3rd June

It was a fine summer's evening in Upper Flagley, a small part-wizarding village in Yorkshire, where a young man sat at the bar of the Snitch and Kneazle. He was a good-looking man, with dark, slightly untidy collar length hair, light eyes and – usually – an easy grin; but tonight his normally charming smile had been replaced with a scowl.

Sirius Black was not in a good mood. He was alone – his friends had abandoned him. Well, not by choice, really, but that didn't make it any easier.

He despised the war for taking his life from him. He was twenty-one – his main concerns should have been visiting his mates, drinking on a Saturday night and being pissy at his job for getting in the way of his social life. This was not the case.

For Sirius, the war leeched into everything: every conversation with his friends, every walk though a slightly subdued village, every moment he sat behind his desk at the Auror headquarters in the Ministry, ticking boxes and listening to the other newly qualified Aurors harp on about what a difference they are making in the world. It drove him crazy to watch them, so complacent, believing that as long as the requisite paperwork was complete, that if they followed the protocol, all the Death Eaters would be rounded up. They were fools, full of their own importance.

Sirius knew that the Death Eaters were far stronger than the Ministry let on, that the people disappearing were dead at their hands. He had already lost more friends than he could count. He supposed the general public couldn't be blamed for keeping their heads down and keeping safe – it wouldn't help matters for people to be more afraid than they already were – but the Aurors... they should be worried. They should be fighting, capturing, hunting down Voldemort and killing him. Alastor Moody, Sirius's boss, was the only one with enough guts to tell it how it was. Although that didn't help matters at the Ministry – too many higher ups were unconvinced of the true danger, or they were in the pockets of the Death Eaters.

Sirius was sure that without the Order of the Phoenix he would have gone insane by now; at least they made some progress. Moody and Dumbledore ran the show in the Order, and they were reasonably successful. But they were still losing: his group of friends, his chosen family, was splitting apart, and the war was the wedge.

James, who had been like a brother to him for so many years, was in hiding and was only allowed to leave the house for Order meetings. Remus, who admittedly had it pretty rough most of the time, had been given a task by Dumbledore that had him up to his eyeballs in research books for all hours of the day and night. And then there was Peter, whose mother was ill. He had been spending most of his time with her. Sirius wondered to himself if it was just an excuse; he knew Wormtail was often afraid to fight. He pushed away the unworthy thought. You're just bitter and lonely, he told himself. It didn't help that to Sirius, the idea of his own mother being ill... well... it made him happy.

Without his friends, Sirius found himself thinking more and more of his little brother, the foolish git that he was. Of all the thoroughly depressing things that had happened in this war, seeing his brother join the Death Eaters had been one of the worst. Sirius took a gulp from his nearly empty glass of firewhiskey - so what if his brother, who he hadn't seen or spoken to since he left Hogwarts, had followed the family line? So what if his friends were busy? He knew deep down that he didn't really have much to complain about. In the grand scheme of things Sirius was just feeling sorry for himself.

It irked him that, as an Auror, he had to go to work every day and follow pointless leads and do paperwork, when people like Remus got to go on reconnaissance missions for the Order and fight Death Eaters without filling in a ten page report detailing every hex or curse he'd used, or had used against him. We should switch, thought Sirius, Moony loves paperwork. He took another swig of his drink, draining the glass.

He drummed his fingers on the edge of the bar, bored out of his mind. Normally he would have found some pretty girl to spend his evening with by now. He glanced at his watch – only seven thirty. He was amazed at how slowly the time passed when you drank alone. Perhaps all the good-looking girls were still at home getting dolled up for their evening out. He wished they would hurry up; he was badly in need of distraction tonight.

The barman had noticed Sirius's empty glass. 'Another, Black?'

Sirius nodded, pushing his glass toward the barman. 'Quiet night Wilfred?' Sirius asked.

The barman looked around, 'So far... don't worry though, I'm sure some girlie will turn up and claim you soon enough.'

Sirius ignored him.

'Where's your mate tonight?' Wilfred asked with pointed glance at the vacant stool next to him.

