The newspaper fluttered slightly in her hands, the breeze from the open window cool in the otherwise stuffy office. Hermione had been staring at the page for a minute now, unable to bring herself to read any further than the headline.

HORROR AND HEARTBREAK: INSIDE THE TRIAL OF THE CENTURY

"Go on, Miss Granger."

Hermione lifted her gaze to the headmistress. "Trial of the century?" she said tersely. As if the dramatization of her life wasn't enough, the Prophet has apparently forgotten all about the trials of numerous dark wizards that had happened not that long ago.

The corners of McGonagall's lips twitched into a smile. "Be thankful they didn't go with something more…swoony."

Hermione gave a halfhearted smile back before dropping her eyes back down. It was silly, really, how nervous she was to read the article. She already knew the outcome. Half of Wizarding London had been crammed into the courtroom to hear the verdict alongside her. But there was something about the words on paper that made everything so…final. Like the last pages in a book.

Who would she be, when that book was finally shut?

Clearing her throat, Hermione pulled the newspaper taut and began to read. Her eyes skimmed the lines—romantic stage setting, mostly, about the excitement of her trial—until they froze at the end of the second paragraph.

Following her two-week-long trial in which Granger, in addition to numerous witnesses, described Malfoy's heinous plots against herself, Black, and Wizarding society, the Wizengamot announced their decision: Hermione Jean Granger is acquitted of all charges.

Hermione pressed her fingers into her mouth, stifling back the sudden swell of emotion. Vaguely, she was aware of the headmistress's hand sliding towards her, but Hermione could not bring herself to take the comfort.

"It's what Lucius wanted," McGonagall said softly. "I saw that, in your Pensieve memory of that day. Lucius wanted you to use him to gain your freedom."

"I know, I know, it's just…" She finally tore her eyes away from the article and set it on the desk. McGonagall's eyes twinkled behind her spectacles as Hermione squeezed her hand. "No one will ever know that he wasn't just a Death Eater. He wasn't just a bad man. He wasn't…" Hermione leaned back and pressed her eyelids shut. A tear escaped, which she wiped away hastily. She was so bloody sick of crying. "He wasn't undeserving of love."

"And he died knowing that, yes?"

Hermione nodded. That was something she had actually come to terms with, over the past month. Lucius knew she loved him. He died for it, but he also died knowing it. "It doesn't feel exactly real yet," she murmured, staring at the crinkled paper. A photo from the courtroom stared back at her, the Wizengamot surrounding her like sullen statues. "I had been planning on being carted off to Azkaban, and now I'm free. Jobless, and half of my peers don't want to even speak with me, but free." She had received the news not long after her trial's conclusion; the Ministry wanted nothing to do with a dark-magic wielding witch whose name was attached not only to a dead Death Eater, but a man back from the dead too. Despite all of Harry's attempts to help, she had been effectively banned from ever setting foot on the premises again.

McGonagall clicked her tongue in disapproval. "If the Department of Mysteries wants to let go of the one witch smart enough to figure out that Veil, then you don't want to be working for those fools anyway. Have you thought more on my offer?" she added, taking a sip from her now cooled teacup.

Hermione bit her lip. "I don't know…the assistant professorship sounds wonderful, but I need some more time," she said quietly. "And Sirius, he's still re-adjusting too. I want to be there to help him get through it." The headmistress raised her eyebrows until Hermione let out an exasperated sigh. "What?"

"I said nothing presumptuous."

"No, you just gave me those eyebrows like I'm eleven and sneaking around the halls after curfew."

McGonagall chuckled. "Despite the…unusual circumstances, you and Black are good for each other. And married, by official accounts. No one would think it improper of you to spend some time together before you find your footing."

"No one except every Tabloid and paper in the UK."

"On the contrary, Miss Granger; they'd gobble it up."

Hermione's lips parted to admit her surprise at the witch's insight into gossip rags when the office door suddenly flew open. She twisted around to find Madame Pomfrey in the doorway, panting with her apron askew.

