In the end, Hermione was discharged from St Mungo's the next day.
The fever ran its course quietly—almost apologetically, as if it had realised it had picked the wrong target. No other symptoms developed, no test results flagged anything new, and the potion regimen did its job with clinical efficiency. The mediwitches called it a "nuisance bug," the Healers offered cautious optimism, and Hermione walked out of St Mungo's with instructions to rest, hydrate, and an admonition not to overdo it, and the assurance that whatever it had been, it seemed to be gone.
They never did find out what the mystery fever was. And that, in its own quiet way, was worse than a diagnosis.
But Grimmauld Place welcomed her back like a protective old dog curling around its family. The bed felt better. The tea tasted stronger. The research nook looked like possibility again. For two blessed weeks, things were steady. Hermione followed her potion schedule religiously. Her numbers stayed level. She dove back into her research on the Horcrux in Harry's scar, transcribing runes and pulling apart ancient curse structures with the kind of focused determination Sirius privately referred to as "terrifyingly attractive."
Afternoons passed in a mix of rest, quiet walks through the garden, and the occasional argument over which records Sirius was and wasn't allowed to play while she was reading. (She drew the line at The Clash at full volume while annotating necromantic feedback loops. He did it anyway. Twice.)
It was, for lack of a better word, good.
Which was exactly why Sirius nearly choked on his tea when she made her suggestion.
They were in the library—Hermione in her usual seat, parchment spread around her in concentric rings of scribbled thought, and Sirius just back from his Friday afternoon session with Healer Thalassa, looking a bit windblown and disgruntled in a "my mind has been lightly eviscerated for my own good" sort of way.
"So," Hermione said, without preamble, "I was thinking—we could go up to Hogsmeade tomorrow."
Sirius blinked. "We could… what ?"
"Hogsmeade," she said brightly, like she was asking him to join her for a casual walk through the local park and not suggesting a public outing amongst rowdy teenagers just weeks after a hospital discharge. "It's a Hogsmeade weekend, isn't it? You said so. And the full moon's tomorrow night, so you're planning to head there and stay with Remus anyway."
He lowered his tea, slow and deliberate. "You want to go to Hogsmeade."
"Briefly," she amended. "See the kids, say hi, maybe visit the Three Broomsticks, buy them a couple of butterbeers. I miss it. I miss the world. I'd like to feel the sun again."
Sirius looked personally betrayed by the concept of sunlight. "Hermione. You just got better."
"That was two weeks ago," she said reasonably. "I've been cleared this morning, all my numbers look good. I've been following all the Healer's orders. You even made me nap for three consecutive days last week like a very irritable cat. I am officially fine ."
"You had a fever from nowhere," he reminded her, shedding his cloak with more aggression than necessary. "We never found out what it was. No source, no spell residue, no clear pathogen. It could happen again."
"And it could not," she countered, folding her arms. "It's Hogsmeade, Sirius. Not a troll-infested dungeon. I have the upgraded Bubble-Head Charm. It's practically invisible. I'll wear it the whole time, cast disinfection charms on myself when I get home. I won't touch anything. I won't eat anything. I'll be the most paranoid, medically boring person in the entire village."
Sirius ran a hand through his hair. "You've been out of the hospital for two weeks."
"I've been in this house for five, minus two overnight stints with my favourite mediwitches and a brief but humiliating fever. I need out. Just for a few hours."
He hesitated.
"And before you ask," she added, "no, the Pensieve sessions aren't helping. Not really. They're like treating claustrophobia with a really vivid dream about open windows. I need air, Sirius. Real air. Real people. Preferably, some students complaining about essay deadlines while eating chocolate frogs too fast."
He looked at her—really looked—and saw the things her posture and stubbornness were hiding. The tension in her jaw. The quiet twitch of her fingers against the spine of her book. The way she hadn't quite been able to sit still since she woke up this morning.
Sirius's jaw worked, like he was trying to chew the argument and couldn't quite swallow it. "Things just got good again," he said, voice low. "I just started sleeping without checking on you three times a night. You got better, and I didn't even realise how scared I was until I wasn't anymore. And now you want to tempt fate for a walkabout?"
"I want to feel normal," Hermione said, more gently now. "For just a day. Just a few hours. Let me remember that I'm still living."
That landed. Sirius's eyes flickered with something raw, and he looked down at his hands.
"I get it," he said eventually. "I do."
