A/N:
Well, hello there. How are you all doing?
If you enjoy the fanfic, comnts, reviews, and power stones would be greatly appreciated.
Thank you for reading!
Now, the reason I'm uploading again today is because soone has been reposting my fic and splitting each chapter into 2–3 smaller chapters. Man My chapters are pretty huge, I should write less. And he is using my earlier writings. I have improved soo much since than. but honestly, I don't really care that much about it.
That said, please don't spread hate or attack anyone on my behalf. I'd rather keep things peaceful.
Thank you all for the support—you guys are amazing.
******
Just as Hermione Granger was beginning to form a plausible guess about Sirius Black's love life, his unwavering habit of leaving the house on ti ca to an abrupt end.
For three days running, at eight o'clock in the evening, he would sit lazily alone in the second-floor living room of the old Black mansion, swirling his newly bought crystal goblet — carved with a sphinx — and ordering Kreacher to fetch him a fresh bottle of Firewhisky from the liquor cabinet.
"The young master should be using a glass with the Black family crest... not this rubbish..." Kreacher muttered as he dragged himself into the living room.
"Those filthy old relics with the snakeskin patterns! I was planning to throw them away — did you secretly fish them out of the bin?" Sirius was long used to Kreacher's attitude. He glanced at the elderly house-elf and issued his threat with an air of perfect nonchalance: "And those old trousers — don't think I don't know you've hidden them in your room. Or shall I go and check?"
Kreacher imdiately stopped complaining.
He shot his unreliable master a look of mild dissatisfaction, set the crystal decanter of whisky on the black lacquered and gilded side table, gave a sulky bow, put his hands behind his back, and trotted away.
"Old trousers?" Hermione, who had just co out of the potions workroom next door and was about to rest for a while, asked in surprise. "Sirius, is he interested in clothes? That's unusual — is he trying to free himself?"
"Not at all — he would never let be rid of him," Sirius said impatiently. "Those are my father's old trousers. Kreacher was never as devoted to him as he was to my mother, but I caught him kissing those trousers just last week."
"Good heavens — has he never once thought about freedom?" Hermione said sadly, her mind drifting inevitably to her stalled S.P.E.W. campaign.
Having spent nearly a year in the Hogwarts kitchens, she had gradually co to accept a harsh reality: very few house-elves would actively choose to accept freedom, let alone pursue it.
"Listen, Hermione — I've heard you want to 'liberate' the house-elves. But if I may say so, the sheer fright of freedom might well kill Kreacher." Sirius chuckled sardonically. "You could always try it — just ask him to leave the house and see how he reacts."
Indeed, since the destruction of Slytherin's locket, Kreacher had beco noticeably more civil toward Sirius and Harry, and had once again beco a fundantally rational, hardworking, and spotlessly tidy house-elf. However, the pure-blood ideology drilled into him over many years — and the outdated convictions that his late mistress had instilled in him for so long — were not so easily undone.
"Perhaps I'll give it a try," Hermione said, not yet ready to abandon hope entirely.
Sirius shrugged and returned to contemplating his crystal goblet. Hermione, anwhile, turned her gaze to the tapestry on the wall beside her.
Then, as though suddenly startled from his own thoughts, Sirius looked up at her. "Oh — by the way, Hermione, are you settling in well here these past few days?"
"Very well, thank you —" Hermione said, with a flicker of doubt in her heart.
Why would Sirius ask her sothing like that? He had never put the sa question so earnestly to Ginny or Ron — though he was perfectly friendly with them. She noticed sothing she couldn't quite na: Sirius seed to be paying her extra attention.
Or rather, this old Black family ho gave her a sense of quietly respectful comfort.
The pristine white sheets were always perfectly smooth, without a single wrinkle, and always carried a fresh, pleasant scent. At every al, Kreacher would serve one or two of her favourite dishes with his customary stern face, and the fruit bowl afterwards invariably contained exactly the kinds of fruit she preferred. On her very first day, Ginny had even discovered a collection of unopened costics and toiletries on the dressing table — and according to her excited report — "all of them were terribly, terribly expensive."
Hermione had gradually ford the impression that Sirius Black was attending to her every need in the most thorough possible way — food, clothing, shelter, and even magical study — treating her with a care that rivalled what he gave his godson.
The potions workroom was the clearest example. Harry was welco to go there and practise making potions — though he had never shown noticeably more enthusiasm for it than for a ga of Exploding Snap — but Hermione had begun to notice that many of the materials and tools available there were things she herself needed or found interesting.
The rare ingredients for the Wolfsbane Potion were always plentifully stocked on the shelves. That, she supposed, could be attributed to Sirius caring about his old friend's health.
But one day she had ntioned offhandedly that she was "a little curious about mory potions," and the very next morning she found several new ingredients for them on the shelf — peppermint, Mooncalf bone marrow, and several high-quality, valuable feathers from a Silencing Bird.
Harry would not have been interested in any bird feathers.
"I'm quite comfortable here — everything is very well looked after. Thank you, Sirius." Hermione studied him with a puzzled expression. "The potions workroom is also very interesting; I've enjoyed doing so small research there."
