Because of Reasons

The beginning of Hermione’s morning was a rough contrast to the success of the night before. She woke with a scream, and the only thing stopping the sound from escaping her was the side of her wrist caught in her clamped teeth—Ginny remained asleep, her soft breathing heard from across the room. 

Hermione was quick to slip out of their room and lock herself in the neighbouring lavatory. Droplets of blood had begun to slide down her arm by the time she held it above the sink, and the sting that came with the frigid water was a welcome relief as it pulled her back to the present. 

Take your time, the voice said softly, understanding. You can spare a moment.

Hermione recalled all the times she wished someone was listening to her, and now someone was. She wasn't sure if it was better or worse that the person listening was herself. 

“We’re not monsters,” Hermione told the voice when she had calmed enough to form the words. The world had no justification to treat them the way they had—the way they would. 

We’re different, and Hermione got the impression the voice would shrug if they could. That’s all that has ever been needed to classify someone as one. 

It brought a sudden raging fury to Hermione. The fear and desperation pushed deeper within her, overpowered. 

They were not monsters, and the world had no right to label them as such. To label toddlers, and infants too young to walk as them. To leave their bodies, small enough to fit in a child’s arms, in pieces dropped into mass graves. 

She stared up at her reflection in the mirror. At her shaking hands and her messy curls. Her face was chalky and graffitied with dark circles under her eyes, so prominent they feltheavy. 

The voice had never become monstrous like they had, despite it. They never had the chance to be. 

But she would. Hermione would let her own monstrosity be felt if it meant those very powerheads never had the chance to become monstrous themselves. If the voice’s wrath couldn’t taint the world, her’s would for the both of them.

Yes, and they sounded so pleased, so satisfied. You will.

By the time Hermione had returned to her room and shimmied into her jeans and T-shirt, it was a quarter to six, and all the portraits on the walls had awoken. They remained in their own frames but watched curiously as she walked by, oddly silent.  

All of Grimmauld Place was silent, though in a different way than the day before. There was now a lightness to Number Twelve’, and with a soft quiet instead of the eerie silence, it gave off a sense of peace she hadn’t noticed the day before. 

In the same manner as the day before, Hermione brought a hand to the dark wallpaper, tracing the intricate print of twisting gray—what she assumed to have once been silver. She could feel the dust gathering along the tips of her fingers as they ran across the wall.

Her brow furrowed at the feeling behind the wall. A low buzz sounded, a humming of magic that tickled her own. It invited, cajoling her into coming closer, to witnessing all it could do. 

There was so much it could teach her. 

So much it could show her. 

She placed her palm flat against the wall, so the tips of her fingers were no longer the only point of contact. 

The buzzing grew in reaction, softening further. 

In her mind, the image of a ball of light, of power, materialized. Instinctively, Hermione knew the buzzing was a result of whatever magic was gathered within it. Not quite alive, but almost reactionary in its sentience. 

The spherical shape began to expand and from its center trickled branches, roots and vines of the same energy. As it stretched out, she could see them travel and settle within the walls of the home, its bright energy turning into a swirling gold. So close to the foreign energy, Hermione could differentiate between its power and the magic of the other occupants of the house. 

Oh, how annoying their presence was. Like this, all except one source of magic within Grimmauld Place left her feeling itchy. How different and draining the rest were, and their magic paled in comparison to the great power that lay mere centimetres from her fingertips.

A magnificence beyond their comprehension. 

Yet, Hermione was certain that if even she were to tear down the wall her hand lay against, there wouldn’t be a shred of evidence it had existed. 

“Hermione!”

Hermione blinked heavily. She took a step away from the wall and slowly pulled her hand back. No longer connected, she could feel the remnants of the almost connection as it slipped away from her. She had the odd sense that it was laughing lightly, disappointed and patient at the same time. 

“Harry?” she asked, as she finally took in the boy who stood a few steps away watching her. 

“How long has he been standing there?” she asked the voice.

I’m uncertain, they replied a little reluctantly, a little petulantly too. Hermione had noticed how they prided themself on their focus. 

“Sirius–” Harry turned and looked down the hall once more. Inching closer, he whispered even quieter, “–Sirius, he said I couldn't tell anyone, even Ron, but he said I should thank you. That I wouldn’t have come to headquarters till much later in the summer if it weren’t for you.”

“Oh,” Hermione breathed. “Oh Harry, you don’t have to do that. You shouldn’t have to thank anyone for something which should have been done years ago. I’m sorry you waited this long.”

She pulled him into a gentle hug that he hesitantly returned. Not as confident as the day before. 

Regular physical contact and affection have many benefits, the voice educated. Hermione took care to hide her responding eye roll from Harry. It’s normal, and something we practice more and more as time goes on. By our seventh year, we were all holding hands daily. 

“Is this your way of telling me I should be more affectionate with our friends?”

It wouldn’t hurt. At the very least it might help Harry feel more supported this year. 

“Well, I’m physically affectionate as it is. I’m not sure how much more I can do without giving the wrong impression.” 

Pushing someone out of the way to save them from a spell to the head does not count as physical affection.

She hummed lightly, in response to the voice and for Harry’s sake.

Hermione stepped back and shot Harry a small smile as she continued down the hall. The voice’s idea held merit, but pushing her luck too soon wouldn’t do her any favours. Harry, for his part, cleared his throat and shuffled in place for a moment before following her.

Hermione knew the kitchen wouldn’t be empty, that many of the Order worked through the night, but she still found herself surprised at how many occupants the room had. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Sirius and Professor Lupin sat there, hunched over and sipping from coffee mugs. A fifth person, a witch with curly blonde hair and deep circles under her eyes, also sat at the table, her head resting against her fist, and she looked ready to topple over. A mostly empty bottle of Firewhiskey stood between them. The five stared at Harry and herself for a long moment before seeming to register who they were. 

Mrs. Weasley leapt to her feet, a quilted purple dressing gown flowing behind her. 

“Breakfast,” she said as she pulled out her wand and hurried over to the fire. 

“Right.” Professor Lupin leaned back in his chair. “Harry, Hermione, this is Tonks, she’s an Auror at the Ministry and part of the Order.” 

“M-m-morning,” yawned Tonked. “Sleep alright?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. From behind him, Hermione shrugged.  

“I’ve b-b-been up all night,” she said, with another shuddering yawn. “Come and sit down.”

She drew out a chair, knocking over the one beside it in the process. 

Harry made his way over and sat beside Tonks. Hermione followed his example a moment later, picked up the fallen chair and settled on it. 

“What do you want, Harry?” Mrs. Weasley called out from the stove. “Porridge? Muffins? Kippers? Bacon and eggs? Toast?”

“Just – just toast, thanks,” Harry said. 

“Hermione?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

“Porridge, please,” she replied with a worn smile. “Harry would like a bowl too, if it’s alright.”

Harry made an offended noise from beside her but said nothing further at her unamused look. 

“We’re going into our fifth year,” she reminded him quietly. “Merlin knows, with the workload we’ll have we might not make it to every meal. At least eat well now.”

“Ron won’t be happy,” Harry said, still looking rather put out. 

Professor Lupin, who had been watching the two of them, turned back to Tonks. “What were you saying about Scrimgeour?”

“Oh…yeah…well, we need to be a bit more careful, he’s been asking Kingsley and me funny questions…”

Mrs. Weasley returned to their section of the table, dropping off a couple of pieces of toast for Harry and a jar of marmalade. Hermione caught the sweet smell of the porridge boiling over the stove. 

From behind them, Mrs. Weasley ran a hand down Hermione's hair and fussed with Harry’s T-shirt, tucking the label in and smoothing the creases across his shoulders. Hermione noted the way Harry remained perfectly still, never quite stiffening. It reminded her of the way she had begun to react to most physical contact over the summer, the discomfort and forced stillness to avoid clawing at the part of her that had been touched. 

“…and I’ll have to tell Dumbledore I can’t do night duty tomorrow, I’m just t-t-too tired,” Tonks finished, yawning hugely again. 

“I’ll cover for you,” Mr. Weasley said, who was not wearing wizards’ robes but a pair of pinstriped trousers and an old bomber jacket. “I’ve got a report to finish anyway.”

He turned from Tonks to the two of them.

“How are you two feeling?”

Harry shrugged.

