The fever hit Sunday evening.
Not a burning, sweating delirium kind of fever—but the slow-creep, behind-the-eyes throb, joint-aching kind that made Hermione pause mid-sentence and say, "I think something's wrong."
She sat back from the notebook she'd been annotating, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead.
Sirius looked up from where he was, charming a cup of tea to stay warm. "Wrong how?"
Hermione opened her mouth to answer—and swayed.
Sirius was across the room in a second, tea forgotten, hand on her back.
"Ione?"
"I'm fine," she said automatically, though her skin was flushed and her breathing had that too-careful cadence of someone doing a systems check. She cast a temperature monitoring charm.
She blinked at the floating rune, then frowned. She ran it again. And then a third time, just in case she'd somehow miscast twice, which—frankly—was as likely as Sirius remembering where he'd put his dragonhide gloves.
Still.
"Thirty-eight point five," she muttered quietly.
"Say that again?"
Hermione repeated the number. "I double-checked. And—before you ask—I haven't brewed anything toxic. I've eaten. Slept. Stayed hydrated. No sudden exposure to cursed manuscripts or suspicious magical wildlife. It's probably just—just a bug or…"
She trailed off.
Then her eyes widened. "The charm. The Bubble-Head—Sirius, what if it didn't work properly? I might've been exposed at the hospital—"
Sirius looked her over, then swore. Loudly. Repeatedly. With some linguistic creativity that would've made even Molly Weasley blush.
She blinked at him, startled. "Sirius—what?"
But Sirius's face had gone pale, his jaw set tight. "It wasn't the charm. That charm was solid. You tested it six times. You ran a bloody mock ventilation trial in the basement. That charm held."
She frowned. "Then how—?"
His breath hitched.
And then, like a confession dragged from his gut, he said, "I forgot the disinfection spell."
"What?"
"Wednesday. When I came back from Hogwarts—I didn't disinfect. I always do, it's routine, I just—" He rubbed a shaking hand over his face. "I got distracted. You were bent over the Pensieve, all glowy and magical and humming Cascada, and it completely fell out of my bloody brain—"
Silence slammed into the room like a ward shutting.
Hermione didn't speak.
Sirius sat down hard on the edge of the couch, his hands in his hair. "Bloody hell. I brought it back. I'm such a—"
"You didn't mean to," she said quickly, quietly. "It was an accident."
He didn't look up. "But what if—?"
"We don't know what this is yet," she said firmly. "And even if it is something, you didn't give it to me. The world did. It happens. We were careful. You're always careful."
"I wasn't."
"Can you check the chart the Healers gave us? The fever ones. I want to see if thirty-eight point five means we're supposed to go in or just owl them."
"You're holding yourself up with the table," Sirius said. "We're going."
Hermione nodded. "Come on. Help me pack a go bag."
And just like that, the protocol kicked in—the quiet choreography of crisis management.
Hermione transfigured her slippers into boots. Sirius quickly pulled together some clothes, mostly pyjamas, for her. She double-cast the Bubble-Head Charm—her upgraded version—and let Sirius wrap a cloak over her as they stepped into the Floo.
The green flame whooshed.
Destination: St Mungo's.
Because sometimes, even if you do everything right, the world still comes in through a crack you didn't see.
And sometimes, it wasn't the spell that failed.
It was just being human.
They arrived in a rush of green flame and unspoken dread, the hearth at St Mungo's whooshing behind them as Sirius stepped out first, catching Hermione around the waist before she could wobble on her feet.
The night shift receptionist didn't blink—clearly used to late-night crises—but at the sight of Hermione's flushed cheeks and the tailored shimmer of her Bubble-Head Charm, she stood immediately.
"Name and concern?" she asked, brisk but not unkind.
"Ione Lupin," Hermione said, her voice low but clear. "Low-grade fever, thirty-eight point five. Chronic bone marrow failure, currently on blood replenishers."
The witch didn't waste a second. She tapped a rune on the edge of her desk, murmured something into her wand, and a moment later, a familiar figure appeared from a side hallway.
Healer Timble—his sandy hair messier than usual, and possessed of the dry, calmly sarcastic bedside manner that had earned Sirius's reluctant respect—strode toward them with his robe sleeves rolled up and quill still tucked behind one ear.
"Well," he said, eyes already sweeping Hermione from head to toe, "this isn't the social visit I was hoping for. Come on—examination room two's open."
