Grimmauld Place, was, at its conception, a town house.
Grimmauld Place now, was a manor house masquerading as a town house.
Magical space had been used so much over the years that the house was at least double, if not triple, its original space, allowing it to hold not only the immediate household, but their guests, most of the Black Family Library, as well as several public and private rooms for entertaining and relaxing in. Given that it was a townhouse, its spread was vertical, not horizontal.
The first floor was mostly entertaining space. While dinner guests might go no further than the dining room and the entry, those privileged enough to be entertained by the Black might see the drawing room on the first floor. An even more privileged few were granted the honor of staying in the guest room housed on that floor.
Also hidden on the first floor was the Head's study, and an entrance to the library, but Bronach knew that those were well-hidden. Unless Sirius remembered, likely none of the Order knew that they were present, though she could see them out of the corner of her eye as she climbed the stairs.
The second floor appeared mostly empty, with only a single bedroom, but there was another library entrance, and the schoolroom for pre-Hogwarts children occupying the rest of the space. She led Aragorn and Arwen up the stairs to the third floor quickly, knowing that the teenagers were gathered in Ron's room and not wanting another fraught meeting.
Nothing of note was on the third floor, unless you counted the fact that Walburga had been snubbed by Arcturus, the Head until his death in 1991, by being given rooms on it. While she had occupied Grimmauld with Orion, it was rightfully Arcturus's, and he and Melania's seldom-occupied suite was hidden from almost all on the fourth floor, near Sirius and Regulus's rooms, which they occupied by being the eldest male candidates for Head of House.
It must have galled Walburga, Bronach thought as she passed Sirius and Regulus's doors, to see her sons elevated above her own status in her own residence. It was a fairly new concept, having an heir in each generation, a practice brought on as pureblood lines dwindled due to infertility and war. But Arcturus had kept the old ways, choosing his heir from his grandchildren, instead of his son.
"Here we are," she announced to Aragorn and Arwen, suddenly unsure of herself. They had never had a space that was theirs. It had always been her intruding on their quarters, or the pair of them stopping in one of her dwellings, or some combination of the three of them meeting along the road. Most days she didn't doubt that they loved her, but it was hard, having to maintain the careful distance they had needed in front of the court and observers.
"I'm sure it will be fine," Arwen said decisively, reaching into the space where Bronach knew the door handle to be. It made a part of her settle, knowing that magic recognized the pair as her partners, even if they had only made their vows before each other and the stars. "And if it is not, we will make it be so."
Aragorn grinned suddenly, and swept Bronach off her feet as Arwen opened the door. "Coming through," he said to Arwen as he ignored Bronach's grunt of surprise and carried her into the room.
"What was that for?" she asked as he set her on her feet.
"I seem to remember an old custom about carrying one's partner across the threshold of their new home," he said, turning to lift Arwen and carry her from the hallway into the suite's sitting room. "Is it not right to heed it?"
Bronach blinked in sudden emotion. "It is quite right," she managed, touched by the gesture. In need of distraction, she looked about, orienting herself in the space. As Kreacher promised, it was clean, and a warm fire was burning in the grate. The furnishings were dated, but serviceable, and to her surprise, Kreacher had unpacked.
He had mentioned that he had unpacked, she recalled as she turned, taking it all in, but she had thought that he meant clothing. Not the familiar tapestries on the wall, both her own and Arwen's work, nor the warm blankets from her loom on the backs of the settees. A project Arwen had been working on was on the table next to a chair well-positioned to get what starlight filtered through the London smog, and Aragorn's current book was waiting for him on an end table by the fire. Her spinning wheel was set up in an empty corner, a basket of rolags waiting to be spun, and her workbasket was tucked under the coffee table.
"This is quite pleasant," Arwen said with a genuine smile. "It needs a few touches, but I can see us being very comfortable here."
"There are two bedrooms," Bronach said, pointing at the doors that stood ajar. "Traditionally, one for the master of the house, and one for the mistress."
