Sirius padded into the sitting room, yawning into one hand and scratching the back of his neck with the other, still in the too-soft cotton shirt he swore he didn't sleep in on purpose. The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

A massive blackboard had been conjured in the middle of the room, half-covered in tightly written chalk notes and a web of names, dates, and magical symbols. Hermione was pacing in front of it like a general preparing for battle—barefoot, hair pulled up in a precarious bun, wand tucked behind one ear.

She looked up mid-step and froze, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Have you slept at all?" she asked, tilting her head.

Sirius hadn't glanced in a mirror that morning, but her tone suggested his general state of dishevelment had crossed from 'charming rogue' to 'escaped cryptid'.

He shrugged. "I slept. Technically."

She gave him a long, evaluating look. "Why didn't you come over as Padfoot last night?"

The question caught him off guard, his mouth opening before he had a real answer.

It had become a habit, he realised—ever since the fever, ever since she'd curled up under a pile of blankets and he'd flopped down beside her in dog form. At first it had been practical. She'd been sick. He'd been twitchy. Padfoot could sleep where Sirius couldn't.

But last night, for some reason, he hadn't transformed. Couldn't bring himself to.

He rubbed the back of his neck again. "I dunno. Didn't feel like a dog nap night."

Hermione stepped closer, frowning a bit, like she could read the spiralling thoughts he was failing to lock down.

"Sirius…" she said softly.

He waved a hand. "It's nothing. Just—" He looked away, jaw working. "It's weird, isn't it? You're always fine with him. Padfoot. You don't pull away when he gets close. You let him curl up next to you. But when it's me, it's like you remember to be careful."

Hermione's expression shifted. Not guilty, exactly, but something close. She hesitated.

"That's not—" She paused, choosing her words. "It's not that I'm not comfortable around you. I am. But Padfoot doesn't look at me like you do."

Sirius lifted an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Like you're trying to figure out what it would take for me to let you kiss me again," she said, blunt as ever.

That caught him. He blinked, lips parting in surprise.

She went on, quietly, "And when you're Padfoot, it's safe. Simple. You're not trying to read me. You're just there. No agenda. No tension. No expectations."

Sirius folded his arms, suddenly more awake. "You think I have an agenda?"

"I think you're used to charming your way into people's… knickers," she said, matter-of-fact. "And I think I'm not quite ready for… whatever that means when it comes to us."

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded once. "Okay. I can respect that."

There was a pause.

"Still," she added, crossing her arms. "You look exhausted. You could've come. As Padfoot. I wouldn't have minded."

Sirius huffed a dry laugh. "You're giving me joint custody of your bed, but only in dog form. Got it."

Hermione cracked a smile. "Well, you are objectively less annoying as a dog."

"Debatable," he muttered, then glanced at the blackboard dominating the sitting room. "So… what's the plan, General?"

"We should wait for Remus," she said briskly. "I'll give you the rundown of everything we'll have to do regarding the Horcruxes."

As if summoned by the uttering of his name, Remus padded into the room carrying two cups of tea. He looked at the blackboard, then at the expressions on their faces, and just sighed as he handed Hermione her mug. "Merlin help me."

Hermione gestured them both to sit.

Sirius tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You know, this is the weirdest sleepover briefing I've ever been to."

"Focus," Hermione said, though her expression softened as she glanced toward Remus, who was now settling into the worn armchair.

"Right," she said, pressing her palms to the table like a general preparing a war council. "We've got a lot to cover, but first things first. I should've checked this before I started talking Horcruxes with either of you." Her eyes slid to Sirius. "How's your Occlumency?"

Sirius raised a brow. "Is that a trick question?"

"I know Remus is relatively safe," Hermione continued briskly, ignoring his dry tone. "Legilimency doesn't work properly on werewolves. Not unless it's a full moon and they're mid-transformation, and even then it's unstable. Not to mention suicidal for whoever wants to read his thoughts. But you—" she pointed at Sirius "—grew up in a pureblood household. And I know most of them at least introduce Occlumency early, but I don't know how far the House of Black went with it, or whether you retained any of it post-Azkaban—"

"You're rambling," Sirius said, deadpan.

