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Chapter Text

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the drawing room walls. Sirius Black sat in the wingback chair that once belonged to his father, legs spread wide, one hand curled around a half-drained tumbler of Ogden’s. The other traced idly across the spine of a book he wasn’t reading. 

The quiet pressed in like a coffin lid. 

He hated this house. Hated every cursed inch of it. But tonight – even more than usual – its walls felt too thick, its rooms too still, as though the house were holding its breath. 

Then the portrait wailed. 

Sirius shot to his feet as Walburga Black’s screeching voice shattered the silence. Footsteps thundered up the stairs – Remus, wand in hand, face pale and sharp. 

And then, from the Floo, the voice he hadn’t realised he was waiting for until it broke him. 

“ Sirius. ”

It was Kingsley’s voice. Rough. Urgent. Too urgent. 

Sirius was already moving. 

He shoved past Remus and knelt before the green-lit flames, gripping the edge of the hearth. Kingsley’s face flickered in the flames like a ghost. 

“ Department of Mysteries. He’s there. Harry’s there.”

Sirius blinked, confusion cracking over him like lightning. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Voldemort lured him. The prophecy. He planted a vision – said you were captured, being tortured. Harry’s gone. Took half of Dumbledore’s Army with him. We only just found out.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. 

Captured. Tortured. 

Him. 

“ –What?” 

Kingsley’s voice dropped. “ Sirius. He thought you were dying. Screaming his name. He’s walked into a trap.”

The words struck Sirius like a hex to the chest. The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered across the stone floor, forgotten. 

Harry. Harry went for him . 

And brought others. 

He could hear Remus now behind him asking questions – useless, panicked questions – but Sirius was already storming from the room, fury rising through him like a curse unleashed. 

He tore through Grimmauld, throwing open cupboards, barking orders like he’d never left the battlefield. He needed his wand. His cloak. His – 

“Sirius!” 

Remus blocked the doorway, breathing hard. 

“We have to wait for orders. Dumbledore’s already gone – Tonks, Moody, Kingsley – they’re already en route. If we go storming in –”

“I am the order,” Sirius growled. “Harry’s there because of me. ”

Remus stepped forward, his voice lower now. “That’s not what this is.”

But it was . He saw it clearly. Voldemort had reached into Harry’s mind and used him as bait. And Harry had fallen for it – because he loved him. Called him family. 

Family. That word twisted like a knife. 

“I have to go,” Sirius said, brushing past him. 

Remus didn’t stop him this time. 

In the foyer, Sirius drew his wand and turned to the massive Black family mirror. The one that never reflected what he wanted it to. His reflection stared back; older, thinner, eyes hollowed by prison and war. 

You can’t lose him too. 

He hadn’t realised he’s spoken aloud until his reflection didn’t answer. 

With a twist of his wand, the mirror shattered. 

And he Disapparated into the night. 

*

The Ministry was chaos the moment he arrived – though not in the way he remembered. The polished corridors of power were empty of chatter and robes, cloaked instead in something darker: the hum of magic like a storm waiting to break. 

Sirius didn’t wait. 

He moved like a ghost through the back corridors, knowing the old Ministry maps by instinct. The Department of Mysteries loomed ahead, its door ajar. 

Footsteps cracked behind him. 

“You couldn’t wait ten bloody seconds, could you?” Remus growled, breathless. 

Sirius glanced back once. “Took you long enough.”

They didn’t waste another word. 

Through the darkened threshold, they stepped into a nightmare. 

The battle was already underway. 

The spinning chamber was lit by cursefire and screams. Children – children – ducked behind broken archways, dodging spells and hexes hurled with lethal intent. Harry was in the centre, wand up, chest heaving, shielding Neville with one arm. 

Sirius’s heart stopped. 

But before he could shout, before he could think, Lucius Malfoy stepped into his path, wand raised and expression cruel. 

“Black,” Lucius sneered, silver mask gleaming under the cursed torches. “Come to join the dying?”

Sirius didn’t reply. 

He just punched him. 

Hard. 

Knuckles cracked. Lucius reeled. His mask went flying. And for a beautiful suspended moment, all sound vanished but the pop of bone meeting bone. 

Lucius hit the ground with a grunt. 

Sirius stood over him. “That’s for Narcissa, you blonde bastard.”

He turned his back on the man and sprinted toward Harry. 

“Harry!”

Harry turned – wild, desperate – and Sirius caught him in time to deflect a jet of green light with a shield that nearly cracked his ribs. 

“Stay with me!” Sirius snarled, dragging Harry behind cover. “You bloody idiot, you could’ve been killed!”

Harry clutched his wand, jaw clenched. “They said – you were –”

“I know what they said. But I’m here. Focus. We fight, we survive. Understood?”

Another spell came from the left. Sirius whirled and fired a stunner that launched a Death Eater into the wall. 

Remus dropped beside them seconds later, blood on his sleeve and madness in his eyes. “Tonks is covering the left flank. Moody’s holding the Death Chamber. We’re outnumbered but we’re not outmatched.”

“Then let’s end this,” Sirius said, standing. 

Remus glanced at him. “Try not to die, yeah?”

“No promises.”

Sirius moved like fury incarnate – hex after hex, blasting through the Death Eaters with feral precision. But he never strayed far from Harry. 

His godson was brilliant. Reckless. Terrifying. 

But still just a boy . 

And Sirius knew, with a cold certainty growing in his gut, that he would die a hundred deaths to keep Harry alive. 

A shadow loomed behind him. He turned just in time. 

Bellatrix. 

She moved like flame. 

Sirius didn’t notice her at first – his world had narrowed to Bellatrix’s shrieking laughter and the deadly rhythm of his wand arm – but when the hex hit, when Bellatrix screamed, when a wand clattered across the floor…

That’s when he saw her. 

Hermione Granger stood across the chamber, shoulders squared, wand extended, a thin trail of blood trickling from her temple. Her spell had struck true – Bellatrix clutched her arm, howling, rage twisting her face into something demonic. 

Sirius couldn’t speak. 

Could barely breathe. 

She had saved him. 

She – brilliant, impossibly brave, infuriatingly reckless – Hermione. 

“Kitten,” he whispered, breath stolen. 

But he never got the chance to thank her. 

Because the instant she lowered her wand, exhausted but glowing, a jagged pulse of violet light tore through the air and struck her straight in the side. 

The sound she made wasn’t a scream. 

It was worse. 

It was silence. A sharp intake of breath. A collapse like the bones had been torn from her body. Her wand fell first. Then she crumpled to the floor. 

“No –” Sirius roared. 

Across the room, Dolohov lowered his wand and grinned like a wolf. 

“Pretty little know-it-all,” he called. “Wonder how long she’ll last.”

And with a wink – 

He vanished. 

“ Hermione!”

Harry was the first to reach her. The skidded to his knees beside her fallen form, his hands trembling violently as he pressed against her side, trying to stanch blood that wouldn’t stop. 

Remus dropped beside him, already muttering spells, his voice a tight, panicked chant. 

Sirius stood frozen. 

The world swam around him. Blood. Screams. Ash. Bellatrix was gone. The battle had moved. But all he could see was the girl on the ground. The girl who saved him. His kitten. 

Not moving. 

Not breathing. 

He dropped to his knees. “Move aside,” he barked – too harsh, too loud – but Harry obeyed. 

Sirius pressed two fingers to her throat. 

Nothing. 

Then – faint. A flutter. 

A gasp like torn paper, shallow and weak. 

“She’s alive,” he said, voice hoarse. “She’s still - she’s –”

“Her ribs are shattered,” Remus said. “The hex was modified. There’s internal bleeding. If we don’t get her out now –”

“We’re getting her out,” Sirius snapped. 

He gathered her in his arms. She was too light. Too limp. Her blood was soaking through his shirt, hot and terrifying. 

“We’ve got to move,” Remus warned. “More Death Eaters will be back any minute.”

Sirius looked down at the girl cradled against his chest. 

Not a girl. 

A hero. 

A witch who’d saved his life without hesitation. 

And now lay broken in his arms. 

“Hold on, kitten,” he murmured, brushing her hair from her brow. “Don’t you fucking leave me now.”

* * *

There was blood under his nails. His robes were scorched at the hem. And his heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he’d watched her fall. 

Remus Lupin sat beside the bed in absolute stillness, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly as if in prayer. The low golden glow of healing wards pulsed across Hermione’s unconscious form, casting her in light that looked too holy for a house like Grimmauld Place. 

He hated this house. Always had. 

But tonight, it felt like the only safe place left in the world. 

Hermione’s breathing was shallow, uneven, but present . He could see her chest rise and fall beneath the blanket Sirius had thrown over her – not the soft, Order-issued wool ones Poppy favoured, but a Black family heirloom, heavy with ancient charms and warmer than any of them would ever admit. 

Her side was wrapped in thick bandages layered with rune-stitched healing spells. Her curls were matted with blood, tangled against the pillow. Her wand – cracked but intact – lay on the table beside her, as if waiting for her to wake. 

She had no idea how close she’d come. 

No idea how much she mattered. 

Not just to Harry. Not just to the war. 

To them . 

To him . 

The door creaked open, but Remus didn’t look up. He recognized Poppy Pomfrey’s footsteps the same way he’d recognize a heartbeat. 

“Still here, Lupin?” she said gently. 

“I said I’d stay until you got here.”

“You didn’t leave the room.”

“I didn’t want to.”

Poppy exhaled through her nose and set down her bag with a heavy thump. “You haven’t changed. Still stubborn. Still too quiet.”

She moved to Hermione’s bedside and cast a quick diagnostic charm, frowning thoroughly at the readouts hovering in the air – pale green symbols that pulsed in rhythm with Hermione’s vitals. 

Remus watched in silence. 

“Stabilized cardiac rhythm,” she murmured. “Minimal magical scarring so far. Internal bleeding has stopped… Boned reknitting on pace. Scar tissue –” she squinted, “ –forming, but manageable.”

“She’ll make it?” he asked, barely able to say the words aloud. 

Poppy turned to him, eyes softer now. “She’ll survive.”

Remus exhaled shakily. 

“ But,” she added, “that curse is no joke. Dolohov modified it – darkened it. It was meant to kill her. What you did… the spell layering, the stasis hold – you gave me just enough time to reverse the spread. Another minute and – well.”

She didn’t finish the sentence. 

Remus stared down at his hands. His knuckles were still raw from where he’d grabbed Hermione’s ribcage to anchor the binding spell. 

“I just reacted,” he said. “Instinct.”

“Don’t belittle it,” Poppy snapped, placing her wand on the nightstand. “You reacted faster than most trained Healers would’ve. That girl owed you her life.”

Remus’s throat tightened. He looked back at Hermione.

Her brow twitched in sleep. Her mouth parted slightly, like she was dreaming of something too heavy to speak aloud. 

“She’s just a child,” he murmured. 

“No,” Poppy said quietly. “She was. Now she’s something else. They all are.”

Remus looked at her then. “What do you mean?”

“She walked into that battle knowing she might die. Cast magic I haven’t seen outside the war wards of St. Mungo’s. She didn’t flinch, Remus. She didn’t hesitate.”

Poppy adjusted the salve stones hovering above Hermione’s abdomen. The glow brightened faintly, warming the room. 

“She’s going to bear a scar,” she said after a moment. “A bad one. Deep, right over the ribs. And it’s going to ache when it rains.”

Remus smiled faintly. “She’ll hate that.”

“She’ll adapt . Because she always does.”

They stood in silence for a while, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of Hermione’s breathing. It was the only sound that mattered. 

Then Poppy placed a gentle hand on Remus’s shoulders. “Go tell the others. They’re all in the kitchen, waiting like ghosts. I’ll stay with her. The sleeping draught will keep her under for hours. She won’t wake until morning – if then.”

Remus hesitated. His hand brushed Hermione’s wrist before he stood. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

“She doesn’t need me, ” Poppy said softly. “She has you. All of you.”

Remus swallowed around the lump in his throat and left the room. 

*

The first thing Remus noticed when he stepped into the kitchen was the silence. 

No murmured spells. No chairs scraping. No coughing, no tea brewing, no idle conversation. Just the tense, unbearable quiet of waiting. 

Sirius stood near the fireplace, pacing like a caged animal. Harry sat at the far end of the table, face pale, eyes sunken. Ron looked hollowed out, his fists clenched, red-eyed but silent. 

Molly had her arms around Ginny. Arthur sat beside Fred and George, who for once weren’t speaking. 

All heads turned when Remus entered. 

“She’s alive,” he said simply. 

The breath in the room released at once. 

Molly sobbed and pressed her face into Ginny’s hair. Harry covered his eyes with his hands and shook. Ron let out a harsh exhale and dropped his forehead to the table. 

But Sirius – Sirius didn’t move. 

He stared at Remus like he hadn’t heard. 

“She’s alive,” Remus repeated, firmer this time. “She’s stable. Poppy’s with her now. She won’t wake for a while, but… she’s going to be okay.”

Still, Sirius said nothing. 

“Mate,” Fred croaked, voice cracking. “Did you hear him?”

“She saved me,” Sirius whispered. 

Everyone went still. 

“She – she aimed right at Bella. Just appeared . Like fire. And then she fell.”

His voice was hoarse. Ashen. 

“I thought she was dead.”

Remus stepped toward him, but Siriys turned away sharply. “I need air.”

“Sirius –”

“Don’t,” Sirius snapped. “Don’t try to soothe me, Remus. Not now.”

And without another word, he stormed out of the kitchen and up the stairs, vanishing into the corridor like smoke. 

*

The house was still. Not in peace – Grimmauld Place never knew peace – but in that exhausted, post-storm kind of silence that clings to bloodied hands and breathless survivors. The kind that made Remus feel like an imposter inside his own skin. 

He found Sirius outside Hermione’s door, back against the wall, long legs stretched out across the hallway floor. A half-drink bottle of firewhisky rested by his thigh. His wand was across his lap. He hadn’t taken off his boots. 

His eyes were trained on the closed door as though it might open and swallow him whole. 

Remus approached slowly, boots silent against the threadbare rug. He didn’t speak right away. 

There was something sacred about grief in silence. 

“I didn’t know she was that strong,” Sirius murmured after a moment. 

His voice was rasped raw, like it had been dragged through broken glass. 

Remus sat beside him, shoulders just close enough to touch. 

“I did,” he said. 

Sirius barked a hollow laugh. “Of course you did. You always saw things clearer than me.”

“She’s brilliant,” Remus continued. “Unflinchingly brave. Dangerous, when she wants to be. But she’s still a child, Pads.”

“That’s the part that’s killing me.”

Sirius tipped his head back against the wall, jaw tense, eyes glass in the dim corridor light. “She walked into that cursed chamber with her wand out and her head high. Not a hint of fear in her eyes. Took on Bella like she was nothing. She didn’t even hesitate, Moony. She saved me .”

Remus nodded slowly. “It reminded you of them.”

Sirius didn’t need to ask who ‘ them’ was. 

He stared straight ahead. “It was like watching James and Lily all over again. Harry with that stupid Gryffindor fire in his eyes. Hermione holding the line like Lily used to – brilliant and stubborn and always, always too willing to throw herself in front of someone else.”

There was a beat of quiet. 

“They’re just kids , Remus.”

“I know.”

“They shouldn’t be in this war. They shouldn’t be fighting Death Eaters, bleeding on Ministry floors, lying broken in beds that reek of blood magic and old ghosts.” He pointed toward the door without looking at it, “That girl nearly died because we didn’t stop it. Because we weren’t fast enough.”

Remus closed his eyes. 

That guilt – that sour, gnawing guilt – had been in his chest since the moment they’d arrived in the Department of Mysteries too late to stop the first curse from flying. It settled there like a second heartbeat. 

“You think I don’t feel it too?” he said softly. “Every time I see Harry flinch in his sleep, or Ron look over his shoulder like someone’s about to hex him again – I feel it. This was supposed to end with us. We were supposed to fix it.”

“And we didn’t.”

“No,” Remus whispered. “We didn’t.”

They sat in the dark, the house creaking softly around them, old wood shifting like bones. 

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I saw Harry standing over Ron, shielding him with his own body. He looked – he looked like James in that last duel with Dolohov. Do you remember that? The last time before – before everything went to hell.”

“I remember.”

“James was always reckless,” Sirius said. “But Harry – he’s something else. It’s not just reckless. It’s resigned . Like he’s accepted that he has to die, and he’s just trying to make it count.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. You see it too, don’t you? In the way he talks. The way he looks at us. Like he’s already a ghost.”

Remus rubbed a hand down his tired face. 

“He’s sixteen, Sirius. And someone handed him a prophecy and said, ‘Here. Die for us.’” His voice cracked. “We should have done more. We should have – something .”

“Dumbledore needs to tell us everything.”

“Dumbledore has told us enough already.”

“No,” Sirius said bitterly. “He has told us just  enough to make us complicit and not enough to actually save anyone.”

Remus couldn’t argue with that. 

Sirius stared ahead, jaw tight. “But she was brilliant. Terrifying. And it scared the hell out of me. Because she’s still Hermione , Moony. Still the girl that carried that bag everywhere. The one who brings tea when you’re fevered. The one who cried when Crookshanks killed a bloody spider.”

“I know.”

“And yet tonight, she was pure fire.”

Remus nodded. “That’s what makes it worse, doesn’t it? Seeing what they’re becoming.”

“They’re not meant to be warriors,” Sirius said. “They’re meant to be students . Dating, fighting over exams, sneaking out past curfew. Not bleeding for us. Not killing for us.”

“And yet here we are,” Remus said bitterly. “Letting them.”

Sirius leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders slumped with the weight of everything they’d failed to prevent.

“I thought I was angry when Azkaban took twelve years from me,” he murmured. “But nothing compared to this. To watching her fall. To thinking – this is what we’ve come to. A world where a seventeen-year-old witch dies saving the man who was supposed to protect her.”

“She didn’t die.”

“No,” Sirius said, voice tight. “But something in me did.”

Remus closed his eyes, jaw clenched, throat tight. 

They stayed like that for a long time, two tired men on the floor of a haunted house, sitting outside the door of a girl who never should’ve had to bleed for them. 

Chapter Text

Two years later. 

Grimmauld Place had never been quiet. Not really. 

Even with the portrait silenced and the doxies cleared, the old house still groaned like it remembered every footstep. Every secret whispered behind its walls. It had become headquarters, hospital, home – depending on the hour and who you asked. 

Tonight, it was a war room. 

The kitchen was packed wall to wall with every member of the Order who could be spared. The hearth blazed, the table overflowed with maps, parchment, and mugs of untouched tea, and the tension in the room was thick enough to chew. 

Hermione Granger sat near the far end, quill poised, brows drawn. She no longer looked like the girl Sirius remembered from two years ago. Her curls were still wild but now half-tamed into a practical braid. Her shoulders were broader, her robes darker, more utilitarian. And her eyes – Merlin, her eyes. 

She no longer looked like a schoolgirl. 

She looked like a soldier. 

And tonight, she was writing history. 

Across from her stood Harry, leaner than he’d been at sixteen, cheeks hollowed by the weight he never got to set down. He had just spoken. Told them everything. The table was silent. 

“Horcruxes,” Sirius repeated, voice low. “You’re telling me he split his soul. Multiple times.”

Harry nodded. “Six. Seven, technically.”

“Bloody hell,” Fred muttered, eyes wide. 

“No, no, ” Molly said, voice rising as she surged to her feet. “This – this is madness . Albus knew? He knew this and didn’t tell us? He expected Harry – ”

“He trusted me,” Harry said softly.

“Trusted you to do what, exactly?” she snapped. “To destroy fragments of a madman’s soul like it’s a school project? You’re eighteen , Harry!”

“And I’ve survived more than most people twice my age,” he replied evenly. “I didn’t ask for this. But I’m not walking away from it either.”

Molly looked ready to retort, but Arthur placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Let’s hear the rest, love. Please.”

She sat, lips white. 

Sirius hadn’t said another word. He was staring at Harry like he was seeing someone else entirely. 

Finally, it was Remus who broke the silence. “How many do we know about?”

Harry glanced at Hermione. 

She straightened, voice crisp. “We’ve confirmed four. The diary was destroyed in second year, as you all know. The ring – Dumbledore handled himself. There’s a locket, which we believe is hidden somewhere tied to Regulus Black.”

Sirius’s head snapped up. “ Regulus? ”

“We think he tried to take it,” Hermione said. “The initials in the note left behind in the cave match. We’re going to need your help with the Black family records.”

Sirius nodded slowly, stunned into silence. 

“The fourth,” Harry said grimly, “was Hufflepuff’s cup. We believe it’s in Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault at Gringotts. We overheard Malfoy telling his cronies about his aunt Bella holding something important for the Dark Lord.”

A low hiss spread around the room. 

“And the rest?” Kingsley asked. 

“We’re still researching,” Hermione answered. “But we think one is tied to Ravenclaw – perhaps her diadem – and…” She hesitated. “There’s reason to believe he intended one more. Something living.”

“His snake,” Harry said. 

“You think his snake is a horcrux?” Arthur asked, incredulous. 

“We think so,” Hermione said. “We’re still collecting evidence.”

“And what about you?” Molly said, looking between them. “Do you honestly think the three of you can do this alone?”

“We’re not alone,” Hermione said, voice firm. “We never were. And that’s why it’s going to work.”

She pushed forward with a new set of scrolls. 

“The Order has reach,” she continued, unfurling maps and assignments. “Safe houses. Allies. Access to Gringotts, through goblin intermediaries. Ancient records, through Arthur and Bill. If we want to win, we use everything. Everyone . This isn’t Harry’s burden alone anymore.”

Something powerful settled over the room at her words. 

Not just resolve. Not just unity. 

Belief.

Kingsley leaned forward, reading over the map. “We split into task teams.”

Remus nodded. “Decentralized movements. If you-know-who catches wind of this, we can’t all be exposed at once.”

