Hermione sat hunched over the kitchen table, tongue between her teeth, scribbling awkward loops and inconsistent lettering on a scrap of parchment. Her left hand steadied the page, while her right—usually impeccable—tried its absolute hardest to look like someone had written it mid-hysterical broom flight.

Sirius wandered in mid-yawn, his hair a tousled stormcloud, shirt only half-buttoned. He paused when he saw her posture, the way she flinched and slammed her hand over the parchment like a student caught passing notes in Defence class.

"Morning," he said slowly. "Plotting a murder or applying to the Prophet's crossword competition?"

Hermione sighed, not bothering to hide the quill smudge on her chin. "Anonymous tip-off," she said crisply. "To the DMLE."

"Again?" He plopped down across from her and reached for an apple from the bowl, biting in with an obnoxious crunch. "Careful, Kitten. You're becoming very organised in your subversion. Next thing I know you'll have a filing system for blackmail."

She flicked her wand to dry the ink. "It's not blackmail. It's a helpful, morally motivated anonymous note."

He peered at the parchment. "Ah, and the handwriting is supposed to look like a tipsy banshee wrote it because...?"

"Because," she said pointedly, "the DMLE kept the letter I sent Arthur about you as part of Peter's trial documentation. If this one looks too similar, they'll connect it. Then it'll look like I've been running an anonymous vigilante post service, and the Ministry really doesn't appreciate initiative. Not when I can't explain how I know all this."

Sirius waggled his eyebrows. "So, who's on the chopping block this time? Please say Fudge."

"Tempting," she muttered. "But no. This one's about Barty Crouch Jr."

Sirius blinked. "Oh. Now there's a name I haven't heard in a while. Well, no, you mentioned he was incarcerated in relation to the attack on the Longbottoms." He leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. "Wait. That kid died in Azkaban, didn't he? That's what any of the prisoners could talk about in... what, '82?"

Hermione nodded grimly. "He didn't. His mother used Polyjuice Potion. Swapped places with him in Azkaban. Died in his stead. Crouch Sr. kept him hidden under Imperius ever since."

Sirius stared at her. "You're telling me Barty Jr. escaped Azkaban and no one noticed?"

Hermione gave him a look. "I feel like I don't need to answer that."

"Well, someone noticed."

"Eventually. When he showed up Polyjuiced as Alastor Moody and taught DADA in fourth year, helping Voldemort come back by arranging for Harry to be kidnapped from the Triwizard Tournament."

Sirius whistled. "Shit."

"Exactly. And if we can prevent that from happening—"

"—we prevent Voldemort getting a key follower back, protect Harry," Sirius finished, nodding. "Right. So you were going to tip off the DMLE that he might still be alive. Without proof."

Hermione looked mildly sheepish. "Yes. Hence the dramatic calligraphy and questionable quillmanship."

Sirius set the apple down, suddenly still. "Wait… actually… I might have something."

Hermione blinked. "You do?"

He scratched his jaw, brow furrowed in concentration. "I remember the day the Crouches came to visit their son. It was weird. I mean, at the time, I didn't think much of it—visits were rare, obviously—but I remember Crouch Sr. bringing his wife. They didn't even talk to their kid. The whole thing was formal and stiff and over too quickly."

Hermione's eyes lit up. "You remember it?"

"Bits and pieces," he said. "Enough that if I claimed I remembered more because of the Mind Healer therapy, it wouldn't be suspicious."

Her jaw dropped. "Sirius."

He leaned forward, grinning now. "I was in Animagus form for most of my time in there. What if I say I picked up on something strange during their visit? A scent that didn't make sense. Something… off."

Hermione blinked. "Like Polyjuice?"

"Exactly. Dogs are good at smelling stuff. Potions, magic, fear. I could claim Padfoot knew something wasn't right. I just couldn't piece it together until recently. Say it came back to me this week."

Hermione was now full-on beaming. "You brilliant, unhinged genius."

"I try," Sirius said modestly, polishing his imaginary Order of Merlin.

"You'd be able to go straight to Amelia Bones with that. No anonymous letter. No suspicious quillcraft. They'd have to investigate, and if they dig into the details…"

"...they'll find the swap," Sirius finished, pleased. "Barty Crouch Jr. sitting in his father's basement under the Imperius."

Hermione gave a delighted little hum. "You'll go after your session on Friday? Make sure you somehow mention Winky, his elf, is helping, or she might smuggle him out before they could find him."

"Absolutely." He stood and stretched, cracking his neck. "I'll write down the bones of the story tonight. Make it sound a bit dramatic and haunting. 'The scent of sickness and guilt in the cell'—that sort of thing. Perform it for my Mind Healer as well, so if anyone asks her, she could corroborate."