Hermione blinked. "Right. Sorry."

"And to answer your question," he continued, "solid enough. I was tested for it when I was fifteen—my mother was very interested in making sure no one in the House embarrassed her by spilling family secrets. I kept up the habit a bit, mostly to block out thoughts of her. And Azkaban, well…" He shrugged. "Let's just say I had plenty of time for mental discipline. Maybe not Dumbledore-proof, but I'm no open book either."

Hermione nodded, reassured but not entirely satisfied. "Good for now. But we'll still work on strengthening it. I'm not worried about Dumbledore reading your mind. It's Voldemort I'm worried about."

Remus leaned forward. "You think we won't finish this before he returns?"

"I hope we will," she said. "But I'm planning for the possibility that we won't. And Voldemort doesn't read minds the way other Legilimens do. You can't lie. He feels deception even passively. As far as I know only one person has ever fooled him."

Sirius exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. "So we either succeed quickly or become mental fortresses."

"Exactly."

She turned to the blackboard, which was covered in lists, diagrams, timeline estimates, and something that might have been a miniature sketch of a basilisk wearing a monocle.

"Now," Hermione said, tapping her wand to the board with purpose. "Let's talk Horcruxes."

Remus raised his mug in a mock toast. "Cheerful."

Sirius leaned forward. "Alright. How many are we talking?"

"Let's start with the basics," she replied. "Do you both know what a Horcrux is?"

"Yes," said Sirius without hesitation.

"No," said Remus at the exact same time.

He blinked and glanced sideways as Sirius smirked, for once on the right side of obscure magical knowledge.

"Don't ask," Sirius said. "My family's hobby was studying horrible things over dinner. 'Pass the potatoes, darling, and tell me your favourite way to mutilate a soul.'"

"Charming," Remus muttered.

"Right," Hermione continued briskly. "A Horcrux is a physical object in which a dark wizard can anchor a fragment of their soul. The process to create one is foul. Requires murder and a ritual that makes most Dark magic look tame. Voldemort, in my time, created a total of seven. He aimed to split his soul into seven pieces—six Horcruxes and the bit that stayed in his body. You know, for Arithmantic significance."

"But?" Sirius asked, already grimacing.

"But due to some… unplanned consequences, it ended up being seven Horcruxes. So: eight pieces of soul. He overshot."

"Of course he did," Sirius muttered. "Because when you're evil, more is always more."

Hermione pointed to the blackboard. "As of right now—this point in time—only six exist."

"Wait, only six?" Remus asked. "What happened to the seventh?"

"He hasn't made it yet," Hermione explained. "In my timeline, he kills a Ministry witch named Bertha Jorkins while abroad and uses her death to create his final Horcrux—Nagini, a maledictus sometime during the summer of 1994."

"Wait—his snake?" Sirius looked mildly offended on behalf of snakes everywhere.

"Yes," Hermione said grimly. "But we're not there yet. So. Number one: Tom Riddle's Diary. Already destroyed by Harry in June."

Remus frowned. "Harry destroyed a Horcrux? In second year? How?"

"Kind of a lucky break," Hermione said. "He used a Basilisk fang. Basilisk venom is one of only two known methods that can destroy a Horcrux—the other being Fiendfyre."

Remus looked utterly bewildered. "I feel like I'm missing some critical information. Like… all of it."

"I'll explain it later," Sirius whispered, leaning over. "Just picture giant snake, chaos, and Harry stabbing things. You'll love it."

"Second," Hermione said, already moving on, "Slytherin's Locket. It's currently sealed and heavily warded in the basement. Safe for now."

"'Safe,'" Remus repeated, unconvinced.