"Minerva, it's those Campbell twins again," she rushed out, leaning a hand against the frame. "Jason accidentally nicked Brian with a potion blade, who shot a bat bogey hex at Jason, but it hit a cauldron instead and splattered that dear Slytherin girl Gretchen with Alihotsy Draught, who screamed and shot off a Reducto at both boys and got the potion on them too, and now I've got three third years who refuse to stop wrestling each other in my hospital wing despite laughing hysterically every bloody second!" Madame Pomfrey gasped for air, then her gaze finally fell on Hermione. "Oh hello dear," she beamed, as a bead of sweat trickled down her forehead. "You're looking quite well."

A little dumbfounded at the Hogwarts drama, Hermione blinked before smiling back. "I'm better, thank you."

"I'd love to stay for a cuppa, but Minerva…" The mediwitch inclined her head towards the door. "I've got the children restrained, finally , but Slughorn wants you to have a firm word with them."

"More than one, I imagine." McGonagall rose to her feet and pulled her shoulders back, revealing her still impressive stature. She looked down at Hermione and gave an apologetic smile. "Watching Dumbledore, I always imagined my duties were confined to drinking tea and paging through ancient books. Apparently I was wrong." As the Headmistress moved past, she put a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Stay as long as you like, Miss Granger. Or take your leave before I'm back. I know there's a certain wayward Gryffindor waiting for you at home." She winked, then followed Madame Pomfrey out the door in a sweep of sage-green robes.

Shaking her head, Hermione relaxed back into her chair and grabbed her teacup. "The kinds of trouble they get into…" she muttered, smiling a bit. Hermione raised the cup to her lips—

"And still do, apparently," a voice drawled. Hermione startled, tea sloshing over the brim as she whirled around. Her eyes landed on Snape's portrait and widened. "You're awake!"

The former Potion's Master sneered as Hermione spelled the tea away and set it aside. "Bright as ever, even after Black had his way with you."

Hermione pushed to her feet and approached the portrait. While the others remained asleep, his ebony eyes were wide open, his pale hands clasped over a painted table. Even his lank hair had been captured to perfection. "How long?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "The affliction of sleep for a newly painted portrait is a myth. It's quite tedious, you know, to open your eyes and realize you're dead and some sentimental twit decided to immortalize you in acrylic. Most of us keep up the farce just to get over the embarrassment." The professor let out a long, dreary sigh. "I've heard everything since they hung me up here."

Hermione's brain whirled with the possibilities. What should she ask him? What did he know? Did he know about Dumbledore, and his plan, and Harry's Horcrux—

"Get your mind out of the past, Granger," Snape snapped, pulling Hermione out of her head.

"What?"

"I can see the questions crawling out from that hair," he continued, causing Hermione to run a hand over her longer-than-ever mane. "And I don't wish to speak on the past. What's done is done and bears no interest to me. I'm sure that Skeeter woman researched me down to my knickers drawer and slapped some obnoxious title on the bloody biography, anyway."

The corner of Hermione's mouth twitched. "You don't even want to know." She gazed back at her former professor for a moment, before asking quietly, "What do you know of my…situation now?"

Snape snorted. "Far more than I want to. Minerva may not let it on, but she's quite the gossip. She's also watched your trial in the Pensieve once or twice."

"Specifically, though."

He leveled her with a piercing stare. "That you brought Black back from the dead, through some ancient rituals Lucius put you on to. That you worked with him…got swept up into his grandeur and charm as he plotted his way through England and France until it got himself and bystanders killed." Snape pursed his lips. "Or so the story goes."

"It wasn't like that."

"I know."

"He—he was using me, at first, but just to escape!"

"I know."

"Lucius didn't open the Veil, I did. And he didn't open the Door in France, either. All those people who disappeared…he had nothing to do with it."

"I know."

"He wasn't a bad man." Hermione's voice was trembling now, her heart racing as the adrenaline and memories slammed into her. "He wasn't. He didn't mean it. I had to—I had to say he was, to escape a sentencing, but it isn't true. He wasn't bad ."

"I know ."

