Since none of them had ever been to Little Hangleton before on account of Dumbledore being the one that had destroyed this particular Horcrux in Hermione's original timeline, Apparition was off the table. So was the Knight Bus as they did not want anyone in the wizarding world possibly remembering where they had gone exactly. So they Flooed to the nearest wizarding pub in Plymouth, then took a Muggle train out to the sleepy little village that looked like it had last updated its infrastructure in 1923.
Hermione stubbornly refused to ask any locals where they might find a "shack at the edge of town," lest they draw attention and end up being the talk of the village knitting circle. Thankfully, both Sirius and Remus knew how to blend in among Muggles—faded jeans, worn jackets, and enough effortless cool to pass for eccentric dog walkers.
They wandered for the better part of an hour, winding through narrow lanes and tree-lined paths, until they passed the small, overgrown cemetery.
"We're definitely coming back here later," Hermione muttered, glancing over the iron gate.
Sirius slowed his step. "That sounded… vaguely necromantic."
"Don't ask," Remus advised.
Eventually, Hermione's senses—and the faint, crawling itch of residual dark magic—guided them out toward the edge of a wooded copse. The trees pressed close together, casting long shadows despite the midday sun, and a dirt track led up to what could generously be described as a structure.
"Very inviting," Sirius said dryly, eyeing the shrivelled snake that had been nailed to the front door like a deranged Parselmagic knocker.
"We can't just set it all on fire with Fiendfyre," Hermione said, crouching to inspect the ground around the doorway. "It would be visible from the village. We'll have to dismantle the wards and curses first. And under no circumstances are either of you to touch the ring with your bare hands. There's a necrotising curse on it."
"And you know this how?" Sirius asked, brow raised.
"Because our illustrious headmaster once took one look at the stone in that ring and chucked every ounce of caution out the window and decided to put it on," Hermione replied grimly. "Let's just say the effects weren't pretty."
"What's the stone?" Remus asked.
"Story for another time," Hermione said briskly, rising. "Let's do this."
She and Remus worked quickly and efficiently—peeling back layers of curses and ancient wards with the kind of seamless precision that left Sirius mostly standing there, feeling vaguely useless and increasingly annoyed about it.
About an hour later, the last ward cracked like a snapped icicle. The oppressive atmosphere inside the shack hit them like a wall. The air was thick with old dark enchantments that prickled across their skin.
Hermione's steps were sure. She could feel it—like a pulse under the floorboards, drawing her in. The soul signature of Voldemort, foul and greasy, clawed at the edge of her consciousness. She followed it straight to a corner of the room.
Who knew enduring another one of these around her neck on and off for months would be useful one day.
"Here," she said, tapping her wand against the wood. The boards creaked, and with a careful incantation, she peeled them back to reveal a small, iron-bound box.
Another set of protections came off layer by layer. Finally, with a whispered command, the box hovered up into the air and popped open with a soft click.
And immediately, Hermione felt it.
A pressure—not physical, but mental—slamming against her Occlumency shields. The ring was trying to seduce her, to whisper to her, to plant the urge to touch it.
She pushed it back, jaw tight. Remus was fine, his mind closed, controlled.
Sirius, however… wasn't doing as well.
From the edge of her vision, she saw his eyes go glassy. His hand twitched forward, reaching for the ring.
"Sirius—!"
Too late.
She slammed the box shut with her wand, but the compulsion held fast. Sirius didn't stop.
Remus moved in a blur, tackling him to the ground just as his fingers were about to brush the iron casing. They landed with a thud and a muffled curse.
Hermione didn't hesitate. With a sweep of her wand, she conjured a tight ring of Fiendfyre, flames swirling gold and crimson as she kept the blaze small and contained around the box.
The ring screamed.
Not audibly—but in the magic, in the air, in their very bones. And then, just as suddenly, it stopped.
Hermione let the fire collapse in on itself, leaving only ash… and the stone.
She stepped forward slowly, using the edge of her sleeve to retrieve it. The Resurrection Stone. Still intact. Still humming with old, strange power.
She stared at it for a moment, marvelling—not for the first time—at how the Peverell brothers had forged something that could withstand even Fiendfyre. Dumbledore had destroyed the ring with the sword of Gryffindor in her timeline. This was a better option.
Only once it was safely pocketed did she turn and hurry back to Sirius, still pinned under Remus and looking vaguely disoriented.
"Hey," she said, crouching beside him. "You with us?"
Sirius blinked, his voice hoarse. "What just happened?"
"You scared the absolute life out of me," she said, offering him her hand. "That's what."
Remus rolled off with a groan, and Sirius took Hermione's hand, letting her pull him upright.
"No more cursed jewellery for you," she said firmly. "And I retract what I said about your Occlumency. We are starting training tomorrow.
"Noted," Sirius muttered, wincing. "I liked it better when cursed heirlooms just screamed at you."