“We’ll need decoys,” Tonks added. “Diversions.”

“And a rotation at headquarters,” Arthur said. “Someone has to stay behind, guard Grimmauld and the intelligence here.”

“Done,” Hermione said, making notes. 

Sirius, who hadn’t spoken in minutes, finally stood. His voice was quiet – but clear. 

“What’s my assignment?”

Hermione looked up. 

Their eyes met. 

It was brief. Just a flicker. 

But something passed between them in that moment. Not affection. Not exactly. 

But recognition. 

Respect. 

And the quiet, humming knowledge that something in the air had changed. 

* * *

It still smelled like him. 

Faintly. Under the layers of dust, rot, and moth-bitten velvet. Something familiar – that specific mix of sandalwood and Black heirloom cologne Walburga used to insist her sons wear to functions. 

Regulus’s room was smaller than Sirius remembered. Less grand. The boy had always tried to shrink himself, to stay unnoticed until it was too late. His bed was stripped, the wardrobe locked, and the only living thing in the room was the layer of shadow curling around the edges like memory. 

Sirius crouched in front of the trunk at the foot of the bed, wand lit. 

The heavy iron lock resisted at first, but he knew its language. Knew the feel of his brother’s spellcraft. Regulus had always been precise – painfully so. 

With a whispered countercharm, the lid creaked open. 

Inside lay a dozen bound journals, a collection of formal robes, stacks of Ministry papers – some stained with dried ink, others with dried blood. There were scrolls sealed with the Black family crest, and tucked beneath them all, a velvet pouch he recognized instantly. 

“Salazar’s sake, Reg,” Sirius muttered. “What the hell were you hiding?”

He reached for the top journal – the one dated in careful script:

“ R.A.B. – Year of Defection. ”

He didn’t get the chance to open it. 

Footsteps on the stairs. A pause. Then a knock at the open door. 

“Hey.”

Harry. 

He looked older by years, even though only months had passed since Sirius had seen him last. His jaw was more defined, his frame wirier, tension carved into every inch of him. The boy had learned to stand like a soldier. 

Sirius tried to smile, but it cracked. 

“Come to interrupt my brooding?”

Harry gave a half-smile. “Only if you promise not to hex me for it.”

Sirius nodded toward a stool by the wall. Harry took it, glancing around the room with a quiet reverence, as though expecting Regulus’s ghost to rise from the floorboards. 

“I didn’t know you ever came in here,” Harry said. 

“I didn’t,” Sirius admitted. “Not after… everything. But Hermione seems to think he left something useful behind.”

“She’s probably right.”

“She usually is.”

Another silence stretched, but this one wasn’t uncomfortable. 

“I’ve been watching you,” Harry said quietly. “You’ve been quiet since the meeting.”

Sirius raised a brow. “That supposed to mean something?” 

“It means I know you. And I know what happened two years ago never left you. Just like it didn’t leave me.”

Sirius let out a long breath. He didn’t look at Harry – couldn’t. 

“I see her fall every time I close my eyes.”

Harry’s throat bobbed. 

“I see Dolohov’s smirk,” Sirius continued, voice low. “I feel her weight in my arms. I remember thinking, this is it. This is where it all ends. Not with glory. Not with vengeance. But with a girl bleeding out in my arms.”

Harry looked away. “I thought you were dead. That’s why I ran in. I thought Voldemort had you.”

“I know,” Sirius said. “And I should’ve been. Maybe I would’ve been, if she hadn’t –”

He cut himself off, rubbing a hand down his face. 

Harry stood, crossing the room. He placed a hand on Sirius’s shoulder – strong, steady. 

“You’re not the only one who’s haunted,” he said. “But we’re still here. And we’re going to finish this.”

Sirius looked up at him, pride and pain warring in his chest. 

“You sound like James when you say that,” he said softly. 

Harry gave a sad smile. “I just hope I get to live longer.”

A knock at the doorframe broke the moment. 

“Sorry – am I interrupting?”

Hermione. 

She stepped into the doorway, already halfway through a sentence before either of them could answer. “I was just wondering if you’d heard from Kreacher recently. Since you’re – well, technically – you’re still his master.”

Sirius let out a groan and leaned back against the bedframe. “Merlin, him? No. And I haven’t called for him, either.”

Hermione frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I hate the little wretch. He’s spiteful, twisted, and still worships the worst of our kind. I’d rather set myself on fire.”

Harry glanced warily at Hermione. “Er – maybe not the best metaphor…”

Hermione crossed her arms. “He was close to Regulus, wasn’t he?”

Sirius stilled. 

“That’s what you said once,” she continued. “That Kreacher adored your brother. Followed him everywhere. Trusted him.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. 

“Regulus trusted him, too,” she said. “He made Kreacher part of whatever plan he had with the locket. He died because of it.”

“I know, ” Sirius snapped. 

Hermione blinked. He closed his eyes and exhaled. 

“I know,” he repeated, quieter. “I just… I can’t look at Kreacher without thinking of everything he stood for. Everything I ran from.”

“I understand,” she said, voice softer now. “But this isn’t about you or him. It’s about Regulus. And whatever he did, however he died – he may have been our first real defector. And Kreacher may be the only thread we have left to pull.”

Sirius stared at her. 

Older now. Stronger. Clear-eyed. Sharp as ever. And when she looked at him like that – unflinching, honest, undaunted – something in his chest twisted. 

She wasn’t the girl from the Department of Mysteries anymore. 

And that terrified him. 

“Alright, kitten. I’ll call for him,” he said at last. “Tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” she said. 

Their eyes met. 

And for the briefest moment, Sirius saw the ghost of the girl she’d been once. Before fire. Before war. 

Before she had saved his life. 

*

The fire was low, the morning grey, and Sirius already regretted everything. 

He stood in the centre of the old drawing room, arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw clenched. The others were arranged in a loose semi-circle – Remus by the mantel, eyes sharp but unreadable. Harry and Ron near the windows, already tense. Hermione seated stiffly in the wingback chair, hands clasped in her lap, as composed as ever. 

Sirius’s wand was in hand, though he hadn’t meant to hold it. His grip was white-knuckled. 

The room pulsed with unease. 

He exhaled. 

“Kreacher.”

The name was barely spoken above a growl, but it was enough. With a sound like bones cracking under floorboards, the old house-elf appeared in the centre of the room, hunched and sneering, his thin arms dangling like twigs. 

He looked worse than Sirius remembered – matted hair, yellowed eyes, skin like cracked parchment. But it was the smile that made his blood run cold. 

“ Master,” Kreacher rasped, bowing low with exaggerated disdain. “What an honour. Kreacher lives to serve the last pitiful stain of the Noble and Most Ancient House of –”

“Spare me,” Sirius snapped. “You know why you’re here.”

Kreacher’s eyes flickered around the room – to Harry, and then Ron, and finally Hermione. When they landed on her, he sneered with venomous delight. 

“Ohh, but what is this, Master? The filthy Mudblood sits in the Black family chairs now, does she?” His lips curled. “Stinking up the ancestral air. As if the old Mistress didn’t scream loud enough when she died –”

“ Do not say another word about her,” Sirius roared, wand raised. 

Kreacher flinched but didn’t cower. 

“You lost the right to loyalty when you spat on the only person in this house who gave a damn about you,” Sirius growled. “But I’m still your master. So you’re going to answer my questions. And you’re going to answer them now. ”

Kreacher turned his head slowly toward the fire, shoulders slumped in theatrical reluctance. 

“ Tch . As Master commands.”

“Tell us everything about Regulus,” Sirius said. “About the locket. About what he did.”

A flicker crossed Kreacher’s face. Something more than hatred. Something like… pain. 

He muttered under his breath, fingers twitching. 

“Speak up,” Sirius ordered. 

Kreacher inhaled through his teeth and glared at the flames. 

“Master Regulus was… good,” he whispered. “Better than all of them. Better than you . He was kind. Clever. And he understood. ”

“Understood what?” Harry asked, stepping closer. 

“That the Dark Lord was mad, ” Kreacher snapped. “That he had made things – dark things. Unholy things. And one day, he summoned Kreacher. Said there was a task.”

The room went very still. 

Hermione leaned forward slightly. “The cave?”

Kreacher nodded slowly, eyes glassy now. 

“Yes. The Dark Lord took Kreacher to the cave. Made him drink the potion in the basin. Pain. Screaming. It burned. And when it was done – he left him there . Alone. Dying.”

Hermione’s hand covered her mouth. 

“But Master Regulus called Kreacher back,” the elf said, with the faintest shimmer of pride. “He saved Kreacher. And then he made a plan. Said they would go back. Take the locket. Replace it with a fake.”

Ron’s voice was soft. “So he knew.”

“He knew,” Kreacher whispered. 

“And he went anyway.”

The elf nodded. 

“He drank the potion himself. Told Kreacher to take the locket. Told Kreacher to leave him there. ”

Silence fell like a curse. 

Sirius felt the weight of it settle in his chest like a stone. His brother. Seventeen. Alone in a hellish cave, dying for a cause no one would understand for another twenty years. 

“And the locket?” Hermione asked gently. “Where is it?”

Kreacher’s face twisted. “Gone.”

Sirius stepped forward. “Gone where ?”

“It was here,” Kreacher said, voice trembling. “For years. Kreacher kept it safe while Master was… away . But then the thieves came. The blood traitor, the one who steals things –”

“Mundungus,” Remus muttered. “He raided the house.”

Kreacher nodded. “He took it. Kreacher tried to stop him, but the wards – too weak, too broken. He stole the locket. Sold it.”

“To who?” Sirius demanded. 

Kreacher blinked slowly. 

“To a Ministry woman. Thick neck. Smelled like cats. Kreacher followed. Kreacher saw.”

Hermione’s head shot up. 

“ Umbridge.”

Sirius turned to her, eyes wide. “You’re sure?”

“She wore it. At Harry’s hearing. I thought it was just a necklace –”

“Bloody hell,” Ron said, pale. 

“Then we know where to go next,” Harry said. 

Sirius looked at Kreacher again. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel rage. He felt something closer to grief. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, voice hoarse. “All these years.”

Kreacher looked up at him with rheumy eyes. 

“Because you never asked.”

* * *

The fire in the library had burned low, casting dancing gold against the bookshelves that lined the room like guards. The only sounds were the scratch of quill on parchment and the occasional creak of the old leather chair Hermione had curled herself into – one leg tucked beneath her, brows furrowed, focus razor-sharp. 

She was drafting the infiltration plan. 

Because she had to. 

Because there was no alternative. 

Because Dolores Umbridge – smug, petty, cruel Dolores – was walking around the Ministry of Magic with a piece of Voldemort’s soul around her neck like a trinket, and time was running out. 

She barely noticed the door swing open. 

“Hermione.”

She looked up, startled. Sirius stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He looked tired – but not in the usual way. Not in the haunted, sharp-eyed way he carried most days. This was something else. 

Tightly leashed frustration.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked, stepping inside and motioning toward the parchment. 

She straightened. “It’s a rough outline. A strategy for breaking into the Ministry. I’m working through the security layers now.”

“No.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I said no,” Sirius repeated, voice low, hard. 

“Sirius –”

“I said no,” he snapped, crossing the room in three long strides. He snatched the parchment from the table and glanced over it. “You’re not doing this.”

“I don’t remember asking for permission,” she shot back, standing now. “This isn’t a one-man operation. We’re in a war, and this is a key step –”

“Exactly. It’s war,” he growled, tossing the parchment onto the table. “And the last time you walked into that place, you nearly died.”

The words hit like a slap. 

She swallowed, stunned by the sharpness in his voice. 

He ran a hand through his hair and turned away briefly, as if to collect himself. “You don’t get to throw yourself into the fire again. Not like that. Not under my watch .”

The room cracked with silence. 

“I’m not a child,” Hermione said at last, voice calm but firm. “You don’t get to decide –”

“You are my responsibility,” he interrupted, turning back. “And I’m not watching you bleed out in my arms a second time, Hermione.”

She froze. 

He rarely used her name like that. Not when they were alone. Not when his voice cracked like it had now. 

Then, softer, rougher – 

“...Kitten.”

Her heart stuttered. 

He rarely said that anymore either. Not since she stopped being the girl he teased and started becoming the woman he watched too long across rooms. 

Her expression faltered. 

“Sirius,” she said gently. “I understand. I do. But what choice do we have? We can’t leave it there. We can’t wait. Every day she wears it is another day the Dark Lord’s magic seeps further into the Ministry.”

His jaw clenched. He turned away again. 

“I can’t lose another person I –”

He didn’t finish the sentence. 

He didn’t need to. 

Hermione closed the space between them and placed a hand on his arm. 

“I’m not yours to lose,” she whispered. 

He looked at her, something dangerous in his eyes. But before he could respond – 

A throat cleared at the door. 

Remus. 

“I might have an alternative,”

Hermione pulled back slightly, startled. Sirius didn’t move.

Remus stepped into the room, coat draped over one arm, his expression all calm calculation. 

“You’re right,” he said. “We can’t send her in. Not like that. Not exposed. But Voldemort hasn’t taken full control yet. There are cracks.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Go on.”

“Nymphadora’s still at the Ministry,” Remus said. “She’s half-blood. On maternity leave technically, but not dismissed. The new regime hasn’t pushed her out yet, not with her family name still useful and her extended bloodline still intact.”

“You would risk that? She’s everything to you Remus, I couldn’t ask you to –”

“I like that you think I have a say in anything Dora does.” Remus said. Smiling fondly. “She would do anything for us.”

Hermione stepped forward, mind already spinning. “If she can sneak us in through the Auror entrance – disguised, brief window – we might be able to get to Umbridge’s office.”

“And if we’re quick,” Remus added, “we’ll be out before the trace is raised. No spellfire. No unnecessary attention.”

Sirius remained silent, clearly weighing every risk like it was a weapon in his palm. 

Hermione laid a hand gently on his wrist. “We’ll do it smartly. Carefully. Not like last time.”

He looked at her for a long, weighted beat. 

Then gave a short nod. 

“Fine. But I’m going with you.”

Hermione smirked. “I was counting on it.”

* * *

The table was crowded again. 

Maps, reports, and copies of false Ministry IDs littered the wood, but Sirius hadn’t touched a single sheet. He sat rigid in his chair, jaw tight, eyes pinned on the parchment in front of Hermione as she calmly marked entry and exit paths in neat, looping script. 

Across from her, Tonks adjusted the strap of her gear pack and conjured a smaller glamoured prototype badge. Beside her – looking wildly out of place in his crisp pinstripe robes – stood Percy Weasley, shifting nervously on the balls of his feet. 

“I still don’t like it,” Sirius growled. 

“You don’t have to,” Remus said, standing near the fireplace, voice neutral. 

“You’re sending her in,” Sirius snapped, gesturing toward Hermione. “With him .”

Percy blinked. “I beg your pardon –?”

“And you’re telling me I’m staying behind ?” 

“Yes,” Remus said flatly. “You and Harry both.”

Sirius stood sharply. “The hell we are.”

Harry echoed the movement. “ What? ”

“Your faces are known,” Remus said, raising his voice slightly above the brewing storm. “Harry, you’re the Chosen One. There are wanted posters of you in every major square across Britain. And Sirius – you’re the Ministry’s favourite bogeyman after You-Know-Who himself.”

Tonks tried to interject. “Remus –”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t personal. It’s tactical. Tonks is still listed as inactive, but not compromised. Percy’s position grants him access to restricted levels. And Hermione will be glamoured beyond recognition. They’re the least likely to draw suspicion.”

“I can hold my own,” Sirius said. “And Hermione –”

“Will be protected,” Remus snapped. “And she’s also the only one besides Harry who’s studied Umbridge's habits, her routes, her tells. We need someone with brains and control. Not brute force.”

Hermione looked up at that, expression unreadable. “I volunteered.”

Sirius turned to her. “That’s not the point, Kitten.”

She stood then, quietly but firmly. “Yes, it is.”

“Do you know what she’s capable of?” he asked. “What she’ll do to you if she catches on?”

Hermione’s voice was calm, almost too calm. “Yes, I do.”

He stared at her, aching, frustrated. 

Ron stood then, face red and jaw clenched. “You’re seriously okay with Percy watching your back? I don’t give a damn how many Ministry badges he’s kissed.”

Percy cleared his throat, quietly offended. “I’m standing right here, Ronald.”

“You don’t get to pretend you’re one of us now,” Ron snapped. “You left.”

“Enough,” Hermione said sharply, cutting through the tension like steel. “This isn’t about Percy. It’s about what works.”

She turned to Sirius. “You know I can do this. You taught me half of what I’ll use in there.”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her words clawed against everything that had settled in his chest since the Department of Mysteries. Since the moment her blood soaked into his shirt. 

Remus’s voice softened. “We’re not splitting the team, Padfoot. We’re preserving it.”

Sirius’s hands curled into fists. “So we just sit here and wait?”

“No,” Remus said. “You’ll be monitoring from here. If something goes wrong you, Harry and Ron will be our fastest response team.”

Hermione stepped forward, eyes locked with Sirius’s. 

“I need you here,” she said quietly. “I need to know you’re watching. That you’ll come if I call.”

His chest tightened at her words. 

She meant them with sincerity, but they felt like a knife. 

Finally, he gave a clipped nod. 

“One wrong word from her,” he said lowly, “and I’m coming through every ward in the bloody building.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Hermione said. 

Chapter Text

The silence in the kitchen was suffocating. 

Not the peace of conversation or the soft hum of domestic life – no, this was silence born of rage barely contained. It sat heavy over the room like a storm cloud, thick with tension and laced with guilt. 

Sirius paced. 

Harry sat stiffly in one of the chairs, fists clenched, jaw tight. Ron leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his glare fixed on the empty hearth as if daring it to spark. 

None of them were talking. Not really. 

Not since the door had closed behind Hermione. 

Not since she’d gone. 

Again. 

Molly stood near the kettle, hands wringing a tea towel she wasn’t using. Arthur sat at the head of the table, eyes lowered, glasses perched uselessly at the end of his nose. 

“She’ll be fine,” Molly said, too brightly. 

No one answered. 

“She’s with Tonks,” she continued, voice wobbling now. “And Percy. And you said it yourself, Remus made the plan airtight –”

“Don’t,” Sirius snapped, voice low and dangerous. 

Molly blinked. 

“I am supposed to protect them all,” he said. “ All of them. But the one who bled out in my arms is walking back into that place.”

“Sirius –”

“And Remus is treating it like some bloody holiday trip,” he added, pacing faster now. “Taking her right back into the belly of the beast like it’s routine .”

Arthur cleared his throat gently. “Remus is going what needs to be done.”

“She’s nineteen!”

“So will both Harry and Ron be in a few short months…”

Sirius turned to look at the boys sat at the table. “And do you think you should be there too? That either of you should.”

Ron spoke before Harry could.

“She shouldn’t be going with Percy, that’s for sure.”

Arthur sighed. “Ronald.”

“You think he’s changed?” Ron barked. “You think handing Hermione to him fixes everything?”

“Percy wants to help –”

“He wants to redeem himself, ” Sirius snapped. “That’s not the same as protecting someone.”

Arthur’s voice grew harder. “He’s still her teammate now. And he’ll do everything he can to keep her safe.”

“Oh, will he? ” Ron said bitterly. “He’s always had a sweet spot for her, hasn’t he? That’s all he’s doing. Fucking leering.”

Sirius stiffened. 

Arthur blinked. “Ron, that’s –”

“Don’t,” Sirius said sharply. “Don’t say another word.”

But Ron was fuming now. “He used to watch her all the time. Back when she stayed with us over summers. Always wanted to study with her, ask her about classes, compliment her bloody handwriting –”

“ Ronald Weasley!” Molly hissed. 

Sirius shoved his chair back so hard it nearly fell. He was standing now, breathing hard. 

“If he so much as looks at her the wrong way –”

“He won’t,” Arthur said. “I wouldn’t have allowed it if I thought he –”

The door burst open before anyone could stop Sirius from punching something. 

“ Oi! ” Fred called out cheerfully. “Are we interrupting the annual Staring Into the Void and Contemplating Murder club?”

“Because we brought biscuits,” George added, tossing a paper bag onto the table. 

Fred sniffed. “Tension in here is thick enough to transfigure into a Crup.”

Harry cracked the ghost of a smile.

Ron grunted. “Hermione’s on a mission at the Ministry. With Percy.”

Fred and George paused mid-step. 

“Oh,” George said. 

Fred blinked. “Damn.”

There was a beat of silence. 

“Biscuit?” George offered again, this time more gently. 

Molly sighed and rubbed her temples. Arthur pushed a cup toward Sirius.

But Sirius didn’t take the tea. 

He reached past it, opened the lower cupboard, and pulled out the bottle of firewhisky he kept stashed behind the spare cauldrons. 

Molly flinched. “Sirius –”

“I’ll keep it to one,” he muttered. 

He wouldn’t. 

He didn’t want to. 

Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw her again – wand drawn, chin lifted, stepping into that place like she belonged there. 

And all he could think was: What if I never see her walk back out?

He poured the first glass and didn’t look up when it burned. 

*

The house had quieted. At last. 

The kitchen had emptied hours ago, Molly coaxed to bed by Arthur, Fred and George sent on distraction duty to the eastern outposts, and Remus withdrew into the old study to review security grid wards with Kingsley via mirror. Sirius had retreated to the landing above the main hall with a half-empty bottle in one hand and nothing but silence for company. 

He hadn’t meant to listen. 

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop like some brooding ghost lingering at the top of the stairs.

But when he heard Harry’s voice – low, sharp – say “ We’re not waiting anymore,” Sirius stilled, back pressed to the wall outside the drawing room door. 

Ron answered, equally hushed. “Soon as she’s back, we’ll go. No one’ll expect it.”

