Though he would never admit it to Sirius, Remus quite enjoyed having the house all to himself. Most of the time, he had the library to himself, but not the silence that came with an empty house: Sirius and Harry were noisy to excess, and though he always missed them, he cherished the odd moment among books with the heavy silence around him like a blanket. But they'd been away at Rosebury for weeks now, and would be until after the wedding Sirius had telephoned him about, and though at the beginning he'd hardly believed just how much time he had to read, he'd started to get bored.
So he was almost relieved when the doorbell rang. He jumped out of his armchair almost immediately to get it, desperate for a distraction of any kind. Even if he hadn't wanted to, he'd have had to get it: the aged butler of the Black house, Mr. Kreacher, abhorred Remus, believing himself above serving a 'commoner', as he'd branded Remus. Fine by Remus: he didn't like Kreacher anyway, and he would rather save himself the muttered insults and glares he earned whenever he was in the butler's vicinity.
The rain was really coming down outside, so Remus hurried to the door, wanting to get whoever had rung out of the downpour as soon as possible, since the little roof atop the doorstep really didn't cut it during storms of this magnitude. When he opened the door, however, it was too late: the two people waiting there were already soaked clean through. It was a man and a woman, both young, the man tall and strong and with a head of orange hair, the woman short and bushy-haired and clad funnily in menswear. Both were shivering and looked at him as hopefully as a ship looks to a lighthouse as soon as he opened the door.
"Good evening," Remus said, not losing an ounce of his composure despite the oddness of the sight. "May I help you?"
"It's Remus, right?" the young woman said, looking him straight in the eye. Her eyes were dark brown and gleamed with intelligence.
"Yes, it is," he answered, a little taken aback. "With whom do I have the pleasure?"
"Hermione Granger," the woman declared, holding her hand out. Sirius shook it, surprised at the firmness of the grip in such a small hand. "And Ron Weasley," she added as an afterthought, gesturing toward her companion. Remus shook his hand too. As he wiped his palm on his trousers to dry it, the name of the woman lit up a forsaken area of his memory. Something Sirius had told him on the telephone, two weeks or so ago.
"Hermione Granger?" he said, smirking. "Aren't you supposed to be getting married up at Rosebury Grounds today?"
Hermione sighed. "That's exactly what we're here about." She peered over his shoulder, into the house. "Is Sirius here?"
"Not yet. As I recall, he's still at Rosebury, as a guest to your wedding, actually."
"Ah. Of course," Hermione said, somewhat downcast.
Remus eyed them curiously for a moment longer before remembering himself. "Well, come in, please— I'd say 'before you get wet', but I can see it's a little too late for that."
"Thank you," Hermione said, her relief evident, and Remus stepped aside so she and Ron could enter through the door. Remus closed it behind them.
The three of them then stood in the marble-floored lobby of Grimmauld Place, the ancestral London house of the Black bloodline. Hermione had only ever heard about the place, but it had been easy enough to find: a gloomy, towering house that loomed over its street like a scolding schoolteacher. The inside, however, was much more comforting, and Hermione could tell that that was partly owed to Sirius's touch. The wallpaper was still dark and flowered, remnants of an epoch past, but lamps had been strung up everywhere and filled the dark interior with warm light, brightening it considerably. The floor was of white marble streaked black, polished to perfection. Right in front of them, a rectangular stairway curled upward to the second floor, the wall along the stairs lined with portraits of haughty, old-timey people, no doubt illustrious Black relatives dating as far back as medieval times. Hermione could scarcely picture Sirius and Harry, cheerful and modern as they were, living in such a place.
"I'll let you dry off before you tell me why you're here," Remus said, walking across the marble lobby toward a linen closet hidden at the end in a little door under the stairs. He reached into it and, without even pulling the chain to turn on the sole lightbulb in it, pulled out two towels that he promptly handed to Ron and Hermione. They accepted them gratefully, wrapping them tightly around themselves. Remus looked at them and frowned. "I suppose you'll need a change of clothes, too."
Remus sighed. He may have lived in Grimmauld Place for years now, but he'd never bothered to learn where anything was except the essentials for his own life within the house. Which meant that, against his better wishes, he would have to call Kreacher.
Ron and Hermione watched him as he went back to the library and, his reluctance clear, tugged on the thin rope by the light switch at the entrance. The tinny sound of a faraway bell came from downstairs, followed by the thump of footsteps coming up a flight of stairs. Ron and Hermione could only wait until a door creaked open in the corner and out came a short, elfish man bent over with old age. He wobbled toward them, his legs struggling with the weight of his body, and as he got closer Ron and Hermione could make out his face. The word to describe it was sagging: his face was swamped with wrinkles, both his nose and ears long, pointy, and floppy, a pair of beady bloodshot eyes drooping under a furrowed brow. He was almost bald except for a few wiry strands of hair, aside from those poking out of his ears and nostrils.
"You rang," he said, glaring at Remus. It wasn't a question but a statement, one that sounded more like a complaint. His voice was a raspy wheeze, coming from within the folds of skin like a draft from a cave.
Remus, too, did not bother with the formalities. "Both of these young people will need a change of clothes. I don't know where they are kept, but I know you do."
The man, however, did not move. Instead, his face wrinkled even more as he narrowed his eyes, examining Ron and Hermione where they stood. Even then, he did not budge an inch, giving no sign that he'd heard Remus.
"Kreacher," Remus said sternly, with the tone of a man used to this sort of interaction, "this is the Lady Hermione Granger, daughter of the Earl of Rosebury, and her... er, companion," he added, for lack of a better word (for now) to describe Ron. "Get them a change of clothes."
It seemed to be Hermione's title that did the trick, for although Kreacher's eyes remained narrow, he started toward the upper floor, grumbling as he climbed the stairs and disappeared around a dark corner.
Remus looked at him, frowning, until he'd gone out of sight. Then he sighed and turned to Ron and Hermione. "That's Mr. Kreacher, butler of Grimmauld Place. He hates Sirius and it's mutual, but Sirius's mother left it in her will that Kreacher was to remain employed by the Black family until his death, as a way to look out for him after years of service or something. And Sirius just thought it better not to mess with anything concerning Kreacher's precious mistress. So... here he is, against everyone's will, really, including his own, but he still works here because his mistress said so. And he's still needed, unfortunately, mostly for things like this."
"He doesn't seem to like you very much," Ron remarked.
"No, he doesn't. He thinks I'm a disgrace to the family name, and he refuses to serve commoners, which is his word of choice to refer to me."
