Because of Reasons

The glass window panes sparkled as sunlight filtered through them and left warm stripes of brightness to paint the room. Hermione had already moved twice to avoid the warm beams blinding her eyes, yet she was too pleased with the room to complain.

It had taken an additional two days for the drawing room to reach its current state, though she could now confidently say that it was the cleanest she had ever seen it. The Doxy chewed and moth eaten curtains had been removed, their state far too shabby for Mrs. Weasley to bother trying to restore. Still, Hermione was surprised by how much had remained.

Every surface in the room had been dusted—even after Mrs. Weasley had shot several Scourgify’s around—the display case and bookshelf had both been fully sorted through, the majority of the artifacts either thrown away or discretely rehomed to the attic—or, in some cases, the twins’ pockets. Quite a few books had also disappeared, though Hermione was mostly to blame for those. The books set to be thrown away were either ones with titles too intriguing, or books the voice informed Hermione of the importance of.

The empty spaces were now filled with plants, books the adults seemed to consider appropriate enough, candles charmed to never burn out—all scents of the season, Lavender had claimed—and a few other odds and ends that had been found around the townhouse and relocated to the drawing room.

The rug, beautiful as its dust muddled design was, had been thrown away, its state far worse than the curtains. Mrs. Weasley had sent twelve Scourgify’s at it, and then three Tergeo’s only for it to continue coughing up dust when walked on. Ron had refused to remain in the room when the couches were turned over, their undersides dusted and then misted with a bright green spray to keep future critters away.

Sirius and Mrs. Weasley had briefly discussed the possibility of having the couches professionally cleaned, though in the end recruited Kingsley and Tonks to help them with the task instead.

“Aurors have to pass a course on waste management,” Sirius had told them. “Plenty of scenes need to be cleaned and decontaminated.”

He went on to explain that said scenes were more often messy than not, and offered examples of their severity. The twins had jumped at the opportunity and managed to wrangle quite a few details out of him before their mother returned and put an end to it.

Ron had looked a little green at Sirius’ words. Hermione would have likely felt nauseated too if it were not for all she had already so vividly seen. Instead, she wondered if it would be possible to get a copy of the course content.

Covering your tracks and altering the appearance of a place without raising flags is an incredibly useful if undervalued skill to have, the voice had piped in.

Unfortunately, between the cleaning and the legal matters Hermione found herself juggling, she had not had time to look into it any further. It was a Friday at the cusp of July’s end, and the first day in the twelve days she had spent at Grimmauld Place where there were no official chores set out for them. Mrs. Weasley had mentioned an Order meeting that morning, one which would stretch for quite a while. She planned to send up sandwiches for their dinner as she was uncertain of how late it would go. At the moment, the Weasley matriarch was alternating between inspecting the townhouse’s other rooms and preparing food for the meeting.

The twins had sequestered themselves in their room, and Hermione was perfectly content to remain ignorant of their activities.

Harry and Ron sat by the fireplace—unlit due to the warmth in the room—playing a game of Wizard’s Chess, and Ginny lay on the loveseat flipping through Hermione’s copy of Witch Weekly. It was another change Hermione found herself making. She still considered the magazine to be a rag, though in a different way to the Prophet, but with the newspaper banned in Grimmauld Place she found herself subscribing to the popular witches’ magazine. The majority of the content she found to be of value were the current opinion columns and celebrity news. Even then, there was less mention of the Ministry than there was of Aidan Lynch, the Irish Seeker, and what colour his undergarments were most likely to be that season. However, she could now understand more of what Harry and Ron referenced in their Quidditch talks, not that she cared much to listen in on them.

Hermione had found herself contacting Lavender to set up her Witch Weekly subscription—the Order did not want owls regularly coming in and out of Grimmauld Place, and a trip to Diagon Alley was out of the question. Magazines such as the Witch Weekly were ideal, as they were magically transported to the residence of the subscriber.

Asides from all she had unwillingly learned about Aidan Lynch, Hermione had asked Sirius to transfigure a couple of cushions and throws similar to those in photos from the Magical Home section of the magazine.

The twins, after they heard, transfigured a fluffy cloud like dragon cushion, which was more of a stuffed toy than an actual cushion, seeing as it waddled around. They had attempted to charm it to breath out a small flame on command, however, whether due to a different charm or sequence of charms being needed or the material of the dragon, they had not been successful.

Instead, the fluffy thing went around letting out squelching burps that smelled of smoke.

Ginny had named it Baboso.

Idly, Hermione wondered what their next invention would be. The voice had little insight on the topic as they had been more focused reviewing fifth year material and spying on the Order during their stint of the summer before fifth year. Both tasks were high priorities to Hermione, however a different one superseded them at the moment—she had finished combing through the Ancient Rune OWL material the night before, and the next Order meeting had yet to occur, so there was little else for her to do that afternoon.

At the moment, she sat on the long chesterfield sofa reviewing the notes she had made in third year when studying the Ministry’s legal system. A Magical’s Guide to British Law by Davian Finneas Erik sat open to her left, and on her right was the correspondence from Lord Yaxley.

All, of course, were glamoured to look like information on the hibernating habits of Britain’s Fungus-Furred Flounder Ferrets. They were an odd creature, and unfortunately not part of the Hogwarts curriculum. Still, the looks she received for researching a fungus creature willingly were preferable to any seeing through the glamour she wove.

It had come as a shock the morning after the rituals when magic had burst from her fingertips. Fortunately there had been no witnesses as she had been in the washroom at the time. It was an even bigger shock when no letter from the Ministry followed, even hours later. It had taken a night of consideration between her and the voice, as well as a note slipped to Sirius, for her to learn that the Black Family Magic was responsible. As old as the family was, its line existing far before the Ministry itself, they had no way of tracking Black magic cast within Black properties.

The slight buzzing thrill of using magic still swept through her whenever she did. It whispered to her, eager and encouraging. She wondered how long the feeling would last. Regardless, she enjoyed every moment.

When Hermione had opened the envelope on Sunday evening, she had found two things within, the first being the returned Contract of Compensation promising Antonin Dolohov’s freedom in compensation for an official document stating an absence of Sirius Black’s trial records—one which would be fulfilled upon Sirius being cleared of all charged.

Lord Yaxley had returned it with his name signed at the bottom.

Lord Corban Kyriakos Yaxley

He had not returned the official request for trial records drawn up by Iadlerx, however, as a head of a department, Hermione doubted he would use it. The use of a third party request would only slow down the process for him.

The second part of his reply was a prettily detailed parchment with five words on it.

It will take a week.

The writing was neat and the cursive elegant in the way she, and more so the voice, would expect of a head of house. But the slight smudging on the corners of a few of the letters left her wondering how long he had waited before placing the parchment in the envelope.

She also wasn’t surprised by the discrete glamour over the envelope. As she had seen it for what it was, she wouldn’t have noticed it had been cast at all if it wasn’t for the way a different magic clung to it. The magic was so very light, though not dangerous in any way.

Just a hint of not-quite-the-same, the voice had noted.

When she had asked about its purpose, Sirius had told her, “It looks like whatever would make someone dismiss it.”

And so glamours, she found, were increasingly useful. They were also increasingly used by her.

The absence of the harsh circles under her eyes had relaxed the Order. Mrs. Weasley no longer looked at her in such concern, and her gaze didn’t linger long enough to leave Hermione feeling guilty about her own exhaustion. The few looks Tonks and Remus shot her had also stopped.

Sirius hadn’t made any comment, though she wondered if he had noticed when he never bothered to hide his own fatigue.

She tried to ignore the looks Harry and Ron shot her—the smooth, pale skin under her eyes had not deceived them in the same way. If anything, Harry looked more sympathetic the first morning she came down looking rested.

“The twins mentioned listening in on the meeting tonight,” Ron piped up out of the blue. He looked over at Hermione from his place on the dark wooden floor. “Apparently they think they’ve gotten one of the pairs of Extendable Ears good enough that it couldn’t be ripped apart by a cat.”

Hermione shot him a sharp look. “Half-kneazle.”

He snorted, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Do you think they’re worth using tonight?” Hermione’s eyes flickered between the occupants of the room. “We haven’t gotten the Prophet in almost a week, and while it may be a full meeting we can’t be certain they’ll say anything of value. Is the possibility worth the risk of being caught?”

