A/N: Hello! Happy Valentine's Day, lovelies! I hope you all had a wonderful one. My gift - the first day of Christmas at the Blacks! Enjoy!
Love Always,
Eliza x
Disclaimer: I do not own the works herein, all characters from the Harry Potter Universe belong to JK Rowling, and all characters, storylines, situations, plots and the like do not belong to me. I make no money from this work.
Warnings: Rated M for situations, swearing, violence, sexual scenes... The whole lot, basically. Dumbledore Bashing, too. Severus doesn't have the best time, bless him.
The Ghost of Grimmauld Place
Chapter Forty-Three
Sunday, 21st December 1975
12 Grimmauld Place, Front Parlour
"Welcome to my home," Walburga said briskly, leading them through a dark, clean hall and into the first room on the left. She waved an arm to indicate what could be loosely described as its grandeur, fading as it was. "Grimmauld Place is the ancient seat of the Black family, second only to Malfoy Manor in age and history, and this only because those filthy muggles burned down Black Castle."
She threw the slur into the conversation with a casual air that came of repetitive use. She ushered them into a chair and screeched, "KREACHER!"
A stooped, wrinkled creature in rags adorned with the Black crest appeared at her summons, back twisted uncomfortably into a subservient bow that had his nose scraping the floor. "Kreacher serves Mistress?" came his rasping voice, and Hermione jerked in recognition.
"Take these bags to the guest rooms. You know which ones. Miss Potter, you will be in the Moon Room on the second floor; Mr. Snape, you will be in the Sunset Room, up on the third. I trust you should be able to find it for yourselves. I warn you," she added with a piercing look, "that sneaking about at night will not be tolerated." Kreacher lifted his wrinkled head, looking to Walburga with adoration as he scuttled across the parlour to vanish the bags by the door. Hermione couldn't take her eyes from him, familiarity niggling her, an old outrage stirring her gut. With one more bow, the wizened elf disappeared, and Walburga stood facing them, hands on her hips.
"Let me have a good look at you all, then. The rush at that station is atrocious, I've said for years that we should have a separate entrance. The shame of it, to be forced to rub shoulders with that dirt!" With a dignified huff, she inspected Regulus. "Turn around," she ordered, and Regulus span on his heels, sending Hermione and Severus a long-suffering look as soon as his back was turned. Walburga reached out to pinch the back of his robes between her fingers, nostrils flaring when she couldn't get purchase on the material.
"I see you'll need more robes," she grumbled, spinning a finger in front of his face as a signal to turn back. "You grow like a weed, Regulus. Your father did the same at your age, though he wasn't so large. Quidditch, is it?"
"Yes, ma'am. Duelling, too."
Something akin to approval passed behind her eyes and she nodded once, pleased. "Yes, that half-breed teacher of yours wrote and let us know. Your father is quite proud." The way she said it, with a stern sort of relish, told Hermione that she, too, was proud. Just that sentence warmed her towards the Black matriarch, and this feeling only grew as she turned to Severus.
"You, boy, are in quite a state," she said, frowning disapprovingly. "Second hand robes? How your mother expects you to advance in Slytherin in such a state, I don't know. Don't you worry, boy, I'll be having a word with her." Severus' expression morphed from blankness to mingled surprise and defiance, at which Walburga gave a short, barking laugh. While it lacked the exuberance and true pleasure of Sirius', it was disturbing for Hermione to recognise him in it. "Eileen and I have known each other since birth, or did you think I am inclined toward charity? No. Despite her abysmal choice of partner, I remember the days of the Princes. Your unfortunate breeding does not change your status as Heir apparent."
She reached out a hand that was firm and strong and used it to straighten his collar with a tut of disgust. "We'll fix you," she told him, not kindly, but with great distaste. Still, Hermione appreciated the effort, and could see that this approach did not disconcert Severus nearly as much as a kind one might have. In fact, she was disturbed to realise that the mixture of extreme disdain and near-outright insults had made him more comfortable in this situation, as if he was quite used to people speaking to him like so, and the only shocking part of the encounter was that she was simultaneously offering her help.
"And Miss Potter," she said, pulling away from Severus to stand in front of her. Hermione had to crane her neck to see into the woman's face from this close-up; Walburga Black, far from being the sort of adult who had appeared huge to her at eleven but whose presence had diminished as Hermione herself had grown older, remained a robust, very tall and exceedingly handsome woman with an air of authority that grated on Hermione's nerves. Walburga laid a palm over each of her shoulders, far more hands-on than she'd been with either boy, and forced her to turn in a half-circle much as Regulus had done.