'Busy,' Sirius grunted.

'Too bad,' said the barman. 'I like him. He has manners.'

Sirius grunted again.

Wilfred poured a measure of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey into Sirius's glass – Sirius noticed that there was probably only enough for one more drink left in the bottle. Hadn't it been full when he arrived? The door of the pub opened, distracting Sirius from trying to calculate how many drinks he had had this evening. Judging by the ache it caused in his foggy brain, perhaps he didn't want to know anyway.

There was a woman standing in the door way, her wild curly hair illuminated from behind by the streetlamp outside the inn. She was not dressed up like the girls that frequented the Snitch normally were – Remus described them as "too much perfume, not enough fabric", a description which Sirius accepted with enthusiasm – but a change was always nice. She wore light jeans and flats, and a woolen jumper with a knit so wide Sirius could see through it to the black t-shirt she had beneath it. She was looking around at the evening's patrons; when her eyes lit upon Sirius she did a double take, her eyebrows lifting slightly.

'Told you,' said Wilfred smugly.

The new woman took the stool next to Sirius at the bar without looking at him.

Ever the dutiful barman, Wilfred asked, 'What can I get you sweetheart?'

'Firewhiskey,' she said, adding, 'double please,' with a smile.

'Coming right up,' he said, banging a glass down on the bar. He caught Sirius's eye and tilted his head toward the woman. 'Manners!' he mouthed.

Sirius just shook his head and took another drink.

'That'll be four sickles,' Wilfred said as he tipped the last of the bottle Sirius had been working on into her glass. She passed the coins across the bar and Wilfred left to deposit them in the till.

Sirius looked at her out of the corner of his eye – she was completely unfamiliar. She looked about his age, but he didn't recognise her at all. She sounded British though... she must have gone to Hogwarts. He wished Remus were here. Moony, with his frustratingly competent memory, remembered everyone. It was useful in situations such as this, though horrifically embarrassing when it came to being reminded of some of the more douche-baggy moments in Sirius's life.

He was suddenly annoyed again – annoyed that he was alone, not to mention that he probably looked like a sad alcoholic sitting at the bar by himself, sufficiently sloshed at only seven thirty. Where had his confidence scuttled off to this evening? There was a pretty witch sitting next to him and he couldn't think of a thing to say to her. How unusual.

He'd picked up plenty of girls he didn't know before, but normally he knew something, or Moony's magic memory did: one of their siblings, where they worked, or who one of their friends had been at Hogwarts. Unless they were foreign, and then you just had to ask them where they were from. Easy. It dawned on him that Moony was the perfect wing man. But this witch? She sounded like she was from London, she looked his age. What was he supposed to say? 'Come here often?' He cringed at the thought.

She must have noticed him looking because she asked, 'Can I help you with something?' She was grinning.

'Er ... that's my whiskey you're drinking,' he grumbled. Twat, he thought. Utter twat.

'Your whiskey?' She looked confused. Then, taking in the empty bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey that was still sitting on the bar, she brightened, a glint in her eyes. 'Really? ... You're Mr. Ogden? I always imagined him to be old, not to mention dead – this whiskey has been around for centuries. You're certainly looking good.'

He knew he looked surprised as she held out her hand and said, 'I'm Hermione – it's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Ogden, you make a fine drink.'

Apparently this girl liked twats, a remarkable stroke of luck. Sirius was completely stunned as he took her hand and shook it.

'Sirius,' he said chuckling, finding his voice at last. 'I meant, I was about to finish that bottle, I've grown quite attached to it this evening and now you've taken its final offering.'

'In that case, I'm terribly sorry,' she said, solemnly meeting his eye.

He laughed. 'Apology accepted,' he said firmly, trying to match her tone but failing. She laughed, too. A proper laugh – not the simpering giggle he normally dealt with.

Wilfred had shuffled back to their end of the bar by now, and was busying himself with restocking the glasses. He always enjoyed watching Black pull; the young bloke made it look so easy. Though, the barman supposed, it probably was easy when you were young, handsome and rich.

