Chapter Text
May 5th, 1998
“It should be any day now, you know?”
Remus glanced over his teacup, meeting Sirius’ gaze across the table. He slowly set the cup down and tilted his head back, exhaling a deep sigh before replying.
“If what she told us all those years ago was right, it should be roughly two weeks after the battle. That gives us about a week and a half.”
The weight of his words settled heavily between them. Nearly twenty years had passed since either of them had last spoken to their Hermione. The thought was a knife to Sirius’ heart.
“I can’t believe it’s been that long,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Some days, the memories feel like yesterday. How do you think this will play out?” He fidgeted with his cuticles—a nervous habit that betrayed the turmoil twisting inside him.
“Sirius, you have to stop dwelling on the unknown,” Remus said gently. “You’re only making yourself sick with worry. There’s nothing we can do but wait—less than two weeks now. Be patient.”
Sirius closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. He could still see her, as clearly as if it had been yesterday—the last time they were together before she vanished.
It had been at Potter Cottage, just before James and Lily died.
She was standing by the fireplace, her presence as undeniable as the golden light flickering across her skin. Hermione—Mia, as they had come to call her—had always carried a quiet intensity about her, a fire beneath the surface that made it impossible to look away.
She was beautiful, but not in the way most people defined it. There was a wildness to her—something untamed and unpolished. Her deep brown curls had a mind of their own, cascading down her back in soft, unruly waves. Some strands had slipped loose from the delicate Golden clip she had used to pin her hair half-up.
She had been wearing a dark suede skirt that swayed when she moved, paired with an ivory silk blouse that shimmered in the firelight. The fabric clung to her frame, accentuating the curves that had once been hidden beneath the oversized robes of her school years. Her skin had a warmth to it, kissed by the sun from afternoons spent outside, and her dark eyes—sharp, knowing, ancient in a way that unsettled him at times—had gleamed with something unreadable.
And then there was her smile. Merlin, that smile. It was the kind that could undo a man, bright and full of mischief, yet carrying a softness that made him weak. He had spent years trying to decipher her, to untangle the mystery of the girl who had appeared out of nowhere with secrets too heavy for someone so young.
That night, she had been holding little Harry, twirling him in circles, her laughter tinkling through the cottage like wind chimes in a summer breeze. The sound had settled something deep inside Sirius, a warmth spreading through his chest like a fire catching.
It was in that moment that he had understood what Prongs felt for Lily.
Mia wasn’t just a friend, wasn’t just a comrade. She had claimed his heart, entirely.
Blinking back to the present, Sirius met Remus’ steady gaze.
“She never told you her plans, did she?”
Remus shook his head. “No. She only said she was trying to save the world as she knew it, but she couldn’t give me specifics.” A flicker of doubt crossed his features. “I just hope she accomplished what she set out to do… even if I still don’t fully understand it.”
Sirius hesitated, then said, “I gave her the necklace two days ago.”
The memory of it was vivid. When he first met Hermione in 1977, she had worn it—a simple golden chain with a pendant that, at first glance, seemed unremarkable. But closer inspection revealed a cluster of diamonds forming the Canis Major constellation. Inside the locket were two pictures: one of her, Harry, and Ron; the other of Hermione with Sirius, Remus, and Harry.
Sirius chuckled. “I remember when I first noticed it. She tried so hard to hide it from us.”
Remus smiled faintly. “Imagine if you’d seen the pictures inside first—you’d have keeled over on the spot.”
Sirius smirked. “Moony, put yourself in my shoes. A mysterious girl appears out of nowhere with my namesake etched into her necklace, knowing way too much about us—during a war, no less, when Death Eaters were everywhere. Of course I was skeptical.”
Remus let out a humph. “Skeptical, sure. But you were smitten with her from day one. You followed that poor girl around like a lovesick pup while she tried her best to avoid us. She even begged the Sorting Hat to place her anywhere but Gryffindor, just to steer clear of us. But that girl is as Gryffindor as they come.”
Sirius grinned, the memory warming him. “The great chase of ’77,” he mused.
Remus stood and carried his teacup to the sink. “In less than two weeks, we’ll see her again. And we’ll finally get to share in the happiness she fought so hard to create.” He turned, his expression firm but kind. “Be the man Mia remembers and deserves, Pads. Stop sulking.”
With that, he disappeared into the Floo, leaving Sirius alone with his thoughts.
Sighing, he rose from his chair and placed the empty tumbler in the sink. His gaze drifted to the backyard, where a massive oak tree loomed—a silent sentinel over the Black family estate for centuries. In recent years, it had taken on a golden glow. Some in the Order believed it was blessed by Merlin and Morgana themselves.
But Sirius didn’t see a sacred relic. He saw a ghost of a memory, one that lived in the way the branches swayed, the way the leaves whispered secrets to the wind.
He pushed open the kitchen door, stepping barefoot onto the cool grass. The night air was crisp, wrapping around him like a long-forgotten embrace. He walked toward the tree, hands shoved into the pockets of his muggle jeans, his heartbeat steady but heavy.
This tree had been hers.
He could still hear her laughter ringing through the air, the way she used to sit beneath its sprawling branches, a book balanced on her knee, lost in a world only she could see. He had spent countless afternoons watching her from the porch, pretending he wasn’t completely captivated by the way she would absently chew on her lip, twirling a curl around her finger as she read.
One summer, she had convinced him to carve their names into the bark. “For history’s sake,” she had said, grinning at him as she guided his hand, her fingers soft over his. They had traced the letters together—Sirius & Mia—a moment so simple, so small, yet it had lodged itself in his soul, unshakable.
Now, after all these years, the carving remained. Weathered but intact, as if time itself had refused to erase her from this place. He reached out, running his fingers over the rough grooves of her name, his breath catching in his throat.
She had promised she would return.
He had believed her.
And yet, the years had stretched on, stealing pieces of him—of them—until all that remained was this aching, hollow space where she had once been.
The wind stirred through the leaves, and for the briefest moment, he could have sworn he heard her voice, light and teasing, as if she were standing right behind him.
“You’re being dramatic, Black.”
A shaky laugh escaped him, but his vision blurred. He pressed his forehead against the bark, closing his eyes, allowing himself a single moment of weakness.
“If you’re really listening, you two,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion, “please, let this work out. I can’t bear another heartbreak.”
The tree stood silent, its golden glow steady and unwavering.
Sirius straightened, exhaling slowly as he wiped the tear from his cheek. He had spent too many years mourning ghosts. If Mia was coming back—if this insane, impossible thing was actually happening—then he needed to be ready.
With a flick of his wand, the lights in the house extinguished. The shadows swallowed him as he turned back toward the house, but for the first time in years, there was something else lingering in the air.
Hope.