Aragorn peered inside one of them. "It looks large enough for three," he said, something roguish in his eye as he glanced at her. "Unless either of my ladies wishes to sleep elsewhere?"
"If you will have me, I will share," Bronach said, glancing down at the tips of Dudley's oversized trainers. "But I do not wish to disturb either of you."
"As if that is even a question," Arwen scoffed, placing her hands on her hips. "I did not leave everything I have ever known only to let you continue to distance yourself from us. This is not Minas Tirith or Annuminas where we had to guard ourselves. You yourself told us that nobody we did not invite would be able to enter these rooms, and I will not let you keep up the facade that you are not an equal part of our relationship."
"Then we will have to find a purpose for the other room," Bronach managed once she had her voice back, giving Arwen's hand a squeeze. "Perhaps a workroom, or a study?"
"You will want a place for your looms and wheels," Aragorn pointed out, leaving the doorway to the bedroom in favor of the end of the settee by his favorite book. "And while I'm sure there is such a place, a sturdy desk would be appreciated."
"There is time enough for such decisions later," Arwen said, taking a seat on the opposite settee. "Will Kreacher be kind enough to bring us food, or must we return to the kitchen to retrieve a tray?"
In answer to her question, a tray popped into existence on the coffee table, and Bronach sat next to Aragorn as Arwen began serving supper for all of them. It was familiar, simple fare, such as they might have prepared for themselves when on the road, and it soothed Bronach in a way that something from this dimension wouldn't have accomplished.
It felt surreal, sitting on the formal Victorian furniture of the Head's suite in Grimmauld Place, wearing Dudley's old castoffs, with Aragorn next to her in denims and a tee shirt and Arwen in a long skirt and airy blouse that reminded Bronach of the pictures she had seen of seventies hippie fashions. They'd talked about it, and she'd shared all she could of the world that had birthed her, but it had been their world that her heart had fallen in love with.
It had also broken her heart, watching Aragorn tire and realizing that no matter how much she loved them, they would be sundered in the end.
"I still can't believe that we're here," she murmured, pushing food around on her plate with a fork. "All three of us, with this chance."
This time, there would be no Hallows in her hands. The Elder Wand's curse would die with Dumbledore, the Resurrection Stone be smashed to bits and left in the Forest. Her father's cloak would remain an heirloom of her house, passed down from parent to child as it had since the days of Ignotus.
She would be fully mortal, with her partners having the same lifespan, and barring catastrophic accident, one day they would leave the world together.
"It is a marvel and a blessing," Arwen said, reaching across to squeeze her hand. "I look forward to what we will build together."
"But first, we will eat, and then we will sleep," Aragorn chided, nudging her plate. "I have long wished for the chance to wake up beside both of you, with no need to return before others awaken to find us not in our proper places."
She woke: warm, comfortable, and wrapped in familiar arms. Arwen curled into her, dark head pressed against her collarbone, while Aragorn's arms wrapped around them both, pulling her against his chest.
They'd never been allowed the joy of waking up spontaneously, free of the fear of another finding Bronach in bed with the royal couple. Eldarion had known, when it was clear that Aragorn was starting to tire and before Námo had offered this chance, so that he could send word to Bronach should something happen. But Bronach had only told Daervunn, for the same reason, and she doubted that Aragorn or Arwen had told others. There was already enough noble outrage that Aragorn had chosen a foreigner over their own sisters and daughters, and Bronach's own self-appointed task had required her to move in anonymity that she would have been forced to sacrifice had she been named consort.
Let alone the pressure to bear children, and the scorn when she did not. Any children that came from her would have been consistently scrutinized, legitimacy questioned, considered a threat to Arwen's children, or even considered superior to Arwen's children. Even though they were full human, there was still much noble concern that Arwen had once been eldar, even if her marriage to Aragorn had sealed her fate to the path of the edain.
But she would not have borne children, and the scorn of the court would have been heaped on her shoulders for failing at a woman's traditional duty: the continuation of her husband's line.