"Do as you like. Just tell if you need anything, or tell Kreacher directly," Sirius said casually. "I've already given him instructions to see to all your living and studying needs."
"That explains so much!" Hermione exclaid. "I couldn't understand why he was grumbling at with such a stern face while enthusiastically baking an Avalanche Strawberry Cake. I thought he was simply being stubborn."
Sirius smiled faintly.
"But how does Kreacher know what kind of cake I like?" Hermione said. "I never ntioned it —"
"You'd have to ask your boyfriend about that," Sirius said, quite casually. "Before you arrived, he sent his house-elf Dobby to Grimmauld Place to train Kreacher, thoroughly and relentlessly, until he had hamred 'Miss Granger's preferences' into Kreacher's obstinate head like so many nails."
"Oh — I see." Hermione smiled softly. "But what about all the costics in the room? I've never really used much of that sort of thing."
"Also Dobby." Sirius waved a dismissive hand. "That little elf even had a new mattress brought over separately and asked Kreacher to fit it to whichever bed you chose. I've never seen such a particular and fussy little creature in my life."
"I thought it was from the house —" Hermione said in surprise, recalling the luxurious mattress and the extraordinary sleep she had enjoyed on her first night. "Draco always makes such a grand fuss about everything. It's only a short stay. I'm not so delicate."
"Boys your age always make a few foolish mistakes where love is concerned," Sirius said, sipping his drink. "He always wants to give you the best, doesn't he?"
"I suppose so. In any case, I must thank you for your generosity — for letting stay here and for making sure all my needs are t." Hermione turned her face away, a warm sweetness settling quietly in her chest as she looked back at the family tapestry.
"A trivial matter," Sirius said, waving his hand.
After a mont's hesitation, Hermione turned back to him. "Sirius — there are so many nas on this tapestry. I even found Draco's."
"I expect he's told you we're distant relatives? He ought to call 'Uncle,'" Sirius said. "His mother is my cousin."
Seeing Hermione's slightly surprised expression, he added a few words of explanation: "Pure-blood families are all interrelated. The Blacks and the Potters are connected as well. You see, over there — Dorea Black and Charlus Potter — those are Harry's great-grandparents on his father's side."
"I never would have guessed." Hermione rose on her tiptoes to look more closely. "Good heavens — what a tangled web of relations —"
"All knotted together into a very useful network of mutual interest," Sirius replied dismissively.
The offhand remark seed to carry a great deal more aning beneath it, Hermione thought, as she continued to study the tapestry.
Sensing her thoughtfulness, Sirius added, "Of course, there's another practical reason: if you're determined that your children will only marry pure-bloods, your options beco rather limited."
He poured himself another glass and looked at Hermione. "Want a drink?"
"No, thank you," she said, glancing uncertainly at the Firewhisky.
Draco had lectured her repeatedly about drinking indiscriminately. And honestly, after that one particularly spectacular bout of drunkenness, she had no desire to be drunk in front of anyone else again. She felt she could do without repeating her boyfriend's punishnt agreent or that particular bout of self-reflection.
So Hermione, faintly pink in the cheeks, leaned closer to the sprawling tapestry — stretching from the Middle Ages to the present — and studied with fresh interest the na "Draco Malfoy" connected by a single vertical gold thread.
"That explains things. I always wondered why you two seed so familiar with each other from the start," she said.
"Not entirely. We only really got to know each other last year." Sirius didn't move from his armchair, rely casting an indifferent glance at the tapestry. "Before that, I had never t him. I kept a distant relationship with his mother as well — I hadn't seen her much since I ran away from ho as a teenager."
"His parents are completely —" Hermione began hesitantly.
Even though she already knew the answer, she felt compelled to hear it confird once more.
"Pure-bloods, through and through. I'd wager Draco is not having a pleasant sumr." Sirius swirled the whisky in his goblet. "These past few days, I expect you've made the acquaintance of that charming portrait of my mother behind the tapestry in the hallway?"
"I encountered her once when she woke up," Hermione said reluctantly, her voice wavering. "I imagine Kreacher is probably the only one in this house who finds her pleasant company."
"A rather well-matched pair of fanatical pure-blood devotees, aren't they?" Sirius said dismissively. "Every one of Kreacher's notions was put there by my mother. She was consud by the idea of blood purity and despised everything outside it." He glanced at Hermione. "Guess who else Kreacher holds in high regard, besides my mother?"
Hermione looked at him, saying nothing.
So Sirius answered his own question: "Narcissa, of course. She was a young favourite of my mother's — often invited to the house, and she even arranged my mother's funeral. You can imagine the sort of values she grew up surrounded by."
"I see," Hermione said quietly.
The easy brightness in her expression dimd — still lovely, but overlaid now with sothing ashen.
"Narcissa will likely try every possible ans to change her son's mind, at whatever cost," Sirius said bluntly. "Didn't Draco ntion that to you?"
"He ntioned a few tis how rigid his parents' thinking was," Hermione said slowly, pressing her thumbnail against her palm. "But I suspect he's working on changing that — he probably has his own plans."