Hermione contemplated telling them how exhausted she was, but the curious incident with the wall had helped her feel a bit more grounded, and after seeing the voice’s memories of the day, of the locket, she knew it was too important to sleep through. At their expectant looks, she settled on a simple, “Fine.”

From a certain point of view, she was. She was perfectly fine in comparison to how she would be if killing curses were being shot at her. 

“Well, I’m sure the others have told you,” Mrs. Weasley said from the stove, “we’ve been working on cleaning this place up a bit. I expect we’ll manage a bit more now that we have some extra hands.”

“You’re set to begin on the drawing room today if I’ve gotten things right,” Professor Lupin said. He turned to Mrs. Weasley, “Kingsley came by last night–”

“This morning,” Sirius corrected.

“–and took a look at the writing desk. He said it looked like a Boggart.” 

“Alastor was called in for an emergency and wasn’t able to stay long enough to check himself,” Sirius added around a sip of coffee.

“Alastor also said that there’s an Auror living here who might be able to take a closer look at it, that way you wouldn’t have to wait on him.”

Mrs. Weasley inspected the occupants of the kitchen with a rather puzzled look on her face. 

“He was referring to me,” Sirius said snidely. “Seeing as I went through the training and, in fact, was an Auror for three years during the height of war.”

“Yes, thank you, Sirius,” Professor Lupin said patiently. 

Sirius didn’t appear to hear him. Instead, his eyes narrowed at Mrs. Weasley’s responding Hmph. 

“How old is the wallpaper?” Hermione asked in a translucent attempt at diversion.

“Which one?”

“The one on the floor I’m staying on. The second floor, that is.”

Sirius whistled lowly. “Old, a few centuries probably. The wallpaper on the second floor is pretty plain, but you’ll see some rooms have magical wallpaper.”

“Does that mean it moves?” Harry asked. “Like magical portraits do?”

“The movements are fairly simple. Vines or branches blowing in the wild, flowers opening—nothing that can converse with you.”

“And they’ve lasted all this time?” Hermione asked.

“Merlin, no.” Sirius slouched back in his seat. “This place, this place was standing before wallpaper had been invented.”

“Wallpaper was invented in the 16th century,” Hermione noted. “Most English houses would have had it by the mid-17th century.”

“There was even a law about forgeries,” Harry murmured distractedly. “Can’t recall the specifics, but it was punishable by death.”

Hermione stared at him in disbelief—both due to the tidbit of information and the fact that he bothered to recall it.

Mrs. Dursley threatened to have him decapitated for the crime when he was little and she found him drawing on one of the walls. 

“Blimey,” Tonks mumbled, eyes wide, “Muggles take offense to such odd things.”

“It’s been worked on, of course, to keep up with the times and blend in, but yes, it’s ancient.” Sirius gestured to the house around them. “Over three and a half centuries the Romans lived in what’s now London. The Black family built this home during that time. It’s an ancestral home, not just purchased brick.”

“Is there anything else in Grimmauld that has that much historical value?”

“Plenty of artifacts around here that do all sorts of things.”

“The majority of which you will not be touching,” said Mrs. Weasley, as she set the bowls of porridge in front of Harry and Hermione. “Eat up, now.”

“You might manage to convince Mad-Eye to show you how a few of them work,” Sirius said thoughtfully, ignoring the look Mrs. Weasley shot his way. Instead, he stood up, moved towards the coffee pot and refilled his mug. 

Ask about the library, the voice said, their presence nudging against hers.

“If Grimmauld Place was built so long ago, would it now have a library?” 

Hermione knew it had one. She had seen enough of the voice’s memories to be certain of it, and the room was incredible. As it was on the second floor, the one she and Ginny were staying on, she had attempted to visit it the day before, yet she found the stretch of wall outside of it to be absent of doors. It was as though it had never existed. 

“Of course there is,” Sirius told her. “Most pureblood households will have a library, even the small ones. It’s a sense of pride. The one here is on the second floor, but doors to this one like to jump around.”

“Well, how would I go about finding it?”

“Ask for it. Or just win the little game of Hide ‘N Seek it has going on.”

“You want me to talk to the house?” Hermione clarified, voice slow and wary after whatever it was she had experienced earlier.

“It would probably pop up for you,” Sirius told her. Hermione was careful not to go tense at his words, instead taking a large spoonful of porridge. “Though, to be frank, when I was younger–”

A loud CRACK split the air, and the twins suddenly stood less than a metre from Hermione, leaving her to choke on her porridge. Mrs. Weasley let out a shriek, and Sirius stumbled with the coffee pot, cursing as some of its contents sloshed out and onto his arm.

“Golly morning,” George grinned.

“You’ll not be golly when I’m finished with you,” spat Mrs. Weasley.

Harry whacked Hermione’s back a few times before she managed to choke out the mush into a napkin Tonks handed her.

“Morning Tonks,” the twins greeted together.

No one paid any mind to Sirius’ continued cursing as he waved his soaked arm about.

“You don’t seem like you’re enjoying yourself very much on this fine morning, Hermione,” Fred noted innocently.

“I’m not above suffocating you in your sleep,” she croaked, teary eyed. She took a gulping sip of the glass of water someone had put in front of her. George, she thought. 

The twin in question raised a hand to his chest, a mock hurt expression on his face. 

“Boys,” Mr. Weasley said seriously, “we’ve spoken about this.”

“You are not allowed to apparate in the kitchen!” Mrs. Weasley jumped in. “You could have killed someone last night, and just now Hermione might have been worse off.”

“There are appropriate places to apparate, and places where apparating is not appropriate,” Mr. Weasley continued. 

“You mentioned,” George sighed, dropping himself into the chair beside Hermione. 

“Sorry, Hermione,” Fred mumbled, ruffling her hair as he walked past. “Didn’t think you’d react that way.”

She didn’t respond beyond an annoyed look. As if she had chosen to choke and almost asphyxiate. 

“You’re looking awfully put together for such an early morning, Sirius,” George said. 

“Well, us Blacks take quite a bit of pride in our looks,” Sirius told them as he fixed his hair in the reflection of the coffee pot’s top, the sleeve of his dress shirt still a soggy brown from the earlier spill.

“Say,” Fred grinned, “do you also take pride in–”

“Fred!” His mother snapped. “If that’s the beginning of another one of your repulsive and inappropriate jokes, I would advise you to think twice before continuing. There are children who haven’t even begun their fifth year in this room.”

“I’m not a child,” Harry mumbled, nose scrunched and tone sullen. 

“Yeah, Harry’s heard far worse in the lockers,” George admitted and seemed to realise his mistake a moment too late. 

Hermione grimaced.

“And I suppose that makes it alright, then?” Mrs. Weasley said, a rosy tint growing over her cheeks. “Your behaviour has been unacceptable this summer. If that’s the way you’ve been acting at Hogwarts, in Quidditch, then I’ll be having a talk with Professor McGonagall.”

“Bloody hell, you can’t be serious,” Fred exclaimed in disbelief. 

Sirius and Harry both looked like they wanted to make a joke at his use of the word, but contained themselves.

“Oh, I most certainly am,” she shot back, pointing her spatula at him.

“Now isn’t the time for this,” Mr. Weasley said. “Fred, George, do as you're told. You can’t expect to join the Order if you won’t even follow basic rules on apparating.”

The two looked rather mullish, but settled down. Within the minute they had talked a tired Tonks into changing the shape of her nose into a rodent of some sort. 

By the time Ginny and Ron made it to the kitchen Remus had left—he mentioned an interview with a magical pest exterminating company—Hermione and Harry had finished their porridge, and the twins were shovelling down their eggs and bacon as they jotted down discrete notes while Tonks repeated different transformations. 

Sirius was updating Harry on his and Buckbeak’s adventures before his return to Grimmauld Place when Ron plonked himself down on Fred's other side with a tired groan. The noise drew Mrs. Weasley’s attention, and with it, she spied the notepad positioned just under Fred’s arm. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of it.

Hermione stared across the table at Sirius, who sat in front of her and one seat to her left, and allowed the general bustle of the kitchen and Mrs. Weasley’s scolding of the twins to fade into the background. There was a tenseness to the set of his shoulders, one she hadn’t noticed the night before, or earlier that morning, when he sat beside Professor Lupin. Hermione thought back to the drawing room of an old manor, a floor stained with her blood, and a slur freshly carved into her arm.

