"One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious."
Carl Jung
V
As Hermione and Regulus entered 12 Grimmauld Place, a heavy sense of suffocation immediately descended upon them. The house, originally a beautiful muggle townhouse, had become the ancestral residence of the Black family.
Nestled in the Borough of Islington, London, it stood as a constant reminder of the horrors of war and the countless lives that had been lost. For Hermione, the building held no fond memories. Its darkened windows and perpetual gloom, which seemed to emanate from the ancient bricks themselves, created an atmosphere of foreboding that sent shivers down her spine.
"Feels like the walls are closing in," she whispered, her voice barely audible against the backdrop of the house's oppressive silence.
They were met by Walburga Black, a proud witch adorned in a dark green gown, who seemed even more imposing than her portrait in the alternate timeline. Standing in the dimly lit entrance hall, where the shadows seemed to dance with a life of their own, she stated, "Regulus, you return," her voice devoid of warmth.
Her air of arrogance was palpable as she greeted her son with a cold demeanor, only embracing him when she learned he had returned from a mission for the Dark Lord. "For the Dark Lord, you say? Very well," the woman conceded, her embrace stiff and formal, as if mirroring the rigid family tapestries that adorned the walls.
Walburga's gaze fell upon Hermione, who stood just behind Regulus. "And who is this?" she demanded, her tone dripping with disdain, echoing through the high-ceilinged corridor.
The matriarch barely acknowledged her presence and, in a nasty tone, questioned her son about who she was. "Explain yourself, Regulus," his mother insisted, her eyes narrowing like the portraits of ancestors that watched them with silent judgment.
The wizard introduced Hermione as their long-lost cousin, the daughter of Ophelia Macmillan. "This is Hermione, our cousin from the Macmillan side," he said, his voice steady, cutting through the thick air.
Walburga made a crude remark about her unfortunate lineage, having to bear her mother's name instead of her father's. "A Macmillan, is it? How... unfortunate," she sneered, her words laced with contempt, as bitter as the dust that lay undisturbed on the mantelpiece.
She then proceeded to scrutinize Hermione's carefully transfigured robes, making a spectacle of what she deemed to be flaws. "Those robes, hardly up to Black standards," Walburga critiqued, her eyes scanning every inch, as if she could see through the fabric.
As they prepared to sit down for dinner, Orion Black arrived, his gaze fixed upon his son. "Father," Regulus greeted, his posture straightening, much like the stiff-backed chairs that awaited them in the dining room.
Orion's skepticism was palpable as he dismissed Hermione's magical heritage with a derisive snort. "A squib's progeny, capable of magic? Utterly ludicrous," he declared, his voice echoing with scorn.
In response to his disbelief, the young witch extended her hand, and from her palm erupted a cascade of bluebell flames. The ethereal fire danced in the air, its azure light casting a serene glow against the dark wood and faded tapestries.
The flames swirled gracefully, a silent testament to her prowess, leaving Orion momentarily speechless. "Impressive," he finally conceded, his initial surprise giving way to a calculating gleam in his eye.
Walburga, witnessing the conjuration, recoiled in alarm, her fear that the ancestral home would be engulfed in flames evident on her stern face. "Careful, girl! Do you wish to set the house ablaze?" she cried out, her voice sharp with panic.
Orion, however, remained composed, his greed for power surfacing as he addressed his wife's concerns. "Fear not, my dear. It's witch fire—it does not consume like mundane flames," he explained, his tone laced with avarice. "Such a display of skill... The Dark Lord would indeed find her most... intriguing," he mused, his thoughts already turning to how the witch's abilities could be exploited for gain.
As they took their seats at the dinner table, a bland, soap-like concoction was placed before them. Hermione's confusion was evident as she regarded the unappetizing fare. Throughout the meal, Orion probed about her skills and her past. "Tell me more about your upbringing," he pressed, his curiosity piqued.
Fortunately, the witch had prepared for such interrogations with Regulus. "I received my instruction in seclusion, under the guidance of my father," she stated, her narrative carefully constructed. "Our isolation was a matter of safety," she added, her tale a delicate blend of truth and fabrication.
Orion made a remark about how Voldemort would be delighted to have such a gifted witch on his side, causing the witch to grimace. "The Dark Lord values talent," Orion stated, a hint of pride in his voice.
