Note:

I've skipped over 3rd year, mostly because I didn't feel like re-hashing year's worth of school drama that didn't contain any significant divergence. Hermione didn't take Divination because it's a practice that even magical Jewish law forbids. Other minor divergences will be addressed in the chapter.

.

.o.

Hermione woke with a jolt which took her several heart-pounding moments to recognize as a rennervate, on account of finding herself tied to a chair in a dark room being somewhat distracting.

There was also the matter of the thick, oily magic pressing down on her and slowly writhing in her peripheral vision.

The wizard lounging in the corroded armchair across from her was a welcome sight, though he might have been slightly more welcoming were his gaunt face not rendered almost skeletal by the firelight as he watched her with those haunted gray eyes— and had he not been toying with her wand.

Hermione forced herself to breathe slowly. To bite back the indignation and let the fear settle.

Sirius. Harry's godfather. Inside wards he controls. Taking precautions he deems necessary because he's terrified of being sent back to Azkaban or worse.

This got her brain reviewing different sorts of precautions he might have taken, the recitation of which was a somewhat calming exercise.

For a long moment there was only the crackling of the hearth and the thumping of her pulse.

"Well?" She asked, voice tight with the effort it took to keep it from trembling.

He raised a single eyebrow, and she saw for the first time his resemblance to Andromeda.

"I assume you did this for a reason— ruling out polyjuice, I suppose."

"Among other things," he replied.

She gave a stiff nod. "What happens next?"

His chapped lips twitched into a tiny smile. "Next you tell me your selfish reasons for this."

She mimicked the eyebrow raise. "Selfish?"

"You were right about getting under family wards and getting my strength back instead of charging off into the unknown. Running off half-cocked was what got me into this mess in the first place. And I believe you really meant the bit about sticking around for Harry's sake. But visiting a house once inhabited by generations of magi who would've tied you to an altar, all on your lonesome, just to check in on little old me?" He sat forward, bracing his arms on his bony knees. "I don't think so. What is it you think only I can give you?"

"Well," said Hermione, "my wand, for starters."

He blinked, then shrugged. A flick of his wrist brought another wand to his other hand, and a twirl of it sent the ropes sliding off her.

Hermione stretched her newly-freed limbs, and gave a little tug. Her wand slipped out of Sirius' grip and flew into her hand.

He stared at her for a moment, then let out a hoarse chuckle. "Good t'know Harry wasn't exaggerating. Drink?"

Hermione glanced at the bottle of firewhiskey sitting on the claw-footed side table. "What did you do, put Veritaserum in it?"

Sirius grinned, baring his ruined teeth to the firelight. "'Spose I'm flattered you think I'm sneaky enough to get my hands on some with the whole bloody Department after me."

"You did sneak in and out of Hogwarts with hundreds of dementors after you."

"I've got a lot of practice sneaking in and out of Hogwarts— and if half of what Harry tells me is true, it's not quite as secure as it used to be. That wouldn't happen to have anything to do with this visit, would it?"

Right. She was prepared for this. She had a list and everything.

Hermione sat up straight, breathed deep, and said: "It would. It does. I don't know how much Harry's told you of what happened there last year, but all of us were in potentially deadly peril— though muggleborns more than most, which our esteemed classmates never let us forget. All due to a fascist aristocrat that bribed his way out of punishment for being at the very least complicit in the slaughter of people like me and my family. And we all stayed in deadly peril until Harry risked his life to put an end to it— not the Headmaster and Chief Warlock, not any of the other faculty, and not the Aurors. A twelve-year old student. We were also treated to our first demonstration of just how much the Ministry of Magic values due process. Of course, we didn't know then that its principle prison is guarded by demons that feed on misery when they can't get souls, so I suppose I should thank you for furthering my education in that respect."

"You're quite welcome," said Sirius.

"It does bear mentioning," she continued, "that while the school was surrounded by aforementioned soul-sucking demons, the faculty didn't even try to teach the lower years one of the only spells known to repel them. "

"Oh, there are more than a few others." Sirius swung one leg over the arm of his chair. "Lot of'em are wards or rituals, though, and beastly complex. Also, to be fair, most people don't have the channeling capacity to cast a Patronus 'til they're at least seventeen."

"Harry did it successfully. Very successfully."

"Prongslet is a statistical outlier and should not be used to represent the capabilities of the average twelve-year-old. Who knows what all is up with that kid, magically?"

…fair.

"I assume there's a point you're working up to here?"

Right.

"Is it not obvious?" said Hermione. "Wizarding Britain is archaic, corrupt, and dangerous, especially to people like me. A significant percentage of its ruling class want us either firmly under their boot or dead, and will go out of their way to make it so right under the noses of our supposed protectors— who are either incapable of or unwilling to counter them. As far as I can tell the only truly reliable methods of protecting myself short of fleeing the country are obscene wealth and atypical magical prowess, and the knowledge I need to develop greater magical ability is either under lock and key at Hogwarts or hoarded in houses owned by people who would never share it with me."

A slow grin stole over Sirius' face. "Except for this one."

