Sirius headed straight to Remus's office when he arrived at Hogwarts, bypassing any pretence of formalities. The door was ajar, and sure enough, Remus was at his desk, hunched over a stack of essays, ink smudged on the side of his hand.

He looked absolutely knackered—drawn, pale, already halfway into the full moon fog. And yet, six hours before moonrise, he was still slaving away under the dim light of a desk lamp.

Sirius cleared his throat as he stepped inside. "I'm pretty sure those essays will still be here tomorrow."

Remus didn't look up. "Better now than tomorrow, when I'll be not just tired, but sore as hell too."

"Well, lucky you," Sirius said, raising a small jar. "I was officially tasked with the delivery of this."

Remus glanced over, then straightened slightly in recognition. "Is that what Ione used on me at the end of August?"

"The very same," Sirius confirmed. "She was properly distraught she forgot to make more last month."

Remus set his quill down, rubbing at his temples. "I mean—wasn't that right before she was diagnosed? I'm pretty sure she didn't even know which planet she was on for half of September."

"That's exactly what I said!" Sirius dropped into the armchair across from him. "She still insists she should've remembered. You know how she is."

"I should be the one apologising," Remus said quietly. "I still haven't given her an answer. About the donor thing."

"Don't sweat it." Sirius shook his head. "She looked into it more. Even if you got tested, they wouldn't use it."

Remus frowned. "Because of—?"

"Yeah. The lycanthropy. Even though it's not transmissible that way, they won't take the risk."

"Oh." Remus leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. "Right. So what now?"

Sirius exhaled. "We don't know. They keep testing volunteers. No matches yet. But—she's stable."

Remus nodded slowly. "Good. That's good."

There was a beat of quiet—just the soft scratching of a quill from somewhere down the corridor, and the distant creak of castle stone settling.

"She'll be alright," Sirius said finally, just as much to convince himself as to convince Remus. "She's stubborn as hell."

Remus gave him a tired, crooked smile. "Takes one to know one."

"Alright!" Sirius clapped his hands together with theatrical flair, the sharp sound echoing through the office like a starting pistol.

Remus winced, fingers pressing to his temple. "Must you?"

"Yes," Sirius said, utterly unrepentant. "Enough of this academic self-flagellation. The munchkins can wait another two days for their essays. You, my dear Moony, are getting tea and an immersion into the delightfully unhinged mind of Dr Hannibal Lecter tonight."

Remus gave him a long, pained look. "Seriously? Silence of the Lambs?"

Sirius grinned. "Don't tell me you've actually read it."

"Not just read it," Remus muttered. "I saw the movie."

"Dammit," Sirius groaned. "Ruined my whole plan. Good thing I brought backup."

He reached into his coat and triumphantly produced a battered paperback with a lurid cover.

"The Howling. Gary Brandner. I know we read the first one ages ago, but apparently, there are sequels now."

Remus stared at the book like it had personally insulted his intelligence. "Kill me now."

Sirius flopped into the opposite armchair with exaggerated ease. "Not before chapter three. That's when the werewolf sex cult shows up, if I recall correctly."

Remus groaned. "Merlin help me."

"No, no," Sirius said, kicking his boots up onto the edge of the desk. "Tonight, you're not a professor, or a tortured soul, or a ticking lunar time bomb. You're just my oldest friend, and we're going to drink absurd amounts of tea, maybe eat something wildly inappropriate for dinner, and read terrible pulp horror novels until the full moon stops looming."

Remus's shoulders slumped—but something like amusement flickered in his eyes. "Fine. But I'm picking the biscuits."

Sirius beamed. "Deal. And I'm stealing the good blanket from the sofa."

"Only if you stop talking like you're narrating a dramatic stage play."

"Impossible. I was born for drama."

"Gods help me."

"Already tried. They bounced me back."


A couple of hours later, the door to Remus's office opened without preamble, as if courtesy had simply retired for the evening.

Snape stepped in.

He took one look at the room—Remus huddled under a blanket with a cup of tea in his hand, Sirius sprawled in the chair opposite, book in his hand, boots on the desk like he owned the place—and exhaled sharply through his nose. Not a sigh. Just that specific sound of long-suffering tolerance made by someone who regretted every life choice that led them here.

