual rainwater behind him like a cape.

The meeting with the goblins had started with tension as sharp as dragonfang.

Sirius had expected snarling. Gnashing of teeth, metaphorical or otherwise. Accusations of sullied honour and dereliction of fiscal duty. He’d braced himself for it all, seated stiffly in the high-backed chair across from the sleek mahogany desk of Account-Goblin Grimbok, his boots still faintly squelching from the morning deluge.

But… it never came.

In fact, about ten minutes in, Sirius realised—somewhat dazedly—that they didn’t hate him.

Not really.

They hated what his absence had done.

“The Black portfolio,” Grimbok was saying, with the dry distaste of someone describing an ancient heirloom covered in mildew, “has been stagnant for over a decade. The core holdings have not been rebalanced in years. Lord Arcturus’s folios haven’t paid out since 1987. We are looking at multi-cycle depreciation.”

Sirius blinked. “Multi… right.”

“And with your incarceration,” the goblin said with polite venom, “there has been no acting Lord Black to give instruction. No signature authority. No motions filed. Nothing.”

Sirius had the distinct impression that if goblins had eyelids the way humans did, Grimbok would have narrowed his to slits.

“I didn’t exactly have a quill in Azkaban,” Sirius said, attempting diplomacy with a sniffle. “And I’m sure correspondence from that postcode wasn’t a high priority.”

But instead of scoffing or grumbling, Grimbok simply gave a nod so short it could’ve passed for a spasm. Acknowledgement. Not approval—but not disdain, either.

Interesting.

So Sirius sat up straighter and tried not to sound like someone making it up as he went along. Which, of course, he was.

They walked through ledgers, holdings, and folios that had been collecting dust and gathering missed opportunities for years. Some of the terms Sirius only vaguely remembered from the few times his grandfather had deigned to lecture him on “estate affairs.” He said things like “aggressive redistribution,” “consolidate under artefact insurance,” and “open tender for the East Borough property.” It sounded good. And more importantly—it worked.

By the time they reached the end of the stack of parchment, Grimbok was no longer glaring at him. In fact, the goblin’s expression had taken on something almost approaching… approval?

Just before sealing the final document, Sirius hesitated.

“There is one more thing,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. “I need to update my will.”

Grimbok arched a brow, but gestured toward one of the clerks without pause. A new sheaf of parchment was retrieved and placed before him with a wand-tap that activated the magical inkwork.

“Primary heir?” Grimbok asked.

“Harry James Potter,” Sirius said firmly. “Godson. Treat it as legally binding. If something happens to me, he inherits everything. Titles, properties, vault access, the lot.”

The goblin made a noise like a grunt of acknowledgement, his quill scratching across the form. “And if he is underage at the time?”

“There’s a trustee clause in my older will. Carry it over. Remus John Lupin is the designated trustee until Harry comes of age.”

The magic shimmered faintly in agreement as Sirius signed, sealing the declaration with a firm press of his wand.

It was a sobering moment—not one he enjoyed contemplating—but he didn’t regret it. Harry deserved more than grief and half-truths and scrambled protections. He deserved a legacy.

When the last document was signed and sealed with a glimmer of magic, Grimbok tucked his spectacles back into his vest and asked crisply, “Will there be any other business today, Lord Black?”

Sirius opened his mouth to say no—and then the flash of genius hit him.

“Actually… yes,” he said, tone shifting into something more measured. “I was wondering—what happened to Andromeda’s personal vault when she was disowned?”

Grimbok’s ears twitched slightly. “Reverted to the House vault, as is standard. When a daughter of an Ancient and Noble House is removed from the family rolls, any vaults granted through the House charter revert to the Head of House.”

“Irrespective of marital status? That is the standard? No dowry arrangements?”

“Yes. Dowries are always settled through separate agreements and vaults where applicable,” Grimbok explained, his tone heavily implying there was no such arrangement for Andromeda since she had eloped.

“And those assets are still within the same Black vault?” Sirius asked carefully.

“Yes. Untouched.”

“Great,” Sirius said, smile flashing now. “I’d like to reinstate Andromeda Tonks née Black into the House of Black, and give her access back.”

There was no pause. No protest. Grimbok simply nodded once, took out a different scroll, and wrote it down in immaculate Gobbledegook calligraphy. A secondary goblin walked it across the room to the ledger stone, touched it to the carved surface, and it glowed for a moment with ancient magic before sinking into the records.

“And,” Sirius added, not missing a beat, “I’d like to remove Bellatrix Lestrange née Black from the family ledger. Formally and completely. She no longer holds the name or the rights.”

Again, there was no reaction. No dramatic pause or raised brows. Just another scroll, another signature, another flash of magic.

“Processed,” Grimbok said, stamping the parchment with a gleaming black sigil. “Bellatrix Lestrange is no longer legally recognised as a scion of the House of Black.”

Sirius exhaled slowly. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding that breath.

“And while we’re at it,” he said, more casually than he felt, “can we make a trip down to Bellatrix’s former vault?”

Grimbok gave a toothy grin. “Of course. Vault 709 is now fully accessible to the Head of House Black. Shall I have a cart brought around?”

Sirius stood. “Lead the way.”

And just like that, he was on his way to the Lestrange vault.

Well. Technically, the Black vault now.

And Sirius had every intention of rifling through it like it was the attic of a cursed grandmother—dangerous, dusty, and long overdue for a proper cleanout.

Sirius had thought himself reasonably prepared for the vault expedition. After all, he’d braved a Dementor-infested prison, survived Animagus transformations in a haunted shack, and just that morning, managed to tie his boots before tea despite a head cold.

He was not, however, prepared for the sheer, bone-shivering, bloody cold of the Gringotts lower tunnels.

It was a wet cold. A creeping, miserable kind that wormed through his damp boots and settled in his joints with the vindictive glee of a particularly vicious ex. His robes—still slightly sodden from the earlier deluge in Diagon Alley—were damp again just from the tunnel air. He cast another Impervius, then a Drying Charm, then muttered darkly about needing a bloody boiler suit next time.

And just when he thought things couldn’t get worse—they reached the Thief’s Downfall.

“I suppose we have to go through that?” he asked the goblin, who looked at him with the impassive expression of someone who would very much like to be somewhere else.

“This is a high-security vault,” the goblin said flatly. “The waterfall is non-negotiable.”

The cart surged forward. A second later, the cascade of enchanted water hit like an icy curse. Sirius sputtered, shivered violently, and swore so creatively that the cart itself juddered.

He cast another drying charm once they’d passed through, but at this point, it was like mopping the deck of a sinking ship. His robes were crisping from repeated hot-air spells, and his sleeves felt like starched parchment. His hair curled damply at his temples. He sniffled once, cursed again, and curled his arms tightly across his chest.

They pulled up to Vault 709.

“Geminio and Flagrante curses on most of the contents,” the goblin warned as the door unlocked with a deafening groan. “Any object you touch may multiply and burn. Do not touch anything unless you are certain.”

“Lovely, Cousin Bella,” Sirius muttered, hugging himself tighter as his breath misted in the vault’s chill. “Absolutely bloody lovely.”

Inside, the vault glimmered in the low light like a hoarder’s fever dream—piles upon piles of goblets, heirlooms, gold coins, grim trinkets, and enough cursed bric-a-brac to stock a mid-range dark artefact emporium. The faint, acrid hum of protective magic hung thick in the air.

Sirius moved slowly, cautiously, careful not to let his sleeves brush even a single surface. He squinted toward the upper shelves, trying to find something—anything—that screamed Horcrux.

He figured it’d be something cup-shaped. That much he knew. And presumably with some sort of badger iconography, since Hermione had explained the significance of Hufflepuff’s relics. There were dozens of goblets scattered about, most gaudy enough to make Narcissa’s wedding silver look tasteful, but nothing that screamed dark relic of unimaginable evil.

Until his eyes caught on a shelf near the very back—higher up, tucked behind a curtain of rusted, cursed chains. A gleam of something gold. Something… not quite right.

That was it.

He didn’t need to touch it to know. The air around it felt different. Like it was listening.

He waved his wand carefully, murmuring the incantations the goblin had provided to cancel the immediate hexes within the proximity. The magic shimmered faintly—then stilled. The oppressive air loosened.

He reached for the cup with his bare hand.

As soon as his fingers closed around it, he froze, remembering belatedly that it might not have been a good idea. Not with what had almost happened with the ring.

Nothing.

No vision. No electric backlash. No soul-splitting agony. Or suddenly blackened fingers.

Sirius let out a breath slowly.

Still, the cup pulsed faintly in his palm. Wrong. Just like the locket, according to Hermione. He was starting to get a feel for them too—these dark artefacts seemed to whisper to something in his bones, a low, grinding presence that made his stomach twist even without a curse.

“Well, hello, Helga,” he muttered grimly, pulling out a conjured pouch and sliding the cup carefully inside. “Third time’s the charm.”

He turned, navigating the vault carefully, resisting the urge to sneeze again, and rejoined the goblin at the entrance.

“We’re done.”

The goblin said nothing, simply nodded, and gestured him back into the cart.

The ride to the surface was just as cold, just as bone-rattling—but Sirius clutched the pouch close, chest tight with the knowledge of what he now held.

Another Horcrux.

Another piece of the puzzle.

And one step closer to ending it all.

When Sirius stepped through the front door of Grimmauld Place, soaked to the bone and colder than any sane wizard had business being, his body finally gave up the pretence of holding it together.

“hhH’TSCHHHhuh!”

The sneeze tore out of him so forcefully, he nearly dropped the pouch still clutched in his hand. He sniffled miserably, shoulders hunched, water dripping from the ends of his curls in steady rivulets.

Hermione appeared from the direction of the library not five seconds later, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to outright alarm the moment she laid eyes on him.

“Merlin’s knees, what happened to you?”

Sirius tried to answer, but his jaw was shivering too hard. He gave a weak shrug instead.

“You know what? No. First: shower. You can tell me once your lips are not faintly blue.”

Still, the corner of his mouth tugged upward, even through the chattering. “C-care to join me?”

Hermione folded her arms, gave him a slow once-over, and sighed. “Fine. But only because I don’t want you collapsing and cracking your head open on the tiles.”

“Romantic,” he rasped, barely standing.

She clicked her tongue and steered him toward the closest bathroom with brisk efficiency, flicking her wand at the shower to turn on the hot water. Steam began to curl up from the tiles almost instantly.

“Stay here,” she said firmly as she sat him down on the toilet lid. “Don’t move. I’m getting you warm clothes.”

She returned two minutes later with a fluffy pair of sweatpants, a thick long-sleeved shirt, and a hoodie that might have once belonged to James. Sirius hadn’t moved an inch. His hands were trembling now, his eyes glassy with the double threat of a fever and a goblin-inflicted migraine.

Hermione frowned and set the clothes down. “Alright, up you get.”

He blinked slowly, like he’d just registered her presence. “Might need… help.”

“You don’t say,” she muttered, already undoing the clasp of his robes.

She worked quickly and efficiently, her fingers gentle as she peeled away his damp layers. Once he was stripped out of his briefs, she hooked an arm around his waist and guided him under the spray of the now-steaming shower. Sirius flinched at the temperature shift but didn’t protest. His brain didn’t seem to be online enough for words.

Hermione disrobed without ceremony and stepped in after him, her hands reaching immediately for the shampoo.

“Alright,” she said briskly, lathering his hair, “you’re not allowed to fall asleep upright. Don’t do it. I will drop you.”

“‘S warm,” he mumbled, eyes closing for a second too long.

“Sirius. Eyes open.”

He cracked them open with visible effort, then flinched when the water ran over his face.

Hermione huffed, rinsed his hair with one hand while supporting his weight with the other, then grabbed a soft cloth and started on his back. “You are never going to a Gringotts appointment alone while sick again. I don’t care if you’re Lord Black, King of Magical Finance, or the bloody Goblin Whisperer.”

Sirius swayed slightly under the hot spray, lips parted in a half-dazed smile. “Got the Horcrux, though,” he murmured, congested and utterly wrecked—but unmistakably smug.

Hermione froze.

The cloth in her hand stilled against his back. Her grip on his arm tightened, just a fraction. “What? ”

He blinked at her slowly, as if surprised she hadn’t already known. “Hufflepuff’s cup. Got it. In the pouch. On the counter. Probably cursed me in sixteen ways I haven’t felt yet.”

Hermione’s brain came to a full stop.

She had sent him to inquire. Just recon. A few careful questions, a bit of quiet information-gathering so they could plan something smarter later. She hadn’t thought he’d actually get the bloody thing. Not today. Not while sneezing and half-frozen and barely coherent.

“You—” she started, eyes wide. “You got it?”

Sirius gave her a wobbly nod. “Yeah. Vault 709. Cancelled the curses. Snagged it.”

And then, with all thought of fevers and fragility and the fact that they were both standing stark naked in a cloud of steam, Hermione surged forward and kissed him.

Hard.

It was an ungraceful, half-panicked kiss, a tangle of wet skin and urgency, on her tippy toes, her hands sliding up into his damp hair. Sirius let out a surprised noise and staggered slightly, his back hitting the cold tile with a faint thunk. But his arms wrapped around her all the same, lips parting beneath hers, and he kissed her back like the world had finally righted itself.

When she finally pulled back, breath short and eyes blazing, he blinked down at her, thoroughly dazed.

“Well,” he rasped, voice hoarse and low. “Already worth it.”

Hermione pressed her forehead to his, half-laughing, half-breathless. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he mumbled, grinning as he sneezed wetly into the crook of his arm. “Merlin. Worth it twice.”

After gently shutting off the steaming water and guiding his swaying frame out of the shower, Hermione wrapped Sirius in the thickest towel she could find. He didn’t even resist—just leaned on her, pliant and docile, occasionally blinking like the light was trying to pick a fight with his skull.

She charmed the air around them warm and dry, her wand hand moving quickly and efficiently, conjuring heat and swirling warm air to wick the damp from his skin. Another flick had his hair ruffled dry, thick black strands puffing slightly from the aggressive charm. It made him look like a very damp lion who’d had a run-in with a hairbrush wielded by a toddler.

He sneezed again. Loudly.

“Bless you,” she muttered, already reaching for the clothes she’d fetched earlier.

She got him dressed with minimal complaint—he made one tired joke about having a personal nurse with very nice hands, but his heart wasn’t even in the flirtation—and once he was dressed, she looped her arm through his and guided him slowly to his room.

Sirius collapsed into bed with all the grace of a toppled tree, groaning as he rolled under the covers. Hermione fluffed his pillow, tucked the blankets around him like she had done it a thousand times, and pointed her wand at the bed with one final warming charm.

“Do not move,” she said sternly, “under any circumstances.”

Sirius made a soft, agreeable noise that could have meant anything from yes, dear to pudding would be nice.

Hermione sighed and crossed to the fireplace.

“Kreacher?” she called softly.

The elf appeared with a quiet pop, eyes already wide with concern.

“Please—Pepper-Up, a fever reducer, the usual tea, and the potion from my green case in the apothecary cupboard. And the yellow phial from the bottom shelf, if you would.”

Kreacher bowed low. “At once, Miss Ione.” His voice held that strange new reverence, as if she were some small and brilliant queen who had saved the crown jewels from ruin.

When he returned moments later with a tray of carefully balanced bottles and a tea set, Hermione took it with murmured thanks. She sat on the edge of the bed and coaxed Sirius upright enough to drink each potion, one after the other.

He didn’t even ask what they were. Just downed them all with only a mild grimace, blinking blearily up at her.

“I love you,” he said, nose pink and eyes glassy. No qualifiers this time.

“I know,” Hermione replied gently, brushing damp strands from his forehead.

Sirius gave a contented sigh and slumped back into the pillows, already half-asleep.

And within minutes, wrapped in warmth and potions and the steady rhythm of Hermione’s quiet fussing, he sank into the kind of sleep that came only after a mad dash through rain, goblins, theft, curses, and two too many heroic instincts.

Hermione pulled the blankets up a little higher and leaned in to kiss his temple.

“Worth it twice,” she whispered, before turning off the light.

By the middle of the night, Hermione was thoroughly reconsidering her earlier declaration that this had all been “worth it.”

The cup—yes, that was important. Vital, even. One more Horcrux out of the hands of Voldemort. But Sirius… Sirius was burning up.

His fever had spiked sharply sometime just past two in the morning. One moment he was tossing gently under the covers, muttering something about Gringotts and rain, and the next he was flailing, caught in the grip of a nightmare so fierce it knocked the tea tray from the side table with a crash.

Hermione had bolted upright and scrambled to his side, barely catching his shoulders before he hurt himself. He was drenched in sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wild and unfocused as he stared up at the ceiling and whispered things that made her heart clench.

“No—don’t—don’t take him—James, I said I’d watch Harry—please—don’t leave me again—”

“Sirius,” she whispered, brushing his hair back with trembling fingers, voice calm and low like a charm against the dark. “Sirius, you’re dreaming. You’re safe. It’s just me. I’ve got you.”

But he didn’t wake. Not fully.

He thrashed once more, then sagged back against the pillows, breathing ragged. She summoned the fresh phial of fever-reducer and coaxed it between his lips, her other hand stroking along his jaw in slow, steady motions. He took the potion with a groan, half-conscious, and then stilled again—though his breath remained too quick, his skin alarmingly hot.

She cast another cooling charm, gentler this time, worried that anything too strong would shock his system. Her mind raced through everything she knew—every healing text, every lecture from Pomfrey and her eighth-year advanced medi-magic module.

It wasn’t the flu. It wasn’t just a cold anymore. Something in the vault—exposure to curses? The cold and damp of Gringotts tunnels combined with physical exhaustion? Maybe even some residual Dark magic from the cup?

She didn’t know. And she hated not knowing.

She checked his temperature again. Still too high.

She sat back in the chair she’d dragged to his bedside and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. Her wand rested in her lap. Her eyes remained fixed on him as she whispered another cooling charm and reapplied the cloth to his forehead.

He stirred once more, and she leaned in, brushing her lips lightly across his temple. “I’m here,” she whispered again. “Not going anywhere.”

The worst part was the silence between his murmurs—the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the too-pale curve of his mouth, the way he looked less like a powerful Animagus and more like the broken man Azkaban had nearly left behind.

She didn’t sleep.

She didn’t even try.

By four in the morning, she had already written and sealed a letter for Healer Turlough, the curse expert in St Mungo’s who owed her a favour in the future, and she had confidence in. She’d send it at first light if Sirius didn’t improve.

Because this—this wasn’t worth it. Not if it meant losing him.

Not for a Horcrux. Not for anything.

By morning, Hermione realised—perhaps a bit sheepishly—that she had overreacted by writing that letter in the dead of night.

Well, not overreacted per se. She was exhausted, worried, and dealing with a feverish man who kept crying out for people long dead. Writing the letter had been a logical act. An action. Something to do when everything felt out of her control.

But as sunlight crept into the room and Sirius stirred, it became quite apparent this wasn’t some obscure Gringotts curse, nor the aftershock of dark magic from the Horcrux.

No, this was something far more pedestrian.

He was coughing. Violently.

The sort of wet, hacking, chest-wracking cough that rattled straight down to the ribs. It was an unmistakable sound—the kind that made your own lungs ache in sympathy. And the more she listened, the more her concern crystallised into something grim but familiar.

Secondary infection. Pneumonia.

She sighed softly, rubbing her hand down her face. “Bloody rain and tunnels,” she muttered to no one.

Sirius groaned weakly beside her, eyes fluttering open. “That bad?” he croaked.

Hermione offered him a wan smile. “Not cursed. Not dying. But definitely pneumonia.”

“Pneu—what?”

She pressed a hand lightly to his chest, frowning at the heat and the slight wheeze under his next breath. “Secondary infection,” she explained. “You were getting over the cold and then spent two hours in the rain and freezing subterranean hellscape that is Gringotts. Your lungs were vulnerable.”

“Sounds fake,” Sirius muttered, then winced as another cough took hold of him. He doubled over with it, and Hermione had to brace him upright.

“I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s,” she said gently, already reaching for the bag she had pre-packed in the hallway. “You need antibiotic potions. And before you argue—no, I can’t brew them for you. Not in this timeline.”

He blinked at her, dazed. “Time-travel licensing bureaucracy strikes again?”

She snorted. “Correct. I don’t have my N.E.W.T. results yet. Which means technically I shouldn’t be doing any magic at all. And trying to purchase ingredients for and brewing regulated potions without Healer clearance or a Potions Master’s licence? That would put us both in hot water.”

