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Assistant: Title: How to Train Your Animagus
        Author: cherrishish cherrishish 
        Chapter: 73/79 
        Summary: An Unspeakable mishap sends thirty-year-old Hermione Granger tumbling into 1993—straight into the path of a fugitive Animagus with a grudge. She takes him in. He tries to lick her face. It's a long story.Now, armed with future knowledge and one very grumpy Sirius Black, Hermione's got a second chance to fix everything...But changing history means trusting each other—and that might be the most dangerous part.
        Contents: Chapter 73: Dropped the Ball at the Ball (Almost)
    

    


      
        
          
          (See the end of the chapter for  notes.)
          
      
  

  
  
    
    The grandfather clock in the Grimmauld Place entrance hall chimed seven. Sirius adjusted the collar of his dress robes for the fourth time, scowling faintly at his reflection in the gilded mirror near the staircase. It was brought down from the Black family attic, now charmed to keep its unsolicited fashion advice to itself. Which was just as well—he had enough nerves rattling in his spine tonight without commentary from enchanted antiques.The ballroom at Malfoy Manor was a snake pit at the best of times, and this was no ordinary gathering. With the Child Welfare Act looming on Monday’s docket and whispers swirling around new magical transplant findings, the air would be thick with politicking, backhanded compliments, and ambushes disguised as canapés.But none of that was bothering him in this moment.What was bothering him was that he hadn’t seen the dress.The dress he’d helped choose the fabric for, yes. The design they’d discussed at Hemlock & Thread, certainly. But the finished garment had been picked up in secret, concealed behind disillusionment wards at Grimmauld strong enough that even Kreacher couldn’t sniff them out. Ione had been maddeningly smug about it, too. She had been working on a variation of her concealment charms ever since Kreacher had revealed that he had found her risque lingerie that she had bought for his birthday and thought had been hidden cleverly.So now, as Sirius stood in the echoing foyer in his sharply cut charcoal robes—with a silver starburst charm pinned at his lapel and a brand-new wand holster enchanted into the lining—he waited.And then he heard her.The soft swish of fabric on polished wood. The creak of the upper landing. The quiet, steady rhythm of her breath as she descended.He looked up.And forgot how to do anything else.She moved like starlight walking. A vision of shimmering grace, descending the staircase with the kind of unhurried confidence that made time bend slightly around her. Her dress—Merlin,  that dress—shimmered like a slice of night sky itself. A cascade of twilight hues, fading from deep indigo at the hem to stardust-dusted violet near the bodice. It didn’t sparkle so much as glow—a subtle, celestial gleam that made it seem as though the stars themselves had been sewn into chiffon.Tiered layers of fabric drifted with every step, weightless and fluid, while the fitted bodice hugged her with just enough structure to feel daring, and just enough modesty to be timeless. Flutter sleeves caught the faint air from the stairwell charms and rippled like wings.She didn’t wear a necklace. She didn’t need to.Her curls were half-pinned with amethyst clips, the rest spilling down her back in soft, deliberate waves. Her lips were a shade Sirius had no name for, but which made his mouth go dry. And her eyes—well. Her eyes were looking straight at him, and they were laughing unobscured by glasses for once.He was utterly ruined.“You’re staring,” she said, voice light as she reached the final step.“I’m trying to figure out if I’m meant to bow, kneel, or weep,” Sirius replied hoarsely. “Possibly all three.”Ione tilted her head. “You approve?”He took a step toward her, then another, until they were nearly chest to chest. He reached out, fingers ghosting just above the fabric at her waist, not quite daring to touch.“You’re not real,” he said, wonder soft in his voice. “I’ve dreamt of things like this, but none of them had your laugh. Or your freckles.”“I don’t have freckles,” she said automatically.“You do,” he said. “Right here—” he leaned in and kissed the corner of her cheek, just below her eye, “—and here.” A second kiss, feather-light at her jaw. “And one just behind your left ear. You think I don’t notice, but I do.”Her breath caught. “You’re not playing fair.”“I never said I would.”They stood like that for a beat—caught between gravity and something more ancient.Then Ione lifted her brow. “You’re wrinkling my dress.”“Good,” Sirius murmured. “Now everyone at the ball will know I got to you first.”She gave a soft, warm snort and stepped back to adjust his collar, fingers smoothing the fabric into place. “You clean up well, Lord Black.”“You terrify me, Miss Lupin.”“Perfect. That’s the look I was going for.”Sirius offered his arm, and Ione took it with a quiet smile, her fingers curling around his sleeve with familiar ease. He tucked her hand closer against his side like she was something priceless—and his to defend as they stepped toward the Floo. Behind them, Kreacher appeared silently to hand Ione her small evening clutch—a midnight velvet pouch, charmed to be weightless. Sirius caught the elf giving Ione a proud look, and she gave him a quiet nod of thanks before turning to the fireplace.Before stepping in, they each fastened their masks—custom-made by Juniper to match the celestial theme of Ione’s gown. Hers was a delicate filigree of silver and indigo, shaped like crescent wings that swept back from her temples, framing her eyes with a dusting of crystal starlight. His was darker—matte black with a velvet finish, etched with subtle constellations that shimmered only when the light caught them just right, like secrets written in the dark. The longer one looked, the more constellations shifted—like memories sliding into focus.Sirius watched her from behind his own mask and felt, absurdly, like he was seventeen again and about to do something reckless at a midnight ball. Only this time, the girl beside him wasn’t a passing fancy—she was the whole sky.