“We have the tent,” Harry murmured. “The map. The essentials. She’ll want to come –”

“I know she’ll want to come,” Ron hissed. “That’s the problem.”

Sirius froze. 

He didn’t mean to hold his breath, but it caught anyway. 

“We can’t risk her like that again,” Ron said. “She already took one curse for you, Harry. If she knew what we were planning –”

“She’ll figure it out.”

“Exactly,” Ron muttered. “She always does.”

Sirius’s chest was tight now. His fingers clenched around the bottle. 

Leave? They were going to leave?

Take Hermione and vanish into the night like fugitives?

His stomach twisted sharply. Not with anger. Not entirely. 

Something darker. More primal. It didn’t even make sense. 

Why the idea of her leaving – not them, not the war – but Hermione – sliced straight through him like splinters in old scars. 

He didn’t know when he moved, but the next thing he knew, the door to the drawing room banged open and both boys jerked upright like they’d been caught stealing Polyjuice. 

“I’ll make this clear once,” Sirius said, voice low and lethal. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Harry straightened, jaw already locked. “You can’t stop us.”

“The hell I can’t.”

Ron folded his arms. “We’re of age. This is our mission.”

“Funny,” Sirius said, stepping into the room. “I thought this was all our mission . Or is abandoning your best friend and your godfather now part of the strategy?”

Harry flushed. “It’s not like taht.”

“No?” Sirius stepped closer. “Then what is it like, Harry? You planning to sneak out, take her with you, and just hope the rest of us don’t notice the war walking out the front door?”

“It’s not about Hermione –”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Sirius’s voice cracked over the words. He hadn’t meant for it to. 

Both boys fell silent. 

He ran a hand through his hair, the bottle still dangling loosely from his fingers, forgotten now. 

“She’s not ready,” Ron muttered, breaking the silence. 

Sirius turned sharply. “She’s readier than both of you combined.”

“That’s the problem!” Ron burst out. “She’s always the one who charges in first, always the one who sacrifices something. She’ll follow us without question and it’ll kill her Sirius.”

The silence afterward was deafening.

And Sirius hated that Ron was right. 

“She died in my arms once, literally stopped breathing even for just a minute,” Sirius said quietly, without looking at them. “I won’t let it happen again. Not while I’m breathing.”

Harry lowered his head. 

And for the first time, Sirius heard the unsaid truth behind their plans. It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t defiance. 

It was fear. 

Fear of what would happen if they didn’t go. If they stayed and let the Order call the shots. If they lost her again, under someone else’s orders. 

“She’s not just someone you protect,” Sirius said softly, almost to himself. “She’s Hermione. And whether you like it or not… she gets to choose.”

Neither Harry nor Ron replied. 

Because they knew it too. 

And it terrified all of them.

Sirius turned toward the window, toward the street below. 

And tried not to ask himself why her leaving felt like something being torn out of his chest. 

*

The kitchen was dark except for the sullen orange flicker of the hearth and the low glimmer of the single lantern Sirius hadn’t bothered extinguishing. He liked it this way. Shadowed. Quiet. Familiar. 

The bottle of Ogden’s sat beside his hand, a few inches lower than it had been half an hour ago. His fingers curled around the rim of a tumbler as he swirled what was left of his pour, watching the amber liquid catch the light. 

Foolish boys. 

Running off into war like they understood it. Like they knew what it meant to carry a name soaked in blood, to watch friends die screaming, to bury your guilt in glass and silence and a house that remembered your sins louder than you did. 

They didn’t get it. 

They didn’t know what it was to watch someone like her – so bright, so blindingly brave – throw herself in front of a curse for you , and then look at you later like you were the hero. 

He hadn’t even thanked her properly. Not really. It had been two years, and she still bore the scar over her ribs. 

He drank. 

The kitchen door creaked open behind him. Sirius didn’t turn. 

“You always did sulk like a schoolboy when things didn’t go your way,” Molly said crisply. 

Sirius smirked into his glass. “And you always barge in when a man’s trying to enjoy his liquor in peace.”

“You call this peace?” She walked in, robes trailing over stone. “Looks more like avoidance to me.”

“I call it survival, Molly. Don’t get poetic on me.”

She moved to the hearth, peering at the low-burning logs. The silence stretched for a moment before she said, “She’ll be fine, Sirius.”

That word again. She.

He didn’t reply. 

“She’s capable. More than capable. She wouldn’t have been allowed to go otherwise.”

“Right,” Sirius drawled. “Because the Order’s so bloody wise in assigning missions. Good thing we didn’t let her go to the Department of Mysteries two years ago, isn’t it? Oh wait…”

Molly turned sharply, lips thinning. “You think I’ve forgotten what happened to her? You think I don’t wake up hearing her scream in that cursed hallway? Those kids followed Harry into the Ministry without a second thought, no one sent them there.”

Sirius flinched – not at her voice, but at the memory. 

He drained the last of his whisky and reached to refill it. 

“She needs those boys,” Molly went on, quieter now. “They balance her. Harry grounds her. Ron protects her –”

“Protects her?” Sirius laughed – low and bitter. “You mean the boy who wants her, can’t look at her in the eye without blushing, and follows her around like a lovesick Kneazle? That’s your idea of protection?”

Molly stiffened. “Don’t be cruel, Sirius.”

He looked over, eyes dark and red rimmed. “I’m not being cruel, Molly. I’m being honest.”

She tilted her chin. “Then be honest with yourself. You’re not angry that she’s gone without you. You’re angry that you’re not the one she turns to.”

Sirius stilled. 

His hands trembled slightly as he set the glass down. 

“She shouldn’t be anyone’s responsibility,” he said, voice low. “Not Harry’s. Not Ron’s. And certainly not mine.”

“Is that what she is to you?” Molly asked, quietly now. “A responsibility?”

“No,” he snapped. “She’s –”

But the words didn’t come. 

Because it wasn’t a word he could say. Not yet. And not to Molly of all people. 

Not when she was still nineteen and brilliant and untouchable, and he was… him. 

He raked a hand through his hair. 

“She’s not a girl anymore,” he said finally. “You look at her and see a student. I look at her and see –”

He shut his eyes. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. 

But Molly didn’t seem surprised. Just stern. Suspicious. 

“I see a woman,” he muttered. “All fire and fury. But softness, too. Light. That rare kind of light that doesn’t go out even when the world tries to snuff it.”

Molly studied him for a long, measured moment. 

“She’s not Lily, Sirius,” she said gently. “And are practically their father, but that doesn’t mean you can control them.”

The words hit harder than they should have. If only she knew. There was nothing fatherly in this. 

“I don’t need a lecture, Molly.”

“You don’t,” she agreed. “You need a truth you haven’t faced yet.”

Sirius didn’t respond. 

And Molly didn’t press. 

She turned, skirts swishing softly behind her as she left him to the silence and the glow of the hearth. 

When he was alone again, Sirius gripped the edge of the table and whispered into the darkness.

“She doesn’t need those boys.”

He said it like a prayer. Like a confession. Like the first thread of a secret that would one day unravel everything. 

“She doesn’t need anyone.”

But oh, how he wanted her to need him . 

* * *

There was a bang , a thump , a crash , and what might’ve been the distant sound of Percy Weasley swearing. 

Sirius jumped to his feet from the armchair where he’d been brooding and nursing his third pour. A split second later, the entire front hall lit up in a burst of magic as the front door rattled violently on its hinges and the heavy warding shimmered like cracked glass. 

“Bloody hell –” Sirius stormed toward the front entrance just as it burst open , revealing three very dishevelled, very alive witches and wizards. 

“Well, that was subtle,” Remus murmured dryly from behind him, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he emerged from the stairs. 

“We’re back,” came Hermione’s breathless voice, and that made Sirius’s heart stop for a beat longer than it should have. 

She stood in the middle of the trio – glamorous gone, hair windswept and wild, cloak singed at the edges, a smeared line of blood across her cheek like war paint. Her eyes burned bright with adrenaline. Alive. 

So alive. 

Tonks was limping slightly, her hair a violent purple, and Percy looked like someone had tried to shove him down a chimney. 

“Yes,” Hermione said through a panting breath, her eyes darting toward Sirius with a strange flicker of something he couldn’t name. “Yes, we got the locket.”

She pulled it from inside her cloak – a thick, ugly thing of twisted gold and dark intent. Even without touching it, Sirius could feel it humming with wrongness . 

“Brilliant,” Remus said, stepping forward. “Any injuries?”

“Percy got hexed in the arse,” Tonks offered, tossing her cloak into a hook. “I’ll let you guess which of us thinks that’s a tragedy.”

“I was pushed into that filing cabinet,” Percy muttered. 

Hermione grinned. Actually grinned – blood on her face and locket in hand. 

“Percy actually handled himself well,” she said, her voice low and proud. “Tonks, too. It wasn’t seamless, but we got out with only  minor bruises and… a few insults to Ministry furniture.”

Sirius crossed the room slowly. He wanted to touch her. To make sure she was real and whole and not bleeding somewhere she wasn’t showing. 

“You alright, kitten?”

The nickname slipped out before he could catch it.

Hermione blinked. A flush rose high in her cheeks, but she didn’t pull away. “Yes,” she said softly. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“I told you not to go.”

“And I didn’t listen,” she replied, lifting her chin. 

Defiant. So fucking stubborn.

It twisted something sharp and hot in Sirius’s gut. He could fix that stubbornness.

“I’ll take that drink now, if no one minds,” Hermione added. “Something strong. Something that burns a little.”

“Welcome to the club,” he muttered, turning toward the kitchen. 

*

The fire was roaring. The drinks were poured. 

Percy and Tonks were deep in conversation with Remus about next steps. The locket sat in a warded box on the table, humming faintly like a distant scream. No one dared touch it. 

And Hermione was perched on the edge of the long wooden table, one boot on the floor, the other tucked beneath her as she nursed her glass of firewhisky. 

She looked older tonight. 

Not in a tired way. In a way that made Sirius suddenly, alarmingly aware that she was no longer the bookish girl trailing behind Harry and Ron. She was a woman. He had argued as much earlier with Molly but now he could see it. Really see it. Fierce. Battle-worn. Gorgeous in her defiance. 

He watched her as she tipped the glass to her lips and winced. 

“Burns,” she murmured. 

Sirius smirked faintly. “That’s how you know it’s working.”

“You were worried,” she said, eyes not quite meeting his. 

He took a sip of his own drink. “You disobeyed a direct instruction. Get in. Get out. No drama. I’m allowed to be worried.”

“I did what needed to be done,” she replied. “You of all people should understand that.”

He gave a sharp laugh. “That’s the problem, kitten. I do.”

Their eyes locked. 

Something shifted. Something neither of them said. Something dangerous. 

Before it could go further, Remus’s voice cut through the room. 

“I think it’s time we consider how to destroy it.”

The moment shattered. 

But Sirius’s grip on his glass tightened. 

She was fire and fearlessness, draped in blood and locket-sick adrenaline, sipping whisky like she’d been forged in war. 

He didn’t know when it had started – but he did know now… 

He wasn’t going to be able to stop. 

* * *

The fire had burned low by the time the whisky had settled and anyone found their voice again. 

Tonks had kicked off her boots and was nursing a swollen ankle on one of the ottoman poufs Molly insisted on keeping in the corner, muttering about “fashionable but impractical” heels. Percy was inspecting a deep bruise forming along his jawbone in the reflection of a silver teapot, which complained bitterly about being used for anything other than tea. Remus sat across from Sirius, half-leaning on the table with his sleeves rolled up and exhaustion in his eyes. 

Hermione sat in the centre of it all – locket still secured in the warded box, her glass of firewhisky had long since emptied, but the sting still lingered on her tongue. 

She hadn’t spoken much since they got back. Not properly. 

Now, as silence thudded between them like a heartbeat, all eyes turned toward her. 

“Tell us what happened,” Remus said gently, his voice a quiet anchor. 

Tonks sighed. “You’ll wish you hadn’t asked.”

Hermione gave a tired smile. “It didn’t go to plan. At all.”

Ron, Harry, and Sirius were still standing, unwilling to sit. Restless. Unsettled. 

“I was meant to go in through the Department of Magical Records,” Hermione began, folding her hands in her lap. “Tonks went through the Auror’s office, and Percy was –”

“Regretting his life choices,” Percy muttered, still holding the teapot like it might give him a better angle. “Also disguised as one of Umbridge’s wretched assistants. Never again.”

Hermione ignored him. 

“We found a bit of intel. The Locket had been catalogued by a Ministry official two months ago. I traced the records to the Department of Magical Artifacts.” 

“And it was just sitting there?” Harry asked, disbelieving. 

“No,” Tonks replied. “It was on the fourth floor . Heavily warded. Guarded. Cursed. And, for added fun, sitting directly under the nose of Dementors.”

“You didn’t mention that before,” Sirius growled, tone low. 

Hermione lifted her chin. “No, because if I had, you would have locked me in the attic with the portrait of your mother.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

She gave a humourless laugh. “You’ll be pleased to know that Percy handled the perimeter charms flawlessly. Until, of course, I set off one of the newer enchantments by touching the pedestal.”

Ron muttered a curse under his breath. 

“Three on us before we could blink,” Tonks added. “Hermione took down two of them with non-verbals like a bloody banshee.”

“It was instinct,” Hermione murmured, brushing at the cut on her cheek “Not brilliance.”

“Instinct saved our lives tonight,” Percy said, for once without pomp. 

She nodded, voice quieter now. “The locket was already reacting. I could feel it humming before I even touched it. Dark, ancient. Not just cursed. Something else. And it was feeding into the Dementors.”

“So it’s definitely one of them, then?” Remus said. “A horcrux?”

Hermione nodded once. “Yes.”

The room fell silent again. The word hung heavy between them. Death. Fragmented souls. The kind of magic no one came back from. 

“And you just… walked back here,” Harry said softly. “Carried that with you.”

“I carried it with us,” Tonks corrected, glancing at Hermione. “But she carried the weight.”

Sirius didn’t speak. But Hermione could feel him watching her. 

His gaze burned against her skin. 

*

Later, after the others had gone to their rooms and Percy had limped upstairs mumbling about sore bones and structural damage, Sirius remained in the kitchen. So did Hermione. 

She’d poured herself another small splash of firewhisky – for her nerves, she told herself – and leaned against the counter. Her hair was still wild from the mission, a smear of blood still visible on her cheek. 

He watched her cross to the sink and dampen a cloth.

“Come here,” he said suddenly, gruff.

She blinked at him, wary. 

“I said –” His voice was low, not unkind. “Come here.”

Hermione stepped forward. Sirius reached out, slowly, and gently tilted her chin up. His fingers were rough. Warm. Calloused. 

He dabbed the blood from her cheek with the damp cloth, silent. 

She didn’t move. Didn’t dare breathe. 

“I told you not to go,” he said eventually, voice hoarse. 

“And I told you I had to.”

A beat passed. 

“You’re reckless.”

“I’m alive.”

He exhaled, the sound shaky. His fingers lingered too long beneath her jaw. 

“You did well,” he said, almost a whisper. 

Her breath caught. 

“Thank you,” she whispered back. 

Sirius stepped away like he’d been burned. The air between them crackled. 

And in the silence, the locket in the box on the table throbbed once with quiet, evil power. 

*

The house had gone still 

Grimmauld had its own kind of silence – not peaceful, not restful, but thick, like old wallpaper curling from stone, like breath held too long and lungs too full. It creaked and whispered, always, but tonight even the ghosts seemed to be holding their breath. 

Sirius stood barefoot on the cold hallways tiles, glass in hand, the remnants of firewhisky long gone, forgotten. 

The locket sat behind eleven layers of enchantments in the drawing room safe. It hadn’t pulsed again. But Sirius felt like something inside him had. Something long-dormant. Something raw. 

His bones ached with old battle wounds, too many years in Azkaban, too many ghosts he never outran. But that wasn’t what kept him awake.

It was the look on her face. 

Hermione. 

Standing in the middle of the kitchen like she belonged there, covered in scrapes and glory, fire in her veins and fury in her eyes. The blood on her cheek. The way she hadn’t flinched. Not once. Not when Tonks said it had been close. Not even when Sirius had stepped forward to wipe the blood away. 

She hadn’t stepped back. 

And now… he couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

He turned, meaning to head back to his room, blame the whisky, pretend sleep would come, eventually – 

And then he saw her. 

At the top of the stairs. Backlit by the lantern still burning in the hall. 

Hermione. 

Wrapped in nothing but a towel. 

She was unaware of him, head tilted down, twisting her wet hair in a practiced knot at the base of her neck, her bare shoulders shimmering with droplets of water, skin flushed from the heat of her shower. She moved quietly, humming something under her breath – something Muggle, maybe. Or something his mother would have damned just for existing. 

But Sirius didn’t see that. Not in that moment. 

All he saw was a woman. 

A grown woman. 

Soft curves and strong limbs and magic clinging to her like steam. Her towel dipped dangerously high on her thighs, held up by one modest tuck above her chest – and Merlin, it wasn’t enough. Not for his sanity. Not when he knew she’d just stepped from hot water, bare and relaxed and unguarded, and now she was here… inches away… and utterly oblivious to the war she’d just set off inside his chest. 

His stomach clenched. 

She’s just a girl. 

No. No, she isn’t. Not anymore. 

Not with the way she’d looked at him in the kitchen. Not with the way she’d held that wand steady, sliced through a curse mid-air, retrieved a cursed locket, and then had the nerve to sip whisky like it was water.

He remembered her at fourteen. Frizzy-haired, bossy, determined to get everyone expelled for breaking curfew. 

Now she was twenty steps from his door. Damp. barefoot. Skin gleaming. 

And he was a goddamn disgrace. 

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath. 

He didn’t mean to stay rooted to the spot. Didn’t mean to look any longer. 

But she turned – profile sharp, eyes still lowered – and adjusted the tower just a little higher, exposing the subtle dip of her spine and the smooth line of her collarbone. A single droplet of water slipped beneath the towel’s edge. 

And Sirius felt something dangerous curl in his gut. 

Not protective. Not brotherly. Not familial in any way. Shape. Or form. 

Primal . 

He closed his eyes and exhaled hard. 

She was just Hermione. 

Hermione, with the sharp mind and the clever mouth and the far-too-grown confidence for anyone so young. Hermione, who had bled for them, and fought, and saved his life more than once. Hermione, who made him want to scream and shake sense into the entire goddamn Order when they underestimated her. 

And now…

Now she made him want to sin. 

She disappeared into the guest bedroom across the hall, door clicking shut behind her with soft finality. 

And Sirius? Sirius gripped the banister so hard it groaned beneath his hand. 

This cannot happen.

He was older. Battle-hardened. War-weary. Damaged. 

She was – 

Everything he’d never let himself want. 

But even as he turned and forced his legs to carry him back to his room, Sirius knew something had shifted. Something irreversible. 

Because the ache in his chest wasn’t just guilt. 

It was longing. 

And it had Hermione’s name carved all over it. 

Chapter Text

Sleep didn’t come. 

Not really. 

It circled him like a vulture – tempting, cruel, dipping close with the promise of rest, then snapping away the moment he thought it might land. The few moments he did manage to slip beneath consciousness were worse. Plagued by visions too warm, too real. Steam curling from skin. Chocolate curls clinging to flushed cheeks. A towel loosening – 

Sirius sat up with a grunt and shoved the heel of his palm against his eye socket.

“Fucking hell.”

He felt like a teenager again. Aching and frustrated. Stuck in his own skin. 

Except teenagers didn’t have blood on their hands and bone-deep guilt in their marrow. Teenagers didn’t carry the memory of prison bars and the sound of their best friend’s laughter fading from the earth. 

He dragged himself out of bed sometime after six. The hallway outside his room was quiet, the house not yet stirred. The locket – that damned cursed thing – hummed softly behind the protective charms, but he barely noticed. 

What he noticed was how raw he still felt. 

It wasn’t just lust. That would’ve been easier to shove aside. This thing – this pull – it had roots. Worry. Protectiveness. Something deeper. Something far more fucking dangerous. 

He’d call her kitten, and she always smiled like it meant something. 

Now he wasn’t sure if he could ever say it again without him wanting it to mean something. 

The kitchen was quiet when he walked in, lit only by the soft morning sun bleeding in through the windows. Arthur’s chair creaked in the corner, abandoned for the moment, and the coffee hadn’t yet burned to bitterness. 

Sirius poured himself a mug and down half before it even registered as hot. 

Then the door swung open. 

“Morning,” Ron said through a yawn, dragging his feet across the tile. 

Sirius grunted in return, lowering himself into the seat furthest from the table. 

Ron rummaged in the cabinet for cereal, humming a lazy tune, oblivious. Just another morning in the life of a boy who hadn’t seen enough war to know how rare silence like this could be. 

And then the door opened again . 

Sirius didn’t look. Didn’t want to look. But his traitorous eyes shifted anyway. 

Hermione. 

Freshly dressed. Hair damp still, tumbling in loose curls around her shoulders. Face flushed from the cold floorboards or the heat of her shower or – Merlin help him – from being caught in his gaze again. 

She moved to the teapot without a glance in his direction. Polite. Controlled. Effortlessly graceful. 

Sirius took a long, bitter sip of coffee and tried not to watch her pour her cup with those steady, delicate hands. 

“She takes hot milk now,” Ron said casually, sliding into the seat across from him. 

Sirius frowned. “What?”

“Hermione. She used to drink her tea plain. Now she takes it with milk.”

Hermione didn’t look up. “Thank you for the detailed commentary on my beverage preferences, Ronald.”

Ron grinned. “Just saying. I notice things.”

Sirius stared at him. 

He didn’t like the look in the boy’s eye. 

It was the same look he remembered wearing at seventeen, sneaking glances at older witches during holidays, imagining things he shouldn’t. That same mix of mischief and ownership. Like she was a sweet on a shop shelf. Like she was available . 

