"Get out."
"This is my house, is it not?"
"I don't care if you own the whole of the bloody Highlands—you're not going anywhere near her!"
The low voices continued, hurried and furious. Wool scratched at her cheek, at her arms. Cracking open her eyes, Hermione realized she was on the couch, staring into the back cushions and cocooned in one of the throw blankets. We must have fallen asleep, she realized, eyes widening further.
"I saw the way you were watching her, pig," Sirius spat.
"Oh, pardon me for having functional eyes, Black. I wanted to see if the witch was awake."
"Why? So you could torture her some more?" Footsteps thundered. Hermione could hear their labored breathing. She knew she should stop them, but the curious part of her won out—besides, she didn't sense magic in the air quite yet.
Lucius's voice was quiet when he spoke again. Rich with satisfaction. "You should ask Miss Granger if what we did together felt like torture. I dare say she quite enjoyed my attentions."
And that's my cue. Hermione turned and pushed herself upright. The blanket slid to her waist as their gazes rocked to her. Both men were standing too close together, chests heaving, fingers balled into fists. "That's enough," she said, voice rough with sleep. At their heavy stares, Hermione blushed and shivered, wishing she hadn't stripped down to her camisole.
Sirius dipped to her side. "Sorry, love. I was just telling the git to bugger off."
"I said that's enough," Hermione repeated, more firmly. She looked both men in the eye. "From both of you. I don't care what you're bickering about, but whatever it is, it's not worth risking Sirius's magic." She swallowed and looked at her knees. She knew full well what they had been bickering about. Me. Part of her, the part that craved attention and desire, sang. But the logical side—the side she had to use if they were to survive this prophecy—crammed that silly need deep inside. Hermione wrapped the blanket around her waist and rose to her feet. "Now, I'm going to bathe in peace. And if I hear one insult from either of you, it's back to the ropes. For both of you."
She stalked past them, steadfastly ignoring Lucius's affronted look and Sirius's amused one.
The rest of the day passed in delicate quiet, to Hermione's surprise. Lucius spent most of the day in the bedroom he'd chosen, occasionally popping into the sitting room to retrieve a stack of books from the chest by the window. Sirius, to his credit, kept the snide comments to a minimum. He only broke his streak twice—once while Hermione thrust the ingredients for a sandwich into Lucius's hands, and the blonde wizard called her a poor excuse for a house witch, then again as Lucius's gaze lingered while she knotted her hair on the top of her head. But no magic was spilt, and no binding spells had to fly out.
Halfway through the second day, Hermione found herself restless. There was nothing to do in the cabin but clean or practice spellwork, which was frightfully dull without a sparring partner. And she knew Sirius was growing uneasy as well. Though he had no complaints, Hermione knew the wizard hating being cooped up. He had spent twelve years in a cell, then nearly a year and a half locked in Grimmauld Place.
Hermione was on the couch, chin in her hand as she stared out at the grey sky, when she declared, "I'm going out."
Sirius looked up from where he was slouched in an armchair, idly reading a book. "Is that wise?"
Lucius was in the kitchen, smearing mayonnaise onto a slice of bread. Pretending not to listen.
"Just for a few minutes. I'll take the Invisibility Cloak and pop into London to pick up a newspaper. And something better to eat," she said, nose wrinkling as she eyed Lucius's sad attempt at a sandwich.
She was off before either men could argue. And later that day, when she'd returned with her tiny bag stuffed with the Prophet (she'd already checked—no mention of France or the mess at the Ministry) and Chinese take-out from Muggle London, neither men said a word but thank you.
Hermione smiled to herself as she settled beside Sirius on the couch, warm bowl of fried rice nestled in her hands. Beside her, Sirius was positively giddy over his sweet and sour chicken. Lucius sat hunched at the sturdy kitchen table, eating with stoic, but not unpleasant, silence.
There was one day left, before Ollivander promised to have his answer. Perhaps this was not too bad a holiday after all.
The third day dragged forward into the night. On the fourth day, Hermione spent most of the morning at the window, waiting for an owl to appear. Mid-afternoon, Sirius tried to persuade her to eat something, or to rest, but she gave no response.
What if something happened?
