Hermione stumbled and caught herself and kept running.
Darkness had fallen quickly. They chased the small, darting shape across the grounds until they reached the Whomping Willow—the same tree that had destroyed Harry's Nimbus—its enormous branches swinging in agitation at the disturbance nearby.
The rat didn't stop. It dodged the thrashing branches with startling nimbleness and disappeared into the hollow at the base of the trunk.
Then a large black dog appeared from nowhere, moving like a shadow, and plunged into the hollow after it.
"No!" Harry started forward.
Ron grabbed him. "That'll kill you! Harry, those branches—"
The Whomping Willow was not known for its patience or its sympathy. The rat and the dog had already provoked it; it had missed its chance at both and was furious about it. A thick branch swung hard into the ground directly in front of Harry's feet with a crack that echoed across the field—a clear and authoritative warning.
Harry's eyes had gone strange. He pulled free from Ron's grip.
"Pettigrew betrayed my parents," he said, in a voice that was very quiet and very certain. "If that dog got through, I can too."
Hermione and Ron shouted at him simultaneously as he ducked forward, dodging left and right through the whipping branches—
And then Crookshanks materialised from somewhere, a ginger blur threading through the swinging boughs with a fluency that made no physical sense, and pressed both front paws directly onto a knotted protrusion on the trunk.
The Whomping Willow went completely still.
"Crookshanks!" Hermione exclaimed, opening her arms reflexively. "How did you—where did you come from?"
Crookshanks ignored her entirely. He climbed to the highest accessible branch, settled himself, and watched them with the expression of a cat supervising something it has decided to be responsible for.
"Your cat," Ron said, looking at it with genuine respect.
"He's a Kneazle cross," Hermione said, with pride she couldn't help. "Draco told me—"
She stopped. The name sat in her chest like a small, precise wound.
No time for that. Harry had already gone into the hollow.
"Come on," Ron said, squeezing in after him. "We can't leave him."
Hermione followed, crawling into a low tunnel that sloped downward into darkness.
They walked for what felt like the distance from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade before a faint light appeared ahead. They emerged, one by one, into a grey, dust-thick room that Hermione recognised with a start: the Shrieking Shack. They had come out in Hogsmeade.
The wallpaper hung in strips from the walls. The floorboards were stained. The windows were boarded across with planks, thin lines of moonlight slanting between them.
And standing in the middle of the room were two of the most unexpected people Hermione could have imagined.
Sirius Black. Professor Lupin.
Between them, struggling in Lupin's firm grip, was a rat.
Peter Pettigrew.
"You caught him!" Harry exclaimed, stepping forward—then stopping, confused. "But how did you—the dog—"
Ron looked around the room. "Where's the dog? There was a huge black dog, it went in right after the rat—"
The question appeared to strike Sirius and Lupin as genuinely funny. They exchanged a look and both started laughing—the laughter of people who have succeeded at something after a very long time—bright, unguarded, and a little unsteady.
Harry stared at them.
Hermione looked at the floor.
The dusty boards were covered in large paw prints—dog paw prints—leading directly to where Sirius was standing.
"He's an Animagus!" she said, the pieces locking together immediately. "He's the dog—he's another Animagus!"
Harry and Ron stared.
"Hermione," Professor Lupin said warmly, looking rather more animated than he usually allowed himself to be, "you are the cleverest witch of your age I have ever taught."
She did not reply. She was watching him carefully. Lupin looked better than he had last week—less gaunt—but it was the full moon tonight.
*Did you take your Wolfsbane Potion?*
She kept the thought to herself.
"Harry, allow me to explain everything properly in a moment," Sirius said, his gaze moving between his godson and the squirming figure in Lupin's grip. His face was thinner than the photographs, and there was something too bright in his expression—a barely-leashed energy, something like hunger. "But first—"
His eyes had fixed on Pettigrew.
Lupin released him.
Peter hit the floor and scrambled upright, hunched and cornered, his small pale eyes darting between exits. A flash of white light from Sirius's wand—and suddenly there was a man standing in the dusty room instead of a rat.
Shorter than Harry. Balder and more wretched-looking than any of them had expected. His skin was the greenish-white of someone who had not seen daylight in a long time, and there was dried blood at the corner of his mouth from where his nose had recently been broken.
Lupin kept his wand trained on him without hesitation.
"Peter," Sirius said slowly, and moved toward him with a kind of deliberate elegance—something from another era, something belonging to the boy he had been before Azkaban. The smug smile on his face had a razor's edge. "My dear Peter. Why are you running? Come and have a chat."
"Sirius—Remus—my old friends!" Pettigrew's swollen face broke into what appeared to be genuine delight, his arms spreading as though prepared for an embrace. "I can't believe it—how did you find me?"
"I saw the light in this house," Lupin said, the pleasantness in his voice not quite reaching his eyes. "Several times, on the Hogsmeade open days. And I thought—who else could find this place? Who else would know what it means?" His gaze sharpened. "So I invited Sirius to come and see."
The Shrieking Shack. The Marauders. Hermione assembled the pieces quickly, remembering the snowy afternoon she and Draco had stood outside these very windows, watching a light flicker.
*He was waiting for a friend, he said. Just not the friend she'd assumed.*
Draco. The pain was back, small and precise. She pushed it aside.
"You've been playing your little games at Hogwarts!" Sirius said, with the warmth of someone discussing an old inside joke. His wand found Pettigrew's cheek, resting there gently. "Sneaking in to frighten people. Very entertaining, Peter. Very bold."
Peter flinched away from the wand. He edged sideways, found Sirius and Lupin on either side of him, and went still.
"We've been waiting for you," Sirius said. "We've missed you terribly." The smile stayed. The wand didn't move. "So. Who's behind you?"