Hermione stood as well and threw her arms around him. "You're kind of terrifying when you're helpful."

"Thank you, I pride myself on that." He grinned into her hair. "And now you don't have to forge any more shaky anonymous letters like a war-era housewife."

Hermione laughed into his chest. "One day, I want you to try writing one of those. Just to see how convincing your fake handwriting is."

Sirius gave her a look. "Please. I've got four different signatures I used to sign detention slips. I was born for fraud."

She smacked him lightly on the chest. "That's not a skill!"

"It is absolutely a skill," he said. "And I plan to use it to stop a Death Eater. So really, Hogwarts owes me a retroactive award."

"'Best in Plausible Deniability,'" Hermione deadpanned.

He kissed her nose. "Damn right."

They both grinned—two war-hardened minds, sharp with purpose and absolutely ready to weaponise memory, scent, and bureaucracy for the greater good.

Hermione woke up late—which, by her usual standards, meant the sun was already streaming through the windows like it had something to prove. She blinked groggily at the ceiling, squinting against the golden light, her limbs pleasantly heavy beneath the covers.

Sirius wasn't beside her.

Again.

She frowned slightly, but it was a lazy, fond sort of frown. The kind reserved for men who made a habit of disappearing for good reasons. With a yawn and a stretch that nearly sent a couple of pillows tumbling off the bed, she dragged herself up and shuffled out into the corridor, still in a sleep-shirt and fuzzy socks, hair doing an impression of a lion who'd lost a fight with a hedge.

The sound hit her halfway down the stairs.

A sharp, iconic guitar riff—raw and bluesy—punctuated by a howl that was half-sexual frustration, half-god complex. She recognised it immediately.

Led Zeppelin. "Black Dog."

By the time she reached the parlour, the volume had kicked up just enough to rattle a vase on the far shelf. Sirius stood with one hand braced on the mantle, hips shifting slightly with the beat, his other hand drumming on his thigh like he'd been possessed by the ghost of 1971.

"I should have guessed this was your personal anthem," Hermione said dryly, crossing her arms.

Sirius turned, utterly unrepentant, a wicked smile spreading across his face. His hair was damp, like he'd just come from the shower, but he was already halfway dressed—jeans slung low on his hips, his T-shirt featuring a faded Muggle band logo she didn't recognise.

He waved a hand towards the record player. "I mean, come on. It's got swagger, it's got growl, it's literally about a woman driving a man mad and vanishing. How is this not me in song form?"

Hermione arched a brow. "Well, for one, you don't usually wander away and never come back. You tend to stick around and inflict yourself at length."

Sirius smirked and bowed slightly. "I aim to please."

Her eyes drifted toward the corner of the room, where she noticed the familiar stack of albums she'd given days ago—neatly arranged now beside the record player. But beside them was a second stack. Ones she knew he'd brought down from his bedroom. Familiar covers, some classic wizarding rock, Bowie, The Stones—stuff that had Sirius Black, Age Sixteen, Bedroom Blaster written all over it.

But there was a third stack now. Smaller. Stranger.

Hermione blinked and stepped closer.

Her mouth slowly parted into a stunned little 'o.'

"Is that…?" she trailed off.

"Yup," Sirius said, watching her closely.

"Enya. Whitney Houston. Tina Turner. Ace of Base." Her voice rose with each name. "Sinead O'Connor? Seal? Mariah Carey?"

Sirius shrugged, casual as you please. "Well, you said this was your stuff when you were thirteen. Had to see what all the fuss was about."

Hermione stared at him. "You went out and bought all my childhood favourites?"

"Technically, I sent a list with a delivery owl to three Muggle-music-dealing goblins who think I'm an eccentric collector with deep emotional trauma and a passion for female vocalists." He scratched his cheek. "Not entirely untrue."

She was still staring, now halfway between overwhelmed and fighting laughter.

"There's also Annie Lennox and Roxette in there," he added. "I've got 'Walking on Broken Glass' stuck in my head, thanks to you."

"You hate pop music."

"I never said that. I just said the last time I heard it, it was filtered through the walls of a pub full of angry blokes playing darts. Big difference."

"And now?"

"Now I know that Mariah Carey can belt a high note better than any siren I've ever heard. And that Enya is perfect for pretending you're a sad widower staring out a rainy window."

Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to laugh. "You are so weirdly romantic."

"I'm incredibly romantic," Sirius corrected. "And also extremely nosy about what kind of hormonal chaos shaped my girlfriend's formative emotional landscape."

