Wednesday morning, Sirius Black found himself stepping out of the Floo at the Three Broomsticks, soot swirling around his boots.

He sneezed once—Scottish grate dust never agreed with him—and swept a hand through his hair before muttering a quick Scourgify. The pub was quiet, mid-morning lull between breakfast and lunch, and Madam Rosmerta barely glanced up from polishing glasses as Sirius gave her a casual nod and stepped out into the crisp autumn air.

Apparating all the way from Grimmauld Place to the gates of Hogwarts wasn't impossible, but long-distance jumps were hell on the knees. And given that Ione would flay him with a teaspoon if he dislocated a hip trying to show off, Sirius had opted for the scenic route instead.

The walk up to the castle was strangely peaceful. Leaves crunched underfoot, the lake gleamed in the distance, and the familiar silhouette of the castle grew steadily closer—less an institution now, more like a ghost from another life.

He was nearly at the gates when he spotted a massive figure waiting for him.

"Hagrid," Sirius called out, a grin spreading across his face.

"Sirius!" the half-giant boomed, eyes crinkling. "Thought tha' was yeh! Headmistress said ter 'spect you—figured I'd come meet yeh meself."

They clasped arms—Sirius's disappearing up to the elbow in Hagrid's massive grip—and began walking the rest of the path together.

"Nice of you," Sirius said. "You didn't have to."

"'Course I did," Hagrid said gruffly. "After everything… I owe yeh an apology."

Sirius blinked. "What?"

"Back then. After James an' Lily—Halloween night—I told yeh ter hand Harry over. Thought yeh were the one… yeh know. Betrayed 'em." he swallowed. "If I'd known 'bout his aunt—how awful she'd be—I never would've—"

Sirius waved him off. "Hagrid. Don't sweat it. You were just following Dumbledore's orders. Hell, I thought I was going to lose my mind in those first few hours. Probably best Harry wasn't with me then."

Hagrid's shoulders sagged with relief, and he nodded, beard twitching. "Still. I should've listened ter m'gut. I knew yeh loved tha' boy."

Sirius smiled faintly. "Thanks."

They walked a few more paces before Hagrid turned toward him, suddenly serious. "Motorbike make it to yeh alright?"

Sirius blinked, then laughed. "Bonnie? Yeah. She's perfect. You kept her safe all these years—even when you thought I'd gone bad."

Hagrid looked faintly bashful. "She's a beauty. Didn't have the heart ter let her rust. Remus said it was your homecoming present—Ione's idea."

"Yeah," Sirius said, and something warm and steady flickered in his chest. "It was."

By then, they'd reached the Entrance Hall. Students bustled to and fro, books and bags clutched to robes, the usual organised chaos of Hogwarts mid-morning.

"I can find my way from here," Sirius said, clapping Hagrid on the arm. "Thanks again."

"Alright," Hagrid said, nodding. "She'll be expectin' yeh."

Sirius gave him a smile—soft around the edges—and turned toward the grand staircase. He knew the way—muscle memory from a youth spent skulking—but it still felt surreal, walking through these halls as an adult and not as a rule-breaking menace to society.

Well. Not technically, anyway.

He didn't get far.

Three familiar figures came barrelling down a side corridor, clearly en route to their next class, and nearly collided with him.

"Sirius?" Harry blinked in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I've got an appointment with the Headmistress," Sirius replied smoothly, hands in pockets like he dropped by for tea every other week.

Harry's eyes widened. "Are you in trouble?"

Sirius arched an eyebrow. "Should I be?"

"Er—no?" Harry said quickly, flushing. "It's just—Dumbledore was really pissed off at me a few days ago."

"Oh?" Sirius tilted his head. "Should you be in trouble?"

Harry looked away. "Maybe. I—I did what you said again. You know, when he got too close. I thought about that girl."

"Ah," Sirius said, grimacing slightly. "How did he react?"

