The bed was like a furnace when she woke, wrapped in Sirius's arms with a leg flung over her hip. And the heat wasn't just emanating from the body enveloping hers—it was the magic. His magic, which had filled her during last night's consummation. Even just lying in bed, Hermione could feel it churning through her veins, sparking her awake. Like the magic had rejuvenated her, erased all those days of fitful sleep and stress.

Hermione let her gaze wander over the man she was currently pressed into. Even in the watery light of dawn, she could make out the distinctly Sirius details of him. The smattering of tattoos, the wiry chest hair, the way his dark mustache curved just beyond the edges of his beard. Wiggling one hand free, Hermione traced a path up his bare chest, up to the rune she had carved into his flesh from beyond the Veil. The symbol had healed into something shiny and pink—easy to miss behind the mural of his chest, if she didn't know where to look.

"Doing some exploring?" a sleep-heavy voice rumbled. Sirius cracked open his eyes as a smirk played at his lips.

Hermione flattened her palm over his heart, relishing in the way it drummed against her. "You're beautiful when you sleep," she whispered shyly, glancing up through her lashes.

"Only when I sleep?" Before she could respond, he hurtled them both over until Hermione was sprawled atop him.

Hermione let out a startled cry before finding her balance, knees bracketing his hips. "I suppose you're not too bad awake," she teased, brushing aside a flyaway curl. He really was handsome, all the features of aristocracy with none of the coldness. Not like someone else I know… "You just look…younger when you're asleep. More at peace."

Sirius nipped at her fingers, and Hermione laughed, trying to scramble away before he caught her again. "Younger!" he exclaimed, capturing her waist and flinging her back onto the mattress. This time, he didn't let her stay on top, quickly caging her in. "I'll have you know that I look just as devilishly handsome as the day I left Hogwarts."

Hermione eyed the grey hairs tinging his temple. "Had those as a seventh year, did you?"

Sirius scowled as he studied her, and Hermione was pretty sure he was debating whether or not to toss her to the other side of the mattress again. Finally, his frown eased into a cheeky grin, and bent down to kiss her. It was a searing, hungry sort of kiss—the kind that had Hermione's fingers clinging to his back, her knees parting to cradle his hips. "As…nice…as…this…is" Hermione managed to get out, before his mouth dived back in, "we need to make a plan for today."

He kissed her once more before rolling off. "Suppose so," he sighed. Hermione couldn't help but stare in awe at his disregard for his nudity, the way he sprawled atop the sheets while she was still wearing his button-up from the day before. Though based on the way his hand began idly snaking up her thigh, she guessed he'd be just as happy if her state of undress matched his own.

"Kitten?"

"Yes?"

"Am I distracting you?" Sirius smirked as he propped himself on his elbow.

Hermione blushed and averted her eyes. "We should get dressed. You'll probably want to be clothed if we're to test out your magic, just in case the aurors come." Hermione didn't have it in her to go make sure Lucius was dressed too—he could run from the aurors in his knickers, for all she cared.

After making a big show of dressing himself (pausing every few moments to watch her get dressed), then drinking Ollivander's recommended dose of the anti-locating potion, they finally sat back on the bed, both cross-legged with Sirius's borrowed wand between them. "Any requests?" Sirius asked, arching one eyebrow. "I could transfigure that blouse to be a little more see-through—"

"A simple Lumos will do just fine," Hermione said tartly, offering him the wand.

Sirius rolled his eyes but accepted the dark wand, taking a moment to turn it over in his hand before finally securing his grip. "Lumos," he murmured.

Hermione sucked in a breath as the bedroom lit up in pale light. "How do you feel?"

"The wand's still unfamiliar, but…normal. Good, yeah," he said slowly, nodding. Wordlessly, Sirius canceled the spell.

They waited with bated breath. After a minute, Hermione slipped off the bed and over to the window. Nothing but wintery forest stretched forth from the cabin. "Homenum Revelio," she muttered, but the presence of only two other life forms came back.

Just to be sure, Hermione crept out of the bedroom, passing Lucius's shut door and out the front. The cold air cut at her cheeks, but as Hermione cast a warming spell and investigated the surrounding area, she saw nothing. Heard nothing.

"It worked," Hermione said through her smile, when she made it back to the bedroom.

Sirius grinned as he pulled her into a crushing kiss. "I should have made you my wife ages ago."

Hermione laughed as they broke apart. "Ages ago, you were dead, and I was a school girl." At least he had the decency to look troubled by these facts, causing Hermione to laugh more. "Come on," she said, taking Sirius's hand and pulling him behind her. "Now that we know you're not going to send us all to prison, we can plan for the next steps."

