Chapter Twenty-Nine


September 3rd, 1982
The Three Broomsticks

She Apparated to Hogsmeade since Rosmerta said her Floo was going through some issues and could only call out ever since a patron vomited in the fireplace a few days earlier. Long distance Apparition previously made her sick, but after carrying Ron and Harry with her repeatedly during the Horcrux hunt, Hermione was used to it.

Wrapping her cloak around her body tightly, trying to ignore the cold September chill of Scotland, Hermione made her way to the Three Broomsticks, smiling slightly at the familiar sights. If she squinted her eyes and tried hard enough, she could see the looming castle in the distance, welcoming it's students new and old back for another year—newly crowned Gryffindor, Bill Weasley, among them.

Rosmerta met Hermione outside of the inn. "You must be Hermione."

"How did you know?"

"Have a look about you," Rosmerta said with a smile. "You look worried and pissed off at the same time. That's a familiar expression for any witch that runs around with these two," she said and gestured inside where Hermione could see Sirius leaning up against a wall.

"I don't . . . I'm not . . ."

Rosmerta laughed. "Didn't think so. Not Potter at least, poor boy," she said with a frown. "Black on the other hand . . . if I were fifteen years younger and had lower standards . . ."

Hermione sighed. "What happened?"

"That's a little complicated. Sirius can probably explain better than I could," Rosmerta said and then opened the door, ushering Hermione inside.

Sirius spun on his heel, almost tripping, and stared at her with excited eyes, though one eyelid was drooping a touch. He stumbled forward, crooked grin on his face. "Herminny! Herminny, you came! Mother of Merfin . . . I told you, Rosie, dinna tell you?" he said, looking at the inn matron. "Told you she'd come."

Hermione smelled him and then took a step back. "Are you . . . Sirius are you actually drunk? Like . . . fall down, black out drunk?" she asked, shocked that she'd never actually seen him reach this state before.

Sirius grinned. "They should put me on the firewhisky bottle. Gonna be famous."

Shaking her head in frustration and disappointment, she pinched the bridge of her nose and looked down, unable to stare him in the face without thinking violent thoughts. Her gaze landed on his black t-shirt that had magically glowing letters. "What is . . . Sirius, what is that?"

"Like it, Herminny?" he asked, puffing out his chest and stretching the fabric so she could read the whole thing. "I thought it. Magic!"

Her mouth fell open as she stared at the flashy message that read, "If too drunk, Floo Hermione", and then listed her address. "You charmed your t-shirt to call for my help?" she asked, a mixture of annoyed and intrigued. "How does it work?"

Rosmerta laughed as she charmed a flannel to wash the bartop. "He explained that earlier. Something about the alcohol level in his blood or sweat, I'd stopped paying attention when he proposed the third time."

"I love you, Rosie," Sirius declared, tears in his eyes. "You don't love me, though . . . Herminny, why doesn't she love me?"

Hermione scowled at him. "Because you're a drunk and I'm going to put you to rights the moment you sober up!" she snapped. "Where's James?"

Sirius snorted and fell over, holding his stomach. "Oh, Himmy . . . Himmy, it's so funny," he said, looking up at her, giggling. "You were right 'bout registers. We're free!"

Before she could ask what he meant by registers, there was a loud crashing noise coming from outside the inn and Hermione looked up to see a large shadow pass by the door leading out the back. "Oh my gods! What was that?!"

Rosmerta snorted and shook her head. "That would be Potter."

Hermione ran across the room and threw open the back door, brown eyes wide in shock at the sight in front of her. "Sirius . . . is he . . . James?!" she shrieked and the massive stag in front of her turned his head at the sound of his name.

His eyes were soft and dark, though—like Sirius—one eyelid was drooping. His nostrils flared and he made a low grunting noise, took a step forward, crossing one hoof over another and then tripped forward, landing on his side, antlers knocking over Rosmerta's rubbish bins.

Sirius came up behind Hermione and snorted. "Innit funny? He can't change back. I dared him to go and now he's stuck," he said, giggling. "Stupid deer."

"Sirius, this isn't funny, this is—"

"Serious!" he shouted excitedly, throwing his hands in the air and then searching for something to drink, as though the pun of his name had, at some point that night, become a drinking game.

She watched in horror as Prongs fought to right himself, looking almost confused at the trash that ended up stuck in his antlers. She turned and glared at Sirius. "What if he gets hurt?! You don't know how animals process alcohol!"

Sirius scoffed, offended. "Well, he didn't drink it all lookin' like that. Least . . . not at of it. You ever seen a deer drink a butterbeer?" he asked. "Oh . . . that could be a song. I need to go inside and write a letter to Freddie Mercury," he said and then turned around.

"Sirius!"

He waved her off as he staggered back toward the bar. "Don't worry, he'll totally understand my artistic interpation . . . he wrote a song 'bout a bicycle, y'know. Muggles man . . . they just . . . they get it. Rosie! You got Howler paper? I need to make an important point!"