“One more masquerade,” she murmured, flicking on her Bubble-Head charm with barely a twitch of her wand as she stepped into the green flame.Sirius followed.And together, they vanished into the smoke—two stars slipping into the snake pit.The Floo at Malfoy Manor was rigged to deposit guests not in some darkened hearth or back corridor, but into the opulence of the west drawing room—where Lucius and Narcissa stood like porcelain bookends beneath a glittering chandelier, backlit by flickering sconces and golden orbs of spring light. The room had been transformed for the occasion: creamy stone walls charmed to reflect the soft blush of sunset, with enchanted ivy curling up the columns and pale enchanted orchids drifting lazily through the air like confetti. Everything shimmered with a restrained, curated warmth—like spring bottled and poured into crystal.Lucius wore formal black dress robes so finely tailored they might have been conjured directly onto him—wide-collared and offset with subtle serpentine embroidery that shimmered in green when caught at the right angle. His silver-blond hair had been bound in a low clasp at the nape of his neck, sleek and immaculate. Narcissa, standing half a step ahead of him, wore a floor-length robe of icy blue charmeuse, edged with silver-threaded lace. A matching capelet floated weightlessly at her shoulders, and her mask—a delicate frost-petal motif—enhanced the sharp precision of her cheekbones.As Sirius stepped from the green flame beside Ione, Lucius’s eyes flicked up in a motion that might have passed for a welcome if one squinted hard enough.“Malfoy,” Sirius said with cordial disinterest, extending his hand.“Black,” Lucius replied, tone drier than champagne, but he took it. Their handshake was firm—brief—and somehow managed to exude several mutual insults without a single word uttered.Narcissa turned next, and Ione—mask already perfectly in place—inclined her head with understated poise. She stepped forward and pressed the lightest of air kisses to each side of Narcissa’s cheek, exactly as etiquette dictated. Nothing more, nothing less.“Narcissa,” she murmured, calm and polite.Narcissa’s eyes—visible behind her frost-glass mask—widened a fraction in clear approval. “You look exquisite, my dear. That gown is truly… unique.”“Thank you,” Ione said, resisting the urge to glance at Sirius. “You look lovely as well.”It was all terribly proper.Ione had spent two days scouring pureblood etiquette books to get it exactly right—how to greet, how to stand, how to carry her clutch, how many seconds to hold eye contact before looking away. She hadn’t wanted to let Sirius down. Not tonight. Not when he was wielding the sharpest edges of his legacy like a duellist and refusing to flinch.A house-elf in Malfoy-crested tea cosy gestured them into the ballroom proper, and they followed the flow of silk, velvet, and murmured gossip into a space that had once hosted Dark revels and blood pacts—and now shimmered with warm candlelight and murmuring voices. Its ceiling had been enchanted to mimic a dusky May sky, the clouds painted in molten pink and lavender. The floor beneath them gleamed like rain-polished obsidian, and silver-gilded tables hovered delicately at the perimeter, laden with hors d’oeuvres and crystalline decanters of wine.As they stepped fully into the ballroom, another house-elf materialised with a soft pop, bearing a tray of fluted crystal glasses that chimed faintly as they moved. Each was filled with a delicate golden liquid—chilled Elven wine, if Sirius had to guess—except one. Etched with a pale amethyst band around the rim, this particular glass shimmered faintly in cooler tones, distinct from the rest.The elf gave a polite bow. “Welcome, honoured guests. Would mistress and mister care for a refreshment?”Ione reached for the amethyst glass, fingers graceful as ever—but before she could bring it to her lips, Sirius had already leaned slightly closer, intercepting it with a quiet, “May I?”His tone was mild, almost flirtatious as he took the glass with a nod of thanks, raising it slightly to his nose before handing it off. A cautious sniff—habitual now. The faintest note of cucumber, elderflower, and something like lemon balm. No sharp burn. No hint of anything brewed or distilled.“Sparkly,” he said, as though commenting on a necklace.Ione raised a brow. “You just tested my drink for alcohol, didn’t you?”He gave her an unapologetic wink. “Only the best for the mother of my children.”She glanced at him with amused eyes behind her filigree mask. “Still don’t trust Narcissa?”“I trust her about as far as I can hex her,” he murmured, “but I trust her to be consistent.”Ione gave a dry chuckle and dispelled her Bubble-Head Charm with a silent flick. The barely shimmering dome around her nose and mouth collapsed with a gentle sigh, and she took a slow, thoughtful sip from the etched glass.“Pleasant,” she said after a moment. “Not sweet. Subtle. And calming.”“Fitting, then.”She rolled her eyes, reapplying the Bubble-Head Charm with the ease of practice, the glimmering magic sliding back into place as she set the glass down on a floating tray beside her.“Now,” she said, tucking her arm into his, “we mingle.”Sirius groaned softly. “Why do I feel like we’re walking into the first round of duels?”“Because we are,” Ione said. “They just serve the hexes in canapés.”And with matching steps, they moved into the crowd—ready to spar with grace.They moved like planets through a silk-draped solar system, brushing against constellations of whispered alliances and trailing the gravity of inherited names. Sirius led them with ease, hand resting lightly at Ione’s lower back, his mask giving him the shadowed confidence of anonymity—even if everyone in the room knew precisely who they were.First stop: Edgar Vance.The Chief Warlock stood in quiet orbit near a floating table of hors d’oeuvres, a glass of dark wine in one hand and his other tucked neatly into his sleeve. His crimson-lined robes whispered of old power and quiet rebellion.