Three months had crawled by since Hermione had been taken from her parents. She had never intended to eavesdrop on the hushed exchange beyond the imposing door of her late grandfather Orion's study. Her only aim was to retrieve yet another book from the dusty library downstairs. However, fate had other plans, as she unwittingly found herself listening in on the hushed dispute between her grandmother and her great-grandfather.
Walburga's voice, as sharp as ever, sliced through the silence. "She's just like him. Some days I can hardly stand to look at her." Hermione pressed her ear even closer to the door, straining to capture Arcturus' response.
"It's only been a few months," came his calm reply.
At this, Hermione heard a derisive scoff from the older woman. "That boy needs to take responsibility for his actions. I want him back here with us, Arcturus."
A suspicion nestled in Hermione's mind about the subject of their argument. Her father had always been a sensitive topic for Walburga. She would either curse her eldest son to the heavens or recount tales of his supposed redemption, locked away for his heroic deeds. The only time a faint glimmer of warmth touched the older woman's gaze was when she spoke of her firstborn's valiant battle against a dozen muggles.
"A brief stint in prison does not absolve a lifetime of wrongdoings. He's a blood traitor," her grandfather argued, his last words dripping with venom.
Hermione shuddered. During her time at this awful place, she had learned one harsh lesson: as long as she avoided being labelled a blood traitor, all would be well. Wizards and witches revered their magic above all else, and mingling with half- and mudbloods was seen as contamination of one's blood, and by extension, one's magic. Hermione found this belief absurd, but she dared not voice such thoughts to her stuck-up relatives.
"He will come to his senses when he hears about her," Walburga contended.
"He will take her away," the elder man retorted.
Hermione caught her grandmother's resigned sigh. "Only if you allow it. Pull some strings, ensure I become her primary guardian." Hermione's eyes widened in astonishment.
"Then why release him at all? The risk is too great," her great-grandfather countered, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air.
Hermione's neck ached from her uncomfortable eavesdropping post, but she couldn't leave now. The idea of allowing a murderer to live with them was unthinkable. Her father had been in prison for a reason, and she had no desire to meet him, let alone share a home with him.
"He will listen. She's all he's got left," Walburga's voice hung heavily in the air.
Before Hermione could hear more, she spotted Kreacher, the old house elf, shuffling down the corridor, his beady eyes fixed intently on a tray of polished silverware he cradled. Hastily abandoning her telling position at the door, Hermione silently retreated around the next corner, increasing her pace as she headed toward her original destination, her thoughts still spinning in disarray.
Another agonizing month slipped by, carrying Christmas away like a fleeting dream and leaving New Year's Eve behind as a forgotten echo. Apparently, magical Britain observed a celebration called Yule in early January, which took place this very week. The nights still stretched long, and Hermione's discontent lingered like a persistent fog. Resting her chin in the palm of her hand, the young witch cast a wistful gaze out of her window, watching the snowflakes accumulate on her windowsill. She missed her parents so much.
By mid-December, Hermione's grandmother had crushed her last glimmer of hope for escape. The cruelty the older woman inflicted on her own granddaughter was something she'd never thought possible from an adult. They were supposed to help children. She rarely got physical and never too hard on the face, though. It was a witch's best chance of getting herself a good match after all, apart from her blood, of course. But the older woman had no qualms about wielding her sharp tongue as a weapon, pushing Hermione to the edge of tears with ceaseless criticism and judgment. "Don't walk like this, don't wear your hair like that..." It was an endless litany of disapproval.
Hermione had mastered the art of silence, counting down the days until she could go to Hogwarts. School was her lifeline, her escape from Grimmauld Place's misery. Sometimes, impossibly far away, but then she'd gaze at her reflection and remind herself that she had already endured almost four months here. She could handle another seven; she just needed to keep her mouth shut, no matter how challenging it was. She could be outspoken at school.
"Madame Black requests Miss Hermione's presence in the dining room," Kreacher's raspy voice interrupted her thoughts. Unfazed by his abrupt appearance, she merely pressed her lips together.
"Tell Grandmother I'll be there shortly." Rising from her chair, she approached her wardrobe. As the sun set, she donned her velvet evening robes, reflecting on how accustomed she'd grown to her magical attire. She hadn't worn jeans in months. She appreciated most of her new clothes, adorned with enchantments that made daily life easier. Tiny pockets capable of holding heavy books and shimmering patterns that seemed to dance on their own. The vast collection of books in the Black Library was one of the few things Hermione liked about the wizarding world. It was, in fact, her favourite part of the entire house.
After a final check in the mirror, Hermione descended the stairs, determined not to keep Walburga waiting. Quietly pushing open the door, she entered the dining room with an expression carefully devoid of emotion, bracing herself for whatever ordeal awaited her.
"Hermione, come," her grandmother's voice cut through the room like a blade, beckoning her from her seat next to Arcturus at the head of the dining table. Hermione's eyes shifted, and only then did she notice the dishevelled man standing by the grand fireplace at the room's far end. Her heart plummeted. Those all-too-familiar brown curls, the deep-set eyes—this was...
"Sirius, meet your daughter, Hermione Black," the words hung like a haunting refrain, sending chills down her spine.
"I—" Her father's voice trembled, and he cleared his throat, his pallid face ashen as his gaze locked onto her. His shock was palpable.
Hermione's heart raced within her chest. Uncertain of how to react, her body acted on instinct, and she found herself curtsying to the man before her. Mortification washed over her as she witnessed his expression sour, his eyes swiftly finding his mother's. A swift scan of the room revealed the wicked satisfaction etched on Walburga's face and the icy sternness of her grandfather.
"I see you've trained her well," his voice, rough as though it hadn't spoken in ages, grated through the air. Hermione figured that was plausible, given his imprisonment in one of the wizarding world's most notorious prisons.
