Chapter Text
January 7th, 1995
King’s Cross Station was still bustling with the remnants of holiday traffic—suitcases rattling across tile, harried parents shouting last-minute goodbyes, the Hogwarts Express already puffing with slow anticipation.
Sirius adjusted the strap of the thick carrier under his coat, the tiny weight against his chest warm and solid. A little button nose peeked out from beneath the knit hat of indeterminate colour—Leo’s, judging by the subtle, squirmy protest. On Ione’s chest, similarly bundled and tucked against the cold, Lyra gave a soft hiccup and immediately returned to dozing.
Harry and Hermione had just disappeared behind the scarlet train, waving with an air of forced casualness that neither Sirius nor Ione entirely bought. The moment they were out of sight, Sirius let out a low whistle and tucked his free hand into his coat pocket.
“Well,” he said, eyes still on the train. “That was a Christmas.”
“I didn’t see that coming,” Ione admitted, exhaling as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“The three of them together?”
She nodded. “I mean, I figured something would eventually shift—but not… not them. Not like that.”
Sirius gave her a sidelong look, one eyebrow arched in amused disbelief. “Really? I did.”
She frowned. “You did not.”
“I did. Ever since our wedding,” he said leading her through the barrier. “The way Draco dragged Harry onto the dance floor and taught him to waltz? Come on. That was the softest enemies-to-friends-to-something-more transition I’ve ever witnessed.”
Ione scoffed. “I thought that was just Draco being dramatic and Harry being polite.”
“Exactly. And then Hermione showed up and gave them both notes.”
Ione couldn’t help but laugh. “Fair point.”
They paused to let a group of harried Muggles rush past, oblivious to the conversation or the two magical infants slumbering quietly beneath enchanted warming charms. The air smelled faintly of coal and sugar from the station café, blending strangely with the lingering scent of steam.
Ione exhaled slowly, then glanced down at Lyra, whose little knitted hat had shifted sideways. She gently straightened it, brushing a gloved finger over her daughter’s cheek.
“Well,” she said softly, “at least Hermione’s skipping the disaster that was Ron and me in my timeline.”
Sirius gave a soft snort. “You mean the one where you bickered yourselves to death and barely made it through a war before realising you didn’t even like each other that way?”
“Mm. That one.”
Sirius reached over and tugged her closer, careful not to jostle either twin. “I’m just saying, between you predicting dark lords and me predicting relationship drama, I think we’re even.”
“You had a clearer view,” she said. “I had hormones and a Horcrux hunt.”
“Excuses, excuses.” He bent and pressed a kiss to her temple. “It’ll be alright.”
“I know,” she said, watching the train curve out of sight. “They’ll make it work. The three of them.”
“And if they don’t,” Sirius said cheerfully, “we can always threaten Draco with nappy duty. That boy needs to understand real chaos.”
“You’re terrible,” Ione murmured, even as she smiled.
“Terribly honest.” He reached into his pocket with a grin. “And now that we’ve earned adult points by doing the responsible goodbye, can I bribe you into a late lunch and a warm pub corner before these two wake up?”
“You can certainly try.” Ione looped her arm through his. “Lead the way, Mr Black.”
And with that, they vanished into the London chill, the sound of the train gone but its consequences trailing like steam in the air.
February 14th, 1995
Grimmauld Place was already drowsy with late evening quiet when the Patronus arrived—an enormous silvery wolf bounding into the parlour, skidding across the rug and knocking over a footstool before lifting its head and howling once.
Ione sat bolt upright. “That’s Remus’s.”
Sirius didn’t even wait for the echo to fade before grabbing his cloak. “It’s time, then.”
After tasking Kreacher with watching the twins, they Flooed straight to St Mungo’s, where chaos and calm coexisted in the way only maternity wards managed. By the time they reached the private room, Remus was already there—wide-eyed, hair askew, visibly stunned in a way that only deep joy could produce. He looked like someone had knocked all the breath out of him in the best way.
“She’s here?” Ione asked, breathless.
Remus turned to them slowly, then smiled. It was a soft, wobbling thing, fragile as glass and just as luminous.
“She’s here,” he said. “Ten fingers. Ten toes. Definitely Dora’s nose.”
“She’s perfect,” Dora croaked from the bed, looking exhausted and radiant all at once. Her hair had settled into a dreamy lavender, as if even her magic was content.
Sirius reached her side and gently brushed a damp curl from her temple. “You did it, Nymphadora.”
“Don’t call me that,” she whispered—but didn’t swat him this time. She just grinned weakly. “Want to meet your goddaughter?”
Ione froze. “Wait—what?”
Remus nodded, stepping aside to reveal a small, wriggling bundle in a bassinet charmed with warming runes and soft starlight.
“We want you both,” he said, looking from Ione to Sirius, “to be her godparents.”
Sirius blinked several times. “Moony, that’s—”
“You’re family,” Remus said, simply.
Ione leaned over the bassinet, heart suddenly far too big for her chest. The baby inside blinked up at her, dark eyes still learning to focus, hands twitching in slow-motion reflex.
