MY DARLINGS! LOVES!
First, before I say anything else, I must warn you that parts of this chapter are a wee bit graphic, I just thought I'd mention that. So be aware of that, please.
Secondly. AGAIN. BLOWN AWAY BY YOUR RESPONSE AND LOVE FOR THIS STORY. BLOOOOWN AWAY.
There has been a bit of a time skip, it's about a month or so, and in the next chapter it will be Remus's birthday ;)
Seriously, I love you all. I do. Everyone's reactions to Dorea and Hermione teaming up last chapter are the absolute best thing. Dorea, Hermione and Lily teamed together can rule the world. What Ron showed Dorea and Charlus will talked about more in the next chapter, but for now I'll leave you with this fun little chapter.
Please leave a review and let me know what you think ;)
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.
As always for Sable and Lais xxx my other darlings Henny, Caleb and Worthfull...this chapter is for you. I love you all! xxx
Friday, March 9th, 1979
Number 12 Grimmauld Place
Islington, London, England
Clip. Clop. Clip. Clip. Clop.
Three wix are moving with determination and purpose, yet they look as if they have all the time in the world to get to their destination-calm, collected and composed.
At the head, was a strong-willed raven haired woman, her six inch black stilettos are clipping across the cobblestones, and upon first glance it appears as if there are tiny sparks flying from her heels. She is wearing a shoulderless, knee-length black lace dress. The under layer is pitch black and the top layer is an intricately woven lace mesh-with a curling and swirling design like smoke billowing from a hot cup of tea-it hugs her curves almost lovingly. She's wearing warm, black outer robes that are open and flying out behind her.
Behind her are two much younger wix, the female is dressed simply, a direct colour contrast to the other witch. She's wearing pure white, like freshly fallen snow; a swing dress with long sleeves that reach her arms and hug her arms. She's wearing a thick dark chocolate brown button down sweater that looks two sizes too big for her and one side hangs off of her shoulder. On her feet are plain white flats and her wild honey brown curls are tied back in a high ponytail, her brown eyes are sparking with defiance.
The male is wearing a pair of tight, black trousers, dark green dragonhide shoes, a crimson waistcoat covering a black button down shirt and on top a well tailored set of outer black robes that almost reached his ankles, his were also unfastened.
The trio stop in front of their destination-at the foot of the stairs. Fourteen stairs, black wrought iron railing on either side-their embellishments contort and twist and almost seem to scream in agony. At the very top of the stairs is a pitch black door, a silver knocker depicting a screaming House Elf and beside the doorframe is a shiny cursive number twelve.
The older witch moves first and the other two follow, all holding their chins high, and the younger witch reaches out and clasps the wizard's hand. He gratefully glances at her before squeezing her hand, a moment later he looks forward with an impassive expression, shaking his head so that his raven tresses brush his shoulders when they fall into place and his grey eyes are the only thing betraying his apprehension at being here.
The raven haired witch grimaces before gingerly reaching out and hitting the knocker against the door.
It's a loud, rebounding sound and it sounds terribly final.
The male peeks over his shoulder and sees the oblivious muggles going about their business and he wishes that he could join them, get as far away from this wretched place as possible.
He brings his attention forward again just in time to see the door creak open a few inches, and standing in the small space, at about two feet tall, looking as miserable as ever is Kreacher.
Kreacher's eyes widen for a moment when he sees exactly who is standing at the door. His skin is an ashy grey, his limbs look frail-as if at any moment he will collapse under his own weight-the baggy sack that he's wearing is practically falling off of his body, the skin under his neck is saggy and wobbles as he smacks his lips together in thought. His long, thin and crooked fingers-from years of being broken and reset badly-are curling around the door. Despite all this he looks younger than Hermione remembers.
"Is your Mistress home, Kreacher?" Dorea asks calmly.
"Mistress Dorea," Kreacher bows his head slightly, but no one misses the way he scowls in disgust when his eyes find Sirius.
"She asked you a question, Kreacher," Sirius says firmly, his voice strong and unwavering.
"Filthy besmirchment on the Ancient and-"
"Noble House of Black-" Sirius cut the House Elf off, "-enough with the whole blood traitor spiel and tell us if Walburga is home."
Kreacher's eyes widen much further this time and he hisses in disgust, "you dare speak Mistress's name!"
Dorea is about to retort when the door swings open harshly, and Kreacher is knocked out of the way.
Hermione swallows quickly as she sees the woman she has only seen previously in her portrait, screaming vile, terrible things.
