Grimmauld Place
Hermione was still slumped in the chair, pale but insisting she was fine as Mrs. Weasley bustled around her, applying Dittany to the wound every few minutes on her side as it kept opening up. Ron paced the room like a caged animal while Harry sat motionless, staring blankly into the fire. The distant, ghostly image of the Dark Mark was burned into his mind, a grim reminder of the night’s horrors.
Before anyone could speak again, a silvery, shimmering light filled the room. A graceful phoenix, Patronus, materialized in the center of the room, glowing with an almost otherworldly radiance. Everyone froze as the phoenix opened its beak, and Dumbledore’s calm, measured voice filled the space.
“Arthur, Molly—please listen closely. The situation at the campsite is dangerous, and the Ministry is stretched thin. The Death Eaters may seek to target those they deem vulnerable. I urge you to relocate immediately to a safe location. I have arranged for you to take refuge at a secure house—Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. It is hidden under the Fidelius Charm, and I am its Secret Keeper; the floo connection is open for a few minutes .”
The phoenix tilted its head slightly as if considering its audience before continuing. “ Severus will be there shortly with his potion wares for those who have succumbed to injuries. Do not delay. Arthur, you know the procedure. Protect them at all costs.”
The Patronus faded, leaving the room in silence. Hermione’s eyes widened, and a chill ran down her spine at the mention of Professor Snape. The idea of meeting him—especially under these circumstances—felt more unsettling than comforting, especially when she gave him cheek at the store the other day.
“Grimmauld Place?” Ron asked, frowning. “What’s that?”
“A safe house,” Mr. Weasley explained quickly, already pulling on his coat and grabbing his wand. “We don’t have time to explain—Dumbledore’s right. We need to leave now. Molly, grab what you need; Ginny, you’ll be the first to go; Hermione, you’re next; Ginny will catch you on the other side. Harry, Ron, you’ll be up next, then the twins.”
Hermione stirred as she stood up; she swatted Ron’s hand away. “I can walk,” she insisted, though her voice lacked conviction. Harry was at her side in an instant, helping her stand.
“You don’t have to do everything on your own, Hermione,” Harry said gently. “Let us help you for once.”
Hermione gave him a small, tired smile but said nothing as she leaned on him for support.
***
The swirling green flames engulfed Hermione, and she felt the familiar, uncomfortable sensation of spinning as she hurtled through the Floo Network. Shadows of other fireplaces blurred past her, the roar of the flames filling her ears. Finally, with a lurch, she tumbled out onto a cold, hard stone hearth, coughing as soot billowed around her. “I got you, Hermione,” said Ginny as she placed her arm around her waist to hoist her up.
The room she landed in was dimly lit, with walls covered in peeling, dark wallpaper. The fireplace she emerged from was massive but blackened with years of disuse; the iron grate was rusted and warped. Dust coated every surface, and the faint scent of mildew lingered in the air. The faint light from a sputtering candle cast eerie, flickering shadows on the walls, making the mounted house-elf heads hanging in rows seem almost alive.
Ron stumbled out behind her, tripping over the raised hearthstone and falling face-first on the floor. The floo roared again, and this time, Harry fell forwards on Ron’s back, sending them both staggering.
“Blimey,” Ron muttered, brushing soot off his clothes. He glanced around, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “This place is even gloomier than it sounds.”
Hermione winced as she clutched her side. Harry and Ron were at her side immediately, as they helped Ginny steady her as she swayed.
“This doesn’t look very welcoming,” Hermione murmured, her voice weak but laced with her usual sharp observation. Her gaze swept the room, landing on a threadbare armchair covered in cobwebs.
“Let’s settle you down here,” Ginny motioned at the armchair as Harry did his best to remove the cobwebs tangling in his hands.
Mrs. Weasley came through last, carrying a bag of healing supplies. Her arrival sent another cloud of soot puffing into the air, and she waved her hand in front of her face to clear it. “All right, everyone,” she said briskly. “Out of the kitchen. Let’s get upstairs—Hermione needs proper tending to.”
Not the armchair, then, pity. thought Hermione as she was made to stand again.
Harry blinked. The kitchen? He looked around more closely. The room was cavernous, with a long wooden table and mismatched chairs at its center. Pots and pans hung from a rack above the table, though most were tarnished and dusty. A large stove stood against one wall, its brass fixtures dulled with age. It was clear that this was the heart of the house, but it felt cold and abandoned, as though no one had cooked a meal here in years.
“Grimmauld Place,” Mr. Weasley said quietly, his tone heavy with unspoken knowledge. “The ancestral home of the Black family.”
