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Chapter Text

Their son entered the world during the twilight hours – whether it was evening or morning depended on who you asked. Orion swore it was the latter, but Walburga always scoffed and insisted he was delusional. Either way, the birth of Sirius Black had been momentous. It was an event the Black family claimed as further proof of their excellence.

Despite believing in his imminent power, they would be hard pressed to say Sirius was an “easy” child.

He was untameable and stubborn as all hell. If something did not go his way, the residents of 12 Grimmauld Place would feel his wrath. When it was time to wean him off her milk, Walburga was faced with more rage than one could think possible in an infant. He wailed and screamed and bellowed until the walls shook and sun blinded them through the windows. Kreacher, in such distress, dared to ask to use his magic on the boy.

Walburga acquiesced at once, and the elf took Sirius into his bony arms. With trembling hands, Kreacher poured his magic into him. After a few minutes of mumbled prayers, the boy calmed. From there on out, his mother refused to touch him, and she would not do so again for the rest of his life. Even punishments were doled out by wand.

These punishments taught Sirius how to curb his fiery temper when it arose, but it was difficult. It took tremendous willpower to defy his nature.

Although everyone was pleased that the next Black child was male, Regulus could not hold a candle to his brother and was resigned to being second-best. However, he had the one thing Sirius did not: their family’s love. While his elder sibling instilled fear and awe in the hearts of all who met him, it was Regulus who got greeted with smiles and kisses on the cheek. It was he who made their mother and father teem with Slytherin pride.

Ultimately, it is love that triumphs over fear, even in the coldest of houses.

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A skinny, exuberant boy with glasses shoved his way into the compartment shortly before eleven.

“It is positively scorching outside,” he said in an affected drawl. Wiping sweat from his brow, he surveyed the inhabitants with a grin.

The pretty red-haired girl across from Sirius looked uncomfortable, so he rolled his eyes and spoke first. “Is it? I’m barely sweating. Maybe you should work on your muscles if it takes that much effort to carry your trunk.”

His grin fell into an indignant sneer. “Nice to meet you too, prat.”

Sirius chuckled and slung his legs up onto the seat. “Who are you, then?”

“James Potter,” he announced, puffing up his chest a bit. The girl sniffed and opened a book, to his dismay. He shoved his trunk overhead and plopped down next to Sirius. “Do I know you?”

Sirius fixed him with a lazy smile. “Maybe.”

“What is it with you?” he grumped. “Do I know you or not?”

“I may or may not be your mum’s cousin.”

James went still. “You’re a Black…Sirius Black?” he asked hesitantly.

“The one and only.”

“Huh.” He smacked his knee. “Well, then. I hope you aren’t expecting special treatment or something.”

Sirius snorted. The only “special treatment” he ever got was a hex to the back for misbehaving, and when those proved ineffective, a swift beating with a broom handle.

The trip to Hogwarts was pleasant, at least after the girl and her priggish little friend left. He got on with James, and later they were joined by two timid boys with light hair. That was where their similarities ended. Peter was quite short for his age, thick around the middle, and seemed a bit of a suck-up. Remus was taller and scarred, and something about his scent was endearing to Sirius.

He couldn’t say he was surprised when the hat placed him in Gryffindor. The red and gold reminded him of someone long ago, and he felt at home amongst his new friends. The four of them would soon become the most loved and hated group in school, due in no small part to the enigma that was Sirius Black.

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He awoke every morning at dawn, and that had not changed since the term started, but he was kept from going outside at sundown due to the school’s stupid rules. Although Hogwarts was far preferable to Grimmauld, at least there he could sit on the roof and enjoy the half-light.

It hurt. He would have to remedy that.

The one night a week the first years had astronomy was somewhat of a reprieve for him – he could look at the dog star. His star.

“Remus,” he whispered.

The scarred boy sighed and drew back from his telescope. “Yes?”

James grinned beside him. “Careful, mate, you’ve just poked the beast.” Everyone knew Lupin took classes very seriously.

For some reason Remus stiffened.

Sirius whacked James on the back of the head. “Shut up. I just have a question.” He returned his gaze to Remus. “What have you got in your pocket?”

James whirled around with wide eyes. “Pocket? What’s in your pocket?”

Remus glared at Sirius. “Nothing.”

Sirius cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve got chocolate. Be a dear and share some with us.”

“I have nothing!” he cried. The other students shushed him, and he cringed. “Look what you’ve done. You’re distracting everyone.”

“Do you really have chocolate?” Peter piped up.

