The courtroom in the Ministry of Magic wasn't as grand as the Wizengamot chamber, but it was still a place where lives changed.
Sirius Black sat stiff-backed in his chair, dressed in subdued robes, trimmed beard neat, tattoos hidden beneath long sleeves. His palms were damp, but his face was calm—a mask he'd worn in far more dangerous rooms. Ted Tonks sat beside him, composed and sharp-eyed, a stack of parchment neatly arranged on the desk before them. On the opposite side of the long oak table sat Albus Dumbledore, looking every inch the venerable Headmaster, calm and measured, as though they were discussing timetables and not a boy's future.
The presiding witch tapped her wand once against the rim of her goblet, and the hearing began.
Ted stood.
"Madam Briar, esteemed council," he began, "my client, Sirius Orion Black III, is here today seeking official custody of his godson, Harry James Potter. Mr Black is not only the named guardian in the late James and Lily Potter's magically binding will"—he held up the parchment as it floated to the centre of the courtroom—"but also the stated preference of the minor in question, submitted in affidavit form."
There was a quiet ripple of interest at that. Ted let it settle before continuing.
"Mr Potter has expressed his desire to live with Mr Black instead of his current guardians, the Dursleys. We are here to honour that request and restore the original terms of the Potter guardianship."
Madam Briar nodded. "And you have the will?"
"I do." The document hovered forward and unrolled itself in midair. The names glowed faintly—James Fleamont Potter and Lily Jane Potter neé Evans—and then, in slightly shakier script beneath the guardianship clause: 'In the event of our deaths, guardianship shall fall to Sirius Orion Black III. Should he be unavailable, then to Frank and Alice Longbottom.'
A scribe copied it down in silence.
Emmeline Briar turned to Dumbledore. "Headmaster, do you dispute the contents?"
"I do not," Dumbledore said calmly. "I witnessed the signing."
"Then why," Ted said, voice carefully neutral, "was it not opened or enacted in 1981?"
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Because Mr Black had been arrested for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles, and was sent to Azkaban without trial. In light of that—alongside the circumstances of Voldemort's defeat—it was determined that placing Harry with his remaining blood relatives offered the greatest protection."
"Specifically," Ted said, "his maternal aunt?"
"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "The magic of Lily's sacrifice offered protection through blood. Petunia Dursley was the last surviving connection."
"And the Longbottoms?" Ted asked. "They were the secondary guardians named in the will."
"They were under threat as well. It was my belief at the time that placing Harry there would have put him in danger. And my assumptions were proven right when Death Eaters attacked them on the fourth of November. They were tortured into madness before the week was out."
Sirius kept his expression blank, but his fingers twitched.
Ted's fingers tapped once, sharply, against his file.
He could have said it then—could have reminded the room that it was Dumbledore himself who hadn't ensured, as Chief Warlock, that the DMLE followed protocol to give Sirius a trial, and denied the Potters' will a proper reading. That the protections of blood had come at the cost of bruises, hunger, and a cupboard beneath the stairs.
But he held it. Not yet. Not until they needed it.
Ted gave a small nod. "All understandable concerns. However, that was twelve years ago. We're here to examine the present."
Dumbledore's gaze didn't waver. "Mr Black has suffered… grievous trauma. Both from the events of 1981 and from his time in Azkaban. I am not questioning his intentions—but his mental health must be a consideration. We cannot risk further harm to Harry."
Sirius's leg bounced beneath the table.
Every time Dumbledore said "protection," his teeth clenched harder.
Twelve years in Azkaban, and somehow this—this theatre of civility—was what finally made him want to howl.
Ted lifted a parchment from his file. "My client has been under the care of a certified Mind Healer for several weeks now to address these concerns. This is an affidavit attesting to his regular attendance, his therapeutic progress, and his ongoing commitment to healing."
The parchment floated forward. The court witch took it, scanned it, and passed it down the line.
Ted continued, calm and measured. "Mr Potter boards at Hogwarts for the majority of the year. Physical custody would not begin until next summer. That provides ample time for continued healing, and for magical and psychological evaluations, should the court require them."