Even now, her shoulders tensed at the foreign memory. A hand ghosted over the arm—there was unblemished skin underneath, and wasn’t that odd.

It was only the voice’s experiences, Hermione reminded herself. But she couldn’t quite stop the thought of what if it was her own as they crept into her head.

How long would she have lasted if she had to spend day after day in that drawing room, even if Bellatrix Lestrange and the Malfoys weren’t in it with her. While she still believed that divination and the inner eye and reading tea leaves was barmy, Hermione would have prayed to every deity Trelawny worshipped if it meant she never had to find out. How had Sirius managed to last this long at Grimmauld Place?

A part of her wondered why it never crossed her mind before, why it barely flitted through the voice’s, what Sirius gave up every day for the Order.

She blinked back into focus when a plate of cinnamon rolls was placed a little in front of her. Sirius stared back at her from his spot, his head tilted inquiringly. She cleared her throat, scooped one up and placed it in her empty bowl. 

Apparently, she couldn’t change this—the Order’s headquarters. At least she hadn’t been able to yet, but perhaps she could still make a difference for him. 

Mrs. Weasley, who had placed the sweets down, looked over to the ticking grandfather clock by the entryway. “Ginny, dear, would you go collect the Prophet? There should be an owl with a few copies by the doorstep.”

“But I did it yesterday,” Ginny grumbled, getting up and heading to the door anyway. “If Ron were more useful–”

“Hey!” Ron yelped around a mouthful of the bun, affronted expression rather humorous with his puffed chipmunk-like cheeks. 

The twins didn’t bother hiding their laughter. 

Ignoring their antics, Hermione shot Sirius a weak smile.

“You mentioned permanent sticking charms yesterday, and I was looking through some of the books I brought with me yesterday and came across one I ordered in fourth year, An Architect’s Compendium of Olde Charms by Ridge Barracus Bones.” She paused to take the bite, chew and swallow, and used the time to debate how to continue. She couldn’t exactly say that years from now, or years ago, or in an entirely different world, she had managed to find a way to rid the townhouse of Sirius’ wretched harpy of a mother, as he so frequently called her, and used it to cow the portrait into behaving. “I was wondering if you were interested in a bit of remodeling.”

“Depends on what you were thinking.”

Hermione shrugged, a faux look of boredom on her face even as her eyes, still trained on Sirius, gleamed humourously. “I was thinking we could take down a wall, though it’ll likely have to be the Muggle way.”

“I volunteer my services!” Fred rushed out, jumping to his feet in his hurry.

“I do as well, good Madam,” George grinned. “You could do me no greater kindness than allow me–”

“Absolutely not!” Mrs. Weasley hollered and rounded on Sirius. “I won’t have these children following your foolhardy ways. Merlin knows what’s lurking in these very walls after all this time.”

“Let them have some fun, Molly.” Sirius didn’t bother to hide his eye roll. “They need something to keep them busy.”

“Some fun? Every year their lives are put in danger, they should be kept out of harm's way this summer, at home with family. Already, poor Hermione has been forced to leave her—and might I remind you whose fault that is. And if only Percy–” she slapped a hand over her mouth, and the only sound within the kitchen was her loud breathing and the occasional scraping of cutlery.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Mr. Weasley said stiffly. “We can revisit this topic at a later time, and in the meanwhile, we’ll continue as is.”

“As is, meaning we’re barely allowed to make a sound as we try to live?” Fred said. 

“This discussion is over, Fred,” Mr. Weasley said more sternly. “I need to head to work, I’ll be late otherwise.” 

“Oh.” Mrs. Weasley blinked. “Of course. Send an owl if you won't be back by breakfast.” 

He nodded and headed up the stairs out of the basement, briefly saying goodbye to Ginny who passed him on her way back down. 

Hermione caught the copy Ginny threw at her and pulled on one end of the twine tie. The Prophet, in all its biased glory, sprung open. She froze at the same moment as Mrs. Weasley, across the kitchen, murmured a horrified, “Dear Merlin.”

Sirius had shot to his feet by the time the second had passed, but he never made it across the kitchen. Instead, he caught sight of the front page of Hermione’s edition of the Prophet. 

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE REPLACED AS CHIEF WARLOCK FOLLOWING VOTE OF NON-CONFIDENCE 

It was an expected development, said the voice, not at all surprised. Hermione herself had witnessed it happening, this very article being published in a different world on a different day. A later day. But seeing it in front of her still felt like a boulder pressed against her chest. 

The Order was of little use during fifth year, the voice told her, something they had already stated multiple times. It wasn’t helped by their hyper-focus on a crystal ball. Their usefulness and success dropped drastically after Dumbledore’s exile from the Ministry.

A part of Hermione, one which had come into existence during her first year at Hogwarts, one filled with an eerie paranoia too old for her age, a caution and discomfort too existent to be normal, and a fear too real to admit, a part which had been fostered beyond anything she could have ever desired since the beginning of the summer, sat there and wondered. 

Professor Dumbledore was removed earlier than in the voice’s life—in the voice’s world. What was the catalyst in it?

Perhaps her actions had truly caused such a huge interruption for the Order. For Professor Dumbledore as the Chief Warlock. 

It was possible. Technically.

But more likely not the reason behind this. Perhaps the fact that Professor Dumbledore was abruptly no longer Chief Warlock, no longer holding a position within the Ministry, the day after Sirius demanded he do something about his wanted status wasn’t unrelated. Because now, if Sirius were to complain, all Professor Dumbledore would need to say was that he wasn’t able to do anything. 

And before, the voice hissed, he had chosen not to. 

Hermione cast a glance at Sirius, who appeared to be staring through the newspaper. Harry had gone completely still in his spot. Around them, the Weasleys buzzed in response to the article—Mrs. Weasley displayed a particular outrage at the contents of the newspaper. 

Ron’s expression was grave as he turned back to his porridge, refusing to even finish the article. Harry, in comparison, looked uncertain about the entire thing, as though he couldn’t decide how to feel about it. The twins, to her left, began cracking jokes about possibly getting away with more in front of him, now that Dumbledore was no longer a part of the Ministry. 

Tellingly, Mrs. Weasley didn’t scold them for doing so. Instead, Red in the face, her eyes zipped through the article, and then she began flipping through the rest of the paper in a chilling silence. 

Sirius looked up, meeting Hermione’s eyes, and she suspected she wasn’t the only one who questioned the timing of it all.

“That–” Mrs. Weasley sucked in a breath, face flushed, “–that is quite enough of that!”

She snatched the copy of the Prophet sitting between Tonks and Harry—Harry’s copy, technically, though he didn’t appear to mind all that much—and stuffed it in the pocket of her apron. 

“This slander will not be tolerated,” Mrs. Weasley decided, and gave a finalising nod to the rest of the now quiet occupants of the kitchen. She turned to Hermione and motioned to her copy. “Hermione, dear, would you hand me that?”

Do it, the voice instructed. 

She carefully slid the paper across the table and watched it disappear into the same pocket. 

“Can we at least read the comic section?” Fred asked in the awkward silence.

“This is not a joking matter,” Mrs. Weasley said with a glare. “I will not have you making light of it in this household.”

“They’re kids Molly, as you keep insisting,” Sirius said.

“Exactly right, Sirius,” she replied snidely. “I’ll not have them exposed to such–”

“The newspaper’s not going to bloody eat them.” Sirius rolled his eyes, and dropped into the chair in front of Hermione, slouching. “You can’t censor public information–”

“We’ve already spoken about this. Dumbledore has spoken to you, Remus has—don’t you remember anything that was said last night?” 

“I remember,” Sirius began with a snarl, “that additional information on the Order was off limits. What do you think will be happening when they get to Hogwarts? Will you just pop in every morning and confiscate every student’s paper?”

“How you could even–” she gasped in an enraged breath. “I am trying to do the best by these children–”

“I’ve never questioned your intentions, have I? Though you can’t exactly say the same, can you?” he sneered. 

“I only question you because your actions are questionable, Sirius. If you behaved in an appropriate–”

Hermione wondered why it suddenly made such a difference to all the adults. True, even at Hogwarts the professors were a fan of policing information, Harry often being turned away by Professor Dumbledore when he asked questions, however they never did anything. What good would policing information do when they rarely intervened in any of what occurred?