Remus threw his head back and clenched his fists. The moonlight made the white scars on his neck gleam. Sirius had always wanted them, but his skin was impervious to wounds.

“He does, Pete. I can smell it.”

Remus flinched. “That doesn’t make any sense, you dolt.”

Sirius shrugged. “I can smell it. Now are you going to share with us or not?”

James and Peter cheered as Remus relinquished his hoard of Mars bars, which they had never eaten before.

Sirius inhaled the delightful scent of processed sugar and stared up at the night sky. He could see each individual star twinkle.

No one asked why he never used the telescopes.

Chapter Text

Helen Granger often wondered how she ended up with a daughter like Hermione – not that she was ungrateful, mind you. The girl was…transcendent.

She had been a force to be reckoned with from birth. Although she was well-mannered and a stellar student, when provoked her temper was mighty, and it caused most of her peers and teachers to skirt around her.

Helen and Richard’s secretary would sometimes rush in whilst they were in the midst of cleaning a patient’s teeth to tell them Hermione had gotten into trouble at school. One time it was cutting the braid off a girl who had put worms in her lunchbox, another it was breaking the fingers of a boy who made fun of the deaf kid in class (although no one had been able to prove that). On her eleventh birthday she sprayed weedkiller on their neighbour’s prize rose bushes. The old man had called her father a racist epithet during an argument over fence lines.

So, retribution was a pillar of her personality.

In spite of that, the Grangers loved her dearly. Though not religious by any means, they remarked many times that Hermione was their little blessing.

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She dreamed. Day and night and the hours in between, she dreamed.

Her mind was a swirl of constellations and bloodshed, her ears rang with cries of war and foreign lullabies, and the taste of ripe fruit lingered on the tip of her tongue.

Hermione did not know what any of it meant, and after a woman named Minerva McGonagall left her house in June of 1991, she was still without a clue.

You see, magic made sense. Sure, it was make-believe and codswallop and utter nonsense to the rest of the world, but it had rules – it had logic. As her years at Hogwarts passed and nothing, not her hours spent pouring over books nor the knowledge of the professors, could give her an answer to her condition. Perhaps she truly was mad.

It was something she never talked about with Ron and Harry.

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“Hermione…”

She kept her eye on the bubbling cauldron. It was nearly finished.

“Hermione!”

“Yes, I heard you the first time, Harry. What is it?”

Myrtle’s lavatory was cold and slightly damp, but it was the perfect place to brew Polyjuice.

“How much longer?” Harry inquired. He and Ron had been getting steadily more impatient as the month went on.

“It’ll be ready tomorrow,” she said curtly.

“Good,” Ron sighed. “Although, I’m not looking forward to drinking it.” He took a sniff of the liquid and gagged.

Hermione cracked a smile. “Can’t say I am either, but this is our best shot.” Her face fell at the thought of Draco Malfoy. If he really was the so-called heir of Slytherin, she and all the other muggleborns at Hogwarts would be in grave danger.

It turned out that the slimy worm was just your usual pureblood snob, and the real heir was none other than Lord Voldemort.

Hermione swore she would see him dead in her lifetime.

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For the most part, divination was something she wrote off as nonsense, but there were times it made her skin crawl – disturbed something old and dark deep inside her.

Their batty professor was named Cassandra, and the weight of that was not lost on Hermione, but it was difficult not to despise her. She spent all of third year waiting for one of the woman’s mutterings to be more than rubbish.

On June 10^th Harry told her about the prophecy, and she felt a surge of vindication. She knew who Cassandra had been, somehow – she knew it intimately.

It was just like she had known Sirius Black.

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Hermione fell on top of Harry with a loud oof.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” she groaned.

Harry clambered to his feet, brushing dirt off the knees of his khaki trousers. “It’s alright,” he whispered.

They lit up their wands and, following Crookshank’s lead, hurried through the tunnel at a crouch. Ron’s pained noises echoed ahead. Finally, they hit a door. Harry creaked it open and they headed towards the room where Ron was splayed across the floor with a broken leg. Crookshanks lay purring on a dusty bed above him.

“It’s a trap,” Ron moaned. “It’s him, it’s Black. He’s an animagus!”

The door shut behind them.

Hermione’s breath was stuck in her chest. She turned around to see the wizard, who was scarcely a corpse but somehow so much more than that. He had matted black hair down to his elbows, and stormy grey eyes shone from sunken sockets. His mouth opened to reveal crowded, rotten teeth.