"I won't push it," she promised. "If I get tired, we go home. If I so much as sneeze, we activate the retreat protocol. But I need this."
He stared at the edge of her notes for a long time, then looked back up and gave her a reluctant, crooked smile.
"You're impossible to argue with."
"Not true," she said, standing and stretching with a wince. "You just need better counterpoints."
He laughed, despite himself, then walked over and wrapped his arms around her, tucking his chin into her shoulder.
"You're not allowed to collapse dramatically in public, alright? I don't have the dramatic instincts to stage a rescue that won't end in a duel or an arrest."
"Deal," Hermione murmured into his shoulder. "But you have to promise not to panic every time someone sneezes near me. That's what the Bubble-Head is for."
"I'll try," he said, kissing the top of her head.
She grinned. "Compromise accepted."
He wrapped his arm around her and let her settle there, warm and whole and impossible. Tomorrow would come with its own set of worries. But for now, he could be proud of the fact that the person he loved was still fighting—still living—on her own terms.
Even if it scared the hell out of him.
They hadn't even made it past Scrivenshaft's when Sirius suddenly stiffened.
Hermione—Ione, she reminded herself, tugging her cloak tighter—followed his gaze up High Street, just in time to see three familiar silhouettes barreling toward them.
"Brace yourself," Sirius murmured, grinning faintly.
Harry reached them first, skidding to a halt and throwing his arms around Sirius with a force that nearly knocked him back a step. Sirius chuckled and hugged him tightly in return, one hand ruffling the back of Harry's perpetually windswept hair.
And Ione felt it then, a tight little ache behind her ribs. Harry had never been very tactile at that age—not with her, not with anyone really. But here he was, throwing himself into a hug like it had never occurred to him not to.
Then he turned to her.
"Ione—"
Sirius moved instinctively, a hand halfway up as if to intervene. "Wait, maybe not—"
"It's alright," Ione said gently. "I've got the Bubble-Head on. And I'll disinfect later."
And before Sirius could argue, she pulled Harry into a hug.
He was warm. Real. A little taller than she remembered, still a bit bony through the shoulders. And he hugged her back. Not just politely, but with real concern.
"Bubble-Head?" Harry pulled back just enough to look at her. "What's going on?"
Before anyone could answer, young Hermione piped up from behind him, eyes wide with interest.
"You can hardly see it," she said, stepping closer. "How do you do that?"
Ione blinked. Then smiled. "Spellcrafting and modification. It's mostly rooted in the disciplines of Ancient Runes and Arithmancy."
That lit Hermione's face up like a Lumos. "Really?"
"Absolutely. All spells can be broken down into a matrix of runes that represent the intent behind the effect. From there, you apply Arithmantic principles—layering, reducing, refining—until you can distil that complex matrix into a single wand movement and incantation. Or in this case," she gestured to the near-invisible shimmer around her face, "a charm modification layered on top of an existing structure."
Hermione looked like she might start vibrating with joy. "Do you have any books on that? Ones you'd recommend?"
"I do," Ione said, clearly charmed. "I'll write you a list."
Sirius rolled his eyes with mock exasperation. "What, no warning to not experiment without supervision?"
Ione gave him a flat look. "Have you met her? Does she look like the kind of person who'd experiment with dangerous spellcraft before triple-checking every variable?"
"I won't," Hermione said quickly. "I promise. I just want to understand it."
"Why do you need the Bubble-Head Charm, though?" she added, quieter now.
There was a beat.
Ione and Sirius exchanged a look. The silent kind they'd gotten very good at lately—one that weighed what was safe, what was too much, and what could no longer be avoided.
"I have a condition," Ione said at last. "My bone marrow doesn't work the way it should. So I have fewer healthy blood cells than I'm supposed to."
Hermione's brows furrowed. "So you're immunocompromised, right?"
Ione didn't even blink. "Yes."
"I've read about that. It usually means you'll need a bone marrow transplant eventually."
For a second, Ione didn't know what to say. Her mouth opened—and stayed open just long enough to show she wasn't sure if she was surprised or deeply impressed.
"Uh—yes," she said. "Yes, it does."
"Have they found a donor yet?"
"No," Ione said softly. "Not yet."
"What does that mean? For you, I mean?" Harry cut in, eyes sharp now. The cheerful flush from their hug had faded, replaced by something tight and worried. Ron, standing a step behind them, looked deeply uncomfortable, as though he wanted to be supportive but wasn't sure which part of this conversation he was qualified for.