If Ollivander told the Ministry?
If the aurors are coming right now…
It took Sirius transforming into Padfoot to finally break her anxious vigil. The shaggy dog took her wrist gently in his maw, whining until she followed. Hermione let herself be led to her bedroom, where she curled on top of the blankets. Padfoot circled twice, before settling in the crook of her knees. Even with the furnace of a dog pressed against her, Hermione could not will herself to nap. She laid there, clutching her wand, listening for the scratch of talons on the glass.
None came.
No one did.
Hermione couldn't decide if it was good or bad.
Eventually, darkness lulled her into sleep. At dawn, she was surprised to find Padfoot still with her. Hermione sighed and let her fingers smooth over the dog. She scratched between his ear, smiling faintly at his sleepy whine.
The fifth day passed with no word from Ollivander.
On the sixth, she ventured, invisible, into Diagon Alley, but his wand shop was closed. She returned with a newspaper, which she threw onto the coffee table with a frustrated groan. Feeling eyes on her, Hermione turned, expecting Sirius.
Lucius stared back.
"What?" she snapped. "Got something to say about how I shouldn't trust people?"
He took a long moment to consider her. "I was about to say there's a roast in the oven," he said icily, before turning and disappearing into his room.
Hermione sniffed, breathing in the mouth-watering scent. A sheepish blush crept up her neck. Apparently Lucius had been doing more than just moping while they awaited Ollivander's reply.
She was in the bathroom later than evening, trying to wrangle her hair into a braid, when a voice sounded at the door. "Hermione?" Sirius called out.
She paused with her hands halfway through the braid. "Yeah?"
"There's something you should see."
Hermione dropped the braid and flung open the door, loose strands blowing back against her cheeks. "What is it?" she asked, hurrying into the sitting room. Both wizards were already in there—Sirius stepping back towards the couch, Lucius in an armchair. "What?"
Lucius bent forward and tapped the coffee table. Hermione peered down to see yesterday's Prophet—she hadn't read it yet. No one was talking about the chaos in France, anyway. "Page two," he told her.
Hermione shot him a suspicious look before snatching the newspaper and settling onto the couch. Sirius paced while she flipped to the page.
Two black and white photos stared back at her. One of herself, but younger. The girl's frightened eyes gazed up and to the right, into the distance behind the camera, before making eye contact with the lens. A striped scarf was wound around her neck, and her wild curls ballooned out from beneath it. The few curls that had escaped blew madly around her cheeks, like she'd been caught in the wind.
"That's…that's from fourth year," Hermione whispered. "When Harry fought the dragon in the tournament. Why…"
Her eyes slid to the right-hand page, and she breathed out a gasp. Lucius Malfoy sneered into the camera, before something caught his attention off to the left. But it wasn't the wizard she knew—had known, before his betrayal. Dullness leeched out of his gaze, so starkly in contrast to his vicious grin. His hair, always so beautiful, hung limp around his face. The long strands did little to hide the hollowness decimating his handsome features. Cameras flashed behind him. Just as he was released early from Azkaban, she realized with a sharp intake of breath.
Above the photos, a title blared across the two pages in thick, dark ink.
IN THE CLUTCHES OF DARKNESS: DEATH EATER KIDNAPS GRYFFINDOR'S PRINCESS, STEALS HER HEART
By Rita Skeeter
The paper trembled in her fingers. It wasn't just the photos, the title—it was how it came together. Hermione Granger, fifteen years old, face still narrow like a child's as she looked helplessly at the gaunt, deranged wizard beside her. Their heads turned in unison towards each, over and over. Like twisted lovers, searching for one another.
"I—I can't read—"
The newspaper was plucked from her grasp before she could even look up.
"She doesn't have to," Sirius snapped.
"Please," Lucius drawled, shaking out the paper. "She'll read it eventually," he said in a low voice, his eyes roaming her face. "Can't help herself."
Hermione was barely aware of Sirius beside her, his touch like a ghost on her knee. She tilted her face back up to Lucius. Then, with her bottom lip caught in her teeth, she nodded.