“Expelliarmus,” he said hoarsely. Her and Harry’s wands shot into his hands.

It was shortly after that Harry decided to jump the man and roped her and Ron into a group fist fight. She struggled to remove Black’s bony arms from Harry, who was pounding away at him. Ron cried as his bad leg was crushed under their weight.

“Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop! Harry!”

He elbowed her in the mouth accidentally. Yelping, she drew back and ran her tongue across the blood welling up on her lower lip. Then, Crookshanks sat his furry orange self onto Black’s chest, and Hermione got the inkling that the situation was going to take a rather surprising turn.

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It occurred to Hermione that it should have felt strange for the first man to touch her to be Sirius Black.

His arms were wrapped tightly around her waist as they soared through the sky away from his deadly fate, and despite the circumstances, all she could think about was the pressure of his hands on her belly. It was an action that evoked familiarity.

She stumbled off of Buckbeak, waving his helping hand away. The things she was feeling, thinking, dreaming, needed to be quelled.

When it was time for Sirius to depart, he walked over to where she sat in distress.

“Hermione Granger,” he murmured.

She looked up slowly and let out a tremulous breath. “Yes?”

“I’ve waited a long time to meet you again,” he smiled. It brought forward the remnants of beauty he had left.

She was so entranced by his presence that she forgot to be confused. “Thank you for being here for Harry,” she said. “I mean…thank you for being here now. He’ll need you.”

His brow crinkled. “Yes, of course. He is my godson.”

She smiled. “Will I – will we see you soon?”

It looked for a moment that he would reach out to touch her face.

“I hope so,” he croaked. “I really hope so.”

He hugged Harry goodbye and rode off into the night.

“Hermione.”

She got to her feet and walked over to Harry. “Let’s go visit Ron,” she suggested.

He stared at her bemusedly for a moment before nodding. They walked to the hospital hand in hand.

Chapter Text

Grimmauld was oppressive in every sense of the word. It was a great shadow closing in around Sirius, an ever shrinking box. In summers before he had escaped its grasp by venturing out into the muggle world. There he could spend hours scouring the shops for cheap records and beat up clothes and girls in those short skirts they wore, but he only ever looked. It was just out of reach, something he felt he should not touch until he was free.

He was expected to take the mark. Really, he was supposed to have taken it on his sixteenth birthday, but once Sirius was at Hogwarts, he made himself unreachable to his relatives. After term ended, his family could act like they owned him.

The week before his intended initiation, England went through one of its worst ever heatwaves. Muggle and magical folk alike languished in the stifling air, and nothing seemed to bring reprieve. Hundreds of herds of cattle and sheep across the country suffered from lameness, dehydration, and infertility. Birds were flapping their wings and writhing in whatever ponds they could find to cool off. London’s dog population was a panting mess in the sweltering heat. The strays were all in a frenzy, and some feared they had gone feral.

The Blacks suspected it was their heir's doing but fought off any feelings of hesitancy. Sirius was a gift - one they could not embrace as a son - but a gift, nonetheless. He had proven years ago he was a stubborn, disobedient boy, but he had also demonstrated power. Their Lord would wield that power mightily.

Regulus was torn between envy and fear. He wanted the glory and honour Sirius was about to receive, but he was and always had been unfit for pain. It was part of why he never misbehaved. He knew from their elder peers, especially Bella, that being a Death Eater was thrilling, but not the least bit pleasant. It seemed that the youngest Black would have to wait his turn.

But they had, all of them, forgotten what Sirius was. They thought he would acquiesce. They thought he would accept this awful destiny. Well, he had met Fate, and she had something much different in store for him.

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Two months before, Sirius had done one of the stupidest things imaginable. His hatred for their weak, hypocritical Slytherin schoolmate had led him to plot a sick joke, and it nearly destroyed his friendship with Remus.

Pete, not knowing whose side to take, had floundered when the werewolf confronted Sirius. James, however, knew there were no sides. Sirius had not only fucked up, but fucked up so badly it was down to Remus alone to decide if he deserved forgiveness. James was Sirius’s brother; he would never not love him, but he would not defend him, either.

A week after Remus broke down in front of them in the hospital wing, Sirius crawled into his bed and carefully entwined their fingers. He brought the boy’s knuckles to his mouth and gave them a soft kiss. It was not, perhaps, something he would do to James and Pete, but the line between him and Remus had always been a bit blurred.

They layed together in tense silence for a few minutes, and then Remus squeezed his hand back. Sirius did not cry, but his eyes glossed over after the boy gently returned a kiss to his knuckles.