Sirius looked at her and noted the mixture of anxiety and confusion on her face.
Inwardly, he rolled his eyes at Draco Malfoy — that Slytherin boy who was constitutionally incapable of revealing his true feelings and insisted on bearing everything alone.
"He always wants to protect you, doesn't he? Goes to extraordinary lengths — and never says a word about any of it." Sirius clicked his tongue. "Foolish boy."
"Protect ?" Hermione frowned. "What do you an?"
"It seems he really did only 'ntion a few things,' and never told you any of the substance!" Sirius shook his head. "I knew it would be exactly like this. Expecting a cagey Slytherin to be forthright about anything is pure fantasy. Regulus was exactly the sa — these proud, secretive Slytherins!"
"Sirius, please don't resort to personal attacks —" Hermione objected without thinking. "Draco is not like that. He's clever and brave."
"You're quite devoted to him — almost wilfully blind," he said, with a faint smile. "Just as he's quite devoted to you — so much so that he goes to great lengths to keep things from you."
Hermione caught sothing in his expression. "Wait. What lengths? You just said he hasn't told anything — Sirius, what exactly do you know?"
"I know he was worried you wouldn't be able to practise your spells properly at ho. I know he was also afraid that if you went to the Burrow, Molly Weasley — who holds a grudge against him — would make your stay uncomfortable."
Before Hermione could fully process that, Sirius continued, laying the rest of it plainly before her: "So, before the holidays, he asked specifically to invite you to stay at Grimmauld Place for part of the sumr."
"He asked you?" Hermione said, startled. "I thought — I was invited because of the Wolfsbane Potion!"
It had never occurred to her that the comfort and convenience of life at the Black family ho — all the little things she had quietly appreciated — were not a happy by-product of brewing Wolfsbane Potion, but the result of Draco's careful design.
"I'll admit, the Wolfsbane Potion was part of the reason," Sirius said, scratching his chin. "But if that were all, he would never have swallowed his pride enough to ask . You know, only days before asking to invite you here, he had flatly refused my offer to help fund him — on account of his pride."
"Wait — why were you offering to fund Draco?" Hermione asked, baffled. "Have they gone bankrupt?"
"Hardly. I thought —" Sirius said casually, "that he might get thrown out of the house by his parents this sumr."
"Is it... is it that serious?" Hermione said, faltering in a way that was very unlike her.
"It was only a reasonable assumption on my part at the ti," Sirius said, his tone lazily reassuring. "It probably wasn't so dire, otherwise he wouldn't have refused so decisively."
But Hermione had already slipped into a kind of quiet shock.
"He never told that," she said, barely above a whisper. "He never told that going ho might an facing sothing as terrible as that — being thrown out of his own house... Oh, that's awful. No wonder he seed a little reluctant to leave school. Why didn't he say anything?"
"Boys at this age always carry so ridiculous streak of individual heroism. He always hopes that the girl he cares about won't have to worry about him." Sirius set down his goblet. "While at the sa ti, he worries about her constantly."
"How could I have been so oblivious?" Hermione stared ahead, imagining Draco displaced from his own ho, her expression full of remorse. "I always thought he was perfectly calm and settled. When I contacted him before coming here, he seed relaxed enough..."
"Oh, he seed relaxed?" Sirius asked. "Tell — when you were at ho, did he send anyone to check on you?"
"He... he has Dobby bring flowers every day," Hermione said quietly.
"How often?" Sirius pressed. "How many tis a day?"
"Several tis," she admitted, going slightly pink.
"As I thought," Sirius said, with the satisfied look of soone who had just obtained the final piece of evidence. "On the surface, he was sending flowers. In truth, he was making sure you were all right."
Ever since Draco had asked him to invite Hermione to Grimmauld Place, Sirius had nursed a quiet suspicion: Draco was afraid that Lucius and Narcissa might find so way to harm the girl, and so he had deliberately arranged to have her sowhere he could keep a watchful eye on her. And while she had been at ho in her Muggle house, the shrewd Slytherin had kept sending house-elves to keep watch over her, making sure she ca to no harm.
From Sirius's perspective, this could only be described as sothing close to overprotection.
"Why would I be unsafe?" Hermione asked, puzzled. "What could possibly threaten in my own ho?"
"He's probably afraid his father might send you so dark artefact — put a curse on you, or sothing along those lines," Sirius said, with a shrug. "The Malfoy family's fondness for such things is hardly a secret in the wizarding world."
"But I haven't received anything dangerous."
"That's probably because he intercepted it," Sirius said evenly. "Otherwise, I can't think of a single reason why Lucius Malfoy would have chosen to do nothing."
Hermione looked at Sirius with an expression caught between suspicion and disbelief.
"Look how well he protects you — like a rose preserved under glass," he said frankly, studying the stunned girl before him. "Though I will say — we Gryffindors ought to have enough courage to face our storms head on."
"Of course I have the courage to face a storm," Hermione said anxiously, her face tight with worry. "But I didn't know he was facing one at ho —"
"Think about it carefully. Given his temperant, if it were at all possible, he would have found a way to co here and see you by now." Sirius's tone was gentle but pointed. "Do you think the reason he hasn't co is because he doesn't want to — or because he simply can't?"
