When Sirius returned to Grimmauld Place, he was practically glowing —in the most rugged, manly, definitely-not-emotional way, of course. The meeting with Harry had gone better than he could've imagined. The kid was brilliant. Witty. Brave. Snarky in a way that was pure James, but thoughtful and dry like Lily used to be when someone said something truly idiotic in Charms class. Sirius was still buzzing with the sound of Harry's laughter in his ears, still tasting the chocolate fudge sundae they'd shared in the Muggle café near Charing Cross.

He was pretty sure he could conjure a corporeal Patronus on the first try now. Hell, it might take two Dementors just to stop him from smiling.

Which was why the sight that greeted him when he stepped into the sitting room of Number Twelve felt like hitting a brick wall at full speed.

Hermione was curled up on the threadbare couch, bundled in at least three blankets and one oversized knitted jumper he didn't remember owning. Her cheeks were flushed again—too flushed—and a faint sheen of sweat clung to her brow. Her hair was a frizzed halo around her face, and her nose looked dangerously close to going full red-Rudolph again.

That alone was enough to dent his good mood.

But it wasn't just the fever returning that gave him pause—it was the books .

Piles of them.

Sprawled across the coffee table, stacked on the armrest, balanced on the floor and one even open on her chest as she dozed restlessly. Old, thick, leather-bound grimoires with faded spines and Black family crests. Some of them looked familiar , which meant he definitely didn't want her handling them without gloves. Or a flame-retardant curse breaker's kit.

He strode forward immediately, nudging the nearest tome with the end of his wand like it might bite him. "Tell me you at least checked these for curses," he said, not really expecting an answer, as she blinked herself awake with a groggy little hum.

"Sirius?" she rasped, voice gravelly from disuse and illness.

"You're supposed to be resting, not summoning the ghosts of blood purists' past for tea," he chided, crouching beside the couch. "What are you doing?"

Her eyes were glassy, but there was that familiar stubborn glint in them. "Research."

He huffed. "Of course it's research."

"For Harry," she added, as if that explained everything . "Horcrux removal… without, you know… killing him."

Sirius sat back on his heels, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Brilliant. You're burning up, haven't shaken your fever properly, and instead of sleeping it off like a sane person , you decided to deep-dive into Dark magic literature in a house that used to literally breathe murder. "

"Didn't have anything else to do," she mumbled, attempting to pull the blanket higher like it was a perfectly valid excuse.

"You could've done nothing. That's an option. A very underrated one."

Hermione coughed into the sleeve of her jumper. "I'm fine."

"You're not. " He stood and began carefully nudging books off the couch, muttering a charm as he tapped each one. "I know these titles. This one made my third cousin vomit spiders for a week."

"Useful, then," she murmured weakly. "Not the spiders. The… knowledge."

"You're infuriating," he said, though his voice had lost its bite.

She sniffled and offered a wan smile. "And you're late. Did Harry like you?"

Sirius paused.

Then, quietly: "Yeah. He really did."

Hermione's whole face softened, even in her feverish haze. "Good."

Sirius cleared the rest of the books away with a few more waves of his wand, conjured a fresh cool compress with a mutter, and pressed it gently to her forehead. She closed her eyes with a sigh.

"You're not going back into that library until you've taken a potion, eaten something without staring at a footnote on soul anchoring, and slept for at least six consecutive hours."

She didn't argue. Just murmured, "Bossy," under her breath.

Sirius grinned. "Better than letting you expire surrounded by cursed literature. That'd be so on brand for this house."

She chuckled weakly—and promptly sneezed.

He fetched the tissues without a word, then got up to make more tea. An possibly banish all the books back to the library where they belonged.

She might be relentless, but so was he.

Especially when he cared .

"I did check them for curses, by the way," Hermione said, her voice scratchy but carrying that unmistakable edge of exasperated intelligence that made Sirius grin despite himself.

He froze mid-step, one brow raised, holding a particularly grimy, spine-cracked tome halfway in the air with his wand. The Eternal Chains of Obedience . It had that special, sinister shimmer that only truly problematic magical texts had.

