The door had barely clicked shut behind Dobby when Sirius turned, still holding his mostly untouched teacup, and pinned Hermione with a look.

"There's a story you were meant to tell me," he said. "Something about house elves. Their bonds. Loopholes. You mentioned it when we first moved into Grimmauld, then never got around to it."

Hermione exhaled through her nose. "Right. That."

Sirius sat back, the couch creaking slightly under his weight. "Something about Dobby and Kreacher?"

She nodded, pulling the blanket tighter over her lap. "It's two stories, actually. The first one's from my second year. Dobby was still bound to the Malfoys then."

Sirius raised his brows. "He was their elf?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Hermione said quietly. "He… he found out about a plot against the school. Lucius was planning to plant the diary—Voldemort's diary."

Sirius's expression flickered, a shadow of dread behind his eyes.

"And he knew something awful was coming. That Harry would be in danger. So he tried to protect him. Multiple times. In the most… bizarre ways."

Sirius blinked. "Bizarre how?"

Hermione gave a faint, fond grimace. "He tried to get Harry expelled by levitating and dropping a cake on the Dursleys' guests—magic in front of Muggles. Blocked the entrance to the train so he couldn't get to school. Later, he hexed a Bludger to chase Harry during a match."

Sirius stared. "He hexed a Bludger?"

Hermione nodded. "Broke Harry's arm. I think the idea was that if Harry was injured badly enough, he'd be sent home."

Sirius gaped. "And this is the elf you want tailing Dumbledore to protect Harry?"

"Yes," Hermione said, gently but firmly. "Because despite being bound to the Malfoys, despite being forbidden from speaking openly—he still tried. Again and again. And every time he disobeyed, he punished himself."

Sirius went very still. "They made him hurt himself?"

"No," she said softly. "He did it. Out of conditioning. Loyalty. Fear. But that's what makes it so important. He chose to disobey. He chose to try and save Harry, even when it cost him."

Sirius looked down at his tea, then back up. "That's… twisted. Noble. Terrifying."

Hermione's fingers tightened around her cup. "It gets worse."

Sirius leaned forward slightly.

"He saved us. During the war," she said. "We were captured. Taken to Malfoy Manor. You know—when Bellatrix… tortured me." Her voice tightened, but didn't waver. "Harry and Ron were locked up with Griphook and Luna. We were trapped."

Sirius's hands curled into fists on his knees.

"Dobby got us out. He Apparated us. All of us." She swallowed. "Bellatrix threw a knife just as we were leaving."

Sirius froze.

"He died in Harry's arms," Hermione whispered. "He delivered us to safety—and he died for it. For Harry. For us."

Sirius's eyes were unreadable for a long moment. Then he blinked rapidly, jaw tight. "Bloody hell."

She looked at him over the rim of her cup. "So yes. He hexed a Bludger once. But if you're asking whether I trust Dobby to risk everything to keep Harry safe—even now?" She nodded. "I do."

Sirius was quiet for a long beat. Then he exhaled slowly, setting his tea aside.

"Well," he said at last, "at least when we set up our doomed rebellion against the former Chief Warlock, we'll have the most emotionally complicated support staff on record."

Hermione gave a soft, weary laugh. "Gryffindor espionage at its finest."

Sirius studied her for a moment longer, then leaned in and kissed her forehead.

"I'm sorry you had to live through all that," he said quietly.

She reached out and curled her fingers around his. "Me too. But it's what taught me to trust people like him. People who choose to do what's right, even when no one's watching."

Sirius gave a quiet hum of assent.

Outside, the rain had begun to fall against the windows. Inside, the fire crackled softly, and the teacups steamed, and the world—just for a moment—felt still.

"What about the other story?" Sirius asked quietly. "The reason you wanted me to give Kreacher direct orders about you?"

Hermione's expression faltered at once. She cleared her throat, the motion automatic, like a reflex against the emotion that threatened to rise.

"Right," she said, voice thinner now. "That one needs some… context."

Sirius waited, unmoving. Not pressing, just listening.

Hermione looked down at her hands for a moment before beginning.