Without a word of greeting, he strode across the room and placed a stoppered flask on the desk. "Last dose. Drink it while it's still warm."

Remus reached for it with a weary hand. "Thanks."

Snape turned just enough to glance at Sirius, and though he didn't speak, the arch of his brow managed to say, Why are you here? Again?—with the eloquence of a Howler on its third whiskey.

Sirius smiled lazily. "Nice to see you too, Snape."

"No one's forcing you to linger," Snape replied, dry as ash. "Unless you're auditioning for the role of doting familiar."

Sirius crossed his ankles atop the desk. "I've been told I make a very sexy guard dog, yes."

Remus, without looking up from his teacup, muttered, "I'm regretting your presence already."

"Only now?" Snape said silkily.

Remus sighed. "Is there a reason you're still standing here, Severus?"

"Only that someone in this increasingly ad hoc operation ought to be concerned with the actual problem," Snape said, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. "Now that you've succeeded in sending the Headmaster into early retirement."

Sirius's smile thinned. "Is that what we did?"

"I'm not interested in the narrative," Snape said. "Only the vacuum it leaves behind. You may think you've taken control of the situation, but it doesn't mean the rest of us share your... optimism."

Remus folded his arms, the flask untouched. "Dumbledore isn't gone. Just sidelined."

Snape gave a faint tilt of his head. "Sidelined. Yes. With no authority, no oversight, and no clear successor. The Ministry is twitchy. The Board is divided. The Dark Lord, for all we know, is watching."

"There's no immediate threat," Sirius said.

Snape's mouth twitched. "Of course. Everything is under control. Except the part where no one knows who is controlling it."

There was a pause.

Then Snape added, offhanded and arch: "I assume this mysterious cousin is still pulling strings?"

Sirius didn't rise to it. "She's helping."

"Mm." Snape's eyes flicked to Remus, then back again. "Forgive me if I remain unconvinced she's Lupin's cousin. The familial resemblance is... not compelling."

"She's not your concern," Remus said evenly.

"She is," Snape said, "if she's making strategic decisions. And you're both following her lead like a pair of enchanted retrievers."

"That's rich coming from Dumbledore's personal lapdog," Sirius muttered.

Snape ignored him. "So. No plan for the boy. No public explanation. And your best hope is a woman with no documented history and an uncanny ability to be exactly where she shouldn't."

"She's not your concern," Remus repeated, quieter now. "And we are doing what needs to be done."

Snape studied them both for a long moment, dark eyes flat. Then he gave a small, sardonic smile.

"Well," he said, "do let me know when the house of cards starts to wobble. I do so enjoy a front-row seat."

And without waiting for a reply, he turned and swept out with the kind of soft-footed menace only years of teaching could perfect.

The door shut with a definitive click.

Sirius let out a breath. "Every time I think he's reached maximum bastard capacity…"

Remus groaned and rubbed at his eyes. "That was the polite version."


Sirius returned to Grimmauld Place midmorning, shedding his cloak as he stepped through the front door with a surprising lack of dramatics, but definitely with an instant decontamination charm. He was not forgetting that. Ever again. His hair was tousled by the wind, his shoulders loose for once.

"We actually slept," he said, sounding faintly surprised. "Not long. But enough. Remus said to thank you for the balm."

He leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching as Ione looked up from the pile of notes she'd been annotating.

"Good," she said softly. "I'm glad."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "And then there's him."

"Snape?" she asked, without looking up.

Sirius huffed, launching into a well-worn tirade like it had been waiting in his chest all morning. "He swept in like the greasy bat he is, dropped off the Wolfsbane like it was poisoned, insulted me six different ways with only two facial expressions, then decided to lecture us on strategy like he's the Minister for Magic and not a miserable dungeon mole with a superiority complex."

To his surprise, Ione just nodded. Calmly. Thoughtfully.

"Well," she said, "he's not wrong."

Sirius blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"There is a vacuum," she said, setting her quill aside. "And we've known that for weeks. Dumbledore is absent. The Ministry is rudderless. Public sentiment is shifting. The Prophet's not trustworthy. Snape may be an insufferable bastard, but he's not an idiot."

Sirius stared at her, half-horrified. "You're agreeing with Snape?"