It was in that quiet night they spent side by side that Sirius realized why he had been drawn to him on the Hogwarts Express. It hadn’t been a crush (he thought he was above those), but he had felt a sudden kinship with the boy. Even though he had yet to discover his Patronus, he was still of the dog star, and was able to sense a fellow canine.

Or maybe he was just being an arrogant ponce and couldn’t admit he had been sweet on the boy. Who could say, really?

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The day before his inception burned hotter than all the rest, and Sirius recognized vacantly that it was emanating from him. It had been easy to ignore in years past - after all, was the weather not nature’s decision?

But it was his fault. Maybe this was the reason his family had not banished him from their home. He had always thought his prowess as a wizard kept them from getting rid of him – made them hold out, wait to see if he would shape up into a proper pureblood heir – but perhaps he was a greater phenomenon than that.

Now that he thought on it, in the dry summer grass of Hampstead Heath, he was certain his role in The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was to be their messiah. And that enraged him. He was nobody’s. He belonged to no one. Tomorrow, his mother and father would regret ever conceiving him.

Sirius simmered while the few families who had dared to go outside walked by. Their skin was red and peeling. The grass beneath his hands was scorched, and the surrounding blades caught its heat, passing fire between them until the small pond was ringed with flame.

Sirius stood up as the sun began to fall. As he walked home in the eventide, with paws blistering on the hot pavement, a band of slobbering strays joined him. They trotted at his side until he reached Islington, and then said goodbye. Sirius saddened at the realization he was the cause of their physical stress.

When he turned the corner to Grimmauld, he saw three old women sitting on the street bench. They appeared to be spindling yarn, of all things. Sirius blinked at the odd sight.

“Pardon,” he said, walking toward them, “but may I ask what you’re doing out at this hour? Are you not uncomfortable in the heat?”

The one in the middle, a short woman with grey hair, cackled. “Aye, it’s hot out, says he.” She held a growing strand of pink yarn.

“What do you care about the comfort of others, Sirius?” the closest asked. Although her cloudy eyes stared directly at him from behind wire glasses, her fingers were rapidly wrapping the yarn around her hands.

“Who are you?” he rasped.

“We are the Moirai.”

He looked to the woman furthest from him. Her hair was streaked with silver, and only some wrinkles adorned her face. She was the one spinning the yarn.

“I have no idea what that means,” he said. “If you’re witches, just tell me.” The middle one snickered again, and Sirius thought about thwacking her over the head – a dark thought, to be sure, but he felt no guilt for having it.

“We are Fate,” they spoke together.

He sighed. He truly had no time for this.

“Here,” the bespectacled woman said. She scooted over and pat the spot beside her. “Have a seat. Let us tell you a story.”

Chapter Text

Grieving the loss of their hero Achilles, the people of Phthia had suffered little joy since the war’s end. Her husband Neoptolemus ascended to the throne and sent for her in Mycenae shortly after. It did not matter that she had been promised to her cousin first; he had since murdered his mother Clytemnestra and fallen into madness. Hermione belonged to the Myrmidons now, though they did not make her feel that way.

She spent the next three years of her life inside the palace walls, writhing with bitterness over her husband’s concubine. Once a princess of two cities, Andromache was a loyal, virtuous woman who had been victim of Neoptolemus just like Hermione. Her son by Hector had been slain, and the murderer then claimed her for his own. Although Hermione had been given to the king rather than taken, the two women were in a similar position, and should have been friends.

It was not to be.

Hermione could not decide who had been dealt a worse hand. She had been abandoned by her mother at age nine, sent to live with her cousin to whom she was engaged, and then sent away again to marry a stranger. Perhaps worst of all was the look Helen gave her when she finally returned to Greece. “Who is this woman?” she asked with her four children behind her. One of them, the only girl, was the spitting image of her. Electra, her niece, clutched Hermione’s hand and replied, “Your daughter, my lady.”

Andromache had been adored her whole life, unlike Hermione who was nothing but a bargaining chip to her father. He had always preferred his bastards over her – her! a half-god. His wife, the progeny of Zeus and Nemesis, could not compare to the slaves that mothered his sons. Unlike Hermione, Andromache was loved by the families she had been born and married into.

But she was forced to bear children for the man who had killed her only legitimate son – for the man whose father had killed her beloved husband.

Hermione felt a drop of shame scorning a woman who had suffered that, but the humiliation of watching her birth Neoptolemus’s children while she, the supposed queen, bled month after month was too much to endure.

