A/N: Hello you lovely lot, thank you to everyone that is reading, reviewing and adding to lists, your words of encouragement are incredibly motivating. The next couple of chapters are fairly Hermione focused as she will be arriving at Grimmauld Place and dealing with all of the Order related shenanigans. Never fear, our young lovers will be reunited soon. Cards on the table, Order of the Phoenix is my least favourite of the entire series so it might take a while for updates as I wade through the treacle that is the early plot for book 5. Am I alone in this? What's your least favourite book?
"Well, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said in her typically crisp, no-nonsense tone, "I shall leave you here, I wish you a pleasant remainder of your holidays."
Before Hermione could even think to reply - she was still recovering from the nausea-inducing side along - Professor McGonagall had taken a step back from the pavement she had left her on and apparated with an efficient, barely audible, pop.
"Bye then," Hermione called out sarcastically with a little wave to the space next to her, before hastily apologising to a heavy set woman who was bustling past. "I am so sorry. I didn't mean you… I…" Hermione began but trailed off when she realised there was no explanation she could give that would make any sense to the woman narrowing her eyes at the perceived rudeness.
Shut up, Hermione.
Reflectively, Hermione pressed a hand against her jacket pocket and felt relieved to feel the thin cylinder of her wand on her palm. They had left so abruptly Hermione hadn't had time to double check her packing as much as she would have liked to. She had barely said goodbye to her parents and shut her front door before her Professor took off in the direction of the end of the street at a quick pace. Professor McGonagall had managed to shout out a greeting and chide Hermione along in the same sentence, and sensing the older witch's impatience, Hermione quickly complied.
Hermione had tried to ask some questions as their brisk walk reached a few side streets but, somewhat expectedly, no further information was forthcoming. Her professor replied with some rehearsed sounding lines about how she would know 'all she would need to' eventually. Given the experience she'd had over the previous years, Hermione doubted it.
Hermione had sped along behind her teacher and kept her mouth closed after the last curt reply she received. Instead, she put her energy into keeping up. Hermione knew she could hardly complain about the brusqueness, she was sure this must have been an enormous inconvenience to Professor McGonagall, to ferry a student to another location in the middle of the day. This was, after all, her holiday as well. Still, she could have taken the time to ensure she would blend into the Muggle world, she didn't have to turn up in her pointy hat in broad daylight. All she was missing was a wart on the end of her nose to comply entirely with the typical Muggle representation of a witch. Hermione wondered whether it was down to the usual ignorance magical folk had of Muggle fashion, or whether Professor McGonagall knew all about how witches would have been depicted, and her outfit was something she did on purpose.
All too soon, Professor McGonagall was gone, as quickly as she arrived, and she had left Hermione standing on a relatively well to do London street with nothing more than a spry farewell and a crumpled piece of parchment in her hand. With nothing else to do, Hermione turned back to the line of townhouses in front of her and sighed. Did everything associated with the magical world have to be a mystery? Would it have hurt for an authority figure, anyone would do, to explain something fully before leaving a child to figure it out for themselves? Realising her anger was doing little more than frizzing her hair, Hermione pulled open the small slip of paper still resting in her fingers and quietly tutted at the rip edges.
The Order of the Phoenix is located at No. 12 Grimmauld Place
Hermione stared at the hastily written, slanted script blankly. She wasn't sure what the Order was, or how exactly this was supposed to help her find the Weasleys, but she was distracted by a grinding sound that pulled her attention back to the road in front of her and to a house - one that hadn't been there a moment before - that was… appearing, forcing its way between two of the homes that had been settled on the street when she had last looked.
Hermione darted a glance around herself, momentarily panicked that she had inadvertently done something that would have a whole team of Auror's on top of her location at any moment, but… no one seemed to react. She was sure that shouldn't have been surprising; her father had commuted into London for many years and had complained, loudly and often, that you could be dressed as a chicken, on fire, bouncing on one leg, singing show tunes and no one would so much as look up from their free papers but this was… weird. The Muggles, they hadn't noticed anything at all.