Hermione knew that Mrs. Weasley would catch them using the Extendable Ears at some point, though the voice could not recall the exact date.

Enough has changed that I doubt the date we’re caught will be the same, the voice confessed. There have already been differences, especially with contacting Yaxley. How Voldemort has reacted is entirely unknown, and we don’t even have access to the Prophet anymore. We need a source of information.

Hermione felt an itch at the thought of the meeting tonight and a rough feeling passed over her magic. She imagined it was similar to how a bird would feel if their feathers were stroked in the wrong direction. There was a great deal of uncertainty surrounding the upcoming meeting, and if they were caught with the Extendable Ears that night it would be difficult to listen in on anything else. The remaining time before term began would be spent without the ability to keep tabs on the Order and their progress, and they hadn’t even made it through half of the summer.

The voice’s memories of the summer could not be counted on to fill in all the unknowns with how much had changed. It would be difficult to prepare for the new school year without the knowledge of what they would need to prepare for.

And they had already lost the Prophet.

The voice sighed, If it helps, I’m certain it was the end of July when Mrs. Weasley found out—in the last days. It would have been barely over a week before Harry joined us in my time.

“It is the end of July,” Hermione stressed. The purpose of the Extendable Ears was to allow them to listen in on Order meetings. To use them that night risked having them confiscated earlier than they had been when the voice had stayed at Grimmauld Place. With the changes that were undoubtedly being made in the magical world from the letter she sent, even if they were discrete changes, relying on the voice’s knowledge of the summer wouldn’t be sufficient.

Hermione shuffled through the voice’s early memories of Grimmauld Place. The voice recalled Harry arriving at Grimmauld Place on August sixth after being accosted by Dementors. She, however, had over a week before they made it to August sixth.

Harry cleared his throat.

“The Prophet only said so much anyway. Mostly a bunch of nonsense.” He shrugged. “I think it’s worth it.”

Ron moved one of his rooks across the board and a grimace formed on Harry’s face. “They haven’t said much of anything since dinner Saturday. Even if it’s stuff we’ve heard, at least we’ll know there isn’t anything going on.”

“I suppose.” Brow furrowed, Hermione turned back to the open book at her side. “Though for the record, even if not ‘cover-to-cover’, you should all be reading the Prophet more thoroughly. Quite a bit has been reported. You-Know-Who’s decision to keep his return hidden hasn’t stopped him from accomplishing quite a bit this summer.”

“I always looked through the Quidditch section,” Ginny defended. Ron Mumbled his agreement.

Hermione was saved from giving a response she knew would have been too fond when Harry groaned loudly. Her gaze shot over to the boys to see Ron had won another round of chess.

“You need to develop your pieces, mate.” Ron pressed his thumb against one of the small runes along the side of the board and the pieces repaired, returning to their original places. “You’re too focused on winning.”

“That’s the point of the game,” Harry sighed.

Ron shrugged. “Another round?”

“It feels like we’ve been playing for hours.”

“You have,” Hermione confirmed. It wasn’t yet lunch, but they had all awoken early that morning. Not a decision on their part, but due to Mundungus’ drunken entry in which he managed to wake Mrs. Black and then proceeded to set the kitchen aflame. The fit Kreacher had thrown afterwards rivalled the volumes his past Mistress reached. Sirius hadn’t even scolded him.

“Not like we can play Exploding Snap,” Ron grumbled, “not since Mum confiscated all our cards.”

It had happened the day before when Mrs. Weasley had caught the twins experimenting with them. While the two hadn’t admitted to what they were attempting, she had decided to put an end to all future experiments that summer. Fred and George had been ordered to stop, with the threat of not being allowed to visit Diagon Alley when the family visited for school supplies.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Weasley didn’t trust that the two wouldn’t use the rest of the house’s occupants’ belongings, and thus collected anything she considered potentially dangerous, including all joke products.

The voice had laughed when she did. It would be years before anyone discovered the lab the twins created that summer. It helped that the door to the room was locked, and entrance required a journey through the ventilation system. In a future she was determined to avoid, Hermione learned of it after Harry’s death.

Ginny scowled. “She’s confiscated everything.”

A burst of amusement came from the voice at her statement

Hermione and Ginny hadn’t been exempted from the purge. Mrs. Weasley had searched through their room and taken the birthday gift Ginny had gotten from Luna Lovegood. It was a set of green studded nails, and charmed to give light shocks to any leaping toadstool that might attempt harm. While Ginny had argued that the shocks were only as harsh as one might get from static after walking on a rug too long, Mrs. Weasley had held strong.

“She’s going mad,” Ginny insisted.

“Barmy,” Ron agreed.

She’s used to having things a certain way, the voice commented. Only, this is an entirely different environment, with a great many different people.

“There are quite a few people bottled up in one townhouse,” Harry noted, gaze settled on one of the windows.

Hermione flipped through the pages in front of her, eyes narrowed as she skimmed the words printed along them. “If you take into account the way quite a few rooms are locked, and many of those which aren’t we’re still not allowed into, well, it’s understandable that frustration is brewing.”

At some point it’s going to explode outward, all that’s needed is a cause to direct it at, the voice warned.

Hermione sighed inwardly. “Even if that cause isn’t responsible for such frustration, people will jump on it.”

Like hyena’s starved for a feast, the voice agreed. They would know, after all. They’re already upset, and your housemates are starved for an outlet.

Amidst the quiet of the room and her reflection of the voice’s words, Hermione thought of how dangerous it was to be surrounded by hyenas, especially when one took the appearance of simple prey.

Though they all remained in the drawing room, conversation halted for a while. For a room so pretty the mood was more somber than it had been since they began cleaning it.

Hermione took the opportunity to focus back on one of the potential roadblocks she had thought of the night before. Upon her return to Hogwarts she would need a method of communication that did not involve continuous letters. Letters could easily be intercepted. Hermione knew there would come a time in fifth year when Umbridge would read all incoming and outgoing mail, at least that of the students wished to see punished—a great many. Hedwig had even been injured on one occasion.

It was essential she remained in contact with Sirius. There would come a time where she would have to communicate with others as the Delegate of the House of Black, and the last people she would want notified would be the Ministry. If Umbridge read her letters it would only give the Ministry a head start in circumventing her efforts.

“May I borrow that for a moment?” Hermione asked Ginny, gesturing to the copy of the Witch Weekly in the redhead’s hands. No longer having access to the Daily Prophet, Hermione didn’t bother reading the magazine in its entirety. However, she recalled a short passage when she had skimmed through one of the less useful sections the day before.

She flipped through the prettily patterned pages until she reached the advice section. Her eyes skimmed the passage and came to a stop close to the bottom. One of the tips included the use of a two-way journal for young witches who wished to keep their private lives private while at home over the summer. Hermione had heard of the objects, Parvati shared a pair with Padma after all. However, she had never considered purchasing one herself. For a person to use one they had to be magical, otherwise the ink would not hold enough power to transfer through the pages. Before learning of the fact, she had planned on getting a pair to keep better in contact with her parents. When she realized it would be possible she had pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She was in the same house as Harry and Ron, and Ginny too now. It was quicker to attend office hours or ask questions during or immediately after class than mail questions to her teacher.

If she would find a pair of two-way journals, she could give one to Sirius and save the both of them the trouble of dealing with the attention of regularly mailing one another.

They will need to be secure, too easily accessed otherwise, the voice insisted.

Mrs. Weasley already seemed against Sirius spending time with any of them, Hermione doubted she would be any more supportive if she found secret messages passed between the two of them.

“I don’t suppose either of you have a two-way journal?” Hermione asked, gaze switching between the two Weasleys. She certainly hadn’t seen Ron with one, nor had he ever mentioned it, but she supposed it was a possible coming from a magical household. His brothers also worked in different countries, though Bill’s return to England was a recent, and likely temporary if he was to be believed, development.

“Mum and Dad have two,” Ron replied absently, and moved his rook across the board. Harry had resigned himself to another game of Wizards Chess, though he didn’t appear very invested in the game. “One for Charlie, and one for Bill, though I don’t know what they’re using that one for anymore.”

“It’s Bill’s, actually,” Ginny corrected. “He got it when he went over to Egypt so he wouldn’t have to wait so long for their letters or pay the cost to floo them over. I reckon he asked for it back to give to Phlegm. They’re quite expensive.”