Hermione, Ron and Harry, and likely countless others before them, were child soldiers forged in classrooms and the halls between them. In girl’s bathrooms and chambers hidden by traps and sinks. In a year being hunted or having a best friend hunted, and a year spent being drained by creatures who still haunted them. In a shack on a full moon, locked in with a mass murderer and a werewolf, and then between dodging dementors. In the fields and forests of a campground with curses raining down upon them. In a year spent watching a friend close enough to be a brother walk to his death because an old man wanted political exposure, and witnessing him reappear drenched in blood and only to be dragged off before they could tangle their fingers into his robes to never lose sight of him again. 

She couldn’t understand the logic behind their determination to exclude them from learning about the reality around them when they were also forced to face it alone. 

“Am I interrupting?” A deep voice asked from the basement stairwell. 

The occupants of the kitchen shot around and found Kingsley watching them. The Auror looked worse for wear, the circles under his eyes slightly swollen from what Hermione suspected was a lack of sleep.

He was interrupting, and by the way Fred opened his mouth, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips, Hermione assumed the redhead was about to tell him so. 

“I requested Hestia relieve me early,” Kingsley told the room—Sirius and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley being the intended recipients, Hermione assumed, as Tonks’ was slumped against the table and small snores escaped her. “I thought I would leave a report before heading home. I fear I may be coming down with something.”

“Oh, of course, I’ll floo Dumbledore,” Mrs. Weasley said worriedly. “Right, you lot, upstairs with the lot of you.”

“Wh–bu’ Mum, I ‘aven’t e’en fin’shed bre’k–” Ron mumbled through a mouthful.

“You’ll simply have to have a big lunch,” Mrs. Weasley replied in a hurry, actually pulling the boy out of his seat and herding him and Ginny towards the staircase. “We’ll be starting on the drawing room soon, go change into something old.”

“Right, Harry, if you would follow me,” Sirius said, heading out himself. 

Hermione followed their lead, though didn’t continue up past the first floor. Instead, she slipped into the drawing room, surveying the filthy state of it. 

The drawing room was a too-familiar high-ceilinged room on the first floor with olive green walls and dusty tapestries. The carpet between the couches exhaled little clouds of dust every time someone stepped on it. Altogether, the entire room was in a far worse state than it appeared to be in the voice’s most recent memories. 

Hermione’s attention was quickly devoted to the dark curtains covering the windows on the wall to the left and straight ahead when entering the room. They were buzzing as though swarming with invisible bees. 

Doxies, the voice whispered.

And yes, that was a hairy leg sticking out. 

Ron stood a little to her right, face so close to the coffee table it was almost pressed up against the wood as he inspected the carvings along its edges. 

“The rest of this floor has been cleaned out,” Sirius told them, as he entered the room a few minutes after Ron, “not that there’s much else to it. Merlin knows what that rotten elf has been up to all these years.”

“He’s incredibly old. The poor thing should have been freed decades ago, all the work it would take for him to look after this place would be horrid on his joints.”

“We can’t set him free, he knows too much about the Order,” Sirius said tersely. He nudged the coffee table with his boot, sneering when a cloud of dust puffed up from the rug underneath, and a critter with too many legs for Hermione’s comfort went shooting out and under the sofa. 

Ron, who had taken a step back, went remarkably pale and stumbled over his feet sputtering incoherently. 

“I know,” Hermione replied mournfully. She followed Ron’s lead in backing up from the sofa, though in a less haphazard nature. She doubted she would have tripped, the new house being far too familiar, and the harmony she had begun feeling after the rituals the night before leaving her too in tune with her surroundings, but she considered the focus well spent regardless. “He’s not in the right head.”

“He’s been alone too long,” Sirius said, “taking orders from my mother’s portrait and talking to himself, but he was always a foul little–”

“Sirius!” Hermione barked, aghast and sounding remarkably dog-like resulting in a grin from the wizard.

“Anyway, the shock would kill him. You suggest to him that he leave this house, see how he takes it.”

Thanks to everything the voice had shown her, Hermione knew all too well just how Kreacher would react to such a suggestion, and knew her energy was better devoted elsewhere, as much as it pained her to do so. She consoled herself with the promise that she wasn’t throwing away the goal, only putting it on hold. 

“Any idea when your mother’s coming up?” Sirius asked Ron, who had been steadily shuffling back over the course of Hermione and Sirius’ conversation, and was now plastered to the wall. Right against the Black Family Tapestry, to be exact. 

“She’s getting the Doxycide ready with Ginny,” Ron mumbled, eyes glued to the dark slit under the bottom of the sofa. “Took the twins with her too, didn’t trust them in here on their own.”

Hermione walked over to the tapestry, running her hand along the branches. It was dusty, worn and gnawed in places, nevertheless, the familiar golden embroidery along the top glinted brightly. 

THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK

TOUJOURS PUR’

“Toujours Pur, it’s French,” Hermione said, as she wasn’t sure what else to.

“The family has a history of allying with the French. Lots of pureblood families do.”

“Is that because of the branches of magic practiced? The Light versus Dark differences?”

“Not quite, though nowadays magic is more often classified based on the politics of the week than its actual branch,” Sirius said, who was now inspecting a display case to the left of the door. “Despite how some may try and deny it, the majority of the Sacred Twenty-Eight have some sort of history involving creatures. It’s their blood and magic which helped strengthen quite a few family magics. The Malfoy’s are part Veela, though they haven’t had a full Veela in the line for a little while now.” 

In the past, every four or five generations the Lord would marry one, the voice told her. While it was never explained why it stopped, the last full Veela to marry into the Malfoy line was eight generations ago.

Sirius continued on, “The Blacks have always had a close association with Vampires—had, I suppose. Not like much of anything has been going on lately.”

“And France has a large Vampire community,” Hermione realised, “which could explain the family motto.”

“Probably.” Sirius shrugged. “France has some of the largest creature communities in Europe overall. Much larger than here, not that we’re hard to beat with all the regulations put on creatures, especially anything the Ministry considers dark.”

“Does Remus know French?” Hermione asked absently, rubbing her dusty fingers off on her pants. They would need to be put to wash after cleaning anyway. 

“He spent some time there after–” he waved his hand about vaguely, “–everything.”

Harry entered the drawing room then, carrying a blood stained sack of what appeared to be dead rats and dropping them on an armchair.  

“Sirius let me feed Buckbeak,” he explained at Hermione’s enquiring look. 

Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and the twins joined them a few moments later, not commenting on the bag which had begun leaking a bit of blood out of one of its sides. Mrs. Weasley and the twins each carried a few large bottles of black liquid with a nozzle at the end, and Ginny brought up the rear with a pile of cloth in her arms. 

“Cover your faces and take a spray,” Mrs. Weasley told them. “It’s Doxycide. I’ve never seen an infestation this bad – what that house-elf’s been doing for the last ten years–”

Hermione, who had just finished tying the tea towel over her lower face, scowled. 

“Kreacher’s really old,” she defended once more, remembering the voice’s memories of the caring if cranky elf who had slowly become quite protective. “He probably couldn’t manage–”

“You’d be surprised what Kreacher can manage when he wants to, Hermione,” Sirius objected from where he was now crouched in front of a locked cabinet which was shaking lightly. It didn’t help Hermione’s mood that she knew he was right. “Well, Molly, I’m pretty sure this is a Boggart, but perhaps best to let Mad-Eye have a shufti at it before we let it out – knowing my mother, it could be something much worse.”

“Right you are, Sirius,” Mrs. Weasley said. 

They both spoke in carefully light, polite voices that made it quite clear neither had forgotten their disagreements from the night before, or earlier that morning. 

A loud, clanging bell sounded from downstairs, followed at once by the cacophony of screams and wails that had been triggered the previous night by Ginny heading to bed. 

“I keep telling them not to ring the doorbell!” Sirius huffed exasperatedly, hurrying out of the room. They heard him thundering down the stairs as Mrs. Black’s screeches echoed up through the house once more:

“STAINS OF DISHONOUR, FILTHY HALF-BREEDS, BLOOD TRAITORS, CHILDREN OF FILTH…”

“Close the door, please, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said.