“She’s beautiful,” Ione whispered. “What’s her name?”
“Rhiannon Love Lupin,” Dora said sleepily.
“Rhiannon,” Ione echoed, the name like music in his mouth. “Like the old Welsh witch-queen.”
Remus smiled. “Strong, fierce, rides between worlds.”
“Also a Fleetwood Mac song,” Sirius said with a wink, almost too quietly for anyone but Remus to hear. Said werewolf bit his lip to keep from laughing.
“Love,” Dora added softly. “Because she was made of it.”
“And born on the day of love,” Remus amended with just a tiny bit of Marauder cheek.
“She has great timing, too,” Tonks commented. “Had the good sense to come before tomorrow’s full moon.”
The room fell quiet, but it was a warm kind of hush—like the world had paused to make space for something holy.
Sirius brushed a finger against Rhiannon’s impossibly small hand. “Happy Valentine’s Day, little moonflower.”
And for once in their strange, tangled lives, everything felt exactly as it should be.
April 1st, 1995
The nursery at Grimmauld Place was uncharacteristically quiet—no wails, no squeals, just the occasional soft chime of the mobile above the cot shaped like glittering stars and snitches. Ione was halfway through folding a stack of enchanted self-warming muslin cloths when she looked up and froze.
“Sirius?” she called, tone dangerously level.
A moment later, Sirius poked his head in from the corridor, a bottle in one hand and a sock inexplicably stuck in his hair. “Yeah?”
“Did you turn Lyra’s hair orange as a joke?”
“What?” Sirius blinked, walking over. “I did not!”
But sure enough, Lyra lay in her cot happily gurgling away with a shock of vibrant, carrot-orange curls sticking out from beneath her bonnet.
“Merlin’s beard,” Sirius murmured, kneeling beside the cot. “She looks like a puffskein crossed with a sunset.”
That was when they heard a soft thunk from under Leo’s crib.
Ione turned just in time to see their son—having managed to roll out from beneath the bars with an expression of great and serious determination—staring up at them with a head of hair dyed the unmistakable shade of powder blue.
Her mouth fell open. Leo looked almost exactly like Teddy had in her timeline. She didn’t even question how he had managed to escape his crib.
“Oh Merlin,” she whispered. “Andromeda was right.”
Sirius blinked at her. “About what?”
“When I was barely eight weeks along, she said—joking, I thought—that the twins might be Metamorphmagi. Something about new blood being introduced to the Black family line could possibly trigger it…”
Sirius knelt beside Leo, who beamed up at him and promptly turned his hair bubblegum pink.
“Oh, we are so doomed,” Sirius whispered, not with dread—but with something like reverence.
Lyra chose that moment to hiccup—an innocent little sound—and her curls shimmered before shifting to a soft lilac, like a spring crocus in bloom.
Ione sat down heavily on the rocking chair, staring at both of them. “Five months old, Sirius. Five months. They’ve already discovered colour theory.”
“I mean,” Sirius said brightly, sweeping Leo up and spinning him gently in the air, “at least they’ve got taste?”
Lyra shrieked with glee. Her hair turned gold.
Ione groaned, but she was smiling despite herself. “Happy April Fools’ Day, I suppose.”
Sirius turned to her with a mock-sombre nod. “Pray for the furniture.”
“I’m praying for the neighbours,” she muttered. “And the portrait gallery. And possibly the Ministry’s registry of magical anomalies.”
In the corner, the snitch mobile turned a slow circle, its soft chimes barely audible over the laughter of two parents who realised they were absolutely, gloriously outnumbered.
June 25th, 1995
The morning sun spilled in through the open kitchen windows at Grimmauld Place, warming the countertop where a sleepy Sirius was attempting to coax life out of the kettle. Ione, already dressed and reading the Daily Prophet, looked up when Hedwig tapped impatiently against the glass.
“It’s from Harry,” she said, untying the string. The handwriting was as familiar now as the curve of her own initials.
“Let me guess—another retelling of Ron’s near-death experience with a Blast-Ended Skrewt?” Sirius muttered, pouring hot water over tea leaves.
“No,” Ione murmured, eyes scanning the neat handwriting. Then her brows lifted. “Oh.”
“What is it?”
“Fleur Delacour won the Tournament.”
Sirius blinked. “The French girl? Well, that’s going to scandalise half the board at the Ministry.”
“Mm. Put the Common Welsh Green to sleep in under a minute. Caught fire slightly, but managed to extinguish it herself.”
Sirius looked vaguely impressed. “Alright, I’m listening.”
“The second task didn’t go great—Harry says she surfaced early and didn’t manage to retrieve her hostage. But she was allowed to continue. Entered last into the maze, but apparently navigated it like she’d been training for it her whole life.”
Ione shook her head in amused disbelief. “Harry says Viktor’s still sulking.”
Sirius whistled, plucking the letter from her hands to read over her shoulder. “What’s this bit? The goblins offered her an apprenticeship?”
“In London,” Ione confirmed. “Vault security and enchantment protocols, no less. Apparently, they were impressed by her precision in the puzzle room obstacle in the maze.”
