As the final carriages lined up to take the students to Hogsmeade Station, Hermione was nowhere in sight. James, Sirius, and the others waited near the last carriage, peering back toward the castle, where students were streaming out.
"Think she's decided to stay back at Hogwarts for the holidays, then?" Sirius quipped, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Very funny," James muttered, his brows drawn together as he scanned the courtyard. He'd noticed Hermione's odd bouts of forgetfulness over the past few days—little things that were totally uncharacteristic of her, like misplacing her textbooks or forgetting where she'd left her quill in the common room. And now she was late. Again.
At that moment, Hermione dashed out of the castle, slightly breathless, her hair windswept. "I… I forgot my wand in the dormitory," she panted, catching up to them with a sheepish grin.
"Oh, our dear Miss Prewett, the ever-perfect," Sirius teased, crossing his arms with a look of exaggerated surprise. "Nearly wandless for the holidays? Imagine all the mischief we could have gotten up to with Kitten unable to stop us."
She laughed, rolling her eyes as she climbed into the carriage. "Yes, yes, laugh all you want. My mind's been… preoccupied, I suppose."
James joined her, casting a concerned glance her way as the carriage jolted into motion. "Preoccupied with what? You've been forgetful all week, Hermione. It's… unusual."
She smiled, giving him a shrug. "Just… a lot to think about, I suppose." And as if to prove her point, her eyes glinted with an almost unsettling insightfulness, the kind of quiet, focused brilliance that she usually reserved for her deepest theories or most ambitious plans.
James exchanged a look with Sirius, his brow furrowing further. It was like Hermione had this strange split between being completely absent-minded about daily details yet laser-focused on bigger ideas and insights. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something felt… off.
It was Christmas morning, and Hermione found herself on the couch at the Burrow with baby Percy nestled in her arms, fussing and wriggling as he gnawed on his fingers, clearly uncomfortable. She'd volunteered to mind him so Molly could take a break and enjoy the holiday without a baby constantly clinging to her.
"Oh, I know, teething is hard," Hermione murmured, brushing a gentle hand over Percy's little forehead. She reached for her wand and, with a flick, conjured a small chew toy, pausing to cast a quick Freezing Charm over it to soothe his gums. She handed the chilled toy to Percy, who took it with surprising eagerness, his little fists gripping it as he gnawed away.
Across the room, Molly and Arthur exchanged a surprised glance. "Teething?" Molly repeated, a hint of curiosity in her voice. "It's a little early for that, don't you think?"
Hermione gave them a wise, almost all-knowing smile, the kind that seemed far too mature for her years. "Trust me, Molly," she said with quiet confidence, cooing gently at Percy. "He's just getting started."
Arthur chuckled softly, shaking his head, but he couldn't hide his amazement. "Well, seems you've got quite the knack for knowing what babies need, Hermione. Maybe a little too well."
Hermione simply smiled, rocking Percy back and forth as he settled, her gaze faraway, as if lost in thought. But just a short while later, when Molly handed her a fresh nappy, she blinked at it in confusion, as if she'd completely forgotten what to do.
"Right," Hermione mumbled, holding the nappy awkwardly, her earlier confidence suddenly replaced by uncertainty. She stared at the baby, biting her lip, clearly drawing a blank.
Molly chuckled, a knowing warmth in her eyes as she gently took Percy back. "I think you might just need a bit of rest, dear. Babies can wear a person out quickly, especially around the holidays. Why don't you go lie down for a bit?"
Hermione nodded, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks as she mumbled an apology, wondering why her mind was so foggy. As she headed upstairs to rest, Arthur turned to Molly with a bemused smile.
"Did you see the look on her face with Percy? Almost like she knew something we didn't," he mused.
Molly nodded, but there was a touch of concern in her expression as she glanced after Hermione. "Maybe… or maybe it's just been a long term. She could probably use a little break herself."
Hermione arrived at the Potters' through the Floo the day after Christmas, brushing soot from her shoulders just as Effie pulled her into a warm hug. "Hermione, dear, lovely to see you," Effie beamed, guiding her into the cosy living room where Monty greeted her with a welcoming smile.
James appeared almost immediately, grinning with barely-contained excitement. "Alright, Hermione, let's go! Dress shopping, remember?"
Hermione chuckled, her expression softening as she looked at him with a sort of quiet, indulgent amusement. "Of course, lead the way," she said, her tone so gentle and relaxed that it took him off guard.
James paused, momentarily thrown. Shopping wasn't exactly Hermione's favourite pastime, and he knew she wasn't usually keen on him spending too much on her, even if he loved spoiling her a bit. It was something he actually appreciated about her—a grounding reminder that she was with him for him, not for the Potter name or the family fortune. But this new, almost serene willingness to go along with his plans was… unusual.