“Edgar,” Sirius greeted, tone light but respectful.Vance turned and smiled beneath his half-mask, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Lord Black. Miss Lupin. Glad to see you survived the arrival gauntlet.”“Barely,” Sirius murmured. “I’m considering bringing a sword next time. Just for ambiance.”They exchanged a few low words—Sirius asking for Vance’s position on Monday’s vote, Vance offering nothing but a sphinxlike smile—before Sirius tipped his head in farewell. “We’ll speak in chambers.”“Looking forward to it.”They drifted on. Toward the west wall now, where Amelia Bones stood, arms crossed as she observed the room like it was an evidence board come to life.“Amelia,” Sirius said as they reached her.“Sirius,” she greeted dryly. “I was just thinking this whole evening is a very expensive way for Lucius to remind us he still thinks the world is his chessboard.”“And here I thought he was just proud of his new spring colour palette,” Sirius said.Ione gave a quiet snort. “Somewhere between imperial dominance and lavender, I believe.”Amelia’s mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “Well, your arrival has certainly drawn some eyes.”Sirius shrugged. “We clean up well.”Before Amelia could retort, a voice cut through the hum of strings and conversation.“Lord Black.”They turned. Darius Greengrass was approaching—tall, angular, and dressed in severe navy robes that shimmered faintly like beetle wing shells. His expression was unreadable behind his stark bone-coloured mask, but his tone was all gravity.“Greengrass,” Sirius said, carefully neutral.“I’ve been following your Welfare Act proposal,” Greengrass said. “Interesting reading.”Sirius arched a brow, waiting.“But it doesn’t go far enough.”Ione subtly shifted, her eyes sharp behind her mask.Greengrass went on. “All Muggleborns should be removed from their parents’ care and placed with magical families as soon as their magic manifests. Not just the ones who are abused. Early integration. It’s the only way they’ll ever truly belong.”Sirius’s mouth opened—whether to laugh, hex, or argue was unclear—but Ione was already stepping in.“With respect, Lord Greengrass,” she said smoothly, “there’s a growing body of evidence that removing children from healthy, nurturing households causes long-term trauma. Identity disruption, attachment disorders, social alienation.”Greengrass frowned. “Even if it’s in the child’s best interest?”“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Ione said. “What is ‘best’ for a child? Because I’d argue early integration doesn’t require separation. It requires infrastructure. A primary school, perhaps. One that accepts magical children from all backgrounds—Muggleborn, half-blood, pureblood—starting around age six or seven, when magic typically begins to show.”Sirius tilted his head, intrigued. He hadn’t heard her articulate it quite this way before.“In such a school,” Ione continued, “they could learn to read, write, and master arithmetic, all within a magical environment. It protects the Statute. It builds peer bonds. And it normalises magic before Hogwarts, which currently functions more like a crash landing than a transition.”“Some magical children arrive at Hogwarts barely able to write a proper sentence due to the inconsistencies in tutor-led curricula,” she added. “And many Muggleborns carry years of bullying, or fear, or loneliness with them. We can’t legislate empathy into existence—but we can build systems that make it easier.”There was a pause.Greengrass tapped a gloved finger against his glass thoughtfully. “Interesting. Very… modern.”He looked to Sirius. “Would you consider collaborating on a proposal like that? Build it into the legislation we are reviewing on Monday? It’s not what I envisioned, but you make a compelling case,” Greengrass said. His voice lowered a touch, almost rueful. “Astoria’s just finishing her first year at Hogwarts, and I can’t help but think how much easier her transition from home life to a boarding school might have been if something like this had existed earlier. She had been a rather lonely child growing up.”Sirius blinked, surprised—but not displeased. “I’d be willing to talk it through. If the aim is building something that actually serves all children, then yes. I’m in.”Greengrass nodded once. “I’ll have my assistant send over my first draft by tomorrow.”And with a graceful pivot, he melted back into the crowd.Sirius exhaled. “Well. That wasn’t how I expected that to go.”Ione smiled faintly. “I did tell you people listen more when you’re wearing expensive robes.”He gave her hand a squeeze. “You’re terrifying.”“I’m prepared,” she said. “Still not the same thing.”“No,” Sirius murmured. “But Merlin help the Ministry if they forget the difference.”They barely had time to recover from the shock of Greengrass wanting a collaboration before a figure in mauve intercepted them near the refreshment tables.“Lord Black. Miss Lupin.” Augusta Longbottom’s voice was crisp as ever, though her tone held something almost warm. She wore high-collared robes of dark mulberry velvet, trimmed in gold brocade, and her walking cane gleamed under the magical light. Her hat tonight was more modest than usual—still structurally questionable, but clearly tamed for polite society. Definitely no vulture in sight.“A pleasure as always, Lady Longbottom,” Sirius said, bowing slightly. “You’re looking formidable this evening.”She gave a harrumph that might have been amusement. “And you’re looking dangerously like someone who’s about to upend the Wizengamot again come Monday.”“That’s the plan.”Augusta’s eyes sharpened, but there was no rebuke. “Your proposal is bold.”“It’s overdue.”“Mm.” She glanced toward Ione. “Still, there’s merit in examining the details. I do wonder about the... implications for long-held family traditions. Encouraging accidental magic, for instance. You can’t deny it’s a time-honoured practice.”