The evening after the Harpies game, Aurora and her father returned in better spirits than they had been in some time. It was almost too easy, when surrounded by people with no idea of the true dangers around them, to believe that all was well. But Aurora knew differently, and the next morning, she and her father found themselves in London, standing in the park across from Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, with Dora, Alastor Moody, and Albus Dumbledore.

Even just looking at the house made her father uneasy, it was plain to see. Dora, who had only had one encounter with it, seemed wary, too, but she had accepted Moody's offer to join the Order and it seemed she was eager to impress.

The sun blazed down upon their little group, London's heat stifling them in their robes. Aurora stepped forward, crossing the road. Cars lined the kerb, and she was sure she could feel their fumes still lingering in the air as she called on her magic and let the house remember her. The wards hummed lightly in greeting as she placed her hand on the railing of the bottom step.

"I, Aurora Black," she said quietly, "hereby renew House access to Sirius Orion Black, by command of the lady of the family." Behind her, she could hear her father take in a short breath, as both he and Dora stepped forward. "I grant access to the address of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, and Alastor Stewart Moody, by the command of the lady of the family."

The wards, this time, felt reluctant, but allowed them in. They would have to be changed, altered, so as to accommodate more people to the secret once the Order was using it as Headquarters.

For now, though, the wards reluctantly accepted their party of five. "Ingenious," Dumbledore mumbled, as the House revealed itself to him. "Who performed the enchantments, do you know?"

"My father," her dad said, before Aurora could. "A rather paranoid man. There are wards on all the family houses, but this one was his, and there are countless other enchantments, protecting it. Ward access, from the lady of the house, overrides most things."

"We shouldn't expect anything to leap out at us," Aurora said, agreeing. "My house elves await." Yet she hesitated. Inviting these people — any people, really — into Grimmauld felt dangerous, like a betrayal, and she supposed that it was, in its way. It was terrifying and new, but here, she rationalised, she was best placed to learn of any new developments regarding Bellatrix Lestrange and Lord Voldemort, and she was best placed to call on allies covertly, as opposed to scrambling around the Assembly and Ministry when danger came knocking and Fudge denied its existence.

Her father placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It'll be alright," he assured her quietly. "If I can do it, you can too."

"My worries aren't quite the same as yours," she muttered, but nevertheless took solace in his presence, and Dora's. "Apologies," she said quickly to Dumbledore and Moody, "let's go in."

As anticipated, her grandmother's portrait started shrieking the second they walked in the door and Aurora had to rush forward, pulling the curtains away. "You have to be quiet, Grandmother," she whispered, "an important Alliance is to be made. For protection."

Her grandmother sniffed. "For your family's protection? Or your own?"

"They are one and the same," Aurora said, trying to keep her words even. Her grandmother scoffed derisively.

"I will not lay witness to traitors and half bloods—"

"You don't have to look," she said, and wrenched the curtains closed before Grandmother could retaliate. Her hands were shaking, much to her disdain.

Blood traitors, half bloods — family.

The others snuck down the corridor behind her when she gave the signal. "Ghastly," Dora muttered to Aurora's father, who smiled tightly. Aurora couldn't quite bring herself to meet his eyes, instead looking to Dumbledore and then urging him and Moody down the hall towards the kitchens, where she could hear Kreacher and Timmy shuffling about.

"I know you will wish to do a sweep of the property," she said to them, "but if you could let my house elves and myself move any of the ... more concerning artefacts, into different accommodations, I would appreciate it. It saves you work, and saves us a headache."

Moody didn't look entirely pleased, but he still looked to Dumbledore, deferring to him as commander. Dumbledore nodded slowly. "As you wish, Lady Black. I trust none of these artefacts... pose any danger?"

She smiled thinly. "Of course not, Professor. Nothing in this house would hurt me."

"That is not what I asked."

She pursed her lips. Her father gave her a warning look. "Not unless used. Anything sentient would have eaten the curtains a long time ago. You can check if you want — but I don't want anything damaged."

"Nor do I," Dumbledore said lowly, "but we must take precautions, mustn't we?" She nodded, though didn't want to meet his eyes. "And there is no possibility of another, unwelcome, family member gaining access to the house?"

Aurora shook her head. "No. I think there are still extra measures I can take to ensure that the wards don't recognise Bellatrix or Narcissa, but the house was left directly to me by my Grandmother, rather than to the Black estate. As long as I'm alive, the house answers to me."

Dumbledore and Moody exchanged a look, then both glanced back at Dora, and Aurora's dad. "I could feel it," her dad said, "the place warms to Aurora immediately. She's recognised magically and legally, and so long as we make sure no one else can sneak through the wards — which we'd do anyway — it's under her control."

She tried to hide her smug smile as Dumbledore nodded in acceptance.

"Right then," Moody said, clapping his hands together and sharing a sharp, significant look with Dora, "let's get cracking with these elves, then, eh?"

Aurora already felt a sense of dread creep in as she opened the kitchen door, leading the rest down the steps into the gloom. There was a vague, quiet sort of muttering from the shadowy corner at the end of the long room, but it died when she flickered with the lamps on the wall, dim light illuminating short bodies for only a second at a time.