Hermione was somewhat uncomfortable in the knowledge that only her title had been responsible for the butler's obedience, and was startlingly aware of being the odd one out between the three of them, Remus and Ron having more in common in their upbringing than she'd ever know.
It wasn't long before Kreacher returned from the top floor, carrying a pile of folded garments in his bony arms. Wordlessly, he handed the pile to Hermione, not even bothering to look at Ron or Remus.
"Thank you, Mr. Kreacher," Hermione said, but the old butler did not even look a smidge friendlier despite her politeness.
"There's a bathroom just down the hall, the third door to your right," Remus said, pointing in the direction of the bathroom. "You can change and then afterward you can tell me your story. I'm dying to hear it."
"Thank you," Hermione said. She took Ron by the hand and, the other holding the garments Kreacher had handed her, led him to the bathroom Remus had pointed them toward.
Kreacher followed them with his gaze until they were shut inside the bathroom and then turned to Remus, giving him a dirty look.
"Nasty, wet, they left puddles all over the lobby, and now Kreacher will have to clean up after them as usual, won't he?" he mumbled to himself, already heading toward the closet under the stairs to fetch what Remus thought would be a mop.
"I can clean, Kreacher, if it's really that much of a hassle," Remus said coldly.
"You wouldn't know how to, nasty commoner, you know nothing about care for marble, you would scratch it," Kreacher spat, pushing Remus out of the way as he mopped the water Ron and Hermione had trod into the house.
He mopped in silence but with agility, his age not an obstacle after years of being used to the work. Remus lingered by the library door all the while, his gaze darting between Kreacher and the bathroom door, not quite knowing where to look but knowing he couldn't just go back in the library. After minutes that seemed like eons, Kreacher was done, satisfiedly standing by the front door with mop in hand and looking proudly at the clean marble.
It didn't last him very long, for at that very moment, the front door flew open and in walked Sirius and Harry with their suitcases in tow. Kreacher let out a wheezing gasp at the puddles they left on the just-mopped marble as they walked in, his eyes nearly bulging out of his face in dismay. Sirius, however, paid him no mind as he strode up to a very surprised Remus and kissed him right at the corner of his mouth.
"You're back early," was all Remus could say, pleased at the turn the evening had taken.
"Well, you'll never believe it, but the wedding's off," Sirius told him, stepping away from him to hand Kreacher his luggage. The butler received it reluctantly and scuttled back upstairs, muttering under his breath all the while. Remus felt relieved that he was gone. "The bride ran away a few hours before the church service was due to begin. They looked through the house, but they couldn't find her. They're sweeping the grounds tomorrow, but Harry decided to just come home early."
"They're not gonna find her," Harry chimed in, drying off the droplets on his glasses with the hem of his coat.
"I'd be surprised if they did," Sirius chuckled. "Anyway, Remus, what do you think of the whole affair?"
Remus smirked. "Believe it or not, I was already aware of it."
Sirius frowned. "Who told you? Because we didn't telephone, unless Harry did, and the Grangers are trying to keep it on the downlow—"
Sirius's answer came just then, in the form of a far door opening and two figures emerging from the guest bathroom. Harry was the first to recognize them.
"Hermione!" he cried, running across the hall to crush her in a hug. A little stunned, Hermione took a second before reciprocating the embrace. "What are you doing here? When did you get here? How did you manage to evade your mother? Why—?"
"Easy, Harry, easy," Sirius said, placing a hand on his shoulder to draw him away from Hermione and stem his barrage of questions. "I'm sure Hermione will catch us up on all that in due time, because I too am wondering how the runaway bride and the handyman somehow managed to end up in my house of all places. My only question right now is a simple one: why on Earth are you wearing possibly the ugliest dress my late mother owned?"
Hermione looked down at the dress Kreacher had picked for her. It was indeed ugly, a yellowish white, crimped and draped in several places around the skirt so that it looked like a bunched-up napkin crumbled into the shape of a dress. It was painfully Victorian, and she knew her mother would've thought it lovely, which only made it all the more repulsive.
"Kreacher," Remus answered for her.
"Ah. Remus, remind me to show you where we keep the clothes. And really, Hermione, I'm so sorry you have to wear that thing. I promise we'll find you some better clothes later, though I'm afraid much of my mother's wardrobe looks like that." And then Sirius did something that Ron had never expected from any noble of his age, and extended his hand to Ron for a shake. "Ron, is it?"
"Yes, milord," Ron said.
"Please, call me Sirius. I'm hardly a lord— all we have is a butler, and that's not even because I want him here. Speaking of which, I see he's done you dirty as well."
Ron wore a pair of tan striped trousers that ballooned at the waist, giving him the comical impression of a circus clown. "I'll not refuse the clothing, sir- ius," he played it off, reminding himself very much of his mother at that moment, that time Hermione had asked her to call her by her name and not her title and the poor woman had almost burst an aneurysm at it.
"No, of course not, I guess even that thing is better than the sopping clothes you must've been wearing. How long ago did you get here?"
"Some twenty minutes ago," Remus answered again.
"Well, then it seems we were right on time." Sirius gave them an amused smile and gestured toward the library. "Come, let's sit for a bit. I want to hear all about it."
Ron and Hermione obeyed, following Sirius and Remus into the library. Harry walked beside Hermione, ecstatic to see his friend in this unlikeliest of places, and sat in the armchair right beside the sofa which she and Ron occupied. Remus resumed his place on the armchair he'd been reading in before the events of tonight began, except his hand now held Sirius's instead of a book, with Sirius sitting on the couch beside his as if he were on a throne. When they'd all sat down, Sirius brought Remus's hand briefly to his lips before beginning. Hermione caught a sight of Remus's contented expression at the small kiss, and something in it made her reach for Ron's hand as well and squeeze it lightly.
"So," Sirius started, "we have much to cover, but let's start from the beginning. Why did you run?"
"I didn't want to get married," Hermione shrugged. "Not to Draco, at least."
"Yeah, I figured as much. Stupid question," Sirius said. "Draco could've used a heads-up, though. He looked positively devastated."
Hermione almost started to correct him when she saw the knowing glance Harry and Sirius shared. Sirius was in on the whole thing, no doubt about it, and was simply joking with his godson. That was a familiarity Hermione had never experienced with her own relatives, and not for the first time that evening, she experienced a pang of longing for the way of life in Sirius's house.