Hermione moved toward him and looked down at the third stack of records again. "I can't believe you remembered all of them."

"I remember everything you say," Sirius said simply, reaching for her hand. "Especially when it comes with stories like 'I listened to this while glaring out a train window pretending I was an adopted orphan with mysterious powers.'"

"That was one time! I was ten!"

He pulled her close, brushing her sleep-ruffled curls back from her face. "And I cherish it."

Hermione shook her head, then leaned in and kissed him softly. "You're absolutely unhinged."

"But charming," he murmured against her lips.

She pulled back just enough to grin. "Put on Whitney next."

Sirius smirked. "Any particular song?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You're asking me to pick just one?"

"Point taken," he said, already rifling through the stack. "Time to unleash the diva within."

And as the first notes of "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" filled the parlour, Hermione couldn't help but laugh—and then, of course, drag Sirius into an impromptu dance, pyjamas, fuzzy socks and all.

Because honestly, what else did one do when the man you loved built you a pop playlist altar in the parlour of a once-haunted house?

Sirius Black sat sprawled in the world's most uncomfortable armchair, fiddling with the strap on his watch like it was personally responsible for the slow passage of time. The room was warm, but not too warm. The wallpaper was neutral. There was a mildly enchanted fountain in the corner that babbled soothingly, as if anyone in here was desperate to be soothed into compliance.

"—and then it hit me," Sirius was saying brightly, gesturing with a mug of tea he hadn't touched. "I remember something. From Azkaban. Something relevant. No—legally relevant. Could be useful for the DMLE."

He sat up straighter. "There was this visit—Barty Crouch came to see his son. But it wasn't a normal visit. There was something off. Didn't think about it at the time, obviously. Too busy not losing my mind. But now—thanks to all this delightful introspection—I've remembered it. Clear as day."

He gave her a wolfish grin. "I'd like to go now, actually. File a report. I'm feeling very civic-minded."

Across from him, Healer Thalassa Avery arched one unimpressed brow. "Mr Black."

"Please, call me Sirius. Everyone does. Except the portraits. The portraits call me scandalous, which I quite like."

She didn't smile. She never did. Her voice was calm and perfectly measured. "Your hour is not yet over."

Sirius slumped back into the chair with a groan. "Tyrant."

"You can be civic-minded in twenty-eight minutes," she said crisply. "In the meantime, I'd like to revisit the topic of Peter Pettigrew's upcoming trial."

Sirius stiffened. The mood shift was instant—his joking, almost manic energy pulled back like a snapped rubber band.

"I thought we were celebrating breakthroughs today," he said flatly.

"This is part of your breakthrough," Thalassa said smoothly, quill floating beside her, writing on its own. "How do you feel about Pettigrew standing trial?"

"Like I'd like to be the one prosecuting," he snapped. "Or hexing."

"That isn't an emotion, Mr Black."

"Oh, I don't know. Sounds pretty emotional to me."

She said nothing. Just waited, like she always did.

Sirius tapped his fingers against the side of the mug. "He gets a trial," he muttered. "He gets representation, a chance to stand in front of a court and explain. I didn't get that. Didn't even get questioned. They dragged me in, threw me in a cell, and left me to rot. No Veritaserum. No interrogation. No trial. Just… boom. Dementors."

His voice was rising now, sharper with each word. "And they wonder why I still can't sleep. Why I flinch when a bloody door creaks. Why I can't be in the same room as a cage without wanting to throw up."

Thalassa watched him, pen still moving on its own. "And yet Peter is receiving a fair trial."

"That's the bloody problem," he exploded, standing so fast the chair squeaked across the floor. "That coward—he betrayed James and Lily, faked his own death, framed me, ran for twelve years, and now he gets a bloody solicitor and the chance to cry in court about how he was scared?"

He was pacing now, fists clenched, pacing tight circles like a man back in a cell. "I was scared too. I still am. But I didn't sell my friends to Voldemort."

There was silence.

Then Thalassa said, carefully, "Do you feel this trial will validate your suffering?"

Sirius whirled on her. "No. I feel like it's a mockery. A bloody farce. That the only reason anyone's listening now is because the evidence landed in their laps wrapped in a neat little package conveniently wrapped in a bow. Not because they wanted to believe me. Because they had to."

His breathing was shallow now, ragged. His voice dropped low.

"I rot for twelve years and they say sorry with a court date for the rat who put me there. Like a mea culpa could fix everything."

Thalassa finally set down her quill. "And do you believe that anger is helping you heal?"