They made their way to Twilfitt and Tattings, and as they moved through the racks of elegant, lavish witches' robes, James was on a mission, pulling different fabrics and colours, determined to find something truly spectacular. Hermione, however, didn't seem to be giving it much thought, her expression thoughtful and distant.
Finally, he turned to her, holding up a deep mauve gown. "Hermione, are you really alright with this? You… don't normally let me buy you anything without at least some grumbling." He gave her a half-smile, watching her carefully.
She looked at him, her eyes filled with a wise, almost timeless understanding that made his stomach flutter oddly. "Oh, James," she said softly, reaching out to adjust the robe he was holding. "This isn't a battle worth getting into. You're happy when you do this, and I'm happy to see you happy."
The gentle, almost mystical tone in her words left him momentarily speechless. It wasn't the kind of answer he'd expected—nor the kind of answer she'd usually give him. But her words settled over him with a warmth he couldn't quite explain. He managed a smile, squeezing her hand lightly.
"Well… alright, then," he murmured, the moment feeling both grounding and surreal.
He received an instant reality check though when Hermione promptly forgot how to clasp a cloak, fumbling with her fingers as they were about to leave.
The three of them sat in the Potters' spacious kitchen, James and Sirius eagerly discussing their plans for the New Year's ball. Sirius, always the planner for a bit of drama, was outlining an elaborate scheme involving enchanted gold and red confetti that would burst out of the ceiling at midnight.
"You've got to admit, Hermione, it'll be a sight," Sirius insisted, leaning back with a mischievous grin.
Hermione, who'd been stirring her tea thoughtfully, looked up with an oddly serene expression, eyes alight with some deeper understanding. "True, Sirius, but think about it—sometimes, the most memorable nights aren't the ones with the grandest gestures. They're the ones where people connect, where there's a sense of quiet happiness… simplicity. It doesn't always need to be big and loud to be unforgettable."
The boys exchanged a baffled glance. Sirius, completely thrown, opened his mouth to reply, but James beat him to it, staring at Hermione with a mix of awe and confusion.
"Not that I'm disagreeing, Hermione, but… where's all this coming from?" James asked, eyebrows raised.
Hermione just shrugged, smiling in that strange, knowing way that had seemed to settle over her lately, as though she carried a world of knowledge that neither of them could touch. "I just think that sometimes the little things make the biggest impressions," she said simply, her voice soft. "Like... it's not just about how much glitter you can drop from the ceiling, you know?"
Sirius blinked, looking utterly lost, while James tilted his head, studying her like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "Well, that's… profound, Hermione. A bit… different for you. But I think I get it," he said finally, sharing an uncertain smile with Sirius.
They sat there in silence for a moment, the boys glancing at each other, both wondering if this was just a phase or some new insight that would vanish as suddenly as it had appeared.
But before they could dwell on it, Hermione stood up, patting both of them on the shoulder with an approving nod. "I'm just going to check on the cauldron," she said, walking confidently toward the door.
"Cauldron?" James repeated, bemused, sharing a look with Sirius. "What cauldron?"
Hermione had nearly left the room when she stopped in her tracks, blinking in surprise. "Oh! We… don't actually have a potion brewing here, do we?" She turned back with a sheepish smile, looking faintly embarrassed. "I must've… forgotten where I was."
The boys erupted into laughter, Sirius practically falling off his chair. "The wise and all-knowing Hermione, ladies and gentlemen," he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "Who somehow manages to be the most profound person in the room and still forgets where she is!"
James shook his head, his grin fading into something more thoughtful as he took her hand and gently pulled her back to the table. "Hermione… are you sure you're alright?" His eyes searched hers, concern clear in his gaze. "You've been… well, you've just seemed a bit different lately. It's like you're somewhere else sometimes."
Hermione's smile softened, and she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm fine, really," she said, but her tone was gentle, as if she knew exactly why he was worried. "I suppose it's just the end of term catching up with me." She let out a light laugh, though there was a wistfulness to it. "And maybe a little bit of holiday magic sneaking in."
James didn't look entirely convinced. He shared a quick glance with Sirius, who had quieted down, picking up on his friend's concern. "Alright, as long as you're sure," he murmured, though he continued to watch her carefully.
Hermione gave them both an amused smile, her usual warmth returning. "Honestly, you two are more like mother hens than marauders sometimes. I'm alright. Just… a bit preoccupied."
Sirius, giving her a grin, leaned back and tossed a crumpled piece of parchment at her. "Well, then, Miss Preoccupied, try not to forget where you are next time," he teased lightly, though his tone held a hint of affection, the kind they all shared after years of friendship.