"I'm agreeing with the point," she corrected. "And I think it's time you took up your seat in the Wizengamot."

He recoiled as if she'd just suggested he grow a second head. "Absolutely not. You want me to sit through sessions with a bunch of robe-draped relics arguing about goblin import taxes and beard-length regulations while I could be here with you?"

"Yes," Ione said simply. "Because I can't go. And we need someone on the inside."

Sirius threw himself into a chair. "I want to spend my time with you, not voting on which colour to emboss Ministry memos in."

"That colour could be the difference between a policy being read or ignored when it comes to Death Eater amnesty applications," she said dryly. "The landscape is shifting. Fast. If they start pushing legislation again—subtle things, restrictions, tracking charms, blood status registries—we won't hear about it from the Prophet until it's already passed. But you could hear it. You could stop it."

Sirius folded his arms, lips pressed into a thin line. "I hate how much sense that makes."

"Good," Ione said. "Then you're already halfway convinced."

He groaned into his hands. "This is not the life I signed up for."

"No," she agreed. "But it's the one we're in."

He was silent for a moment, then muttered, "Don't suppose you've got another outrageous idea to go along with that one?"

She hesitated.

And that made Sirius sit straighter. "Oh, you do. Merlin's beard, what now?"

"I've been thinking about Snape," she said.

"Ugh."

"Sirius—"

"No, no, absolutely not—"

"Just listen," Ione said firmly. "He was never truly on Dumbledore's side. He was on Lily's. He only turned when her safety was threatened. Since then, he's walked a very narrow line between revenge and preservation."

"And you think he's going to do what?" Sirius asked incredulously. "Knit us jumpers and share sensitive intelligence over tea?"

"I think," she said calmly, "that if I can offer him a third path—one that isn't Dumbledore, and isn't Voldemort—he might consider it."

Sirius stared at her like she'd grown antlers.

"You want to recruit Snape."

"Yes."

"You want to tell him—what? That we're building a secret resistance? That we have plans no one else knows about? You want to tell him, the world's most committed grudge-holder, that you're from the future?"

Ione met his gaze evenly. "If I want him to listen—really listen—I need him to believe me. And if I want him to believe me, I have to give him something too compelling to ignore."

Sirius threw up his hands. "Brilliant. Fantastic. And if he tells someone?"

"He won't," she said. "Because I'll make it too dangerous for him not to keep the secret."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're serious."

"I'm always Ione," she replied with a faint smile.

Sirius glared. "That is not how the joke goes."

She shrugged, unapologetic.

He let out a long sigh, raking a hand through his hair. "This is insane."

"Possibly."

"Dangerous."

"Definitely."

He looked at her, gaze sharp. "And you're sure?"

She hesitated—just for a breath. "Not entirely. But I know we can't keep doing this with half the board hidden and all our pawns blindfolded. Removing the Horcruxes is one thing. Finding and defeating Voldemort will be another, and then there's still the aftermath."

Sirius rubbed at his temples. "I'm going to have an ulcer by the time this war ends."

She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his temple. "You'll still be handsome."

He groaned. "Great. I'll be handsome, bald, and probably imprisoned for smuggling ancient prophecy scrolls."

"Don't be dramatic," she said lightly.

"I am dramatic."

She smiled against his hair. "Yes, and I love you for it."

He sighed again. "Fine. You win. But if Snape hexes you, I reserve the right to bite him."

"You're not allowed to maul my maybe-asset, Sirius."

"We'll see."

Sirius sobered a moment later, his smile fading into something quieter. "It's Halloween."

"I know," Ione said, her voice soft. She didn't have to ask why he'd brought it up. Some anniversaries were etched deep enough to speak for themselves.

"Is there anything you want to do?" she asked gently.

He shrugged, eyes flicking toward the fire like it might hold a better answer. "Get sloshed and listen to old records?"

"I think that can be arranged," she said, managing a small smile. "Any preferences?"

"Something loud. And angry. Or maybe Bowie. Depends how many drinks in I get."

"Noted," she said, rising to fetch the wine.

He watched her move, then frowned faintly. "Wait—are you even allowed to drink with your potions?"

She paused, then gave him a wry look over her shoulder. "A single glass of red wine isn't going to ruin me, Sirius."

"You say that now," he muttered.