She sighed loudly and clapped her hands. "Kreacher! Timmy!"

The room lit up at last, and the two elves hurried over. "Lady Black," Kreacher said in a rush, halfway to a bow when he caught Sirius's eye. The world froze. Timmy murmured a greeting, but stared around, quite bemused by the quiet and all the new people.

Then, Kreacher let out a scream. Aurora lunged forward. "It's quite alright, Kreacher."

"The blood traitor has returned!"

"Don't use that phrase," she said quickly, "and yes, he has — I brought him. We have important business."

"Kreacher shan't answer to him," he snarled, "Kreacher won't—"

"I won't ask you to," Aurora said quietly, though Dumbledore frowned behind her. "He will not be your master. You will, however, owe him the loyalty that is due to him, as a member of the House of Black, and as a guest of mine. The same courtesy will be extended to Nymphadora Tonks—" Dora, to her relief, didn't scoff at the name this time, though Kreacher snorted "—and you will remain polite to all my guests from the Order of the Phoenix. Further to that, you will not tell anybody outside of the Order the names of the people who are involved — whether they are of Black blood or not. You will not tell anybody the location of this house or its connection to the Order of the Phoenix, nor will you speak of my connection or assistance to the Order of the Phoenix. Is that understood?" She turned to Timmy too, who nodded hurriedly, and at his influence, Kreacher did the same. She smiled thinly. "Good. Professor?"

Dumbledore blinked as though surprised, then stepped forward. "Well put, Aurora." Kreacher sneered. "Kreacher, Timmy, I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School."

Kreacher muttered, "Kreacher knows who you are. Lover of—"

"Kreacher," Aurora warned sharply, and he sulked, but went quiet.

Dumbledore went on, "Our... Society, if you will, is founded for the protection of those whom Lord Voldemort—" both sucked in gasps "—seems to harm. That includes house elves such as yourselves." Aurora could have sworn she saw Kreacher shudder, but he said nothing, paying Dumbledore suddenly far more attention, eyes wide. "I swear to you, that I will protect you as I would any friends. As will the rest of my order."

"Professor Dumbledore does nothing to protect anyone," Kreacher snarled, "not house elves, not Kreacher's family."

"Funny," her dad started, "cause it seems like he is."

"Father," Aurora cautioned, eyes fixed on Kreacher. There was something about the way the elf had said that, like there was a personal bitterness behind the learned hatred.

"I don't know how long we will be here," Dumbledore said, "but I promise you will be treated well. If not, I dare say your mistress would have some strong words with me."

"This is my request," Aurora told the elves, "first and foremost. I ask that you work with me."

"Timmy will do as mistress wishes," Timmy squeaked, glancing nervously at Kreacher, who groaned. "Timmy..." He bit his lip but forced out, "I have heard some good things about Professor Dumbledore, too! If it is what mistress wishes, Timmy would fight!"

"You really don't have to fight," Aurora said quickly, "Really, there is little that you have to do, other than to keep my secrets."

"Timmy always keeps his family's secrets," Timmy told her, and she smiled.

"I know. And Kreacher?" Kreacher scowled.

"Kreacher can keep secrets too. Oh, the secrets Kreacher has kept..." He broke off into disgruntled muttering, then trailed into silence. Moody's eyes whirled madly in its socket, staring through the walls.

"Dumbledore," Moody grunted, "there's a bunch of pixies behind that door wailing to get out. And the kitchen could really use some work." Kreacher snarled. "I can feel the dark magic crawling over the place. It'll be some weeks before we can move everyone in. And the boy..."

Aurora and her father exchanged glances. She looked to Dora, who was watching Moody carefully, in the sort of position like she was ready to spring to action at any moment. "We shall work out the details of the transition later," Dumbledore said. "Sirius, Tonks, would you be so kind as to inspect the upper floors? Alastor, the kitchen — with your permission, of course," he added to Kreacher and Timmy, the latter of whom beamed and the former of whom glared but said nothing. "And Miss Black?"

"Lady Black," Kreacher muttered on her behalf and Aurora tried not to smile.

"With me. If we are to work together, there are some conditions you must be briefed on. And some," he added, eyes twinkling, "no doubt, that you have for me."

At that, she smirked, glad that he at least recognised that, and waved her Professor through to the drawing room. It was an odd set of circumstances and an even odder new dynamic, but some part of Aurora revelled in it, the sudden power in her grasp and the security which it brought.

It was she who gestured for Dumbledore to sit down in a high-backed chair by the old desk, though it aggravated her that he insisted on lighting the lamps where she could not. It was she who sat so straight, giving an aura of calm and order, and said, "What do you want to discuss, Professor?"

Amusement twinkled in his eyes. "The Order of the Phoenix," he began slowly, "was founded in 1970, over a year before the first war with Voldemort began. I was the founder, alongside Alastor, whom you have met today. Over the course of almost twelve years, we recruited near fifty members, each consigned to secrecy. At the age of fifteen, Aurora, we would not indict you into the Order." She snorted.

"How good of you."

"However, as our closest ally and patron, you have our absolute protection. And, I trust that we can rely on you to keep the secret as any other member would."