"Welcome to 1993," Hermione said dryly. "Where everything's awful, and nothing is simple."
"And this," Remus said, brushing ash off his jacket, "was the easy one, wasn't it?"
Hermione just looked at him.
"That's what I was afraid of."
The sun was beginning to dip when they trudged back through Grimmauld's door, Sirius trailing ash and Remus muttering about the lingering headache of soul magic. Hermione looked like she wanted to throw herself into a cold shower and then sleep for twelve hours.
Instead, Sirius clapped his hands and said, "Right. Pub."
Hermione blinked at him. "Pub?"
"Pub," he repeated with a grin. "We've just destroyed a piece of Voldemort's soul and lived to tell the tale. That calls for drinks. I promised you, remember?" He pointed at her. "Once you got over hacking up a lung, I said I'd take you out."
She hesitated, tugging her jumper sleeves down. "Are you sure… that's wise?"
Sirius's grin faltered just slightly. But he waved a hand. "I'm not planning to drown myself in firewhisky and bad decisions. Just a pint. Or two. Some fresh air. A laugh. You deserve it after today."
Hermione still looked uncertain, but Remus, already lounging in one of the armchairs with a cup of tea, gave her a mild nod. "You could use a break. We all could."
"I know just the place," Sirius added, eyes gleaming. "Bit of a jump. You two up for Liverpool?"
Hermione arched a brow. "Liverpool?"
"It's got character," Sirius promised. "And a jukebox."
That… was not what she expected.
The pub in question, tucked into a quiet side street in the heart of Liverpool, was not the rowdy wizarding dive bar Hermione had imagined when Sirius Black said the word pub.
No, this was something else entirely.
The exterior was unassuming brick, with a wooden sign that read The Cauldron & Cask, in a tasteful font that tried a little too hard. Inside, it smelled faintly of hops, worn leather, and cinnamon. The lighting was warm, and the bar back was stacked with rows of gleaming glass bottles and Muggle craft brews with labels like Bewitching Blonde and Hallowed Porter.
"This is… not what I expected," Hermione said as they were led to a corner booth. There was something dissonant yet charming in the way they were using wizarding terminology (more or less correctly) but the place was undeniable Muggle.
"What? You don't think I have taste?" Sirius flopped into the seat opposite her, looking around fondly. "I found this place a couple years before Azkaban. Came here once on a dare. Turns out I liked it better than half the wizarding places in London. No enchanted darts flying at your head. And the beer's decent."
"It's very…" Hermione trailed off. "Crafty."
"You mean it has chairs that don't scream when you sit in them," Remus said dryly as he joined them. "Weird, I know."
Sirius waved over a server, ordered three pints of the "stormy stout" on tap, and raised his glass when they arrived.
"To one down," he said.
"To not touching cursed objects," Hermione added wryly.
"To doing things the moderately safe way for once," Remus concluded.
They clinked glasses.
And for the first time in what felt like weeks, Hermione let herself lean back into the booth, sip her pint, and exhale.
The fight wasn't over. Not even close.
But for a few hours, in a warm little Muggle pub where no one knew their names or their battles, it didn't feel quite so heavy.
And Sirius—smiling without shadows, tapping along to the beat of a Bowie song on the jukebox—looked almost like the version of himself he might've been, in another life.
One pint turned into two.
Two pints turned into three.
By the time the condensation on their third glasses began to run rivulets down the sides, Remus tapped out, rubbing at his temples with a grimace.
"I'm starting to feel the moon," he muttered. "That, and I'm officially too old for this."
"You're thirty-three," Sirius pointed out, slurring only slightly.
"Exactly," Remus replied, standing. "I'll see you both at Grimmauld. Try not to get arrested."
Hermione slid out of the booth too. "We should go with him."
But Sirius shook his head, slapping a few Muggle notes on the table (how he had them, she didn't ask). "Not yet. There's something I want to show you."
"Sirius—"
"Nope," he said, popping the 'p' and grabbing her hand. "No arguments. I'm not kidnapping you, I'm apparating you somewhere extremely important."
"You're tipsy," she said.
"I'm poetic," he countered, very much not wanting to admit that weight did correlate with alcohol tolerance. "Big difference."
Before she could object further, he pulled her into the empty corridor leading to the loos and Apparated them with a soft crack.
The landing was… wobbly. Sirius stumbled, muttering something about gravity being a prat, and Hermione had to catch his elbow to keep from ending up on the grass. When she looked up, blinking against the sudden wind, she realised they were in a quiet park nestled beside a broad, dark river. A stone bridge arched in the distance. Fairy lights twinkled in the trees, and the breeze carried the scent of water and late-summer blooms.
It was… romantic.
Suspiciously so.
"What is this place?" she asked.
"Found it once, years ago," Sirius said. "Never brought anyone. Too nice. Didn't want to ruin it."