"Fifth year. Voldemort was back. Resurrected. The Order was using Grimmauld Place as a safehouse, and you—well, you were practically imprisoned here. You hated it. Everyone knew it."

Sirius gave a wry tilt of his head, but said nothing.

"Voldemort started sending visions to Harry. Over and over. Always the same corridor in the Ministry of Magic—leading to the Department of Mysteries. He was trying to lure Harry there by piquing his curiosity to retrieve the prophecy." She looked up. "The prophecy about the two of them."

He blinked. "The one from the Hall of Prophecies."

She nodded. "Only the people it's about can take it from the shelves. Voldemort couldn't go, obviously. He was trying to keep his return quiet. So he needed Harry."

"And Harry didn't go," Sirius murmured.

"No," Hermione said. "He didn't. Not for months. Voldemort kept trying, but Harry wasn't biting. Voldemort got desperate."

Sirius's fingers curled loosely around the edge of the sofa.

"Bellatrix convinced Kreacher to help. She told him to injure Buckbeak—the hippogriff we rescued you with—so you'd be stuck upstairs tending to him, if anyone checked."

Sirius's expression turned to stone.

"That same day," Hermione went on, "Voldemort sent Harry another vision. This time of you. Being tortured in the Department of Mysteries."

Sirius was still as a statue, only his jaw tightening.

"We tried calling through the Floo to make sure you were alright. Kreacher answered. He told us… you'd gone out."

Sirius blinked slowly. "But I was here."

"You were," Hermione whispered. "But we didn't know that. Dumbledore had been removed from the school. Umbridge had seized control. We had no one to turn to. And when we tried to tip off Snape—who we knew was in the Order—Harry used code, but... we didn't know if it landed."

She inhaled carefully. "So six of us went. Harry, Ron, me, Neville, Luna, and Ginny. We flew to London. On Thestrals."

Sirius looked like he wanted to speak—but didn't.

"We got there. We broke in. We reached the prophecy." Her voice was so quiet it nearly vanished. "But it was a trap. You weren't there. You were never there."

She looked up again, meeting his eyes, and hers shimmered now with something heavier than memory.

"The Death Eaters ambushed us. We fought. We held them off as long as we could. Then the Order arrived—including you. You helped drive them back."

A pause.

"And then Bellatrix hit you with a spell," she said, barely audible. "It wasn't a Killing Curse—it didn't even look like much at all—but it knocked you backwards, through the Veil in the Death Room."

Sirius's mouth opened slightly. "The Veil," he echoed.

Hermione nodded, her voice threadbare now. "It's a one-way archway to the afterlife. You were just… gone. Like that."

Sirius sat back slowly, the shock registering—not as a scream, but as a hollow thud in his chest. As if his heart had skipped a beat, trying to process the notion of his own death at the hands of his cousin.

Hermione watched him with something like grief stitched into every line of her face.

"I asked you to give Kreacher direct orders this time," she said softly, "because I've seen what happens when we don't."

Sirius looked over at her—really looked—and then reached out to take her hand, warm and steady and still trembling ever so slightly.

"How long did it take you to forgive him?" he asked, after a moment.

Hermione's brow furrowed. "Kreacher?"

Sirius nodded.

"A long time," she admitted. "But he… changed. Because of Regulus. When we came back here during the Horcrux hunt in seventh year, he helped us find the locket. It had been taken by Mundungus—never mind that bit. But that's how I knew what to say. To reach him."

Sirius gave a quiet nod. No rebuttal. Just quiet understanding.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. "So that's the story."

Sirius rubbed a hand over his face and muttered, "Merlin."

She managed a small, grim smile. "Yeah."

"I need a drink," Sirius muttered, running a hand through his hair. "It's not every day you hear how you died."

Hermione gave him a faint, crooked smile. "Well… good news. That particular tragedy's been thoroughly cancelled. So you don't have to worry about that."

Sirius snorted—half laugh, half sigh—and leaned back against the sofa cushions. "Remind me to send a thank-you owl to causality."

"Already ahead of you," Hermione said lightly. "I signed it from both of us."