A thought occurred to her, and her breath caught in her throat. She would not have borne children, but she was fifteen again, her cycles present, if irregular. Without a conscious thought, her hand drifted to rest against her empty womb.
The Master of the Hallows, with their immortality, could not sustain the changes that a pregnancy would demand. Hermione had postulated that it was something to do with her body's drive to maintain equilibrium, to right itself to the state it had been in when she mastered them. In Arda she had been grateful for it; without the luxury of contraception, or modern hygiene products, her cycles would have been just another thing she would have had to manage and overcome.
Arwen's hand covered hers. "What are you thinking, this early in the morning?"
"I am not cursed," Bronach breathed, hoping not to wake Aragorn and disturb the peacefulness of their rest. "Should we succeed, I might bear children. If we wished."
"Do you wish?" Arwen asked, glancing up at her from under her eyelashes. Considering it for a moment, Bronach leaned down, pressing a kiss to Arwen's temple.
"I did once," she admitted, removing her hand from her womb in favor of running her fingers through Arwen's silky hair. "But I would not ask it of you who has already raised four children, even if you were spared bearing them."
"Any children we bear in this world, regardless of which of us gives birth to them, would be a treasure," Arwen's voice was soft and fierce. "Eldarion and his sisters were not allowed to be ours in the way they should have, and I am sorry for that. If we were so blessed, I would gladly risk the birthing bed, and should it be your birthing bed that the child comes from, I would hold them through sleepless nights so that you might rest. And as they grow we will tell them of the brother and sisters that came before them, no less loved and cherished for all that they were not allowed to know you as another mother."
"She is right," Aragorn murmured in her ear, the combination of sleep-roughened voice and his breath against the back of her neck, along with the thought of bearing a child, doing dangerous things to her heart rate. "If it is a child you wish for, then it is a child you shall have."
"Another day," she murmured regretfully, leaning back into his broad chest. "For one, I will not birth a child until this war is concluded."
"And your other argument?" Arwen asked, laughter underneath her words.
"The world considers me to be fifteen, even if I am not, both in body and in spirit." Bronach made a face. "And in both of my worlds I would be considered to be too young to be in a relationship with you, let alone bear a child."
Arwen and Aragorn both appeared as if they were in their twenties, fresh out of university and ready to face the world. She envied them the freedom it offered, but Námo had apparently received more leeway with them than her particular situation allowed for.
"In time then," Aragorn nuzzled the back of her neck. "We have been patient all these years, we will be patient for a few more. And this time, we will have places such as this where we can be wholly secure in our safety."
Reluctantly, Bronach wiggled out from between her partners. "Right now it is time to start on what we can."
"Is it possible to bathe?" Arwen asked as she sat up, flicking the end of her long braid over her shoulder. "I would dearly appreciate a chance to get clean."
Now that was something she could accomplish easily. They'd run through the basics of modern plumbing and waste management the night before, but mostly they'd been too tired for anything beyond the most immediate needs.
"Come with me," she said, padding over the faded carpet to the bathroom door. It was filled with hulking antique fixtures, but everything did what it was supposed to. With a twist of her wrist, she had the large clawfoot tub filling, leaning against the edge to test the warmth of the water. Kreacher had already exchanged the previous towels with her own, and a block of soap waited on the stand next to the tub. She picked it up, finding that it was the rosemary-scented kind that she'd traded for in Bree before they left. Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself off from the tub's edge, letting it fill while she went about seeing to her own immediate needs.
Arwen bathed first, her appreciative moan as she sunk into the warm water indicative of how well she was adapting to the idea of modern plumbing. Bronach suspected that the tub would survive any future renovations, unless they found one that could fit all three of them, instead of just two. Leaving her partner to her bath, she instead sought out the massive wardrobe that dominated the small dressing room.