He saw the way Ron’s eyes flicked to her hips as she leaned to grab the honey. The way they lingered. 

Something violent curled in Sirius’s gut. 

“Don’t.” 

The word slipped out low and dark. A growl more than a warning. 

Ron blinked. “What?”

Sirius didn’t repeat himself. 

Hermione’s head finally turned, eyes meeting Sirius’s. 

Her brows lifted, curious. 

Sirius looked away first. 

Ron snorted, but said nothing more, clearly confused by the tension he couldn’t name. 

They ate in silence after that. 

Hermione sipped her tea and flipped through a few parchment pages from her pages from her bag. Ron crunched through the cereal and stole glances he didn’t think anyone noticed. And Sirius sat there, halfway through a second mug of a coffee, absolutely drowning in things he couldn’t say. 

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

She was supposed to be Harry’s clever little friend. The girl who read too much, worried too often, and bossed the boys into staying alive. 

Not the woman who haunted his sleep. Not the woman who made him forget to breathe. 

Not the woman whose soft sighs still echoed in the back of his skull like a hex that wouldn’t fade. 

He stood abruptly, chair legs scraping back. 

“Going for a walk,” he muttered. 

Hermione looked up again. Their eyes met. 

Just for a second. 

And it was enough to undo him all over again. 

* * *

The creak of the floorboards above was nothing new. 

Grimmauld was a living thing – groaning and sighing with every breath its inhabitants took. But it was the pattern that drew Sirius down the stairs. The rhythmic hum of spellwork. The thud of magical impact. 

Someone was training. 

He didn’t need to guess who. 

By the time he reached the bottom of the staircase and pushed open the door to the old training room, the air was already thick with the sharp sting of magic and the perfume of sweat and lavender. 

Hermione stood in the centre of the room, wand high, brow furrows in brutal concentration. Across from her, a training dummy – enchanted and charmed into movement – staggered back from the force of her last hex, its right shoulder sparking. 

“ Confringo!”

The explosion sent it skidding. 

Sirius folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe, saying nothing for a long beat. 

Hermione flicked her wand again, lip tight with determination, strands of hair sticking to her cheek.

“ Expulso!”

The dummy jerked to the left. 

She narrowed her eyes. Sweat gathered at the hollow of her throat. Sirius felt something tighten in his chest, something he refused to name. 

“You’re overextending.”

She startled, whirling to face him. “Sirius.”

“You’re throwing power too fast,” he said, pushing off the frame and stepping closer. “It’s reckless.”

She arched a brow. “It’s effective.”

“That thing’s charm base is unstable. Overload it, and it could rupture.”

“I reinforced the wards.”

“And I’m telling you – not enough.”

Her nostrils flared. “I can handle it.”

“Kitten –”

Her eyes flashed, and Merlin help him, it did something to him when she looked like that. All fire. All defiance. No trace of the girl from before. 

But still – 

“No,” he said, stepping fully into the room. “You’re talented, brilliant – we all know it. But you’re not invincible. You defy your opponent in a duel, you die. You defy me in training –”

“What?” she snapped. “You bark louder? Lecture me harder?”

His jaw clenched. 

“I told you to hold back.”

“I told you I can handle it.”

She spun back to the dummy before he could respond, flicking her wand with a snarl. “ Reducto!”

The spell hit. 

And the backlash was instant. 

The dummy convulsed, sparks bursting from its core, and then – an arc of wild magic exploded outward, slamming into Hermione’s chest like a physical force. 

She was flung backwards. 

Her back hit the floor with a sickening crack. 

“Hermione!”

Sirius was at her side in an instant, skidding to his knees. “Bloody hell – what did I just say?!”

She winced, coughing once. “You said I wasn’t invincible. Not that I wasn’t stubborn.”

“Stubborn?! You just nearly got your ribs shattered!”

“I’ve had worse,” she muttered, trying to sit up. 

He pressed a firm hand to her shoulder. “ Don’t . Just – don’t.”

She blinked up at him, lips parted, pupils wide. 

Their faces were close. Too close. Her chest rose and fell beneath his palm. Her curls were a mess around her face. Her lips trembled with a sharp intake of breath. 

“I –” she started. 

He couldn’t look away. 

“I told you to stop,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t want to.”

A pause. 

A long, perilous pause. 

Sirius’s hand stayed on her shoulder. Her breath brushed his jaw. The air felt too tight, like something was about to snap – either inside him, or around them. 

And then she whispered, quiet but certain:

“You called me Kitten again.”

He swallowed. Hard. 

“Force of habit,” he lied. 

“Is it?”

He didn’t answer. 

Couldn’t. 

Because the truth was carved into his pulse, humming through his veins, and written on the shaking edges of his restraint. 

He wanted her. 

Not as a child to protect. 

Not as Harry’s friend. 

But as a woman who burned with fire and faced danger with defiant magic and refused to bow to him – even when she should.

Especially when she should. 

He stood abruptly, stepping back. “Get up slowly. You’re not bruised, but I’d like Pomfrey to check on your ribs before dinner.”

Hermione sat up, eyes still on him. Her voice was quieter now. 

“Are we going to talk about this?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

She didn’t press. 

She didn’t need to. 

The look in her eyes said it all – a challenge, a promise, a dare. 

And Sirius Black had never been very good at walking away from those.

He turned to leave. 

Anything to put space between himself and the chaos clawing through his chest – the guilt, the desire, the image of her skin blooming red from magical backlash because she refused to listen – 

But the door didn’t open. 

The latch refused to lift. 

His brow furrowed. He tried again. 

Click. Nothing. 

He stepped back, turned, and narrowed his eyes. 

Hermione was still seated on the floor. Her wand, held casually in her hand, was not pointed at him – but at the door. A flick of her fingers and soft golden shimmer ran over it like a curtain of silk. 

A ward. 

His jaw flexed. “Open it.”

“I’m not done,” she said, voice even, lips curbed just slightly at the corners. Not a smirk. But close. 

“You warded the door.”

“I did.”

“Hermione –”

“I know, I know,” she said, rising slowly, brushing herself off. “Reckless. Disobedient. Dangerously independent. Pick your lecture.”

“I don’t think it’s funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” she said calmly. “I just think you need to stop pretending this isn’t happening.”

Sirius took a step forward. “What isn’t happening?”

Her brow arched. “You tell me.”

He stared at her. At the flecks of sweat still clinging to her temple. The torn strap of her training top. The way her pulse beat rapidly at her throat. 

“I’m not going to do this,” he said. “I’m not going to stand here and let you turn this into some kind of game. You nearly got hurt .”

“I didn’t mean to –”

“That’s not the point,” he snapped, voice echoing off the walls. “You did it because you wanted to win. Because you always need to be right. You don’t follow orders, Hermione. And that –” he stepped closer, “is going to get you killed.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed. But he wasn’t finished.

“You think you’re clever. Smarter than the rest of us. And maybe you are. But this war isn't about clever. It’s about survival. And you –” his hand shot out and gripped her chin, tipping her face up toward him, “need to learn obedience .”

The word hung there. 

Heavy. Dark. Laced with something dangerous and intimate and utterly unspoken. 

Hermione’s breath caught. 

Her eyes flicked down. 

To his mouth. 

And stayed there. 

Sirius’s grip didn’t tighten. But it didn’t release either. Not yet. 

“I don’t take orders well,” she whispered. 

“I know.”

“Neither do you.”

He huffed a laugh, bitter and sharp. “I was never given the choice.”

Their eyes locked. 

And in that moment – everything shifted. 

No longer the guardian and the girl. No longer Harry’s godfather and best friend. No longer soldier and prodigy. 

Just fire and friction. 

Just breath and blood. 

And want.

He let go.

Because if he didn’t, he’d cross a line. 

And he didn’t know if he’d ever make it back. 

The door creaked open behind him. She had lowered the ward. 

Without another word, he turned and walked out – but not before glancing over his shoulder once more. 

Hermione was still standing there. 

Still watching him.

Still burning.

And long after the door closed behind him, one word echoed in his head like a drumbeat. 

Obedience.

And he has no idea which of them he meant it for. 

*

His boots hit the wooden floor like thunder, echoing down the corridor. The shadows of Grimmauld Place curled and whispered around him, familiar and suffocating. His hand clenched at his side, the imprint of her skin still burning against his palm. 

Obedience . 

The word was a curse now. A brand on his tongue. 

Sirius wasn’t breathing right. Every exhale hitched, tight and shallow. He could still feel her, close enough to taste, her breath hot, her eyes molten, her mouth parted – 

He gritted his teeth, shoved a hand through his hair.

Stupid. Fucking stupid. 

She was Hermione. She was Harry’s . She was – 

“You’re not walking straight,” came a quiet voice. 

Sirius stopped short. 

Remus was leaning against the wall beside the study, arms crossed, brows raised in that infuriatingly gentle way of his. Like he knew every thought Sirius had never spoken aloud. 

Sirius didn’t look at him. “Feet work just fine.”

“Hmm.”

He started walking again. Remus followed. 

They turned into the study, a place they rarely used anymore, dust on the books and time on the air. Sirius reached for the sideboard and poured himself two fingers of firewhisky with hands that didn’t shake. 

Much. 

Remus closed the door behind them. 

“Something happen?” he asked softly. 

Sirius threw the whisky back. It burned like shame. “No.”

A pause. Then:

“She nearly got hurt.”

Sirius’s head snapped up. 

Remus was watching him carefully, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “I heard you shouting from the hall. And I heard the training dummy explode.”

“She disobeyed me.”

“She’s not yours to command.”

That struck deep. 

Sirius stiffened. “She was reckless. It could’ve gone –”

“But it didn’t.”

Sirius swore under his breath and poured another drink. “You didn’t see her. The way she looks at me sometimes. Like she knows .”

“Knows what?”

Sirius paused. 

Remus took a step forward. “Sirius.”

“It’s not like that,” Sirius bit out. “It’s not – I’m not –” He exhaled hard. “She’s brilliant. Brave. Terrifyingly so. But she’s… she’s a child , Moony.”

“She’s nineteen.”

“Exactly,” Sirius growled. “And I’m… what? A broken-down dog with a death wish?”

Remus didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just walked forward and took the glass from his hand. 

“I saw the way you looked at her.”

“I don’t–”

“And I’ve seen the way she looks back.”

Silence thickened between them. 

“I don’t want this,” Sirius said quietly. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” Remus agreed. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.”

Sirius sat heavily on the worn armchair, elbows to knees, fingers tangled in his hair. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Remus crouched in front of him. Gentle. Patient. Tired, like all of them were. “You hold the line.”

“I already crossed it,” Sirius whispered. “Not with my hands. Not yet. But I thought it. Felt it. And I wanted – ” He cut himself off, eyes burning. 

Remus placed a hand on his knee. Steadying. “Then you walk it back. You remember who you are. You remember who she is. And you wait .”

“For what?”

“For her to decide.”

Sirius looked up. 

And saw the weight behind Remus’s eyes. Not judgement. Not disapproval. 

Understanding. 

Gods help him. 

He wasn’t alone in his house full of ghosts after all. 

* * *

Her hands trembled as she reached for the clasp of her robe. 

The soft cotton slipped from her fingers and she stared at her reflection in the cracked vanity mirror, watching as her collarbone rose and fell with every uneven breath. Her wand still sat on the dresser. She hadn’t put it down since she left the training room. Since she locked the door. Since he said – 

“ You need to learn obedience.”

A violent shiver tore through her spine. It was a command, not a suggestion. But not a threat either. Not really. 

No one had ever spoken to her like that. 

Not like she was fragile. Not like she was brilliant. Not like she was a war asset. But like she was something his . Something he could shape. Something that, if she pushed too far, he’d punish – and gods help her, that part of her, the one she tried to bury deep beneath layers of books and rules and speeches – thrilled at the idea of it. 

She pressed her forehead to the cool glass, eyes closed, trying to breathe. 

He wasn’t a boy. That was what twisted her gut so hard it hurt. 

Not like Ron with his fumbling half-jokes and possessive neediness. Not like Harry, too noble and good to ever see her like that . Sirius was older, broader, sharp-edged and tired and real . His rage wasn’t theatrical. His voice wasn’t immature. His silences meant something. 

And he had looked at her. 

He had seen her. 

Not just the cleverest witch of her age. Not just Harry’s best friend.

Just – her . 

And he’d wanted to bolt for the door. 

She understood. She did. But it didn’t stop the ache lodged somewhere between her ribs.

A knock at the door started her. 

“Go away,” she called, voice hoarse. 

The door creaked open anyway. 

Ron. 

“Nice to see you, too,” he said, grinning. He leaned in the doorway like it was his own personal throne. “Heard you nearly blasted your face off earlier.”

Hermione didn’t smile. “It was fine.”

“Sirius didn’t think so. Bloody stormed out like someone set his hair on fire.” He wandered in uninvited and flopped into the edge of her bed. “What is it with you two always sparring lately, anyway?”

Hermione turned her back to him, schooling her features. “Nothing.”

“I mean, if you’re gonna spend all your time with him ,” Ron said, tone shifting slightly, “might as well put the rest of us out of our misery.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean.” He stretched, arms behind his head, trying far too hard to appear casual. “You could at least try flirting back when I make an effort. I’ve got options, you know. Lavender’s been batting her eyelashes at me again.”

“Then go see what Lavender wants, Ron.”

He faltered. “What?”

She turned, voice calm but frigid. “I’m not a consolation prize. I’m not interested. And the last thing I need right now is another hormonal distraction pretending to know what I want.”

His face flushed deep red. “So what – Sirius does?”

Her silence was answer enough. 

Ron scoffed, pushing off the bed. “He’s too old for you.”

“No,” Hermione said softly, staring him down. “You’re just too young .”

She didn’t wait for his reply. 

She just lifted her wand, pointed at the door, and slammed it shut with a whisper of magic behind him. 

Hermione leaned against the frame. 

Her heart was racing. 

But not for Ron. 

Never for Ron. 

* * *

He wasn’t following her. 

Not exactly. 

That’s what he told himself, anyway, as he paced the upstairs corridor, whisky long forgotten, footsteps silent out of habit, not intention. 

He wasn’t eavesdropping. 

Not really. 

He just… couldn’t sleep. And Padfoot can’t help his enhanced senses. 

Not really. 

And he couldn’t breathe , not with the sound of her voice still echoing in his head and the memory of her gaze – wide and fixed on his mouth – playing on an endless loop behind his eyes. 

He’d kissed plenty of women in his time. Had women kiss him even more. But none of those moments had made him feel hunted. Or haunted. 

Hermione Granger was haunting him. 

Her fire. Her fight. Her fury. 

Her defiance . 

She didn’t yield to  him. She challenged him. 

And he was a goddamned fool for wanting more. 

He was just about to force himself back toward his bedroom – maybe punch a wall or four – when the door to her room creaked open. 

And Ron bloody Weasley walked out. 

Hair tousled. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Looking flustered. 

Sirius froze.

A cold, unfamiliar something sliced through his chest like a blade honed too finely to be seen. 

Ron shut the door behind him with a muttered curse and turned toward the stairs, not even noticing Sirius in the shadows of the hallway. 

The moment the boy was gone, Sirius moved. 

He didn’t think – he never thought, not when it counted – and he was outside her door in seconds, standing there like some kind of deranged sentry. 

The air smelled faintly of shampoo. Lavender and something warmer. Softer. 

His fingers hovered near the doorframe. 

But he didn’t knock. 

Didn’t call her name. 

Didn’t ask the question screaming in his chest. 

Because he wasn’t entitled to the answer. Not was he sure he really wanted it. 

She wasn’t his. 

Wasn’t a girl anymore either. That fact had been dangerously clear ever since she started walking around his house in silk dressing gowns and fire behind her eyes. 

But still. 

Not his. 

And Ron?

Sirius’s jaw clenched so hard it clicked. 

Ron was a good kid. Loyal. Brave. Stupid. 

He wasn’t cruel. But he was blind. 

Blind to the way Hermione chewed on the insides of her cheeks when she was furious. Blind to the brittle edge in her voice when she pretended she was fine. Blind to the way she looked at battle like a chessboard instead of a bloodbath. 

He didn’t see her. 

Not like Sirius did. 

And he sure as hell didn’t deserve her. 

Sirius took a slow step back. 

Then another. 

He walked back to his room, fists clenched at his sides, pulse pounding in his ears. 

By the time the door clicked shut behind him, he already had a glass in hand. 

Whisky. Neat. 

He didn’t bother with the light. 

Didn’t bother with sleep, either. 

He sat in the dark, glass to his lips, and told himself that whatever this was – this ache , this jealousy , this unforgivable obsession – it would burn itself out. 

It had to. 

Because if it didn’t… 

Then the fire he was playing with wasn’t just hers. 

It was his too. 

And it would consume them both. 

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a peaceful evening. 

That’s what Molly had declared, in her usual matriarchal tone – firm, no-nonsense, and not open to bloody debate. One evening. Just one. No talk of Horcruxes, of traitors, of plans scribbled out at kitchen tables with ink-stained fingers and sleepless eyes.

“Just sit down, all of you,” she’d ordered, bustling around with cups of tea and cocoa that no one truly wanted but accepted anyway. “You’re all wound tighter than a snitch in a storm. We’re having a proper evening together. As a family.”

Sirius had grumbled about it under his breath, but didn’t argue. 

Not aloud. 

The fire crackled in the heath. Someone had unearthed a set of old enchanted chess pieces that were now engaged in a violent match on the coffee table. Fred and George were pretending to bet galleons on the outcome. Remus was curled in an armchair with a tattered book, spectacles perched on his nose. Harry and Ginny were shoulder to shoulder on the floor, quietly murmuring about something only they could hear. 

And then Hermione walked in. 

And Sirius forgot how to breathe. 

She wasn’t dressed like a soldier. Or a strategist. Or a witch with the weight of the damned world on her back. 

No. 

She was barefoot. 

Wearing a silk slip the colour of spilled cream, thin straps and a hem that danced dangerously close to sin. A matching dressing gown hung loose off one shoulder, the tie barely knotted. Her hair was swept up in a messy bun that made Sirius’s fingers twitch with the urge to pull it down. 

To sink his hands in and hold . 

Her skin gleamed in the firelight. Warm. Soft. 

He could wrap his hand around the back of her neck – right where her spine curbed beneath the bun – and pull her into his mouth. Could trail his tongue along her pulse point. Could slide – 

Stop.

He grit his teeth. 

Hard. 

Across the room, she laughed at something Harry said. Her eyes sparkled, teeth flashing, and it was a blow straight to Sirius’s ribs. 

She moved toward the sofa and – Merlin help him – stopped in front of him. Handed him a glass of whisky with that little smile she always reserved for him alone. “You looked like you needed one.”

Her fingers brushed his as she passed it off. Deliberate or accidental – he didn’t know. 

Didn’t want to know. 

“Thanks, Kitten,” he said, voice like gravel, as she turned and settled beside Harry, her legs curled beneath her. 

He drank the whole damn whisky in one go. 

It didn’t help. 

Because then Ron sat down. 

Too close. 

Ron, who always acted like Hermione belonged to him. Who never took no for an answer when it came to space or jokes or awkward, fumbling compliments. Sirius watched with a hawk’s eyes as Ron reached out – maybe to brush a stray curl off her shoulder, maybe something else – and that’s when it happened. 

She flinched . 

Only slightly. A twitch, really. Barely a step back. 

But Sirius saw it. Felt it. 

She shifted away from Ron – and in doing so, leaned closer to him . 

Pressed into his side, her shoulder bumping his, and her eyes still on Harry as if nothing had happened. 

But he felt her. 

Heat, bare skin, silk. 

And something settled in his chest. 

Not peace. 

No, not that. 

Something far more dangerous. 

Possession. 

He angled the whisky glass toward the firelight, watching the last drops catch the glow like amber tears. His gaze slid back to the girl beside him. No – not a girl. 

A woman . 

A woman who didn’t even realize how she was undoing him. 

One heartbeat at a time. 

*

Harry wasn’t particularly good at noticing things. 

At least not emotional things. 

But lately… something was off. 

It wasn’t a sharp change – nothing as blatant as someone shouting or kissing or drawing their wand. No. This was subtler. Like a shift in the wind. The feeling in the air just before the storm breaks. He could feel it when Sirius entered the room now – like the tension coiled a bit tighter in the walls. 

Especially when Hermione was there. 

He watches them from his spot on the floor, chin resting on one knee, eyes half-lidded as Ginny braided her fingers through his. She was humming quietly, her body a warm weight beside him – but Harry wasn’t focused on her. Not now. 

He was watching Sirius. 

His godfather sat on the sofa, drink in hand, leg bouncing slightly. The firelight flickered in his grey eyes as he stared across the room – not at the flames. 

At her.

Hermione. 

She’d gone quiet again. Tucked into the corner of the other sofa, book open in her lap, but Harry could see she wasn’t reading. Her eyes kept flicking up. Catching Sirius. Then darting away again. Her cheeks flushed like she’d stepped too close to the fire, but her body never moved away. 

If anything – she looked steadier with him near. 

Sirius’s scowl deepened when Ron walked back into the room, fresh from the kitchen and chewing on something. He flopped down on the arm of the sofa beside Hermione like he always did – too loud, too comfortable, too familiar. He nudged her playfully with his knee. 

Harry watched Sirius’s fingers tighten around the whisky glass. 

That wasn’t new. Sirius always hated when Ron acted like Hermione was his. 

But it was new that Sirius’s jaw tensed when Hermione smiled back. 

Or – tried to. It didn’t reach her eyes. 

Sirius watched. The whole time. Every blink, every breath. Harry didn’t even think he realized he was doing it. 

It was in the way he leaned forward just slightly when Ron reached across Hermione for the book in her lap. The way his hand twitched like he was ready to interfere. It was constant now - that stormy protectiveness that used to be for him , for Harry – but now?

Now it was hers . 

