Because of Reasons

It was past midnight when Ginny’s breathing had evened out and Hermione slipped out of their shared room. It was dead quiet in the old townhouse, and even her breathing felt loud as she made her way up each flight of stairs. She relied on the instructions whispered to her and a foggy muscle memory not her own to avoid spots on the hardwood which would creak.

The journey took longer than was ideal, and she consoled herself with the knowledge that the length of the trip allowed her to remain unnoticed. She slowly pulled open the door to the ritual room, slipping in and closing it softly behind her.

Sirius was crouched over a messy stack of parchment, a quill in his mouth. A pile of charcoal chalk sticks were laid out on a blanket to his right, and twine-wrapped vials filled with a dark substance rested beside them. “Good, this will go quicker if you're here to help me set up.”

“How long do you estimate each ritual to take?” Hermione pulled her cardigan tighter around her. A few of the books she had read at Hogwarts had made brief mention of the ritual to have magic recognise the participant as being of age, Archon Chorís Alysídes, however, there weren’t any instructions on what ingredients were needed for it, or how it was completed.

Archon Chorís Alysídes, the voice repeated, archon without chains.

“Ten minutes to prepare the circle for the unchaining ritual, and another few to complete the actual ritual itself. The delegate ritual will take much longer to prepare.” He pushed a piece of parchment in her direction. “Sorry about the chill, can’t exactly cast any warming charms, the stray magic would affect the room’s balance.”

And therefore the rituals themselves.

Studying the parchment, which turned out to be a sketch of a circle similar to a Transmutation Circle, Hermione plucked one of the chalk sticks from the pile and headed to the middle of the room where a standard circle had been carved into the floor. The floor itself was made of flat stone. It was remarkably smooth, as though it had experienced thousands of years worth of erosion to reach such a state. She wondered if the magic involved in the rituals performed also played a part in erosion and the unnatural smoothness under her feet.

By the time Ron, Harry and I were staying here, during what was supposed to be our seventh year, many of the rooms had been locked. It appeared to be the magic of the house doing it. They were never unlocked, not even for her.

At the word ‘her’, familiar images and a fond warmth flooded through Hermione, and she could almost feel the gentle hugs and dangerous laughs of the blonde woman.

“Anything else?” Hermione asked. The sketch was quite straightforward, and the entire ordeal appeared to be far more simplistic than she had assumed it would be.

“Just a few runes,” Sirius assured. He looked up from his own pile of parchment and grabbed one of the books to his left, flipped through it till he reached a specific page, and slid it across the floor to her.

Hermione shot him an appalled look at the book’s treatment but picked it up nonetheless.

“You are taking Runes, aren’t you?”

She hummed distractedly, reading through the small passage. The page had further explanations of the runes and the steps to performing the ritual itself. “Oh, I am, yes. I’ve kept up with the assigned summer reading and enjoy independent study. Some of these are familiar.”

Sirius looked between her and the book. “That’s some independent study you’ve got going on there.”

“It’s important to be well-versed on a subject,” Hermione defended. If she had been looking into the possibility of having Harry complete this very ritual to withdraw his name from the Goblet of Fire, well, that was between her and the books she read. Fake-Moody had been…supportive of her exploration of the Restricted Section, signing her permission slips without fanfare.

“Didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“And really, ten months to cover and effectively grasp all the material needed to pass the Ancient Runes O.W.L. isn’t nearly enough.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

“And can you honestly say that you–” Hermione continued in disbelief, oddly worked up and the ends of her hair frizzing, “– you, who had such a reputation for the pranks you managed to pull off, never spent extra time self-studying Ancient Runes to accomplish some of what you did?”

“Once, we used a mix of runes and charms to have all the staircases outside of Ravenclaw transport the students right back to their Common Room.”

A localised version of apparition, the voice said, impressed. Based on runes.

“Took the entire weekend before the professors managed to sort it out—we had charmed the runes to go dormant if anyone of age was on the staircase. Probably one of the emptiest weekends at the Library.”

“Then I’m sure you understand.”

He clicked his tongue. “I’m a Black, I knew a lot of it before I got to Hogwarts.”

There was a heavy pause.

Then, “I suppose you’re about to be one too.”

Hermione turned back to the book, lining it up beside the sketch as she began to draw the runes. In a way, she already had some Black blood running through her veins, but it didn’t change who she was—a Muggleborn. It hadn’t before, and she wouldn’t let it now. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand.