Kreacher had unpacked in here as well, neatly making space for Aragorn and Arwen's clothing among her own. She saw that he'd only unpacked daywear for all of them, mostly casual, and he'd brought out the muggle clothing that had been with her when they had first fallen into the Ram Duath. It had been kept in the trunk she had carried at the time, stored under layers of preservation charms in a shrunken trunk within her main trunk, untouched and out of place in Arda. When Námo had offered, her trunk was packed with what things Aragorn and Arwen had wanted to bring with them, enough clothing to keep them content until they were able to get properly outfitted.
Her plans for today mostly involved answering questions and starting the necessary alterations to the house. With that in mind, she sorted through their wardrobes, finding a comfortable work dress that she'd often worn when she was moving about any of the Arnorian towns in the Fourth Age. She didn't dare presume to set out clothing for Aragorn and Arwen, but she did bring forward several of the outfits she knew they preferred that would be appropriate for what she had planned.
Coming out into the bedroom, she laid her own clothing out on a chair, sneaking a glance at Aragorn, who was leaning slightly propped up, the sheet draped enticingly over his hips, leaving the broad expanse of his chest bare for her viewing.
They could hear Arwen rising from the bath, water displaced and gurgling as the stopper was pulled, but her world narrowed to Aragorn as he drew back the sheet, rising himself in all of his glory.
Her mouth went dry, and she knew she should be moving, should be capable of coherent thought even after all these years, but it had been so long since they'd been gathered, all three of them in one place, with enough time to spend in private. Námo's message had come to them in a dream, and Irmo had given them a dreamspace to discuss it in, but Bronach had to hold her placement in the North, not wanting to suggest to anyone that the falsehood that was about to be perpetuated was anything but the truth.
At the same moment as they had met in the play park, a palace servant in Gondor had likely found Aragorn's still body. Arwen had vanished without a trace, but Eldarion and his sisters would tell the grieving kingdoms that their mother had stated that she would depart when her husband did, never to be seen again. If anyone truly searched, they would find her upon Cerin Amroth, having joined her husband.
But he was here, there was no fear of interruption or discovery, and all she wanted to do was touch him, trace over his scars with her fingers, and perhaps her tongue…
She pulled herself together, forcing her eyes up to meet him. "You are a terrible, terrible person," Bronach informed him, trying to get her breathing and heart rate under control.
"Oh, am I now?" he murmured, coming closer, mischief in his eyes. "How so?"
"What is he doing that is so terrible?" Arwen called from the bathroom, before appearing, a towel wrapped around her body. "Oh, I see."
There was laughter in her voice, and Bronach risked a glance in her direction, only to regret it as the towel slipped slightly. "You're both terrible," she muttered, giving in and pressing up on her toes to kiss Aragorn briefly before fleeing to the bathroom.
Cool water splashed on her face cooled most of her ardor, and when Aragorn eventually wandered in, she could think clearly enough to ask if he also wanted to bathe. He agreed, and she ran the water once more, with him peering over her shoulder, clearly taking in the nuances of the plumbing system.
"Would that the palaces have been equipped as such," he murmured, sliding into the warm water with a sigh. "I always felt bad for those who drew our baths."
She left him to it, returning to the main room where Arwen had commandeered the dressing table and found her comb and brush there. Bronach plucked it from her hand, setting to work combing out the long strands, still in awe at their lack of tangles. Her own hair snarled terribly if not braided and pinned up.
"What do you suggest I wear?" Arwen asked, eyes fluttering. The Queen had always loved having someone tend to her own hair, and the few times Bronach had impersonated a Lady-in-Waiting or a lady's maid in order to be close to the royal couple, this had been a shared pleasure of theirs.
"I intend to remain in the house, mostly working on bringing it up into a livable space," Bronach said as she finished combing and started to braid, her fingers making quick work of the ebony strands. "My own clothes are set out, and I took the liberty of bringing forward several suggestions in the dressing room for you and Aragorn.