Thursday morning smelled like dragon dung and determination.

Sirius stood in the doorway of the newly reclaimed potions lab in Grimmauld Place, holding a scroll that unspooled down to his knee and reading aloud from the top with theatrical despair.

"Let's see… powdered bicorn horn, dried murtlap root, dittany leaves, phoenix feather—not a chance—four varieties of blood moss, and... sweet Circe, is that mandrake pulp and venomous tentacula extract?"

Hermione didn't look up. She was currently elbow-deep in the underside of a brass-banded cauldron stand, her curls pinned up in a messy knot, wand tucked behind one ear.

"Yes," she said, voice muffled, "and before you ask, no, I'm not making an illicit love potion or an unlicensed poison—although the temptation is there, given your tone."

"I'm just saying," Sirius said, stepping carefully around a boxlabelled Don't Touch Unless You Want a New Nose, "there are people—qualified, regulated, potion-selling people—who make this stuff for a living. You could sit on your arse and heal like a normal person instead of turning the house into Slughorn's Fever Dream."

Hermione popped up, brushing a streak of soot from her cheek with the back of her hand. "I need to brew more of my blood replenisher. You know—the one keeping me alive at the moment."

Sirius folded his arms, the list crinkling between his fingers. "I know a decent apothecary. Nothing dodgy. Friendly bloke. Doesn't even ask questions."

"I'm sure he's a delight," Hermione said dryly, "but I still prefer my own work. At least I know what's in it, and that it was temperature-regulated throughout the whole brewing cycle. And I have to make the joint balm for Remus."

"Joint balm?" Sirius echoed, as though this was a personal betrayal.

"Yes. You know, post-transformation care. For his knees. And his spine. And his shoulders." Hermione flicked her wand and murmured a diagnostic charm, watching the thin blue light trace itself across the lab's exhaust runes. "The full moon's in a little over three weeks. The balm needs to steep for one week post-brew to let the warming charm properly infuse. If I don't start in the coming days, it won't be ready in time."

Sirius opened his mouth. Closed it. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I swear," he said, voice low, "if you keel over while stirring something glowing, I will find a way to resurrect you just so I can lecture you properly."

Hermione grinned and finally looked over at him. "Noted. Will add 'leave stirring instructions' to my living will."

"Excellent," Sirius muttered, returning his attention to the list. "Because nothing says romance like emergency necromancy and potions logistics."

He began folding the list, looking faintly betrayed by its length. "Do I need a cart for this?"

"A few stasis boxes will do," Hermione said, already conjuring labels. "The periwinkle root goes in cool storage, and the kelpie liver needs to be sealed with that charm you learned from the cursed mushroom debacle."

"I knew letting you see the rest of the basement was a mistake," he grumbled.

"But you like the cursed mushroom jars."

"I like you. The jars are cursed. It's an important distinction."

Hermione's smile softened for a second. "I appreciate the help, Sirius. I really do."

He sighed, dramatically, and leaned in to press a kiss to her soot-streaked forehead. "Don't make me carry you back upstairs later."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Liar."

Right before they were set out to leave for her next consultation, Hermione stood in front of the sitting room mirror at Grimmauld Place, wand in hand, looking slightly apprehensive but determined. Her hair was pinned back into a coiled bun—practical, neat, calculated for spell precision—and she was dressed in clean robes that didn't quite disguise the restless energy about her.

"I'm ready to test the skin-tight Bubble-Head Charm," she said, voice steady with the kind of confidence that came from 93% certainty and 7% pure willpower.

Sirius paused mid-sip of coffee, eyebrows lifting over the rim of his mug. "That's the one you've been muttering about for the last two days? The thing that sounded like you were reverse-engineering a hazmat suit?"

"Yes. That one," she said primly. "I used the regular Bubble-Head on Tuesday at the hospital and felt like a walking fish tank. Every time someone looked at me, I wanted to shout I know it looks stupid, but it's safer than me breathing the same air as you! "

Sirius lowered his mug and leaned against the doorway, one brow arched. "Alright then, show me."