Hermione laughed, rolling her eyes. "I'll do my best, but no promises," she said, though her gaze lingered on James, who was still watching her with that furrow of worry.
The morning of the New Year's party dawned cold and bright, with sunlight filtering through the frosty windows of Potter Manor. Hermione and James, still wrapped in their pyjamas and thick woollen blankets, found themselves alone at the hidden library, a rare occurrence, only possible as Sirius and Remus were thoroughly occupied in front of the fireside in the sitting room. With the house quiet, it was the perfect opportunity to delve deeper into the grimoires.
As they leaned over an ancient tome from the time period James had suggested, Hermione's fingers stilled on a passage, her eyes widening as she took in the faded, intricately crafted script. The language was a strange blend of Middle and Early Modern English, conveying an ominous weight that had endured through the centuries.
"James," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, "you need to see this."
They bent closer, absorbing the carefully inscribed lines penned by Ralston Potter himself, each word seemingly imbued with dread.
"In the yeare of our Lord sixteen hundred twenty and one, I, Ralston of House Potter, didst bear witnesse to an abhorrent magickal act—an artefakt borne of sundered soule, wrought through foulest of craftes. This wicked objecte, animate yet bereft of lyfe, doth resemble the cursed Horcruxes spoken of in ancient lore, said to have origin in the infernal workes of Herpo the Foul, whose soule he did cleave, housing its fragments in dark vessels."
"These Horcruxes, if my words be true, are bounde to necromancies so fierce as to require utter destruction beyond all magical repair. Only moste wild magicks, such as consuming Fiendfyre, may serve to undo such cursed bindings. And in his own fear of these sundered soule-pieces, Herpo, finding no solace in life everlasting, did call forth upon the world that moste monstrous of creatures, the Basilisk. It is said he bred this serpent to unmake his own dark creations, the venom potent enough to dissolve what other magicks could not. A grim legacy for any wizard to behold."
"Horcruxes," James said slowly, letting the word hang between them. "So that's it?"
Hermione's expression was tense, her fingers tracing over the lines as she nodded. "Seems plausible. And Ralston was thoughtful enough to include details about how to destroy them."
James's gaze was fixed on the passage, his eyes darkening as he absorbed the implications. "So… Herpo actually created the Basilisk to destroy his own Horcruxes. He went through all that trouble to split his soul, only to end up afraid of what he'd done."
Hermione's face was pale but resolute. "It's like he reached a point where immortality wasn't worth the cost. But he'd made it so that destroying his Horcruxes would require something nearly impossible—creatures and magic that could barely be controlled."
As the candle light flickered over the grimoire's page, they continued reading, unearthing even more disturbing revelations from Ralston Potter's account.
"In the aforementioned yeare, history repeated itself it seemed. It did fall upon the Wizengamot to reckon with one Dubthach Gaunt, of the cursed line of Slytherin, whose soule had been sundered through vile Horcrux-craft. Dubthach, as was later revealed, did partake in moste dark arts, the rending of his soule the foulest of them. A madman he had become, hollow-eyed and raving, burdened with a fractured soule that haunted his mortal flesh."
"In the courts of justice he was held, judged, and the artefact in which he had hidden this soul-piece was summoned and cleansed by means of Fiendfyre and magicks potent enow to purge even such dark relics. Yet Dubthach Gaunt did not perish in peace, nor was his line free from the mark of darkness, for he left behind his blood—a daughter, Gormlaith Gaunt, as venomous and ruthless a witch as her father."
"By virtue of the Ministry's judgement and in the light of Merlin's Law, it was decreed that no wizard shall endeavor to replicate this horrid craft, and that all mention of Horcrux-creation should be barred from learning. In this, I take solace, for our world hath no need of such black arts. Even within our own Houses, I do entreat my kin to refrain from recording even the whispers of such craft. If this record must remain, let it serve as a warning to my descendents and those of other bloodlines. I plead with my peers, if any come upon this tale, to seal this knowledge and ne'er lay down in quill nor quill-book where the learning of Horcruxes may be sought, nor how such arts are done. Our duty is to shield this world from such foulness."
James exhaled slowly, his face etched with an unusual gravity. "So even centuries ago, the Potters knew about these dark arts and wanted it buried. They tried to make sure no one could access it again."
Hermione closed the book carefully, her fingers lingering on the worn leather cover as though even the slightest misstep might let loose the ancient and dangerous knowledge it contained. Her voice was low, edged with a rare intensity. "And Dubthach Gaunt… of course. And his daughter, Gormlaith, who terrorised her own family in America… this darkness has clung to their line through generations. Like a curse that never lets go."
"America?" James raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.