"I'll pace myself," she promised. "And you can do most of the drinking for both of us. Fair trade."

He snorted. "That's suspiciously responsible."

She handed him a glass. "Someone has to be."

He took it, then glanced at her sidelong. "You sure you want to spend Halloween babysitting a grieving alcoholic?"

"I've spent worse Halloweens," she said, matter-of-fact. "And besides, I was promised Marauder stories. You owe me at least three ridiculous pranks and a sentimental one."

Sirius tilted his head, considering. "Alright. But only if you promise not to judge the part where we reversed gravity in the Great Hall and spent three hours peeling students off the ceiling."

"Only if you promise to explain how."

He raised his glass in salute. "Deal."

They clinked their glasses softly, and somewhere between the quiet clatter of vinyl and the first sip of wine, the weight of the day lifted—just enough for the evening to feel like something else entirely.

Something like healing.


Sending Sirius off on the grand and noble quest of taking up his Wizengamot seat had a number of benefits, Ione thought. Chief among them: it meant he would be out of the house on Monday.

Which was, frankly, perfect.

Because Ione had a mission of her own.

A mission that very much required him not to be lurking around, peeking into rooms, popping up behind her in doorways, or otherwise radiating "affectionate, meddlesome guard dog" energy.

It wasn't that she didn't love him for it. She did.

It was sweet.

It was beautiful.

It was also—between the hospital visits, potions schedules, and Sirius's newfound ability to loiter like a particularly handsome gargoyle—incredibly inconvenient when one was trying to organise a surprise.

Especially a sexy surprise.

Ever since the diagnosis, Sirius had been... careful. Gentle. Loving.

Which, again, wonderful. Really.

Except somewhere between asking her Healers with zero shame whether sex was allowed ("Asking," mind you—in front of a senior mediwitch), and hauling himself into full-time worrier mode, Sirius Black—infamous rake and general menace—hadn't so much as laid a hand on her in that way since.

And now?

Now his birthday was coming up—Wednesday—and damn it, if he wasn't going to be spoiled properly.

Which meant that today, while he was off playing reluctant politician, she was going on a different kind of serious mission:

Buying the raciest, sexiest lingerie she could find.

Something utterly, devastatinglyillegal-looking.

Something that would short-circuit that clever mind of his and remind him that yes, she was still here. Still whole. Still his.

And this time, there would be no discussion.

No careful questions.

No strategic retreats.

This time, she was going to make absolutely sure Sirius Black got the best damn birthday surprise of his very interesting life.


The boutique was aggressively pink.

Not soft, romantic pink—no. This was a hot, weaponised shade of fuchsia that dared you to feel underdressed just by breathing near it. The window display featured a mannequin in something red, strappy, and barely legal in three countries, and the lighting inside was suspiciously flattering.

Ione stepped in quietly, her modified Bubble-Head Charm so seamless that the door chime didn't even flicker as she passed through. The shop assistant behind the till didn't so much as blink. Success.

Now to actually shop, she thought.

How hard could it be?

Fifteen minutes later, she had learned several things.

One: Apparently, her regular bra size meant nothing in this dimension.

Two: There were more styles of knickers than magical wand woods.

And three: If she had to try on one more corset that involved sixteen tiny clasps and something called a "suspender thong harness", she might set fire to the changing room.

She stood in front of the mirror in one of the plush, mood-lit cubicles, trying to wrangle herself into a silky bit of confection that claimed to be a "quarter cup demi bustier"—a lie if ever she'd heard one.

"This is not functional," she muttered to herself, attempting to adjust a strap that seemed determined to migrate into her armpit. "This is engineering by chaos."

She was already flushed—not from exertion or the lingerie, but from the existential challenge of converting her usual, soft cotton knickers and comfort bras into something Sirius Black would take one look at and forget his own name.

A knock on the wall beside the curtain startled her.

"Everything alright in there, love?" came the chipper voice of the assistant. "Need another size?"

"I don't even know what size I need," Ione replied, slightly muffled as she tried not to elbow herself into unconsciousness. "I think I've entered a new plane of measurement. Do these even have cups? Or is this entire line based on guesswork and sorcery?"

"Bit of both, really," the woman said brightly. "Want me to bring you a few options in your usual size to compare?"

