A while later, my ass is perched on the kitchen counter next to the sink. Bent over my wrist is Molly "Mollywobbles" Weasley, who keeps making tutting noises while attempting to simultaneously examine me and listen in on the resumed meeting in the adjacent space.

McGonagall had managed to calm the uproar which had commenced after Dumbledore's swift departure, post-pantry-confrontation, by promising to explain to all the remaining Order members exactly what she knew of their current situation.

Which, you know, turned out to be most of it.

I've been fairly spaced out since being assaulted amongst the potatoes, but she's covered pretty much everything about their altered timeline, and about having "commandeered" my assistance from the future. She even told them about the fact that, in the future, their story was told via a "mildly popular muggle book series," which most of the kids seemed to think was nothing short of ridiculous.

"Books, like stories?" Harry had blurted, face aghast, "What all goes into them?" He glanced in my direction, "Has she read them?"

The only things which haven't been brought up:

a) Why Dumbledore straight-up bailed 20 minutes ago

b) The fact that I was effectively drafted against my will (side note- I have no intention of keeping this a secret. Headmaster Shit-For-Brains can kiss my ass.)

c) That I can kill a man with my pinkie, and why

d) That I'm a muggle

I don't think this last point was necessarily being left out on purpose, but I swear to god it just never seemed to come up. I am under no illusion that it will stay this way, but it's at least mildly entertaining to picture the moment they figure it out.

I wonder how much they'll care.

This thought plagues me quite a bit as I disinterestedly watch my wrist bones move back into place, conducted by Mrs. Weasley's wand. I mean, this side is the one fighting for a cause which ultimately means the protection of muggles, but do they necessarily like them? I can't remember if it ever really came up in the books, it was always a bit of a foregone conclusion.

The healing spell ends with a brief, searing heat which feels as though it's welding the fractures closed with a hot iron.

"Holy shitsnacks," I yelp, surprised out of my daze. I had jumped with the pain of it and knocked over several spice bottles and odds-and-ends jars still littering the counter space from the prep of the roast. It is in the oven currently, likely meant for dinner later, and its smell is making my head spin. When was the last time I really ate?

Mrs. Weasley chuckles low in her throat, her fingers deftly massaging my hand and wrist to ensure a job well done. "You'll have to do better than that, dear," she looks up into my face with a smile, "Six boys, you know."

I grin shyly back at her, but almost immediately her smile fades. A question/answer session has begun in the meeting now that all the crucial information has been distributed, and Remus Lupin was currently demanding, "Wait so you didn't find this girl, Fawkes did?"

Amid the persistent chatter of her friends and family, Mrs. Weasley raises trembling fingers to the facial owie on my left cheekbone. I had banged my face solidly on a discarded cast-iron skillet which had been lying haphazardly on the floor of the pantry. If it's looking shitty already, maybe I should put some frozen peas on it or something.

She looks stricken by wherever her thoughts have taken her at the sight of my injury. My heart sinks, and I want very badly to reassure her. "It wasn't just out of nowhere," I say softly, and her teary, brown gaze flits from my cheek to my eyes. "I was goading him. Really I was," I hasten to add because her expression has turned disbelieving, "I'm not saying it was a mature way to respond to the shit I was saying, but a lot of what was going to come to pass would probably be considered fucking upsetting, and…well… I definitely used that to piss him off."

She looks curious, but to her credit she doesn't ask for more details. "Be that as it may," Molly says softly, "No self-respecting mother would take any excuses for the state of you. So forgive me, but as your own is not present to scold the man on your behalf, I'm afraid you'll have to do with the likes of me."

The thought makes me smile. As she points her wand at my cheek – I assume to heal the bruising – I muse out loud, "If my mother could see me right now, she'd probably burst in brandishing her shitty little handgun and demand to know what fucktard thought my face needed fixing." I laugh softly.

Holy shit do I miss my mom.

I almost miss the total confusion which had settled onto Mrs. Weasley's features at this comparison, but before she could question anything, someone's deep, sexy voice from about two feet away causes me to nearly jump out of my skin.

"McGonagall says you'll be sleeping here, at Grimmauld Place." Sirius Black's face is inscrutable as he watches Molly finish with my wrist.

"Jesus fucking christ," I gasp, "Do you skulk in corners for a fucking hobby?" I'd nearly peed my pants. Mrs. Weasley too, had jumped at his words, but was failing to verbalize as I was wont.

The handsome bastard smiles a slow, panty-dropping smile. He is leaning against a bannister separating the cooking space and dining space, his arms crossed and looking perfectly relaxed. I have no idea how long he has been lounging there like a god damned ninja.

