Sirius Black didn't often buy flowers.
He could count on one hand the number of times he had in his life—and at least one of those had been a half-hearted attempt at apology during seventh year involving three crumpled daisies, a stolen ribbon, and a very unimpressed Lily Evans. But this time he wanted to. Needed to, really. He could have conjured them, sure, but conjured flowers were effortless. Hollow. This was penance. A bit of real-world friction for the way he'd snapped, for the way he'd flung pride around like armour and expected Hermione to understand the difference between independence and self-sabotage.
She had understood, of course. That was the maddening bit. She hadn't snapped back. Hadn't thrown his words at him like she so easily could've. Marlene would have.
The thought of Marlene McKinnon soured his mouth instantly.
She'd been the last person he'd called "girlfriend" before Azkaban, before the war had swallowed them all. She had died barely three months before that cursed Halloween—blown apart by Death Eaters for being too loud, too brilliant, too brave. He hadn't had time to mourn her properly. One second they were fighting about laundry and whether the Order should be doing more to monitor Knockturn Alley, and the next… she was gone.
And then came Halloween. And Peter. And prison.
But Hermione wasn't a replacement for anything. She was her own storm.
She had handled him better than anyone ever had.
He shook the thought off and stared down at the flowers he'd bought—sunflowers, freesia, and a few purple bell-shaped ones he couldn't name but had smelled nice in the shop. He hoped she liked them.
When he stepped through the front door of Grimmauld Place, the house was silent. No music. No rustling. Not even Kreacher muttering darkly from the kitchen. Sirius frowned slightly, shrugging off his jacket and stepping through the dim corridor. Something in the quiet made him uneasy.
He found her exactly where he expected: in the library, curled up at her usual corner of the long table, one hand propping up her chin while the other idly flipped through the pages of a thick, rune-heavy volume. There were several more books spread out around her, and a teacup sat nearby, untouched and forgotten.
She didn't immediately look up when he stepped in. Her eyes were glassy, not unfocused exactly, just… somewhere else.
Sirius hovered in the doorway for a moment. "You hiding from me," he said casually, "or from the state of magical academia?"
Hermione blinked and looked up, a bit slower than usual. "Oh—hi. No, not hiding. Just… reading."
"Mm," he said, strolling over. "That the sort of reading where you absorb anything, or the kind where you get to the end of the page and realise you've no idea what you just read?"
"The second one," she admitted, rubbing her eyes. "I've been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes. And I still don't understand what this bloke was trying to say about elemental layering theory."
Sirius set the flowers down on the table, nudging aside a particularly dense-looking tome titled Binding Conduits Through Chrono-Stable Lattices .
"These are for you," he said, somewhat awkwardly. "Bought, not conjured."
Hermione blinked again, this time more alert. "You… bought flowers?"
He shrugged. "Felt appropriate. Y'know, for being a bit of a prat earlier."
She smiled—sleepy, genuine, and a little surprised. "They're lovely. Thank you."
"Look," he said, slipping into the chair beside her, "I know you've had a lot going on, and you've been tired lately. Skipping second cups of tea. Sleeping in. Spacing out over dinner like a poet in a rainstorm…"
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "That's a bit dramatic."
"I'm dramatic," he said unrepentantly. "But still. You alright?"
She sighed, leaning back slightly. "I'm fine. Just… stretched a bit thin, I think. Too many late nights, not enough sleep. I don't think it's anything serious, just catching up with me."
"You sure?" he asked, softer now. "Because I can usually count on you to scold me for running myself ragged."
She gave a small laugh. "Fair point. I'll sleep properly tonight, I promise."
Sirius reached over and squeezed her hand. "Good. Because I'd hate to have to tattle on you to yourself."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Merlin forbid."
He leaned back in his chair with a slight grin. "Well. Since I can't offer you a proper potion, how about I make you dinner instead?"
She looked touched—and just a little surprised. "You cook?"