He grunted. “Hot water sounds nice, actually.”

“You’re delirious,” she muttered, but fondly.

It took some careful coaxing—he could barely sit up on his own—but eventually she helped him into a fresh hoodie and warm joggers. Kreacher popped in with a steaming mug of tea and a warm compress for Sirius’s chest, clucking quietly under his breath in a way that sounded remarkably like, Stupid boy should not have gone to Gringotts in the rain like an imbecile, but with a tone that was uncharacteristically tender.

Sirius let Hermione tug the beanie she had gotten him over his sweat-damp hair without protest. His eyes were glassy, but not dangerously so now. The fever had broken a little sometime near dawn. She was certain of that. His colour was a bit better, too, though the cough sounded worse. Classic pneumonia progression.

She wrapped a scarf around his neck with brisk efficiency, then crouched in front of him to double-check that he was steady. “Can you Apparate on your own, or do you want me to take you? I don’t think the Floo is a good idea for your lungs at the moment.”

He lifted a hand and let it fall again limply. “You carry me, Kitten.”

“I’m going to assume that’s a no.”

Sirius gave her a crooked half-smile. “Thanks for not sending the goblin-slaying curse specialist.”

Hermione kissed his temple. “You’re not out of the woods yet, Lord Black. But you will be. Now, let’s go get you the potions before your lungs start trying to escape your body.”

She helped him downstairs, and with a quiet crack, they Disapparated from just outside the front door.

As they arrived with a soft crack on the quiet, Muggle-facing corner of London, the drizzle still lingering in the air, Hermione instinctively tightened her grip around Sirius’s waist to support him.

Before them stood the same innocuous, boarded-up facade she’d known since childhood—Purge and Dowse, Ltd, a red-bricked department store long abandoned, its grimy display windows filled with broken mannequins and dusty signage. Most Muggles walked right past it without a second glance. Today, it loomed like a challenge.

As Hermione moved toward the cracked glass, ready to speak the passphrase, a click echoed faintly nearby—a flash, subtle but distinct.

She blinked. A camera?

Her eyes swept the street, but whoever it had been was gone—or invisible.

Not now, she thought, heart hammering.

Refocusing, she addressed the nearest dummy in the window display. “Sirius Black, presenting with signs of pneumonia, high fever, productive cough. We require immediate admission for treatment.”

The mannequin gave a single nod.

Hermione guided Sirius—shuffling and only half-aware—through the enchanted glass, and they emerged into the clean, bustling corridor of St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The lighting was too bright, the smell of disinfectant sharp and oddly minty.

A Healer—named Scoville, according to his name tag—in lime green robes appeared within seconds. Hermione rattled off the symptoms, already opening Sirius’s hoodie, pointing out the wheezing, the warmth of his skin. He was barely responsive, apparently the Apparition having sapped all his energy. The Healer nodded briskly, summoning a gurney with a flick of his wand. Before Hermione could move to follow, two assistant mediwizards swept in, lifting Sirius and wheeling him toward the corridor marked Respiratory Illnesses and Curses.

“I’m coming with him,” she said, stepping forward.

“Are you family?” asked the Healer, already halfway down the corridor.

“I—well, no, not legally—”

“I’m sorry,” Scoville called over his shoulder. “Only next of kin allowed past the ward barrier.”

“I’m his bloody girlfriend!” Hermione barked, but the door had already closed behind them.

She was left standing in the hall, staring at the stark white wall as though it had personally insulted her.

Her fists clenched.

She sat for a few minutes in the waiting chairs—well, perched, more than sat—before giving up and starting to pace, her cloak flaring behind her.

Her mind raced in a thousand directions. She could fake paperwork. She could forge a magical bond declaration. Merlin, she would’ve adopted him if it meant getting through that door.

Kreacher could vouch. Remus could vouch. The bloody goblins could vouch at this point if Sirius had cared to mention her.

And yet she was stuck here, in a hallway that smelled of dittany and quiet despair, while the man she loved was being treated for an illness that had crept in because of his devotion. Because he’d pushed through rain and cursed tunnels to retrieve a Horcrux. For her.

“Not next of kin,” she muttered bitterly. “Next of kin my arse.”

A passing assistant paused. “Did you say something, Miss?”

“Yes,” Hermione said sweetly, her eyes glittering with the barely-restrained urge to hex the next person who told her to wait. “I said I would like a report as soon as Healer Scoville has assessed Sirius Black.”

“Right. I’ll… I’ll let them know.”

Hermione resumed her pacing. Her boots thudded softly on the tiled floor in a rhythmic loop.

He’d better be alright.

Or I am rewriting Wizarding kinship law myself.

The hallway was still too bright. Too quiet. Hermione’s pacing had slowed, but her mind hadn’t—each second stretched thin with worry, her thoughts looping and circling like caged Thestrals.

Then she heard footsteps. Confident. Measured. The sound of someone who walked like they belonged, who wasn’t afraid to look anyone in the eye.

Hermione turned.

And nearly froze.

The resemblance was undeniable. Same dark hair, though a little greyer at the temples. Same sharp cheekbones. Same bearing. Even her mouth—set in a firm line that could, at a glance, be mistaken for disdain.

Hermione had to physically stop herself from flinching.

For a moment, her mind twisted backwards—screams, her own voice raw from it, Bellatrix Lestrange’s high-pitched laughter echoing in that cursed drawing room as pain splintered through her nerves—

But this wasn’t her.

This wasn’t Bellatrix.

This woman had warm hazel eyes and a calm, level expression. She walked with purpose, not manic delight. And her robes—heathered green beneath a navy travelling cloak—were spotless. Not black and bloodstained.

Teddy’s future grandmother. Not that Hermione had much contact with her in future. She usually saw Teddy through Harry.

“Andromeda?” she asked cautiously, stepping forward.

The woman turned, a slight furrow between her brows. “Yes? I’m sorry, do I know—?”

“Ione Lupin,” Hermione said quickly. “Remus’s cousin. Remus Lupin, Sirius’s friend.”

“I know who Remus is,” Andromeda added with a faint, dry smile. “Though I can’t imagine why he sent you to play nursemaid to my cousin.”

Hermione blinked, thrown. “He didn’t. I live with them. Sirius and Remus. Well, just Sirius now that Remus is at Hogwarts for the term.”

Andromeda’s brow rose slightly, but didn’t comment. “Then I suppose I should thank you for making sure he got treatment. Merlin knows no Black man has ever voluntarily gone to St Mungo’s unless he was bleeding out from both ears and missing a limb.”

Hermione huffed a soft laugh. “They really don’t. How did you know he was here?”

Andromeda nodded. “I was notified when he was admitted. Family protocols. St Mungo’s alerts next of kin when someone from an Ancient House is hospitalised.”

“Oh,” Hermione said automatically—then frowned. “But… you were disowned.” She regretted it the moment it left her mouth.

Andromeda didn’t flinch. “Was,” she said smoothly. “Apparently, that’s been rectified.”

Hermione’s mind spun. Sirius. Of course. He had just visited the bank. He must’ve reinstated Andromeda. Quietly. Without fanfare. Of course, he had.

And disowned Bellatrix, she realised, heart skipping. That would explain how he accessed the vault.

“That’s… good,” Hermione said, recovering. “That’s really good. Sorry—Sirius must’ve forgotten to mention it yesterday. He was… well, shivering and half-delirious by the time he got home.”

Andromeda let out a low sigh. “He went to Gringotts with a fever?”

“He said goblins don’t take kindly to missed appointments. Something about eternal scheduling resentment. Or forfeiting his entire fortune, though I think he meant that as a joke.”

“Yes,” she muttered, eyes rolling faintly. “That sounds like both goblins and Sirius.”

Hermione hesitated. “So… does that mean Narcissa’s going to show up too?”

Andromeda’s expression shifted, subtle but telling. “You know a great deal about our family, Miss Lupin.”

Hermione flushed. “Sirius mentioned… things. Old family dynamics. He spoke quite fondly of you, actually.”

“Mm.” Andromeda tilted her head slightly, like someone filing observations for later.

Hermione cleared her throat. “So… will she?”

“Unlikely,” Andromeda said coolly. “Narcissa wouldn’t want to be reminded that she’s still, technically, part of a family now run by a so-called blood traitor.”

Hermione nodded, though the knot in her stomach didn’t quite untangle.

A door opened down the hall, and a Healer approached. “Madam Tonks?”

Andromeda turned, cool and composed.

“You can see him now. He’s still asleep, but resting easier.”

“Thank you.” Andromeda nodded to the Healer, then turned back to Hermione. “I’ll let you know how he is.”

Hermione gave a tight, grateful smile. “Thank you. Really.”

Andromeda hesitated only a moment before placing a hand on her arm. It was brief—no more than a gesture—but surprisingly grounding. “He’s stronger than he looks, you know.”

“I know,” Hermione said softly. “But he shouldn’t have to be.”

Andromeda’s gaze softened, and for the first time, Hermione saw a flicker of someone entirely different from Bellatrix or Narcissa—a woman who had fought hard for her own choices, her family, her peace.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Andromeda said, then disappeared down the hall.

Hermione returned to her pacing, this time a little slower. Her mind still buzzed, but there was comfort in knowing someone else was back there. That Sirius wasn’t alone.

Still, she didn’t sit.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

A little while later, after Andromeda had told her Sirius was doing fine before promptly going back in, Hermione had finally sunk onto the narrow waiting bench, knees bouncing, arms folded tightly across her chest as she stared blankly at the walls. The occasional clink of potion phials and soft murmur of footsteps passed beyond the doors. She didn’t realise she’d started biting the inside of her cheek until the taste of blood registered on her tongue.

Then came the sound hurtling down the hall.

A sharp clatter, something metallic, followed by an unmistakable rasp of coughing—deep, congested, ugly.

And then, louder—raspy and furious and unmistakably Sirius:

“Let her in, for Merlin’s sake—I said I want Ione—!”

Hermione jolted upright, her heart stuttering in her chest. Several witches and wizards in the corridor turned their heads, startled.

There was more shouting from behind the doors, accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like an attempt to throw off his blankets and bodily rise from the hospital bed, judging by the alarmed squawks of the Healers.

Hermione surged to her feet. She should go to him, she should—

But then the weight of it hit her. Not the volume. Not the cursing.

The name.

He’d remembered.

Even in his fevered state—half-lucid, shaking with chills, chest filled with fluid—he’d remembered to call her Ione. Not Hermione.

Hermione’s eyes burned suddenly, her throat tight. It was such a Sirius thing to do—bark orders through delirium while still somehow remembering the mission. Remembering the danger. Remembering her.

Andromeda had stepped out into the hallway again, composed as ever, though her expression had turned wry at the sound of her cousin’s yelling. She quirked a brow at Hermione.

“You may want to get in there before he brings the ceiling down,” she said calmly. “He’s threatening to storm out in his hospital gown. It’s not a good look.”

Hermione was already halfway down the hall. “Thank you.”

Andromeda gave a slight nod and stepped aside.

The Healer on duty opened the door just wide enough for Hermione to slip in, looking a bit frazzled. “Please—please calm him down. We had to Stupefy a man last week who tried to duel a mediwitch over jelly potion.”

Hermione nodded, slipping inside.

Sirius was sitting up, chest heaving, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed, but when they landed on her, some of the wildness eased from his face.

“There you are,” he croaked, sagging back against the pillows. “Finally. They were keeping you away. Said you weren’t family.”

She crossed the room and reached for his hand. “I am here now.”

He blinked at her, then gave a crooked little smile. “Good. Told them you were mine.”

Her heart gave an impossible little stutter, but she just squeezed his hand.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispered, sitting beside him carefully.

“But I’m your idiot,” he mumbled, and drifted off before she could even roll her eyes properly.

She stayed by his side after that. No one tried to remove her again.

A bit later in the afternoon, as the corridors of St Mungo’s grew noisier with the end-of-day bustle, two more visitors arrived.

Hermione looked up from her chair at Sirius’s bedside as the door creaked open and two familiar figures stepped inside. Ted Tonks—warm-eyed, impeccably dressed even in a slightly wrinkled cloak—and a young woman with bright pink hair that clashed fabulously with her dark red Auror trainee robes.

“And here I thought we were the only ones Sirius ever let visit him when he’s ill,” Andromeda said dryly from her seat by the window, standing to greet her husband and daughter.

Sirius gave a hoarse laugh from the bed. “I didn’t let anyone in, Andi. Everyone else just barges in with opinions and knitwear.”

“I’m here for both,” Ted said, clasping his cousin’s shoulder briefly. “Glad to see you’re still breathing.”

“Mostly,” Sirius muttered. “Thanks again, Ted. For the hearing. Don’t suppose you’re open to being on retainer, are you? I’ve got a whole family’s worth of drama queued up.”

Ted smirked. “I’ll draw up a contract.”

While the others chatted, Dora’s sharp eyes flicked to Hermione, clearly clocking her as an unknown. She stepped closer, holding out a hand. 

“You, I don’t recognise,” Tonks said brightly, walking right up to her. “I’m Tonks. Or Dora, if you absolutely must. But mostly Tonks.”

“Hullo,” Hermione smiled. “Ione Lupin. Cousin of Remus.”

Tonks blinked. “Wait—Remus Lupin?”

Hermione nodded, but something about the younger girl’s tone caught her off guard. “You… know him?”

“Sort of.” Tonks gave a sheepish smile. “He came by with Sirius once when I was little—six, maybe seven. Brought me this book about magical creatures. I thought he was the coolest thing ever. Didn’t say much, but he looked like he knew things, you know?”

Hermione’s mouth twitched. “That sounds about right.”

Something clicked in her head then—Tonks, all eagerness and wide eyes, remembering Remus from a single childhood visit. And later, chasing him across war zones and Order meetings like she had something to prove.

Merlin. The crush started early, didn’t it?

“Well,” Hermione said gently, “I could reintroduce you sometime. Properly.”

Tonks lit up like a Lumos charm. “Would you?”

“Of course.”

The rest of the visit passed with warm well-wishes and gentle teasing. Ted reminded Sirius to please let someone else handle the estate paperwork next time, and Tonks told him that if he wasn’t back on his feet soon, she was going to tell everyone at the Ministry that the mighty Lord Black got taken out by a head cold.

After they left—Tonks shooting Hermione a quick wink and mouthed thank you on her way out—Sirius turned to her suspiciously.

“What was that about?” he asked, congested and croaky, but clearly not too far gone to notice the gleam in Tonks’s eyes.

Hermione, all innocent guile, just shrugged. “Oh, nothing. That’s just Remus’s future wife.”

Sirius choked on his tea mid-sip. Coughed, wheezed, and glared. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“You’re not joking.”

“I’m really not.” She grinned. “But don’t worry. They get there eventually.”

Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it again. “My little cousin… Remus’s wife. I need more potions.”

“You need rest,” Hermione said firmly. “And I should head home and deal with the cup.”

Sirius tensed immediately. “You are not touching it without me. I don’t want another locket incident.”

“It’s not as bad,” Hermione said quickly. “Honestly. This one only causes flooding, and that too only because we destroyed it in the Chamber, I think.”

“I don’t care. We destroy it together. Promise me.”

“I promise,” she said quietly.

Unfortunately, Sirius’s insistence and threats weren’t enough to convince the St Mungo’s nurses to let her stay past visiting hours.

When the mediwitch finally ushered her toward the door, Hermione leaned in, brushing a kiss against Sirius’s cheek.

“I’ll be back in the morning. Try not to charm your way out of bed.”

“No promises,” he mumbled, already sinking back into the pillows.

She paused in the doorway, watching him with a fond twist of her heart. Then she slipped out into the corridor, the weight of her promise still warm on her lips.

The following morning dawned grey and drizzly, as if the sky itself had decided to be hungover. Hermione barely noticed. She had bolted down toast and tea Kreacher had insisted on making, wrapped herself in the thickest jumper she could find, and all but ran to St Mungo’s. 

He looked marginally better when she slipped into the room. The colour had returned to his face, and he was no longer coughing like a dying motorbike, but he was clearly still run down. Despite that, he was sitting up, eyes flicking through a folded-up copy of the Daily Prophet with a distinctly unimpressed expression.

“Morning,” he said, before she could speak. “Don’t scream. Just take this with a strong calming draught and a dram of Firewhisky.”

He tossed the paper onto the bed beside him.

Hermione stared. She recognised the byline immediately.

RITA SKEETER

“Oh no,” she muttered. “Oh no, no—what has she done now—”

Then she saw the headline.

Lord Black’s Blushing Mystery: Who Is the Witch Beside the Most Eligible Bachelor in Wizarding Britain?

Beneath it: a photograph taken outside St Mungo’s. Grainy, but recognisable. Sirius, pale and dripping, being half-carried by a woman whose face was only just turning enough in the short loop to be seen—Hermione. Or rather, Ione Lupin. Unfortunately, Rita had clearly connected a few dots and then decorated the rest with glittering, poisonous fiction.

Hermione skimmed, jaw clenching:

“Ione Lupin,” a little-known witch apparently applying for residency from Switzerland (curious timing)—is she truly a distant cousin to Hogwarts professor Remus Lupin, or merely capitalising on the name for status? And what of her credentials—an impressive eleven N.E.W.T.s pending results, but no verifiable magical lineage despite the bold claim. No family. No past.

What she does seem to have? Proximity. A conveniently timed association with Lord Black, just as he’s stepping into inherited wealth and power, vulnerable after his long years of wrongful incarceration. Sources at the hospital confirmed she was the one to deliver him to care—swooping in, as if on cue.

Could Lord Black be the latest victim of a rather traditional plot? Has the starved and scandal-worn Black heartthrob finally fallen prey to the age-old strategy of a pretty face and some well-timed caretaking? Some suggest Miss Lupin might have played a more active role in his illness, ensuring he needed her.

If so, perhaps she should have waited until there was a ring on her finger before moving on more decisively with her schemes.

Hermione’s eyes widened, her mouth half open in horror. “She’s implying I poisoned you!”

“Only a little,” Sirius said dryly. “Though it’s a terrible plan. If I’d died, you’d inherit exactly nothing. I’ve just made Harry my heir.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No,” he agreed. “But your face is.”

Hermione looked utterly aghast. “How dare she—! And how did she even—? No one was there when we came in!”

“Public street outside St Mungo’s, love,” he reminded her. “Legal photography. Even Disillusioned. Everything else? Public record. Your residency application. The Switzerland cover. Your N.E.W.T.s. All she needed was a few strings and a bottle of journalistic lighter fluid.”

Hermione swore under her breath, storming to the other side of the room, her magic a bit unstable in her rage, making the window rattle ominously. Then she whipped out her wand and performed a quick Animagus Reveal charm on the entire hospital room, eyes scanning the corners.

Nothing.

But her paranoia was just getting started.

“I’m sending another owl,” she said darkly. “To the DMLE. She is an unregistered Animagus. Let’s see how she likes a nice public fine.”

Sirius coughed a laugh. “Kitten, that won’t stop her. They’ll fine her, make her register, and she’ll be back at it the next day—printing a retraction in font size four between a recipe for cauldron cakes and a Puffskein dating column.”

Hermione muttered something under her breath that Sirius definitely caught the words jar and again in.

“Wait—hold on—” he blinked. “Did you say you kept her in a jar?”

Hermione didn’t respond. Not directly. But her shoulders tensed. Her jaw set. Her wand tapped restlessly against her hand.

Sirius stared.

“Oh wow,” he said. “Kitten. Bit dark.”

She turned, startled—and immediately defensive. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean—I mean, I did, but only because—look, she is a beetle. Writing rubbish about Harry and me in fourth year. It fit. And I didn’t hurt her. I just… detained her. Insect jail. Very humane. I even punched holes into the lid for air circulation and gave her leaves to munch on.”

Sirius blinked. Then, to her surprise, he chuckled. “Are you kidding? You’re talking to the man who sent Snivellus on a one-way trip to Werewolf-ville and tried to murder a rat twice by bare hand. I applaud the jar plan.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “You don’t think I’m awful?”

“Awful?” He looked genuinely baffled. “Hermione, you’ve met me. That was nothing short of brilliant.”

She flushed.

But even with his teasing smile, she couldn’t shake the sick weight in her chest.

“My face was in the paper, Sirius,” she said quietly. “My name. Ione or not… what if my younger self sees it? What if she recognises me? She’s at Hogwarts. What if she pieces it together—what if someone else does—”

“Hey, hey.” Sirius reached out, taking her hand. “We’ll handle it. One fire at a time. You’ve done everything right so far. And we’ll keep doing it right.”