"Aunt Dorea...to what do I owe this visit," Walburga asks coldly, not even bothering to hide the contempt in her tone.
Walburga is a tall woman, and once she may have been very pretty, but now her features sink into her face too much, dark, puffy eyebags, sharp cheekbones that jut out under her skin, and she looks too thin to be eating properly-her emerald green formal robes that cinch in at her waist, with the skirt flaring outwards, hang off of her frame, and they are buttoned all the way up her neck. The only piece of skin showing is her face and her hands. Her dark hair is twisted into a tight bun on top of her head that pulls her skin back from her forehead sharply.
"We have some business to attend to," Dorea smiles curtly, but Hermione can tell that it's taking everything in her not to hex Walburga black and blue.
"Is that so?" Walburga sneers, sighing heavily. "I suppose you may come in, Orion is out at the moment, but I'll have Regulus come down from his room."
At the mention of Regulus, Sirius's grip on her hand only tightens.
"Who is she?" Walburga asks as they all enter the house, the door slamming shut as soon as they are all in; her cold gaze is boring into Hermione's face, scrutinising her methodically. She is completely ignoring Sirius and Hermione doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.
"She is a friend," Dorea says, not elaborating on any details.
"A friend," Walburga repeats. "By friend do you mean Mudblood? It would only make sense that the worthless thing it's attached to would find a Mudblood to soil itself with."
"Niece...I suggest you mind your tongue before I remove it," Dorea says sweetly.
Walburga snorts, "threatening me in my own house, have you no tact Aunt?"
"If you say anything about my friend or my son again, I will flay you where you stand and place your bloody carcass on your bed so that your spineless husband can see it perfectly when he returns," Dorea says airily, but the underlying threat in her tone is crystal clear.
Walburga's eyes narrow to slits, but she refrains from saying anything further on the matter. Instead she turns to Kreacher who is wobbling on his feet a little, but stands at attention when he notices his Mistress's eyes on him. "Fetch Regulus and tell him to come to the Drawing Room. Inform him that we have...guests."
"Yes, Mistress," Kreacher bows deeply before vanishing into thin air.
Somehow, the house seems colder than when they first came to Grimmauld Place in the summer before her fifth year. Colder and more lonely.
Walburga leads them past the foyer and down a corridor to their left, not before they pass by a wall which is lined with the mounted heads of past House Elves that have served the Black Household throughout the years; they were all shapes and sizes, their skin looked rubbery and tough now, but had survived for years and years with extremely strong preservation charms.
At the very end of the narrow hall, adorned with paintings of Sirius's ancestors-whose eyes follow them warily as they pass by them, but they all remain silent, abnormally silent, so much so that their silence only stands out more and sends a chill down Hermione's spine-is the drawing room, the door is slightly ajar. Walburga pushes it open with the toe of her expensive pointy boots, the scales seem to shimmer in the darkness.
The room is grand, dreary and miserable all at the same time. There is a sparkling chandelier that catches the tiniest bit of light that is filtering through the crack in the thick and heavy black curtains Walburga has in front of the two windows on the left hand side of the room that looks out onto the street.
Walburga waves her spindly-slightly crooked at the top-dogwood wand and the candles in the room that are held in cast iron candle holders along the walls all come to life. The room doesn't look anywhere near as dreary as it had a few moments prior.
The fireplace mantle has a few pictures on it, but the dust covering them makes the contents indiscernible, and their silver frames are tarnished and in desperate need of polishing. The room looks like all the spare furniture that has started to rot was shoved in here, the entire right hand side is piled high with broken cabinets, damp and mildew stricken couches, chairs, the upholstery looking as if it was ready to fall right off of their frames. A chest of drawers that is missing a couple drawers is shoved in right hand corner right behind the door.
The left hand side of the room looks like the remnants of its' previous glory, a long table stretched from under one window to the next, its' top dark wood and the legs made from gold. An array of liquor in translucent glass bottles of varying sizes are gathered in the middle, on top of a dinghy looking silver tray. A few feet in front of it is a plum coloured couch with short, clawed feet and a broad back, the middle of the cushions dips inwards where a matching button secures them in place. Off to the side is a matching armchair of a similar style.
The smell of the room is enough to make Hermione cough gently, and her eyes start to water.
"Love what you've done with the place," Dorea drawls, grimacing at the state of the place.