Sirius snorted. “They must’ve appreciated someone who didn’t try to blast the door off its hinges.”
Ione smiled faintly. “It’s not a bad outcome. All three champions made it through alive. No dark artefacts, no curses, no resurrections this time.”
“Thank Merlin for that,” Sirius muttered, setting the letter down beside the coffee pot. “Now let’s hope Fleur doesn’t incinerate the Goblin Accounts Office. The last thing we need is an international incident involving Veela charm and a misplaced ledger.”
“She’ll be fine,” Ione said, sipping her coffee. “Besides, Harry seems genuinely impressed by her. That’s a first.”
Sirius grinned. “He’ll write a memoir someday. The Surprisingly Competent People I Underestimated. Chapter one: Fleur Delacour.”
Ione smirked. “Chapter two: Draco Malfoy.”
Sirius groaned. “Stop. Don’t ruin breakfast.”
“I bet you Bill Weasley marries her by the summer of ’97,” Ione added innocently, sipping her coffee.
“I’m not falling for your time-travelling prophecies, witch,” Sirius said, pointing his spoon at her. “You only say that so I’ll make stupid bets.”
“Only when I know I’ll win.”
July 21st, 1995
It was one week until the move.
The sitting room was half-packed, boxes levitating lazily beside open trunks, dust motes dancing in the filtered summer light slanting through the drapes. Harry had been sorting books into piles— keep, donate, questionable—when something peculiar caught his eye wedged between a stack of Transfiguration journals and a Charms periodical from 1978.
It was slim. Bound in red velvet. Familiar and unmistakably titled in glittering silver script:
Velvet Chains
He blinked.
No way.
With a furtive glance over his shoulder, Harry opened it.
This time, the first page greeted him with elegant, loopy handwriting:
“To my dearest Ione—may your appetite for fiction never wane, and your blushes never fade. Yours in sin and ink, S.”
He had just reached a section that included the phrase “wandless invocation of desire” when a very familiar voice cut across the room like a lightning bolt.
“Harry James Potter!”
He yelped, flinging the book behind his back like it might bite him. Ione stood in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth somewhere between scandalised and horrified. She stormed in and snatched the book out of his hands.
“Where in Merlin’s name did you find this?”
“I—I didn’t know what it was!” Harry spluttered. “It was with the journals! I thought it was a spellbook or something—!”
Ione opened it, flicked past a few pages, and turned a colour not even Metamorphmagi could achieve. “This was supposed to be a manuscript,” she hissed. “Locked. In a drawer. In the study. Not bound. Not velvet. Not shelved!”
Then, turning toward the stairs, she cupped her hands and bellowed, “SIRIUS ORION BLACK!”
There was a crash upstairs, followed by frantic footsteps, and then Sirius barreled into the room looking wild-eyed and breathless.
“What happened? Is it the twins? Did something explode? Is Kreacher hexing the plumbing again?”
Ione turned. Slowly. With the book in hand.
Sirius blinked.
“Oh,” he said, then visibly braced himself.
“You made a bound copy?” Ione hissed, voice laced with betrayal. “With a dedication?! In VELVET?”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Sirius absolutely lost it.
He doubled over in laughter, wheezing, face going red, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. “He—Harry found it?! I thought—I thought I’d hidden it behind the Gamp revisions—!”
Ione looked like she was contemplating homicide.
Harry, awkwardly caught between curiosity and the desire to vanish, stood there frozen until Sirius staggered over, still laughing, and slung an arm around his shoulders.
“Oh, Harry,” he said between gasps, “we need to have a talk.”
Harry stared up at him, alarmed. “A talk?”
“A wizard-to-wizard talk,” Sirius said solemnly, still hiccuping with laughter. “About witches. And why they are mysterious, terrifying, and occasionally inclined to write semi-autobiographical romantic filth when recovering from life-threatening magical procedures.”
“I WAS IN FORCED ISOLATION!” Ione shouted.
Harry blinked. “Wait… was this based on you ?”
“Do not answer that,” Ione snapped, clutching the book to her chest as if shielding it from further disgrace.
But Sirius was already ushering Harry out of the room, muttering things like, “Chapter eight is actually a pretty solid metaphor for commitment,” and “we’re going to need butterbeer for this.”
Ione stared after them, mortified, clutching the velvet-bound disgrace to her chest.
Kreacher appeared silently in the doorway. “Mistress?”
“Don’t ask,” she muttered.
“As Mistress wishes,” he said primly. Then, after a pause: “Shall I add it to the locked drawer again?”
“…Yes,” Ione groaned. “And this time, ward it against Black family idiocy. ”
“Yes, Mistress.”
July 23rd, 1996
The breakfast table at Black Manor was unusually quiet for a mid-July morning—no toddlers shrieking, no magically animated porridge chasing Leo under the table, not even the gentle hum of enchanted spoons. Sirius sat with the Daily Prophet folded under one arm, absently sipping his tea, while Ione meticulously arranged slices of fruit into a smiling face on Lyra’s plate.
