"Okay," Remus said slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Let me see if I've got this straight."

Hermione and Sirius both looked at him expectantly.

"You accidentally time-travelled. Took in a feral stray who looked like the Grim from the street, proved said stray was actually an innocent Animagus, and now you're telling me Lily and James died for nothing because You-Know-Who isn't even properly dead—but you know how to fix that?"

"Mostly," Hermione said, folding her arms. "I'm working on the last crucial part. The original parameters of success were, uh… practically non recreatable."

"What she means," Sirius chimed in helpfully, "is that in 1998 we won by sheer dumb luck."

"Yes, thank you, Sirius," Hermione muttered. "That was… extremely helpful."

"And apparently everyone was dead," Sirius added with a shrug. "So, whatever."

"Not everyone," Hermione said, her voice quieter. "But… yes. Many people. Including both of you."

"Right." Remus nodded, slowly absorbing that. "And now, in light of all that, you'd like to perform an obscure blood magic ritual with me. So that by magically adopting you into the Lupin family, you'll have an identity in this time that isn't 'Hermione Granger.'"

"Yes."

Remus stared at her. "You do realise I'm a werewolf, right?"

"I do, yes," Hermione said evenly. "I figured it out about two months into third year. I don't see your point."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Blood ritual. Werewolf."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You do realise lycanthropy isn't in your blood—it's in your saliva? And only on the night of the full moon."

"Tell that to Fenrir Greyback. He can partially transform on non-full moon days and cause partial infections."

"Fenrir Greyback," she said crisply, "isn't a bitten werewolf. He was born—a child conceived between two werewolves on the night of the full moon. He's a special case. And also a sadistic psychopath who deliberately lurks near children's homes during transformations."

"How do you even know that?"

Hermione gave him a flat look. "Did I not mention I'm an Unspeakable? Been one for seven years. I've worked in every subdepartment—including Magical Pathogenesis. I practically wrote St. Mungo's patient care manual for lycanthropy in 2007."

"So… you're not concerned?"

"Remus John Lupin," she said, stepping forward, "I'm only going to say this once. You are not a monster. You have a medical condition that makes you dangerous to others exactly one day a month. And you go to absurd lengths to make sure no one gets hurt. I know what the transformation looks like. I know how bad it gets. And I'm still standing here telling you: I'm not afraid of you. Get over yourself."

A pause.

She added, "And I mean that in the kindest way possible."

There was a long silence.

"I could kiss you right now," Sirius said, slightly awestruck.

Hermione didn't miss a beat. "Maybe try that when I'm not still mad at you for attempting it without my consent ."

Remus blinked at her, looking oddly… hopeful. Like he couldn't quite believe someone would ask him for something like this.

"So," he said slowly, "you really want me to adopt you?"

"Not in a father-daughter sense," Hermione clarified quickly. "More like… cousins, on paper. Not that I wouldn't want to be your daughter," she added, "but we can't exactly sell that. For this to work, I'd have to have been born in 1962 to match my current age, and that would make us just over two years apart."

She gestured vaguely. "The cousin angle makes more sense. Gives me a surname. An excuse for why I'm staying with you both. A way to explain my, er… familiarity with the two of you."

Remus nodded slowly, clearly already sorting through the logistics in his head.

"I'd still need to ask Moony for your hand in marriage, right?" Sirius cut in, voice far too casual. "No other Lupin relatives around to do the honours."

Both Hermione and Remus turned their heads in perfect sync to ignore him.

Hermione continued smoothly, "There's also a sort of permanent glamour woven into the ritual—subtle, but it'll help obscure certain recognisable features, shift them a little to resemble yours. Anyone who knows both versions of me won't immediately connect the dots."

"I can see the sense in that," Remus murmured.

Sirius, now visibly pouting, muttered, "So no dowry negotiations either, then? This whole system's broken."

Still no response.

Hermione tilted her head at Remus. "So… is that a yes?"

He gave her a small, thoughtful smile. "It's a yes."

Sirius immediately threw his arms in the air. "Brilliant. We'll be one big, strange, time-displaced family. What could possibly go wrong?"

"I've got a list," Hermione said mildly.

Remus sighed. "Of course you do."

Sirius raised a brow. "Can I be in charge of the family motto?"

Hermione gave him a withering look. "Only if it's in Latin and doesn't involve the words 'naked' or 'glorious doom.'"

"No promises."