He looked at her then. A little flushed from the walk, or the drinks, or something else entirely. There was a softness in his expression she hadn't seen before—something almost boyish beneath the usually brash exterior.
She swallowed. "Sirius—"
He kissed her.
It wasn't rushed or dramatic or wild.
It was slow. Intentional. The kind of kiss that didn't need to prove anything, only ask—is this okay? Do you feel it too?
And Hermione, tipsy and full of warm stout and adrenaline and relief, let herself kiss him back.
Oh. Her mind offered a belated update. Oh no. He's actually very good at this.
She wasn't sure how long they stayed there, under the fairy lights and the soft hush of the river. But when they finally pulled apart, her breath caught in her throat.
She looked at him. Really looked at him. Shadows under his eyes. Bruises from the past still hiding behind the grin. She remembered the way his fingers had curled, reaching for the ring. The blank look on his face. The way it had taken a tackle from Remus to snap him out of it.
"You scared me today," she said quietly.
Sirius's expression shuttered slightly, but he didn't look away.
"At the shack," she clarified. "With the ring. I thought we'd lost you."
"I'm still here," he said, voice low.
"You didn't look like you were," she replied. "You looked… gone."
He was quiet for a long beat. Then, "Yeah. Well. That's what it does, doesn't it? Twists something good into a reason to bleed."
She reached out, brushing her fingers over the back of his hand. "You scared me," she said again, softer this time.
"I won't let it happen again," he said, and then, after a pause, added with a crooked smile, "So I guess you do like me."
"You're alright," she said, sniffing, eyes suspiciously wet. "When you're not licking people or accidentally getting possessed."
"High standards," he murmured. "I'll do my best."
They sat there a while longer, not touching, just existing next to each other while the river moved past.
Maybe tomorrow would bring chaos again.
But for now, there was this.
Hermione shivered slightly, though the air was warm and still. A moment later, she sneezed—just once, but loud enough to make Sirius flinch.
"Oi," he said, already shrugging out of his jacket to place over her shoulders. "Are you getting sick again? I swear, I'll start boiling potions and stuffing you with Pepper-Up myself."
"I'm not," she insisted, voice muffled as she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. "Probably just the river air. Or residual trauma from your kissing."
Sirius smirked, draping the jacket over her shoulders anyway. "Admit it—you swooned a little."
"I sneezed."
"Same thing, if you think about it very romantically and ignore basic biology."
Hermione rolled her eyes but didn't give the jacket back. "Alright, Casanova, we should head back."
"Agreed," Sirius said, already cracking his knuckles. "Where to—"
"No," Hermione said firmly, cutting him off with a raised hand. "I'm apparating us. Your last attempt was already skirting dangerously close to splinching. I don't fancy arriving at Grimmauld Place minus a toe or worse."
He opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to think better of it. "Fair. I was aiming for that bench and we landed in a flowerbed."
"I'm pretty sure it was more like shrubbery."
"I said poetic, not precise."
Hermione sighed, stepping closer. "Hold on, drama king."
Sirius grinned and grabbed her hand. "Lead the way, General."
And with a quiet crack, they disappeared into the night.
The next morning, Hermione stood at the top of the cellar stairs, arms crossed and hair still damp from a shower, looking very much like someone mentally reviewing a checklist titled "How to Destroy a Piece of a Dark Lord Before Breakfast."
"Kreacher," she called, "can you and Sirius help remove the warding from the cellar door?"
The house-elf appeared with a soft pop, eyes narrowing slightly, as he muttered something about "finally honouring Master Regulus," but he obeyed without complaint. Sirius, hair askew and mug of coffee in hand, followed with a slightly less cooperative expression.
"Do we have to do this now?" he muttered. "I haven't even finished my tea."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You're the one who wanted the cellar clear for the full moon. And I'd rather not share breathing space with a locket radiating dark energy for another day."
"Fair point," he grumbled, sipping his tea. "Kreacher, you heard the general."
It didn't take long. Once the wards fell with a faint shimmer and the last layer of magical protection peeled away, Hermione descended the cellar steps with Sirius at her heels and Kreacher staying at the threshold, as if the room offended him on a molecular level.
Hermione knelt and opened the charmed box where the locket had been stored. She carefully lifted it from the velvet pouch, the ornate "S" gleaming dully in the low light.
"There's something on it," she murmured, turning it over in her hands. "An enchantment. Protective layering—it's shielded while it's locked."
"You sure?" Sirius asked, leaning closer.
"Yeah." She frowned, squinting. "I remember Harry had to speak Parseltongue to it. He said open, and that triggered the Horcrux's defences. Only then could the sword actually destroy it."
"So we unlock it first, and then destroy it?"
"Exactly," Hermione said grimly. "And I'm guessing the same applies to Fiendfyre. Otherwise it just bounces off."
She took a deep breath and tried to recreate the guttural hiss Harry had once used.
"Hessh ha saaah?"
