By Saturday morning, Hermione was mostly over her cold—still a bit snuffly, still prone to the occasional cough, but upright and not actively leaking. She considered it a win. Though given that this should have cleared up with Pepper-Up within the day, it was hardly a win, but she was pointedly ignoring that.

Which was just as well, because apparently, it was a Hogsmeade weekend.

She'd blinked in confusion when Sirius mentioned it over breakfast, staring at her toast like it might offer some clarification.

"Already?" she asked. "I distinctly remember we only got our first one around Halloween or something?"

Sirius gave her a look over the rim of his tea. "You forget, Kitten, there's no mass murderer on the loose, no mass poisoning incidents—yet—and the school governors aren't jumpier than a cat in a cauldron shop. Kids get their allotted sugar and butterbeer days. It's civilised. We used to have one every month."

Hermione hummed, still mildly suspicious. In her time, they'd only had four a year, and half of those had been threatened with cancellation because someone breathed suspiciously near the Forbidden Forest. Still, she supposed it made sense—this was the calm before the second war. Before Umbridge. Before everything.

"I was thinking of popping over to surprise Harry," Sirius continued casually, trying not to look too eager. "You know. Do a bit of lurking. Mentoring. Strong father-figure energy."

Hermione raised a brow at him. "You want to stalk your godson with strong father-figure energy?"

"Absolutely. I was thinking I'd leap out from behind a pumpkin display and shout life advice."

She snorted.

Then Sirius gave her a sidelong glance, tone light but carefully neutral. "You could come too, if you're feeling up to it."

She hesitated, only for a moment. The idea of staying behind—alone in a house still half-cursed and filled with books that occasionally growled at her—wasn't particularly inviting. Even if she was supposed to be doing research. And there was something appealing about seeing Harry again in this in-between time, before war and loss and Horcruxes. Just a boy on a weekend with his friends. A time, she intended to extend for them indefinitely.

"Alright," she said, pushing her plate away. "But only if you promise not to jump out from behind any pumpkins."

"No promises."

The Floo spit them out at the Three Broomsticks in a burst of green flame and ash. Sirius caught her hand to steady her, brushing a thumb over her knuckles in a quiet, unconscious gesture of familiarity.

It was still early enough that the pub was only gently buzzing. Madame Rosmerta shot Sirius a double-take but said nothing—he was glamoured enough to pass for vaguely familiar, but not recognisable to avoid the mob. And within moments, Harry arrived.

Hermione's heart squeezed at the sight of him—scarf crooked, hair a mess, grinning like he hadn't a care in the world. She clung to that for a second. Just a second.

"Sirius!" Harry beamed, ducking into the booth beside him. "You didn't say you were coming!"

"I like to keep you on your toes," Sirius said, slinging an arm around him with mock gravity. "Can't have you thinking I'm predictable. Next time I might arrive via owl."

Harry laughed, then turned to Hermione. "Hi, Ione."

"Hi, Harry." She offered a warm smile. "You look like you survived your last Potions class. Barely."

"Snape's been tolerable lately," he admitted. "I think he's still reeling from the Crouch scandal. Keeps muttering about 'systemic idiocy.'"

"I believe that's just how he breathes," Sirius muttered.

Hermione laughed, but as the two of them began chatting—falling easily into stories of secret passages and Quidditch near-misses—she felt herself begin to drift.

Not unwelcome. Just… surplus.

She didn't belong in this picture. Not really. Not now.

"I might head up to the castle," she said after a bit, rising and wrapping her scarf tighter. "I'll see if Remus wants to meet. You two should catch up."

"You sure?" Sirius asked, hand brushing her wrist.

"Positive." She squeezed his fingers gently. "Enjoy yourself."

She turned to leave, and a few steps past their table, she caught the tail end of Harry's voice behind her—

"So if you're my godfather, does that make Ione my godmother? Since you're obviously together."

She froze.

Sirius's laughter followed. Warm. Easy.

"That would be Alice Longbottom, technically. But—" a pause, a smirk in his voice, "—she'd definitely qualify for fairy godmother status. Sparkles and all."