She pushed herself up slightly from the nest of blankets on the couch. "I think you forgot I already lived through one purging of this house with the Order. Or that I'm an Unspeakable. Not some overeager intern with delusions of grandeur. A full-fledged, worked-in-the-Death-Room-and-lived-to-complain-about-it professional."

Sirius blinked, slowly lowering the book onto a safe spot. "Right," he said. "My mistake. Forgive me for momentarily forgetting your terrifying competence."

She sniffled, unimpressed. "I'm sick, not stupid."

"I never said you were stupid," Sirius replied, carefully setting the cursed book down on a table now that he was no longer worried about it melting through the floor. "I just… have a long-standing distrust of this house and anything it's ever produced. Especially books. Especially ones with titles like that."

"Fair," Hermione allowed, reaching for her tea with a slight wince. "Although I'm not the one who nearly used a goblet from the drawing room that had 'do not touch' runes on it in glowing red script."

"I thought that was decorative!"

"You're lucky your fingers didn't fall off."

He shrugged, flopping into the armchair opposite her. "Would've made a hell of a conversation starter. 'Hi, I'm Sirius Black, recently exonerated, formerly dismembered by my mother's glassware.'"

"True," she muttered, dabbing at her nose with a tissue. "But don't try to act like I'm the reckless one here."

"I'm not the one elbow-deep in the Necronomicon collection while running a fever of probably a thirty-eight point seven."

"It's fine," she said again, nose scrunching as she reached for her tea.

"It's not fine," Sirius said, grabbing a coaster and sliding it under her cup like she was going to be graded on cohabitation etiquette. "You're coughing like a dying Victorian heroine and you're still reading about soul splitting."

She glanced sideways at him, eyes tired but amused. "And yet you just called me adorable yesterday."

"I also licked your face. My credibility's in shambles."

Hermione chuckled softly, though it morphed into a cough. When she recovered, she nodded toward the stack of books still nearby.

"There are a few promising leads. I think most of the literature on soul magic is either theoretical or so far off the rails it belongs in a fiction section, but some of the Arithmantic breakdowns… they make sense. I think I might be able to cross-reference with some of the stuff in the Department's restricted vaults—if I can remember half the protocols to reconstruct it."

"You're not going back to the Department," Sirius interrupted sharply.

"I meant mentally. I'm not planning a break-in while running a low-grade fever."

He narrowed his eyes. "That better be a promise."

She offered him a wobbly smile. "It's a… fever-dampened intention."

Sirius groaned and rubbed his face. "You're going to be the death of me."

"Unlikely," she muttered. "I already saved you once. Or twice really if we count the Hippogriff stuff that is never going to happen now."

That earned her a reluctant grin. "Touché."

They sat in a brief lull, Hermione sipping her tea like it was anchoring her to the room, Sirius eyeing the book pile like it might collectively attack him.

"Alright," he said finally, "you've checked the books, you're qualified enough to lecture half the Ministry, and you're apparently capable of academic thought even when sick. But you're also glassy-eyed and about three pages from face-planting into Maleficarum: The Joy of Binding Souls . Maybe take a break?"

"I was just cross-referencing the footnotes—"

"No footnotes until you eat solid food," he interrupted, waving a hand. "Soup doesn't count."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "We're out of anything solid unless you count the bricks of horror in your mother's pantry."

"I'll send Kreacher," Sirius said breezily.

"Be nice to Kreacher," she called after him. "He's trying."

Sirius snorted. "He threatened to drop a Black family heirloom on my head when I was twelve."

"Speaking of Kreacher," Hermione said, setting her mug down carefully, "I meant to bring this up two days ago, but apparently fever-induced brain fog is a thing. You'll need to give him a direct command not to reveal my presence—or identity—to anyone. In any way. Not even hints."

Sirius frowned. "You really think he would? You turned him with the whole Regulus locket thing. I mean… he brought you Pepper-Up."

Hermione shook her head. "You're missing the point. Yes, he's cooperative now , but he's still magically bound to the House of Black, not you personally. That loyalty can be exploited. He could be manipulated."