"No, but I can bully Kreacher into making something nice, which is basically the same thing."
Hermione smiled again, and for the first time that evening, she looked a little more like herself.
"Alright," she said. "But only if you eat with me and don't disappear into the record collection for three hours again."
"Deal," Sirius said, standing and offering her his hand like a proper gentleman. "Now come on, you brilliant overachieving lunatic. Let's get you fed before you start hallucinating ancient runes."
Hermione chuckled, taking his hand as he pulled her gently to her feet.
They stood there for a beat—close, quiet—until her fingers curled just a little tighter around his. She didn't let go.
Sirius tilted his head slightly. "What's that look for?"
Hermione hesitated, then said softly, "Can I ask you something?"
"Course," he replied, sobering instantly. "Is this where you admit you secretly hate the flowers and you're trying to spare my feelings?"
She gave him a dry look. "No. The flowers are lovely. It's… not that."
He raised his eyebrows, waiting.
She toyed with the edge of his sleeve. "Could you maybe… not disappear in the mornings?"
Sirius blinked, caught off guard. "I wasn't disappearing. I just didn't want to wake you."
"I know," she said, giving him a small, reassuring smile. "And I appreciate that. But I didn't mean it as an accusation. I just…"
Her gaze dropped to their joined hands, her thumb brushing across his knuckles. "I would like to wake up next to you. That's all. It's still a bit… new. And good. And I'm selfishly not ready to open my eyes and find the space cold."
Sirius's expression softened. "You're not selfish, love."
"I'm not saying you have to glue yourself to the mattress or anything," she added quickly, suddenly a little self-conscious. "Just—if you're going out, maybe a note and a kiss. Not just one."
He huffed a quiet laugh and reached up to cup her cheek with his free hand. "I didn't realise it mattered that much."
"Well, it does," she murmured, leaning into his touch. "You're not just some whirlwind that passes through my life in the night anymore. You're here. You're mine."
He gave her a look so full of emotion she could barely meet it without something in her chest aching.
"I want to be," he said simply. "I want you to wake up next to me too. I didn't think you'd want to be stuck with a snoring animagus whose hair looks like a hedgehog exploded in the mornings."
"I'm willing to make peace with the hedgehog," Hermione said solemnly.
"And the snoring?"
She grinned. "We'll talk."
He kissed her then—soft, unhurried, his thumb stroking just beneath her jaw as if committing her to memory.
"Alright," he whispered against her lips. "Tomorrow morning, I'm staying put. Maybe even stealing half the blanket."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Kitten, I've dared worse things for less reward."
They were still smiling when they made their way to the kitchen, hands twined, the space between them as warm as the low lamplight.
And for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt quite so alone when they thought about morning.
When Hermione stirred, it was to the warm weight of morning sunlight filtered through the curtains and the subtle scent of tea—faintly floral, slightly smoky, Sirius's favourite. She blinked sleep from her eyes, stretched beneath the blanket, and realised with a start that she'd slept in. Again.
But the other side of the bed wasn't cold.
Sirius was still there.
He was propped up against the headboard, shirt rumpled, glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose as he read. Her glasses. Maybe they should look into whether he needs them as well. The thick paperback in his hands had a lurid red cover and oversized title: It . She recognised it as the copy he and Remus had been valiantly trying to get through together—an odd sort of book club conducted across the full moon.
Apparently Sirius had given up on waiting for the next chapter exchange.
A soft smile tugged at her lips as she watched him. His hair was wild, the way it always was first thing in the morning. And he was here. Not gone. Not already vanished into the morning, off chasing errands or avoidance.
He'd stayed. Just as he'd promised.
That warmth spread low in her belly—and not just from affection.
Her hand slipped beneath the blanket, a little lazy, a little curious, until it found what it was looking for.
Sirius made a distinctly undignified noise behind the book.
"If I had known this was the kind of good morning I'd be receiving," he said, lowering It just enough to peek over the top, voice already thick with amusement and anticipation, "I'd have stayed days ago."