“Some traditions,” Ione said gently, “deserve a closer look—especially if they risk traumatising already vulnerable children.”Augusta’s lips thinned, but she inclined her head. Sirius’s mouth twitched. “It’s not my aim to micromanage parenting—but if a child’s in pain, or fear, just to meet magical expectations, I think that’s worth a second look.”“Of course,” Augusta said smoothly. “I only caution you to tread carefully. Wizards of a certain age do not take kindly to suggestions that their upbringing methods are… barbaric.”“Wizards of a certain age,” Sirius said, “also didn’t take kindly to the Floo Act. Or elf protection clauses. Or interspecies union rights.”“Touché,” Augusta said, thin smile returning. “Still, I do hope you’ll allow for an amendment or two. You’ve got half the chamber listening—but not all of them nodding.”“That’s fair,” Sirius admitted. “I’d rather pass a strong compromise than fail a perfect draft.”Augusta gave a short, acknowledging nod. “I’ll be watching the debate closely.”She moved off before either of them could reply—vanishing into a knot of Ministry figures like a general pacing the front lines.Sirius exhaled and looked sideways at Ione, pride flickering behind his mask—and something softer too, almost reverent. “That went better than I thought.”“You’re welcome,” she said lightly. “Though I think she likes you.”“You can always tell,” Sirius replied. “She only warns people she wants to see succeed.”“Or she just really hates her brother-in-law.”“Ah, yes. Dear Algernon. Nasty piece of work.”“You know what he did to Neville?”Sirius’s mouth tightened. “Harry mentioned it once. After the custody hearings. I can’t believe he tried to force some magic out of him by pushing him off the Blackpool pier. Hanging him out a second-storey window by his ankles? Who does that?”Ione’s jaw tensed behind her mask. “And people call  us  dangerous.”“Exactly why this bill matters,” Sirius muttered. “If we don’t protect kids from people like him, who will?”The evening eventually gave way to dancing, the music shifting from ambient charm to something more fluid and orchestral. At the edge of the floor, Sirius turned to Ione and offered his hand with a little bow and a grin that made her heart skip.She hesitated—for all of one second.She had never actually seen Sirius dance before. Not properly, at least. She’d witnessed him throw himself around to Muggle rock and metal, wild hair whipping, hips unrepentant, all rhythm and rebellion. But ballroom? That was another thing entirely.Her apprehension was utterly unfounded.Of course, Sirius Black could dance. Thoroughly trained, naturally. And not just trained—elegant. His lead was smooth, confident, effortless, like gravity worked slightly differently for him. Ione hardly had to think at all; he guided her with the lightest touch, and her body simply followed, as if enchanted.Her only real experience with formal dance had been the Yule Ball, seventeen years and a lifetime ago—with Viktor Krum in another timeline. But this was entirely different. She wasn’t stiff or self-conscious. Sirius made it easy. Made her feel like she was floating.He spun her, and she felt the fabric of her gown rise and fall in a soft shimmer, the layered chiffon catching the light like starlight rippling across a midnight lake. Wherever her feet landed, they landed exactly where they were meant to. Not because she remembered the steps, but because he made her feel like she didn’t have to.She caught a glimpse of their reflection in the mirrored panel across the ballroom. The way he held her—not possessive, but certain. The way her dress fanned out like a bloom in motion. The matching glint of their masks beneath the illusioned stars overhead.They looked like a fairytale.And for a moment, Ione allowed herself to believe it.After three dances, Ione finally leaned in and murmured near Sirius’s ear, “I love you, but I may need to sit down if I want to keep loving you with working ankles.”He grinned. “Say no more.” With practised ease, he guided her toward the edge of the ballroom and found them a quiet alcove near the floating drink trays.“I’ll get you something,” he said, brushing a kiss to her temple before stepping away.Ione waited, breath still steady, pulse just a touch elevated from dancing—not stress, just... exertion. Her hand hovered near the edge of her Bubble-Head Charm, ready to lift it once she received her drink.But she never got the chance.“Miss Lupin,” came a familiar, papery voice. “Lord Black. You make a truly radiant couple.”Ione turned to find Griselda Marchbanks approaching, cane in hand, lilac robes heavy with age and dignity. Her mask was minimal—more of a nod than an actual disguise—and her eyes twinkled with the sharp awareness of someone who’d long since stopped pretending to be anything other than exactly what she was.“Madam Marchbanks,” Ione said warmly, inclining her head. “What a pleasure.”“Oh, no need for pleasantries, dear. I had to come over. I recognised your name on the guest list and nearly hexed my secretary with excitement.” She peered closer, utterly delighted. “Highest combined N.E.W.T. scores ever recorded, if memory serves. You even edged out young Tom Riddle’s from 1945. Not easy to do, that one was a cunning brute. Shame he turned out mad as a barrel of pixies.”Sirius coughed lightly.Ione smiled. “I’ve always had a fondness for academic overachievement.”Griselda tapped her cane once. “And modesty, too. Delightful. The Ministry ought to poach you for curriculum reform—Merlin knows it needs it.”Then she turned to Sirius with a conspiratorial glint. “I’ll say this, Lord Black—you’ve chosen rather wisely. I wish poor old Abraxas could have made it down tonight to make me feel young again with a twirl on the dance floor. Dragon pox, they say. At his age, well… hopefully he’ll recover soon.”Ione froze.So did Sirius.There was a beat—just one—but it cracked open a chasm. Ione’s breath hitched under her charm. Abraxas Malfoy doesn’t recover, her mind whispered. He dies of dragon pox sometime this year. It’s one of the last footnotes of the old guard’s fall. Sirius’s reaction was faster, sharper. He looked stricken for half a heartbeat, then fury surged behind his mask.