By the time the morning sun filtered through the new curtains of Grimmauld Place, Sirius was already half-dressed and humming under his breath, unusually chipper for a man who'd barely slept the night before.
Today was the day. Diagon Alley again. Back-to-school shopping. Harry, Ron, the entire Weasley entourage. And—if Hermione's vague scheduling memory was accurate—the younger version of her, all frizzy hair and righteous indignation, would be trotting around somewhere between Flourish and Blotts and Florean Fortescue's.
It was going to be an experience.
He bounded down the stairs two at a time, already slipping into his boots when Hermione shuffled into the entryway, still in her house-robe and wrapped in the smell of mint tea and eucalyptus potion.
"You look... far too awake," she muttered.
"And you," he said cheerfully, "look like you've finally evicted the boggart that was living in your sinuses."
"I'm definitely not contagious anymore," she sniffed. "So technically, I win."
"Oh no, no. I win." Sirius grinned, straightening his collar with a flourish. "Not only did I not get sick despite sharing a room and a house with you for over a week, but I survived the Granger Fever Plague of '09 without so much as a sniffle. That's a victory for Marauder immunity and sheer stubborn charm."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "That is not how immunity works."
"Don't ruin my moment."
She smirked. "It's probably because I dosed your tea with three immune-boosting tinctures and that lemon-ginger concoction Kreacher made smelled like it could dissolve your nasal passages."
"I prefer the idea that my rugged constitution rejected illness out of spite," he said smugly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. "Honestly, you were fretting about me catching it. You even warned me when Padfoot licked your face—"
"Ugh, Sirius—"
"—and yet, look at me. Healthy as a Hungarian Horntail."
She groaned. "I'm never going to live that down, am I?"
"Not a chance." He stepped toward the door and turned back with a grin far too pleased with himself.
Then, just as she opened her mouth to throw one final sarcastic remark his way—he leaned in.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't performative. Just a quick, soft kiss on the corner of her mouth. Not quite her cheek. Not quite her lips.
It lasted barely a second.
Hermione froze.
And then he was gone—grabbing his jacket, slinging it over one shoulder with casual flair, and breezing out the door with a cheerful, "Don't wait up!"
The door clicked shut.
Hermione stood there, blinking at the spot he'd just vacated, one hand still hovering mid-air like her brain hadn't fully caught up to her reflexes.
It wasn't that it was a kiss.
It was that he'd kissed her—and then had the audacity to leave immediately after, like he hadn't just set her brain on fire and walked away whistling.
She stared at the door for a full minute.
"…He is so dead," she muttered, cheeks still warm.
But she was smiling.
Even if she wouldn't admit it until at least tea.
Sirius arrived at the Leaky Cauldron early—early enough that Tom gave him a suspicious look, like he wasn't used to seeing Sirius Black at any hour that could be described as "civilised." But Sirius just ordered a strong black coffee, drank half of it standing up, and paced near the stairs until a very rumpled, very teenaged Harry Potter came down.
"Alright," Sirius said, barely giving the boy time to straighten his glasses before pulling him into a brief, one-armed hug. "Before the madness begins—got something for you."
He handed over a slim packet, carefully charmed to stay flat and weather-proof.
Harry blinked down at it. "What is it?"
"Photos. Found them in my old room. Couldn't sleep the other night and got nosy." Sirius didn't mention the long hours spent sitting cross-legged on the floor, going through shoeboxes of memories he'd nearly forgotten he had. "Some are from your parents' wedding. A few from the Order. One of you—tiny you, with a bottle and wild hair. Probably trying to wail James into submission."
Harry was silent as he opened the packet. The first photo was of Lily, mid-laugh, flowers tucked into her hair and her veil askew. James was beside her, making a face like he'd just been hit with a Confundus charm, Sirius himself photobombing in the background with a champagne flute and an unrepentant grin.
"Merlin," Harry whispered, blinking hard. "She was so—"
"Beautiful," Sirius said. "Yeah."
Harry flipped through slowly, reverently, pausing on each frame. His eyes were suspiciously shiny, but he cleared his throat and didn't speak again until the last photo—one of the Potters holding baby Harry, Lily trying to keep his tiny fists from grabbing her earrings, James looking down like he'd invented magic just to hold that boy.
"Thanks," Harry said finally, voice thick. "Really. Hagrid made me an album, but these are new."
Sirius clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Anytime, kiddo."
