Mastermind

sssshhhhh… ssshhhhaaah…

    Grimmauld Place was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of an old grandfather clock in the hallway. There was no draft, no windows opened, no doors creaked.

    sssshhhhh… ssshhhhaaah…

    There it was again, an unsettling sound, a spectral presence as if voices were drifting through the air, barely audible yet persistent.

    sssshhhhh… ssshhhhaaah…

    Hermione stirred in her sleep, tangled in a nest of blankets on the battered four-poster bed. She was placed in the farthest room on the second floor; it was a guest bedroom, smaller, away from the main corridors, best for peace and quiet. She wasn’t used to the eerie stillness of Grimmauld at night; healing had taken a lot of her energy, but the potion she took helped her sleep through the night. But something was different now. A sound- soft, insidious- curled at the edges of her consciousness.

    At first, she thought she was dreaming.

    sssshhhhh… ssshhhhaaah… This way…

    She sat up in bed, blinking at the dimly lit room. The embers in the fireplace had long since died, but a strange glow flickered along the floorboards. A soft, spectral blue shimmered between the cracks in the wood, pulsing as though it had a heartbeat of its own.

    Hermione grabbed her black cashmere shawl that belonged to her mother and wrapped it around her shoulders; she grabbed her wand from the bedside and slid out of bed, her bare feet meeting the cold floor. Her pulse quickened. There was something familiar yet utterly foreign about this—magic, certainly, but of a kind she had never encountered before.

    The light slithered ahead, a vein of pale blue threading its way beneath the floorboards. It wasn’t just glowing—it was moving, guiding her.

    The whisper came again, gentle, coaxing.

    “Follow…”

    She hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward. The glow popped up one after another ahead like little balls or fairy lights, slipping beneath the door and into the corridor. With careful, silent steps, she followed.

    The gas lamps flickered uncertainly, casting wavering shadows on the peeling wallpaper. The house seemed to breathe around her, its very bones shifting. But the glow whisps remained steady, winding its way down the stairs like a path only she was meant to see.

    At the foot of the staircase, the blue shimmer pooled for a moment before slipping beneath a door—the door to the Black family library, as revealed by the gold-plated name on the door.

    Hermione’s breath caught. Slowly, she pressed her palm against the wood. It was cool beneath her fingers, pulsing in sync with the glow beneath the floor.

    The door creaked open, revealing the towering shelves inside. The glow spilled into the room, weaving between the rows of books like a living thing.

    And then it stopped.

    There, at the far end of the library, where the dust lay thick and untouched, a single book jutted out from the shelf, trembling as if it, too, were waiting.

    The whisps curled around her ears, gentle, insistent. They look like little balls floating, or are those eyes, as she glanced at the glowing light on her shoulder.

    “Take it…”

    Heart pounding, Hermione reached out. The moment her fingers brushed the spine, the glow flared brilliantly, wrapping around her wrist like a spectral chain.

    The book snapped open in her hands, ink swirling across the pages as if it were alive.

    And then, the whisps laughed.

    The book’s pages unfurled beneath her fingertips, ink shifting, reforming, as though it were aware of her presence. As she read the first lines, a chill ran through her.

    “The Binding of Spirits—A Guide to Protection, Possession, and Preservation of the Self.”

    Her fingers tightened around the leather spine. The Black family had always dabbled in magic that most would never dare to touch, but this—this was different. Protective magic, but far beyond any shield charm she had ever encountered.

    She turned the pages, the ink still shifting like smoke, forming dense paragraphs interwoven with runic symbols.

    “The Summoning of Spirit Familiars: A soul-bound guardian tethered to one’s body, drawn from the ether or the spirits of the fallen magical familiars. Used as a sentinel against those who seek to defile the sanctity of the flesh, this magic ensures that no unwanted hand may touch what is protected.”

    Hermione inhaled sharply. A spell—no, an entire system of enchantments—designed to ward off sexual harm. It was nothing like the standard protective spells taught at Hogwarts. This was personal magic, deeply intimate, forged not to shield from curses or physical harm in battle but to repel the most insidious kind of violation.