"We'll follow your lead," Arwen said, holding still as Bronach pinned her hair into a crown of braids. "Yesterday, women did not appear to cover their heads as the women of Gondor did."
"It is not necessary in the non-magical spaces, though the more traditional magical fashions use head coverings, usually a hat, when they are in public," Bronach said, putting the last pin in place. "Nobody will expect you to cover your hair in the house."
"Thank you," Arwen brushed a kiss on Bronach's cheek as she went into the dressing room. While she waited for Aragorn to finish in the bath, it was easy enough to make quick work of tidying up the room and making the bed. Then it was her turn to bathe, and she hurried up, not wanting to keep her partners waiting.
Once she was dry and clad in a clean chemise, she parked herself at the dressing table, prepared to do battle with her hair, but Arwen intercepted her comb and made much shorter work of combing, braiding, and pinning her hair up than Bronach had expected it to take. Aragorn had clearly helped Arwen with her laces, if the Queen hadn't managed it by herself, but Arwen lent a hand as Bronach slipped into her overdress and sleeves.
With no other reason to linger, she stared at the door to the living area of their suite. The morning had been such a treasure: waking up with her spouses, dressing with them, instead of acting as their attendant…and now they would have to hide it all away again, until they could reasonably seek out the privacy of their suite in the evening.
"It is only for two years," Arwen said, giving her hand a squeeze. "And unlike before, we have this space where it is safe for us."
"I'll be at Hogwarts for much of the year," Bronach admitted, resenting the castle in a way she had never before.
"And you do not trust that we will find a way?" Aragorn asked from where he was peering out the window at the rest of London. "We will not let you go alone."
"I do not know of any way beyond moving to Hogsmeade that you might be close enough to see regularly," Bronach said, considering the secret passages. "And my access to the village is…unpredictable."
Umbridge hadn't, but it wouldn't be beyond her to restrict Hogsmeade access if a student angered her. And Bronach had no intention of kowtowing to a petty despot. "We had best seek out Kreacher, and our morning meal," she said, letting the matter drop. "It is early, but he knows our habits."
When they made it to the kitchen, they walked straight into a standoff between Molly and Kreacher.
Each wielded a cast iron skillet as they faced off in front of the hulking iron stove, and neither looked inclined to budge any time soon.
"Hells," Bronach muttered as she took in the scene. "They've come to an agreement about this, but Molly has no idea."
"We'll go take a seat at the table," Aragorn said, and she could sense Arwen's politely hidden laughter as the pair slipped away, leaving her to deal with the arguing pair.
"I'm sure you can understand, M-Mrs. Weasley," Bronach said politely, almost stumbling and calling Molly by her first name, as she'd been permitted after the war, "but Kreacher is very possessive of his kitchen."
The witch sniffed. "He's hardly shown an interest in it before."
"It may not have been clear yesterday when I explained, but Kreacher has been my companion through my…travels," Bronach chose her words carefully. "You will find that he is much more himself than he has been for quite a while. As such, his understanding of his obligations is much changed."
Kreacher harrumphed, but thankfully held his silence, clearly trusting her to make things right. Bronach saw Molly preparing another objection, and held up her hand. "Kreacher is a sworn house elf to the House of Black, and as such will take orders from its Head, and only its Head unless otherwise instructed. As I have no inclination to work against the Order, or threaten the current occupants of this house, there is no concern. He will be an able assistant in the restoration of this house, and I think you may find him to be particularly possessive of the kitchen."
"I will make breakfast for my family," Molly insisted. Kreacher puffed up with offense.
Counting to ten made Bronach slightly less ready to confiscate the skillets and beat both of them with them. "That is indeed your right," she said, keeping her tone measured. "However, Kreacher has the primary obligation to prepare breakfast for the members of the House of Black that are in residence, and any guests recognized by that house. You are permitted use of the kitchen, so long as it does not interfere with his duties."
