            Sleep came without warning, and when Hermione woke to find the room dark, her stomach ached. But it wasn’t the hunger clawing at her mind—it was the dream. She had been in the Shrieking Shack with the boys, their faces still pudgy with baby fat. Hermione had been thirteen too, scrawny in her pink sweater and jeans. But Sirius was not the living corpse he’d actually been that terrible night. No, Sirius had been glowing. Healthy as the last time she saw him, hair curling around his shoulders and a cheeky grin playing on his lips. Sirius had reached for her, taking her small hand in his own. She’d tried to pull him towards her, towards the door, away from the shack, but with every tug he slipped further into the room’s seeping shadows.