“Raido,” Hermione murmured to herself.

A journey.

“Jēra.”

Harvest.

“Inguz.”

Growth and potential.

With experience gained from hundreds of hours worth of practice questions and extra credit assignments, Hermione carefully conjugated the runes, connecting them in the proper places and redrawing new versions which would fall within the circle but remain unanchored. The stips of her fingers were stained black by the time she had finished.

Sirius, meanwhile, had gone about painting tiny Egyptian hieroglyphs using vials labeled 'Lamb Blood’ and ‘Ripened Nemean Lions Blood’.

“Egyptian magic has always put special emphasis on life: the beginning, the journey throughout, and the continuation of life after death,” he explained as Hermione studied his work. “We’ll be using the hieroglyphs to call on magic, asking it to grant you this favour of life. As for the Lamb blood, it symbolises the innocence of childhood, and the Nemean Lions blood I’ve painted atop it is a claim to magic of your corruption from such innocence.”

Privately, Hermione was certain she had lost her innocence far before the summer began.

“There are a few books in the Library at Hogwarts about the magic of Egyptian hieroglyphs, though most of them don’t go far into detail,” it was wonderful learning about the general idea, however, once a person had a basic understanding, expanding their knowledge required further knowledge.

“Hogwarts used to have more classes, more books too,” Sirius told her. “My parents were always complaining about it.”

“They didn’t consider sending you to Durmstrang, or one of the other more Dark aligning schools?”

“Not for a moment.” He looked up from across the circle. “I was supposed to become Lord Black, Hogwarts may not have provided stellar education, but that’s what summer tutors were for. Hogwarts was for networking and making connections for when I took my father’s place in the Wizengamot.”

“But if you hadn’t been from the direct line…”

“My cousin, Andy, almost went to Beauxbatons. The Blacks have always had a strong connection to France, we spent weeks at the French summer house every year. It was quieter there.”

Malfoy, Draco Malfoy's mother, wanted him to attend Beauxbatons for those reasons, among others.

“I think we’re done with this,” Sirius told her, staring down at the neat circle beneath them.

Hermione slipped out of her cardigan, folding it and placing it on the floor a metre away. Avoiding the chalk marks and still-wet blood, she navigated her way over the lines, runes, and hieroglyphs into the middle of the circle.

Sirius took a few steps back. “You know what to do?”

Hermione didn’t reply verbally, instead closing her eyes, lowering herself to the floor and focusing inward. Her breathing slowed, and she sunk into her magic, feeling it awaken further at her attention. She stretched her arms out to her sides, fingers barely reaching to hover over the nearest runes.

The voice’s magic joined her, swirling through her like a shadow fighting its way through a hurricane.

“Éna víma brostá,” Hermione began to chant, the voice keeping the words from the passage at the forefront of her mind as she recited them inside and out.. “Éna adoiporía. Éna therismós. Archon Chorís Alysídes, megalóno kai anthízo.”

“Archon Chorís Alysídes.”

“Archon Chorís Alysídes.”

“Archon Chorís Alysídes.”

“Archon Chorís Alysídes.”

Through her eyelids, Hermione could see the bright red light from the ritual circle as it began to glow. It pulled and tugged at her magic. The very essence of her being felt as though it were being ruffled through. The foreign magic settled on tugging lightly against something, though she couldn't figure out what, or how she was supposed to react.

Her chest felt tight, and drawing in air only increased the discomfort.

Breathe, the voice instructed anyway. Breathe and draw all of yourself closer, Hermione, everything. Even the edges of your magic.

She followed to the best of her abilities, the tightness growing when her magic stiffened into icicle-like spikes.

Now let go.

Her body and magical presence loosened, allowing the ritual's magic to seep in and flow through her. It lifted whatever barrier had been pressing down on her as easily as a sheer veil would float away in the wind. It reminded her of the bridal catalogues Lavender often flipped through, an elegant feather-light veil being stripped away.

Hermione slowly opened her eyes, the lines and runes of the circle still glowing dimly.

“How do you feel?” Sirius asked cautiously. He was sitting against the wall and Hermione wondered if it had taken longer than it felt like.

“Like I only just realised there’s been something stopping me from breathing properly my entire life, and it’s finally gone,” she smiled softly, her muscles lax and well-rested.

“Good, it will make this next one easier.”

“How much longer will the delegate naming ritual take?”