It was a peace that lasted approximately eleven seconds.
Two owls crashed into the window with all the grace of a falling cupboard.
Sirius bolted upright. “Bloody hell—”
“It’s fine, I’ll get it,” Harry said, already on his feet. He opened the window and accepted the battered envelopes from the disgruntled owls, which flew off immediately in a huff.
He stared at the seal.
O.W.L. Results – Ministry of Magic – Examination Authority
Ione stopped mid-slice. “Oh.”
Sirius leaned forward. “This is it?”
Harry nodded, suddenly pale. “This is it.”
Hermione appeared in the doorway, drying her hands with a dish towel. “Did they come? Oh, open it!”
Harry took a breath, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment.
A pause.
Then—
“I passed,” he said. “I passed everything. Even Potions.”
Ione let out a sound that could only be described as a half-sob, half-squeak. “Oh, Harry—”
Sirius clapped him on the shoulder so enthusiastically that it nearly knocked the parchment out of his hand. “Knew you would, pup. Knew it. What’d you get?”
“Outstanding in Defence. Exceeds Expectations in almost everything else,” Harry said, still blinking down at the parchment. “Even in History of Magic, somehow.”
Hermione made a strangled noise. “You did?”
He grinned at her, proud. “I’m as shocked as you are. What did you get?”
Hermione suddenly looked modest. “Twelve Os.”
Before Ione could comment that having Alastor Moody as an instructor two years in a row definitely helped with her Defence score, another two owls swooped through the open window—this one bearing a familiar Hogwarts crest.
Their supply lists.
Harry caught the letter one-handed, opened it—and froze. “I… I made Quidditch Captain.”
Sirius let out a whoop so loud it startled Lyra and woke Leo, who promptly turned his hair scarlet and began clapping with glee.
“You legend! That’s my godson! Quidditch Captain! Knew Minnie had taste.”
Hermione smiled. “Well, I suppose that makes practices your responsibility now. Oh, and you get to use the Prefects’ bathroom.”
Harry beamed, pink-cheeked, clearly trying not to explode with pride.
Ione looked at him for a long, still moment—his messy hair, his quiet grin, his results clutched like he half-didn’t believe they were real—and blinked rapidly.
“You okay?” Harry asked, a little sheepish.
She gave him a watery smile. “It’s just… some things stayed the same. After everything. The best parts didn’t change. And you’re still you. Still flying. Still choosing kindness. I just… I’m glad.”
Harry, looking a bit overwhelmed himself, leaned forward and hugged her tightly. “Thanks, Mum.”
Sirius choked on his tea.
Hermione made a strangled sound.
Ione blinked.
Harry blinked.
“…Sorry,” Harry said quickly, cheeks flaming. “I didn’t mean—”
“You can say that,” she said softly, holding him tighter. “You can always say that.”
And somewhere behind them, Sirius rubbed his eyes suspiciously, muttering something about allergies and bloody owls bringing dust into the house.
Then Draco Flooed over, and any sentimentality had been tabled for another day.
July 31st, 1997
The back gardens of Black Manor—newly charmed to accommodate a rather boisterous magical gathering—was in a state of jubilant chaos.
Paper lanterns floated lazily in the warm evening air, enchanted to flicker in the Gryffindor colours at first—though, at some point, one had turned Slytherin green. Likely Leo’s fault. Or Lyra’s. Their accidental magic was something wild, even this young. The two were tearing barefoot through the grass, their hair shifting rapidly—Lyra’s now a bushy brunette like Hermione’s, while Leo had gone jet black with glasses drawn on his face in something suspiciously permanent-looking.
“Absolutely uncanny,” Harry muttered, watching Leo zoom past him with a shriek. “Is that meant to be me?”
“He tried drawing a scar earlier,” Ione said, sipping something cold and tart from a tall glass. “We managed to redirect him before he reached the forehead. Small miracles.”
Rhiannon tottered after the twins on slightly chubby legs, arms outstretched, determined not to be left behind. She tripped on the grass but popped back up with a giggle, the soft-sandy brown of her hair curling around her cheeks. No sign of metamorph abilities—but she had Dora’s focus and Remus’s quiet stubbornness.
“She’ll figure out how to tame those two before Hogwarts,” Sirius predicted, grinning.
“Or lead their resistance movement,” Draco said dryly, lounging in a striped deck chair and sipping pumpkin fizz like some minor aristocrat on summer holiday. “Because clearly, three cousins under the age of three wasn’t enough to doom my blood pressure.”
“Four,” Remus corrected, stepping forward with a quiet sort of excitement that instantly caught Ione’s attention.
Dora appeared beside him, cheeks flushed and glowing in the late afternoon light, her arm looped through his. “We wanted to tell everyone at once,” she said. “But… well, Remus got impatient.”
Remus shot her a fond look. “We’re expecting again. Early spring.”
The applause was immediate—cheers, clapping, even one particularly overexcited firework from the twins that exploded into a puff of glittering blue smoke overhead.
