Chapter Text
(Cover art by the lovely Myst867)
PART ONE: SHATTERED
She was drowning
but no one saw her struggle,
the water over her head,
had she walked into it,
did the flood come to her?
—Frankinsense
CHAPTER ONE
The crack of Apparition echoed faintly in the stillness of the night, dissipating into the cold air of Grimmauld Place. Hermione staggered as her bare feet landed on the uneven stone of the front steps. The icy ground bit at her soles, but she barely registered the sensation. Her body trembled uncontrollably, clad in nothing but knickers and a torn nightgown that clung to her sweat-drenched skin. Blood seeped from a gash on her eyebrow, trickling down her face in uneven rivulets, mingling with silent tears that refused to stop falling.
She pressed her weight against the front door, struggling to catch her breath. The familiar sight of Number Twelve offered a fleeting sense of safety, but her mind remained clouded by the chaos she’d just fled. For a moment, she closed her eyes, trying to summon the strength to knock. She could still feel his hands on her, the crack of his fists against her ribs, the way his rage had twisted his face into something unrecognizable, worse than it had ever been before. Her stomach churned, bile rising in her throat as the memory threatened to overwhelm her.
She inhaled sharply. She wasn’t ready to face anyone—not yet—but she had nowhere else to go. Harry would understand. He had to.
Before she could lift a trembling hand to knock, the door swung open.
The soft glow of the hallway spilled out onto the steps, and there he was—Sirius Black, framed against the shadows. He was dressed simply, his shirt slightly rumpled as though he’d been preparing for bed, but his grey eyes were alert, narrowing instantly as they settled on her. She saw his mouth part in shock, followed by the sharp intake of breath.
He stepped forward, his gaze scanning her from head to toe. For a moment, he said nothing, but his expression shifted. His features, usually quick to twist with sardonic humor or exasperation, hardened into something steely, something dangerous.
Hermione knew this look. It was the same one he’d worn the night they unmasked Peter Pettigrew in the Shrieking Shack. The same one he’d carried into the Ministry all those years ago, wand raised to protect Harry at any cost. The same one he’d had when he faced his cousin Bellatrix for the last time during the Battle of Hogwarts, an unrelenting coldness in his eyes as he used the Killing Curse for the first and only time in his life.
His voice was low, calm, and utterly lethal.
“Who did this to you?”
The words pierced the silence, a blade cutting through the haze in her mind. For a moment, she tried to answer, but her throat closed, and all she could manage was a broken sob.
Her knees gave way beneath her, and Sirius was there, catching her before she hit the ground. She collapsed into his arms, her trembling fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as though it were the only solid thing in the world.
“I—” she began, but her voice cracked, the words lost in a fresh wave of tears.
Sirius tightened his hold on her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other supporting her weight with surprising gentleness. She felt the tension radiating from him, the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior, but his touch was steady, grounding.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured, his tone soft yet brimming with barely restrained fury.
Hermione buried her face in his chest, her bloodied, tear-streaked cheek pressing against his heartbeat. For the first time in hours, the relentless panic that had driven her began to wane, replaced by a flicker of something she could almost call hope.
Sirius shifted, one arm slipping beneath her knees as he lifted her effortlessly. She let out a weak protest, but he silenced her with a look.
“Come inside,” he said firmly. “We’ll deal with this. I promise.”
As the door swung shut behind them, the darkness of the house enveloped them, and Hermione knew two things for certain: Sirius would protect her. And Ronald Weasley would regret laying his hands on her.
Sirius carried Hermione down the hallway and up the stairs with careful, deliberate strides, his arms cocooning her in a protective embrace. She could feel the tense ripple of muscle beneath his shirt, still charged by the anger he was holding at bay. Though her ribs still ached fiercely, a tiny sense of relief began to bloom in her chest at the realization she was finally safe, at least for now.
When they reached the sitting room, Sirius gently lowered her onto the well-worn couch. Its cushions sank beneath her weight; she winced and let out a soft hiss of pain. He pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over her shivering body.
“Stay here, love,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’ll be right back.”
The moment he disappeared through the doorway, the silence of the old Black family home seemed to press down on her. Shadows flickered across the walls where lamps cast their narrow glow. Heart pounding, she tightened her grip on her wand until her knuckles stood out white against her skin. Even as she reassured herself she was safe, the memory of Ron’s rage made her pulse race; she half expected him to burst through the door at any second.
Her eyes darted around the room. The old tapestry on the far wall, the rows of books on the shelves—everything looked warped by her rising anxiety. She pulled the blanket closer, swallowing hard to keep down a surge of nausea. She had no intention of crying again, but tears threatened to gather anyway.
Sirius returned moments later, a purposeful energy crackling around him. He strode across the sitting room and kneeled before her, reaching out to brush his hand gently over her knee. His other hand came up, tilting her chin until her eyes locked with his.