"When are we doing this?" Remus asked, still looking like he couldn't believe any of this was happening.

"Does tomorrow work for you?" Hermione asked. "It's kind of late now, and the ritual needs proper prep. I'd like to get the circles right the first time."

Remus blinked. "Tomorrow's fine."

"Great. Will you stay for dinner?" she added, already halfway to the kitchen before glancing back. "Where are you staying, by the way? Because you're more than welcome to stay here. Merlin knows we have more than enough space."

Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn't decide if he should be offended that she had offered his house before he did—or just relieved she had. Realistically, he'd meant to ask. He just… hadn't. Yet.

Remus looked vaguely startled. "I—er—thank you. That's generous."

He clearly had no idea whether accepting would make him look needy or presumptuous.

Hermione waved it off. "Think of it as a professional exchange. I can even offer some constructive criticism on your lesson plans. You know. Having attended your classes and all."

Remus groaned softly. "Merlin help me."

"Hear that, Moony?" Sirius said with a grin. "Advance feedback. Bargain of the century."

"Advance judgement," Remus muttered under his breath.

"This is a judgement-free zone," Hermione quipped.

Sirius coughed pointedly. "Since when?"

"Since now," she said crisply. "I just declared it."

Remus glanced between them, lips twitching. "Brilliant. I've walked into a two-person cult."

"You're just jealous we have matching robes," Sirius said airily.

"I swear to Merlin, if you two have matching robes, I'm sleeping at the Leaky."

"You're not," Hermione said, already heading for the kitchen. "There's curry, if Kreacher didn't spontaneously declare war on cumin again."

Dinner was warm and oddly pleasant—herbs in the stew, Kreacher's sullen efficiency, and the occasional clang of a dish from the kitchen. The kind of domestic quiet Sirius hadn't realised he'd missed.

Until his brow furrowed mid-bite.

"Wait a minute," he said suddenly, setting down his spoon. "Hermione—how did Remus get inside?"

She looked up, confused. "What do you mean? He just walked in."

Sirius squinted at her. "No, I mean—how did he get through the wards ?"

"I assumed you'd keyed him in," she replied, setting down her fork.

Sirius shook his head. "I can't key someone in unless we're both physically present . And you can't do it at all. You're not a Black by blood or bond."

There was a long beat of silence. Then Remus cleared his throat. "I knocked. The door opened."

Sirius stood so fast his chair scraped back with a screech. "Merlin's flaming—bloody— I took the wards down for the renovators!"

Hermione's voice rose a full octave. "And you forgot to put them back up?"

"I got distracted!" he yelped, already scrambling to his feet. "There was plaster everywhere! Kreacher made a list of forbidden meats! It's been a week !"

"We've been sitting in a wardless house with a Horcrux in the cellar , Sirius!" Hermione shouted, standing so abruptly her chair scraped backward. " For days! "

"I'm going to fix it right now ," he called from the hallway, already halfway gone. "No one's died! Yet!"

Hermione flopped back into her seat, muttering something distinctly uncharitable under her breath.

Remus watched him disappear, then turned to Hermione with the serene resignation of a man who had seen things .

"So," he said mildly, "how long have you been training him?"

Hermione didn't even look up from her plate. "Not nearly long enough."

Remus nodded, sage-like. "Is he food-motivated? Praise-driven? Or do you have to use a squirt bottle?"

"Mostly threats and disapproval," she replied. "Sometimes I dangle the concept of common sense in front of him like a carrot."

"Ah, the classic 'shame and sarcasm' method. Very effective with Marauders. Slow results, but deeply satisfying."

Hermione gave him a tight smile. "He's lucky he's charming."

"He's lucky you haven't hexed him into a decorative wall sconce," Remus muttered. "That man has the self-preservation instincts of a Crup chasing fireworks."

"He put a tracking charm on a loaf of bread yesterday," Hermione added, deadpan.

Remus blinked. "Why?"

"He said it kept disappearing."

"…And did it?"

"No. He was just slicing too much of it and forgetting."

There was a pause.

Remus nodded solemnly. "We're dealing with an advanced case."

From the next room came the distant sound of Sirius shouting, "I FIXED IT! WE'RE FINE. NOBODY PANIC."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "He says that a lot."

Remus leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "Ah yes. The domestic phase. First come the quirks, then the chaos, then the quiet resignation."

Hermione gave him a sideways glance. "So you're saying this is normal?"