"By who? There's no one left."

Hermione sighed, then coughed once into her sleeve. "You're not the only Black alive, Sirius."

Sirius raised a brow. "Er, I think I am, actually."

She gave him a flat look. "Right. So the moment a female relative marries and changes her name, she just… ceases to exist?"

Sirius had the decency to look sheepish. "I forgot. Sorry."

"Bellatrix is in Azkaban," Hermione said, ticking it off like an item on a list. "Andromeda's technically disowned, yes, but she's still got the blood. Not that we have to worry about her. But Narcissa—well. She's very much alive, not disowned, married to a man up to his neck with Voldemort, and still fully capable of exploiting the family's magical legacy if it suits her purpose."

Sirius made a face, his expression tightening. "You think she'd go that far?"

"I think she's a Slytherin married to Lucius Malfoy. She doesn't have to go far. She just has to be clever. And if she suspected Kreacher was hiding something important?" Hermione leaned forward slightly, voice low. "She wouldn't need to threaten him. She'd just need to suggest that helping her would honour your mother's legacy. That Regulus would've approved. That's all it would take."

Sirius's face had gone carefully blank, the kind of blank that suggested something boiling beneath it.

"I'm not saying she would," Hermione added gently. "But why leave the possibility open? House-elf magic is old and strange and bound up in family magic. Kreacher's loyal—but not always in the direction you'd expect. He's got loopholes built into his bones."

There was a beat of silence. Then she added, softer, "Remind me to tell you about Dobby sometime. Or… how we got tricked into going to the Department of Mysteries in fifth year on a fool's errand."

Sirius blinked. "Who's Dobby?"

"A very excitable elf with a fondness for pillowcases and endangering himself." She hesitated. "Let's just say, some of us learned the hard way that house elves can pass along information to the wrong people—indirectly. Under influence. And it can go very, very badly."

"Do I even want to know about the Department of Mysteries?"

She nodded, but didn't elaborate. "Later. When I don't feel like I've been steamrolled by a Thestral."

Sirius hovered in the doorway, fingers flexing once on the frame. He looked like he wanted to press her, to demand more right now, but something in her voice—maybe the weariness, maybe the old pain buried in it—stopped him.

He swallowed once, then gave a short nod. "Right. I'll talk to Kreacher."

He hesitated again, then glanced back at her, lips twitching in a way that tried for casual but landed somewhere far more genuine.

"Have I mentioned recently how glad I am you're here?"

Hermione blinked, surprised.

"No," she said, her voice thick but wry. "But you just did."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Good."

Then, with a half-sigh and a mumbled grumble about manipulative women and terrifying witches, he vanished down the corridor toward the kitchen—his steps lighter than they had any right to be.

The next morning, Hermione woke to the unmistakable sound of chaos.

It started as a faint thud beneath the floorboards—rhythmic and deliberate, like someone attempting to charm the foundations into submission. Then came the sizzle of contained spellfire, a screech that could've belonged to a Banshee choking on doxy dust, and, most damningly, a jubilant cry of, "Got it! Bag that little bastard before it mutates again!"

Her eyes snapped open.

For a brief, delusional second, she considered the possibility that it was all a fever dream—the magical pest hunting, the Black family library's light necromancy, Sirius's face lick —but then she moved and felt every aching joint complain. Her sinuses throbbed like a percussion section, and the crumpled tissues scattered across the bedclothes painted a stark and mucus-filled picture of reality.

Someone downstairs shouted, "Oi! That's not a Puffskein, that's my lunch!"

Hermione groaned into her pillow. "I hate this house."

Still, curiosity—and a slightly ominous sense of self-preservation—won out.

With a sigh, she reached for her wand and muttered a quick glamour, smoothing the blotchy flush on her cheeks, deflating the puffy shadows under her eyes, and taming her hair just enough to not be mistaken for a sentient mop. The illusion wouldn't hold under direct scrutiny, but it would at least spare her the indignity of being seen by strangers looking like a sneezing ghost of Christmas future. Or, worse, like a grown-up version of her own younger self.