Moments later, the fireplace roared—and the Weasleys began arriving in a flurry of ash, red hair, and overlapping voices.
Arthur emerged first, brushing soot from his sleeves. When he spotted Sirius, something in his expression shifted—softened.
"Lord Black," he said warmly, stepping forward to shake his hand. "I just wanted to say—thank you. For the letter, and for speaking up at the hearing. It meant a great deal to us. We were… worried, for a while there."
Sirius, thoroughly unprepared for gratitude from a man he'd once hexed during a post-Yule Ministry brawl over cauldron thickness regulations, blinked. "Er. Of course. It was nothing. Please call me Sirius."
Arthur shook his head. "It wasn't nothing. Thank you."
Sirius flailed for something to say and landed on the youngest son, "So—Ron."
Ron, who had just tripped over a fireplace grate, straightened warily. "Er—yes?"
"Fancy a new pet? Something that isn't a rat-shaped Death Eater?"
Ron lit up like Christmas. Molly, behind him, frowned with all the force of a woman who had once scolded a banshee into submission.
"We don't need any more animals, Ronald—"
"How about an owl?" Sirius cut in. "Harry mentioned yours—Errol, right? Sounds like he should've retired three years ago."
Arthur coughed to hide a laugh. Ron looked pleadingly at his mother. Molly looked at Sirius. Then at Harry. Then at Ron, whose expression could have melted granite.
"…Fine," she sighed. "But no monstrous birds. And you are cleaning its cage."
"Yes!" Ron fist-pumped.
"Great," Sirius said, a bit too quickly. "I'll even charm it to deliver Howlers back to your mum unopened."
Molly narrowed her eyes. "Don't you dare."
Once they'd wrapped up introductions at the Leaky Cauldron, the group moved en masse through the back wall into Diagon Alley proper. As expected, the moment Sirius and Harry stepped out, the murmurs began.
People stared. Some subtly, some not at all.
Sirius caught at least three wizards elbowing each other and whispering behind conjured newspapers. One witch dropped her ice cream cone in slow motion. An older man hissed, "That's Black, isn't it?" while peering around his wife's hair like they were birdwatching.
It should've made him twitchy.
But being surrounded by so many Weasleys was like travelling with a red-haired security blanket. Even Ginny, small as she was, had the aura of someone who would hex a stranger in the shin if they got too nosy.
The group split briefly inside the Apothecary. Ron and Harry were poking around the shelves with all the enthusiasm of boys contemplating pickled things in jars, and Sirius, ever the opportunist, caught a brief, golden moment.
Fred and George were hanging back by the drying racks of shrivelled rat tails, whispering about Boomslang skin logistics.
He drifted over casually, leaned against the wall, and murmured low enough for only their ears: "Got the map on you?"
They stiffened.
"What map?" they said in perfect, infuriating unison, faces the picture of twinly innocence.
Sirius arched an eyebrow. "Don't play coy. I know you have it. You know, the one I helped make?"
Fred blinked.
George blinked.
"You—" Fred began.
"—made the Marauder's Map?" George finished.
"Padfoot at your service," Sirius said, tapping his chest with a small nod of the head.
"Wicked," they breathed, synchronised and awestruck, like he'd just turned water into firewhisky.
"I want to give it to Harry," Sirius said, voice quieter now. "I know you've been brilliant with it. But it's a family heirloom. James—Prongs—was one of the other creators. It should come from me."
The twins didn't argue.
Fred reached into his robe pocket with the dramatic flair of someone producing a crown jewel.
George stood sentry, glancing around theatrically as the folded parchment changed hands with the reverence of a sacred object.
"We solemnly swear—" Fred began with a wink.
"That we were up to no good," George finished.
And then—
"Oi!" Ginny's voice cut in.
They all jumped.
She stood a few paces away, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.
The twins waved her off frantically like swatting at a sentient Howler.
"Go bother Mum!" George hissed.
"Tell her Ron's poking the Flobberworms again!" Fred added.
Ginny didn't move. She didn't say anything.
But her expression said it all.
I saw that. I will remember this. Sleep with one eye open.
Sirius gave her a mock salute, trying not to laugh.
A little later, they made their way into Flourish and Blotts. It was crowded, warm, and smelled gloriously of ink and parchment—one of the only shops Sirius didn't mind loitering in. Harry and Ron had wandered off to gawk at the latest Defence Against the Dark Arts bestsellers, while Sirius hung back near a display of gaudy, overpriced quills, flipping through a book on magical cartography.