"Okay, second question," Sirius continued. "Why is Ron here?"
"We ran away together," Ron offered.
"No, that much is clear, actually. That's not the why I meant."
Ron looked at Hermione, deferring to her in that moment. But Hermione didn't even hesitate as she shifted their clasped hands into the forefront of the rest's view and said: "Ron and I have been in a relationship for some time now. I didn't just not want to get married— I wanted to be with the man I love. So I fetched him on my way out, and we ran."
To hear Hermione say it out loud —that they were together, that she loved him— and with such unwavering confidence filled Ron's chest with an indescribable emotion. To think he was worth this much to anyone, and to her of all people!
Sirius nodded only once. "Very romantic," he conceded, with a hint of admiration. "Which I suppose only leaves one question to be asked: why did you come here?"
Hermione's voice then turned from its matter-of-factly demeanor to almost a plea. "Lord Black —Sirius—, I understand if you want us to leave, and want no part in the risk that comes with having us in your house. But we came here because— well, Harry is my best friend, and he is the only person outside my family I could trust with something like this. And you're a generous man, Sirius, a kind and understanding one, and you know something of what it is like to love against obstacles."
Sirius looked at Ron and Hermione for a moment, and the library descended into a brief silence. "I'm honored that you think so highly of me, Hermione," he said at last. "And you weren't wrong. Of course you can stay here. We will do our best to house you, hide you, and keep you safe until we figure out what to do, since we obviously can't pack you up and ship you back home anytime soon. And we'll appreciate the company, especially poor Remus, who's been on his own for a while now, I'm afraid. Besides," he said, giving them a wink, "any chance to piss off Lucius Malfoy is one I'll jump to take."
Hermione was overcome with emotion. "Oh, thank you!" she cried, springing from her seat and going to Sirius's to throw her arms around him before she really knew what she was doing. Sirius was taken aback for an instant but then merely smiled and placed the hand that wasn't holding Remus's appreciatively on her back.
"Of course," Sirius said. "I couldn't help but feel terribly sorry for you in all the lead-up to the wedding. I can't imagine what you must have been feeling. I'm just glad you could get away."
"Thank you, Sirius," Ron said. He had risen from his armchair and stood behind Hermione, his hand also on her back.
"I'm delighted to," Sirius said, smiling at them. "Now, Harry, will you show them to one of the guestrooms, please? I mean," he turned to Ron and Hermione, "I assume just the one room is fine, isn't it?"
"Yes," Hermione said, again grabbing for Ron's hand.
"Splendid. Harry?"
"This way," Harry beckoned them with a smile, showing them out of the library and toward the stairs. As they exited the library, Ron bumped shoulders with Kreacher, who had apparently been lingering by the library door, mop in hand, throughout the whole exchange.
Harry and Ron narrowed their eyes at him, but Hermione simply said, "Good night, Mr. Kreacher," earning herself a dirty look from the butler as the only response. But Kreacher would get it back in kind, as Sirius came out of the library, eyes blazing, and began discussing with him in low, sharp tones with Remus right beside him as the younger three went up the stairs to the second flight. Hermione gave the clump of people by the library one last look before turning to Harry, who was striding up the stairs cheerfully.
"How's Draco?" Hermione asked.
Harry smiled as he answered. "He's good, very good. You made his entire year, Hermione. He's going back to Ashcroft tomorrow if they don't find you —which I guess it's obvious they won't—, but I expect a letter from him soon. Blimey, I can't wait to tell him."
Harry was suddenly aware of an ironlike hand on his arm, and turned to see Hermione looking up desperately at him. "Please don't tell him, Harry. No one can know. I know you hate hiding things from him, but say Lucius intercepts the letter, or—"
"I got it," Harry said, trying hard to dissipate the momentary hurt from his voice. "No one will know." He sighed and looked at Hermione before giving her another crashing hug. "I'm just happy you're here. It means a lot that you thought of me for this sort of thing."
"It wouldn't be anyone else."
"And Ron," Harry said, breaking the hug, "I've heard only rave reviews about you. I suppose I'm in luck you're here too, because Orlando planned to hog you at Rosebury, and I've really been meaning to learn to play chess anyway, and—"
Harry's chatter continued to bubble amicably over them as they continued up the stairs, toward the first truly safe room they had ever shared.
It took no time for Hermione to begin to like Grimmauld Place better than she had ever liked Rosebury Grounds. For starters, there was the library, larger and cozier than even the one back home. Remus was a schoolteacher who had read philosophy at Cambridge, and his library reflected that: tomes of literary traditions the world over lined the shelves, featuring everything from the essays of eminent thinkers to the novels of prominent writers from all centuries. Hermione never found herself without something to read, and the first time Remus took her on a tour of the library and told her she was welcome to any book she wanted, she almost thought she'd died and gone to heaven.
There was also the lithe presence of Harry and Sirius, at all times infusing the house with more radiance than Hermione had ever experienced at Rosebury (even with a powerhouse of brightness as Orlando was). They teased and joked with one another, and the sound of laughter was common anytime either of them was around. What Hermione would soon come to associate the most with Grimmauld, though, was noise: the noise of laughter, of course, was the base, but there was also the noise of Harry and Sirius thundering up and down the stairs, the noise of the busy London streets surrounding the house, and the noise of the jazz records that Sirius played in a shining new gramophone that Hermione would soon understand held as much value to him as his books did to Remus. Jazz might as well have been a dirty word to Lady Amelia, and so to hear it soaring freely through the house, trumpets weaving in and out of rooms, was brand-new to Hermione to the point of being hypnotic.
Of course, there was also the shadowy presence of Mr. Kreacher. The butler had never tried to conceal his dislike of Ron and Hermione, and though he served her, reluctantly, not a day had gone by when they'd crossed paths and he hadn't cast a dirty glance in her direction. Because for someone who disliked them so much, Kreacher seemed to always be there: sweeping at some corner, polishing some item or another on a mantelpiece, or (his personal favorite) cleaning the humongous portrait of his precious mistress, Walburga Black, that presided severely over the staircase. He took to the portrait with varnish and cleaning rag every day, almost always at the same time that Ron and Hermione decided to come down to join the rest of the house.
Ron, like Sirius, hated the butler. He had plenty of reason to, from where he saw it: Kreacher had made clear his dislike of Ron and given him much the same treatment as Remus but somehow worse, because Ron was —God forbid!— a manual laborer. He refused to serve Ron or even greet him, skipping him over at mealtimes and ignoring him every time Ron so much as spoke in his direction. So Ron had given him the same treatment, shooting him the same dirty glances and sharp words that Kreacher only ever muttered at him.