"He shoved me up against the corridor wall," Harry muttered. "Didn't say anything, just gave me this look like I'd kicked his cat."

Ron, beside him, scowled. "He's mental, that one."

"Wait," Sirius said, brows drawing together. "He actually shoved you? When was this?"

Harry nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sunday morning. Just sort of—pinned me for a second. Didn't say a word."

Hermione looked scandalised. "It's outrageous, that's what it is. What kind of teacher does that? Completely unprovoked. Half the school saw it. Then by evening, we hear Professor McGonagall's Headmistress."

"Can Dumbledore read minds?" Harry asked suddenly, looking at Sirius. "Is that why he reacted like that? He saw what I was thinking about?"

"That's not how that works, Harry," Hermione cut in, her tone crisp. "He can't read minds like a book. That's a common misconception. But he can probably perform Legilimency—a magical skill that allows someone to enter another's mind and interpret the thoughts or memories, usually with eye contact. And it's absolutely illegal to use without consent. Especially on a minor."

Sirius nodded. "What she said. And for the record—I'm really sorry that happened, Harry. That's on me. I only gave you that suggestion to throw him off. I didn't expect he'd react like that."

"But you did that because he'd already done it before, right?" Harry said. "You wanted him to stop."

Sirius met Harry's gaze, eyes dark with quiet regret. "Yeah. Exactly that."

"I think it was clever," Ron offered. "Better than just letting him poke around."

Hermione looked like she wanted to argue, but instead just exhaled. "It was effective," she conceded. "Even if it was... fraught."

"How's Ione?" Harry asked then, clearly changing the subject.

"She's doing better," Sirius said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Back home now. Bit tired still. Has to take a few potions regularly, but the Healers are working on a more permanent solution."

Hermione's younger self pursed her lips thoughtfully. "She did look pale at Hogsmeade. I noticed."

Sirius's head tilted. "Did you? That's interesting."

Hermione blinked. "What is?"

He shook his head, mouth twitching. "Nothing. Just funny how you noticed she looked pale… having never seen her before that day."

She opened her mouth—then shut it, confused.

Ron was still stuck on something else. "Hang on—Harry said she just fainted. Why would she need daily potions for that?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Sirius said. "But she's in good hands."

Harry gave a quiet nod, eyes thoughtful.

Sirius clapped a hand on his godson's shoulder. "Alright, kiddos. Gotta run. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Harry grinned. "That basically restricts nothing."

"Harry!" Hermione hissed, scandalised.

Sirius just laughed. "You're not wrong."

Ron was still snickering as the trio headed off toward the Charms corridor, and Sirius turned the other way, boots echoing on stone.

He wasn't sure what McGonagall wanted. But at least now, he was walking into the meeting with a laugh still lingering in his chest.

Sirius knocked once on the heavy oak door of the Headmistress's office. At the calm, "Enter," he pushed it open.

McGonagall stood behind her desk, hands clasped, tartan shawl folded precisely around her shoulders. The fire at her back cast long shadows across the stone floor, but her posture was as straight as ever—no-nonsense, unshakable.

"Lord Black," she greeted, voice clipped and even.

Sirius blinked. "Blimey, Minnie, if I'd known we were going full titles, I'd have worn the robes with the gold trim."

Her mouth twitched—barely—but it was there. A ghost of dry amusement.

"Given your history of creative uniform interpretation, Mr Black, I rather doubt you own any robes with trim."

Sirius grinned. "Touché."

She gestured to the chair opposite. "Please, sit."

He dropped into it, stretching out his legs like he owned the room. "So, what's the occasion? You want me to sponsor Gryffindor's Quidditch team?"

McGonagall arched a brow. "Tempting, but no. I summoned you for a different reason."

Her tone shifted subtly—still formal, but now tinged with something quieter. Measured. Heavy.

"In my official capacity as Headmistress of Hogwarts, I'm obligated to issue a formal apology on behalf of the school regarding the incident involving Mr Potter and Professor Dumbledore this past weekend."