"Oh —" The question jolted her out of her thoughts.
She had wondered, occasionally, whether Draco might co to Grimmauld Place to visit her. His daily greetings — cheerful, reliable, arriving without fail — and his prompt replies through the ring always gave her the impression that things at Malfoy Manor were going tolerably well. She had been, she realised now, unconsciously glossing over one fundantal fact: if even owl post was forbidden, it was unlikely they would permit him to leave the house.
And if you cannot leave the house — if you lack even that most basic personal freedom — what does daily life actually look like?
"Apart from keeping him confined at ho, what else are they likely to do to him?" Hermione asked, her voice low.
"Who can fathom the thinking of stubborn, old-fashioned, convinced parents?" Sirius's expression carried a trace of old weariness. "I imagine sothing like this: relentless lectures, argunts, warnings, scolding. That particular combination of worry, self-righteousness, and misplaced good intentions — soft pressure and hard, in turns."
"You sound very familiar with the process," Hermione said dully, wishing for a mont that every word of it was nonsense.
"I've had rather a lot of firsthand experience. Until one day, when I was sixteen, I'd had enough — had one final, blazing row with them and walked out. That was when I was finally free." He nodded toward the tapestry. "I expect you didn't find my na on there."
Hermione moved closer to look.
After a mont, she said cautiously, "There are so small, scorched round holes..."
"Yes — one of them is , beside Regulus. Do you see it?" Sirius said coolly. "After I ran away, my dear mother burned my na off the tapestry."
"I'm so sorry," Hermione said sadly. Her worry for Draco settled deeper in her chest.
"No need." Sirius gave a wry smile. "I did what I believed was right. If I could go back, I'd do the sa again."
"But I don't want Draco to fall out with his parents. He cares about them deeply —" Hermione said, quieter now. "The sa way I care about mine. I couldn't bear for things to break down completely between them."
"Listen, Hermione — my nephew is a sharp young devil and he has his ways. Frankly, I'm more worried about you than I am about him. You know nothing yet about the obsessive fanaticism of pure-blood families. He's kept you very well shielded from it."
He looked at her uncertain, worried face, and his tone grew more serious.
"If you are entirely committed to this relationship, you need to be prepared for a real fight. His parents are not going to make this simple, and you need to assess the true risks clearly — before they're upon you. If, on the other hand, you are still uncertain — if this feels like a typical adolescent romance, pleasant and exciting but not sothing you could sustain through hardship — then it would be kinder, to both of you, to step back now and find a simpler path."
"Sirius, how could you say that? Of course I'm serious about this!" Hermione said indignantly. "And I trust him completely!"
"I thought as much." His stern expression dissolved at once.
He gave her a slight smile. "Don't be angry — I didn't an any harm. I only said it so harshly to be certain your resolve was genuine."
Hermione continued to glare at him.
"I've always believed the entire notion of 'blood purity' is utter rubbish," Sirius went on. "That has always been my position, and it has never changed."
Hermione's expression softened fractionally at that.
Sirius's face settled into sothing proud and faintly contemptuous. "However, there will always be those entrenched in an earlier age who still set great store by that rubbish. Unfortunately, you and Draco will have to contend with so of the most extre and immovable of them."
The easy manner he usually wore was gone now. "I am sorry to remind you that for the two of you, love is not so pleasant fairy tale. You will need to face a cold and difficult reality. It may go well beyond unkind words — it could escalate into sothing genuinely dangerous."
Hermione's expression tightened. She found his words uncomfortable, yet she could not look away from them.
The head of the Black family said, in a tone that brooked no softening: "You must understand this sooner rather than later, and prepare yourself to withstand what cos. Courage is not enough on its own — you will also need steadiness, honesty, patience, and a genuine understanding of the pressures the other person is under."
"You're right, Sirius," Hermione said quietly. "I have thought about it, now and then — but I'll admit, not with the depth you're describing. I haven't truly reckoned with how difficult it might beco."
Her voice went lower. "Or perhaps I've allowed other things — things that feel larger and more urgent — to crowd it out, and so this seed less pressing than it ought to have..."
"But that awkward Slytherin boy has already been quietly carrying this particular burden — in places you cannot see — regardless of how deeply you've thought about it," Sirius said solemnly, his voice settling into sothing almost priestly in its weight. "I must remind you that in the wizarding world as it stands today, a relationship between a Muggle-born and a pure-blood has never been easy. It demands a great deal from both people."
Hermione nodded slowly, and kept nodding.
Looking at her serious young face, Sirius was suddenly reminded — with sothing of a jolt — that the girl in front of him was still a minor. It seed that in the company of these two, he occasionally forgot that fact entirely. Their minds always ran ahead of their years, and he found himself talking to them as he might to equals far older.
While silently lanting how hard a path lay ahead of them, he softened his voice and tried to offer so genuine comfort: "Don't be too grim about it. I only wanted you to be clear-eyed, not disheartened. To tell you the truth, I have high hopes for you both."