Hermione nodded, though her fingers curled a little tighter around his. “Maybe I need to start wearing glasses. Have a bit of a Clark Kent moment.”

Sirius blinked. “Who?”

“Never mind.”

He squinted at her. “But… you don’t need glasses. And Harry’s already seen you without them, wouldn’t that be more suspicious?”

“There are such things as plano lenses,” Hermione replied primly. “Non-prescription. And I could say I sometimes wear contact lenses.”

“Contact… lenses?”

“They’re small, soft discs of clear plastic that you place directly on the surface of your eyes. It’s a Muggle thing, an alternative for glasses,” she explained, a bit too breezily.

Sirius looked at her, utterly appalled. “You’re telling me Muggles willingly shove bits of glass into their eyeballs?”

Hermione stifled a laugh. “They’re plastic, not glass.”

“Oh, well, that’s so much better,” he said dryly. “Forgive me for not seeing how this is any less horrifying. That sounds like a medieval torture device.”

“They’re perfectly safe,” Hermione said with mock indignation. “Millions of people use them.”

“And none of them have gouged their eyes out in the process?”

“Well—statistically—probably not many.” She gave him a smug little shrug.

“That doesn’t sound reassuring at all.”

“Now you know how I feel after most of your reassurances.”

Sirius gasped in mock offence. “Excuse you, Miss Lupin, I’m very reassuring!”

“You left the Grimmauld wards depowered for two days straight.”

“I got distracted!”

“You were trying to teach the house how to play ‘Smoke on the Water’ with enchanted cutlery.”

“And it worked!” he protested, as if that somehow proved his point. “They nailed the opening riff.”

Hermione folded her arms, unimpressed. 

Sirius waved the point away with a dramatic flourish. “In any case, you are not putting those horrifying eye discs in.”

“I didn’t say I was going to,” she said, thoroughly amused now. “Just that, if anyone finds me suddenly wearing glasses a bit strange, this is a valid excuse. You know—’ I normally wear contacts’—easy cover.”

“Still sounds suspicious,” he grumbled. “Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me Muggles willingly walk around with metal in their mouths or something.”

“They do. It’s called orthodontics.”

He looked at her like she’d just kicked over a basket of kittens. “You’re making this up.”

“I promise I’m not. Wires and brackets glued to teeth to straighten them over a period of years.”

“That’s it,” Sirius said solemnly. “I’m never complaining about a single magical healing potion ever again. I don’t care how bad it tastes. At least it doesn’t weld itself to your bones.”

Hermione snorted. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m dating a woman who thinks contact lenses and tooth cages are reasonable. I think I’ve earned the right.”

“You’re dating a woman who has faced down trolls, Death Eaters, and rode a dragon out of Gringotts.”

“Yes,” he said, mock-solemn again, “and this is somehow worse.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and reached for his hand again, lacing her fingers through his. “I’m not going to put anything in my eyes. I’ll just find a pair of non-prescription glasses and claim I have always had them.”

Sirius gave her a long look. “You really think your younger self might recognise you?”

Hermione sighed, quieter now. “It’s unlikely. But not impossible. We’re too alike, she and I. She’d remember my face. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But I know how her brain works. She’ll turn it over like a riddle until she solves it.”

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Then we’ll get ahead of it.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “With emergency glasses?”

“With emergency glasses,” Sirius echoed gravely. “And no eye discs. Or metal teeth. Or horrifying lazy eye hexes.”

“Lasik eye surgery,” she corrected with a chuckle. “I’m surprised you even heard of it.”

“Sounds worse somehow,” he muttered. “Like something Moody would try.”

Hermione laughed, the tension easing just a little from her shoulders. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“You’re brilliant.”

“Well,” she said, kissing his cheek softly, “at least one of us is keeping their eyes clear.”

“Hey,” he said, pretending to be offended. “If anyone’s going to poke you in the eye, it’s going to be me.”

She raised a brow. “You make that sound romantic.”

“It could be,” he said with a wink. “With the right lens flare.”

Hermione groaned and smacked him lightly with a pillow.

“Worth it,” Sirius whispered smugly.

And despite everything—Rita Skeeter, the Prophet, the timelines and lies and Horcruxes—Hermione found herself laughing. Not just politely. Not just out of habit. But really, genuinely laughing. The kind that made her cheeks ache and her heart feel oddly lighter.

Sirius grinned at her, and in that moment, neither of them looked very haunted at all.

It was nearly an hour later when she noticed the letter.

It had arrived tucked beneath the Prophet, delivered with the breakfast tray—its parchment sealed in Remus’s tidy hand.

Hermione opened it absently, her eyes drifting over the lines while Sirius dozed beside her.

I have the lost and found item. It’s safe. Will explain everything in person. Dumbledore suspects something, but nothing concrete. Let me know when we can meet. RL.

She exhaled. Good. That was one more thing off their very long, very dangerous list.

But her eyes didn’t linger on the words. She folded the letter and slipped it into her satchel without even replying. She’d write back later. Maybe in the evening. Right now, everything else paled compared to the figure lying in that bed.

Hermione sank back into the chair beside the bed and rested her chin in her hand.

“Stop brooding,” came a voice—hoarse, dry, but still unmistakably Sirius. “You’re thinking too loudly.”

Hermione startled. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” he croaked, shifting slightly. “The potion dream wore off. Bloody boring dreams, too. You weren’t even in them.”

She gave a tired smile. “Rude.”

He tilted his head weakly toward her. “You’re still here.”

“Of course I am.”

“You’re supposed to be out saving the world,” he murmured. “What happened to your hero complex?”

“I left it on the nightstand,” she said dryly. “Along with your new tissue box.”

He smiled faintly, but his eyes were still glassy.

Hermione reached over and gently took his hand. “Remus got the diadem,” she told him quietly. “One more down.”

Sirius’s fingers curled around hers, not tight, but steady. “Good. That’s good.”

“But don’t worry about that right now,” she said, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Your job is to sleep. Heal. Annoy the Healers just enough that they discharge you early.”

“Already ahead of schedule,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering closed again. “Told one of them his haircut looked like a mandrake in a wind tunnel.”

Hermione snorted. “You’re terrible.”

Sirius hummed faintly, then blinked his eyes open again. “Are you going to write back to Remus?”

“I probably should,” she admitted. “Just to reconfirm Saturday noon. And to reassure him you’re not, you know… dying. After that article.”

Sirius suddenly pushed himself up on his elbows, eyes wide with alarm. “Right. Bloody hell, you’re right. I need to write Harry.”

“I can send Zeus off with both letters once I’m back at Grimmauld,” she offered.

Sirius sank back with a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “Brilliant. Thanks. I still don’t understand how Kreacher managed to keep that bird alive all this time.”

Hermione gave a half-laugh and reached into her bag, pulling out parchment and a self-inking quill. “Honestly? I’m starting to think Zeus is a Horcrux. He’s got that immortal rage about him.”

Sirius chuckled, then coughed into the crook of his arm. “That tracks.”

She pressed the parchment gently into his lap. “Don’t strain yourself. Keep it short. No snark. Just ‘I’m alive, not poisoned, tell Hermione to stop panicking,’ or something to that effect.”

He paused, lifting a brow. “You think your younger self is panicking?”

Hermione hesitated—just a beat too long. “She’s probably worried about you, yes,” she said carefully, deliberately omitting the rather awkward truth that her fourteen-year-old self might also be developing the beginnings of a very inconvenient crush on him.

For her personally, that particular disaster hadn’t bloomed until the summer before fifth year. But her younger self hadn’t spent third year terrified of Sirius Black, escaped convict and supposed murderer—this version of Hermione had met him as the freshly exonerated godfather of Harry Potter, with too much hair and a roguish grin.

Sirius narrowed his eyes at her, suspicious. “That sounded weirdly specific.”

Hermione smiled—bright, sweet, and entirely unconvincing. She patted his shoulder gently. “Just focus on surviving the letter. No snark, remember.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, picking up the quill with theatrical resignation. “Told I’m not allowed snark, and I might be giving schoolgirls heart palpitations. This is not the recovery I imagined.”

“Write,” she said serenely. “Or I’ll do it for you. In calligraphy.”

Thursday morning arrived with a flurry of owls and a cup of tea Hermione had forgotten she’d made.

She hadn’t been expecting them—not all of them at least. Remus’s reply ensured their sort of lunch date was set. But when a sleek Ministry owl tapped at the window of Number Twelve, carrying a heavy cream envelope with the Wizarding Examinations Authority’s seal, she knew.

Her N.E.W.T. results.

Hermione took the envelope with hands that were only slightly trembling, cracked the seal with the edge of a butter knife (an act she was never going to admit to Sirius), and slid out the crisp parchment.

Eleven N.E.W.T.s.
All Outstanding.

Her breath hitched. She stared for a long moment at the numbers beside each subject score—Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Charms, Herbology, Transfiguration, Astronomy, History of Magic...

They weren’t just Os. They were record-breaking Os. The highest cumulative scoring total the Authority had ever documented.

Higher, in fact, than the long-standing benchmark set in 1945.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Also eleven N.E.W.T.s, long held as the highest academic achievement in Hogwarts history. She’d studied the record for years—he’d taken Divination instead of Muggle Studies, and she knew from reliable sources (namely, herself) that the magical academic world still whispered about it like some twisted legend.

Hermione sat back in her chair, stunned, then slowly grinned.

She’d done it.

She’d outscored him.

She didn’t care that she was thirty, not eighteen. Or that she had a decade of field experience as an Unspeakable backing her. Let Riddle keep his creepy teenage genius mystique. Hermione Granger—Ione Lupin—had beaten him on raw magical and academic performance.

And she would be smug about it. Quietly. Forever.

Sure, his Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions scores were still higher, but she didn’t care. Overall, she scored higher.

The glee tasted sharp and perfect. She allowed herself exactly three minutes to bask in it before she noticed something else in the envelope. Another letter—smaller, black-sealed, and stamped with the unmistakable sigil of the Department of Mysteries.

She unfolded it slowly.

And stared.

It was a job offer.

Hermione’s stomach dipped.

Miss Ione Lupin,
In light of your exceptional performance on the N.E.W.T. examinations, we are pleased to extend an offer for a provisional research position within the Department of Mysteries. Your residency application and demonstrated aptitude in multiple theoretical disciplines make you an ideal candidate for our Junior Research Consultant programme…

Hermione blinked, reread the letter, and then laughed.

It wasn’t nervous or deranged—just short and incredulous. Because, of course.

They would want Ione Lupin.

They had no idea who she really was—probably. Hopefully. She knew what kinds of temporal detection devices the Time Room had tucked away, knew how scarily precise some of them were—but if they’d truly known, if they’d flagged her as an anomaly, the response wouldn’t be a polite job offer—it would’ve been arrest, interrogation, Obliviation at best.

Still…

The offer was tempting. She missed that work. Missed research. Archives. Quiet hours chasing patterns through time and theory. And now, with only three Horcruxes left—two of which she planned to deal with on Saturday—her plate was finally starting to clear. Just Harry’s scar left.

And where better to study soul magic and the arcane limits of magical removal than inside the Department?

Technically, even if young Hermione also ended up working there someday, theoretically, they’d be listed as different magical signatures. Different wands. Their systems were designed to detect overlap, not parallel identity cases—especially when no one was expecting such a paradox.

She bit her lip and folded the offer neatly.

She couldn’t decide right now.

Not without talking to Sirius. Not again. She owed him that much.

He hadn’t said anything after the locket incident—hadn’t blamed her—but if she were him, she’d be hurt too. Left out of a decision that nearly broke her. That did break her, a little.

So this time, he’d get to weigh in. No secrets. No sudden solo missions.

She tucked both letters into her bag, took one last look at the owl (which was now chewing thoughtfully on a biscuit she hadn’t offered), and stood.

Time to see how he was doing.

And maybe, just maybe, ask if he thought Ione Lupin would make a halfway decent Unspeakable. Again.

When Hermione arrived at the hospital, she expected Sirius to be either asleep or theatrically lamenting the taste of broth again. What she didn’t expect was to walk into an ongoing conversation with his Healer—and a rather tense one at that.

“…still don’t understand why staying inpatient is a must,” Sirius was saying as she stepped into the room, his voice only marginally less gravelly than the day before. “You just said the pneumonia’s clearing up. So why can’t I go home?”

The Healer paused when he noticed her, clearly unsure if he should continue.

“It’s fine,” Sirius waved him on. “She’s not going to hex you for doing your job. Probably.”

Hermione gave him a look but said nothing yet. She was pretty sure the Healer just wanted to ensure patient confidentiality.

The Healer cleared his throat. “Yes, your pneumonia is responding well to treatment, Mr Black. But I was just explaining that due to the long-term exposure to Dementors in Azkaban, your system is still depleted in ways you likely don’t notice. We would like to initiate a targeted restorative protocol while we have you here—safely monitored. The protocol works best when started in-house.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “That actually sounds entirely reasonable.”

Sirius looked at her, betrayed. “Et tu, Kitten?”

“You’re being offered magical rehab and a private room with tea service,” she said, crossing her arms. “This isn’t Azkaban, Sirius. You’re allowed to enjoy getting better.”

“I’d enjoy it more if I could do it at home,” he grumbled. “Honestly, who knew I’d ever be begging to go back to Grimmauld bloody Place?”

Hermione tilted her head. “You do see the irony in that sentence, right?”

Sirius sighed theatrically and flopped back against the pillows. “Yeah, yeah. You try redecorating a place with trauma wallpaper and see how it changes your perspective.”

Hermione lifted a brow. “You really want to go back that badly?”

“Well… yeah.” He looked almost sheepish. “Ever since the renovation binge, I kind of—don’t hate it? The kitchen doesn’t smell like sadness anymore, and I’ve been converting some of the old bedrooms. If I finish them off, I’ll have enough proper guest rooms for everyone to visit. And I’m not even thinking about moving to Black Manor.”

That caught her attention. “Wait. You have a manor?”

“Technically,” he said, waving a hand. “It’s where Grandfather Arcturus used to live. Big gloomy monstrosity in Cornwall. Think Grimmauld, but more sprawling with sea winds and worse wallpaper. And I’ve got a few other bits of real estate too—something in Lancashire, a flat in Edinburgh, and a completely impractical holiday house in the French Riviera that nobody’s used since the 1800s. But honestly? Grimmauld feels more like home now.”

Hermione blinked. “You own a place on the Riviera and you’re complaining about staying in a magically warmed hospital bed?”

“Alright, when you put it like that, maybe I do sound like a tosser,” he muttered.

“You do,” she said, lips twitching. “But a lovable one. And if the Healers think this restorative treatment could help undo some of the long-term damage from Azkaban, then you’re staying.”

“Bossy,” Sirius said, not even pretending to be annoyed.

“Alive,” she countered, walking to his side and smoothing his blanket. “And planning on keeping you that way.”

The Healer, wisely, took that as his cue to slip out.

Sirius let his head loll to the side, watching her with something softer behind his tired smirk. “You’ll visit? While I’m stuck here eating pastel-coloured potions and being asked about my sleep habits?”

“Every day,” she promised. “And I’ll bring you contraband scones and updates on Zeus’s vendetta against the post office owl.”

Sirius smiled faintly. “Alright, fine. I’ll take the magic rehab. But only if you promise not to let Kreacher redecorate while I’m gone.”

Hermione raised a hand. “You have my wand oath.”

They both grinned, and for the first time since he’d gotten sick, the tension in the room lifted just a little.

Unfortunately, not everything that day was good news.

“Because you’re in hospital,” Hermione began gently, pulling a chair up to his bedside again, “you won’t be able to come to Hogsmeade with me on Saturday.”

Sirius groaned dramatically. “Don’t tell me the Healers consider murder attempts contraindicated for magical recovery.”

“No murder,” she promised. “Just a Horcrux or two.”

Sirius’s smile dimmed, and he leaned his head back against the pillows, looking thoroughly disgruntled.

“You’re going ahead with Remus, then?”

She nodded. “It’s better this way. We just… need to get it done. Fast. Clean. No dragging it out. The more we wait, the more chances for something to go wrong.”

He sighed again, this time deeper. “Fine. If I can’t be there, I presume Moony is an adequate substitute. He’s been through worse with less fuss.”

“I’ll take that as your blessing,” Hermione said dryly.

“I’m not blessing anything, I’m sulking,” Sirius muttered. “Let me sulk.”

“I’ll allow it,” she said graciously, reaching into her satchel. “But I do have something that might cheer you up.”

She handed him an envelope with a wax seal, then perched on the edge of the bed while he opened it. His brows rose almost immediately.

“These are your N.E.W.T. results?”

She nodded.

He blinked at the scores, then let out a low whistle. “Eleven Outstandings?” His mouth curled. “Kitten, this isn’t a report card. This is a wand-length contest, and you’ve just humiliated most of the Ministry.”

Hermione preened just a little. “Apparently, I even managed to outscore Riddle.”

Sirius looked up, impressed. “Seriously?”

“Same number of subjects,” she said. “But higher in several core categories. I only know that because—well, Unspeakables keep track of things like that.”

Sirius gave her a suspicious look. “Wait—how do you know that?”

“I… might have had a bit of insider knowledge,” she said lightly, then held out a second parchment. “Speaking of which, this came with the results.”

Sirius took it and scanned the formal header. Then his eyes widened. “The Department of Mysteries offered you a job?”

“Well,” she said modestly, “they offered Ione Lupin a job. But yes.”

“I’m pretty sure this is more than just being a legal resident,” Sirius said, looking up at her with a mix of pride and something like wonder. “Bloody hell, Hermione. That’s incredible.”

“It’s complicated.” She sighed. “On the one hand, I’d love to go back. The resources. The access. The archives. Especially with what I still need to find out about the scar Horcrux.”

“But?”

“But I’ve got a lot going on.” She shrugged. “And I can’t help feeling like—like taking a job right now is a step sideways. Or a trapdoor. Like I’m slipping too easily into a life that isn’t mine.”

Sirius studied her for a long moment. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Are you tempted because of the research, or because you think it’d be easier to pretend Ione is who you are now?”

That stopped her cold. She didn’t answer right away.

Sirius didn’t press. He just reached over, his hand brushing hers.

“Whatever you decide,” he said softly, “I want it to be your choice. Not something you feel you owe this timeline. Or anyone else. You’ve already done enough.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll do what’s best,” he said. “You always do.”

And with that, he leaned back, eyes closing again—but not before she saw the flicker of warmth behind them. Trust. Steady and patient.

Hermione looked down at the letter once more.

The ink shimmered slightly in the morning light.

She folded it and tucked it away—for now.

“Thank you,” Sirius said, voice quiet, a little raspy still. “For telling me.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his voice.

She glanced back at him. His eyes were still closed, lashes fanned against his cheeks, but his expression was open, unguarded in a way that was rare for him—especially when he wasn’t at his strongest.

“Of course I told you,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to make the mistake of… leaving you out again.”

His brow twitched slightly, as though acknowledging the memory of the locket incident without needing to say anything. But he didn’t bring it up. Didn’t prod or tease.

“You didn’t have to,” he murmured.

“I know,” she said. “But I wanted to.”

She reached over and gently brushed a strand of hair from his face. He leaned into the touch ever so slightly.

“You’re the first person I wanted to tell,” she admitted. “Which, frankly, says a lot about how my priorities have shifted.”

That got a faint, half-smile from him. “Must be the charm of the hospital gowns.”

“It’s the open-back design,” she said solemnly. “Very forward-thinking.”

He chuckled, and it turned into a cough, but not a dangerous one—just enough to remind them both that recovery still had a few steps left.

Then Sirius cracked one eye open, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Now you’ve got to tell Remus too. Full disclosure all around. Especially if you’re going to go around being better at N.E.W.T.s than all of us.”

Hermione snorted. “I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

“Please do,” he said. “You’ve already got that ‘mysterious Unspeakable’ aura going. Any more smugness and I might have to start calling you Madam Lupin.”

She gave his fingers a squeeze. “Rest, you menace.”

“I’m trying,” he yawned. “But you keep being thoughtful and emotionally mature. It’s exhausting.”

She laughed, stood, and leaned over to kiss his forehead. “I’ll be back before lunch.”

“Only if you bring biscuits.”

“I’ll consider it.”