Hermione hid her grin at the clear disdain Ginny held.

“How expensive, exactly?” She asked.

Ginny blew out a low breath. “Some brooms are cheaper.”

An investment then, the voice decided.

“One worth it?”

Entirely dependant on your point of voice, and they sounded far too unbothered him Hermione’s opinion. Your communications will be safer from the Ministry, but perhaps more dangerous for Sirius if he’s found out.

Hermione wondered what the Order would do if they found Sirius in possession of a two-way journal with a witch who was supposed to be underage. Would they force him to allow them access to it? What would it take to accomplish such a thing?

What would they make of their conversations?

And what would they do to her afterwards?

“Sirius said to ask,” Hermione murmured.

After a simple lunch Hermione wandered down to the second floor. It was days ago when Sirius mentioned the Black Library, and she hadn’t had a chance to search for it since. With the likelihood of cleaning restarting the following morning, the hours she had until then would have to be utilized.

“Excuse me,” she began tentatively, “would you be able to let me into the Library?”

Unfortunately, there was no response. Hardly a surprise, she was talking to a wall, after all. She cleared her throat and stepped forward. “Excuse me, would you be able to let me into the Library?”

She was met with silence once more.

You managed something on Sunday, the voice said, their magic fluttered and radiated a cautious curiosity.

“What about it?” asked Hermione, now cautious too.

When you asked Sirius, the voice began slowly, as though they were still mulling over their words, you asked about talking to the house.

It was rather absurd, and his suggestion had not worked.

No? Have you asked the house, Hermione?

She blinked. “Only moments ago. If you can’t remember–”

I don’t believe you asked the house, at least it hasn’t recognised your question.

Hermione huffed. “I just asked it to let me–”

You asked the air more than the house itself. The eccentricity of the Black family’s magic likely extends to the unique magic within this property.

Hermione translated that to mean it was egotistical beyond belief.

“Your suggestion is to attempt a repeat of whatever occurred on Sunday?”

It wouldn’t hurt to cross it off the list.

Hermione moved forward once more, only stopping when the ends of her shoes touched the wall. She placed her hand against the smooth wallpaper and waited for the gold presence, or whatever it had been, to reappear.

Again, she received no response.

“Any ideas on how I could replicate what happened?”

I’m not sure, the voice admitted. Try to identify the magic which makes Grimmauld Place what it is, and then focus on everything that isn’t the house. Find yourself within what's left.

Hermione slotted the word away to contemplate later, the idea that she was merely leftovers. A part of her, not the voice, whispered that she had been for quite a while.

She pressed the palms of her hands to the wall, and, after a moment of hesitation, pressed her forehead against it too. This time, there was no subtlety from the townhouse. The walls hummed, no real words to their magic but a feeling far deeper than any conversation could press into her.

A shaky breath, and she pressed herself further. If the library wouldn’t show itself to her, she wouldn’t allow it to forget she was there.

Perhaps it was that thought, or merely the continued contact, but the magic within the walls crooned. Power, so much power that kissed the tips of her fingers, and brushed against her forehead. Eyes closed, she could see the brightness of the golden glow from behind her eyelids.

The same images of vines, leafy and blossoming, slipped into her consciousness. It was so strong, and its strength grew with every second she stood there. Yet despite that, she only felt warmth and welcome from it.

Though there was no evidence that could defend the idea, Hermione had the impression that it missed her.

She focused on pressing more of her magic into the wall, envisioning the slow flow of a stream, and the rejuvenation it brought with it.

Yet despite the beauty, and warmth, and care that it cradled her with, there was something else within the house’s walls. Spots of different, and wrong, littered the place. People, Hermione realized. The other inhabitants and visitors who weren’t part of the Black family. Their magic felt like an oily residue over her skin. She wanted them out.

How easy would it be to force them out?

The house wasn’t strong enough to do so yet, not after the abandonment it endured, all alone, neglected and forgotten about. But how long would it need to become that strong again?

As such power flowed so closely to her hands, tempted and coerced her into letting it in—the armies she saw in her dreams would surely be unable to touch her, to breathe near her. The wrath such power would inflict upon any who intended to harm–

Hermione shuddered and pulled herself away from the thoughts. They were foreign, and not a foreign she had become familiar with.

She pulled her head away from the wall, and with a hollow voice order, “Show me the library.”

The magic at her fingertips froze. A part of her was surprised when it didn’t draw back, she wasn't related to Sirius. She wasn’t a Black. Except–

“I am the Delegate to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” an echoey quality attached itself to her words, “show me the library.”

The golden magic, vines, leaves, and blossoms and their entirety, shivered at the words. A second later and it surged forward, the golden energy pushed straight into her.

Hermione stumbled back, a gasp stuck in her throat. It took a minute for her to regain her breath and look up once more, and when she did it was to extravagant double doors along the wall where her head had rested against only minutes prior.

A hand ran over the detail door frame, and gold trails followed her fingers.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Within a step into the library it became clear the room was magically expanded, but the voice’s memories didn’t convey the sheer extent of it. There were three floors to it, and some of the bookcases grouped together had their own sets of stairs that curled around them. A part of her wondered if it might reach the size of Hogwarts’ library in its entirety.

I was once told that it is as dangerous as it is extraordinary, the voice told her. It’s little use attempting to memorize the layout, every time you exit it will change.

“Similar to moving staircases at Hogwarts,” Hermione murmured absently, still in awe of the magnificence she had been presented with. “If I get lost?”

I’m not certain, however if asking allowed you to enter I assume doing so will also help you exit.

Hermione spun around at the shuffling noise behind her.

“The girl has found the Library, oh, Kreacher doesn’t know what to do with it,” the old elf croaked, side-eyeing Hermione as he shuffled along the shelf. “Not respecting its betters, speaking with Kreacher. But Master has forbidden Kreacher from saying its proper name, even with the girl’s filthy blood. Oh, Mistress would never forgive Kreacher if she found out.”

She smiled softly at the old, familiar elf. “How are you, Kreacher?”

“It's speaking to Kreacher,” he Mumbled a little hysterically, eyes wide as he made certain not to look at her. “What my Mistress would say. And her poor, poor books left all alone with it. What shall Kreacher do?”

Hermione wondered what the Order, more specifically Mrs. Weasley, would do if they gained access to the Black Family Library. A great deal of what the books and artifacts in the drawing room had been dealt with–

Thrown away, the voice corrected snidely.

–but knowledge was an entirely different subject. While a first year most definitely should not have unsupervised access to the library she now stood in, and even those of age should exercise caution, that was no excuse to destroy history and knowledge. Hermione would use her common sense as she read through the books, and the voice would undoubtedly guide her. The Order was not likely to deem it acceptable, especially as she had no intention of mentioning the voice. If they were to learn she had unsolicited access to a wealth of information, a decent portion of which was centered on the Dark Arts, they would demand access and likely clear out the majority of the room.

“What was Sirius’ mother like?” Hermione asked in an attempt to keep Kreacher’s attention. The old elf had a habit of Mumbling under his breath, and if he were to do so around the Order, the library would be doomed to a similar fate as the Great Library of Alexandria.

The voice hummed in agreement. It would be best to come to some sort of understanding before he leaves.

Kreacher turned to watch her suspiciously, a slight sneer on his face. Still he looked less hostile than he had a minute ago.

“It’s only,” she continued, “Orion Black was a lord for quite a while. He attended Wizengamot meetings and plenty of Ministry functions; it wouldn’t be any trouble to learn about such a member of the Ministry. Yet most of what I know of Walburga Black is from Sirius.”

The magic surrounding the voice became decidedly amused. You’ve certainly seen quite a bit about Walburga.

Kreacher’s sneer only widened at the mention of Sirius.

“My Mistress lived here for many, many years,” he croaked stiffly. “Oh, she was the longest of all the Black Lady’s to be head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Kreacher served her. How she would mourn if she were here, what would she say? Kreacher doesn’t know.”

Hermione spent hours in the library. She switched between exploring and reading, and even managed to pull some information out of Kreacher about the library itself. Only when she knew suspicion would arise at her absence did she leave the newfound heaven. Though not before taking a book with her.