"Oh, don't," Sirius snapped, turning toward the door. "Don't start with the managing emotions speech. I'm not repressing anything. I'm expressing. Loudly. You should be thrilled."

"You're avoiding," she said calmly. "You're covering guilt with sarcasm and grief with performance. And you're terrified to sit still long enough to feel the full weight of what happened to you."

"Maybe I don't want to feel it," Sirius hissed. "Maybe I want to do something useful instead. Like report a bloody Death Eater fraud to the DMLE."

He didn't wait for her response. He strode to the door, flung it open, then turned back with one last look of tight, scalding fury.

"You want me to unpack my trauma? Fine. But not today. Not while that bastard's being measured for his courtroom robes like he's some bloody tragic hero. I'll be back next week. Maybe."

And with that, Sirius Black stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him with a bang that rattled the enchanted water fountain and knocked over her inkwell.

Sirius stormed into Grimmauld Place an hour later like a thundercloud in human form—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, magic practically crackling at his fingertips. The door slammed shut behind him with unnecessary force, sending a disgruntled portrait two floors up into a fresh tirade about degenerate offspring and scandalous footfalls.

Hermione looked up from the kitchen table, where she'd been nursing a cup of tea and going over her notes on protective ritual circles. "That was a bit dramatic, even for you," she said lightly.

Sirius didn't answer. He marched straight into the parlour and flung his cloak across the back of a chair like it had personally insulted him. Then he started pacing.

Hermione followed, peering at him cautiously. "Did you go see Amelia?"

"No." His voice was clipped. Tight. Like it had been wound into a wire.

She frowned. "I thought the whole point was—"

"I didn't get that far," he snapped, dragging a hand through his hair. "The bloody Mind Healer went digging and struck gold. Or nerve. Whatever. Got me talking about Peter's trial. The fact he gets one. That he gets to stand there and explain himself. Like he didn't spend twelve years making sure I couldn't."

Hermione stepped into the room more fully, voice softening. "That's not nothing, Sirius. That's—"

"Justice? Closure?" He barked a bitter laugh. "Don't feed me that rubbish, Hermione. The world's finally willing to pretend they're listening now, and only because they can't ignore the facts anymore. They never wanted to believe me."

Hermione didn't flinch. "That may be true. But believing you now still matters."

He stopped pacing, turned to face her, eyes wild and dark. "It doesn't feel like it matters. It feels like they're just... ticking boxes. Making it look neat and fair."

Hermione took a step closer. "That doesn't mean it's meaningless. You said it yourself—Peter's going to trial. People will see what he did. It won't undo Azkaban, but—"

"I don't want to talk about it," he snapped, suddenly sharp.

Hermione stopped. Bit her lip. Nodded once. "Okay."

Sirius took a long, unsteady breath. Ran both hands through his hair and exhaled hard. "I shouldn't have come home."

"Don't say that," Hermione said gently.

"I was angry," he muttered. "Still am."

"I noticed," she said, with a faint, wry smile. "But I'm not mad. You didn't break anything and you didn't vanish without a word, so that's still growth."

That earned a tiny flicker of a smile, quickly buried.

Sirius took another breath, straighter now. "I'm going. To the Ministry. To see Amelia. I said I would. And I meant it."

Hermione gave him a steady look. "You sure you're in the right headspace?"

He paused. "No."

She nodded. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," he said again, this time quieter, but it still was like a razor edge. "I'm not a child, I don't need you solving everything for me."

Hermione didn't react right away.

She just looked at him—really looked at him—the way she always did when she was deciding whether to push or to step back. The silence between them stretched, not tense exactly, but heavy. Sirius shifted under it, just a bit.

"I know you're not a child," she said finally, her voice calm. Even. "And I'm not trying to fix everything. I asked if you wanted me there. That's all."

Sirius let out a long breath through his nose, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. He didn't quite meet her eyes when he muttered, "Sorry. That came out wrong."

Hermione gave him a small smile, a touch wry. "No, it didn't. It came out exactly the way you felt in the moment."

He winced. "Which doesn't make it fair."

"No," she agreed, "but it makes it honest."

They stood there for a beat, the quiet between them more companionable now.

"You're allowed to be angry, Sirius," she said softly. "You're allowed to be messed up about the trial, about Peter, about all of it. But don't shut me out just because you think I'll try to take over. I'm not here to solve your life. I'm here because I care."

He looked at her then—really looked—and for a second his expression cracked, just a flicker. Something vulnerable and raw beneath the bravado.

"I do want to go alone," he said, more gently this time. "But knowing you'd come if I asked… that helps."