"I'm saying you've achieved the Sirius Black Full Experience. Congratulations. You're now entitled to exclusive access to the coping circle."

"Is there cake?"

"No, but we do meet weekly to mock him."

Hermione grinned. "I'm in."

The next morning, Hermione was deep in the process of setting up the ritual chamber in Grimmauld Place—something she'd never even known existed in her original timeline. Then again, why would she? The room had only opened at Sirius's touch, thanks to the Black blood that recognised him as a family member.

It had revealed itself off the second floor, behind what she'd previously assumed was a wardrobe and not, in fact, a door with interlocking runes keyed to one family line and three centuries of questionable magical ethics.

Now that it was open, Hermione rather wished it weren't quite so on-brand.

Circular. Low-ceilinged. Etched with stone grooves that whispered magic even before she'd drawn the chalk. A wall of old cupboards filled with labelled jars, many of which she'd opened with great suspicion. ( Bloodroot , tallow , powdered silver , bone fragments , and one jar unhelpfully marked "Urgent Use Only" .) Still, the space was undeniably ideal for rituals of this nature—precise, enclosed, magically attuned.

Remus stood nearby, arms crossed, watching her with a blend of curiosity and faint alarm.

"Should I be worried that some of those candles are giving off actual menace?" he asked.

"They're symbolically ominous," Hermione replied, carefully inscribing a protection sigil at the outer edge of the chalkwork. "They represent transition and bloodline anchoring."

"Right. And how many candles don't represent something ominous?"

"…Two."

From the doorway, Sirius popped his head in, surveyed the scene, and made a face. "Nope. Absolutely not."

"Oh for—" Hermione looked up from her blood-binding glyph. "It's not Dark magic."

"It's not not Dark magic," Sirius said, pointing at a ceremonial knife with exaggerated offence. "There's blood and Latin and whatever that green candle is doing. That's textbook gateway stuff."

"It's a legal, Ministry-archived ritual—"

"That involves pricking thumbs and chanting over fire," Sirius countered. "That's how half the worst stories start."

Remus looked mildly amused. "You're just upset it's not your aesthetic. If it were covered in leather and recklessness, you'd be all over it."

"I'll be in the kitchen," Sirius declared, already turning on his heel. "Making breakfast like a normal person. Let me know if you accidentally summon a revenant. I'll bring tea."

He vanished.

Hermione sighed, stood, and turned to Remus. "Is he always like this in the mornings?"

"No," Remus said dryly. "Sometimes he's worse."

She grinned and bent to light the first candle. The circle pulsed softly in response.

By midday, the ritual would be complete.

And if all went well, she'd finally have a name, a cover identity, and a magical bond tying her to this time.

Lupin, by ritual and by blood.

She rather liked the sound of that.

The adoption ritual went off without a hitch.

Which, considering the amount of magical symbols drawn in blood, candles that flickered against logic, and chants that made Sirius mutter "this is fine" under his breath several times from the hallway, was saying something.

When the last word faded from the ritual circle and the soft hum of completed magic settled into the stone floor, Remus was the first to rise and helped Hermione to her feet.

There was no dramatic change. No glowing eyes or sudden thunderclaps. Just a subtle shift—her hair now leaned more toward a sandy brown than chestnut, her eyes glinted a little more hazel, and her features had softened and squared just enough to suggest familial ties with her favourite professor. Still recognisably Hermione—to them at least—but altered in a way that if her younger self would suddenly be aged up they would more resemble sisters than be identical.

The magic in the air buzzed differently now. In tune with Remus. A quiet, invisible tether.

Sirius leaned into the doorway like he was expecting horns. Or wings. Or both.

"So that's it?" he asked, looking between them. "She's Hermione Lupin now? Officially?"

Hermione nodded. "Definitely not officially yet—still have to go to the Ministry, register my existence in Britain, all that."

Then she hesitated. "Though… I'm not sure I can go by Hermione anymore."

Sirius tilted his head. "Why not?"

"It's too distinctive," she said, brushing off her sleeves. "There aren't exactly a lot of Hermiones running about. Anyone hearing that name will immediately start connecting dots. Especially if I'm anywhere near Harry."

"Fair." Sirius tapped his chin. "Alright, let's brainstorm. Mina?"

Hermione pulled a face. "Ugh. No."

"Short for Hermina. Or Wilhelmina, if you want to sound like an old governess with opinions about elbows on the table."