As the years passed, Hermione grew paranoid and withdrew from social activity. Something felt terribly wrong about her latent fertility. She knew, somehow, that it was against the will of nature, and became convinced it was her rival’s fault.

A few months after the birth of her husband’s third son by Andromache, Hermione lay in the gardens on the east side of the palace. The boy, Pergamus, was nestled in her arms. His mother and her maids had yet to find them.

The blistering summer heat was just starting to die down. It was September, the month of her birth, and the beginning of her favorite time of year. Even in Phthia she enjoyed autumn.

“Hello, little one,” she whispered. It was the first time she had held one of the children. He made a gurgling sound and rubbed his eyes. She suspected he would need to feed soon.

A foolish thought struck her. She rearranged her layered skirts and brought the babe to her bare breast. His mouth immediately latched on, and she waited with bated breath to see what would happen. After nearly a minute passed, Pergamus released her nipple and began to cry. Hermione’s face fell. Of course it had not worked. She had never, and would never, give life.

His wailing continued, and Andromache came running. Her purple dress, a symbol of status that made Hermione seethe, was hitched up around her ankles, and the gold jewelry adorning her body jangled as she moved.

“My lady!” she cried. “Please, give me my son.” Her arms reached out for the babe.

Hermione scowled and handed him over. He started suckling on his mother straight away.

“I confess, you were the last person I thought he’d be with,” Andromache said hesitantly. Her beautiful black eyes were rimmed with kohl.

“Forgive me,” Hermione bit.

“No. ‘Tis fine.” Andromache searched her face for a moment. “I…I would share my children with you, my lady. They are yours by right.”

Hermione let out a caustic laugh. “Please. You may be a long way from home, but no Myrmidon would recognize them as mine either. My husband should have taken you as his bride and left me to my mad cousin.”

Andromache pursed her lips and bowed her head, not knowing how to respond. The two women sat in the gardens for a while more, until Pergamus had finished feeding. As the concubine took her leave, she informed Hermione that her father Menelaus was on his way to the city.

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The dream ended abruptly there. Hermione (Granger, that is) woke up in her childhood bedroom with a gasp caught in her throat. She reached out for her stuffed rabbit Atticus and held him to her chest. Breathing in his familiar scent, she tried to calm her racing mind. Dreams like this one had come to her many times before – too crisp and real to be only a dream – but never had they revealed names.

It was a Saturday, so her parents were at the kitchen table when she came down. There was no coffee in the Granger household. No English breakfast tea either. No fizzy drinks, no juice, no teeth-staining liquid of any kind. Hermione had spent her childhood drinking filtered water and milk. It was no wonder why she indulged in a little pumpkin juice on school mornings.

“Morning,” she greeted.

Helen peered over the top of the newspaper in her hands. “Morning,” she replied. “Is something wrong, sweetheart?”

Hermione balked. “What? No.”

“Are you sure?” her father cut in, setting his own newspaper down on the table. His salt and pepper hair was still in disarray from sleep.

She sighed and put on her best happy face. “I’m alright, really. Just woke up from an intense dream, is all. You know how that is.”

“Mm. Nothing new. You’ve always had a vivid imagination.”

Yes…an imagination.

Richard got up to put his plate in the dishwasher. “So, today’s your last day?”

“Yes.” Hermione had only been home for a month and was leaving her parents again. It stung them a little, she knew, and the last thing she wanted was for them to feel unwanted. Truth be told, she didn’t know how to communicate with them anymore, not about anything important anyway. It was strange; her hold on the muggle world was weak, but the magical world did not want her, so why was she always eager to go back?

“Hermione.”

She broke away from her thoughts and looked to her mother. “Yes, sorry, what were you saying?”

Richard had returned to his spot at the table. “We were just asking if you wanted to tell us about your dream. Talk it over?”

They were staring at her with so much love it nearly made her cry. “I – I’m fine, Dad. Thanks.”

He nodded and gave her a small smile. She grabbed a bowl of cereal and joined them.

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Was there another reason you named me Hermione? Besides being the daughter of Helen, I mean.”

Helen laughed sheepishly. “Honestly, no. I’m not foolish enough to think I have half the beauty Helen of Troy did. Actually,” she said, pausing to take a sip of water, “it was Nona who suggested I name you Hermione.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. Aunt Nona was some relative of her mother’s who showed up at family functions on occasion, and she was completely batty.