"Third: Ravenclaw's Diadem," Hermione continued. "It's in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts. Remus, I'll give you instructions on how to access it. It's basically a magical lost-and-found dumping ground. Be prepared for… chaos. Lots of furniture. Possibly a couple of Nifflers. And weird socks."

"Lovely," Remus muttered. "Sounds like a dream."

"Fourth: the Gaunt Ring," she said, tapping the next entry on the board. "It's in Little Hangleton, at the Gaunt family shack. Guarded by curses, but not mobile. So that one we can approach strategically."

"And the last?" Sirius asked.

Hermione sighed. "Helga Hufflepuff's Cup. That one's the nightmare. It's stored in Bellatrix Lestrange's personal vault at Gringotts."

Sirius groaned. "What is wrong with my family? Why are two of Voldemort's soul chunks somehow tied to us?"

"Technically three," Hermione corrected. "The diary was in Lucius Malfoy's possession until he panicked and tried to offload it. And he's married to Narcissa."

Sirius made a face. "Ugh. Of course."

"And Voldemort didn't give the locket to Regulus," Hermione added, "he entrusted it to the cave. Regulus just got it out using Kreacher."

Sirius nodded, expression dark. "He died for that."

"I know," Hermione said softly. "But it matters. It all matters. We have the information now. And a head start."

Remus frowned, counting silently on his fingers. "Wait. That wasn't the last one. You said six Horcruxes. That was only five."

Hermione's gaze didn't waver. "Yes. The sixth is the… unforeseen one. The one he never meant to make."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "And?"

She hesitated. "It's Harry."

Remus stared at her. "Come again?"

"Sirius already knows," she said gently. "I'm working on how to deal with it safely. He doesn't know. He can't. You don't need to worry about that one right now. Just focus on the others."

There was a long beat.

Then Sirius clapped his hands once, too loudly. "So! Fancy a trip to a decaying shack in the middle of nowhere where the most inbred family in magical Britain used to live in unwashed squalor? Could be fun. Very nostalgic."

Remus blinked at him.

"Talking about the Gaunts," Sirius added, as if that somehow clarified anything.

"Of course," Remus said dryly. "Sounds charming. Shall I bring snacks? Maybe a tetanus potion?"

"Wouldn't hurt," Sirius replied. "Place is probably held together by curses and Bundimun."

Hermione muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Idiots," but she was smiling.

Just a little.

"Just out of curiosity," Sirius said, leaning back in his chair with a lazy sort of suspicion, "what was your plan for the diadem if Remus here had decided he didn't want to have anything to do with you, regardless of all the compelling 'not a traitorous murderer' evidence?"

Hermione didn't miss a beat. "I would've had you ask Harry for his Invisibility Cloak and we would've snuck in through the Honeydukes tunnel."

"Oh good," Sirius sighed in relief. "I was afraid you'd want to directly involve Harry somehow."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "I'm not Albus Dumbledore, thank you very much. I don't make a habit of sending thirteen-year-olds on life-threatening quests."

"I detect a bit of resentment in that statement," Remus said, brows raised at her sudden bristle.

Hermione folded her arms. "Let's just say he has a long history of questionable judgement calls."

Remus blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and faint betrayal. "But… he let me into Hogwarts. Despite—everything. I owe him that."

"I'm not denying the gesture," Hermione said, more gently. "The initiative was good. The execution? Abysmal. 'Here's a Shack, let's plant a murderous tree. That'll keep the werewolf student totally under control. Oh look, four teenagers are sneaking in and out of it regularly—this is fine.'"

"Hey!" Sirius said indignantly. "He didn't know we were doing that, and we kept Remus in line!"

Hermione raised a brow. "You also sent Snape right through the tunnel on a full moon because he pissed you off."

"…I mean—"

"And Dumbledore just gave you a slap on the wrist."

"I—okay, yes, that part was dumb," Sirius admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "But we were kids."

"I know," Hermione said quickly. "That's my point. You were kids. Dumb decisions are practically a rite of passage. But Dumbledore? He was the adult in the room. And he made just as many reckless choices. Sometimes more."