"You'd think he'd have chipped some of the paint off with that rag by now," he commented once as he and Hermione came down the stairs one morning to find Kreacher (surprise, surprise) cleaning Walburga's portrait. The butler pierced Ron through with loathing in his eyes, but Ron looked right back at him in the same way, even as he and Hermione kept going down the stairs.
"Leave him be, Ron, he's only doing his job," Hermione rose to Kreacher's defense. Though it was clear that Kreacher didn't like her either, and only ever heeded her because of her title, she had tried to dismiss his contemptuous treatment and be kind to him, even when it never seemed to pay off.
"Hermione, you want to be nice to him because you don't want to look condescending," Ron answered. "But this guy's a bastard, however much your class guilt might want to make you gloss over it."
"He's just old-fashioned," still Hermione continued.
"Yeah, an old-fashioned bastard," Ron huffed, and that had been the end of that conversation.
In the back of her mind, Hermione couldn't really blame Kreacher for his unkindness toward them. She had learned that that little rendezvous by the library on that first night had been Sirius swearing him to secrecy after catching him eavesdropping. Ever loyal to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Kreacher had taken one good listen at the story of Hermione's treachery (as he saw it) in the face of her duty to her family and the Malfoys, and decided to call Lady Narcissa Malfoy (née Black, and one of his favorite nieces of his mistress's) immediately. But Sirius had caught him before it, and had threatened him with a choice between silence and being allowed to stay or snitching and being forced to leave, Walburga's will be damned. The thought of being torn from Grimmauld Place, his ancestral and revered workplace, had been anathema to Kreacher, who'd begrudgingly sworn to keep quiet about Ron and Hermione's stay in Grimmauld. But he'd made it exceedingly clear that he hated it, never having a kind word or look for either of them, which was just as well for Ron and very uncomfortable for Hermione.
But weighed against the unpleasantness of the butler was the bliss of waking up every morning next to one another. Their guestroom, like all of them at Grimmauld, was dark and grim, with ebony finishings and heavy draperies that gave the whole room an air of suffocation. Yet Hermione wouldn't have traded it for the world, because the first sensation she experienced every morning was that of Ron's arms around her. Spending nights with one another had introduced them both to the habits and little idiosyncracies of the other, which had only been all the more reason to fall for one another.
Hermione, for example, had learned that Ron slept shirtless and that he was very much a cuddler. The first time he had pulled her closer even when he was already asleep, a reflex more than anything else, her heart had almost burst in her chest. Ron, on the other hand, had learned that Hermione (aside from drooling) mumbled in her sleep, and what's more, talked back. He'd had many a night of amusement with Hermione still asleep where he'd asked her idiotic questions and she'd answered, still asleep, very matter-of-factly. And so their mingled scent, a mix of sawdust and peonies, permeated the covers of their shared bed, a testament to the life they now shared.
Because the fact that they got to share a life —beyond their wildest dreams— was more than enough to make up for everything bad. For Kreacher's ugly looks, for the fact that they had to stay cooped up and hidden in Grimmauld Place, for the fact that neither of them knew what their future held. Because they both worried, of course, sometimes, but those worries were easy to dissipate with a good-morning kiss or the brush of a hand that didn't have to be concealed.
Those worries, however, came to a grinding spotlight one morning at breakfast. With all of them around the table, eating a breakfast that Remus had cooked (for Kreacher refused to cook for anyone but Sirius and Hermione, as a too-sparse lunch had once shown), Kreacher had come in carrying a little silver tray that he'd presented wordlessly to Sirius.
Sirius opened the lid atop the little tray and extracted the mail, as he did each morning. He rifled without too much interest through most of the envelopes, which were bills or courtesies from distant relatives, but he stopped at a fine envelope that had only the address, without the recipient name. With furrowed brows, he opened it, and he had scanned no further than the first line when he looked up from it to stare blankly at Hermione.
"It's for you," he said, his voice entirely emotionless, and Hermione felt her stomach drop as soon as she received the paper from his hands. Who had possibly known she was here, enough to send her a letter? She tried to remember whether she'd left a drape open, enough for someone to look in from the street, or had otherwise slipped up in her hiding efforts.
All of that, however, was dispelled when she actually read it.
Dearest Hermione,
I apologize for not addressing the envelope to you. If you really are at Grimmauld Place, I didn't want to risk giving away your whereabouts to some postman with a keen eye that keeps up with the news upcountry (because your wedding —or lack thereof— made quite a splash in the local press, but more on that later). Still, I have a very strong suspicion that you are there, because I spoke to Harry on the telephone the other day and asked him if he knew anything about your whereabouts. He said no, of course, because he's a good man, but a shit liar. I could tell. So I made a wild guess, and I'm hoping you're there. Call it a brother's intuition.
I got Mother to call off the search for you as soon as the first day. I told her she hadn't a prayer of finding you, which I hope bought you some time. By now, however, Gramsley must've realized that Ron's gone missing too. He'll put two and two together if he hasn't already, which is going to throw our house into an even larger scandal, but whatever. I just wanted to tell you that I hope you didn't stop by Ron's parents' or leave any other clues that he left with you, because as of now, nobody knows where he might have gotten off to, which I think is all in all a very good thing.
As for the newspapers, as promised... That Skeeter woman, from the Rosebury Bugle (you remember her, surely), has been nosing around ever since the day you were supposed to get married. I've had to start intercepting the papers before they get to Father and getting rid of the pages with her articles on them, lest Mother burst an aneurysm, which she's looked dangerously close to doing any time she so much as hears the word "wedding." I'm sure mother would have Skeeter beheaded if she could! Anyway, I'm attaching one of the clippings. See for yourself— and don't come back anytime soon.
On a more personal note, Hermione, I must tell you, I am very glad you ran. I know how unhappy you were, and seeing you with Ron just made me sure that this marriage (however friendly Draco is) would've made you utterly miserable. If you can, don't come back. Mother and Father have not the slightest clue as to where you might be, and the only reason I might is because I know Harry and I know you. And if you manage to get very, very far away, just send me a letter at some point, will you? You know where to find me. But don't stay at Grimmauld forever, if that's where you are. Stay as long as you need to to figure something out, but keep running.