    Her stomach churned as she read on. The ritual required a personal offering—something of the caster’s essence—hair, blood, or even a fraction of their own magic. In return, the spirit would bind itself to their body, a silent warden lurking beneath the skin, awakening at the first sign of intrusion.

    She could barely breathe. Why had this been hidden away? Why had no one spoken of such magic?

    She turned another page, fingers trembling.

    Her eyes widened at the title of the page.

    “The Cloning of the Self—A Mirror of Flesh and Will.”

    Hermione’s blood ran cold.

    This was no ordinary duplication spell. No mere illusion. This was a perfect replication. A clone that could walk, speak, and breathe as the original did—indistinguishable from the real person in every way. It did not possess independent thought and did not deviate from its given purpose. It existed to obey.

    “The clone will last as long as the master wills it. It will speak as commanded, act as instructed, and think only the thoughts it is given. It may be dismissed as easily as it is created, its body fading into dust once its duty is complete. With this spell, a person may be in two places at once, deceive their enemies, or preserve their legacy beyond death.”

    Hermione’s hands tightened on the edges of the book.

    This magic was unnatural. It was controlled in its purest form—the power to make a person exist only to serve the will of another. It had no mind of its own, no freedom. It was a puppet bound to the voice of its creator.

    A shiver ran through her as she imagined the implications. This spell alone could shatter the very foundation of identity, of trust. If someone possessed this knowledge, they could craft a double of themselves, deceive the world, and commit unspeakable acts in another’s name.

    The whisps slithered back into her ears, gentle, knowing.

    “Now you see… now you know…”

    Hermione snapped the book shut.

    The glow beneath the floorboards flickered once more before vanishing completely, leaving her standing in the cold, dark library—alone, and yet, not alone at all.

    She heard the floorboards creak and footsteps closing into the library door. She quickly hid the book in her shawl and wrapped herself tighter, her arms enclosing her to her body. She stood still, facing the shelves and spines of titles that were in Latin and other languages.

    “Hermione?” A deep, gruff voice spoke behind her; Sirius yawned as he leaned against the door frame. Hermione half turned to glance at him.

    “I see you’ve found the library, although I warn you before you touch those books, they’ve been warded to keep muggle-born away from them, nasty hexes and dark magic laced in the wards, handy work of my mother’s,” he smirked slightly.

    “Next hols, we’ll get rid of all the dark books and artifacts. Cleanse the whole house. Make it more homey and liveable.” he stood straighter.

    Hermione nodded in return and looked at the titles printed on the spines. Oh, how she would love to open these tombs and have a glance; she wasn’t drawn to the dark arts for its evil and vile to kill or harm others but for its knowledge and understanding of its uses, causes, and…. advantages. She glanced at the book buried against her chest. The library was warded against her, a muggle-born, then how…

    Sirius placed his right hand on her shoulder; she jumped, slightly startled by his touch. “Kitten? Are you alright?” she turned to face him.

    “Sorry, I-I just wanted to find something to read.” She recovered quickly.

    “Are you still in pain?” he asked as he gazed at her injured side. She stepped back from him.

    “No, I’m all healed, all thanks to Professor Snape.”

    He scoffed.

    She smiled slightly at him. “Now, is there anything to read around here?”

    “Kreacher brought the Daily Prophet a few minutes ago; it’s on the dining table.”

    Hermione walked past him before she made it to the door. She turned back. “Thank you. Why are you up early?” she inquired.

    “I’ve never slept peacefully in this house; always the constant yelling, dark magic practices, having to sleep with one eye open with my deranged cousin’s constant visits.” he drew in a breath and exhaled. “Everyone’s gone, even my brother; now it’s just a shell of a past lived life.” his eyes darted around the room, reminiscing his youth rebellion. He smirked at the memory.

    “You have a brother?” her eyes widen slightly at this new revelation.

    Sirius chuckled. “Yes, Regulus Arcturus Black, two years younger than me. My parent’s favorite went and joined the Death Eaters to please them…” he paused, his shoulders dropped slightly as he turned away from her, his tone slightly dropped “…never heard from him again; I wouldn’t be surprised if You-Know-Who killed him.” He stood up straighter again and exhaled. “Kreacher always favored him, even spoiled him, that little cretin.” sounding slightly happier now.