She nodded, somewhat out of breath. "Except for this one."

He barked out another laugh. "A black muggleborn in the Black Library! Learning to fight blood bigots with their own dirty tricks! Oh, kitten, this is a treat."

"Well—" Hermione stuttered, "I-I'm not trying to learn the Unforgiveables or anything, I just want…"

"An edge," said Sirius, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"An edge."

"And an edge you shall have. Hell, I'm tempted to let you at it just to see if blood starts seeping through the walls or something."

"...But?"

"But," he drawled, abruptly sitting up straight again and leaning forward, tapping his (stolen) wand against the arm of his chair in a manner that looked distinctly compulsive and more than a little hazardous— "If you've got something valuable, never give it up for free. Even if it is ugly, musty, and probably cursed."

Not for the first time that night, Hermione sort of wished she'd brought Harry along. "That… sounds fair."

Sirius just stared at her for a moment, half his emaciated face in shadow, firelight caught in his unkempt hair—

"Three conditions."

Hermione swallowed, mouth dry, and resisted the urge to glance away at the dark walls and macabre decorations, instead keeping her gaze firmly locked on his pale, haunted eyes.

"I'll key you into the wards for both the house and the library on three conditions."

Meeting with him privately had seemed much less daunting before she saw what she was walking into. Before she saw and felt the miasmic, malicious aura of the place. The scorn with which he'd spoken of it had made her think he would seem jarringly out-of-place here— and maybe he had before Azkaban, but now…

"I-I'm listening," she said.

Sirius raised one bony finger. "Don't tell anyone. 'Cept Harry. And the Weasley kid, if you think he can keep a secret from his mum."

Molly did seem a bit overbearing. "Agreed."

He raised a second finger. "Teach him anything you think he needs to know to better defend himself."

"I… can try. I don't know how well I can teach practical spellwork, and Harry…"

Sirius smiled sadly. "Seems a bit soft?"

The urge to leap to Harry's defense clashed with the burning injustice of Pettigrew's continued freedom and sainted reputation.

"How would you have handled Wormtail," said Sirius, watching her very closely, "if you'd been in control that night?"

Hermione took a moment to reply, if only to avoid letting on just how much she'd thought about it.

"Harry… wasn't wrong," she said. "We do need Pettigrew alive to prove your innocence— alive and capable of cooperating with interrogation, but…"

"But?"

But stunners and body-binds could be easily countered or wear off when you least expected it, and the traitor's tiny animal form made physical restraints… tricky.

But a rat couldn't run on two paws or less— and he'd have had a hard time cursing anyone with no hands.

"But," she said, "that's all we need him to be capable of doing."

Sirius' eyes widened, gleaming in the firelight. His grin returned, wider than ever. "Sure you're the first witch in the family, love? No dark-haired, gray-eyed weirdos way back on the family tree?"

Hermione scowled. Andromeda said the Squib Origin Theory was just another way for purebloods to pretend they were the center of the world, but mentioning Andromeda would inevitably lead to admitting that while the Tonkses knew he would never have betrayed the Potters, they did believe him fully capable of accidentally blowing up a streetful of people in a fit of grief and rage.

"Not to my knowledge," she replied. "But to get back on track, I will teach Harry everything I think he needs to know to better defend himself and that I can convince him to learn, to the best of my ability. What's number three?"

Sirius blinked and stared for a moment, as if he'd lost his train of thought. Then: "Tell me about him. Harry."

"...Alright. Anything specific?"

"No. Anything. Everything." His haggard visage screwed up in anguish. "I've missed too bloody much of his life, and I'm only gonna miss more. You've been there for… more of it than me. So."

"I'll tell you everything I can about him." She would've been more than happy to do so anyway, but he didn't need to know that. "Is… that all?"

"Hm?"

"For access to the library. Is that all you want in exchange?"

Sirius let out a mirthless chuckle. His gaze went dull and distant.

"I've seen what happens," he rasped, "when kids with a strictly Hogwarts-approved education go up against people who never had limits on all the nasty little tricks they could learn. Could practice. I've seen the disparity you're so fiery about written in blood."

He blinked, swallowed, and glanced longingly towards the bottle of firewhisky on the claw-footed side table. The hand nearest to it clenched into a fist.

"Disarmers and stunners and body-binds won't keep you safe. Won't keep Harry safe. So no, kitten. I'm not gonna drive a hard bargain over shite that could help keep both of you alive. As long as you cover your tracks and don't get yourself cursed, for all I care you can make off with every dusty old grimoire in this place."

Then he snatched the firewhiskey off the table and took a sizeable gulp, then pulled out a stiletto dagger that looked like it could've been forged and used in medieval Venice.

"Right!" He said, lurching up off the armchair. "No time like the present. C'mere so I can add you to the wards. 'Fraid we have to get a bit Pagan about it, else they might reject you."

She briefly wondered, as the accumulated magic of Grimmauld Place flooded her every cell with a distinctly judgmental air, if the other petrification victims had found their sensitivity cranked so disorientingly up.

Then again, maybe Black Family magic was just that intense.

She had an entire summer to find out.