"Skinny," Walburga noted dispassionately. "That'll change as you grow, by the look of those hips."
"Mother!" Regulus protested, for the first time since this cattle inspection had begun. Hermione couldn't see, but she thought that his mother had sent him a chastising look, for he fell silent.
"Pretty enough. Plenty of Aunt Dorea in there, luckily for you. The Potters do not make handsome women." She tutted again, turning Hermione back to her original position, though now Hermione could see that she was looking at Regulus once more. "An acceptable choice," she told him, stepping away and replacing her hands on her hips. "Not as indecently fertile as a Rosier, I should say, but better than a Greengrass."
"Mother!"
"And Potters always have sons," Walburga finished with satisfaction. And with that chilling measurement of Hermione's worth as a woman, she dismissed the teenagers, giving them a half-hour to dress for dinner.
12 Grimmauld Place, Regulus' Room
"I am so sorry," Regulus groaned much later that evening, the three of them sat on his bed after a dinner that consisted of poached eggs, individual quails, a salad that Hermione could have killed to eat more of, and an incessant stream of probing, personal questions from Walburga, all delivered in a blunt, haughty manner that belied the image of polite, upper-class dining. Orion Black had been unable to attend, citing an emergency session of the Wizengamot as his excuse, but Hermione wouldn't be surprised to find out that he'd called the meeting himself in order to avoid the first wave of his wife's interrogation of their guests.
"It's fine, Reg," Hermione soothed, rubbing her hand down his arm. Up near the pillows, Severus snorted, receiving a glare from Hermione. He rolled his eyes.
"In the interests of fairness," Severus mused, "she was not as bad as I expected her to be."
"She said Hermione had birthing hips!" Regulus spluttered, burying his face in his hands. "Then she suggested I take you as a lover to 'relieve my urges' so that I don't dishonour Hermione before marriage!"
"Now that's an image that'll haunt my dreams," Hermione teased, adding a wistful sigh to the end. "Can I get a preview?" She yelped as a pillow thrown at her head nearly toppled her off the bed.
"No offense, Severus, but you're not my type," Regulus informed him drolly.
"Oh, I don't know. Black hair, cheekbones, skinny-ah!" This time Hermione did fall, but she was laughing too hard to care. "I'm beginning to think you protest too much!"
Regulus growled at her over the edge of the mattress, and Severus snorted a laugh. "Now I'm worrying. Should I be on guard for my virtue, Black?"
"If you're worried about me, I give my permission," Hermione chimed in cheekily, climbing back up onto the bed. "Just let me get a better view."
Regulus gaped at the two of them, then grinned, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Yes, fine. You're gorgeous, Severus, I simply cannot resist you - fancy a snog?"
"Only if you 'fancy' a good hexing," Severus replied, voice dry as a desert summer. "I've several with your name on them."
Hermione giggled delightedly, and Regulus grinned at the sound. "This isn't over," he teased, waggling a finger in Severus' direction. He bent backwards, nuzzling his head against Hermione's shoulder. "As Hermione can tell you, I'm not so easily deterred!"
A pop signified Kreacher's entry, and he frowned at the three of them. "Mistress wants all children to go to bed."
"Thank you, Kreacher," Regulus said with a smile, turning his head to press a kiss to Hermione's shoulder. "Come on, then. Get out, you lot."
Hermione and Severus were ushered out into the hallway, where they smiled at each other a little giddily as they mounted the stairs. "Big day tomorrow," Hermione commented as they reached her door.
"I shudder at the very thought," Severus grimaced. "Didn't Regulus say the Blacks don't celebrate Yule?"
"Not as such, though Mrs. Black seems to have made an exception for us."
"How terrifying," Severus replied wryly. "It seems we may need that escape plan after all."
Hermione snickered and Severus responded with a pleased smile, as if her laughter was an unexpected delight. As it died off, the air between them seemed more warm and relaxed than it ever had been before.
"Well, goodnight," Hermione said reluctantly, not wanting the calm of the moment to end but ever aware of Walburga lurking downstairs.
Severus peered at her, his expression somehow conflicted. "Yes. Goodnight." He turned to the stairs.
Hermione frowned, put her hand to the doorknob, then pulled it back again. Before she had time to second guess herself, she threw her body across the hall to wrap her arms around Severus's waist. It was awkward, with her plastered to his back, and he stiffened immediately, but when she pulled back and ran into her room a mere half-second later, Severus was glad it was dark enough to hide his awkward blush.
As for Hermione, she was confused, as she laid in bed, to hear a tiny voice in her head shriek in alarm: you just hugged Professor Snape!