Hermione smirked, fingers curling slightly as she shifted closer. "Oh, I don't know. I think you needed a bit of motivation. Reinforcement training."
"Positive reinforcement?" he asked, setting the book aside entirely now, eyes gleaming.
"Very." Her tone was arch. "You stayed in bed. You get rewarded."
"Well," he said, flipping the blanket off her shoulder so he could lean in and nip gently at her jaw, "I do aim to be a good boy."
Hermione laughed breathlessly. "Don't push it, Black."
He chuckled, already kissing his way down her throat. "You started it, Kitten."
"Hm," she purred, fingers threading into his hair, "then be a good boy and put that tongue of yours to good use."
"I see someone took Talk Dirty to Me to heart."
Hermione's smirk deepened, half-mocking and half-sincere. "Well, I do believe you said music was a gateway to deeper understanding."
Sirius grinned. "I said no such thing. But I'll allow it."
His hands slid over her curves beneath the blanket, slow and reverent, like rediscovering something sacred. He kissed along her collarbone, pausing just long enough to murmur, "I'm very committed to proper comprehension, you know."
"Hm," she said, breath catching as he dipped lower, "then I expect a thorough analysis. Footnotes. A full oral presentation."
Sirius growled in delight. "Gods, you're going to kill me."
"I'll write a very moving eulogy."
"Make sure to mention my dedication to practical revision."
She tugged him down with a wicked glint in her eye. "Only if it's hands-on."
And just like that, the book was well and truly forgotten as Sirius buried himself in his favourite subject of study—Hermione Granger—with all the fervour of a man determined to earn extra credit.
Sirius's mouth trailed lower, every kiss deliberate, every breath hot against her skin. He nudged the covers down with his knuckles, slow enough to make her squirm, until they were bunched around her hips. Hermione arched slightly in invitation, her fingers still buried in his hair, urging him lower.
"Merlin, I missed this," he murmured, mouth brushing her stomach. "Missed you ."
She was already trembling by the time he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her pyjama bottoms and dragged them down her thighs with excruciating slowness. Her knickers followed with one fluid motion, and the cool air hit her just as his mouth did.
Hermione gasped, her hips jolting off the bed.
Sirius didn't pause. He buried himself between her thighs with all the reverence of a man worshipping at an altar—tongue slow, then teasing, then maddeningly thorough. One hand pinned her hip gently, while the other trailed up her thigh, fingers brushing lazy circles just to watch her twitch.
"Oh Melin —Sirius—"
"Shh," he murmured between strokes. "You wanted a presentation. I'm citing all my sources."
Hermione's laugh caught halfway to a moan. Her head tipped back, hair fanned across the pillow as her thighs clenched around his shoulders. She tried to form words—tried to tease him back—but it was impossible to think when he was licking her like a man starved, alternating between wicked precision and open-mouthed heat that made her spine arch off the mattress.
When he slid two fingers inside her, curling just right, her body jerked and her hand slapped against the headboard. "Fuck—"
Sirius growled in satisfaction. "That's what I like to hear."
He didn't stop. She came apart under him, her moans strangled, her entire body bowing under the intensity as she choked out his name—half-plea, half-curse.
When she finally sagged into the sheets, flushed and breathless, he kissed the inside of her thigh one last time and rested his cheek there, smug.
"Well," he said, voice low and hoarse, "what's the verdict, Professor Granger?"
She blinked down at him, still dazed. "Full marks," she managed. "And extra credit. And tenure. And whatever else you want, just don't move yet."
He grinned against her skin. "I was going to suggest a practical examination next."
Hermione tugged him upward by the collar of his shirt, dragging him into a kiss that was equal parts lazy satisfaction and promise.
"Next," she said into his mouth, "you're going to lie back."
Sirius's eyebrows lifted. "I am?"
"You're not the only one committed to thorough comprehension."