Hermione looked at him steadily, still bothered, and asked: "That question earlier — about whether I'm serious about this — did you put the sa question to Draco?"
"No."
"I don't understand. Have I done sothing to suggest I'm not fully committed?" Hermione said, bewildered. "Why ask and not him?"
"It isn't that you're not taking it seriously enough," Sirius said, his eyes drifting back to the gold threads on the tapestry — the nas they connected, the histories they carried. He thought of a certain dreamy young man who had already contemplated the nas of their future children, and felt sothing pull quietly at his chest. "It's that he is taking it perhaps too seriously."
An old mory rose to the surface without warning.
It was a Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson at Hogwarts. His friend Jas Potter had, for so reason, been caught entirely off guard — and was disard by Lily Evans before he'd even raised his wand. Amid the shrieks and laughter of their classmates, the force of the spell sent him stumbling backward into the fireplace behind him, dishevelled and utterly undignified.
"What on earth happened to you?" Sirius had stridden over, grabbed his friend's arm, and shaken his head. "You've made a complete spectacle of yourself, haven't you?"
But Jas had not seed angry, or embarrassed, or inclined to say anything sharp.
"Oh, she's a formidable one!" Jas had stood up, running a hand through his already wild hair, and grinned across the room at Lily Evans. "Sirius — I think she just hit sowhere rather more vital than my wand arm. Do you think 'Harry' is a good na? Would she like it, d'you think, if we nad our child that?"
"Did that spell Disarm you or Confuse you? Or did you eat one of those suspect chocolate cauldrons?" Sirius had asked, incredulous. "Didn't you two always clash? How have you already gone and thought up a na for a child?"
"I think I've been winding her up all this ti just to get her to notice ," Jas had said, with the serene certainty of a man who had just worked sothing out.
He'd watched Lily's retreating figure for a long mont, his voice quiet and earnest: "I think — from beginning to end — I've never actually disliked her..."
"Sirius?" Hermione's voice drew him back from the mory.
He was smiling without quite knowing it.
She asked, with evident curiosity: "You think Draco is very serious about this relationship, don't you?"
"I think he knows exactly what he's doing, and I think he has so idea of where he wants it to lead," Sirius said, with quiet aning. "I've only seen that kind of certainty in one person before. Jas —"
He stopped.
His throat had tightened.
He went quite still in his armchair, head bowed, the words gone.
Hermione looked over at him and caught a brief glimpse of sothing raw passing across his profile — his grey eyes filming over before he could master it.
When he had spoken of his mother's cruelty, of being struck from the family tapestry, his face had been indifferent — as though those things belonged to soone else's story. When he had spoken of pure-blood fanaticism, his expression had been cold and contemptuous, the wearied disdain of a man long past being surprised by it.
But the na of Harry's father could always find a way through the armour.
Hermione knew, without needing to be told, that the conversation was over.
The best thing she could do now was leave him to himself.
Sirius Black was not a man who would easily let soone witness his grief.
She slipped quietly out of the living room and made her way upstairs.
On the third floor, Harry was playing Exploding Snap with Ron and Ginny.
Ron appeared to be very nearly winning.
Then Hermione ca in like a sudden gust of wind and upset the whole ga — Ginny, who had been on the verge of losing, exhaled with undisguised relief — and Hermione wasted no ti in telling Harry about Sirius's state.
"...He looked very sad when he stopped talking." She trailed off, a little uneasily, and turned her attention to a row of old photographs on Harry's bedside table.
"I'm not surprised. They were inseparable from their first day at school. After Sirius left ho, he stayed with my dad's family for a bit. He moved out eventually, but he used to go to my grandparents' place for lunch every Sunday, apparently," Harry said, a shadow of sadness crossing his face.
"He must have loved your father's family — particularly when his own couldn't give him any real warmth," Hermione said slowly, settling herself beside Ginny. "I don't think he's fully recovered from losing him."
She ant the death of Harry's parents. Sirius had lost his closest friend, and had then condemned himself to Azkaban without so much as offering a word in his own defence. That part had always puzzled Hermione — if Sirius had raised even the smallest objection to the miscarriage of justice, offered so explanation, fought for himself, he might have been spared years of imprisonnt. But he had stayed silent, and let himself be swallowed by the Dentors, which was so unlike everything she had co to know of him.
If Draco and the Weasley twins had not tracked down the living Peter Pettigrew and cleared his na, would Sirius have simply remained there — diminishing — until there was nothing left?
"He must miss Dad enormously. When he was teaching Occluncy, he would stop every ti he caught a glimpse of what I see in the Mirror of Erised." Harry put down his cards and said, with a trace of helplessness in his voice: "A few tis, when he was talking to , he called 'Jas' without realising it. And I never know whether to answer or not."
"Does he notice himself doing it?" Hermione asked.
"Sotis. When he does, he gets this look — disappointed in himself. Other tis he doesn't notice at all, and I don't have the heart to point it out," Harry said.
"I heard it once as well," Ginny said to Hermione. "At dinner last night, he asked Jas to pass the potatoes."