Hermione had done some research into the magical protections that could be placed on a building, most of it in her first year when she had been so eager to learn more about the Hogwarts castle. Before she had Harry and Ron as friends, Hermione had found herself with ample time to study non-curriculum related topics, in a desperate attempt to catch up with children born into the magical world and to fit in amongst them. Most of what she had looked into related to standard family warding, where the head of a household would lay ward maps on their properties that would be added to by successive generations. Hermione suspected that something like that was at work here but that this was… well, an extreme version didn't really seem to cover it.
As the crunching sound began to tail off, and the outer brick walls of the materialising house came into view, Hermione grabbed hold of her trunk and sprinted through the newly appeared, rusty, garden gate and up the narrow steps until she was at the front door. She raised a hand to knock before the house could vanish but the door clicked open before she could, and somewhat hesitantly she walked through into darkness.
The entry hall of the townhouse seemed large, but with the boarded windows and dark walls, Hermione couldn't be sure how big the space was. Dropping her case she went to take a step forward in search of life when, out of nowhere, the breath was knocked from her body, and she was pressed against the door she had just come through by an alarming force.
"Who are you girly? Where did you come from?"
Hermione swore, loudly, to herself. She tried to reply, but no words appeared, due to a mixture of fear and lack of oxygen as her attacker held her with his forearm pushing against her throat.
"What? Nothing to say? Who sent you?"
Hermione's eyes reflectively closed as a blinding Lumos was shone into her face obscuring her view of who was holding her. Using the moment, Hermione tried to focus on the voice she had heard, it was familiar, she just couldn't place it. The more she knew, the more she could try to work out how best to behave, what to say to get her out of this. If she could only...
"Alastor!"
An angry voice boomed in the hall, interrupting Hermione's spiralling thoughts and her head smacked back against the wood as her assailant shifted position in response.
"You put that girl down this instant!"
Well, there was a voice that she would recognise in an instant. Hermione's shoulders sagged. She wondered if she had ever been happier to hear Molly Weasley's shrill shouting.
"We have procedures for this Alastor. Ones that you insisted on. Put her down now."
"But who is it?" Mad-Eye - the real one - protested as he set Hermione down, slower than she would have liked.
"This is Hermione," Molly said, articulating every syllable of her name as if she was talking to a child, "I told you about her coming today."
Mad-Eye huffed something that may have been protest or agreement before shuffling off without further comment, or notably, an apology.
Mrs Weasley managed to bustle Hermione further down the corridor - into an expansive kitchen that was just as dank as the hallway had been - sit her at a bench seat and call for Ron to collect her trunk before Hermione could say thank you or even a brief hello. Both of which she finally managed to mutter as Molly handed her a cup of tea and a bubbling phial of pain relief potion for her throat.
"That bloody man will be the death of me, fancy treating you like that? We may be at war, but there is no reason for anyone to lose their manners."
Hermione wanted to reply that it hadn't been his lack of courtesy that had offended her but thought better of it as she uncorked the potion and took it down in one, grateful that she had the tea to take the taste away.
Ron appeared in the kitchen as Mrs Weasley was explaining to Hermione that she would be sharing a room with Ginny and that the Weasleys had been asked to come here by Dumbledore. People - the soldiers for the light - needed somewhere to congregate now that Lord Voldemort was back, and The Burrow would no doubt be under surveillance.
Hermione couldn't help but agree with the plan, but she didn't understand why Professor McGonagall couldn't have just told her as much. She wondered whether adults liked to luxuriate in the knowledge that they had a secret that the wouldn't tell as much as children did.
Ron slid into the seat next to her, rolling his eyes at his mother's diatribe about the state of the oven and gestured to Hermione's empty phial while Mrs Weasley was peering over saucepans on the stove. Hermione murmured that she would explain later which made his eyes widen but, thankfully, he said nothing.
Ron filled her in on his summer while his mother cooked and Hermione rubbed her neck and glanced around at the visible mould and crumbling brick. There was a smell of damp that seemed to be getting closer and closer to her the longer she sat still and there was a dripping sound coming from a place she couldn't identify.
I am happy to be here, I am happy to be here.