As Mrs. Weasley was on a mission to remove anything harmful from the premises, Hermione decided a bag to carry books was no good. There was a decent chance it would be searched, and the majority of the books within the library held too much magic for a glamour to hold up upon close inspection. She doubted the Weasley matriarch would react well if she caught sight of books such as A Witch’s Codex to Occult, Annihilation of the Dark Ledgers, or Manipulating Magical Bureaucracy in Britain, let alone allow her to continue reading it. Therefore, with a bag less than ideal, Hermione decided an expansion charm would be best.

To expand the inside of a pocket would allow her to keep the book on her without others aware. Unfortunately, she could only expand a pocket, enough so to fit a single book within it. Anything bigger would require a mix of runes and charms. It was a lesson Hermione and her dormmates had learned the hard way when they charmed the inside of Parvati’s bag to expand twice its original size. Halfway through the day the bag shrunk back.

Through trial and that year, Hermione had come to learn that the average size an expansion charm could remain stable was big enough to fit a book. Perhaps a few folded pieces of parchment too, if the book wasn’t too big. and , without extensive runes burnt into the material, a piece of clothing could only sustain a single expansion charm. To cast one on more than one pocket would result in both breaking within twelve hours.

With a few sharp movements over one of her jean’s pockets, she cast the charm. She settled on taking Annabelle Rhea Selwyn’s Occlumency: Omens, Labyrinths, and Stealth with her, and called once more to the townhouse’s golden flow of power.

Hermione was certain she knew her way out, but the help it gave in directing her to the door was appreciated all the same. It was odd to not see the gold, even in her mind’s eye, however she could feel it, and the way it called to it. Light and airy, pleased to direct her. When she reached the magnificent doors she trailed a hand over the wallpaper just to the side of it and in a rather clumsy attempt envisioned her own magic to press against it.

The points of contact glowed gold for a moment, and she could feel the pleased flutter from it. She likened it to a giggle, if a house was capable of doing so. Then she stepped out.

Arms crossed and lips downturned, Hermione watched as the doors disappeared back into the wall from the hallway. She promised herself that she would return when she had a chance, it was far too incredible a place to be abandoned.

“Whatcha doin over there, Hermione?” A curious voice asked from behind her.

“Merlin,” she gasped. “A warning would be appreciated.”

“We’re the ones who could’ve done with a warning,” George scoffed.

The voice went cold. How long have they been standing there?

“Well?” Fred asked, his gaze flicked from her to the wall, and back again.

“I’m not yet adjusted to being here,” Hermione settled on saying. It was true in a way, she hadn’t adjusted to walking through the same hall so many of her nightmares occurred. Often, when she entered a room, she expected it to be blood stained, filled with the sick and injured, only to remind herself what she had seen wasn’t her reality.

Not yet.

“Took Harry a little while to adjust too.” George leaned back against the wall.

The voice didn’t outright say it, but Hermione could feel the way they acknowledged him to be dangerous. She did too, but not in the way of twinkling eyes, killer-curses, and guilt. She stopped the smile that begged to form.

“He was in a right state when he got here,” Fred grinned.

“Reckon the whole bloody neighbourhood heard about it,” George added from where he watched her.

“Great way to destress, that.”

“Letting it all out at once,” the twins finished together.

“Different people react in different ways,” she smiled easily. Despite being a key player in Harry’s arrival at Grimmauld place, she would rather avoid discussing it altogether. The more it was discussed around her, the more it might be associated with her. “Speaking of which, I noticed your mutual interest in Doxies on Sunday.”

“Nicked two when Mum wasn’t looking,” Fred said Shamelessly.

“Good thing too,” George added.

“She did a full sweep of the room afterwards.”

“Wouldn’t have been anything left for us to take.”

“I could get you a few Bundimuns,” Hermione told the two. “If a Doxy’s venom proves useful, Bundimuns are bound to be jackpot invention wise.”

“What’re they good for?” Fred asked, narrow-eyed but interested.

“Their eyes are ingredients in plenty of potions, and their secretion, if diluted properly, can be used in cleaning solutions. Plenty of companies sell cleaning products made with it. I’m sure you could find nifty uses for it.”

George exchanged a few back-and-forth looks with his twin. “And what would you be asking in return?”

“A favour for each. They won’t be anything extreme, just a few pranks during the school year. Large enough that a class would be cancelled but no one would be hurt. And it can’t be tied back to you. You would need to have witnesses able to prove you were elsewhere at the time.”

Umbridge would have little mercy if she could prove them at fault. Detention with her would be far more severe than any other teacher.

“We tend to autograph our work more often than we don’t,” George told her, “especially when it comes to canceling class.”

Lips pursed, Hermione decided there was no use beating around the bush. “This year won’t be pretty. As long as it can’t technically be proven that you were at fault, even if everyone knows you are, I’d be satisfied. If you aren’t careful this year, the Ministry will have you chucked out of school, and if they have their way, right into Azkaban.”

There was a long pause, and another inscrutable look traded.

“You drive a hard bargain, Miss Granger,” Fred finally replied. He brushed a non-existent piece of lint off his jumper, and straightened its purple stained cuffs. “Two Bundimuns for a favour. We’ll take six.”

“Wonderful.” Hermione shook their hands and finally let her smile shine through. “I could have them delivered to your room tomorrow night. Or perhaps the day, depending on if we're set to work on a new room.”

George grimaced. “Heard Mum talking about a dining room.”

“They had Moody clear out all the good stuff last night,” Fred sighed. He looked more like a mournful parent who received news of their child’s death than a person who hadn’t managed to sort through silverware.

“Tomorrow night it is.”

“Might be a better place than a room, though.” George straightened up and sidled up to Fred. “Mum’s been nosing around the hallway outside of it. She’ll search it any day now.”

A dangerous move, not only because of what she may find, the voice said critically. In a place already tense she’s making it more so.

“She’s only worried,” Hermione defended weakly. Still, she couldn’t help but agree with the voice.

“There’s a system of vents around the place.” Fred motioned to a slatted metal cover along the lower wall, close to his feet.

“Pureblood households rely on wardstones for air circulation,” Hermione murmured, her brow furrowed as she leant forward to examine the opening.

They’re magically expanded on the inside, the voice informed her. Hermione envisioned a sneer at their tone. While not used for air circulation, they serve a purpose. It allows house eleves to travel around the property without the noise apparating would create. It also guarantees the occupants, the pureblood occupants, would not have to see them.

A wave of anger and revulsion swept through Hermione. It churned unpleasantly with her the longer she stared down at it.

We used them to communicate with each other. We left messages in the vents of different magical homes. Asking if anyone had a specific potion, instructions on how to hide from detectors, or how to create safe zones. By a certain point they were mostly used to tell each other who died.

“Kreacher might notice it.” Voice stiff, Hermione finally looked away. She was unable to completely hide the emptiness of expression.

“He might,” George accepted. He pointed his wand at one of the screws holding the cover in place, and made slow circular motions above it. Little by little, it twisted and unfastened. “Better than Mum or someone in the Order seeing it.”

“We’re going to use this one for the Extendable Ear tonight,” Fred added. “Goes all the way down to the kitchen, and we don’t have to worry about any bloodthirsty felines.”

Hermione shot him a look. Crookshanks playing with what looked entirely like a toy to him hardly classified him as bloodthirsty.

It’s other attributes which do, the voice said, undeniably pleased.

“The basement is two floors down,” Hermione pointed out. And that wasn’t taking into account the remarkably tall floor Grimmauld Place had. “Will we be able to hear the meeting?”

“We extended the cord, it should go most of the way down,” George explained. He extended his arms wide in a sort of demonstration.

“Tonight’s supposed to be big,” Fred reminded her. Ron had mentioned it that morning in the drawing room. “No idea how many of them will show up.”

“Haven’t a clue if they’ll all be getting here at the same time either,” George said.

As if Hermione needed a reminder that there were even more eyes that could spot them. The itch from earlier had remained, and once again she found herself wondering if eavesdropping would be worth it.

Some information is better than none. Regardless, I’m fairly certain it was almost another two weeks before Mrs. Weasley caught the twins.

“There’s always a possibility it won’t be Mrs. Weasley who finds us this time around.”

“Time to head down.” George grabbed ahold of her arm and pulled her along down the hallway.

“What on earth–The order won’t be here for a few hours yet.”