Hermione sighed and tried to forcibly stop the vein in her head from pulsing. She looked back outside at Prongs, who was rubbing his shoulder up against the wall of the inn, making a noise that sounded something between a purr and a growl, eyes rolled in the back of his head in obvious pleasure. The thick chestnut coloured fur on his chest was damp from the rubbish he'd fallen into, and there was a half-broken mug hanging off of one of his antlers like a rack.

"Well, look at you," she said in disapproval as she approached the massive stag, reaching up to remove the mug. "I used to think Harry's Patronus was majestic, you know. Now . . ." she began to say when Prongs lifted his head toward her, lunged forward, and vomited on her feet. "Ugh. Sirius!" she screamed and ran back into the inn, Scourgifying her shoes in the process. "Why did the two of you drink so much?!"

Sirius shrugged, leaning his head against the counter, black hair fanned out to the side. "Missing Moony," he mumbled. "Missing Lily. 'Specially old Prongsie. Today's their anniversary, y'know."

Hermione's angry scowl faded instantly and she sighed. "Rosmerta? Can I buy a room for the night?"

Rosmerta looked out the open door at the stag who was watching them with curious eyes. "You're not taking—"

Hermione shook her head. "It's for Sirius. I need to lock him inside somewhere to keep him safe from the public. Do you have any Sober Up Potion?"

"On a Friday night the first week of school?" Rosmerta laughed. "Most of the teachers and local parents used it up. I can lock him in, though. Give him a drop of Dreamless Draught," she said and reached over, running her fingers through Sirius's hair and smirking when he sighed happily. "That ought to put him to sleep without . . . well . . . coma."

"Taking me to bed, Rosie?" Sirius mumbled, eyes closed. "Oh gods . . . if I could tell my thirteen-year-old self . . . he'd be so proud. Does anyone have a Time-Turner?"

"Come on there, handsome," Rosmerta said, helping Sirius to his feet and leading him toward the stairs. "One step at a time."

Hermione left a small pouch of coins on the counter and then wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders, stepping out into the cold and shutting the door behind her. "All right, you," she said, looking at the stag. "Come along, Prongs."

She walked ahead of him, looking back every so often to make sure he didn't stumble off the path and hurt himself. Making her way down the familiar road to the Shrieking Shack, a place she knew Prongs would at least be comfortable, Hermione pondered on how to deal with a drunk deer.

Once inside, she let him walk in first, following behind curiously as he led her into a large room that looked a bit more habitable than the last time she'd been there during her third year. It was cleaner, certainly, and the only indications that the Marauders had ever been there before were the scratch marks on the walls and indentations that she could now recognise as places that Prongs's antlers had bumped into.

The stag made a huffing noise and half collapsed on the floor, his large head resting on the mattress of the nearby bed. Hermione made her way to an armchair and, after Scourgifying it, sat down. "Once you've slept it off and sobered up, you should be able to turn back. If not, Professor McGonagall is just through the tunnel there, up at Hogwarts. She'd know what to do."

Prongs grunted again and stared at her for a long while.

"I wish you'd told me, you know. About your anniversary," she said and he finally broke eye contact, looking away and exhaling through his nostrils, eyes closing. "I would have . . . I don't know, maybe let you talk about it. I know you like going out with Sirius, but I think you like that because it makes you forget for a moment. And it's . . . you don't have to forget her." She sighed when she could hear soft sounds of snoring. "You'll feel better in the morning."

She leant over in the chair, reaching out to run her fingers over the top of his head, smiling at the feel of the fur. "You know . . . despite the deer vomit and smelling like firewhisky inside of a stable . . . you really are quite majestic like this."


September 4th, 1982
The Shrieking Shack

She opened her eyes and looked up, smiling at the sight of the very human James sitting on the bed.

"I didn't want to talk," he admitted without looking at her. "I didn't . . . I wasn't sad. I was angry. I only got a few years with her. Less than a handful of anniversaries. Do you know what we did for each one? Nothing. We were fighting in a war and out on missions. Then we had Harry and we were stuck in hiding . . . we didn't celebrate our last one. Actually forgot it," he admitted. "And I was angry because it wasn't enough."

Hermione frowned and sat up. "It never is. Even if you'd had fifty years with her, it wouldn't have been enough."

He nodded and finally looked up at her. "I'm okay," he said. "I think . . . I think I'm going to be okay."

She smiled. "That's good because babysitting a drunk deer? Not on the list of things I'd ever want to do again."

"Did I throw up on you?"

"You did."

"Anything else?"

"Nope . . . just the vomit and some very interesting movements. I might start calling you Bambi," she said teasingly.

James looked at her and raised and eyebrow. "What's a Bambi?"

Hermione grinned and then outright laughed. "Oh . . . this is going to be amazing."