He let go reluctantly, eyes slipping shut again as she tiptoed towards the door, the letter still folded in her pocket—no longer a burden, but a choice. One she wouldn’t have to carry alone.

Their light mood didn’t last.

That afternoon, an owl tapped on the hospital room’s window. Unsuspectingly, Hermione let it in, and released from its talons a blood-red envelope soared in like a vulture on fire.

Hermione stared at it with a weary sigh.

Sirius sat up straighter. “Is that a—?”

The envelope burst open mid-air, emitting a shrill, theatrical screech that echoed through the ward.

“YOU LYING, SCHEMING, GOLD-DIGGING LITTLE—”

Hermione flicked her wand, and the Howler vanished in a puff of blue smoke before it could finish whatever poetic insult it had lined up next. The room rang with sudden, blessed silence.

“Well,” she said, dusting soot off her sleeve. “That answers the question of whether people still read print journalism.”

Sirius was staring at her, wide-eyed and incensed. “Are you joking? They sent you a Howler? You bring me to a hospital, and some troll-brained witch thinks that’s cause to send hate mail?”

Hermione gave a tired little shrug. “Honestly, that’s not the worst thing I’ve received. I got a cursed bubotuber pus letter in fourth year when Rita published all those lies about me, Harry, and Viktor.”

“What?!” Sirius all but exploded. “You got a cursed letter? At fourteen?!”

“Fifteen, but yes. Amongst other things,” she said with a casualness that made Sirius splutter.

He gaped. “Kitten, I adore you—but we are done being reasonable about this. That’s it. I’m writing Ted. We’re suing the Prophet. Defamation, emotional distress, endangerment, take your pick.”

Hermione blinked. “I mean… you could, but—”

“No,” Sirius said firmly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “We are not letting them make you a target and then pretending it’s just something to be endured. I am done watching people throw garbage at the people I care about and not do a bloody thing about it.”

His eyes were bright with indignation, and even though he looked like someone had stuffed him in a blender and hit ‘simmer,’ Hermione could see that this was not a flare-up of pride. It was pure, loyal, bone-deep protectiveness.

“I’m also setting up an intent-based mail ward for you through Gringotts,” he added, reaching for the bedside quill. “Let some clerk sort through your fan mail. They can get paid to bin the threats.”

Hermione snorted, moved in spite of herself. “I don’t need—”

“I do,” Sirius said, scrawling on the parchment with all the righteous fury of a man drafting war declarations. “I need to know you’re not dodging Howlers while taking care of me. Or Harry. Or anyone else.”

She bit her lip, eyes softening. “Thank you.”

He glanced up at her, expression fierce. “I told you. You don’t owe this timeline anything. But it sure as hell owes you basic decency.”

Hermione nodded slowly, then leaned over and gently pressed a kiss to his temple.

And Sirius—still armed with quill and parchment—let his shoulders relax for the first time all day.

By Friday morning, the worst of the pneumonia had passed. Specialised potions had done what rest and soup never could—cleared his lungs, stabilised his breathing, and dulled the rattling cough to an occasional annoyance.

Sirius was back to being recognisably Sirius: grouchy, restless, and pacing as much as the Healers would allow.

He was also, very clearly, Not Thrilled.

“Mind Healer sessions on top of the pricking and prodding, and a list of potions a mile long?” he muttered, glaring at the parchment in his hand like it had personally insulted his intelligence. “Every week for how long, exactly?”

“They said months,” Hermione replied, adjusting her seat at the end of his hospital bed and sipping her tea with practised calm. “Though I’m pretty sure that’s flexible, depending on progress.”

“Progress,” Sirius scoffed. “They make it sound like I’m going to be assembling a puzzle or unlearning the alphabet.”

“Well,” she said dryly, “considering you spent over a decade with Dementors gnawing at your soul, it’s probably closer to a cursed jigsaw puzzle missing half its pieces and screaming every time you get one wrong.”

He gave her a dark look, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Hilarious.”

Hermione met his gaze steadily. “You said you wanted to be better. This is part of it.”

Sirius didn’t argue. Not really. He just grumbled a little under his breath and shoved the parchment onto the bedside table.

“At least I won’t have to stay here for it all. Could be out of here by Monday if no adverse effects to any of the potions. Small mercies,” he muttered.

Hermione wisely chose not to remind him that she had told him as much already. Twice.

What did lift his spirits—if only marginally—was the owl that arrived just after breakfast, tapping impatiently at the window until Hermione let it in.

Harry’s handwriting was unmistakable.

Sirius tore into the envelope like it owed him money and scanned the letter quickly. By the end, he was laughing.

“‘Don’t do that to me again?’ Really?” he read aloud, shaking his head in disbelief. “Who’s the adult here, exactly?”

Hermione arched a brow over her teacup but said nothing.

“He even underlined it,” Sirius continued, grinning now. “‘Don’t do that to me again, Sirius.’ Merlin. He’s turning into you.”

Hermione shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, no,” Sirius said, folding the letter neatly and tucking it into the drawer beside him. “It’s terrifying. I’m very proud.”

Hermione sipped her tea again and watched him with carefully concealed relief. He looked better. He sounded better. And while the months ahead would be hard—testing potions, soul restoration therapies, mind healing, all of it—this was a far cry from the grey-faced, fever-wracked man she’d brought into St Mungo’s four days ago.

He was healing. Slowly. Stubbornly.

And, despite the sarcasm, he wasn’t running.

That was enough for now.

The real shock to Sirius’s system wasn’t the potions, or the mandatory mind healer sessions, or even the rotating meals that suspiciously tasted like they had been hexed for blandness.

It was Molly Weasley.

Not that he didn’t like Molly—he did. In small, controlled doses. But when a nurse poked her head in and asked if the Weasleys were on his allowed visitor list, Sirius, unsuspecting and bored, had said yes.

He probably should’ve asked which Weasley first.

Molly bustled in with purpose, her arms full of a large wicker hamper bursting with fruit, tins of homemade soup, and—of course—a hand-knitted scarf in autumnal colours. “Sirius, dear,” she said warmly. “You gave us such a fright. Arthur says the article was—”

Then she spotted Hermione.

Or rather, Ione Lupin.

Her face didn’t freeze exactly, but it certainly cooled several degrees. The warmth dropped out of her smile. Her steps slowed. Her grip on the basket subtly tightened.

“Oh,” Molly said. Just that. A single syllable that carried the weight of pages of judgement.

Hermione, caught mid-tea pour, stilled like a deer in a hexlight. Her mind flashed back—horribly, vividly—to a cold breakfast table and the weeks after Rita Skeeter’s Triwizard trash had hit the stands. The frost in Molly’s voice. The withdrawn smiles. The tight looks passed between adults when they thought she wasn’t paying attention.

Sirius, bless him, was having none of it.

“Hi, Molly,” he said, breezily defiant, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “I don’t believe you’ve met my girlfriend yet. Ione. Remus’s cousin.”

Molly blinked. “Oh. I… no, I haven’t.”

“And no,” Sirius added sharply, “before you ask—or worse, don’t ask and just assume—she didn’t poison or curse me or whatever. Despite what Rita bloody Skeeter would like the wizarding public to believe.”

Molly looked like she might argue. Then thought better of it. Sirius wasn’t quite glaring, but the warning was unmistakable in the sharp line of his jaw and the sudden stillness in his voice.

“In fact,” he went on, tone deceptively casual, “I probably owe my life to her. Several times over, actually.”

Then his expression darkened—just slightly, but enough.

“Don’t make me angry, Molly, by insulting her,” he added, voice low. “You don’t want a Black angry with you. We’re terrible about holding grudges.”

The words hung there for a beat—half-joke, half-promise, all Sirius.

Molly’s spine straightened, but to her credit, she didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she drew in a steadying breath, adjusted the strap of her handbag, and finally turned toward Hermione properly.

“Well,” she said, voice clipped but no longer cold, “I suppose I should say thank you. For taking care of him.”

Hermione stood, not flinching. Her hand was steady as she shook Molly’s. “It wasn’t really a choice,” she said calmly. “I care about him.”

That, more than anything, seemed to settle something in Molly’s mind.

A long breath. A nod.

“Well then,” she said, with the crispness of someone who had realigned her sense of propriety, “I imagine you could use a proper meal soon, Sirius. Hospital food is a disgrace. I brought my beetroot and beef stew. Arthur says it could wake the dead.”

“I’ll take two helpings,” Sirius said, grinning as he relaxed again. “So long as you don’t bring me any more surprise visitors.”

“I make no promises,” Molly replied, and her voice was lighter now.

As she busied herself fussing over napkins and thermos lids, Sirius caught Hermione’s eye and gave her a wink.

She mouthed, “Thank you.”

He shrugged, like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t. Not to her.

Not at all.

Hermione made the effort. Of course she did. It was her default setting—offer a branch, however tentative, and hope the leaves caught in the breeze.

“So, um… how are your garden charms doing this year?” she asked lightly, once they were all seated again. “I read somewhere that this damp weather’s making gnomes unusually bold.”

Molly blinked, clearly surprised. “Oh, well… yes, actually. We had to degnome the back hedge twice this week. Little pests keep coming back.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “Have you tried Bundimun oil? Just a trace in the flowerbeds can deter them. They hate the smell.”

Sirius watched her with quiet approval. Hermione’s voice was even, her hands resting calmly on her lap, but he could see the strain around her mouth. The way she held herself just a little too straight.

She was working hard to be pleasant.

Molly seemed to thaw slightly. “That’s a good tip. I’ll try that.”

This Molly didn’t know her. Not really. Not the girl who stood in Ron’s shadow at first, then earned her place at the Burrow table with awkward hugs and carefully chopped carrots. All she had was whatever filtered versions Ron might’ve included in his Hogwarts letters—probably vague mentions at best, and nothing that would prepare her for a grown witch calmly holding Sirius Black’s hand.

So yes, the dynamic was strange. Off-kilter. And the article hadn’t helped.

Still, Hermione kept talking. Not too much. Just enough. She asked after the children—because if there was one subject that reliably brought Molly Weasley back to herself, it was her brood.

“How many children do you have again?” she asked, smiling like someone earnestly trying to place an acquaintance in her memory. “You must be run off your feet.”

“Seven,” Molly said with a sort of proud exasperation. “Though the youngest five are still at Hogwarts. And my oldest two work out of the country, so it’s an empty house now for most months of the year. Bill, my eldest, works at Gringotts. They’ve just sent him on another field training mission—curse-breaking in Albania, if you can believe it.”

Hermione nodded, lips tugging upward. “Sounds dangerous. But fascinating.”

“It is,” Molly said, sitting a little straighter. “And Charlie’s written from Romania—he’s working with a new nesting group of Horntails. Mad, that one, but happy. Percy made Head Boy this year.”

Hermione smiled politely, asking questions in the right places. “Congratulations to him. Sirius mentioned you also have twins? And your youngest are, I think, Ron and Ginny?”

Molly’s mouth twitched into something closer to a genuine smile. “Fred and George are giving McGonagall grey hairs. And Ron’s doing fine. He doesn’t say much in his letters, mind you—but boys, you know.”

Hermione resisted the urge to reply, “Oh, I do.”

“And Ginny?” she asked instead.

Molly’s expression softened. “Growing too fast for my liking. But she’s got spirit.”

“She always does,” Hermione said, before she could stop herself.

Molly gave her a slightly curious look at the phrasing. Hermione recovered quickly. “Sirius told me she has an impressive glare for a twelve-year-old.”

The conversation dipped slightly then, awkwardness crawling back in around the edges like mist.

Hermione wasn’t sure if she was making progress or just performing social acrobatics to justify sitting in the same room.

But at least Molly hadn’t thrown fruit at her.

And when the basket of apples and honeyed plums was nudged slightly toward her side of the table, Hermione chose to take it as a sign. Not a welcome, not quite. But maybe not a rejection, either.

She glanced at Sirius. He gave her a slow, deliberate wink and mouthed, “Told you so.”

Chapter Text

Hermione stepped out of the Floo into the Three Broomsticks, brushing ash from her sleeve and adjusting the new glasses perched on her nose. They were simple tortoiseshell frames she’d picked up that morning at a Muggle optometrist. Nothing fancy. But they worked. Apparently, she did need -0.25 prescription lenses. She had been lucky that they, for whatever weird reason, had a frame in stock with those lenses. A cancelled order or something. Probably. More importantly, they helped disguise her face just enough to quiet the buzzing anxiety in her chest.

She spotted Remus immediately—already seated in a far booth, nursing a cup of tea, looking grim-faced in a way only Remus Lupin could. Though his expression shifted when he saw her, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“I take it you saw today’s Prophet,” he said, lips twitching as she approached him. “Going for the full Kara Danvers aesthetic, are we? Smart, you look nothing like the photo from three days ago.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh, right! I forgot there was also Supergirl.” She slid into the seat across from him. “I was comparing the trick to Clark Kent, actually. Sirius didn’t understand what I was talking about. But hang on—how come you know DC Comics and he doesn’t?”

Remus shrugged with a faint smile. “In his defence, I got into them in the ’80s. He was a bit… indisposed.”

“Oh.” The smile slipped off her face. “Right.”

She glanced down, adjusting her glasses. “I didn’t see the Prophet this morning, though. His subscription’s going to the hospital while he’s there, and I had errands, so I didn’t go see him yet.”

Remus didn’t reply. Instead, he slid a freshly creased Daily Prophet across the table.

RITA SKEETER. Of course.

The headline nearly made her drop the paper.

IONE LUPIN: GENIUS OR FRAUD?

Below it, in bold:

“Newly minted resident of Britain claims eleven Outstanding N.E.W.T.s—surpassing even the famed Tom Marvolo Riddle’s long-standing record. Is Miss Lupin the brightest witch of the century, or has someone tampered with the Ministry’s results?”

Hermione felt her stomach drop through the floor.

“Sweet Circe,” she breathed. “This is… so bad.”

“It’s not public knowledge,” Remus said, voice low, “but it’s not unknown knowledge either. Dumbledore will certainly see it. So will a handful of Death Eaters old enough to remember.”

Hermione’s mind was spinning. Knights of Walpurgis. Dolohov. Selwyn. Rookwood. All names she’d seen in the old court documents. All people who had allied with Riddle—willingly—before he even created his first Horcrux.

It didn’t matter that she had no intention of standing next to him—it looked like she was built in the same terrifying mould. Bright. Quiet. Mysterious. Dangerous.

This was either painting a blazing red target on her back… or making her look like prime recruitment material.

“Let’s skip lunch,” she said, shoving the paper away like it might explode. “Let’s take care of the trinkets first.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Hermione…”

“We’re sitting in a room full of people,” she whispered fiercely. “With two Horcruxes in our possession. And now one of those people might be thinking I’m the next bloody Dark Lady.”

Remus didn’t argue. He just stood, drained his tea in one long sip, and pulled the cup of tea she hadn’t touched closer to her. “Take that. For the nerves.”

She did. It helped. Slightly.

But not enough.

They stepped out into the light drizzle of Hogsmeade, brisk steps carrying them toward the edge of the village.

“Where are we going?” Remus asked, adjusting his cloak as the wind picked up.

“We need somewhere secluded,” Hermione muttered, glancing around. “I think I can find the cave Sirius used in my timeline. When he was hiding out during Harry’s third year.”

Remus blinked. “That far into the forest?”

“It’s outside the castle’s protective wards,” she whispered. “Far enough out that if we use Fiendfyre, it won’t trigger any alarms. And most importantly, hidden from view from the village.”

Remus gave her a long look. “Fiendfyre.”

She nodded once. “No room for mistakes. We finish this today.”

And together, they vanished into the trees—two shadows against the mist, carrying pieces of a madman’s soul.

The forest stretched around them in a hush of damp earth and stillness, muffling their footsteps beneath a quilt of moss. Mist curled low along the ground, weaving itself between the underbrush like gauze, threading through the roots of ancient trees and wrapping around their trunks like ghostly bandages. The air smelled of wet bark, deep loam, and secrets too old to name.

They moved steadily uphill toward the craggy ridge Hermione vaguely remembered—its silhouette barely visible through the fog, a crooked line drawn against the morning sky.

Remus broke the silence first, his voice low and wry. “So… I had my first lesson with the third years.”

Hermione glanced at him sideways. “Oh no. How bad was it?”

“Bad?” Remus said, doing an unconvincing impression of innocence. “Why would you assume it was bad?”

Hermione responded by shooting her arm up in the air with mock enthusiasm, bouncing on her heels in exaggerated mimicry of her younger self. “Oooh, pick me, Professor Lupin!”

Remus huffed a laugh. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“Am I? I was insufferable.”

“You were enthusiastic,” he countered. “And very inquisitive.”

“I was relentless.”

He chuckled. “Well, I did give her—your younger self—a copy of the book she was looking for. Told her she could keep it.”

Hermione froze mid-step. “Oh no. Don’t say it.”

“She asked me to sign it,” Remus added, lips twitching.

Hermione groaned and covered her face. “Merlin, just kill me now. I didn’t even know about that book until after I found out about your lycanthropy. So I never actually asked you about it. Tracked it down through some obscure used book dealer on the far end of Diagon Alley between third and fourth year.”

“And you were sweet. Don’t be embarrassed about what your alternate version is or isn’t doing.”

“I know,” she murmured. “It’s just… strange. Going forward, we’re not really going to be the same people anymore, are we?”

Remus didn’t reply, sensing there was more coming.

“She—my younger self—won’t have to experience half the things I did,” Hermione said, her voice tightening. “She’ll never have to sit through a Daily Prophet article that paints her like some kind of teenage seductress. She won’t be lured into the Department of Mysteries on a fool’s errand. She won’t live in a bloody tent for a year hunting Horcruxes, won’t be caught by Snatchers, or tortured, or—” her voice caught, “—or watch people die. I’m going to make sure of that. If it’s the last thing I do on this Earth, I swear it.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Hermione…” Remus said softly, but she shook her head.

“Sorry. Got a bit carried away.”

She stepped carefully over a twisted root and forced herself to change the subject.

“What did you mean in your letter—about Dumbledore suspecting something?”

Remus exhaled through his nose, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “Yeah. It took me three visits to the Room of Requirement to find the diadem. That place is… a nightmare of clutter. I nearly impaled myself on an enchanted umbrella stand.”

“That sounds about right,” Hermione muttered. “So what happened?”

“Second visit,” he said, ducking under a low-hanging branch. “I was leaving, and Dumbledore was there. Right outside the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Said something about taking a walk. But he gave me that look.”

Hermione grimaced. “The twinkle look?”

“Exactly.” Remus sighed. “He didn’t ask anything directly, just said he was glad to see me ‘exploring the school’s more unusual charms’. But you know how he is. He always gives off that feeling like he knows everything, even if you’ve said nothing at all.”

She nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t worry too much. Your mind is protected—werewolf immunity held solid, right?”

Remus nodded. “More solid than his Legilimency is subtle.”

“Then we’re fine.” She tried to sound confident. She almost succeeded.

They reached the cave just after a sharp bend in the path—an outcropping of stone worn smooth by rain and wind, its mouth narrow but deep. Hermione ducked inside, wand lit. It was just as she remembered: damp, cavernous, and just far enough from Hogwarts that they shouldn’t risk setting any protective enchantments off.

“I’m mildly concerned about burning down the entire forest,” Remus muttered behind her.

Hermione gave him a long look over her shoulder. “Remus. You do remember how much control I had over the Fiendfyre when we destroyed the ring, don’t you?”

“To be fair,” he said, “I was mostly occupied with trying to keep Sirius from accidentally thrashing into touching the ring in a mindless daze. I saw approximately nothing.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a fond smile tugged at her mouth. “Well, you’re in for a demonstration.”

They reached a damp patch of stone near the back, and Hermione crouched, pulling the pouch from her coat. The cup was still cool to the touch—deceptively plain for an artefact soaked in malevolent intent. A faint hum ran through her fingertips as she set it down.

Remus joined her, pulling the diadem from inside his robes. It, too, was quiet. Beautiful. Nearly innocent-looking.

“Nothing special with these?” he asked, nudging the diadem slightly with his wand tip. “No snakes whispering or half-formed faces in the reflection?”

Hermione shook her head. “The diadem was destroyed with Fiendfyre last time, too, so it should go without a hitch. The cup—well, that was stabbed with a basilisk fang in the Chamber of Secrets. That mostly just caused a sewage tsunami. No possession, no visions. Just… gross.”