“Excuse me, please,” he said, voice tight. He handed Ione the untouched glass and turned on his heel.He found Narcissa near the far corner, smiling thinly at a cluster of Ministry wives. He didn’t bother with politeness.“A word, Cissa?” he said.She looked up, startled. “Sirius—”He grabbed her elbow—not hard, but firmly—and steered her a few paces away, into the shadow of a decorative arch laced with glowing hydrangeas.“You want to tell me why you didn’t see fit to mention that your father-in-law is ill with dragon pox and still staying in this house?” he hissed.Narcissa’s eyes flashed. “Keep your voice down—”“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t you dare shush me. Ione is pregnant, Narcissa. High risk. Post-transplant. She cannot afford exposure to even a  mild  magical contagion, let alone bl@@dy dragon pox—and you knew that.”“He’s in the east wing,” she said quickly. “Completely separate. Warded. His caretakers are a team of elves that do not mingle with any others. The guest-serving staff haven’t been anywhere near him—”“I don’t care if he’s in a warded oubliette in the bl@@dy basement.” Sirius’s voice dropped, but it turned lethal. “You should have told me. If anything—anything—happens to her or the twins, I will hold you personally responsible. And I  will respond in kind. Crucio will look like a warm bath in comparison.”Her lips went white.Without another word, he turned and stalked back through the ballroom, zeroing in on Ione.She rose as soon as she saw his face.“Sirius—?”“We’re leaving,” he said, voice clipped, seething just beneath the surface. “Come on.”He didn’t stop for farewells. Didn’t look back. Just took her hand—firmly, but not unkindly—and steered them through the crowd, the crowd that parted like reeds before a storm.They vanished in a burst of green flame, just as the music swelled for the next waltz.They landed hard in the Floo at Grimmauld Place, Ione steadying herself with a hand to the mantel, but before she could lift a finger to dispel the shimmering Bubble-Head Charm, Sirius’s voice cut in, sharp and immediate.“Don’t remove it.”She paused, surprised.Sirius had already drawn his wand and was casting a series of rapid disinfection charms—broad-spectrum spells that rippled in gold and blue across both of them, sweeping from hair to boots with meticulous force. Ione blinked behind her charm as the air around them shimmered with sterile light.“Kreacher!” Sirius barked after applying a Bubble-Head Charm to himself as well for good measure.The elf appeared with a pop, eyes wide at the tone.“Prepare my old room on the fourth floor. Air it out, clean linens, full isolation protocols. Immediately.”Kreacher vanished without a word.“Sirius,” Ione said slowly. “What’s going on?”He turned to her, jaw tight, eyes burning behind the matte black mask still pushed up into his hair.“Did you not hear what Marchbanks said? Abraxas. Is. Sick. With dragon pox.”“I did hear her,” Ione said, calm but firm. “But you’re acting as if he’d been  at the ball.”“He was in the same building,” Sirius snapped.“Sirius,” she said again, tone gentle but edged with reason, “there are people with dragon pox in the same building every time I go to St Mungo’s. The Magical Bugs and Diseases ward is always one floor away. That’s just a fact of magical healthcare.”“Yes,” Sirius ground out, “but whereas I trust  St Mungo’s to follow proper quarantine protocols, I do not trust the Malfoys to do everything right. I don’t care how separate the east wing is. It’s the  same bl@@dy house.”“I think you’re overreacting,” she said quietly.He stared at her for a moment, breathing hard, hands still curled tightly around his wand.“I don’t care,” he said again, voice lower now but no less intense. “We’re sleeping in separate rooms until we know I’m clear. I should have worn a Bubble-Head Charm like you.”“I took mine off at least three times to eat and drink,” she pointed out.“Yes, and Healer Timble will thoroughly check you out on Wednesday with that risk in mind,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But in the meantime, I’m not risking you getting it from me. Not when you’re already immunocompromised. Not when we’re this far along. Not with the twins.”She didn’t argue.Not because she agreed—but because she saw it clearly now: the white-knuckled fear in him. Not the anger. Not the frustration. The fear. That his decision to take her to that ball, to let her walk into that house, might have hurt her. Might still.She reached for his hand, still gloved from the ball.“I’ll leave it on tonight,” she said gently. “Just in case.”Sirius swallowed, nodded once, and stepped back.“I’ll take the room upstairs. Separate bathrooms this way, and you won’t have to walk past my door. Just… send Kreacher if you feel anything—anything. A headache. A twinge. Anything.”“I will.”He hesitated, looking at her with too many words he didn’t trust himself to say.Then he turned and headed upstairs, footsteps echoing through the quiet house like retreating cannon fire.The kitchen at Grimmauld Place was unusually quiet.Ione descended the stairs late that morning, dressed in a soft robe and slippers, her hair still loosely pinned from sleep. The smell of tea lingered faintly in the air, but the table was untouched—her usual chair pulled out, a covered plate waiting for her on the warmer.Sirius was nowhere in sight.Kreacher appeared with a muted pop beside the hearth, bowing slightly. “Mistress’s breakfast is ready. Master is not joining. He has taken his meal upstairs.”Ione frowned. “Why?”The elf hesitated. “Master has instructed that all cutlery, plates, and mugs used by Mistress are to be kept separate. They must not share a drawer, nor touch in the sink. Kreacher is to wash them separately. Always.”“…He said that?”“Yes, Mistress. Very firmly.”Ione sighed, her heart sinking. She turned without another word and headed back upstairs, casting a Bubble-Head Charm over herself out of precaution—more for Sirius’s peace of mind than her own. Her slippers were soft on the old wooden floors as she climbed to the fourth-floor landing.She knocked gently on the door to Sirius’s old bedroom.