"We don't particularly use this room much anymore, but I thought it was the best place to bring you," Walburga smiles toothily-the first time Hermione has ever seen the woman smile, and she desperately wishes she hadn't. Walburga's teeth are slightly crooked at the front, but it gives her face an eerie and dark look to it that had been absent until a few seconds ago. I hope our plan works, Hermione prays silently, glad for the warmth from Sirius's hand, it seems to be the only thing anchoring her to this plane of existence. There is something entirely too bizarre about this situation for it to be real.
Dorea tuts her teeth at Walburga before withdrawing her wand from her coat, Hermione hears her whisper, "scourgify," at the couch before sitting primly on as little of the cushion as she possibly can, she shrugs her coat off and places it on the arm of the couch with a disgruntled expression.
Walburga strides over to the armchair and sits down, leaning back, one hand in her lap, the other on the chair's arm, her chin raised. Hermione can't help but think that she looks like the queen of this desecrated and moldy place. She fits right in.
From Sirius's expression Hermione guesses that this is nothing like how his house used to look, the shock is clear from his features, and she gentle places a hand on his elbow and leads him over to the couch. Dorea is sitting closest to Walburga, Hermione in the middle and Sirius on the end.
"Now, what do you want?" Walburga asks bluntly, no more beating around the bush. The creepy smile is long gone, all that's left is a sallow face of a woman who looks years older than her time; she is nineteen years younger than Dorea, but she looks almost double her Aunt's age.
"Regulus."
"Pardon?" Walburga's eyes narrow to slits, and Hermione notes the vice grip she has on the armchair arm.
"Regulus Arcturus Black," Dorea repeats as if she is talking about the weather.
"What could you possibly want with my son. My darling boy. My heir. He's the good son, he isn't a disappointment, disobedient or worthless scum," Walburga leans forward then, baring her teeth.
Hermione decides in that moment to reward herself later by watching Remus help Charlus in the gardens (they had briefly discussed it that morning at breakfast) for not scoffing or laughing at Walburga. If only she knew. Based on when Regulus dies in our time and dimension, he probably already defected at this point. Yes, for not laughing at Walburga would find a nice slice of chocolate cake, a tall glass of lemonade and watch a sweaty Remus partake in a good spot of manual labour.
"Mother, Kreacher said we have guests-" the voice at the door cuts through the thick tension that had built up in the last few moments, and Hermione turns to see Regulus. Not a small, slightly blurry picture that Sirius had kept in his robes after he was released from Azkaban-even though he hadn't known of his brother's part in the defeat of Voldemort, or the picture Slughorn had had on his shelves that had all his prized students over the years in one place. She sees him for the first time in the flesh.
Regulus Black looks strikingly similar to his brother, but his features are more boyish and whimsical. There are small smile lines by the corners of his mouth, but at the moment he doesn't look like he's ever smiled in his life. He is staring, dumbstruck at Sirius. His eye shape is a bit rounder, softer than Sirius's. Their face structure is the same, but Regulus's face is a tad longer and his hair is cut short, barely a few inches away from his scalp. He's wearing casual emerald day robes, and on his feet are simple black leather enclosed shoes. It's his eyes that really stay with Hermione, they burn and imprint themselves in her mind; they are kind, gentle.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Regulus whispers, and he winces when he notes that he said that aloud.
"Good to see you too, Reggie," Sirius says weakly, his voice is trembling, but Hermione only squeezes his hand tighter, as if to remind him that he's not alone.
"DON'T SPEAK TO HIM YOU VILE LITTLE-" Walburga starts to scream, her face contorts into an ugly, twisted expression that Hermione didn't know was humanly possible, but before she can finish whatever it was she was going to say Dorea silences her.
"I told you I'd rid you of your tongue," Dorea sighs at Walburga, whose eyes are wide as she moves her mouth wildly, Hermione catches a glimpse inside her mouth and sees that she no longer has a tongue.
Dorea is twirling her wand in between her fingers, "now are you going to behave or do I have to rid you of another body member, next time I won't be as nice."
Walburga merely glowers at Dorea, but leans back in her seat, cowed into obedience. Dorea waves her wand once more and Walburga says, "you bitch."
"Is that any way to treat the one gracious enough to give you back your wretched tongue?" Dorea cocks her head at Walburga in pity, "tsk tsk, dear. I really question how you raised such lovely young men."
Dorea opens her mouth to speak again, but Regulus cuts in, eyes wide, taking a huge step into the room, "someone want to tell me what in Salazar's name is going on."
"You're coming with us," Hermione says firmly, the first time she'd spoken aloud since being here. Which is not missed on Walburga's part.