She threw on a thick house robe and cinched it tightly around her frame, wand still in hand—more from reflex than any real belief she'd need it—and padded downstairs.

The moment she reached the base of the staircase, she froze.

The entrance hall of Grimmauld Place had been transformed into a war zone of magical upheaval. Half a dozen witches and wizards bustled through it in various uniforms—cursebreakers, structural charmwrights, and what looked like the magical equivalent of an exterminator with a disturbingly large cage and a wand holster shaped like a crossbow. Charmed scrub brushes were scrubbing graffiti off the bannisters (some of which definitely hadn't been visible before). Doxy traps hovered ominously near the ceiling, vibrating with restrained menace.

A levitating blackboard floated in one corner, inscribed with an itinerary labelled INFESTATION PRIORITY LIST in neon green chalk. Underneath were ominous bullet points:

Kitchen: Undead mould colony

Drawing Room: Screamer, Banshee-adjacent

Second-floor study: Particularly aggressive boggart

Hermione blinked at it, then at the two magical workers attempting to subdue something under a sheet in the parlour. It shrieked again, muffled, then turned into what might've been sobbing.

In the middle of it all stood Sirius Black, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair wild, and shirt lightly dusted in ceiling plaster. He was gesturing animatedly to a stern-looking witch with her wand tucked behind one ear and a floating clipboard trailing obediently after her. An unrolled floor plan of the house hovered beside them in mid-air, gleaming with moving notes and animated curse-locations that blinked red and gold.

"I want the entire wall knocked out here," Sirius was saying, tapping at a section labelled Dining Room (Cursed?) , "and maybe install one of those Muggle windows with the crank, you know? The twisty ones. Also, this hallway is haunted. Probably. Salt the corners anyway."

Hermione cleared her throat, loudly.

Sirius turned, blinked once at her, then quickly muttered to the witch, "Excuse me for a moment," and strode across the hall to intercept her.

"What are you doing up?" he asked, not unkindly, but clearly surprised.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Kind of hard to sleep with all this going on. You want to tell me what's happening, or should I just assume the house is finally staging a coup?"

Sirius ran a hand through his hair—now lightly dusted with ceiling plaster. "I'm following your advice."

She gave him a long, unimpressed look.

"You said I needed to make this place my own," he said with faux innocence. "Purge the past. Knock out the trauma. Sprinkle in a little self-actualisation. You know, healing through aggressive architecture."

"Yes, I remember," she said, rubbing her temple. "But I imagined that being, I don't know… staggered? Over a few months? Not... a Sunday morning renovation blitz. While I'm still running a fever."

He winced slightly. "Okay, valid. But I couldn't sleep."

"And so you hired half of Magical Maintenance to what? Emotionally exorcise the wallpaper?"

"Also valid."

"Sirius."

"I may have hinted to Harry that I wanted him to come live with me."

Hermione stared. "Okay, but that still doesn't explain the urgency. Harry's going to Hogwarts in ten days. Surely you are not expecting him to come by before Christmas."

Sirius shrugged, that maddeningly casual air overtaking him again. "I don't know. I guess I just thought… why wait? I've wasted enough time already."

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, breathed in through her nose, then pinched the bridge of it. "Right. Okay. Fine. But tell me you at least secured the you-know-what in a properly warded room?"

Sirius straightened. "Do I look like an idiot?"

Hermione opened her mouth, then clearly thought better of it.

"I locked the locket in the cellar behind three separate curse locks, a warded containment field, and a ward Kreacher helped reinforce. He's very possessive of it, actually. Didn't want to part with it."

"He would be," Hermione muttered. "That locket has power over him. Subtle but insidious."

"I figured. That's why I didn't let him touch it directly. Just let him recite the house incantation while I did the magic." Sirius paused, brow furrowed. "The thing… hummed. When I brought it near the wards. Like it wanted to get out."

Hermione nodded grimly. "That's how you know you've done it right."

He gave her a sideways glance. "You've got a very twisted definition of success."