Harry slowly made his way to the door, hesitating as he closed it. Once he had walked back over, Mrs. Weasley opened Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests, and bent over to check over one of the pages. Harry took the opportunity to shoot her and Ron a look, a satisfied expression on his face. 

“Right, you lot, you need to be careful, because Doxys bite and their teeth are poisonous. I’ve got a bottle of the antidote here, but I’d rather nobody needed it.”

Behind Mrs. Weasley, Fred and George perked up. 

She straightened up, positioned herself squarely in front of the curtains covering one of the windows, and beckoned Hermione and the others forward. 

“When I say the word, start spraying immediately,” she said. “They’ll come flying out at us, I expect, but it says on the sprays one good squirt will paralyse them. When they’re immoblised, just throw them in this bucket.”

If it weren’t for the voice’s memories of the Doxycide being a success, Hermione realised she might have refused to participate after learning the information used was based off of one of Lockhart’s books. 

Mrs. Weasley stepped carefully out of their line of fire and raised her own spray. 

“All right – squirt!"

A swarm of Doxys came flying out of the curtains, their beetle-like wings whirring and making an obnoxious buzzing sound. They were fast, their bodies covered in thick matted fair and four tiny fists clenched in fury at the assault. 

One almost managed to nip Hermione’s wrist with its tiny needle-sharp teeth. Quickly, the buzzing of their wings was joined by the noise of the Doxys thunking as they hit the ground and were thrown into the large bucket. 

“Fred? What are you doing?” said Mrs. Weasley sharply. “Spray that at once and throw it away.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione spied Fred wrangling with a struggling, screeching Doxy.

“Right-o,” Fred said brightly, spraying the Doxy quickly so it fainted, but the moment Mrs. Weasley turned away he pocketed it. 

“We want to experiment with Doxy venom for our Skiving Snackboxes,” George whispered around Hermione to Harry. 

Harry, who was positioned on her right, shuffled closer to George, who remained on her left, leaving Hermione in an inconvenient squeeze as a Doxy dived towards her from above. It managed to grab hold of her hair before she got it in the face. 

“What’s a Skiving Snackbox?” Harry asked.

“Range of sweets to make you ill,” George whispered, keeping a wary eye on Mrs. Weasley’s back. “Not seriously ill, mind, just ill enough to get you out of class when you feel like it. Fred and I have been developing them this summer. They’re double-ended, colour-coded chews. If you eat the orange half of the Puking Pastilles, you throw up. Moment you’ve been rushed out of the lessons for the hospital wing, you swallow the purple half–”

“–‘which restores you to full fitness enabling you to pursue the leisure activity of your own choice during an hour that would otherwise have been devoted to unprofitable boredom.’ That’s what we’re putting on the adverts, anyway,” Fred mumbled from about a metre behind her. He had edged out of Mrs. Weasley’s line of sight and began sweeping a few stray Doxys off the floor and stuffing them into his pockets. “But they still need a bit of work. At the moment our testers are having a bit of trouble stopping themselves puking long enough to swallow the purple end.” 

“Testers?”

“Us,” Fred said. “We take it in turns. George did the Fainting Fancies – we both did the Nosebleed Nougat–”

“Mum thought we’d been dueling,” George said. 

“Have you considered products that would affect more than one student at a time? Something that would have a class cancelled?” Hermione whispered with a grimace. It wasn’t a question she had ever imagined herself asking, however, she knew that if their fifth year resembled the voice’s, if she could keep multiple students from attending one of Umbridge’s classes—likely sparing them detention and writing lines with a blood quill—then, loath as she was to admit it, missing class would be worth it. “Something which would also result in the classrooms nearby being usable.”

“Ambitious,” George eyed her curiously. Suspiciously too, Hermione would bet. 

It wasn’t mentioned again. Instead, the de-Doxying of the curtains in the drawing room took most of the morning. It was past midday when Mrs. Weasley had finally removed her scarf, sank into a saggy armchair and sprang up again with a cry of disgust, having sat on the bag of dead rats. 

The curtains were no longer buzzing; they hung limp and damp from the intensive spraying. At the foot of them were four buckets of unconscious Doxys beside a large bowl of their black eggs, which Crookshanks was sniffing at and Fred and George shot covetous looks. 

Her orange familiar had appeared an hour in, having managed to let himself into the drawing room, and was a great help as he pounced on the Doxies. It was less appealing watching him dismember them.

“I think we’ll tackle those after lunch.” Mrs. Weasley pointed at the dusty glass-fronted cabinets standing on either side of the mantelpiece. They were crammed with an odd assortment of objects: a selection of rusty daggers, claws, a coiled snakeskin, a number of tarnished silver boxes inscribed with a multitude of languages—only a few of which Hermione recognised, and, least pleasant, an ornate crystal bottle with a large opal set into the stopper, full of what the voice whispered to be Vampire blood. 

Vampire blood is always a useful substance to have available, the voice tutted, the magic sounding it pressing against Hermione with significance. Aside from its healing properties and the price it can fetch on the market, swallowing a tablespoon as a substitute for a meal will provide adequate nutrients and fill you up. 

Hermione, of course, had been aware of the nutritional values and the rate that Vampire blood was sold at. In her third year, Professor Lupin had even brought in a beaker of it. While they had learned of the calcium benefits that came with regularly consuming small portions of it, she had never put much thought into actually trying it. Her stomach churned at the idea of needing to.  

“Is that something you did, when you used to live here?”

For a while. A few years in and we were only eating a meal a day, even managing that could be difficult. This place is full of stuff, the attic has three shelves worth of it.   

She was saved from responding by the clanging of the doorbell as it rang again. Everyone looked at Mrs. Weasley.

“Stay here,” she said with a heavy sigh, snatching up the bag of rats as Mrs. Black’s screeches started up again from down below. “I’ll bring up some sandwiches. Ginny, come along.”

The two slipped out of the door, Ginny grumbling as she did, and Mrs. Weasley closed it carefully behind her. At once, everyone dashed over to the window to look down at the doorstep. They could see the top of an unkempt gingery head holding a dangerously teetering pile of wooden boxes. 

Mundungus Fletcher, the voice told Hermione. 

“What’s he got all those boxes for, then?” Ron wondered, squinting at the man below.

“Probably looking for a place to keep them,” Fred mumbled. 

“Yeah,” George agreed. “You two haven’t seen ‘im much, but he’s had Mum in a real tizzy.”

“She’s up and about shouting half the time he’s here,” Fred added. 

“He’s a gentleman of a more lucrative trade, see,” George grinned.

Fred crossed over to the door and opened it a crack. Mrs. Black’s screaming had stopped. 

Absently, Hermione wondered if Walburga’s vocal cords had been as capable of reaching such levels when she was alive. 

“Mundungus is talking to Sirius and Kingsley,” Fred muttered, frowning with consternation. “Can’t hear properly…d’you reckon we can risk an extendable ear?”

“Might be worth it,” said George. “I could sneak upstairs and get a pair–”

“Would this one be at risk of blowing up in our ears?” Hermione asked, recalling what they had said the evening prior.

George offered a sheepish look, but at that precise moment, there was an explosion of sound from downstairs that rendered the use of Extendable Ears quite unnecessary. All of them could hear exactly what Mrs. Weasley was shouting at the top of her lungs.

“WE ARE NOT RUNNING A HIDEOUT FOR STOLEN GOODS!”

“I love hearing Mum shouting at someone else,” Fred said, a satisfied smile on his face as he opened the door an inch or so more to allow Mrs. Weasley’s voice to permeate the room better, “it makes such a nice change.”

“– COMPLETELY IRRESPONSIBLE, AS IF WE HAVEN’T GOT ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT WITHOUT YOU DRAGGING STOLEN HATS INTO THE HOUSE –”

“The idiots are letting her get into her stride,” George said, shaking his head. “You’ve got to head her off early otherwise she builds up a head of steam and goes on for hours. And she’s been dying to have a go at Mundungus ever since he and Sirius…well, ever since Friday, I suppose.” 

“Even since Sirius snuck off to get me,” Harry filled in, his jaw clenched. 

“But these ain’t just no regular top hats, Molly,” Mundungus’ voice could be heard, not that he had a chance to argue much further.

“And there goes Sirius’ mum again,” Fred grinned. 

Mrs. Weasley’s response was lost amid the fresh shrieks and screams from the portraits in the entry hall. 