I take this opportunity to study him a bit better. I had been distracted by various aches and pains when he held me close and walked me out of the pantry – my face heats at the memory – but from here I can visually recognize the broad shoulders, muscular arms, and cut chest that I had been held against.

Damn, he is fine.

His face is classically handsome, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, glinting silvery eyes, and shoulder-length black locks. He's muscular without being bulky, rather graceful and athletic-looking. My memory recalls him being described in the books as "gaunt," and he may have been a year ago. But clearly, his time spent under house-arrest included eating and weights or some shit because this man is not fucking gaunt.

He's wearing a long-sleeved black henley and charcoal-black jeans, which are faded and snug in all the correct places. I briefly wrestle with the idea of asking him to turn around. My eyes flit once again around all the spots on his person that I can glimpse a preview of body art.

Tell him to take his shirt off, too.

Too late I realize he's talking to me. Fuck. My eyes quit their perusal to instead meet his, and he's looking a bit confused, but pleased. He raises an eyebrow and I clear my throat, "Sorry, I zoned out. Please continue."

He smirks but doesn't comment further. "I was merely pointing out," he drawls in what is perhaps the sexiest voice of all time, "that we should soon attempt to make your room in the basement a more livable space for your continued habitation."

The room in the basement? Oh, snap, he means my original kidnapping-room.

Unable to think of any real complaints, it is his house after all, I simply shrug, "Yeah, a bed eventually might be nice."

Mollywobbles pipes up, "I was actually thinking dear, that the children and I would stay here tonight and take you out for a shopping trip after breakfast tomorrow." She shrewdly appraises my fucked-up appearance, "You'll be needing a wardrobe and some basic amenities, I think." She looks over towards Sirius, "If that is alright with you, of course?"

Sirius shrugs good-naturedly, "Of course. Ron can stay in Harry's room, and the others' have been here often enough, they know where to sleep."

I tune out their voices and turn my attention to the now mostly-disbanded meeting. The most dominant conversation in the adjacent room has shifted to an argument between Aberforth, Moody, Arthur and what I assume are several Ministry Aurors. They can't seem to agree as to whether or not my being an American means they have to contact MACUSA to inform them of my involvement. Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione are talking amongst themselves, with occasional interjections by Fred and George, about the implications of Voldemort's newfound knowledge. Bill and Fleur are whispering urgently to one another under their breaths, while stealing glances at the three of us in the kitchen. Meanwhile, a group including Remus, Tonks, McGonagall, and Kingsley appear to be having a hushed argument near the entrance to the kitchen, with Tonks glaring sideways at Lupin occasionally.

I'm suddenly bone-tired.

What time is it?

It can't be much later than mid-afternoon. Maybe close to dinnertime, but I'm suddenly very confident that that does not matter in the slightest. I'm fucking exhausted.

Molly and Sirius have continued discussing the logistics of all I'll need during my – laughably – long-term stay. I spy with my little eye a bottle of red wine resting comfortably on the counter behind Mrs. Weasley, and I dart my hand out to pluck it up, lightning-quick. I look at Molly and ask innocently, "Is this terribly expensive?"

She halts her discussion of appropriate comforters for a lady and peers down at the label. "Not especially, dear," she says with a sniff.

"Excellent," I declare. I immediately push hard on the cork with my thumb until it falls into the bottle with a pop. Without assessing the room at large for any judgement, I lift the bottle to my lips and take a healthy swallow.

Mhmm. Sure does taste like wine.

Keeping the bottle in my grasp, but dropping it into my lap, I smack my lips a few times appreciatively. Finally, I raise my eyes to meet Mrs. Weasley's and Sirius'. She looks as though she wants to have me committed, he looks as though he might just get where I'm coming from.

Yeah, time to get the hell away from here.

"Ya'll have been wonderful, don't get me wrong," I begin, bracing the hand not holding the wine on the counter and scooting forward in preparation for takeoff, "but I'm, you know, done for the day. Clocking out." At this I leap down with a dainty hop, which may have passed for graceful if I hadn't winced upon landing and hissed a quick "Motherfucker."

Sirius steps forward quickly, and raises a hand as though to steady me, but it ends up just falling casually on my waist. In my exhausted delirium, I actually say aloud while skirting around him in a panic, "Nope, nope, nope, don't have brain cells to spare for that shit. So sorry." I physically 360 around him with my hands up in surrender, completely driven to be by myself as soon as possible.

I take two steps into the adjacent dining area where all the other bodies are, as I need to wade through the space to get to the exit. Another quick pull on the wine bottle and a thought occurs to me.

"Oi – Harry?" I shout to the youngin' in question.