After waking a very unamused Lucius, and eating breakfast in tense silence, Hermione cleared her throat and said, "I've been thinking about it all night, and I don't see that we have any choice but to apparate to France." At Sirius's accusing look—okay, maybe she'd been thinking about more than their quest last night—Hermione squeezed his knee and set her eyes on Lucius.

He regarded them coolly over his cup of instant coffee. "Has married life already disintegrated your intellect? I cannot apparate," he said, gesturing to his ankle.

"Do you have a better idea? Either of you? Despite keeping us all reasonably fed this past week, I am not exactly swimming in galleons, let alone Muggle money. And no," she continued, when Lucius's lips parted to interject, "I will not be confunding the airline employees into getting us tickets!"

"Love, you did bring me back from the dead using illegal dark magic," Sirius murmured. "Surely using a pesky memory charm or picking some chap's pockets…"

Hermione gave him her best glare of the not helping, dear husband variety. "We're not stealing, or performing memory charms, or anything else of the sort."

Lucius scoffed as he dropped into an armchair. "But you have no qualms with injuring me, of course."

"I have no money, no portkey, and outside of the Ministry's floo network, there is no direct connection into France from Britain. Besides, we don't even know how side-along with affect the cuff."

"And that makes it a good idea?"

"You let me perform the Retinacula ritual on myself—on yourself with the tether. We had no idea what would truly happen, and yet you allowed it. Risked both our safeties for your own gains."

Lucius's silver eyes narrowed as he drummed his fingers against the armrest. "Easy argument for a witch who already got what she wanted," he drawled, hard gaze flicking to Sirius.

Hermione pressed her lips together. "So what? You want something in exchange for apparating to France?"

"I could just force you," Sirius muttered, fingering the wand sticking out from his jacket pocket.

"As much as I'd like to see you try, Black, I think your little wife has made her ethical boundaries quite clear," Lucius spit back. The wizard abruptly stood, hands clasped behind his back as he stepped over to the window. "Leave us. I'll speak to Miss Granger alone, and we'll come to some arrangement."

Sirius jumped up. "Absolutely not, you—"

Hermione caught his hand. "Sirius," she whispered, drawing his attention back to her. "Go to the bedroom and start packing. I'll come get you once it's…once it's figured out."

He looked about to argue, but when Hermione stood, wrapped her arms around his neck, and drew him in for a scorching kiss, Sirius muttered a curse under his breath, then strode back to the bedroom. As the door slammed shut, Hermione turned to see Lucius watching her.

"Well?" Hermione snapped. She cast a Muffliato and crossed her arms in a silent challenge.

Lucius took his time studying her, but to her surprise, there was no amusement buried in his pale face. Just…thoughtful consideration. When he finally walked towards her, his expression had dropped into something she wanted to call sincerity.

Almost.

"I need something of you, Hermione."

Hermione flinched at his quiet tone, the use of her first name. Thinking back to the night before—the way he tried to touch her bare thigh, the inescapable heat between them—Hermione scowled. "You think I'll what…be with you, if you agree to apparate to France?"

"Disregarding the words of the prophecy…it's not your affections, nor your body, that I want." Lucius's hand dived into his trousers' back pocket. When it withdrew, a cream-colored envelop was clutched between his fingers. "I need you to seal this so that only my son may read it, then deliver it when this is all over." Hermione blinked at the envelope. When her hand stretched forward, Lucius snapped it back. "Your word, Hermione. I require that you swear to personally deliver it."

"Deliver it yourself—or are you not so certain that Sirius will be the one sacrificing his life for the this bloody prophecy?"

"Oh trust me, darling, you won't catch me giving my life when Black's is so obviously expendable. I am not, however, going to assume either of us will walk away from this tragedy of a winter without consequences. Your status as Gryffindor's Princess may keep you from any punishments too permanent, and allow you to find Draco in America, but I…I see no such leniency for myself. Not after that Skeeter article condemning me as your kidnapper and corrupter." Lucius strode forward, closing the distance between them before Hermione could think to back away. He caught her wrist, ignoring her sharp intake of breath. "I will apparate with you to France, and I will follow through on this prophecy. If you promise me you'll deliver the letter." His fingers seared hotter into her flesh. "Please."

Hermione stared at his hand for a long moment until she finally wrenched her eyes back to his. She found only pleading there—an openness so startlingly out of place in his mask of arrogance and indifference. "Okay," she whispered. "I promise."