"Mudblood-" Walburga snarls, straightening up, "-you are not taking my son anywhere."
A light, tinkling laugh erupts from Dorea's lips, "oh that's precious. You thought it was optional? The only person who has any say about if he wishes to come with us or not is Regulus."
"What do you mean come with you?" Regulus frowns, ignoring the hissing noise coming from between his Mother's teeth.
"We know you've defected, or you're about to...it's a long story, but I know what you found out about Voldemort, and I know if you do it alone you're going to die," Hermione says curtly, and Regulus instinctively takes a small step back, eyes filling with horror and fear, flicking between them and his Mother.
"That's preposterous. Regulus is loyal to the Dark Lord," Walburga growls, abruptly standing up, and she draws her wand on Dorea.
"Control your Mudblood and GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
"Regulus, we can help you," Hermione says, not looking at anyone else but him, she trusts Dorea and Sirius to stop Walburga from hexing her if it comes to it.
"STOP TALKING TO HIM," Walburga screeches, it's a grating, shrill sound and Hermione flinches but she doesn't break eye contact with Regulus.
"I swear, we can help you-"
"I SAID STOP TALKING TO HIM. AVADA-" Walburga starts, wand pointing directly at Hermione, lunging forward, but Dorea says something under her breath and Walburga stops short. Gasping for air, and Dorea gives her niece an almost sad look before she says, "You brought this on yourself Wallie. I want to say you were a pleasant child at least...but you weren't."
Walburga drops her wand, her eyes bulging out of their sunken sockets slightly before she holds her diaphragm. Then Hermione sees it, the crimson pouring from her onto the floor, and she sees the small cuts in the fabric on Walburga's clothes, and the way her skin seems to split open all at once. Then she coughs once and a spurt of blood comes bubbling out of her throat, pouring out onto her chin. She's suffocating on her own blood, Hermione notes, but she's not horrified. Maybe it is all the things she had seen in the second Wizarding War. The atrocities that could be committed by any and everyone. She doesn't feel anything when she sees Walburga fall limply to the ground, and that scares her.
"She's...she's dead," Sirius murmurs softly, looking down at the woman who had given birth to him with conflicting feelings.
"She is. Now. I suspect the only one Kreacher will listen to is you Regulus," Dorea says simply, she shudders at the sight of Walburga bleeding out and her last breath shuddering from her lips, but she seems to file away any horror she feels about what she's done for later. They have more pressing matters to deal with.
Regulus is silent, flabbergasted, his eyes are glued to his dead Mother. A range of emotions crosses his face, as if he doesn't know how to feel. What to say, what to do. A single tear rolls down his cheek.
"Regulus, dear," Dorea says softly, she's crossed the room in the time Hermione had taken to process what had happened. She's standing right next to Regulus, and he flinches harshly when her fingers touch his arm.
"Don't touch me."
"Regulus, you can either get Kreacher, and anything you value, bring it with you and come with us...or you can wait here for your Father to return and be stuck in service to a madman. The choice is yours. You don't even need to stay with us. If you wish to come with us now and leave at any point...that's fine as well, but you need to decide quickly," Dorea says gently, clasping her hands in front of her.
Regulus ponders what she's said for several long moments, mulling it around in his mind. He then looks at Sirius and Hermione and says, "fine."
Fifteen minutes later Regulus has a knapsack filled with clothes, picture frames, photo albums and everything else he values-including a small dragon plush toy that he had been given as a small lad. Kreacher tried to attack Hermione since she was the only one he wasn't bound to serve by blood and duty, but Regulus called him off and told him to calm down. That they were leaving Grimmauld Place and that he was loyal to the Black family now, including Dorea and Sirius, and by extension any descendants of Dorea. Kreacher had cradled himself like a wounded animal as headed towards the floo, slowly trailing behind them.
Sirius went first, followed by Hermione-who smiled encouragingly at Regulus before she went through-then Regulus. Kreacher pauses before he goes through, glaring up at Dorea before sulking as he walks into the flames. Dorea turns back to the rest of the house, knowing the portraits had charms on them so they wouldn't be damaged.
"Incendio!" Dorea says into the gloomy house, flames licking and spurting from her wand and quickly devouring anything it could get its' hands on.
With a sad smile she turned on her heel and stepped into the swirling green flames, which licked at the orange ones before slowly dying down, the heated embers the only thing left to indicate they had ever been there.
One down. Many more to go.