There was a murmur of quiet assent.
Emmeline Briar leaned forward. "What do we know of the child's current home environment?"
Ted's eyes sharpened. "Mr Potter has been subject to neglect under the Dursleys. He was starved, verbally abused, locked in a cupboard under the stairs, and kept ignorant of his magical heritage until his Hogwarts letter was forcibly delivered."
Gasps echoed through the chamber.
Sirius's jaw ticked.
He remembered the way Harry had said it—shoulders hunched, voice low.
"It wasn't that bad. I mean, they didn't hit me or anything."
Like that made it okay. Like sleeping in a cupboard and being treated worse than a house-elf didn't count if fists weren't involved.
Sirius's fingernails pressed into his palms beneath the table. No one should have to downplay their own pain to make it palatable.
Dumbledore's brows drew together. "Do you have proof of this?"
"No formal filings," Ted admitted. "No reports from Muggle child protection services. But we do have a written affidavit from Mr Potter. He has detailed these incidents himself."
"And why was this not previously known?" Madam Briar asked sharply.
Dumbledore sat straighter. "There is a squib, Arabella Figg, living in the area who reports to me. She was instructed to alert me should anything... unusual occur. No such report has occurred."
"You mean she would have told you if Harry died or possibly ran away," Sirius said flatly.
Every head turned to him. His voice had been quiet. But it carried.
He didn't flinch under the weight of their stares.
Ted cleared his throat. "What my client means to say is that day-to-day oversight—of whether a child is clothed, fed, and emotionally safe—was lacking."
Dumbledore said nothing.
After a pause, Madam Briar asked, "If there are no formal filings, and the court requires proof, will Mr Potter testify?"
Sirius tensed.
Ted answered quickly, "My client's preference would be to protect Mr Potter from further emotional strain. He does not wish for the boy to relive his trauma in public."
The presiding witch hesitated. "That is admirable. But without documentation or witness testimony, we will require a statement from Mr Potter himself. In person."
There was a silence as cold as the courtroom stone.
"Very well," Ted said. "We ask for a continuation and agree to present the testimony of Harry James Potter at the next hearing."
Sirius didn't move as the courtroom began to empty. He sat, motionless, until Ted nudged his shoulder.
"You held your tongue better than I expected," Ted said quietly. "That's progress."
Sirius gave a short, humourless laugh. "Didn't feel like it."
"That's because you care," Ted replied, standing. "It's what makes you dangerous to them."
Sirius rose slowly, still watching the door Harry would walk through next time.
"Let's just hope they're ready to hear the truth."
"Next time," Ted said gently, "we'll bring your boy home."
While Sirius was at court, the house was quiet.
Hermione had curled up in the reading nook near the tall front windows of Grimmauld Place, a steaming mug of tea on the sill beside her and a stack of half-read books at her feet. The room smelled faintly of lemon oil and old pages, the scent of comfort.
She shifted to reach her notes—and winced.
A couple of small, but deep purple bruises had bloomed on her hip, just above the curve of her thigh. She touched them gently, frowning. They were distinctly the shape of fingertips.
Sirius's.
But he hadn't even squeezed her that hard. He'd been careful yesterday—tender, even. That kind of bruise shouldn't have formed. Not from that.
Her frown deepened. There had been that other bruise on her shin, too—from tripping on the loose floorboard last week. She'd barely bumped it, but the mark was still there, barely faded.
And then there was the fatigue. The sleeping in. The recent cold that had lasted longer than it should have. And the two other illnesses before that. The scratchy throat that kept coming and going. The fact that she'd had to lie down again after breakfast because she just couldn't keep her eyes open.
Something was wrong.
She summoned a notebook from the table and began writing a list, her handwriting fast and slanted:
Easy bruising
Persistent fatigue
Sleeping more than usual
Frequent illness / lingering colds
Her quill hovered over the parchment, ink pooling at the tip.
She wasn't a Muggle doctor, no. But even with her limited medical background—her healer qualifications from the magical world—she knew these were not good signs. They weren't just inconvenient. They were alarming.