Hermione raised her wand, inhaled, and spoke clearly: "Aerovallum Contoura!"

A shimmer flickered around her face—a thin sheet of light, like glass being pulled from water—and then it was gone. Except it wasn't gone, not really. The air around her face had taken on a subtle sheen, like a soap bubble stretched impossibly thin, clinging to her skin without actually touching it. It moved with her, skin-tight but perfectly breathable, not a trace of fog or distortion.

Sirius blinked. "Bloody hell."

Hermione blinked back at him—no muffled speech this time, her voice perfectly clear. "Well?"

He walked a slow circle around her, inspecting. "Looks like you've just… got extra air. Custom-fit oxygen couture."

"It's discreet," Hermione said, pleased. "Silent. Doesn't amplify sound, distort my voice, or fog up like the standard version. Ventilation works through subtle air-propelling runes—keeps pathogens out without interrupting airflow."

Sirius made a thoughtful noise. "You're telling me you managed to weaponise skincare magic and Muggle scuba principles into a face shield."

"Well, not weaponise, exactly—"

"No, I'm impressed," he said, hands up. "Really. That thing is sleeker than anything I've seen the Aurors use. Ministry-standard Bubble-Heads look like a goldfish bowl had a baby with a bicycle helmet."

Hermione beamed, and the charm flexed ever so slightly with her smile. "It took some tweaking, but I think it's ready for field use. This is the kind of innovation the Healers at St Mungo's ought to be using, really."

Sirius tilted his head, squinting slightly. "Can you eat in it?"

Hermione gave him a look. "Why on earth would I—?"

"I'm just saying, what if someone offers you biscuits?"

"Then I dispel the charm off like a normal person. Though I realistically would just take the biscuit and eat it later. In private."

Sirius grinned. "Ah. I was hoping for an awkward biscuit handoff through magical membrane scene. But fine. Ruin my fun."

"I'll save that for when I design version two," she said sweetly. "The bubble-flex straw edition."

He laughed, then leaned in a little, brushing a knuckle along the edge of the shimmering field just to see if he could feel it. "It really doesn't look like anything. You could pass for completely uncharmed."

"Exactly," Hermione said, delighted. "Which means I won't get stared at this time in the waiting room like I'm wearing a goldfish bowl on my head."

Sirius stepped back, eyes warm. "Well, Ione Lupin, I do believe you just made infectious disease mitigation sexy."

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress the smile. "Shall we?"

He offered his arm like a gentleman escorting a wizarding celebrity. "To St Mungo's—where at least one Healer is definitely going to try and steal your charm schema."

"They can try," Hermione said as they stepped into the Floo, "but they'd have to catch me first. And I'm bubble-aerodynamic now."

St Mungo's on a Friday afternoon was a hum of robes and clipped heels, hushed conversations punctuated by the occasional magical whir. The examination room was clean, bright, and lined with softly glowing monitoring runes. Hermione sat on the padded bench, Bubble-Head Charm now dismissed, her fingers tapping lightly on her knee.

Healer Aisling—tall, graceful, and blessedly no-nonsense—glanced up from her chart with a nod. "Your blood counts are holding steady, Miss Lupin. Still a bit below where we'd like them, but stable. Same as last time."

Hermione exhaled through her nose in quiet relief. "So the current replenisher dosage is working?"

"For now, yes," Aisling said. "You've done well managing the balance. Keep up with the potion schedule and avoid overexertion."

Sirius, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, frowned. "Why not increase the dosage a little? Bump her up to normal levels?"

Healer Aisling looked over the rim of her glasses, then gave a calm shake of her head. "Because it's a tightrope walk, Mr Black. A higher dosage might bring her numbers up more quickly, but it would also shorten the useful lifespan of the potion."

Hermione glanced at Sirius, catching the puzzled crease between his brows.

Aisling continued, her tone measured. "Blood Replenishers—especially complex ones like the kind Miss Lupin uses—aren't a long-term solution. They're a stopgap. The body builds tolerance over time with regular use. Eventually, it stops responding. The stronger the dose, the faster we reach that point."