“How long do you think this one took?” Sirius asked with a curious tilt of his head.

“Two minutes, certainly not more than three.”

“It was eight, actually.”

Owlishly, Hermione blinked up at him. It certainly hadn’t felt anywhere close to eight minutes.

Time passes differently when they're so immersed by magic, the voice said. It alters a person's perception.

“Will the next one too?”

The voice went oddly quiet, and a cold hesitance emitted from it. Losing yourself during the next ritual would be a favourable outcome.

“Meaning?” Hermione asked internally, externally stiffening against her wishes. She was too relaxed to police her reactions.

Sirius cleared his throat. “We haven’t discussed this next one all that much–”

“It was one of the major points we spoke of Friday night,” Hermione disagreed.

“Technically,” he grimaced. “However, it’s—have the Weasleys left any claim over you? Magically.”

“No,” Hermione responded, brow furrowed. The voice’s magic was steeped in the same confusion. “Should they have?”

“No, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they haven’t. Accidental magic is unpredictable, especially present in young wizen. With the rather intense experiences you’ve lived through, often alongside Harry and Ron, well, it would be possible for young wizens’ your age to have their family magic to attach to each other in response.”

“I don’t have family magic,” Hermione tried.

Yet, the voice scolded lightly.

“Ron does,” Sirius pointed out.

With no close living relatives, as a minor Harry’s will remain mostly dormant until he comes of age and claims it.

“I think I would have felt it if it had,” she cared for the Weasleys greatly, and that care had only increased after everything she had seen over the summer, and so frequently still saw before. However, she didn’t feel a familial bond with them—there was undoubtedly one she had with Ron, built from everything they had been through together, but it didn’t extend to his family. It wasn’t ungratefulness, she simply felt differently about them.

“It’ll be simpler that way,” Sirius said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, the ritual itself won’t be painless, and if there is some sort of claim or imprint on your magic, it could become more painful.”

“I suppose we’ll have to learn through experience,” Hermione murmured, rising and stepping out of the now dimmed circle. “Will you need me to draw more runes?”

“Things will go faster,” Sirius replied after a few seconds. He handed her another book, thankfully not sliding it across the floor.

Hermione blinked down at the long passage. It wasn’t the length of the text she balked at, but the instructions themselves. Perhaps fate had condemned her to be marked in such a way.

Was she always destined to have scars etched into her chest? If Hermione had been unwilling to become a delegate would she have still found herself painted with them, irrefutable proof that magic had tried to claim her, by the end of her fifth year?

“I’ll–” Sirius cleared his throat, rather uncomfortably. “I’ll handle drawing the runes on the floor. If you could draw the other ones, I can carve them when I’m finished.”

Because they weren’t only drawing runes on the floor.

Hermione would also be drawing them on herself.

And then Sirius would carve them.

Not something I can claim to have experience with, the voice chuckled, sounding amused, hesitant and uneasy all at once.

“Well,” Hermione responded, sarcastic and far more uneasy, “as long as you get the pleasure of living through me.”

“Does chalk work?” was what she asked Sirius.

“Chalk?”

“To draw the runes.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Yes, chalk works.”

It was odd to witness the way he valiantly refused to make eye contact, not out of stubbornness but what truly appeared to be discomfort. She couldn’t recall previously seeing him lacking confidence.

Hermione pulled the top of her camisole down further, leaving more of her chest exposed to the cold air. The first rune began centimetres under her collarbone, the dark colour contrasting drastically against her pale skin. As she followed the book’s sketch, the voice whispered the runes to her.

Naudiz, they murmured, need.

Gebō. A gift.

Fehu. Wealth.

Ūruz. Strength

When Hermione drew Gebō a second time she stretched the rune outline horizontally, listening to the voice’s murmured instructions.

Obligation, it whispered eerily.

It was harder drawing on her skin, partially due to the angle and partially because her skin moved when she applied too much pressure. If it weren’t for how pigmented the charcoal sticks were, the majority of her lines would have turned into squiggles.

In a few areas, Hermione found herself going over the line a second time, to tidy the crooked spots.

Don’t stress over crooked chalk marks, the voice brushed off. They won’t be channeling any magic this time. A blade will make neat lines, and those will allow magic to gather properly.

By the time Hermione was done, Sirius had finished adding to the circle and pulled out a ritual knife from somewhere. Two additional rings of runes now surrounded her initial circle on the floor. And another thick ring, made purely of blood, bordered them.