They followed him down the corridor, Sirius's hand a steady pressure at Hermione's back, even though she was walking under her own power.
Timble opened the door with a flick of his wand, conjured a cushioned bench with a charm, and gestured Hermione toward it. "Vitals, please."
Hermione recited her current temperature, symptoms, and medication schedule with the ease of someone who'd done this too often already. Timble didn't interrupt—just waved his wand to summon the diagnostic runes around her head. They hovered in the air like a glowing constellation, adjusting as new data trickled in.
"And when did the fever start?" he asked, already tapping the readings with his wand.
"About an hour ago," Hermione said, wincing as a scan light brushed her temple.
"Any chills, shivers, light sensitivity, vertigo?"
"Just a headache."
"Appetite?"
Hermione gave him a look. "Do you think I've had time to test that?"
Timble made a sound that might have been a chuckle, but in his hands it was more of a worn-down wheeze.
"Any recent exposure to illness?" Timble asked.
Sirius opened his mouth, then paused, jaw tight.
Hermione gave him a look, then turned back to Timble. "Possibly. We've both been careful, but Sirius forgot a decontamination spell after returning from Hogwarts. Wednesday morning."
Timble stopped mid-flick. Raised a brow. Slowly turned to look at Sirius.
"Ah," he said, in the exact tone one might use when finding a boggart under the sink.
"I forgot," Sirius muttered. "It was a mistake. I got distracted. And—obviously—I feel like utter shit about it, thanks."
"No cursing in the exam room," Timble said automatically. Then, "Well, you're certainly not the first to skip a cleansing spell post-school visit. It's a corridor of walking biohazards in there. But let's find out if this is that, or just a coincidence."
Sirius opened his mouth, clearly on the verge of launching into a self-flagellating monologue, but Timble cut him off with the practised bluntness of a man who'd heard every kind of guilt from every kind of wizard.
"If this is from exposure, we'll know soon. You did the right thing bringing her in. That's what matters."
Timble turned his attention to the readings from the diagnostic charms then.
"No sign of spell strain," he murmured. "No obvious infection markers, either. Might be magical fatigue triggered by minor exposure. I'm adjusting your replenisher dose for tonight. You're not in decline, but your body's clearly stressed. Better to give you a cushion before we see a drop. The fever is not dangerous yet either, but we're not going to let it climb. I'm giving you a moderate fever reducer."
Hermione nodded. "Thank you."
"Also," Timble added, "We'll run a microbial charm scan to check for bacterial or viral presence in your blood, just in case"
Hermione nodded again.
Timble gave her a look that was almost fond. "I'll need a blood sample. The fast way."
Hermione held out her arm, and Timble cast the spell with a flick—no needle, just a gentle tug of magic as a phial filled itself midair.
He labelled it, scribbled notes, then glanced at Sirius. "And I assume you'd like to hover until the results come back?"
"I'd like to hover inside her bloodstream, if you've got a charm for that," Sirius muttered.
Timble's mouth twitched. "No such spell, I'm afraid. But I'll be back shortly. If it spikes or she gets dizzy, use the charmstone at the bedside. But no panicking. No guilt spirals. And no pacing the corridor like a particularly sexy guard dog."
Sirius blinked. "Did you just—"
"I've been doing this job too long to pretend I don't see the way you two look at each other," Timble said, dry as sand. "You're going to stay the night, just to be safe. We've got you flagged in the system for immune complications. That means private room, air wards, and zero visitors unless pre-cleared."
Sirius stiffened. "Hang on—what about—?"
"You're already cleared," Timble said, not even looking up. "I flagged you both after the last inpatient stay. Just try not to sneak into her bed this time. We have surveillance charms."
Hermione flushed. Sirius looked at the ceiling.
"Now, the mediwitch will take you up to your room soon; until then, sit. Both of you. The Healers will pace if needed."
Hermione gave him a faint, grateful smile.
Timble paused at the doorway. "And Mr Black?"
He looked up.
"You're not the spell that failed. You're just the person who forgot. That's not the same thing."
And with that, he turned on his heel and swept out, chart flapping behind him like a disgruntled goose.
Hermione sagged a little once the door shut. Sirius sat beside her instantly, sliding an arm around her back. "You should lie down."
"I will. Just—needed to sit up long enough not to feel like a patient yet."
He kissed her temple, lips cool against her warm skin. "Too late."
Hermione leaned against him, exhaustion finally beginning to pull at her posture. "I hate this part."