“More like a mausoleum,” Ron muttered, eyeing the rows of house-elf heads with a shudder. “What kind of person keeps those on display?”
“Come on upstairs,” Mrs. Weasley said firmly, ushering the group toward a narrow staircase at the far end of the kitchen. The stairs creaked ominously with every step, and the flickering light of wall-mounted sconces cast long, wavering shadows.
As they ascended, Harry’s unease deepened. This house felt alive, but not in a comforting way. The air was heavy with an ancient, oppressive magic, and every corner seemed to hold secrets waiting to be uncovered.
When they reached the main hallway, Hermione swayed on her feet, her face pale. Harry grabbed her arm to steady her as Mrs. Weasley led them into a slightly brighter sitting room. Dusty curtains hung over the windows, and a large, ornate tapestry covered one wall, depicting what Harry recognized as the Black family tree.
“This will do for now,” Mrs. Weasley said, lowering Hermione onto a worn sofa and summoning a blanket with a flick of her wand. “Now, we’ll just wait for Severus.”
Harry’s gaze drifted to the darkened hall beyond the room, where the shadows seemed to shift and writhe. Even though the Burrow was far from luxurious, it had always felt warm and inviting. Grimmauld Place, on the other hand, felt cold and hostile, as though it resented their intrusion.
***
The oppressive quiet of Grimmauld Place was broken only by the occasional creak of old wood and the faint rustle of curtains disturbed by unseen drafts. Harry sat near the fire, its flickering light doing little to warm the room or ease the unease that had settled over them. Hermione lay on the worn sofa, her face pale but determined, while Ron sat on the floor by her side, fidgeting with his wand and glaring at the dark doorway as though expecting trouble to step through at any moment.
A sudden, sharp crack of Apparition shattered the uneasy silence. Everyone jumped, their hands flying to their wands, but before they could react further, Severus Snape emerged from the shadows of the hallway. His presence was unmistakable—tall and foreboding, his black robes swirling around him like smoke as he stepped into the room.
Snape’s dark eyes swept over the group with a look of barely concealed disdain lingering on Harry and Hermione. “It appears chaos follows you three wherever you go,” he sneered, his voice low and biting. “Though, given the circumstances, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Harry stiffened, his fingers tightening around his wand. “We didn’t ask for this,” he snapped.
“No,” Snape said, his lips curling into a smirk. “You rarely do, Potter. Yet trouble finds you with enviable consistency.”
“Severus,” Mrs. Weasley interjected sharply, stepping forward. “This is not the time for lectures. Hermione’s been cursed, the wound reopens, and Dittany is ineffective; she needs your help.”
Snape’s gaze shifted to Hermione, and his expression turned colder if such a thing were possible. He approached her slowly, his robes whispering against the floor, and knelt beside her with an air of reluctant professionalism.
“Miss Granger,” he said coolly, his tone dripping with disapproval. “I hear you’ve added self-sacrifice to your ever-growing list of reckless behaviors. How noble.”
Hermione met his gaze with a flicker of defiance, though her voice was weak. “I was just trying to protect Harry, Professor,” she said simply, her words carrying a quiet conviction.
Snape’s jaw tightened. “At great personal cost, as usual. Do you ever consider the consequences of your actions, or is martyrdom simply too tempting to resist?”
Harry opened his mouth to defend her, but Hermione beat him to it. “If I hadn’t done something, Harry might not be here right now,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “I’d make the same choice again, sir.”
Snape’s dark eyes flashed with something unreadable—annoyance, perhaps, or grudging acknowledgment. “Foolishness,” he muttered, pulling out a small black pouch from within his robes. “But typical. Hold still. This will not be pleasant.”
Hermione winced as he uncorked a vial and poured its contents onto her side. The liquid shimmered faintly before seeping into her skin, and a sharp, acrid smell filled the room. She gasped, her fingers digging into the fabric of the sofa as a wave of pain coursed through her.
“Steady, Miss Granger,” Snape said, his tone clipped but not unkind. “Your theatrics will not help.”
“I’m fine,” she ground out through gritted teeth, though the sheen of sweat on her brow told a different story.
“You are anything but fine,” Snape replied, his wand tracing precise, deliberate patterns over the wound. A soft, golden light emanated from its tip, and the angry red burn began to fade. “This curse was designed to linger. Had you delayed treatment any longer, the damage could have been permanent.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re here,” Hermione murmured in appreciation.