Hermione repeated the mantra to herself as Molly interjected information here and there about the house and grounds, who was a permanent resident and which bits were forbidden extra — managing to say a lot and nothing at all. Hermione kept a polite smile on her face the whole time. She didn't want to be rude to Mrs Weasley, especially after she had saved her from Mad-Eye Moody - who it seemed Barty Crouch Jr did a better job of impersonating than they ever realised - but she still wasn't over the Easter Egg incident from the year before. It sounded petty, even in Hermione's own mind. But it wasn't about the Egg, it about what the Egg represented. Somehow Molly thought Hermione was the type of girl to play with Harry's affections. That had hurt. She had felt the Weasley matriarch knew her better than that. Though, she could admit that her feelings had been comforted a little by Sofiya Krum's steadfast belief in her at the end of the year.
Before long Molly sent Ron off on some errand and asked Hermione to help with the cooking, previous summers at the Weasley house had left Mrs Weasley in no doubt of Hermione's limitations as a chef, so she was left pealing the vegetables as she waited for Ginny to finish with whatever menial task she had been working on that afternoon.
Hermione caught her finger on the side of the small knife she was using and rolled her eyes. Of course she had cut herself. This day was becoming ridiculous.
I am happy to be here, I am happy to be here.
Hermione thought about home. Her mother would be getting in from work now and telling her all about the latest trash novel she was reading. Jean Granger loved to read about psychology and ancient history, but she would tell anyone who would listen about the newest page-turner she had invested in. Her father would still be at the practice, probably still sulking that his daughter had gone, with the intention of visiting her friend in a week or so.
David Granger had not been happy about the planned trip. He was fine about Hermione visiting her friend Ron, as she reminded him, but then her parent's thought she was at the Burrow, as she hadn't told them otherwise. As her father had continued brooding, Hermione had been tempted to say that Bulgaria was a damn sight safer for her than England was right now, but she had held her tongue.
In the end, following mounting pressure from her mother - Jean Granger had refused to perform any root canals until her husband agreed - David Granger gave his begrudging consent for Hermione to visit Viktor. Though without any grace.
Hermione had kissed him on the cheek and given him a hard hug as she left. She had felt her dad sink slightly into her hold when she had whispered that she loved him. She hoped it would go some way to getting him to forgive her.
Hermione dipped her finger into the bubbly water in the sink and rooted around in the cupboards for a plaster. Mrs Weasley had disappeared, no doubt in search of another one of her offspring to delegate a job to, and Hermione wondered about how the owls would find them if the house were unplottable. She had told Viktor in her last letter that she was heading off to the Weasley's when she had suggested a date for their visit. Hermione hadn't expected this level of security. She would have to check with Ginny at the earliest, private, opportunity. She somehow doubted Ron would be keen to allay her concerns about missing the post.
An hour after her rude reception, Hermione was finally sent out of the kitchen, with two plasters on her fingers, to find Ron and Ginny and get a tour of the dilapidated house. Ginny's enthusiastic greeting and colourful language regarding Mad-Eye did more to heal Hermione than the potion she'd been given, and the girls linked arms as they poked their heads around doors, Ron trailing along behind them. At a room labelled Master's Study, they had only just opened the door when the sound of large, scuttling feet inside caused them to rush to slam it closed again. They were a bit more cautious in their explorations after that.
The youngest Weasley's told Hermione all they knew about the 'Order of the Phoenix' away from their mothers prying ears, which, unsurprisingly, wasn't much more than reciting who had been in and out of the house over the last few weeks. It seemed most of their teachers were part of the Order in some capacity, along with a few other witches and wizards that the others hadn't recognised. Ron recounted, with expected loathing, that Professor Snape had been their only a few days ago. Hermione let Ron prattle on about his dislike of the Potion's Master without challenge, while she would normally say it was rude to berate a teacher this particular one had recently insulted her teeth and Hermione was secretly glad she hadn't had to run into him herself.
The lack of information about what the adults were up to - as well as the enforced cleaning regime - was a source of great frustration. Ginny mentioned that Fred and George were in the process of constructing a prototype listening device to use for the next meeting so that they could learn more.
More than anything Hermione imagined the Weasley children were missing being outside. The garden out the back was forbidden except for a small patch of paving stones nowhere near big enough for an impromptu game of Quidditch. Hermione had spent enough summers with the Weasley's to know that cooping them up, without a physical outlet for their frustrations, always led to problems.