Sirius shifted uncomfortably. "You mean… this can't keep going?"

Hermione was quiet.

"We're buying time," Aisling said gently. "Time for a transplant protocol to be finalised. Time to find a suitable donor."

Sirius looked between them, clearly taken aback. "I thought—Merlin, I thought this potion thing was sustainable."

"It is," Hermione said softly, "but only for a while. The goal is to keep me well enough for long enough."

Sirius raked a hand through his hair. "And what happens if you can't find a donor?"

Aisling raised a brow. "Then we develop a new strategy. But we are hopeful. There are promising paths. We've ruled out some candidates already for magical compatibility—"

Hermione's gaze flicked to Sirius, then away again.

Aisling glanced at her notes. "For example, Mr Black, your magical markers don't align. You're not a match."

Sirius blinked. "Oh."

"I'm sorry," Aisling said, not unkindly. "I know you were hoping—"

"It was a long shot, but worth the try," he said quickly.

Hermione gave him a small, grateful look, but said nothing.

"We're pursuing leads, almost all of the healers decided to give samples, if for nothing else, so that we have more data to test against," Aisling continued. "And I remember you said you underwent a blood adoption ritual recently?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes. With my cousin—my adoptive cousin, I mean. We've talked about it with Healer Timble."

"Have you had a chance to speak with them yet?" Aisling asked, scribbling another note with her wand.

"Not yet," Hermione admitted. "Hopefully this weekend. It's… complicated."

Aisling gave a sage nod. "That's understandable. Magical adoptions create an interesting bind—strong enough to skew donor matches under the right conditions. It could be promising."

Sirius was quiet, the edge of his coat sleeve crumpled in his grip. Hermione reached over and rested her hand lightly against his.

"It's alright," she said softly. "This isn't a dead end."

He didn't speak, but the lines around his mouth eased slightly.

Aisling looked up. "In the meantime—same dosage, same schedule. Keep tracking symptoms. And don't push yourself. You've bought yourself a bit more runway, Miss Lupin. Let's use it wisely."

Hermione gave a nod. "Understood."

Sirius stood a little straighter, the weight of the conversation lingering between them as they gathered their things. When they stepped back into the corridor, the quiet felt heavier.

"You alright?" Hermione asked.

Sirius glanced down at her, then exhaled. "I will be. I just… didn't know we were on a clock."

She gave him a small, sad smile. "That's the funny thing about clocks," she said. "They always start ticking before you notice."

He slipped his hand into hers. "Then let's make every second count."

The chair in the waiting room at the Mental Health creaked under Sirius's pacing. Which was impressive, really, considering he wasn't even in it.

He'd stood when he arrived. Still standing. Hadn't stopped moving since.

The receptionist—a middle-aged wizard with a clipboard and a bored expression—had stopped trying to offer him a seat after the third, "No, thank you, I'll just walk a bit."

When the door finally opened and Thalassa stepped out, Sirius all but marched past her into the room.

She followed, expression calm as always. "I see we're skipping the pleasantries today."

"Sorry," Sirius muttered. "Long week."

They sat—well, Thalassa sat. Sirius perched on the edge of the window seat, spine tight enough to snap.

"You want to talk about it?" she asked, settling his notes on her lap, wand poised to record—but not actively scribbling yet.

Sirius exhaled. It wasn't quite a sigh. More like a breath trying to turn into a growl and settling somewhere in between.

"Ione's sick. Not new news," he said quickly, "but we got a refresher today. A reminder, if you like, that the potions that are keeping her alive? They're not going to keep working forever. The Healers don't know when they'll stop, but they will. Her body will get used to them. Like tolerance to a drug."

Thalassa didn't flinch. "And you only learned this today?"

"I mean—I knew, I guess. Kind of. She mentioned something once. But I thought it meant she'd need to switch to a different brew, not run out of time."

His hands curled into fists.

"And now it's all ticking clock metaphors and donor lists and 'let's make the most of the runway' and I'm supposed to just—what? Take it on the chin?"

He laughed. It was a sharp, exhausted sound.