“You’re kidding!” Harry said, absolutely beaming. “That’s brilliant!”
“We wanted you to be godfather,” Remus said, with that understated kind of reverence he reserved for very few things. “And you, Hermione,” he added, turning to where she stood beside Harry. “If you’d be willing.”
Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh! I—yes, of course, I’d be honoured!”
Harry was practically glowing.
“I get another cousin,” Draco said, exhaling dramatically. “My future inheritance just keeps shrinking,”
“You’re not even in line for anything on this side of the family,” Ione said dryly.
“Exactly. It’s the principle of the thing.”
Ron ambled over with a half-eaten treacle tart and an arm slung casually around Lily Moon—of all people. Ione blinked. She could just remember her from her dorm in another timeline: quiet, forgettable, spending most of her days by Hagrid’s hut and among the magical creatures. Now she was laughing at Ron’s jokes like they were the cleverest things in the world.
“How long’s that been going on?” Ione whispered to Sirius.
“No idea,” he murmured. “But your face is hilarious right now.”
Off to the side, Ginny leaned against a tree, deep in conversation with Luna, who was twirling a strand of red hair around her finger as she giggled at something Ginny had said.
That somehow didn’t shock Ione, though the fact that she wasn’t shocked shocked her, and she had to re-evaluate everything she thought she had known about Ginevra Weasley.
Bill and Fleur were talking to Molly and Arthur, clearly excited about the wedding the next day. Ione smirked internally. She would have totally won that bet, despite all the shifts in this timeline.
“It’s weird,” Harry murmured, sidling up to Ione. “I didn’t think I’d get here, you know? Seventeen. This. All of it. Without Voldemort hanging over my head.”
Ione looked around—the flickering lanterns, the sound of laughter, the children shrieking with joy, the couples scattered across the lawn. Safe. Alive. Home.
“I know,” she said, nudging him gently. “But you did.”
She looked at him then—really looked at him—her godson, her timeline’s hinge, her miracle boy, no longer a boy at all. Taller now, broader in the shoulders, still awkward with compliments but standing straighter than he used to. She felt that familiar swell of fierce, quiet pride—something old and aching and whole all at once.
“And I’m so glad you did.”
Harry smiled, a little crookedly, and looked out at the children shrieking over a snail. “And it’s all thanks to you. How’s the election going?”
“You really want to talk about politics on your birthday?”
“I guess Hermione and Draco are rubbing off on me,” he said wryly.
“I did not need that mental image, Harry,” Ione laughed, cringing playfully.
“Excuse me?” Hermione’s voice floated over, crisp and amused, as she and Draco joined them near the veranda. Hermione had a lemonade in one hand and her other linked casually with Draco’s—neither of them making a show of it anymore.
“What didn’t you need a mental image of?” Draco asked with mock curiosity. “Because if it was us, I can assure you it’s far more dignified than whatever you’re picturing.”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Ione said, pointing a warning finger, though her lips twitched.
“Don’t blame me,” Harry said innocently, hugging the other two from behind. “I was just saying that you two made me care about the Ministry. Which is… honestly a bit rude.”
“I take full responsibility,” Hermione said, with no remorse whatsoever. “Though I think your new respect for policy may also have something to do with the fact that Ione here is terrifyingly good at running a campaign.”
“I’m not terrifying,” Ione said modestly.
“You made a pureblood patriarch from the Council of Magical Lineages weep in public,” Draco said, arching a brow. “Then thank you for the ‘constructive dialogue’ and offered him a tissue. You are absolutely terrifying.”
“I was being gracious,” Ione said. “He was being racist.”
“Fair,” Harry said brightly.
Hermione sipped her drink. “You’re still ten points ahead in the latest polls, by the way.”
Draco tilted his glass toward Ione. “The country might actually survive this election.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Ione muttered, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “We’ve still got another two weeks, and the Prophet’s probably sitting on some scandal like I once jaywalked in Godric’s Hollow.”
“If that’s all they’ve got, you’re golden,” Harry said. Then added, quieter, “You deserve to win, you know. Not just because you’re brilliant. But because you care. You actually give a damn about people.”
Ione didn’t answer right away. The warmth in his voice, the easy faith—it still caught her off guard sometimes. She glanced at the three of them—Harry, Hermione, Draco—her most unexpected triad of support, all grown now, steady and sharp and startlingly loyal.
“Thank you,” she said, soft. “That means more than I can say.”
From across the garden, a small explosion of glitter signalled that someone—likely Leo—had found the wand Sirius was not supposed to have left unattended. A delighted squeal followed, and Lyra ran past in a blur of sparkling green, shouting something about turning the gnomes into frogs.
Ione sighed. “I should go break up whatever that is.”
Draco saluted her with his glass. “Ministerial training.”
Hermione smiled, slipping an arm around Ione’s waist. “We’ll come with.”
And just like that, the four of them turned toward the chaos together, shoulder to shoulder—future, family, and folly all wrapped into one luminous evening.
September 1st, 2006
The platform at King’s Cross was alive with sound—children shouting goodbyes, trunks trundling over uneven bricks, owls hooting irritably in their cages, and the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express already beginning to hiss and steam in preparation for departure.