George made to shut the door to drown the noise, but before he could do so, a familiar house-elf edged into the room. 

Hermione winced at the sight of the rags Kreacher was wearing. It was appalling the treatment he was given, and dirty cloth only made her blood boil. 

Kreacher took no notice of Hermione or the others. Acting as though he could not see them, he shuffled hunchbacked, slowly and doggedly, towards the far end of the room, all the while muttering under his breath in a hoarse, deep voice like a bullfrog’s. 

“...smells like a drain and a criminal to boot, but she's no better, nasty old blood traitor with her brats messing up my Mistress's house, oh, my poor Mistress, if she knew, if she knew the scum they've let into what would she say to old Kreacher, oh, the shame of it, Mudbloods and werewolves and traitors and thieves, poor old Kreacher, what can he do…”

“Hello, Kreacher,” said Fred very loudly, closing the door with a snap.

The house-elf froze in his tracks, stopped muttering, and gave a very pronounced and very unconvincing start of surprise.

A burst of amusement came from the voice. 

“Kreacher did not see the young master,” he said, turning around and bowing to Fred. Still facing the carpet, he added, perfectly audibly, “Nasty little brat of a blood traitor it is.”

“Sorry?” said George. “Didn't catch that last bit.”

“Kreacher said nothing,” said the elf, with a second bow to George, adding in a clear undertone, “and there's its twin, unnatural little beasts they are.”

Hermione didn’t bother hiding her amusement, she stared at the scene with a melancholy smile. The elf straightened up, eyeing them all malevolently, and apparently convinced that they could not hear him as he continued to mutter.

“…and there's the Mudblood, standing there bold as brass, oh, if my Mistress knew, oh, how she’d cry, and there's a new boy, Kreacher doesn't know his name. What is he doing here? Kreacher doesn't know…”

“This is Harry, Kreacher,” said Hermione tentatively, hoping he wouldn’t draw attention to the fact that she should be just as new to him as Harry was. “Harry Potter.”

Kreacher's pale eyes widened and he muttered faster and more furiously than ever, “The Mudblood is talking to Kreacher as though she is my friend, if Kreacher's Mistress saw him in such company, oh, what would she say–”

“Don't call her a Mudblood!” said Ron and Harry together, very angrily.

“It doesn't matter,” Hermione whispered, “he's not in his right mind, he doesn't know what he's–”

“Don’t kid yourself, Hermione, he knows exactly what he’s saying,” Fred said, eyeing Kreacher with great dislike. 

Hermione frowned. She wanted to come to his defense but was unsure of how to. The poor thing really was quite old and senile, but he was also a vicious little protector who she had witnessed save countless lives. 

Meanwhile, the voice’s magic prowled angrily within her. Not interested in poking the proverbial dragon, Hermione tuned back into what Kreacher was saying.

“…that’s the boy who stopped the Dark lord, Kreacher wonders how he did it–”

“Don’t we all, Kreacher,” Fred sighed.

“What do you want, anyway?” George asked.

“Kreacher is cleaning,” he replied airily, ever evasive. 

“A likely story,” came Sirius’ voice from behind them, and Hermione spun around to find him in the doorway, glowering at the elf. The noise from below had abated—perhaps Mrs. Weasley had moved their argument to the kitchen, or she had managed to wrangle Mundungus back outside and had started on the sandwiches. She would have to ask Ginny later. 

“Stand up straight,” Sirius said impatiently, ignoring Hermione’s hissed comment about Kreacher’s joints. “Now, what are you up to?”

“Kreacher is cleaning,” the elf repeated. “Kreacher lives to serve the House of Black–”

“And it’s getting blacker every day, it’s filthy,” Sirius told him. 

“Master always liked his little jokes,” said Kreacher, bowing again, and continuing in an undertone with his nose pressed to the floor, “Master was an ungrateful swine who broke his mother’s heart–”

“My mother didn’t have a heart, Kreacher,” Sirius snapped. “She kept herself alive out of pure spite.”

Kreacher bowed again, ignoring the twins’ snorts. 

“Whatever Master says,” he muttered furiously. “Master is not fit to wipe slime from his mother’s boots, oh my poor Mistress, what would she say if she saw Kreacher serving him, how she hated him, what a disappointment he was–”

“I asked what you were up to,” Sirius said coldly. “Every time you show up pretending to be cleaning, you sneak something off to your room so we can’t throw it out.”

“Kreacher would never move anything from its proper place in Master's house,” said the elf, then muttered very fast, “Mistress would never forgive Kreacher if the tapestry was thrown out, seven centuries it's been in the family, Kreacher must save it, Kreacher will not let Master and the blood traitors and the brats destroy it–”

“I thought it might be that,” said Sirius, casting a disdainful look at the opposite wall. “She'll have put another Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it, I don't doubt, but if I can get rid of it I certainly will. Now go away, Kreacher.”

It seemed that Kreacher did not dare disobey a direct order; nonetheless, the look he gave Sirius as he shuffled out past him was full of deepest loathing and he muttered all the way out of the room.

“–comes back from Azkaban ordering Kreacher around, oh, my poor Mistress, what would she say if she saw the house now, scum living in it, her treasures thrown out, she swore he was no son of hers and he's back, they say he's a murderer too–”

“Keep muttering and I will be a murderer!” snapped Sirius irritably as he slammed the door shut on the elf.

“Sirius, he's not right in the head,” Hermione pleaded, “I really don't think he realises we can hear him.”

“I told you he's been alone too long,” said Sirius.

“If you could just try and work with him,” said Hermione hopefully. “Maybe let him keep a few trinkets from some of the rooms. You could let him store them in the attic if need be.”

“Problem is if we start letting him take a few, he’ll only keep wanting more.”

“I highly doubt that will be a problem,” Hermione disagreed with a frown. “It’s more than he’s allowed now, and I’m sure he’d be grateful.”

Sirius’ only response was a short hum of acknowledgement. He walked across the room to where the tapestry Kreacher had been trying to protect hung the length of the wall. Harry and the twins followed, and Ron returned to shooting cautious looks at the sofa. He tumbled after Hermione when she also headed in that direction. 

Hermione let out a slow, quiet breath. She tried to keep in mind that Sirius had a history with Kreacher, with Grimmauld Place as a whole. A part of her wondered how helpless he must feel, unable to do anything, unable to leave. She thought of the memories that still played behind her eyelids of a world scorched and burned; this very townhouse—emptier, fuller, just as lonely; the knowledge of there being no end. She remembered it all and thought maybe, just maybe, she knew how he felt. At least a little. 

She hated it here too, and she had less history with it.

At least Sirius hadn’t given a flat out refusal to come to an agreement with Kreacher. 

“…see here, that's Andy, she was my favourite cousin.” Sirius was telling Harry as he pointed to a burnt spot on the tapestry, to the right of Bellatrix and Narcissa Black. “She’s Tonk’s mum.”

“Tonks from the Order?” Ron suddenly asked. He let out an abrupt oomph sound immediately after. Likely due to George, Hermione suspected, who was conveniently positioned beside his younger brother.

Honestly, sometimes the boy had no subtly.

“That’s her. Andromeda and Ted Tonks’ daughter,” Sirius said with a grin. “Andromeda’s sisters are still here because they made lovely, respectable pure-blood marriages, but Andromeda married a Muggleborn, so–”

“You’re related to the Malfoys!” Harry exclaimed. 

“The pureblood families are all interrelated.”

“Can see the family resemblance though,” Fred began with a grin.

“Malfoy’s quite taken with his hair too, you see,” George finished. 

Sirius grimaced, then snorted a moment later. “Yes, well, it’s a Black trait.”

“Blimey,” Ron said in awe, “That’s Herbert Burke! He played for Puddlemere United in the 1800’s, set a ton of records, too.”

“Merlin, it is,” George gaped at the spot on the tapestry.

“Was a bit of an idol of mine as a child,” Sirius admitted. “He had to quit part way through his career due to an injury.”

The boys took the moment to crowd around the name, spouting facts and records about the airborne sport Hermione didn’t bother paying attention to. 

Heroine straightened her back, readying herself for the next topic. 

“A Black trait,” Hermione murmured Sirius’ earlier words as she stepped closer to him. Determined and aware she might regret doing so, she asked, “Bellatrix?”