    Hermione could have pressed him for more information about his school years with Regulus, but by the look on his face, she stopped herself.

    “Molly will be up in a few hours, knowing she’ll prefer to cook instead of ordering Kreacher.” He gave her a tired smile and yawned as he stretched his arms.  “Goodnight, Hermione,” he said sheepishly as he walked out of the library and made his way upstairs to his bedroom.

    Hermione moved swiftly to the trunks gathered in the hallway to look for hers; once spotted, she warded the book with anti-theft and concealment, preventing unauthorized access and making it harder for the searcher to find the book. She wrapped it in her Gryffindor scarf and buried it deep inside her trunk. She took out her book bag, closed her trunk, and walked over to the armchair that was placed in the far corner of the dining area, hidden in the shadows.

    Once settled, she flicked her wrist, and the Daily Prophet floated towards her. She wedged it between her right thigh and the side of the armrest.

    She pulled out her journal and flipped to Harry’s page; she drew a line, added ‘Periods when scar hurt,’ and added a lightning doodle next to it. How could she forget? She had to keep track of when his scar hurt; it’s crucial since it warns that You-Know-Who is close by. She shook her head from side to side. How could I be so incompetent? After she was done, she flipped to Professor Snape’s page to update his section, then… flipped to an empty page. She tapped her black Muji pen against the blank canvas, untouched, waiting… then proceeded to write the name ‘Regulus Arcturus Black’ on the top page the same as she did with all the other names she had written, but no pictures….yet! At least a new… subject. She proceeded to read the Daily Prophet; the attack from the Quidditch World Cup made the front page.

    Her wand tapped the paper twice, and it duplicated; she levitated the original back to the table and used the duplicate for her journal, and proceeded to make notes.

Movement in the kitchen brought her out of deep thought about what happened in the library and the book she now holds hostage. She knew she couldn’t bring it out in the open, so she’d have to wait till she got back to Hogwarts to flip through those pages and understand what she heard from the whisps. ‘Now you see… now you know…’

    Molly looked like she danced from one worktop to the other; pots and pans moved and clashed against each other like the sound of some awful musical. Eggs cracking, water boiling, bacon sizzling on the hob, the smell of baked beans and tomatoes in the air.

    Hermione smiled at the scene before her, then out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the house elf Kreacher with a pile of what looked like a dirty washing load floating behind him. She stood placed her journal inside her book bag and approached the elf, he was hunched, a twisted figure his knobbly fingers curling like claws as he shuffled through the dust-ridden corridors. His eyes, yellowed and rheumy, flickered with malice, but whether it was hatred for his masters or himself, none could say. His voice, a rasping mutter, wove curses into the stale air of the decaying house.

    “Kreacher,” she called out to him softly so as not to startle him; whatever he was muttering, he stopped.

    “Yes, Master’s mudblood, how can Kreacher serve?” he blinked at her.

    Hermione didn’t flinch from the degraded term anymore; she simply ignored the word. “Are there any pictures of Regulus Black? does your former master keep a family… how do I describe…. a portrait album?” she gave him a sweet smile.

    Kreacher gave her a calculated look; his large eyes squinted at her as if deciding whether to tell her or not. After a short pause, he spoke, “A most precious relic, yes, yes… filled with the noble faces of the most honorable Black ancestors, their proud eyes watching over this house even now. Kreacher remembers them, oh yes, Kreacher serves them still, even as the house falls to ruin and the blood is sullied.” he shook his head.

    With carefulness, she spoke, “Would it be okay if I can take a look at it? I would like to know if Regulus is more… handsome than his older brother.” She gave a cheeky smile at him.

    “The nasty little Mudblood dares compare the noble Master Regulus to that disgrace, that blood traitor? Kreacher will not allow such filth to speak of Master Regulus in such a way—no, no, never!” He clutches his rags and mutters furiously, casting Hermione a glare.

    “No, no… I wouldn’t… I’m sorry, I would just like to know what he looks like.” She repeated.