"Should we be doing sothing about it? Ought he to speak to soone?" Hermione said. "He's been in prison for so long, and he lost his best friend, and now he just sits down there alone. He must be terribly lonely."
The two boys across from her simply shrugged, clearly of the opinion that she was making sothing large out of sothing small.
"He'll be all right," Ron said, unbothered. "He's pretty cheerful most of the ti, isn't he? He probably just needs a bit of ti."
"Hermione, love is the best redy for anything," Ginny said with a conspiratorial air, while Harry and Ron reshuffled the cards. "Didn't you want to ask why he hasn't gone out to see Fleur Delacour again?"
"Ginny, how am I supposed to ask him a thing like that?" Hermione said. "It's pure speculation. We don't even know for certain it is Delacour..."
"Oh, it's almost certainly her," Ginny said, with the confident tone of soone who knows considerably more than they're letting on. "Bill told she found an internship at Gringotts in London to practice her English. I'd say her impression was a good one — Bill said Sirius thought very highly of her."
The following evening, quite unexpectedly, Hermione ca across even stronger evidence that Sirius and Fleur were more than acquaintances.
Under a crimson sunset, as she pulled open the black front door of number 12 Grimmauld Place intending to top up Crookshanks's bowl, she noticed a young woman with silver hair standing in the small square outside.
She was dressed in a well-tailored business suit — a peach-pink blazer, a crisp white shirt with a stand-up collar, and grey trousers — composed and quietly elegant. She was staring intently at the mansion's entrance, as though she could see right through it, yet she gave no sign of noticing Hermione. Hermione raised a tentative hand in greeting; the woman did not react, her gaze fixed sowhere just past her.
Then Crookshanks ca bounding out from behind the hedge across the square and made straight for them, and the woman's attention shifted.
She watched as Crookshanks bounded up the front steps and began his dinner with characteristic gusto. After a mont's hesitation, the woman walked over and stopped at the bottom of the steps, just before the black iron gate.
As she drew nearer, Hermione recognised her.
It was Fleur Delacour.
Her deep blue eyes drifted through the void — and then, finding Hermione, she asked in a voice slightly roughened with uncertainty: "Hello? Are you Hermione? I'm Fleur — do you rember ?"
"Oh — hello, Fleur." Hermione was startled, having assud from Fleur's fixed gaze that she could see her perfectly well.
"Could you take my hand?" Fleur asked, stretching out one elegant hand sowhat hesitantly.
Hermione understood then that Fleur could neither see 12 Grimmauld Place nor her — the Fidelius Charm still held. And yet they were already talking; Sirius clearly knew her well; and Hermione had always rather admired her. Fleur had been consistently kind to Harry and had never shown any trace of ill will.
Though she knew it was slightly improper, Hermione reached out and took the French girl's hand, guiding her up the steps.
"Thank you, Hermione." Fleur gave her a bright smile, then murmured to herself, with evident relief: "I finally found it."
"If you couldn't see , how did you know I was there?" Hermione asked, genuinely curious.
"Sirius ntioned you'd likely be staying at the Black family ho. I even saw him go to Diagon Alley once to buy cat food — he said it was for your clever cat," Fleur said.
She glanced at Crookshanks with interest. "A half-Kneazle isn't sothing you see every day — I made a reasonable guess."
Hermione returned her smile. Fleur was very sharp.
"Is Sirius in? I need to speak with him." The silver-haired French girl tossed her long hair back and peered through the open doorway into the shadowed entrance hall.
"He's not here," Hermione said. "He went out this afternoon, I believe."
"How very unlike him," Fleur said, with a flicker of surprise — and then imdiately brightened, spotting soone in the doorway. "Oh — Harry! How are you?"
Harry had been coming up from the entrance hall and visibly startled at the sight of her.
Ron followed a step behind, staring at Fleur with an expression of stunned, faintly helpless admiration.
"May I co in, Harry?" Fleur said, offering him a smile of considerable candlepower.
"Oh — yes, of course," Harry said quickly. "Please, co in."
And so Fleur Delacour ca to be installed openly in the second-floor sitting room of Grimmauld Place, where she received an unusually attentive and overly eager tea service from Harry and Ron, chatted with Hermione and Ginny about the latest Paris fashions, held forth on the most recent slanders published in the Daily Prophet, and was ultimately present — with several pairs of openly curious eyes watching — to greet a thoroughly startled Sirius Black when he ca rushing ho.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, the last of the evening light falling through the sitting room window and casting a long shadow of surprise across his usually composed face.
"Where have you been?" Fleur countered, ignoring his question entirely.
Sirius did not answer her directly. "What are you doing here?"
"Are you sure you want to do this now?" Fleur looked around the sitting room pointedly, where four pairs of bright eyes were trained on the pair of them with undisguised interest.
"You can all —" Sirius began, frowning.
"Oh — co and see the potion I've been brewing," Hermione said quickly, steering Harry and the others into the potions workroom next door.
"What were they saying? I could barely follow it —" Ron said, still looking mildly dazed.
"Oh, we'll find out soon enough," Ginny said with barely contained excitent, producing a long flesh-coloured string from her pocket and feeding one end under the door. "Extendable Ears — the twins' finest work, honestly."