After idly looking around much of the upper floors, reluctantly, Ginny and Ron stomped off to finish their tasks before dinner, leaving Hermione to complete the tour on her own. She found herself back in the large entry hall and stood in the doorway of a shabby sitting room for a few minutes before deciding she may as well head back to the kitchen and help. Perhaps there she might see some of their visitors for herself? Ginny had whispered to her while Ron was cowering from a large cobweb that there was a rather gorgeous middle-aged wizard that came by quite often. He apparently had an authoritative, booming voice and a winning smile aswell as being something of a natty dresser.
Hermione stared up at the chipped crown moulding and frowned. Grimmauld place would have been the perfect location for a BBC adaptation of a Dickens classic, all rotten floorboards and peeling wallpaper. It had an air of faded grandeur that would have set the scene for a once prosperous family that had fallen on hard times. Hermione wondered what the place had been like when Sirius was growing up, while she doubted it would have ever have been such a neglected mess while permanently inhabited, some of the darkness in the atmosphere felt deeper than the dust lining every surface. If walls could talk, what stories would they have to tell? Hermione recited the old saying to herself. She imagined the walls of this house would have nothing nice to say.
As Hermione regarded a patch of plaster where you could see no less than three different layers of exposed wallpaper, she trod on a loose floorboard, resulting in a drawn-out creak worthy of a horror film and a sudden billowing of ancient moth-eaten curtains that released an air-splitting scream from within.
Hermione hazarded a glance at the wall as her heart raced in her chest. She wasn't sure what type of portrait had curtains to cover it apart from those being unveiled at art galleries, though one look at the painted witch in front of her suggested this particular one wouldn't draw an awed crowd.
"Filth," the portrait spat at her after it was done wailing, the old face twisted with rage. Hermione watched as every brush stroke line on the witch's faces contorted into hard, imposing contours.
"How dare you be here! In the house of my fathers, you are not fit to clean the floors. Mudblood scum."
I am happy to be here, I am happy to be here.
"The shame, the degradation, the…"
Hermione stopped listening and coughed to clear her throat while she prayed the water in her eyes wasn't too discernable. She supposed she could always blame it on the dust. She reminded herself of Viktor's words from the school year, he had told her that many people in their world would think her inferior, and how it would be their mistake. Hermione sniffed and blinked hard. It might have only been a painting, a bloody rude painting, but it didn't mean she wanted the cow to see she had upset her, or anyone else that might be around for that matter.
Hermione thought about tugging the tatty curtains over the perpetually scowling face but decided against it. Instead, she lifted her chin in the air and continued down the corridor, giving herself a little shake as she went. Unfortunately, Hermione's lofty glance meant that she collided something low on the ground, forcing her to land on her bum. Once she had groaningly pulled herself back up, Hermione gaped as she realised she had knocked over not just a house elf, but a very elderly one at that. What the hell was going on with this place? Would nothing go right today? She immediately reached out a hand to help him as she got up onto her knees. Hermione noticed his shabby robes as he winced away from her fingers, and she hoped he wasn't seriously hurt.
"I am so sorry, I didn't see you there. I was walking rather quickly, and I'm afraid I…"
"Filth," the small elf spat and Hermione stepped back on reflex.
"I'm sorry?" she asked but the elf didn't appear to be listening, he got himself up under his own steam, scowling at her the entire time and muttering things under his breath. Hermione couldn't hear the details but his tone was decipherable enough, she wasn't welcome. Hermione wasn't sure why she had come at all.
The elf walked past her until he stood in front of the portrait Hermione had been insulted by and dropped to his knees. "My Mistress," he wailed, "what have they done to your house? What should Kreacher do? How can I serve you…"
The elf was cut off in his ranting subjugation as he was knocked across the corridor again, this time deliberately. Hermione stared first in shock, then in horror as out of the darkness Sirius Black emerged, looking as murderous as he had done over a year ago.
"Mr Black, that was hardly necessary," Hermione said primly, though, a tiny part of her whispered that after being attacked on arrival and screamed at by a painting, it was about time someone came to her defence. She immediately hated herself for the thought.
Sirius, however, ignored her, he was too engaged in a stare-off with the old elf. Eventually, after a few moments of tense silence, the elf stalked off, muttering about the stain on his Mistress' house, returning to punish him for what he had failed to do for his Master.