"I'm hardly likely to rat out my own father and cousin, am I?"

Dumbledore's answering smile was thin and strained, like he had heard those words before and hadn't felt them true. "Quite. As owner of Grimmauld Place, I am happy for you to maintain the wards yourself, though I request the addition of a Fidelius Charm." That made sense, of course, but Aurora was wary of who he might like to have as Secret Keeper, and even warier of the fact that he skipped over it. "As an Order patron, you will be briefed on missions if you choose. Of course, any and all information we receive about Bellatrix Lestrange or her husband or brother will be passed onto you directly, as per your question, as well as any information about Peter Pettigrew or Azkaban prison. However, I must ask that you keep all of this in the greatest confidence."

She frowned. "I thought we had established this already, Professor?"

"You will not be the only underage wizard or witch involved with the Order, Lady Black. Molly and Arthur Weasley have joined, meaning their children will have some level of knowledge about us, and may be relocating to headquarters this summer should it prove easier for their duties. Harry Potter, on the other hand… Is a rather delicate matter."

At that, she narrowed her eyes, suspicions flaring. "Potter is to come and stay with me and my father soon," she said, "we told him so."

"Harry will not be coming to Headquarters."

Though she did not nearly understand why, Aurora pressed, "My father intends to spend most of his time at Arbrus Hill anyway. As do I."

"No." Dumbledore shook his head. "Harry is not to know about the Order yet. He is not ready." She wasn't sure, but she thought she detected a glimmer of anxiety behind Dumbledore's eyes. She ignored it and any and all concern for the man.

"Not ready? He has faced down You-Know-Who and survived. If anybody is ready, it is him, surely? I — I thought you'd want him here."

"The mind is a delicate thing," Dumbledore said, and anger — unexpected, and burning — began to ripple through her. "Harry has been through so much. To bring him into the fold, when he is… Not entirely stable…"

"Stable?" she echoed, aware of her voice raising in shock. "Professor, I am not one to defend Harry Potter, but... I'm sorry, I don't understand."

Potter was many things and Aurora did not like to give him the semi-compliment of stability, but the suggestion that he was not able to join them or know anything about the Order — which Aurora had assumed he would have a place in — because Dumbledore thought he couldn't handle it, felt wrong. Not least because Dumbledore had never really seemed to question what Potter could or could not handle before.

"Surely Potter's the best asset we have?"

"Which is why we must keep him at arm's length. He is also Voldemort's greatest target. If he knows too much, gets too close—"

"But if you don't let him in, he won't trust us." This felt obvious to Aurora. Dumbledore either thought she was wrong, or did not care. "And shouldn't we be trying to protect him? That is why myself and my father are trying to bring him home with us."

"He is protected," Dumbledore said, his voice gentle and eyes pleading. "When he was placed with his aunt and uncle, the protection of his mother's blood erected wards around him, wards that will not break so long as he calls Privet Drive home and the Dursleys family." A shrill, incredulous laugh escaped her at that.

"Family? They are no family to him."

"He is safe there. Safer than anywhere, and so are we. There has," he said lowly, "been some level of communication between Harry's mind and Voldemort's, for some time. Should that connection be hijacked—"

"Harry Potter would not harm anyone in the Order." She knew that instinctively. "And he will not allow harm to come to any of them through his fault, if only because he could not bear the need to save them all."

"He may not have a choice. We are keeping him monitored."

"Monitored?"

"Watched over," Dumbledore said, choosing softer words as if that could quell the sudden flare of anger inside of her. "I believe it is best for Harry to be kept away from the Order, for now at least. It is better for him to recover. On this, my mind cannot be changed."

And she knew that he meant it, despite how the words twisted her. Still, just because Potter was to be kept away from the Order did not mean he had to be isolated. She would not let that happen.

"You can't just leave him there, alone, all summer. I — my father, will not do it. We promised."

A glimmer in Dumbledore's eye. "And here I thought you had no care for your godbrother, Lady Black."

She bit her tongue, annoyed. "I think you're making a mistake," she said. "But I also don't think it's fair of you to ask us to change our private plans."

"I am not asking."

Cold anger ran through her. For a second, she went to tell him off, then shut her mouth. It would no good. She irked Dumbledore enough, she knew, and he was difficult to manage. "Have you discussed this with my father?"

"I thought you wanted me to deal with you instead. As head of the house?"

"My father cares more about Potter than I do. I think you should talk to him."

She was sure her father would get his point across far better than she could anyway. He did care more. And besides that, he had less else that he had to manage out of Dumbledore.

"Do you have any questions for me, Aurora?" he asked after a long pause.

Aurora gritted her teeth. Of course she did, the first one being: are you fucking stupid, or are you making you think you are on purpose? However, it did not seem a particularly tactful thing to ask the man. Instead, she chose to go with the less inflammatory, "Will I be able to choose who is allowed access to Headquarters?" He cocked his head. "It is my family home, after all. I can't have just anyone swanning in. I suppose a better question would be, may I meet anyone coming into Headquarters?" There was an uncertainty in his eyes, a distrust that she had to alleviate. "You already have my word of confidence. But it feels like... Well, I am still somewhat sentimental. I don't want complete strangers walking around who I haven't met, even if they aren't in the important parts of the house."