"I work in the Department of Mysteries," she said flatly. "Our definition of success is 'no spontaneous combustion.'"

Sirius laughed. Then sobered. "Thanks for reminding me about Kreacher's boundaries, by the way. I gave him a direct order this morning before everyone arrived. He won't speak about you, your presence, or your real name to anyone. Not even whisper it to the doxies."

"Smart." She swayed slightly where she stood.

Sirius caught her elbow before she could pretend she wasn't light-headed. "You should sit. This isn't your battle today."

"But the house—"

"Is mine," he said gently. "Let me be reckless and overly ambitious on your behalf for once."

Hermione gave him a long look. "You're still infuriating."

"I know," he said. "But I'm your infuriating project now, aren't I?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. "Apparently one I'm cursed with."

"And yet, here you are." He nudged her gently toward the stairs. "Now go rest. I've got a possessed music box to duel."

She stared at him. "That's not a real thing."

He gestured toward the parlour. "Is now."

Hermione groaned. "Merlin help me, I'm going to start liking you."

"Too late," Sirius said, already calling over his shoulder to the renovation witch. "No, that banister can't stay, it bit me once as a child!"

And despite herself, Hermione laughed. Then coughed. Then shook her head and turned for the stairs, muttering, "Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless."

But she was smiling. And that was something.

On August 23rd, Hermione awoke feeling… better.

Miraculously so.

Her head still throbbed a bit and her nose was still a touch too red to be considered polite company, but compared to the previous days, she felt like a whole new woman.

A quick look in the mirror confirmed it: still a little pale, still tired around the eyes, but not contagious. Not tragic. Not terrifying. Good enough for Grimmauld Place, anyway.

She pulled on a soft jumper and padded out of her room, drawn by the distant clinking of cutlery and the unmistakable, comforting scent of fresh bread and coffee.

And when she descended the stairs, she nearly stopped dead in her tracks.

Grimmauld Place… was lovely.

Gone were the oppressive dark greens and suffocating velvets. The heavy drapes had been replaced with lighter, airy ones that actually let in daylight. The walls had been repainted—yes, repainted —in soft, neutral tones that made the house feel more like a place where living happened, not just withering. Several walls had been completely removed, although apparently not the one that had formerly housed the screaming portrait of Walburga Black.

And where there had once been centuries of magical pest infestation, damp, and gloom, now stood— a modern kitchen .

She actually paused in the doorway to marvel at it.

The counters were a clean, deep walnut, accented with slate-grey tilework. Stainless steel appliances gleamed, charmed to work around even the most temperamental household enchantments. The Aga range had been replaced with a sleek magical-muggle hybrid oven that could roast a chicken and enchant it to carve itself, apparently. There was a new charmed fridge. A fridge . In Grimmauld Place.

And most shocking of all?

It was spotless .

Not a single cobweb. Not a trace of cursed mould. Not even a whisper of doxies. Molly Weasley and a gaggle of teenage delinquents had once spent weeks trying to get the place to this standard, and failed quite frankly, and Sirius had managed it in less than two days.

She was equal parts impressed and horrified by what could be achieved with powerful magic, relentless motivation, and what was essentially an open vault of old money.

She found Sirius standing by the newly installed centre island, in deep discussion with Kreacher. The house-elf stood with a small notepad (Merlin, a notepad ), nodding seriously as Sirius gestured toward the pantry.

"…And no steak and kidney pie, ever. I don't care how traditional it is. It smells like wizarding indigestion," Sirius was saying. "Also, maybe ease up on anything that reminds me of Christmas dinners where someone got hexed under the pudding."

Kreacher made a noise that sounded like a long-suffering tsk but scribbled something down.

"Liver is also banned. And tongue. And kidneys. Really, let's just draw a firm line at any ingredient that reminds me a dish was once sentient. "

Kreacher, eyes darting to Hermione as she entered, gave her a small, measured bow and then disappeared with a pop, leaving behind the lingering smell of rosemary and something deliciously yeasty in the air.

Hermione leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "So I take it you've started meal therapy?"

Sirius turned toward her, grinning. "Trying to work through my culinary trauma, one banned organ at a time."