Thalassa's voice was gentle but grounded. "How does that make you feel?"

Sirius barked out another laugh. "What is this, page one of the Mind Healer's Manual?"

"It's a good page," she said. "Let's start there."

Sirius looked away. His jaw worked for a moment, then stopped. The fight went out of his shoulders, just a little.

"It makes me feel like I'm not doing enough," he muttered. "Like I should've figured this out sooner. Been better. Smarter. Should've stopped time if I had to."

"Stopped time?" Thalassa asked, not unkindly.

"Yeah. Why not? I'd bet you a thousand Galleons the Department of Mysteries already have something cooked up that would do the trick."

She didn't smile, but the edge of it was there in her eyes. "You know that isn't your job, right? To fix everything?"

"But I'm meant to protect her," Sirius snapped. "That's the whole damn point. I was supposed to keep Harry safe, too. Did a great job of that—let's talk about the Dursleys sometime. And now—now I might lose Ione too. And I'm just meant to wait ?"

"Waiting is harder than fighting," Thalassa said. "It doesn't feel brave. But it is."

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough. "She looked at me today and said, 'This isn't a dead end.' And I wanted to believe her. I did. But it still feels like we're running out of road."

"What would you do," Thalassa asked, "if there were only a few more weeks? What would you change?"

Sirius stilled. The question hit him like a Bludger to the chest.

"…Nothing," he said finally. "We already sit on the same side of the sofa. We argue about potion ingredients, and she wakes me up with a smirk and a cup of tea I didn't ask for. She's already here."

"That's love," Thalassa said quietly. "It's also grief. They live side by side sometimes."

Sirius blinked. He looked very, very tired.

"I just got her back," he whispered. "I don't want to waste a second. But it feels like if I blink, I'll miss one anyway."

"You won't," she said. "Because you're looking. That's more than most people manage."

The clock ticked softly in the quiet. No ticking bombs. Just time. Moving. As it does.

When Sirius stood to leave, Thalassa handed him a small card.

"What's this?"

"A breathing charm," the healer said. "For moments when the panic wins. I know you're not one for structured meditation, so think of this like an emergency magical cigarette. No smoke. No lung damage. Just—space."

Sirius glanced at it. "Sounds fake."

"Try it anyway."

He slipped it into his coat.

As he stepped out of the office and into the cool corridor beyond, he wasn't fixed. Not really.

But maybe—just maybe—he wasn't broken either. Not beyond repair.

And for now, that would do.

The Floo whooshed mid-afternoon at Grimmauld Place. Hermione didn't even look up from her notes before calling, "Hi, Remus."

Remus Lupin stepped into the drawing room from the fireplace with a quiet smile and a battered satchel slung over one shoulder. He looked tired, in the way all teachers did on the weekend, but also like he didn't entirely mind. These visits were starting to become a routine—his sanctuary between Friday grading marathons and Sunday night lesson plans.

"What are you brewing?" he asked, nodding toward the faint smell of ginger and essence of murtlap wafting in from the hall.

"Finishing a batch of joint balm for you," Hermione said. "And about a dozen phials of blood replenishers for next week. The usual."

Sirius, sprawled across the settee with a biscuit in one hand and an expression halfway between fond and annoyed, added, "She's also assigning me ingredient-fetching missions like I'm her personal apothecary intern."

"You volunteered," Hermione pointed out mildly.

"I muttered 'let me know if you need anything' while yawning. That's not consent."

Hermione didn't dignify that with a response.

Instead, she glanced toward Remus. "Actually… I did want to talk to you about something. Something… delicate."

Remus raised a brow, then set his satchel down and sat across from her, posture attentive. "Alright."

Hermione took a breath. "The donor search. The one for me." She hesitated. "I want to ask if you'd consider being tested. But I don't want you to feel pressured, and I need to be clear: the tests they need to run… they might out you."

Remus stilled.

"They'll check magical markers," she explained softly. "One of the screenings can flag lycanthropy. If it does, there's a chance they'll try to get you onto the Werewolf Registry if you've never registered before. It would put your job at Hogwarts in jeopardy."