Sirius barely had time to catch his breath before Hermione shifted above him, her hair tumbling over her shoulder like a silken curtain as she climbed into his lap. Her thighs bracketed his hips, warm and confident, and she kissed him slowly, thoroughly, like she had all the time in the world.
His hands flew to her waist on instinct, fingers digging in as though anchoring himself to the moment—to her . Hermione drew back just enough to meet his eyes, her own half-lidded and heavy with something deeper than desire.
"I want to," she murmured, voice low and sure. "Let me."
Sirius nodded, too breathless to answer, only managing a rasped, "Please."
With a teasing tilt of her lips, Hermione reached between them and guided him in with an ease that sent both of them gasping. Her brow furrowed as she sank down, inch by inch, her body finding the rhythm of home. Sirius's hands tightened again, moving to her thighs, sliding up her back, needing to touch all of her.
For a moment, they didn't move—just held each other in that perfect stillness, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling. The kind of silence that felt like a spell.
Hermione rocked against him, slow at first—a testing grind of hips, a deep sigh curling against his throat. Sirius's hands found her rhythm immediately, fingers locked around her waist, guiding her as if they'd done this a thousand times before in some parallel life. Maybe they had, he thought deliriously. Maybe this was what fate had always meant.
She set the pace—bold and unhurried, like she knew she had him undone and was going to make the most of it. Her breath hitched on every downward stroke, her nails digging into his shoulders, grounding herself as she moved.
Sirius swore low under his breath, head tipping back as she rode him. Every thrust, every roll of her hips, was pleasure laced with something more dangerous—more consuming. Like drowning in the best possible way. He matched her movements without thinking, hips rising to meet hers, chasing the crescendo she was dragging out like a woman with all the power in the world.
"Hermione," he gasped, a plea, a prayer.
She leaned in, kissing him fiercely, swallowing his groan as her pace quickened. The sound of skin against skin, the low moans and ragged gasps, filled the room like music—primal, messy, real.
Her name became a chant on his lips, broken and reverent, and when her forehead pressed to his again, her breath catching, he knew she was close.
So was he.
And he wanted to fall with her. Together. Always.
"Hermione—"
"I've got you," she whispered, voice wrecked and beautiful.
And gods help him—she did.
They stayed tangled like that for a long while—chests heaving, limbs slack with exhaustion, bodies pressed close in the stillness of the morning-that-felt-like-night. Hermione lay draped across his chest, her curls tickling his collarbone, her breath still shallow against his skin.
Sirius ran a hand lazily up and down her spine, his fingers tracing the dips of her back as if memorising the shape of her. "Well," he said, voice hoarse and a little smug, "I'm starting to see the appeal of staying in bed all morning."
Hermione let out a soft, sleepy laugh against his skin. "Only now?"
"I mean, I always enjoyed it," he mused. "But you've given it whole new layers of meaning."
She hummed, shifting just enough to press a kiss to his chest. "You're welcome."
He tilted his head to look down at her, brushing a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "Are you alright?"
Hermione blinked up at him, a little dazed but thoroughly content. "More than alright. You?"
"I'm still half-convinced I died halfway through and this is some very elaborate, very flattering hallucination."
Hermione grinned. "If this is a hallucination, it's a very cooperative one. And slightly sore."
Sirius chuckled, tugging the blanket higher over them with a flick of his wand from the nightstand. "Good sore?"
"The best kind," she murmured, eyes fluttering closed again. "Don't disappear tomorrow morning, alright?"
His smile softened. "Not planning to. I rather like waking up to you pinning me down and having your wicked way."
"Shut up and cuddle me."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, wrapping his arms tightly around her, one hand resting protectively over her hip, thumb drawing lazy circles there.
And in the cocoon of warmth and tangled sheets, they drifted—not quite to sleep, but to that soft, floating place just past satisfaction. Safe. Together.
Home.