The locket didn't so much as twitch.
She frowned, tried again, modulating the tone. "Hyeeshh haa sah"
Still nothing.
Hermione exhaled sharply through her nose. "Honestly, the irony's killing me. Ron managed to do it to get us down Chamber of Secrets in the middle of a bloody battle, and I can't get the vowel stress right."
Sirius blinked. "Why is that ironic?"
She shot him a flat look. "First year. Charms class. 'It's Leviooosa, not Leviosar.' I corrected Ron. Loudly. Publicly. We weren't even friends yet. And now look at me—defeated by vowel placement."
Sirius nodded at the locket. "Well, if you really need help, we can always bring in Harry. Let him hiss at it for five minutes."
"No!" Hermione nearly dropped the locket. "Absolutely not. He's not coming within fifty feet of this Horcrux. It's nasty. It messes with your head. I don't even want him to know it's in the house."
Sirius held up his hands. "Alright, alright. No Parseltongue teen saviour. Got it."
Hermione sighed and rubbed her forehead. "There has to be a way I can replicate it. If I could just hear it again—objectively. From the outside, not how I remember it sounding in my head."
Sirius tilted his head. "Well there is always rewatching memories in a Pensieve?"
"Yes!" Hermione lit up. "That would be perfect. If I could view the memory from a third-person perspective, I could pick up the exact sound." Then she paused. "But do the Blacks have one?"
"Not that I know of," Sirius said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Though my family did keep a cursed music box that made people hallucinate they were drowning, so… close?"
Hermione grimaced.
"But," Sirius added, snapping his fingers, "as you so eloquently put it once—I'm filthy rich. I'll buy you one."
Hermione blinked. "You can't just… buy a Pensieve. They're incredibly rare."
Sirius just shrugged. "So is common sense in this house, and yet we make do. I'll pull some strings. Worst case, I call in a favour from Gringotts."
"You're being absurd."
"I'm being useful," he said smugly. "Which, let's be honest, is rare enough that you should take advantage of it."
Hermione didn't smile. Not really. But her lips quirked ever so slightly as she muttered, "Fine. But no cursed music boxes, Sirius."
"No promises."
"You didn't come as Padfoot last night," Hermione said softly, not quite looking at him as she tucked the locket carefully back into its pouch. Apparently, this wasn't going to be today's project after all.
Sirius leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. "Wasn't sure if I was invited," he said after a pause, voice rough around the edges.
She didn't answer right away, just drew the velvet cords tight and tied them off with a precise little knot. "I thought we clarified already that you are always welcome as Padfoot. Especially if it helps you sleep. Did you sleep?"
"Like a baby for the first time in... Merlin, I don't even know how long. Bit hungover, though. Probably shouldn't have had that third pint. Or the fourth. Or whatever came after the thing in the copper mug."
"That was mine, and you stole it," Hermione pointed out, tone dry.
Sirius grinned faintly. "You looked like you weren't going to finish it."
"I wasn't. Because it had chilli in it."
He scratched the back of his neck. "Explains the fire. I thought I was having an epiphany."
Hermione finally glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. "You know," she said, quietly now, "it was nice."
"Which part?"
She gave him a look. "Don't push your luck."
Sirius held up his hands. "I'm not. I swear. Just... didn't want to make it a thing if you didn't want it to be a thing."
Hermione closed the trunk with a click and rested her hands on the lid for a second too long.
"Maybe it is a thing," she said. "Maybe we just don't know what kind yet."
Sirius nodded, something softer flickering behind his eyes. "Alright. I can live with that."
"Good." She stood, brushing off her knees. "Now come and let's figure out where you are getting a pensieve from as you promised, or we're raiding a Department of Mysteries storage room by Tuesday."
He smirked. "You say that like it's a threat."
"Oh, it is," Hermione said, already marching out of the cellar. "I'll bring the thunder spells."
"Godric's flaming ghost, I love a woman with contingency plans," Sirius muttered, and followed her up the stairs.
Remus shuffled into the kitchen with a robe that had seen better days and hair that looked like it had fought a small thunderstorm and lost. He blinked blearily at Hermione, who was halfway through her second cup of tea and surrounded by what looked like six separate to-do lists, a diagram of the Gringotts vault system, and a hand-drawn map of Hogwarts that had somehow acquired moving doodles of instructions on how to get the Horcrux.
"Morning," he rasped, voice still rough with sleep. "Or whatever time it is."
Hermione looked up with a bright, too-awake smile. "Morning! There's fresh tea."
Remus glanced at her, then the avalanche of parchment, then back at her.
"…We never went to the Ministry."
Hermione blinked. "What?"
"To register you," Remus clarified, pouring himself a cup and sinking into a chair. "We got your wand, remember? Then you… how do I put this… skipped merrily into War General mode and decided, in your infinite Gryffindor wisdom, that yesterday was the perfect day to hunt a Horcrux."