Hermione didn't turn back. She kept walking, cheeks warm, heart tight with something she couldn't quite name.

Fairy godmother.

It wasn't a label she would've chosen.

But just for a moment, it felt like being part of something again.

Even if it wasn't her story anymore.

Hermione wasn't quite sure how the Headmaster always managed it—perhaps the wards whispered, or the castle herself was gossipy—but there he was, waiting at the front gates by the time she reached them. Standing tall in plum robes that made him look like a very dignified patch of heather, hands folded neatly behind his back and gaze irritatingly neutral.

"I'm afraid we cannot allow non-students or relatives inside the school grounds without prior appointment," he said by way of greeting, as though they hadn't verbally sparred a week ago at Grimmauld, where he all but accused her of being a bad influence in Harry's life.

"Security measure," he added, as if that explained everything.

Hermione raised a brow, not slowing her pace as she stepped up to the gate. "I'm here to see Remus. I'm not asking for a tour."

"Even so," Dumbledore said, tone gentle but immovable. "Rules, I'm afraid."

Hermione exhaled through her nose, temper flaring, but carefully leashed. "Well then," she said briskly, "perhaps you could just let Remus know I'm here?"

Dumbledore did not move.

He did not so much as blink.

Hermione stared at him.

He stared back with infuriating serenity.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," she muttered, then pulled her wand with a flick of her wrist and raised it in a clean arc. "Expecto Patronum." A warm surge of magic blossomed through her chest, sharp with memory and light with resolve.

A silver otter burst from the tip of her wand, light dancing off its sleek, glimmering fur as it bounded forward on air. It turned its head toward her, expectant.

"Go find Remus Lupin," Hermione instructed clearly, her voice echoing just faintly in the open air. "Tell him his cousin Ione is waiting for him at the gates."

The otter paused as if nodding, then turned and darted off toward the castle at a speed no actual otter could hope to match.

Hermione tucked her wand away and turned back toward Dumbledore—

—just in time to catch the flicker of honest-to-Merlin shock across his face.

He masked it quickly, but not before Hermione saw the way his eyes had widened, the split-second tightening of his jaw, the soft breath he didn't seem to realise he was holding.

Hermione was glad they owned a Pensieve, because she was going to replay this moment over and over for a while. Hell, she was showing it to Sirius as well.

"You were expecting maggots?" she asked mildly, brushing a wind-blown curl out of her face.

Dumbledore's mouth twitched, but he didn't answer.

Hermione gave him a cool, knowing look. "I take it that means I pass the 'not evil' test."

"Not everyone passes," he said finally, voice soft. "Even some who believe themselves on the side of good."

"I'm sure," she replied, matching his tone. She refrained from pointing out the irony and hypocrisy of his statement. "But perhaps next time, you might try asking before implying I'd melt the cobblestones with my presence."

He inclined his head the barest inch. "Noted."

The silence that settled between them wasn't quite hostile—more like a truce with teeth.

Hermione folded her arms, letting her gaze drift past him toward the looming outline of the castle. She hadn't seen it in years, not properly, and there was something quietly heartbreaking in the way it looked exactly the same. Like nothing had happened. Like everything hadn't. Technically, it really hadn't. Not yet. Hopefully not ever.

A few minutes later, a familiar figure appeared through the misty stretch of lawn—robes slightly askew, hair windblown, and expression wary until he caught sight of her.

Then Remus Lupin smiled, and it was a real one. Not the careful one she had seen him wear in her original timeline at Order meetings, but the kind he used to offer when she corrected Flitwick in third year.

"Hey, Couz, fancy a butterbeer?" she asked with the casualness one would assume between family members.

Remus glanced between her and the Headmaster. "Sure."

They headed toward the village, not even a glance back at Dumbledore.

The wind caught at Hermione's scarf as they walked, tugging it loose. She adjusted it absently, her mind still lingering on the look in the Headmaster's eyes. Not suspicion exactly. But the sort of calculating interest that always meant he was rearranging the chessboard behind his back.

Let him.

Beside her, Remus walked in easy silence, his steps falling into rhythm with hers like they always used to. For a moment—just a heartbeat—it felt like something close to normal.