"The wizarding world was first acquainted with Hermione Granger (19) through her string of unlikely and fraught relationships. From Bulgarian Quidditch Star Victor Krum (23), to Chosen One Harry Potter (19), to Auror Heartthrob Ronald Weasley (19), Granger has tossed aside every gentleman that came her way. While some have speculated that the heroine's romantic tastes lie elsewhere (see chapter eight, "Secrets and Sighs in Gryffindor Tower," of Love at War: Romance, Heartbreak, and Lies between the Golden Trio by Rita Skeeter), it appears that Granger's appetite is far more depraved."
Lucius cleared his throat. Hermione stared at Sirius's fingers on her knee. Like if she looked away, the world would spin out around her. Or maybe she'd just grab her wand and blast the nearest glass to smithereens.
"An anonymous source at the Ministry of Magic has confirmed that Granger has often been in the intimate company of Convicted Death Eater Lucius Malfoy (45) for the past three months." Lucius said the words without inflection, but she could see the hard set of his jaw, the way his silver eyes shone brighter as he spoke. "Malfoy, who has been wearing a magical dampening monitor since his release into house arrest and Ministry-approved labor, was spotted last Friday in the streets of London following a minor incident in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries. The next day, Granger's former beau, Weasley, reported Granger's sudden disappearance. Not only has fugitive Lucius Malfoy run away, but he has stolen Miss Granger's heart as well."
"Kitten, you don't have to hear the rest," Sirius reassured, fingers coming up to thread through her hair.
Hermione shook her head. "Just finish it." This was Skeeter—the worst was yet to come.
Lucius readjusted the newspaper. "According to those closest to Gryffindor's Princess, Malfoy has been luring Granger into his web since the new year. Devastated by her breakup with Weasley, and maddened by her time in the war, Granger sought comfort in the arms of her former enemy." Lucius paused, blowing out an irritated breath. "The nature of Death Eaters is well documented, and many, including Malfoy, were known to take place in vile celebrations of sexual prowess known as revelries. It can only be assumed that, after earning Granger's trust, Malfoy used such tactics to keep the young witch subdued. With her weak disposition, and penchant for powerful men, it is no surprise that Granger fell into Malfoy's dark web."
"Weak disposition my arse," Sirius huffed darkly, shaking his head. He squeezed her knee, but the gesture brought her little comfort.
"Keep reading," Hermione insisted in a small voice.
"Lavender Brown (19), a close friend of Granger, described witnessing such a display. 'I couldn't believe what I saw!' Brown said, tears sparkling in her eyes. 'The Hermione I knew in school was a naïve, kind girl. When I saw her in bed with that Death Eater, I knew he had turned her heart to the dark side.'"
So she got back her memories after all, Hermione thought bitterly as Lucius continued on. She knew she should have done more to stop Lavender that day.
"In a press statement earlier today, Weasley spoke out on his ex-girlfriend's kidnapping. 'Give her back, you disgusting, [redacted for profanity] predator. Give her back unharmed. Give me back my 'Mione.' While Potter refused to comment, we at the Prophet know that Granger's disappearance has surely pulled at the Chosen One's heart. It is now speculated that Potter's engagement to student Ginny Weasley has been indefinitely postponed…might Potter be waiting for the Death Eater to return his one true love?" Lucius folded up the paper. "More rubbish about Potter after that," he muttered.
The newspaper landed softly on the coffee table. Hermione blinked at it, staring at her child self. That girl hadn't lost her parents. Lost Remus or Tonks. She hadn't known Ron's comfortable love, or his cruelness. She hadn't known how her heart would sink into her chest like a collapsing star, that only a quest for Sirius Black's resurrection would yank her from drowning. That girl didn't hadn't carved dark magic into her thigh. Hadn't known Lucius's touch, or his betrayal.
That girl was gone. But to everyone else, that's all she was. Delicate. Weak. Foolish. Maybe they thought she deserved whatever horrible things Lucius was doing to her.
Hermione let her gaze rake up over Sirius's hand, up his arm, up into his steadfast eyes. She tried to speak, but her mouth was too dry. She swallowed. Shifted away, away from his hand. Footsteps retreated, then the door to Lucius's room closed. "Say something," Hermione whispered.
Sirius sighed, long and thoughtful. Like it was a question on a Potions exam. "Was Skeeter lying?" he asked gently.