That was when he saw her.
Hermione Granger. Thirteen years old. Almost fourteen really. Barely a month away. Brown curls wrangled into a heavy braid, one knee braced against the edge of a bookshelf for balance as she flipped through a thick tome titled Theories of Ancient Runes: First-Year Foundations. Her parents stood nearby looking gently dazed, as though they had wandered into a particularly eccentric science museum.
She was exactly how Hermione had described her younger self—bright-eyed, intense, powered by a brain moving at unsafe speeds.
Sirius drifted closer, still thumbing through his book but angling himself just into earshot.
"I promise I'll only get five books," Hermione was saying, with the crisp earnestness of someone negotiating in good faith. "Well—five extra books. These are just the required ones. I mean, it would be irresponsible to not be prepared for electives, wouldn't it?"
Her father looked like he was quietly calculating whether her trunk could double as a second-floor extension.
Across the aisle, Harry spotted her first. "Hermione!"
She looked up, her face brightening. "Harry! Ron!"
Harry jogged over, Ron trailing behind with the energy of someone already dreading a lecture. "You're here early."
"I convinced my parents to come before the worst of the crowd," Hermione said, setting her books down in a neat stack. "And I wanted time to compare translations. The Arithmancy textbook's surprisingly good—I've read the first chapter while Dad wrestled a copy of the Monster Book of Monsters into submission."
Ron groaned. "You've had it ten minutes."
She gave him a look. "And you haven't even bought yours."
Harry glanced over her shoulder and called, "Sirius! Come meet Hermione!"
Sirius approached with a half-grin, raising his eyebrows at the impressive pile of books. "Blimey. That's a serious stack. Planning to build a fortress or a footstool?"
Hermione straightened a little, clearly fighting the instinct to defend her reading list. "These are just my course books. Plus a few extras. I like context."
Ron muttered, "She likes winning arguments."
Hermione turned her head just enough to raise one eyebrow at him, then looked back to Sirius. "Harry mentioned you used to be close with Professor Lupin?"
"I did," Sirius said, a little surprised by the pivot. "We were best mates at school. Why?"
"Oh—just curious. I've been trying to find more of his writing. There's a brilliant annotated guide to curse classifications from the eighties, but it's out of print."
"You've read that?" Sirius asked, impressed despite himself.
"Trying to," Hermione corrected. "I borrowed it from the library once, but someone had spilled ink over half the hex logic charts."
"I'm going to tell him he has a fan," Sirius said, smiling. "He'll be mortified. Or smug. Depends on the day."
Hermione ducked her head to hide a smile.
Sirius tilted his head, nodding toward the book still in her hand. Numerical Arithmancy: Foundations and Frameworks. "That one's a solid choice. I remember Moony used to scribble all over his copy with theories about temporal distortion."
Hermione's eyes lit with interest. "Really? You studied Arithmancy?"
"Enough to pass," Sirius said modestly. "But Remus was the one who actually understood it. I just memorised the charts and let him rant about prime patterns in wandwork."
"I'm hoping it'll be more practical than Divination," she said, then paused. "No offence."
"None taken. If I wanted to be told my future, I'd rather pay someone not to throw tea at me."
She smiled again, warmer now. "Well… you seem different than how the papers made you out to be."
"That's the idea," he said quietly, then offered her a wink. "But keep me under observation. If I start shouting about conspiracy theories, notify the nearest Auror."
"Noted," Hermione said, hiding her laugh behind the book.
"Come on," Harry said. "We're heading to Madam Malkin's next."
Sirius gave Hermione a small, two-fingered salute and let Harry and Ron lead her away with a faint grin tugging at his mouth.
Yep. She was exactly what future-Hermione had said—and perhaps even more terrifying at thirteen.
He couldn't wait to see Remus's face when they met.
The gentle clatter of measuring tapes and the occasional shriek of a pinprick filled the air in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Robes swished, bolts of fabric levitated across the shop, and a young witch near the front was arguing with her mother about whether dragonhide sleeves were too much for a school cloak.
Sirius lingered near a rack of colour-changing cloak linings, glancing sidelong at Harry as Madam Malkin fussed over Ron's hemline.
Harry was perched on the edge of a small dais, his arms out as enchanted measuring tape zipped around him with military efficiency. He looked faintly uncomfortable, mostly because he always did when attention was pointed at him—though Sirius had a hunch that wasn't the only reason.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You know," he said conversationally, "they'll take your measurements anyway. If you ever wanted to get… well, anything besides school robes."