Walburga seemed immensely pleased with herself. "She has certainly inherited your spirit. But a little discipline can correct that."
That statement proved to be a grave mistake. Within seconds, Sirius lunged at his mother, his ill-fitting billowing like a vengeful spectre. "You dare—!"
Fear gripped Hermione's heart as she witnessed the frenzied confrontation between the two. Why was every member of this family so wretched?
Just as her father's hands gripped the older woman's shoulders, Arcturus drew his wand from his cane, his voice laden with command. "Behave yourself, boy. Is this truly how you wish to meet your daughter for the first time?"
"That wretched witch harmed my child! I have every right—" Sirius's retort was cut short as an invisible force sent him hurtling backward. His back collided with the wall, and he let out a humourless laugh. "Took you less than ten minutes to revert to your old ways."
Her grandfather bristled. "Must I discipline you like a petulant child?"
"You mean, like Mother did to my child?" Sirius hissed, his rage swirling in the room like an ominous storm cloud.
"Apologize to your mother and take your seat, boy," Arcturus uttered his command, elongating the last word as a stark reminder of his authority.
Sirius' eyes locked onto Hermione's once more, and to her surprise, she saw his shoulders slump in resignation. Pulling himself up from the hardwood floor, he strode over to the table with an unexpected grace, given his bedraggled appearance.
By the time he reached his seat, Walburga and her father-in-law had already settled back into their places, leaving Hermione to awkwardly stand alone in the centre of the room. Every instinct urged her to flee, but a single stern gaze from her grandmother jolted her out of her stupor, and she hastily took her seat opposite her father. Sirius observed the entire exchange with a disdainful expression. Once, he might have been handsome, but his time in Azkaban had left its mark. The bruised bags beneath his eyes made him appear far older than he likely was, and he was alarmingly gaunt.
"Now," Arcturus began, "you're not here to pick up fights with your mother, Sirius."
"Could've fooled me," her father muttered under his breath, audible enough for Hermione to shoot him apprehensive glances.
Arcturus cleared his throat, "you're here, Sirius, because you must take responsibility for your actions." All eyes turned to Hermione. "It is not Walburga's responsibility to raise your child. I am offering you an opportunity to redeem yourself and regain your place in this house." The elder man produced a familiar box, prompting a revolted glare from her father. Inside gleamed a ring bearing the same crest as the one adorning her left hand, shimmering in the warm, candlelit room.
"I'd sooner throw myself off London Bridge than wear this... abomination again," Sirius growled.
Hermione fidgeted with the ring on her own finger, a sudden guilt washing over her. If her father held such contempt for it, perhaps she should too?
"Ungrateful boy," Walburga screeched from her seat beside her son, who leaned as far away from her as possible without rising.
He opened his mouth to reply but was abruptly silenced. "It's either that or returning to Azkaban," her grandfather's gaze flickered toward her. "Do you have no shame?"
Sirius clenched his fists at the accusation. "I didn't even know Hermione existed until a few days ago. How can you expect me to just take all of this in a stride?"
Hermione felt anger surging within her. He wasn't the only one whose life had been turned upside down recently. Did he think she wanted to be here? To share the same blood as a mass murderer?
"Take the ring, Sirius," Walburga hissed.
Her son scoffed, "I'll never put-"
"Don't you want to see your precious godson again?" Arcturus interjected, earning himself a glare from his grandson.
"How dare you bring Harry into this?"
Hermione had no idea who this Harry was, but evidently, he meant a great deal to her father. It left her heart feeling strangely heavy.
"Obey, and you might see him again; defy us, and you'll be back in Azkaban tomorrow," her grandfather's ultimatum hung heavily in the air. Sirius' next words would decide his fate.
Sirius regarded the ring as if it were cursed before turning his attention back to Hermione. Shifting uneasily in her seat, she allowed him to scrutinize her once more, his pale face betraying no emotion. "I will raise Hermione as I see fit."
"Hermione will be raised as a Black," Walburga declared, her voice resolute, leaving no room for debate.
Sirius refused to yield. "She is my daughter!"
"She is the heir of the House of Black, and she will act accordingly," Arcturus asserted, deepening Hermione's anxiety.
The young witch never wanted to be part of this wretched family, let alone its heir. She longed for her mother to embrace her and assure her that everything would be alright.
With every passing minute of tense silence, the room seemed to grow colder. "…I want to know where Harry is."
Hermione felt a chilling betrayal coursing through her veins. Was her father really going to allow the Blacks to have their way with her? He was her father! Parents are supposed to protect their children! Her vision blurred as she listened to the bickering adults. Desperate to hold back her tears, Hermione dug her nails into the tender flesh of her palms.
"To prioritize that half-blood over your own daughter, you're truly a disgrace," Arcturus spat, mirroring Hermione's heartbreak with his offence.
"You don't know what you're talking about, old man," Sirius snatched the ring from the box, his entire demeanour becoming rigid as he reluctantly slid it onto his finger.
Hermione watched a whirlwind of emotions play across her father's face before he turned back to her. "I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you, Hermione, but before I can get us out of this mess, I have to check on Harry."
Harry, Harry, Harry—the name echoed painfully in Hermione's ears. She didn't want to hear it from her father anymore. She wanted him to promise that he'd protect her. Instead, she watched him flee the room the moment Arcturus revealed the half-blood's whereabouts. She wanted to break something.
Seeing her trembling lips, her grandfather placed a comforting hand on her tense shoulder. "He doesn't deserve a second chance."
Hermione thought she might agree…
The sole anchor that preserved Sirius's sanity during his stay in Azkaban was the belief that Harry was safe and sound. I don't believe his priorities would abruptly change now. He doesn't know Hermione as well as he knows Harry...