"What part?"
"The waiting. The not knowing. The endless bloodletting and protocol and looking at people's faces when they think you're not watching."
He tucked her closer. "Hey. No one here thinks anything but this—you're the smartest witch in the room, and you've outmanoeuvred worse odds than a mystery fever."
"You're biased."
"Damn right I am."
They were already tucked away in one of the private ward rooms by the time Healer Timble returned, just as the glowing hourglass in the corridor marked the end of visiting hours.
Hermione was half-dozing against the raised head of her bed, the covers tucked up around her arms, her wand on the pillow beside her like a security charm. Sirius was in the armchair nearby, legs kicked out, a book open in his lap and clearly forgotten.
Timble entered without knocking, but not unkindly—just with the confidence of someone who knew he wasn't interrupting anything that wouldn't immediately stop for him.
"Still warm," he noted, glancing at Hermione's flushed cheeks. "But you look marginally less like a cautionary tale."
Hermione blinked awake fully, rubbing at her eyes. "The fever hasn't gone up."
"Good," Timble said, waving his wand to summon her chart to his hand. He scanned it quickly, then gave a short nod. "Results came back. Negative for all the usual suspects. No signs of flu strains, dragon pox, spattergroit, magical rot, creeping stasis or latent curse residue."
Hermione exhaled slowly. "Okay."
Sirius's fingers twitched against his arm. "So what is it?"
"Could be anything," Timble said. "Which sounds worse than it is, but it's not unheard of. It could be a very minor pathogen—something most immune systems swat away without noticing. Yours just… isn't quite up to swatting right now. A walking invitation to every microscopic overachiever in Britain, really."
"Lucky me," she muttered.
"Very. But since you don't have any alarming secondary symptoms—no chest tightness, no rash, no internal spell feedback—we're not overly concerned."
Sirius raised a brow. "So what, you're just keeping her in for fun?"
"No, we keep her in for monitoring until she's consistently afebrile for twenty-four hours," Timble said. "And we start her on a broad-spectrum antibiotic potion as a preventative measure as well."
"Right," Sirius said. "Good. Great. Monitoring. So I'll just—stay with her."
Timble's expression shifted slightly. "No overnight visitors."
Sirius blinked. "What?"
"Policy," Timble said, not unkindly. "Immune-compromised floor. Only medical personnel and pre-cleared visitors during daytime hours. You can come back at eight a.m."
"That's ridiculous," Sirius snapped. "You just said she might be fighting something off, and you want to leave her alone?"
"She won't be alone," Timble said evenly. "She'll have three Healers on rotation, three mediwitches, a ward monitor, and the full charm network. No one on this floor goes without eyes on them."
Sirius looked like he wanted to argue further, but Hermione reached over and touched his wrist.
"I'll be okay," she said softly.
He looked down at her. His mouth opened, then closed again.
Timble gave her a small, professional nod. "You're doing well, Miss Lupin. Honestly. You flagged it early, got in fast, and your numbers are holding. Most people with your condition wouldn't have caught the fever this early, let alone had the sense to get here within an hour. If anything, this is best-case scenario for a scare."
Hermione smiled faintly. "Good to know."
Timble pulled a scroll from his pocket, tapped it, and it unfurled into a list of overnight protocols and side effect warnings. "The mediwitch will be in with your potions shortly. Antibiotics every six hours, plus fever reducer and hydration support. If you feel anything weird—anything—hit the charmstone. No toughing it out."
Hermione gave a half-salute. "Understood."
Timble gave her a nod, then looked to Sirius. "You've got five more minutes before we evict you. Make it count."
And with that, he was gone.
The silence that followed was quieter, heavier. Sirius stood and paced once, then twice, and then abruptly sat beside her on the bed.
"I hate this," he muttered.
"I know."
"I should've—"
"You didn't mean to," she cut in, gently. "And you got me here. That's what matters."
Sirius didn't answer right away. Then, quieter: "I'm not good at leaving people behind."
"You're not leaving me behind," Hermione said. "You're just going to be in a slightly less uncomfortable chair for the night."
"I don't like not being there."
She gave him a wan smile. "You'll survive. And so will I."
A beat. Then she reached out and took his hand.
"You're going to go home," she said, "shower, make tea, maybe play some depressing Muggle record that makes you feel dramatic—and then you'll come back in the morning pretending you didn't pace all night. I'll even pretend to believe you."
