Chapter Three: The Lady of Black Manor

Hermione turned her attention to the room.

It was grand. No, opulent.

The canopy bed she sat on was massive, draped in rich emerald and silver, the wood carved with intricate runes that whispChapter Three: Theered of old magic. The walls were lined with paintings—stiff, regal-looking wizards and witches who seemed to watch her, their eyes cold and calculating. A chandelier glittered above, casting soft, golden light across the space.

Whoever I am, I'm wealthy.

Her stomach twisted.

 Her bare feet sinking into the plushest carpet she had ever felt. A large vanity sat against the far wall near the huge king-sized bed, its surface covered in bottles—beauty potions, perfumes, and accessories.

Curiosity overtook her panic for a moment as she stepped forward.

The bottles were expensive—delicate crystal vials filled with shimmering liquids, each labelled in elegant cursive. Hair glossing potions, enchanted blushes, scented oils infused with everlasting charms. A woman who valued appearance lived here.

Hermione's mind flashed to Lavender. she would have loved this.

The thought hit her like a physical blow, and she stumbled back, her heart clenching. Lavender never got to have a life like this. She never got a future.

Hermione gritted her teeth and shook her head. No. Don't do this. Focus.

She turned away from the vanity, scanning the room for more clues.

A large wardrobe stood against the wall. With hesitant steps, she approached and pulled it open—only to be met with a sea of luxury.

Dresses. Cloaks. All high fashion.

Deep velvets, enchanted silks, fabrics imported from the finest wizarding ateliers. Every single outfit looked meticulously curated—elegant, feminine, yet subtly powerful. Whoever this woman was, she wasn't just rich—she was the kind of rich that exuded status and influence.

Hermione's stomach turned.

Then—something caught her eye.

A second wardrobe.

She turned, her fingers trembling as she reached for the handles.

She already knew what she was going to find before she even opened it.

Men's clothing.

Robes, tailored to perfection. Enchantments woven into the fabric, ensuring they never wrinkled, never faded.

This woman did not live alone.

The nausea surged violently.

She stumbled back, her breathing ragged, heart pounding as she turned sharply to the bedside table. With desperate hands, she pulled open a drawer, searching for any sign—any proof—of who she was.

A small jewelry box sat inside.

She snatched it up, fumbling with the clasp. But before she could pry it open—

CRACK.

The loud pop of Apparition startled her so violently that she dropped the box.

It hit the floor with a sharp clatter, spilling delicate rings and necklaces across the carpet.

Hermione's entire body went stiff as the unmistakable squeak of a house-elf filled the room.

"Oh! Oh, Mistress Hermia—!"

Hermione turned sharply; her breath still unsteady.

The elf was small, her bat-like ears drooping as she rushed forward, waving her tiny hands frantically. She had a long, crooked nose and huge, watery blue eyes, and unlike Dobby, she wore a rich, dark emerald tea towel, neatly draped like a toga.

The elf squeaked again as she snapped her fingers, fixing the fallen box and vanishing the mess in an instant.

"Binnty is bad, bad elf!" she wailed, bowing so low that her nose touched the floor. "Binnty startled Mistress Hermia! Binnty should be punished!"

Hermione snapped out of her stupor.

"No—no, Binnty," she blurted out, stepping forward. "That's not necessary. You didn't do anything wrong."

The elf flinched.

It was so slight, so instinctive, that Hermione nearly missed it. But when she reached out—just to offer reassurance—Binnty shrank back, her large blue eyes rounding in fear.

Hermione's stomach plummeted.

She knew that kind of reaction. Had seen it before. In Hogwarts house-elves. In Muggleborn children raised by cruel families.

Whoever she had become… was not kind to this house elves.

Hermione swallowed down her disgust, quickly withdrawing her hand. Fix this later. Right now, get information.

She forced her voice gentle. "Binnty, you called me Hermia just now."

Binnty nodded rapidly, still staring at her warily.

Hermione licked her lips. "What's my… full name?"

Binnty's ears twitched. "Mistress Hermia Black, Lady of the Black Manor."

Hermione inhaled sharply.

Black.

Her blood ran cold.

She was married.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. Think. Two Blacks from this generation. Regulus? Sirius? It has to be one of them.

Hermione forced a smile. "And the Lord of the Manor?"

At that, Binnty's entire expression changed.

She froze, her tiny fingers wringing together as she started shaking her head violently. "Oh, no, no, no—Binnty knew the Healer wasn't good! Mistress is sick! Mistress is forgetting things!"

Hermione immediately backtracked.

"No, I'm fine," she said quickly. "Just… a little confused. I hit my head, I think."

Binnty stared at her.

A long, tense silence.

Then—

"The Lord of the Manor," the elf finally said, voice quiet but firm, "is Lord Sirius Black."

Hermione released a slow, measured breath.

Sirius.

Of all the people she could have been stuck with in this timeline—it was Sirius.

A twisted, unwanted relief settled in her bones. At least she knew him. At least he wouldn't kill her on sight.

Then, before she could formulate her next question—

A sharp noise broke the silence.

Footsteps.

Loud, deliberate.

Hermione barely had time to process before Binnty bowed deeply.

"If Mistress needs Binnty, she must call," the elf whispered, and with another crack, she vanished.

The door creaked open.

Hermione turned.

And there—standing in the doorway—was Sirius Black.

But not her Sirius.

Not the broken, haunted man she had known.

This one was younger. Sharper.

His storm-grey eyes locked onto hers with an unreadable expression. His robes—expensive, tailored, yet effortlessly stylish—draped over his tall athletic, imposing frame. His hair, unlike the wild mane she remembered, was short, neatly groomed, slicked back with deliberate precision.

A Black.

A Lord.

And her husband.

Hermione stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs as she stared at the man before her.

Sirius Black.

But not the Sirius she knew.

This one wasn't laughing. There was no mischief in his sharp gray eyes, no warmth, no familiarity.

There was nothing.

His gaze swept over her, cold and calculating, before he raised an eyebrow.

"So, you're awake." His voice was smooth, disinterested. Then, with a slow exhale, he muttered, "Pity."

Hermione blinked.

What?

She barely had time to process the casual cruelty before he continued, his tone clipped. "Get dressed. Mother is visiting for lunch."

She didn't move.

She couldn't.

Her limbs felt leaden, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion, panic, and a thousand questions she didn't know how to voice.

Apparently, that was the wrong reaction.

Sirius's expression visibly darkened.

His irritation rippled through the air like a storm waiting to break. His jaw ticked, his fingers flexing at his sides.

"Are you deaf, Hermia?" His voice was sharper now, laced with impatience. "I said—get dressed. Don't make me repeat myself."

And just like that, he turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.

The sound echoed through the grand bedroom, ringing in Hermione's ears.

She finally exhaled.

And collapsed onto the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets as she tried to breathe.

What the hell just happened?