Sensing the need to extricate Hermione from the conversation, Regulus proposed they withdraw for the evening. "Perhaps it is time we retired," he suggested, his touch on her arm a gentle prompt to depart from the dining room and the probing eyes of his family.
Walburga's tone was rude and demanding as she called out for Kreacher, ordering the elf to prepare a room for Hermione in the family wing. Her voice echoed through the halls as she commanded, "Kreacher, see to it that a room is prepared for our guest."
A few minutes later, the uncertain voice of Kreacher announced that the room next to Master Regulus was ready. "Young Master, the room is ready for your... cousin," he said.
Following Regulus, Hermione entered what could only be described as Sirius' old room. The walls were adorned with posters of the Falmouth Falcons Quidditch team, and the room's golden and red hues reminded her of the Gryffindor common room. "Sirius would have loved this," she mused with a smile.
As she and Regulus looked through photos of Sirius and his friends, Kreacher appeared. "I'm sorry for the state of the room, Miss," he apologized, his ears drooping slightly. "There wasn't much time, but I did what I could," the elf explained.
Kreacher greeted the Black heir with affection, which warmed Hermione's heart. "Young Master, it's good to see you safe," he said with genuine concern.
"Oh, young Master Regulus, Kreacher has worried so much!" the elf exclaimed, his hands wringing together.
The wizard then recounted how Hermione had aided him, causing the little elf to start referring to her as his kind young Mistress. "She's been a great help," Regulus appreciatively told the elf.
Despite Hermione's attempts to downplay her actions, Kreacher paid no heed. "Kind young Mistress, Kreacher is grateful," the elf insisted, bowing deeply.
He scurried off to the kitchen and returned with their favorite desserts: a strawberry fool for Hermione and a treacle tart for Regulus. "Kreacher made your favorites," he presented the desserts with a flourish.
"Thank you, it looks delicious," the witch said, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the strawberry fool.
Black chuckled as he took a bite of his treacle tart. "Kreacher, you've outdone yourself," he praised, his expression content.
The elf beamed with pride, pleased to have brought some joy to the young masters. "Kreacher is happy to serve," he replied, his chest puffing out slightly.
As the night progressed, Hermione and Regulus shared stories of their past, filling the room with laughter and the sweet aroma of desserts. "It's been a long time since I've laughed like this," she admitted, a hint of nostalgia in her voice.
The wizard nodded in agreement, his eyes softening. "We all need a moment of peace, even in times like these," he said, meeting her gaze.
With a final thank you to Kreacher, Hermione settled in for the night, her spirits lifted by the small comforts of a warm bed. "Goodnight, cousin," Regulus softly echoed in the room as he retreated to his own bedroom.
It was a late afternoon when Hermione and Regulus, their faces etched with determination, finally arrived at the Gaunt Shack. A week had passed since the witch's arrival at Grimmauld Place, providing them with ample time to meticulously craft a plan to retrieve the elusive ring Horcrux.
"The trees... they're like sentinels," she observed, her gaze lingering on the thick cluster that surrounded the cabin.
As they approached the hut, its peculiar location struck the witch as odd. "Hidden from the world," Regulus muttered, his eyes scanning the surroundings.
The towering trees, their branches intertwined like guardians, seemed to conspire in blocking any trace of light from reaching the cottage. "It's as if they're protecting the shack," she whispered, a shiver running down her spine.
Once the ancestral home of the Gaunt family, the hut now stood desolate in the depths of the woods just outside the village of Little Hangleton. "The Gaunts... a tragic lineage," Black said, his voice tinged with sadness.
The poverty-stricken nature of the cabin was evident in its sorry state. "Morfin's touch, no doubt," Hermione remarked, eyeing the dead snake nailed to the front door.
Stepping inside, the two found themselves surrounded by a mass of filth and neglect. "This place... it's been forsaken," the witch commented, her nose wrinkling at the stench.
Regulus, determined to retrieve the Horcrux, attempted to summon it using a spell. "Accio Horcrux!" he commanded, his wand outstretched.
But his efforts were in vain. "Horcruxes... they resist such simple spells," Hermione explained, her eyes searching the room. With a shared sense of purpose, they delved further into the main room. "We must be thorough," she insisted, stepping cautiously.