"So," Remus said mildly, "I'm assuming that wasn't your first time using a fully-formed Patronus like a duelling glove in front of Albus Dumbledore."

Hermione didn't look over—just smiled faintly. "First time using it as a duelling glove, maybe. But definitely not our first run-in. He needed the reminder."

"That you're not the enemy?"

"That he shouldn't make snap judgements."

Remus hummed in agreement, then added, "He's starting to suspect something, you know."

"He should."

A pause.

"I hope you've got a plan," he murmured.

Hermione drew her coat a little tighter and glanced up at the castle behind them. "I always have a plan."

She didn't say it was starting to come apart at the seams.

"Thanks for coming, by the way," she said quietly. "I know it's short notice."

"I'd say any excuse to leave the castle is a good one," Remus replied, lips quirking, "but I think this particular excuse may have just blown a hole in half the staffroom's betting pool."

Hermione blinked at him.

He shrugged, casual. "The odds of you being more than you say you are? Very popular conversation topic. McGonagall's been collecting."

"Oh for—"

"Don't worry. I put in a Galleon on 'time traveller' last week. I like long shots."

Hermione huffed a laugh despite herself. "You're insufferable."

"And you're terrible at keeping low profiles."

"What are the other options in the betting pool?"

"I was joking."

"So no one is gossiping about me in the faculty lounge?"

"Oh, they are, but mostly they are just rooting for you and Sirius, and taking immense pleasure in cursing Rita Skeeter for her audacity."

They reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade just as students began spilling into the lanes—laughter and chatter rising like smoke in the cold air. Somewhere down the street, Zonko's was already erupting with teenage chaos, and the Three Broomsticks' door opened and shut in a steady rhythm of cheerful bustle.

"Come on," Remus said, gently steering her toward the pub. "I'll buy the first round. You can tell me what Dumbledore did to deserve the full otter display."

"I was being polite," she said, lifting her chin. "I didn't even make it juggle."

"Next time."

"Next time," she agreed.

And together, they disappeared into the village.

They'd barely reached the threshold of the Three Broomsticks when Hermione felt her entire soul leave her body.

Sitting in a booth just inside, chatting animatedly with Madame Rosmerta, were Sirius and Harry—and an unmistakable bushy-haired girl in a Hogwarts cloak, clutching a book far too heavy for someone her size.

Hermione froze so fast she nearly slipped on the welcome mat.

Remus, noticing the shift beside him, followed her gaze—and winced.

"Oh," he said softly. "Right. Timing."

Hermione's thoughts turned to white-noise static. Her lungs refused to inflate. She was here. She was right there. Fourteen years old and exactly as she remembered: bossy posture, ink-stained fingers, that little furrow of concentration she'd worn like a badge even then.

She was going to be sick.

Or faint.

Or Disapparate so violently she'd leave her shoes behind.

"Don't bolt," Remus murmured.

"I'm not bolting," she hissed.

"You look like a cat about to throw itself into the nearest cupboard."

"Remus, I'm right there." Her voice cracked. "What if—what if the universe implodes? What if I create a paradox so catastrophic the castle folds in on itself?"

"I think we'd be seeing signs of that already."

"Remus—!"

But it was too late.

Sirius had spotted them.

"Oi!" he called, waving an arm. "There you are! Thought you'd gotten distracted by a sentient bookshelf or something!"

Hermione looked like she might actually do violence.

Sirius was grinning, Harry right beside him. Fourteen-year-old Hermione glanced over as they approached, brows arching slightly as she assessed the newcomers. Her gaze lingered curiously on Hermione—on herself—before flicking to Remus. "Good morning, Professor."

"Ione!" Harry said brightly. "We just bumped into Hermione and Ron outside Honeydukes. You'd like her—she's got an opinion on every book."

Fourteen-year-old Hermione gave her older self a cautious, scrutinising look. Ron offered a half-wave and a friendly, "Hi."

Hermione—older Hermione, future Hermione, emotionally unravelling Hermione—managed a strained smile.