“Tell me who did this,” he said quietly. The softness in his voice clashed with the storm brewing in his gaze.
Hermione tried to answer, but her words tangled on her tongue. There was so much to say, so many reasons she shouldn’t be in this position at all. Sirius’s own expression flickered—he already knew the truth, had probably known for months that something was wrong. Still, he needed her to say it. To claim it, so that he could act on her behalf.
Before she could force the words past her throat, the sudden rush of the Floo downstairs startled her. Footsteps thumped on the wooden staircase, and the door to the sitting room flew open.
Harry stood in the doorway, his features drawn with horror as he stared at Hermione. The dark circles under his eyes were etched deeper by the lamplight, and he looked as though he’d aged years in mere seconds.
“Hermione,” Harry breathed, stepping toward them, as if each footstep cost him a great effort. He blinked rapidly, taking in the bruises, the blood, the trembling set of her shoulders. “Was it… Ron?”
Hermione’s throat seized. Her chin remained in Sirius’s hand; her eyes fluttered shut, and she nodded, a series of sharp, staccato movements. Her voice quaked as she tried to explain.
“He was… drunk,” she managed. “I—I didn’t have my wand. I was asleep.” A tear slipped free, rolling down the side of her face and onto Sirius’s fingers.
She cracked her eyes open to see the familiar lightning-strike of anger radiating from Harry’s gaze. Sirius’s expression hardened as well, his hand tightening just enough for her to feel the tension thrumming through him.
“I’m so sorry, Harry,” she whispered, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I didn’t mean for this—”
A low growl rumbled in Sirius’s throat, cutting her off. His eyes blazed, though his voice was measured. “You’d better go to him, Harry,” he said, not looking away from Hermione. “Because if I go—”
He left the threat unfinished, but the menace was crystal clear. Harry’s jaw tightened; he took one last look at Hermione, nodded, and turned with brisk resolve. His fists were clenched at his sides as he hurried out the door and down the stairs. A moment later, she heard the roar of the Floo again, signaling Harry had left to confront Ron.
The house fell silent once more. Hermione’s gaze flicked to the old wooden floors, then back to Sirius, whose fingers still lingered against her cheek. She was trembling, though whether from cold, pain, or residual terror, she couldn’t say.
Sirius’s tone dropped low, transforming from fury to a protective gentleness. “Will you let me heal you, love?”
Hermione pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. A quiet sob shuddered through her chest, and she nodded. Opening her eyes again, she watched Sirius raise his wand and begin incantations. A soft warmth flowed over the gash above her brow, followed by a tickling sensation as the skin knit itself back together.
“Where else?” he asked gently. He tucked his wand away for a moment, brushing his fingertips over the side of her face to check for any remaining wounds.
“My—my ribs,” she admitted, hesitating. “I think some might be fractured.”
Sirius’s eyes darkened with raw anger at the admission. His jaw tensed, but his voice remained calm. “Lay back,” he said, pressing a steady hand to her shoulder to guide her.
She stretched out gingerly, flinching as aches and bruises made themselves known. His hand hovered at the hem of her nightgown, and he looked up at her hesitantly, realizing he would need to lay her bare before him to finish healing her. “May I? I could fetch a Healer if you’d be more comfortable—”
She shook her head instantly. “No, this is fine. I trust you, Sirius.” Her voice trembled, but her resolve was steadfast.
He nodded, lips pressed tight, and lifted the tattered fabric just enough to reveal her midsection. An involuntary shiver rippled down her spine. When she dared glance down, she saw him staring at the swathe of bruises in varying stages of healing—some fresh and angry purple, others fading to ugly yellow. He sucked in a harsh breath, and she felt his fingers hover over them, trembling with poorly veiled fury.
He pressed gently, searching for the worst of the damage. She let out a stifled gasp when his fingertips found the tender spot.
“Here?” he asked, voice low. She nodded, biting back tears.
He muttered a string of healing spells, and she felt the excruciating ache in her ribs shift under his magic—a dull burning as bone and cartilage mended themselves. The sensation made her teeth clench, but she was grateful for the relief that quickly followed.
When he finished, Sirius straightened, wand still in hand. “Kreacher!” he barked suddenly, his voice echoing in the silent room.
With a soft pop, Kreacher appeared, stooped and sallow-eyed as ever. “Master called for Kreacher?”
“Yes. Please bring the bruise paste from my bathroom.”
Kreacher’s huge eyes swept over Hermione’s injuries. For a brief moment, Hermione thought she saw sympathy in them, fleeting though it was. He vanished with another crack, and she exhaled shakily, letting her eyes close.
When Kreacher reappeared, he held a small jar aloft. He offered it to Sirius with a mumbled, “Kreacher has brought the salve, Master,” then vanished again just as quickly.