“Mum wants us to bring up dinner,” Fred told her from a step behind. “We won’t be eating with them tonight.”

“Makes a gentleman think the meeting will go long into the evening,” George added merrily. His hold let up when she tugged her arm back.

Even clothed, she felt the need to claw at the part of her that had been held.

The voice hummed when she continued after him.

“You’d best make sure you’re fully adjusted now,” Fred told her. His voice remained light, but when she looked back his expression was anything but.

Pity is a dangerous thing, the voice warned.

And Hermione agreed. But then she would see memory after memory of George, drunk, as he stood in front of a mirror having a one-sided conversation, and realized she wouldn’t be able to escape that danger if she tried. She doubted she would ever not pity them.

If they asked, and Hermione was certain they wouldn’t, she would explain it away as being tired.

It’s curious, in a rather disturbing way, how so many who live in the same house are utterly exhausted. All from different things.

A part of Hermione wanted to peel back at the situation, pause it and dissect it in its totality. What were the main sources of difficulty for Grimmauld’s place occupants? The upcoming war and tensions with it? Or perhaps was it more than that? Something more intricate and detailed that lay between the lines, something which could be traced back further.

Regardless, at a quarter to five, Hermione found herself headed back up from the basement with a plate of grilled corn Mrs. Weasley had prepared. Fred and George meandered a few paces in front of her, each carrying bottles of Butterbeer—their mother having expressly forbidden them from using magic to transport any of the food. It made the trip from the basement to the drawing room quite a hassle, as Mrs. Weasley had turned down an offered “turbo clean” of the dining room each time the twins had attempted to talk her into it. Hermione hadn’t bothered to count with the number of times they tried. Even after escaping the basement, they were faced with the many flights of stairs between themselves and their destination. And unfortunately, it wasn’t the only annoyance to their journey.

Later, Hermione wondered if it was fated for peaceful atmospheres to be broken at Grimmauld Place.

When the three made it to the bottom of the stairs that led from the ground floor to the first, Mundungus came stumbling around the bend with a dangerously teetering tower of boxes in his arms.

“‘Ello, ‘ello,” he said when he spotted them around the boxes. He smelled of overly sweet candy and a too thick smoke.

Hermione had the sudden urge to drag a hand over her face, or simply bury her head in a pillow.

The voice outright groaned.

“I don’t suppose those are the hats Mum was going at you for?” Fred asked, eyes ever eager and curious.

A dangerous combination for a Gryffindor. An especially dangerous combination for the Weasley twins.

“That they are.” Mundungus didn’t bother lowering the pile of boxes, he simply released his hold and allowed them to go tumbling down. The lids on two of the boxes when flying off and a third became askew. Flamboyantly patterned top hats peeked through the opening. Each hat emitted a light vapor, and those which had fallen from the more beaten up box even had a blue glow at their edges.

“What exactly do they do?” George asked as he inched closer to the wizard’s newest product.

“Don’t touch them,” Hermione Mumbled under her breath. If she recalled correctly, and she did, Mundungus had claimed the hats were irregular. It stood to reason there could be any number of curses attached to them.

Perhaps better than cauldrons, the voice murmured. She felt distaste all too clearly.

Fred hummed and George’s gaze flicked to her for the briefest moment before he nudged at the closest box with his boot.

“They're very posh,” Mundungus assured, and he let out a whooping cough. A cloud of purple smoke escaped his mouth, and seconds later Hermione felt as though she chewed up one of the dry, overly grape tasting pills her parents had given her as a child when she felt ill. “Got ‘em from some French bloke. ‘Ello sweetheart.”

The last bit was directed at Hermione, paired with a clumsy wave.

“What are they good for then?” Fred asked as he looked over the haphazardly packed hats in the boxes below.

“Quite a few things.” He rubbed viciously at his nose. He shot a curious look at Hermione when she sighed a little too loudly to go unnoticed. “Got a few things y’e might like too. Pretty witch stuff they use for fun, if y’e get my drift.”

She doubted he caught the responding grimace on her face, sight obscured when George shifted in front of her.

“These are better than ‘em products they be sellin’ in the shops, anyway,” the short wizard informed the boys with a nod to the hats below. “Clears your mind and makes your ‘air grow better too. Not old and crinkled like, but young ‘an fresh like a baby’s.”

“A good chunk of babies are born bald,” George drawled. He eyed the different boxes, and their hats, and didn’t bother to hide how unimpressed he was at the Mundungus’ explanation.

The scruffy wizard sputtered in response.

When he failed to reply Fred turned and shuffled Hermione up the steps. He too seemed disappointed with the so-called goods. “Better find a place for those beforeMum catches sight of them.”

The three ignored the shouted complaints from the smoky wizard below as he argued his products’ value.

The food was set in the drawing room, and George headed back down to collect the rest of it.

“You’d best head to the second floor,” Fred said with a pointed look at Ron, who had taken a serving of corn. “I’ll head up and get Ginny.”

He spun on the spot and apparated with a pop.

“I doubt he’d notice if I ate one,” Ron grunted. “Only take a minute.”

“Come on,” Harry grinned, “we’ve been waiting for this for ages.”

The damage to the other Extendable Ear had been a setback, and more than one Order meeting had occurred since. The only voice they’d managed to in those had been Mrs. Weasley, who didn’t bother to hide her thoughts on much of what Sirius said. At least, that’s what they’d put together from her shouts. Once, Mrs. Black had been woken up.

“Think anything will be useful?” Ron asked as they headed down.

“Hard to tell,” Hermione said. “Without the Prophet we don’t know much of what’s happening.”

“Do you think your Mum will lift the ban anytime soon?” Harry asked.

“Don’t bloody think so,” was the huffed reply. “She’s only gotten worse. I think Dad figured she’d calm down after a while. It's only been the opposite.”

“Change can be hard to accept,” Hermione sighed.

“Yeah, doesn’t mean she has to make it hard for everyone else too.”

I wonder if we’ll get to watch when tensions finally reach their breaking point, the voice said curiously.

Jaw clenched, Hermione ignored the comment.

“About time you got here,” Ginny grumbled. She stood by Fred as he carefully unscrewed the corners of the vent he had shown Hermione earlier.

“Bet you barely got here a moment before us,” Ron scoffed, and shot Harry and her a Can-You-Believe-This look.

“George is getting the Ear,” Fred told them. He lined the screws up against the wall, tugged the grate out, and lent it against the wall.

Hermione shifted to get a better look at the tunnel. It was a straight drop downward, presumably to the basement kitchen. At level with the wall, Hermione spied a tunnel that ran through it from one side to another. She would need to place the Bundimuns close to the edge of where the drop began, close enough that the twins would be able to reach it, but far enough to keep them from falling down to the kitchen below.

“Got it!” George called from down the hall. He jogged over, an ear in one hand and a long, wound cord in another.

“Well, hurry up then,” Ginny said. “It’s started.”

With a grumble about ungratefulness, he held on to one end of the cord—Hermione noted it had a grip of sorts—and dropped the Extendable Ear down the vent. The remaining cord unravelled until there was nothing left.

“…It’s unnatural,” Tonks’ unsettled voice floated up through the Extendable Ear.

“Death is as much a part of nature as continued life,” replied Professor Dumbledore.

“Be that as it may,”Kingsley said, “there are limits to what could be considered correct and when it reaches a state of horror.”

A murmured reply was given, but it was too quiet for the Extendable Ears to pick up.

“There are many stigmas surrounding them,” Professor Lupin explained, his tone soothing. “However, many are untrue and founded in bias.”

“Not as fearsome as they’re made out to be,” claimed Moody. “Taken a few down myself.”

“While I’m certain the stories are riveting, we have found ourselves off topic,” Kingsley sighed. There was an unspoken again to his reminder.

“But of course. Severus, you bring news?” Professor Dumbledore asked. His tone implied he already knew the answer.

“The Dark Lord has reached an agreement with the Visio Vampire Clan, and has secured their loyalty once more,” Professor Snape announced. “While a date has yet to be decided on, he plans to visit France once more in August to meet with the Proscrits Vampire Clan and discuss the same.”

“How many Vampire clans are there?” Harry wondered aloud.

“Three in Europe, all in France,” Hermione whispered back.

“Will he receive their support, Albus?” Moody asked.