Hermione blinked. "You do?"

"Yes, as I tried to tell you four times now. Perhaps that hair clogged your ears too." At Hermione's still wide, pleading eyes, Snape rolled his own before his features softened. "I know Lucius. And I know you. Despite my efforts not to. Nothing that happened was either of your faults. Not really, anyway."

Hermione took a shaky breath. "No, I opened the Veil, which opened the Door, in France, and got all those people killed. That was my fault."

Snape was silent for a moment, gazing down at her with curious interest. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"I got Sirius out, then things in France went to bloody shit. The Door started gaining power, sucking people in, because of what I did!"

"Think, Granger. What was going on in France even before you pulled Black out?"

"I…well, Harry and Ron…they said people were going missing. Before I even opened it," she breathed out, as the realization and confusion hit her. "Why…"

"Haven't you ever wondered why you were so drawn to Black? Why it consumed you, fascinated you, drove you to such measures as dark magic and consorting with Lucius Malfoy?" When Hermione shook her head, Snape continued on, "You never wondered how you fell for a man like Black so easily, after barely knowing him before his death?"

"It all sort of…came on suddenly," Hermione admitted. "I mean, I was in his house, and working around the Veil where he died…"

"Surrounded by his magical essence," Snape said pointedly. "Tell me, Granger, when you were eighteen, and fighting for your life, did you ever stop to consider the appeal of Sirius Black?"

"Of course not!" Hermione retorted.

"Of course not. Why?"

"I didn't have time to dwell on the past! On my feelings for a man long gone. We were fighting a war."

"And what did you do the second the war ended? When the wands were put down, and there was no one left to fight, nothing left to hunt…what did you do?"

Hermione cast her gaze down, to her arm. She read the word carved there. Mudblood . She remembered what all that hate in the world had taken from her. "I grieved," she said softly.

"Ah," Snape whispered. "Grief. Did you know, Granger, that some scholars describe grief as a magical substance?"

Hermione lifted her eyes again, frowning. "But I've never read that."

Snape's lip curled. "Of course not. Hogwarts discarded the few books on the subject centuries ago. Even from your beloved restricted section. And you wouldn't find it in the Black or Malfoy library either. No one as proud as a Black or Malfoy cares to admit their sad little feelings are any more than character flaws." He tilted his head to one side, then the other, seemingly getting rid of any neck cricks a portrait could have. "Lucky for me, my studies as a Potion's Master lead me to these musings."

"What did they say?"

"Mostly a lot of Thestral shit. Philosophical rantings of wizards afraid of death. But in there, there was some insight. In theory, if a witch or wizard with enough magical potency felt enough grief—if it was a consuming, hopeless, pitch black form of grief—that grief could manifest into tangible magic. The kind of magic that could traverse worlds. The kind of magic that could reach out to the other side and wake things up that should never have awoken."

"But I…I'm not like that."

"Not what?"

"Magically potent."

"As much as it would thrill me to vehemently disagree…I cannot. You, Granger, displayed more magical aptitude than any student I've come across. And that's even with the hindrance of those two dimwits riding on your robe tails."

Hermione bit her tongue, knowing enough to not argue with Snape, even in his significantly less intimidating portrait form. "So you're saying that my grief latched onto Sirius, because his essence was just…there, in the house? And at work?"

Snape shrugged. "Perhaps. Or perhaps that, coupled with an existing fondness for the man, was enough. As you know by that marriage bond you formed in a display of resourcefulness, or so I hear, magical bonds are easily forged, but not so easily broken. Almost never, in fact, without dire consequences. Magical bonds only grow stronger. As you latched on to this fantasy of Sirius Black, your interest in him grew stronger. And as the bond increased, so did the turmoil of reaching across worlds."

"Then I did cause what happened with the Door."