That phrasing seemed to appeal to him more, soften his resolve. Perhaps a less abrasive approach was best for dealing with Dumbledore. After a moment, he nodded.

"Thank you, Professor. I also want you to know that, while I appreciate there will be some modifications made to make the house appropriate for hosting so many guests after so long, I'd like for any changes to decor, furniture, space, and inventory must be run by me first, and are subject to my approval. The library is also out of bounds without my permission, as are the other private rooms I mentioned. My own childhood bedroom—" not that it had ever had very much character or sentiment attached to it in the first place "—my grandmother's bedroom, my Uncle Regulus's bedroom, the library, as stated, the attic—" where she had taught herself the mechanics of flying a broom after her grandmother said she wasn't allowed one, where she had made Kreacher hide her when Grandmother was in a particularly brittle mood "—and my father's bedroom, unless he decides otherwise."

"That seems fair," Dumbledore said, though he had a questioning look at the mention of the attic. "Of course, I would not wish to encroach more than necessary."

She laughed humorlessly. Above them she heard her father's voice, annoyed about something, and sighed. "Thank you. If that is all, Professor, all else I wish to ask you, is the terms of the Fidelius Charm?"

His smile was pleasant as he replied, "I would nominate myself as Secret Keeper. Professor McGonagall will assist conducting the ceremony."

"And me?" she asked. "What is my place?"

"Our esteemed patron."

"An esteemed patron who is offering you shelter. The Fidelius Charm can work with multiple Secret Keepers, can it not?"

"In theory," Dumbledore said, "but I would never advise it, nor would anyone I know. You know the old saying, two can keep a secret?"

"If one of them is dead." She raised her eyebrows. "I should like power over my own home, sir."

"And who else would you invite in?" His gaze was almost mocking and she hated that he was right.

"Many know of the existence of this house."

"So it would be its role as Headquarters we would conceal, as well as increasing the concealment wards around the house itself."

That, in fairness, did make some sense. And the whole point of this was that no one would anticipate her being the one to give her house over to the Order, anyway. But it wasn't as if she was going to invite any friends round here for a cup of tea; she had no reason to be Secret Keeper. And she had to give Dumbledore something, even if the idea of giving up power made her skin crawl.

But this was a negotiation, it was not surrender. And they were, for now, for these purposes, on the same side.

"Alright," she said. "But I'd like to be a witness to the charm."

He dipped his head in reverence. "As you wish. It will be conducted in a few days' time; I shall contact you by owl post. In the meantime, I do believe I have been called in by the Wizengamot. Something about an appeals process." Her heart stuttered and her blood chilled. Dumbledore gave a knowing nod. "I shall keep you appraised, Lady Black."

Her father knocked on the door then, poking his head round the frame. Dora appeared behind him, grinning, having grown herself a good few extra inches. "All sorted upstairs," she said cheerfully, "bit creepy, though. Y'know Sirius has these posters on his wall—"

"Which Professor Dumbledore does not need to know about," Aurora's father cut her off. Aurora bit her lip to hide a smile at Dora's smirk.

She rose from her seat and Dumbledore followed suit, hearing Moody stomp down the corridor back from the kitchen.

"All clear," he grumbled as the lot of them squeezed into the room. "House elf's got some weird stuff in a cupboard, and there's definitely dark magic about, but nothing especially unstable that we can't deal with. The wards hold down well down there, too — no secret ways in. Couple old passages around the house though."

"Yes," Aurora's father said with a wry smile, "I did think I heard someone clattering in the walls."

"There are secret pockets all over the place," Aurora told them, "I found just about all of them as a child. Kreacher and I's favourite game was hide and seek."

Her father's answering smile was faint and weary.

"If all is in order, then," Dumbledore said, "pardon the pun — I believe we should let the rest house for a day. Then, we begin. Lady Black?"

"Yes?"

"Your assistance is most deeply appreciated."

She bit back a curt remark and instead replied, as smoothly as she could, with a perfect smile reserved for galas and balls and assembly members, "Thank you, Professor. As is yours."

Her father gave her a knowing look, and she smiled back, trying to reassure herself that she had not just traded her life away.

-*

The Order began moving in two days later. Aurora didn't really know what to do with herself, as people started turning up and greeting her and her father. The Weasleys were first — all of them, near enough, save for Charlie who was still overseas, and Percy, who apparently had caused a lot of family drama and turned to the Ministry. They weren't staying permanently, but since there were so many of them, and both their parents involved with the Order, it made sense that the children should have somewhere to stay the night if need be. Aurora wasn't especially enthused, but they had plenty of guest rooms, and it helped to think of them as only temporary figures. She had her own space to herself, after all; everywhere important was kept for her.

She lingered at the top of the main staircase, looking out over the landing as the Weasleys crept about below in an attempt not to disturb her grandmother's portrait. Ginny was chasing Hermione's feral cat in its quest to unleash havoc on the carpet — which in truth, needed changing anyway. The three boys — Ronald, Fred and George — were hauling trunks and various bags up the bottom stairs, arguing in hushed whispers over whose large feet were really getting in the way of everybody else. It seemed Ronald was to blame, though Aurora thought that might just have been a case of the twins teaming up on their younger brother.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Ron gave Aurora a quizzical look. "Morning," she said with a false smile. "Your room is the second on the right — you two are just across the hall."