“Well, if Nona said so…”

Richard coughed to cover up a laugh.

Helen shot him a dark look. “That woman is one of the wisest people you’ll ever know, Hermione.”

“If you say so, Mum.”

This time Richard didn’t bother to cover up his laugh.

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Harry blinked stupidly when she asked if it would bother him if she wrote to Sirius.

“What – why?” he frowned. Ron was staring at her, too.

Hermione huffed. “Fine, never mind. I merely thought that saving his life might give me communicatory privileges. Excuse me for asking.”

“It doesn’t…bother me,” Harry corrected. “I guess I don’t understand? But if you really want to, I’ll send your letter along with Hedwig next time.”

She struggled to contain her gratitude. “Thank you! Oh, thank you, Harry!”

Ron gaped as she slung her arms around Harry in the middle of lunch. “Blimey, Hermione. To think this time last year, you hated the bloke…”

Dear Sirius,

I don’t know how to start this other than hello. So… hello.

I cannot believe how irresponsible the professors are for letting a fourteen-year-old boy participate in this tournament. They’re acting like a piece of gaudy silverware is the word of God! I don’t know what to do. What if something happens in the next task, Sirius? What if Harry gets hurt even worse this time? I know you have talked all of this over with him, so I suppose I’m beating a dead horse.

That is not all I wanted to ask you, though. I know we met just the once, but I can’t help but feel we had a connection. What the nature of that connection is, I’m not certain. I didn’t process what you said to me until later. What did you mean by “I have waited a long time to meet you again?”

I feel as if I knew you too, once upon a time, but that’s silly, isn’t it? Am I wrong? Please tell me if I am, and I will never write to you again. I promise. I just have to know.

Hermione

She set her quill down in the ink pot and read over the letter. Then she crumpled it up and burnt it to a crisp. She was being stupid. What would Harry’s godfather, of all people, be able to tell her about her condition?

Chapter Text

He was a horrid, greedy sort of being. Instead of brimming with joy at the upcoming union of his best friend and dearest lily-flower, Sirius was moping.

In his defense, he was a god.

James decided to propose to Evans on July 1st, the day he and the lads were supposed to leave for Europe. They had spent their final term at Hogwarts planning the trip. It would start in France, then go on to Germany, Italy, and Greece. The final destination was Çanakkale, the site in Turkey where the World Cup was being held. Sirius, of course, was most excited for Greece. He managed to wrangle everyone into spending the most time there.

“Pads!”

Sirius nodded at the pink-cheeked boy running over to him. “Yeah, mate.”

James looked positively elated. “She said yes! Oh my god, Padfoot, she said yes.”

Remus and Peter let out big cheers and clapped him on the back.

Sirius mustered up a grin and pulled him down for a hug. “Congrats, mate.”

James beamed and adjusted his glasses, which were sliding down his sweaty nose. “I can’t believe it.”

“She was always going to say yes,” Sirius assured him.

“Are we celebrating?” Remus inquired, already pouring another round of whiskey.

Peter’s legs were bobbing up and down, a little tic of his. “I’m sure he wants to be with Lily right now.”

James ruffled the back of his hair. “Er…yeah, actually. We’re sort of going on trip around the country.” Remus took a slow sip of the amber liquid in his cup, making eye contact with Sirius. “I’m sorry. I just need this right now, you know?”

Of course they knew. War was brewing – if the love of your life agreed to marry you, you’d spend every second with her instead of fucking about with your friends. Never mind they were practically brothers, Sirius thought bitterly.

“We get it, Prongs.” Peter gave James a winning smile.

Sirius studied the blond boy beside him. Why was Pete so excited about this? Was he looking for a reason to get out of their trip?

Sirius frowned. For gods’ sake, was he the only one who wanted to go?

“Pads,” James said.

“Yeah?” Sirius could tell his friend was getting annoyed.

“We good? Are you alright if I leave?”

Sirius wanted to laugh. James didn’t truly care if it hurt his feelings, and who could blame him? Unlike them, he actually had an escape from all the shit going on.

“I’m good,” he murmured, patting James on the shoulder.

After James and Peter left, Remus joined Sirius on his side of the bench. “We’re going to be okay,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Sirius didn’t meet his copper-coloured eyes. “We won’t, Moony. No one will be okay.” He took a long swig of Ogden’s straight from the bottle.

Remus let out an aggravated sigh and stormed away from the table. Sirius watched in regret as his tall, slim form left the pub. He asked for another bottle and packed it in his knapsack later that night.