He released her like a man who'd been burned. "The spell," he commanded, thrusting the letter into her hand. "Only Draco may read it."

Hermione found herself following his order without question—despite her curiosity, who was she to challenge a relationship between father and son? When the letter had been properly charmed and tested, she pocketed it and said quietly, "We'll leave in one hour. Go through the kitchen and gather the rest of the food." And to her surprise, he obeyed with hardly a sneer.

She found Sirius on the bed, not a lick of packing completed. Perhaps sensing a scolding, Sirius jumped off the bed, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her thoroughly.

"Mhm," Hermione hummed into his mouth. After the strange conversation with Lucius, she wanted nothing more to get lost into this man's touch—her husband's touch.

"You convinced the git?"

Hermione reluctantly pulled away. "Yes," she said, a little too sharply. She turned to the dresser, hiding her face as she dipped down to pull clothes from the bottom drawer into her bag, quickly slipping the letter inside first.

"Do I want to know?" he asked, a vein of suspicion beneath his mild tone.

"Well, seeing as he didn't demand to kill you, or fuck me, or do us both in, I'd say no," Hermione answered, balling up a pair of knickers just a little too roughly.

Sirius barked out a laugh. Hermione blushed at her crude language, but when she twisted to look at him, she found Sirius grinning wolfishly down at her.

"What?"

"I'll never get used to Hermione Granger speaking such nasty words."

Hermione rolled her eyes as a grin found her face too. "Better get used to it," Hermione retorted, tossing a handful of socks his way. "Because you married me." Sirius stopped them mid-air with a flick of his wand, prompting her to throw more clothes at his head.

Before long, she'd abandoned the drawer to attack him with her mouth—or maybe it was Sirius, who lunged first with his tongue. Together on the bed, laughing and kissing touching like starved people, Hermione could forget how little time they had left for moments like these.

That, in the end, there would be no time to get used to each other at all.

Lucius looked positively sick by the time they'd stuffed their belonging into Hermione's bag and made it out the door.

The wind licked at her cheeks as she took Sirius's hand, then Lucius's.

"Don't get used to it," Sirius muttered.

"Oh, hush now. I need to concentrate," Hermione chided, hoping to conceal her nerves. It didn't work—her voice was all wobbly, her hands sweaty. She tightened her grip on both men's hands, then screwed her eyes shut.

Three jumps south across England. One to the French coast. One more to Paris. After Rita Skeeter's article, they agreed it was too dangerous to use the public floo networks to make their way to the English coast. Normally, she'd be loathe to side-along with two people, but with Lucius requiring it, and Sirius's magic back but still unpredictable, Hermione could see no better option. With any luck, splitting up the geography into several jumps would keep them from splinching, even if they were all puking by the time they reached Paris.

Just in case, Hermione ran through the checklist of supplies she'd managed to take from Grimmauld's potion stores.

Dittany. Pain potion. Nausea potion. Pepper-up. Muggle first aid.

It was a worryingly small list for a unfortunately large unknown.

As if sensing her unease, Lucius squeezed her hand. She leant in to the comfort, just for a second, before fixating her mind on the first location.

A sharp tug, a whirl of blackness, and a shout later, they were sprawled in another forest. The snow had turned to slush here, seeping through her jeans. Groaning, but feeling only the normal turmoil of apparition, Hermione pushed herself to her feet.

Sirius was up too, brushing muddy leaves from his jacket. "Are you alright?" Hermione asked, even as her eyes flew to Lucius still on the ground. The wizard was flat on his back, teeth set in a grimace. Despite the eyes on her, Hermione dropped to his side, checking for wounds. "You're not splinched."

"My ankle," Lucius ground out. He forced himself into a sitting position, hissing as he drew up his right leg.

Biting her lip, Hermione eased up the soaked leg of his trousers. She gasped at what she found. The copper anklet had fused into Lucius's skin, warping the flesh, squeezing it so tightly it puckered pink. "Merlin!" she exclaimed. Hermione reached for her bag, but when her hands only floundered, she shouted, "Sirius, my…"

"Here," he said, thrusting the beaded bag into her hand.

Lucius inspected the cuff as she found the dittany. Just as she was about to pull the stopper out, he dropped the trousers back down.

"Lucius! I need to—"

"You need to keep us moving," he grunted, batting her hands away when she tried to reach for him again. "Surely a girl with an O in her potions NEWT is aware that dittany won't work on a wound like this?" He regarded her coldly, the pain masked behind his pale eyes. "I am fine."