Snape’s hand paused for a fraction of a second, and his dark eyes locked onto hers. “Indeed,” he said softly, his voice laced with something that might have been mockery—or something deeper. “Though I would advise you not to make a habit of relying on my interventions. I am not a healer by choice.”
Hermione held his gaze, her breath uneven but steady. “And yet, here you are, sir.” as soon as the words left her mouth, her face contoured in regret, she reached out her hand to hold his ghostly vein-protruding hand that was slowly drifting away from her. “I’m sorry, Professor, and thank you for healing me; I truly appreciate your time and talents,” she spoke in subdued tones as she studied his reaction.
He withdrew his hand quickly as if it burned under her touch. Snape’s lips thinned, and he returned to his work without another word. The silence between them was thick with tension, and neither was willing to break it.
No Physical Touch, she noted mentally. She leaned back into the pillows and recalled events from what transpired at the Quidditch World Cup.
***
Hermione lay on the sofa, her head propped on a pillow, her breathing more even after Snape’s treatment. Ron sat beside her, looking slightly mollified that the worst seemed to be over, while Harry stared at the fire, lost in thought.
But the reprieve was short-lived.
A sudden thud echoed from the hallway, followed by the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps. Before anyone could react, the door was flung open with a bang, and Sirius Black strode into the room, his long hair wild and his gray eyes blazing with urgency.
“What in Merlin’s name is going on?” Sirius demanded, his gaze sweeping the room until it landed on Harry. His voice softened slightly. “Are you all right? I heard about the Death Eaters at the World Cup.”
“Sirius!” Harry exclaimed, jumping to his feet, relief washing over him like a wave. “We’re fine—mostly. Hermione got hurt, but—”
“Of course, someone got hurt,” Severus’ voice drawled from the shadows, low and icy. “When Potter and his entourage are involved, chaos and injury are practically guaranteed.”
Sirius stiffened, his head snapping toward the far corner of the room where Severus Snape had just re-entered, his dark robes billowing behind him as he stepped into the light. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but his tone carried its usual disdain.
“You,” Sirius hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. He moved instinctively closer to Harry, his stance protective. “What are you doing here, Snivellus?”
Snape’s expression didn’t change, though his dark eyes glittered with contempt. “A pleasure, as always, Black. Was the cave too cold for you? Is that why you’ve come running back to your mother’s house?” he said smoothly, his tone dripping with mockery. “I was summoned to clean up yet another mess caused by your godson’s inability to protect.”
Sirius took a step forward, his fists clenching at his sides. “You’d better watch your mouth,” he snarled. “Harry’s been through enough without you swanning in and insulting him. And don’t think for a second I’ve forgotten what you are.”
Snape tilted his head, his lips curling into a cold smirk. “Ah, yes. The righteous Sirius Black, self-proclaimed guardian of moral superiority. Tell me, Black, how does it feel to skulk about in your family’s ancestral cesspit while contributing nothing of value to the Order?”
The insult landed like a blow, and Sirius’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. “I’m contributing a hell of a lot more than you, you slimy—”
“Enough!” Mrs. Weasley snapped, stepping between them with the authority of a mother scolding her children. “This is neither the time nor the place for your bickering!”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched in stunned silence, the air in the room crackling with tension. Even the house itself seemed to react, the faint creaks and groans of old wood filling the silence as though the house disapproved of the confrontation.
Snape’s sneer deepened, but he stepped back, his hands folded neatly in front of him. “Far be it from me to disrupt the sanctity of this house,” he said silkily, though his tone made it clear he thought Grimmauld Place was anything but sacred. “I’ve done what I came to do. Miss Granger is no longer in danger of losing her ability to function, though I can’t guarantee her judgment will improve.” Hermione blushed embarrassingly as she lowered her eyes to the ground.
“Get out,” Sirius spat, his voice low and dangerous. “I don’t want you here, Snape.”
Snape raised an eyebrow, “the feeling is mutual, Black. But unlike you, I have duties to attend to. The Headmaster sent me here to ensure these… children didn’t die of their own idiocy. Now that my task is complete, I will gladly take my leave.”
He turned toward the door, his robes swishing dramatically, but paused in the doorway. Without looking back, he added, “Do try to keep the house intact, Black. I doubt the Order could stomach another disaster caused by your reckless incompetence.”
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Sirius seething and the others staring after him in stunned silence.
“Slippery git,” Sirius muttered, running a hand through his hair as he began pacing the room. “I don’t know why Dumbledore insists on trusting him.”
“Sirius,” Hermione said softly, her voice strained but firm. “He… he did help me.”