Hoping that Molly understood that it was her final word on the situation, Bronach knelt to speak with Kreacher. "Breakfast for the three of us, if you please," she murmured in Sindarin, hoping to forestall any rudeness from the house elf. "Enough of the basic English staples to feed the non-Weasley occupants of the house, since she will not likely permit her family to consume what you make. And I would appreciate a pot of tea if you please."
The house elf nodded reluctantly, and with a snap of his fingers set to work. With a warning glance at Molly, who looked as if she was going to protest Kreacher's occupation of the kitchen, Bronach retreated to the table where Aragorn and Arwen were watching the entire confrontation.
As she watched Kreacher and Molly pointedly ignore each other, something seemed to tap on her shoulder, looking for her attention. It took her a moment to puzzle out what it was, but she realized it was the house itself calling for her attention.
"I need to meditate in the ritual room," she murmured in Sindarin, drawing Aragorn and Arwen's eyes, seeing Kreacher's ears perk up. "The house wants something of me."
Neither of them looked particularly intrigued by this, but Aragorn nodded, shifting in his seat so that he had a better view of everything in the kitchen. Bronach moved towards the stairs, towards the door that was shimmering into view for her now that she was focused on it. It led to the private part of the cellar: the brewing room, the wine cellar, and the ritual room where the cornerstone rested.
It was a unique feature of magical houses, at least those that were constructed on traditional lines. There was always the cornerstone, where the wards and any spells on the house were anchored, and often the ritual room was built around it. To her knowledge, in most houses it was considered to be both part of the house, and separate from it, in order to isolate any magical backlash, yet act as a final fallback point for the occupants.
The Black ritual room was bare stone, with the cornerstone in the center of the floor, runes radiating outwards and marching up the walls. They spoke of prosperity, of good health, of safety, of protection…it had taken her days to fully translate everything. An antechamber separated the ritual space from the hallway, and she slipped out of her dress, glad that she hadn't chosen anything with inherent magical properties. Stockings and shoes followed, until she was bare but for her chemise.
Thankfully, the ritual room magically adjusted itself to be at a comfortable temperature, and she didn't have to worry about chilled feet as she padded barefoot towards the cornerstone. Kneeling, she reached out and pressed her hands against it, dropping all of her barriers and opening herself fully to the house's magic.
It washed over her like the waters of Nenuial had, when the Rangers of Tinnudir had taught her to swim. Kreacher's presence was like a beacon in the depths of magic she was sinking into, anchoring her in the same way that Calenglad's hands once had in the lake waters. This was both alike and different from the last time she had touched the stone. Before it had been overwhelming, but now she was surrounded by the house's magic, rooted to the very bedrock of London, strengthened over generations of Blacks who had been born, lived, bled, and died in this very house.
Each and every act of magic contained by the house contributed to it, shaped and formed over the years by the will and desire of those who had dwelt here. Unconscious or not, the magic lingered, creating a semi-sentience that she suspected was nothing compared to what Hogwarts had attained. Bronach could feel the pockets of magical space where the dormant rooms waited, feel the magical objects contained there, see the occupants of the house and name the location of every magical object within. The locket horcrux was clearly visible, a black taint on the house's magic, and she could tell that the house disliked and resented its presence.
Kreacher stood out like a living flame, and she could feel Aragorn and Arwen through their connections to the house, new but growing stronger. She would need to bring them here, introduce them to the stone and bind them to it as they had bound themselves to her. The house reached out to her, guiding her along spell-lines and ward-lines, showing her all that it was, all that it had been, and all that it could be. Bronach felt that her earlier observation of the fidelius as an ill-fitting coat was inadequate: the house was about ready to shrug it off, restrained only by the power the headmaster had poured into the charm's casting, but now wasn't the time. Soothingly, she repaired the fading charms and spells that had suffered from disuse and lack of maintenance, preparing to bring the full strength of the wards to bear once she had spoken with the headmaster, or at least warned him that by raising the war-wards she would shred the fidelius.