“I’m not late,” Ione Lupin-Black muttered as she pushed through the crowd, her Ministerial robes fluttering behind her like a war banner, a team of Aurors flanking her. “We are not going to be late for our children’s first train ride to Hogwarts—”
“We’re early,” Sirius said mildly, holding Leo’s hand. He knew very well the moment he let it go, Tiny Trouble was unleashed. “Which means we’ll only look mildly over-prepared rather than clinically obsessed.”
Meanwhile, Lyra was already standing perfectly still by the train, clutching her trunk in one hand and her wand in the other. Her currently jet black plait was pinned back neatly, her Hogwarts list checked and rechecked. She was, as ever, the embodiment of what Sirius called Responsible Chaos—ready to duel a dragon or run a committee, depending on the hour.
“I’ve already picked my seat,” she informed her brother and cousin. “Middle right in our compartment. I warded the window with my personal temperature charm.”
“Why do you get to choose?” Leo demanded.
“Because I didn’t use my cauldron lid as a frisbee this morning.”
Leo just grinned. “That was an experiment.”
“That was a concussion hazard.”
Behind them, Rhiannon blinked slowly, looking between the twins like she wasn’t sure whether to break up their squabble or quietly follow Leo into whatever glorious trouble he was planning. Her hair, soft and sandy, was pulled into two crooked braids. One of her shoes was already scuffed.
“I still think we should’ve brought Skiving Snackboxes,” Leo muttered, eyeing the Auror escort like he was planning a jailbreak instead of boarding a school train.
Before she could respond, Teddy, now eight and very tall for his age, stomped up beside them. His hair was a moody teal this morning—blue with the beginnings of a sulk. “It’s not fair. I know more spells than Lyra!”
“Do not,” Lyra said serenely.
“I can levitate a chair!”
“Last time you levitated a chair, it hit Uncle Ron.”
“He ducked.”
Rhiannon stepped between them and gently took Teddy’s hand. “You’ll come in a few years. We’ll write. Lyra’s already made a schedule for it.”
“She colour-coded it,” Leo added, grinning.
“Of course she did,” Teddy groaned, but let Rhiannon tug him toward Remus and Tonks, who stood nearby.
Remus smiled faintly as he bent down to check that Teddy’s shoelaces were still charmed to tighten on command. “Your time will come, cub. Think of it this way—you’ve got a few years to learn how to prank with precision.”
“And timing,” Tonks added, nudging him. “Half the battle is knowing when to duck.”
Tonks’s hair, lavender this morning, was tied back with a bright orange ribbon—Rhiannon’s doing, judging by the pride on her face.
“Hey,” Leo whispered to Rhiannon when she came back. “When the trolley witch comes by, we tell her we’re orphans. Double sugar rations.”
“She knows who we are,” Rhiannon replied.
“We can wear disguises!”
“Like what?”
“Fake moustaches.”
“No.”
Harry walked past just then in Auror robes, overhearing the end of the conversation. “If either of you gets a moustache-related detention before October, I’m reporting it to your auntie.”
Leo froze. “Which one?”
“Does it matter?” Harry said, barely suppressing a smirk. Both Andromeda and Narcissa could be terrifying.
The train whistle blew. Final calls went up. The Aurors subtly tightened their perimeter as Ione crouched to embrace her children.
“Don’t forget to send us an owl on your first night,” she said, smoothing Lyra’s hair and tugging Leo’s robes straight.
“We’ll write,” Lyra promised.
Rhiannon just hugged her hard, whispering, “Don’t cry.” Then she went to say goodbye to her parents.
“They’ll be alright,” said Harry, stepping beside her, cloak flapping in the breeze. “It’s Hogwarts. And you’ve raised the most terrifying eleven-year-olds in the country.”
“They’re still babies,” Ione said, even as Leo tried to sneak a fake Extendable Ear into a prefect’s pocket.
Sirius, at her other side, elbowed her gently. “Not anymore. But don’t worry—Minerva knows what she’s in for. I sent her a bottle of Firewhisky last week with a note that just said ‘Good luck.’”
The train gave its final whistle. Trunks were shoved aboard, goodbyes shouted. The twins and Rhiannon scrambled on at the last second, waving wildly from the windows.
“I can’t believe Hermione and Draco aren’t here,” Ione murmured, eyes still on the train.
“ICW conference,” Harry reminded her. “That Obfuscation Ward thing.”
Oh, Ione knew. The Global Arcane Obfuscation Ward (GAOW) was a large-scale magical infrastructure spell developed by Granger-Malfoy Enterprises to prevent Muggle technology from recording or detecting magic by distorting cameras, phones, and satellites within its range. Anchored to magical hotspots and ley lines, it causes magical events to appear as static, fog, or unremarkable phenomena in all digital recordings. If all the magical jurisdictions on the planet implemented it, it would preserve the Statute of Secrecy in the modern surveillance era without relying solely on Obliviators.