"There aren't any snakes in the beds are there?"

"Oh, of course not," Aurora replied with false sweetness, annoyed by his hostility. "Only spiders." Fred and George snickered; she grinned at them over Ron's shoulder. "Calm down, Weasley, it's fine. Do you really think the Order would have approved snake-ridden beds?"

Ron scowled, but slunk off in the direction Aurora had indicated. The two twins hung back; the one on the right, who Aurora was pretty sure was Fred, said, "Ronniekins is just easily spooked. We find spiders are good if you really went to upset him, but he's terrible at finding dungbombs if you put him in his room."

"How does he respond if I call him Ronniekins?" Aurora wondered out loud, and the twins both smirked.

George winked and said, "We'll let you find that one out."

"Even more fun if you say it in front of Hermione."

"So he does fancy her then?"

Fred's grin broadened. "The little Slytherin's fun."

"I try not to be."

"Sure." George winked again. "See you in a mo."

They traipsed down towards their own room; once inside, Aurora could hear the distinct sound of two people arguing over who got which bed, and a rather concerning thump. "Boys," she muttered to herself, looking back down to greet Ginny and Hermione, who was clutching Crookshanks closely to her chest.

Ginny caught her eye and turned, whispering something to Hermione. The Granger girl gave Aurora a considerate look, the sort that she had when puzzling over a tricky Arithmancy question or Rune translation, the look she got before working up the nerve to ask Aurora if they could compare answers. She had gotten better at that; this tentativeness was unsettling to Aurora, though maybe the issue was the setting. It could be rather intimidating.

"You found the cat, then?" she asked when they reached the top of the stairs.

Hermione smiled awkwardly. "He likes exploring."

"He was sniffing Kreacher."

"Poor cat." Aurora gave a short and uncomfortable laugh as she said this, but neither of the other girls reciprocated. A nervous itch started over her arms. "Well — you two are first on the right, so, just behind me. There should be some cat food somewhere, I brought some for Stella, though she's at home today. She doesn't like Kreacher much, and Tippy fusses over her." She folded her arms, then unfolded them, wishing one of the girls would just come up with a coherent response.

"Thanks, Black," Hermione said eventually. Her gaze was fixated on the dark, peeling wallpaper over Aurora's shoulder, in such a way that made Aurora's stomach turn. "But Crookshanks has his own. He, um, has a delicate stomach."

Aurora was ninety-nine percent certain that she had seen Crookshanks eat a small bird before, but did not mention this. "Of course. No problem. I'll let you two get on — I'll be downstairs if you need me, probably, or in the library."

"There's a library?"

"A private library," Aurora said quickly and watched Hermione's face fall. "Sorry, I — it's just private. But if there's something you really want that we have I could bring you with me I just don't want people in there by themselves. You know? My grandfather curated it himself."

This did not seem to please Hermione but she did seem to understand. She even gave Aurora a smile which resembled a sympathetic twinge, and said, "No, I totally understand. Maybe we can study together this summer though — it'll be nice to have someone around who knows about magic and cares about their grades."

"I care about my grades!" Ginny protested.

Hermione gave her a teasing smile. "Yes, but you care about passes. And you're not doing O.W.L.s."

"So all I need is to pass," Ginny grumbled. "Like I keep telling Mum."

Hermione gave an airy hum. "Anyway — come on, let's leave Aurora alone. We're boring her now."

"Oh." Aurora straightened, flushing. "No, I don't mean to be rude—"

Hermione cut her off with a wave. "You're not, I can just tell. We'll see you later, alright? I'd love to discuss our Arithmancy project with you!"

And she hustled Ginny towards the door and inside. As it shut, Aurora sighed and leaned over the bannister.

That was fine, she tried to tell herself. The twins were nice, Hermione was nice, Ginny was a little quiet and obviously uncomfortable but that could be fixed, and she wasn't openly hostile. It would all be fine.

She tried to force herself to believe this as she went in search of her father downstairs, where most of the adults were. Dumbledore and McGonagall spoke with Remus at the door to the old lounge; Hestia chatted with a group of older witches and Arthur and Bill Weasley; Molly Weasley was engaged in a rather self-important conversation with Emmeline Vance, a veteran of the Order. Eventually, Aurora caught sight of her father helping Dora carry a large chest into a cupboard for safekeeping; a task which Aurora was sure was doomed to failure by Dora's involvement and by the multitude of people watching eagerly as if expecting this failure. Somehow, though, they managed to fit it in. It was one of her grandfather's chests, she knew, which if memory served, contained various items of embossed and engraved stationery, alongside a distortive mirror and a silver cigarette dish.

When her father caught sight of her, he grinned and bounded over to put an arm around her shoulders. "Hey. The kids all settled in?"

"They're in their rooms," Aurora said, with a light shrug. "I didn't want to intrude. I don't think they wanted me to hang around."

Her father frowned. "Im sure it'll be fine. But remember, you'll never make friends if you don't think you can."