He looked at their hands for a long moment, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"You'd better be here when I get back."
"Not going anywhere," she murmured.
He held her gaze for a moment longer—then stood, squared his shoulders like a man going to war, and walked to the door.
"I'm going to be at the fireplace at 7:59."
"Then I'll be waiting at 7:58," she replied.
He paused in the doorway, glanced back, and gave her the faintest grin. "Try not to make any charming Healers fall for you while I'm gone."
"No promises," Hermione called after him. "Especially if they bring me biscuits."
The door shut behind him with a soft click, and she let her head fall back onto the pillow, a sigh escaping into the quiet.
Sirius was not in the mood to Floo.
The moment the hospital doors sealed behind him with a quiet click, the contained weight of the past few hours snapped loose like a sprung trap. He stepped into the shadow of an alley, rolled his shoulders once, then dropped to all fours in a blur of dark fur and snapping bone.
Padfoot hit the cobbles at a dead sprint.
The city blurred around him—cobbled alleys, slick streets, the occasional startled yelp from late-night pedestrians who probably thought they'd seen a hallucination in the fog. He didn't care. Let the Muggles have their ghost stories. Let the magical folk mutter about sightings. He needed to run.
Needed wind in his fur and the sting of pavement under paws. Needed the ache in his limbs to outmatch the one in his chest.
He didn't stop until he hit Islington.
By the time he padded up the steps of the grim old townhouse and shifted back, his muscles were trembling with exhaustion and cold, and his lungs burned—but the ache behind his ribs had dulled, just slightly. Just enough to function.
He shoved the door open, toed it shut behind him, and didn't even bother with the lights. The house welcomed him in quiet, familiar gloom. It smelled like worn books, firewood, and the faintest trace of Hermione's peppermint balm still clinging to the air.
Sirius moved on autopilot—straight to the corner cabinet in the drawing room, where his enchanted record player waited. He flicked on the turntable, rifled through the vinyls with more precision than he ever handled paperwork, and pulled out Leftoverture.
The needle dropped.
The opening chords of Carry On My Wayward Son filled the room—crisp and unapologetic.
Sirius sank into the old leather armchair across from the hearth, legs sprawled, arms slack, as the music poured over him. The guitars kicked in, layered with that clear, aching harmony—and something in his chest cracked open like an old scar finally airing out.
He didn't sing.
Didn't move.
Just let the lyrics roll through him like a current:
"There'll be peace when you are done…"
Not yet, he thought. But maybe. If they were lucky. If she stayed steady. If the Healers worked fast enough.
"Lay your weary head to rest…"
He let his own head fall back against the chair.
And didn't bother wiping the tears that finally came.
Sirius arrived in a puff of green flame, boots hitting the hearthstone at exactly 8:00 a.m., coat barely buttoned and hair damp from an overly aggressive combing charm. His expression was the picture of brisk optimism, but anyone paying close attention would have seen the way his eyes kept flicking—left, right, scanning, seeking.
The moment his boots hit the floor of the immune-compromised wing, he was already moving, long-legged strides carrying him toward the private rooms with all the purpose of a man on a mission.
He spotted the mediwitch at the station and flashed his most charming grin. "Black, Sirius. Back on duty."
She barely glanced up, casting a decontamination charm at him with a lazy flick. "Still in Room 12. She's awake."
Sirius didn't slow. Just knocked once on the door before slipping inside, voice already in motion.
"Morning, love. Did you miss me? I brought contraband." He held up a small paper bag like a trophy. "Croissant. Smuggled fresh from Islington. Still warm, I swear on my ancestral disgrace."
Hermione was sitting up in bed, robe wrapped around her shoulders, her curls pulled into a loose plait. She looked better than she had the night before—less pale, more alert—but there was still a faint flush on her cheeks and a low shimmer to her skin that hadn't been there last week.
And the moment he met her eyes, he knew.
Still warm.
She gave him a wry, knowing smile. "It's 38.2. Still hovering."
He froze, croissant halfway out of the bag. "Still? But it's not worse, yeah?"
"No worse," she confirmed gently. "But not better either."
Sirius stood there for half a beat longer than necessary, then gave a bright, toothy grin that nearly fooled her. "Alright. Stubborn fever. Rude, but manageable. We've dealt with worse."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Did you sleep?"
"I sat still in a reclined position with my eyes closed for several hours," he said cheerfully. "Which is basically a nap."
"Did music feature?"