Hermione stared at a spot in the carpet. The threads were all bunched up and frayed. "Some of it. We—Malfoy and I, we didn't…we never had sex. He didn't hurt me either, not like that. Lavender saw us together, and I think I wanted to, but we didn't. I promise I didn't."
"Hey," Sirius murmured. Then he was drawing her close, cupping the back of her head to the crook of his neck. Hermione's arms remained stiff by her sides, unable to clutch him back. "I'm not going to push you away because of what that awful woman wrote. Or because of anything you did or wanted to do."
Tears sprung in her eyes. She closed them, letting the salt leak out as Sirius stroked her hair. You should. You should push me away. "I hate him," she whispered into his shirt.
"But you didn't always."
"No," she agreed weakly. "Not always. But Sirius," she said suddenly, pushing away to meet his eyes. His hand remained, secure in her hair. "What Skeeter said, about me wanting Lucius like that…it's not true. Not anymore."
"Kitten…"
"It's you," she breathed out. Hermione gulped down a trembling breath, then shifted onto her knees. "Always you." She planted a hand to the right of his hip on the couch, the other coming to rest, hesitantly, over his left thigh. "Please, Sirius," she murmured, searching his face for some kind of doubt, or disgust, or hate. "Please tell me you feel the same." Hermione leaned in. His breath washed out, warm on her face.
Tobacco and whiskey.
She wondered, sparingly, how he'd managed to find either of the vices since coming home.
But it didn't matter. Not when his other hand smoothed up her bare arm, up her neck, curling to join the other in her hair. He pressed her closer. She pressed down. They slowly eased back into the cushions. Her knee slotted between his thighs. Her fingers slid up to his chest. One of the hands broke free from her curls, clutching her cheek.
"Hermione, are you sure about this?" Sirius asked softly.
"Yes," she whispered, leaning in to his cradling touch. "Like nothing else."
He kissed her, and it was like breathing again. Like she hadn't known she'd ever stopped until this moment. It started softly, lips pressed with hesitant need. Then like a dam breaking, Hermione gasped, and he groaned, and she could taste the magic in him. Sirius dove into her mouth, pulling her hard and flush against his chest. Her fingers scrambled for new purchase, before gripping tight to the collar of his shirt, the other slipping up and palming his side. She felt his ribs arch as she splayed out her fingers.
A hand left her hair, only to go skimming down her shirt, up the hem. And with hand flat against her back, he pushed her impossibly closer, and Hermione moaned into his mouth. Magic raced up her skin, down her spine. She felt its ache in her teeth, her toes. Like every part of her had been ignited all at once. Not like his earlier outburst—it wasn't clinging to the air. It was clinging to her. Like his magic has slipped through her mouth into her soul, tangling with her own.
"Sirius," she murmured, pulling away to press kisses down his jaw. She slid down, finding his neck with her tongue. The stubble scratched like an itch she'd never known. Her lips descended lower, tongue slaving at the hollow of his throat. He grabbed her hip, and when she looked up through her lashes, Hermione found his eyes shut with strained pleasure. "Is this okay?" she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss into his collar bone, exposed where she had pulled at the shirt.
Sirius chuckled. He cupped both hips, holding her steady. "I should be asking you that." Sirius began to sit up, forcing Hermione back onto her haunches, her legs still awkwardly straddling him on the narrow couch.
The memory of Lucius in her Grimmauld bedroom flashed through her head. They had sat like this, kissed something like this, before stopping.
She hadn't wanted to stop then. Not really.
She didn't want to stop now either. Not really.
But both times, going forward felt just as wrong.
Hermione couldn't help it—she looked over at Lucius's shut door. He must of heard everything, since they didn't use a silencing spell. As the realization sunk through her, Hermione felt Sirius's tender magic evaporate, leaving a faint, buzzing feeling on her lips. She raised two fingers, just to touch. To see if it had been real.
"I feel it too, you know," Sirius murmured, drawing her attention back. His hands smoothed over her hips, down her thighs. "Like the magic wants to taste you as much as I do."
Desire fluttered through her at his words. She gazed back at him, unsure of what to say. Her fingers twisted into his shirt. "You didn't answer my question," she said softly. "If this is okay?"