Don't reply to this letter, if it does get to you. Don't risk giving away anything about where you are— as my last letter to you, back when I was in Glencarrion, made clear to me, Mother is quite fond of intercepting correspondency addressed to anyone other than Father or herself. But know that my thoughts and my best wishes travel with you, whether you get this letter or not, wherever you are. Godspeed, dearest sister. And say hi for me to that handyman of yours.
All my love (for you and Ron both),
Orlando
P.S: I'm attaching some money for any expenses Sirius might have incurred in hosting you. Sirius, if you're reading this and Hermione is there, I know you won't want to accept it, but I ask you to please do so, for me. And if you're reading this and Hermione is not there, take the money anyway. Or give it to Harry. Tell him it's an untimely birthday present, or something.
P.P.S: Hermione, tell Harry he'd best be taking advantage of Ron to learn how to play chess, because I'm obliterating him the next time I see him. And tell him to stay off the phone. He's a terrible liar.
The breakfast table had gone silent, but Hermione almost laughed out with relief when she was done reading the letter. "It's Orlando," she explained, and the tension evaporated at once from the party around the table.
"How did he know where you were?" asked Remus, the only one who had remained somewhat skeptical.
"Harry makes an unconvincing liar on the telephone," Hermione explained, and Harry looked down at his porridge, which was suddenly very, very interesting.
Hermione fished inside the envelope for the money, a couple of bills which she handed over to Sirius without even looking at how much they were. Sirius began to protest, but Hermione followed the instructions in the letter: "It's from Orlando. He says it should be used to cover any expenses Ron and I may have been to you since we've been here."
Which they had, no doubt. The first day, Harry had gone out to buy the both of them some clothes that weren't a century old, and that was without speaking of the extra food they'd had to order to account for two extra guests. But Sirius was, as Orlando had predicted, stubborn. "Nonsense," he'd dismissed the bills, "it has been absolutely no trouble."
"Then Orlando said I was to give them to Harry. I think 'untimely birthday present' were his exact words."
At that, Harry's eyes brightened, but Sirius was quick to snatch away the bills. "I think it's best if I keep them," he declared, with Harry again looking downcast, "because this one might spend them on a useless trinket if left unsupervised."
"I would not!" Harry protested.
"Solid gold cauldron," Remus and Sirius recited in unison, so well-practiced that Hermione realized this was a well-worn discussion already. Harry looked away and muttered something about it having been funny, but that was the end of that.
"Well, Hermione, I'll have to thank that splendid brother of yours the next time I see him. It's good to know you have someone on your side back home," Sirius said, wiping his mouth with the corner of his napkin and rising from his seat, his breakfast finished. "Ron, would you have a minute right now? I have a pipe I need looking at in Remus and I's bathroom."
"Absolutely," Ron said, rising from his seat so quickly that he almost knocked over a glass with the force of the bump he gave the table. Luckily, Hermione sent a hand forth and steadied it before it toppled.
Sirius laughed and motioned for Ron to sit down. "Relax, Ron, you can finish your breakfast first. Just come find me when you're done and I'll show you, alright? I have a few letters to answer, if you'll all excuse me." He gave them a bow of his head, his shoulder-length brown hair swaying with the motion, and then left the dining room with the rest of the letters Kreacher had brought in in hand.
Now Hermione turned to the newspaper clipping, which Orlando had also placed inside the envelope. It was a relatively large block of texts, with an all-caps headline that screamed out at them 'THE ROSEBURY RUNNER: DAUGHTER OF LORD GRANGER BOLTS ON WEDDING MORNING'. Underneath, also in large letters, were the words by 'Rita Skeeter'. Under the headline, shoved in a corner, was a picture of the empty town church, decked out in wedding ribbons and flowers that were never used. Hermione scanned the article but found nothing of interest: most of it was all of the facts about her escape, including dates and details, and the brunt of the text were just the embellishments and speculations that the eccentric reporter was known for, albeit most were unfounded.
She handed the clipping to Ron, who she thought might find it amusing, but instead just looked relieved. "No mention of me or my parents," Ron said, "not even a passing nod to the vanished handyman. This is great news." He finished the last of his beans and now rose from the table a lot more slowly. "If you'll excuse me as well, I'm going to go get that pipe fixed." He leaned over to give Hermione a peck on the lips before exiting where Sirius had. Hermione smiled at the kiss: it was these little domestic gestures, which had become ubiquitous during their time here, that made her giddy every day.
Remus watched Ron go with a sly smile. "If I don't watch out, he'll end up dethroning me as Sirius's favorite." Ron and Sirius had taken splendidly to one another, and Ron had spent a good portion of their days at Grimmauld doing little fixes for Sirius around the house, as a way to pay forward his gratitude for Sirius's hospitality. All the little fixes and fix-ups were little things, that neither Sirius nor Remus knew how to do and Kreacher refused to, and Sirius had put off bringing in plumbers and carpenters over the years to take care of them. So having Ron around had proven a massive boon to Sirius, who often proclaimed that he'd have an entirely renovated house before long if Ron stayed around. And Ron, of course, was delighted to.
"I think Hermione might be the one giving you competition for that," Harry said with a smirk.
"And why may that be?"
"Because she did what he did: fall for a commoner," Harry said, grinning.
"Cheeky," Remus said, "and I'd even call you insolent if I didn't like you quite this much."
"Does that mean I'm your favorite, then?"
"Get out of here," Remus said, and Harry did as he was told, getting up from the table and exiting the dining room in a whirl of laughter.
With that, Remus and Hermione proceeded to do as they always did, and retire to the library. This was their usual ritual: they'd read in the morning, join the rest of them at luncheon, and then continue about their day with a few more stops between the books (with the time between the post-dinner conversation and bedtime being a usual and particular favorite). Usually, they both withdrew their books in silence and cozied up in an armchair quietly, but something about Orlando's letter and the interactions at breakfast had made Hermione somewhat curious.
"Remus," she said, and he looked up from his book, "if you don't mind me asking, how did you and Sirius meet?"
A smile appeared under Remus's wispy mustache, tilting it upward. "Ah. Well, we were childhood friends— we went to school together, with Harry's father, too. They were both nobles, but they'd both decided they didn't want a governess and convinced their parents of it— lucky for me, I suppose. I got a public school scholarship, and Sirius and James were the only ones who weren't too snobbish to talk to the scholarship boy."
"Were you and Sirius together even then?"
Remus frowned as he considered it. "Not explicitly, really. I think the feelings were there from as soon as fifteen, but neither of us was brave enough to act on it back then. We did kiss, once, but both of us were reluctant to talk about it after the fact."