Subsequently, most conversation halts.

He is looking at me with wide, alarmed eyes. Ron next to him is blatantly appraising me with a smirk, likely because of the wine bottle I hold poised near my face. Hermione and Ginny look similarly struck dumb. Fred and George however, smile broadly at the sight of me, and even scoot their seats aside as though to make room for me to join them.

That's kind of sweet, I guess.

Harry clears his throat, "Uh, yeah?"

Wanting to make this brief, I do not mince words, "Would you get me a pair of pajama pants?"

His face reddens alarmingly fast. Fred and George laugh outright, but everyone else stays relatively silent, and I just keep my face expectant with my eyes fixed on Harry.

"Uh," he coughs and raises his hand to push his glasses up his nose, "Yeah, okay."

He then clumsily begins to stand, but before he has fully risen Sirius is standing next to me, wand in hand. He has a smile on his face as he mutters, "Accio." Within seconds a pair of red and black plaid pajama bottoms zooms into the room, and I catch them in my wine-less fist before they can reach their owner.

"Thanks very much," I mutter. I then turn on my heel, lift the wine bottle to my lips once more, and get the hell out of there.

A short while later, I discover that the doorway I had passed earlier in the basement hallway is actually a full bath. I slip inside and flick on a light switch (side note – the relationship between electricity and candles in this place is not one I have yet fully understood). Bathed in light, the en suite turns out to be rather neutral, if on the feminine side. Peachy-beige marble counter, with a singular sink. Likewise peachy-beige toilet and bath ceramics. The walls are papered in wide stripes of peachy-beige and white, and the shower curtain to the combined shower/bath is translucent from the top of the shower hooks to about halfway down. The rest of it is, you guessed it, a peachy-beige circular pattern. There are fluffy-looking white towels hanging from a rack which interferes with the door's ability to open all the way. A glass bowl of potpourri sits innocently on the back of the toilet. The whole room is about the same size as the pantry I just spent an obnoxious amount of time in.

Before I can judge too harshly on what appears to be evidence of Sirius holding tastes more appropriate in an old folks' home, I glimpse an unopened square of soap resting next to the sink spout.

Oh, fuck yes.

I snatch it up and take a heady sniff from outside the paper. Reverently, I begin to peel the wrapping off until I uncover what is clearly top-notch soap.

Super classy stuff, like with the pieces of lavender and rosemary all baked in.

In record time, I've shed my clothing and flounced to the shower. I will not lie, it took an above-average amount of time to get the shower started. I credit this to not only being in a stranger's house, but also due to being in a foreign country.

Once inside, however, all thoughts of how awkward and horrible my day has been melt away. It's remarkably therapeutic. I use the badass soap to wash away all of the events of the day one by one: I wash off the residual blood on my arm from Fawkes' talons; I wash the grime off of my hands and knee from falling through the wormhole; and I wash my hair clean of the sawdust which had been clinging to it since the altercation in the pantry. The soreness of my bruises reduces to barely a twinge. The riotous thoughts which had kept me going full steam ahead like The Little Engine That Could finally begin to calm. Before I know it, however, I'm crying.

I weep like a god damned infant. I cry for my mother and father, who may not see me again. I cry for the friends who had stood by me through everything else, who I had effectively lost. I cry for my brothers, who need me in their own right, but would have to shoulder the burdens of our family without me now. But most of all, I cry for myself. All of the self-pity which had been balled-up in an attempt to cope with my newfound situation suddenly spills forth in a tsunami of tears which would not be ignored.

Sniffling, I reach for the wine bottle and take another pull. Yes, I brought it into the shower.

At this point I'm even more exhausted than I was before the cleansing. This was probably cathartic, but damn.

I step out of the shower and towel off one-handed, my wine held in the other. Sans underwear, because no thank you, I pull on whoever's pajama pants (Harry's? Sirius'? No idea) and don my own black tank top that had been under my sweatshirt all day. Once clothed, I towel-dry my hair best I can, and re-secure it with my hair tie, still wet.

I go to leave, contemplating whether or not to leave the door open – in order to dissipate the humidity as there is no fan – but a figure descending the final steps into the hallway bumps into me from behind.

I whip around, expecting Dumbledore or Sirius or someone else I have absolutely no energy to deal with, but who I find instead is Hermione. She looks flustered, like she was just as surprised to bump into me in the deserted hallway – despite the fact that she likely came down here looking for me, as there are no other registered basement-dwellers that I'm aware of. She's very petite, I've got a good three inches on her in height. She looks rather androgynous in her oversized sweater and slouchy jeans, but her eyes are bright with determination, and she seems to collect herself.