Hermione winced slightly. "Oh."
"Don't get me wrong," he continued, stirring his tea. "Destroying ancient soul magic was very productive. Very cathartic. I feel closer to both of you now that I've tackled Sirius into the dirt."
"I'd argue that was medically necessary."
"Oh, it was. Still felt very team-building."
Hermione sighed and rubbed at her temples. "Right. Ministry. Today. I'll reshuffle the list."
"Excellent," Remus said, taking a long sip. "Before you declare war on Bellatrix or convince us to rob a bank."
"…That's next week."
"I figured."
Sirius wandered in at that moment, yawning. "Is she back to reorganising our calendar with blood and colour-coding again?"
"Always," Remus said, without missing a beat.
Hermione just pointed at him with her quill. "You're not wrong."
Sirius snagged a slice of toast from the table like it had personally offended him. "You two go do the whole Ministry shebang. I can live without another round of cameras flashing in my face."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You're not exactly famous for avoiding the spotlight."
"True," he said through a mouthful of toast. "But there's a difference between heroic spotlight and bureaucratic hellscape. Paperwork doesn't come with applause. Or fan mail."
"Or criminal charges," Remus muttered.
Sirius pointed his toast at him. "Exactly. Also, if I never have to fill out another 'Statement of Magical Intent' again, it'll be too soon."
"Noted," Hermione said dryly. "You'll stay here and do absolutely nothing irresponsible, dangerous, or laced with potential consequences, right?"
Sirius blinked at her with exaggerated innocence—an expression that, on him, somehow looked like a dog caught mid-bin raid while still denying it. "Define 'consequences.'"
Hermione didn't even flinch. "Anything that ends with paperwork, blood, or an unscheduled visit from the Department of Magical Catastrophes."
He lifted a finger as if to bargain. "What about mild emotional trauma and highly questionable decision-making?"
"That's your baseline," Remus muttered, without looking up from his copy of the Daily Prophet.
Sirius beamed at him. "See? Moony understands me."
"Also explains why I drink," Remus added, sipping his tea.
Hermione closed her notebook with a decisive snap. "Go on then, what are you planning?"
Sirius leaned forward, lowering his voice as if they were conspiring. "I was thinking of seeing Harry."
Hermione's expression immediately shifted from sceptical to something suspiciously maternal. "Oh?"
"Before going to Knockturn, that is," he added, far too quickly, "to hunt down a black-market artefact dealer who can get us a Pensieve."
There was a short, tense silence.
Hermione stared at him. "Are you seeing Harry before or after a jaunt with some shady characters who sell cursed objects out of reinforced trunks?"
"Before, obviously," Sirius said, as if that settled the matter entirely. "I want to take him to a public Quidditch pitch in Salisbury so he can try out his new Firebolt before term starts. Thought it'd be a nice bonding experience."
"You bought him a new broom?" Hermione blinked, the sarcasm stalling for a beat. "That actually sounds… kind of nice."
Sirius preened slightly. "It's top-of-the-line. Fast, sleek, almost definitely not cursed."
"I was actually wondering if he was going to get a new broom now that, with you cleared, his Nimbus 2000 wouldn't get swept into the Whomping Willow by the wind after he fell off it from Dementor exposure."
"Bit of a bleak way to phrase it," Remus muttered around his toast.
"Oh, it gets better," Hermione continued, undeterred. "Now younger me doesn't have to get that Firebolt confiscated by McGonagall either—no suspiciously anonymous Christmas packages to raise red flags."
"That improves her quality of life by about fifty percent I bet," Remus said thoughtfully. "She'll still have a Time-Turner, though, right?"
"Unfortunately," Hermione sighed. "She'll be overcommitted, underfed, and one mistimed sneeze away from paradoxing the entire timeline."
"Sounds familiar," Sirius muttered into his coffee.
"And," Hermione added, "I guess Ron won't get mad at her for Crookshanks's antics either, since Scabbers isn't around anymore."
Sirius perked up. "Hey, look at that! We're making real progress. Timeline repairs and improved teenage social cohesion."
"Now if we could just avoid the whole Buckbeak trial thing…" Hermione trailed off, rubbing her temple. "Remus, can you remind Hagrid—gently—that Hippogriffs are not appropriate first-lesson material for Care of Magical Creatures?"
"Trial?" Remus asked, blinking.
Hermione waved a hand, exasperated. "Draco Malfoy decided to get cheeky with Buckbeak despite clear instructions on being polite. Got a talon slash on his forearm for his troubles. He then ran to daddy dearest, who pulled enough strings to get the poor thing sentenced to death."
"I was researching trial cases for Hagrid in the middle of the night during second term like it was my N.E.W.T. project," she added, rubbing her eyes. "And this was on top of dealing with time travel, a potential murder plot, and two boys who thought emotional maturity was a kind of magical creature."