And yet…
She knew of no magical condition that would cause these symptoms together. Not unless she was actively cursed—and that seemed unlikely. She'd have felt the flare of dark magic. Of a blood curse. Wouldn't she?
She tried to cast a diagnostic charm on herself. Her wand trembled in her grip, the spell forming, blooming like a flower—and then sputtering out. The magic resisted. Of course it did. Diagnostic spells needed to originate from someone else. The body's innate magical field interfered otherwise. She knew that. Every healer knew that.
Frustration tightened her chest.
She missed the internet. She missed Google. She missed having a pocket full of resources at a moment's notice.
It was 1993.
She had to go analogue.
Within the hour, Hermione was in a Muggle library she vaguely remembered from her time in the area—tucked between a closed-down café and a laundrette. She pulled every medical text she could get her hands on, scanning indexes for anything about anaemia, blood disorders, immune diseases, hormonal imbalances. Anything.
She checked out a stack of books that required two trips to the front desk, and by the time she returned to Grimmauld Place, the reading nook was buried in medical literature.
She was still poring over a thick textbook—something about clotting factors and rare platelet conditions—when the front door clicked open.
Footsteps. The telltale rustle of Sirius's coat.
"Ione?" he called, his voice already lighter than when he'd left that morning. "I'm home. You will not believe what Dumbledore tried to pull today."
She slammed the book shut before he turned the corner.
He froze when he saw her, caught between shrugging off his outer robes and entering the room. "What's that you're reading?"
Hermione slid the book farther beneath the pile and gave him a quick, tired smile. "Oh, just something I found in the public library. Bit of curiosity."
Sirius's eyes narrowed, flicking toward the book spines, but he didn't press.
"Fair enough," he said, tossing his coat over the bannister. "I got us takeaway. And I want to rage about legal loopholes over curry."
Hermione stood, smoothing her jumper and feeling the ache bloom faintly along her side. She smiled.
"Sounds perfect."
But her fingers itched for her notes, for the growing list hidden beneath the cushion of the reading nook.
Something wasn't right.
And she was going to find out what it was.
The letter arrived with a polite tap against the window, carried by a nondescript tawny owl who seemed mildly annoyed to be delivering emotional crises before nine in the morning on a Tuesday.
Hermione reached for it with a sleepy "Thanks," unrolling the parchment as she took another bite of toast. Sirius leaned lazily against the counter, cradling a cup of tea and already watching her like a dog circling a particularly interesting scent.
The moment her eyes began to scan the page, his brows lifted.
Dear Ione,
Why did you do this?
You know perfectly well what I mean. Don't play innocent. She's Sirius's cousin. She's young, Ione. She's healthy, vibrant, full of laughter, and entirely unprepared for what I am.
I am a werewolf. That's not just a word you politely pretend to overlook at family dinners. It's a reality that dictates my every day, my every relationship—what few I allow myself. Do you have any idea what it would do to her if she knew?
More importantly, do you have any idea what it would do to me if she didn't run?
"Oh good," he said around a sip, "Moony's having an existential meltdown. I was starting to miss his signature blend of emotional repression and Catholic guilt."
Hermione elbowed him in the ribs without looking up.
I cannot do this. I will not let this become a cruel joke at her expense.
She's kind, and clever, and far too perceptive for my comfort. And now she's taken to dropping by the staffroom as if it's entirely normal for a twenty-year-old trainee Auror to chat about criminology over tea and lesson plans.
Please don't do this again. And if you must, at least warn me first.
Yours in growing dismay, Remus
Sirius leaned in further, reading over her shoulder—because of course he did. He made it halfway through the letter before he had to bite down on a grin.
"Oh, he's spiralling," he murmured, gleeful. "This is glorious."
Hermione rolled her eyes and folded the letter. "Stop enjoying this."
"Never." Sirius's smirk widened. "Do you want me to write back? I could include a hand-drawn diagram of what the inside of his head looks like. A hamster wheel powered by shame."
"No," she said, shaking her head and reaching for a fresh piece of parchment. "I've got this."
Dear Professor Moony,
You're being ridiculous.