"I don't want to make friends," she lied. "Nor do I need to. But it's fine. They like me well enough — apart from Ron but they all seem to find him annoying anyway — and we can be amicable. That doesn't mean I have to loiter in what are now their rooms. Nor do I want to."

"And you're feeling okay about all this?"

"I mean, I'm still not overjoyed. But I think it's the right thing to do, and we can handle it."

He grinned at those last words and squeezed her shoulder. "We?"

Aurora rolled her eyes. "I meant the Order."

"Sure. Well, in that case, Tonks and I were thinking of having a check in on the library." He lowered his voice as he said, "See if there's any books we need to stash where Mad-Eye and Dumbledore can't find them."

"Rebel," Aurora said, unable to stop herself from smiling or the sense of relief that overcame her with the knowledge that somehow, her father was standing on her side, on her family's side, even if he didn't necessarily see it that way.

"What can I say? I've always been that way, they really should expect it by now. Though that doesn't mean I condone using the spells in those questionable books."

"I'm not stupid," Aurora said. "I won't use spells I don't know. But I need research and I need conservation."

"I know you do," her father laughed. "You've said it fifty times. I promise I do believe you."

"Yeah, well." Aurora gave him a falsely annoyed look. "I need to make sure. It's important that everybody's on the same page."

"Absolutely." The seriousness of his expression made his amusement clear; the flicker in the back of his eyes gave it away. "Dora!"

Dora turned around with a glare. "Sirius Orion."

"Library."

At this, Molly Weasley turned, distracted from her conversation with Emmeline Vance. "Anything I can do to help?" she asked politely, an eager light in her eye.

"No, no," Dora called back with a breezy smile. "We've got it all handled, Molly."

"Well, I daresay I can contribute with a few good cleaning spells," she said, making her way over to them. Aurora withheld a grown. "Old libraries like that can be so disorganised; I'm sure it'll give me a good task."

"Thanks, Molly," Aurora's father said, before Aurora herself could reply in the sharp way she so wanted to. "But we'll be alright the three of us. We've checked out the library before and there's nothing dangerous, it'll be quick. Besides, there's far worse in the kitchen."

"Well, if you're sure." She seemed rather anxious to do something. She had had that energy about her all day, as though desperate to cling onto a task and go into the trance of housework, give herself a distraction from whatever family drama was apparently plaguing her children. "Only I would like to have a look, you know, so I know what I'm working with—"

"It's kind of you," Aurora said as sweetly as she could, "to be so eager to help. But we really will be quite alright, and the library can be rather unreceptive to new people — some strange charm of my grandfather's. I'd really much rather you and Arthur got yourselves settled in to your rooms and you can worry about helping later. You're my guests, after all," she reminded her, in the hopes that this would calm her from matriarch mode. And remind her whose call it was, in the end.

This did seem to mollify her somewhat. "If you're sure," Molly said, with a reluctant sigh. "I suppose I ought to talk to Elphias about that plumbing..."

She meandered off in search of something else to do, and Aurora allowed herself a sigh of relief. "Molly means well," Dora told her almost immediately. "She's just... A mother."

Aurora grimaced. "I know. It's fine, as long as she actually listens. I'm just easily annoyed."

Dora chuckled. "Well, we know that, munchkin."

"She's just a little grumpy teenager," her dad said with a teasing grin. Aurora elbowed him lightly, trying not to smile.

"She's a teenager? I thought she was eight!"

"You're hilarious," Aurora told Dora flatly. "And that joke is really original."

"See! Grumpy!"

"It is a bit of a rubbish joke, Tonks. I expect better from you."

"Oh, shut up, old man."

"Can we go?" Aurora asked, still wary of Molly Weasley's gaze and the proximity of Dumbledore and McGonagall. "I am very easily annoyed and would not like to show it again."

"Very funny," her dad said, turning in the direction of the library, which was situated at the end of the hall. "Onwards, then. To the bloody library — and that's not something I ever thought I'd say with any measurement of happiness."

"The library makes you happy?"

"Not the library," he said with a fond smile, and this time Aurora did smile back at him. "It creeps me out, actually, but I think if you can suffer what, five Gryffindors? I should be able to deal with this."

"That almost sounded like a betrayal of your house, Dad."

"Yeah, Sirius, are you feeling okay?"

"Aurora's influencing me:"

"Good," she said primly, setting off down the hall with something of a bounce in her step. "I think the world would be a far better place if everybody agreed with me on everything."

"No you don't," her dad said. "You like debating too much."

"No," she replied with a grin, "I just like being right."

"Sure," Dora said with a knowling look. "I think it can be both."

Aurora pursed her lips but decided not to disagree, instead leading the way to the library. The rest of the Order's voices faded behind them; when she opened the great double doors, the library unfolded before her, and the sight of it settled back into her memory.

Great stacks of books, dimly lit by the grimy light of narrow windows she could never really glimpse. It seemed to be held together purely by its own will; shelves strained under books, their wood warped and knuckled, and yet all was still and somehow perfect, just as she had left it. It brought a smile to Aurora's face as her father shut the door behind them and sealed them in the dusty gloom.