Remus looked around the cave, inspecting the walls and ceiling. “We’re in a rock hollow barely the size of a broom cupboard. I think I’ll reinforce the structure. Just in case it’s capable of elemental manipulation.”

“Good thinking,” Hermione said, already drawing her wand.

They worked quickly and quietly. Remus reinforced the walls with earth-binding spells while Hermione erected a non-reflective ward around the space to contain both sound and flame. The cave shimmered faintly with magic—dampened, stable.

Hermione rolled back her sleeves, fingers curling around her wand. The two Horcruxes sat side by side, quiet but wrong, like teeth pulled from a monster’s mouth.

“This is going to smell,” she warned.

“I’ll take that over Voldemort whispering in my head.”

“Fair.”

She pointed her wand at the cup first. Its surface caught the torchlight for just a second, glinting gold with that same unnatural gleam she’d seen in the ring.

“Incendio Furens.”

Fire erupted—no ordinary flame, but a serpent of living, writhing fury, white-hot and crawling with runes that shimmered along its spine. It lashed forward and engulfed the cup.

The scream that followed was not physical.

It reverberated through the cave, through bone and blood, silent but unrelenting—like a psychic detonation in the back of the skull.

Hermione stood her ground, breathing through the pressure.

The cup twisted. Melted. Folded in on itself with a hiss like boiling oil. Then—it was gone.

The fire slithered back to her wand, coiled, and hissed in anticipation.

She turned to the diadem.

Remus swallowed hard, his jaw tight.

“Do it.”

The fire obeyed. This time, the scream was louder, fiercer—echoing off the cave walls like a hundred voices weeping in agony. The metal buckled, the sapphire cracking in a flash of blue light before melting into molten slag.

And then there was silence.

No hiss. No echo. Just the sound of their breathing and the faint crackle of cooling stone.

Remus stared at the scorch marks on the floor, stunned. “Well. That’s two more gone.”

Hermione nodded, eyes still fixed on the blackened spot where the diadem had been. “Only the one in Harry’s scar left.”

Remus grimaced. “That’s going to be the hard one.”

“I know.” She blew out a slow breath and sat back on her heels. “But at least it’s just one. One more to go.”

He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “And you didn’t burn down the forest.”

“Of course I didn’t,” she muttered. “Honestly.”

They stayed there for a moment longer, just breathing. Letting the magic settle.

“Let’s go home.”

As they returned through Hogsmeade, the village was unusually quiet, the damp earth still clinging to their boots from the trek through the forest. Hermione was already thinking ahead—how to phrase the good news to Sirius once she Flooed to St Mungo’s. They were so close now. So close.

Which, of course, was exactly when Albus Dumbledore appeared in their path.

“Ah, Professor Lupin,” the Headmaster greeted, his tone genial, but his eyes unnervingly sharp. “A lovely afternoon for stretching one’s legs after a long morning of essay grading. And if I’m not mistaken—this must be your cousin?”

Hermione did not flinch.

But she very much wanted to.

The glasses—her new tortoiseshell disguise—still felt unfamiliar on her face. She resisted the urge to adjust them and gave what she hoped was a bland, friendly smile.

Remus stepped in, nodding. “Yes, Professor Dumbledore. This is my cousin Ione Lupin, who just moved here from Switzerland.”

Dumbledore’s gaze didn’t leave her.

And then—like a silent ripple through deep water—Hermione felt it. A sudden shift in pressure behind her eyes, a knock at the door of her mind that wasn’t physical, but she felt it. Cold. Invasive. Polite in the most horrifyingly violating way.

Legilimency.

Hermione’s magic surged to the surface like a drawn blade. Her mental shields slammed into place—diamond-cut, battle-honed, and utterly unyielding.

He saw nothing. Not a flicker.

She held his gaze. Cool. Civil. Unsmiling.

“Pleasure to meet you, Headmaster,” she said lightly, though her voice carried steel. “Though I must say, it’s rather rude to try and read a witch’s mind when you’ve only just met her. You could’ve at least bought me dinner first.”

Dumbledore didn’t smile.

No twinkle.

Just a quiet assessment behind half-moon spectacles. The kind of look that could catalogue and autopsy your soul all at once.

Remus went still beside her. His eyes darted between them, realising what had just occurred. Hermione caught the flicker of horror in his expression.

Dumbledore turned his attention back to him.

“I do hope, Professor,” he said mildly, “that Fiendfyre is not among the curriculum you intend to develop for your students. Hogwarts does not—and will not—tolerate the study or practice of the Dark Arts.”

Hermione went rigid.

There it is, she thought grimly.

He sensed it. The lingering residue of the Fiendfyre. Not enough to confirm intent—but enough to assume she’d cast it. That she knew how to cast it. And suddenly, her profile—powerful Occlumens, casually wielding Dark magic, and now caught in close proximity to a respected professor and a recently exonerated Black heir—looked uncomfortably familiar.

She could almost hear the alarm bells screaming behind his eyes.

It was the kind of thing that had happened before. A very long time ago.

Today’s article flashed through her mind like a curse. Ione Lupin: Genius or Fraud? Eleven N.E.W.T.s. Higher scores than the previous record holder—Tom Marvolo Riddle.

And now here she was. A ghost of a woman who hadn’t existed a year ago. No past. No family. Shielded mind. Illegal fire spells.

Dumbledore was drawing his own conclusions.

And none of them would help Sirius. Or Harry.

Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t even revealed anything, and somehow she’d made it harder for Sirius to gain custody of his godson. If Dumbledore started spreading doubts—or worse, acting on them—it wouldn’t matter that Sirius was doing everything right.

Not when the woman in his life was beginning to look like a cautionary tale.

“No, of course not,” Remus said, half offended, half confused by the implication.

And then—just like that—Dumbledore smiled. Not warmly. Not coldly. Just... pleasantly. The way a man might smile before leaving a note on your corpse, saying I warned you.

“Well then,” he said, as if nothing had happened, “do enjoy your late lunch. I’ll see you back at the castle, Professor. And do give my well wishes to Sirius.”

He turned and walked away.

Hermione stood frozen, trying to steady her breathing.

He knew they’d stormed out of the Three Broomsticks without eating, she realised with a jolt. How?

She looked over her shoulder.

No sign of Aberforth, but she wouldn’t put it past him to have sent word. It was the same pattern. That’s how Dumbledore had known about the DA in fifth year. That’s how he’d known Riddle would try to claim the Defence post in ’62 under false pretences. This is precisely why she didn’t choose the Hog’s Head as a meeting place. Maybe Madam Rosmerta was his informant as well?

He always knew too much. Too fast.

Remus still looked pale. “Hermione... I—what was that?”

She shook her head. “A disaster.”

He frowned. “Do you think he’ll act on it?”

“I think,” she said quietly, “that he’s already started.”

And for the first time in a long while, Hermione wasn’t sure how to undo it.

Hermione slipped into Sirius’s hospital room, her fingers twitching with restless magic.

Empty.

Her breath hitched—just for a second—until she remembered. He had a packed day of tests and evaluations. Not everything would be done bedside. She exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through her hair and sinking into the visitor’s chair beside the bed.

Still warm.

That meant he hadn’t been gone long.

Her heart, unfortunately, hadn’t gotten the memo.

It thudded against her ribs as her thoughts churned violently, faster than she could keep up with them. Dumbledore. Legilimency. The Fiendfyre. The Prophet. Harry.

How the hell do I fix this?

She couldn’t tell Dumbledore the truth. Couldn’t even begin to explain what she was doing, not without unravelling the time travel secret—and she had absolutely no confidence that Albus Dumbledore, with his relentless belief in destiny and sacrifice, would just nod and accept her version of how things should go.

Especially not once he found out the full scope of it.

He let Harry walk to his death once. You think he wouldn’t do it again if he believed it’s for the Greater Good?

Especially if he learned what she suspected: that Voldemort using Harry’s blood had anchored Harry to the Dark Lord’s life—just enough to allow Harry to return once killed. That, or that the full Deathly Hallows trifecta had somehow passed to Harry by that final duel, making him the literal Master of Death. That kind of power… Dumbledore would not resist manipulating the board to let it all play out again. Especially since it had worked once already.

And if he decided Harry needed to die?

He would do anything to make it happen. Including removing Hermione from the equation entirely.

She was still spiralling through that terrifying possibility when the door opened.

Sirius walked in, face drawn with fatigue, still in one of those plain institutional pyjama shirts St Mungo’s issued, flipping through a folder of various examination results.

“I see you found the Muggle cash no problem where I said it would be,” he said absently, barely looking up. “Nice look, by the way. Big fan of glasses on witches. Very librarian chic.”

No answer.

“What? No jibe about keeping the contents of a minor vault on hand in cash in various currencies?” Sirius tried.

Oh, good, you do know how ridiculous it is to keep five thousand pounds in various notes in your house, like a mafia boss, Hermione thought absently.

When she didn’t answer again, he glanced up properly—and stilled when he saw the expression on her face.

“If this is about Skeeter’s latest word vomit,” he added, setting the folder down, “don’t worry. Ted’s already mounting a full frontal assault. Talked to him this morning. Defamation, libel, emotional distress, the works. It’ll be brutal.”

Hermione didn’t smile.

Her gaze dropped to the floor, a storm behind her eyes.

“We have a much bigger problem than Rita Skeeter,” she said quietly.

That got his attention. He crossed the room in three strides and perched on the edge of the bed, brows drawn. “What happened?”

She looked up slowly. Her voice was tight. “I think I just made an enemy of Dumbledore. Without saying or doing anything.”

Sirius blinked. “...What?”

“Short version?” she said, standing to pace. “He ran into us as we were coming back from the cave. Remus introduced me. And then—just like that—he used Legilimency on me. No warning. No conversation. Just—bam—straight into my mind.”

Sirius’s jaw tensed. “Please tell me you obliterated him.”

“I blocked him out completely.”

“Good girl.”

“That’s not the problem.” She let out a ragged breath. “He sensed the residue from the Fiendfyre. I’m sure of it. And when I didn’t let him poke around to reassure himself… well. Add that to today’s article—the one comparing me to Riddle in academic brilliance or fraudulence—plus the fact that I’m an untraceable nobody who popped into existence with eleven N.E.W.T.s, Occlumency skills that can withstand him, and clearly a working knowledge of the Dark Arts?”

Sirius looked like he wanted to break something. “...Shit.”

Hermione nodded. “Yeah. Shit.”

She turned back to him, her voice faltering. “I think… I think he’s now convinced I’m some kind of dark prodigy. Like Riddle. Or worse, someone manipulating you.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Well, I mean, you do manipulate me.”

“Sirius.”

“I’m joking,” he said immediately, sobering. “I know how bad this is.”

Hermione sat beside him again, her shoulders sagging. “This could ruin everything. Harry. Your petition. Even Remus. If he starts investigating…”

Sirius reached out and took her hand. “Hey. Look at me.”

She did.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said firmly. “And Dumbledore can think whatever he wants. But he doesn’t get to decide your future. Or mine. We’re going to keep going exactly as we planned—only now we’ll be a bit more careful. That’s all.”

“I just…” she swallowed. “I’ve worked so hard to avoid this kind of attention. And now—one wrong glance and he sees a threat.”

“He sees Riddle,” Sirius said, eyes dark. “That’s what scares him. Always has. But you’re not him, Hermione. You’re the witch who’s trying to stop him. Dumbledore may have a few moves left, but so do we.”

Hermione nodded. Slowly.

And for the first time since she’d left the forest, she began to feel like maybe—maybe—she could figure this out after all.

With Sirius at her side, at least.

“But seriously,” Hermione said, voice low, “what if he keeps you from getting Harry?”

Sirius’s expression hardened. “Then he has another thing coming.”

He stood, pacing once across the room before turning back toward her, eyes blazing now. “Ted already looked into it. The Potters’ will? Never read. Dumbledore blocked it. Buried it. And let’s not forget—he was Chief Warlock at the time. He didn’t even make sure I got a trial. ”

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. “Merlin.”

“Yeah.” Sirius’s jaw clenched. “So if he tries to make waves when I file for custody, it’s going to backfire. Hard. No one’s going to be sympathetic when they realise he left Harry with abusive Muggles—the Dursleys—after shoving me into Azkaban without so much as a hearing.”

He sat back down, breathing hard. “If he tries to play chessmaster again, I’ll take him to court. And this time, the truth won’t be so easy to silence.”

Hermione watched him, a strange mix of dread and admiration twisting in her chest.

He looked tired. Angry. Determined.

But most of all—he looked ready.

Ready to fight.

Ready to win.

“Sirius…” Hermione hesitated, then exhaled through her nose. “I may have to duel him.”

Sirius blinked. “What?”

“Well—not a duel duel, hopefully. Just… disarm him. Technically, it should be Harry, but that’s not exactly feasible to arrange. So I’d do it, and then Harry could disarm me later to get the Elder Wand’s allegiance.”

Sirius sat up straighter, confusion warring with dawning horror. “Wait. Are you talking about—Merlin’s saggy pants—the Tale of the Three Brothers?”

Hermione nodded.

“The artefacts are real, then?” he asked, voice low.

“They are,” she confirmed quietly. “Harry already has the Cloak.”

“James’s Invisibility Cloak is the Cloak?” Sirius echoed, stunned.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “And I retrieved the Resurrection Stone from the Gaunt Ring. It’s safely stored for now. That just leaves the Wand.”

“And Dumbledore has it,” Sirius muttered.

She nodded again. “Yes. And if Harry ends up holding the allegiance of all three—then he becomes the Master of Death.”

Sirius frowned. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “No one does. But he had all three when he came back after Voldemort killed him. And I’m not sure if it was this or Voldemort using his blood for the resurrection or a combination of the two, but I want it in place. As a backup. A final contingency if everything else goes wrong.”

Sirius leaned back slowly, running a hand over his mouth. “So. Just to recap—You’ve destroyed the current Horcruxes, you’re planning a soul piece extraction, and now you’re plotting a wand heist from Albus Dumbledore.”

“I know how it sounds.”

“It sounds like you’re building a doomsday failsafe from a fairy tale.”

“Exactly.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then huffed a laugh. “Well, if you’re going to be ridiculous, at least you’re being brilliant about it.”

Hermione gave him a wan smile. “That’s the plan.”

But her voice didn’t sound nearly as confident as she wanted it to. It wavered at the edges—too thin, too tired.

She cleared her throat and pressed her palms against her knees. “So… how was your morning?” she asked, deliberately bright. “What did they find out? What’s the grand diagnosis? What has Azkaban done to you? Have you had your first Mind Healer session yet?”

Sirius caught the shift instantly. Of course he did. He had the emotional radar of someone who’d grown up in a house where words were weapons and silences could scream.

He didn’t call her out on it. Just leaned back against the pillows and let the change of subject roll.

“Oh, the usual,” he said breezily. “Lungs holding up better than expected. Thank you, magical alchemy. Apparently, my heart’s a bit stubborn but still works—bit like me. I’ve got three new potions starting this afternoon, all of which taste like despair. And the Mind Healer…”

He made a face.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Did you behave?”

“I tried,” he said, mock-wounded. “I really did. But she looked so serious. All tight bun and cold eyes and parchment-coloured robes. I barely lasted five minutes before I made a joke about how I was thrilled to finally have a legal excuse to lie on a couch and complain about my mother.”

Hermione laughed—really laughed—for the first time in what felt like hours.

“She did not laugh,” Sirius added dryly. “She wrote something on her clipboard with the speed of someone making a referral.”

“She’s going to be your favourite by next week, I can already tell.”

“She told me I use humour as a deflection technique. Can you believe that?”

Hermione looked at him pointedly. “No idea what she’s talking about.”

Sirius grinned. “Right? Completely unsubstantiated.”

The mood lightened—only slightly, only briefly—but enough.

And Hermione, watching him with his dry humour and battered soul and unflinching steadiness, felt a little of the weight lift. Just a little.

But for today, it was enough.

The rest of the afternoon was booked solid with potions, scans, and specialist appointments for Sirius, so there wasn’t really any point in Hermione lingering at the hospital just to sit in a too-hard visitor’s chair and watch the clock. He’d be in and out of different Healers’ offices all day.

So, she left.

Not to go home. Not to research. Not to pore over half-finished ritual diagrams or reread the theoretical notes on soul anchoring and magical scar tissue.

She couldn’t. Her brain was too loud, her heart too tired. She needed to not be brilliant for an hour or two.

So she wandered. No plan. Just Apparated to Muggle London and let her feet take her somewhere that wasn’t important.

She ended up in Notting Hill, wandering the rows of terraced houses and eclectic shops, the kind of place that always smelled vaguely of coffee, old paper, and optimism.

That was when she passed Rough Trade.

The record store’s bold sign caught her eye, and without thinking, she paused—then smiled.

Sirius’s record player flickered into her mind. The one in his room at Grimmauld, complete with a collection from the ‘70s that looked like it had been alphabetised, desecrated, and then re-categorised according to moods such as:

“Brooding in the Rain”

“About to Hex a Ministry Official”

“Shagging”

“Thinking About Regulus While Drunk”

There was so much he had missed. Over a decade of music, of sound and soul and noise and life. Her smile sharpened with an idea.

When he got out of the hospital—hopefully on Monday—he was going to need something to listen to. Something to fill the silence of recovery that didn’t come from haunted portraits or old Black family ghosts.

He needed a soundtrack for the years lost.

A plan bloomed in her mind like a spark catching dry kindling.

Hermione Apparated home in a flash, taking the steps two at a time as she dashed into Sirius’s room. She easily found his Muggle wallet again, tucked beside his pouch of Galleons, that contained more cash than most people carried in entire months.

Sure enough, still there: over five thousand pounds in assorted notes. She rolled her eyes fondly again.

“Moderation? Never heard of her,” she muttered, and took about two hundred to surely cover her spontaneous mission.

It felt a bit strange—buying him presents with his own money—but honestly, Sirius would either laugh or feign deep offence at being denied the chance to fund his own welcome-home gift. And this wasn’t about the money. It was about him.

She Apparated back to Notting Hill and slipped into Rough Trade, the warmth of purpose keeping her legs moving as she began to browse.

And browse.

And browse.

She got lost in the rows. Listened to snippets. Read liner notes. Judged album covers. Picked up a copy of The Queen Is Dead and whispered, “If he doesn’t like this, I’ll personally revoke his punk privileges.”

By the end, she had a carefully curated stack of seventeen albums she was 99.99% certain he’d love—or at the very least, would provoke a strong opinion.

She paid in cash—£124 gone in one satisfying rustle of paper—and left the shop with a bag that felt like hope.

Sirius Black’s Welcome Back to the World Collection:

Poison – Look What the Cat Dragged In

Mötley Crüe – Shout at the Devil

Guns N’ Roses – Appetite for Destruction

Bon Jovi – Slippery When Wet

Aerosmith – Permanent Vacation

Skid Row – Skid Row

The Cure – Disintegration

The Smiths – The Queen Is Dead

Nirvana – Nevermind

Soundgarden – Badmotorfinger

Nine Inch Nails – Pretty Hate Machine

David Bowie – Let’s Dance

Depeche Mode – Violator

Alice in Chains – Dirt

Metallica – Master of Puppets

The Sisters of Mercy – Floodland

Queen – The Works

She could already imagine the smirk on his face when he saw Floodland, the way he’d probably belt Livin’ on a Prayer when he thought no one was listening. Or the sheer joy when he realised just how chaotic Appetite for Destruction was.

And maybe, for just a few days, the world would sound a little less like the inside of a prison cell, and a little more like freedom.

All Sunday during her visit, Sirius had the distinct, unshakable feeling that Hermione was up to something.

She was fidgety.

Not the nervous kind—he knew that version of her well. This was the deliberately-distracting-herself-with-tea-and-the-weather sort of twitchy, where her hands were too busy smoothing her skirt or re-folding the blanket at the end of his bed for the third time, and her replies were just a beat too casual.

He narrowed his eyes over the rim of his potion cup. “Alright. What are you hiding?”

Hermione looked up, all wide eyes and faux innocence. “Hiding? I’m not hiding anything.”

“That was your ‘I’m trying to act casual’ voice,” he said flatly. “Which is usually reserved for when you’re about to drop something devastating on me. Like a soul fragment in a historical artefact or an accidental duel with Dumbledore.”

“Please,” she scoffed, pouring herself another cup of tea. “Those are Tuesday problems.”

He gave her a pointed look. “You reorganised my side table.”

“It was a mess.”

“It was my mess.”

She didn’t answer, just took a very long sip of her tea.