"Oh," Hermione said, a flicker of scholarly enthusiasm breaking through her sombre tone. "I read a book about the founding of Ilvermorny, the magical school overseas. It was absolutely fascinating. Gormlaith Gaunt hunted down her niece and nephew, who founded the school, trying to claim them for her twisted ideals. The whole thing—her obsession with blood purity, her use of Parseltongue—it's all so intertwined with her family's darkness."
James smirked. "I'm sure it was riveting, but more importantly…" His gaze dropped back to the passage they'd been reading, his brow furrowing with concentration. "It says here the Gaunts were of the Slytherin line…" He trailed off, his expression sharpening. "Wait a second. Let me grab something."
He pushed back his chair and strode across the library with a determined air, his movements brisk. Reaching one of the tall shelves, he stretched up to pull down a massive tome of family lineages, its spine creaking as he brought it back to the table. Plopping it down with a muted thud, he began flipping through the pages, the thick parchment whispering under his fingers. His hazel eyes gleamed with purpose as he scanned the text, each name pulling him deeper into thought.
"Here," he said suddenly, tapping a page with his index finger. His voice was tinged with both excitement and apprehension as he turned the book toward Hermione. "Dubthach and Gormlaith's line may have ended, but look—" he pointed to a branching line beneath the name Corvinus Gaunt. "You can trace it all the way down to Morfin Gaunt, who only died in 1943. That was barely a generation ago. He was the last of the paternal line."
Hermione leaned closer, her brow furrowing as she followed his finger down the lineage. "But we'd already guessed Voldemort's connection to Slytherin came through his mother, didn't we? Are there any women on this family tree in the early 20th century?"
"Yeah, one," James replied, squinting at the page. "Merope Gaunt. Died in 1926."
Hermione's eyes widened as the pieces clicked together. "That fits. If Voldemort finished Hogwarts in 1945, then he had to have been born around 1926 or 1927. The orphanage would make sense as well, if his mother had died. Though it doesn't explain the lack of his father's presence."
James nodded grimly, his voice thoughtful. "So… this is probably how he learned about Horcruxes. It makes sense now. The Gaunt family grimoires might have contained records of Dubthach's Horcrux. And, if what Ralston wrote was true, they'd have documented that trial in the Wizengamot."
Hermione's gaze sharpened, her mind racing. "You're right. And if the Gaunt family was as secretive and obsessed with their bloodline as Slytherin was said to be, then they'd have hidden it carefully, maybe even guarded the knowledge. I'm sure whoever was the head of the Gaunt family back then would have taken note if one of their own had been executed for practising such dark magic."
James's jaw tightened, his voice turning dark. "And I bet that grimoire didn't come with all the same warnings. They probably saw it as some kind of twisted legacy. Or you know, instructions on how to do it."
Hermione nodded solemnly. "And if Voldemort had that, even a whisper of that knowledge, it would have been enough. He'd have seen it as a way to make himself invincible, not as a warning like Ralston intended for his family."
Hermione and James sat in silence for a long moment, both of them grappling with the implications of what they'd uncovered. The chilling thought that Voldemort could have more than one Horcrux was enough to make their blood run cold. The diadem, the diary—how many pieces of his soul had he actually hidden away?
James reached across the table, resting his hand over Hermione's. "I guess the only real question remains… how many?"
She squeezed his hand, brow furrowed in thought. "We know of two. Arithmantically speaking, splitting a soul into three pieces would create a magically stable formation. Three soul pieces—one in his body, two in Horcruxes. That could be it."
"But what if it isn't?" James said, his voice a low murmur. "What if two wasn't enough for him?"
They fell silent again, both lost in thought. The concept of soul-splitting was already horrifying enough, but more than three fragments felt impossible to fathom.
Hermione's mind whirled, her voice a bit shaky as she finally said, "What if… what if he went even further? What if he split it seven times, creating six Horcruxes?"
James drew back slightly, staring at her. "Seven?" he echoed, the horror in his tone mirroring her own. "Hermione, that's—do you know what that would mean?"
She swallowed hard. "Seven is the most magically powerful number. But it's also… if he did that—assuming creating a Horcrux means he halved his remaining soul each time—by the sixth one, he'd have less than two percent of his original soul left in his body."
"Not even two percent?" James murmured, his face paling at the thought. "That's barely anything. No one in their right mind would do that. They'd be a—a shell, just a fragment of themselves."
"Exactly," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling. "To go that far, to whittle down your own soul until there's almost nothing left… it's madness."
They exchanged a look, both of them struck by the enormity of what they'd just theorised. The idea of someone willingly mutilating themselves to such an extent went against everything they understood about life, humanity—even magic itself.
James looked at her, concern playing over his features. "I can't imagine it," he said, shaking his head, the words nearly inaudible as he tried to process it all. "I mean, no sane person would ever even consider that. He'd be left… hollowed out, barely human."