"Ione Lupin," Sirius said smoothly, stepping in like a human magical screen. "Remus's cousin. I told them you might swing by. I don't think you've met, yeah?"

Younger Hermione tilted her head, still wary. "Don't think so. Hermione Granger. Harry's friend."

"Nice to meet you," Ione said, smiling tightly, silently praying that was it—that her younger self wouldn't sniff out the truth like a Niffler sniffing gold out in a Gringotts vault.

The girl's expression didn't change. She nodded politely, though her eyes narrowed just a fraction, as if filing something away for later.

Hermione felt a full-body wave of cold sweat.

And then… nothing.

"Right then," Hermione said faintly, clutching the edge of a chair. "I'm going to sit down before I pass out."

"Good idea," Remus said, pulling out a chair and guiding her to sit with the same energy one might use to guide a rogue hippogriff.

"Are you… are you by any chance an Animagus?" young Hermione asked.

Hermione blinked. "Pardon?"

Sirius gave a low, warning chuckle. "She's been grilling me for half an hour about how many Animagi are currently on the registry."

"I was just saying," the younger Hermione argued, "if it's not illegal in and of itself, there should be a way to find out if someone is one."

Ron nodded emphatically. "She's had a theory about Crookshanks being one ever since she got him."

Hermione (older) nearly choked on air.

"Right then," Remus said cheerfully. "Let's all not interrogate the guests. How about a toast instead?"

"To not being hexed by Hermione," Ron offered.

"To Harry's eyebrows staying normal for one full Hogsmeade weekend," Sirius added.

They clinked glasses.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to Quidditch and Zonko's and whether or not you could actually vomit up a Fizzing Whizzbee whole.

Hermione let herself breathe again. The universe hadn't collapsed. Her younger self hadn't spontaneously combusted. Ron hadn't called her out.

Just another bizarre day in her life.

As they made their way toward the bar for refills, Remus nudged Sirius with his elbow. "Thanks, by the way."

"For what? The pleasure of my company?"

"For spilling the beans to the Weasley twins about me being Moony."

Sirius blinked, feigning innocence. "I didn't tell them, I swear."

Remus raised a brow. "Sure. And you weren't loudly reminiscing about me, calling me Moony, in their vicinity either?"

Sirius paused. "Eh… that might've happened."

"Do you know how hard it is to be taken seriously in class by a pair of teenagers who now think I was some sort of prank legend?"

"I mean, you were ."

"I taught a lesson on non-verbal defensive charms last week, and one of them asked me if 'Professor Moony' ever invented a spell to make someone's trousers vanish."

Sirius cackled. "Please say you took points."

"I told them you'd volunteered to be the demonstration."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

Hermione, still mildly pale, let her head fall into her hands with a muffled groan. "You are all children."

"And yet," Remus said, sipping his butterbeer with maddening calm, "you're the one who nearly fainted over a fourteen-year-old."

Hermione flung a paper napkin at him.

Before things could further unravel—before Hermione could fully recover from throwing a napkin at a Defence professor—someone pushed through the door of the Three Broomsticks with a gust of cold air and a familiar, unmistakable voice.

"Wotcher!"

Hermione promptly choked on her butterbeer.

She coughed, sputtered, and grabbed the edge of the table, trying to remember why that voice was so surprising—until it hit her.

Right. She'd promised Tonks.

She'd completely forgotten she'd told her to drop by for an introduction this weekend— back when she and Sirius had gone to dinner at the Tonkses', and Dora had badgered her half the night about arranging a 'casual run-in' with Remus.

Tonks beamed as she approached their table, hair a shocking violet today and a handful of Honeydukes wrappers stuffed in her coat pocket.

"Sorry I'm late," she said cheerfully. "Took me ages to find a spot for my broom that didn't involve hexing some Ravenclaws."

Remus, meanwhile, seemed to have forgotten how to stand.

He was utterly still. On anyone else, the blank expression might've read as polite confusion—but Hermione recognised it for what it was: silent mental recalibration.

His eyes flicked over Tonks's face, down to her scuffed boots, then back up again with an expression she could only describe as stunned nostalgia.

Good, Hermione thought, ignoring her burning throat. That's good.