Harry blinked at him. "Like what?"
Sirius shrugged, keeping it casual. "I don't know. A few decent shirts. Trousers that weren't originally designed for your cousin Dudley the Human Tent. Maybe even a jumper that wasn't part of a charity campaign."
Harry flushed a little and looked down. "It's fine. I've got enough. Don't want to hold everyone up."
Sirius tilted his head. "Harry. It's not about holding people up. You deserve to have clothes that fit you. Not just robes. You're allowed to have things that are yours."
Harry shifted on the spot. "I don't know. I don't really know what to ask for."
"Here's the trick," Sirius said, voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "Let Madam Malkin take your measurements like she already is. Then just quietly give her a list of the basics—shirts, trousers, maybe a decent jacket. Doesn't need to be fancy. She's been dressing Hogwarts kids for decades. She'll know what works. And if you're worried about carrying it all back on the train, just have it owl-delivered to the castle after term starts."
Harry looked dubious. "Is that… allowed?"
Sirius snorted. "You think she's never had a panicked fifth year beg for formalwear two days before the Yule Ball? Happens every year, I guarantee it."
"But—" Harry started, then frowned. "Wait, how did you—?"
Sirius just grinned. "Trade secret."
Harry hesitated. "Are you sure? I don't want to use—"
"You're not using anything, Harry," Sirius said, more serious now. "It's your money. Your vault. Your life. Your mum and dad didn't leave it sitting there to gather dust—they left it for you."
Harry's shoulders slumped slightly. "Right."
Sirius clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Trust me. Madam Malkin can do wonders if you just let her. And I won't even ask for fashion shows."
Harry laughed, and some of the tension melted from his posture.
"Just think about it," Sirius added, softer now. "You've got enough weighing on you. You don't need to be tripping over someone else's shoes at the same time."
Harry gave a small, quiet nod. "Okay. I'll think about it."
Sirius smiled. "That's all I ask."
He stepped back just as Madam Malkin clapped her hands and declared Ron's robes passable, in that exact tone that suggested she'd stopped fighting long ago and simply learned to accept wrinkled ginger chaos as inevitable.
Sirius gave Harry a wink and let the moment pass, already making mental notes to check if Madam Malkin stocked demiguise fur-lined winter jackets in subtle Gryffindor red.
Just in case.
As the group began trickling out of Madam Malkin's, chattering about ice cream and what Fred claimed was a highly experimental new range of Extendable Ears, Sirius noted that Harry had not in fact asked for any other clothes, and hung back.
He caught Madam Malkin's eye with a casual flick of his fingers, nodding toward the side counter where she was reorganising a stack of neatly wrapped robe bundles. She stepped away from a disgruntled witch complaining about sleeve length and met him halfway.
"Mr Black," she said, dipping her head politely, though she eyed his leather jacket like it might bite her.
"Madam Malkin," Sirius said, flashing his most rakish not-actually-charming grin. "Always a pleasure."
She arched a brow but said nothing.
He slid a neatly folded bit of parchment onto the counter between them. "Measurements are already on file," he murmured, just above a whisper. "This is for Harry Potter."
Madam Malkin glanced at the list. Practical items—nothing flashy. A few jumpers, proper winter robes, jeans, well-fitted shirts, a sturdy coat, gloves, pyjamas that didn't look like they'd been wrestled off a Victorian scarecrow. Everything Harry wouldn't ask for himself.
"I'd like it charged to my account at Gringotts," Sirius added, tapping the edge of the parchment. "And send the finished parcel by owl to Hogwarts. Week after the start of term, so it doesn't draw attention."
Madam Malkin gave a small, approving nod, folding the list into the ledger beside her. "Discreet service is our hallmark."
"Brilliant," Sirius said. "And if he asks… tell him he must've filled out a form and forgotten."
She didn't even blink. "Wouldn't be the first time."
He grinned. "You're a national treasure."
And with that, Sirius slid his hands into his pockets and strolled out to join the others, whistling faintly under his breath. Harry was up ahead, laughing at something Ron had said, and for a moment, Sirius felt lighter than he had in years.
Because maybe Harry wouldn't notice today.
But one morning in early September, he'd wake up to find a box on his bed at Hogwarts full of clothes that actually fit—and no one to thank except a note from Madam Malkin that simply read: Your order, as requested.
Sirius could live with that.