“Do not come in!” his voice snapped from the other side.“Are you sick?” she asked calmly.“No. But please—let’s not risk it.”“I have a Bubble-Head Charm on,” she said gently, resting her fingers against the closed door.A pause. Then, quieter, more frayed: “No, love. Please. I can’t do this.”Her breath caught.“I can’t see you,” he continued. “Because if I do, I’ll want to hold you. And I can’t—I  won’t—be the reason something happens. Not after everything. Not after—” His voice cracked off.There was a long silence. Then the soft scrape of her hand sliding down the door.“I understand,” she said, just above a whisper. “But I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”She didn’t ask him to open the door.Didn’t try to convince him otherwise.Just sat down, her back to the wood, robe pooling around her knees, charm still gently glowing around her face. A silent vigil.And beyond the door, Sirius pressed his palms to the other side—trying to breathe, to believe, to hold the line between protection and fear.They stayed like that for a long time. Neither speaking. But not alone.The clock on the mantel struck eight on Monday morning when Ione heard movement on the stairs. A moment later, Sirius appeared in the kitchen doorway—dressed in sharply pressed plum robes, his wand tucked neatly into his sleeve, and a faint shimmer of magic enclosing his face in the telltale sheen of a Bubble-Head Charm.He looked exhausted.“I was hoping you’d still be asleep,” he said, voice slightly muffled but still warm.Ione, who sat at the kitchen table with a cup of ginger tea wrapped between her hands, gave him a quiet look over the rim. “You’re going in?”“I have to,” Sirius said, stopping several feet away. “The Wizarding Welfare and Safe Guardians Act’s up for its first full reading today. Greengrass actually drafted the preliminary primary school clause over the weekend. Edgar and Bones are pushing to get it bundled into the proposed integration reforms.”He didn’t sit down. He didn’t come any closer.Ione set her cup down, slowly. “Sirius—”“I’ll be careful,” he said, cutting her off gently. “Bubble-Head, disinfection spells. But let’s be honest, they can all die of the pox for all I care. The only one who matters is you.”“I was going to say you don’t have dragon pox anyway.”He gave a slight nod, clearly not willing to reopen that discussion, eyes scanning her quickly—visibly checking that she still looked healthy, that she was breathing easy, that the faint glow of her own Bubble-Head Charm was still intact.“How long do you want to keep this up?” she asked, not accusing—just tired.“Ask Timble on Wednesday what they recommend,” Sirius said, voice low.“You’re not coming with me, then?”“No,” he said, and for a moment his jaw flexed like he hated the word. “They make you take the Bubble-Head down in the examination room. I’m not risking it.”“Sirius—”“No,” he repeated, a little more firmly. “If something happened because I insisted on being in the room—if I was the reason—” He stopped himself. “No. Just no.”“Okay.” She nodded. “Go. Raise hell. And make sure nobody tries to water down the education clause.”Sirius hesitated. “If anything—anything—feels off, you Floo St Mungo’s. No waiting.”“I promise,” Ione said, watching him with soft eyes.“Good,” he said. Then he turned toward the Floo.And just before stepping in, he glanced back once more. “Love you.”“Love you too,” she said, and it was enough to keep him steady as the green flame swallowed him whole.The Wizengamot chamber always felt colder on policy days.Even with the enchanted torches flickering in their sconces and the magical skylight filtering soft, seasonal light from above, there was a formality to the space that turned everything—emotions, convictions, even grudges—into performance.Sirius descended the stairs from the gallery level and entered the chamber proper, Bubble-Head Charm still firmly in place. A few heads turned. More than a few narrowed their eyes. He ignored them.Amelia Bones, seated near the central aisle, gave him a brief, approving nod. Edgar Vance raised two fingers in a subtle salute from across the chamber.The current Clerk—a stern, pinch-faced man named Harmon Cresswell—called the proceedings to order with three ceremonial chimes from his wand, which echoed with sonorous finality.“The next order of business,” Cresswell intoned, “is the first full reading of the Wizarding Welfare and Safe Guardians Act, amended with the Magical Integration clauses, as proposed by Lord Sirius Black and the Committee on Family Protections and Educational Reform. Supporting clauses have been circulated.”Murmurs stirred around the room like restless wind in a forest.Sirius stood, his charcoal robes falling still around him, and took his place at the podium. He didn’t raise his voice—but he didn’t need to. The chamber silenced for him, as it always did now. A mix of notoriety and command, sharpened by months of brutal honesty and unfashionable compassion.He spoke with purpose.He outlined the goals: tighter protections for magical children in dangerous households, state-funded subsidies for Muggleborn families, mandatory abuse reporting within Hogwarts and other institutions, and—newly added—exploratory funding for a nationwide primary school system to integrate magical children, regardless of blood status, by age six or seven.When he reached that last clause, several members stiffened. A few scoffed. One elderly wizard clucked disapprovingly into his beard. But others leaned forward.Sirius didn’t flinch.