“It’ll be best to do this out here and have you step inside once you’ve started bleeding,” Sirius told her.

“Right,” she swallowed.

He settled on the floor in front of her, hand surprisingly steady as the tip of the cool blade made contact with her goosebump prickled skin. She held still against the instinctual shiver at the icy sensation, and instead, she felt the first sting of the incisions followed by the bite of cold as the temperature of the room met her blood.

Hermione’s return to the ritual circle was far less graceful. It involved an awkward shuffling as she maneuvered her way over the different lines and runes without altering them, all the while attempting to avoid stretching or turning in a way which would pull on the cuts littering her chest.

This time, when she lowered herself, she sank to her knees and remained in that position. Already, the circles of runes surrounding her began to glow brighter at the proximity to her fresh blood. An offering the almost sentient circle felt eager for.

Sirius moved forward, till the ends of his shoes almost brushed the outermost circle, and raised his wrist above it. Using the knife still stained with her blood, he made a shallow cut along the underside of his wrist. Dark blood made an enthusiastic escape as it ran out and dropped onto the circle below, and the room lit up as the circle flared blindingly.

Hermione allowed her eyes to flutter shut, and similar to the previous ritual the glow bled through her eyelids. Her chest tightened once more, more painful than uncomfortable as a foreign force applied a pressure to her bleeding chest. She was more prepared for it this time, but it still felt like what she imagined a cat would feel if someone were to brush their fur in the wrong direction with a mix of bitter acidic pain thrown in.

A dark presence, something cloying and oily, began to spread over her. It left her magic feeling matted and patchy. In response, a force within her pushed back.

The sudden tug of war left her gasping for breath. She knew the voice was speaking, perhaps offering advice or instructions, yet their words were drowned out by the storming magics battling within her as her chest tightened and throbbed more and more. She wasn’t given the chance to cry out, as with a pillowing screech, the first presence overcame the second. The oily, sour magic poured through her, infesting every molecule of her as it tore through her body—and likely very soul, given the pain she endured.

There was no gentle awakening to this ritual.

She fell forward, her hands and knees bearing her weight as her eyes shot open wide, pouring tears. Her hands had fallen onto the nearest rune sequence, the dark charcoal and blood smearing against her palms.

A hoarse gasp ripped from her, accompanied by a metallic rush in her throat.

Hermione turned to the side and began throwing up a thick clotted substance. It was dark red, bordering on black.

Sirius made a surprised noise and moved closer to her. “I assume the Weasleys’ magic left some sort of imprint after all.”

Hermione’s only response was to hurl more of the gooey substance over the once neat runes. It took her a few minutes to reach a point where she could talk, only occasionally spitting up the substance into a bucket Sirius had conjured.

“Why is it so dark? And sticky? And lumpy?”

“That would be the Black family magic attaching itself to whatever claim the Weasleys left over you and attacking it. It’s similar to how an acid might eat away at something, or a tapeworm. I suppose the stickiness and lumps are the remains.”

She stared up at him in disbelief. Not even ten minutes in and the family magic was rearing its possessive head.

“I did mention that the Black family magic was different.”

“You hadn’t compared it to a parasite last time,” Hermione replied incredulously.

“It’s pretty much how I described it though,” Sirius pointed out. “It’s possessive. It roots itself in an individual’s magic, fusing itself so tightly in between that it couldn’t be extracted—not cleanly, not without leaving residue behind. It’s why disownment, true magical disownments that leave the Wizen nameless, can result in death.”

“What else could this supposed parasite do, Sirius?”

Sirius coughed, looking rather sheepish. “Even to its own members, the Black family magic is a bit of a grey area. Pun not intended.”

She focused on counting to ten, and then back down again to prevent herself from throttling the man. Served her right for trying to do the right thing, for her Gryffindor bravery.

Bravery is synonymous with many things, the voice said, both a warning and reminder at once.

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Sirius rushed out at her expression. “The Black family magic is possessive across the board. For example, it can’t influence what form your animagus takes, but there hasn’t been a Black without a black animagus in centuries. Harmless things, really.”

“So it should only influence the colour of my animagus?” Hermione asked shrewdly. “If I go through the process of becoming one.”

“That’s almost probably the only thing it will affect.” Sirius nodded confidently. “There are other traits that the Black family has—silver grey eyes and pitch black hair. However, those are biological traits. You have Black blood running through your veins, yet you don’t have those physical traits. There’s no reason for them to suddenly pop up.”