He raised an eyebrow. His hands stilled. "Why wouldn't it be? Yes, there are…quite a few years between us, but it's hardly abnormal in the wizarding world. You're of age. You've been with others, haven't you?"
She flushed pink. One other. "Yes, I have. But it's not that, it's…I don't want you to think that I chose you because I couldn't choose him," she whispered, glancing again at the shut bedroom door.
Two fingers found her chin. He tipped her face back up, before pressing a soft kiss against her mouth. "Hermione, I'm not sure how much time I have left."
"Don't—"
He broke the rest of her sentence with another kiss. "I don't understand that man, or how you grew fond of him. But I understand this." Sirius tilted her chin to the left, giving him access to press a string of searing kisses against her neck. "I understand you." He ducked his head, then his lips brushed over sternum through her blouse, above her breasts. "And I will take whatever you give me, love." Sirius sighed, long and deep, against her skin.
Hermione whimpered as her eyes slid shut. "I don't want to rush it."
His laugh was so hot against her chest, like wax dripping between her breasts. "You may remember me as an impatient man," he murmured, sliding his tongue over the skin his breath had scorched. "But not when it comes to this."
Hermione was almost sad when the owl came that night.
This break—odd as it was to be trapped in a cabin with two men who hated each other—was more respite from the world than Hermione had had in a very long time. Even while the world crumbled around her—she was more a fugitive than ever, now that the public had attached her to Lucius—and even while her feelings for Sirius grew heavy with need, Hermione could breathe. No research to do. No war to be won. It was like even the prophecy hadn't existed for an entire week. So long as she ignored it, that is. After Sirius tried to mention his impending sacrifice, Hermione had stopped the topic ever since.
It was too painful to bear. Especially now that they had kissed, touched, held. Like just speaking of the sacrifice would rip the man from her arms, and replace him with cold, lead-like grief.
Somehow, Sirius managed to sleep through the owl's clawing at the window. After detangling the scroll, Hermione eased the window shut and padded past the snoring man on the couch. She sank down onto her bed and let the parchment unfurl.
Apologies for the delay, Miss Granger. The research took longer than I originally hoped, and then a shipment of wands had to be…well, never you mind about that. Meet me tomorrow morning, nine o'clock.
"Well?"
Hermione's eyes shot up to find Lucius hovering in the doorway. "We're going back to London tomorrow," she said stiffly.
The corner of his mouth twitched. "I suppose that means another hour tied up in that horrid shop?"
She scoffed and looked away. "You didn't seem to mind."
"Neither did you, until yesterday." His voice was strangely soft, but she refused to turn back to him.
"What are you talking about?"
Footsteps drew closer. He stood there, in her peripheral. Too close. Much too close. Her fingers twitched for her wand, but it was on the nightstand. "You desired me, just as I desired you, my dear. We need not pretend it didn't happen. And even after the…event at the Ministry, you didn't deny those feelings. Not to yourself." Cool fingers brushed her cheek. Hermione flinched, pulling away, but the hand only came closer, catching her chin. She expected him to force her to meet his eyes, but instead he just held her, arching her neck, exposing her thundering vein.
"Get off of me, before I hex you!" she snapped.
"There it is again," he murmured in an icy whisper. So quiet, she had to strain to hear. "Pretending. You didn't do that, until I read you that article. Until every single one of those truths…" His thumb dug into the soft underside of her chin. Hermione whimpered, despite herself. "…fell from my lips. Do you want to know what I think?"
Hermione let his touch absorb, sink down to waves crashing in her stomach. Just for a moment, just for one breath, before she wrenched abruptly away. "I don't care what you think!" she hissed, eyes narrowing.
Lucius rubbed his thumb to his forefinger, like he was savoring the touch of her. "I think that article sent you running headfirst into Black, so you could pretend we never happened."
Hermione launched to her feet, hating the way he didn't even flinch, didn't step back. Lucius just stood. Stared down. Smirked. "We were never anything." Hermione shouldered past him. But with nowhere else to go, lest she wake Sirius, Hermione found herself trapped in the room. She faced the dresser, studying the plain, carved designed. "Nothing real."