Sirius raised a brow. "You're kidding."

"I assure you, I am not," she said crisply. "The incident may have occurred outside a classroom, but it happened on school grounds and involved a student under our care. It is my duty to address it, Lord Black."

He shifted in his seat. "Minnie, come on. You're the one who gave me detention for enchanting the Slytherin robes to sing the school anthem in falsetto. If you can't bring yourself to say Sirius, at least go back to Mr Black like the good old days."

That did it. He saw it—a flicker, faint but real. A crack in the professional mask.

"I believe that was also the week James Potter enchanted every desk in my classroom to play musical chairs whenever a Slytherin sat down," she said dryly. "I spent my entire Sunday reversing the spellwork."

"I regret nothing."

McGonagall gave him a look that was equal parts long-suffering and quietly fond. "You, Mr Potter, Mr Lupin, and Mr Pettigrew aged me fifteen years in seven."

"Only fifteen?" Sirius said, mock surprised. "We must've been slacking."

And just like that, the formality dropped. Her shoulders relaxed, just slightly, and when she looked at him next, it wasn't as Headmistress to Lord—it was Minerva to Sirius. His old Head of House. The woman who gave him second chances, confiscated his cursed ink, and once left a tin of biscuits on her desk like it had nothing to do with the fact she'd just found him crying in the corridor after a Howler from home.

"You were exhausting," she said.

"Yet somehow," Sirius replied, "you always looked like you were trying not to smile."

"That was the cauldron fumes," she said tartly. "Usually mixed with panic and poor judgement."

He chuckled, but her expression shifted—just a shade more serious.

"I owe you a personal apology as well," she said quietly. "Not just for the school's failure. For mine."

Sirius blinked. "Minnie—"

"I watched that house all day on the first of November," she said, eyes distant. "Sat on that brick wall in my Animagus form. I saw how they treated others. I knew what sort of people they were. But when Albus told me it would be fine—that the blood wards would protect him—I let it go. I shouldn't have."

Sirius swallowed hard. The thought of McGonagall—unflappable, razor-sharp McGonagall—perched as a tabby cat on a wall, watching number four with quiet dread, believing it would all be alright… it settled like a stone in his chest.

"You trusted him," Sirius said. "We all did. That doesn't make it your fault."

"But it does make me complicit," she said simply. "And I regret it. Every day."

Sirius stepped closer, leaning against her desk, arms folded. "You know what my biggest regret is?"

She looked up.

"Not turning Dumbledore's bloody hat into a ferret when I had the chance."

That startled a laugh out of her—sharp, disbelieving, but genuine.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, I would," Sirius said with a grin. "In fact, I might still."

She shook her head, one hand briefly covering her eyes. "Merlin help us."

But when she looked at him again, her expression had softened.

"You know," she said, voice quieter now, "I was furious when they said you'd gone dark. Not just because of James and Lily. Because I'd known you since you were eleven. And I knew you weren't like the rest of them. Reckless, yes. Infuriating, often. But not that. I shouldn't have believed it. Not for a second."

Sirius met her gaze, something in his throat tightening.

"I'm glad you did stop believing that," he said. "Eventually."

Minerva gave a small, quiet nod. Then, after a moment:

"You're doing well with him," she said. "Harry."

"Trying," Sirius replied, a little hoarse.

She reached into a drawer and handed him a tin. Shortbread, by the smell.

"For the road," she said, almost gruff. "And don't say I never liked you."

Sirius laughed. "Now I know you're losing your edge."

But he took the tin. And when he left her office a few minutes later, it was with his spine a little straighter, and something warm tucked into the corner of his chest that hadn't been there before.

The Floo whooshed softly, depositing Sirius Black into the parlour of Grimmauld Place with a puff of ash and a muttered curse about tartan-patterned fireplaces. He dusted off his sleeves, still half-stuck in the mental fog of his surreal morning at Hogwarts.