Until Phineas Nigellus Black's voice drifted down through the stairs. "Still didn't manage a silencing spell I hear."
Sirius groaned and let his head thunk dramatically against the pillow. "Merlin's soggy underpants, again ?"
Hermione didn't even lift her head from his chest. "If he makes one more comment on my sex life, I will hex his moustache off."
Phineas sniffed from somewhere upstairs. "Hardly my fault you keep broadcasting it like a wireless tuned to indecency."
Sirius shouted upward, "You died nearly a century ago, you fossilised voyeur! Get a hobby!"
"Oh, I have one," Phineas replied smugly. "It's called observing the crumbling standards of modern witchcraft and wizardry . Particularly in this house."
Hermione growled into Sirius's skin. "That's it. I'm writing a letter to that renovation witch who was here last time. We're adding built-in silencing charms on every bedroom, and that portrait is going into the attic beside your mother ."
Sirius winced. "Harsh punishment."
"Poetic justice," she corrected.
"And he can spend eternity being nagged by Walburga," Sirius said with relish, voice rising loud enough for Phineas to hear. "Let that be a lesson in decorum."
There was a scandalised sputter from somewhere above, followed by a muttered, "Barbaric little reprobates…"
Hermione finally looked up, utterly deadpan. "Next time, we do it in his room."
Sirius's slow, wolfish grin said absolutely yes .
A minute later, Sirius and Hermione exchanged a long, groaning look as they slowly began untangling from the sheets.
"Five galleons says this is somehow Dumbledore's fault," Sirius muttered, tugging on his robe where it had been abandoned in a heap over the chair. He tossed Hermione hers with a flick of the wrist, smirking as it landed across her shoulders. "Because of course, the man cannot possibly let two traumatised people shag in peace."
Hermione snorted, slipping into the robe and cinching the sash with a theatrical yank. "Honestly, at this point I'm half convinced he commissioned the portrait specifically for this purpose."
Sirius raised a brow. "To prevent post-coital napping?"
"To guilt us into eternal vigilance," she said flatly. "The man feeds on cryptic timing like it's a food group. Even when he's not trying."
Together, they padded barefoot through the hall, up to the second floor where Phineas's portrait loomed in its usual overdramatic gothic frame, nose lifted as if the very air of the house offended him.
He glanced down at them with all the haughtiness of someone who'd once expelled a student for "improper wand posture" and "public enthusiasm unbecoming a Slytherin."
"I assume," Sirius said dryly, "you didn't interrupt to offer notes on my technique?"
Phineas looked deeply unamused. "You vastly overestimate my tolerance for misery, boy. I would gladly gouge out my own ears with a salad fork if it meant never hearing you rutting like a stray in heat again ."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "You have something important to tell us?"
" Yes ," Phineas snapped. "Merlin forbid I attempt to deliver critical intelligence without first being subjected to amateur theatrics."
Sirius's mouth twitched. "You mean sex ?"
"I mean the war crimes you commit against rhythm and subtlety," Phineas muttered with a look that could curdle milk. Then he lifted his chin with great ceremony. "I assumed you'd want to know that you'll be receiving company shortly. In the form of one very curious and highly suspicious Headmaster."
Sirius blinked. "Dumbledore's coming here? Why?"
"Because," Phineas said, with the dry satisfaction of someone vindicated, "he's just returned from an emergency Wizengamot session. It was called exclusively to address the curious case of one Barty Crouch Jr., who—surprise!—has been found very much alive in his father's home. Due in no small part to your conveniently timed memory resurgence."
Hermione muttered a curse under her breath.
"And," Phineas continued, with a flair for the dramatic, "as if that weren't enough, he's also been reflecting on Miss Lupin's predilection for cursed fire, he is very curious as to what the two of you are up to."
Hermione paled slightly, then recovered. "So he's piecing things together."
"He's speculating," Phineas said. "And he doesn't like being left out of the loop."