"It means," Ione said, folding her arms in front of her without thinking, "that I'm on a regular schedule of blood replenisher potions at the moment. That I have to be careful—not get sick, not get hurt, not overexert myself."
Hermione's expression had shifted from awe to concern in record time. "That sounds… awful."
"It's manageable," Ione said, trying for steady. "It's not a death sentence. It's just… something I live with. And I'm lucky. I have people who take care of me. And Healers who are working on a solution."
Harry frowned. "And the Bubble-Head? That's so you don't catch anything?"
"Yes. It filters the air. It's subtle, and it lets me be out in the world—like today—without risking exposure."
"That's why you fainted all those weeks ago?" Ron asked.
"Yes."
Harry looked down, shoulders tense. "You should've told me. That something was wrong."
Ione smiled softly. "You're not responsible for me, Harry. You've got your own battles."
"I still care," he said. "We all do."
She touched his arm. "And I'm grateful for that."
Sirius, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for a few moments, finally stepped back in. "Alright. Enough brooding. We're supposed to be out enjoying the fresh air, not staging a Healer's Office melodrama on High Street."
"I like a good melodrama," Ron muttered.
"You are a good melodrama," Sirius said cheerfully. "Now, are we going to the Three Broomsticks or are we standing around spilling emotional tea instead of the drinkable kind?"
Ione laughed—and the tension cracked, just enough to let the sun peek through again.
The Three Broomsticks was its usual Saturday chaos—packed tables, steaming mugs, and Madam Rosmerta somehow gliding through it all like she ran the place on charm and well-placed threats alone.
They managed to snag a table in the corner near the window, thanks to Sirius charming a couple of older students into believing there was a fire-breathing doxy infestation by the fireplace. Butterbeer flowed freely—Rosmerta brought it herself with a wink—and soon, conversation flowed with it.
All except Ione.
She sat at the edge of the table, hands wrapped neatly around a warm (but untouched) mug, the barely visible shimmer of the Bubble-Head Charm haloing her face like a glass-thin mask.
"You're not drinking anything," Harry said suddenly, blinking at her over his frothy glass. "Aren't you freezing?"
"I am, actually," Ione said cheerfully. "But if I drank anything, I'd have to dispel the charm. Which would kind of defeat the whole point of wearing it."
Harry winced. "Right. That makes sense."
"Very boring," Ione added. "But very effective."
Sirius nudged her with his elbow. "She's suffering for safety. It's quite noble."
"I am always noble," Ione deadpanned.
The conversation pivoted, as it often did in Gryffindor circles, toward Quidditch.
"Did Sirius tell you I play Seeker?" Harry asked, a little shy but clearly proud.
Ione smiled. "He did. Multiple times. Very enthusiastically. From the sound of it, you're a natural."
Harry beamed. "First match is next Saturday."
He turned to Sirius, then back to Ione. "Would you both come and watch? If you're up to it, I mean."
Sirius answered immediately, "Wouldn't miss it."
Ione hesitated, then smiled regretfully. "It depends on how I'm feeling that day, and—well—probably not. Sorry, Harry."
Harry blinked, then rallied quickly. "That's okay! You'll still be rooting for us, right?"
"Of course," she said. "Though I hope you don't mind me spoiling the surprise and telling you it's going to rain like mad."
Ron looked up from his butterbeer. "How do you know that?"
"Weather-prediction charms," Ione replied quickly. "Old habit. Sirius's window leaks if I don't prepare."
"Also, the Muggle forecast said the same thing," she added, thankful she'd read the cover of the Daily Mail that morning just in case.
"I found a charm that might help with that," Hermione said, sitting forward with a spark in her eye. "Impervius—it makes things repel water. If Harry uses it on his glasses, he should still be able to see."
"Excellent idea," Ione said, her voice warm with approval. "Very practical. Good instincts."
Hermione lit up, as though someone had complimented her soul.
"Who's the match against?" Ione asked, casually, stirring her untouched drink with a spoon she had no intention of actually using.
"Slytherin," Harry replied, his grin turning slightly feral. "Going to wipe the pitch with them."
Ione blinked. Slytherin? That wasn't how it went in her timeline. Malfoy had milked his Hippogriff drama for weeks and forced the schedule to swap so they played Hufflepuff first. This must have happened later—or not at all, yet.