"Please. And maybe something I won't need a four-step ritual to remove."

Minutes later, she found herself staring down a different set—still lace, still daring, but with slightly more structure and significantly fewer architectural risks. Black, with delicate silver embroidery that reminded her of runes. Familiar. Elegant. Dangerous in the right light.

"This," she murmured to her reflection, "might actually work."

It took another twenty minutes, three more near-dislocations, and a crash course in suspenders vs garter belts, but eventually, she emerged victorious—with a box tucked discreetly under her arm and a receipt that would have made Sirius joke about prioritising lace over groceries for the month. Which, of course, was utter bollocks—she could've bought the whole boutique chain twice over and Sirius would still have enough left for five motorbikes and a celebratory pub crawl. And then some.

She adjusted the invisible charm at the threshold and stepped back into the chilly air, cheeks pink from effort, but not from embarrassment.

Because now she had it.

The weaponised birthday surprise.

And Sirius Black, whether he knew it yet or not, was absolutely going to enjoy turning thirty-four.

Assuming, of course, his heart—and his self-control—survived the reveal.


Ione slipped through the front door of Grimmauld Place just past midday, her precious box tucked securely under one arm and her wand already in her other hand.

There was no sign of Sirius—good. If he came barging in and caught her with this particular parcel, there would be no hiding her intentions. Subtlety and secrecy, thy name was not Sirius Black.

She darted up the stairs two at a time, muttering a quick Muffliato behind her just in case Kreacher was lurking (unlikely, but one couldn't be too careful).

In her room, she crouched beside her wardrobe, tapped the back panel twice, and revealed a hidden compartment she had carved into the wood with a runic concealment charm last month when Sirius's "I just like to know where you are at all times" phase had been at its peak.

The box slid neatly inside, and with another whispered incantation, the panel sealed again—flush, invisible, tamper-proof.

Ione sat back on her heels, exhaling a satisfied breath.

Just in time, too.

Because not five seconds later, the front door slammed open downstairs with the dramatic energy of a man who had been forced to sit through four hours of political posturing and was ready to wage a one-man war against bureaucracy.

"Kitten?" Sirius's voice rang up the stairs, accompanied by the thud of boots and the jangle of his belt, like he was actively shedding layers as he stomped toward the kitchen. "If I ever agree to another Wizengamot session without a signed hostage negotiation plan, hex me!"

Ione bit her lip against a smile, dusted off her knees, and sauntered casually out of her room like she had spent the morning doing nothing more illicit than reorganising her bookshelves.

"How was your day?" she called sweetly down the hall.

"Appalling. Tragic. An utter assault on the dignity of man and dog alike," Sirius hollered back.

Ione grinned.

Perfect.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, he would have no idea what was about to hit him.

And frankly? She couldn't wait to watch him unravel.


Tuesday morning dawned grey and chill, with Grimmauld Place creaking like an old ship in a storm as the autumn wind rattled the windows.

Sirius was just fastening Ione's cloak at the neck—because apparently he had decided he must fuss today—when the loud, unmistakable flap of wings and a series of irritated screeches announced the arrival of the morning post.

The Prophet practically smacked into the window before Sirius muttered an impatient Alohomora and retrieved the paper with a deft snatch.

"Anything good?" Ione asked as she tucked her gloves on.

Sirius scanned the headline—and immediately let out a low whistle. "Oh, very good."

He held it up for her to see.

Rita Skeeter Arrested: Espionage, Illegal Animagus Activities, and Breach of Public Trust blazed across the front page in bold, scandalised type.

Ione blinked. "Took them long enough."

"Apparently, we caused quite the internal panic," Sirius said, flipping the paper open with a flourish as they started down the stairs.

The article was gratifyingly thorough.

After weeks of whispers and speculation about Skeeter's sudden disappearance, the Prophet finally confirmed that Rita had not been missing, butarrested—quietly, by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

The DMLE had apparently delayed public release of the information while they investigated whether her activities as an unregistered beetle Animagus had compromised national security, diplomatic confidentiality, or, as Sirius read aloud with a smirk, "other matters of grave public concern beyond the publishing of inflammatory gossip columns."