"Sorry, you lost me at the point where you had Harry's broom confiscated," Sirius said, brow furrowing.
"I was worried for his safety, alright?" Hermione said defensively. "You were supposedly after him, and suddenly he gets a top-of-the-line broom with no note or sender? I was having first-year flashbacks—Quirrell trying to jinx Harry's broom mid-air, remember?"
"Fair enough," Sirius said after a beat. "Did he get it back, at least?"
"He did," Hermione confirmed. "Eventually. But Harry and Ron didn't speak to me for weeks between that and the Crookshanks versus Scabbers incident."
She gave him a wry smile. "I'm honestly relieved she—well, younger me—gets to skip all that this time around. Honestly, it's already shaping up to be a better year."
"Good," Sirius said softly, then grinned. "Although I feel cheated I didn't get to see you take on Lucius Malfoy in a legal argument. I bet you were terrifying."
"I mean, I only did the research for Hagrid, but I would have quoted obscure case law and cried on command like a pro," Hermione said matter-of-factly.
"I knew I liked you," he said with feeling.
"Alright, enough sentimentality," Remus interjected mildly, though his eyes crinkled at the edges. "If Sirius is going to be playing Quidditch dad and illegal artefact buyer, I'd like it on the record that I'm staying far away from Knockturn Alley."
"Wise choice," Hermione said, jotting something down on one of the many scrolls now scattered across the kitchen table. "We should head to the Ministry and get my paperwork sorted."
"Joy," he muttered. "I do love a good bureaucracy."
"And Sirius," she said, fixing him with a sharp look. "If you are going to Knockturn, at least take a glamoured appearance and do not engage in polite conversation with anyone who has visible skull tattoos."
"I'm not an amateur, Hermione," he said, affronted.
"You're a Black," she replied.
Sirius sighed, flung his toast crust back onto the plate, and stood. "Fine, fine. Glamour up, be charming, don't get arrested. Merlin, you're bossy in the mornings."
"Thank you," she said sweetly. "It's why we get things done."
Remus stretched and stood, mug in hand. "I'm going to find something resembling decent robes before we descend into the Ministry pit. Sirius, try not to trade your wand for a cursed kettle or something while we're out."
"No promises," Sirius called after him, already heading toward the door. "I hear cursed kettles are very in this season."
Hermione just rolled her eyes, gathering up her parchment. "Honestly, it's like working with a hyperactive Kneazle."
"And yet—" he spread his arms wide "—you keep me around."
"Only because Remus keeps vetoing my darker suggestions."
Remus gave a sage nod. "That's true. I do enjoy vetoing things. It's the closest I get to power."
The Ministry's atrium was as bustling and bureaucratic as ever—brass doors swinging, witches in heeled boots clacking past, the occasional memo-winged paper dive-bombing a distracted intern. Remus pretended to guide Hermione through the crowd with the ease of someone who had been there too many times and developed a mild allergy to every department except the Archives. In all actuality, Hermione probably knew the whole building better than anyone alive.
They descended to Level 5, Department of International Magical Co-operation, where the Residency Affairs Office in room 503 hummed with quills, filing cabinets, and the slightly desperate energy of wizarding red tape.
Behind the main counter, a witch with sharp eyeliner, an impressive teal hair wrap, and a name tag that read Sloane Blair was flipping through a pile of parchment like it had personally offended her.
Remus stepped up to the desk with his most patient smile. "Hi, Remus Lupin. My cousin would like to apply for British magical residency."
Sloane glanced up, eyes flicking between him and Hermione. "Right. Name?"
"Ione Lupin," Hermione said smoothly.
Sloane tapped her quill against a register. "And where are you coming from?"
"A small conclave near Geneva," Hermione replied. "You wouldn't know it."
"Ooh, that's nice," Sloane said brightly, scribbling something down. "I always wanted to try that Muggle sport. Skeeting."
Hermione blinked. "Do you mean skating or skiing? Both are valid options almost all year round in Switzerland."
"Which is the one where you throw yourself down the side of a mountain on two thin planks of wood?"
"That would be skiing."
"Right." Sloane nodded sagely. "Sounds terrifying. Anyway, do you have your official educational records with you?"
Hermione tried to look apologetic, though it came off more like politely exasperated. "Unfortunately, I have none. I was homeschooled."
Sloane made a face as if Hermione had said she was educated by feral goats. "Eeh, that's going to be a problem. You're required to have at least O.W.L.s or equivalent certification to legally perform magic in Britain. Standardised measures, you understand."
"Are there N.E.W.T.s being administered next week by any chance?" Hermione asked innocently. "I'd like to sign up to take all of them. Except Divination."
Both Remus and Sloane turned to look at her like she'd just suggested she could apparate to the moon if given enough parchment.
Sloane blinked. "You… want to take all the N.E.W.T.s?"