In his most unhinged daydreams, he hadn't imagined this: Minerva McGonagall offering tea, biscuits, and a formal apology. Complete with a side of school-issued guilt and a tin of shortbread. From her personal stash.

"Absolutely mental," he muttered, shrugging off his coat. "I'm home!"

Silence answered.

Well, almost silence. Somewhere in the kitchen, Kreacher was humming to himself in his usual grumbly, disgruntled baritone. But no Hermione. No sardonic comment floated from the library. No smell of spell-singed parchment or bubbling tinctures drifted down the corridor.

Sirius frowned.

He followed the unmistakable magical pull of the Pensieve room—the one she'd basically claimed as her own sanctum—only to find the door slightly ajar. Inside, the Pensieve's surface shimmered with swirling silver, undisturbed save for the unmistakable lean of Hermione's body hunched forward, face-first into the memory.

Her pyjamas—blue cotton with tiny moons embroidered at the hems—wrinkled slightly as she stood bent at the waist, entirely absorbed. Her curls floated gently in the magical current, as if they too were listening.

Sirius blinked.

"Well, alright then," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves and stepping closer. "Let's see what fresh chaos this is."

He dipped in—

—and was immediately smacked in the face with neon.

Pulsing blue and pink light stuttered across a space that could only be described as a rave held inside a library. Long bookshelves towered overhead, their spines glowing faintly in the strobe. Spotlights swirled. Smoke machines hissed. A dozen people in aggressively early-2000s fashion were grinding between the encyclopedias like the Dewey Decimal System had dropped a bassline.

And there—on top of a table—a leggy blonde in a miniskirt, belting out lyrics that punched directly into Sirius's chest like a defibrillator:

"'Cause every time we touch, I get this feeling… And every time we kiss I swear I could fly…"

He spun slowly on the spot, gaping.

"This has to be from the future," he muttered, just as a kid in a mesh shirt dived across the floor and slid into a full split beside the dictionary section.

Then he saw her.

Hermione.

Dancing like she had no bones—just joy, adrenaline, and beat. Arms above her head, curls bouncing, utterly unselfconscious in her adorable moon pyjamas. She twisted to the rhythm like it was electricity, eyes closed, lip-synching the lyrics as she moved between the stacks like she belonged there—like the music had been made for her.

Sirius forgot how to breathe for a second.

"'Cause every time we touch, I feel the static…"

And then she turned.

Eyes flew wide. She yelped—a full-body, startled-flamingo noise—and practically levitated six inches off the ground.

"Sirius!"

"Bloody hell," he said, jumping. "You almost gave me a cardiac event."

"You gave me a cardiac event! What are you doing in here?"

He gestured vaguely at the chaos. "I don't know, I thought you might be trapped in an eldritch memory vortex. Turns out it's a dance party."

Hermione blushed furiously, shoving her hair out of her face. "I didn't think you'd be home yet."

"I got a tin of shortbread and a formal apology from McGonagall. I fled while my dignity remained mostly intact." He paused, scanning the scene again. "So. Dare I ask... what is this place?"

"I…" Hermione bit her lip. "I imagined myself inside the music video."

Sirius blinked. "Music video."

"You know, like—moving pictures set to a song?"

He blinked again.

"And you're okay with that bloke just yeeting the card catalogue like that?" he asked, pointing to a dancer throwing index cards into the air like he was making snow angels in library rules.

"I know," Hermione sighed. "Sacrilegious. But it's thematically accurate."

Sirius took another look around. "And the miniskirt-clad banshee on the table?"

"Cascada," Hermione said. "That's the artist."

"Sounds like an incantation for spontaneous combustion," Sirius muttered. "And the song?"

Hermione hesitated. "It's called Every Time We Touch."

Sirius tilted his head, catching more of the lyrics.

"…Can't you feel my heart beat fast, I want this to last…"

He turned to look at her, brow raised.

"Is this about me?"

Hermione's ears went pink. "I—well—maybe. A bit."