The next day, he set off for home.

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In days long ago, Sirius would descend from his place in the sky and walk amongst the earthlings. Man had come into being a few centuries before, and he still struggled to understand them. So, whilst he took on the form of a mortal man, he had the opportunity to observe them up close.

It was on one of those occasions he first saw Opora. She resided over the bearing of fruit and wine harvest, and her strongest months laid between the rising of Sirius and his brother Arcturus.

He hovered on the outskirts of their revelry. She was accompanied by her kinsmen Irene, Theoria, Agros, Oinos, and the retinue of Dionysus himself. They chattered and made merry for hours on end.

Sirius stood trembling in the surrounding forest, and he did not take his eyes off Opora the entire time. Her mild temperament and riot of dark curls had captivated him. Every breath she took, every smile, every movement, sent his body into fervor, and he feared he would burn up.

Years passed before he dared to approach her, and many more before he confessed his love. Opora gave him wine to drink and fruit to eat, but they both knew she could offer nothing more. They could spend but an hour together before he had to return, and so spent the lion’s share of their time apart.  

It was because of this Sirius began to burn so brightly every summer. His love for her and pain at the distance between them manifested in blazing waves of heat that left the mortals in dispair. Not knowing how to go on, they prayed to the gods to save them.

Boreas the North Wind blew gusts of cold air across the land to countervail the severity of the heat. He sent his sons high up into the atmosphere to reason with Sirius.

Meanwhile below, Opora suffered great inner turmoil. She felt that the world would be better off if he was freed from his love for her, and she began to run from him each time he came down to see her, in hopes that it would cause his passion to wane.

The endless repression of her own love for him led her heart to grow weak, and she withdrew from the world completely. Her role was not missed, as Mother Demeter and Dionysus took over her dominion completely.

The disappearance of Opora did not deter Sirius, and he brought misery to the peoples of Greece every year in commemoration of his love. But, as the summer months faded, he cooled to embers, and the mortals learned to love him.

Chapter Text

Hermione was anxious about spending the remainder of the summer holidays at 12 Grimmauld Place. The Weasleys would be there, of course, but so would Sirius. How was she to cope? They’d only had contact three times: the night of the Shrieking Shack, when he popped up in the common room’s fireplace for all of three minutes, and then in the damp cave in Hogsmeade where he had been living.

That last meeting had been uncomfortable, to say the least. Harry had needed to talk with his godfather; she and Ron were just along for support, but it was unbearable trying to restrain herself from speaking to Sirius. The pensive glances he sent her way had not made it any easier.

Perhaps the worst part of all this was that Hermione had absolutely no idea what she was to him other than a figure from his past (which was such a confusing premise that she had committed to not pondering it altogether).

“Mr. Weasley, how exactly do we get into the house?” she asked. When Ron’s father mentioned that the Black family’s ancestral home was unplottable and under something called the Fidelius Charm, her brain had gone into overdrive trying to recall if she had read about it somewhere.

“Ah, well, it is a tricky thing, to be sure,” he admitted, “but not a problem for any Order member. If we simply know the location, it will reveal itself.”

Hermione nodded, and watched as numbers 11 and 13 split apart. The Blacks’ home had the same architecture as all the others on the block, but it was…bleaker, somehow. The front door was painted a green so dark it was almost black, and a twisted silver serpent served as the knocker. There was no keyhole or window to see into.

Mr. Weasley (“call me Arthur”) rapped his knuckles against it five times, and a horrible shrieking noise sounded from within. Hermione looked to him in concern.

He grimaced. “Nothing to worry about, dear. Just a rather lively portrait.”

Hermione frowned. What was this place?

His wife opened the door with an exasperated smile on her face. “Oh, Hermione. It’s so good to see you.” She ushered them inside and closed the door firmly. “Shut up, you old hag!”

Hermione blinked in surprise; it was not a phrase she ever expected to hear from Molly Weasley. A rather dour looking woman was yelling at them from inside her portrait.

“That, Hermione, is Walburga Black. Pay her no attention,” Arthur said, giving her a quick pat on the shoulder.

After setting her trunk on the floor, she moved further into the entryway to get a closer look at the portrait.

“DIRT! SCUM! FILTHY MUDBLOOD WHORE! YOU DARE ENTER MY HOUSE-”

“That’s quite enough,” Sirius said, appearing out of nowhere. Hermione stiffened at the sight of him. He yanked a cover over the portrait. “My sincerest apologies. My mother was an…unpleasant woman, at the best of times.”