"Lucius…"

"He's right, kitten," Sirius murmured, and when she twisted to look up at him, she found no malice in her husband's face. "We have more jumps left. Best save the healing for the end, if that's what the man wants."

Hermione stared out at the barren woods, exasperated. "Fine," she muttered, feeling anything but.

They jumped again, and again, and again. Each time, Hermione's stomach flipped harder, her knees buckled sooner, but after checking that no one had splinched, she pushed onwards.

By the time they'd apparated to a quiet park in central Paris, one she'd visited with her parents as a child, all the color had drained from Lucius's face. He did not move when she shouted his name, or when she flew to his side, cupping his white cheeks in her freezing palms.

"Lucius?" Hermione whispered, slapping him lightly. His eyes shifted beneath their veiny lids. "Lucius, can you hear me?"

"Hermione." Sirius's voice was eerily soft. She found him at the wizard's feet, where the trousers' leg had been rolled up again. Something dark stained the wool—not just the damp, she realized with a shudder.

She crawled across the cold, dead grass to see for herself, gasping and clutching at Sirius's arm when she saw what had happened. The cuff had cut into his flesh, the skin around the metal tight and shiny like a overinflated balloon. Blood seeped out, and when she stifled a gag to look closer, she saw that the muscle had been burst through to the bone in some spots.

"Oh, God." Hermione's vision blurred. All that kept her from floating off was the arm under her fingers, the words being whispered into her ear. Something encouraging…demanding…

"Hermione!" Sirius snapped, and she wrenched her attention away from Lucius's mangled leg.

"I—I don't…I'm not a healer," she said weakly. "The dittany…"

He held up the tiny bottle. "I have it here, okay? But if it doesn't work, we'll have to take him somewhere safe until we can find a healer."

She blinked. "Don't you want him dead?"

Sirius barked bitterly, but set about twisting off the cap. "Course I bloody do. But you don't, love, so unless I want to be on your bad side until it's my time too, I think I'll play nice."

He did play nice—more than nice. Taking charge of applying the dittany, which helped only to close up the edges of the torn flesh, but none of cuff's exorbitant pressure, nor the exposed bone. And when it was over, the bottle halfway used up, Sirius explained that they couldn't waste anymore, that they better find a place to stay.

She told him, numbly, about a holiday flat her parents used to rent out, just a few blocks away.

They moved him with magic, prone body shielded by the invisibility cloak. Luckily the biting chill left the Parisian streets relatively clear, and no one looked twice at the man and girl with blood coating their palms.

Hermione unlocked the flat with a muttered Alohomora, the insistence that they complete the rest of their quest without illegal activity forgotten. To her relief, the place was empty save for a layer of dust on the wide wood floorboards and well-loved mid-century furniture.

The transport seemed to have no effect on Lucius's condition, good or bad. He just laid there, on the leather couch they'd lowered him into, trembling every few seconds. A coating of sweat shined his sallow skin, beads sliding down his cheekbones, his nose. Hermione knelt by the couch, elbows pressed into his limp arm, watching his face contort with every quake of his body.

"I don't know what to do," Hermione whimpered as footsteps came up behind her.

A long sigh answered, then a warm, clean hand found her hair. Sirius stroked it gently, but it didn't provide any comfort. "I'll go out to the wizarding shopping district. See if I can find a healer who won't ask questions."

Hermione furiously blinked away the stinging in her eyes. "You can't. Someone will see—"

"No." The word was firm. No room for protest. Sirius dropped down beside her, taking her chin and forcing her to look at him. "Anyone who cares about capturing or killing me is back in England, or they think I'm dead. You stay," he murmured, drawing her forward to press a kiss into her forehead. "I'll be back soon."

She watched him disappear into the dim outer hallway, listened to his boots thunder down the narrow steps. And when Sirius was gone, and Hermione was alone in the silence, she buried her face into her arms and wept.

Out of all the things Hermione had done this winter, crying for Lucius Malfoy was the worst. Because her tears couldn't lie. She couldn't pretend anymore that this man meant nothing to her. That she'd be better off with him dead. That she didn't want him—that she didn't need him.

How naïve she'd been, to think need could be buried beneath the selfishness of want.

By the time evening fell, and her legs had gone numb, Hermione decided that she was no good like this. Sirius would have no use for her broken. She forced her body into the bathroom. Scrubbed her hands until the pink water ran clear. Cleaning herself the Muggle way took effort, and time, and patience. But each methodical action brought a heavy sense of calm. Like she was trapped under water, limbs stretched out, succumbing to the crushing weight.