"Don't ask unless you're ready for Kansas and self-loathing."
She gave a soft huff of laughter, leaning back against the pillows. "You didn't have to come this early."
He made a face and pulled the chair closer to her bed. "Of course I did. We made a deal. Seven fifty-eight, remember?"
"You're not fooling me, you know," she said, tilting her head.
"I'm not trying to fool you, " Sirius said lightly. "Just trying to maintain the illusion for myself that everything is fine and perfectly under control and not at all terrifying."
Hermione smiled again. Then, reaching out, she took the croissant from his hand and broke it in half, holding out a piece for him.
"So we're both pretending?"
"For morale," he said solemnly.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The warm, flaky pastry crumbled between their fingers, and for a while, the room smelled like butter and transfigured linen instead of antiseptic and healing charms.
Finally, Sirius spoke again. Softer this time.
"They said anything about when you can go home?"
Hermione shook her head. "They want to see a proper drop. No fever for twenty-four hours. If it dips and holds, maybe tomorrow."
He nodded, jaw clenched tight, but managed to keep the tremble out of his voice.
"Well," he said, "guess I'll have to keep visiting with increasingly decadent bakery items until you're released."
"Threaten me with baked goods. Go on. See if I break."
Sirius grinned, but his eyes—sharp and grey and too tired for the hour—never quite lost their edge. He reached for her hand, thumb brushing her wrist with absent affection.
He wouldn't cry.
He wouldn't spiral.
He would sit here, hold her hand, and wait out the fever like he'd waited out Azkaban—except this time, there was someone worth waiting with.
And maybe that was the difference.
They were halfway through their second cup of tea—Hermione upright, Sirius hovering just enough to look like he wasn't—when she suddenly frowned.
"Oh, bugger."
Sirius looked up, alarmed. "What? Did your temp spike? Are the runes glowing again?"
"No," she said. "We forgot to tell Remus. Again."
Sirius blinked. "Oh. Right. Probably should've sent an owl last night."
Sirius shrugged and leaned back, clearly unconcerned. "Easy fix. I'll just send a Patronus."
Hermione stared at him. "You're not serious."
"I'm always Sirius."
She didn't even roll her eyes this time. Too tired.
"Think about it," she said instead. "You want to send a glowing, talking magical construct into a Hogwarts classroom on a Monday morning. Do you want to give him a cardiac event in front of a room full of second years?"
Sirius looked unrepentant. "I'll time it between classes."
Hermione folded her arms. "What if he's marking? What if he's in the loo? What if he's talking to McGonagall and you just send a dog bounding into the staffroom?"
He made a face. "Alright, alright. No enthusiastic death hound message. Fine. Owl?"
Hermione considered. "Too slow. I'll write a quick note and ask a mediwitch to send it by Floo to the staffroom—after second period ends."
Sirius sighed dramatically. "So many rules. I miss the days when I could just burst into a room and shout whatever I needed."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You mean last week?"
He paused. "...Okay, yes. But metaphorically, I meant a bygone era. One where there were fewer protocols and significantly more chaos."
She snorted. "You thrive on chaos."
"Not when it might give Remus a coronary in the middle of third-year DADA."
"If you don't want to freak Harry out, then definitely don't send it during third-year DADA."
He made a face. "Ugh, fine. Quill and parchment it is. But just for the record, your caution is stifling my creative genius."
Hermione smiled faintly. "And your creative genius has been known to stifle the occasional fire suppression charm."
"That was one time."
"You're lucky you're handsome."
Sirius beamed. "Now that's the spirit."
Hermione reached for the small writing kit she kept in her overnight bag. "Short, calm, and without any implication that I'm dying."
Sirius raised a brow. "So… 'Dear Remus, not dead, just under observation, will explain later, bring biscuits'?"
Hermione shot him a look, already scribbling. "Something like that."
He grinned and leaned back again. "You know, for someone who doesn't let me send dramatic magical messengers, you really do keep me around for the charm."
"Your charm and your contraband bakery access," she said sweetly.
"I knew it," Sirius muttered. "Used for croissants. Tragic, really."
And as the tea cooled slightly and the mediwitch arrived to collect the note, Sirius's hand found Hermione's beneath the blanket with quiet familiarity, their fingers curling together like they'd done it a hundred times before. No pretence. No hesitation. Just warmth, and the quiet kind of comfort that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
The teacup in Hermione's hand had barely cooled before Sirius swore so violently the Self-Stirring Spoon in the sugar jar dropped dead on the spot.