“It hasn’t before, for other Black Delegates?”

“Majority of Black Delegates have been members of the House of Black, close enough members that they were born with those eyes and that dark hair. The delegates who weren’t related to the family never woke up looking different, so history is in your favour.”

The delegates who didn’t already have grey eyes and obsidian black hair did not share any Black blood, the voice pointed out. There’s no telling whether the presence of Black blood in your body will result in the Black family magic triggering those physical characteristics.

“And about the animagus thing,” Sirius said, “animagus forms manifest based on the individual’s magic, and what makes them who they are. The family pride Black family members tend to have is a part of who they are, and their magic too. Hermione, you didn’t grow up with that Black pride.”

“No, I didn’t. But the family magic which you’re telling me has infested me like a parasite which was starvedfor the past decade, and will only want more and more from me, stands as reason that it most certainly will want to affect my animagus form, at the very least.”

“There is that,” Sirius conceded with a grimace.

Hermione let out a long sigh and rubbed at her temples. She reminded herself that things could be worse, and if living with a magic parasite meant saving the world from the horrors that she had seen, it would be entirely worth it.

“Let's make sure it worked and handle the letter.”

Sirius hummed consideringly. Then, “Kreacher!”

“Sirius!” Hermione hissed. “For heaven’s sake, it’s the middle of the night.”

“I highly doubt he’s sleeping,” he assured her with what she was certain was an aborted eyeroll. “Probably skulking about pocketing things.”

With a CRACK, one loud but still quieter than the twins’ apparating, the old house elf appeared in front of them. He gave Sirius a dark glare.

“Master called Kreacher?”

Sirius didn’t bother looking back at him. “You should be able to give him orders, though if your orders were to go against mine, I don’t think he would be able to follow them.”

Brow furrowed, Hermione focused inward and attempted to find what Sirius had referred to as “residue”. Whatever claim the Black Family Magic had left over her was different from the effects of the previous ritual. The first had felt like a veil blown away in the breeze, yet there was no sudden awakening to her magic this time.

It took her a few minutes to locate the Black Magic. The oily, bitter essence of it had not so much settled in her mind as around it. It left a padded barrier on her side, not quite sentient yet radiating a welcome, curiosity, and relief to her. Yet the other side was far less welcoming. On the edge of her mind, not harming her or causing any discomfort, the oily feeling remained, and despite not picking anything up from it, Hermione doubted it was as welcoming. Idly, she wondered if it would act in a similar way to Occlumency barriers.

She focused on the entirety of it, reminding herself of the fact that it was there, and returned to the task at hand.

Hermione shot the elf a gentle smile, steadfastly ignoring his sneer and the resulting warmth she felt from the voice.

“Kreacher, as the Delegate to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, will you follow my orders?”

The elf grumbled and hissed, and with his hands balled into tight fists he looked ready to throw himself at her.

“Kreacher must.”

“I have an order for you Kreacher,” she told him, the words leaving a sour taste in her mouth. She would far prefer to ask him, however, she could not risk him going against her wishes. Sirius had paid with his life last time.

“Kreacher must listen,” he hissed more furiously, spittle flying from his mouth.

“Kreacher, as Delegate to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” she began, reminding the old elf as much as herself of her position. It wasn’t Hermione who wanted to give this order, “Aside from Sirius and myself, I forbid you from having any future contact with members of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, unless Sirius or myself explicitly tells you to reach out to a specific member. Is that understood, Kreacher?”

His face, which had steadily gotten more and more red as she spoke, was almost as vibrant a red as the ritual circles had been.

He sneered, rotten teeth on display. “Kreacher will follow the Mudblood’s orders.”

“Don’t call her that!” Sirius snapped.

“It’s alright Sirius,” Hermione rushed to reassure. Kreacher was old—ordinary house elves already lived abusive lives, and he had served the House of Black. She couldn’t help but remember the way he used to cook and clean for Ron, Harry and herself. The way he looked after Hermione and the blonde women, and all the other witches and wizards who passed through Grimmauld Place over the years.

“No, it’s not,” he told her. “Go back to whatever you were doing Kreacher.”

He gave them each one last glare and popped away.

“The letter now?” Hermione asked after a long minute of the two staring at the empty spot where Kreacher had stood.

Sirius blinked at her a few times before seeming to catch up. “Right, yes, we should do that.”