Hermione only half-registered Kreacher’s departure; her attention was on the cool, pungent ointment Sirius was now smoothing onto her ribs. It smelled faintly of menthol and pine. She shifted, face heating as he spread the salve across the tender spots of her torso.
“S-Sirius,” she began, voice catching. “Thank you…”
He simply shook his head, his gaze trained on her bruises. “Don’t thank me yet.” His voice was tight with controlled emotion. “We’ll make sure you never have to deal with this again.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat as his fingers worked methodically, pressing just gently enough to avoid causing her more pain. At his suggestion, she rolled onto her side to let him spread the cool paste across her back. She heard a swift intake of breath when he saw the painting of bruises there, too.
A muttered string of curses, then his fingers returned to a delicate, sweeping motion. Each touch was unbearably intimate, but in a way that felt healing rather than intrusive.
When he finished, she slowly pushed herself upright, swinging her legs over the side of the couch. The blanket draped around her shoulders slipped a bit, and she clutched the edges, feeling unexpectedly self-conscious. Sirius dipped his fingers back into the salve, turning her chin gently so he could apply a thin layer to the bruises across her cheek and jaw.
Her gaze flickered over his face. She saw so much in his eyes: undiluted rage, tenderness, guilt that he hadn’t intervened sooner, and fierce determination.
He stood and held out his hand. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
She took his offered hand, her own trembling fingers sliding into his warm, calloused palm. He led her out of the sitting room and up two more flights, guiding her down the long hallway until they reached a door at the very end. He pushed it open, and a faint chill brushed against her skin. She realized where they were only when she spotted the battered trunk at the foot of the bed and the old Auror posters pinned up on the walls—his bedroom.
Sirius crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a shirt. He pressed it into her hands. It smelled like him—faintly of wood smoke and a whiff of strong soap.
“You’ll be staying here, if you’ve no objections,” he said, fixing her with a resolute look. “For as long as you need. Forever, if that’s what you want. We’ll make up a proper room in the morning, but for tonight, I just—” His voice cracked slightly, and he drew in a breath. “You’re safe here, Hermione. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
Tears welled in her eyes, burning hot against her lashes. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so instead she stepped forward, sliding her arms around his middle in a trembling hug. His arms came around her shoulders gently, and for a moment, she let the warmth of his embrace steady her racing heart.
Finally, he pulled away, his thumb brushing a stray tear from her cheek. “Try to get some rest,” he said, his voice low. The muscles in his jaw tightened, as if he were swallowing back words of retribution he couldn’t voice aloud.
Hermione gave a single nod, heart thumping. She watched as he turned, hand on the doorknob, and looked back at her for a beat. A dangerous glint shone in his grey eyes—something that made her both anxious and strangely comforted.
Then he slipped out, shutting the door with a soft click. She was left standing in the hush of his room, the borrowed shirt clutched between her hands. She let the last few tears spill down her cheeks.
She was safe. In the silent echo of Grimmauld Place, she wondered what Harry might say—or do—to Ron, and whether their world would ever truly be the same again.
The emerald flames of the Floo spat Harry out into the dim, wrecked flat. The air was thick with the sharp smell of stale, spilled firewhisky, charred furniture, and something sour he didn’t care to identify. Shards of glass crunched beneath his boots as he stepped into the living room, his sharp gaze sweeping the destruction. A chair had been overturned, its legs splintered. The coffee table was upended, its surface marred with long, jagged cracks. One of Hermione’s beloved bookshelves was tipped onto its side, books scattered haphazardly like fallen soldiers in the debris.
And there, slouched in the only upright chair left, sat Ron.
He was hunched over, cradling a half-empty bottle of firewhisky in one hand, the other dangling limp at his side. His hair was a disheveled mess, sticking to his sweat-soaked forehead, and his eyes were bloodshot, a stark red against his pale, freckled skin. He barely registered Harry’s presence, instead swirling the bottle in his hand as though transfixed by the motion.
Harry’s fury boiled over the moment he saw him. He strode forward, his wand already in his hand, his voice a low growl. “What the hell is wrong with you, Ron?”
Ron blinked slowly, like a man emerging from a fog. He looked up at Harry, his expression darkening. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you barging in here like you own the place?” His words were slurred, but the bitterness in them was sharp.
Harry’s grip tightened on his wand. “I saw what you did to her.”
At that, Ron’s face twisted. “Oh, you did, did you?” He tipped the firewhisky bottle back, draining what was left in one long gulp. The bottle hit the floor with a dull thud as he staggered to his feet. “She’s always running to you or bloody Sirius, isn’t she? Always someone else.”
Harry’s nostrils flared. “Don’t you dare deflect. I want to know how the hell you justify laying your hands on her.”