Monday, 22nd December 1975
12 Grimmauld Place, Moon Room
A knock at the door - two short, consecutive raps - woke Hermione what felt like minutes later. Through the window by her bed, she could see the weak light of dawn illuminating the kitchen garden, vegetable leaves awash with a soft golden glow. Kreacher bustled about, a fleshy blot on the landscape.
The idyllic scene of urban domesticity was interrupted by another impatient crack of knuckles on wood. "Miss Potter?" came Walburga Black's stern voice. Hermione considered burrowing back into the covers and pretending not to be home, but the woman clucked her tongue. "I know you are awake, child, now get up. It'll do you no good to laze in bed all day, and we've much to do! Kreacher has run you a bath and laid out your robes; breakfast will be served in half an hour."
A little perturbed by how similar Walburga's cajoling was to her own mother's - albeit with much less warmth - Hermione found herself following orders, pulling her underthings from her trunk before she even realised she was doing so. With a shake of her head, she padded out of her room.
The Black townhouse had been built before internal plumbing had existed, and upon its advent residents had struggled to find the room into which they could place this wondrous invention. After months of internal squabbling (for nothing in House Black could be done without a suitable amount of vitriol expressed) they had converted a study, a pantry and a nursery into four reasonably sized bathrooms, allowing the Master and Heir's suites to claim their own, while the third sat on the second floor landing, not far from Hermione's door. This enabled her to run in, bathe quickly, and dash back without anyone seeing her, a blessing in this house of strangers.
She made it to breakfast with minutes to spare, only to find the room empty but for Walburga, who had been staring, unblinkingly, at the door.
"You found your way, then?" she greeted briskly in lieu of a 'good morning'. Hermione forced away her first instinct, which was to quirk an eyebrow and draw attention to her lack of manners like she'd do with her boys and Marlene, and simply nodded, waiting for her hostess to assign her a chair, using the opportunity to examine the decor.
The weird thing about this house was it was familiar. Familiar in the way that Potter Manor was familiar; she knew exactly where she was going and what each of the rooms were for, which steps were creaky and which solid; she'd even managed to flush the toilet on the first try, despite it needing a certain twist of the wrist and two sharp tugs in quick succession. Her bedroom was familiar, she'd felt like she'd slept there before, which she'd not noticed until she'd woken up well rested, something that never happened on her first night in a new place. And, oddly, despite knowing that Walburga, stickler for the formalities as she was, would be serving breakfast in the Morning Room, she'd still been halfway to the kitchen before she'd thought to correct her course.
Strange.
"Sit here, girl," Walburga ordered, pointing to the chair on her left. Hermione narrowed her eyes at the snub, but sat there anyway. She would choose her battles, and wasn't too proud to wait.
A pop signified the arrival of food, appearing in front of her in a gold cloud of magic, which disappeared to reveal toast, kippers, and a bowl of fresh cut fruit, their colours jewel-bright and glowing with expense. Walburga gave a peculiar harrumph at the sight, her lips pinched in distaste. "I suggest you avoid the kippers," she said tartly, pushing away her plate. "Despite my direct orders, it appears Kreacher has been experimenting with cinnamon. The toast should be acceptable."
Her stomach turning, Hermione pushed away the spiced fish. "Thank you, Mrs. Black."
Walburga nodded. "You are no doubt wondering where the menfolk are; I have sent them away. I thought that you and I should become more acquainted, considering our situation."
She looked to Hermione expectantly, but Hermione was floundering. Our situation?
"I refuse to live with a woman I do not know."
Ah. Hermione held back a grimace. She had absolutely no intention of living with Walburga, not in this life or the next. The very idea was a Hell so terrible she couldn't conceive of a crime she could commit that would deserve it. Truly, the woman must be mental to think it would ever happen.
"I see you wish to keep pretending your motives in befriending and seducing my son are pure. You need not glare, girl, the expression does you no justice; I am simply asking that we abandon the pretense, if just for the day." Walburga gave an approximation of a smile, nodding at the pair of portraits that hung over the table. One sparked an uneasy feeling in Hermione's gut; a woman stood regally against a velvet backdrop, her eyes harsh and commanding as she sneered out at the room. The other depicted a gentleman with aquiline features and a saturnine aura, his expression calculating and disinterested. Neither moved.
"Darling Orion and I," Walburga informed her, true warmth creeping into her voice. For a moment, as she gazed up at the pictures, her expression lost its sternness and years, instead becoming that of a young girl in love. "I knew I should marry him the first day we met. I was seventeen at the time, he was younger, but I fancy he felt the same connection as I. He kissed my hand and I knew that here was my match."