"I saw someone managed to unstick your mother without having to tear out half the structure," she said lightly, nodding toward the now-missing hallway of hell.

Sirius's grin twisted wry. "Yeah, Kreacher made me a deal. Let him handle it himself, with elf magic, and he'd relocate the portrait without resistance."

Hermione blinked. "That worked ?"

"It did," he said, walking over to pour two mugs of coffee. "I think it was… symbolic. Or ritualistic. Or possibly just deeply Kreacher." He handed her a mug. "She's in the attic now. Silenced, of course. Probably furious."

"Probably reciting family lineage to the rafters."

"She's going to be stuck up there with the ghoul. Let them annoy each other into oblivion. Oh wait, the ghoul was exterminated."

Hermione took a long sip of coffee and sighed. "It's hard to believe this is the same house."

Sirius looked around, just briefly, and something soft passed through his expression. "Yeah. Feels different. Like the ghosts are backing off a bit."

She studied him. "How do you feel?"

"Honestly?" He leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Like I finally kicked something in the teeth that's been snarling at me since I was sixteen."

She smiled behind her mug. "It suits you."

He tilted his head, mock-innocent. "The house? Or the triumph over intergenerational curses?"

She narrowed her eyes. "The quiet competence."

"Don't tell anyone," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "but I might actually be good at this whole… not being a total disaster thing."

Hermione sipped again, nodding. "I won't tell if you don't."

"Deal." He paused. "Now sit. I think Kreacher's working on actual bread that doesn't smell like dark magic. And I might even allow you to check your footnotes again."

She chuckled. "If you try to confiscate my research materials again, I will hex your favourite chair."

Sirius raised a brow. "Joke's on you. I don't have one yet."

Hermione smiled, easing into the stool beside him. "You will."

They sat for a long moment in companionable silence, the clinking of spoons against mugs and the gentle hum of kitchen charms the only sounds in the room. The kind of quiet that didn't demand filling.

"So what's left?" Hermione asked eventually, glancing toward the ceiling like she could see the structural schematics through the plaster.

"About half a dozen private rooms upstairs, at least two more bathrooms," Sirius said, nudging a croissant toward her like a peace offering. "But you're right—we can stagger those over the coming weeks. I want to get Harry's input on his room, anyway. Let him pick the colour, curse the wardrobe if he wants—whatever makes it feel like his."

Hermione smiled faintly. "He'll love that. You're giving him a choice. That's not something he's had much of."

Sirius looked thoughtful for a moment, swirling the contents of his mug. "That's the idea. He deserves one space that's his. Not a cupboard. Not a dormitory. Not somewhere borrowed or temporary. His."

"You're really going to be good at this," Hermione said, without teasing. Her voice was soft but sure.

He blinked at her, like the thought had never quite landed that way before. Then, naturally, he had to ruin it with a smirk.

"Was that a compliment? From you? Merlin, is the fever back?"

She kicked him lightly under the counter.

He grinned wider. "I'll write it down in my journal. Day Three of domestic life: Hermione Granger voluntarily said something nice. Witnessed by bread and mild coffee."

"Bread was excellent," she said primly, tearing a corner of it. "Don't ruin the moment."

Sirius held up his hands. "Wouldn't dream of it."

A few more moments passed in that stillness, until Hermione tilted her head at him again. "So… any plans to see Harry again soon?"

Sirius's expression brightened instantly, like someone had cast Lumos inside his chest. "Actually… yeah. I've been invited to tag along for back-to-school shopping tomorrow."

Hermione blinked. "Really?"

He nodded, setting his mug down with a clink. "The Weasleys extended the invite. Apparently Molly thought it was important for me to 'have a proper reintroduction to respectable society.'"

Hermione smirked. "I'm amazed she said it without combusting."

"Oh, I'm sure she was clutching pearls the whole time," Sirius said dryly. "But I think Arthur talked her down. And Harry vouched for me. Said I was 'reasonably safe' and 'only mildly mad.' High praise, really."

"And I'm tagging along?" Hermione asked, a brow rising.