“A magical child shouldn’t need to suffer to prove they belong to us.”As Sirius resumed his seat, murmurs continued to ripple quietly through the chamber.One of the front benches sat conspicuously empty—Lucius Malfoy’s assigned place, untouched, his absenteeism a silent rebuke dressed as family obligation.Nearby, Selwyn, ancient and iron-spined, narrowed his eyes and made a sharp notation on the parchment before him. His expression didn’t change, but there was something flinty in the motion—like a wand flexing behind a smile.Amelia followed with her legal analysis. She never gilded things—her support was sharp-edged, clipped, practical. She cited injury records, Auror reports, educational surveys. The facts stood in harsh contrast to tradition.Greengrass, of all people, rose next. He offered a tentative endorsement of the primary school clause. “It is not what I would have envisioned five years ago,” he said, “but I believe it’s time. The current system is fractured. My own daughter, now finishing her first year at Hogwarts, would have benefited from a more structured early curriculum.”It was a political lightning strike.Opponents took the floor next—mostly old bloodlines, voicing concerns about erosion of parental rights, excessive Ministry oversight, or the so-called ‘Muggleisation’ of wizarding culture. Their words were careful. Clipped. But the undercurrent of fear was clear: tradition was being dragged into the light.The debate circled for over an hour. Marchbanks suggested refinements to the enforcement language; a young Department of Mysteries liaison raised concerns about long-term jurisdictional conflicts. Sirius fielded each challenge without losing his temper—though his knuckles had turned white more than once on the rail of his podium.By midday, the session closed for the day with a scheduled vote set for the following Monday.As the chamber emptied, Sirius remained at his seat, the bubble around his face shimmering faintly in the chandelier light. He was silent. Watching.And the old guard was watching him back.Ione could count on one hand the number of times she had come alone to a check-up in the last eight months. She could honestly say she did not like it and severely missed the colourful commentary.“I thought I’d see your guard dog pacing the floor,” Healer Timble said dryly as Ione stepped into the examination room alone, loosening her robes with deliberate care.She offered him a flat look. “He is insisting we keep our distance until you clear us. He’s sleeping two floors up, eating with separate cutlery, and casting disinfection charms like a man possessed.”Timble raised a brow. “What happened?”Ione blinked. “He overheard Marchbanks mention that Abraxas Malfoy had dragon pox—and stormed us out like a dog on fire. I barely had time to grab my clutch bag.”Healer Vane entered just in time to catch that. “Good instincts. His, I mean.”Ione frowned, perching on the examination table as she began to dismantle the Bubble-Head Charm. “Really? I thought he was overreacting.”“You’d think so,” Timble said, gesturing for her to lie back as he prepared to cast the resonance charm. “But in your case? Absolutely not.”“Wait, why?” Ione turned slightly toward him.“Because you never got your dragon pox vaccination,” Vane said, pulling her file out of thin air and flipping it open. “You conceived before we could administer it post-transplant. And because of that transplant, even if you’d had the vaccine before, your immunity would have been wiped out along with your marrow.”Ione frowned. “I didn’t have it before either. Muggleborn. We don’t exactly get magical childhood vaccines, do we?”Timble let out a slow breath. “That’s what I thought.”“Dragon pox usually only kills the elderly,” Ione said, trying not to sound defensive. “Or people with comorbidities.”“Which, no offence, you unfortunately do have,” Vane replied. “And you’re in the first trimester of a twin pregnancy. Dragon pox in the first trimester is strongly correlated with birth defects—neuromagical damage, organ malformation, even miscarriage. In a worst-case scenario, it could take you with it.”The room seemed to get colder. Ione went very still. “So Sirius wasn’t being dramatic.”“No,” Timble said gently. “He was being protective. And right.”Ione swallowed, adjusting the edge of the table paper under her palm. “How long should we keep this up, then? Isolation. Bubble-head. The lot.”“Standard incubation period for dragon pox is seven to ten days,” Vane said, now adjusting the scanning charm over her abdomen. “If neither of you shows symptoms—green and purple rash between the toes, sparks coming out of the nostrils when you sneeze—by then, you’re in the clear.”“And if one of us does?”“You report immediately. You’ll be Flooed into the Magical Bugs Ward and put under aggressive counter-curse treatment. We’ll do our best.” Vane didn’t sugarcoat it. “But the consequences in your case could be severe.”There was a pause.Then Ione sighed, deeply. “I suppose separate bedrooms and no footsie under the table it is, then.”Timble chuckled. “Tell him, he will be free to come with you next week, if he’s still willing to set foot in the building.”“Oh, he will,” Ione said. “He’s probably carving the countdown into the bedpost.”The knock on Ione’s door came at half-six in the morning.“Master Sirius wanting a word by his door,” Kreacher said.Ione was out of bed, slipping on her robe and casting a Bubble-Head at the speed of light, already halfway up the stairs when she heard a light cough.Followed by a sniffle. Then a groan. Then—“hhuh’ISSHHuh!”Ione knocked on his door lightly. “Sirius?”A congested mumble came from inside: “Don’t come in.”“I wasn’t planning to,” she said. “Are there sparks?”“What?”“When you sneeze—are there sparks? ”A pause. Then: “No! Just... snot.” He sounded truly miserable.“Any rash? Between your toes?”“Er—no. I checked. Thoroughly.”She breathed out slowly, head leaning against the doorframe. “Okay. I still want someone to look at you.”“You don’t think it’s dragon pox?”“I don’t think so,” she said carefully. “But if it is, Pepper-Up Potion could make it worse. And I’m not taking that gamble.”“Can you send for someone from Bugs and Dreadfuls, then?” His voice was croaky, but serious. “Because if I gave you dragon pox, I—hhuh’RGSSHHuhh!—I’ll hurl myself into the Veil before the Wizengamot even convenes.”“Stop being dramatic. I’ll Floo them now.”An hour later, Healer Derwent—a squat, ginger-haired wizard from the Magical Bugs Ward—entered the bedroom on the fourth floor, wand drawn and Bubble-Head in place, examining Sirius like he was a contagion in boots.