"I'm not sure we ought to be listening," Hermione said, torn. "It's their private conversation —"
"Don't be so scrupulous, Hermione. Weren't you worrying about his state of mind only yesterday? Think of this as reconnaissance." Ginny pressed the other end of the Extendable Ear toward the group. They imdiately caught the sound of a heated exchange.
"...So now what? You taught everything, and now you intend to simply walk away?" Clearly Fleur, her voice edged with anger.
"You can now perform a full, controlled transformation — you're a proper Animagus," Sirius said, his tone its usual lazy drawl. "I've done what I set out to do."
Animagus? The word snagged Hermione's attention.
When had Fleur been learning that — and had Sirius truly taught her? Animagus transformation was extraordinarily difficult, requiring months — if not years — of dedicated study, natural talent, unflinching perseverance, and no small amount of luck.
"Done your duty?" Fleur's voice was scathing. "And what about that kiss? Are you simply going to pretend it never happened?"
"A kiss — they kissed?" Ron said in a strangled voice, earning himself a sharp "Shh" from Ginny.
"That kiss — I assud you didn't rember it — you never ntioned it..." There was an unmistakable hesitation in Sirius's voice.
"I was under a Stunning Spell, not a Forgetfulness Charm!" Fleur finally lost her composure. "So is this all just a ga to you, Sirius Black?"
"I never said that. But right now, I —" Sirius faltered.
"Found soone new, have you? Where were you today? Looking very fine, I must say." Fleur's voice was bracingly direct.
Sirius said nothing.
He thought — sowhat irrelevantly — that her English was coming along remarkably well.
The next sound was hurried footsteps on the stairs.
"Wait —" Sirius's voice ca, sounding rather bewildered, and the sound of his own footsteps followed.
Ginny eased the door open. Several small figures crept along the wall and tiptoed down the stairs, doing their best to go unnoticed.
They quickly discovered their caution was entirely unnecessary.
Because Fleur had already reached the entrance hall and was speaking with magnificent indignation at full volu: "Sirius Black — I am warning you. You may have started this, but when it ends is not your decision to make!"
Harry descended first, then Ron, then Ginny. Hermione ca last, cramd in behind Ginny, and peered into the shadowed entrance hall.
To her astonishnt, Fleur had Sirius pinned against the wall of the entrance hall — one hand braced against the stone beside his face, the other gripping his collar, confronting him with the full force of her presence.
"What do you an, I started it —" Sirius said, his proud grey eyes fixed on her with sothing between indignation and genuine bewildernt.
Hadn't she been the one to provoke him?
That was apparently the wrong thing to imply.
"You don't know what you started?" Fleur said fiercely. "Then let remind you —"
She caught him by the collar and kissed him — thoroughly and without the slightest hesitation.
Her silver hair spilled over his dark robes, giving the mont an almost dreamlike luminescence — as though so beautiful, slightly mad creature had simply decided to claim him, leaving him flattened against the wall, apparently incapable of moving.
When he looked sowhat dazed, and when his hands — which had been cold and still — finally ward and tentatively began to reach for her, she stepped sharply back and broke away.
He moved toward her instinctively. She planted a firm hand against his chest and shoved him back against the wall without ceremony.
"While I am not yet tired of you," she inford him, with absolute authority, "you will behave yourself. You will not look at other won, and you will not vanish on again."
She tossed her silver hair, gave a disdainful and perfectly Gallic little 'Hmph,' and swept through the front door of Grimmauld Place with the easy confidence of soone who has conclusively won.
Sirius Black — the recently seized party — peeled himself slowly from the wall. His long fingers drifted, almost without his knowing it, to his lips.
His face showed no anger. Nor did it carry the usual weight of sadness. Instead, a slow smile of real, unguarded amusent spread across it. There was sothing unmistakably smug about it, too.
"Wow," Ginny breathed, turning to Hermione with wide eyes. "She is extraordinary."
"Yes — I said so, didn't I?" Hermione said, drawing Ginny quietly up the stairs, montarily forgetting the two boys standing dumbfounded below.
"I do rather wish I had that sort of nerve," Ginny said, with undisguised envy.
"Have you spent any ti alone with Harry yet?" Hermione asked, with mild curiosity.
"Not yet." Ginny's expression collapsed into sothing close to theatrical despair. "I haven't worked up to it. But I can talk to him properly now — that's sothing."
"That's exactly it — build on it, say a bit more each ti!" Hermione encouraged her. "I'm leaving tomorrow, and you can't spend all of it talking to your brother, can you?"
"I know, I know!" Ginny said, flustered. "And what about you — how are things with your Slytherin?"
"Honestly? I miss him," Hermione admitted. "At least you're luckier than — your Gryffindor is right there in front of you. Draco and I can barely even catch a glimpse of each other."
And at that very mont, in Wiltshire, Draco was thinking precisely the sa thing.
He wished, quite genuinely, that he could divide himself in two — one half to stay behind and weather his parents' campaign, the other to slip away quietly and find his girl.