And Hermione… she didn’t seem to mind. 

In fact, it had become something of a quiet ritual – how she gravitated toward Sirius in any room, like a planet pulled into orbit. She always ended up next to him, always passed him the whisky, always asked his opinion first. Not Remus. Not Arthur. Not even Harry.

And Sirius only ever called her one thing now. 

“Kitten.”

Harry had heard the nickname before over the years, lightly, playfully. But it was a time more recently when Harry felt the shift in the meaning – during a tense afternoon meeting in the drawing room. She’d been rattling off details about defensive spells and their failures on Horcrux protection, going too long without breathing again, and Sirius had dropped his booted feet from the table with a loud thump and muttered, “ Breathe, Kitten.”

Everyone blinked at the sudden shift in the air. 

Hermione had just… nodded. And obeyed. 

Harry hadn’t thought much of it at the time. 

But now… he couldn’t un-hear it. Couldn’t unsee it. The way the nickname curled around her like a silk ribbon. The way she responded to it without question. As if it had always meant something more. 

Ginny whispered something in his ear and he blinked, looking down at her. 

“You alright?” she asked softly. 

Harry glanced back at the sofa. At Sirius’s dark stare. At Hermione’s subtle lean toward it. 

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Just… watching.”

Ginny smirked. “Careful. That’s usually my job.”

He offered a weak chuckle, but his mind was already spinning again. 

He wasn’t sure what exactly he was watching unfold. 

But it wasn’t nothing. 

And Ron… Ron hadn’t noticed a thing . 

Yet. 

* * *

The smell of strong coffee hit Sirius before he even entered the kitchen. 

Not that he’d slept. His dreams – when they came – were full of twisted silk and wet mouths, defiance and firelight. And her . Always her. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, raking fingers through his tangled hair as he stepped into the kitchen. The familiar hum of voices – low, still morning-rough – grounded him slightly, but not enough to drown the roar in his ears when he saw her. 

Hermione. Sitting at the kitchen table. Already awake, already sipping her coffee. Legs crossed under a ridiculous oversized jumper that slouched off one shoulder, exposing the delicate slope of her collarbone. 

She didn’t look at him. But she knew he’d walked in. Her spine straightened just a little. 

He forced himself not to stare. 

Instead, Sirius crossed to the far counter, pouring himself a mug of black coffee so strong it could peel paint. “We’re all up at this ungodly hour for a reason, I hope,” he muttered. 

“Horcrux briefing,” Remus replied from his place by the fireplace, his own cup of tea in hand. “Again.”

“We still don’t know how to destroy them,” Harry sighed, dropping heavily into a chair beside Hermione and nodding in thanks when she slid him a fresh muffin.

“But we do know how to find them,” Hermione said, setting her mug down with a quiet clink . “And I think I’ve got a lead.”

That got everyone’s attention. 

Ron paused mid-chew. Molly stopped chopping something at the counter. Even Kingsley looked up from the morning Prophet. 

Hermione leaned forward, curls bouncing as she unfurled a small roll of parchment. 

“Insider reports, from someone valuable. Trustworthy. Last week, one of our contacts overheard a goblin speaking about new warding patterns being commissioned by Bellatrix Lestrange – over her vault in Gringotts.”

“Bellatrix?” Sirius’s voice was sharp, his hand tightening around his mug. “You’re saying the next Horcrux is in her vault ?”

Hermione nodded. “It fits. She is one of the Dark Lord’s most loyal. If he trusted anyone with a Horcrux –”

“It would be her,” Harry finished grimly. 

“There’s more,” Hermione continued. “The goblin also said she made threats – that any breach of her vault would result in family-level retribution . She invoked the ancient blood curse rights.”

Sirius swore under his breath. 

“That’s… extreme,” Arthur said carefully. “Even for her.”

“It’s also telling,” Remus murmured. “She’s hiding something. Something valuable enough to warrant layers of curses and binding oaths.”

“Something that can’t be moved without her blood or her name,” Hermione added. “Which means if we do break in… we need to be ready.”

“To die?” Fred offered lightly, stepping into the kitchen with George behind him. “Because that’s really what it sounds like.”

“No one’s dying,” Sirius growled. 

“Sirius –” Hermione started. 

“No.” He cut her off, stepping forward. His voice dropped an octave as he looked at her. “Not again. Not like the Ministry. I don’t give a damn how clever the plan is. If you’re involved, Kitten, we’re doing it my way.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. But she did breathe a little faster. 

Ron frowned. “You keep calling her that.”

Silence fell. 

A beat too long. 

Sirius didn’t answer. He just sipped his coffee, eyes never leaving hers. 

Harry cleared his throat. “So. We think there’s a Horcrux in the Lestrange vault. Protected by blood curses, impossible wards, and probably a dozen goblin enchantments. Great.”

“Well,” said George, clapping his hands once, “sounds like it’s time for a heist.”

Hermione snorted despite herself.

Molly groaned. “Don’t encourage them.”

“Why not?” Sirius finally said, voice dry as ash. “We’re already neck-deep in insanity. Let’s add breaking into Gringotts to the list.”

“And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?” Arthur asked, raising a brow. 

Sirius looked to Hermione. “We plan. We scout. We use whatever contacts we’ve got left inside that bloody bank.”

“And then?” Hermione asked, her voice low and steady. 

Sirius didn’t blink. “And then we burn the place to the ground, if we have to.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Now that’s a plan I can get behind.”

The kitchen buzzed again – more discussion, more strategy, but Harry didn’t speak. 

He just watched them again. 

The way they circled one another now, like gravity kept tugging them closer together. As if they’d both forgotten how to look away. 

Something was happening between them. He was sure of it now. Last night’s easy nature. This morning’s tense conversations and thick atmosphere. 

And sooner or later… someone else was going to notice. 

*

The heavy curtains had been drawn shut. Wards hummed faintly along the walls, a visible shimmer in the corners where Fred and George had added extra layers. The long drawing room table was littered with parchment, maps, moving blueprints of the Gringotts undercroft, and more firewhisky than was technically necessary for a planning session. 

Not that anyone was complaining. 

“We’re going to need more than a distraction,” Fred said, kicking his feet up on the table, ignoring Hermione’s withering glare. “We’ll need a full-scale diversion and someone inside to help bypass the blood-warded vaults. The goblins won’t go quietly.”

“Goblins never do,” Kingsley said grimly, arms folded as he leaned against the mantle. “That’s the problem.”

“No,” Hermione corrected, her voice sharp. “The problem is Bellatrix and the protections she’s put in place. Including the latest.”

She tossed a scroll onto the table. “Charlie just confirmed from Romania. There’s a dragon.”

George blinked. “Like. An actual dragon?” 

“Not a pygmy puff with wings,” Sirius muttered, snatching up the scroll. He scanned the messy, urgent handwriting. “It’s chained inside the vault sector. Blind. Controlled by pain magic.”

“Merlin,” Ron said faintly. “She really is insane.”

“Oh come on,” Fred grinned. “This just got interesting .”

“You won’t be bloody laughing when you’re crispy bacon,” Sirius shot back. 

“Enough,” Kingsley said firmly. “We’ve narrowed it down. The Lestrange vault holds a Horcrux. It’s locked behind goblin wards, bloodline curses, probably traps, and now a damn dragon. We need a plan, and we need to know who’s in .”

“I am,” Hermione said immediately. 

“Of course you are, Kitten ,” Sirius drawled, not even looking at her. “Not that I’m surprised. Can’t stay out of trouble if it came with a leash.”

Hermione’s eyes glittered. “You offering to leash me, Black? ”

The room went silent.

Fred coughed loudly. Ron turned crimson. Remus dropped his head into his hand. 

“Children are present,” George said mildly. 

“I – what –” Ron started, then snapped his mouth shut as Sirius finally turned to face Hermione. His expression unreadable. 

“I’m in too,” Ron mumbled after a beat. 

“As are we,” Fred and George said in unison. 

“No,” came Kingsley’s voice. “You three are the muscle and the chaos – but I want you listening to Hermione and Sirius. This op needs precision. It’s not a prank run. It’s war.”

“And I say we keep Tonks out of it,” Remus added with finality. “She’s too high-profile now. After the stunt at the Ministry, too many eyes. And Ginny –”

“Absolutely not,” Molly’s voice barked from the hallway. “Don’t even finish that sentence, Remus Lupin. If I hear you brought my daughter into a bank robbery with a bloody dragon, I’ll hex your bollocks off.”

George winced. “She’s not joking.”

“She never is,” Fred muttered. 

“Ginny stays here,” Kingsley confirmed. “So. The team is Sirius, Hermione, Ron, Fred, George and Remus. You’ll use the rear delivery tunnels Charlie marked out. You’ll need to breach the internal lock before the alarms go off. And someone has to handle the dragon.”

Everyone looked at Sirius. 

“What?” he snapped. “Why is it always me?”

“Because you have a death wish ,” Hermione said sweetly. 

“And because you’re the only one mad enough to try it,” added Remus, not looking up. 

Sirius groaned. “This is bollocks.”

Hermione leaned back in her chair, tapping her nails lightly on the table. 

“If it’s Bellatrix’s vault,” she said calmly, “you’ll need me to break the blood magic. I studied her curse signatures last year during our research on magical inheritance patterns. She always leaves a specific glyph trail.”

Sirius stared at her. 

“You studied Bella’s c urse work?”

“I was bored.”

He let out a slow exhale, dragging his hand through his hair. 

“You terrify me, Kitten.”

“As I should ,” she purred, then turned to Kingsley. “When do we go?”

“Three days,” Kingsley said. “We move at dawn. Grimmauld is your staging ground. Prepare here. Train. And for the love of Merlin – try not to kill each other.”

He walked out, leaving a heavy silence in his wake. 

Hermione gathered her parchments and began organising them, all calm competence. She looked like war. Poised. Brilliant. Untouchable. 

But when she passed Sirius to leave the room, her fingers brushed his – subtle, fleeting – and his whole body went still. 

She didn’t look at him.

But she smirked. 

And Sirius Black, for the first time in years, felt he’d lost control of everything.

* * *

It wasn’t technically their room. But somehow, over the past month, Fred and George had claimed one of the unused bedrooms on the top floor of Grimmauld Place as their own personal lab of chaos.

The smell hit Hermione before the door even opened – sulphur, ink, powdered sneezewort, something faintly resembling burnt sugar and rubber. 

She knocked once. 

“Enter at your own peril,” Fred’s voice called out grandly. 

“She’s impervious to peril,” George added. “She eats it for breakfast.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed the door open. “You wanted to see me?”

“Oh, we always want to see you,” Fred said cheerfully. 

“But today especially,” George added, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a hot topic, you know.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Because of the Gringotts plan, or because you’ve both got nothing better to do than gossip like old biddies in the village square?”

Fred gasped. “Madam, I am wounded .”

“You should be,” she said coolly, stepping over what looked suspiciously like a teacup with legs. “But I assume this isn’t just about teasing me?”

“No,” George said, grinning. “But that’s a lovely bonus.”

“Honestly, Hermione,” Fred said, leaning back against a table cluttered with tools and parchment. “If we were less observant, we might think you were enjoying all this attention from a certain Black dog.”

“Don’t,” she warned, tone low. 

“Just saying,” George drawled. “He’s got this look when you walk into the room. Like a Kneazle watching a particularly fascinating mouse.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You lot are insufferable.”

“Flattered,” Fred said. 

“But really,” George added, snapping his fingers and turning to the workbench, “we do have something for you. For all of you, actually. It’s just not finished. And you need to promise to not tell Sirius.”

“Why not?” she asked, intrigued despite herself. 

“Because he’ll either love it too much and misuse it,” Fred said, “or he’ll ban it outright for being ‘too dangerous’ or ‘too explosive’ or ‘why does it smell like singed eyebrows.’”

“We call it: The Flashbang Hex-jector.”

George lifted a small, palm-sized orb. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, silver and violet etched with runes, a small button inset at the top.

Hermione tilted her head. “You made a grenade.”

Fred beamed. “Oh Kitten, you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She ignored the nickname this time. Barely. 

“And it does… what exactly?”

George turned toward the small padded mannequin in the corner. “Observe.”

He hurled the orb. It struck the mannequin’s base, bounced once – then exploded with a blinding pop! Of light, purple smoke, a high-pitched screeching wail, and a very distinct chicken cluck . 

Hermione blinked, rubbing her eyes. “What in Merlin’s name –?”

Fred grinned. “Flashbang, auditory hex, and distraction decoy all in one. Loud enough to disorient anyone in the vicinity, thick smoke to mask escape, and the chicken is just to make people question their life choices.”

“We’ve also got one that screams ‘I solemnly swear that I am up to no good’ on a loop,” George said proudly. 

“Not everything has to be practical,” Fred nodded solemnly. “Some things are just art.”

Hermione was torn between horror and deep, abiding amusement. 

“It’s insane ,” 

“It’s brilliant ,” Fred corrected. 

“And you’ll be carrying at least three,” George said, pressing a small sachet into her hands. “Strapped under your cloak. Just in case things get messy.”

“They will,” she said quietly, tucking the satchel into her belt. They always do.”

A moment of silence passed between them. 

Fred sobered slightly. “Just… make sure you come back, yeah?”

Hermione glances at them both, surprised by the flicker of worry beneath the mischief. She gave a small nod. 

“I will. I have you both there.”

“Good,” George said, then winked. “Becasue Sirius would murder if anything happened to you. He’s completely feral over you.”

She flushed. “He is not .”

Fred smirked. “Sure he’s not.”

“He only calls one person Kitten,” George added as she headed to ward the door. 

Hermione paused, hand on the frame. Then she glanced back at them, arching a brow. 

“Just wait till you hear what I call him.”

And with that, she left, her soft laugh trailing down the corridor behind her – and two very smug, very nosy twins grinning like lunatics in her wake. 

The moment Hermione had left the twins room, she found herself already being pulled - literally - in another direction. 

A door shut behind them with a heavy, decisive click. 

Hermione didn’t flinch. Now outwardly. But her chest tightened just a little at the low rumble of wards setting into place behind her, followed by the low growl of his voice:

“Sit.”

She blinked. He wasn’t looking at her – not yet. Sirius stood by the hearth, the dim orange glow throwing sharp shadows across the planes of his face. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. 

Hermione crossed her arms. “If you’ve brought me here to scold me –”

“Sit,” he said again, quieter this time. But firmer. Final. 

She sat. 

A beat of silence passed, charged and crackling, before he finally turned to face her. His eyes – grey, stormy, too full of everything he refused to say – landed on her with the weight of a thunderclap. 

“Last time you did this, you scared the hell out of me,” he said at last. 

Her lips parted. 

“I didn’t –”

“You did,” he cut in, stalking closer. “You always bloody do. Because you don’t think, Hermione. Not when you’re protecting someone else. You throw yourself in without hesitation. No plan for your own safety. No regard for what happens if something goes wrong.”

Her spine straightened. “That’s not fair –”

“It’s true .”

“I got the Horcrux.”

“At what cost?” His voice cracked on it, and she saw it then – the way his hand twitched at his side, as though it had wanted to reach for her and didn’t trust itself to stop. “Do you have any idea what it would’ve done to me if you didn’t come back?”

She stilled. Completely. 

That wasn’t anger in his voice. That wasn’t annoyance or even scolding. 

That was fear. 

Her own voice softened. “Sirius…”

He shook his head, stepping forward – slowly,  deliberately – until he stood over her, until she had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. 

“No interruptions, Kitten. Not this time.”

His tone was steel, low and quiet and shaking slightly. 

“I don’t care that you’re cleverer than all of us. I don’t care that you’ve fought Death Eaters and walked away. I don’t even care that you’ve convinced the rest of the Order that you can do this.”

He leaned in, and her breath hitched when he placed a hand on either side of her chair, caging her in with nothing but fire in his eyes and command in his voice. 

“You will listen to me. Just this once.”

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. 

Sirius’s voice was a rasp of heat and warning and something far too dangerous. 

“These are the rules.”

She raised a brow, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t dare.

“One – you do not go charging in first. Let the others go ahead. You cover them, you protect them, but you do not take the front line.”

His breath was uneven, and she could see the vein twitch in his jaw. 

“Two – if something feels wrong, pull back . I don’t care if you think you can fix it. I don’t care if it’s a lead. I don’t care if it means the mission fails. You pull back .”

She swallowed hard. 

“Three – if anyone lays a hand on you, you scream for me.”

That one hit her like a blow to the chest. Her eyes widened. “Sirius –”

“I will come,” he said, barely above a whisper. “No matter where I am. No matter what I’m doing. You call, and I will burn the world to get to you.”

Her lips parted – but still, she said nothing. 

“And finally,” he murmured, voice cracking just slightly as he reached out and brushed his knuckles along her cheek, “you don’t get hurt. Not again. Not like that. Not if I can help it. That’s not a request, Hermione. It’s a command.”

She felt like she couldn’t breathe. 

Everything in her – all the fire, all the cleverness, all the iron-clad control – melted under the weight of those words. Of his voice. 

Of the way he was looking at her like she was already his to protect. His to hold. 

His.

“I can’t promise not to get hurt,” she whispered. 

“I’m not asking you to promise,” he murmured, thumb brushing her bottom lip before he caught himself and pulled back. “I’m telling you. Obey me, Kitten. For once.”

Her heart stuttered. 

Something inside her ached to lean in, to press her face into his chest, to wrap her arms around him and finally admit everything she’d been trying to ignore. 

Instead, she blinked up at him and whispered, “What happens if I don’t obey?”

He went very still. 

Then his voice dropped an octave lower, rougher. “Then you’ll be punished.” 

Hermione’s breath hitched. 

He stood abruptly and stepped away, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to get his own thoughts under control. 

But he didn’t take back what he’d said. 

And she didn’t want him to. 

Chapter Text

Gringotts loomed like a sleeping beast beneath the pale grey sky. 

The marble gleamed faintly in the early dawn light, its sharp spires and fortified upper levels now bristling with magical reinforcements. But the deliveries entrance – tucked away at the back, hidden behind crates and the perpetual shuffle of goblin commerce – looked deceptively quiet. 

“Showtime,” Fred muttered, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted the dull brown delivery robes he wore. 

“Remember,” Kingsley said in a low voice, his wand already out, “we do not want to fight unless we have to. In and out. Quick. Quiet.”

Ron and Remus exchanged a look which suggested Kingsley’s request might be a tall order. 

“Let’s hope Charlie’s intel about the rotation schedules is accurate.”

Sirius, half-shadowed by the worn archway of the alley, didn’t speak. He watched. Eyes sharp. Shoulders tense. Every muscle in his body coiled, waiting. 

Hermione noticed. Of course she did. 

She always did. 

They had barely spoken since he’d dragged her into his bedroom and laid down the rules she’d tried – and failed – to ignore ever since. His voice still echoed in her head. His eyes haunted her in quiet moments. And now, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him at the edge of the enemy’s stronghold, she could feel the weight of his unspoken worry like a second heartbeat next to hers. 

Fred and George led the way in first, slipping behind crates stacked with spell-proofed containers. Their Disillusionment charms shimmered faintly before vanishing altogether. Remus followed next, low and silent like smoke, Kingsley a steady shadow at his side. 

They waited. 

The seconds stretched like wire. 

Sirius stood like stone beside her, fingers twitching restlessly at his side. 

Then – a flicker of green light in the distance. A signal. The way was clear. 

Ron  went first. 

He threw Hermione one last look – something tight in Ron’s jaw, something uncertain in his eyes – before he ducked low and followed the shadows in. 

And then it was just the two of them. 

Sirius’s hand wrapped around her wrist, warm and rough and immediate. She turned to him, breath catching. 

“You remember the rules?”

His voice was a whisper. Almost a plea. 

Hermione nodded once. “I’m not going in first.”

His jaw tightened. “Good.”

And yet – still he held her wrist. 

A pause. A heartbeat. 

Her voice softened. “You said I could call for you, If something happens.”

His thumb brushed over her pulse point without thought, almost reverent. 

“You won’t have to.”

They moved together, slipping into the passage between the stone crates. He kept close – closer than was strictly necessary. His presence never left her back. His wand was out, his stance defensive, always between her and the shadows. 

The inside of Gringotts delivery corridor was long and narrow, with damp stone underfoot and flickering magical torchlight along the ceiling. They passed through storage rooms filled with enchanted safes, carts loaded with protective charms, and deep magical locks humming in the air. The further they went, the heavier the pressure on their skin became – ancient goblin magic that resisted every foreign presence. 

Hermione kept her breaths even. 

Just ahead, she caught sight of Kingsley crouched at a junction, wand raised. 

He signalled them forward. 

When Sirius’s hand touched the small of her back to guide her ahead, she jolted at the contact – not in fear, not even in surprise. 

Just… awareness. 

It lingered long after they cleared the junction.

They reached the lower corridors – where the true vaults lay, carved into the ancient rock and warded against time itself. Far above them, the bank’s grand hall echoed with goblin voices and coin clinks. But here… it was silence and secrets. 

Fred gave a faint whistle, low and impressed. “Dragon’s real. Sleeping just up ahead.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “And tethered how?”

George grinned, even as he drew his wand. “Not well enough, apparently.”

Hermione turned toward the vault they were targeting – Bellatrix Lestrange’s, identifiable by the ancient Black crest etched into the door. Her stomach turned slightly. So much blood behind that seal. So many curses layered into that lock. 

She reached into her pouch for the artifacts Fred and George had provided. 

Behind her, Sirius hovered. 

Always watching. 

Always ready. 

He didn’t say a word. But she could feel it – his presence, heavy and burning, like a storm that hadn’t broken yet. 

She set to work. 

*

The dragon was sleeping. 

Massive. Ancient. Bone-white scales shimmered faintly in the dim, enchanted light of the vault corridor. Chained at the ankles, its breath was laboured and hot, casting plumes of heat that made the stone beneath them sweat. Even at rest, its tail twitched and teeth gnashed in some savage dream. 