Sirius's jaw clenched beside her.

"I don't want that," she said. "I really, really don't. I just want you to know you're on the list of potential options, but I won't ask you to do anything that puts your safety at risk. It's your choice. No one else's."

Remus looked down at his hands for a moment, quiet. Then he nodded. "Thank you for telling me. And for… giving me the space to decide. I'll think about it."

Hermione smiled gently. "That's all I ask."

There was a tense pause. And then Sirius, who had been holding in his frustration like fizzy Butterbeer, finally snapped.

"That's it?" he said, voice sharper now. "You'll think about it? Ione's on borrowed time, and you're weighing job security?"

"Sirius—" Hermione warned.

"No, come on," Sirius pushed, sitting forward. "We're not just talking about a transplant six years from now, we're talking months. Maybe. We need a match, now—"

"Sirius." Hermione's tone cut through the room like a clean severing charm. "Stop."

He froze.

Remus looked away. Hermione took a slow breath.

"I'm not putting him in a position where helping me could mean losing his whole life again," she said, steady but fierce. "I won't. You don't get to guilt him over this."

Sirius opened his mouth—then shut it. Jaw tight. Fuming, but silent.

The quiet stretched again. Then:

"…Little Hermione," he said suddenly.

Hermione blinked. "What?"

Sirius sat back like he'd been struck by lightning. "Little you. Your past self. Same genetics. Blood-adopted magic makes you a bit different now, sure, but biologically—you're the same. She's probably a perfect match."

Hermione stared at him.

"No," she said flatly.

"Why the hell not?" Sirius snapped. "She's you. It's not just a match, it's the match."

"You think I didn't think of her?" Hermione shot back, voice rising. "Of course I did. But how are you going to explain to her why we want to test her specifically? Why not Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna, or anybody else? How are you going to explain it to her parents? She's a minor. They'd need to consent."

Sirius's mouth opened, then closed.

"And even if we did somehow get her in the same room with a Healer, what happens when the results come back and we're genetically identical?" Hermione demanded. "What happens when the Healer spots a fourteen-year-old and a thirty-one-year-old version of the same witch with just a slight difference in magical signatures and a perfect chromosomal match? Are you planning to Obliviate the entire transplant department?"

Sirius rubbed a hand through his hair, frustration boiling. "So we do nothing?"

"No," Hermione said firmly. "We work with what we have. Carefully. And if there's a path forward with Remus—or someone else—I'll take it. But we do not drag an innocent version of me into a web of lies, memory charms, and medical ethics violations."

Her voice cracked a little at the end, but she didn't flinch.

Remus, quietly, nodded. "She's right."

The fire crackled in the grate.

Sirius slumped back into the cushions, chest rising and falling hard. After a long beat, he muttered, "Fine. But someone better have a breakthrough soon, or I swear I'm going to start testing Grimmauld's portraits for viable bone marrow."

"You are joking now, but magical portraits are created by blood magic woven into the paint, so you might actually find some genetic material in there," Remus said.

Hermione managed a weak laugh. "Try Phineas first. I'm sure he'd be thrilled."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me my dead great-great-grandfather's moody arse might have marrow worth harvesting?"

"Not exactly, just blood," Remus said dryly. "And you'd need a very dark ritual to extract it. Which, I feel obligated to point out, is frowned upon in most civilised circles."

"Frowned upon," Sirius repeated. "But not technically illegal?"

Hermione groaned and rubbed her temples. "Please do not put yourself on a Ministry watchlist before we've even exhausted the living donor options."

Sirius threw up his hands. "I was joking! Mostly. But if one more Healer tells me to 'be patient,' I'm going to start transfiguring chairs into something that bites."

"I'm serious," Hermione muttered, still massaging her temples.

"No, I'm Sirius."

"Don't," Remus said wearily, though a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Sirius looked between them, then grinned—sharp, exasperated, but somehow lighter for the shared exasperation. "Well. When the next Healer appointment rolls around and someone has to sit through the hundredth explanation of why she's still on a sub-optimal dosage, maybe I'll bring up the portrait marrow idea. See how fast they invent a transplant protocol just to avoid the conversation."