She turned back to Hermione, some sense of kinship in her actions as she reached, awkwardly, to pat the girl's hand. "You need not admit anything, my dear, for I already know the truth. We shall be family."
As Hermione stared, stunned, at Walburga's hand, she did not second guess her actions up to this point, nor did she accept the woman's logic. Instead, the prevailing thought in her head, accompanied by a wild, unwanted pity, was by the Gods, what have I gotten myself into?
Monsieur Mainard's Magical Menswear, Tiptree Avenue, London
Severus wasn't sure what was happening, but he knew he didn't like it one bit.
"And turn," ordered the man with the tiny weapons of torture clamped in his teeth, his lips turned up in a constant leer as he attempted to speak around them. His hands wandered freely across Severus' hips and down the outside of his legs, setting off unpleasant spidery twitches in his wake.
Severus had never been touched so much in his life as he had these past twelve hours.
"Turn!" the tailor barked again, a cascade of needles following the words like bullets, causing the man to give a dangerous growl. Fear scorching his spine, Severus whipped around on the balls of his feet, only to get his robe tangled around his calves and trip.
In all honesty, the smack of the stairs against his ribs was almost a relief if it meant the poking and prodding would cease.
"I cannot work with this!" The tailor raged, gesticulating wildly. Severus assumed the man was talking about him, but it was hard to tell what with him also pointing at the ceiling, the lamp, Lord Black and the beautiful Aubusson beneath his feet in the same breath. "Why did you bring me this, this-"
Lord Black cut off whatever insult was coming with a smooth smile. "My apologies, Monsieur, perhaps I did not explain the situation correctly. This," Lord Black nodded in his direction without actually looking at him, his determined eye contact with the tailor enabling Severus to untangle himself and hurry over to stand beside Regulus, who smirked at him. "Is Severus Snape."
"I am aware," Monsieur Mainard sniffed, not daring to break away from Lord Black to shout at Severus some more, but obviously wanting to. "A nobody, well beneath you or I, my lord. I was not aware that you were taking on wards."
Regulus's face was a picture of glee. Behind his father's back, he made a motion, fisting his hands, laying one atop the other, and plunging them toward the floor before whipping them back over his shoulder.
"I am not," Lord Black confirmed, a génial smile on his face.
"Then what is this?" He leaned in closer, whispering furiously, "I can smell the Muggle on him from here!"
"Severus Snape," Lord Black said with apparent relish, and Regulus nearly vibrated with pleasure while Severus watched on bemusedly, "is the son of Eileen Prince, and with her death shall find himself the very last Prince." He leaned in closer to the suddenly paling tailor. "Heir to their most Ancient and Noble House."
For a moment, Severus feared Monsieur Mailard might faint. "Sir, I am so-"
"Save your apologies for the next customer, Matthieu. I believe my family and I shall be making a change. Good day to you."
Severus was still gaping as Lord Black turned to leave and Regulus had to hook him by the arm to pull him from his stupor. Out on the street, he had to jog to catch up with Lord Black's long strides. "Thank you, sir," he said gratefully, peering up into the man's face.
Lord Black favoured him with a curious look. "There is no need to thank me, young man. You are Regulus's friend. You may be a half-blood of no particular consequence, but we are Blacks, and nobody undermines a Black. Ah - here we go. Cryer has always been a good man, he'll get you properly attired, lad."
Severus dropped back to walk with Regulus, nodding. The look in his face must have matched the way he felt inside, however, as Regulus patted his arm sympathetically. "I know," he murmured, stepping aside to avoid a skipping child. "My parents are nuts."
12 Grimmauld Place, Ladies Retiring Room
"My pride and joy," Walburga announced with a dearth of either. She led the way into a room papered in apricot and cream stripes, the furniture light and delicate to match. Hermione followed, dead on her feet. It seemed that Walburga's idea of a girl's day consisted of walking the house top-to-bottom and back, discussing potential renovation possibilities while Walburga acquainted Hermione fully with a list of 'How We Do Things'. Her day had been an endless stream of "we dress for dinner, but never red or black - this isn't a bawdy house" and "we do not receive guests before ten, and never on Wednesdays - one must have a day of rest".
She wished she could take notes, but that was probably on the list, too. One must only take notes between two and four, and then only with a Violet quill, in cursive.
She did not snicker.