There was a long pause.

"That's not even my biggest issue with him," she added. "He practically raised Harry to be a strategic sacrifice. Gave him just enough tools, just enough hope, to make it to the moment when he could walk willingly to his death—and surprise! He survives, thanks to a very delicate magical loophole. But it was always a gamble."

Remus looked a little pale. Sirius just stared at her, quiet.

"And leaving Harry with the Dursleys? Letting him face down Quirrell at eleven? The Chamber of Secrets situation? The Triwizard Tournament? Then completely avoiding him in fifth year right after he had witnessed Voldemort's return…" Hermione's jaw clenched. "And don't even get me started on his thing with Grindelwald."

"Oh, Lily mentioned something about that once," Sirius muttered. "Bathilda Bagshot was their neighbour, used to gossip. I thought she was just senile."

"Pretty sure she was right," Hermione said grimly. "They were lovers. But if not that then at least besties. Then Ariana died during a three-way duel between Albus, Aberforth, and Gellert. After that? Albus devoted himself to 'the greater good,' but people still ended up as pawns on his chessboard. Pawns don't always know they're being played. Did I mention he only went and duelled Grindelwald when he had absolutely no other choice, first letting him build a following for about two decades?"

"Wow," Remus said softly.

"I'm with Hermione on this one," Sirius said, voice rougher now. "He was Chief Warlock in '81. Could've spoken up. Could've done something. I gave everything to the Order, and he let them toss me in Azkaban without lifting a finger to at least ensure due process is met."

There was a heavy silence.

"So…" Remus said carefully, "I take it you don't want me to talk to Dumbledore about any of this?"

Hermione looked at him evenly. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Remus shook his head without hesitation. "No. I trust you."

Hermione stared at him for a moment, then muttered, "Oh, sod it," and launched herself into his arms.

Remus startled, but caught her easily. He sat stiff for a beat, then wrapped his arms around her awkwardly, patting her back as she sniffled into his shoulder.

"I mean, we've got the brightest witch of her age on our side," Remus said awkwardly, patting her back as her hair engulfed him. "What else could we possibly need?"

"You called me that at the end of third year," Hermione murmured into his shoulder, her voice watery.

"Hey!" Sirius cut in, mock-offended. "I called you that first. Back at the inn."

Hermione let go of Remus and promptly switched targets, wrapping Sirius into a second hug. "Yes, yes. You can claim all the glory in this timeline. Happy now?"

Sirius grinned over the top of her curls. "Ecstatic. Don't tell Harry, though. He'll get jealous."

Hermione pulled back with a snort. "Speaking of Harry… I still can't believe that after everything, he went and named his second son Albus Severus. I swear, the boy has no concept of holding a grudge."

Remus blinked. "He… what?"

Sirius looked mildly disturbed. "Wait. Severus? As in Snivellus Snape? That Severus?"

Hermione nodded gravely. "Full-on tribute. Said he was the bravest man he ever knew."

"Why? Just why?"

She sighed. "Look, to be fair, he was in love with Lily. Since they were nine. He switched sides when he found out Voldemort was going to target her. Spied for the Order. Fooled Voldemort to the very end. He did a lot of good."

"Still sounds like a bitter bat with a saviour complex," Sirius muttered.

"Oh, he absolutely was. But he died trying to protect Harry. Or rather, trying to protect Lily's memory through Harry. It's… complicated."

Sirius scowled. "So's a blast-ended skrewt. Doesn't mean I want to name a child after one."

Hermione let out a sharp laugh. "Trust me, I had opinions. I told him all of them. I'm not saying we don't owe him. But he also bullied Harry relentlessly. And Neville. And honestly, just about every student not in Slytherin."

"And yet Harry still named his kid after him?" Remus said, frowning.

Hermione nodded. "Yeah. And after Dumbledore, too. But Harry's heart is enormous and deeply confusing. He forgives people like it's a competitive sport."