"As it stands," Sirius continued, "Miss Skeeter has been released on bail pending trial, is now mandated to register her Animagus form, wear Animagus Transformation Suppression Cuffs—" (he broke off to grin wickedly) "—and has been barred from releasing articles in any publication until further notice."

"Small mercies," Ione murmured, feeling a rush of satisfaction stronger than any potion.

"And," Sirius added, flicking the paper dramatically, "it says here: Lord Sirius Black and Miss Ione Lupin, both directly affected by Miss Skeeter's activities in recent months, have been unavailable for comment, according to their solicitor Edward Tonks. "

Ione laughed softly. "Good old Ted."

"There's more," Sirius said. "'Mr Tonks urges anyone who suspects their private information was illegally gathered by Miss Skeeter to contact his office, as he is preparing a class action suit against the former journalist.'"

Ione smiled, a real, quiet smile that touched her eyes. "Good. She deserves to sweat."

Sirius tucked the paper under his arm as they reached the front door, holding it open for her. "Well. I was going to suggest we go celebrate with tea and pastries, but—" he cast a meaningful look at the nearly invisible shimmer of her Bubble-Head Charm, "—I suppose a victory dance back home will have to do."

"I could buy you a cupcake and watch you eat it in solidarity," Ione offered, deadpan. "Or you know, we can come back home and eat them like normal people."

He chuckled, shaking his head.

Then, as they stepped into the brisk November morning, Sirius bumped her shoulder gently with his own and added, "You know... not to be selfish, but this is a bloody fantastic early birthday present."

Ione grinned at him sideways. "Just wait until you see the real one."

Sirius's eyebrows rose, pure mischief lighting up his face. "Oh? Is it a declaration of eternal adoration? Or something I have to assemble with dangerous tools?"

"You'll see," she said airily, tugging her cloak tighter against the cold.

"Now I'm terrified and excited," he muttered under his breath, and followed her down the steps into the swirling wind, the Prophet tucked safely between them like a trophy.

Victory, small but sweet.

And Merlin help anyone who tried to come for them next.


Ione's plan for Sirius's birthday was many-layered.

And, like all the best operations, it started with a diversion.

"Happy Birthday," she said brightly Wednesday morning, sliding into the kitchen where Sirius was wrestling with a particularly stubborn tea tin. "Cinema. Tonight. Your choice."

Sirius squinted at her suspiciously over the lid. "Cinema? As in Muggle dark room, giant screen, overpriced snacks?"

"That's the one."

He abandoned the tea tin. "But you can't eat popcorn there. That defeats the whole experience."

"I don't mind," she said, shrugging easily. "Besides, you get to pick the movie."

Sirius perked up at once. "I get full veto power?"

"Full power," she confirmed solemnly, like she was granting him a Ministry post.

He snatched up the local listings leaflet she'd thoughtfully left on the counter and flipped through it at lightning speed. "Let's see—Hocus Pocus is playing..." His eyebrows shot up. "Is that supposed to be a comedy?"

"Technically," Ione said. "Although for us, it'll probably feel like watching a very batshit insane parody of our entire existence."

Sirius snorted. "Could be therapeutic."

She leaned in. "Or it could give you secondhand embarrassment so strong you'll need to be Obliviated."

He considered this like it was a genuine risk.

"Okay. What else?"

"Jurassic Park is still playing," she said. "Dinosaurs. Chaos. That one's fun."

"Dinosaurs?" Sirius said, looking personally delighted by the concept. "Real ones?"

"Well, movie real," Ione said diplomatically. "They brought them to life with special effects."

"Special effects sound suspiciously like magic."

"Suspiciously," she agreed.

He flipped the page. "There's Sleepless in Seattle—wasn't that the one we didn't see last time?"

"When we ended up watching The Fugitive, yes," she said. "You made me sit through two hours of Harrison Ford outrunning American law enforcement."

"Brilliant choice, if I say so myself, despite the fact that Han Solo apparently had grown old," Sirius said smugly. Then he frowned at another listing. "True Romance ... by Quentin Tarantino..."

He said the name like he vaguely recognised it from somewhere, probably because Ione had once explained Tarantino movies generally involved blood, swearing, and deeply questionable decision-making.

"That one," Sirius said, stabbing the leaflet with his finger decisively.

Ione blinked. "Are you sure? Despite the title, it's not a romantic comedy."