Sirius observed her, gaze narrowing even more. “You’re planning something.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I once lied to Umbridge for an entire year without blinking.”

“That was vengeance-fuelled academic rebellion. This is… something else.” He tilted his head. “Did you talk to someone? Did another article come out? Did Harry somehow find out and send you a howler for not telling him about the Hallows?”

Hermione blinked at him. “...No.”

“But something is going on.”

She gave him a sweet, closed-lipped smile. “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Oh, Merlin.” Sirius leaned back dramatically. “That’s even worse.”

Hermione patted his blanket-covered leg. “Trust me. You’ll like it.”

“That’s what people say right before they introduce me to a Mind Healer or offer me carrot cake under the lie that it’s actual cake.”

She laughed. “It’s not a trap.”

“Is it a surprise?”

“Mm-hm.”

“I hate surprises.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do when you’re involved. They usually include life-altering information or unlicensed magical surgery.”

She just sipped her tea again, eyes gleaming.

“What is it? Don’t tell me you got my bike back from Hagrid? Does Hagrid even still have my bike?”

“No, but that’s actually a good idea, and yes, I’ll put it on my list.”

He eyed her warily. “You’re infuriating.”

“I’m adorable.”

“You’re something alright.”

Still, despite all his grumbling, Sirius didn’t push further.

Because under all that mock suspicion, he trusted her.

And tomorrow, whatever it was she was up to, he had a feeling it would be good.

Chapter Text

Hermione wrote to Remus the moment she got home, parchment and ink flying across the desk with urgency. She needed him to work a small miracle—tonight. Just a bit of coordination. Just enough to have one thing go perfectly.

And, somehow, it did.

At exactly seven o’clock the next morning, a knock rattled through the heavy front door of Grimmauld Place. Hermione jolted upright, barely awake, hair in a sleep-mussed halo, and scrambled for her robe.

When she opened the door, a familiar silhouette filled the entire threshold.

Hagrid looked like a small mountain standing on the top step, wrapped in an oversized moleskine coat with a proud sort of awkwardness about him, as if he weren’t quite used to being the bearer of gifts.

Hermione’s breath caught.

For a moment, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

It was Hagrid. Hagrid, with his wild beard and crinkled eyes and the same gentle presence she remembered from her very first trip to Hogwarts.

And she wasn’t allowed to show she knew him.

Hermione swallowed hard against the knot in her throat and stepped outside, pulling the robe tighter around herself and forcing a smile onto her face.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “You must be Rubeus Hagrid! Remus and Sirius have told me a lot about you.”

He beamed. “Aye, tha’s me. An’ you’d be Eone, then.”

She smiled again at the way he said it. Eone, with the emphasis all wrong but endearing nonetheless.

“I’m sorry I can’t invite you in,” she added quickly. “The wards are… finicky. Only Sirius can bring new people through.”

“No trouble,” Hagrid said kindly. “Not many places as’d let me through the front door anyhow.”

Hermione blinked back the sudden sting in her eyes. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Ione Lupin didn’t know him.

He turned slightly and motioned behind him. “Parked it just round the corner. Told Remus I’d keep it clean an’ safe till someone came for it. Bit o’ a tight squeeze in me hut, but I managed.”

She followed him around the square, still barefoot on the cold steps, and there it was.

Sirius’s motorbike.

Big, sleek, enchanted and beautiful in its own grumbling, grease-slick way. There was even a little bow on the handlebars—Hagrid’s idea, she suspected, and that made her want to weep again.

“Here’s the keys,” Hagrid said, placing them gently in her hand. “She’s still got kick, don’t you worry.”

Hermione closed her fingers around the cool metal and nodded, a lump forming in her throat again. “Thank you. Really. I thought… it might be a nice welcome home present. He’s being discharged today.”

Hagrid nodded. “Deserves somethin’ good, that one. Lot o’ bad turns over the years.”

He hesitated, then added with a furrowed brow, “An’ just so yeh know… I think what Skeeter wrote was rubbish. All of it. You’re nothin’ like him.”

Hermione blinked. “Him?”

“Riddle,” Hagrid muttered. “Always ‘im with people, always makin’ the comparison. Just cos someone’s clever and keeps to ‘emself. But I knew Riddle. Back at school. An’ you—” he looked at her kindly, “—you’ve got warm eyes.”

Hermione’s heart nearly stopped. Riddle had cost Hagrid everything. His wand, his schooling, his reputation. And now, here he was, defending her.

“I’m not exactly sure who this Tom Riddle is,” she said, trying to play the part, “or why everyone’s obsessed with comparing me to him, but… I get the feeling that was a compliment.”

Hagrid grunted. “It was.”

There was a long pause.

Then Hermione reached out impulsively and gave his massive arm a gentle squeeze. “Thanks again. Really. This… this will mean a lot to him.”

Hagrid’s cheeks flushed under the beard. “Tell Sirius I said hullo, will yeh?”

“I will,” she promised, and watched as he disappeared back into the misty London street, coat billowing behind him like a ship’s sail.

Only once he was gone entirely did she let out the breath she’d been holding.

Then she turned to the bike, smiled, and whispered, “Welcome home, Sirius.”

Hermione took one last look in the mirror, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses. Not that Sirius had ever seen her worry about her appearance before, but something about today felt different.

He was coming home.

She Apparated just outside St Mungo’s and made her way up to the second floor. The moment she stepped into Sirius’s room, she found him mid-pace, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, hair only mostly dry and sticking up at odd angles in the back.

His small hospital bag sat by the bed, lumpy and underpacked, the zipper pulled taut around the few things he’d gathered during his stay—some letters, a few clothes, a chocolate frog card, a battered copy of Flying With the Cannons that someone (Remus?) had probably smuggled in somehow to annoy him.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up.

“I’m two minutes early.”

“I’ve been ready since sunrise.”

“You’ve been pacing since sunrise.”

“Semantics,” Sirius muttered, finally turning to face her. His expression was tense, but his eyes—his eyes were alight. “I’m being discharged. I’ve not been allowed to walk out of detainment in over twelve years. Do you have any idea how much I’ve romanticised this moment?”

Hermione smirked. “Try not to trip dramatically over your own self-importance on the way out.”

“Please, if I’m going down, it’ll be in a blaze of glory, not hospital-issued socks.”

He grabbed the bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Where’s my welcome banner? My fireworks? Are there people outside ready to cheer?”

Hermione arched a brow. “You’ll have to settle for me, I’m afraid.”

Sirius’s grin flickered, but didn’t dim. “Lucky me.”

A Healer came by to check one last time that he had his discharge potions and instructions (“Yes, I will take them,” he said with exaggerated patience, before adding under his breath, “even if they taste like goblin feet”), and just like that, the paperwork was done.

He was free.

“Ready to go home?” Hermione asked.

Sirius let out a slow breath. “You have no idea.”

She took his hand, warm and solid in hers now—not feverish—and led him down the corridor, through the front atrium, and out into the cool, bright London air.

They didn’t Apparate straight away.

For a moment, Sirius just stood on the steps of St Mungo’s, breathing in, eyes closed, as if tasting sunlight for the first time in weeks. He tilted his face up, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Feels good,” he murmured. “Being out.”

Hermione smiled softly. “Good. Then let’s make it even better.”

She pulled him close, turned on the spot, and they disappeared with a crack.

They landed just outside Grimmauld Place, and Sirius took one look at the door and said, “So glad the screaming portrait has been exorcised to the attic.”

“Come on,” Hermione said as she placed her hands over his eyes from behind and turned him around. “You’ve got a surprise.”

His brows shot up under her hands suspiciously. “Is it edible?”

“No.”

“Explosive?”

“Hopefully not.”

“Magically enhanced?”

“...Arguably.”

She let him look finally.

Sirius blinked at the subtle disillusion shimmer out of existence—and then froze the moment he caught sight of the object parked neatly on the sidewalk behind him.

It was sleek. Gleaming. Familiar.

His 1959 Triumph 650 T 120 Bonneville.

Pristine.

With a bow on it.

Hermione watched as every bit of exhaustion drained off his face like mist in the morning sun.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “You got Hagrid to bring her back?”

She nodded. “Remus helped coordinate it. Hagrid dropped her off this morning.”

Sirius walked down the steps slowly, reverent, fingers ghosting over the leather seat. He touched it like someone would a relic or a friend’s shoulder. And then—

“Bonnie,” he breathed. “I thought you were long gone. Dismantled. Scrapped.”

“Well,” Hermione said, “she’s yours again now. For whenever you’re up for riding.”

“I promise I’ll never leave you again,” he whispered seductively, leaning over and tenderly running a hand along the curve of the gas tank.

“Should I be jealous?”

“Shhh. Don’t ruin our moment.”

Hermione snorted. “Okay, I’ll just pack the rest of the surprise away inside then.”

Sirius turned to her, eyes still wide, a bit stunned. “There’s more?”

She only gave him a sly little smile before opening the door.

They stepped into the front parlour, sunlight spilling in through the long windows and pooling over the polished floors. It was warmer than usual—Kreacher must have started the fireplace before they arrived—and the familiar scent of Grimmauld Place lingered in the air, now mercifully devoid of mildew and malevolence.

Sirius had barely crossed the threshold before he paused, eyes narrowing. “Oi. Is that my record player? Why is it in here? You moved my collection for communal consumption?”

“Look again,” Hermione said, folding her arms.

He approached warily, already preparing a full monologue about musical sovereignty, but then he stopped. His head tilted.

Stacked beside the player were seventeen albums. All pristine. All unfamiliar.

He reached out, lifted one.

Poison – Look What the Cat Dragged In

Then another.

The Cure – Disintegration

Nirvana. Depeche Mode. Metallica. Skid Row. The Smiths. Queen. Nine Inch Nails. Guns N’ Roses.

He recognised some of the band names, sure—but the album covers, the release dates, the song titles… these weren’t his. These were all from after. Everything post-1981. Everything he’d missed.

Sirius slowly crouched beside the stack, flipping through each one like they were sacred texts. The genres were all over the place—gritty, angry, melancholy, seductive. But there was a rhythm to the chaos. A theme. A voice in the choices. Her voice. Her estimation of what he would enjoy.

His fingers trembled slightly as he picked up Let’s Dance by Bowie and saw the year—1983.

He cleared his throat, but it caught halfway. “This is… Merlin, Hermione.”

“I thought you might want a greatest hits of the years you missed,” she said softly. “A sort of… starter pack. For reintegration.”

“You made this for me?”

She gave a little shrug, suddenly sheepish. “I might’ve used your cash for the records. So technically, you bought yourself a welcome home gift.”

“Shhh.” He shook his head, voice gone thick. “Don’t ruin the romance of the gesture.”

He stared at the albums again, still visibly floored. “Any first recommendations?”

Hermione hesitated—then blushed. A real blush, bright and unmistakable, blooming across her cheeks like a heat charm gone haywire.

“Oh no,” Sirius said instantly, eyes narrowing in mock delight. “You absolutely do have one. What is it?”

She held up the Poison album, flipped it over with stiff fingers, and pointed silently at a track.

He leaned in, read it.

“Talk Dirty to Me?” he said, one brow arching high, his mouth curling into a slow, wicked smirk. “Is that a request, darling?”

Hermione, mortified, bit her lip—but nodded.

Sirius whooped with laughter. “Oh, it is good to be home.”

Sirius grinned like a man freshly released from Azkaban—which, frankly, wasn’t far from the truth—and slid the Poison album from its sleeve with the reverence of a collector handling ancient artefacts. He set the vinyl on the record player, adjusted the needle with a flick of his wand, and leaned back with an anticipatory smirk.

The speaker crackled.

Then, the opening riff hit, loud and dirty and unrepentantly fun.

Sirius barked a laugh. “Oh, yes. This is gloriously indecent.”

Hermione tried very hard not to look smug. Or flushed. She failed on both counts.

The guitar squealed into full throttle and the vocals kicked in, cocky and sharp:

“You know I never, I never seen you look so good… You never act the way you should…”

As the song went on, Sirius turned toward her slowly, the grin growing in time with the beat. “You realise this is about a bloke hopelessly infatuated with a hot girl next door he can’t stop thinking about, right?”

Hermione, hands clasped behind her back like a proper little academic, nodded once. “I’m aware.”

“I wanna kiss you all the time… But I can never, never, never seem to get the time…”

He crossed the room with deliberate slowness, the swagger returning to his step, the hospital-gown aura long gone. His voice dropped low. “So. Just to confirm. This is the vibe you’ve decided to set for my glorious return?”

“Entirely coincidental,” Hermione lied, face hot.

Sirius leaned in close, the music roaring behind him, and murmured, “I’m going to pretend to believe you… just to see how far you’ll dig that hole.”

She made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a protest, but he only chuckled—warm, real—and caught her hand.

“I love it,” he said honestly, eyes soft now. “Thank you.”

And then he spun her once on the parlour rug, right there in front of the fire, to the shrieking glory of 1980s glam rock, his laughter joining the chorus like it belonged there all along.

It was, by all accounts, a perfect morning.

After weeks of tension, fever, cursed objects, and headline scandals, Sirius Black finally got to be something painfully normal: a man in lounge wear eating sandwiches and rediscovering rock and roll.

Kreacher had appeared exactly once, grumbling affectionately as he deposited a platter of crustless finger sandwiches as breakfast, tea, and an absurd number of napkins—muttering something about “smelly music and smelly Muggles” before vanishing with a pop.

Sirius, sprawled on the velvet settee in the parlour with his feet on the coffee table and a sandwich half-eaten in one hand, was having the time of his life.

“You mean to tell me this is what was playing while I was rotting away in a cell?” he said, mouth full, gesturing vaguely as Sweet Child o’ Mine blared through the room. “I knew I was missing something important.”

Hermione, legs tucked under her in the armchair, sipped her tea. “You’re missing out on the music video, too. Iconic hair.”

“Hair? I had hair.” He ruffled his own mess of curls, as if to make the point.

“You still have hair. Somehow. Against all odds.”

He grinned, reaching for another sandwich. “Okay, what’s this one?” he asked as Disintegration started up.

Hermione marvelled at the absolute glory of an enchanted record player that switched out the albums automatically at random from the pile that sat near it.

“The Cure. You’ll like it. Melancholy, a bit dramatic, lots of feelings. You know. Very you.”

He raised a brow. “I feel seen.”

When Pretty Hate Machine came on, he sat forward sharply. “This is so angry. But sexy. Angry and sexy.”

“That’s Nine Inch Nails. Welcome to 1989.”

“Wicked year. For everyone else. I spent it dreaming about slapping Ministry officials with a broom.”

“Which, incidentally, is what this entire album is about.”

“Brilliant.”

He had thoughts on Let’s Dance (“That’s Bowie? Merlin, he got smooth.”) and deeply personal feelings about Master of Puppets (“Okay, I’d start a fistfight in a pub to this. No question.”). When The Queen Is Dead rolled on, he looked genuinely betrayed.

“This sounds so depressed,” he said, slouching further into the sofa. “Are they okay?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Right. Good. I love it.”

The sun crept higher in the sky, casting golden stripes through the parlour windows. At some point, Sirius discarded the last of his hospital clothes for joggers and a shirt that looked vaguely Victorian and Hermione secretly adored. She, meanwhile, had swapped to sitting on the floor with her back to the settee, both of them surrounded by discarded crusts and open vinyl sleeves.

And when Floodland came on, and that deep, smoky baritone filled the room, Sirius let out a low, impressed whistle.

“This is the kind of music that plays when I walk into a bar wearing tight trousers and a smirk.”

“I mean, it could be.”

“Add it to the playlist.”

“It’s already there.”

He reached down and brushed his fingers over hers where they rested near her teacup. “You know,” he said, quieter now, “this might be the best morning I’ve had in… a very long time.”

Hermione looked up at him, surprised—but he meant it. The shadow in his eyes wasn’t quite gone, but it was softer now. Distant. Burned away by the absurd magic of old guitars, vinyl crackle, and a woman who kept showing up for him.

She gave him a gentle smile. “You haven’t even gotten to Bon Jovi yet.”

He tilted his head, mock offended. “You’re saving Slippery When Wet for after lunch?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, tone perfectly innocent. “We save the best metaphors for dessert.”

Sirius snorted tea through his nose and called her a menace.

At precisely noon, there was a soft pop, and Kreacher appeared in the doorway with an expression that could only be described as dignified resignation—like a long-suffering butler who had just accepted the fact that his employers had zero decorum and even less taste in music.

Behind him floated an ornate silver tray the size of a small bathtub, loaded down with what could only be described as a royal feast: roasted chicken carved with surgical precision, piles of roasted vegetables and potatoes glistening with herbs and butter, two kinds of bread, three kinds of cheese, and what Sirius immediately clocked as at least five desserts.

There was also, inexplicably, a bottle of chilled elf-made wine and two glasses already levitating behind it, gently clinking together like excited children.

Sirius’s eyes widened. “This is… extravagant.”

Hermione, looking far too pleased with herself, took the tray from Kreacher with a grateful nod and directed it to the coffee table with a flick of her wand.

“Lunch,” she said casually, like this wasn’t an absurdly decadent meal for two people who had spent the morning listening to ‘80s metal and arguing over whether Robert Smith would get along with Remus.

Sirius narrowed his eyes at the spread, then at her. “This smells suspiciously like your doing.”

Hermione didn’t look up as she began plating food. “Kreacher and I had a chat yesterday. I may have requested something a little… celebratory.”

“You requested a feast.”

“I requested something ‘nice.’ Kreacher interpreted that as ‘feed the Lord Black as though he’s single-handedly ended a famine.’”

Kreacher, still standing in the doorway, gave an affronted sniff. “It is Lord Black’s first day home. It is fitting.”

Sirius beamed. “Kreacher, you old sentimental fool.”

“Effort, not sentimentality,” Kreacher huffed. “And Master shouldn’t leave his socks in the sitting room again.”

With that, he vanished.

Hermione passed Sirius a plate stacked high with chicken and root vegetables. “Eat. You need to rebuild your strength.”

“I thought that’s what rock music and sarcastic banter were for.”

She arched a brow. “Protein and vitamins first. Guitar solos second.”

“Bossy.”

“Alive.”

He grinned and raised his fork in mock salute. “To Kreacher. And to girlfriends with excellent taste in both records and roast potatoes.”

Hermione clinked her fork against his. “You’re welcome.”

They ate sprawled in the parlour like they’d always belonged there—sunlight pouring in, music still quietly humming in the background, the house feeling, at last, like a home.

After polishing off a scandalous amount of roast potatoes and helping himself to a generous slice of treacle tart—because apparently, returning from the brink of death meant he was now “entitled to pudding”—Sirius made a dramatic show of choking down his potions.

He pulled a face at the thick, plum-coloured one, sniffed it with theatrical suspicion, and muttered, “This one smells like it was brewed in the armpit of a troll.”

Hermione handed him a glass of water with a raised brow. “And yet you still have to drink it.”

“Cruel, cruel witch,” he grumbled, then tossed it back with the grim determination of someone taking a shot of Firewhisky on a dare. “Ugh. Worse than troll armpit. Troll feet.”

Hermione didn’t even blink. “Kreacher might start custom-ordering them with added fibre. Or garlic.”

“That’s blackmail,” he said, mouth still puckered.

“That’s care,” she replied sweetly.

Sirius flopped onto the parlour couch with all the melodrama of a Regency widow fainting onto a chaise lounge. His hand draped across his eyes. “My suffering knows no bounds,” he declared solemnly.

Hermione rolled her eyes and picked up his empty phials, already vanishing them with a flick of her wand.

“Now,” he continued, springing back up like a particularly smug jack-in-the-box, “for my reward.”

She watched, amused, as he shuffled through the stack of records like a kid rifling through Chocolate Frog cards. His fingers stilled, then plucked one out with triumphant flair.

“Slippery When Wet,” he announced. “A name. A promise.”

“I don’t think it means what you think it means,” Hermione murmured, eyeing him over the rim of her water glass.

He waggled his eyebrows. “Doesn’t it?”

She opened her mouth—probably to say something cutting—but the moment Let It Rock kicked in, blasting from the enchanted speaker like a bolt of caffeine straight to the bloodstream, Sirius was on his feet.

“Oh yes,” he said, voice half-laughing, half-growling. “We are doing this.”

“Sirius—”

Too late.

He caught her hand and spun her right off the couch, pulling her into him with one confident, fluid motion. The room blurred a little as she stumbled into his arms—warm, solid, very much not a recovering patient five minutes ago—but he just grinned.