"I'd rather be cursed."

"Alright, alright. Mia?"

Hermione shook her head, unimpressed.

"Nina?"

She visibly recoiled. "That gives me actual chills."

"I know!" Sirius brightened. "Arsène. Arsène Lupin. Very on brand."

Hermione gave him a long, flat look. "Yes, because what I need right now is to share a name with a gentleman thief and master of disguise ."

"You've already got everything else down but the 'gentleman' part."

"Not sure we want to advertise that," she muttered.

"Oh come on, how many people in the wizarding world actually know Muggle fiction?"

"Surprisingly many," Remus said mildly, not looking up.

"Okay, okay, let me think… Ione?" Sirius offered.

Hermione froze mid-scoff. Tilted her head.

"…That almost sounds like 'Mione.' Ron's old nickname for me. Just without the 'M.'"

"Why do I have the feeling you hated being called that?" Remus said gently.

"I didn't love it," she admitted. "But I answered to it. Ione's close enough to feel… natural. Recognisable. It could work."

Sirius clapped. "Brilliant. Ione Lupin. It even sounds academic. Like someone who drinks too much tea and owns several editions of the same textbook."

"It actually fits," Remus said, a little bemused. "My father's side of the family was obsessed with mythology. I've got long dead relatives named Castor and Eurydice."

"Explains so much," Sirius muttered.

"But before any of that," Hermione said, standing straighter, "we have to go to the Ministry and register me. I'll claim I was homeschooled abroad—say, Switzerland. Vague, neutral, slightly expensive-sounding. And I should conjure a basic transcript to back it up…"

She pulled out her wand and murmured a spell.

The parchment appeared… and immediately flopped to the ground blank.

She frowned and tried again. The magic fizzled like a faulty sparkler.

Her brow furrowed. She turned her wand in her hand, testing the weight. Something felt… off.

"Oh," she said softly. "Oh. Of course."

Remus took a step closer. "What is it?"

"I didn't consider… the magical core," she murmured. "A ritual like this—it doesn't just alter your blood. It binds you magically. And my wand—my wand was attuned to me, my magic as Hermione Granger. Not Ione Lupin."

There was a beat of silence.

Remus placed a hand on her shoulder. "That might not be a bad thing."

She glanced at him.

"If someone saw you with the same wand your younger self is carrying… well. That might raise even more eyebrows than your name."

Hermione let out a long breath. "You're right. I know you're right. It's just—"

She glanced down at the wand in her hand.

"I've had this since I was eleven. It's… it's mine. Like a limb. Losing the connection to it feels like…" She didn't finish the sentence.

Sirius, feeling the mood tilt into dangerous territory, jumped in.

"Well then. We'll just have to go wand shopping together. Make a whole mystery out of it—'enigmatic academic seeks replacement wand for entirely non-suspicious reasons .'"

Hermione cracked a smile. "You're impossible."

"And yet so charming."

"Debatable."

But even as she tucked her wand away, her posture straightened a little. Her steps felt steadier.

The girl she'd been was gone. But something new was forming in her place—something not lesser, not weaker. Just different. Rooted now not just in who she had been, but who she had chosen to become.

They agreed it was best to get Hermione a new wand as soon as possible.

She hadn't said it aloud, but Sirius could see the way she kept glancing at her old wand with a mix of guilt and grief—like it was a beloved pet she could no longer take on walks. Every time she tried a spell and it stuttered, her jaw tightened just a bit.

Remus volunteered to take her.

"It makes sense," he said with quiet finality over breakfast. "If you're going to be using the Lupin name, better that people associate you with me first. It'll hold up to scrutiny if someone starts asking where you've been all these years."

"Right," Hermione agreed, nibbling a piece of toast. "And it'd be a bit odd if I were seen out with Sirius without an obvious introduction point. People know who he is. And… where he's been for the past decade."

Sirius slumped into his chair with a theatrical groan. "I know I'm a walking cautionary tale, but must we keep pointing it out?"

"Think of it as your contribution to national wizarding awareness," Hermione said sweetly.

He gave her a flat look. "I wanted to be the one to take you wand shopping."

"I know," she said softly. "But this makes the most sense."

Sirius harrumphed into his tea. "Fine. But I expect detailed reports. Length, core, wood grain, number of sparks— everything. "

Remus hid a smile behind his mug. "We'll write you a full summary. Possibly with diagrams."

"Better include a pie chart."