After their last stop—the Magical Menagerie where Hermione unsurprisingly bought Crookshanks and Ron had received an owl as promised—Sirius whistled sharply, the kind of sound that could've summoned Hippogriffs.
Heads turned. Children froze mid-bicker. Adults blinked.
"Oi!" Sirius called, hands raised. "Final stop of the day! Fortescue's. Everyone's order is on me."
He said it with the unshakeable confidence of someone who hadn't quite priced out a double-scoop sundae in a while.
Predictably, the younger Weasleys let out cheers. Even Ginny gave a rare whoop. Fred and George looked like they'd just been handed a Hogwarts-wide prank licence.
Only Percy seemed to frown slightly, muttering something about dental hygiene and sugar content under his breath.
Molly arched a brow, her lips pursing into the beginnings of a Mum Look. "Sirius Black, you should've—"
"Too late!" he said brightly, already herding the children in the general direction of the ice cream parlour like a rogue sheepdog. "Non-refundable generosity in progress!"
Oddly enough, Hermione's parents didn't protest. In fact, Mr Granger looked rather intrigued by the floating menu in the Fortescue window, and Mrs Granger was already pulling out a Muggle pen to take notes.
"Dentists," Sirius muttered to Harry. "Full of surprises."
As they walked, Harry nudged Sirius lightly with his elbow and said under his breath, "You do realise the twins are going to try and order the most expensive item on the menu?"
Sirius smirked without missing a beat. "If those two can put even a tiny dent in the Black family vault in one sitting, I will personally hand them five thousand galleons. Gift-wrapped."
Unfortunately, Fred and George were only about four feet behind them.
"Did you hear that?" Fred hissed.
"Was that a challenge?" George grinned.
"Did you just offer us money—real money—to eat excessive quantities of sugar?"
Sirius threw them a lazy look over his shoulder. "If you make it to forty scoops each without imploding, I might even throw in a commemorative plaque."
"We are so going to die happy," Fred said.
Hermione, who had fallen into step with them, rolled her eyes. "You might want to save yourselves the stomachache. The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black is one of the wealthiest wizarding families in Britain—along with the Malfoys, Lestranges, and Notts. Even if everyone in our party ordered twelve sundaes each, it wouldn't put so much as a crack in it."
Fred blinked. "How do you know that?"
"I read." She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
George turned to Sirius. "Are we allowed to adopt her?"
"She's not a dog," Sirius replied, "but I'll put in a good word with the Ministry."
Harry laughed quietly beside him, and Sirius thought—not for the first time—that this, right here, was the good part.
A godson at his side, a loud and ridiculous found family trailing behind them, and a warm summer day that ended in sugar.
Not even the twins on a suicide mission via banana fudge swirl could ruin that.
After a day well spent corralling Weasleys, dodging whispers, and watching the twins attempt to bankrupt him via ice cream, Sirius stepped through the door of Grimmauld Place with a sharp, "Honey, I'm home!"
He tossed his jacket toward the rack—it missed—and was halfway to making some snarky comment about Kreacher's housekeeping when voices drifted in from the sitting room.
One was Hermione.
The other stopped him cold.
Familiar. Low. A bit rough around the edges.
Sirius stepped quietly toward the doorframe and leaned in.
Sure enough—Remus bloody Lupin, standing awkwardly by the hearth like he wasn't sure if he was welcome or on trial.
"I took the liberty of inviting Remus over," Hermione said breezily, glancing up from her cup of tea.
Sirius blinked. "You what?"
"His owl showed up right after you left," she said, unapologetic. "Didn't seem like the kind of thing we should sit on."
Remus looked up, his posture tense, hands shoved into the pockets of his threadbare coat. "Hey."
Sirius stared at him. "Hey."
A beat of silence.
"Right, brilliant," Hermione cut in, standing up. "You've said hello. Now maybe move on to the part where one of you apologises and the other gets misty-eyed?"
Sirius arched a brow. "You told him?"
"Only the cliff notes. Didn't want you both sulking in separate corners."
Remus exhaled, stepping forward. "I owe you an apology. A massive one."
Sirius folded his arms. "You didn't exactly owe me anything."
"I didn't ask questions," Remus said. "Didn't visit. Didn't write. I just… assumed." He swallowed. "It didn't even occur to me that it might not have been you."
Sirius's jaw tightened. "I didn't tell you about the switch. That was on me. I convinced James to keep it quiet. I was so sure it would work. And I picked Peter." He laughed, but there was no humour in it. "Great instincts, me."