“Thank you, Sirius,” Arthur said.

“Here, why don’t I show you to your room.” Molly moved to grab her luggage. “You’re with Ginny. The other rooms are uninhabitable,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

Sirius started. “I’ve got it, Molly. Need to be helpful some way, right?” he joked, although it did not reach his eyes.

Molly narrowed her eyes. “Well, I suppose…”

Arthur cut in. “Of course, thank you. Molly and I need to talk anyways.”

Sirius gave him a relieved smile and finally, finally, looked at Hermione. “Come on, then. It’s only one flight up.” Hermione could only nod. He took hold of her trunk and lifted it up with surprising strength. She watched dumbly as he climbed the stairs. “You coming?”

“Yes, sorry,” she blurted, hurrying to catch up.

Ginny must have been somewhere with Ron and the twins because the small room was vacated. It was surprisingly airy; the bedding was all white, and sun streamed in through the windows.

“How are there windows if the house is hidden?” she asked.

Sirius smiled. “Magic, love.”

She blushed, berating herself for the question. “Right. That explains everything. Thank you for being so helpful.”

His eyes widened and then went soft with something that may have been affection. “Ask Remus. He understands it better than I do.”

Her blush deepened, and she tore her gaze away. “I’ll do that. Thank you.”

It was another thirty seconds before she heard his footsteps leave the room. She sank into one of the beds and buried her face in its pillows. How was she to survive six whole weeks of this?

________________

Something brushed up against Hermione’s back, and she shrieked. “Who is it?!”

“Merlin, Hermione! It’s just me.”

She sighed and turned around to face Ron. “Gods, you scared me.” He had always towered over her, but now their height difference was comical.

The redhead gave her a bemused look. “Are you alright? You’ve been even more on edge than normal.”

“I take umbrage with that statement,” Hermione retorted. “I am a perfectly relaxed human being.”

Ron threw his head back and laughed. “Are you joking? You might be the most uptight person I’ve ever met.”

She wanted to argue further but realized that her usual behavior supported his opinion.

“Ron. What did you want?” she sighed.

“It’s dinner. We’ve been calling you for the past five minutes.”

“Really?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes. Put down the books for a bit and come eat.”

Hermione reluctantly did as he said and headed into the kitchen. There was a formal dining room, but the Order had set up a long, multipurpose wood table instead. She scanned the room to see if any familiar faces had showed up for the meal.

“Just us tonight,” Sirius said to her quietly. Obviously, he was referring to the Weasleys as well, but it sounded personal to her.

“Oh.”

He didn’t try to speak to her during the meal. In fact, he didn’t so much as look her way. She couldn’t decide if she relieved or disappointed by that.

A few hours later, when everyone was in their rooms, Hermione sneaked downstairs to read. She made herself a cup of tea using the mountain blend she’d bought from home and settled into an armchair in the library. Picking up the book she’d been forced to drop earlier, she resumed reading.

“Why am I not surprised to see you here.”

She almost spat out her tea. “Sirius. For gods’ sake, don’t do that.” He was standing on the far side of the room in the only pair of clothes she had seen him wear since arriving. His hair was cleaner than when they’d met, but he hadn’t cut more than a few inches off, so it still fell in silky black waves down his back. His eyes were exactly the same, though – they struck her to the core. “I’ve half a mind to hit you,” she told him. And why shouldn’t she? He had scared the living daylights out of her, and she was never one to let misdeeds go unpunished.

He raised an eyebrow. “I can’t say I wouldn’t like to see that.”

She flushed. “You – ugh! You are so annoying! You can’t just act like - ”

“Like what, love?”

“Like you didn’t tell me we knew each other! I have been so uncertain my whole life, and you were the first person – are the only person – to make me think that maybe I’m not insane.”

He was silent for a moment before responding. “You’re not insane,” he whispered.

“What?”

“You are not insane,” he repeated, firmer this time. “And I am sorry you think I’ve been ignoring you.”

“Think? You have been, Sirius. I mean, you’re the adult in this situation – you should have explained everything to me, instead of leaving me a nervous wreck.” Her eyes started to water, and she set her mug of tea to the floor to not spill it. “I – I want to know once and for all if you have a connection to me, and if not…then I will leave you alone.”

“No,” he pleaded. “Just…I will explain. Everything, I swear, but you have to promise to trust me.”

Hermione stared at him. “Alright,” she said. “Where do we begin?”

Sirius swallowed and moved to sit by her. “I honestly don’t know.”