---
"I've told you before: Dumbledore is an extraordinarily complex man, and we cannot afford to trust him blindly," Lucius said, his voice cold and asured. "I strongly advise you to consider the possibility that he is using you — exploiting you, the still-young and inexperienced Malfoy — just as he may well be exploiting the young Potter, all in service of so private ambition."
"For instance?" Draco said, forcing himself to settle into a posture of attentive curiosity as he faced his father, who was looking at him with an expression sowhere between calculation and fatherly concern. "What sort of private ambition could he possibly be pursuing?"
"There are rumours that Fudge has beco wary of Dumbledore — suspicious that he's quietly assembling support against the Ministry. If power is the motivation, then I must consider the possibility that Dumbledore intends to court the Malfoy family and harness them for his own ends — or to use them as pawns." Lucius raised his eyes slowly to look at his son. "Draco, I believe you may be being used."
"That's a baseless theory. Fudge's paranoia is well known." Draco shook his head. "He's imagining threats that aren't there."
Dumbledore's purpose in forming the Order of the Phoenix was plainly to resist the Dark Lord's return. Draco had seen enough to understand that much.
"My little dragon, that is precisely what worries ," Narcissa said softly. "Look at how certain you sound. That kind of certainty is dangerous. We ought to be watchful of every faction — to understand their intentions — rather than pledging ourselves to anyone uncritically."
"In any case, how could you so readily place your trust in Dumbledore — a man who preaches equality for all, which is to say, a man who preaches what has never once applied in practice?" Lucius said, his contempt unhurried and complete. "Do you genuinely believe he is as guileless as he appears? He is far more complicated than you give him credit for. If you only knew the particulars of his family —"
"I have no interest in Dumbledore's family history," Draco said, cutting him off coolly.
"Father, I would sincerely suggest you revisit your sources regarding the Triwizard Tournant. I believe the trail leads sowhere rather different from where you've been looking — toward the Aurors Fudge keeps close, and the Dentors he deploys, not toward Ministry clerks."
"You want to go cap in hand to a pack of bodyguards?" Lucius looked as though the suggestion was a personal affront. "That is beneath my dignity entirely."
"Those who accomplish great things do not concern themselves with such distinctions," Draco said, with a faint smile. "Isn't that what you've always told ?"
"Very prettily said! The truth of it is, Dumbledore has turned your head — and that Mudblood has only finished the job!" Lucius said, with cold disgust.
"Do not use that word in front of ." The levity left Draco's face at once. "Not if you still wish to call your son."
Narcissa closed her eyes briefly, as though in pain.
Lucius stared at his son with undisguised fury. Only now did he seem to fully comprehend just how cold-blooded Draco could be — and how readily he deployed it. How many tis had he turned the threat of estrangent on his own parents?
He was otherwise perfectly composed. They had spoken of Fudge, Dumbledore, the Dark Lord — and Draco had not once lost his thread or his composure. There had been monts, frankly, when Lucius had felt sothing uncomfortably close to sha at being outmanoeuvred by his own son.
Why was it that on every subject of consequence, Draco remained entirely controlled — and yet, every single ti, it was a single word, a single form of address for that girl, that shattered his composure? Why couldn't he simply think rationally about this?
How had the boy co to show his parents so little deference?
And, most disquieting of all — the possibility Lucius had not previously dared to contemplate, which Draco's words had now placed plainly before him:
Draco might actually leave Malfoy Manor.
He might abandon not only his beliefs, but everything that ca with them — the wealth, the na, the lineage. And his parents along with it.
All of this — over a single epithet, carelessly thrown at a Muggle-born girl?
The thought sat in Lucius's chest like sothing cold and heavy, shot through with furious disbelief.
Was it conceivable that any of this was worth it? That his son would willingly surrender what generations of Malfoys had built, the wealth and reputation and standing that any wizard might aspire to — which he held already in the palm of his hand — and simply care nothing for it?
Was the boy completely deranged?
"You are utterly out of your mind, Draco! You —" A flash of rage crossed Lucius's face; the emotions he had been constraining for so long finally beginning to fracture.
"Oh, do be quiet, Lucius."
A voice from outside the door — hoarse, imperious, accustod to being obeyed without question.
Lucius fell silent as though he'd been struck.
He stared at the heavy door — which was at that mont being pushed open by bowing house-elves with the careful, reverent gestures of long habit.
In the doorway, an old man appeared, his bearing unhurried, his expression colder and more imperious still than the man inside. He had platinum blond hair and a lean, sharp face, and the characteristic pale grey eyes that the Malfoy line had carried for generations.
"Father!" Lucius exclaid, his anger wiped clean away in an instant, and he rose at once with Narcissa at his side.
Abraxas gave a short, dismissive sound and paid his son's outburst not the slightest attention.
He turned instead to Draco, on the opposite side of the room — and in the space of a heartbeat his expression underwent a complete transformation, severity giving way to warmth, to easy affection. He laughed softly and opened his arms wide. "Co here, my boy. Give your grandfather a proper hug."
Draco was already on his feet.
He smiled — that unhurried, slightly lazy smile — and walked across the room toward his long-awaited grandfather.
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