“You are still supposed to be resting,” she reminded him, though she didn’t pull away.

“I’m resting my soul,” he said seriously. “With Bon Jovi. The only therapy I trust.”

She snorted. “You haven’t even made it through one full day home.”

“Exactly. Which is why I need you to dance with me. And maybe snog me senseless.”

Hermione huffed a laugh—but when he tugged her into the rhythm of the music, she didn’t resist. The beat pounded through the floorboards, through her feet, through her chest. The guitars soared, and for a moment, they were just two people in a sunlit parlour, laughing and moving and not thinking about war or prophecy or Horcruxes or any of it.

They danced like they were in some slightly grungy, neon-lit club in Muggle London. Spinning. Grinning. Moving too close. Not quite letting go.

When the song bled into You Give Love a Bad Name, Sirius pulled her flush against him.

And kissed her.

Hard. Deep. Like he hadn’t gotten the chance to in the hospital. Like he’d been holding it back.

Hermione melted into it, arms curling around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. The world narrowed to taste and touch and the press of him against her. His hands were gentle but sure—thumb brushing the line of her jaw, the other resting low on her back like he didn’t want to let go. Like he wouldn’t.

By the time they broke apart, Sirius was breathing just a touch heavier than normal. His grin was wolfish.

“I’m trying to be responsible,” she murmured, still half-dazed. “You literally just got out of the hospital.”

“I feel fantastic,” Sirius replied. “And before you argue—I got poked, prodded, scanned, bled, and fed more potions than a third-year cauldron. I’m good.”

Hermione gave him a pointed look. “You’re not that good.”

“I’m this good,” he countered, tugging her closer by the waistband of her jeans. “And if I pass out halfway through, I trust you to revive me with something dramatic. Maybe slap me with a vinyl.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m in love.”

She blinked, startled—but he was still smiling, relaxed and sure, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

Hermione touched his face, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “Okay,” she said softly. “But you’re still not lifting anything heavier than a guitar pick today.”

“Deal,” Sirius breathed, and kissed her again.

They barely made it up the stairs without tripping over each other—half laughing, half gasping, flushed with warmth and energy that had nothing to do with the music still humming faintly from the parlour below. Hermione’s room was closer, and once the door shut behind them, Sirius kissed her again.

Deeper now. Molten. Desperate.

It was a kiss that said thank you, and I want you, and I’m not letting you go.

Hermione clutched the ruffles of his shirt, anchoring him close, lips parting beneath his with a soft sigh. Her knees bumped the bed. Her heel caught on the edge of the frame, and she let out a surprised gasp as she tipped backwards, pulling him with her.

They landed in a tangle of limbs and laughter, breathless and giddy. Her glasses were skewed on her nose, cheeks flushed, curls a mess. She looked utterly kissable.

Sirius hovered above her, the grin on his face softening into something almost reverent. “You okay?”

“I just fell on my arse with a fully grown man on top of me,” she said, eyes sparkling. “I’m fantastic.”

He chuckled, low and warm, then leaned in, kissing her slow and deep again until her fingers curled into the front of his shirt like she needed him to stay tethered there. Then, without a word, he slid down, sinking to his knees at the edge of the bed like she was something to worship.

Hermione’s breath hitched as his hands trailed up her calves, pausing to sweep along the backs of her knees, over the soft skin of her thighs. His touch wasn’t teasing—not really. It was searching, grounding, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

When she reached out and gently cupped his jaw, his eyes fluttered closed.

“You know,” Sirius said, voice rough, “I’ve dreamed about this.”

She raised an eyebrow, though her voice came out breathless. “About kissing me senseless?”

He leaned forward, brushing his lips over hers—gentle now, reverent. “About finally having something this good. This real. And yes, kissing you senseless was always part of it.”

Hermione’s laugh was soft and a little shaky, because she could feel how serious he was, how deeply this mattered to him—and how terrifying that was, because it mattered to her too.

She kissed him again, long and slow, then slipped her hands beneath his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin and old ink and new scars. Sirius groaned low in his throat.

He pulled back just enough to yank off the oversized jumper she was wearing—his, naturally—and tossed it aside without ceremony. Hermione sat up, tugging at his shirt until it came off, too. Her fingers traced over the tattoos on his chest.

Sirius caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, his lips lingering there.

“You’ll ruin me,” he murmured.

Hermione’s voice was so soft he almost missed it. “I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around.”

That made him pause.

He tilted his head, searching her face. “What do you mean?”

She looked at their hands instead of his eyes, her voice quieter now. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was fifteen.”

Sirius blinked.

Hermione went on, words tumbling out with a kind of resigned honesty. “Of course, it could never have worked then. You were older, and then you—well. Then you died. And now I’m back here, by complete accident, and there’s only three years between us as we are now, and it’s... it’s heady. Dangerous. I feel like I can’t trust myself not to fall too fast.”

Sirius was silent for a long moment. And then—

“Hermione,” he said softly, and there was none of the usual mischief in his tone. Just Sirius. Real and raw.

She finally looked up, and his face was unreadable, but his hand tightened around hers.

“I get it,” he said. “I do. This—us—it’s fast. Mad, even. But it’s not one-sided.”

He reached up, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “You saved me. In more ways than one. And I don’t mean just dragging me to St Mungo’s and yelling at me to drink my potions. I mean, you reminded me what it’s like to want something. To hope.”

He exhaled shakily.

“So, yeah. Maybe you don’t trust yourself yet. But I trust you. Enough for both of us.”

Hermione blinked rapidly and managed a small smile. “You know, for someone who’s allegedly bad with emotions, you’re absurdly good at saying the right thing.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to rehearse.”

She leaned in, forehead resting against his. “I’m scared.”

“So am I.”

They stayed like that for a moment, forehead to forehead, the air between them electric. Every breath felt heavier, every beat of her heart louder.

“Still in the mood,” Sirius murmured, “or should we take a raincheck?”

Hermione’s eyes glinted. “Don’t you even dare suggest that.”

In one swift motion, she rolled him onto his back and half-straddled him, her knees bracketing his hips as her hair fell forward in soft waves. Sirius barely had time to inhale before her mouth was on his—hungry, insistent, claiming. Her kiss was not the delicate brush of earlier; it was fire. She kissed like she needed him, like she’d been holding back too long and the dam had finally broken.

His hands slid up her thighs, slow and reverent, tracing over the curve of her hips and under the hem of her camisole top. He groaned when he found nothing beneath it.

“Merlin,” he whispered against her lips. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Not kill,” Hermione breathed, peppering kisses along his jaw. “Just... permanently distract.”

Sirius grinned—sharp and breathless—before sitting up, guiding her to kneel as he tugged the top over her head. It dropped to the floor silently, revealing smooth skin and a soft flush. His gaze darkened with awe and something deeper—something careful and worshipful.

“You’re... you’re bloody stunning.”

Hermione flushed under his gaze but didn’t shy away. Her hands slid down, undoing the buttons of his trousers with deft fingers, then easing them down along with everything else, including her own jeans. She settled back, eyes roaming appreciatively. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He chuckled low, then reached for her, hands warm and sure as they skimmed up her waist to cup her breasts. His thumbs teased her nipples, watching with fascinated delight as her back arched into his touch and a low moan escaped her lips—raw and unguarded.

Sirius swore softly. “Tell me what you like.”

“You,” she gasped, “just… don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He leaned forward and took one peaked nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking over it in lazy, practised swirls that made her whimper. Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing his scalp as he lavished attention on her, alternating between mouth and hands.

Hermione couldn’t remember ever being touched like this—like every inch of her mattered, like every sound she made was a reward. She had had lovers before, but never this kind of reverence. Never this kind of mutual undoing.

She let him tip her back again, this time fully onto the bed, and he followed, settling between her legs with a teasing grind of his hips that left her breathless.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough, lips brushing her collarbone.

Hermione cupped his face in both hands, eyes wide and sincere. “Yes. I want this. I want you. ”

Sirius exhaled, then nodded, lowering his forehead to hers for a beat—a moment of stillness in the heat, grounding them. He kissed her again—deep and unhurried, but pulsing with intent. His hand moved down, fingers curling around her thigh as he slid her leg up along his hip, pressing closer until there was no space left between them.

He entered her in one slow, careful motion, and Hermione gasped—loud, startled, almost overwhelmed.

Sirius stilled, his forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard. “Alright?”

She nodded, though her breath was caught somewhere in her throat. “More than.”

He moved then, slow at first—testing, coaxing, learning the way her body responded to him. Hermione clung to him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other splayed across his back. Every shift of his hips sent another tremor racing through her spine.

He murmured her name, again and again, like it was the only word he remembered.

And then she broke—her body bowstring tight as she came with a cry that echoed against the walls, wordless and sharp, fingers digging into his shoulders. Sirius watched her fall apart beneath him, rapt. The speed of which took even her by surprise.

When she finally collapsed against the pillows, flushed and panting, Sirius dropped a kiss to her temple, then her jaw, then her collarbone, not quite done yet but needing to savour the moment.

“You…” Hermione managed between breaths, “…are… I can’t even.”

Sirius’s grin was positively wolfish. “Twelve years in Azkaban didn’t kill my game, clearly.”

Hermione laughed—breathless, ragged, beautiful. “That’s what you take away from this?”

“Well, I mean—” he gave a particularly self-satisfied thrust that made her moan again, “—it is rather validating.”

“Shut up and keep going,” she gasped, tugging him down to kiss her again.

He did.

Sirius caught her mouth with his again, kissing her hungrily as his hips found a steadier, more insistent rhythm. Each movement was matched by the low, growing sound of her breath catching—then rising. He shifted his angle slightly, searching for that perfect spot, and when he found it—Hermione gasped sharply, her nails digging into his shoulder blades.

“Merlin—Sirius—”

Her voice was a broken, pleading thing, and he nearly lost control right then and there.

But he had a point to prove.

His hand slid between them, finding her with practiced confidence, his thumb circling her clit with maddening precision. Her reaction was instant—her thighs trembled around his hips, and her moans became a cascade of helpless, breathy sounds that made his name sound like worship.

She came again, harder than before—her body arched beneath him, her cry sharp and echoing through the room, and Sirius followed, his release crashing into him like a wave.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck as he rode it out, his entire body trembling from the force of it, breath ragged and hot against her skin.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their hearts pounding and lungs trying to catch up.

Eventually, Hermione let out a small, incredulous laugh, still breathless. “Okay. I take it back.”

Sirius lifted his head, hair mussed and damp with sweat, one brow arched. “Take what back?”

“Maybe you are as good as you think you are.”

He grinned, cocky and flushed and smug as hell. “Told you I’ve still got it.”

Hermione let her head fall back against the pillows, shaking with laughter. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly charming. Impossibly handsome. Impossibly—”

“—arrogant.”

“—skilled,” he corrected, leaning down to press a kiss to her collarbone.

“Don’t push it,” she murmured, though the lazy smile on her face said he absolutely could.

He flopped beside her, arm draped across her waist, and she curled into him without hesitation.

They stayed like that, tangled and warm, the record still spinning softly in the background from downstairs. And for once—just once—Hermione allowed herself to forget everything else. No Horcruxes. No war. No timelines.

Just this moment. Just him. Just them.

Together.

Sirius lay sprawled beside her, one arm draped across his eyes as if to shield himself from the post-orgasmic glow of reality. “Man,” he said with a wistful sigh, “I could use a cigarette right now.”

Hermione scoffed, propping herself on one elbow to peer down at him. “No, you absolutely don’t. Not with barely recovered lungs.”

“Killjoy.”

“I’m a qualified healer. And the reason you’re not currently coughing up phlegm the colour of dragon bile.”

He cracked one eye open and grinned. “Touché. Didn’t know you were this tyrannical.”

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Sirius shrugged, unapologetic. “I did. Back in the day. Thought it made me look cool. Then Azkaban came along and decided to cure me of every vice but brooding.”

“Well, don’t go picking the habit back up now that Azkaban accidentally weaned you off it.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Fiiiiine. You win, oh mighty moral compass.” Then he reached over and gave her hip a gentle squeeze. “So tell me. What are your favourite songs? I have a feeling your carefully curated collection for me isn’t exactly your usual cup of tea.”

She raised a brow. “Can’t imagine me belting out Radio Gaga in my dressing gown?”

“Oh, I can definitely imagine that. But I’m still curious.”

Hermione considered this, nose scrunching in thought. “Hm. Most of my actual favourites haven’t even been released yet. So it would be… kind of hard to show you.”

Sirius squinted at her, mock horror dawning. “This question has somehow become way weirder than I intended. This now involves a time loop of teenage musical taste.”

“I warned you.”

“I feel like I should be pouring tea and asking what thirteen-year-old you was listening to in 1992.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “That’d be Whitney Houston. Enya. Some early Cranberries, when I was feeling particularly misunderstood and poetic. Yo-Yo Ma - Bach Cello Suites, when classical struck the mood.”

Sirius blinked. “I don’t know who any of those people are.”

“You wouldn’t. They debuted after you went to Azkaban.”

He paused. “Right. That’s a fun reminder.”

Hermione softened immediately. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Nah, it’s alright,” he said, waving her off. “Just means you’ll have to give me a full crash course. I need context. Musical education from the Time-Travelling Girl Wonder.”

She grinned. “Well, in that case, I’ll make you a list.”

“And I’ll file it right next to the new record shelf category: Sexy Music for Smart Girls Who Save the World. ”

Hermione laughed, flopping back against the pillows. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m rehabilitated,” Sirius corrected solemnly. “With a very progressive cultural advisor.”

“And one veto,” Hermione added, pointing a finger at him. “If you laugh too hard at my synth ballads, I’m revoking your Enya privileges.”

“Enya privileges,” he repeated, like he was genuinely pondering the phrase. “I feel like that’s something I shouldn’t want as badly as I now do.”

Hermione shook her head, still laughing. “Welcome to the ‘90s, Black. I should also mention nobody buys vinyl anymore. CDs are all the rage.”

Sirius made a face like she’d just told him treacle tart had been outlawed.

“CDs? What, like mini records?”

Hermione burst out laughing. “Not even close. They’re discs, but you can’t play them on a record player—completely different technology. It’s digital.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes in deep suspicion. “Digital sounds like something invented by Ministry drones who hate joy.”

“That’s not entirely wrong,” she mused. “But it does mean you can carry an entire album in your pocket without hauling around vinyl and scratching everything to hell.”

“But… the ritual of it,” he said, sitting up straighter, gesturing with one hand. “Sliding the record out of the sleeve, placing the needle, that little crackle before the music starts—it’s practically sacred.”

Hermione snorted. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“It’s artistic reverence, thank you.” He placed a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “Next, you’ll be telling me Muggle music has no soul anymore.”

“Well,” she drawled, “I was going to make you listen to Ace of Base next, but now I’m reconsidering.”

Sirius leaned back against the headboard and gave her a wide-eyed look. “Ace of what?”

“You’ll see,” Hermione said ominously. “You’ll learn. I’m building you an entire post-1981 education. Music. Film. Fashion—”

“Fashion?” he interrupted, mildly horrified.

“Only if you keep making fun of my taste in music.”

He considered this. “Alright. Synth ballads are brilliant. Truly revolutionary. I’ve seen the light.”

Hermione smiled sweetly. “That’s what I thought.”

He stared at her a moment longer, his grin softening. “You know… this is nice.”

“What, threatening you with cultural updates?”

“Yeah. That. And this. Being here. With you. Talking about… stupid things. Normal things.”

She glanced down, then gently tangled their fingers together.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “It really is.”

Chapter Text

As they were about to make their way back downstairs—Sirius looking altogether too smug and Hermione attempting to smooth her hair and compose her face—a voice interrupted them from the second-floor landing, loud and dripping with aristocratic disdain.

“Well,” drawled a clipped, aristocratic tone, “now that the infernal racket has ceased, perhaps we can have a civilised conversation.”

Hermione froze mid-step. Her stomach plummeted.

Oh no.

She looked up sharply—into the smug, shadowed features of Phineas Nigellus Black, peering out of a frame just inside the second-floor bedroom.

The bedroom with the portrait.

The bedroom with the portrait.

The bedroom with the portrait she had completely, utterly forgotten about.

“Oh, bugger me,” she muttered, going white.

Sirius blinked, then let out a groan. “Ah. Phineas. Of course.”

The portrait sniffed disdainfully. “Spare me the melodrama. I’ve been posted here since the beginning of your renovations and—more recently—at the direct behest of Albus Dumbledore.”

Hermione’s horror deepened. She staggered backwards and nearly sat down on the stairs. “I can’t believe I forgot. I talked to you when I was sick! Sirius even joked about it. And I still didn’t—how could I forget that you might be a threat?”

Sirius swore under his breath. “You’re spying for Dumbledore?”

“I resent the implication,” Phineas said with mild affront. “I am no more a threat than a man asked to report on his surroundings. I was sent to spy. What I actually do is my business. My loyalty, for your information, is to the House of Black. That man may be Headmaster, but I was Headmaster first, and I don’t take kindly to being used as a post owl.”

Sirius crossed his arms, jaw tight. “Then tell me—what exactly have you reported to him so far?”

“Don’t get snippy,” Phineas said coolly. “I’ve told him nothing he didn’t already suspect or couldn’t confirm with outside observation. That you’re renovating. That you’re rebuilding your life. That you’ve seen your godson—which, before either of you bark at me again, was in a public street, not behind a Fidelius Charm.”

Sirius glanced at Hermione, who was still frozen halfway to despair.

“And I may have mentioned that you’d had guests,” Phineas added, with a pointed glance at Hermione. “One Remus Lupin and a lady friend.”

Hermione’s voice was thin. “What name did you tell him?”

Phineas straightened smugly. “Fortunately for you, I happened to overhear your rather melodramatic name-choosing moment during that ritual. It was like something out of a tawdry novella.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“I told him your name was Ione Lupin,” Phineas said crisply. “Remus Lupin’s cousin. From Switzerland. Or possibly Mars—I confess, I wasn’t listening to the full fiction.”

Hermione exhaled so sharply that it came out as a strangled laugh. She sank onto the edge of a nearby side table and buried her face in her hands.

“Don’t do that,” Sirius said, kneeling beside her. “It’s alright. He’s not Dumbledore’s creature. He’s got no love for Albus, I promise.”

Phineas sniffed again. “I find the man insufferable. Always did.”

Hermione raised her head. “Then what are you going to report next?”

There was a pause. Then, with the air of someone who wanted to sound casual but was clearly enjoying himself immensely, Phineas said:

“I shall inform the Headmaster that Ione Lupin—charming and entirely mundane—purchased a stack of Muggle records for you, Sirius. That she enjoys modern music. And that she is the sort of witch who spends her mornings reorganising someone else’s parlour just to surprise them.”

He gave a thin, satisfied smile. “That, I imagine, will ease Albus’s suspicions far more than any defensive posturing. No Dark Lady would willingly set foot in the Muggle world—let alone be familiar with it.”

Hermione gave a short, breathless laugh. “Yes, because clearly, anyone unwilling to limit their potential with bigotry can only be a beacon of light magic.”

Phineas gave a sage nod. “Precisely.”

Sirius raised a brow. “Did you two just agree?”

Hermione shot him a glare. “I was being sarcastic.”

Phineas gave one last imperious sniff. “Now go on, then. Finish your day of domestic indulgence and questionable musical taste. And for Merlin’s sake—next time, ward the damn room.”

“We didn’t—” Hermione began, then cut herself off with a groan. “We didn’t silence the door.”

Sirius, looking far too pleased with himself for someone whose dead ancestor had just confessed to eavesdropping on his sex life, quirked an eyebrow. “Oops?”

Phineas disappeared from the frame, leaving Hermione and Sirius standing in stunned silence.

“…I think I need to rearrange the portrait order in this house,” Sirius muttered.

Hermione groaned, burying her face in his shoulder. “Only after I put up privacy wards on every floor. And maybe invent magical noise-cancelling headphones.”

Hermione woke to the soft light of morning spilling across her bedroom ceiling, warm and golden, promising a quiet sort of day.

The first thing she noticed—aside from the pleasant ache in her thighs and the way the sheet smelled vaguely of Sirius’s shampoo—was that she was alone.

She frowned, blinking sleep from her eyes.

Sirius was gone.

Not just momentarily-outside-the-door gone. Not in-the-shower gone. Properly gone. The sheets were cold on his side.

She sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest and scowling at the empty space beside her as if it had personally offended her.