"Cause? Made worse, perhaps," Snape drawled. "My guess would be that the location of the Door in France has always existed as a…magical counterpart to the Veil. When your magic reached out to Sirius, even the first few tendrils, the balance in the world beyond began to fracture. Places outside of our realm do not take so well to intrusion, even of the magical variety. Since the Veil is contained in the Ministry, with countless protection spells surrounding it, it remained unchanged. Meanwhile, the Door, out in the open, was able to unlock. That, or these paint fumes turned me mad," he added with a sly smile. "Whatever the case may be, I reckon that the Door was bound to break open eventually. You just found yourself, once again, at the wrong place at the wrong time. Troll in the toilets all over again."

Hermione stepped back and sank onto the arm of her chair as her brain processed this information. And for the first time in so, so long, it made sense . Finally, here was the logic to why she had felt that way. Why she "But why did I fall in love?" she whispered.

"With Lucius?"

"With both of them." Hermione swallowed the thickness creeping into her throat. "I know why I fell in love with Lucius. But Sirius…I never would have. I never would have loved him, wouldn't I?"

Snape's lips pressed into a hard line as he considered her. "In another world, where your grief didn't latch onto him? Where you didn't pull him back here? No. I reckon you wouldn't have. There was the age gap, not that a few decades seem to bother you. Also, the being dead factor is quite the dealbreaker."

"Then that was a lie too," she whispered. "I wouldn't have loved Sirius."

"Wouldn't is a far different thing from shouldn't."

Hermione gazed up at the portrait through tear-stained eyes. She wiped at them hastily with the back of her hand. "But was it even real?" she sniffed. "Is it real? Could I have truly loved them both?"

Snape nodded, just the slightest movement of his head. "Love isn't a matter of real . It is a matter of importance. What love is important enough to choose, to fight for?" The Potion's Master lifted his chin and cleared his throat. "Now, that's enough sentiment for me for a lifetime. Off with you, girl, and let me get back to my deceit before the Headmistress catches me awake and shouts my head off.." Without even a final glance back at her, Snape closed his eyes and was silent.

And after a few minutes of watching his impressive façade of sleep, Hermione stood up, smoothed back her hair, and stepped back into the fireplace to face the truth that awaited her at Grimmauld Place.

"Sirius?" Hermione called out as she moved down the hallway. She peered into the kitchen (one of his usual midday spots), then frowned when she found it empty.

"In here!" his voice called out, a few doors down.

Hermione hurried over the creaking floorboards until she came to a stop in the library doorway. "Sirius," she said, with an obvious air of exasperation. "Merlin's beard, what are you doing on the floor?"

The man in question simply stretched his arms above his head, revealing a strip of stomach below the hem of his jumper. He was completely sprawled on the carpet, curls fanned out around him like a crown. There wasn't even a whiskey bottle in sight, to her surprise. He had been quite fond of the stuff, upon his return to society. Or, the society that existed inside Grimmauld Place and occasionally the Muggle pub, on a good day. "I was working on my Animagus abilities," he yawned, barely managing to cover it in time.

Hermione rolled her eyes as she sank down beside him, kneeling by his waist. "Is that so? I don't see any black dog hair on the carpet."

"Yeah, well…haven't quite managed it yet. Magic's still a bit kerflooey." The easy-going mask Sirius usually wore nowadays faded into frustration, though Hermione knew he wasn't trying to let on too much of how annoyed he was with himself.

"You'll get there," Hermione assured him, reaching out to run a hand down his arm. Without even looking down, Sirius grasped her fingers when they touched. She sighed, but let her hand stay put. Their relationship since the chaos of the trial had been a strange mix of avoidance and physical affection. No kissing, or sex, but they were both prone to touching, almost as a reflex. Like their bodies were drawn to each other despite any efforts to maintain distance. And now I know why… "The mediwizard at St. Mungo's said it was only a matter of time until you were back to full magic," Hermione said, pushing aside the relaxation Snape had given her.

"That guy is full of Thestral shit," Sirius muttered angrily. "As if anyone at St. Mungo's knows the effect of being bloody dead on your magical output."

Hermione giggled, before covering her mouth with her hand. "Sorry," she said, when he frowned at her.

"You're laughing at my magical limp dick?"

"No, I swear!"