Hermione nodded, pressing her lips together. "Let's just operate with the assumption that he's only got two Horcruxes for now. Until we find any evidence that there might be more."
"That's a bit of a relief," James said, exhaling. "Dumbledore has the diadem, so if that's one… we just have to find a way to get the diary."
Hermione's gaze drifted off as she considered it. "It would likely be with the Malfoys at some point—Lucius Malfoy was the one who slipped it to Ginny Weasley, at least in the timeline I remember."
James's eyes narrowed, his posture tightening with focus. "We'll need to keep an eye on the Malfoy family, then. Lucius Malfoy's not at Hogwarts anymore, but he must know where it's kept."
Hermione hesitated, her brows knitting together as she considered his words. "Honestly, I'm not sure about that. In the future, yes, Lucius definitely had it. But… his father is still alive, isn't he? Abraxas Malfoy. If anyone in that family were entrusted with it now, it might be him, not Lucius."
James frowned, his fingers drumming rhythmically against the table. "Do we even know if Abraxas is a Death Eater?"
Hermione bit her lip, searching her memory. "I'm not certain. Even Lucius claimed the Imperius Curse after the war, which is how he avoided Azkaban. But if he had a part of Voldemort's soul for safekeeping, that excuse is obviously a load of Hippogriff dung. Given how powerful and well-connected the Malfoys are, it wouldn't surprise me if Voldemort courted multiple members of the family—like he did with the Blacks. And if Abraxas is still the head of the family, it would make more sense to place something as important as a Horcrux with him instead of Lucius."
James exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. "So we might not even be looking at Lucius yet… but his father. Brilliant. That makes things even more complicated. Getting close to Abraxas Malfoy would be damn near impossible."
"Yes," Hermione said thoughtfully, her gaze drifting as she processed the implications. "But if we keep an ear out—maybe even watch how the Malfoys operate—there might be a chance something will slip. Some clue, some connection to where it's being hidden."
James leaned forward again, his hazel eyes meeting hers with determination. "Then we need to be ready. If anything comes up, we have to act on it. Even if it's a long shot."
Hermione nodded slowly, though her expression remained tense. "This is a dangerous path we're walking, James. We can't afford to make mistakes—not with something this critical."
But even as she spoke, her face twisted slightly, her fingers lifting to her temples, massaging as if to fend off a sudden ache. She blinked, her eyes unfocused for a moment, and shook her head as if trying to clear her mind.
James's frown deepened as he watched her. "Hermione, you've been acting strange lately—forgetting things, zoning out. And it's not like you at all. Do you think… do you think that's from the diadem?"
"Probably," she said offhandedly, rubbing her temple as if she could scrub away the residual effects. "It's Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem, actually, so… the effects will probably wear off soon."
James spluttered, staring at her in disbelief. "How—how do you even know that?"
She blinked at him, as though he'd just asked a very silly question. "Don't you know the legend? Rowena's diadem gives wisdom to the wearer," she explained simply.
He gave her a blank look. "Alright, but then… if it's supposed to make you wiser, why are you so forgetful?"
She tilted her head, tapping her temple as if she were trying to work it out herself. "Too much going on up here," she said, pointing to her head. "It's like… it makes everything I already know seem clearer and connects it all, but it's also incredibly overwhelming."
James watched her carefully. "Do you… do you mind if I take a look? Just to see if everything's alright? I mean, with you having had a Horcrux on your head, and what you told me about how the diary affected Ginny… I'm worried."
Hermione studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright, go on," she conceded. "You're not going to let this go until you're reassured anyway."
He shot her a small grin of thanks and closed his eyes briefly, focusing as he performed Legilimency. She purposefully lowered her Occlumency shields, giving him access to her mind.
Immediately, James was struck by the staggering complexity of Hermione's mind. It wasn't just a stream of thoughts—it was an intricate web, a vast, shimmering network of ideas and connections that stretched endlessly in every direction. Each thread of thought seemed to weave into another, forming superhighways of logic, creativity, and insight that intersected and diverged at dizzying speeds. Concepts merged seamlessly, yet impossibly, and the sheer depth of her intellect was almost overwhelming to experience firsthand.
He had always known Hermione's mind to be formidable—a place of quick wit, boundless curiosity, and sharp intellect—but this was something else entirely. It was as though someone had amplified the number of connections between her thoughts tenfold, turning her already labyrinthine mental structure into a dazzling, frenetic symphony of ideas, theories, and solutions. Each connection pulsed with energy, creating a sense of endless possibilities, yet at the same time, it felt almost chaotic, as though the sheer volume of it all teetered on the edge of overload.