Sirius raised a hand.

Everyone stilled. 

With a silent flick of his wand, a silver shimmer washed over the tunned – a Muffling Charm so strong it warped the very air around them. The dragon’s wheezing snores now sounded distant, dulled to a hum beneath the spell’s weight. 

He exhaled – slowly, carefully. His wand never dipped. 

“Stay back,” he mouthed to Hermione, his voice like smoke and gravel despite silence. 

But she shook her head once, already stepping toward the vault door, shoulders squared with fierce determination. 

Ron, to his credit, stood close. Jaw tense. Wand in hand. A pale tremor beneath his skin. “Don’t like this,” he muttered under his breath. 

“I’m not asking you to,” Hermione replied, distracted as she pulled three vials from her enchanted pouch – her own blood, a vial of unicorn tears, and a last vial of powdered basilisk fang. All needed. All volatile. 

Sirius watched her with a gaze sharpened by something more than wariness. 

Her hands, though quick, were careful. Steady. She sliced her own palm anew and whispered a spell in a dialect so old it made the air itch. Blood dripped onto the Black crest burned into the vault door – it sizzled on impact, red turning gold before soaking into the ancient iron. 

Sirius’s heart clenched. 

Not from fear of the dragon. 

Not from the mission’s risk. 

But from her. Her bloody brilliance. Her boldness. The way she took pain and handled it like it was air – necessary, elemental, her own language. 

He tore his eyes away. 

Down the corridor, Remus and Kingsley held their post, the twins flanking the far junction. Their wands glowed like tiny suns, backs pressed to the cool stone. Fred gave a wink as he passed Sirius in the shadows, mouthing “ Five minutes. Maybe less.”

The clock was ticking. 

Behind him, Hermione whispered another incantation. Her blood-etched symbols glowed now, runes shimmering with fierce protective magic – and something darker, more corrupted, writhing beneath the surface of the vault. 

“Black, magic,” she said aloud, eyebrows drawn together. “She’s woven blood rituals with identity charms. This wasn’t just protection – this was meant to keep the vault’s contents tied to her even in death.”

“Can you break it?” Sirius asked. 

“I have to. We don’t have time for subtlety.”

She reached for the powdered basilisk fang and poured it into the etched crest. It hissed, scorched, and sparked. The vault door shuddered , groaned like it hadn’t been touched in a decade. Magic throbbed around them – a pulse, a heartbeat. The dragon stirred. 

“Damn it,” Sirius growled under his breath. He flicked his wand again, doubling the silencing spell and cast a second ring around the beast’s claws. 

Hermione moved fast – her hair a wild halo of curls, sweat glistening at her temple. With one final whispered spell, the vault groaned open. 

Not all the way. 

Just enough. 

Dark air leaked out, heavy with gold, with death, with curses barely contained. 

Ron reached to help, but Sirius caught his wrist. “No sudden movements. Let her finish.”

And she did. 

With one last pulse of her wand, the ancient wards fell away. The vault door creaked open , revealing mountains of curse gold, grim artifacts – and there, gleaming faintly atop an ornate plinth, a goblet. 

Hufflepuff’s cup. 

Ron’s breath hitched. “That’s it.”

Hermione nodded. Her voice was a whisper, almost reverent. “That’s it.”

Sirius didn’t move. Couldn’t. His eyes hadn’t left her once. 

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered as he stepped into the vault, his trainers sinking slightly into the carpet of coins. “Does she sleep on a bloody mountain of galleons?”

“Don’t touch anything unless you want a golden anvil dropped on your head,” Hermione snapped, already advancing toward the back of the vault, where the cup glowed like a curse nestled in opulence. 

Sirius remained at the threshold, every muscle locked. He hated this part – the waiting. Watching. Powerless. 

His wand was already gripped tightly, knuckles bone-white, trained on the corridor behind him. One eye stayed on Hermione. 

She moved through the vault like she belonged there. 

Like she had trained for this moment her whole life. 

The cursed gold seemed to sense her purpose. The moment she reached for the cup, it began. 

A low creak of magic. 

A shiver in the air. 

“Don’t!” Ron said too late. 

Hermione’s fingers brushed the chalice – and the vault exploded into chaos. 

The cup jerked into her hand with a flash of green light, and then – 

Clang. Clang. Clang. 

Coins began to fall from the towering heaps. And then multiply. 

Gold doubled. 

Tripled. 

Fell in great shimmering avalanches. 

Hermione was swallowed whole. 

“Hermione!” Sirius roared, lunching forward without thought, only to be shoved back by the rebounding curse-magic at the threshold. 

Ron dove after her, shouting, trying to dig through the cascading gold. “She’s in here! I can’t find her!”

“DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!” Sirius bellowed. “EVERYTHING MULTIPLIES!”

He cast a barrier charm across the vault entrance to slow the influx, but the mountain grew – alive, malicious. The cursed coins hissed and sparked, some glowing red-hot with replication burn. He could feel the enchantment pressing against his magic like a rabid thing. 

Then – a gasp . 

A hand broke through the heap. 

Sirius’s heart clenched, then soared. 

Hermione dragged herself free, hair wild, sweat clinging to her brow, one cheek smeared with gold dust. In her hand, still gripped tight despite it all, was the cup.

She looked up and found him immediately. 

He saw it in her face – fear, fire, triumph – and something else. 

Something that matched the heat pounding through his chest. 

“You bloody reckless –!” But the words died on his tongue.

Behind them, a great rumble broke the air. 

The dragon had stirred.

Its slitted eyes blinked open. 

Its nostrils flared. 

The heat changed from oppressive to lethal .

“MOVE!” Kingsley’s voice rang out from the corridor, wand raised. 

The creature roared – not fully awake, but no longer sleeping. 

Chains rattled. 

The vault floor trembled. 

“Everyone OUT!” Sirius barked, leaping into the vault to grab Hermione’s arm before she could protest. She stumbled forward into him, breath hitching as his hand closed tight around her wrist. 

He didn’t let go.

Not when the dragon’s growl deepened into something far more ancient. 

Not when Fred shouted. “We’ve got trouble incoming!”

Not even when Hermione twisted slightly in his grip to look up at him, eyes wide with gravity of what they’d done and how very close it had all come to disaster. 

He didn’t let go. 

Because this time… he’d nearly lost her. 

Again. 

*

The dragon was awake. 

And furious. 

The vault behind them burned with the beast’s snarl, its golden eyes ablaze with betrayal and fury as its iron shackles cracked and screeched to the stone. 

Sirius shoved Hermione behind him. “Go. Now!”

“But –”

“Now, Hermione!”

The corridor shuddered as the dragon surged forward, the chains yanked taught with a deafening clang. Its jaws opened wide. Heat scorched the very air. 

From the opposite end of the corridor, a shrill alarm charm detonated in their ears. 

“Company!” Fred said grimly. 

“Lots of it,” George added. 

A half-second later, masked Death Eaters began to appear in shimmering bursts of black flame. Their wands were already raised. 

“Split!” Kingsley barked. 

And the battle began. 

Hexes flew like lightning bolts. Red, green, blue, white. 

Ron’s wand was already up, he dropped a Death Eater with a snarled Expulso.

Remus and Kinglsey took opposite flanks, firing hexes with practiced precision, a ballet of fury and control. The twins flanked them, spells whizzing from behind makeshift shields. 

Sirius turned to face the drago again – only to see Hermione already stepping forward, her wand tight in her hand, hair wild, eyes burning. 

“Don’t you bloody dare,” he growled. 

“We have to keep it busy or it’ll roast the others!”

“You are not bait, Kitten!”

“I’m not –!” She didn’t finish. 

Because the dragon roared , and the flame split the tunnel in two. 

They both dove, Sirius pulling her down just in time as scorched stone cracked above them. 

“Bloody rules, Hermione!” He shouted, dragging her up with a face full of soot and fury. “What was Rule Number Four?!”

Hermione scowled, hair whipping around her face as magic sparked at her fingertips. “I think it’s a bit late for the fucking rules, Fido !” 

Across the hall, Remus – mid-duel – barked out a laugh. “Merlin’s balls, she’s got you pegged.”

“Stay out of it, Moony!”

But Hermione didn’t stop. She charged, ducking beneath a low arc of dragon fire and skidding on her knees behind a fallen pillar. 

Sirius swore violently, following after her. 

She was already muttering a complex incantation, glyphs spinning at the tip of her wand in a glowing silver arc. “Divert the breath,” she gasped. “I can buy us seconds – just seconds!”

Sirius swore again but raised his wand, casting a shielding charm over her without a second thought. 

The dragon reared back. 

Its chest glowed. 

“Hermione –”

She didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp cry, she flung her spell directly into the creature’s mouth. 

The fire exploded mid-throat, blasting heat and smoke sideways instead of forward. The dragon shrieked, disoriented. 

“Hermione –!”

“I’m fine!”

“No, you’re bleeding! ”

“Just my shoulder! Rule Number Four is flexible under exceptional circumstances!”

“Who decided that?!”

“Me!”

“Of course you did.”

Hermione didn’t look at him. Instead, she reached into her belt and yanked free two bright orange spheres with flickering blue seams. 

Their names never stuck. George had later offered to call them Puffers . Fred countered with Shit-stirrers Extroadinaire.

Hermione called them hope. 

She lobbed both down the tunnel with the aim of a seasoned Quidditch beater. 

BOOM.

A twin explosion of light and sound. Purple smoke. Disorienting banshee shrieks. Blinding flashes. 

The dragon snarled and jerked back. 

The Death Eaters screamed. 

“GO!” Kingsley’s voice thundered. 

They ran – Remus and the twins holding the rear, Ron yanking Hermione’s good arm, Sirius flanking her with his wand aimed at everything that moved. 

Back through the delivery tunnel, deeper into the dark. 

The wards closed behind them. Choking. Squeezing. Crumbling. 

“On my mark –” Kingsley called out. 

“NOW!”

The moment their feet cleared the bank’s final ward line, Sirius grabbed Hermione by the waist. 

“Hold on, Kitten.”

Crack. 

And then they were gone. 

The landed hard in the dim hallway of Grimmauld Place. The others arrived seconds later in a staccato of rhythm of Apparition cracks and gasps. 

Sirius didn’t let go of her until the last of the smoke cleared and he saw the blood on her shoulder properly. 

He turned her toward him. 

“You broke every single fucking rule,” he muttered, breathless with fury and something far darker curling in his chest. 

“I got the job done,” Hermione whispered. 

But the way she was looking at him… it was no longer just pride in a mission well done. 

It was heat. 

It was something molten. 

Something dangerous. 

And Sirius was not at all certain he would survive it. 

* * *

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place had never been quiet. Not truly. It was too haunted for that, too steeped in memory and ghosts and the sounds of people clinging to one another in the cracks of war. 

But tonight – with smoke still on their clothes and blood barely dried – the silence was stifling. 

Hermione perched on the edge of the scrubbed table, one boot still half-laced, the other missing entirely. Her jacket was in tatters and her shoulder throbbed under the crude dressing Sirius had slapped on her the moment they landed. Fred and George were already nursing minor burns. Ron hadn’t said much of anything. Neither had Kingsley. Not yet. 

And then Harry stormed in. 

He looked like hell – hair wild, chest heaving, wand clenched in his fist. 

“You should have taken me,” he snapped, not even trying to hide the rage. “You all just left. Again. You left me behind!”

“Harry –” Hermione began, voice soft.

“No! Don’t ‘Harry’ me! That was Bellatrix’s vault! You think I didn’t want to be there for that? That I didn’t need to –?”

“You’re too important to get hurt!” she cut in sharply, louder now, her eyes fierce. “We’ve all agreed that if anything happens to you, this entire war is over. If Voldemort gets wind of your involvement in this –”

“So the fuck are you, Kitten ,” Sirius snarled before he could stop himself. 

The room stilled. 

Hermione’s mouth opened and shut again. 

Fred and George both blinked in unison. 

Harry slowly turned to his godfather. “You keep calling her that…”

Ron looked like he wanted to vanish. 

But Sirius only exhaled through his nose and raked a hand through his hair. “Don’t start,” he muttered, voice low and too raw. “Not tonight.”

Remus cleared his throat loudly, drawing attention away before the sparks could fully ignite. “Let me see that shoulder, Hermione. I’d like to actually heal it, rather than leave it in Sirius’s rather violent bandaging style.”

Hermione nodded, grateful for the shift in focus. She turned slightly, wincing as she peeled the ruined fabric away. Remus conjured a stool and sat behind her, murmuring charms under his breath as soft gold light flowed from his wand and into her skin. 

“I told you not to get hurt,” Sirius said, watching her from across the table. 

“You also told me not to die,” she replied without looking at him. “And I kept that promise.”

The silence returned – brittle, buzzing with everything unspoken. 

Then Kingsley reached into his robes and gently placed the cup on the counter. 

It was still warm to the touch. Still pulsing with something dark and unspeakable beneath its surface. 

But it was real. It was here. 

Another Horcrux. 

Hermione slid off the table and moved to the left cabinet, where heavy enchantments already circled the silver box containing the locket. She extended her hand – Sirius reached out instinctively – but she ignored it, her fingers steady as she placed the cup beside the locket and whispered the incantation to seal the protective runes once more. 

The magic hummed and settled. 

“Well,” she said softly, eyes fixed on the box. “That’s two down.”

“Two to go,” Remus added grimly. 

“Three,” Harry muttered. 

The room turned to him. 

“I saw something. Before Dumbledore died. There’s still one more – something he never identified. We have no idea what or where.”

Hermione looked down at her hands. They were shaking now. Just slightly. 

Sirius noticed. 

Without thinking, he stepped forward and slid a glass of water beside her. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. 

Because she drank it. 

And for now, that was enough. 

Chapter Text

The clock struck three with a reluctant groan, its chime low and distant in the walls of Grimmauld Place. Most of the house slept – what little sleep war allowed – but Sirius lay awake, heart thudding with a pulse he couldn’t explain. 

Something was wrong. 

It wasn’t a noise. Not really. Not footsteps or whispers or magic shifting in the walls. Just… something. A pull in his chest, an ache behind his ribs that hadn’t let him settle for hours. 

He kicked off the covers and paced around his room. The whisky wasn’t helping. The fire had long died. Still, his hand went to his wand and his feet found the hallway before he’d consciously decided on it. 

He knew exactly where he was going. 

Her door was closed, but the softest sound – the kind most wouldn’t notice – drifted from the crack beneath it. A whisper. A gasp. A muffled cry. 

His chest clenched. 

He didn’t knock. 

Sirius pushed the door open gently and stepped inside. The moonlight from the window caught the edges of her duvet. Hermione was curled in on herself, knotted in her sheets, her face scrunched in a grimace of fear she never let anyone see in daylight. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, crossing the room in three strides. “Kitten..”

He didn’t hesitate. He kicked off his boots and slid beneath the covers beside her. The moment his body heat hit hers, she flinched violently, sucking in a panicked breath and lashing out – not with her fists, but with that wild, unguarded fear in her eyes. 

“It’s me,” he whispered fiercely, catching her wrist before she could bolt. “It’s just me.”

“Sirius?” she croaked, breath catching. 

He pulled her into his chest and wrapped his arms around her like armour. “Claws away, kitten,” he murmured against her hair. “No one’s going to hurt you. Not tonight.”

She didn’t speak right away, but the tension in her spine slowly bled out. Her face buried into his shoulder as she tried to breath though the remnants of whatever horrors her mind had conjured.

Sirius didn’t ask. He wouldn’t push. But he couldn’t stop the question that whispered from his chest. 

“You want to tell me what it was?”

“No,” she said after a beat. “But thank you… for coming.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You don’t have to thank me. I’ll always come.”

Her fingers curled around the edge of his shirt, twisting in the fabric like an anchor. The silence stretched. It wasn’t peaceful – not yet – but it was quieter. 

“I hate that it still gets to me,” she whispered at last. “The war. The pressure. The fear. I walk around pretending I’m made of steel, but… I’m not. Not really.”

“You’re not made of steel,” Sirius said, tightening his hold. “You’re made of fire and stubbornness and brilliance. But even fire needs somewhere safe to burn.”

She let out a soft sound – half a sigh, half a sob – and shifted closer. 

“I just want to be strong enough,” she whispered. “For Harry. For everyone.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “You’re the strongest bloody woman I’ve ever met. But strength doesn’t mean you never feel fear. It just means you keep going anyway.”

Hermione went quiet again, but this time it wasn’t discomfort. It was… consideration. Then:

“I feel safe with you,” she said softly. “Even when I’m furious at you. Even when you’re a bossy, impossible brute with rules and whisky and that smug little smirk.”

His lips twitched. “Smug little smirk?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He chuckled quietly, still brushing her hair back from her cheek. “I might. But I like hearing you say it.”

She tipped her head back enough to look at him – eyes still glassy, but clearer now. And something in her gaze… it undid him. 

“You make me feel…” she hesitated. “Like maybe I’m not as alone as I think I am.”

The words speared something deep in him. Something warm and aching. 

Hope. 

Sirius swallowed hard. 

Could she mean…?

Was she…?

Surely not – 

But her fingers were still clutching him. Her lips were so close. And her body fit into his like it belonged there. 

His voice was hoarse when he finally said, “You’re not alone, Kitten. Not anymore.”

She didn’t speak. 

But she didn’t pull away. 

And Sirius didn’t sleep the rest of the night – not because of nightmares, but because for the first time in years, something impossible had bloomed inside him:

The sense that maybe – just maybe – he wasn’t too broken to love. 

*

The rhythm of her breathing allowed. 

She’d fallen asleep. 

Sirius knew the moment it happened – the way her body finally gave up the last of its tension, melting fully against him. Her fingers remained knotted in his shirt like a lifeline, her breath now soft against his collarbone. The shadows that had twisted her expression earlier had vanished, leaving only peace in their wake. 

He didn’t dare move.

Not even to shift the arm that had gone numb beneath her. 

Instead, he just… watched. 

Watched the rise and fall of her chest. The gentle flutter of lashes against her cheek. The way the moonlight danced across her bare shoulder where the blanket had slipped down, illuminating smooth skin he ached to trace with reverent hands. The gentle arch of her brow. The small crease that lingered between them – a remnant of her stubbornness, no doubt – even in sleep. 

She looked young like this. Not a girl. Never that. But young in the way someone looked when they weren’t being forced to carry the weight of the world. Untouched by war. Untouched by pain. 

It fucking hurt. 

Because he knew it wouldn’t last. 

But in this moment… she was at peace. In his arms. Wrapped around him like she belonged there. 

And fuck, didn’t that feel like the cruellest blessing of all?

Sirius exhaled slowly, as if any sound louder than a whisper might shatter her calm.

His hand moved gently – reverently – brushing a strand of hair from her face. Chocolate and silk. She smelled like lavender and something honey-sweet, and it was torture. Blissful, exquisite torture. 

He could kiss her. 

Right now.

He could dip his head, press his mouth to hers, and feel what he’d only dared to dream of. She was here. Soft. Warm. clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering her to this world. 

And maybe he was. 

Gods help him. 

She made him want things. Dangerous, impossible things. Like a life. Like hope. Like waking up every day and seeing her in his bed, instead of in the line of fire. 

She made him want to be good enough. 

Sirius closed his eyes briefly, swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, and stared at her again like a starving man. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, barely audible. “It hurts.”

She stirred slightly, but didn’t wake. Her grip on him tightened. 

She hadn’t let go. 

Even in her sleep, she was holding on. To him. 

It stole the air from his lungs. 

His thumb brushed along her spine, the motion slow, almost instinctive. And in that moment, Sirius Black – Azkaban survivor, war-hardened rebel, self-proclaimed mess – fell a little further into the fire. 

And for once, he didn’t want to claw his way out. 

* * *

Molly Weasley did not creep about Grimmauld Place like some dainty house-elf. She marched. She stormed. She entered rooms with the moral authority of a battalion general and the self-righteous indignation of a woman who’d raised seven children and survived. 

So when she opened Hermione Granger’s bedroom door without knocking – breakfast tray in hand and a knitted shawl thrown over her shoulders – she expected a sleepy, tousled teenager, perhaps buried in books or still curled beneath her covers. 

What she did not expect…

Was Sirius Black. 

Stretched out in Hermione’s bed. 

With Hermione wrapped around him like he was the bloody mattress. 

They were clothes, at least. Thank Merlin for small mercies. But the scene before her – the intimacy of it, the comfort, the hand of a grown man splayed protectively over the bare skin of her shoulder – was enough to make Molly’s eyes nearly pop out of her skull. 

Sirius’s eyes cracked open just in time to see Molly’s jaw unhinge. 

“Don’t –” he hissed in alarm, placing a finger to his lips and glancing down at Hermione’s still-sleeping form. “For the love of all things sacred, don’t wake her. ”

Molly’s nostrils flared. She turned on her heel, hissing like a cursed kettle as she stormed out of the room. Sirius winced, carefully disentangled himself from Hermione – whose fingers tried to follow him even in sleep – and tiptoed out behind her, closing the door with a silent click . 

He barely turned before she pounded. 

“ What the hell do you think you’re doing Sirius Black?!” Molly seethed in a whisper that somehow rattled the portrait frames. “She’s a child! She’s practically Harry’s age!”

“She’s nineteen,” Sirius muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “And you’ll wake her with that dragon screech –”

“Don’t you dare joke about this!” 

From the staircase above, Remus leaned casually against the banister, an amused brow raised. Tonks peeked out from behind him, a piece of toast in her hand and an audible ooh under her breath. 

Sirius held up both hands in surrender. “She had a nightmare,” he said evenly. “A bad one. I heard her. Went to check. She was thrashing about, terrified. I just… got in bed to calm her down. We must’ve dozed off, that’s all.”

Molly’s eyes narrowed to pinpricks. “And you expect me to believe –?”

