Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hermione, overall, is fine. 

She’s fine, she swears. 

Hiding under the alcove near the Ministry’s open statue is just a perfect place to be. Ye, she’s not hiding, not really, but she is in…what’s the word? Stalling. She nods her head rapidly, despite the fact that no one can see or even acknowledge her unasked question. 

Stalling. 

Really, it’s fine. 

Hermione should’ve realized that it’s too soon to be in a room full of people, full of journalists, gossip-hungry reporters, suddenly gracious purebloods, and overexcited teachers. Professors that would’ve never given her the time of day, if not for her less than stellar grades, and near perfectionist attitude. 

Oh, and the mastermind behind the Dark Lord’s demise. 

That’s what the media had taken to calling it in the media. Because no one could possibly believe that Harry Potter, who had made headlines years ago for Quidditch, the champion of the Triwizard’s Competition, could possibly not be that lucky, if not thick. Ronald Weasley had been promptly dismissed from such allegations, mostly because there hadn’t been anything to report on other than his rather concerning range of gastrointestinal stomach depth. 

Hermione, however, muggle-born extraordinaire, with grades even higher than Riddle and Dumbledore combined - except that one Defense grade - had been the more logical conclusion. 

Harry hadn’t done anything to dismiss the rumors because, more or less, they were true—at least in his head. 

However, it put Hermione under much more scrutiny. 

The stress and trauma and—whatever health issues that racked her body from the war had yet to be healed and or acknowledged. 

So when the flashing lights of the cameras, the incessant need to have Hermione - the brightest witch of her age - answer their questions, or somewhat answer their question, or even a smidge of her time, had caused the media to go into a frenzy. 

Kingsley had put a stop to that, but that didn’t stop the Ministry employees and those in academia to come seek out her company. 

Harry had disappeared with Ginny somewhere and Ronald—choking over Cho in the corner. Not much has changed since that first interaction with Fleur. No one had noticed her sickly color or the way her hand shakes around her flute of red wine or the two red spots on her cheeks. She smiled politely, put her flute on the table, excused herself, and once she was out of anyone’s line of sight—she made a beeline to the front gate.

It’s just her luck that her wand slipped out of her thigh holster, in an effort to remove herself from any type of stressor, she didn’t even feel the piece of wood slipping off of her skin nor the weight of it against her leg. 

The main statue of - Kingsley - which doesn’t make any fucking sense, it should be of Harry. Harry the boy-who-lived, Harry that ended a long-overdue war. Harry, who fought Riddle to the end, Harry that did more than any of the Aurors did put together—should have a statue. But Harry would refuse and try to pretend that he didn’t do much. 

Which is really tiring to debate after a while. 

Hermione curls up underneath the alcove where his robe meets the ground, crawls upwards until she’s kneeling comfortably on her velvet dress, resting her elbows against his feet, peers upwards until she counts each star in the sky, just until one comes and slams down in front of her. 

“Hey kitten,” Sirius’s face is a beacon underneath the dark silk of the night. His hair curls underneath his jawline and his eyes are curious, but cautious all the same. 

“Sirius,” Hermione breathes and smiles tensely. Sirius’s sudden appearance from the Veil flipped the DOM on its head as they searched for answers, but she knew that he would only take so much poking and prodding for so long. 

Not even a day had passed before he threw a fit and invoked pureblood privilege just so he could get back to his godson. 

“What a nice getaway,” he draws out and makes a show to look up at the statue, “A little too…rugged for my tastes. You know I prefer luxurious and the svelte sort of aesthetics but to each their own.”

She bites out a chuckle, the knot in her chest loosening just a bit. Her voice is heavy, frayed at the edges, and much too thin to be anything more than a humble squeak than a peal of laughter.  Her head is still hot, but her hands aren’t shaking anymore. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” he shrugs as if he’s isn’t currently crouching in front of a statue for the entire world to see, “I got tired of simpering old ladies wanting to introduce their daughters to me.”

Hermione snorts, “Somehow I doubt that.”

“I’m going to ruin the pureblood line,” Sirius says pleasantly and grins, “Can’t do that with a pureblood princess, honestly, kitten, they are so boring.”

“Sure,” she smiles tightly and huddles into herself more. 

“Besides,” he starts off again, “I only have one special girl for me anyway.”

“Oh?” Hermione’s voice dulls.

“Crookshanks!” Sirius answers aghast, “Are you telling me that you can’t see our special relationship? She tells me things, kitten!”

She looks at him incredulously and then lets out a disbelieving laugh that’s a bit more true, “Crookshanks is a boy.”

He gapes and then sputters, “He is not!”

“Yes, he is!”

“But we’ve cuddled and—” Sirius blinks rapidly and tries to count the number of times Crookshanks has laid his head on his bare chest or snuggled into his neck. 

Hermione giggles this time and he grins inwardly at the gentle sound of her mirth. 

“I think I need to reintroduce him to you,” she confesses amusedly and leans in closer. The bitter concrete underneath her dress, trails up her feet, encasing her toes and numbing them in the most uncomfortable way. Her panic lessens to a hum. She shifts with discomfort but makes no noise otherwise. 

“You might,” he offers and leans in too.

“Did you happen to see my wand?” Hermione asks suddenly. 

“You lost your wand?” he raises his brows. 

“I didn’t lose it,” she snaps and stumbles over her words embarrassed at her break in temper, “I—it fell. Out of my strap, when, um,” she finishes clumsily, “When I left.”

“Are you telling me you're under that statue without a warming charm on?” Sirius asks incredulously, because surely, she could do a wandless charm, and then firmly clamps down that thought process shut. 

Hermione hadn’t been able to do any wandless magic or non-verbals - not like how she used to - since the end of the war. Her body had been nutrient-deficient for months and the consequences have finally caught up to her. Coupled with the nerve damage and the traces of dark magic from random hexes and curses, accrued into a clump of untangled magic which is still in the process of healing. 

“Um,” Hermione answers with a non-verbal response.

“C’mere,” Sirius doesn’t wait for an answer, he reaches in and just scoops her up from that awkward position on the ground. The bones in his spine crack, his joints aren’t the way it’s supposed to be, but he’s still sturdy and strong when he lifts her out of the alcove, just barely missing his head underneath the hand. Her skin is a shock to touch, He bites out with a wince, “Fuck! You’re freezing!”

“I didn’t notice,” Hermione’s teeth click against each other rapidly and then chatters as soon as she’s sitting on his lap. Now, she notices just how cold she is against his chest and she wants to absorb the heat radiating off of him like a dementor. His hands are like a branding iron against her shoulders. 

He waves his hand, a warming charm encases them both and it’s not enough. So he takes her hands and rubs it with his, pulls her into his chest, and tucks her face into his neck. The warming charm is warm against her skin, but it is Sirius's that thaws the ice inside her. 

“How are you feeling?” Sirius asks quietly for a moment and hooks her feet into the crook of his knee, warmth bleeding into her feet—smoothening his hands down her arms. 

Hermione inhales deeply, easier, for a moment and buries herself closer, “Better.”