She forced herself to smile, masking the flicker of alarm. "Good to know. At least there won't be any Dementors. I imagine they would have posted a couple if Sirius hadn't been cleared."
That got a round of eye-rolls and snorts.
"Have you had any fun creatures in Care of Magical Creatures yet?" she asked, nudging the conversation gently.
Ron groaned. "If flobberworms count."
"Or Puffskeins," Harry added. "I mean, they're fine, but a bit boring."
"Hagrid said he's planning to bring a Hippogriff next week, though," Hermione chimed in. "Said we earned a treat."
Ione's fingers tightened on her mug just a little. "Ah," she said lightly. "Well… just make sure no one insults it. That would end badly."
Harry snorted into his butterbeer. "You mean badly, like when Malfoy was mouthing off two days ago about how you're faking your illness to get Sirius's attention—on top of spiking his pumpkin juice?"
Ione blinked. "He what?"
"Hermione punched him in the face," Ron said gleefully. "It was wicked!"
"Honestly, Ronald," Hermione huffed, "I did not punch him. I slapped him."
"You what?" Ione and Sirius said in unison, though Sirius sounded impressed while Ione sounded appalled.
Hermione shrugged, trying for innocent. "He made some… unsavoury insinuations. About you. And Sirius. And your 'mysterious medical conditions.' I warned him once."
"He didn't listen," Ron added, grinning. "Which was stupid."
Sirius looked like Christmas had come early. "Merlin, I wish I'd seen that."
"He staggered back into the fountain," Harry added helpfully. "One of the cherubs hit him in the back of the head with a fish."
Ione covered her mouth, but her eyes danced. "Please tell me that's true."
"Swear on all the chocolate in Honeydukes," Harry said solemnly.
Ione looked over at Hermione, her voice soft with something more than gratitude. "Thank you," she said simply.
Hermione shrugged again, but her ears were pink. "It felt… appropriate."
"Did you get in trouble?" Ione asked, tilting her head.
"There were no teachers around, and I'm pretty sure Malfoy felt too mortified to report it," Hermione said with perfect calm.
"You're terrifying," Sirius said proudly. "Ten points to Gryffindor."
"Technically," Ron said, "we were in Hogsmeade. So no points. But moral victory."
"And a soaked Slytherin," Harry added.
They clinked butterbeers for that one—even Ione, who only lifted hers symbolically.
And for a moment, the Bubble-Head Charm didn't matter. The timeline differences didn't matter. The ache in Ione's bones or the weight of secrets or the future that hadn't quite unravelled yet—none of it mattered.
Just friends. Butterbeer. And the comfortable hum of life going on, right here, right now.
Lunch was approaching, the midday sun casting shifting shadows across the cobbled street, when Ione rose from her seat and reached for her satchel.
"I think I'm going to head home," she said, smoothing her cloak. "It's been lovely, but I can feel myself running low."
Sirius stood too, brushing crumbs off his coat. "You lot heading back to the castle, or staying for a bit?" he asked the trio.
"Dunno," Ron said. "Might pop into Honeydukes first."
"Could grab some sugar quills," Harry added.
Sirius nodded. "Alright. I'm heading that way myself—I need to check in on Remus before the weekend's out."
At that, Ione paused and reached into her satchel. "Wait—here," she said, producing a small container wrapped in cloth. "Joint balm. For after. It's steeped long enough to be useful now."
Sirius took it with a murmured thanks and tucked it carefully into his coat pocket.
Hermione, seated still, watched this with her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed not in suspicion but in consideration. She was doing the mental arithmetic—equation, context, conclusion.
Sirius ruffled Harry's hair and clapped Ron on the back. "Don't get into too much trouble. And if you do, at least make it interesting."
They laughed and turned toward the door.
"Go on ahead. I'll catch up," Hermione said suddenly to the boys, standing and slipping her bag over her shoulder.
Ione gave her a mild look. "You don't need to—"
"I want to," Hermione said simply.
They stepped outside together, the street still bustling with students and shoppers. Ione cast a quick Bubble-Head refresh just in case, more out of habit than need. The moment they were out of earshot of the boys, Hermione glanced sideways.
Hermione hesitated for a beat before speaking. "Can I ask you something?"
Ione gave a faint smile. "That depends on whether you want an honest answer."
Hermione stopped walking, her expression more serious now. "Don't get me wrong—I didn't want to bring it up in front of Harry. I didn't want to worry him. But—" she took a breath, "—you're sick. And not just potions-and-rest sick."