"So how did you come together?"
"Well, after school we all went our separate ways, considering that Sirius had to come back home and learn to manage the estate, and James ran off with Lily —that's Harry's mother, mind you— much like you're doing with Ron, actually," he said, giving Hermione a wink. "And I went on to Cambridge. I read philosophy and then came back to London to work as a schoolteacher at the same public school I'd graduated from, since the salary was good and I was already an esteemed alumnus. Eventually, Harry came into Sirius's custody after his parents' unfortunate passing, and Sirius put him into school as well. I was his teacher when he was around nine, and that was how Sirius and I reconnected." The memory put a smile on Remus's tired face, and Hermione shared in it with him just watching him.
"How'd Harry take it?"
"His favorite teacher and his godfather getting together? Oh, it might as well have been Christmas," Remus said with a chuckle. "Why the sudden interest in mine and Sirius's– love story, let's call it?"
Hermione shrugged. "I don't know, I was just curious. I'll let you get back to your book."
But Remus was an intuitive man, as good at reading people as he was at reading anything else. "You're thinking of Ron and yourself, aren't you? Of how you might make it work?" Hermione nodded. Remus sighed: "It's not as easy as we make it sound and seem, I promise you that. I'm willing to bet that you don't know that I have an apartment despite living here, do you?"
Hermione shook her head. "You do?"
"Of course I do. I need a place for the school to send me my checks and for my own mail to arrive. I can't list my address as Sirius's home, since that'd only attract rumors— why would a schoolteacher live with an earl, under normal circumstances, after all?"
"That must be a hassle."
"It is, but that's only a bit of it. It's hard, Hermione, to love someone so hard you want to scream it from the rooftops and then have to hide from every facet of the public eye. I can't hold Sirius's hand, I can't be seen with him in public, and I have to watch my every step to make sure none of them can be traced back to Sirius and myself. I can't endanger his name and reputation, which I understand, but still... And I'll never be able to marry him. That weighs sorely on me, and no mistake."
"Oh."
"And then there is the fact that we are both men. That much we are lucky for, because it is quite normal for men to be bachelors, and even adds to their allure a little bit." Hermione remembered how her mother giggled over Sirius whenever he visited Rosebury, and knew Remus was right. "But it's harder when you're a woman. Unmarried women attract unwanted eyes and ears, and you'll have to live in scrutiny and rumor the rest of your life."
Hermione remained silent, and Remus chastised himself internally for bringing on the look of utter discouragement that filled her face. "But of course, I'm scaring you," he said, rising from his armchair and moving to the one beside her own. He placed his hand over hers. "I'm afraid I'm only venting my own frustrations, but don't let yourself think I'm unhappy. I am fortunate enough to be with the man I love, in a beautiful home, with as many books as my heart could wish for, and a profession I adore. Of course, your life will be hard as Sirius and my own are, and you will have much hardship to face. But I knew all that when I decided to love Sirius wholly, and I was willing to give that up for him. And your life will be wonderful, too, if you decide that you're willing to give that up for Ron as well."
Hermione stayed silent. From the floor above, the metallic clang of a wrench against a pipe was audible, mixed in with the high voices and loud laughter of Ron and Sirius, who had no doubt joined Ron in the bathroom to chatter as he worked. The sound brought a smile to Hermione's face, and she looked at Remus. "Yes, of course I am."
Remus returned her smile and squeezed her hand. "Well then, Hermione Granger, I predict you're going to be very happy."
"All ready for bed," Ron said proudly. From the bed, Hermione looked up from her book at him. Ron wore only a pair of plaid flannel trousers, and stood proudly with his hands on his hips looking at her from a few feet away.
Hermione swept him up and down with a glance. "You might've told Harry not to buy the shirt for those pyjamas. You might have saved him a few quid, considering you've never worn it."
"My chest gets hot," protested Ron, walking over to the bed. He peeled back the covers on his side of the bed and slid in beside Hermione, who'd returned to her book. Ron settled into the pillow and turned to look up at her as she read, watching her from where he was laid down. She was doused in lamplight, the edges of her hair and eyelashes glinting golden in the warm light of the bulb. A look of complete concentration was on her face, and she seemed lost to all worlds except the one contained between the pages in her hands as her eyes darted back and forth over the letters. Ron watched her for a few minutes before Hermione finally cracked, an unwilling smile splitting her face as she turned to look at Ron with mirth in her voice.
"Stop."
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm some animal in a menagerie."
"I'm not!"
"You are, too."
"Hermione, I'm not."
"You are!"
"Oh, so I'm not allowed to look at you?" Ron said, and his hand under the covers shifted toward Hermione's thigh, bare under the nightgown that had ridden up to her waist. Hermione's breath hitched at his touch, and Ron looked pleased.
"Nope," Hermione said, though the determination was melting from her voice. She hadn't even looked at her book again. "Not while I'm reading, anyway."
"Well, then, stop reading so I can look at you."
"Why do you want to look at me so badly, anyway?"
"Because you're beautiful," Ron said, his hand caressing along her thigh. Again her breath caught in her throat, and now Ron could be sure that the book was soon to be forgotten. But he wanted to make sure of it, anyway, and he had just the tactic. "Anyway, if you don't want me to look at you, I won't."
"Okay. Thank you."
"I'll even go under the covers so you can be sure I'm not looking at you, alright?"
"Alright," Hermione said, watching as Ron pulled the blankets over his head.
But underneath the blankets, Ron let his touch guide him, and Hermione had scarcely managed to read a few more words before she felt the brush of Ron's lips on the skin of her thigh.
"Ron—" she began, but the tone of protest she'd wanted to infuse her words with was melting into one of desire.
Under the covers, Ron's kisses stopped. "What?" came his muffled voice through the blanket, and Hermione would've bet anything that he was grinning under there. "I'm not looking, aren't I?"
Without giving Hermione a chance to answer, the kisses resumed, inching closer and closer to the inside of Hermione's thigh, upward as they neared the heat between her legs. Hermione tried to gather her wits once more before deciding it was fruitless. She clapped her book shut and set it on the nightstand. "Alright, Ron, you win. You can come up now."
But Ron didn't relent: his kisses kept moving closer and closer to Hermione's underwear, his hands working doubly to pull down the hem of her panties and pull up the skirt of her nightgown. He was working the desired effect on Hermione, who began to feel the warmth between her legs spread and grow in intensity the closer Ron got to it. She felt Ron pull down her panties, softly, gently, and even lifted her hips up from the mattress to help him with it. She almost gave herself in to the sensation before she remembered herself, hastily casting off the blanket that covered her from the waist down.