“Not from the Proscrits Clan,” assured their Headmaster. “They have agreed to remain neutral for a period of five years.”

“The blink of an eye for a vampire,” said a distinctly female voice, one Hermione was not familiar with. The voice took no interest in their identity.

“Perhaps,” conceded Professor Dumbledore, “though far more for us. It guarantees five years in which Voldemort will not gain full control over France’s Vampire population. Five years in which they will not support him, regardless of what he may offer.”

“Five years they won’t support us, either,” Moody snorted. “At this rate, we’re set to return to how things were in the first war.”

“Oh no, Alastor, you’re forgetting the end of the last war,” Sirius chuckled darkly. “It wasn’t one clan supporting Voldemort and the other two neutral, a second one planned to join forces with him.”

“Sirius is right, it does raise concerns,” Professor Lupin said. “If all the major players return to their previous stances, circumstances won’t be in our favour.”

His words were met with a general Mumble of agreement from other members of the Order.

“There is little that will come from worrying, we must instead focus on what we can do,” Professor Dumbledore said. “What else has Tom done of late?”

“The Dark Lord called for a full meeting on Wednesday evening,” Professor Snape informed in his usual drawl. “The inner circle remained afterwards due to the nature of many of our tasks.”

“What’s he have them up to?” Moody asked.

There was a pause, one long enough that George shook the Ear’s cord around.

“Though it is likely beyond many of your understandings—a tragedy—based on his cues and what remained unspoken, there is reason to believe a few of his priorities have shifted.”

“How so?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“And if your expert interpretation of those cues wasn’t correct?” Sirius questioned.

“The Dark Lord appeared less eager regarding certain goals. When he called on Avery and Parkinson, his inquiries on their progress were done with little enthusiasm or interest despite their relevance to his future conquests.”

“Any of which are new?” Moody asked.

“Little that you are not already aware of,” Professor Snape gave a long-suffering sigh.

“So, only more that you’ve decided to keep to yourself,” Sirius sniped.

“It is unlike Tom to be easily distracted,” Professor Dumbledore sounded troubled.

“And outside of the inner circle?” Tonks asked.

“As of Wednesday, Thorfinn Rowle and Tobias Gibbons were inducted as Death Eaters. While they are not yet a part of the inner circle, their families’ histories allow their rank to be considered higher than that of an ordinary follower.”

A hoarse laugh rang out. Hermione could picture Moody’s sneer. “And of course, Fudge will be all too glad to ignore what they get up to.”

“Concerning what you call ordinary followers,” Kingsley began, “is there an estimate on how many he has gathered?”

“It is difficult to say. Meetings do not commonly include a great many. Usually, they are called on when the Dark Lord has a specific task for them, or events hosted. There have been none since the Dark Lord’s return.”

“Has there been any word on the Ministry’s interference at Hogwarts?” Sirius asked suddenly.

“Very little, though I cannot speak that is the case within the Wizengamot,” Professor Dumbledore told him. “I received confirmation from Lucius Malfoy, the Head of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, that there will indeed be a review of the board members. His letter included assurance that it would be completed before the beginning of the school year.”

“As if we needed any more proof whose pocket Malfoy was in,” Moody grumbled. “The Ministry has their heads in their arses.”

“What use is a review to them?” An unknown wizard asked.

“It will allow for members of the board to be dismissed if there is a majority vote which feels they are not adequate representatives of Hogwarts. Most of those in support of acknowledging You-Know-Who’s return are likely to be removed,” Professor McGonagall explained gravely.

“Surely they would not hold a majority!” Sputtered a witch.

From the buzz within her mind, Hermione was certain the voice was familiar with them, however, they couldn’t seem to place their identity either.

“There are far too many sympathetic board members for such a thing to occur,” the witch continued.

Hermione prodded the voice.

It’s rather difficult to place a face when I can’t remember a great many of them—nor have I met all the current Order members, they replied huffily.

“Previously,” Moody butted in, tone impatient and gruff. “Now, even some of the light families can’t be counted on. Thrown their loyalty to the bin.”

“Fear provokes heinous deeds,” Professor Dumbledore told the Order in his own brand of agreement. “I do not doubt that the majority of the Order’s supporters and sympathizers on the board shall be removed.”

“It will be difficult for us to remain aware of the board’s goals without connections on it,” Professor Lupin sighed. “I’m certain they will allow for a few neutral families, and perhaps one or two light families, to prevent accusations of foul play.”

“Oi.” Ron nudged her. “How many members are on the board?”

“Twelve,” Hermione whispered back, careful not to speak over the Order members’ concern that continued to drift out their side of the Extendable Ear. “Including the head, of course.”

One of the twins swore from behind her—she couldn’t see to determine which.

“Lot of bloody good that’ll do to have one or two light families on the board when there could be ten dark families,” Ron grumbled. “Imagine that, ten Malfoys prancing around and dictating Hogwarts.”

The Board of Governors can be quite an adversary when they agree, the voice warned.

“Unfortunately, there is little that can be done,” Professor Dumbledore said once the complaints had died down. “Based on the attitude and rumours I overheard before my dismissal as Chief Warlock, I suspect that once Lucius Malfoy completes his review of the School Board I will be alerted to the specifics of how the Ministry plans to interfere this year.”

“Wise,” Kingsley acknowledged, “to wait until so close to the beginning of term to announce the Ministry’s efforts.”

“We will have little time to prepare,” came Professor McGonagall’s voice, “and there is even less that can be done for it. The review will justify the delay.”

“Indeed. A wise move on Tom’s part,” conceded Professor Dumbledore.

“Well, we’ll need to be making some wise moves ourselves,” Sirius said snidely. “Which is precisely why we need to be working together. All of us.”

“Sirius,” Professor Lupin sighed.

“No. You said it yourself, Dumbledore, we have to focus on what we can do,” Sirius snapped. “I was an Auror before all of this, the order needs members who are capable and can be counted on.”

“And you believe yourself to be an icon of responsibility?” The derision in Snape’s voice was clear, and if it weren’t for who he was, Hermione thought he would have laughed too.

“Far more than you, Snivellus.”

“All right, both of you,” Professor Lupin began.

“I’ve done far more since the end of the school year than you have in the years since you escaped Azkaban.”

“All you’ve done is helped yourself,” Sirius shot back. “Your a coward, just like Peter.”

“I’m not the one who kept their mouth shut about when witches were being butchered!”

“You’re the one who helped butcher them!”

A cold swept over the back of Hermione’s neck at their words, an eerie feeling she could not interpret the meaning of. The hallway remained quiet, only the low breathing and the conversation from the Extendable Ear breaking it.

She turned to look down both sides of the hallway, and furrowed her brow.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Hissed a low, dangerous voice from behind them.

The cold rushed through her, a tornado as it tore through all in its path, a tsunami which mercilessly crashed down from above. With instincts honed from four years of schooling and another lifetime altogether, Hermione spun around launching herself backwards into the wall.

Her wand slid into her fingers, ready and waiting.

The voice remained present, though entirely tense within her. She would receive little help from it.

The figure—danger, the voice finally choked—glared down at George, their breathing rough and face darkening. Their eyes held a rage so potent Hermione’s own breath stumbled within her.

The image in front of her blurred and bended, warped from one figure to another. An Asian woman covered in blood. A blonde, dark robes in tatters and sneer sharp. Dark curls warped into red, blonde, charcoal black and then back again.

The edges of Hermione’s vision were smudged and faded, and her ears pricked at the muddled shouts she heard from around her, within her. It was difficult to distinguish between the two.

She ground her teeth. The pressure in her jaw spread through her skull and forced her focus back to the woman—because that was what they were, Hermione assured herself—who stood a few feet away.

A threat, the voice argued, short and stilted.

“Familiar,” Hermione replied forcefully, and the woman was. She smelt of fresh baked pastries and a general warmth, and despite her stance and the emotions she was emitting, there was an odd comfort that extended from her.

Hermione’s limbs finally loosened as she placed the identity of the intruder.

“Mum,” George said, a false cheer to his tone. He didn’t manage to hide the way his eyes had widened, or the way his cheeks had paled. Not entirely. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“HAVE YOU LOST ALL SENSE?” Mrs. Weasley shouted.