"Yes," Hermione said, tone cheerful. "Except Divination. I refuse to be graded on how convincingly I can pretend a teacup has a personality disorder."
Sloane opened her mouth. Closed it. Then flipped open a schedule book. "Er… right. Well, there's an exam session starting Monday. Two days. All-day testing to fit everything in. I think Divination is a two-hour block on Tuesday, unfortunately in the middle of the day, so that doesn't really help you. Normally we need transcripts from a formal institution, but…" She eyed Hermione as if she were uncertain whether she was dealing with a genius, a lunatic, or both. "…I'll put you down for provisional status. Fill out the Residency Request Form and the Exam Application. It'll be two Galleons per subject."
Hermione reached into the little pouch Sirius had given her for the wand purchase that she had never used because Remus decided to be gallant at Ollivanders. She retrieved the ten Galleons there, then added another twelve from the stitched leather purse she'd brought from the future. She dropped the coins into the tray with a soft clink, which made Sloane's eyebrows inch even higher.
"Er. Right then." The witch took the payment and slid over a pair of densely-worded parchment scrolls and a self-inking quill. "Have at it. Try not to hex anyone while you're here. The DMLE would have to arrest you if done before exam results are in."
"No promises," Hermione muttered, already scanning the small print like it was a casual crossword.
Remus leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching with a faintly amused smile as Hermione filled out half the form in under a minute.
"She's not joking, you know," he said to Sloane. "She could take them today if you let her."
"Oh, I believe it," Sloane replied, watching Hermione's quill flash across the page. "We had a bloke once who tried to bribe his way through with Firewhisky and a bribe in the form of interpretive dance. This one's a breath of fresh air."
"Terrifying fresh air," Remus said with a chuckle.
Hermione handed the stack of forms back exactly ten minutes later—every page filled out in perfect block lettering, initialled where required, and annotated with neat footnotes clarifying ambiguous phrasing and correcting a typo on subsection C-4.
Sloane blinked at the documents, then looked up at Hermione as though she'd just been handed the sacred scrolls of Merlin himself.
"These are… pristine," she said, with something approaching awe. "Did you cross-reference statute 462-B with subsection eleven on magical ancestry documentation?"
"I did," Hermione said politely. "And added a clarification on clause E for future applicants. It was a bit unclear whether 'guardian' included magical guardianships sealed by ritual."
Sloane cradled the folder with the reverence most wizards reserved for heirloom spellbooks or particularly difficult pub quiz victories. "I'll… pass that on."
Hermione smiled faintly.
"I'll just need to register your wand, and we're done," Sloane said, shaking herself a little as she reached for a slim brass rod.
Hermione offered her new wand—chestnut and phoenix feather, still unfamiliar in her hand but humming with responsive magic.
Sloane tapped it with the brass rod, murmured a series of incantations, and recorded the wand's magical signature on a floating scroll before giving a firm nod.
"All set." She reached for her wand, flicked it once, and a glowing Ministry seal stamped itself across Hermione's documents. "Congratulations, Miss Lupin. You're now an official magical resident of the United Kingdom, pending successful completion of your N.E.W.T.s."
She handed the bundle back with a small but genuine smile. "Good luck. Though something tells me you won't need it."
Hermione nodded, accepting the stamped documents with steady fingers. "Thank you. I'll do my best anyway."
Sloane leaned over the counter and whispered conspiratorially, "If you want to get on the good side of the Charms examiner, bring a coffee. Strong. No sugar."
"Duly noted."
As they stepped back into the lift, Remus turned to her with a faint shake of his head. "All the N.E.W.T.s, really?"
Hermione gave him a look. "After working nearly ten years as an Unspeakable this is going to be like filing regular paperwork."
He laughed. "You're going to terrify the exam board."
"That's the goal," she said primly.
The lift dinged, and they were off again—another box ticked, another identity made slightly more real.
Now all that was left was not accidentally toppling the Ministry in the process.
But they'd save that for next week.
When they stepped through the front door of Grimmauld Place, the house greeted them with its usual creaks and sighs, like it was mildly annoyed to have occupants again, despite the renovations. Or maybe because of them.
Sirius, however, greeted them with far more enthusiasm.
"I managed to convince Harry to speak Parseltongue for you," he announced, like he'd just returned from a diplomatic summit instead of whatever ridiculous errand he'd actually been on.
Hermione stopped dead. "You what? I thought I told you I don't want Harry anywhere near the Horcrux," she said, barely keeping her voice in check. Her rant was fully primed and ready to fire.
"No, no—I know," Sirius said, holding up his hands as if she were a particularly irate Hippogriff. "I wasn't going to let him sniff dark magic or anything. I just told him I have a mysterious, academically inclined friend who's very interested in obscure magical languages. Totally safe. First, of course, I had to explain to him that it's actually a learnable language. Apparently he thought it was something only passed down through bloodlines, like male pattern baldness or the ability to glower like Snape."