He shrugged, already victorious. "Doesn't matter. Sounds brilliant."

"You realise," she tried again, fighting a smile, "this is a Quentin Tarantino film. The odds of it being a nice, relaxing birthday movie are roughly the same as you voluntarily casting ironing charms on your clothes."

Sirius leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, grinning. "Exactly. You said I get full choice. I choose chaos."

Ione laughed. "Chaos it is then."

He waggled his eyebrows. "Also, you owe me popcorn. Symbolically."

"Just because I can't eat popcorn doesn't mean you can't," she pointed out.

Sirius grinned, utterly shameless. "And sweets."

"And sweets," she agreed with exaggerated patience.

"And if I pick a second movie after that, you can't complain."

Ione pressed a hand to her heart and gave a low, theatrical bow. "Your wish, Lord Black."

Sirius preened like he'd just won the Quidditch Cup and discovered a new prank spell all in the same afternoon. "I'm writing that down somewhere. So you can't take it back later."

"Of course," Ione said solemnly, turning back to her notes as if this entire negotiation hadn't just been rigged from the start. "I'm sure it'll hold up in magical court."

Sirius leaned against the counter, still grinning. "Best birthday present ever."

She only smiled at him over her shoulder—soft, knowing—because, oh, if he thought this was the best part, he was about to be very pleasantly surprised.


Ione stood in front of the mirror, tugging the thick, soft, dove-grey knitted dress down over her hips, smoothing the cable-knit pattern into place. It looked so wholesome she could have been modelling for a Practical Magic for the Modern Witch catalogue.

Underneath, of course, lurked something that was decidedly not wholesome.

Lace. Satin. Rune-like stitched embroidery so fine it could have been mistaken for starlight.

And she felt it—the secret thrill of it—every time the fabric shifted against her skin.

Downstairs, Sirius banged around the kitchen, swearing loudly at something.

Probably the teapot again.

Or possibly the concept of teapots in general.

She checked the mirror once more, making sure everything appeared perfectly innocent—girl next door, not girlfriend about to ruin you emotionally and physically—and then slipped into her boots.

A sharp wolf-whistle echoed up the stairs.

"Oi, Kitten!" Sirius's voice floated up. "You dressing for a night out or to lead a resistance against hypothermia?"

Ione rolled her eyes and started down.

He was waiting at the bottom, coat shrugged on, hair damp from the quick shower he'd taken. His grey eyes raked over her as she descended—and the grin that spread across his face was pure Sirius: obnoxious, delighted, helplessly smitten.

"Would you look at you," he drawled, waving a hand at her ensemble. "Soft. Woolly. Irresistible. Ten out of ten. Would absolutely snuggle."

"That was the goal," she said sweetly, reaching for her cloak.

Sirius caught it out of her hands and helped her into it, still talking.

"I mean, you're radiating 'cosy librarian who can and will break your heart.' 'Knitwear seductress.' 'Death by warm embrace.'"

"You are absolutely insufferable," Ione said, muffling a laugh.

"You love it," he said, and bent to kiss the tip of her nose.

"You," she corrected, "love it."

"That's true," he said gravely. "I'm a simple man. Give me a girl in a wool dress and boots and I'll pledge eternal allegiance."

She laughed again, cheeks pink from more than just the cold creeping in through the hall.

If only he knew.

If only he had any idea what he was pledging allegiance to tonight.


The cinema was a blur of cheap seats, sticky floors, True Romance living up to its bloody, ridiculous promise, and Sirius attempting to smuggle in a criminal quantity of sweets "for morale."

They sat through the whole madcap, violent movie with Sirius muttering commentary under his breath ("That bloke's an even bigger nutter than me—impressive." / "Is that a feather boa? Should I get a feather boa?"). By the time they stumbled back into Grimmauld Place, the city lights were glowing faint behind them, and Sirius looked boyish and pleased and very, very unsuspecting.

He tossed his coat onto the nearest chair. "Best. Birthday. Ever. No notes. Eleven out of ten. Even if there was no popcorn."

"I told you I'd make it up to you," Ione said lightly, peeling off her gloves.

Sirius grinned and ruffled her hair affectionately on his way past.

"Right, two minutes, Kitten—loo break, and then I'm all yours for birthday spoiling."