Hermione, meanwhile, was already flipping through a spare notebook, jotting down a quick sketch of her "cover story," as she called it.

"Okay, so," she began, tapping her quill against the parchment. "I'm Ione Lupin. Distant cousin of Remus. Raised abroad—let's say France for the magical education laws, but lived in Switzerland the last few years for the neutrality. Reconnected with Remus during one of his trips through Europe, and came back with him when he accepted the Hogwarts teaching post."

"You've thought about this a lot ," Sirius observed, squinting at the notebook.

"Well, of course," Hermione said primly, eyes still on her notes. "It has to be believable. Grounded in real patterns of wizarding migration and school transfers. The French magical education system is stricter on certain subjects, especially Transfiguration and Arithmancy, so it lends credibility to the academic over-preparedness. Even if I was supposedly homeschooled it would be based on that same system."

Sirius squinted at her. "Do you even speak French?"

Hermione didn't even look up as she replied, in fluid, perfectly inflected French, "Je parle cinq langues, dont deux mortes et j'ai lu 'Les chants de Maldoror' en version originale. What do you think?"

Sirius blinked.

Then blinked again.

"Right," he said slowly. "I was going to say something sarcastic, but now I just feel underqualified to exist."

Hermione finally glanced up at him, arching one brow.

Sirius clutched his chest. " Marry me. "

Remus didn't look up from his tea. "She's not accepting proposals until you stop using kitchen knives to open post."

"I told you, the letter was hexed!"

"It was a coupon for a new laundry detergent potion."

Sirius turned back to Hermione, deadpan. "You see what I have to live with?"

"Constant domestic sabotage?" she said dryly.

He nodded. "Exactly. We're perfect for each other."

"Riiight, getting back to business…" Remus said, clearing his throat loudly, clearly done indulging Sirius's proposal spree. "The Switzerland story isn't too far-fetched. I've been travelling for years—no fixed address, minimal contact. No one would question me reconnecting with family abroad."

"I knew I liked you," Hermione said, pointing her quill at him.

Sirius, still sulking in his chair, muttered, "I should be insulted that you're having more fun building your fake identity than being part of my tragic backstory."

Hermione grinned. "Who says I can't enjoy both?"

Remus stood, stretching. "Alright, let's get going before Ollivander closes. You'll want time to test a few options."

"And possibly incinerate a few displays," Sirius added helpfully.

Hermione gave her old wand one last lingering glance, then tucked it into her coat pocket. "Let's go buy me a new limb."

"See?" Sirius called as they headed for the door. "That sounds so healthy."

They didn't disagree.

The Floo was already flaring to life when Sirius pressed a small velvet pouch into Hermione's hand.

She immediately tried to give it back. "Sirius, I don't need this."

"You said your money ran out. This'll cover a new wand," he said, completely ignoring her outstretched hand. "And maybe lunch if Moony insists on ordering something tragically bland."

"I said my Muggle money ran out," Hermione snapped, trying again to hand it back. "Not that I'm destitute. That's why we had to leave the inn."

"And now you're living in my ancestral house, eating my food, and replacing your wand because your magical core rewrote itself like a sentient crossword puzzle so that you can blend in while saving my godson. Just take the bloody gold."

"Sirius—"

Sirius crossed his arms. "I'm still going to worry about you, you know."

"You worry loudly."

He grinned. "You'll miss it when I'm gone."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but pocketed the pouch with a muttered, "Fine. But I'm paying you back, possibly in advance investment tips."

"I'll bill you in emotional labour."

Remus, already dusted in soot from a test Floo flare, cleared his throat with an amused look. "Are we ready, or should I give you two five more minutes to snark?"

Sirius waved them on dramatically. "Go! Get her a wand before she tries casting anything complicated and blows up my newly renovated kitchen."

Hermione gave him a mock salute and stepped into the green flames beside Remus.

"Diagon Alley!"

Diagon Alley was at the height of its back to school rush, its cobblestones sun-warmed and dappled with movement. As they emerged from the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron and made their way out into the street, the buzz of the crowd washed over them—shopkeepers shouting, children laughing, a few cauldrons exploding in the distance with the kind of cheer that only accidental magic could inspire.

Halfway toward Ollivander's, Hermione slowed.

Across the square, at Fortescue's, sat Harry. A half-eaten sundae on one side, a parchment sprawled before him, he was bent in concentration over what looked suspiciously like homework. Quill tapping his lip, tongue sticking out in focus.