“She was crying, Molly.” That stopped her short. Sirius’s voice lost all its lazy bravado. “She was shaking. Clawing the sheets. She wouldn’t even tell me what it was about, just… held on to me like she’d fall apart otherwise. I wasn’t doing anything improper. You may not believe me, but I would never –” he caught Remus’s knowing smirk and cleared his throat, “ –not when she was like that. Not when she needed comfort. Nothing happened. No harm done.”

“... To Kitten?” Remus echoed with a slow grin. 

“Shut up, Moony.”

Molly folded her arms. “Kitten?!”

“It’s just a nickname,” Sirius said breezily, already walking toward the kitchen. “You know. Sharp claws. Soft fur. Bites if you look at her the wrong way. Kind of like you, actually. Jealousy suits you, Molly.”

Her gasp echoed down the hallway. 

Tonks burst into laughter. Remus gave a low whistle. 

“Oh you are dead, Black,” Molly growled, stomping after him as he turned into the kitchen with that maddening grin. 

*

Hermione stirred to the dull morning light slanted through the heavy curtains. 

Her first awareness was of warmth – the lingering kind that clung to her skin like a memory. The other side of the bed was empty, but not cold. Not yet. 

She turned her face into the pillow, and the scent hit her. 

Leather. Smoke. That elusive something that was so distinctly him – Sirius. 

Hermione’s lips curved into a sleepy smile against the cotton. 

Then came the shriek. 

It cut through the hallway like a banshee’s wail – unmistakable Mrs. Weasley. 

Hermione groaned into the mattress. That explains it, then.

He must have slipped away quietly, but clearly not quietly enough. 

She stretched lazily, bones clicking, still tangled in the warmth of his departure. Her fingers brushed the sheet beside her, and for just a second, she let herself have it. The memory of his arms. The way he whispered to her in the dark. The things he didn’t say, but let slip anyway. The hunger barely masked in his voice. The protectiveness in his grip. 

The nickname, 

Kitten.

She sat up with a quiet exhale and smirked. 

It was time to test something. 

If Sirius Black thought he could whisper sins into her skin and disappear like a gentleman, he had another thing coming. 

He had feelings for her – she was sure of it now. Maybe not said aloud, maybe not defined, but they were there. Tangled between looks that lingered too long and words that hovered too heavy. He tried to restrain it, tried to smother it with sarcasm and whisky, but Hermione was far too clever to miss the ache in his restraint. 

And if he didn’t like disobedience?

Well then.

Her brows rose as she padded to the wardrobe. 

Challenge accepted. 

She didn’t bother with robes today. Or jeans. Or anything remotely neutral. No, today she was dressed with a very specific purpose – and that purpose was tall, tattooed, brooding, and currently being screamed at in the kitchen. 

She slipped on a fitted black top that dipped just enough to tease, but not quite scandalize. Her trousers were tight, tucked into boots that made her hips sway. Her curls, still wild from sleep, she pinned into a messy knot that let a few tendrils spill down her neck. Her lips? She added just a touch of charm-gloss. Subtle. Dangerous. 

She checked the mirror. 

The look was lethal. 

Her smile was worse. 

And if Sirius Black didn’t like her disobedience, he was absolutely going to hate what she planned next. 

*

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place was loud with morning bustle cluttered with the usual suspects – mismatched chairs, the smell of coffee, and the constant hum of war talk brewing between bites of toast. 

Sirius nursed a black coffee with the kind of brooding concentration reserved for dangerous men and unspoken thoughts. 

He didn’t hear her footsteps. 

He felt her arrival.

Hermione sauntered in like she owned the bloody room – no apology, no explanation – and certainly no attempt to soften the blow of what she was wearing. 

Leather trousers. Laced boots. A black tank top that clung to every dip and curve of her body, the neckline lower than anything she’d ever worn around the house. Her curls were pinned in a way that exposed her neck like an offering. A hint of gloss on her lips. The faint shimmer of magic still clinging to her like a second later. 

Sirius’s grip on his mug tightened until the porcelain cracked. 

“Bloody hell,” Fred muttered beside him. 

George whistled low. “That’s not our Hermione. That’s a trap.”

“Oh, I might have to switch mates,” Tonks quipped to Remus, who promptly choked on his tea. 

Hermione laughed. That soft, low, unbothered laugh – and Sirius’s groin tightened so sharply he had to shift in his seat and bite the inside of his cheek.

She knew exactly what she was doing. 

“Morning,” she said casually, pouring herself a coffee, her back arching slightly as she leaned across the counter. It was innocent to everyone else, but to Sirius – it was lethal. 

He took one long look at her – at the confident sway of her hips, the way her fingers cradled the mug, the effortless way she leaned back and tipped her head in mock curiosity. Her eyes met his across the room, steady, taunting, dark with something unspoken. 

Sirius stood slowly, every inch of him taut. 

“Kitten,” he said, voice low and dangerously amused, “you’re looking rather… determined today.”

Hermione blinked at him with faux innocence and took a slow sip of her coffee. “Am I?”

His jaw clenched. 

Ron, predictably, has been gawking since she walked in – his tongue nearly unrolling from his mouth like a cartoon. Hermione noticed, of course, and took the seat furthest from him, with all the grace of a queen too elegant to address a peasant. Fred and George continued their absurd commentary, asking whether Hermione needed a personal guard or if she was simply planning to duel Death Eaters with the power of her thighs alone. 

She smirked but didn’t indulge them. 

No – she was focused. Coiled. And Sirius knew the truth: this wasn’t just for attention. 

This was for him . 

She was testing him. Tempting him. Pushing that line again. 

And he was barely holding it. 

The door creaked open and Kingsley strode in, thick parchment in hand and a look of grim purpose on his face. The room sobered instantly. 

“I’ve been researching destruction methods,” Kingsley said without preamble, nodding to the heavily warded cupboard where the Horcruxes were hidden. “The locket. The cup. They’re both resilient. The usual spells won’t touch them. But there is something…”

He looked to Arthur, then to Hermione. 

“...Fiendfyre.”

Arthur paled instantly. “Absolutely not –! That’s –! You can’t control that, it’s suicidal!”

“No one’s suggesting we light up the kitchen,” Kingsley replied smoothly. “But if we want these things gone, truly gone, we need to think bigger. Darker.”

Sirius didn’t respond. 

He was too busy watching Hermione. 

And she – leaning against the counter in leather and wickedness – was still watching him . 

Chapter Text

“You’re really pulling out all the stops lately, Hermione,” Ron said, his voice sticky with charm. He had apparently found it in the worst way after blissful silence. “You didn’t have to get dressed up just for us.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. 

She merely lifted her coffee again, held it like a shield, and offered a smooth, “I didn’t.”

That should have been the end of it. 

But Ron leaned forward on his elbows across the table, eyes shamelessly roaming down her top. “Bet it’s hard to hex someone with those trousers painted on. Not that I’m complaining – Merlin, you’ve really grown into yourself, haven’t you?” 

Apparently the last conversation where Hermione had adamantly said ‘No,’ wasn’t clear enough, and now Ron was trying a new approach to entice her. 

Vulgarity. 

The scrape of Sirius’s chair pushing back was not subtle. 

Fred and George had gone still, and even Harry had paused mid-sip of his tea, his gentle eyes flickering toward the tension. 

Hermione’s smile was tight now, like it was glued to her face by force alone. Her fingers curled too tightly around the mug, her knuckles white. 

“Ron,” she said coolly, “do be careful. You’re mistaking me tolerating your presence for interest again.”

Ron flushed, but grinned anyway, clearly misunderstanding her words as flirtation. “Always playing hard to get.”

Hermione stood abruptly. “Excuse me.”

She didn’t wait for a response. 

Didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. 

She turned and strode from the room, coffee forgotten. 

Sirius followed. Instantly. Silently. Without excuse or pretence or farewell. 

“Where are you going?” Molly called after him. 

He didn’t answer.

The hallway was dim, the walls of Grimmauld pressing in with shadow and age and secrets. 

He found her on the staircase landing, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to her sternum like she was forcing her breath back into rhythm. Not a sob. Not panic. Just tightness. Rage. And – fear . 

Sirius saw it in her eyes when she turned. 

That quiet flicker of unease. Not for him , not – but for Ron. For what that boy had just become when no one had stopped him. That he would speak to her like that, like she owed him something for existing in her own skin. 

Sirius’s chest burned with it. 

The fury. The need to protect. The unrelenting desire to destroy anything that looked at her like she was something to be taken . 

She opened her mouth, maybe to tell him she was fine, maybe to ask why he’d followed – but he was already moving. 

His hand braced the wall beside her head, caging her in gently, protectively. The other hovered near her hip but didn’t touch. Not yet. Not unless she asked. 

“Kitten,” he said softly. “Did he frighten you?”

Her lips parted. Her brow furrowed. She blinked rapidly. 

“No,” she lied. 

His jaw ticked.

“You’re not allowed to lie to me. That’s against the rules.”

Her throat bobbed. 

Sirius watched every inch of her. Watched the way she folded her arms around herself. The way her confidence, so on display moments ago, had been replaced with something brittle. 

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” he admitted. “Didn’t like the way he spoke to you.”

“He’s just being an idiot,” she whispered. “He always has been.”

“And how long are you planning to let idiots speak to you like you belong to them?”

Her eyes met his at that. 

And something shifted between them. 

There was heat again. Beneath the anger. Beneath the tension. Her pupils dilated slightly. Her hands, folded across her chest, relaxed. One lowered – just barely brushing his wrist. 

“I don’t belong to anyone,” she said, chin lifting defiantly. 

Sirius’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. 

“No,” he murmured. “You don’t.”

But fuck, did he want her to belong to him . 

Sirius took a steadying breath as he stepped back from Hermione, just enough to give her room again. Her eyes were still on his, pupils dark, lashes fluttering like she wasn’t sure what she wanted more – to run or to stay . 

He cleared his throat softly. “Why don’t you take yourself off to the library for a while, Kitten?”

She blinked, surprised by the gentle shift in his tone. 

He nodded toward the stairs. “No war talk. No planning. Just you. A book. A moment to breathe.”

Hermione’s brows drew together. Her voice, when it came, was soft. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

A ghost of a smirk flickered across his mouth. “I’m trying to stop myself from dragging you back into my bed where the world can’t reach you.”

That earned him a very Hermione roll of her eyes, but she smiled faintly – cheeks pink. 

She didn’t argue. 

She stepped around him and made for the hallway, her hand just brushing against his as she passed. 

It wasn’t an accident. 

Sirius watched her until she turned the corner. 

And just as he exhaled, trying to calm the storm in his chest – 

The kitchen door creaked open behind him. 

“Hey, mate – have you seen Hermione?” Ron’s voice was too casual, too smug. “Wanted to have a chat. Just the two of us.”

Sirius turned slowly. 

The fury was immediate. 

Hot. Sharp. Possessive. 

He closed the distance between them in a few easy steps, all casual grace and lethal quiet . Ron, too thick to read the warning signs, just blinked up at him, confused. 

Sirius didn’t raise his voice. 

He didn’t need to. 

“You’ll turn back around now,” he said softly. “And you’ll stay far away from her.”

Ron scowled, clearly gearing up to argue. 

“She’s not yours,” Sirius cut him off, voice still low, calm like a razor’s edge. “She never was. She never will be.”

Ron’s jaw worked furiously. “I don’t need your permission to talk to her.”

“No,” Sirius agreed, voice cool. “But you do need your legs to walk away before I break them.”

Ron paled slightly. “You’re joking.”

Sirius leaned in just a bit, his smile cold, voice like velvet-wrapped violence. 

“Keep sniffing around her like you’re owed something, and I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

Ron stumbled back a step. “She’s my friend –!”

“She’s what she decides to be,” Sirius snapped, the growl barely restrained. “And you’ve been warned.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other. 

And then Ron – grumbling and red-faced – shoved past Sirius and stomped away, slamming a door somewhere down the hall. 

Sirius stood in the quiet for a moment longer. 

The rage was still there. The possessiveness. 

But behind it now burned something worse – fear . 

Because if Ron had gotten to her – 

If Sirius had been a moment too late – 

He didn’t finish the thought. 

He turned and made for the library. 

Because he needed to see her again. 

Needed to remind himself that she was still safe. 

Still his Kitten . 

The library was nearly silent. 

Just the faint rustle of turning pages and the occasional creak of old wood. Sirius paused in the doorway, letting the familiar scent of dust and aged parchment wash over him. 

And her.

Hermione sat curled into the far corner, her knees tucked up beneath her, a book open but forgotten in her lap. Her curls were a little messier now, her posture just the slightest bit guarded – as if she were trying to sink into the walls and disappear. 

Sirius stepped inside and shut the door softly behind him. 

She didn’t look up. Not yet. 

But she said, quietly, “I know I heard Ron out there.”

Sirius walked toward her slowly, each step heavy with the need to fix whatever storm was brewing behind her brave face. 

She finally glanced up at him, her voice brittle. “Why won’t he leave me alone?”

Sirius crouched beside her, elbow resting on the arm of the chair. “Because he’s a petulant little boy who doesn’t understand the meaning of no.”

Her eyes dropped again. 

Then came the words he hadn’t expected – the words that gutted him. 

“Is it my fault?” she whispered. “Do I make it seem like I want him? Do I deserve this, Sirius?”

The rage that boiled up inside him was instant and visceral.

He stood too fast, pacing once across the rug to keep from putting his fist through the bookshelf.

“No,” he said, his voice sharp with fury. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for his behaviour.”

She blinked, startled. 

Sirius came back to her slowly, kneeling again in front of her, taking her hand with reverence that made her breath hitch. 

“You are not to blame,” he said, quieter now. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Kitten. You’ve never led him on. Never encouraged him. And you sure as hell never excused what he’s said or done.”

Her lip trembled. 

She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it. 

“You are strong. And brave. And brilliant. And you don’t owe anyone your time, your affection, or your space just because they can’t take rejection.”

Hermione’s hand gripped his tighter, her eyes shining with emotion she couldn’t voice.

“I’ll always protect you,” he said softly, brushing her knuckles with his thumb. 

She looked up at him, vulnerable. “Even from Ron?”

Sirius’s voice dropped an octave now. A vow. A promise forged in something ancient and wild and utterly his . 

“ Especially from Ron.”

For a long moment, they just stayed like that – her hand in his, the book forgotten, the shadows of the library wrapping around them like a secret. 

Then she exhaled, slow and trembling, and let herself lean forward, her forehead resting gently against his. 

“Thank you,” she whispered.

And though Sirius didn’t move, didn’t even breathe too loudly, inside he was burning . 

Because the weight of her leaning on him felt like everything he’d ever wanted and everything he was terrified to ruin. 

* * *

The quiet between them was velvet and golden, stitched with things unspoken but deeply felt. Hermione had just drawn away from Sirius, still holding his hand for a heartbeat longer than necessary. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t dared break the moment. 

And then - 

“ Hermione, love –”

Remus’s voice came gently from the open library door, knocking softly against the fragile magic humming in the space between Sirius and Hermione. 

“My lovely wife is looking for you,” he continued with a fond smile. “It seems our son is in need of his godmother’s attention.”

At once, the atmosphere shifted. Hermione’s expression lit like the morning sun cresting over the hills, a brightness so pure and joyful it stunned Sirius into silence. 

“Teddy,” she beamed, already rising from the chair. “Of course.”

Sirius watched her go, drinking in that smile as if it might be the last water left in a scorched world. Her laughter echoed back to them as her boots padded down the hall. 

The door didn’t close. 

Remus hadn’t left. 

Sirius turned slowly and met his old friend’s gaze. 

Remus didn’t smile. 

“ Sirius, ” he said softly, but firmly. “My old friend. My best friend.”

The shift in the tone was unmistakable. 

Sirius tried for nonchalance, arching a brow. “Something on your mind, Moony?”

Remus exhaled a short breath through his nose. “I think we need a chat. About Hermione.”

“Nothing to chat about,” Sirius replied, leaning casually against the desk. “She was upset. I was comforting her.”

Remus tilted his head. “Sirius.”

Sirius didn’t blink. 

“I know when you lie,” Remus said, voice like cool steel in a velvet glove. 

A pause. 

“I’ve known you since you were eleven,” he went on. “I’ve seen you reckless and wild. I’ve seen you broken. I’ve seen you love fiercely and lose worse. And I’ve never – never – seen you look at someone the way you look at her. I told you before to wait for her to decide and frankly, it seems to me she already has.”

Sirius opened his mouth. 

Remus held up a hand. 

“Let me finish.”

Sirius swallowed hard and nodded once. 

“Hermione is special,” Remus said gently. “Not just bright or brave or bloody terrifying with a wand – which let’s be honest, she is. But she’s kind . And loyal. And so full of love she doesn’t know where to put it all.”

He smiled faintly, a wistful edge to it. 

“She’s family, Sirius. To me. To Dora. To Teddy. And to you, perhaps more than anyone.”

Sirius didn’t respond. Couldn’t. 

“And that’s why I’m saying this,” Remus continued, stepping closer. “She’s not a toy. She’s not a fling or a comfort on lonely nights. She’s not someone you accidentally fall into bed with and push away the next morning.”

Sirius flinched at that. Visibly. 

Remus’s eyes softened but his voice didn’t. 

“I see you,” he said. “Even if the others pretend not to. And I know what you’re feeling. You’ve said as much yourself and it doesn’t seem to be going away. Hell, I suspect she knows too. But I also know this – you will not survive losing anyone else.”

Sirius blinked, once. Then again. Something cracked quietly in his chest. 

“If you’re sure about her,” Remus said, voice gentler now, “If you feel for her as deeply as I know you do, then be careful. For both your sakes. Tread lightly. Hold her tightly. And don’t fuck it up.”

He paused. 

“Because if you do…” His expression sharpened with amusement now, though his voice stayed low. “Dora will have your bollocks for breakfast.”

A beat of silence. 

Then Sirius let out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Merlin,” he muttered. “You two really don’t miss a thing.”

“No,” Remus said with a fond smile. “Never.”

*

By the time Sirius and Remus re-joined the others in the sunlit sitting room, the air was humming with soft laughter and the low, rhythmic patter of baby giggles. 

Hermione was on the rug, legs folded beneath her, Teddy Lupin sprawled across her lap with all the natural grace of an adored child. Her fingers danced across his tummy, drawing delighted peals of laughter from him as she blew raspberries into the soft skin just above his little navel. He squirmed and kicked and squealed, curls bouncing. 

Sirius stopped in the doorway. He couldn’t move. 

Because just then, right before his eyes, Teddy’s hair shimmered – soft blue fading away as it morphed into a perfect mop of soft chocolate brown, matching Hermione’s. Rich curls framed his cherub cheeks, and as the baby cooed and grabbed her necklace, Hermione lit up with a soft, adoring laugh that echoed straight through Sirius’s chest like a war drum. 

“Oh, come on,” Harry groused from the armchair, arms crossed. “How come you get all his attention?”

Hermione looked up, grinning. “Because I give all the best cuddles, and he knows it.”

Teddy babbled something nonsensical and planted a very wet, very loud kiss to Hermione’s jaw. 

“Traitor,” Harry mumbled. “He used to like me best.”

“He still loves you, squirt.” Dora said with a smirk, ruffling Harry’s mop as she crossed the room towards her husband. “But let’s be honest, Hermione smells better.”

“Dora,” Molly chided with a snort, stirring tea as Ginny stifled laughter behind her mug. 

Sirius barely heard them. 

His eyes were locked onto the scene before him. 

And his chest – no, his bones – ached. 

There was something ancient rising under his skin, something not quite human, not quite magic. It sat deep in his gut, coiled and hot, and clawed at his ribs with every giggle that passed Hermione’s lips. Every time Teddy’s curls bounced in perfect imitation of hers, something inside him snarled. 

Mine.

He swallowed hard. He wasn’t a werewolf. He didn’t have a mate bond. There was no biological imperative. No sacred link.

But the Animagus magic in his blood, wild and unchecked, had always been just beneath the surface. And right now – right now – the mutt inside him was howling. 

Claim her. Ours. She’s ours. Mate. Family. Pup. Now. 

Sirius gritted his teeth, his jaw locking tight. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. 

Because fuck , it would be so easy. 

So easy to step forward, drop to his knees beside her, kiss the top of her head like he’d been born for it. To pull her back against his chest and feel that tiny little boy against them both. To tell the whole damn world that this – this – was what he wanted. What he needed . 

Hermione looked up at him then, as if she’d felt the weight of his gaze, and smiled. 

Soft. Curious. Trusting. 

Sirius blinked, and it almost shattered him. 

She had no idea what she was doing to him. No idea that she was the axis his world had spun around since the moment she handed him that whisky and leaned away from Ron like he was poison. No idea that the mutt in him would die before letting her go. That the man wouldn’t survive it either. 

Remus nudged him with a shoulder, quiet and knowing. 

“Breathe,” he murmured under his breath. “Before someone asks you if you’re about to shift right here in the parlour.”

Sirius didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His throat was too tight. 

Because all he could think about – while Hermione cradled Teddy like he was her own, while the little boy nuzzled against her chest and babbled his delight, with curls that matched hers and laughter that echoed like a promise – was that he’d never wanted something so badly in his life. 

Family.

Warmth. 

Her.

* * *

The late afternoon sun filtered through the grimy windows of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, casting long golden shadows over the mismatched group gathered in the drawing room. The war council – as Fred had jokingly dubbed them – was in full swing again, with scattered scrolls, battered notebook, and half-empty mugs of tea littering the table. 

Hermione had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of the meeting, eyes narrowed in thought as the others debated the implications of using cursed fire. Her fingers tapped absently against her mug, brows furrowed in that very particular way that told Sirius she was dangerous. 

Very dangerous. 

When Kingsley made another sweeping claim about the efficiency of Fiendfyre, Hermione finally raised her voice, not sharp but cool – measured. 