“No rash. No sparks. No elevated magical core fluctuations,” he declared. “Just a textbook common cold. Probably caught it at that ball of yours—close quarters, too much perfume in the air, immune system just distracted enough. Add on the stress of worry whether you brought home a potentially lethal magical pathogen, I’m not surprised.”Sirius groaned. “Tell that to my fiancée. I’ve exiled  myself  to the attic like a cursed goblin.”Derwent arched a brow toward Ione. “That was the right call with her being pregnant.”“She said I was overreacting,” Sirius muttered, sniffling. “I didn’t listen.”“And for once,” Ione said through the door, arms crossed and voice muffled by her own Bubble-Head Charm, “I’m glad you didn’t.”Sirius scowled and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Isn’t there a medal for being excessively cautious?”“Yes,” Ione called through the closed door. “It’s called  staying alive.”Derwent chuckled. “Drink fluids. Take the standard cold potions—no Pepper-Up unless you develop a fever. Rest. And you’re not out of the dragon pox incubation window yet, so continue the isolation protocol. But this? Not pox.”“Thank Merlin,” Sirius muttered, then turned his head away—“hhuh-HHHRRRSSCHHHuhh!”—and groaned again.Ione exhaled in relief, forehead pressing gently to the cool wood of the door. “You’re sure?” she asked the Healer.“Positive,” Derwent said with a reassuring nod. “Your fiancé just caught a chill.”“Typical,” she muttered. “He does everything right and still ends up sneezing his soul out.”“Tell Kreacher I want tea. And sympathy,” Sirius croaked.“You’ll get soup,” Ione called back, voice dry. “If you’re lucky.”As Derwent followed Ione toward the parlour Floo, the older Healer adjusted the collar of his robes and cast a mild warming charm against the hallway draft.“Between us,” Ione said quietly, her voice still slightly muffled beneath the Bubble-Head Charm, “how likely is it really that Sirius could come down with dragon pox? I trust Timble and Vane, obviously, but magical bugs aren’t their field.”Derwent gave a soft grunt. “Realistically? Not very likely. If there were any active vector floating around at that ball, we’d be seeing elderly attendees trickling into the ward by now. You know how dragon pox behaves—starts with the weak links first. So far? Nothing.”Ione let out a slow breath but didn’t relax her shoulders. “So we’re not in the clear, but... not in imminent doom either.”“Exactly.” Derwent reached for the Floo powder from the silver box on the mantle. “That said, I’ve been explicitly told to advise the utmost caution in this case, so that’s what I’m doing.”She gave a small, crooked smile. “Sounds about right. Can I ask something else?”“By all means.”“If I keep up the Bubble-Head and keep casting disinfection charms, can I care for him properly? Or should I leave that to Kreacher?”Derwent paused with his hand hovering over the powder. “You can help him, yes. Just... don’t share cutlery, don’t sleep in the same room, don’t touch your face, and for Merlin’s sake, don’t let him sneeze on you.”Ione arched a brow. “Do people need that reminder?”“You’d be surprised,” Derwent muttered. “Some witches treat common colds like bonding rituals.”“Not in this house,” she said, tone dry.“Good.” Derwent stepped into the hearth. “Then nurse him, but keep the charm up. And if he so much as mentions chills or gets a rash anywhere, you Floo us.”“I will.”Green flames flared, and the Healer was gone.Ione stood a moment longer, then turned on her heel—already mentally assembling a tray of soup, potions, tissues, and sharp warnings.Ione nudged the door open with her hip, a tray balanced neatly between her hands. Steam curled gently from a cup of ginger tea, two carefully measured potion vials clinked in their holders, and a modest bowl of porridge sat enchantingly charmed to remain warm beside the box of tissues.Sirius squinted blearily at her from the nest of pillows and rumpled blankets. “What are you doing?” he rasped, voice croaky and pitiful.“Caring for my fiancé,” Ione said crisply. “What does it look like?”“But you’re not supposed to,” he protested, tugging the blanket higher. “The Healer—your Charm—”“I’m in Bubble-Head,” she interrupted, setting the tray down on the bedside table with a practised hand. “And I’ll cast decontamination spells the moment I leave the room. Derwent said there’s virtually no chance of you developing dragon pox at this point—and I don’t plan on catching this cold either.”Sirius’s resolve visibly crumbled. He blinked at her, eyes glassy, and sniffled. “You really do love me.”Ione quirked a brow behind her charm. “When have I ever given you the impression I don’t?”“You haven’t,” he admitted. “I just feel miserable.”“Hence why I’m not letting you fend for yourself. As lovely as it is to have Kreacher quietly deliver things like a plague butler, it’s not quite the same.”“No,” Sirius agreed with a sniffly pout. “It most definitely is not.”Ione watched him burrow deeper into the blanket. “I gotta admit, though... I thought you said James used to be the dramatic one when he was sick. You certainly weren’t like this back in September.”Sirius blinked blearily up at her. “Can I tell you a secret?”“Sure.”“I was trying to impress you then.”She tilted her head. “And now?”He gave a congested sigh. “Now I assume I’ve already sealed the deal. So my real personality is showing.”Ione tried very hard not to laugh as she handed him the tea. “Drink.”Sirius sniffed. “Will it make me less pathetic?”“Absolutely not. But it might keep you hydrated while you wallow.”He took the cup with a tiny groan of gratitude. “You’re a cruel woman, Ione Lupin.”“And you,” she said, smoothing a blanket edge over his shoulder, “are my favourite patient.”Sirius grinned blearily and took a careful sip. “Still marrying me, then?”“Ask me again when you’re not producing your body weight in mucus.”He snorted—then winced—and returned to sipping his tea.
  
  

    
      
        
        
          
  Ione's dress, though think floor length instead of mid-calf'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
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