Her chest felt tight saying the woman’s name. A sudden cold crawled its way up her arms and behind her shoulders, digging in. 

He snorted. “Bellatrix had a reputation for being the most beautiful witch in school, after her older sister, Andromeda. She looked quite similar to Andy, which might be why Lord Lestrange settled to have her marry his son when Andy left.”

“Was it similar to how you did? When she left, I mean.”

“No. I never returned after fifth year, went straight to James’ place instead. Andy, well I remember it like it was yesterday—I was there, you see. Everyone was. I was in first year and had come home for the winter holidays. Most of the family was together for dinner that evening, and she got into an argument with her parents at the table. Turned into a bloody shouting match. She was locked in this drawing room for a while. I never found out what exactly happened, but the previous Lord Lestrange and the current Lord Lestrange, Rodolphus that is, ended up coming over. She left in the end. Didn’t see her for years after that.”

“Would she have left the way she did if she wasn’t betrothed?”

“I’m not sure,” Sirius admitted. “The outcome would have been the same. Mother wouldn’t have tolerated her marrying a Muggleborn. Rodolphus though, well, he was head over heels for her. He had been since they first met. I’m fairly certain it was only him threatening to call off the marriage between himself and Bellatrix that stopped my parents from ex-communicating Andy. Being struck off the tree and having the head of house perform the ritual results in a full disownment, but you still retain your name.”

It’s only if you’re excommunicated that a wixen would lose all rights to their family name, and family magic. It’s a permanent decision too. 

“I suppose Remus was correct,” he said rather suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“About you kids having found a way to listen in. I wouldn’t let one of the others catch you, they won’t take it too well.”

“Noted,” Hermione whispered back. “I don’t suppose you happen to know when–”

“Bellatrix Lestrange?” Harry questioned loudly, drawing their attention to where he stood, further down the tapestry. 

Hermione felt the fading icy tendrils of fear coil themselves further around herself and the voice once more. A few of the voice’s memories she had viewed over the summer replayed far too quickly through her mind. It left her unsteady, and she drew in a rapid breath in reaction. 

Lowering your guard too early only begs for your enemy’s company, The voice said unnecessarily.  

“They’re in Azkaban,” Sirius replied shortly, either too distracted to notice her reaction or choosing not to mention it.

At the looks he received from Harry and the boys, he continued on. 

“Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus came in with Barty Crouch Jr.,” said Sirius, in the same brusque voice. “Rodolphus’ brother, Rabastan, was with them, too.”

Hermione bit her tongue, attempting to shove back to memories of tightly coiled black hair; a chase through the Department of Mysteries with spellfire at her heels; cackling, shrieking laughter; duals in the hallways of her school; her torn body and the bloody floor of a drawing room bleaker than this one; and shouted taunts during what would be dubbed ‘Hogwarts Final Battle’.

Talking about Andromeda had been so much easier. 

Fred and George were eyeing her now, looking slightly concerned. She did not doubt that her pale face had gone a sickening white. 

Through her mind, the memories chanted, distorted and all too clear at once: 

Lestrange. Bellatrix. Lestrange brothers. Lestrange. Lestrange. Lestrange. 

“–Does it matter if she’s my cousin?” Sirius snapped, now also shooting Hermione a look. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re not my family. She’s certainly not my family. I haven’t seen her since I was your age, unless you count a glimpse of her coming into Azkaban. D’you think I’m proud of having a relative like her?”

And suddenly Hermione found her emotions to be led by something other than fear. Because how dare Sirius say something of that nature to Harry. 

“Sorry,” said Harry quickly, “I didn’t mean–I was just surprised, that’s all–”

“It doesn’t matter, don’t apologise,” Sirius mumbled. He turned away from Hermione and the boys, and consequently the tapestry, his hands deep in his pocket. “I don’t like being back here,” he said, staring across the drawing room. “I never thought I’d be stuck in this house again.”

“It's ideal for Headquarters, of course,” Sirius said. “My father put every security measure known to wizardkind on it when he lived here. It's unplottable, so Muggles could never come and call—as if they'd ever have wanted to—and now Dumbledore's added his protection, you'd be hard put to find a safer house anywhere. Dumbledore is the Secret Keeper for the Order, you know—nobody can find Headquarters unless he tells them personally where it is—that note I showed you yesterday, that was from Dumbledore…” Sirius gave a short, bark-like laugh. “If my parents could see the use their house was being put to now…well, my mother's portrait should give you some idea…”

He scowled for a moment, then sighed. 

“I wouldn’t mind if I could just get out occasionally and do something useful. I’ve asked Dumbledore whether I can take you out—as Snuffles, obviously—so you could have something to do until school starts back up.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond but never got the chance to.

“Lunch,” Mrs. Weasley called from the doorway.

She was holding her wand high in front of her, balancing a huge tray loaded with sandwiches, glasses and juice on its tip. She was very red in the face and still looked angry. Ginny, a step behind her, carried what appeared to be generously iced carrot cake. 

The boys were quick to move over to her, eager for some food, but Hermione moved to stand beside Sirius first. 

“You alright?” he asked her quietly.

“Perfectly fine,” Hermione brushed off, as though she hadn’t resembled a ghost moments prior.

The problem was that she now no longer left like a ghost, but angry instead. And the voice was angry too, more so, probably. And the voice was making Hermione angrier. What was death to a being who felt the fury they did? If Hermione were truly dead in the moment, she reckoned there was a fair chance she would have the strength to claw her way back up through the earth.

“You’re stuck here. How do you expect Harry has felt?” she whispered mercilessly. “Always expecting to return to Privet Drive, always being proven right. He’s not had the luxury of ignoring his despicable relatives.”

“Hurry up, you two, or there won’t be any food left,” Mrs. Weasley called, shooting Sirius a displeased look.

After lunch, Mrs. Weasley set them all back to work on emptying the glass-fronted cabinets. The rest of the cleaning followed the same script the voice’s memories had, allowing Hermione to sink into a familiar level of concentration and the strong emotions within her to simmer. Privately, she was eager to fall into her new bed and practice her Occlumency exercises. 

The similar script by no means meant the afternoon was a quiet one. Some of the objects on the shelves had to be wrestled off, with Hermione and Ginny ending up in a pile on more than one occasion when the stubborn object in question would suddenly lose its reluctance to move within a split second.

Sirius sustained a bad bite from a snuffbox; a silver instrument resembling a many-legged pair of tweezers which Ron found to be particularly unpleasant—and then the book Sirius used to smash it when it tried to bite Harry, Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Hermione placed it in a corner to return to later; There was a musical box that emitted a faintly sinister, tinkling tune when wound, and they all found themselves becoming curiously drowsy and weak, until Ginny had the good sense to slam the lid shut; an ominously familiar locket that wouldn’t open, and which Hermione shoved under her waistband when the others weren’t looking; a number of ancient seals Hermione asked Sirius if she could take a closer look at at a later time—which he agreed to, placing them on the coffee table; and an Order of Merlin, First Class, earned for biassed and distasteful reasons, according to Sirius, which he was quick to throw into one of the garbage sacks.

At one point, George opened the latch to a beautifully carved wooden keepsake box, and two crystal origami swans went flying out. It would have been a pretty sight if it weren’t for the fact that the two were foaming at the mouth and had sharp metallic-looking teeth attached to their beaks. They immediately dived towards the occupants of the room snapping their beaks and attempting to bite them. 

One dived right by Sirius’ head. 

“Watch the hair!” shrieked Sirius, as a lock of his hair was sheared right off. 

“Blimey–” Ron jumped backward onto the armchair, struggling to climb up the backrest. He toppled over the back with a shout, his legs flailing in the air.

Mayhem took hold of the room. It was quickly filled with yelling, shrieking, and the sound of something shattering amidst the chaos. 

“Use the curtains!” Harry yelled, having just managed to trap one in the shabby curtains the Doxies had once hidden behind. 

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO OPEN ANYTHING!” screamed Mrs. Weasley, firing off purple spells. 

“IT SMELLED LIKE FLOWERS!” Fred screamed back.

 “WE THOUGHT IT WOULD BE BLOODY TULIPS OR SOMETHING OF THE SORT!” added George. 

It took another two minutes for the second swan to be apprehended, Fred finally slamming a book over the blasted thing. Mrs. Weasley finally managed to reach Harry who, all the while, wrestled the curtains to keep the first one contained. 