Remus halted beside her, eyes softening. "Should I say hello?"

Hermione hesitated. "You'll have time at Hogwarts," she said gently. "You're his professor now. And sort of his uncle. Let him meet you there, when it won't make either of you self-conscious."

Remus nodded slowly.

Hermione's gaze lingered on Harry for a moment longer, then turned away. "I'm not quite ready to test whether my new face holds up under close scrutiny. He knows me too well."

"No one else would guess," Remus murmured, glancing at her sidelong. "But he might."

"Exactly," she said. "Let's get my wand before I start crying into Fortescue's whipped cream."

"Deal," Remus said, and steered her gently down the alley.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Hermione and Remus stepped into Ollivander's.

The shop was as she remembered: dusty motes floating in shafts of light, the air somehow filled with the scent of old magic and polished wood. Thousands of slender wand boxes lined the shelves like sentries. It felt like stepping into a library where every book was staring back at you.

Hermione kept her breathing steady.

She didn't flinch when Mr. Ollivander appeared from behind a shelf like some ancient ghost. But the moment his pale eyes locked on her face, she felt the unmistakable press of something cool and probing against her mind.

She didn't let him in.

Thank you, compulsory Occlumency training, she thought. One of the many grueling perks of being an Unspeakable. She'd suspected for years that Garrick Ollivander was a Legilimens—he wasn't exactly subtle—but that silent confirmation as his gaze skittered off her mental walls was oddly satisfying.

"Ione Lupin," she said smoothly, before he could ask. "I need a wand."

Ollivander blinked slowly. "Indeed? It's not often we see adult witches in need of a new one. Might I ask what happened to your previous one?"

"Tragic snapping incident involving the nostril of a mountain troll," Hermione replied, utterly deadpan. "Best not relive it."

His silvery brows rose in quiet judgement. "How… unfortunate."

"Truly scarring," she added with a faint sniff.

"And the wand?"

"Vinewood. Dragon heartstring."

"Ah, yes. I remember making a combination like that. Sold… two years ago, I believe. Who was the maker, if I might ask?"

"Gregorovitch," she lied effortlessly.

"Mm. Step up here, if you please."

The measuring tape launched itself into the air before she'd taken a step, winding around her arms, elbow, neck, even the bridge of her nose, as if trying to determine if she were secretly a velociraptor.

Ollivander disappeared into the back with a rustle of robes.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Remus leaned in. "You call that a subtle cover story?"

Hermione kept her expression neutral. "Sirius has rubbed off on me."

"Infectious, isn't he?"

"In my defence," she whispered, "the story's technically true. There was a troll. The wand did end up in the nostril. But it wasn't mine. It was Harry's. And it didn't break."

Remus blinked slowly. "What happened to the troll?"

"Knocked out with its own club. Excellent creative use of Wingardium Leviosa, by the way. You should make a note of that for your classes."

He just stared at her.

Hermione smiled sweetly. "Welcome to my first year."

Remus muttered, "I take it back. I don't want advance feedback on my lesson plans. I just want plausible deniability."

Hermione patted his arm. "Too late. You're family now."

Ollivander returned with a small selection of wand boxes cradled in his arms, his gaze sharp as he set them on the counter. "We shall see what speaks to you now, Miss Lupin."

Hermione stood tall as he opened the first box—a sleek, pale wand with a supple curve. "Cedar, unicorn hair," he announced. "Resilient. Loyal."

She gave it a flick. A feeble sputter of sparks escaped the tip before it fizzled out like a dying firecracker.

Ollivander didn't look disappointed. If anything, he looked delighted. "Not that one, then."

Next came a darker wand—walnut, rigid, with a spiral-carved handle. "Dragon heartstring," he said with something like nostalgia. "Powerful. Demanding."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. She gave it a confident swish.

It hissed.

Quite literally.

Remus coughed and took a subtle step sideways.

"Definitely not that one," she muttered, carefully returning it to its box.

After two more lacklustre attempts—one that caused a shelf to rattle ominously and one that made her hair stand on end—Ollivander finally opened the last box.

"This one… might be of interest."

The wand was a rich, warm chestnut wood with a gentle, natural grain and a slightly tapered handle. Simple. Elegant.

"Phoenix feather," he said softly. "Unicorn may be the most consistent. Dragon, the most forceful. But phoenix feather? The rarest core of all. Capable of great feats… and only choosing those who are destined for them."