She attempts to push a stubborn lock of her riotous hair behind her ear as she clears her throat and says, "Um, hello."

I don't want her to be nervous. She's fucking adorable, so I smile kindly and say, "Hi."

She doesn't waste any time, "I brought you some things," she says with an air of authority as though someone should have surely thought of it before she had. She bends over and recovers items she must have dropped upon our collision.

Rising, she holds out to me a bulbous black and brown comforter, and what appears to be a small, blue t-shirt. "I collected one of the spare blankets from upstairs," she explains quickly, blushing slightly, "and that shirt is one of my old ones, so I don't need it back. I just thought maybe you'd like to sleep in something…" she glances quickly at the annihilated sweatshirt in my hand, "…clean."

Unexpectedly, my eyes fill with tears once more at this demonstration of thoughtfulness.

She looks horrified, "Oh no – I'm sorry! I didn't mean –"

I shove my dirty clothes under one arm and wave her words away, "No, no, sweetheart, you're fine." I rub one eye hard with the palm of my hand, "I'm just still recovering from a therapeutic cry-fest, and my tear ducts haven't gotten the fucking memo that it's over."

She bites her lip and looks incredibly uncomfortable. I sigh, "Thank you, really. That was very thoughtful, and I appreciate the gesture." I give her a small, self-deprecating smile, and continue, "I'll get better at this, I swear."

She glances at the open wine bottle still grasped in my fist and gives a small smile in return. On cue, I relieve her of the bundle in her arms so that she can get the fuck away from my crazy ass as soon as possible. But instead of fleeing, she halts and looks unsure, as though she means to say more. I wait, and sure enough she blurts out, "Thank you. I…I think –," she pauses, "I think you're going to be a big help to us all. I don't know why, but I do."

My face must convey a certain amount of shock, because I can't think of anything to say. Without waiting for a response, she spins around and begins speeding back up the spiral staircase as fast as she can.

Stunned, I stand frozen on the spot for another handful of seconds before my brain clicks back on. After which my feet start walking me farther down the hallway, to my room.

No brain cells left to dissect that either, it would seem.

The plush red-and-white striped armchairs and their pillows are still in place. And the table even still holds a now-cold tea service complete with the leftover cookies. I make a beeline for the cookies, no longer concerned with the fact that they look ass-nasty, and upon reaching the small table I dump my armload of shit onto the floor.

An enormous WHUMP of something heavy hitting the floorboards stalls my hungry fingers. I raise an eyebrow in confusion, and – almost reverently – place my wine bottle on the table in order to investigate. Was I carrying anything that hard-sounding? I begin sifting through the pile carefully, dispatching first the comforter, then the t-shirt and sweatshirt. But as I pick up my jeans, I feel a weight to them that is disproportionate. I turn them over to reveal the pockets.

Holy shit. My cell phone.

My heart leaps into my throat, and I'm immediately scrabbling for it with clumsy hands. I pull it out, my breath gusting with a quick exhale at the sight of something so unexpectedly familiar. Hardly daring to believe it, I push the little circle at the bottom of the device and it immediately lights up.

"Oh, fuck. Oh my god," I can't help but breathe out loud, totally overcome.

The screen indicates that I have no service, and that it's searching for data. Also that I have 83% battery left.

But to my shock, it also says I have one unread text.

With shaking fingers, I click on the envelope icon, and see that it's a text from Desdemona timed at 09:37am – likely only minutes after I had been taken from my dad's hospital room.

[MOANINGMONA: WTF HAPPENED? WHERE THE FUCK R U? R U SAFE? R U OKAY? PLEASE RESPOND...]

For the third time in the last half hour, tears fill my eyes. Hopelessly, I immediately type a response to my best friend:

[ME: HARRY POTTER IS REAL, DUMBLEDORE IS AN ASSWIPE. SEND THE 1996 NATIONAL GUARD.]

I refuse to tear my eyes off the text after hitting SEND but its 'Pending' delivery status doesn't budge. I'm not certain exactly how long I spent staring at it before my eyes began to hurt with the effort, and I realize I had lost my wine-buzz.

Thoroughly miserable, I give up on the promise of cookies and strip the armchairs of their cushions and pillows. Making something of a hobo nest in front of the fire, I scoot my phone close to me, put it on power saving mode, but click on my music storage app. I dozed off hours later, to the sound of "Island in the Sun" by Weezer played on repeat, wine bottle in hand, leaning against the back of one of the chairs, my face coated in dried tears.

Finnie was still asleep when, at 12:05am, her text's status changed suddenly from 'Pending' to 'Sent.'