Hermione stared after Kreacher, wondering what else would be in store for her over the week while Sirius kicked his boots against the skirting boards releasing clouds of dust that only seemed to make him angrier. His distraction gave Hermione the chance to regard him without attracting his notice. She had thought a lot about Sirius Black after herself and Harry had helped him escape on the back of Buckbeak. How could she have done otherwise? It wasn't often you saved a man's life. When Hermione had first seen Sirius in the Shrieking Shack, he had looked possessed, hollow and utterly terrifying. His quest for bloody vengeance had seemed to be the only thing animating his entire person; it certainly hadn't been food or access to running water. Now he looked better, cleaner at any rate, but his eyes, which had once been manic and unfocused were now... Blank.
"I see you have had the immense pleasure of meeting my mother," Sirius said bitterly, "and her devoted elf."
"That is your mother?" Hermione asked, horrified. She pointed at the ugly witch, that bore no resemblance to the man in front of her for emphasis.
"Yes. I can't find a way to get her off the wall I'm afraid, had no idea the mad old bag had put a picture up after I left. You'll get used to her eventually. I never managed it, but you might." With a final venomous glance towards the portrait, Sirius flicked his wand in its direction, and the curtains sprung closed, and all was quiet again.
Hermione found herself impressed by the magic, so much so that she almost forgot about the earlier altercation. Almost.
"Mr Black," Hermione said, drawing herself up to stand with her back straight, "You really shouldn't attack your elf. I realise he is a little, well, whatever he is. But they are sentient creatures with feeling just like you and me and cruelty really isn't the answer. I don't know... "
"What you don't know, Miss Granger," Sirius spat, "Could fill an ocean, or… maybe even all of them." He swayed and pressed himself against the wall and Hermione realised with growing disgust, that he was drunk, in the middle afternoon. "Don't presume to pontificate at me in my own house, and don't look at me like that."
Sirius' nostrils flared and Hermione expected him to carry on berating her, instead, he left shortly after, stomping up the stairs in his heavy boots. Hermione thought about shouting after him. He really didn't have an excuse for kicking the poor elf. Kreacher may not have been polite, but Sirius was a grown man. But, she held her tongue, frankly, she didn't have the energy for another argument. Tearing her eyes away from his retreating form, Hermine pushed open the kitchen door, hoping some dinner would settle her nerves and help her sleep.
Viktor was stood in long shorts, with his legs wide apart, manipulating his weight to rest over his left knee and trying to balance for the third time. It wasn't going all that well. After Hermione had shown him some basic Yoga moves during the school year, he had managed to get a hold of a book with weird, unmoving pictures and had been practising himself. Viktor had the hang of some of the more natural stuff, and the positions helped stretch out his back and legs after training, but he was struggling with the intermediate level, he never seemed to be able to get his limbs to do what he wanted them to do when he wasn't on his broom. Viktor wondered if he would always be as uncoordinated on the ground as he had been as a child. Honestly, he had hoped to grow out of it by now. When he was sixteen he had brought it up with his mother, who had reassured him as best she could while insisting that he was just like his father and that Grigor was always fully in control of his body when it mattered. Horrified, Viktor had never raised it the issue again.
An owl tapping against the window distracted him, and Viktor kicked the book - open on the floor - under his bed, he would have another go later.
After he let the bird in and searched his room for treats, Viktor scanned the latest letter from Hermione - shorter than most - until he found a section that slowed his perusal and made his face split into a wide grin. All thoughts of yogic failure behind him.
In your previous letter, you asked if I was still intending to come to Bulgaria, this week I spoke to my parents, and they are happy for me to come to visit you. If you still want me to, that is? I don't want to presume. They asked whether it might be possible for me to travel with a friend? If that is okay with you, and you have the extra room, I would like to bring Luna, who you have met. Would you mind if we came the week after next? I don't want to impose on you, so let me know if that doesn't work, or if you no longer have time for me to come. I understand how busy you are with training and your mastery. I will wait to hear from you.
Viktor dropped the letter down onto his desk and sped out of his room to try and intercept his mother before she headed out for dinner.
Hermione was going to keep her promise. She was coming.