I reintroduced you two. I didn't trap you in a bonding circle or spike your tea with Amortentia. You had a conversation. A pleasant one, from all accounts. The world did not end. No villagers were chased. No tragic strings played in the background.
Yes, she's young. And bright. And lively. And you think all of that disqualifies you, but it doesn't. Not to her.
You are not a monster, Remus. You never have been, and you're the only one who still believes otherwise.
And as for what she doesn't know, you don't have to lie. But maybe you also don't need to race to the end of the story before the second act's even begun. Let her find out who you are before you decide she's better off running.
You said she doesn't know you're a werewolf.
What I'm saying is: maybe she'll find out… and still sit next to you anyway.
And maybe—just maybe—you should let yourself believe that this could turn out alright. That it will. Even if you can't see the full picture yet, I promise, there's more to this than you think.
So breathe. And for Merlin's sake, stop spiralling. You're not cursed. You're just catastrophising. Again.
Trust the process, Moony.
Some things are meant to happen.
With cousinly exasperation and far too much foreknowledge, Ione
P.S. If you don't let this unfold naturally, I will start planting enchanted mistletoe in the staffroom. And I've got connections. You know I do.
The letter was addressed and sent off without further ado.
The house was quiet on Wednesday night, save for the distant hum of old wards and the occasional creak of floorboards shifting in their sleep. The library had swallowed her whole for most of the day, its dusty silence broken only by Hermione's mutterings and the frantic scratch of quill against parchment. She'd spent hours tracing obscure leads—ritual reversals, soul-binding theory, and every possible magical analogue for the constellation of symptoms she could no longer ignore. Easy bruising. Fatigue. The way her legs had ached just from standing too long. She had a list. An actual list.
And the more she added to it, the more dread coiled behind her ribs.
It was nearly midnight by the time she climbed the stairs to the third floor. The newly renovated master bedroom waited at the end of the hall, warm light spilling through the cracked door, the faint scent of spell-fresh linens drifting into the corridor. By the time she reached the landing, her legs were trembling, her lungs aching in that tight, embarrassed way that said you're not well, stop pretending.
But she couldn't. Not yet.
She paused just outside the door, pressing a hand to the wall until the buzzing in her ears receded. Then she fixed her face into something approaching normal and pushed the door open.
The lights were dimmed low, casting the room in soft amber. And on the bed—languid, smug, and entirely unapologetic—was Sirius Black.
Naked.
On his side.
Grinning like a man who'd been planning something unspeakably enjoyable for at least an hour.
"Well, well," he drawled, propping his head on one hand and letting the sheets fall just enough to imply intentions. "Look who finally decided to join me. I was starting to think you'd married one of the grimoires."
Hermione gave him a tired but affectionate smile and tried not to stagger as she crossed the room. "I was trying to get through Corpus Fragmentum and Flamel's Third Law of Reconstitution. Which—spoiler—don't agree with each other. Or basic logic."
"Mm. Sounds terrible," he murmured, reaching out to snag her wrist as she got close. "Fortunately for you, I'm much more fun than cursed philosophy. And I've been very patient."
She let him tug her closer, let him start to push the cardigan off her shoulders with practised ease. "You're always patient when you're being smug about it."
Sirius hummed in agreement and kissed her lightly—once, then again, slower, as his fingers traced the hem of her shirt. When she didn't pull away, he deepened the kiss, warm and coaxing. Her hands found his shoulder, his ribs—he was all warmth and muscle and smug affection—and he eased her shirt up, his mouth following the newly exposed skin.
To her jawline.
Her throat.
Her collarbone.
He shifted lower, dragging his lips across her chest, the curve of one breast, trailing a path down to where her heartbeat skittered beneath skin. His voice was low and teasing against her skin. "You're always so busy. Let me take care of you tonight."
But when he glanced up to meet her eyes—
Hermione was asleep.
Head tipped back slightly, mouth parted, breath slow and steady. Her hand still rested lightly on his shoulder, fingers limp with exhaustion. She hadn't even made it under the covers properly.
Sirius blinked.