"I suppose because you have five of these rooms in Potter Manor you think you're somehow better than me?" Walburga sniffed, catching her expression. She took a seat on one of the dainty chairs, the matchstick legs creaking under the weight of her massive bones. "Commerce. Lucrative but shameful. What your father was thinking…"
"The Blacks are much richer than us," Hermione muttered, taking a seat of her own and earning a scowl from Walburga.
"You're not Lady Black yet, child," Walburga growled. When Hermione did not stand again, she snorted. "Impertinent chit. So gauche. Yes, we are 'richer' than you, but we Blacks care for tradition. Preservation. Worry not - you will be more than comfortable as Regulus's wife, but you shall have to answer to the family about your debts. Unlike your mother and father, who fritter their galleons away as if they were water." Disgust twisted her face, setting a fire in Hermione's belly.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed it back, wrapping calm around her as a blanket. With newly serene eyes, she folded her hands in her lap and met Walburga's gaze with her own implacable one.
"Mrs Black, I think we can both agree that I have been exceptionally patient today, despite our general differences." She watched the woman's face carefully, feeling the shape of her and through her sleeve. "I appreciate our accord, but I must warn you that if you will insist on insulting my family, that peace will come to an end."
Walburga purpled, her lips pinching as she turned a gimlet glare onto Hermione's face. Then, unusually, she calmed, not softening or smiling, but approval rode the lines crinkling her eyes. "A backbone. Refreshing. You'll need that, if you're to be a Black."
Hermione's frustrated groan was inaudible, but it felt as though it came from deep within her soul.
12 Grimmauld Place, Regulus's Bedroom
Severus was concerned, upon return to the house, to find it silent. This didn't seem to bother Lord Black, who sent them up to their rooms with a blithe wave, but the worried wrinkle in Regulus' brow revealed that he shared Severus's apprehension. Laden with boxes and followed by a bag-toting Kreacher, they mounted the stairs with a haste that seemed unwise.
Severus's room was empty, and he dumped the load - expensive clothes, shoes, even underpants that Lord Black had declared necessary for a guest of the Black's - before running back to the second floor. Regulus's door was ajar, and through it he could hear his friend's crooning.
"Darling, I promise-"
"Dear God, please do not call me that!" Severus stepped inside to see Hermione on the bed, cringing at the endearment. Sensing danger, he slipped the door shut and propped himself up against it. "And don't you dare leave me alone with her again."
"Was it really that bad?" Regulus asked sceptically. Severus raised an eyebrow. Hermione was, perhaps, the most level-headed girl he knew, more so definitely than Lily, and he'd never known her to go off like this about something were it not extremely distressing.
"Are you kidding me, Regulus?!" She slapped away his hands when they reached for her. "I'm sorry, I know you love your mum, and she does have her good qualities, but-she's mental! To hear her talk, you'd think I was moving in tomorrow to homemake and breed for you!"
Regulus was scowling now. "Mum is not mental."
"Regulus," now it was Hermione reaching for him, clutching his knee with a white-knuckled grip. "She asked me what colour our son would prefer in the nursery."
"She's being considerate!"
Hermione let out a wordless scream of frustration, causing Severus to flinch back against the door. "I swear to you, Regulus Arcturus Black-" She leaned over to prod him in the chest, her face set in a ferocious snarl. "If you ever leave me to your mother's questionable mercy again, I will rip your heart out and choke her with it!"
Severus bit his tongue to hold back the laugh that threatened to burst from his chest. Regulus did not seem to find it so funny, as he pushed off the bed and folded his arms over his chest. "Don't insult my mother."
"Why not, when she just spent the afternoon insulting mine? 'Poor Dorea, so unwise to marry a man beneath her', 'silly Dorea, such a spendthrift', 'idiot Dorea, abandoning her family for a decent-"
"I don't have to listen to this," Regulus hissed, before slamming his way out of the room, Severus barely having a chance to move before he was barreled through, just another obstacle.
"I wish I didn't!" Hermione shouted after him, her face the very picture of fury. Then, when the front door slammed, the strangest metamorphosis seemed to occur. Her reddened face seeped to white, her flaring nostrils calmed, and all of a sudden, the room was silent.
One beat. Severus was unsure what was expected of him. Should he comfort her? Did she even need it?
Two beats. Was this an appropriate situation for a hug? He'd never have considered hugging her before, but the brief embrace of the previous night and the pure, friendly affection of it had unsettled his mind. Would she want a hug, though, or was he simply projecting his own desires?
Three beats. The tension was getting unbearable, Hermione staring sightlessly at the part-open door.
Four beats, and suddenly, Hermione burst into noisy, messy tears.
Circe, Severus swore in his head, cursing Regulus' exit. Now what was he supposed to do?