“They’d better get it passed,” Sirius said. “I’m tired of pretending our twins turning into the Queen’s grandchildren in public was just a glitch in the Muggle matrix.”
As the train pulled away, Ione raised a hand in a silent wave. Then she turned.
And walked very, very briskly toward the station bathrooms.
Sirius, blinking, followed without question. So did all the Aurors, but Sirius motioned for them to stay as he entered after her. “Ione?”
She’d made it to the sink, gripping it with both hands, pale and breathless.
“Are you alright? You don’t look—”
“I’m too old for this,” she said, voice flat, looking visibly green at the gills.
“What? Did you eat something dodgy?”
She turned and met his eyes, her expression somewhere between disbelief and resigned awe.
“No, Sirius. I’m pregnant.”
Sirius opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Then Sirius leaned against the opposite wall, stared at her for three full seconds, and said, “Well… bollocks.”
Ione laughed, then cried, then laughed again, burying her face in her hands. Sirius stepped forward and pulled her into a hug, resting his chin on top of her head.
“We have two already,” she said. “Four, if you count Rhiannon and Teddy’s constant proximity. I’m forty-three.”
“You’re brilliant,” he said hoarsely. “You’re forty-three and still terrifyingly brilliant.”
“Terrifying is right.”
“And gorgeous.”
“Still outnumbered.”
“Do we tell the kids now? Or wait until they’re old enough to babysit?”
“They are eleven, Sirius.”
He grinned. “Exactly.”
And in the corridor beyond the tiled wall, the sounds of departure faded, the future already rolling north on steel tracks—and the next adventure, unexpected and absurdly timed, began quietly in a bathroom stall at King’s Cross.
September 3rd, 2006
Hermione hadn’t even made it past the entrance hall before Teddy barrelled into her legs.
“You missed everything,” the boy declared dramatically, hugging her around the waist.
Draco, still peeling off his travel cloak, raised an eyebrow. “Did Hogwarts fall?”
“Worse,” Teddy whispered. “You missed the train. And the baby.”
Hermione froze. “The baby?”
Sirius strolled in from the parlour, a butterbeer in hand and a wide grin on his face. “Surprise.”
Hermione turned slowly toward Ione, who stood behind him in a loose jumper and a look of exasperated serenity.
“I’m pregnant,” Ione said dryly. “Apparently, the twins weren’t enough.”
Draco blinked. “You’re— How—”
Hermione smacked his arm lightly. “Don’t ask how.”
Sirius looked far too pleased with himself. “It’s the hair. She says I was looking extra roguish that week.”
Draco buried his face in his hands. “We leave for one conference—one—and you start multiplying again.”
“I’m forty-three,” Ione sighed. “This wasn’t in the five-year plan.”
Hermione beamed and hugged her tightly. “No, but it’s perfect anyway.”
“Absolutely not,” Ione muttered. “But we’ll manage.”
Draco glanced at Sirius. “Please tell me you’re done now. No more surprise offspring?”
Sirius raised his drink in a mock salute. “Only if you can invent a ward for birth control that works through time travel complications.”
Draco groaned. “We’ll add it to the next GAOW patch.”
Harry came in from the kitchen just then, grinning as he kissed Hermione and Draco in turn—one kiss warm, the other teasing—and said, simply, “Thank Merlin you’re home.”
Ione leaned toward Sirius and whispered, “What are you willing to bet it’s twins again?”
Sirius smirked. “Fertility engagement ring strikes again?”
“Oi!” Draco snapped, clearly having overheard. “What did I just say about no more surprise offspring?”
July 31st, 2009
The lifts in the Ministry of Magic rattled down, too bright, too polished, too unchanged. The lower they went, the more the silence pressed in—heavy and cold. Ione hadn’t set foot on this part of Level Nine in fifteen years.
Not since April of 1994.
Back then, she’d been reeling from just having defeated Voldemort and finding out that she was pregnant. They’d summoned her in for questioning after the Department of Mysteries ward stones had recognised her magical signature as an Unspeakable—a designation they had no record of assigning—when she had followed Sirius to the Death Chamber as he threw the Resurrection Stone through the Veil. She’d narrowly sidestepped exposure by half-bluffing that she had been on an official mission. Classified. She hadn’t been lying, exactly. But it wasn’t the truth either. And the Unspeakables had more and more trouble believing that cover story once she started her political career in the limelight. Let’s just say their working relationship had been fraught at best.
Now, fifteen years, two Ministry terms, four children, and two timelines later, she was back. Back to where—when—it had all started.
The corridor was the same: dark stone, flickering blue flame torches, whispers that never quite resolved into words. She walked slowly, hands tucked into the sleeves of her robe, heart thudding with old memory.
At the domed door, the obsidian surface pulsed once and admitted her without challenge.
Figures in deep grey robes looked up from desks, domes, and floating rune displays. Some of them she recognised—Saul Croaker among them, hair greyer now, but eyes just as sharp.
He stepped toward her. “Madam Lupin-Black,” he said cautiously. “Didn’t expect—”
“I won’t take long.” Her voice was quiet but carried easily.