"A bit?"

"I just… I wanted to do something that felt good. Free. You know? Something reckless and joyful. I'm not allowed to duel or fly a broom or even lift a book without being told I'm too fragile—so I figured a magical memory rave might be allowed, since it doesn't actually affect my heartrate outside. And…" she trailed off, voice quieter, "…this song reminds me of how I feel when I'm with you."

Sirius blinked again, this time slower. The lyrics continued to echo around them:

"…We've been through them all You make me rise when I fall…"

But before he could comment on the woman now crawling dramatically through an aisle of encyclopedias, he stepped forward and gently cupped Hermione's cheek.

"You know," he said softly, "I've seen a lot of strange things in my life. Magical beasts. Living portraits. James Potter pretending to be a regular deer to flirt with Lily—"

"Oh no," Hermione groaned.

"—but I've never seen anything quite like this. " His grin softened. "And I love it. And I love you."

She smiled, bright and shy all at once.

Sirius looked around again. "So. Any chance we could stay here just a bit longer? I kind of want to learn this dance. I feel like I'm missing a cultural touchstone."

Hermione's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"…I can't let you go Want you in my life…"

He shrugged. "I mean, if I'm going to be the man you dream about inside early 2000s Euro club hits, the least I can do is commit."

And as the beat dropped again, and the bass kicked back in, Hermione grabbed his hand with a laugh.

Together, they danced—between shelves and memory, with joy on the beat and love in the static.

And somewhere behind them, the backup dancers pulled out glowsticks.

Because, of course, they did.

They emerged from the Pensieve in a soft shimmer of silver, the library rave fading like smoke behind them.

Sirius took a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to shake the echo of the beat from his spine. The room was dimmer now, quieter, the magic settling.

Hermione straightened and pulled her dressing gown tighter, brushing a curl out of her face. Her cheeks were still flushed from dancing—maybe a little from the conversation, too.

"So…" she asked, voice gentler now, "…what was McGonagall apologising for?"

Sirius glanced at her. "Oh, you know. Just Dumbledore completely losing it on Harry Sunday morning. Apparently, that's what cost him his third title."

Hermione frowned. "What do you mean, losing it?"

Sirius's expression darkened. "Shoved him. Against a wall."

Her eyes widened. "What? Why would he—?"

"Harry was still doing the Ariana thing," Sirius said, rubbing at his temple. "Thinking of her whenever Dumbledore got too close. Trying to ward him off. Just like I told him to."

Hermione's mouth parted slightly, then closed again. She pressed her lips together. "I knew the topic was… sensitive for him. But that's… outrageous. That's a line no teacher should cross."

Sirius gave a mirthless huff of agreement. "Your younger self said the same thing."

Hermione blinked. "You ran into… me?"

"All three of you, actually. Corridor near the Charms wing. They were on their way to class. Looked like they'd just come from Potions."

A silence stretched, soft but taut.

Hermione looked down for a moment, then said quietly, "I really need to start thinking of myself as Ione. Being called by the name isn't enough, not really. There's a shift I have to make… inside."

Sirius nodded, his gaze softening.

"Ione Lupin," he said, almost testing the name on his tongue. "Witch. Scholar. Internationally renowned magical dance party architect."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Not how I thought I'd be remembered."

"You're not being remembered," he said. "You're still living. Still becoming. Whatever name you need to do that under… I'll follow."

She looked at him, really looked, the flickering light catching in her eyes.

"That means more than you know," she said quietly.

"I've got time," Sirius murmured. "You'll teach me who she is."

A soft silence followed, the kind that didn't need to be filled.

But then Hermione gave a quiet snort and added, "Still think I should've hexed Dumbledore's robes that day in Hogsmeade."

Sirius grinned. "You and me both."

A soft pop broke the quiet.

Kreacher appeared in the doorway, scowling as usual, though this time there was a peculiar pinch of offence about him—as though someone had tracked in muddy footprints on a floor he'd just scrubbed.