She hummed innocently, already backing toward the stairs.

"I'll hold you to that," she said.

He waggled his eyebrows absurdly, then disappeared into the downstairs bathroom with a clatter and a muttered curse about "stupid plumbing."

Perfect.

Ione raced upstairs like her life depended on it. (Though, moderately. She didn't want to be out of breath.)

Off went the boots. Off went the thick, innocent knitted dress, puddling at her feet.

She didn't look in the mirror—she didn't need to.

She felt it—the whispered brush of lace, the elegant black and silver gleam, the suspenders biting just lightly at her thighs in a way that screamed ownership and freedom all at once.

Her heart raced, but she smiled—steady, wicked, alive.

With one decisive move, she sprawled herself out across the bed, one knee bent artfully, an arm thrown lazily over her head, hair tumbling down across the pillow in soft, deliberate chaos.

And then she waited.


Sirius came upstairs whistling a few bars of some old Muggle rock song.

The sound cut off so violently when he stepped into the doorway that the silence cracked between them.

He froze.

Actually froze, like someone had cast Petrificus Totalus on him.

For a long moment, he just stared—his boots rooted to the floor, his hands falling limp at his sides.

Like she was a hallucination.

Like he didn't dare believe she was real.

Ione lay there across their bed—hair tumbling like molten gold across the pillow, body wrapped in black lace and silver thread, stockings clinging to her thighs like a whispered spell.

A slow, wicked smile curved her lips.

"Happy birthday," she said, low and soft.

Sirius sucked in a sharp breath—like he'd been punched.

His throat bobbed in a hard swallow. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with the effort not to touch.

"You—"

He tried, and failed, to find words.

He raked a shaky hand through his hair. Took a step forward. Stopped himself.

"Merlin," he rasped. "Kitten."

His whole body was thrumming—desire like a fire under his skin—but under it, fear.

It had been weeks.

Weeks since that first hospital stay.

Weeks since he'd dared to touch her with anything but the gentlest, most cautious hands.

Weeks of treating her like glass, like spun sugar, terrified that if he took too much, he would tip her right back into danger.

And now—now she was laid out for him like a living promise.

So beautiful it hurt.

So alive.

But what if he broke her?

He stood there, breathing hard, locked in place.

Ione tilted her head, studying him—seeing everything, like she always did.
And her smile softened.

"Come here," she said, holding out a hand.

He didn't move.

"Ione," he managed hoarsely, "I—"

His voice broke. He swallowed hard and tried again.

"I can't hurt you."

"You won't," she said simply.

"I might," he said, the words ragged and raw. "You're still—you've been so—"

"I'm not made of glass," she said gently. She shifted on the bed, the lace sliding over her skin like a living thing. "And you won't hurt me. Or wear me out. Not by touching me. Not by loving me."

He shook his head like a man trying to wake from a dream. His hands flexed, helpless.

"Look at me," she said.

He did.

She was glowing—eyes bright, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths.

"Do I look fragile?" she asked, almost teasing now.

"You look—" His voice cracked again. He laughed under his breath, helpless. "You look like a bloody goddess. And I—Merlin, I want—" He broke off, raking a hand down his face, almost angry at himself. "I want to. So much."

Her smile turned fierce and soft all at once.

"Then touch me," she said, voice like velvet. "Please, Sirius."

Something shattered in him at the word.

The please.

The trust.

He crossed the room in three desperate strides, dropping to his knees beside the bed.

He didn't pounce, didn't grab.

He just reached out, trembling, and laid one reverent hand against her thigh—skin like warm silk under the stocking.

She made a soft sound—half a sigh, half a purr—and arched into his touch.

Sirius closed his eyes, just breathing her in for a moment.

When he opened them again, his gaze was molten.

"You're sure," he said, one last time, because he was Sirius Black, reckless and ruined and utterly, desperately in love with her.

Ione smiled—and it wasn't teasing now.

It was tender and devastating and real.

"I'm sure," she whispered.

And with a ragged sound that was half a groan, half a prayer, Sirius surged up over her—hands reverent, mouth finding hers in a kiss that was so deep and slow and shuddering it made her toes curl.

No hesitation now.

No fear.

Just love.

Just life.

Just them, finding each other again, fiercely, gently, completely.