Her studies of warding were hardly as extensive as Bill's, but she knew enough to tell that at full strength, not even Riddle or Grindelwald would have been able to make a dent, not unless they had brought an army. To trespass upon the property with the intent to harm would render one no more than a smear on the pavement outside.
Bronach suspected it would take nothing less than a nuclear detonation on top of the house to shatter them, and even then the ritual room would likely remain.
There was a warning throb in the magic, an alert for incoming Floo travel, and she pulled herself away from the connection. The magic of the house receded like the tide going out, but there was an increased awareness that remained in the back of her head, much like the family magic nestled in her breast. She wondered if this was something that every Head of House experienced, or only someone who was as in tune with magic as she had been forced to learn during her sojourn in Arda.
Precious minutes were wasted in redressing herself, but she dared not present herself in only her shift. Nothing had happened in the kitchen yet, but she suspected that it was either the Headmaster or another Order member who had come through, and they had not had a chance to determine the extent of any magical abilities Aragorn or Arwen might have attained with the greater concentration of magic available to them.
As she entered the kitchen, all of her attention was focused on Moody, who was standing at the end of the table, glaring down its length at her partners, who were meeting his hostility with their neutral court faces. Time seemed to slow as he drew his wand, clearly intending to cast a spell, and she didn't think, just reacted.
He may have been quick, but she was quicker.
Decades of fighting an actual physical war, where being a second too late could mean death or maiming, training with Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas so that she could be just a hair faster…her reflexes had been honed to a keen sharpness, and thanks to Námo she hadn't lost any of her physical condition. Moody had been fast enough, skilled enough to survive decades as an Auror and the first war, but she was better.
And he had just drawn on her partners.
When her brain started processing everything, she was standing between the tip of his wand and Aragorn, who had risen from his seat as he swept Arwen under the safety of the table behind him. There was a blade in Aragorn's hand, and she suspected Arwen had also drawn one. A magical shield hovered in front of them, been spun from Bronach's fingertips, and her own blade was pointed at Moody's throat, having knocked aside his wand hand.
She must have vaulted the table, Bronach realized, and in the back of her mind she was appropriately impressed by the feat. Her unique situation had taught her to prepare for being able to carry out any maneuver in whatever clothing she might wear, but she was still impressed that she'd covered the distance so quickly in a gown.
The house nudged at her, and she felt the tingle of its magic in her feet, and realized that it had also acted to protect her partners, speeding her movements and strengthening her shield. It surged around her, ready to eject Moody for his offense against Aragorn and Arwen, and she knew that if they had been introduced to it properly, he would have already been removed, if not simply a smear on the flagstones.
Bronach choked down the house's protective impulses, knowing that they needed Moody. Knowing that they couldn't present themselves to the Order having just killed one of its most skilled veterans. She could feel the magic roiling around her, and wondered vaguely if it was manifesting, the burn of it in her veins feeling like live sparks.
"That," she breathed, when she had control again, "was very unwise."
"That," he mimicked, lowering his wand slightly, but not enough to make him no longer a threat, "was not the reaction of a fifteen year old."
"How many fifteen year olds do you think could survive dueling Voldemort?" she retorted.
"Not many," he admitted grouchily. "But that doesn't mean you're not an impostor."
"No glamor or potion can adjust for a metamorphmagus change," Bronach shifted, choosing red hair on a whim, making herself more like the mother she had known only through pictures. "Your apprentice should have taught you that, if you hadn't already known."
"Metamorphmagry runs in the Black family," Moody growled as the Floo flared again, admitting Tonks. "You claim to be a Potter."
"Dorea Black married Charlus Potter, and bore him a son: James." Bronach hissed, losing patience with his paranoia as the family magic demanded retribution for the danger to her partners. "By blood and magic, I am both Head of House Potter and House Black."
"Are you still on about this Mad-Eye?" Tonks yawned, dropping into a seat at the table, clearly accustomed to her mentor's paranoid ways. "I told you. She's a metamorphmagus, she's Potter, and she's Head of House."