"Well. Younger you," Sirius clarified, with a wry look. "Unless you'd like to try and exist with the two of you in the place at once. I'm told that ends badly."

She made a face. "Yes, it does. Especially if time travel is involved. Which, incidentally, it always is."

Sirius leaned back in his chair, stretching with a groan. "It's going to be weird. Seeing her—you—but not saying anything."

"You'll manage," Hermione said, watching him over the rim of her mug. "You've gotten good at pretending not to know things."

He looked smug. "Years of practice. Also, it helps when the person you're lying to is barely fourteen and preoccupied with book lists and the ethics of buying a cat."

"That tracks," Hermione muttered.

Sirius tilted his head. "Any advice?"

She gave it a moment's thought. "Be kind. Be patient. Don't try too hard. And don't give her a reason to side-eye you—she will, and it's deadly accurate."

Sirius looked mock-affronted. "I am naturally charming ."

"You are naturally suspicious," Hermione corrected. "She's smarter than she looks and was already worrying about Time-Turner restrictions and magical ethics before her third year."

"Well then," he said, exhaling, "guess I'll just be myself."

Hermione gave him a look.

"…But maybe dialled down by twenty percent," he amended.

"Fifteen," she allowed. "You'll want her to like you, after all."

"Oh, she'll love me," Sirius said breezily. "Eventually. Just like someone else I know."

Hermione pretended to cough into her tea. "Delusion is a powerful thing."

"Yep," he said, smiling down at his now-empty mug. "And I'm just getting started."

Hermione finished the last of her tea and set the mug down with a soft clink. Her fingers fidgeted for a second against the rim, then stilled. Sirius, who had been lazily levitating a spoon in the air and watching it spin like a Quidditch Snitch on a tea break, glanced over at her.

"You've got that look," he said. "The one where your brain's moving at about a hundred miles an hour and I'm about to be either extremely impressed or slightly terrified."

Hermione hesitated. Then, with a sigh, said, "I'm going to need an alias."

Sirius blinked. "Already tired of 'Hermione Granger'? Thought you might be. Bit too bookshop-in-Oxford for a career in espionage."

She shot him a look. "I'm being serious."

"No, I'm being Sirius."

Another look. "The point is," she said, determined to carry on, "I'm going to be in and out of the wizarding world more visibly now. Especially if I'm helping you, and eventually Harry. And I'm not going to keep pulling glamours every five minutes just to avoid someone going, 'Oh, you look exactly like that third-year from Hogwarts who always hangs out around the Boy Who Lived.'"

"True," he said, sobering slightly. "Glamours help for casual glances, but if someone stops to talk to you for more than a minute—"

"Exactly," she said. "So I've been looking into… alternatives. Longer-term solutions."

Sirius leaned forward. "Like what?"

She shifted a bit in her seat, looking… shifty. It wasn't a good look on her. Hermione was many things—decisive, direct, blunt—but secretive? That wasn't in her top five.

"I found," she said, drawing the word out slowly, "a magical adoption ritual. Old. Obscure. Involves lineage-binding magic. It wouldn't just change my name—it would shift my appearance slightly, just enough to confuse recognition spells and genealogical tracking. Not like Polyjuice. More like… subtle magical inheritance."

Sirius stared. "You want to be adopted?"

"Well—not actually adopted," she said, though her ears were already pinking. "It's symbolic. Magical. Mostly about creating cover and protections."

He folded his arms. "And you want me to pretend to be your long-lost cousin or some such rot?"

She immediately shook her head. "No. That wouldn't work. The Black family tree is too well documented. Anyone remotely close to this house would sniff out a fake within a day."

Sirius let out a breath of relief. "Thank Merlin. For a moment, I thought you were going to ask me to pose as your uncle and start calling you 'kiddo' or something equally awful."

Hermione grimaced. "God, no. You'd be the worst uncle. You'd buy me knives and teach me how to pick locks."

Sirius looked offended. "That's good uncling."

"I was actually thinking," she said, pushing forward before he could argue further, "about Remus."