There she saw Ron again, and he peeked up as he felt the weight of the covers over him leave. "Wouldn't want you to suffocate," she explained, feeling clumsy even as she did.
But Ron smiled at her— that warm, wonderful, reassuring smile that never failed to work its magic over her. "I win."
"You win?"
"I looked at you," Ron said, winking at her. Again, he scarcely gave her time for a witty retort before his head was back between her thighs, his kisses now fully along their inside and growing ever closer. Hermione spread her legs somewhat and Ron knew her well enough to take that as a cue, pressing a kiss to the nub of her clitoris that sent a tingle up Hermione's back.
"Oh, Ron," she sighed, and that was all Ron needed to dive in. His tongue ran along her folds, first just as a brush and then with more intensity, moving slowly and in circles and occasionally coming up against her clit with a passing flick. Hermione felt the warmth between her legs melt into stickiness, and she brought a hand down to tangle in Ron's hair, stroking as he worked.
"Don't stop," she whispered, knowing that speaking any louder threatened to betray the moans already building at the back of her throat. Eager to please, Ron kept licking, both of his hands now on Hermione's hips, his thumbs brushing the skin there, his caresses along the erogenous zones only further exciting Hermione. His tongue worked with agility, altering its pace and direction and every so often prying to go slightly deeper. Soon, Hermione was moaning in earnest, emitting little sighs of contentment that alternated with more guttural sounds every time Ron brushed over her clit with his tongue. It wasn't long before she felt the telling tingle where her stomach met her groin, and her thighs clamped around Ron's head as they trembled with the force of the sensation. "Oh, Ron!" she cried out as she came, Ron's head held fast between her thighs, his tongue unceasing until the tremors had finished and Hermione had come down from her orgasm.
Only then did he come up, trailing kisses along the line of her stomach up to the space between her breasts, where he lingered for a moment before finally coming up and placing his head back on the pillow beside Hermione's.
"Good?" he asked.
"Perfect," Hermione said, her breath still coming out ragged in the aftermath of her climax.
"Did I earn the right to look at you, now?"
"Look at me all you want," Hermione said, closing the gap between their faces and crushing her lips against his in a furious kiss. Smiling into the kiss, Ron's hand found its way to Hermione's cheek and stroked it tenderly.
At last, they broke away and Hermione turned around to turn out the lamp and pull her panties back up, smoothening the nightgown under the covers as she settled for bed beside Ron. Ron was waiting for her with open arms, and she happily nestled into them, placing her head on his chest right under his chin and a hand there as well, toying with the light hairs on Ron's chest by tousling them absentmindedly and tugging lightly on them.
"This is the life," Ron declared, one arm around Hermione and the other behind his head. "To make you feel this good, every day, and to get to go to sleep like this, every day..."
"It's beyond my wildest dreams," Hermione finished the thought for him.
"Did you ever think it'd be this good, when you decided to run?"
Hermione stopped her hand's movement and placed the palm flat on Ron's chest, lifting her head slightly from his chest so it hung over him as she looked at him. Even in the dark, the light coming in from the street was enough to make out Ron's features, which even blurry were beautiful. "I hoped it would be," she said, interspersing her words with a kiss to the tip of his nose, "but I still feel like I'm living in a dream."
"You are my dream," Ron said, and Hermione tilted her head to fit her mouth against his in a tender kiss. She pulled away and settled back on his chest, pulling the covers higher around them to shroud them both in for the night.
"It's going to be a good life, yours and mine," Ron said, his arm tightening around Hermione's shoulders.
Hermione pressed a kiss to his neck, right where it came up against her head, and nestled into him into her favorite position to sleep. "It already is," she whispered, and closed her eyes, knowing no dream that came to her tonight, in Ron's arms as she was, could measure up to the one she was living in.
The weeks flew by and, before either of them knew it, two months had gone by since the day Ron and Hermione had shown up drenched on Sirius's doorstep. They had settled nicely into the rhythm of life at Grimmauld Place: Hermione had barreled through a good portion of the library already, and Ron had fixed so much around the house that almost nothing squeaked or creaked anymore, not even the doorhinges. The inhabitants of the house, too, had grown pleasantly accustomed to having the two of them around. Remus was glad to have someone that understood his book references and could hold a candle to him when it came to literary discussions, which had grown more frequent and passionate as Hermione went through the library. Ron's humor was well-catered to Sirius, and Harry had learned to play chess decently well, despite the fact that he hadn't managed to beat Ron a single time, not even when Ron had done everything to let him win.
The only Grimmauld dweller who hadn't taken a shine to the couple was, of course, Kreacher. If anything, time had wrought the opposite effect on him. Though he'd become largely indifferent to Hermione, his venomous distaste for Ron only seemed to increase, with Kreacher going out of his way to inconvenience or spite him. Ron, of course, couldn't have given a rat's ass if the old butler liked him, but he wished he'd at least get out of his way. Because Kreacher seemed to be everywhere these days, muttering snide comments about Ron's inability as he fixed things (even though Kreacher didn't know how to fix them either), throwing insults in his direction whenever they crossed paths in the halls, and deliberately leaving things in Ron's way so he'd trip and fall. The weight of the secret he had been forced to keep, against his will, was taking a toll on him, and he was taking it out on Ron.
Sirius had offered to talk to him, but Ron had declined every time, even after the time Kreacher had created a puddle of water at the entrance of the bathroom where Ron was reaffixing tiles so he'd slip on his way out, costing him a severe bruise on his butt. Ron knew Sirius would make it stop if he ordered it, but he'd feel stupid seeking refuge under the wing of something like an aristocratic title, which he knew would be the reason. What was between him and Kreacher was an entirely personal matter, and if the score was to be settled, it was to be on their own terms. So he gritted his teeth every time his foot caught on something Kreacher had left out, or every time something he knew he'd already fixed suddenly broke again. He had what he needed, a safe place and Hermione with him, and however much Kreacher might want to difficult his life, that much was enough to keep Ron afloat.