"There's something not right," he grumped, finally putting his wand away. "No fifteen year old moves like that."
"Time Travel," she gritted out, wondering what tales had been told after she'd retired for the night. "Is that enough explanation for you?"
"It'd be better if you told everything," he snapped. "They say you won't say a word, but that the war ends in three years."
"There's too much at stake to go spreading it around," she snapped in return, sheathing her knife. "If you make it to the end of the war, we'll get a drink and I'll tell you the story of what might have been, okay?"
He eyed her warily, seeming to know that he'd pushed her far enough. "I'll hold you to it," he said gruffly, turning to leave. Something seemed to strike him, and he glanced back over his shoulder. "You moved to shield them. Why?"
"Because that was my job." It had been far, far more than that, but by now it was instinctive to throw herself between the innocent and danger, even more so when it was her partners being threatened.
"What were you, some sort of bodyguard?"
She knew that Arwen was smiling as the woman rose from under the table, discreetly tucking a knife away. "Something like that," Bronach said vaguely.
Moody harrumphed, and stumped through the Floo, leaving Tonks behind.
"You've got big brass ones," the witch told her with a raised eyebrow. "Not many folks take on Moody when he's pissed like that."
"Barty Crouch Junior was scarier," Bronach said flippantly, hoping that someone would repeat that back to Mad-Eye. It was somewhat true: finding out that a Death Eater had successfully subdued and impersonated a notoriously paranoid Auror had been a terrifying end to a nightmarish evening.
Tonks's eyes widened, and she nearly tripped over her feet as she followed her mentor through the Floo.
Molly said nothing about the confrontation as she finished preparing breakfast, and Arthur, when he put in an appearance a short while later, clearly was bursting with questions. His wife, however, kept him reined in, practically marching him through the Floo before she cleaned up his breakfast dishes and set them to wash as she worked on breakfast for the children.
Having finished their own breakfast, Bronach glanced at Kreacher, who was finalizing the last of the dishes she'd asked him to prepare for the others. "If you could put warming and stasis charms, we'd like your opinion on how to renovate the house," she asked.
"Kreacher would be happy to," he said, and she could feel his magic settle over the plates and platters he'd set out on the table. There was a sticking charm there too, that she didn't mention, clearly intended to prevent Molly from moving the dishes and replacing them with her own.
They bypassed the rest of the cellar rooms, not wanting Molly's attention further on the house's most private spaces. It was bad enough that Bronach had ventured to the ritual room while she was in the kitchen. Introducing Aragorn and Arwen would have to happen another time.
"Entry first," Bronach murmured as they climbed the stairs. "Walburga's portrait is a menace that needs to go."
The Order had tried several times to remove the portrait, none with any success, but with the house backing her, it was easy enough to sever the sticking charm, redirecting its energy into the wards. Kreacher vanished the portrait, curtains and all, leaving only a square of unfaded wallpaper to signify that she had even existed.
"Catalogs," Bronach said, glancing about. "I need catalogs from every furniture and decorator in magical Britain. Kreacher, can you see to the collection of them? In the meantime, we'll tour the rest of the public rooms."
With a nod, Kreacher disappeared, leaving Bronach alone with her partners. "Any thoughts?" she said, gesturing at the empty hall.
Arwen eyed the troll-leg umbrella holder. "That should go," she said.
"Absolutely," Bronach murmured, conjuring a stack of parchment and a quill from her supplies. It was the work of a moment to write Vault on a bit of parchment, tear it off, and wandlessly stick it to the offending umbrella stand. "We'll need a coat rack," she said, starting a list. "New wallpaper and carpeting, anything wood needs refinishing…"
"The chandelier needs polishing," Aragorn pointed out as he glanced up. "And the lights."
"Art, for the walls," Arwen mused, glancing about. "And a mirror, above the hearth. Perhaps a table of some sort?"
Noting all of it down, Bronach nudged open the dining room doors. "And this is only the beginning."
16