"Do that," Hermione said sweetly, "and I'll test the bubble-head charm on you. With no ventilation."

Sirius clutched his heart. "Cruel, brilliant woman."

"Still alive," she said firmly. "And planning to stay that way."

Silence followed—but it was a steadier silence now, underpinned with just enough dry humour and shared absurdity to make the weight of the conversation manageable. Not gone. But bearable.

Remus leaned back in his chair, one brow arched. "You know… if you two ever publish a joint memoir, I suggest calling it Blood Magic and Other Courtship Rituals with the amount of questionable stuff flying around this house."

Hermione groaned into her hands. "Oh Merlin."

Sirius's grin was immediate. "That's brilliant."

"It's disturbing," Hermione said, shooting them both a flat look. "Also misleading. It makes it sound like I carved runes into your forehead as a flirtation technique."

"Well," Sirius said, draping an arm along the back of the sofa, "it wouldn't be the weirdest thing we've tried."

"I am not putting the word 'courtship' on the cover of anything," Hermione said, then added dryly, "Though if we're aiming for accuracy, I vote How to Train Your Animagus ."

Remus actually choked on his tea.

Sirius looked personally attacked. "I beg your pardon. I am entirely untrainable."

"You say that," Hermione said, tilting her head, "and yet you did in fact learn to stop shedding in bed."

"A mutual decision ," Sirius countered, over the sound of Remus's wheezing laughter. "And not one I agreed to lightly."

"I'm just saying," Hermione said, sipping her tea with great dignity, "I'd like the record to show that positive reinforcement works."

Remus raised his mug in solemn salute. "Chapter One: Rub Behind the Ears and He'll Behave for Days."

"I will hex both of you," Sirius muttered—but his smirk gave him away.

"I didn't even bring up the time you pooped in the bathtub," Hermione said lightly.

Remus's hand jerked, nearly sloshing tea onto his lap. Sirius gaped at her, scandalised. "I was in hiding! And locked in a Muggle motel room as a dog, what was I supposed to do?"

"Oh, I remember," Hermione said serenely.

Sirius looked like he was weighing the merits of fleeing the country versus committing petty arson. "I was working under the impression you thought I was just a very scruffy dog with a tragic backstory!"

"You were a very scruffy dog with a tragic backstory," Remus said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "And she still took you in. I'd say that says more about her than it does about the plumbing."

"It was one time," Sirius hissed, jabbing a finger in Hermione's direction. "And I had been fed a huge bowl of who knows what kind of pie after living on scraps for years. I am a pureblood —my system was not made for that kind of culinary trauma."

Hermione was grinning now, infuriatingly pleased with herself. "I'm just saying, if we're titling our joint memoirs after landmark events in our relationship, that one deserves an honourable mention."

"How to Train Your Animagus," Remus said, as if reading from an imaginary book jacket, " includes such useful chapters as 'The Great Biscuit Burglary,' 'Shedding Season Strategies,' and 'Emergency Bathtub Protocols.' "

"I hate both of you," Sirius said flatly.

"No, you don't," Hermione replied sweetly, reaching over to scratch behind his ear with two fingers.

Sirius let out an involuntary grunt of pleasure, then caught himself and batted her hand away. "Rude."

"Trained," Remus corrected helpfully.

Sirius groaned and flopped back against the cushions like a man utterly defeated by affection. "I should've stayed a stray."

Hermione leaned over and kissed his temple. "But then, who would I co-author smutty memoir titles with?"

Sirius cracked one eye open. "We're definitely adding 'Bubble-Heads and Bone Marrow: A Love Story' to the shortlist."

"Right," Hermione muttered, "we are absolutely never letting you write the appendices."

"Appendix A," Sirius said, without missing a beat. "Ways in Which I've Failed to Die Horribly, Thanks to One Stubborn Witch With a Potion Habit."

And despite everything—the looming question marks of her health, the too-frequent visits to St Mungo's—they laughed. Because laughter, at least for the moment, didn't require a prescription.