Remus shook his head. "No one saw through Peter. And I get it—why you'd suspect me. I was always off with the packs, always a little more worn down when I came back. You had reason to worry."
"But you were always solid," Sirius said quietly. "Always loyal. Never needed to prove anything. Not like him."
Remus met his eyes. "I can forgive you. If you can forgive me."
There was a pause. Then Sirius crossed the room in three long strides and hauled him into a hug so tight it made Remus stagger back half a step.
"You're still a moody bastard," Sirius muttered into his shoulder.
"And you still talk like you've just downed a bottle of Firewhisky," Remus shot back, arms wrapping around him.
They clapped each other on the back once—twice—then pulled apart.
"Well, that's sorted," Hermione said, folding her arms. "Took you long enough."
Sirius turned to her. "You really don't waste time, do you?"
She smirked. "Ticking clock, remember?"
"Right," Remus said, glancing between them. "And now you're going to tell me what this is really about."
Hermione nodded. "We will. But maybe sit down first. This might get a bit… mythic."
Remus blinked. "Mythic?"
Sirius flopped onto the couch. "Yeah. Welcome back, Moony. You've just rejoined the world's most dysfunctional treasure hunt."
"Yes, but first—" Hermione slapped Sirius across the face.
Not hard. Just enough to make a point.
"Oi!" he barked, recoiling half a step. "What was that for?"
"For this morning," she said crisply, not elaborating.
"What did I—? Oh." His expression shifted through confusion, then recognition, then a sheepish smirk. "Right. That."
"We'll talk about proper first kiss etiquette later," she muttered, crossing her arms.
Remus blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Long story," Sirius said quickly. "It's a bit of a running gag at this point—me trying to kiss her while she's sick, her worrying I'll spontaneously die of contagion. Something-something: mouldy Azkaban bread doesn't confer immunity."
Hermione gave him a look over the rim of her tea. "You forgot the part where you licked my face as a dog."
"Right. That too."
Remus stared between them, clearly trying to decide whether to be concerned or just call an exorcist. "That sounds… healthy. And not mildly suicidal at all. On multiple fronts."
"I was charming," Sirius defended, then paused. "Ish. Mildly charming."
"You were feral," Hermione corrected. "With delusions of grandeur."
Remus raised a hand. "Can I just clarify—are you two…?"
"No," Hermione said.
"Yes," Sirius said.
They turned to glare at each other.
"It's complicated," Hermione offered after a beat.
Remus sighed into his hands. "Merlin, I missed you both. I think. The dynamic is strangely nostalgic in any case."
"Don't worry," Sirius said brightly, draping an arm over the back of the couch. "It only gets worse from here. Wait till she tells you you'll be teaching her third-year self this term."
"What."
"I thought you said you told him!" Sirius turned to Hermione.
"I thought you meant the details about your innocence!"
"I am deeply confused," Remus said flatly.
Hermione stood, cleared her throat like she was announcing herself at a Ministry hearing. "Right. Let me reintroduce myself. Hermione Granger. Unspeakable from the year 2009. Hermione Granger of 1993 is currently preparing to attend third year at Hogwarts, where you will become one of her favourite professors. No pressure."
Remus blinked. "There are so many things wrong with that sentence I don't know where to start."
"Hermione Granger of 1993," Sirius added helpfully, "would also very much like a copy of your guide to curse classifications from 1980."
"What?" Hermione frowned.
"I spent the day with your younger self, remember?" Sirius said with an innocent shrug. "She already figured out Remus Lupin is going to be her DADA professor this year. She's a big fan, by the way."
"But… I didn't find that out until the train…" Hermione trailed off, brow furrowed.
"Apparently your timeline meddling of freeing me and getting me into Harry's life has led to Harry talking about me. That led her to dig into my past. That led her to discover the identity of my school friends. That led her to a defaced book she once tried to read, authored by one of said friends. And now she's connecting dots faster than you did at thirteen, which is—honestly—terrifying."
Hermione rubbed her temples. "How is it my thirteen-year-old self is managing to terrify me?"
"Doesn't she terrify us all," Sirius said with feeling.
"Am I even needed here?" Remus muttered.
"Oh, absolutely," Hermione said, already reaching for a folder. "We need you for your access, your knowledge, and possibly your magical adoption paperwork."
"I'm going to need a drink," Remus said, glancing toward the kitchen.
"Already brewing," Sirius said cheerfully.