'I don't know you, do I?' Sirius asked her, eyebrow quirked as he pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it.

Hermione looked taken aback 'Er... no. I shouldn't think so. I... um, don't come here very often.'

Sirius smirked at the use of the phrase. 'You should,' he said confidently. 'We're a riot.'

'We?' she asked him, taking in the empty barstool next-door.

'Yeah,' he said. 'Me and my mate Moony come here quite a lot. The food's great and Wilfred over there,' he indicated the barman, 'he's a gem.'

'Moony?' she questioned. 'That's an interesting name. The star and the moon – how romantic,' she said grinning once more.

Sirius laughed again. Merlin, she was quick. 'Don't let him hear you say that.'

'Oh no, unrequited love is it? ... You poor thing.' Her voice was quaking with barely controlled laughter by this point.

Sirius just looked at her, it was like she knew just the thing to say to make him laugh – all the other unattached women seemed to think it best to act either coy and impressed or bold and sexy when trying to get his attention. This one though – she was like an old friend. Who was this miraculous woman sent here to cheer him up?

She was laughing again, her head thrown back, 'Your face...' She tried to control herself, obviously taking his expression of contemplation for one of mild offence. 'I'm kidding,' she said with a snort and another chortle.

And then he couldn't help it, he was laughing, too – a little hysterically, but actually laughing. It was such a release; he felt like he hadn't laughed in weeks. His previous surly mood seemed to vanish – she was like a good hangover potion, making him feel light, and actually cheerful.

Wilfred looked over at them; half the pub was staring, too. 'I hope that's only tobacco you're smoking in my pub Black!' he called. The other customers began to chuckle and it set Hermione off again.

When they had finally calmed down and Hermione had finished her drink, Sirius said with a casual shrug, 'Want to get out of here?' He was trying to sound relaxed, like it was no big deal, but in all honesty he was quite nervous. Nervous? Merlin's pants, how ridiculous.

'Sure,' she said.

He grinned. Merlin and his multitude of undergarments could go hang.

As they left the pub Wilfred called out, 'Have a good night Black,' and tipped him a huge wink.

Out in the street Sirius said 'I live in London, did you want to... ?'

'Me too,' said Hermione. 'It's still early though, shall we have a look at what's going on in the city?'

'Sure,' he agreed, 'anywhere in mind?'

'Not really. I don't go out much. What do you like to do on a Wednesday night in old London town?'

'Er ...' Sirius was at a loss. What did he do in London? Trawl for birds? Get shitfaced with Moony at the Leaky? Then it came to him, remembering an evening he had spent with a muggle girl last summer. He held out his hand to Hermione, and said with a wink, 'It's a surprise.'

She took his hand and they disapparated, appearing in the shadow of a large tree, with the Thames down a bank to their left, Waterloo bridge looming behind them and London lit up before them, the reflection sparking in the slowly moving river.

Sirius blanched – apparating on a stomach full of whiskey was not a good idea. He reached out a hand to the wide trunk of the tree to steady himself, taking deep breaths and willing himself not to puke in front of his companion.

'You alright?' She asked quietly.

'Yeah,' he said, standing upright again, and swallowing as though his life depended on it, his refusal to be embarrassed winning out over his gag-reflex by sheer force of will. 'Cracking,' he said grinning once more, 'and you?'

'Fine,' said Hermione, turning her back on him and sitting on a bench that looked out over the river. 'So this is what you do in London, sit by the river and admire the view?'

'Not very often.' He wondered was going through her mind – she was suddenly serious and reserved, and looked quite concerned as she frowned out at the dirty river.

'Knut for your thoughts?' Sirius asked, pulling out a cigarette and propping himself on the back of the bench so they were side by side but facing opposite directions. He lit up and took a deep drag, then looked down at her – she seemed too deep in thought to have heard him. He nudged her with his elbow. 'You still here?'

She jumped. 'Sorry... I, er... zoned out for a minute.' Her eyes were still unfocused as she turned back to the river.

'What were you thinking about that had you so, um ... zoned out?'

'My plan,' she said.

