Hello again for the day! Happy Christmas Eve Eve!

Okay, you lot are going to hate me, I just know it...and I should mention that I didn't originally plan on ending this chapter where I did...but as I was finishing the chapter a bit ago I kind of decided on a whim that that may be *the* place to end it. I'm a smidge evil I know.

I'm so glad that that extra sentence in chapter 83 cleared up that that was a future scene lol.

Please leave a review and let me know what you think ;)

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.

Friday, August 13th, 1976

Potter Manor

"May you please cease and desist? It's fucking annoying," Draco called from his Potions workbench.

Hermione scowled at him, still staring out of their open floor-to-ceiling Bay window—she did however stop biting her nails as he wished.

The Potter 'twins' were in their Potions room cleaning out some stale ingredients, tossing any errant scribbles of scraps of parchment that they no longer needed, and were generally purging the room of anything unnecessary.

"Stop worrying, he just left this morning…let's not start freaking out just yet, okay?" Draco asked, spinning around on his stool to face her, sprigs of fresh lavender clasped in his hand.

"Okay."

Tuesday, August 17th, 1976

Potter Manor

The afternoon sunlight shone through Hermione's vast bedroom window across the three Potter siblings faces—which were contorted and twisted with worry.

Hermione was twirling her wand between her hands, gnawing on her bottom lip anxiously, James was propped up against Hermione's desk, leg bouncing up and down in a jumpy, antsy manner; on the outside Draco appeared to be the only calm one, but there was an unsettling disquiet shimmering in his grey eyes.

"It's not the first time we haven't heard from Sirius when he's been back at Grimmauld Place," Draco reasoned lowly, though the words were weak even to his ears.

"We need to go and check on him—we're a part of the Black line…we can get past the blood wards, I'm sure of it," James said firmly, frustratedly ruffling his hair, getting up and pacing back and forth for a few moments before he ended up falling into Hermione's desk chair—his leg rapidly returned to its previous task, his pent up anxiety trying to find a way out.

"We can't just rush in, especially if it's a hostile situation," Hermione said, tugging at her curls—she was trying to battle the terrible, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"I agree. We need to try to think about this rationally," Draco said.

"Our pack bond with Moony and Pads, that...that tug—string or whatever it is that connects us, it's really faint…Pads is at least," James said in a grim tone, mouth pressed together in a severe line.

Hermione and Draco nodded silently, both with similar expressions to their sibling: Hermione strolled across the room and went to stand next to Draco—who was leaning up against the wall next to her window seat with his arms folded over his chest.

Hermione stared up into Draco's eyes and shared a meaningful look, and in that moment she understood exactly where Draco stood on the matter—he agreed with James, if they didn't hear from Sirius soon then they would go to Grimmauld Place; they would break down the ruddy door if they had to.

A sharp crack ripped through the fabric of the room, and they looked around in confusion before they saw an alarmed Mipsy shifting from foot to foot as she exclaimed, "Mistress Hermione!"

It's funny the things you remember in the aftermath of traumatic events: for example, how Mipsy's wide eyes were practically bulging out of her head in terror, or the fact that she had a wooden spoon in her hand, sauce residue still on it.

"Mipsy, what's wrong?" Hermione clutched her wand just that much tighter as she took a step towards the frightened House Elf.

"Master Black, the pup, there was a flash of white light, a bang, a loud crash and there he was— in the kitchen. He—He," Mipsy couldn't continue, her voice and small body both trembling violently.

It was extremely uncharacteristic for the House Elf to be shaken by anything, which only served to send a sharp stab of panic into all of their hearts.

They didn't need to hear anything further, scrambling as they took off: it was unlike the times they had raced through the house after one another with gay laughter trailing after them—this time they were running as if their lives depended on it, hearts racing, a light sheen of sweat gathering across their bodies as their legs pumped. Recklessly running down the stairs, almost falling down as they sharply turned for the kitchens.

Hermione was ahead of her brothers by half a pace, pupils dilated as the adrenaline pumped through her veins. They could all smell it—it was drowning them, thick and pungently punctuating the air; blood.

When they finally reached the kitchen, panting, shoulders quickly rising and falling, they were so out of it that it took them a moment to spot Sirius leaning against the wall beside the ice box.

Sirius was sitting upright, his right hand holding his left forearm, which had a long gash running down it—the flesh was split open in a jagged uneven way, and a river of crimson was flowing out of him at a frightful rate.

Hermione dashed forward and slid onto her knees beside him, her eyes flying over him, trying to rationally assess the situation: her gaze falling on his left forearm resting on his outstretched left leg (the other leg was bent at the knee).

Sirius's eyes were open, but he was staring almost listlessly right ahead of him, and it was only then that she noticed how badly he was shaking: her blood ran cold as ice—he'd been crucio'd.

Sirius's hair was slick with sweat, there was a cut across his right jawbone, there was a smudge of blood by the corner of his mouth, but she couldn't ascertain if it was his or not.

Sirius's head fell to the side, "ha—hey there, Foxy," he said as he tried to smile—but the result was a pained grimace and his lips pressing together as the shaking persisted.

"Shhh, don't talk, love, don't talk," Hermione pleaded, holding back tears as she noticing how much blood was on the ground—Sirius's blood; she was kneeling in a pool of Sirius's blood.

"Shit. Shit. Shit," James said repeatedly, hands thrust into his hair, standing at the edge of the pool of blood.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder and saw that Draco was standing—frozen, face ashen and eyes haunted—in the doorway.

"Draco! DRACO!" Hermione screamed, tears blurring him out of sight, but she could see that he hadn't budged, hadn't moved an inch, his eyes were locked in place on the crimson that was spreading out, slithering and snaking its way across the floor.

"Draco!" James yelled, crossing over to his brother and shaking him out of his stupor.

"Bollocks, right," Draco said as he flew across the room, kneeling down on the other side of Sirius—immediately examining his wounds with sharp, calculating eyes.

"We need to get him to St. Mungo's," James said with an increased sense of urgency when Sirius's head lolled to the side, his eyes fluttering closed.

The shaking had only gotten worse, and Hermione hastily ripped a piece of fabric off of the end of her pale turquoise dress, rolled it up and shoved it into his mouth to stop him from biting off his tongue.

"Draco," Hermione said in a shaky voice, one hand on Sirius's shoulder, the other grabbing ahold of James's hand—Draco nodded grimly, placing his hand on Sirius's other shoulder.

Crack!

The air tore apart sharply, sewing itself back together moments later, but the group of wix was gone.