"Well, at least she's diversifying her publication portfolio," he muttered, tossing the still-crackling copy of Witch Weekly that was fresh off the press that Tuesday morning onto the end of Hermione's hospital bed.
The headline was pure venom dressed in glossy ink:
"THE LADY DOTH DIAGNOSE TOO MUCH? – IS IONE LUPIN FAKING IT FOR THE BLACK HEIR?" by Rita Skeeter, Investigative Columnist Extraordinaire
The article was as insufferable as ever, though written in that annoyingly twee, bite-sized format Witch Weekly favoured: little bullet points of half-truths and innuendo. Hermione read aloud in a flat voice:
"Sources from within St Mungo's suggest Miss Lupin has been seen entering and exiting the hospital with concerning regularity. Could this be a real illness? Or is this the next phase in a desperate campaign to secure her grip on Lord Sirius Black? With one source whispering that he hasn't left her side in days, questions must be asked—just how far will Ione Lupin go to win the pureblood prize of the decade?"
Hermione's nostrils flared. "Sources," she snapped. "We've been coming in through the staff Floo. The visitor logs are warded. No photos. No headlines. So unless one of the mediwitches is talking—or one of the Healers—"
She trailed off.
Sirius was halfway through an eye roll. "Oh great, here comes the 'I'll start interrogating every mediwitch from here to the janitorial staff' spiral. Breathe, darling."
"No," she said slowly. "No, something's wrong."
Her eyes had gone to the window.
There, just barely perched on the sill like it was minding its own very shiny business, was a bright green beetle with suspiciously rectangular markings on its wing cases.
Hermione sat bolt upright. Her heart rate monitor spiked with a sudden flare of activity.
Sirius jolted. "What—Ione—?"
"Shh."
She pointed her wand with precision born of pure spite. "Stupefy!"
A light thud.
"Vasculum!" A jar popped into existence in her hand, and with a single flick, she levitated the beetle inside and slammed the lid shut. Then, just for good measure, she cast a heavy unbreakable and privacy charms over it.
"Gotcha," she muttered, triumphant.
That was, of course, the exact moment the monitoring charm above her bed began to flash.
A mediwitch burst into the room. "Miss Lupin? Are you alright? Your heart rate just—"
"I'm perfectly fine," Hermione said, not looking up. "I just caught a bug."
The mediwitch blinked. "I… what?"
Hermione held up the jar, not even trying to hide her glee. "Literally. A bug."
The mediwitch stepped closer and visibly blanched. "This is a sanitised ward. No insects should be in here! That's an infection risk!"
Hermione tilted the jar thoughtfully. "Yes. So you can imagine how interesting it is that one made it in, and happened to perch on my window, and happened to have markings identical to an Animagus we know."
Sirius, grinning like Christmas had come early, said, "You don't think—?"
"Oh, I know," Hermione said. "Would you get Ted? Now, please?"
The mediwitch hesitated. "Miss Lupin, you're not supposed to have more than one visitor—"
"I'll cast the Bubble-Head Charm," Hermione cut in crisply. "And we'll disinfect the room afterwards. This is a legal matter now."
The mediwitch looked from the feverish patient holding a magical jar like a trophy to the man already pulling a pocket mirror from his coat to call a lawyer.
"I… I'll get the supervisor," she said faintly.
"Excellent," Hermione said, settling the jar on her bedside table like it was a centrepiece. "And do let her know we'd like to keep this one alive. For questioning."
Sirius leaned close, eyes dancing. "You're a menace. And I love you."
Hermione smiled sweetly. "I'm an immuno-compromised menace. But yes, thank you."
Ted Tonks arrived in his usual state of mild professional confusion—creased jacket, wand tucked behind one ear, and a folder in hand from some unrelated case he'd clearly been working on when summoned. His eyes swept the room, clocked Sirius's expression (too casual to be casual), and then flicked to Hermione, propped up in bed with flushed cheeks, a blanket to her chin, and a very smugly sealed jar on her tray table.
"I feel like I missed a memo," Ted said. "Possibly several."
Hermione offered a wan smile. "Sorry. We should have called yesterday, but things got a bit… feverish."
"You're in the immune-compromised ward," Ted said, his brow furrowing. "What the hell happened? You've been in and out of St Mungo's, and no one thought to loop in the solicitor? That's usually my cue to start shouting."