She rose, brushing crumbs off her skirt, and gestured between them with the air of someone gently detonating a social introduction.

"Remus, this is Sirius's cousin—Nymphadora Tonks," she said sweetly. "Though if you value your life, you'll never call her by her first name."

Remus startled slightly, then blinked as if waking from a daydream. "I remember," he said, voice lower than usual, almost reverent. "I think we established that Dora was acceptable… way back then."

Tonks grinned, clearly pleased. "Still is. You've got a good memory, Professor. Congratulations, by the way. I remember you saying that you always wanted to teach."

Remus gave her a wry smile, like he was trying very hard to reconcile the little girl who once turned her nose into a pig snout for laughs with the fully grown Auror trainee now confidently claiming the empty chair beside him.

Hermione eased back into her seat, hiding her grin behind her mug.

Sirius caught her expression and smirked. "You're meddling."

"I'm observing," she replied primly.

Harry, oblivious, stole another butterbeer. "She always meddles. Don't let her tell you otherwise."

Hermione was a bit shocked that Harry already had fully formed opinions about her as Ione. They had met... what? Two times?

Tonks leaned back in her seat and kicked her feet up on the spare chair next to Ron, who looked vaguely terrified. "So. Who wants to tell me what I missed before I showed up? Anyone get hexed? Insult a portrait? Accidentally adopt a Kneazle?"

Hermione glanced over her mug, utterly deadpan. "Only minor existential panic."

"Standard then." Tonks grinned. "Good. I'd hate to think you started having normal weekends without me."

Soon enough, Remus and Tonks broke off from the group—Tonks claiming she needed to track down an owl, Remus trailing after her like he didn't quite trust Hogwarts to survive her unsupervised.

Younger Hermione excused herself not long after, citing homework and "a decreasing tolerance threshold for chaos" as her reasons. She gave Ione a last curious glance before disappearing out the door with a stack of books under her arm.

Which left Sirius, Hermione, Harry, and Ron lingering at the table, three-quarters butterbeer and one-quarter dangerous impulse.

"We should go to the Hog's Head," Sirius said suddenly.

Hermione blinked. "The Hog's Head?"

Harry looked intrigued. Ron looked scandalised.

"Wait," Ron said. " That Hog's Head? The one with the pickled dragon heart on the bar? And the barman with the—"

"Eyebrows that are possibly sentient?" Sirius supplied. "That's the one."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

Sirius just smiled. "You'll see."

And that was that.

They made their way through the quieter side of the village, the cobbled path giving way to a rougher street and finally the battered sign of the Hog's Head creaking on rusted hinges. The door stuck a little when Sirius pushed it open, and the smell—old ale, something singed, possibly goat—hit them like a charm gone sideways.

Aberforth Dumbledore looked up from behind the bar and gave Sirius a look of pure, unimpressed familiarity.

"Well, if it isn't the second-most irritating Black," he grunted. "Come to charm the goats again, have you?"

Sirius grinned. "You wound me, Abe. I've matured. I'm here for nostalgia, not nonsense."

Aberforth snorted, wiping a glass with a rag that may once have been white. "Right. And I'm the Minister for Magic."

"I just wanted to say hello," Sirius said lightly. Then, more softly: "To her."

Hermione stiffened.

Aberforth's expression didn't change. But after a beat, he gave a short nod and jerked his head toward the narrow staircase behind the bar. "All right. But don't touch anything. Especially the jam."

Harry and Ron exchanged alarmed looks.

Hermione said nothing, her stomach already twisting with suspicion.

They climbed the stairs behind Aberforth, the old wooden steps creaking under their feet. At the top was a plain, dim room lit only by a single high window, a bed—and a portrait.

It showed a young girl with long blond hair and a pale blue dress, seated on a bench beside a flowering tree. Her eyes were large and serene, her expression soft, almost otherworldly. She didn't speak. But she watched.

Hermione recognised her at once.

Ariana.

Sirius didn't say anything. He just stepped into the room and bowed his head slightly in greeting.

Harry blinked. Ron looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

Hermione stayed very, very still.