With every passing day, Hermione's guilt and gratitude grew by equal parts. She could tell that Sirius and Remus had modified their routines and taken special precautions to keep them hidden, leaving the house much less often than usual and keeping everything closed up and silent. Sirius had not mentioned it to either of them, but Hermione had heard him speaking on the phone in the hall once to cancel an event with someone, which had made it painfully evident that Sirius had suspended a dinner at Grimmauld for her and Ron's sake. Harry, too, hadn't seen Draco, not even sneaked out to meet him at some club or restaurant: Orlando's letter, however friendly, had gotten to him, and he had denied himself Draco's presence for fear that Ron and Hermione's whereabouts might slip out and into some keen ears anyplace. But whenever Hermione tried to bring it up with any of the three of them, they all loudly and conspicuously changed the subject or left the conversation altogether if she pressed. So she tried to busy herself around the house as much as Ron's did, sorting out Sirius's closets and cupboards (much to Kreacher's dismay) and organizing the library for Remus, who had been delighted when she'd explained her system to him.
She was still finding refuge in the library on the regular, and every day, as it got closer to luncheon, the rest of the people at Grimmauld would come down and join them there for some conversation.
Today, Ron had come in with grease stains on his cotton shirt, having tinkered with the engine of Sirius's car, which had started making an unpleasant puttering noise a few months prior. Sirius had come in with him, having lingered in the garage to listen to Ron's stories of his mechanic father, and Harry as well, having joined them too after growing increasingly to appreciate Ron's company.
"You all smell of oil," Remus said, scrunching his nose without lifting his gaze from his book when they came in.
"No time for a bath before luncheon, so you'll just have to live with it," Sirius responded, sounding cheerful.
Ron went to Hermione, who did look up at him when she heard his steps and gave him a radiant smile. He leaned over to kiss her without her moving from her armchair. "You don't mind the grease, do you?"
"Hmm... Ask me later," Hermione said, kissing him again. Ron watched as she shut her book to pay full attention to him— something that, as he was coming to learn, was the highest-order regard Hermione could pay someone. The fact that she did it for him every time didn't wane in significance.
"All ready for lunch, then?" Harry said, eager to eat. The smell of the roast chicken with herbs that Remus had stuck in the oven forty minutes prior had drifted down to the garage from the kitchen, and his stomach had been rumbling since then.
"I'll just get the oven," Remus said, closing his book as well and getting up to start bringing lunch up.
"While he's at it, Ron, there was something I wanted you to take a look at in here," said Sirius, walking to one of the bookcases at the farthest end.
"Happily," Ron said, circling around Hermione's armchair and walking between the sofa and the hearth to get to where Sirius was. As he was halfway there, however, his foot caught on the iron poker, which had been left out and tilted slightly upwards, and he went flying forward. Trying to break his fall, however, his hand snagged on the lace cloth covering the mantel of the fireplace, bringing it down with him and, along with it, the oddments that had rested ornamentally atop it. As he went crashing down onto the rug before the hearth, so did a baccarat vase, a picture frame, a couple of ceramic figures, and the massive porcelain bust of Walburga Black that had presided over the library, looking out at it from atop the mantelpiece. The sound was thunderous, and Ron felt the heat rise to his ears in embarrassment as the ornaments broke around him.
"I'm so sorry," he mumbled as he rose, blushed furiously. "I didn't see the poker, and I didn't tuck in my hands to break the fall—"
But his apologies were interrupted by a screech coming from a hidden door at the back of the library, out of which a pair of bloodshot eyes peered out blazing with shock and mad fury. "Weasley has broken it!" Kreacher squealed. "Weasley has broken my mistress's bust!"
Sirius's eyes whipped onto him, and he looked just as furious as he spotted the hiding butler. "You did this, didn't you?" he bellowed, marching over to him in angry strides. "You left out that poker, didn't you, so Ron would trip?"
Kreacher was almost weeping now. "He wasn't supposed to pull on the lace," he whimpered, tears pushing out of his beady little eyes, "wasn't supposed to break my mistress's bust—"
"Kreacher, it could've been any of us tripping over that thing!" Sirius roared. Hermione cowered at the sound: she had never seen him angry, and from what she was seeing now, she was better off without it. "Suppose someone broke something—"
"He did, he did, my mistress's bust—!"
"I mean a wrist, or an elbow, or an ankle, or any of the bones that could've been seriously hurt just because you have some idiotic vendetta against Ron, simply for existing!"
But Kreacher was impervious to Sirius's reprimands: he had broken out into a full-on wail as he eyed the shards of the porcelain bust strewn on the rug before the hearth. "He's broken it, my poor mistress, oh, what would she say if she saw Kreacher, what would she say if she knew that a filthy country boy had broken her bust..." His pitiful blabbering stopped all of a sudden, and his eyes turned to Ron, piercing him through with a killer look. "You!" he shrieked, his voice shaky with distraught anger, his crooked finger trembling madly as he pointed it at Ron. "You'll pay for this!"
"Get out of here!" yelled Sirius, and Kreacher didn't need to be told twice, scurrying back out through the little hidden door. The sound of his sobs could be heard as he made his way back through the passageway behind the door, all the way back downstairs to the servants' quarters.
The color had left Ron's face, and it took him an instant to come back to himself before he crouched and began collecting the shards of all he'd broken. Sirius walked over to him, replaced the poker where it should go, and placed a hand on Ron's shoulder to get him to stop fumbling about with his hands. "Kreacher will pick it up later," he said. "He'll want to salvage his mistress's things, so he'll be here again once we've left."
"Sirius, I'm so sorry," Ron mumbled, standing up again but looking straight down at his feet.
"Don't be," Sirius said. "That all belonged to my mother, and I have no personal attachment to anything you broke. Besides, that bust was ugly and creepy. You've given me the perfect excuse to get rid of it!" But Ron still looked downcast, and so Sirius clapped him on the back once, fraternally. "Cheer up, Ron! I promise you, you have nothing to be sorry for. Now let's eat, shall we?"
With that, Sirius ushered them all out of the library and into the dining room, where Remus had already laid out the tureen of asparagus cream and the dish of roast chicken. Eager to forget the incident, they all launched into trivial, amicable chatter, and soon the unpleasantness had all but melted away. Still, Ron couldn't help but cast his thoughts toward Kreacher, who he presumed was already in the library, scrambling to gather the smithereens he could and cursing Ron all the while.
But he was wrong: though Kreacher was, indeed, cursing him, he had abandoned the remains of the broken bust in the library. Instead, he had put on a coat and exited through the backdoor into the bustling streets of London, with an oath disregarded, a telegram already drafted, and the solid resolve to address it to one Lady Narcissa Malfoy.