Ione met her gaze calmly.
"If you don't find a donor," Hermione went on, "will you… will it kill you?"
The question wasn't panicked or melodramatic. Just steady. Quiet. A puzzle piece that needed to click into place.
"It's not that simple," Ione said carefully. "But… eventually, yes. If my condition progresses and I don't get a transplant, it could be life-threatening. But I'm stable now. I have time. We're trying every option."
Hermione didn't look away. "And you're being honest with me?"
"I am," Ione said. "You don't need to worry."
"But I do," Hermione said. "Because you matter. To Harry. And I know it's not my place, and I probably don't know the full picture, but—just…" She stopped herself, clearly wrestling with the impulse to offer help she didn't know how to give.
Ione's expression softened. "I know exactly what you're feeling. I used to feel the same way."
Hermione blinked. "Used to?"
"I still do," Ione admitted, "but I've learned not every answer comes from a book, or a plan. Sometimes, it's just one day at a time."
A pause stretched between them until Hermione nodded slowly. "Just promise you'll take care of yourself. Properly."
"I promise."
Hermione looked at her a beat longer, as if committing something to memory. Then she gave a small nod, turned on her heel, and walked briskly back toward the castle.
Ione watched her go, a pang rising quietly in her chest. The future, after all, had never been a stranger to clever girls who asked difficult questions.
And Hermione Granger was as clever—and as kind—as they came.
When Ione arrived home to Grimmauld Place, the house greeted her with its usual groaning creaks and the comforting scent of polished wood, old books, and just a trace of Doxycide. She peeled off her cloak, set her satchel on the entryway bench, and was about to head upstairs when there was a distinct pop.
"Miss Ione!" Dobby appeared, bouncing from foot to foot, eyes wide and ears twitching like satellite dishes. "Dobby is having a report!"
That got her attention. She straightened, already shifting into that half-alert stance she used whenever information threatened to be urgent, dangerous, or both. "What kind of report?"
"On the one you told Dobby to watch," Dobby said, lowering his voice with the solemnity of a house-elf who took espionage very seriously. "Professor Dumbledore, ma'am. He is going to strange places."
Ione's stomach turned over once.
"What places?"
"A shack in the middle of nowhere. Near a Muggle village. And then—a cave," Dobby said, eyes even wider now. "A bad cave. On the edge of a cliff. With the sea all around. Dobby did not like it."
Ione froze.
Of course he did. Of course, he would. Dumbledore wasn't just waiting for answers—he was out there looking. Putting the pieces together. Following the trail he had once laid for Harry—the one they had muddled through with pain and fire.
He was hunting Horcruxes.
Except… he was doing it late. Too late. Because they were already gone.
The shack in question could only be the Gaunt hovel—hidden deep in the woods near Little Hangleton, crumbling into ruin. Voldemort had hidden the ring there once. She, Remus and Sirius had destroyed the cursed thing months ago.
And the cave—that cave—cold, wet, and filled with death. She knew the shape of that place almost as if she'd walked it herself, thanks to Harry's account. The locket had been taken ages ago. Regulus's ghost hung heavier in that place than any Inferi ever had.
He was chasing ghosts.
"How did he get out of the cave?" she muttered aloud before she could stop herself. "You need someone else to drink the potion. It's not—he couldn't have—"
But Dobby just blinked. "Dobby does not know. Dobby only knows he went inside. He was not harmed, but he looked tired after. Very tired."
Ione pressed her fingers to her temple. Of course, he was tired. It didn't matter that the Horcrux was gone—he went through the whole process because he didn't know. She wondered how he managed to fight off the Inferi in that compromised state.
"And he didn't mention anything?" she asked. "No objects? No conversations with anyone?"
"Nothing," Dobby said. "He just said… 'Not here either.' And then he went quiet."
Her pulse thudded behind her eyes. So he was realising it. Piece by piece. That someone had gotten there before him.
"Thank you, Dobby," she said quietly. "You did perfectly."
Dobby beamed, bounced once, then disappeared with another sharp pop.
Ione stood in the stillness of the entry hall for a long moment, listening to the house breathe around her, heart pounding with the weight of another revelation dropped into her lap.
She had bought them time. But time, as always, was a finite resource.
And Albus Dumbledore had just started asking the right questions.
Too bad she wasn't ready to give him the answers.