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. 

Everyone stilled. 

“Oh no,” muttered Fred. “She’s been thinking .”

“God help us all,” George echoed. 

Remus glanced over, wary. “You can’t seriously be agreeing with Kingsley.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Of course not. It’s unpredictable, wildly dangerous, and nearly impossible to control. But –” she set her mug down carefully. “ – that doesn’t mean we are out of options.”

Sirius leaned back in his chair, arms folded, eyes fixed on her with lazy appreciation and something darker simmering under the surface. “Kitten’s dangerous when she’s been thinking,” he said, voice a low purr that sent a shiver through the group – though only Hermione smirked in return. 

“That’s what you love about me,” she quipped. 

He didn’t deny it. 

She turned back to the group. “The sword of Gryffindor.”

Harry frowned. “What about it?”

“It’s goblin-made,” she said. “Which means it doesn’t tarnish ever. And it absorbs anything that strengthens it.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “So?”

“So,” Hermione said, eyes lighting in that brilliant, terrifying gleam she got when every thought finally clicked into place, “Harry used it to kill the basilisk. It’s been impregnated with its venom.”

Remus straightened. “Which means…”

Hermione nodded. “Which means it should, theoretically, be capable of destroying Horcruxes. Basilisk venom is one of the few known substances that can. It’s lethal.”

Harry leaned forward. “That’s brilliant. But we don’t know where the sword is.”

“No,” Hermione agreed. “But Snape does.”

That brought a pause to the room. 

She continued. “Before he returned to Voldemort’s side, he told the Order that he’d taken the real sword from the vault at Gringotts. Switched it with a replica before Bellatrix ever got a chance to check. She never suspected a thing.”

Sirius whistled low. “Clever bastard.”

“But,” Hermione said, “he was called back before he could tell anyone where he hid the real one.”

“So we just need to find it,” Harry muttered. 

“Exactly,” she replied. “We narrow down the places Snape would’ve trusted. Safehouses. Hogwarts. Somewhere unassuming but protected.”

Kingsley tapped his wand against his knee, thoughtful. “We’ll start pulling records. Cross-reference known locations Severus used before the war.”

“Don’t bother with anything obvious,” Sirius added. “He was slippery even when he wasn’t being hunted. If he hid the sword, it’ll be somewhere poetic. Arrogant little snake always had a flair for dramatics.”

Hermione smiled faintly, her eyes meeting Sirius’s across the room. 

A slow heat curled in Sirius’s chest at the look she gave him. Smart. Sharp. Beautiful. Dangerous. Merlin help him, he was so far gone. 

But that’s what she was, wasn’t she?

Not just clever. Brilliant . The kind of clever that lit fire to the dark. And his – even if not officially, not yet. 

He felt the mutt stir in his bones again, low and restless. 

He leaned forward just a fraction and murmured, just loud enough for her to hear:

“Remind me to never get on your bad side, kitten.”

She arched a brow. “I thought you already were.”

Laughter rippled through the group, breaking the tension for just a moment – but Sirius didn’t miss the curve of her lips, or the spark in her eyes. 

And he knew. 

If they survived this war, if they found the sword, destroyed the Horcruxes, and made it out the other side – 

He wasn’t ever letting her go. 

Chapter Text

It was late. The drawing room was empty now except for the embers glowing in the fireplace and the low murmur of two voices, cracking with both history and weariness. 

Sirius leaned back against the arm of the worn sofa, boots crossed at the ankles, a bottle of firewhisky between his fingers. Remus sat in the chair opposite, legs stretched out, hands folded over his stomach, eyes hooded with memory. 

“We were little shits,” Sirius muttered after a long silence. 

Remus chuckled. “Speak for yourself. I was a perfect angel.”

Sirius snorted into his glass. 

The memories had come slowly at first – one leafing into another, like footsteps back through time. Places they hadn’t thought about in years. Places that he had gone to – Snivellus, always skulking around in corners, always slithering off when no one was paying attention. 

“There was that cave,” Remus said finally. “The one near Hogsmeade. North of the Shrieking Shack. Do you remember? Just before the cliffside path drops into the woods.”

Sirius hummed. “Snape used to vanish there when Slytherin got too much for him. Even he couldn’t stomach Mulciber all the time.”

“And the treehouse,” Remus added, quieter this time. “He used to meet Lily there when they were kids. She told me once. Said he built it for her.”

Sirius didn’t answer. His jaw tightened. He remembered the treehouse. Remembered Lily’s laughter echoing through the glen. The way she’d looked at Snape like he was worth saving.

Remus hesitated. “There’s also his childhood home. Spinner’s End.”

Sirius shook his head immediately. “Too dangerous.”

“I know. But if he hid something personal – something valuable – he may have risked it.”

A long pause stretched between them. 

By morning, the rest of the group was gathered around the kitchen table again, tension humming beneath their conversation. 

Kingsley tapped a list of coordinates onto the tabletop with his wand. “We split into three. The sooner we find that sword, the better. Time isn’t on our side.”

“Agreed,” Remus said. “Sirius and I have narrowed it down to three places Snape held sentimental value: the treehouse he built for Lily, the cliffside cave near Hogsmeade, and his old home in Spinner’s End.”

Kingsley looked around. “Then we divide. I’ll take Remus and check the house. Ron, Hermione – you take the cave. Sirius, Harry – you’ll go after the treehouse.”

There was a beat. 

“No,” Sirius said, voice calm but final.

Eyebrows lifted. Hermione stilled by the fireplace. 

Sirius didn’t look at her. 

“Harry should go with Ron,” he added with a shrug, “they know how to cover each other in the field. I’ll take the cave with Hermione.”

Kingsley blinked. “You just said the cave was treacherous –”

“And Hermione’s the brightest witch of the age,” Sirius countered, with an almost too-casual grin. “If there are any wards or traps on the site, I’d rather have her there than not. Besides, I’m not hauling my arse up some bloody treehouse.”

Harry smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s fine. I’d rather Ron got bitten by whatever magical squirrels Snape left behind anyway. I can send him up as collateral.”

Ron looked like he wanted to protest but Sirius gave him a look. The kind that said don’t you dare.

And Hermione – Hermione didn’t meet his gaze at all. 

But he was sure she could feel him watching her. 

Kingsley relented. “Fine. Move quickly, stay sharp, and stay in constant contact.”

The meeting broke. 

Sirius moved to the hallway, pulling on his coat. He felt her before he heard her footsteps. 

“You didn’t want me going with Ron,” Hermione said quietly. 

He paused. 

“No,” Sirius said. “I didn’t.”

She stepped closer. “Is it because you don’t trust him … or because you do trust me?”

That made him look at her. 

And for just a heartbeat, Sirius forgot how to speak. She was too close. Her mouth too soft. Her eyes too knowing. 

He cleared his throat. “Both.”

A slow smile tugged at her lips. 

“Good,” she said. “Because, you know I don’t trust him either.”

*

The morning air in Grimmauld Place was thick with purpose, every corridor alive with the shuffle of boots, the flick of cloaks, and the low murmur of coordinated planning. It wasn’t quite war – not yet – but the weight of it lingered behind every glance. 

In the foyer, three pairs of operatives were gearing up. 

Ron fumbled with his wand holster, already radiating misplaced bravado. “You just make sure you stay safe out there, yeah?” he said toward Hermione with that familiar tone – mocking concern laced with something possessive. “Wouldn’t want anything happening to that pretty little face.”

The room went quiet. 

Harry’s fist landed hard and fast, a clean punch to Ron’s shoulder that sent him stumbling back into the coat rack with a dull clatter.

“Oi!” Ron cried, clutching his arm. “What the hell was that for?”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Harry snapped, green eyes dark with disappointment. “You sound like a bloody creep.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. She stepped forward with grace, not a hint of uncertainty in her voice. 

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” she said coolly. “I have Sirius with me. I couldn’t possibly be safer.”

Sirius didn’t move, but his chest rose with a deep swell of pride. Merlin help him – she said it so easily, so confidently, like it was obvious . Like it was fact. 

He didn’t dare look at Ron. But from the pallor draining from the boy’s face, he didn’t have to. 

Remus stepped up, placing a hand on Sirius’s shoulder. It was casual – warm, even – but the look in his eyes was razor-sharp. A silent reminder. 

Not a fling. 

Sirius rolled his eyes. “ Yes, dad, ” he muttered under his breath. 

Remus smirked but said nothing. 

Sirius turned toward Hermione and offered his hand, just for a moment. She didn’t hesitate, placing hers in his palm, small and certain. 

“Come on, Kitten,” he said with a roguish grin. “Let’s get out of here.”

She squeezed his fingers once before they both Disapparated with a crack that echoed through the ancient halls. 

In their absence, the others prepared for their own jumps. 

Harry leaned in toward Remus. “You really think Sirius has any clue what he’s doing?”

Remus exhaled, watching the air ripple where they’d vanished. “No,” he said honestly. “But for the first time in years… I think he wants to.”

* * *

They landed with a crack just outside the mouth of the cave. 

It was nestled deep in a forgotten pocket of the forest, trees gnarled like crooked fingers reaching toward the cliff face. Mist curled around the roots, clinging to the ground like secrets no one had dared unearth. The air was cold. Still. Too quiet.

Sirius’s wand was already out before his boots even fully settled into the first. Hermione’s eyes scanned the shadows beside him, already casting a silent detection charm as she turned in a full, slow circle. 

“No immediate traps,” she murmured. “Wards are ancient but long broken. Possibly from before Snape ever came back to check on it.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t mean it’s safe.”

“I didn’t say it was,” she said mildly, already crouching beside a flattened trail of underbrush, 

He followed her line of sight. The ground was disturbed – slightly warped – brittle webbing nestled beneath moss. 

“Acromantula,” she said. “But it’s old. These are decayed husks. Probably abandoned nests… probably.”

“Still bloody unpleasant,” Sirius muttered, stepping carefully around one particularly wide webbed spiral. “If any of them still skitter, I’m setting the whole cave on fire.”

Hermione smirked and rose to her feet. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Me?” he said, feigning scandal. “Kitten, I’m wounded.”

The cave loomed in front of them now – jagged stone and shadow, a faint breeze wafting out from its mouth with the scent of dust and old magic. Hermione took a confident step forward –

And walked directly into Sirius’s arm. 

He blocked her with ease, his hand splayed across her stomach as he held her back. 

Her brow lifted. “Sirius –”

“Kitten,” he said, voice all gravel and authority, “what are the rules?”

Hermione groaned. “You’re not serious –”

“I am Sirius ,” he quipped, grinning until she shot him a flat look. 

She exhaled. “Fine. Rule one: I don’t rush in alone. Rule two: I don’t try to be a hero. Rule three: I scream, you come. Rule Four: –”

“ – you don’t get yourself bloody hurt,” he finished for her, stepping closer, his hand still not leaving her. 

She rolled her eyes. “Happy?”

His head tilted.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me, Kitten?” he asked, voice low and filled with warning amusement. 

Her eyes widened slightly at the tone, her lips parting just enough for him to see the breath she drew in. The kind that went all the way down. The kind that made his restraint a fraying, laughable thread. 

Sirius stepped back, just enough to gesture toward the darkened cave. 

“Ladies first,” he murmured with a smirk. “After you’ve followed all the rules, of course.”

Hermione gave him a look over her shoulder as she stepped inside – equal parts challenge and invitation. 

He swore under his breath as he followed her. 

This was going to be a very long day. 

And not for the reasons he’d been expecting. 

The cave twisted like a serpent beneath the earth – endless and echoing with walls that wept condensation and stone slick beneath their boots. They moved in silence at first, Sirius’s wand raised beside hers, their footsteps muffled by centuries of dust. 

Sirius kept close. Perhaps too close. But he couldn’t help it. The darkness swallowed everything beyond a few feet, and Hermione’s figure – her warmth, her breath, the golden strands of her hair catching in the torchlight from her wand – was the only real thing anchoring him to the moment. 

She didn’t complain. Not when his hand hovered near the small of her back. Not when their fingers brushed as they passed through narrower corridors. She only glances up once, brow arched, but her mouth held the ghost of a smile. A secret one. 

He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, especially when her tank top left her shoulders bare. And she smelled like salt and parchments and danger and home. It was doing something treacherous to him – stoking a fire in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with battle adrenaline. 

Eventually, the corridor widened into a vast hollow, the stone beneath their boots becoming uneven and cracked. A faint magical hum lingered in the air. 

Hermione paused and cast a charm, her spellwork swift and precise. “Residual enchantments,” she said quietly. “Defensive ones. Old. Most likely abandoned with the nests.”

“Or left as a deterrent,” Sirius muttered, scanning the perimeter. 

They pressed on. The cave turned out to be far more expansive than either had anticipated – twisting forks, raised platforms, buried stairwells carved by magic or time, they couldn’t tell. It had clearly been used for something long ago. Perhaps even Snape hadn’t known the full breadth of it. 

They explored until their limbs ached and the light from their wands dimmed by the hour. By the time they stumbled into another chamber, slightly warmer and less damp than the rest, Hermione dropped her satchel with a sigh. 

“I think we’ll have to camp here for the night,” she said, glancing at her watch. “We’re not going to find anything in the dark, and it’s not safe to Apparate underground.”

Sirius nodded. “Agreed.”

She started unpacking from the emergency Order survival kit: two small tins of food, a heating stone, and – 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered. 

“What?”

“No spare bedroll.”

Sirius blinked. “None?”

She tossed him a list of supplies. The second toll was clearly missing, with a scrawled note from Fred and George at the bottom that read: “ Sorry” We borrowed one for explosive testing – will return with added fluff soon!”

Sirius stared. “Explosive fluff?”

Hermione shrugged, utterly deadpan. “Twin logic.”

A long silence stretched. 

Finally, Sirius said slowly, “So… I suppose we’ll have to share?”

Her eyes flicked up to his. 

Something wicked shimmered in her gaze, but her voice was calm, composed. “Unless you’d prefer to sleep on the cave floor?”

He held up his hands. “I’m not that much of a gentleman.”

Her lips twitched. “Didn’t think so.”

Sirius set up their single bedroll beside the enchanted fire stone and then turned his back as she changed into leggings and a long jumper, giving her space – but not too much space. His eyes kept finding her silhouette in the low firelight, like a magnet drawn to its pull. 

When she finally settled beside him – sitting bare inches from him – he let out a long, controlled breath and folded his hand behind his head. 

“Comfortable?” she murmured, clearly amused by the tension hanging in the air. 

He turned his head to look at her. “You’ve no idea, Kitten.”

Her eyes met his. Soft. Curious. And far too knowing. 

It was going to be a long, long night. 

And not because of the cave. 

*

The cave’s natural stillness settled around them like a weighted blanket – cool stone and echoing quiet, broken only by the occasional drip of water and the soft crackle from the enchanted heating stone. The single bedroll lay untouched for now, Sirius had gotten back up to sit next to Hermione, so close they were brushing their knees together. 

Between them Sirius had conjured a small, flickering flame contained in a charm-wrought glass orb. 

It cast Hermione’s face in golden light. 

Sirius passed her the flask without a word. 

She raised an eyebrow. “Ogden’s?”

“Travelling essential,” he said, voice dry. 

They passed it back and forth a few times before the burn began to settle in their bones, warming limbs chilled by the cave. The whisky stripped away the tension. Not entirely – but enough for truths to slink free. 

They talked. 

About everything.

Sirius told her about Hogwarts – the detentions, the prank wars, the nights in the Astronomy Tower with Remus patching up his bruised, the hollow space James had left behind after graduation. His voice faltered only once, when he spoke of Azkaban. The moment passed quickly, swallowed by the firelight. 

Hermione spoke about the Ministry – about the chaos, the pain, the betrayal that clung to her like second skin. Her voice was too calm, too clinical, and Sirius knew what that meant. Knew what it cost her. 

And her scars – well, she didn’t show them. But she traced them absently though her jumper. The curve of one on her hip. The jagged one across her ribs. Her tone didn’t waver, but her eyes were glassy. 

She didn’t cry. 

But he wanted to cry for her. 

“Ron’s been…” she exhaled hard. “I don’t even know what he’s been. Distant. Possessive. Cruel. And I keep thinking – maybe I did something wrong. Maybe I changed?”

“You did change,” Sirius said. “You became brilliant. And they hate it when women become what they fear.”

She blinked at him. And then, smiling almost shyly, she said, “I had the most embarrassing crush on you, you know.”

Sirius, halfway through another swig, choked. “What?”

Hermione laughed – tipsy, open, unguarded. “When I was younger. You were reckless and protective and forbidden. The godfather of my best friend. Honestly, it was mortifying. ”

He lowered the flask. “You were just a girl then,” he said softly. “And you had been through too much already. Nothing… nothing like that ever crossed my mind. You were precious. Sacred.”

“And now?” she asked. 

His eyes flicked to her. “Now you’re a woman who makes my hands twitch every time you smirk at me.”

Hermione hummed. “Not just a girl now, then.”

“Careful, Kitten,” he rasped, voice lower, darker. “The mutt likes to give chase.”

And oh, she felt reckless now. 

The whisky hummed in her blood. The fire danced in her chest. She inched forward – so slowly, so deliberately – and watched as his pupils blow wide as her knee brushed against his once more. 

“I don’t know about you,” she whispered, “but if we do die in this war, I’d prefer to know that the girl who grew into a woman managed to sneak a taste of you after all.”

Sirius’s growl was immediate, visceral. 

“ Kitten ,” he warned, hands clenching on his thighs. “I don’t do mere tastes. You start something with me, you don’t get to take it back. I won’t let you.”

Her breath hitched, and then – cheeks flushed, voice silked in danger – she leaned in again. 

“Rule number three, Sirius,” she whispered. “You’ll come to me… wherever I call.”

His breath shuddered. 

“Fucking right I will.”

And then he kissed her. 

There was no hesitation. No tentative brush. He kissed her like possession, like punishment, like he had spent months denying the craving now devouring him whole. Her fingers scrambled for his shirt, and his hands tangled into her curls as he pulled her forward, onto his lap. 

She whimpered against his mouth, 

He growled at the sound – deep and dangerous – before biting her lower lip and swallowing her gasp. 

The fire flickered beside them, unnoticed. 

There was no cave anymore. No war. No scars. No rules. 

Only them. 

And the reckoning that had been a long, slow burn waiting to ignite. 

The cave around them pulsed with breathless tension, the air thick with want, heat radiating from skin to skin desire the cool stone underfoot. The firelight cast flickering shadows across Hermione’s flushed cheeks and Sirius’s heaving chest, his fingers still twisted in the fabric of her jumper like he couldn’t bear to let her go. 

He didn’t let her go. 

But he pulled back – just far enough to draw in a ragged breath, just enough to stop himself from going what his entire body was screaming for. 

His forehead rested against hers, and his voice was a broken growl of restraint. 

“I refuse,” he murmured, voice dark and deliberate, “to have you naked in a fucking cave, Kitten.”

Hermione’s eyes opened, wide and dazed. Her lips were kiss-bruised and parted, and the sound she made – half whimper, half protest – nearly broke him. 

Sirius gritted his teeth and dragged her closer again, breathing her in like salvation and damnation all at once. 

“When I do have you,” he whispered, “it’ll be in my bed. Under my sheets. With my rules. And fuck it –” his lips brushed hers again, featherlight, taunting, “ – I might not even bother with the silencing charms.”

Hermione’s breath caught. 

“So they can all hear the sounds you make for me. Especially Ronald.”

Her kiss came sharp and sudden – teeth grazing his bottom lip, biting down just enough to draw a hiss from deep in his throat. 

When she pulled back, eyes glittering like molten honey, she smirked with dangerous confidence. “You overestimate your control over me, mutt.”

Sirius’s answering laugh was low and wicked. 

And then his hand slid to the back of her neck, his thumb dragging along her jaw with almost reverent pressure. His voice dropped to a hush, a promise, a threat wrapped in velvet. 

“And you,” he said, “underestimate how much you want me to control you, Kitten.”

The silence after was thick, electric. Her lips parted like she might respond, but no sound came. There was no response – because he was tight, and they both knew it. 

She swallowed.

He let go. 

Finally. 

Only because he had to. 

Because if he didn’t, he’d lose every ounce of restraint he had left. 

Hermione didn’t say anything else as she stood up near the bedroll, her movements slow, deliberate. Sirius remained still, jaw tight, breath ragged, doing everything in his power to not look at her. 

Which was impossible. 

Because when she reached the edge of the bedroll, she peeled off her layers one by one. 

The jumper and the black tank top. The leggings. The soft lace bralette. 

Until she stood in nothing but red lace knickers – delicate, translucent, sinfully fucking small – the crimson a start contrast against her golden skin in the dim firelight. 

His lungs stopped working. 

His soul might’ve too. 

She didn’t say a word as she sank down onto the bedroom, laying on her side with one hand propped under her head, facing him. Calm. Casual. Coy. 

Vixen.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?” she asked innocently. 

“You are going to drive me mad, Kitten.”

She smirked. “Already have, haven’t I?”

He didn’t answer that. Couldn’t. Not when every muscle in his body was wound tiger than a piano wire. Instead, he crawled over next to her, with a long, growled exhale. 

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. Just curled into him as though they’d done this a hundred times, as if sleeping wrapped up in Sirius Black was as natural as breathing. 

She was soft. Warm. Bare skin against bare skin in too many places.

And he was suffering . 

He wrapped his arm around her waist anyway and pulled her in flush, her back to his chest, her arse perfectly moulded against the part of him that had been aching for her since she walked into the kitchen that morning she decided to torture him with leather. 

She sighed, content. “You’re really warm.”

He groaned. “Kitten, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” she purred, dragging her hand back to rest on his forearm… then tracing, slow, lazy circles into his skin. 

“You know exactly what.”

Another sigh. “You said you wouldn’t have me in a cave.”