Sirius stopped pacing and looked at her, his expression softening slightly. “That doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous,” he said grimly. “Don’t forget who he is—or what he’s done.”
“He’s on our side; Professor Dumbledore vouched for him.” Hermione defended him unwavering, her tone sharp and clear.
“You’re high on potions, Hermione. Go to sleep.” Sirius dismissed her with a wave.
“Sirius,” she warned as she pointed a finger at him.
He knelt down beside her; his eyes narrowed at her. “Kitten, men like Severus Snape do not just get out of Voldemort’s service just because they changed sides. The dark mark on their forearm will always call them back to their master, and believe me, when the fucker returns, if he returns, good old Snivellus will run back into old master’s arms.” His voice turned dangerously low. “Do not forget,” he warned.
“I don’t think anyone’s likely to forget,” Ron muttered, though he shot Hermione a curious look. “But still, he’s the reason you’re not… worse.”
Sirius sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Maybe. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t trust him, and neither should any of you.”
Hermione glanced at the door where Snape had disappeared; her thoughts conflicted. Professor Snape’s words still rang in her ears, sharp and cutting as always, but there had been something else in his tone tonight—something beyond the usual venom. Whatever it was, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that Snape’s role in all of this was far more complicated than she wanted to admit.
***
Severus returned to Hogwarts with a sense of outrage burning through his chest. He goes over to help, and what he gets in return are insults thrown at him by none other than Sirius Black. Bloody runt’s been living in a cave and running from Aurors and doing Merlin knows what all this time. He scoffed; he shouldn’t let the mutt rile him up; he has better control of his emotions, and he shouldn’t let anyone, least of all Black to frazzled him.
The stairway to the headmaster’s office gave way, and he ascended towards impending interrogation from the almighty warlock. He opened the door and approached the headmaster’s desk, where Albus had been pacing back and forth in uneasiness.
“Severus, I hope all is well in Grimmauld.” his head angled towards the ground, his hands placed behind his back as he paced.
“Miss. Granger is lucky that it was a minor spell, nothing a concoction from my personal stores could handle.” He replied in a bored, dismissive tone, making it clear that he did not want to be there.
Albus caught the tone from his reply, “Were you aware of the arrangement of the attack?” he continued in his pacing.
1…
2…
3…
Three seconds
He stopped abruptly. “Severus?” he turned to face his Potions Master, his brows raised slightly in question.
Hesitation? No, he was recalling his conversation with Lucius.
Severus looked into his master’s eyes and responded with clear conviction in his tone, “I was not aware; though Lucius mentioned that there would be a gathering, a place and time were not mentioned, nor the acts.” It was the truth; when Lucius approached him in Diagon Alley, he hinted that those ranked mid-levelers were in pursuit of causing chaos; what he failed to mention were the important details as to who, what? when? where? and why? Severus did not push nor prod in case Lucius suspects his loyalties. He had to play his part.
“Hmm…do you think he will return?” the old man reached for a lemon drop on his desk.
“The dark mark has emerged slightly ever since the attack; I do not think he has the ability to return on his own. It might have been a warning,” he responded in a flat tone; his face betrayed no emotion or fear on the matter.
“Indeed.” Albus did not press him further. “How’s Sirius?”
Severus clenched his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palm, “Alive and arrogant as ever to grace his mother’s walls.” He snarled, he slowly decreased the pressure on his palm.
“And Harry?” Albus gleamed at him as if to annoy him further.
Severus glared daggers at him, his brows knit in annoyance as he spoke. “Headmaster, if you wish to inquire about every single person occupying that… safehouse, I suggest you do it in person; I’m sure Mr. Potter, along with the rest of the pack, would want word from you after the night they’ve had.” He pursed his lips as he folded his arms across his chest.
“Igor will be joining us soon; what’s his status in the circle?” Inquired Dumbledore; he stopped his pacing and sat in his throne-like chair. His hands were placed on the armrest, and his eyes held no glimmer of amusement.
“Good as dead,” Severus replied in his neutral tone. “Although the reason he’s still alive is his position as Headmaster, though I doubt he’ll live till retirement.” He rolled his eyes; Severus didn’t like Igor, tolerate yes, then again, he’s never liked anyone that wasn’t useful to him in a way that could benefit him. Igors’ situation was simple: he betrayed them; therefore, his punishment was death at the hands of those in the inner circle. What’s to say the same won’t happen to him? Severus glanced at the clock that hung near the door; it was just a matter of time till his cover was blown and his long-awaited death would finally give him rest. He would wait just a little bit longer, yes… just endure a little longer.