He clucked his tongue, the sound full of pity. "And you think Black's feelings are? When he knew you, you were a child. Beneath notice. His godson's simpering, know-it-all friend. Black may touch you now, but he'll never be able to separate the girl from the woman."
"Stop."
Those dangerous footsteps came back. Then the fingers, brushing along her collar bone. Making her skin sing. Twisting into a lock of hair. "He wants you now because you're the first warm body he met after escaping the Veil." Lucius bent down, so that his breath ghosted along her ear. "Do you think he knows you like I do? I've seen your magic, Hermione." An arm reached around her, fingers grasping her throat from behind. Hermione froze—she should move, should run, should grab her wand and blast him away. But the long fingers pressed harder, the touch reaching deeper. Petrifying her like stone. "Stop," she repeated weakly.
"Dark little witch," Lucius growled against her skin. Those fingers drifted up, catching her jaw, frustratingly, irresistibly gentle despite his broad hold. "I've seen your soul. I've seen it grow to the woman you've become. Even if Black survives this prophecy, he'll never see it." His lips smoothed over her cheek. Almost a kiss. Not quite. Not enough. "If Black survives, he'll never know you," Lucius breathed out. "He'll never love you."
That word—love—ripped through her like a Stinging Jinx. Hermione shoved away, retreating backwards towards the nightstand. She fumbled for her wand. Pointed it at his heart. "Even if that's true," she whispered, blinking furiously through the stupid, stupid tears, "you're no better. You lied to me for months."
"And you're lying to yourself—to him," Lucius seethed. He began to stalk forward, stopping when she tightened the grip on her wand. "You haven't even told Black all the things you did to bring him back. How you lost your friends, the risks with the ghost. The tether and what we did to achieve it. Dark magic lingers in all those books, those spells, and it doesn't just go away. It seeps into your magic. Your mind. You will never be happy with someone who doesn't know the real you."
"Like I'd be happy with you?" she laughed mockingly, desperately. Tears slid into her mouth. Hermione raised a trembling hand to her cheeks, roughly wiping them away.
Lucius set his jaw. Then he turned, stepping towards the door. Just as his fingers closed around the knob, he turned back. Stared straight through her. "Happy? God, no. But at least you wouldn't be miserable."
Hermione threw up the last of the apothecary's wards, then turned sharply on her heel. No goodbye. No we'll be back soon. She hadn't spoken to him since the confrontation in the bedroom. Didn't plan to start now.
"Hey," Sirius said, catching her hand before they could exit through the battered side-door. "Are you okay?" He caught her gaze, smiling gently.
Hermione tried to smile back. "Just ready to get you fixed, is all." She squeezed his hand. Sirius brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles.
"I'll kiss you for real, when we're done with Ollivander."
This time, she really did smile. "So you can taste like dog breath?"
"Kitten, I always taste like dog breath." Sirius winked, then slipped into Padfoot. Hermione tried not to cringe when he kissed her knuckles again.
After safely crossing through Diagon Alley, the shop door opened with a delicate chime. Ollivander was already waiting for them, a pleasant smile on his face as he watched from behind the counter. "Ah, so sorry about the wait!" he exclaimed as Sirius transformed back into his human form. "Your problem took far more digging than I had anticipated."
"But you didn't leave behind any holes, did you, Ollivander?" Sirius asked as they strode up to the counter. "No one's going to come asking questions? I'd like to stay not-dead as long as possible, and keep as few people from knowing about not-dead me as I can."
Ollivander waved flippantly. "My boy, I have been working in this world for longer than your Order's been around! I know how to keep my fingers out of the pies, or whatever the saying is. That's not to say your predicament wasn't a challenge, of course."
Hermione folded her arms on the countertop. "What did you find?"
The elderly wizard looked positively delighted to be sharing his research. Hermione smiled warmly—she could relate. "Do you know what the Ministry's tracing system actually looks like? Either of you?" They shook their heads. "Very well, then. It is, indeed, a great book. The Book, in fact. Archaic bit of magical design, but most things in the Ministry are. The book contains thousands upon thousands of pages, each pertaining to either a Pure or Half-blooded family, or to the yet undocumented Muggle-borns. For example, you Miss Granger," Ollivander said suddenly, turning to her. "What year did you first display magic?"