Hermione reached out and closed her fingers around the wand.

A pulse of warmth surged up her arm—bright, alive, and unmistakably hers.

The tip sparked with golden light, then shimmered briefly in a halo before settling into a steady glow.

"Well," Ollivander said with quiet reverence. "There she is."

Hermione didn't say anything. Her fingers tightened slightly around the handle. It didn't feel like her old wand. Not quite. But it felt… right.

"You must have gone through some rather radical change recently," Ollivander mused, tilting his head as he watched her. "Phoenix feather is drawn to transformation. Renewal. Rebirth."

Hermione smiled faintly. "You could say that."

Ollivander blinked slowly, as if weighing how much more to ask. Then, in true Ollivander fashion, decided to file the mystery away for later. "Chestnut and phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches. Supple. Responsive. A fine match."

Hermione nodded, still holding the wand, her expression unreadable. "I'll take it."

Remus paid, casually sliding the galleons across the counter before she could protest. She gave him a look; he gave her a shrug.

As they stepped out into the sunshine of Diagon Alley, Hermione held her wand up, just slightly, letting the light catch on its polished surface.

A wand for Ione Lupin.

It still felt strange.

But it didn't feel wrong.

And maybe that was enough for now.

They landed just outside the entryway of Grimmauld Place with a faint pop and a slight stumble—Remus blinking as his boots hit the landing and Hermione let go of his arm.

"Still don't like Apparating," he muttered, smoothing down the front of his robes.

"You'd think after years of hopping around the country, you'd be used to it," Hermione said, brushing a bit of dust off her sleeve.

"Side-Along's different," he said, wrinkling his nose. "It's like being stuffed into someone else's boot."

As he stepped inside, she made her move—quick, subtle, practiced. The small pouch Sirius had given her that morning, still jingling faintly with galleons, disappeared into the folds of Remus's outer pocket with a flick of her fingers.

Or so she thought.

She had just started feeling smug about it when something brown flew through the air, and she instinctively caught it.

The pouch.

Remus gave her a flat look and tapped one finger against his ear. "Werewolf, remember?"

Hermione huffed. "I was subtle ."

"You were trying to be," he said, and then quirked a brow. "Which was adorable, but I could hear the coins from three steps away. And smell Sirius's smugness on the drawstring."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That's not a real thing."

"It absolutely is," he said, deadpan. "It's like cheap cologne and unearned confidence.

Hermione sighed and stuffed the pouch into her own pocket with all the drama of a sulky Victorian heiress. "Fine. But don't be surprised when I use it to buy you socks."

Remus gave her a wry smile. "Not the worst outcome, honestly."

From across the hall, Sirius's voice rang out, loud and cheerful: "If you two are done flirting through financial manipulation, dinner's ready!"

Neither of them answered.

But Hermione rolled her eyes, and Remus was already fighting a smile.

As they stepped into the dining room, Sirius barely looked up from where he was pouring wine into mismatched goblets.

"You two might want to ease off the mutual admiration," he said, with exaggerated casualness. "Bit weird now that you're cousins by blood magic, isn't it?"

Hermione snorted as she dropped into a chair. "You're one to talk with a family tree that folds in on itself like bad origami. Your parents were second cousins."

Sirius lifted a hand in lazy acknowledgment. "Yeah, and look how well I turned out."

Remus choked slightly on his drink.

"And for the record," she added pointedly, "we weren't flirting. You're just jealous."

"I am not jealous," Sirius replied, entirely too quickly.

Remus raised an eyebrow as he sat down. "You do sound a little jealous."

"I'm not jealous," Sirius insisted again, jabbing the cork back into the bottle. "I'm simply making a reasonable observation about the social implications of magically adopted cousinhood."

Hermione smirked. "Well, thank you, Lord Black, for your riveting commentary on magical genealogy. Now sit down and pass the bread."

Sirius muttered something under his breath—possibly "this house used to be mine" —but complied. Dinner was served under the faint crackle of candles, clinking cutlery, and the lingering presence of Sirius trying very hard not to pout.

Remus leaned slightly toward Hermione, voice low. "You realise you've weaponised both logic and ancestry against him in under a minute."

Hermione buttered her roll with perfect composure. "I consider it a warm-up."

Sirius sighed, his head dropping into his hands. "Merlin help me, I'm living with two Moonies."