James felt both awe and concern, wondering how she could possibly navigate such a storm of thought without losing herself in it. It was incredible, yes, but it also seemed like a heavy burden to bear.
"Whoa," he stumbled, pulling himself out of her mind, feeling slightly disoriented. "Well, the good news is no one would be able to gather anything from that if they managed to get past your shields. It's like a giant maze in there."
Hermione's lips quirked in a small smile. "I don't think the effect is supposed to last, but I hope it fades soon. I'd just love to go back to not forgetting things like how to comb my own hair."
He chuckled. "Did that actually happen?"
She scowled, glancing pointedly at her messy hair. "Why do you think I look like a rat's nest right now?"
James grinned, leaning in close. "Guess the outside of your head's matching the inside these days," he teased.
She swatted him with the grimoire she was holding, her face growing horrified as she realised what she'd done. "Oh, Merlin—I literally just forgot that was a one-of-a-kind grimoire." She looked at the worn cover in dismay. "I hate that diadem so much."
James bit back a laugh, taking the grimoire from her and setting it carefully on the table. "Then maybe let's add 'don't hit me with priceless tomes' to the list of things you're not allowed to forget," he said gently.
She let out a soft laugh, rolling her eyes. "Oh, don't get smug, Potter."
"Too late," he grinned, squeezing her hand. "Just promise me one thing: if that headache gets worse or the forgetfulness starts to interfere too much, you'll let me know, alright?"
Hermione hesitated, then nodded. "Deal."
As they shared a lingering look, Hermione felt the warmth of his hand steady her, grounding her against the disquiet in her mind.
As James and Hermione quietly slipped out of the grimoire library, they nearly jumped out of their skins as Sirius and Remus were right there in the main library, arms crossed and both wearing identical, triumphant grins.
"Caught in the act!" Sirius declared, eyes twinkling. "I knew it! I knew this is where you two have been sneaking off to since the summer. Prongs, whipped into a research assistant role, in pyjamas no less? How urgent can a library be?" He gave an exaggerated shudder, his horror mostly for show.
Remus chuckled, clearly entertained by the whole ordeal. "Must be something important to pull you out of bed and into a dusty library before noon."
James sighed, rolling his eyes, but there was a smirk tugging at his lips. "It's… complicated. This wasn't exactly what we planned to do when we snuck out here in our pyjamas."
Sirius raised a brow, then glanced around conspiratorially before casting a quick privacy charm over them all, his face growing serious. "So, does this mean you two finally know what that diadem was as well? The one that put our dear Kitten here out of commission for two days?"
James blinked, momentarily thrown off. "Wait… how do you know anything about it?"
Sirius folded his arms and gave a slight shrug. "I might have been expelled from the Black family, but I wasn't expelled from their education. From ages five to ten, I was practically force-fed the Black grimoires, in 'preparation' for my future as the heir, not to mention some other… unsavoury lessons." His face darkened briefly, but he waved it off. "The Blacks may have dealt in some twisted, dark stuff, but even they wouldn't touch a Horcrux. Vile stuff, splitting your soul by murder then keeping it around in trinkets to avoid dying. Whatever that diadem was, it couldn't have been anything else. I've never felt anything so foul in my life—and I've been around enough dark magic to know."
Remus's brow furrowed in confusion, glancing between his friends. "Grimoires? Are we talking about actual spell books or…?" His voice trailed off, looking a bit lost.
Sirius shot him a wry smile. "Not exactly. Grimoires are like magical family records for old wizarding families, going back generations. Not the sort of thing you'll find in most homes nowadays, but the Blacks? Well, they had grimoires for ages." He shrugged. "Your family, Moony, isn't old enough to have started one. They're from Wales, right? Only became wizards in the mid-19th century or so. By then, starting grimoires was already rare, though the older families kept up with it."
Remus nodded slowly, digesting this new piece of magical tradition. "So, these grimoires… they document everything? Spells, history, family secrets?"
"Pretty much," James chimed in. "They're like a family vault of knowledge. And yes," he added, sharing a quick look with Hermione, "we think that the diadem was—well, it was one of Voldemort's." His tone was serious, a warning in his voice as he continued. "But listen, we can't tell anyone outside this room. Not Peter, not anyone."
Sirius's brows knit together in concern. "Not even Pete? Why not?"
James exchanged a glance with Hermione before replying, "Occlumency. If the knowledge about Horcruxes got to the wrong people, we'd all be in danger. Peter… well, he's hopeless at Occlumency. Sirius and I had it drilled into us early, and Remus here," he gestured at Remus, "has a natural resistance to the mind arts due to his condition. But Peter? He's wide open. We can't risk him knowing about the Horcruxes."