“Iadlerx mentioned that we would need a blood quill. I thought you would probably have one here.”

“We have plenty,” he snorted. “You sure you’re feeling up to it? How do you feel?”

Hermione, covered in blood, her own and otherwise, hair a tangled mess and face still pale, smiled. “Energised.”

Gaining access to a blood quill first required Hermione casting a few cleaning charms over herself, an experience both invigorating and nerve-racking. Once the dried blood was cleaned from her—and it was a disturbing discovery when she realised the delegate ritual had cauterised the runes cut into her chest—she applied Essence of Dittany in the hopes of reducing the scaring, and Sirius practically shoved a Blood-Replenishing Potion down her throat. He swallowed one too, applying a layer of Dittany to his wrist and casting a Ferula over it.

The office Sirius planned on using was located on the seventh floor, as the other was on the first and would require them to try and sneak down five floors without waking anyone. He initially suggested having Kreacher pop them to the office, a suggestion Hermione immediately shot down. Instead, the two of them slowly made their way up the flight of stairs separating the floors, Hermione leaning heavily on the banister and Sirius remaining a few steps behind her, despite her insistence that she was fine.

Sinking down into one of the plush armchairs in front of the desk was a welcome relief. She left Sirius to root around the drawers and find a blood quill—something he, concerningly enough, managed to locate in less than ten seconds.

“Do Aurors have access to the Ministry’s trial records?” she asked absently as she shuffled through the paper Iadlerx had given her. When she realised they were still in her room she had given in and allowed Sirius to summon Kreacher to have him retrieve them. There was no way she would be making it down to her second floor room and then back up again.

“The public ones,” Sirius said. “An Auror’s request for copies of public trial records would be fulfilled quicker. If the records have been sealed, unless the departments involved believe the sealed records are somehow related to the Auror’s cases, they won’t get a copy.”

“The departments involved would be the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Wizengamot…”

“The DMLE, Wizengamot, Department of Mysteries, possibly even the Minister.” Sirius narrowed his eyes, studying her for a long moment. “You’re rethinking Yaxley’s involvement.”

“Possibly. Working with him has never been ideal.”

The issue is simply that every other option is even less ideal, the voice reminded.

“For what it’s worth,” Sirius offered her, “there are worse choices. If you had gone with Malfoy I would have had to refuse on principle.”

“It’s Dolohov running around free I’m more concerned with,” Hermione admitted. She had seen enough of what the wizard was capable of from the voice, and perhaps the activity of having runes carved into her chest had hit a bit too close to home. By freeing Dolohov, she could be setting herself up to be nearly sliced in two by the wizard once again—it could happen sooner.

He might not be silenced the next time he shot that curse at her.

“There’s a fair chance it won’t get to that point.”

Hermione resisted rolling her eyes by the skin of her teeth. “Keep in mind that the chance of Lord Yaxley turning down Dolohov’s freedom is little to none.”

“Keep in mind that using Yaxley means alerting Voldemort,” Sirius reminded her needlessly in response. “The first thing that arsehole will do is tell his lord.”

And we’re banking on it, the voice whispered.

“Yes, we’re counting on it,” is what Hermione said aloud.

“It’s hard to tell whether Voldemort will be on board with this. Voldemort might not have access to Azkaban. Yet,” Sirius added. “But that doesn’t mean he’s going to assume or believe I’ve suddenly jumped ship.”

The voice sighed. Too much Gryffindor in him to do so.

“Or perhaps enough to do just that,” Hermione countered.

“I don’t expect him to. However, he will be curious, and he gains more if you’re proven innocent than if things remain as they are.”

“An Order member gains their freedom.”

“The Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black goes free, one who does not appear to be on the best of terms with Professor Dumbledore, and possibly the entirety of the Order of the Phoenix as a whole,” Hermione corrected. “And, even if it’s all for naught and you have no intention of joining him or even remaining neutral, one of his prized Death Eaters gains their freedom. And he, consequently, gains access to a wealth of information on the going-ons within Azkaban, and the rest of his Death Eaters who remain imprisoned within it.”

“Or, he decides it isn’t worth it, and instead waits until he can get the Dementors onside and gain access to the prison himself.”

“Perhaps,” Hermione conceded.

No, the voice murmured in her mind. For all You-Know-Who is a mastermind, he is also possessive and greedy with knowledge. He wants to know everything, and he’ll be too impatient to let go of the opportunity to learn more information on the prison, his Death Eaters, and Sirius himself.