Sirius dragged a hand down his face. "I can't meet with him right now. I haven't practised Occlumency in years. If he so much as nudges into my mind—"
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Phineas snapped. "Are you not wearing your Lordship ring?"
Sirius blinked. "My what?"
Phineas looked on the verge of combusting. "The Black family ring. The one that marks you as Head of House. It has layered Occlumency charms, keyed to protect your mind from Legilimency and magical probing. Arcturus had it commissioned after someone tried to mentally rifle through his head at a Ministry gala."
Sirius winced. "Right. Er. I've no idea where it is."
"Likely still at Black Manor," Phineas said with a withering sigh. "In Arcturus's study. It will no longer repel you. You are, after all, Head of the House. Like it or not."
Sirius was already moving. "Brilliant. Guess I've got a family field trip ahead."
"I'll hold down the fort," Hermione said, brushing her fingers against his arm. "Go. Be quick."
He hesitated. "You sure?"
She nodded. "It's better he not see us both together until you can stick to the story without your subconscious giving everything else away."
"And what would that story be?"
Hermione ignored him. "We'll keep it simple. You're renovating. You found a cursed object in the drawing room. A locket. I recognised it as dangerous, and after some… research, I brought it to Remus for help destroying it. While you were still in hospital."
Sirius gave her a long look. "That's a hell of a cover."
Her lips curled faintly. "It's not a lie."
He tilted his head. "Well, it's sort of the truth. Massaged a little."
"It's a functional half-truth," she said crisply. "Enough to feed Dumbledore's curiosity without giving him cause to dig deeper. I don't want him knowing that we know more than we should."
Sirius looked like he wanted to argue—but then nodded. "Alright. I'll go get the bloody ring."
"Take Kreacher," Hermione added. "The manor's probably a snake pit of ancient curses and really bad art."
Sirius smirked. "Isn't all Black property?"
"Just go before Dumbledore shows up and starts asking pointed questions about our mutual taste in record players and fire."
Phineas cleared his throat. "And for Merlin's sake, wear the ring once you find it."
"I'll consider it my crown," Sirius muttered, then Disapparated with a crack.
Hermione turned to Phineas, folding her arms. "You didn't have to be so smug about it."
He arched one elegantly painted brow. "You forget, Miss Lupin—I've been dead a long time. I must take my pleasures where I can."
Hermione barely managed to smother the curse that rose to her lips the moment she opened the front door and found Albus Dumbledore standing serenely on the stoop, a glimmer of amusement in his eye and absolutely no indication that he'd Apparated into a supposedly Unplottable location without so much as a warning.
Of course he had.
She blinked once, then forced her best polite, slightly flustered expression as she opened the door wider. "Headmaster—what a surprise."
"Miss Lupin," Dumbledore greeted, eyes twinkling in that maddeningly unreadable way. "I do hope I'm not intruding."
"Oh, just a little," Hermione said with a smile that was all teeth and civility. "I mean, the wards are keyed quite tightly to Sirius—it's rather impressive that you found us at all."
She let the words hang there like a coat left damp on a hook: obvious, inconvenient, and in need of addressing.
"Ah," Dumbledore said mildly, "Phineas was kind enough to provide the necessary guidance. Quite a clever portrait, that one."
Hermione's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the doorknob. So Phineas had given up the location. Likely with great disdain and theatrical reluctance—but not doing so would've exposed where his loyalties had shifted. Still, the warning had come, which meant at least part of him was still in their corner.
"Well," she said, stepping onto the threshold, "you'll have to forgive me, but Sirius isn't here. He had an errand to run. I wasn't expecting anyone—especially not someone who could simply bypass our Unplottable protections. Perhaps next time you might send an owl?"
A very small smile played at the corners of her mouth as she said it—just sharp enough to be unmistakably pointed.
Dumbledore, to his credit, didn't miss a beat. "Quite right. A touch impolite of me, I admit. Old habits."
He didn't budge from the doorstep.
Hermione raised her brows. "Would you like to leave a message?"