Sirius looked mildly sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. "It all escalated quickly. She spiked a temp, and I may have accidentally—sort of—brought it in from Hogwarts. Forgot the decontamination charm."
Ted's mouth opened. Then shut. He made a noise halfway between a sigh and a laugh. "You are biologically incapable of doing anything halfway, Black."
"I've heard that before," Sirius said with a smirk.
"Anyway," Hermione interrupted firmly before this spiralled into a round of Sirius Black: Chaos Magnet, "have you seen today's Witch Weekly?"
Ted blinked. "Not a publication I regularly indulge in, no. Why?"
Hermione held up the offending issue from the bedside table, the headline blazing in pink-foiled shame: The Lady Doth Diagnose Too Much?
"She's publishing again," Hermione said, "circumventing the Prophet's cease and desist by moving to a different platform. Still defamatory, still libellous. But that's not even the worst part." She gestured to the jar like it was evidence on a courtroom plinth. "This is how she's getting her information."
Ted leaned closer, adjusting his spectacles to peer inside. The bright green beetle buzzed irritably against the glass, the rectangular markings on its wing cases faintly pulsing under the charm.
Ted looked from the bug to Hermione. "You're telling me… this is Rita Skeeter?"
"Yup," Sirius said cheerfully. "Caught her lurking on the windowsill like a budget Death Eater with a journalism degree."
Ted slowly straightened, one brow raised to dangerous heights. "So… she's an unregistered Animagus. Spying on a private medical room. In an isolation ward. During an active court case regarding defamation and invasion of privacy."
"Exactly," Hermione said. "I knew you'd appreciate the trifecta."
Ted turned to Sirius. "How many illegal Animagi are there, exactly? And how is it that you're somehow always in the bloody centre of these things?"
Sirius lifted his hands, entirely unrepentant. "To be fair, you could argue it's Ione who's the common denominator lately."
Hermione gave him a flat look. "You're not wrong. But also—shut up."
Ted turned his very best lawyer-glare on her. "Is there something you want to tell me, Ione?"
"Well—"
"Actually, don't tell me. Plausible deniability. I'm just going to leave an Animagus registration form right here," he added, pulling one out of his folder and dropping it neatly on the side table. "Let me know if anything needs filing."
Sirius eyed it. "Do you carry copies of every Ministry form in there?"
"No, it's charmed to summon them from my office cabinet. Technically, I'm just opening a portal to organised bureaucracy."
Hermione brightened. "Oh, that's clever! I've just been using Undetectable Extension Charms."
Ted's head snapped around. "Ione, those are illegal in Britain."
She waved a hand. "I didn't cast them after moving here, so…"
Ted made a strangled noise. "Never mind."
Ted then tapped the jar with his wand and cast a series of layered detection charms. His expression tightened as the Animagus identification spell sparked green.
"Well, Miss Skeeter," he muttered, more to the insect than anyone else, "you've just handed us a silver-plated legal gift wrapped in self-incrimination."
"She's still under a strong privacy charm," Hermione added. "She can't hear anything. Or escape."
"Good," Ted said, already pulling parchment and a self-inking quill from his folder. "I'm filing for a full investigation and submitting this as magical surveillance in breach of Section 73B of the Animagus Registry Act. She's going to wish she'd stayed a freelance beetle blogger."
Sirius smirked. "You're having fun, aren't you?"
Ted didn't even pretend to deny it. "Oh, immensely."
"I want her barred from print before the end of the week," Hermione said, voice steely now. "If she tries to twist this into another headline, I swear to Merlin I'll hex her antennae off."
"We'll start with an injunction," Ted said briskly. "But if you give me a sworn statement about how long you've suspected this, plus details on how you captured her, we can bring it to the Wizengamot with a stronger case than last time. This isn't just libel anymore—it's magical espionage."
"Can we keep her like a trophy in Grimmauld?" Sirius asked.
"No," Hermione and Ted simultaneously.
Ted conjured a separate containment box and floated the jar inside. "Alright. You, Miss Lupin, get back under the covers. You're still technically running a fever."
Hermione tilted her head. "Just so I'm clear—do I get a medal or a warning for catching her?"
Ted gave her a dry look. "Depends if you mount her in a shadow box."
"Don't tempt her," Sirius muttered.
"I'll charm her wings to spell 'RETRACTION' mid-flight," Hermione said crisply.
Ted chuckled, heading for the door. "File that under Plan B. Let's try public disgrace first."