Sirius's face grew more serious, a haunted look in his eyes. "Horcruxes… as in plural?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
Hermione hesitated, glancing between the others. She was glad she had a plausible thing to pin some of her future knowledge on. "While I was, um, unconscious, I had a strange vision. I saw the diadem and a diary along with Voldemort. I think… I think that diary is another one."
Sirius's face was pinched with worry, his gaze darting back and forth between Hermione and James as he tried to steady his voice. "Are you sure she's alright, Prongs? Dark artefacts don't mess around. Possession, curses—that's a real possibility with things as twisted as Horcruxes."
James placed a reassuring hand on Hermione's shoulder, his touch gentle but firm. "It's not possession, Pads. I checked, and it's her. Just… a bit more insightful and forgetful than usual, yeah. But nothing's off beyond that."
Sirius scoffed, crossing his arms, but his eyes never left Hermione. "That doesn't mean she's safe. Cursed objects like that don't just—" he gestured vaguely, his frustration evident—"not affect you. Even the smallest exposure to dark magic can leave traces." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a rough whisper. "Voldemort turned Ravenclaw's diadem into a Horcrux, Hermione. You're telling me there's no backlash?"
Hermione shifted under his intense stare, looking a little more pensive than usual, but it was Remus who broke the tension, clearing his throat and regarding her with a thoughtful, almost protective expression. "Actually, it could just be the diadem's original properties," he said gently. "Ravenclaw's diadem is supposed to grant wisdom, right? Maybe the sudden influx of all that insight is… well, overwhelming. It's not every day your brain gets a boost from one of the most powerful magical artefacts in wizarding history."
Hermione smiled gratefully at Remus, but Sirius's sceptical expression hadn't softened one bit. He looked like he was gearing up to argue further when Monty appeared at the door, his face lighting up as he caught sight of Hermione. His eyes sparkled with his usual fatherly warmth, though they softened in concern as he took in her slightly dishevelled hair.
"Ah, Hermione, my dear! That hair of yours!" he said with a grin, already approaching her with a twinkle of delight as James inconspicuously cancelled the privacy charm. "It's positively untamed. You'd be doing me a massive favour if you'd let me test my latest batch of Sleekeazy on it. I've been refining the formula, and I think it's the best yet."
Everyone exchanged glances, fully expecting Hermione to stammer out an excuse. Instead, she surprised them all by smiling up at Monty and nodding. "Of course, Monty. Happy to help."
She let herself be led toward Monty's potions lab, leaving the boys staring after her in shock.
"See? Definitely cursed," Sirius muttered, his voice a mix of humour and exasperation. "The Hermione we know would have found at least five ways to dodge that by now."
James rolled his eyes, unable to hide a smile. "Give it a rest, Pads. She said the effects are supposed to wear off."
Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Are you really sure?"
James's smile faltered just slightly, though he nodded resolutely. "Let's give it some time. If she's still… off by the time we're back at school, then we'll tell Dumbledore. But for now, let her relax."
Sirius exchanged a look with Remus, the worry in his eyes not entirely hidden.
The night of the New Year's ball was aglow with festivity, the lights of Potter Manor reflecting warmly off the frosted windows and dancing across the gleaming ballroom. Hermione made her way down the staircase, dressed in a deep mauve gown with gold detailing that shimmered subtly under the candlelight. Her hair, elegantly styled into soft curls, framed her face and cascaded over her shoulders, adding a touch of sophistication and warmth that matched the evening's festivities.
As soon as James caught sight of her, his breath hitched, a mixture of awe and admiration lighting up his face. "Merlin, Hermione," he murmured, a hand going to the back of his neck as he approached her. "You look… incredible."
Hermione smiled, a hint of playful mischief in her eyes. "You think so? Sometimes I feel like these balls are a grand pageant for my own evolution. Every year, a different look, a different me."
James took her hand, guiding her gently toward the dance floor. "I've loved every single version of you," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he didn't entirely trust himself to say it aloud. "Truth be told, I had my eye on you from that very first ball."
Hermione's eyes widened in surprise as she looked up at him. "You did? But… you were chasing after Lily the entire school year after that. I thought she was all you wanted."
James chuckled, looking slightly sheepish. "I was… well, too stubborn to admit otherwise. It was easier to go all in, trying to prove to myself that Lily was what I wanted. But," he admitted, squeezing her hand, "it was Lily who, quite literally, shoved me into you after that Quidditch match. She knew before I did. Sometimes I think she saw it all before I did. Saw that it was you."
Hermione's heart skipped as she gazed into his warm hazel eyes, so open, so unguarded. "I suppose I should thank her, then," she teased gently. "For knocking some sense into you."