Sirius rubbed his face. "That boy. No concept of poetic justice. Or irony. Or trauma. Honestly, it should've been Sirius Remus Potter. Strong. Dignified. Slightly unhinged, but loveable."

"Why do I feel like you've thought about this before?" Remus asked.

"Because I have." Sirius paused. "Also, not that it's a contest, but… did anyone name a child after you, Moony?"

Remus looked contemplative. "Not that I know of."

"Travesty," Sirius declared. "We'll fix it. We're raising the next generation of traumatised war orphans the right way."

"I hope not," Hermione said flatly.

Sirius blinked. "Right. Yes. Ideally no war, no orphans. But if there were."

Hermione rolled her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," Sirius said smugly, "you're still hugging me."

"Don't ruin it," she murmured.

Remus took a sip of his tea and watched them over the rim of his mug. "Merlin help me, you two really are like a married couple."

"Don't start," both of them said at once, without moving.

Remus chuckled. "Just saying. If you two ever do get married, don't name a kid after me. No kid needs that much wolf energy baked into their birth certificate. It's almost like asking for trouble."

Sirius smirked. "We'll call him Moony. Full name."

"Not funny," Remus deadpanned.

"By the way, his firstborn is James Sirius, and his daughter is Lily Luna."

Sirius paused mid-rant, blinking. "Wait—his firstborn is named James Sirius?"

Hermione nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Yes."

He straightened, visibly preening. "Well. I suppose all is forgiven, then."

"You didn't even know he needed forgiving."

"Details." He waved a hand dismissively. "James Sirius. That's got a ring to it. Bet the kid's a heartbreaker. Or a hellraiser. Or both."

"He is five. Well… was when I left."

"And the daughter?" Sirius asked, suddenly suspicious. "You said Lily something?"

"Lily Luna," Hermione confirmed.

"Why Luna?"

"Luna Lovegood," Hermione smirked. "A Ravenclaw in Ginny's year. You'll like her. Or be utterly confused by her. Probably both."

"That's very reassuring," he muttered. "Still. Lily Luna. Alright, that's actually kind of sweet. James Sirius. Lily Luna. Then… Albus Severus."

"Bit of a nosedive there in the middle, I know," Hermione said, sighing. "But I guess Harry thought it was his way of honouring all sides. The brave, the misunderstood, the controversial..."

"He could've honoured me more. Just saying." Sirius huffed. "I died for that kid."

"You also licked his best friend," Remus pointed out.

"As a dog. Entirely different moral territory."

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "This conversation is rapidly going off the rails."

"That's because we're emotionally well-adjusted men," Sirius said cheerfully.

"Emotionally well-adjusted people don't say that sentence," Hermione replied without looking up.

"I feel like a perpetual third wheel here," Remus muttered into his tea. "Honestly, it's worse than when James got going with Lily."

"Sorry," Hermione said, not sounding particularly sorry. She turned to Sirius. "So—unless you've got plans with Harry tomorrow—how about we go to the Gaunt shack and get that over with? The sooner the better." She glanced back at Remus. "It's only five days to the full moon, and I know it gets rougher for you the closer we get."

"Very thoughtful of you," Remus said, with a smile that was equal parts grateful and resigned.

Hermione shifted, still wedged on the sofa between them, knees tucked up under her. "Speaking of the full moon…"

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "That tone never leads anywhere relaxing."

"I was just going to suggest," Hermione said sweetly, "that you and Remus could use the basement here for the transformation. It's secure, and once I've finished layering the wards, it'll be safer than the Shrieking Shack ever was."

"Absolutely not with you in the house," Sirius said flatly. "I don't care how many wards you put up. It's not happening."

Hermione sighed dramatically. "I'd hardly be in the same room. And anyway, I'm not exactly helpless."

Sirius arched a brow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm an Animagus."

There was a beat of silence.

Remus blinked. "You're what?"

Hermione gave him a smug little nod. "Siamese cat. Registered, too. Not that the Ministry's records are worth much at the moment."