“Think it’s venomous?” Ginny grimaced, two steadily inflaming pinpricks on the side of her wrist oozing green puss. 

“Merlin,” Ron gagged. 

Mrs. Weasley hurried over, passing a scowling Sirius who was still clutching his uneven hair. “This is precisely why I told you not to fool around.” 

“We didn’t mean to,” George mumbled. 

“Wasn’t even that bad,” Fred added in a somewhat defense. “Could’ve been a full sized swan hiding in there.”

Considering the location, it’s quite lucky they were so small, the voice agreed. 

His mother, reddening in the face and firmly ignoring him, turned the other way. “Hermione, dear, would you open the door for a moment?”

“Of course.” She hurried over and did as instructed. “I can run down and grab some potions if there are any.”

“No need,” Mrs. Weasley replied, pointing her hand at the doorway. “Accio Dittany.”

A small vial of a cinnamon coloured potion zipped through the air and slapped itself into Mrs. Weasley’s palm. 

“We will be having a long discussion about your behaviour when your father gets home,” Mrs. Weasley said with a scowl, carefully applying a few drops over Ginny’s wrist.

The twins grimaced, grumbling their annoyance but not arguing further. 

“Back to work everyone,” Sirius told them, a firm frown on his face. “They’ll be time to mourn our losses later.”

Hermione hid her eye roll, sure the wizard had some hair growth potion nearby. From the voice’s memories of this summer, Sirius had a habit of getting quite drunk, yet his hair had always remained in pristine condition. She was certain he had product stashed around the townhouse. 

The remainder of the afternoon went more quietly, everyone rather subdued after what the twins had dubbed the Origami Affair. 

Several times, Kreacher sidled into the room and attempted to smuggle things away under his loincloth, muttering horrible curses every time they caught him. When Sirius wrestled a large golden ring bearing the Black crest from his grip, Kreacher actually burst into furious tears and left the room sobbing.

It was incredibly distressing to witness, and it was only the voice reminding Hermione that she could return the locket to Kreacher—once she had figured out what to do with the Horcrux—that prevented her from intervening then and there. It was a gesture she knew the house-elf would appreciate, as Regulus still meant a great deal to him. He likely always would.

It was later in the evening, past dinner, after Hermione had found her way up to the seventh floor, and then around the winding staircase to the attic when Sirius found her. She had been searching for a spot to hide the locket, knowing the effect it could have on an individual's state of mind if they remained near it for too long. As they were only working on clearing the first floor, Hermione figured there would be plenty of time until they managed to reach the attic, and the locket would remain undisturbed. 

She had wrapped it in a silk scarf and then stored it in a box shaped to look like a book—she had only realised what it was when she pulled it out, interested in the title.

Now, Hermione sat leaning back against one of the many shelves as she stared down at the morning’s edition of the Prophet spread out in front of her. Kreacher had returned it that afternoon, when she was reading alone in her shared room, a sneer planted so firmly on his face that it left her struggling to keep the fondness she felt off her own.

“You weren’t kidding about knowing your way around,” Sirius mumbled, staring at the towering shelves around them. 

Like all the other floors, and the ritual room, the attic appeared to be magically expanded. It was quite extraordinary, and Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if the magical expansions—undoubtedly due to rune sequences—were included in the home’s original construction or if they too were part of work done over the centuries.

“Ginny won’t wonder where you are?” Sirius asked, shuffling on his feet. “Second night you disappear from your room.”

“She’ll assume I’m off reading. Or speaking with Fred,” Hermione waved off. At his inquiring look, she added, “She thinks I’m sweet on him.” 

Fred was handsome, Hermione wasn’t blind. She also wasn’t blind to the way he looked at Angelina and the way Angelina looked at him and George. Hermione was too busy trying to make choices, and then second guessing them, to pay much more attention. She hoped those choices would be enough this time around to spare Fred. 

And if not, the voice said, in what Hermione assumed was an attempt to console, getting close to him is only bound to put him in the line of fire sooner. 

At the lack of continued conversation, Sirius gave a long sigh. “I’ve never had a habit of doing this, not that I had much opportunity to in the past decade and a half, however…”

Hermione snorted at his grimace as the silence stretched on.

“You’re alright, aren’t you?” He shuffled once again and stuffed one of his hands into a pocket on his trousers. It was then that Hermione noticed the half full glass of what she suspected to be Firewhisky. “I mean, you said you were perfectly fine, not that you were particularly convincing.”

“I am fine,” Hermione said. “Better at least. I suppose I’ve just been rather stressed since the Prophet this morning.”

“It’s best not to make a habit of jumping to conclusions in times like these.”

“I never said I was. Though I find it curious that you might have,” she stared up at him, neither willing to outright voice their suspicions about the timing of Professor Dumbledore’s demotion. 

“I could pour you a glass.” He raised his own after a moment at Hermione’s furrowed brow. “You’re almost seventeen, and magically you are an adult.”

Hermione stared at the raised glass.

Careful, the voice whispered. 

“Not tonight,” she murmured, turning to count the cracks in the wallpaper in front of her. 

With another sigh, Sirius made his way over and slid down the side of the shelf to settle himself beside her. “If you want to talk you’re going to have to be the one doing so.”

“It’s only–” Hermione pursed her lips, pausing for a moment to stare down at the article once again. “–It’s only that sometimes I wish they would try more—Harry and Ron, the twins too. And probably everyone else at Hogwarts. I understand they’re only children, but if they just read past the first page.”

She pursed her lips. 

“Dumbledore, and Molly, believe it’s best that you’re kept out of the Order’s affairs. Supposedly you’ll be more out of harm's way.”

Sat beside him, Hermione could hear the bitterness in his voice, how very much he disagreed. She wondered how many times, as an Auror, he was called to a scene and witnessed how innocence did not equate to safety. Which one of them had seen more corpses, more torn apart bodies of children whose only offense had been existing? Did it matter? 

A monster needed no justification to be monstrous. 

There would never be a shortage of examples to prove so.

Pretending the world isn’t a certain way won’t stop it from being so.

“What do you see when you look at it?” Sirius gestured with his chin to the newspaper instead. 

“I see that anyone who denies You-Know-Who’s return is a fool.” Hermione shifted, she leaned forward and flipped a few pages to the Employment Section. “I see that the position of Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures needs to be filled, and the Ministry is looking for someone to temporarily take over the spot until the new year. The previous head, Walden Macnair, is from a Dark aligned family, and was believed to have had ties to You-Know-Who in the previous war. For whatever reason, he is going to be unavailable to the Ministry for an extended period of time, but as the position is only temporary he should return from whatever he’s doing. Therefore he hasn’t been killed.”

She flipped back to the front page. 

“I see that Dumbledore has been removed as Chief Warlock. He won’t be in a position to prevent Ministry interference at Hogwarts this year, nor will he know who the Ministry chooses to appoint as their head liaison at the school.”

She flipped the other way once more and stopped at the Local News section. 

“I see that Lucius Malfoy, the Head of Hogwarts’ School Board, has put forward a motion of non-confidence in the school’s management. He is proposing that all the board members be re-evaluated. As the head of the board, he would have a large say in who remains, if the Wizengamot approves his proposal—and they more than likely will. It’s a chance for Lord Malfoy, and more importantly, You-Know-Who, to gain further control over what happens at Hogwarts and who has a say over the school. And the Minister will only be too happy to destabilize Professor Dumbledore’s support as Headmaster, which is how he will view this opportunity.”

She flipped to the Society column. 

“I see that Lord Avery and Lord Parkinson are hosting a gala together on Lughnasadh, the holiday in August. It says here that it’s in the interest of not allowing the international relations built from the Triwizard Tournament to fade. They are specifically inviting multiple French dignitaries. You mentioned France’s large creature communities, the bolstering of those relationships is likely to gain allies or at the very least attempt to ensure as many international communities as possible remain neutral in the conflict.”

“Is that all?” Sirius asked, incredibly still.

“It’s most of it,” Hermione replied instead. “More importantly, perhaps, is the fact that you aren’t mentioned.”

“No?”

“No. I checked. More than once.”

Sirius' lip twitched, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to let himself smile. “That may not last very long. Kreacher just handed over Lord Yaxley’s reply.”

He shook a yellow envelope in front of her.