"What?" Peter blinked rapidly. "I don't know what you mean, Sirius, I promise—no one—I acted alone, I was desperate—"
"How did you get past the Dementors?" Sirius asked pleasantly. "Azkaban to England in rat form is not a casual swim. Who made it worth the journey?"
"No one—Sirius, please, listen to me, I was forced to betray James and Lily, I never wanted to—"
"You filthy traitor," Sirius said, and the pleasantness went out of his voice entirely. He seized Pettigrew by the collar and hit him hard across the face.
Pettigrew crumpled, bleeding afresh.
Sirius let him fall. He looked at his hand, wiped it on his robes.
"Tell me who sent you," he said softly. "It took me over a decade to figure out how to get here. You managed it in months. That doesn't happen without help."
Peter covered his face and wept. "No one—I swear—turn me into a slug if you want, Sirius, Remus—please—"
"Step back, Remus," Sirius said. "Let me deal with this properly."
"Sirius—"
"He'll run again, the moment we let him near the Dementors. You know he will." The hunger was back in Sirius's face, bright and terrible. "I have to kill him."
Hermione went cold.
She looked at Sirius's hands, his wand, the intent on his face—and understood that he meant it absolutely.
*He'll run again. He'll run.*
She thought frantically—Draco's voice in her head, patient and dry: *If you can't take a direct approach, try a roundabout one.*
Arguing with Sirius would achieve nothing. Lupin had already tried and been ignored. She had no standing here.
But there was someone in this room whose standing was absolute.
She tugged Harry's sleeve, low and urgent. "Is killing someone enough for Azkaban?"
Harry looked at her blankly for half a second—then his face changed.
"Sirius." He stepped forward, his voice cracking with the force of what he needed to say. "Don't—please—don't dirty your hands. He isn't worth becoming a murderer for. We'll take him to the castle. Hand him over."
"Harry, you don't *understand*—"
"I understand he'll get away. But please." Harry grabbed Sirius's arm, shaking his head, something desperate in his expression. "We just found each other. I can't lose you to Azkaban again. I finally have a godfather—please—"
The terrible brightness in Sirius's face wavered.
Something settled.
"You're more noble than he deserves," Sirius said quietly. He looked at Harry for a long moment, and the hunger receded from his eyes, leaving something exhausted and grieved. "All right." He released his grip on Pettigrew. "All right."
They bound Pettigrew and prepared to move.
The return journey through the tunnel was faster, emerging near the base of the Whomping Willow where Crookshanks still sat in serene supervision. They crossed the dark grounds toward the lighted windows of the castle.
They were fifty yards from the entrance when Pettigrew broke.
He went to his knees in the grass, shaking, tears streaming. "Please—please—not the Dementors—please—Sirius, Remus—I was forced, I swear, I never wanted—"
"*Who forced you?*" Sirius wrenched him up by the collar. "Tell me. Tell me right now, and I'll consider it."
Pettigrew looked up—opened his mouth—
The cloud moved.
Full moonlight spilled across the grass.
Lupin's silhouette shuddered.
Hermione had been half-expecting it all night, and she still wasn't ready for how fast it happened.
"He didn't take his Potion," she said. "He's not safe—*run!*"
"What?" Ron said.
"He's a werewolf—it's a full moon—*move!*"
Sirius's expression changed completely. "Get away from here—all of you—go!"
Pettigrew, who had been watching the transformation with a small, private smile, reached down and snatched Lupin's wand from where it had fallen.
Harry's Expelliarmus came a half-second too late.
They watched him transform, dart into the undergrowth, and vanish.
"No—" Harry started after him.
"Harry." Hermione grabbed his arm. The sound coming from behind them was not human. "He's gone. We have to *go.*"
The werewolf turned toward them.
Sirius transformed—the great black dog appearing in a heartbeat—and lunged at the werewolf, trying to drive it back. They collided in a snarling tangle of fur and claws, fought, and for a moment seemed evenly matched.
Then the black dog went flying sideways into the undergrowth, the sound of his impact followed by a yelp.
"Sirius!" Harry scrambled down the slope toward the sound.
"Harry—" Ron went after him.
Hermione started to follow—
The werewolf stepped in front of her.
She stopped.
The werewolf's head turned toward her, moonlight catching the yellow of its eyes. Behind her, the sound of Harry and Ron crashing down the slope grew fainter.
She was alone.
"Professor Lupin," she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could. "Professor—"
The creature's eyes showed no recognition whatsoever. Nothing of the warm, tired, kindly man who had taught them. It crouched, watching her, its breathing slow and heavy.
*Wizards have a very hard time against a transformed werewolf,* Draco had said, in that serious, deliberate way he had when he meant every word. *They are highly resistant to magic. If you encounter one, you could be killed.*
Her wand hand was shaking.
*He told me. He told me long ago, and he was right, and I was too stubborn to—*
The werewolf's hind legs bent. Its claws spread against the earth.
She raised her wand and knew, with awful clarity, that it wouldn't be enough.
She closed her eyes.
Someone stepped in front of her.
She felt it before she understood it—the air moving, the presence arriving between her and the thing that was about to happen—and she opened her eyes.
Platinum hair, catching the full moonlight.
*Draco.*
She couldn't breathe.
He had placed himself between her and the werewolf. His wand was raised. His profile—turned away from her, toward the creature—was white as chalk.
"Hermione Granger." His voice was shaking. It was the first time she had ever heard it do that. "I finally found you."
She stared at the line of his shoulders, rigid with the effort of holding still, the line of his wand arm steady despite everything.
Draco Malfoy. Who said he hated risk. Who said Slytherins never put themselves in danger, and who meant it—who had always meant it.
Who had come anyway.
Who was standing in front of a transformed werewolf because she was behind him.
She had no words for any of it.