    “Kreacher will not have it, no, no! Mudblood do not deserve to gaze such purity!” He sneers, his voice thick with scorn, his hands twisting in agitation, with that he disapparated with a pop with the washing.

    Hermione let out a heavy sigh, guess I’ll try again later, she thought as she walked back to the armchair. Heavy sets of footsteps came thundering down the stairs and zoomed past her, heading straight to the kitchen. She shook her head disapprovingly as she sat down in the armchair grabbing one of her textbooks from her bag for the new term to read.

“Mum!” Ron’s voice can be heard from the dining room. “I didn’t know you were up this early! That smells amazing!”

    Molly Weasley looked over her shoulder, a smile spreading across her face at the sight of her son. “Ah, first one to smell the bacon, I see!” She glanced at the clock and then back at him. “The others are still sleeping, but they’ll be down soon, I’m sure.”

    Ron grinned sheepishly. “I thought I’d get a head start before the others wake up and claim everything.”

    Molly chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re always one to jump at food, aren’t you?” She flipped the eggs onto a plate and then handed it over to him. “Here, sit down.” She led him to the dining table and placed his plate in front of him. Molly looked up and found Hermione sitting in the armchair reading. “Hermione! I see you’re up early as well. Come join Ronald for breakfast; the rest should join us soon enough.” she smiled at her before returning to the kitchen.

    A variety of plates with food placed with a stasis charm to keep the food warm came floating in the room and placed gently on the table, the teapots hovering, waiting to be used.

    Ron eagerly plopped down at the table, his mouth watering as he took a forkful of bacon. Hermione sat directly opposite him with a scowl on her face. “You should learn to close your mouth and chew, Ronald,” she said distastefully.

    “itsonlyyoumony” he chewed between bits of his bacon, toast, and eggs.

    Hermione scoffed at him before pouring a cup of hot water into her cup and putting a tea bag in it.

    As if on cue, the sound of footsteps began to echo through the hallway. Ginny appeared first, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She gave Ron a raised eyebrow as she sat next to Hermione.

    “I shouldn’t be surprised you’d be up early with the smell of bacon,” she teased, grabbing a piece of bacon from his plate.

    “Oi! You’ve got your own!” he pulled his plate to the side, away from his sister’s hands.

    A few minutes later, Harry and the twins came down together. Fred and Georges’ hair was as neat as always, but there was a slight grogginess in their eyes as they entered the room, while Harry looked as though he had just barely managed to drag himself out of bed. The moment they stepped into the dining table, the smell of breakfast hit them, and they paused.

    Molly beamed. “There’s enough for everyone, so sit down. We’ve got a lot to do today, and you’ll need your strength.”

    “Where are your other brothers?” Hermione turned to ask Ginny beside her.

    “They haven’t returned; I’m guessing Charlie returned to Romania and Bill to Egypt. I heard Percy had to stay in the Ministry for a bit, Fudge working him to the bone, I reckoned,” she replied unbothered as she cut into her sausage link.

    The others sat down at the table, and soon enough, the kitchen was filled with the sound of forks scraping against plates, the clink of mugs as they were filled with tea, and the chatter of the Weasleys as they dug into the breakfast spread. The warmth of the food, the comfortable routine, and the familiar faces made it almost easy to forget the gravity of the situation. But Molly, as always, was the one to remind them that there was work to be done.

    Once everyone had had their fill, Molly cleared her throat and stood, looking around the table with a no-nonsense expression.

    “Alright, everyone,” she began, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m glad you’ve all had a good meal. But we have two days before we leave for Hogwarts, and Grimmauld Place is a disaster. It’s not fit for anyone to stay in, let alone the lot of you.” She paused and gave a pointed look to Ron, whose face was still slightly stuffed with food.

    “Right,” Ron muttered, swallowing his mouthful quickly as if the weight of the moment had suddenly dawned on him.

    Molly gave him a smile but didn’t let up. “Now, we’ll have to split up the work so it gets done quickly and efficiently. I expect all of you to pitch in and do your part.”

    “Of course, Mum,” Ginny said, though she sounded a little skeptical about just how much cleaning there was to do. She’d grown used to the oddities of Grimmauld Place, but even she knew it was in a sorry state.