"Cheerful," he commented, with an edge of disdain. Dora let out a rather trumpet-like sneeze.

"It's beautiful," Aurora said, grinning at her father, who forced a smile in return. "I think so, anyway. Right, I think the majority of Grandfather's Orion's personal trinkets should be on our right this way, and I'm not sure about Uncle Regulus's personal collection, but it will be here somewhere, I think a lot further in... Grandmother didn't like to touch any of his things."

"For once I agree with her," Aurora's father said. She pursed her lips, annoyed by his proclivity to sniping, but she held his tongue; after all, she knew this was difficult for him, and yet he was stood in this library for her sake. She owed it to him not to give in to her petty defensive instincts.

Instead she said softly, "Well, I'd like to."

Her father nodded, looking away and heading vaguely to their right. Aurora frowned at him for a moment, confused, before realising he did know where he was going, that he had a direction; more of a direction than she did, even. Sometimes she could only half-recollect their tangled history, to recall that her father had spent longer living here than she had lived anywhere. He had lived in that house for longer than she had even known the Black family at all. It was one of those facts that felt entirely incorrect, that her mind and her heart could not wrap themselves around.

"We'll look through this first," her father said, coming to a stop and pulling back a deep green velvet curtain to reveal an alcove Aurora hadn't even known existed. A large spider scuttled out from underneath it; a cobweb clung to the back of the velvet, which was partly stained by something black and mulchy. Aurora wrinkled her nose.

"Rather you than me."

The alcove was cluttered with books and scrolls and metal ornaments which must once have gleaned but now were tarnished and dusty. The library had barely been touched by Kreacher or Timmy, it seemed, even though the rest of the house was relatively alright. She wondered why, and on whose orders.

Aurora looked over her shoulder into the dim depths in the distance. Shelves seemed to stretch endlessly toward an unattainable light, stained green by the coloured glass.

"I'm going that way," she told them. Her father and Dora exchanged glances. "Nothing here will hurt me. We already know that. I'll scream if I need you. But it's just books." They all knew that was not entirely true. But it was close enough. "I might find nothing anyway. There's so many books. But I have to start somewhere."

"You know, I really hope there is no need to scream."

"It'll be fine. This is the safest this house has ever been."

They still looked uneasy, but Dora nudged Aurora's dad and he gave a brisk nod, turning back to the alcove. "Have fun with it then."

Aurora gave Dora a tense smile, and then headed down the nearest aisle. She had only vague and half formed memories of wandering around this place as a child. She could find her way by instinct in a misty sort of haze, remembering her grandmother warning her away from the shelves and pointing out where different texts came from, who had written them and who had curated each collection. The difficulty was in the complete lack of organisation. One collection was curated by Phineas Nigellus in the 1900s; the one next to it by Medea Black in the early 1800s; the next by Medea's own nephew, Dionysus. They ranged from texts on anything from the magic of souls, deep alchemy, necromancy, to herbology and animal guidance. One shelf held two dozen volumes of Mermish; the next contained titles as varied as Nostradamus and the Fouls of France and A Treatise on the Properties of the Bodies of Unicorns and Their Proper Use and Gain. She wandered through the shelves, eyes peeled for any plaque of signage bearing Regulus's name, anything that called out to her as her own. There was nothing; every trace of him seemed to have been hidden. Even his father's own collection was diminished from what Aurora remembered, though she supposed her memories were somewhat unreliable.

As she got closer to the green window, there was a sudden shout from the other end of the library. Aurora whirled around, hand on her wand, meeting deathly silence. "Dad?"

Her voice sank slowly through the thick library air. It seemed to take an age for Dora's voice to call back, "Fine!" and then, after a pause, "One of these books grew a head!"

Great, she thought to herself, resigned. It really should have been more surprising.

Aurora turned back to the window, its glass coated in a thick layer of grey dust. The work was exquisitely done: it depicted a scene recognisable to most scholars of medieval magical history, Hydrus Black's conjuring of the northern lights on the eve of the Battle of Hastings, striking fear and awe into the enemy and tearing at their resolve. Brilliant green and rose lights hung over a midnight blue sky, illuminating the hordes of soldiers prepared to die over a crown, a title, the blood right of their leader. Hydrus' magic had heralded his power and that of his king. In the battle itself, it had won their victory.

Now, that image held a place deeper in her heart. She could understand it in a way she never had before. She knew the fear of a seemingly impossible enemy, and the awe that was felt watching great magic at work.

Aurora turned from the window, feeling green light cast over her back. The edges of the beam of light fell to her left, and she wandered along within that ray. The green came through the strands of her hair, turning the air around her an eerie shade. At the end of the aisle three over, was the name Orion Black. It was written on a silver plaque which reflected the bare vestige of the green light and Hydrus Black's illusion.

Aurora wandered into its dusty remains, her footsteps whispering on the floor. Here she was surrounded by a sense of deja vu; it wrapped around her and tilted her memory sideways, leading her to feel like she was not entirely there anyways, like she had instead been transported to another time and another room, one where she would be chastised for touching rather than merely looking, and yet was promised all this would be hers. If she was proper, acted like a lady, if she could have the dirty blood educated out of her.

