It was times like this that Hermione wished desperately that she hadn't accepted Remus' offer – that she hadn't let his loneliness and their budding friendship sway her from getting a place of her own. As much as she wanted to avoid Sirius' probing questions, the hurt in Remus' eyes, she feared running to Harry's even more. Not because she feared his anger but because she knew that if she were to seek sanctuary there, both would insist they were in the right and the argument that followed would irrevocably harm their friendship. Better to wait until Harry cooled off and she found a way to avoid having that particular conversation.

Now she was little more than a prisoner in her own room – locking spells of her own casting serving as the bars of her deceptive cell. Her jailers were constantly walking by, alternately knocking and leaving plates of food outside her door. She even could have sworn that at times the footsteps just stopped outside her room, not resuming until much later like someone had been sitting in the hall all that time. She never answered their pleas for her to emerge, nor did she dare open the door and accept the food, though her stomach ached with hunger.

She tried to sleep but the heat was unbearable; tried to read but her mind refused to focus. It was a miracle when three o'clock rolled around and the entire house fell silent save for the distant chirp of crickets that floated through her open window. Sundays were always their days.

They would leave the house at three – sometimes on foot, sometimes with both men astride Sirius' gleaming motorbike – and not return until dusk. Though Hermione had never asked where it was they went, not wishing to intrude on something so obviously personal, Remus had once told her it was the only time in which Sirius allowed himself a little spontaneity. So long as he had Remus from three to dusk, he was happy and that was all the routine he needed.

Despite yesterday's commotion, Sirius wouldn't miss Sunday afternoons for the world and Remus certainly wouldn't risk his lover's foul mood should he try and change their plans. Hermione would be safe to venture to the kitchen and finally feed her rumbling stomach.

At ten past three she removed the numerous locking charms, cancelled the privacy spells, and gently turned the lock. Her bedroom door swung noiselessly open. Cautiously, she stuck her head out into the sunlit hall and scanned the length of it, anxious, despite knowing no one could logically be in the house. Deeming it safe, she stepped over a bowl of porridge long gone cold and hurried to the stairs. She dodged the squeaky boards, skipped the sticky step, and tip-toed down without the aid of the twisted banister, which tended to groan in the humid air.

In the kitchen she found a fresh-made apple pie cooling on the windowsill and eagerly cut a large piece for herself. It was still steaming as she slid it onto a plate, but it smelled so divine she'd have eaten it if it was on fire. They were sure to notice, of course, and they'd be rightly riled that she'd snuck down while they were out, but as the first bite of pie burned its way down to her greedy stomach she found she didn't much mind.

Scooping another hardy bite into her mouth, she was headed to the icebox for some milk when something made her stop dead. Tucked onto the range's back-burner and previously unnoticed was a large black pot that even now was puffing out short bursts of savory-smelling steam from beneath its loose-fitted lid. Hermione swallowed hard and the burn in her stomach turned to lead.

She approached the range as a dying man would the gallows, and reached for the lid. A delicious stew was revealed, simmering innocuously on the range. It might as well have signed her death warrant. There was no reason for a dinner to be cooking on the stove – Remus and Sirius were never back before sundown, much less dinner – which could only mean—

"Hermione?"

She jumped and the pot lid fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Remus was in the doorway.

She threw her plate onto the counter and made a run for the backdoor, only to backpedal in shock when Sirius walked in from the backyard.

"Shit."

"We made dinner," Remus said softly. "Are you hungry?"

Well and thoroughly trapped, Hermione backed into the cabinets and locked her arms over her chest, cross and still trying to recover from the sudden shock of seeing them. "It's Sunday – you shouldn't be here," she declared, her tone rather accusatory.

"We couldn't just leave." Sirius rolled his eyes, his own stand-offish posture a match for hers before he pushed off the doorframe and pulled out a chair for himself. He sat, but the look on his face told her she'd never make it out the door before he caught her. He cleared his throat and his eyes suddenly moved to anywhere but her. "We were worried."

Hermione scoffed. "Oh I bet you were." She turned to Remus then, and there was no mistaking the sudden difference in her voice, the lightening of her tone and the softness that crept into her face. Sirius' frown deepened. "Really. I'm fine. You should go."

But Remus shook his head. "It was Sirius' idea to stay."

The look she gave the ex-convict was pure shock. Sirius took note of it and scowled. "Good to see you think so highly of me."

"Padfoot."

"I could say the same of you," Hermione retorted. And then she sat down, her eyes flashing with a challenge that Sirius returned with a nearly imperceptible nod, and Remus recovered quickly from his shock at her acquiescence and moved to join them. He'd just opened his mouth to speak when Hermione cut him off.

"Look. I don't know what you heard yesterday," she said briskly. "But Harry has a tendency to overreact and really it's all just a misunderstanding. We've already sorted it out."

"Really?" drawled Sirius, brandishing a letter. "Is that why he owled us this morning demanding to know the minute you left your bedroom?"

Hermione's neck flushed and though she'd never admit to being caught in a lie, it took her a second to respond. "Did he? I don't see why he chose to make our personal correspondence your concern, but no matter. I'll be leaving again soon, I'm sure – always work to be done – so I'll just pop in to see him when I get back."

She stood quickly, her chair scrapping on the floor. Before she'd even taken a step, Sirius had pulled another letter – thick and official looking – from the inside pocket of his waistcoat and held it out to her. "Maybe not as soon as you think. The Ministry's put you on paid administrative leave until they 'conclude the investigation into claims of abduction and holding hostage of a Ministry official with the intent to ransom and/or inflict bodily harm'."

"W-What...?"

Hermione's hands were gripping the chair back with knuckle-whitening force, her mouth working without sound as she tried to find the words. Hermione Granger was never at a loss for words. Remus leaned over the table and cautiously laid his hand over hers; his amber eyes searching her own. "Hermione? Did the centaurs hold you hostage – is that what happened?"

"I can't be fired," she whispered, suddenly white-faced.

Sirius regarded her with a dubious look. "You're not fired," he reminded her brusquely. He sought for the words to reassure her – to do what Moony would do. "Think of it as a vacation. A couple weeks without work – won't that be lovely?"

Hermione turned positively green. She uttered a choked "oh god" before her eyes rolled back and she fainted.