    “First things first,” Molly said, her voice firm, “No one touches anything in the library; Remus will be able to dismantle the wards placed on it.” She turned to Fred and George. “You two will be tackling the garden in the back”

    Fred nodded reluctantly, looking over at his brother, who seemed equally unenthused. “Right,” George mumbled, already thinking about how much effort would be involved.

    “Ginny, you’re in charge of the upstairs floors. There’s dust and cobwebs everywhere, and we can’t have that. The bedrooms need airing, and all the rubbish needs clearing out, not to worry dear I’ll help you.”

    “Noted,” Ginny said, though she looked a bit overwhelmed by the idea of cleaning every floor.

    “Ah, Hermione,” Molly said with a smile, “I was hoping you’d volunteer for the drawing room. It’s full of old books, paintings, and more dust than I care to think about. We need to make it presentable, at least for the time being. And mind the portraits—they don’t exactly make for pleasant company.”

    Hermione raised an eyebrow at that but nodded in agreement. “Understood. I’ll get it done.”

    Molly turned to Harry and Ron, who had been quietly listening from across the table. “You two,” she said sternly, “will tackle the kitchen. All the surfaces need scrubbing, the counters wiped down, and the stove properly cleaned. I won’t have you lot using magic to avoid real work, understood?”

    Ron grinned widely. “Absolutely, Mum. Though we don’t even know any cleaning spells.”

    Molly placed her hands on her hips, scanning the room with a satisfied look. “Alright, then. Everyone has their jobs. You’re leaving for Hogwarts in two days, and I’ll not have this house in disarray when you go. Now, get to it!”

    With that, the group began to break up, heading toward their designated areas of the house, the sound of footsteps echoing as they dispersed. Grimmauld Place still held its oppressive air, but for the first time in a while, there was a sense of purpose among the occupants. It would be a long day of cleaning, but they would make this house liveable—if only for a short time.

    The day had dragged on longer than anyone had anticipated. The sun had long since dipped behind the horizon, casting the house into a deep, gloomy twilight. Grimmauld Place felt more alive than it had in years, but it was still far from the cozy, bustling home that the Weasleys had come to know.

    Hermione trudged down the stairs from the drawing room, her clothes covered in dust and a slight ache settling into her back from hours of scrubbing the old woodwork and dusting the portraits. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and took a deep breath, trying to shake off the exhaustion that seemed to cling to her. She looked all over the room, trying to find any family pictures or anything containing Regulus, but couldn’t find anything except for old Hogwarts letters containing textbook lists. She was disappointed. There was nothing pertaining to the blue whisps as well.

    The hallway was still thick with the smells of the cleaning products they’d been using, and the house seemed to creak and groan with every footstep as if it were protesting the sudden activity.

    Ron appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking just as worn out, his hair in wild disarray from the day’s work. He rubbed his eyes, clearly tired, but a satisfied grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

    “Oi, Hermione,” he said, voice hoarse from the long day of sorting books, “I don’t know if it’s just me, but I think that drawing room has more dust in it than the whole of Hogwarts combined.”

    Hermione chuckled softly despite her own exhaustion. “I think it’s possible, Ron. I’ve never seen so many books and papers scattered on the ground in one place.” She glanced around, her gaze lingering on the dust-covered piles of books she’d left in neat stacks around the room. There was still work to be done, but she’d made significant progress.

    Ginny appeared from upstairs, her face flushed from the hours of scrubbing and sweeping. She gave them a tired wave before leaning against the wall and taking a few deep breaths. “I swear, the upstairs floors were older than the rest of the house combined. I thought I was going to pass out from the dust before I even finished the hallway.”

    “You did well,” Hermione said, her voice warm with appreciation. “The bedrooms look a lot better.”

    Fred and George entered the hallway next, both of them looking surprisingly cheerful despite their exhaustion. Their hands were smeared with grime and dirt, and their shirts were untucked, but they were grinning from ear to ear.

    “We have the best part of the house; the garden’s in better shape than it’s been in years,” Fred said with a wink.