The door slamming open startled her from the drowsy peace. Hermione rushed back into the front hallway to find Sirius climbing the stairs with a comely, middle-aged woman in tow. No, a witch, Hermione realized, eyeing her dark robes.

"I am Esme," the witch said in a heavy French accent, smiling lightly. "I was ze healer at ze Académie de Guérison Magique. Your husband James says you require my help."

"Jean," she said back, thankful Sirius had the forthright not to use their own names. Still…she glanced at Sirius, raising one eyebrow. A healer in training! she wanted to hiss.

As if sensing her anxiety, Sirius stepped forward. "Esme had a focus in healing the dark arts," he explained. "She isn't, ah…currently in school due to philosophical differences with the Academy."

Esme dipped her head closer to his, muttering something in French before Sirius responded with easy, flowing words. Hermione's eyebrows shot up—of course her Pureblood husband spoke bloody perfect French. Though she supposed that speaking the language meant he was more likely to find someone trustworthy…as trustworthy as an ex-trainee healer who likely got kicked out of school can be.

"Well?" Esme asked, clapping her hands. "Where is ze patient?"

Hermione's feet felt like mounds of lead as she showed Esme into the sitting room. As the witch examined Lucius's unconscious form, asking Sirius questions in French every few minutes, Hermione couldn't keep still. She paced the room, filling the quiet with stiff, rhythmic creaks. Eventually Sirius led her to the loveseat across from the couch, gently forcing her into it.

"Sorry," she murmured, holding his hand to her cheek.

When Esme finally stood, her expression was grim. "Your friend has suffered a…how do you call it…infection de soi."

"Infection of the self?" Hermione asked, frowning. Even she knew enough French to understand that. "Do you mean a parasite?"

"Oui. This metal," she said, gesturing at Lucius's ankle. "It was over-activated by ze extensive use of apparition. I have seen zis device before, in my studies. It prevents ze use of magic, yes?" At Hermione's nod, Esme continued, "In normal circumstances, ze copper absorbs ze magic with only minimal pain, before ze magic is slowly filtered back into ze body. But with your friend…even in ze side-along, magic is expressed by ze body. Great amounts of magic. Ze metal was over-loaded, ah…" She waggled her fingers. "Des étincelles."

"Sparks?" Sirius asked. When Esme shook her head, he offered, "Short-circuited?"

"Oui!" Esme hummed in agreement, dropping her hands. "Instead of returning ze magic back to the body, ze metal now takes, and it takes. It is drawing on his magical core."

Hermione glanced at Lucius, horror spreading over her face. That must be why the dittany only affected the surface wounds—in normal healing, dittany was a tool to be used with the body's natural magic. "How long will it draw on his magic?" she asked in a small voice.

"Until no magic is left," Esme said, shaking her head. "It will all be contained into the metal, which I do not believe can be broken off. I have seen zis before, and, well…ze people who put such cuffs on do not wish for it to ever be removed. Eventually, he will go into a coma, and some time later, he will not wake up. A wizard's body cannot survive without his magic. The soul goes into sleep forever."

Hermione sank back into the chair. "What about his leg? Can't it be removed?"

"You want to cut his leg off?" Sirius asked.

Hermione looked expectantly at the healer. The witch frowned. "I do not recommend. Ze magic is very volatile. If you were to physically tamper with ze metal, or ze leg, it is likely to explode. Hurting or killing you both, and any in proximity to the apartment."

My fault. My bloody fault! Hermione curled in on herself, attempting to breathe through her nose. Vaguely, she was aware of Sirius moving to take the cushion beside her, draping an arm around her shoulders. "There must be something we can do," she said weakly, blinking at the tears threatening to spill all over again.

Esme blew out a long sigh. "I wish zat I could be of more help to you, Mademoiselle."

"There must be something!" Sirius growled. Hermione lifted her heavy head, but she couldn't bring herself to scold his aggressive tone.

Esme gave them a pitying nod. "I…I can only think zat the magic could be replaced all at once, in great quantity. Magic zat is not his own, so ze cuff is shocked back to regularity. The parasite will be…surprised, I should say, and release its hold on your friend's magical core. Perhaps ze wound will heal, and your friend will be whole again."

"And where are we supposed to get this magic?" Sirius scoffed. "You can't just transfer one wizard's magic to another." At his words, Hermione's body grew very still. She slowly turned to look at Sirius, at the way he was frowning at her parted lips. "Kitten?"

Hermione let her shoulders sag back down with an exhale. "I think…I think I know of a way."