Hermione stepped in and smoothed a curl behind his ear. "Go knock her socks off. Tell her everything. And if you need to rage about it later, I'll be home. Probably alphabetising your new record shelf."

He gave her a crooked smile, kissed her forehead, and said simply, "Thanks."

Then he turned and Disapparated, the sound sharp in the still room, leaving behind the faint scent of tea, parchment, and something unspoken.

Sirius probably should have been suspicious of how easily he was waved through security without an appointment, how quickly he'd been ushered up to the auror offices and into a waiting chair outside Amelia Bones's door. Especially at five o'clock on a Friday.

But instead of suspicion, he felt the prickle of something stranger: status.

Apparently being Lord Black now came with a great deal of deference—especially when one had been wrongly imprisoned for over a decade and then thoroughly exonerated. The Ministry had been tripping over its own robes trying to make it up to him ever since, and he was starting to suspect this… reception was just another form of polite bootlicking.

When the door to Amelia's office swung open and the aide waved him in, Sirius smoothed the front of his coat, squared his shoulders, and stepped through.

"Madam Bones," he said with his most civil tone, the one that hadn't seen use since his uncle's will reading. "Always a pleasure."

Amelia Bones glanced up from her parchments, quill pausing mid-stroke. "Lord Black," she said, mildly amused. "Likewise. Though I admit I wasn't expecting you today. To what do I owe the honour?"

He took the seat across from her, legs crossed neatly, posture deceptively relaxed.

"What if I told you," he began, "that I don't think I'm the first person to escape Azkaban?"

That got her attention. Amelia leaned back slightly, hands folding in front of her. "I'd say you have approximately five seconds to elaborate."

Sirius inclined his head. "Understandable. I've been seeing a Mind Healer recently, and with all this... unpacking of trauma,"—he waved a hand vaguely—"a few memories have come up. Things I didn't pay attention to at the time. Things Padfoot noticed."

Amelia's brow rose. "Padfoot?"

"My Animagus form. A large, very nosy black dog." He gave her a self-deprecating smirk. "Excellent nose. You wouldn't believe the things you pick up when everyone thinks you're a half-sentient beast."

"I'm listening," she said evenly.

Sirius's expression sobered. "I remember a day. Early '82. Barty Crouch Sr. came to visit his son in Azkaban. Unusual in itself—he was a cold bastard, that one—but he brought his wife along. She was ill. Fragile. It was a short visit. Stiff. Quiet. Not much was said."

He paused, let the weight settle.

"But Padfoot noticed something. A strange smell. Polyjuice Potion. It wasn't on the pair of visitors on the way in, but was on one of them on the way out."

Amelia's expression tightened just slightly. "You're suggesting Crouch Sr. switched his dying wife with his son."

"I'm saying," Sirius replied calmly, "that the official record says Barty Crouch Jr. died in Azkaban not long after that visit. And I'm saying the corpse wasn't examined—because no one was in the habit of second-guessing Crouch back then. And as you know, Polyjuice doesn't wear off after death. The body would've remained transformed."

Amelia stared at him for a moment. Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair and tapped her fingers against the desk.

"That's… a serious accusation."

"Is it?" Sirius asked, voice cool. "Because to me, it sounds like a very credible suspicion. And if Junior is alive—if Crouch kept him locked up somewhere under the Imperius, with the help of his house elf, say, or let him loose again—he'd be a threat. To everyone."

Amelia nodded once. "I'll take your statement under advisement."

Sirius stood, voice sharpening just a hair. "I'd suggest more than advisement, Madam Bones. I'd suggest five Aurors through Crouch's front door before he has a chance to move his boy again. He's had a decade to cover it up. Every moment you waste is another chance for him to disappear. And for Merlin's sake, make sure his elf can't interfere."

Her mouth pressed into a firm line. "Duly noted."

Sirius gave a half-bow and turned for the door, tossing one last comment over his shoulder.

"If I'm right, I expect a bloody Order of Merlin, preferably First Class."

The door clicked shut behind him, and Amelia was left alone with the silence—and a very different Friday evening than she'd expected.

She stared at the door for a long moment after it closed, as if expecting him to burst back in and demand a statue in the Atrium too, while he was at it.

Then Amelia Bones reached for the small crystal globe at the edge of her desk, gave it a tap, and said crisply, "Auror Shacklebolt, report to my office. Now."

There was going to be no weekend. Not if what Black had just implied was true. And she hated being right about that man. Because it usually meant the world was about to get very inconvenient.

As she began drafting an internal memo for immediate action, she muttered under her breath, "If he is right, I'll put him in for the bloody Order of Merlin myself. Just to shut him up."