"You think that just because I can't pop into a giant dog on command, that I lost my marbles?" Sirius said, grinning as he propped up onto one elbow.

"Oh, so now it's your marbles too? I thought it was just your limp dick."

"That's it, little witch," Sirius growled. "No more nice wizard for you." With a sudden snarl like a ferocious dog, Sirius yanked her towards him. Hermione yelped as she was dumped onto his chest, his arms locking her in like a cage as he furiously sniffed at her neck.

"Sirius, that tickles!" Hermione burst out, laughing as he prodded and poked and breathed on her sensitive skin. And Merlin did it feel good. Like her magic was coming alive just from his touch.

"Good," he whispered, nipping at her ear. "Devious little witches get tickles," he said, before launching into another round of attack.

Soon, they both collapsed into a fit of laughter, Hermione still on his chest as he finally freed her from the assault. As their breathing began to calm, Hermione nuzzled her nose into the crook of Sirius's neck, relaxing into the steady rise and fall of his chest. The pleasantness, the rightness , of intimacy had finally won out, even if she knew some of it was just her magic.

"So what were you laughing at, actually?" Sirius murmured, reaching up to brush back a curl from her cheek.

"I thought you knew what I was laughing at," she teased.

Sirius humphed. "Ok, what else other than my limp magic dick?"

"Just something you said. Thestral shit . Someone else just said that to me too."

"I'm surprised McGonagall had it in her."

Hermione smiled, but kept her tongue. She knew Sirius wasn't ready to hear about Snape's theory just yet. Or that his ex-nemesis was back and breathing. Well…as breathing as you can be, without coming back through the Veil . "It was good to catch up."

"Anything more on that job offer?"

"Well…the job was offered."

"And?" Sirius said excitedly.

Hermione pressed her hand into Sirius's chest, feeling the beat of his heart. "I told her I'm not quite ready," she said softly, as his life pulsed beneath her palm.

Sirius shifted to sit up, ignoring Hermione's groan of protest, and pulled her into his lap instead. "I don't believe you," he said, holding her gaze.

Hermione stared back into those warm eyes. The ones she had grown to know so well, in such a short span of time. Eyes that she knew, now, that she wouldn't have ever known before. "Someday I'll accept McGonagall's offer. But I'm not ready, Sirius."

"If you're saying no because of me—"

"So what if I am?" Hermione cut in, curling her fingers into his jumper. "I can't leave you like this. Not after dragging you back into this world. I can't—I won't—leave you alone in it." Hermione let her fingers slowly open, then smoothed both hands up to Sirius's cheeks. He sighed, pressing his nose into hers, breathing in as she breathed out.

"You don't owe me anything, kitten."

"I know."

"You don't need to be with me. In any way."

"I know that too."

"Then why?" he asked, pulling back slightly to meet her gaze. "Why would you want to stay behind in all this shit, when your life can start over out there ?"

"Because I want to choose, Sirius. I want to choose to start over with you. Completely, I mean," she whispered, pressing a kiss into the tip of his nose before crawling back out of her lap. Slowly, their bodies detached. Hermione sat there, kneeling across from Sirius, an arm length of space between them. The magic in her gut wanted to tug her forward, tug her into the bond—both of grief, and of marriage—that she had created between them. And the guilt of loving and losing Lucius wanted to tug her back, away from this man and her feelings for him. But Hermione knew she just had to stay put. She had to choose for herself, this time. And maybe, if Snape was right, and she did have a say in the importance of it all, she could choose to love, and to be happy. Lucius was gone, but he would want that for her. The man she loved would want her to love too.

And maybe that love, that real choice of love, would be with Sirius. But she couldn't know, unless they started at the beginning. Unless they started as friends who chose to be lovers, and not lovers forced to be friends.

Hermione took a deep breath, then held out a hand. "My name is Hermione Granger," she said softly. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Black."

As he looked from her hand, back to her face, Sirius's expression shifted from bewilderment to understanding. Then, with a cheeky smile, he grasped her hand tight. "The pleasure's all mine," he said with a firm shake. "But you can call me Sirius."