This had been the first night they’d actually slept together properly in bed—no fever, no Animagus fur, no hospital corners. Just them. Warm skin. Tangled limbs. Pillow-stealing. The whole glorious package.

And now? Absent. Vanished.

“I was kind of looking forward to a repeat performance,” she muttered grumpily.

She grabbed her house robe, not bothering to tie it properly, and padded barefoot down the corridor, hair a sleep-tousled mess. The kitchen? Empty. The parlour? No Sirius, just the leftover record stack from yesterday’s impromptu listening session. Library? Nope. His bedroom?

Nada.

Her frown deepened. Worry settled low in her belly—not panicked, not yet. Just… annoyed concern. Because no, she wasn’t his keeper, obviously. And yes, he was a grown man. But still.

A bit of warning might’ve been nice.

She stalked back to her room, fully prepared to throw on actual clothes and maybe start sending out a few aggressively casual owls (“Hey, have you seen my extremely reckless and recently discharged from the hospital boyfriend?”), when her eyes caught something she hadn’t noticed before.

A note.

Folded neatly and resting on the nightstand, right beside the book she’d abandoned last night.

She snatched it up, flipping it open.

Gone to Diagon. Back soon. Don’t hex the wallpaper. —S

Hermione stared at the note. Then let out a long sigh, half laughter, half exasperation.

“Of course, he just… popped out. With no elaboration.”

She resisted the urge to write something equally sarcastic and pin it to his pillow for when she vanished next. Instead, she dressed, pulled her hair into a lazy knot, and made her way to the library. If he was going to go gallivanting about London, she might as well be productive.

After all, the research wasn’t going to do itself. Especially not while Dumbledore was potentially plotting counter-moves and the final Horcrux remained buried somewhere inside the boy she loved like a brother.

Hermione dropped into her favourite armchair and summoned the thickest tome from her current stack.

With Sirius out, she might even get through a whole chapter before being distracted.

Maybe.

By noon, Hermione was no longer just irritated.

She was genuinely concerned.

And growing steadily more annoyed that those two feelings were not mutually exclusive.

Where was he?

He’d been released from the hospital yesterday. The Healers had left him with an exhausting regimen of potions, a list of side effects long enough to warrant its own index, and strict instructions not to overexert himself. She shouldn’t have to mother him—but he hadn’t even left a time on the note.

She tossed her quill down and called, “Kreacher?”

With the usual pop, the elf appeared. “Miss Ione called?”

Hermione flushed slightly. Still wasn’t used to that. “Did Sirius take his morning potions before he left?”

Kreacher nodded. “He did, Miss Ione. With toast and jam. He said it tasted less like troll feet that way.”

Hermione let out a breath. “Okay. That’s… something.”

“Does Miss Ione wish to take luncheon in the dining room?”

“No,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Just a tray, please. Something simple—I’ll eat in the library.”

Kreacher vanished with a mutter about people skipping real meals and ruining their digestion with sandwiches and worry.

When Sirius finally waltzed into the library nearly an hour later—grinning and far too pleased with himself—the only thing that stopped Hermione from launching a Stinging Hex at his smug face was the object he was carrying.

A Pensieve.

“…Is that what I think it is?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“A Pensieve,” Sirius confirmed with a flourish, setting it down on the table like he’d just won it in a duel. “Goblin-forged, runic work, lovely craftsmanship. Also cost an unholy sum, and possibly a deal to sell my spleen at a later date, so you better use it.”

Hermione stood, squinting at it warily. “Why would I need a Pensieve? I thought you’d decided not to get one because you got Harry to teach me Parseltongue—”

“Oh, no, not for that,” he said, waving dismissively. “This one’s for you.”

“Me?”

“More specifically,” Sirius said, voice smug, “so you can show me.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Show you what?”

He looked far too excited. “Your music. You said most of your actual favourite songs weren’t released yet. But you’ve heard them. So they live in your memories. And now, thanks to this lovely basin of magical memory-mirroring, I can experience them too. Directly from you.”

Hermione stared at him. “You bought a Pensieve… so you could listen to songs that don’t exist yet, via my head?”

“Exactly.”

“Sirius,” she said slowly, “you do know you can just buy the music I told you about yesterday. Everything that came out before 1993? Available at a record store. On vinyl. Even if in today’s day and age that’s not the preferred medium.”

“Sure,” he said. “And I’m already on that. But that’s me catching up to my time in your musical tastes. This”—he pointed to the Pensieve—“this is about you. I want to know what you actually listen to in the future. Not what you think I’d like. Not what the charts say is good. Not even what little Hermione rocks out to in her childhood bedroom. What you love.”

She blinked, disarmed. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said, suddenly softer. “I want to know you.”

Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Then she sighed, stepped closer, and touched the rim of the Pensieve. “You’re completely ridiculous.”

“I am,” Sirius agreed cheerfully, looking far too pleased with himself. “And dangerously sentimental. Now go on, gather your thoughts and put them in here. I promise not to mock any of them.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes playfully. “You promise?”

“Scout’s honour,” he said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. “Which means absolutely nothing coming from me, but the intention is noble.”

She snorted. “Right. Well, the Pensieve gets nothing until you eat and take your bloody potions.”

“Bossy,” Sirius muttered, but obeyed with minimal grumbling, munching his way through a sandwich and downing the potions with far less flair than usual. “Troll feet still taste like despair.”

“Then chew faster,” Hermione said sweetly, gathering her wand and focusing. She could feel the music lingering in her mind already—beats and lyrics wound around memories, emotional markers in time. Some sharp and bright, others blurred with feeling.

After Sirius finished, she tapped her temple and drew several shimmering strands of memory out, guiding them carefully into the silvery surface of the Pensieve.

“There,” she said softly, watching it ripple and settle. “These are the ones I’ve listened to more times than I can count. Not necessarily the best ever written, but the ones I felt. The ones that were… mine.”

Sirius didn’t tease her. He just reached out and took her hand. “Let’s see what makes you you.”

They leaned in together, and the world tilted—

—and they landed with a soft whoosh into a flickering tapestry of moments. Visuals shimmered like smoke and spun around them, drawn straight from her memory. The first sound hit like a punch:

Alanis Morissette – “You Oughta Know”

Sirius’s eyebrows shot up as a younger Hermione stomped across her flat, mouthing the lyrics into a hairbrush microphone with furious, cathartic precision.

“Well, that’s direct,” Sirius murmured.

Hermione blushed. “Breakup playlist. Don’t judge me.”

“I said I wouldn’t,” he said. “But this woman might be my patronus.”

More tracks followed, cascading one after the next like emotional chapters in her life:

No Doubt – “Just a Girl”

Hermione dancing alone in her pyjamas, spinning across the hardwood floor of a cramped flat.

Gwen Stefani – “What You Waiting For?”

Sirius blinked. “This one sounds like a magical sugar crash.”

The Cranberries – “Zombie”

The image shifted—Hermione on the sofa, eyes closed, head bobbing, mouthing words she’d clearly sung a thousand times.

“Haunting,” Sirius said, watching. “Powerful.”

Then:

Coldplay – “Fix You”

Hermione curled under a blanket, a tear-streaked face lit by the bluish glow of the little rectangular device playing music.

“What is that thing?” Sirius asked.

“An iPod,” Hermione replied, amused. “It stores music. Thousands of songs in one little machine.”

He gave it a look like it might bite. “Muggle magic.”

She smiled. “Basically, yes.”

The playlist continued, each track a window:

Norah Jones – “Don’t Know Why ”

Moments of stillness. Hermione watching raindrops slide down a pane of glass.

Then:

Imogen Heap – “Hide and Seek”

A melancholy night, Hermione sitting cross-legged on the floor, candlelight flickering.

Avril Lavigne – “Complicated”

 “You had a pop punk phase?” Sirius asked, genuinely delighted.

She groaned. “Of course I did. It was the early 2000s. Everyone did.”

Spice Girls – “Wannabe”

Sirius looked torn between laughter and reverence. “Please tell me this one was a dare.”

“Nope,” Hermione said, entirely unapologetic. “That one’s a rite of passage.”

Evanescence – “My Immortal”

Sirius quieted. “That one…” he murmured. “That hurt.”

She nodded. “Yeah. That was the point.”

Snow Patrol – “Chasing Cars”

Two cups of tea forgotten on a kitchen counter. A pile of books. A lazy Sunday in silence.

Britney Spears – “Stronger”

The memory shimmered to life. Hermione—wearing soft pyjamas—stood in front of a full-length mirror, half-focused as she twisted her hair up into a bun. A tinny pop beat spilled from the strange little rectangle on the dresser.

“Stronger than yesterday…”

She sang under her breath, barely audible, lips curling into a tired smile as she dabbed concealer on her chin.

Sirius blinked. “This is… very bouncy. Is she singing about revenge?”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Personal growth, actually.”

Memory-Hermione gave herself a little nod in the mirror and mouthed along:

“Ain’t nothin’ but my way...”

Sirius grinned. “Oh, fierce. Look at you. That brush flourish was wand-worthy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It was a hairbrush flourish. I wasn’t duelling anyone.”

“You looked like you were about to.”

Hermione gave a quiet laugh. “It was a bad week. I needed something loud and dramatic.”

Sirius leaned in, still watching. “What’s this called?”

“Stronger, by Britney Spears. Released… uh, very not yet.”

He nodded slowly. “Alright. Not what I expected from you.”

Hermione raised a brow. “In a good way?”

“Oh, definitely. Remind me never to make you angry when there’s music playing.”

The memory shimmered as the song faded, leaving Sirius with a very amused expression.

“I’m starting to understand your generation’s taste,” he said. “It’s just war cries you can dance to.”

Hermione smirked. “Exactly.”

Sirius stepped back from the swirling surface of the Pensieve, blinking as the library came into focus again. The quiet hush of the room felt almost foreign after the sonic kaleidoscope they’d just experienced—gritty riffs, soft piano, throbbing synths and raw, aching voices that were more than just songs. They were memories. Hermione’s.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Hermione waited, a little apprehensive, arms loosely crossed over her chest. “You okay?”

Sirius nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He turned to her, and she could see the way the wheels were turning in his head. His expression had shifted—still fond, still warm, but more serious now. More present.

“That was beautiful, Kitten,” he said softly. “Intimate. Thank you.”

She gave a faint smile, colour rising to her cheeks. “You’re welcome. I know it’s all... very different from what you grew up with.”

“No,” he said quickly, taking a step closer. “I mean, yes, it is, but that’s not what I’m thinking about.”

His fingers brushed lightly against her hand, and then—gently—he took it, turning it over. Then he looked down at her left forearm. “You do this thing,” he murmured. “When you’re upset. I saw it in the Pensieve. You scratched at your arm. Always the same spot.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

“There’s a glamour there, isn’t there?” he asked quietly. “You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to. But I want to understand. I want to know what you’re carrying.”

She was silent for a beat too long.

Then: “I didn’t realise it was that obvious.”

Sirius shook his head. “It wasn’t—not in real time. You hide it well. But when you’re watching someone across a dozen memories in a row, patterns start to appear.”

Hermione looked down at their joined hands. Her thumb brushed along his knuckles, soft and tentative. “If I tell you, I need you to promise me not to get upset.”

Sirius didn’t speak right away.

He just looked at her—really looked at her. The warmth in his eyes hadn’t dimmed, but it had narrowed into something sharper. Focused. Watchful. Protective in the way a storm bank is protective, heavy and brimming with thunder.

Hermione swallowed and repeated, “Promise me.”

His jaw clenched, but he nodded slowly. “I promise. I won’t get upset.”

“You’ll want to,” she said, managing the barest ghost of a smile. “But try not to break anything, alright?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Hermione took a deep breath. Then, with a quiet “Finite Glamourae,” she passed her wand lightly over her left forearm.

The illusion shimmered and dropped, revealing pale skin marred with faint, silvery ridges. Old scar tissue. Twisting letters, not entirely legible now—but if you looked closely, if you knew what had been carved, the word was unmistakable.

Mudblood.

Sirius stared.

Not at the scar, but at her face first, as if trying to read how she felt about showing it. Then his eyes dropped to her arm. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t gasp. He just froze.

Hermione spoke before he could.

“It was Bellatrix,” she said softly. “At Malfoy Manor. After they caught us while we were hunting Horcruxes. She used the Cruciatus first. And then… this.” Her hand hovered over the scar. “She thought I’d stolen Gryffindor’s sword. Wanted to know where I got it. I wouldn’t tell her.”

Sirius’s breathing had gone thin. Shallow. Like he was holding back a scream somewhere between his lungs and his throat.

“Your cousin,” Hermione said, not accusingly—just matter-of-fact. “She was laughing the whole time.”

The silence between them stretched. Then Sirius sat down hard, right there on the floor of the library. Hands buried in his hair.

“I know I told you I wouldn’t get upset,” he said hoarsely, “but I lied. I lied through my teeth. Fuck.”

Hermione knelt in front of him and cupped his cheek, her voice gentler now. “Sirius.”

“She carved it into you,” he whispered, looking sick. “She used a cursed knife, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And you were seventeen?”

“Eighteen.”

“Still too young,” he bit out.

“I survived,” she said quietly. “And I’m telling you because I trust you. I don’t want to keep hiding parts of myself anymore. Not from you.”

He reached out, gingerly, and traced a fingertip down her arm, just beside the scar. Not touching it. Just outlining it in the air, reverent, as though it were something ancient and sacred.

“You never deserved this,” he said. “No one does. But especially not you.”

“I know that now,” Hermione said. “But at the time… it was hard not to believe it.”

Sirius looked up at her, the fire back in his eyes now—not out-of-control fury, but purpose. “Then I’m going to keep reminding you. Every damn day, if I have to.”

She smiled faintly, her throat tight. “I think one of the songs might’ve said it better.”

“Oh?” he asked, arching a brow.

“I’m stronger than yesterday,” she quoted, voice soft but steady.

Sirius reached up and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her as though she were something both fragile and indestructible at once.

“Yes,” he murmured into her hair. “You are.”

Wednesday morning had started as most did now—quietly. Sirius was halfway through a pot of tea in the parlour, legs stretched out, robe askew, when Hermione wandered in with that particular look on her face.

The one that always meant: I’ve thought of something. It’s probably dangerous. I’ve decided to do it anyway.

“Are you in for a bit of grave digging?” she asked casually, like she was suggesting a late lunch.

“Grave robbing? Really?” Sirius choked on his tea, spluttering and clutching at his chest like she’d just casually suggested a second date with a Dementor. “Merlin’s saggy—Hermione, love, is this foreplay?”

Hermione, curled up cross-legged in the armchair and dressed far too casually to be discussing illegal necromantic sabotage, didn’t even blink. “I said grave digging, not robbing. Technically, we’re not stealing anything. Just doing a little swap.”

“Oh, well,” he said brightly, recovering. “That makes it so much better. Nothing says domestic bliss like body snatching. But I’ll bite, what exactly are we digging up?”

“Tom Riddle Senior.”

He stared. “Well, that’s not horrifying at all.”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to come. You’ve barely been home for forty-eight hours, and I did say you should still be resting.”

“You did,” he agreed. “Right before suggesting we take a romantic moonlit stroll through the most cursed hamlet in Britain to exhume the father of Voldemort.”

“It’s not romantic,” she muttered, standing and brushing toast crumbs off her jumper.

Sirius looked entirely unconvinced. “Then why are you telling me with that face?”

“What face?”

“That guilty one. The ‘I’m doing something reckless but it’s in the name of justice so it doesn’t count’ face.”

Hermione sighed and sat on the arm of his chair. “Look. I’ll go alone if I must. But in the spirit of transparency—I thought I should tell you.”

He turned his head, studying her. “What’s the urgency?”

She hesitated, then said, “I’m going to accept the Unspeakable job.”

His brows shot up.

“I need access to source material,” she continued, “and I’ve hit a wall. There are gaps in what I can find here, even with everything your family has hoarded in the Black library. I’ll be careful. I’ll keep my head down. But if I’m going back into the Department of Mysteries, I want as many loose ends tied up as possible beforehand.”

Sirius, to his credit, didn’t argue. He just nodded slowly. “And the bones?”

“Worst-case scenario,” she said quietly, “if Voldemort gets resurrected the way he did last time—using his father’s bones, Harry’s blood, and a random servant’s flesh—I want to change the equation. Replace the bones with someone else’s. That way, if the ritual does happen, it might backfire. Weaken him. Maybe even destroy the new body altogether.”

“Good gods,” Sirius muttered. “I mean, brilliant, obviously. But… gods.”

“I’m hoping it never comes to that,” Hermione said. “I don’t want Harry to be sliced open again. But I have to prepare.”

He stood, kissed her temple, and murmured, “Alright. Let’s go rob a corpse.”

They Apparated just past nightfall to the edge of Little Hangleton’s cemetery. The wind smelled of wet grass and loam, and the air held that eerie hush that only truly forgotten places could master.

“Charming,” Sirius muttered, pulling his cloak tighter. “All it’s missing is a violin string and a howling wolf.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Hermione warned, lighting her wand.

They made their way between crooked gravestones, half-sunken and slick with moss.

They came to a halt beneath the looming silhouette of a bronze Angel of Death, its wings outstretched and greened with age, oxidised streaks running down its face like long-dried tears. One skeletal hand clutched a scythe pointed upward; the other held out almost beckoningly. Beside it sat a towering marble headstone:

Thomas Riddle, 1905–1943
Beloved son. Gone too soon.

Sirius tilted his head. “That’s rich, considering he was murdered by his own son, who was quite literally the opposite of beloved.”

Hermione grimaced. “The irony is thicker than the fog.”

They stood in silence for a beat. The trees rustled above them, branches swaying like whispered warnings.

“Right,” Hermione said, breaking the hush. “Let’s get to work.”

She flicked her wand in a tight arc, casting a Muggle-repelling charm followed by a perimeter Disillusionment field. The shadows around them shifted slightly, like the cemetery itself was adjusting to their presence.

Sirius crouched beside the tombstone, eyeing the angel’s grim visage. “This thing is going to haunt my dreams, I can feel it.”

“Maybe it’ll inspire you to finish writing an actual will and not just slapstick Harry on everything.”

“Morbid,” he muttered. “...Sexy, but morbid.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and cast a Non-Permanent Unbinding Charm, the earth slowly parting in precise, surgical slices. The grave didn’t explode in a cartoonish geyser of dirt—it simply yielded, layer by layer, as if giving up a secret it had kept too long.

They worked in focused silence, the only sounds the whisper of shifting soil and the distant hoot of an owl.

After a few minutes, there was a soft thunk.

“Coffin,” Hermione said, kneeling. “Reinforced pine. It’s held up better than I expected.”

Sirius peered in. “Do we want to know how many of these you’ve dug up before?”

“Only the necessary ones,” she said breezily, casting a soft Preservation Bubble as she eased the lid open.

Inside, the bones lay where they’d been for half a century, folded and stark against the blackened lining of the casket. The body of Thomas Riddle Sr., murdered without ceremony, soul, or clue about what his son would become.

Sirius winced. “He looks… ordinary.”

“He was.” Hermione’s voice was quiet now. “Which is exactly why this works.”

From her bag, she withdrew a shrunken bundle, unwrapped it with a whisper, and revealed a second set of bones—clean, neutral, entirely unremarkable.

“Stephen Allardyce,” she said softly. “Died 1943, quiet life, no living descendants. His records were erased in a Ministry fire. Guess the Death Room will be missing a test subject in 2005.”

Sirius raised a brow. “You have spare corpses now?”

“I have contingencies,” Hermione corrected, levitating Riddle’s bones into a magically expanded pouch with exacting care.

“I’m more and more convinced I don’t want to know what the Unspeakables are doing in the DoM.”

Hermione just gave him a look. The kind that usually meant she could explain, but he really wouldn’t like it.

“If Voldemort tries to recreate his body using his father’s remains again, this should weaken it. Maybe even destabilise it enough to collapse the ritual completely.”

Sirius nodded slowly, tone serious now. “And Harry’s blood?”

“I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he’s never even in the same postcode as that cauldron,” she said grimly.

They placed Allardyce’s bones in the casket and returned the grave to its previous state. The dirt settled with uncanny smoothness, and the moss slithered back over the stone like a sigh being shushed.

Hermione took a step back, brushing her hands off.

“Done,” she said.

Sirius stared at the grave for a moment longer. “You think it’ll help?”

“I think if everything else fails, I want every advantage on our side. Even this one.”