Hermione stared at the golden Time-Turner for several seconds, took a deep breath, and started piecing together everything that had happened after lunch.
During their earlier talk, Harry and Ron had only given a rough timeline—something like two hours ago. They'd split up on the stairs; she'd gone to report to Professor McGonagall, while the two of them headed downstairs and ran into Snape in the entrance hall.
Then they'd been marched straight to his office, and the mysterious broom had been confiscated.
One full turn of the Time-Turner took her back an hour. Based on what they'd said, Snape should have left about an hour and forty-five minutes earlier—so roughly a 270-degree twist.
As the device clicked softly like the winding of an old pocket watch, a ripple of golden light spread out, enveloping her. The dim underground corridor vanished as she shifted along the timeline.
Traveling through time always felt a bit like flying—landscapes beyond normal perception flashing by—leaving her feet feeling light and floaty when she landed.
Hermione crept quietly behind a suit of armor, holding her breath.
The corridor was silent, thick with the lingering smell of cauldrons—years of potion vapors soaked into every crack in the stone walls.
Snape's office and the Potions classroom weren't far apart. Both had fireplaces, and the hallway was lit by torches rather than portraits—just a few empty suits of armor for decoration.
Warm, flickering firelight spilled across the walls, chasing away the chill and raising the temperature a few degrees.
Professor Snape's shadow stretched along the wall—expression blank, steps hurried—as he carried a brand-new broom straight toward the classroom.
Hermione didn't rush out. She stayed hidden behind the armor, watching carefully.
Everything he was doing suggested this wasn't just about punishing Harry. Locking the broom in his underground office but thoughtfully lighting the fire, then hurrying off—it didn't feel like he was hanging around to mock or torment. This was nothing like his usual detentions.
After the figure disappeared inside, a fresh potion scent drifted into the air. Third-years wouldn't recognize it, but it was clearly something Snape had brewed in advance and was now using.
A few minutes later, someone came back out.
Hermione's eyes went wide—she nearly gasped.
Even from a distance, even in the dim dungeon light, she knew that face instantly. It was Harry's—no glasses, wearing an ill-fitting robe, noticeably shorter than the broom, thin shoulders, lean build.
Her breath caught in her throat. She stayed frozen behind the armor, watching the figure hurry away.
The only potion she knew that could disguise someone like this was Polyjuice. He must have taken some of Harry's hair or nails—which explained why Harry had been kept down here.
Her feelings were all tangled up—excited, but also uneasy.
Excited because she'd finally brushed against a piece of the hidden truth. A professor disguising himself as a student? Snape pretending to be Harry? It didn't feel like an attempt to harm him—it felt like protection in a twisted way, using Harry's appearance to pull off something secret.
Uneasy because she had no idea what Snape was actually planning.
The only person lurking around Hogwarts who'd be drawn in by that face—who cared about Harry—was Sirius Black.
She didn't let out her held breath until the fake Harry had hurried off. Her heart was pounding like a drum from the rush of blood.
The cold corridor gradually warmed as excitement took over. Hermione felt like a detective slipping through time, about to uncover the truth.
She followed at a careful distance as he climbed the stairs, left the castle, and stepped out into the snowy grounds—panting from running but forcing herself to stay quiet and not get too close.
After this was over, she was definitely asking a professor to teach her the Disillusionment Charm.
The fake Harry reached the front steps, clumsily straddled the broom, and tried to take off. Seeing the youngest Seeker in a century fumble like a beginner felt surreal—but on that body, it looked perfectly normal.
He wobbled, kicked off, and rose shakily into the air.
Hermione froze for a second, then chased a few steps—but boots in deep snow were no match for a broom. In seconds, the rider was just a dark speck against the sky.
A wave of helplessness washed over her. She felt utterly stupid. Snape had the broom—of course he was going to fly. She'd had zero plan, just blindly followed him out of the castle, and now could only watch him shrink into the distance.
Her hands clenched into fists, eyes locked on the direction he'd gone.
Not toward the Quidditch pitch, not the Forbidden Forest—straight across the grounds toward the school gates.
Hermione started trudging through the snow again, heading for the gates.
Wherever Snape was going, whoever he was meeting—he'd have to come back. If she waited at the gates, she'd know the answer the moment he returned.
…
The Firebolt plummeted toward the ground, polished ebony wood glinting against the snow, the thin figure beside it falling straight down—robes flapping wildly like twin shooting stars.
A big black dog raced desperately toward the crash site, ice crust slicing through fur, blood staining the snow in dark spots.
In Animagus form it was hard to cool down; short bursts of all-out running pushed his weakened body to the limit. Lungs and heart felt ready to burst, but Sirius ignored the pain. All he felt was cold—a bone-deep shiver he couldn't shake.
He couldn't accept it. He just couldn't.
Harry had gotten a Christmas gift from his worthless godfather, taken the broom out for a joyride, and now crashed outside the school grounds—likely to die buried in snow until spring thaw uncovered the body.
James and Lily had died thirteen years ago on Halloween, because of a stupid idea from a friend who thought he knew better. And now Harry was going to die on Christmas—because of a broom from his godfather.
The mere thought turned Sirius's blood to ice.
The black dog refused to think any further. He sprinted toward the falling boy, then leaped high—putting his own body underneath to break the fall.
A flat, emotionless voice came from above—like a cold, cunning hunter who'd finally sprung the trap.
"Arresto Momentum."
"Petrificus Totalus."
Two spells, clean and precise—one halted the fall, letting broom and rider touch down gently; the other froze the leaping dog mid-air.
"Revelio."