"Oh, no. That won't be necessary," he said casually, peering into the house like he might catch a glimpse of something interesting over her shoulder. "I confess I'm surprised Sirius isn't here though. He was never one for early mornings."
Hermione blinked once. There it is , she thought.
"I'm sorry," she said, tone still even but noticeably cooler, "but how would you know what his habits are right now? You haven't seen him in—what, twelve years?"
"Ah," said Dumbledore, with that infuriatingly vague smile, "forgive me. An educator's curse. We tend to remember our charges as they were in their youth. Sirius and his friends had a particular talent for avoiding breakfast, especially on weekends."
"Then I'd have thought that would be all the more reason not to turn up unannounced on a weekend morning." Her voice was crisp now, clipped at the edges with the barest hint of steel. "Is there something I can help you with, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore regarded her for a long moment, as though trying to read between her syllables.
"No," he said at last, folding his hands in front of him. "I think I'll just wait for Sirius to get back. I've found that a conversation face-to-face often clears more fog than parchment ever could."
He didn't look at her as he said it, but she caught the edge of meaning.
Sirius arrived with a crack of Apparition just two steps below Dumbledore, and for a brief moment, the tableau was so absurdly staged it could've been a painting. Hermione on the threshold of Grimmauld Place, Dumbledore looming politely like a misplaced lawn ornament, and Sirius—windswept and slightly breathless—materialising into the awkward standoff like he was late to a particularly tense tea party.
He took one look at them—Hermione rigid in the doorway, Dumbledore calm as a lake in winter—and had to fight the twitch of a grin. Her gaze flicked to his face first, then down—ah. Good. She'd noticed the ring.
Bless her, she didn't relax exactly, but the stiffness in her shoulders eased, just slightly.
"Well," Sirius said, schooling his face into polite confusion as he took the steps two at a time. "This looks civilised. Are we handing out leaflets or just communing with the cobblestones?"
Dumbledore smiled genially. "Just admiring the view. Though I admit I was hoping to speak with you."
"Right," Sirius said. "Because this is how people drop in for chats. No owl, no warning, just loitering ominously on a London doorstep."
"A rare pleasure to speak face-to-face, these days," Dumbledore said, as though commenting on the weather. "And of course, the wards now allow me entry."
Sirius gave Hermione a brief look. He's not wrong—but he's not welcome.
"Then come in," Sirius said, stepping forward and pushing the door wider with theatrical reluctance. "Try not to comment on the wallpaper. We've only just started getting used it."
Hermione led them into the sitting room, resisting the urge to magically spill tea all over the furniture in protest. If Dumbledore noticed the stiff line of her spine as she poured tea, or the way Sirius subtly placed himself between her and their guest, he said nothing.
The old man accepted his teacup with the same reverent grace he might've used for the Sword of Gryffindor.
"I imagine," Sirius said eventually, after the appropriate small-talk interval had withered and died, "you didn't come for the biscuits."
"Though these are quite good," Dumbledore murmured, lifting one with faint surprise and inspecting the delicate edge of a shortbread. "Is that lavender?"
Hermione blinked. "Earl Grey and lemon zest, actually."
"Charming," Dumbledore said, and took a thoughtful bite.
Sirius let the silence hang for a beat before clearing his throat. "Right. So?"
Dumbledore set the biscuit down delicately and folded his hands over his teacup. "Forgive me, Sirius. I am merely… concerned."
Sirius arched a brow. "Concerned. That's a new flavour of ominous from you."
"You've been rather visible since your return," Dumbledore said gently. "And while I understand the impulse, it raises… certain questions."
"I thought I'd been lying low," Sirius said dryly. "Aside from clearing my name, reconnecting with my godson, getting laid after a long dry spell, and redecorating the ancestral House of Misery. You know. Small hobbies."
"It is precisely those connections that worry me," Dumbledore said, tone mild but precise. "Harry is... impressionable. As are others."