Then exhaled, a quiet huff of amusement tinged with something softer. He gently eased her back against the pillows, pulling the duvet up over her with careful hands. She didn't stir, save for a soft sigh as she turned toward him, instinctively seeking his warmth even in sleep.
He brushed a curl from her cheek, his smile fading to a small crease of concern.
"You're knackered," he murmured. "And don't think I didn't see how you climbed the stairs like you'd fought a troll."
She didn't answer, of course. Just breathed, slow and deep, lashes fluttering faintly.
Sirius watched her for a long moment. Then he pressed a kiss to her temple, wrapped his arm gently around her waist, and settled in beside her.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he'd ask. But for tonight, he'd let her sleep.
She needed it.
And honestly?
So did he.
The morning was a whirlwind from the start.
The smell of fresh coffee barely had time to fill the air before Sirius was yanking on a shirt and muttering under his breath about barristers and bureaucrats and the entire concept of time being personally out to get him.
Hermione padded into the kitchen with sleep-mussed curls and socked feet, only to find him already half-dressed and rifling through a stack of parchment by the door, his coat slung over one arm and his wand clenched between his teeth.
She blinked, still not quite awake. "You're already leaving?"
He looked up, mumbled something through the wand, then took it out and gave her a sheepish grin. "Yeah. Got up early, didn't want to wake you. Ted sent an owl—turns out the next custody hearing is being bumped up to Saturday."
Hermione frowned. "Saturday? That's in two days."
"Exactly," Sirius said, voice edged with disbelief. "So he wants to meet this morning to go over everything—witness questions, prep, whatever else barristers get excited about when they're not drinking coffee out of pure spite."
She stepped into the room fully, crossing her arms over her jumper. "That's… that's quite the short notice."
"Ministry wants to accommodate Harry's class and extracurricular schedule," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Not that I should complain about that, but a bit more time would have been nice. I'm pretty sure somehow Dumbledore is to blame for this as well."
She nodded in understanding. Her stomach was a knot of nerves—leftover from the bruises she couldn't explain, the fatigue, the tightness in her chest after the stairs yesterday. She'd found another dark smudge on her forearm this morning and had been too afraid to check if it ached.
"Sirius," she said, voice lower now, quieter. "I need to tell you something."
He stopped, hand on the doorframe, already half-turned to go. His expression softened, but his foot tapped faintly on the floor. "Can it wait?" he asked gently. "I really do have to leg it—after Ted, I'm going straight to Hogwarts."
"To see Remus?" she asked, brow knitting. "But he's—" And then it hit her. Her gaze flicked to the calendar tacked to the kitchen wall. "Right. The moon."
"Got Dumbledore's sign-off and everything. Figured I'd be there for Remus. You know how full moons get. Even if he is supposed to be in charge of all his faculties this time around."
Her mouth opened, then shut again. Her fingers curled tightly around the paper in her pocket.
She could tell him. She should tell him. But he was already half out the door, and she didn't want him thinking of her when he should be focusing on Harry. On Remus.
She drew a breath—and gave him a small, practised smile.
"Yeah," she said. "It can wait."
Sirius paused long enough to cross back to her and kiss her forehead, hands warm on her waist. "You're sure?"
"Go," she said. "Remus needs you."
He lingered for just a second longer, searching her face with eyes that had known too much pain to ignore when someone else was holding something back. But whatever he saw, he didn't push.
"All right," he murmured. "Tomorrow then."
And then he was gone, the soft whoosh of the Floo echoing in his wake.
Hermione stood in the silence for a long moment, heart beating faster than it should've. She drew the crumpled parchment from her pocket and smoothed it out on the counter.
It was only a list.
Just a list.
Though now longer than a few days ago.
Easy bruising
Persistent fatigue
Sleeping more than usual
Frequent illness / lingering colds
Shortness of breath
Dizziness
Slow healing
Headaches
And, a diagnosis scrawled beside it in her own hand, copied from a Muggle medical text and underlined twice in sharp pencil:
Leukaemia?
She stared at it until the letters blurred, then turned away.
She pressed her palm flat over the list and whispered, "Tomorrow," like a promise. Or a prayer.