“It’s not the Azkaban issue I’m most worried about,” Hermione admitted quietly. “Nobody deserves to be locked in there. It’s despicable, and not even the Death Eaters locked in those cells should have to endure it.”

Sometimes death is the more merciful option.

Sirius rocked back on his heels, gaze focused and dissecting.

“Be careful with sympathy,” Sirius said after a tense minute. “Very few deserve it, but they all enjoy a soft target. Have you ever heard of Bellatrix Lestrange?”

“Bellatrix Lestrange is a rabid dog that needs to be put down.”

Sirius smirked, gaze distant. Hermione imagined he was picturing that exact scenario.

“You were the one who was so insistent on getting this done, Sirius,” Hermione said. “I would have been satisfied with you bringing Harry here. I can still settle for it.”

“I’m failing to see your point.” Sirius turned to her once more. “You have a problem with leaving Dolohov to rot in that hell, and you also have one with letting him out.”

She grimaced. “That place should be torn down. That doesn’t mean I believe jumping to the complete opposite of the spectrum is wise. I want you to know that granting Dolohov full freedom and access to the public may cost us quite a bit.”

It may cost more than freeing Sirius is worth, the voice spoke Hermione’s thoughts.

From Sirius’ bitter smile, Hermione suspected he caught her meaning.

“Are you trying to convince me to allow my godson to remain with a fugitive? We already agreed my name would be cleared. I won’t risk what the Ministry will do to him if they find out where he’s staying. Who he’s staying with.”

“I’m trying to ask if you’ve thought of an alternative.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, because I can’t,” Sirius told her grimly. “I haven’t exactly been out and about socialising these past fourteen years. I don’t have any contacts in the Ministry, I don’t have any house alliances I can rely on, and I sure as hell won’t work with Malfoy.”

Hermione's stomach rolled when she uttered her next words.“And trusting someone in the Order who would be discrete? Or requesting the records through public channels?”

The voice hissed at the very suggestion.

“It’s too risky,” Sirius mumbled, rubbing at his face.

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it. No, I can’t find you an alternative. I’m all right working with you.” A pointed look. “I’m helping you with whatever the hell it is you’re doing, and I’m not asking questions. Unless you have an alternative, there isn’t one.”

Remember Hermione, pacifism will only accomplish so much, a series of images fluttered through her head at their words. Blood and screams, and a sensation so hot she felt as though her nerve endings were burning.

Hermione clenched her jaw.

“Alright,” she said. “I suppose Lord Yaxley’s involvement, and Dolohov’s, really is the best choice.”

The blood quill and contract for Antonin Dolohov’s freedom—in exchange for the trial records and Sirius successfully obtaining his freedom—was pushed across the desk towards her.

With a grimace at the reminder of long detentions and bowls of Murtlap Essence, memories the voice made little effort to shield from her, Hermione carefully penned her new title across the proper line at the bottom of the page.

She wouldn’t use her real name. If it weren’t for the anonymity of the position of a house delegate, Hermione never would have agreed to it. Even on the dates her presence would be required in the Ministry, she planned on wearing concealing clothes, and if possible covering her face.

The sting along the back of her hand remained after the crude words disappeared quickly, and the marks faded until there was no evidence they had ever existed.

I can’t recall how many sessions of detention it took for the scar to become permanent, the voice admitted quietly. It wasn’t helped by the fact that her detentions varied in length. Sometimes she would keep us until midnight, and then assign more detention as we left for breaking curfew.

She took the pretty silver textured envelope Sirius handed her and eyed it speculatively.

“Should I address this to Lord Corban Yaxley or the Head of the Department of Intoxicating Substances?” Hermione asked, waving the envelope.

“Always go with the head of house title if it’s an option,” Sirius advised absently, frown marring his face. “A high-up position in the Ministry might boost a wizard's ego, but they’ll always put themselves first. That means putting their house first.”

“Do I need to show you the way back down?” Sirius asked once they were finished and Kreacher had been summoned back and instructed to discreetly drop off the letter at Diagon Alley’s post office. She had refused his offer of having Kreacher return her to the second floor.

Hermione’s hand paused over the door knob. He had never given her instructions on where the ritual room was located, and she made her way to the office without prompting.

“I know my way around,” Hermione responded to the voice’s chagrin, and turned the doorknob to let herself out.

After all, he wasn’t asking questions. He said so himself.