"You're a bloody kitten," Sirius gaped. "I'm calling you Kitten from now on."

"If you call me that again," Hermione said with deadly calm, "I'll bat-bogey hex you."

"That's not a real hex."

"Oh, it is. Ask Ginny. In two years."

Sirius laughed, then looked half-offended. "A Siamese, though? Really?"

"Elegant, intelligent, efficient."

"Smaller than my paw," he muttered.

Remus was still catching up. "Wait—how did you even manage it? Becoming an Animagus is no small feat."

"There was an elective Unspeakable seminar on it," Hermione said casually, like it had been a knitting class. "They provided guidance, even the rare ingredients. Step-by-step know-how to avoid the usual pitfalls."

Sirius looked personally affronted. "That's cheating."

Hermione arched a brow, her teacup halfway to her lips. "Excuse me?"

"The whole Unspeakable seminar thing," he gestured vaguely. "Detailed instructions? Ingredient kits? Where's the struggle? Where's the drama?"

"It was a heavily monitored magical transformation with controlled risk parameters," she said primly.

"Exactly!" Sirius threw up his hands. "Becoming an Animagus is supposed to be hell! It builds character! You think we had a user manual?"

"I'm sorry I didn't suffer enough for your aesthetic."

"No, listen—first ingredient we needed? Death's-head hawkmoth chrysalises. Filch was hoarding them in the rafters of his office for Merlin knows what reason. We had to sneak in, levitate up into the dustiest part of the ceiling, and convince them not to hatch prematurely. James nearly sneezed himself into detention."

"I remember that," Remus muttered. "Had no idea what that whole fiasco was for at the time."

"And then—then—there's the dew. You're supposed to collect it under very specific conditions, right? Dew from a place untouched by sunlight or human feet for at least seven days. Do you know how hard that is to find in a castle full of meddling teenagers?"

"I'm going to assume… difficult?" Hermione said sweetly.

"We found a cave in the Forbidden Forest," Sirius continued. "Warded it up to keep out creatures and light, and then had to go back after exactly a week to collect the dew using a broom because touching the ground voided the whole thing."

Remus nodded sagely. "There were spiders."

"There were so many spiders. And then you've got to keep a mandrake leaf in your mouth for a full lunar cycle—without swallowing it or losing it. Try managing that with regular Quidditch practices."

He paused dramatically.

"I swallowed mine. Twice."

Hermione was very clearly trying not to laugh. A sticking charm would have solved that no problem.

"And the worst part? You need a thunderstorm after the final night of the lunar cycle to charge it with magical tension. Do you have any idea how rare bloody thunderstorms are in the Scottish Highlands when you actually need one? We had to wait three months! Imagine three teenagers full of mischief having to remember to do the incantation at every sunrise and sundown for three months straight under the threat of starting all over if we forgot it just once!"

Hermione took a long sip of her tea, then coughed into the rim.

It suspiciously sounded like: "Weather manipulation spells."

Sirius froze. Remus blinked.

Hermione didn't even look up.

"You did not—" Sirius sat forward. "Tell me you did not just summon a bespoke thunderstorm."

Hermione finally glanced up, all innocence and not an ounce of regret. "We also had lunar visibility guarantees in case of overcast skies when we had to assemble the phial. It was standard procedure."

Sirius looked personally offended. "That's criminal. You took the soul out of it."

"I took the unpredictability and unnecessary suffering out of it," Hermione countered. "Same thing, apparently."

Sirius threw his arms toward Remus. "Do you hear this?"

Remus calmly sipped his own tea. "Honestly, I'm just trying to imagine how much less traumatised we'd be if we'd had a Hermione in charge back then."

Hermione raised her mug in salute. "Glad to be of hypothetical service."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "You may be smug, but I bet your cat form still gets tangled in yarn."

"I will hex you."

"You'll have to catch me first, Kitten."

Remus sighed. "It's going to be a very long five days until the full moon."