Ariana didn't move, didn't blink, but the air in the room felt different—not heavy exactly, but reverent. Quiet.

After a few minutes, Aberforth cleared his throat behind them. "She likes visitors. So long as they're respectful."

"We always were," Sirius murmured.

Hermione could only guess he somehow knew about Ariana's portrait due to his involvement in the original Order of the Phoenix. Weren't Order meetings in the First War frequently held at the Hog's Head?

They left a moment later.

Back in the open air, Ron coughed like he'd been holding his breath. "That was… intense."

"I need five Chocolate Frogs and a lie down," Harry muttered.

Ron gave Harry a nudge. "Hey, I might try and find Fred and George. I promised I'd meet them after Zonko's. You good?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Catch you later."

Ron peeled off toward the centre of the village, leaving Sirius, Hermione, and Harry standing in the thinning mist.

Sirius waited until Ron was out of earshot before he turned to Harry with a gleam in his eye.

"So," he said. "Are you up for pranking the Headmaster a little?"

Hermione groaned. "Sirius."

Harry, however, perked up. "Always. What's the plan?"

"Simple," Sirius said, deadpan. "Next time you're near Dumbledore, I want you to think—just think—about kissing the girl in that portrait."

Harry looked like someone had just cast Jelly-Legs on him. "What? Why?!"

"No particular reason."

"Sirius," Hermione said sharply. "You are the worst."

"I'm the best," Sirius said smugly. "You just don't appreciate long-term strategy."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Is this some kind of weird magical misdirection?"

"Could be."

"Or petty revenge?"

"Always a possibility."

Hermione crossed her arms. "You're emotionally fourteen."

"Guilty."

Harry was still staring at him like he was trying to figure out what version of chess Sirius was even playing. "You want me to walk around Hogwarts picturing myself kissing a girl in a portrait just to freak Dumbledore out?"

"Exactly."

"You're so strange," Harry said flatly.

"And you're my godson," Sirius replied, beaming. "It's a legacy."

Once Harry waved them off and started back toward the castle—his bag of Zonko's loot slung over one shoulder and a last promise to write soon—Hermione and Sirius turned toward the path leading back to the Floo connection near the edge of the village.

The air was beginning to chill, evening fog curling between the houses like lazy ghosts.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable, just thoughtful. Then, Hermione said quietly, "Did you ask him?"

Sirius didn't pretend not to understand. He sighed, jamming his hands into his coat pockets.

"I did."

Hermione glanced sideways at him, brow furrowing. "And?"

"He said…" Sirius paused, mouth twisting. "He said he doesn't want to. Not really. Said the idea of talking about the Dursleys in front of a bunch of Ministry officials made him want to crawl out of his skin."

Hermione's stomach clenched.

"But," Sirius added, voice softening, "he also said if that's the only way—if it's what's needed for me to get custody—he'll do it."

Hermione was quiet for a beat, absorbing that.

"That's very him," she said at last. "Hating the idea. But doing it anyway."

"Yeah." Sirius let out a slow breath. "I hated asking. Felt like I was handing him a shovel and telling him to start digging up his own trauma."

"You didn't give him an ultimatum."

"No, but I gave him a choice between two awful things." He ran a hand through his hair. "I hate that the system makes it this hard. That he has to justify wanting out of a house he was miserable in."

Hermione's voice was gentle. "But you asked. And you listened. That matters."

Sirius looked over at her, eyes tired. "Do you think it's wrong? To go through with it?"

"No," she said instantly. "I think it's awful that it has to be done, but not wrong."

They reached the Floo point and paused, the mist curling around their ankles.

Hermione touched his sleeve lightly. "We'll figure it out. One step at a time."

Sirius nodded, jaw tight. "Yeah."

Then, because he couldn't resist—because he was still Sirius Black, even when the weight pressed heavily—he added:

"I think it's only fair Dumbledore gets to feel just a little haunted by his decisions, too."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You realise he's already haunted by at least three portraits and a goat-wrangling brother, right?"

"Should have thought of that before he fucked with a Black, and a Marauder at that," Sirius said cheerfully. "We fuck right back."