He blinked. "Remus?"

"Yes."

"As in, Remus Lupin? Moony?"

"Yes, Sirius, thank you for the clarification."

He leaned back slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't even know if he wants to talk to me, Hermione. Last I heard, he was out of the country. Probably off brooding on a cliff in Romania or something. Moony style."

Hermione slapped her forehead. "Merlin—I meant to tell you. He's back. Or at least, he should be. Dumbledore tracked him down the moment you escaped Azkaban. Offered him the Defence post at Hogwarts."

Sirius stared. "What?"

"He's going to be the DADA professor this year. Probably already preparing lesson plans."

"That doesn't answer my other concern," Sirius said, crossing his arms. "You think he wants to see me? I've been a wanted man for twelve years, and Remus… he believed it. He thought I betrayed James."

"He's probably been drowning in guilt ever since the article came out that you didn't," Hermione said gently. "You know how he is. Prone to guilt the way James was prone to catching colds according to you."

Sirius didn't answer. He just looked away, jaw tight.

"I think he wants to reconnect," Hermione added, softer now. "He just doesn't know how. He's too good at convincing himself people are better off without him."

There was a long silence. Then Sirius muttered, "You sound like you've known him for years."

Hermione smiled faintly. "I have."

His eyes flicked up to hers. "And you want to tell him the truth? About everything?"

"We need him," she said simply. "One of the Horcruxes is in Hogwarts."

Sirius groaned. "You're kidding."

"I wish."

"And you think Moony's just going to… roll with all this? The time travel, the adoption, the evil soul fragments?"

"I can be very convincing," Hermione said, straightening her shoulders. "And once I lay out the logic, he'll understand. The adoption ritual offers cover, ties me magically to someone trustworthy, grants me a legally distinct identity, and since he'll have access to the castle, he'll jump onto retrieving the diadem the moment I explain what it is and why it needs destroying."

"You really think he'll go for it?"

"I do."

Sirius stared at her for a long moment. Then: "Damn. How did I not see this before? You're like a female Moony."

Hermione beamed. "Thank you. That's one of the highest compliments anyone's ever given me."

"Careful," Sirius warned. "You'll be stealing his 'most responsible Marauder' title before term even starts."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Hermione said breezily, already flipping through one of her notebooks with a gleam in her eye. "He's still got a few years on me. But I'll give him a run for his money."

Sirius smirked. "And people say you're not ambitious."

"No one who's ever met me says that," she replied primly, quill already uncapped.

She stood with purpose, collecting another stack of parchment like a general preparing for war. "I'm going to start drawing up what I need for the ritual. And maybe a short persuasive essay for Remus, in case he needs a nudge." She glanced up. "And you should write him a letter."

Sirius groaned theatrically. "Is this whole Horcrux hunt going to be handled through correspondence? Between your anonymous letter to Arthur, me writing to Ted, Harry, and now this, I feel like we're running a remote operation. Death to Voldemort by owl. "

"Don't worry," Hermione said without missing a beat, her quill already flying across the page. "There'll be plenty of field work. Derelict shacks, cursed artefacts, possibly breaking into Gringotts—real boots-on-the-ground stuff. A touch of Fiendfyre. Maybe a dragon."

Sirius gave her a flat look. "Of course there's a dragon."

"I'm just trying to get the easy stuff out of the way first."

"She says the easy stuff ," he muttered, watching her with the same expression he might've worn watching a slightly unstable spell run its course—half fascinated, half braced for impact.

Hermione was already scribbling, brow furrowed in focused determination. "He'll come around," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Sirius watched her in silence for a beat longer, leaning back in his chair with a sigh that was half-weary, half something softer. He ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck like the enormity of the last few days was finally catching up to him.

"Moony's not going to know what hit him," he said quietly. "Moony's not going to know what hit me , either."

Then, under his breath—low, but not low enough—

"I'm living with a younger, bossier, prettier version of him in cardigans."

Hermione didn't even pause. "I heard that."

"Good," Sirius said, smirking now, his chin propped in his hand as he watched her. "You were meant to."