Croaker hesitated. “If this is about—”
“Is the Aevum Initiative still on?” she asked flatly.
His eyes narrowed. “You know I can’t answer that.”
“Fine.” Her gaze swept the chamber—at the gleaming containment pillars, the spell-dampened control rings. “Then just make sure your Time-Turner chains can actually withstand the chronomatic pulse of the new stabilisers.”
There was a pause. Long. Tense.
“I suggest a titanium-gold alloy,” she went on lightly. “High transmutation tolerance, better conductivity. Unless, of course, you want to doom the poor sod who ends up testing them to travelling raw through space and time, only to watch their body start disintegrating from magical decay within a month.”
Croaker’s mouth opened.
“And unless that sod has the foresight to undergo an urgent blood adoption and a bone marrow transplant from their younger self—provided they’re even in a time when that younger self exists—they’re probably going to die,” she finished brightly. “Just saying.”
A pause.
Croaker’s eyes had gone wide.
Ione smiled, brittle and cutting. “Happy testing. And for what it’s worth, this is me trying to help. Again.”
And then she turned and walked out of the Department of Mysteries for the last time, the doors closing silently behind her.
She arrived home in the late afternoon to the chaotic sounds of Mira Elara and Castor Elian crashing building blocks into each other with deadly force. Sirius was on the carpet, pretending to be unconscious as the twins climbed over him triumphantly.
Ione stepped out of the Floo, dropped her bag on the side table, and sighed.
“Everything alright?” Sirius asked, eyeing her with that familiar mix of amusement and worry.
“No one died,” she said. “Today.”
“Yet,” Sirius added helpfully, lifting Mira off his chest.
Ione crouched to kiss the twins, her hands lingering in their curly brown hair for a moment longer than usual. She didn’t say anything. Just held them.
They wouldn’t know what she’d done today. Probably no one ever would.
And if the Department didn’t listen… well. At least this time, she wouldn’t be the one bleeding across time to clean up the mess.
“Where is everyone else?” she asked.
Sirius smirked as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, casually munching on the remnants of a treacle tart.
“Harry, Hermione, and Draco are having a private birthday after-party—if you catch my drift.”
Ione raised an eyebrow. “I do. Unfortunately.”
He waggled his brows. “Can’t blame them. They looked far too smug this morning not to be up to something celebratory.”
Ione sighed and put Castor back into the cordoned-off play area. “Leo and Lyra?”
“Went over to Moony’s. Teddy’s Hogwarts letter came,” Sirius added, a little softer now, the pride just beneath the grin.
That made Ione pause, her expression melting into something warm and slightly disbelieving. “Is it really that year already?”
“Yep. Nearly had a nosebleed from excitement,” Sirius said fondly. “Rhiannon gave him a packing checklist. He’s currently colour-coding it.”
“Of course he is. Lyra had trained them well.”
Sirius snorted. “And Mira tried to sneak into his trunk to go along.”
Ione groaned. “Tell me she didn’t put those permanent sticking charm stickers on her plush dragon again.”
“Already diffused. You’re welcome.”
“Merlin’s teeth,” Ione muttered, rubbing her temples, but smiling despite herself. “I take one afternoon to yell at the Department of Mysteries, and everything goes feral.”
Sirius leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Welcome home.”
The Floo flared again not long after dinner, and Sirius was halfway through polishing off the last of the treacle tart when Hermione stepped through, flanked by Draco and Harry.
She looked radiant—and not just from the lingering flush of a very thorough private after-party.
Harry looked suspiciously like he’d been kissed within an inch of his life. Draco just looked smug.
Hermione crossed the room, situating herself squarely between the two of them, and announced, “I have news.”
Sirius didn’t miss a beat. “Are you pregnant?”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “How did you—?”
“You forget Remus was here this morning,” Ione said from the couch, not even looking up from where Castor was chewing on a rubber Hippogriff. “He has a nose like a bloodhound.”
“Ah,” Hermione said, mildly annoyed at herself. “Right.”
“Well?” Sirius leaned back and grinned. “Who’s the father?”
“Har har,” Hermione replied flatly.
“No, I meant—” Sirius’s grin widened, positively wolfish now, “—which lucky, almost-extinct magical family line gets an heir first? Malfoys or Potters?”
Draco groaned, rubbing his temples. “It’s a shared household, Black. We haven’t decided on surname conventions yet.”
Harry snorted. “We’re not even at middle names. The discussion almost ended in a duel.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. “We’ve got time. Plenty of it.”
Ione looked up at them—all three of them—and exhaled softly. “You’ll be brilliant.”
Sirius raised his butterbeer in salute. “To chaos, continuity, and the next bloody generation.”
Leo—clearly having snuck downstairs again—poked his head in and shouted, “Do I get to help name the baby?”
“Absolutely not,” five adults said at once.
And somewhere upstairs, Mira began singing to her dragon in a language that no one had taught her—but Ione, listening close, recognised it anyway.
The world spun forward. The timeline held.
And the Black Manor was, once again, just loud enough to feel like home.