Ron stumbled toward him, his steps uneven, his voice rising. “Oh, shut it, Harry. Don’t act like you know anything. You’re not here, are you? You don’t see what it’s like, day in and day out.”
“Then tell me,” Harry snapped, his tone icy. “Tell me how your life is so miserable you think you can take it out on her.”
Ron laughed bitterly, the sound devoid of humor. “She doesn’t even love me anymore,” he spat. “Doesn’t want to marry me. Doesn’t want kids. Doesn’t even want to share a bloody bed half the time.” His voice broke, and his fists clenched at his sides. “I gave her everything, and it’s never enough. She’s too busy being Hermione Granger, bloody war heroine to give a damn about what I want!”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What you want? What about what she wants, Ron? She didn’t sign up to be your punching bag just because you’re too much of a coward to get help.”
Ron’s face twisted with rage, his voice a roar. “Don’t you lecture me! You think you’re better than me? You think you’re so perfect because you’re Harry bloody Potter?” He shoved Harry’s shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “Where is she, then? Hiding with you? Is that it?”
“She’s with Sirius,” Harry bit out, his wand steady. “She’s safe.”
Ron froze for a moment, the fire in his eyes narrowing into something mean and dangerous. “With Sirius,” he repeated, the words venomous. He let out a dark, humorless laugh. “I see the way he looks at her, you know. Like he’s waiting for his chance. Bet he’s loving this.”
The insinuation snapped something in Harry. “Don’t you dare talk about him like that. He’s done more to protect her than you ever have.”
Ron took a menacing step forward, his fist clenching. “Watch your mouth, Harry. Or I swear to Merlin—”
The low, dangerous voice cut through the air before Ron could finish. “Or you’ll what?”
Both men froze and turned toward the fireplace. Sirius Black stepped forward, his tall frame emerging from the shadows. He moved with lethal precision, brushing soot from his sleeves as though he hadn’t just heard everything. His grey eyes gleamed, cold and calculating, and the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Go on,” Sirius drawled, his tone deceptively casual. “What were you going to do to Harry?” He tilted his head, his wand slipping from his sleeve into his hand. The room seemed to darken, the tension growing palpable.
Ron glared at Sirius but didn’t speak, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
Sirius took another step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You don’t like the way I look at Hermione, do you? Funny that, considering the way you’ve been treating her.”
Ron stumbled back a step, his drunken bravado faltering. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean to break her ribs? Didn’t mean to bruise her face?” Sirius’s voice was calm, too calm, and his wand rose to point at Ron’s chest. “You’re lucky I respect Harry enough to hold back. Because if it were up to me, you’d already be choking on your own teeth.”
“Sirius,” Harry said softly, though his voice lacked any real protest. There was an unspoken understanding between them—Sirius wouldn’t go too far. Not yet.
Sirius didn’t take his eyes off Ron, who had pressed himself against the wall as though trying to melt into it. “Let me make this clear, Weasley. If you so much as look at her the wrong way again, I’ll make sure you never use that wand arm of yours again. Understood?”
Ron swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Fine,” he muttered. “I get it.”
“I don’t think you do,” Sirius said, stepping closer until he was inches away. His hand shot out, gripping Ron’s throat—not hard enough to cut off his air, but enough to make him understand how little control he had. Sirius leaned in, his voice a whisper. “You’re nothing but a coward. And cowards don’t get second chances with me.”
He let go abruptly, and Ron crumpled to the floor in a heap, gasping. Sirius took a step back, his wand still trained on him.
“Harry,” Sirius said without looking away from Ron, his voice calm again. “Do me a favor and deal with this rubbish before I lose my patience.”
Harry nodded stiffly. “Go back to Hermione. She needs you.”
Sirius gave one last withering look at Ron, his eyes narrowing in disdain, before turning on his heel. He took a step toward the fireplace but stopped when he felt a familiar warmth brush against his leg. Looking down, he saw Crookshanks, Hermione’s ginger cat, weaving around his boots, his bottlebrush tail flicking against the hem of Sirius’s coat.
The corners of Sirius’s mouth softened—just slightly. He crouched and scooped the cat into his arms, holding him securely against his chest. Crookshanks didn’t protest, instead letting out a low, approving purr as if he, too, were ready to leave this place behind.
“You’ve got more sense than your owner,” Sirius muttered to the cat, scratching behind his ears briefly before straightening. He cast a glance back at Harry, his expression hardening once more.
“She shouldn’t have to come back here,” Sirius said, his voice low and brimming with unspoken threat. “Not for her things. Not for anything. Make sure of it.”
Harry gave a stiff nod, his jaw clenched. Sirius didn’t wait for a reply. With Crookshanks still nestled in his arms, he stepped into the fireplace. The green flames flared up around him, and with a soft rush, he was gone.