"Master," he croaked, eyes flicking warily to Hermione, "there is… an elf. A strange one. Named Dobby, he says. He is looking for paid work." Kreacher wrinkled his nose, as if saying it out loud might curse the wallpaper. "Kreacher tried to send the bad elf away, but he was insistent."

Hermione froze.

Sirius felt it instantly—the way her shoulders locked and her fingers curled tighter in the fabric of her dressing gown. He stepped half a pace closer before she moved, voice level.

"Tell him he may come in, Kreacher. Right away, please."

Kreacher muttered something profoundly unkind under his breath about household invasion and elfs with airs, but vanished with a reluctant crack.

Sirius turned to Hermione. "You okay?"

She gave a small, stiff nod, then exhaled slowly. "Yes. Just wasn't expecting him. But I'm glad he came."

Sirius said nothing—just watched her closely as the air shimmered once more.

Dobby appeared in the middle of the room like an exclamation mark made of socks. His ears flapped slightly, his bright eyes full of both hope and fear, and his outfit a glorious mess of mismatched cloth and ribbon, as if he'd lost a bet with a kaleidoscope.

"Miss—Miss—Ione Lupin?" he squeaked, blinking fast. "Sorry for intruding. Dobby is looking for work, been asking everywhere, but got sent away!"

Hermione crouched instantly—no hesitation, just instinct—and Sirius immediately felt his pulse spike. She was still recovering. Her body wasn't meant for sudden movements, and she was going to get dizzy and faint again, and he'd have to catch her like last time and—

"It's alright, breathe," she murmured, half to herself, half to Sirius, half to Dobby. "You're not intruding. Why don't you tell me why you're looking for work, Dobby?"

Dobby's ears flopped. "Dobby is… Dobby is free," he said proudly, "but freedom is hard when there is no place to go. Dobby has been helping here and there—scrubbing floors at Madam Malkin's, polishing brass at the Leaky Cauldron—but Dobby would like something more… permanent. Steady."

She met Dobby's eyes with a small, warm smile. "I'm very glad you came, Dobby. Could you tell me—what sort of work are you looking for? And what kind of compensation were you hoping for?"

Dobby blinked, startled. "You mean— pay, miss?"

"Yes," she said gently, "of course. Wages. Holidays. A proper agreement."

Kreacher reappeared with a loud snort, muttering, "Elves don't need wages, elves don't need holidays, elves don't need competition for mops or dustpans—"

"Kreacher," Sirius said firmly, his voice quiet but edged like a blade. "Not now."

Kreacher huffed but fell back, glowering.

Dobby, meanwhile, looked torn between bursting into tears and breaking into a jig. "Oh—oh, Miss Lupin! Dobby would be honoured to serve in a household where elves are treated kindly. Dobby is hoping for a Galleon a week—but Dobby will accept less! Just time off, and freedom to wear what he likes!"

"That sounds very reasonable," Hermione said warmly, still crouched at his level. "Would you like to stay for tea, Dobby? We could discuss it properly. And—" she glanced up, "—maybe sit somewhere more comfortable."

Sirius reached a hand toward her at once. "Let me help you up before you decide to negotiate union rights while unconscious."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but accepted his hand, letting him pull her gently to her feet. She swayed only a little—and he didn't miss it.

"Alright, miracle worker," he muttered, "you're sitting down next. Or I will use a Sticking Charm."

She smirked. "Empty threats."

Behind them, Dobby was practically vibrating with happiness, while Kreacher looked as though he'd just swallowed a lemon rind whole.

Sirius sighed. "This house is going to get very loud, very fast."

"Good," Hermione said, brushing off her hands. "It's been too quiet lately."

They relocated to the drawing room—tea already steaming on the side table, thanks to Kreacher's grudging efficiency. The room was cosy, lit by soft lamplight, and padded enough with cushions and quiet that Sirius was at least marginally satisfied Hermione wasn't about to keel over mid-negotiation.