    Molly, appearing in the doorway behind them, wiped her hands on her apron and surveyed the scene. She was equally tired, but there was a quiet sense of pride in her eyes as she took in the progress of the day. “It’s not perfect, but we’ve made a good dent in it,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “The house doesn’t look as haunted anymore, does it?”

    “Not nearly as much,” Ron muttered, wiping the sweat off his brow. “But you’re right, Mum. It looks… better.”

    Harry, who had been resting for a moment by the table, stood and stretched. “I never thought cleaning could be so draining. I don’t know how you do it, Mrs. Weasley. You’re like a machine.”

    Molly laughed warmly, though it was a tired laugh. “Years of practice, dear. Years of practice.” She surveyed the room with a look of quiet satisfaction. “I think it’s time we all take a break. Tomorrow, we’ll tackle the rest.”

    “Sounds good,” Ginny said, rubbing her lower back. “I don’t think I can scrub another floor tonight.”

    Fred yawned.

    “Right,” Molly said with a firm nod, “so let’s all get some rest. We’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

    The group began to drift toward the sitting room, their movements sluggish but purposeful. As they passed through the hallways, the faint flicker of candlelight cast long shadows, but the dusty gloom that had once hung over Grimmauld Place was starting to lift just a little. The house still felt cold and old, but it was no longer suffocating in its silence.

    The sound of tired footsteps echoed as they all collapsed into the worn couches in the sitting room, some of them laughing quietly at how spent they were. There was a sense of camaraderie that had emerged through the grueling work of the day. They’d come together as a family to breathe life back into a house that had been abandoned for far too long.

    “Think we’ll be able to finish everything before we leave for Hogwarts?” Ron asked, rubbing his eyes as he slumped down on the couch.

    “With you lot helping, I’m sure we will,” Molly said with a smile. “We’ve made good progress, and tomorrow will be better. But for tonight—rest. You’ve all earned it.”

    The fire crackled softly in the hearth, and one by one, they relaxed into their seats, the exhaustion from the day’s work settling over them like a heavy blanket. The house wasn’t perfect, but it was home again, if only for a short time.

    And for the first time that day, the house felt a little less haunted by the past and a little more like a place where they could live, even if just for the briefest of moments.

Later that night, Hermione drew in her journal as she recalled her experience with the blue wisps that morning; they were glowing blue, and she swore they had eyes and tentacles, or was it only a glowing floating blue ball of light. She knitted her brows in focus as she drew two versions of what she saw and hoped she could find something similar in the Hogwarts library.

As she put the final details in her drawing, she didn’t notice a pair of sickly yellowish-brown dull eyes beside her bedside, focused on what she was doing.

    “Miss can see the glow.” his large eyes widen in fascination.

    With a yelp, Hermione jumped from her bed, wand in hand, her other hand placed over her heart.

    “For goodness sake, Kreacher, don’t do that; you scared me,” she told him off in hushed tones.

    Kreacher continued to stare at her book, focused on her drawing; he dropped a large leather-bound book on her bed.

    “Kreacher? Do you know what the glow is? can you see them as well?” she knelt by her bed facing him.

    “Headmaster Black knows of the glow…” he sniffled as he wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Kreacher does not see, but Kreacher hears Master talk about it.” he paused as he picked up the book he dropped and placed it in her hands; he bowed his head as he spoke again with hope in his voice, “Miss, bring Master Regulus home.” with that he disapparated.

    Hermione stood as she opened the book in her hands, and she gasped. Kreacher gave her the family picture album; she could tell the loyal house elf took great care of it; the pages didn’t bend, the pictures were not torn, and he took great pride in caring for the book. She smiled as she turned the flaps, looking at all the moving photos. She closed the album and stowed it away in her book bag. She leaned against the headboard, holding her journal against her chest, and smiled.

    There were three facts she concluded her night. First, the Black library did not repel her from the wards; Second, Kreacher did not call her a Mudblood; and last, Regulus Black could either be dead or alive. She turned off the lights and stared at the ceiling, thinking about her next step until her eyelids were too tied to be kept open. Crookshanks curled up quietly next to her as she slept peacefully.