Ominous, thought Sirius. 'Your plan for what?'

She appeared to have fallen back into her reverie. Sirius looked around at the noisy road, the gurgling of the river, the sound of people making their way towards the bars further down the road – all of it was so normal. What had this girl so distracted? Perhaps she was regretting coming with him. Maybe she was trying to think of a polite way to turn him down. His confidence that had returned momentarily seemed to have run for the hills once more.

For a moment he longed for the airheads he usually took home; they never required him to force his drink sodden brain to come up with conversation, or try to work out what they were thinking about, usually babbling and giggling so much he'd kiss them just to shut them up.

He tried a different tack, 'So, what do you do? You never told me.'

'Do?' she questioned, turning to look at him a frown appearing on her face.

'Yeah, you know, for a living... Where do you work?' he elaborated.

'Oh, Right, I'm um... in between jobs at the moment,' she said. She still seemed far away but at least she was talking to him.

He pushed on, wondering how long it had been since he'd had to work this hard to get anyone's attention. 'So how do you spend your time then?'

'A bit of private research actually,' she said, and all of a sudden the faraway look was gone, and she was looking directly at him, a smile on her face as though the last ten awkward minutes never happened. It was like she'd just switched back on.

Sirius was flummoxed – how drunk was he? Still, not wanting to look a gift thestral in the mouth now that she was present and smiling again, he asked, 'Really? What sort of research?'

'Oh, you know,' she said airily, 'a bit of this a little of that. Actually,' she continued, more seriously but still smiling, 'most recently I've been concentrating on my plan to destroy Voldemort.'

Whatever Sirius had expected, it wasn't that. He choked as he inhaled on his smoke, spluttering. When he looked through streaming eyes at her, she was frowning again.

'That's quite bad for you, you know,' she said conversationally, indicating the cigarette.

She had to be fucking kidding. 'So is trying to kill Voldemort,' he wheezed, staring at her.

'Touché,' she replied, giggling under her breath.

'No, really,' he asked, 'are you kidding?'

'Absolutely not,' she said, face straight, looking him directly in the eye.

He sighed. She'd been too good to be true – funny, clever and fit? He glared at her, thinking how unfair it was that she had led him to believe she was actually normal, relatively interesting and easy to get along with. She wasn't adverse to the odd twatty comment, a saving grace where he was concerned, and she wasn't going to fawn all over him because he was handsome or rich, or both. She had seemed so promising - then to turn out to be mind-bendingly crazy? The nerve of her.

'And how in the name of Merlin are you going to carry out this grand plan?' he asked scathingly, thinking that it was not something people should joke about, but really his main anger was at the hope that had flared in his chest. 'A little girl isn't going to defeat Voldemort!' he sneered venomously. 'Do you even know what you're suggesting?'

She looked stung. She put her head down miserably; her breathing was shallow, almost like she was afraid.

Sirius kicked himself. He had pushed past her tolerance of twattery with that one. Now he'd really ruined his chances. He glanced at her again – she really looked panicked, was he that frightening? Or was it that his gittishness was so appalling she couldn't bear the sight of him any longer? What did it really matter if she was slightly unhinged – at least it was in an exciting way. Perhaps he could apologise? Well, he thought grimly, there had to be a first time for everything.

He flicked his cigarette away resolutely and moved around the bench to sit beside her. She didn't look at him; she was still staring down and twisting her hands in her lap. He put his hand on her knee. She didn't flinch – a promising sign. 'Hermione,' he said gently, in his most conciliatory tone, a brilliant skill that had got him out of an endless string of unfortunate situations. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you.' She didn't move.

He tightened the grip on her knee, and leaned a little closer. 'Hermione?' He murmured.

Her head snapped around, and their faces were only inches apart; she was frozen, stock still, gaze locked with his. He leaned in, and then – she was gone from the bench standing a few feet away still staring at him. Her sudden movement had caused him to slip, and the hand that had been resting on her knee, now with no support, flew to the empty bench to catch him before he faceplanted.