The memory cracked against her thoughts like a whip. She sucked in a tight, cold breath, blinking and awakening to see the library in a stranger light, where shadows were deeper and the books retreated from her. Their retreat pulled her steadiness from her; a wave of nausea crashed through her, bringing with it a creeping discomfort.

This was hers, she reminded herself. It always would be. And Regulus had promised his collection to her, without any knowledge of what she might become or how she might be raised. He had put his legacy in her with a blind trust. His opinion was what she had to bear in mind, as was Arcturus' assertion that her name was enough, that her name meant more than her blood, that she was more than her blood. Perhaps that idea was not so different from what her grandmother had said. Even so.

It was there, wandering down the dusty aisle, that she found the little plaque that bore the name Regulus Arcturus Black. Beneath the name, inscribed: 1961-1979.

The collection was small, but seemed to be not as dusty as the rest. Perhaps some magic of his had preserved it, for her, she dared to dream.

"Dad," she called out through the dusty echoes of the library. "I found it."

There was a loud rustling and the sound of something clattering against a wall and her father called back, "The books?"

"No, the gobstones collection."

A very faint snort from Dora somewhere. Aurora smiled, a tentative thing, and brushed her fingertips against the cracked leather spines. There were a whole host of titles. The Soul and the Spirit in the Ancient Arts; Seeing the Soul; How the Modern State of Magic was Borne from its Slaughter; Curses of the Blood, Their Making and Their Undoing; The Magic of the Past and Seeing the Future; Searching for Death in the Magical Life. And there, in nine thick volumes, was The History of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The first volume was entitled Hydrus I-Rollon I: From the Sorcerers' Conquest to the Great Anarchy. It was hefty when she picked it up, nearing 800 withered pages long. Here she held only a sliver of history, yet it was dozens of accounts threaded together by one dedicated ancestor. She could feel the weight of it and its implication.

This she was sure was the first thing that she ought to read. When she opened its pages — carefully, easing it open with the reverent touch a parent gives to a child — her gaze found the annotations written neatly in the margins, underwriting different lines and illuminating quotations. Some corners had little hand-drawn illustrations in emerald ink that still glittered as though it had just been laid down. There was a piece of her uncle in this, she knew; it was in the slop of his cursive l and the sharp, crisp lines of the capital letter A.

She needed this. She needed its weight cradled in her arms. She needed this tangible connection and the knowledge that she was part of something, tethered to her ancestors, from the secondhand accounts of those long-decayed, to the rich commentary of her own uncle, a man who haunted her family still, and who she had always hoped had done the right thing.

She closed that volume as carefully as she had opened it. A whisper of dust blew away, mingling in the green sheen of the air. She held the book to her chest for a moment, breathing in the beloved scent of old parchment and dried ink and worn leather. Then she took the — considerably slimmer, thank Merlin — book on curses of the blood, and made to move, whether to one of the desks by the window or back to her father and Dora, she did not quite know yet.

But something stopped her. Some imbedded reverence she hadn't known she possessed, an unexpected instinct. She stopped and turned to face the worn little plaque that bore her uncle's name, and she clutched the books that were now hers, and she bowed her head.

"I'm sorry," she said aloud, the faintest whisper. "I'll do the right thing. I hope."

The words were met with the expected silence. In truth she did not know where the words had come from. They had been buried in her soul somewhere.

On that same instinct, guided by an invisible hand, se took down the book on searching for death. The front cover was a green so dark it was almost black, engraved with an image of a man in a cloak leading three unknown figures over a bridge. She did not know what the scene was meant to depict, but the Death she saw there seemed twisted in a way. He held a wand in his skeletal hands; the knuckles of the hands and the ridges of the wand seemed to mimic the warping of the branches of the tree above him.

Perhaps this would help her, she thought. Perhaps the worries of her uncle were not so different from her own, perhaps he had seen death soon. Perhaps he had been taken by him too soon, had reached too far, demanded too much.

Perhaps he could still save her from that same fate.

When she found her father and Dora again, they were fiddling with an old silver trinket box, a pile of books next to them. "Oh, goodie," Dora said when she spotted her. "Those for us or for you?"

"For me," Aurora replied, exchanging a smile with her father, who gave a reassuring nod. "Hopefully they'll help me. You can check if there's any curses on them or anything if you want, but they should be fine."

"They're fine," Dora said, though she still ran her wand over them just in case. "Searching for death?"

Aurora shrugged. "I'm grasping for anything I can." She ignored the frown on her father's face. "Again, I'm sensible. I'm not going to use anything that's going to get me killed. I've grown rather fond of being alive and I should hate to die without having made at least three revolutionary discoveries in magical research."

Her father's expression was odd to behold, something wistful yet detached, as though he were not entirely seeing her but something else. It was eerie, and for a moment again she felt not herself, like she had been dragged to another time and another soul had been twined with hers. But it was only for a moment.

Dora cleared her throat and Aurora's dad asked where she wanted the "not-cursed-but-still-slightly-dodgy" books moving to, and the sound of the Weasley children clattering on the stairs came down the hall and the moment was broken and she could breathe easier again, still clutching the books to her chest.