Hermione settled into her usual corner of the settee, legs tucked beneath her, blanket tossed over her lap more for Sirius's nerves than her own comfort. He sat nearby, alert but casual, his arm slung across the back of the sofa behind her.

Dobby sat at the low tea table, legs crossed, ears perked so high they quivered.

Kreacher lingered stiffly in the doorway, arms folded, looking like he was attending his own funeral.

Hermione passed Dobby a biscuit. "Alright, Dobby. Here's what I'm thinking."

Dobby sat up straighter, clutching the edge of his teacup with both hands.

"Two Galleons a week," she said evenly. "Two days off a month, freedom to dress however you choose, and one important condition: you won't be tied to the House of Black."

Sirius gave a small huff of relief, clearly approving.

"You'll be my elf," Hermione continued. "Personally. I won't bind you—but we'll use the magical link as a protective loophole. It keeps you off the Ministry's radar."

Dobby's eyes shimmered like wet marbles. "M-Miss Ione—ma'am—that is… that is more than Dobby ever dreamed of—"

Hermione raised a hand. "There's one more thing."

Dobby leaned in, ears forward like sails catching wind.

"I have a very special assignment. Something delicate. Dangerous, in the wrong hands. It'll require cleverness. Caution. Absolute secrecy."

Dobby nodded furiously. "Yes! Dobby will do it! Whatever it is—!"

Hermione smiled—not unkindly, but with just enough edge to suggest the weight of what she was asking. But she figured Dobby would be able to do it. Harry had used him for something similar in sixth year when he had been suspicious of Malfoy.

"I need you to follow Albus Dumbledore."

Dead silence.

Even Kreacher stopped muttering.

Hermione continued, voice calm and precise. "Not speak to him. Not interfere. Just… watch. Invisibly. I need to know where he goes. Who he speaks to. Now that he's been stripped of his positions, he has too much time and far too little oversight. If you ever feel he might notice you—disengage immediately. No risks."

Dobby's mouth opened. Closed. His ears fluttered.

"Dobby is good at hiding. Very good. But Professor Dumbledore is…" he gulped, "…he is very strong."

"I know," Hermione said gently. "But so are you. And this is to protect Harry Potter."

That lit something in him. Bright and fiery.

"Harry Potter!" Dobby squeaked. "Dobby will do anything to protect Harry Potter!"

Hermione nodded. "I know. That's why I'm asking you."

Sirius glanced sideways at her, but said nothing. It wasn't the kind of trust you handed out lightly. But it was exactly the kind you extended to Dobby.

Kreacher let out a low, wounded snort. "Mistress is replacing Kreacher…"

Hermione turned instantly, sharp but kind. "Absolutely not. Kreacher, you are not being replaced. You are indispensable. This is a different role entirely."

Kreacher sniffed. "Kreacher keeps the house perfect. The strange elf can… skulk."

"Exactly," Sirius muttered, pouring himself a cup of tea. "Everyone's got a niche."

Hermione returned her attention to Dobby. "So. What do you think?"

Dobby slowly straightened, puffing out his tiny chest. "Dobby thinks… Dobby would be honoured, Miss. Dobby will follow the professor like a shadow, quiet and clever. Dobby will not let you down."

"I know you won't," Hermione said, smiling gently.

Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "We'll give you a communication mirror. Something small. Enchanted, but subtle. If you notice anything odd—or dangerous—you tell us."

Dobby nodded furiously. "Yes, Lord Black! Dobby will be careful. Dobby will be invisible."

Kreacher grumbled something about unseen elves being the only tolerable kind, but retreated before anyone could assign him extra tasks.

The tea cooled slowly on the table.

Sirius looked from Hermione to Dobby and back again. "I've got to say—this might be the most Gryffindor espionage operation I've ever seen."

Hermione just smiled over the rim of her cup. "Wait until you see the rest of the plan."

Sirius exhaled slowly. "Merlin help us all."