'Sirius?' Her voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear her over the bubbling of the river and the roar of traffic. She had taken a step forward and was now standing in front of him. She was holding out a piece of parchment. He took it from her.

'Sorry,' she said, with a small smile. She reached forward and patted him on the head. Then she spun on the spot and with a crack she was gone.

'What – The – Fuck?' Sirius cursed loudly. Had she really just patted him on the head? What the hell? Like a bloody dog? It was apt, he thought, but still. The girl was batcrap crazy! She had a plan to defeat Voldemort? Was she just having a laugh? Then why was she so offended that he thought it was ridiculous? Was she playing hard to get – trying to seem brave so the infamous Sirius Black would take her seriously? He cringed at his big-headedness. Obviously not, you berk, or she would have just kissed you.

His mind was reeling he unfolded the parchment, to read the name and address of a hotel in London, followed by a hastily-added post script:

'Sorry I'm a bit weird, I'll explain next time.'

A bit weird? That was the understatement of the century. Next time? Yeah, right. Swearing under his breath and glad the whiskey had loosened its hold on him, he concentrated on his flat and disapparated.


Hermione apparated directly into her hotel room. It was late and she knew the front desk staff changed at ten, so no one would notice that she hadn't come in through the lobby.

She was breathing heavily. What the hell? Had she gone completely mental? Find Sirius, get him on your side, tell him you're from the future and that you have a plan to kill Voldemort, how bloody difficult was that? Not find Sirius, flirt with him, and then when he asks you to go home with him act like a crazy person and lead him on till he tries to kiss you, and then vanish!

He would never talk to her again. What had she done? When they had been at the pub in Upper Flagley she'd thought if she could get him by himself, she could tell him why she was there, what the plan was. But she had been kidding herself.

First of all he'd been drunk – not unexpected, but still a slight spanner in the works. Second, he'd been lonely – that had been obvious. And third, so was she – to see a familiar face, albeit a much younger version, had been wonderful.

These last three weeks had been difficult alone. She didn't know a soul that it was safe to talk to, and seeing Sirius alive and healthy after five years was a miracle. She couldn't believe how bright and carefree he'd looked when they were laughing like crazy people in the Snitch and Kneazle. She wished Harry could have seen him that way, though it was almost depressing to compare him to the man she'd known – dark and sad, with only flashes of the spirit she'd seen tonight.

And now he was going to think her some psycho twit that had played along and then chickened out at the last minute. She thought about when they had been at the river bank, how she'd almost had a panic attack trying to force the words out. I'm from the future, you're going to go to Azkaban for twelve years, Lily and James are going to die. Jesus, how could you slip those into conversation? And when she'd finally got the courage up to say she knew how to stop Voldemort he'd thought she was some daft bird with a death wish.

Would he even contact her? Had she just ruined everything? Dumbledore didn't believe her and Sirius thought she was mad – the two people she had been counting on to help her through his. What a fool she'd been to think it would be so easy. It was ridiculous. A voice that sounded a lot like Ron's whispered in her mind, 'No amount of notes and planning will get you through this one love.' Ron. How she missed him. She was crying now, something she hadn't done since arriving in 1981. Should she just go home? She hadn't changed anything yet.

Dumbledore would probably recognise her when she got to Hogwarts, but what could he do? And Sirius would have forgotten about the random woman he'd had a drink with once, by the time they met in 1994. She doubted he'd make the connection; twelve years with dementors would surely drive such frivolous things from his brain. The thought of letting all the awful things happen again was horrible. It made her want to throw up.

Was there a chance Dumbledore would act on what he saw in the memories when he realised what was happening with the secret keeper? Even if he wasn't convinced until Halloween, he could still help Sirius, and that would help Harry. Dumbledore knew about the Horcruxes now, he might be able to find and destroy them - but he didn't know about the ring, and it was too dangerous to tell him. 'That's what I'll do,' thought Hermione, 'I'll get the ring. Then Dumbledore won't get injured in our sixth year, he'll be alive to keep fighting Voldemort if he needs to.' It calmed her to have a plan again. She would get the ring, destroy it, and then she would go home.