They had been banished to the dining room on the ground floor. It remained a dusty dirty thing, one which Mrs. Weasley had likely surveyed earlier that day and deemed to be safe enough. Hermione knew it wouldn’t stop there being an imprint of dust on her jeans when she stood up.

Mrs. Weasley, and likely the entirety of the Order, had also deemed that they weren’t to be trusted alone, as Professor Lupin and another witch, one who looked to be in her mid-twenties, had also joined them in the dining room. She had shockingly pigmented pink cheeks, and brown hair so dark Hermione had first assumed it to be black.

Hestia Jones, the voice decided after a few minutes. A good duellist, and skilled enough that she’s already involved in teaching trainee Aurors defensive charms.

The witch had a rather stuffed purple folder, the contents of which she was reading through.

She was, is, a pacifist, the voice said, sounding displeased and angry and mournful all at once. It cost lives.

On a brighter note, at least from Ron’s perspective, a tray of mini cottage pies had also been brought up when Remus and Jones learned they hadn’t yet eaten any of the sandwiches. It was rather kind when one considered that they had been caught listening in on a classified meeting.

Despite it, Ron was the only one out of the four who had indulged. With no intention of reading the book in her newly expanded pocket, Hermione asked to be let up to her room to get a book, and was escorted by Jones to and from her room.

She was quickly returned to the dining room, and settled to read A Historical Study of British Plumbing by Hadassah Crouch. Ginny had taken one of the pies, though she was poking at it more than eating as she listened to Harry, who was alternating between staring at the wall and arguing their case to Professor Lupin and Jones.

“You are only a child, Harry,” Remus said firmly. “At the end of the day, you are still only a child in school.”

“That hasn’t been the case for four years,” Harry replied stiffly.

Hermione doubted even a miracle would be enough to prevent it from extending to five.

“I can fight, I know how,” he insisted. “I faced Voldemort, all of us have been affected by him. We aren’t just a bunch of kids like you’re saying.”

“One altercation is not equivalent to experience on a battlefield, Harry,” Jones pointed out.

“It wasn’t just some altercation,” he replied hotly.

“No, it wasn’t,” Professor Lupin agreed cordially. “What happened in that graveyard was horrific, something I certainly don’t need to tell you. What we want is to prevent a repeat of such a situation.”

“How could you when you never have before?”

Her once-professor’s expression became pained. “I can’t change the past, but we are working towards a better future. It has been less than a month since the Order was reassembled.”

Time will have little effect on their competency, was grumbled to Hermione.

Hermione focused back on reading about the early plumbing piping systems in Ancient Egypt, and the methods European wizen used to magically replicate and conceal such drainage and water transportation systems to remain hidden during the witch hunts. Some still existed, hidden from the Muggle world as they mistakenly believed that London’s first interconnected sewage system was only created centuries later.

“I’m surprised you don’t have any questions,” Professor Lupin told Hermione when Harry quieted once more.

“I believe there’s little that hasn’t already been gone over,” she replied in her most diplomatic tone, even if she didn’t feel it.

“I merely recall you being more curious when I taught you,” Professor Lupin replied lightly, as though his words held no weight. As though his stare wasn’t as focused and dissecting as it was.

The voice’s magic tingled agitatedly but she was saved from having to respond by Ron.

“Prob’ly good Du’ble’lore talked ‘oo ‘em,” Ron said through a bite, cheeks inflated from the size of it. Clearly, he wasn’t bothering to hide what they had caught over the Extendable Ears about the vampire clans.

The voice’s experience told Hermione to leave him to it.

Later, she would thank him for it.

He swallowed, coughing a few times.

“Dunno if many would do good with them. They’re all pale and cold,” said Ron, a grimace on his face. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you. Got jumped by one in the Alley once, thought my arm had frozen over.”

“Yes, well, their physiology is quite different,” Professor Lupin explained. “It’s not helped by the Ministry’s opinion and attitude towards them.”

“Probably don’t like you,” Ron considered, brow furrowed. He froze a moment later, expression similar to that of when he forgot to write an essay for Professor McGonagall and she requested it in class. “I mean, just ‘cuz, you know, not you particularly, but the whole thing with, with–”

He cut himself off abruptly and stared at Jones as though she were one of the twins’ inventions inching towards him.

“My being a Werewolf?” Professor Lupin finished for him, looking rather amused. From the end of the table Jones smiled.

“It’s best if someone experienced interacts with them. Social expectations are far easier to meet when one knows what they are,” Jones added. In a soothing tone she continued, “You don’t have to worry about the Vampire Clans, Dumbledore and Elphias have years of experience working with them.”

Hermione’s gaze froze over the sentence she had been reading. She was careful not to look up at Ron, and hoped Harry and Ginny would make a similar effort.

“Well, Dumbledore’s brilliant, he’s gotta be an expert with all he knows. Anyone with sense would listen to him,” said Ron before shoving another forkful of pie into his mouth. He snorted. “Should’ve sent Snape to see them. Everyone’s always talking about him being a Vampire. Bloody pale too.”

“Despite his reputation of being a dungeon bat, Professor Snape is not, in fact, a Vampire,” Jones assured him. Her tone made it clear she was humouring him more than anything.

“Bet he’s at least friends with them,” Ron tried petulantly. “Could be spending his summers over there.”

“I’m afraid not. He remains unassociated.”

“That we know of,” he muttered. “It could blow up any second.”

“He is quite like any other professor. His summers are spent at home, and his time is his own,” Jones said.

“Not many witches or wizards travel abroad for extended periods of time,” Remus added. “It’s been known to leave their magic feeling restless after too long.”

With a conspiratory grin, Jones told Ron, “And you’d know far more about him during the school year than we would.”

“Pretty much stays in the dungeons, actually,” Ron Mumbled. “Don’t exactly see him at meals, ‘cept for the feasts.”

Jones hummed and returned to reading over the sheets of parchment.

“Can Vampires even eat stuff?” Ron asked around another mouthful of cottage pie.

At that, Hermione looked up and huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course they can, Ron.”

It was as though he had forgotten all the Defense material they had learned in third year. Or hadn’t cracked the book open at all. Honestly.

At Ron’s disbelieving look she turned to Professor Lupin for reinforcements.

“Hermione is right. While a Vampire does not rely on food for sustenance, their digestive system is functional. Their taste buds, however, are dead.”

Ron looked horrified at the notion.

“This was, of course, covered in your third year Defense Against the Dark Arts material,” Professor Lupin said, sending the redhead an amused and exasperated look.

“Snape skipped over a bunch, the git.”

He had. Their study of Red Caps and Hinkypunks were cut short the first time he substituted for Professor Lupin, and were not returned to until the end of the year review. Though, technically, while Professor Snape had skipped over quite a bit of content, he had covered Vampires. They also covered material on them during their first and second year.

The door behind Jones opened and Sirius stepped into the room. His face was blank and gaze intense as he watched his godson.

It was clear his words were meant for all when he spoke, “Fred and George have been relocated to their room, Molly’s in the drawing room, and the meeting is all finished up.”

“I suppose it’s best you all pop off to bed,” Jones said with a gentle if somewhat condescending smile. She rose to her feet and shuffled her papers back into the folder. “I’ll just escort the girls up.”

As they made their way out of the dining room, Harry and Ron having headed up a few moments before them, Hermione caught a few of Sirius’ quiet words.

“...Kingsley and Tonks…the drawing room…thought they’d…not confrontational…”

That night in her shared room was quieter than most. Hermione was certain she and Ginny stayed up far past any time they had since her arrival, and the entirety of it was spent in a silence only interrupted by their breathing. When sleep finally pulled her from the somber room, it was long past the time any who didn’t reside in Grimmauld Place would have remained.

In the unconscious world her nightmares often masqueraded as dreams until they were so tightly wound around her throat they yanked tight in one go. Sometimes though, they slammed into her, head on. She thought she might prefer those ones.

It was one of those nights, where the pain and hoarse shouts were there from the start. A young girl shrieked from the dark corner of a cage, blood stained along one side of her face. In the one next to her lay what was once her mother, now a mess of torn clothes and flesh. The shrieks increased in volume and pitch as she was dragged out by soldiers in uniform, pressed to a metal table.

Hermione screamed as she watched it all. They took no notice of her. Her efforts to push forward and tear into them with only her own hands as weapons were of little use when she couldn’t move from her spot. Even the ability to look away was one beyond her.

