A Second Channe Through Time

CHAPTER SIX

Page count: 19

Sirius' Apartment - Sunday 8th November 1981

The Floo spat out the four of them one by one — Sirius first, then James with a sleeping Harry cradled in his arms, followed by Remus and finally Hermione.

They stepped into chaos.

The apartment looked like a war zone — furniture overturned, drawers half open, glass shattered across the floor. Papers, books, and newspapers lay strewn everywhere, the aftermath of the Auror search from when Sirius had been arrested.

"Fix it later," Sirius muttered with a shrug, stepping over a toppled chair. "There's four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living room. I'll show you to yours."

He led the way down a narrow corridor, the others peeling off to claim their own rooms. At the end of the hall, he opened a door and stepped aside for her to enter.

Hermione hesitated on the threshold. The room was simple — white walls, black laminate floors, a queen-sized bed pressed against the back wall. The bedding was black and white, crisp and impersonal, like a space that hadn't been touched in years. Heavy black curtains were drawn over the window, shutting out the city lights. A white chest of drawers stood to one side, a bedside table with an unlit lamp, and a wardrobe with a long mirror fixed to its door completed the room.

"Do you need anything?" Sirius asked, watching her quietly.

She shook her head. "My whole life's in this bag. I'm fine, thank you."

He frowned at that but didn't press. "You want something to eat? I haven't got much in, but I can nip out and grab something."

"I'm alright," she said softly. "I need rest more than food. You can go longer without eating than you can without sleep."

He blinked at her. "You're joking, right?"

"No," she said simply, voice calm but weary. "Thank you for letting me stay here. I'll be out of your way as soon as possible."

Sirius scoffed, crossing his arms. "Don't be ridiculous. After everything we've seen today, you're one of us now. A Marauder by association." His grin softened. "Family sticks together. Besides, if Harry's here, you need to be too."

Before she could respond, he nodded once and turned toward the door. "Night, Hermione," he said quietly, then pulled it shut behind him.

For a long moment, she stood alone in the quiet room, surrounded by shadows and the faint scent of old smoke and leather that clung to the walls.

She sighed and set her beaded bag on the bed, pulling out what few clothes she had. She separated the clean from the blood-stained before grabbing a set of pyjamas and her wash kit. The thought of a hot shower — an actual shower — tugged at her exhaustion like gravity.

The apartment was dim, moonlight slipping through cracks in the curtains as she padded barefoot down the corridor. She found the bathroom and turned the taps, steam curling around her like a ghost.

When she stepped beneath the spray, she didn't move for a long time. The water scalded, but it felt real — alive — and she tilted her head back, letting it pound against her skin, washing away days of battle, months of blood and ash, years of horror.

By the time the water began to cool, her shoulders had unclenched for the first time in weeks.

She shut off the taps, dried herself slowly, and slipped on an old Quidditch jersey that had once belonged to Harry — oversized, soft, familiar — paired with sleep shorts.