Hermione frowned as she wracked her brain. "1983, I believe. I was four—mum found me in the garden spinning cabbages through the air. They splattered against the neighbor's windows, and I cried for a week."
Sirius chuckled, before she shot him a glare and he stifled it behind his fingers.
"Yes, well, Miss Granger, on that day in 1983, a new line in the Muggle-born pages sprung forth documenting your magical signature. A blank plaque, if you will. A Ministry official—or often a Hogwarts professor—investigates the incident and records your name for the Book inside that plaque. If you were to perform underage magic again outside of Hogwarts, that page would set off alarms for those in the Ministry tasked for watching it. And of course, your exact location would appear in the Book."
"For others—Purebloods and the like—the Book functions differently. At the instant of a wizarding child's birth, the Book is inscribed with that child's name, whether or not he performs magic at a tender age. Henceforth, however, the Book works the same. An alarm would sound. After Mr. Black's return, his name was re-inscribed onto his family's page. It seems as though his years of magic on this Earth have been reset, and the alarms now view any magic performed as underage. His exact location isn't being revealed by the Book, though I believe that is due to the unstable nature of his magic."
"Are we going to remove this alarm?" Hermione inquired.
A twinkle shone in the wizard's eyes. "No. Instead of targeting the alarm, we can more easily target the location of the name. If Mr. Black were to be removed from his family's page, and put instead in the roster of Muggle-borns, then any magic would set off an alarm, but it would be name-less, since your name would not have been recorded in the new pages. Of course, you must still deal with the location problem, but I have come across a counter potion for that as well." He dipped down, then reappeared with a corked glass bottle. Midnight blue potion sat inside, gurgling faintly. "A swig once a day, though its effectiveness increases after a week. It builds a resistance to location determination. After that, you need only drink it once a week."
Hermione mulled it over while she studied the potion. "If Sirius can just drink the potion, why must he change his name? If they can't find him, does it matter if they know he's Sirius Black?"
Ollivander nodded. "In theory, it would work. However, the Book is not the only system of tracing in the Ministry arsenal. You are familiar with the taboo on You Know Who's name?" At their confirmation, he continued, "I believe that ever since the Second War, the Ministry has been developing a similar process of their own. Mr. Black's name could become linked with the magical signature of his outburst. Any spellwork, intended or otherwise, could light up his location on a map like twinkling Christmas lights."
"Okay…" Hermione started. "But I don't see how we'll change Sirius's family name. He's already listed with the Blacks."
"Despite their best attempts," Sirius muttered darkly.
"This is where my research turned out to be quite fruitful. You see," Ollivander said, readjusting his apron with a sharp tug, "when a witch marries a wizard, her name vanishes from its prior location in the Book. After the official marriage binding ceremony, her name instead appears on her husband's page. If a Pureblood witch were to marry a Muggle-born wizard, her name then appears among the other Muggle-borns, as do her children. It is why that particular pairing is so rare in our society," Ollivander continued with a somber frown. "If this witch performed an illegal marriage ceremony—if she nor her husband alerted the Ministry to the name change—the witch becomes virtually untraceable. She disappears into the back pages of the book, lost among the sea of undocumented Muggle-borns. Her underage magic pings the Book's alarm, but it is as if she is a yet unregistered child. No name to speak of, until a Ministry worker or Hogwarts professor tracks her down. And if she had this potion," he said, tapping the rounded glass, "she would be impossible to find."
"Sorry to break it to you, but I'm not a Pureblood witch," Sirius said pointedly.
"No, but the marriage bond is just another spell. Just words that may be re-written. Re-ordered. And seeing as Miss Granger performed an unsanctioned ritual of resurrection, it appears that you do not have an issue with an illegal ceremony either."
The words sunk through her. The realization hit, cold and smooth, like a coin sliding down her throat. Hermione looked slowly from Ollivander to Sirius, who still wore a puzzled expression. "Oh, Merlin," she breathed out. "You want him…and me…"
"Yes, Miss Granger," Ollivander beamed. "To keep Mr. Black's name out of the Book, you must make him Mr. Granger."