He grinned, pulling her a little closer as they moved into the flow of the dance. "Oh, I think I'll have to send her a whole bouquet. She changed my life, and she has no idea how grateful I am for it."
As James and Hermione swayed together, lost in the music, a playful tap on Hermione's shoulder interrupted them. Sirius grinned as he bowed dramatically, extending a hand. "May I steal the lady for a dance, Mr Potter? It's a ball, and the grown-ups should have their turn."
Hermione couldn't help but laugh, placing her hand in Sirius's as he spun her away from James with an exaggerated flourish. "Let's show them how it's done, Miss Prewett," he said, his voice full of mischief as he led her into a lively, almost theatrical waltz.
James chuckled, stepping back toward Remus and Peter, who watched Sirius twirl Hermione around the dance floor, both of them laughing. Peter's eyebrows raised as he looked between his friends. "You two are remarkably… calm about this. If it were me, I'd be a bit jealous."
Remus snorted, glancing over at Sirius and Hermione, who were now deep in mock conversation, probably plotting some dance floor mischief. "With Sirius?" he asked, an amused glint in his eye. "Not a chance. Besides, they're having fun. We're a family. Nothing to be jealous of when it's all in good spirits."
James grinned, his eyes following Hermione's every move. "Exactly. Besides, Hermione's been a good sport about his antics since day one. She can handle him—probably better than any of us." He chuckled as Sirius attempted a dramatic dip, almost dropping Hermione, and had to recover with a flustered look.
Peter tilted his head thoughtfully. "I suppose it's different with you all. It's… nice to see."
Remus clapped Peter on the back. "See? It's all about trust, Pete. That, and knowing Sirius won't be able to keep up this 'grown-up' act for long."
Almost on cue, Sirius spun Hermione back toward James, dropping all pretence of sophistication. "Alright, Prongs, I've had my fill of 'grown-up' dancing. She's all yours—if she still wants you after that display."
Hermione just laughed, reaching for James's hand again. "Lucky for you, I'm immune to his charms." She glanced back at Sirius with a wink. "Though I'm not sure I've ever had so much fun."
James shook his head, smiling, as he drew her back into his arms. "Just don't let him know that. His ego's hard enough to keep in check as it is."
With a mischievous smirk, James tightened his hold on Hermione, drawing her close as the music slowed to a soft, melodic rhythm. Unlike Sirius's playful, exaggerated dance, James guided her with a gentle, steady confidence, each step precise, as if the whole room had faded away, leaving only the two of them in their own quiet world.
Hermione felt her cheeks warm as James's gaze softened, his hazel eyes holding hers with a warmth and sincerity that spoke volumes beyond words. His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her even closer, their movements slowing to match the intimacy of the moment. She could feel his heartbeat through his chest, steady and reassuring, and for a moment, everything felt perfectly still.
Sirius, now back with Remus and Peter, crossed his arms and let out a mock scoff, though he was smiling. "Alright, Prongs, point made. No need to put us all to shame with that lovebird act."
Remus chuckled, giving Sirius a nudge. "Looks like he's one-upped you without even trying, Pads."
Peter grinned, nudging his friends in turn. "Wish I could be that smooth."
James leaned his forehead against Hermione's as they swayed, oblivious to their friends' banter, their shared laughter, or the room around them. His voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her. "You know… I'd dance with you like this every night if I could."
Hermione's smile turned tender, her hand slipping up to rest on James's shoulder as she closed her eyes, savouring the closeness of the moment. "Then I'll hold you to that, James Potter," she murmured, her voice soft but full of certainty.
Sirius, who had been leaning dramatically against a nearby wall, finally threw his hands up with a loud groan of mock exasperation. "Alright, alright! Let's get a room ready for you two while we're at it! Merlin, I can't take this anymore."
James didn't even glance in Sirius's direction, clearly unbothered. "Jealous, Pads?" he quipped, tightening his arm around Hermione. His grin only widened as he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, the soft gesture his quiet way of marking the moment as theirs, immune to Sirius's antics.
Sirius made a gagging sound, but Remus elbowed him sharply, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Give it a rest," Remus said, though there was fondness in his voice. "It's New Year's."
The evening unfolded with laughter and warmth, the room filled with the soft glow of enchanted fairy lights and the murmur of quiet conversation. The minutes ticked away toward midnight, the anticipation palpable.
As the countdown began, James turned to Hermione, his hazel eyes shining with affection. The cheers of the room seemed to fade into the background as the clock struck midnight, and James tilted his head down, catching her lips in a kiss that was both celebratory and intimate.
Hermione smiled against him, leaning in just a little closer. When they finally pulled apart, there were matching grins on their faces, and Hermione whispered, "This is becoming a bit of a tradition, isn't it?"
James chuckled, his voice low and warm. "The best kind."