Sirius felt the tip of a wand press against his forehead—birch wood, cold as ice, magic flaring like a serpent's tongue.
The Animagus disguise melted away fast. In an instant Sirius realized: this was a trap set specifically for him. The trapper had known about the Animagus, had traced the Firebolt's origin.
His limbs stayed rigid, but his neck and head could move—perfect for interrogation.
It was incredibly advanced spellwork. Even with all the strange changes at Hogwarts and in the wizarding world lately, Sirius knew no third-year could pull this off.
His stiff body was slowly turned over. The slight figure stood in the deep snow—face blank, eyes swirling with complicated, dark emotions: anger, hatred, but mostly a crushing regret and sorrow.
Sirius recognized that look. He'd seen it somewhere before.
Their eyes met. Something flashed in those dark depths—a venomous resentment—that instantly reminded Sirius of someone: the greasy-haired Slytherin he and James had dangled upside-down back in school. The same night that Potions professor had used dark magic.
Those eyes had held the same venom.
"Snape?" Sirius ventured quietly.
The wizard disguised as Harry didn't answer right away. Instead he tapped his own chest with the wand tip and cast "Revelio" again. The Polyjuice effect wore off quickly, revealing the familiar sharp features of the Potions master.
They were eye-level now. Greasy hair a little messier, the oversized robe suddenly fitting perfectly, carrying that layered smell of potions.
"We meet again, Sirius Black."
Snape's voice was flat, each word deliberate—no trace of joy at seeing an old acquaintance.
He had no interest in catching up. He simply pulled a small glass vial from his pocket—clear liquid inside, no scent, slightly thicker than water.
"Veritaserum?"
Sirius's eyes mocked him. "Classic Potions master move."
Snape roughly pried his jaw open and tipped in one drop, paused, then added two more. From the force of it, he looked ready to pour the whole bottle—but a master brewer's restraint stopped him.
Sirius spat a few times, but the potion took hold fast. His eyes went glassy, face slack.
Snape stared straight into them, Legilimency probing deep and rough—brutal, no finesse, laced with personal fury.
"Now. I ask, you answer. No lies, no omissions."
"Yes, sir."
"What really happened thirteen years ago? Who killed Lily?"
Sirius's body shook. He drew a deep breath, white mist curling out, eyes staring blankly ahead. "It was me…"
"I knew it!" Snape snarled.
"I'm the one who suggested James switch the Secret-Keeper to Peter Pettigrew."
Sirius's flat, steady voice carried across the snow as the howling north wind conveniently died down, as if the whole world hushed to hear the Azkaban escapee reveal the truth of thirteen years ago:
"Harry had just turned one. Lily was still recovering. Their hiding place needed absolute secrecy, but everyone in the wizarding world knew I was the Secret-Keeper. They trusted me. But I worried about Voldemort's dark magic, so I suggested someone else.
"James agreed. He changed it to Peter. I stayed out in the open, drawing Voldemort's and the Death Eaters' attention. I thought the plan was flawless."
Snape's fists clenched. That even voice finally cracked with barely-contained rage, then his eyes filled with grief and despair.
Pain twisted Sirius's face—part from the brutal Legilimency ripping through his mind, part from the memories flooding back.
"Peter had already secretly gone over to Voldemort. He'd been passing Order intelligence for months while pretending to be our friend. Once he got the Potters' location, he told Voldemort immediately… James and Lily were dead soon after."
"And then?" Snape asked quietly.
"I got the news and rushed to Godric's Hollow. Nothing but ruins. Hagrid was holding baby Harry—I let him take my motorbike. I went after Peter alone to settle the score."
Sirius trembled, voice still flat:
"I caught up with him on a busy Muggle street. He was no match for me, so he taunted me about James and Lily—got me to hesitate for a split second—then blew up the whole street's sewer system. When the smoke cleared, all that was left was one finger. I thought he'd died."
"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Snape demanded, anger rising. "Why not explain to the Aurors and expose him?"
"I wanted to atone."
Sirius said, "I thought he was dead—that he'd paid for his crimes. I figured I should pay for mine. So I didn't defend myself. I let the Aurors take me to Azkaban."
"Then why escape?"
"I found Peter's trail."
Sirius's hands twitched, trying to form fists but unable to move. "His Animagus is a rat. They installed those magic mirrors in Azkaban to show news—I saw that Weasley boy carrying the exact rat. He wasn't dead. He'd been hiding right beside Harry all this time."
"So both times you attacked Ron Weasley, you were really after the rat?"
"Yes."
Snape's anger grew—nostrils flaring, chest heaving, white puffs of breath bursting out.
That explained why Peter had faked his death again, why he'd tried to use Snape to kill Black. Everything clicked.
"The rat faked death again and escaped. Why didn't you go after him? Why hang around Hogwarts and send Potter a broom?"
"Because Scabbers is still at Hogwarts."
"What?!" Snape's voice mixed shock and triumph.
"I paid a kitchen house-elf—Dobby—to keep an eye out. He told me the kitchens have been plagued by a rat lately, sneaking food in the middle of the night. It left missing-toe prints on a pumpkin lantern, or the elves would never have noticed… Dozens of house-elves couldn't catch it. Only Peter could manage that."
Sirius continued, "I've been planning a tighter ambush—one shot to finish him. In the meantime, I arranged the gift for Harry."
Snape's brow furrowed. "How do you contact that elf? How did you sneak into the school before?"
"There's a passage under the Shrieking Shack. You've been there yourself."
"The one under the Whomping Willow?"
"Yes."
The north wind picked up again, like a silent sigh. A cold glint flashed in Snape's eyes.