"That's... actually a common misconception," Hermione admitted reluctantly, rubbing her temple.
"Thank you," Sirius said, pointing as if to say see, I did a thing.
Hermione stared at him.
Remus stared at him.
Sirius looked between them, mildly offended. "Why does everyone assume I don't read?"
"Because you usually don't," Remus said mildly, hanging up his coat.
"That is slander," Sirius sniffed. "I've read plenty. Mostly racy magazines and stuff. But still."
Hermione crossed her arms. "You told Harry about Parseltongue being teachable?"
Sirius nodded, clearly proud of himself. "Yep. And after that, I reassured him that he wasn't a budding Dark Lord just because he can talk to snakes. Told him his abilities don't define him, his choices do. Peak parenting skills, if I say so myself."
"That's... surprisingly wise," Remus said, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm full of surprises," Sirius replied, and then ruined it by adding, "Also, I may have accidentally compared him to me, which I think terrified us both a little."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sirius."
"Look," he said, waving a hand, "he asked if I ever knew anyone else who could speak Parseltongue, and I panicked. I didn't want to lie."
"You could've just said 'not personally,'" Hermione muttered. "Like a normal person."
"I've never done anything like a normal person," Sirius replied proudly, then dunked his biscuit with a flourish.
Hermione slumped into the chair opposite him, her stack of Ministry forms nearly toppling over. "So now Harry thinks I'm a mysterious witch with a Parseltongue fetish?"
"Only academically," Sirius said. "Probably."
"That's not better."
"It's slightly better," Remus offered diplomatically, taking the seat between them. "And I'll admit, if this means you can finally get the vowel stress right and open that locket without risking your soul or your sanity, it's worth the minor panic attack."
"I just wish you had asked me first," Hermione said with a sigh to Sirius.
Sirius's expression shifted slightly—still smug, but softer now. "I knew you'd try to talk yourself out of it," he said. "And you'd probably try to protect Harry's feelings, and make a spreadsheet about emotional risks, and draft a letter of magical consent, and by then it'd be September and he'd be back at Hogwarts."
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again. He wasn't wrong.
"I thought you were getting a Pensieve," Hermione said, completely resigned to this madness.
"But this is better! Directly from the source instead of trying to learn from a what? Decade-old, possibly waterlogged, highly subjective memory?" Sirius gestured broadly, like he'd solved magic itself.
"Alright hand over the recording orb then," she said, extending her hand palm up.
Sirius raised a brow. "Who said anything about a recording?"
She froze. "…You mean you didn't record it?"
"Nope." He looked very pleased with himself. "Because Harry's going to teach you. In person. Face to face. I've set it up for tomorrow, before he goes back to Hogwarts."
Hermione stared at him, visibly short-circuiting. "You what?"
Sirius blinked innocently. "Arranged a very helpful educational moment with your favourite Parselmouth. You said you needed to learn the proper intonation. Who better to coach you through saying 'open' than the bloke who's done it in a life-or-death snake vault scenario?"
"That's not the issue," she said, clearly spiralling. "What exactly are we going to tell him? About me?"
Sirius shrugged. "Didn't we already establish your identity as Remus's cousin? Went through the whole magical adoption and everything?"
"Yes, but—!" she rubbed her temples. "He's not stupid. What if he recognises me?"
Sirius tilted his head, giving her a once-over. "Pretty sure if we took current Hermione and aged her up seventeen years, she wouldn't look exactly the same as you. You're taller, your face is sharper, your hair behaves now—mostly."
"Thank you," she muttered, not entirely mollified.
"You're welcome. I'm saying he might clock the vibe, sure, but visually? You're maybe, maybe, mildly related. The disguise is holding."
Hermione sighed and sat down hard on the couch, muttering, "So are we somehow pretending the Grangers are related to the Lupins now?"
Sirius flopped down beside her, stretching like a smug housecat. "Only if anyone asks."
Remus re-entered at that precise moment, handing out tea with all the grace of a man used to navigating chaos before his first full cup.
"What did I miss?" he asked.
"Hermione's worried Harry's going to realise she's not really your cousin."
"Well, you are now in every way that matters," Remus said, settling into his chair. "Magically and bureaucratically. Which makes the truth… subjective."
"I hate that that sentence makes sense," Hermione muttered.
Remus raised his cup in a toast. "Welcome to wizarding legal logic."
Sirius clinked his mug against hers, unbothered. "You'll be fine. He won't see you as her. He'll see you as you. The helpful, slightly terrifying witch who helped clear his godfather's name and might make him hiss at a locket."
"…You're terrible at reassurance."
"True, but I am bringing snacks to the Parseltongue lesson."
"Great. Maybe I'll choke on a biscuit and die of secondhand embarrassment."
"You'll do great," Remus said dryly. "Just don't call the teacup 'mother' by accident."
And despite herself, Hermione laughed.