Hermione, who had been quiet until now, sat a little straighter. Her fingers tightened slightly around her teacup.
Sirius caught it and his own voice dropped into something colder. "If you've got something to say, say it."
Dumbledore didn't flinch. He merely looked between them with that maddening look of gentle omniscience he wore like a second robe. "Of course what you do in your spare time is none of my business," he began. "But I must confess I'm concerned whether having Harry cultivate his Parseltongue abilities—or introducing him to a witch who wields Fiendfyre like a household charm—is wise."
Hermione raised her brows, and Sirius cut in before she could speak.
"First and foremost," he said sharply, "I'd like to ask you to stay out of Harry's head. I can't imagine he told you anything about that of his own accord."
Dumbledore inclined his head, contrite in that vaguely performative way of his. "It wasn't intentional. Some people project their thoughts rather loudly." His eyes shifted to Sirius, speculative. "Unlike you, which seems... new."
Sirius smiled, thin and dangerous. "Perks of being Lord Black. The ring's charmed, among other things."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but the pause before his next words was more loaded than the teapot.
"Is there more to this conversation," Sirius continued, voice now pleasant and deadly, "than insulting me and my girlfriend in my own home?"
"I wouldn't say insulting," Dumbledore replied lightly. "Curious, perhaps. Alarmed, slightly."
"Still not better," Hermione muttered into her cup.
"I would rather like to know," Dumbledore said smoothly, "why said girlfriend was going around casting Fiendfyre near my school."
Sirius leaned back in his chair with theatrical ease. "Ah. That." He took his time sipping his tea. "Destroying a cursed object we found here, in this house, during renovations."
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened.
"I'd have helped," Sirius went on, "but I was in hospital at the time. So I asked her to take it to Remus. Since, you know, he's rather good at Defence and Ione didn't particularly fancy conjuring cursed fire alone."
"I see," Dumbledore said.
"I doubt that," Hermione murmured.
From the corner of his eye, Sirius could see Hermione's jaw tighten. He reached for her hand, but she remained still, chin high.
It was Dumbledore who turned his gaze to her now. "You are... an unusual young woman, Miss Lupin. Remarkably well-informed for someone with such a nebulous background. You appeared precisely when things began to shift. You arrived with no clear ties, yet close enough to earn Sirius's trust. And now I learn you're capable of controlling Fiendfyre and tracking magical artefacts of a highly particular nature."
Hermione met his eyes without flinching. "And you find that suspicious?"
"I find it... worthy of attention."
"Then you'll have to keep watching," she said, calm and razor-sharp. "Because I don't answer to you."
Sirius smiled, wide and wolfish. "There's your answer, Headmaster."
Dumbledore didn't look away. "And I do hope, Sirius, that whatever it is you're involving yourself in... it is something Harry will benefit from. Not something he must recover from."
There was silence in the room. Dense, waiting silence.
Then Sirius said, cool and deliberate, "Harry has enough to recover from already. Thanks, in large part, to a system that failed him."
Dumbledore inclined his head, as if in acknowledgement.
"I appreciate the tea," he said, standing. "And the candour. Both are rare commodities these days."
Sirius rose as well, eyes never leaving the older man. "I'll see you out."
"No need. I remember the way."
But before he stepped through the door, he paused and turned back, his eyes—bright behind the half-moon spectacles—landing once more on Hermione.
"I do hope your fire continues to burn, Miss Lupin. But take care what you let it consume."
He vanished with a faint pop , leaving behind only the scent of bergamot and the ghost of tension still lingering in the air.
Sirius let out a low breath and turned to Hermione. "Well," he said. "That went about as well as expected."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Only you could make tea with Dumbledore feel like a duel."
"Only he could show up to a duel dressed like a kindly grandfather."
"Touché." She exhaled. "Now what?"
Sirius gave her hand a squeeze. "Now we tell Remus. Because I think we just declared a very polite war."