Time in this foreign land passed in a way too difficult to track. It was too blurry in a world too vivid for Hermione to know how long she was trapped there. And as she stood unable to move, the girl was too. Her limbs pulled apart, fresh streaks of blood ran vibrant trails over the cracked, dry ones.

Hermione’s screams continued. They gained volume as the girl’s lowered, and finally turned entirely quiet.

It was with a constricted throat that she awoke, a room familiar from two lives unfamiliar to her. Yellow eyes stared back at her, and with them came a weight pressed against her shoulder.

“Took longer than I thought,” a voice chimed from behind her.

Hermione’s hand clutched at her throat and she pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. The eyes were nowhere to be seen. Instead, a dark haired man slouched in an armchair, glass of whiskey in hand, his watchful gaze wary.

Breath, was whispered to her, within her. The word was repeated, and the steady tone an order.

“Sirius,” Hermione wheezed.

“What did Kreacher do?” Sirius demanded.

“What,” she panted, “is wrong with you?”

It took a few minutes for her breathing to steady and the man to splutter out a defense, and by the end of it Hermione was halfway between agreement of his methods and the urge to throttle him. Sirius had instructed Kreacher to apparate her to the seventh floor study. The process would have been far more enjoyable if she hadn’t woken up to a dark figure looming above her, one which proceeded to grab hold of her and apparate her without any warning.

Though the voice didn’t say it, Hermione could feel its approval of his methods, his discretion. The part of her that agreed was a great annoyance.

“How did your discussion go?” Hermione asked wearily, as she settled into the chair beside his. She reached for a steaming teacup on the coffee table before her. The warmth, the slight burn of too-heated china, kept her focused.

Sirius stared back at her with a furrowed brow.

“The discussion in the drawing room.”

“Ah.” His following smile was nothing that could be considered pleasant. “It went splendidly. Don’t ever think people will acknowledge reality Hermione, not if a more comforting option exists.”

Hermione hesitated to reply. What could be said after having seen the truth behind his words?

As the light of the candles danced across her bare arms, she told him, “My mother often said that rationale scatters at the first hint of emotion.”

He snorted in response. It was a lesson he would have learned over and over, both as a fugitive and everything that came before.

“Fear not–” Sirius refilled his empty glass, “–I have no issue in trusting you with my life.”

Hermione wondered how much weight such a statement held if the person who spoke it wished they were dead. In the end, she pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter when the two of them weren’t fighting for their own lives. It was Harry, and though Sirius didn’t know it, all those who would join him in death if she couldn’t prevent a nearing future. They were the ones that mattered.

“It’s best we stay on the same page,” and that meant communication and trust. The Order had never been good at either. “Are you up to date on our progress?”

“Yaxley is onside,” Sirius confirmed, “though he’s done little more than confirm it.”

It’s enough for now, the voice told her. Given who he is, I doubt he will allow letters to be your only form of communication in the future.

“It was him who sent a letter so short it would have been better suited as a note,” Hermione withheld her scoff. He had barely written enough words for it to be considered a sentence. “I won’t be meeting him in any capacity other than I do with the rest of the Wizengamot during Sirius’ trial.”

It will be best if you can manage it, the voice agreed.

“He claimed it would take a week for him to obtain official confirmation that there were no trial records, and that was three days ago,” Hermione recalled as she did the calculations. Her days at Grimmauld Place blurred together, and the memories of a different summer before fifth year only added to the confusion. “Assuming all goes well, we’ll receive the documents on Tuesday. I suggest we send them in, along with my demand for a trial, that day.”

“No.”

“No? What on earth do you mean ‘no’?”

“No. We’re not sending them in.”

“That was the entire point of this, Sirius!”

He sat up from his previous slouch and gazed at her with hard eyes. His fingers constricted around the glass, and despite Hermione’s certainty that it was charmed to be unbreakable she thought he might in that moment. “I won’t have that sent in while you’re here.”

“Sirius.” She rubbed a tired hand at her forehead. “It will take months for a trial to be scheduled, delaying this will delay everything. How much time has to pass before your name is cleared?”

How long do you wish to wait till you're free?

“We can’t do it the way you’re planning. I’ve thought of it the past few days, it won’t work. Fudge brought a Dementor into Hogwarts to have me Kissed. Any letter you send will be covered up or claimed as a forgery.”

Hermione pursed her lips. It was true, and sending such records in would be done with the hopes that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would take it seriously. She had planned to address it to the Department’s head, Amelia Bones, however it may not be opened by her. Oftentimes letters to the head of a department were instead dealt with by their administrations, only involving higher ups if they were needed.

And if the one who reads it dismisses it? The voice murmured. Nothing would be done, but Fudge, and Dumbledore, would be certain to hear of it sooner or later.

Hermione could feel the voice’s grimace as if it were her own.

Ah, she realised, she was grimacing.

“You believe my involvement with the Wizengamot should begin earlier?”

“Assessing the situation as an Auror, I would want to give myself the best chance of success,” Sirius told her. “Doing so would mean alerting those in power at a grand scale—a Wizengamot meeting.”

She found she agreed with his earlier demand. Despite the fact she would be delivering the documents herself instead of sending them, Hermione could not do so while she lived at Grimmauld Place. It would become quickly known to Dumbledore that Sirius made an attempt for freedom, and a high level of scrutiny would be placed upon him. It would become extraordinarily difficult to speak with him after that.

“You’ll have to sneak out. You know the passageway.”

“Hogwarts will be difficult this year,” an understatement, truly. “I can’t take the risk of leaving school during classes, and Hogsmeade weekends are scheduled so they don’t fall on the same day as Wizengamot meetings.”

It was done so parents could meet with their children during that time.

“A weekend then. The Wizengamot meets every week, and once a month the meeting is scheduled on a Saturday.”

“I don’t suppose you carry around a schedule of when that would be?” Hermione asked wryly.

“Diggle’s on the Wizengamot,” Sirius said. “Doge too, though he rarely attends. I’ll let you know when one’s coming up. Merlin knows with all the complaining Doge does we’ll all know when it’s set to happen.”

“It could be next summer before your name is cleared,” Hermione murmured. It would set back some of her own goals too.

While inconvenient, it offers a far greater chance of success, the voice consoled.

Sirius swallowed, voice thick when he spoke, “Already managed fourteen years.”

Neither mentioned there being no guarantee he would survive another year.

“What happened downstairs?” Hermione shifted so she sat sideways on the chair, able to give him her full focus without staining. “After we were all sent up, what did you discuss?”

“Nothing of any importance.”

Everything could be important.

“Does it get easier?” Hermione asked softly, the crackling flames not quite loud enough to drown out her words.

Sirius hummed questioningly.

“Lying to yourself,” she added, unamused.

He grinned back.

“Molly’s planning a trip to Diagon,” Sirius told her. “Won’t be for another week or so, but I thought I might come along as Padfoot.”

“Our letters are rather late this year,” Hermione noted, a furrow to her brow. Even when Lockhart had listed the entirety of his book collection in their book list, it had still been sent out before the start of August.

The voice scoffed. The Ministry’s involvement delays its release. A pity considering how utterly useless their additions were.

“Well?” Sirius asked impatiently.

Hermione blinked up at him. “Well…you’re an adult. It’s your decision, Sirius.

He studied her, grey eyes dark. She wondered how often the Order allowed him to make decisions when they operated.

Which tragedy is worse, the demand to make a choice or the inability to do so? The voice contemplated.

“How long have you been in this house?” Hermione began to stiffen. She would never know all of what he had endured in Grimmauld Place, but it was not something could allow herself to forget.

“A second is already too long,” he grumbled. A flick of his wand and his glass was refilled, the last of the bottle of Firewhiskey on the coffee table drained.

She thought of the glow within the walls, the warmth it gave off. If she could spend a few minutes every day strengthening it, as she seemed to earlier that day—a look to a grandfather clock confirmed it was the day before it occurred—then by the time she left for Hogwarts the house’s presence, warmth, or whatever it might be was sure to be stronger.

It wasn’t a companion, but at least she would be leaving Sirius with something.

She raised her teacup, her smile hidden behind it.

“Cheers.”

The clink of their dishware was the last sound between them before Kreacher returned hours later to apparate her back to her room.