It was in the midst of this disarray that the wizard, his gaze fixated on the Horcrux's dark aura, found himself entranced. "The ring... it calls to me," Regulus murmured, his hand reaching out.
Acting swiftly, Hermione cast a stunning spell. "Stupefy!" she cried out, her spell hitting Regulus squarely in the chest. As he slowly opened his eyes, confusion etched across his face. "What happened?" he asked, his voice groggy.
Calmly, she explained that he had fallen under the spellbinding allure of the ring. "The Horcrux, it nearly had you," Hermione said, her tone serious.
A voice, haunting and persuasive, had whispered the command to wear the ring. "It spoke to me," the wizard admitted, his eyes wide with realization. Hermione cautioned that they would need to exercise greater caution in the future. "We must guard our minds," she warned, her gaze meeting his.
Regulus had reached his breaking point. With a determined grip on her arm, he apparated them back to Grimmauld Place. Seeking solace and answers, they found themselves immersed in the Black library.
"This place... it's amazing," Hermione gasped, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of the library.
The room was a sight to behold, shelves upon shelves of ancient tomes and dusty manuscripts, their spines adorned with fading gold lettering. "The knowledge of generations," he murmured, his fingers tracing the spines.
The air was heavy with the scent of aged parchment, and the dim lighting cast eerie shadows across the room, giving it an aura of secrecy and intrigue. "It's like the shadows are alive," Hermione whispered, a shiver of fear tingled her backbone.
Hours turned into minutes as they delved deeper into their discussion, their voices mingling with the whispers of the forgotten knowledge that surrounded them. "We must find the that cursed book," the witch stated, her voice resolute.
Their goal was clear - to retrieve the next Horcrux, the elusive diary. "The book... it's the key," Regulus agreed, his brow furrowed in thought.
All the same, they faced a seemingly insurmountable obstacle - it was hidden within the impenetrable walls of Malfoy Manor, specifically in Abraxas Office. "Even Lucius is barred from entering," Black revealed, his tone grave.
Their only glimmer of hope lay in finding the opportune moment to seize the diary, but the wards surrounding the manor allowed only the Malfoy family to pass through. "The wards... they're unyielding," Hermione conceded, her hope waned, but Regulus' memory flickered to life. "The Yule ball... my mother mentioned it once," he recalled, a spark of inspiration in his eyes.
The wizard recollected his mother's passing mention of the annual Malfoy Yule ball, an extravagant event hosted by Viola, Lucius's mother. "An event of such grandeur," Regulus mused, the idea taking shape.
It dawned on him that this grand affair could be their ticket to obtaining the diary. "The masquerade ball... that's our chance," he concluded, his eyes alight with possibility. "Madness, sheer madness! The risk is too great," Hermione protested, her skepticism clear.
A mischievous smile crept across Black's face as he confidently assured her that she was mistaken. "Trust me, Hermione. The wards will weaken," Regulus pointed out, his confidence infectious. The young woman's skepticism slowly transformed into cautious optimism. "Perhaps... it could work," she pondered, her mind racing with the possibilities.
The wizard calmly explained that, by the time they made their move, the majority of the guests, including the hosts themselves, would be inebriated. "In their revelry, they'll be none the wiser," he said, a hint of cunning in his voice.
Hermione, swayed by his logic, agreed to their audacious endeavor. "Very well, Regulus. We'll do it," she agreed, her determination renewed.
Together, they immersed themselves in the pages of ancient texts, searching for any knowledge or enchantments that could aid them in breaching the wards guarding Abraxas Office. "We'll find a way," the witch stated, her voice steady as she turned the pages.
As Hermione stepped into the ballroom of Malfoy Manor for the masquerade, she couldn't help but be captivated by the opulence that surrounded her. The room was a grand display of wealth and extravagance, adorned with shimmering chandeliers and intricately designed tapestries that cascaded down the walls.
"Such grandeur," the witch murmured, her skin prickled with apprehension. It was a stark contrast to the cramped and suffocating environment she had endured when she was brought in by the snatchers. "This is nothing like my last visit," she thought to herself.
The dark magic that lingered in the air seemed to add a mysterious and unsettling atmosphere to the already enchanting setting.
All eyes turned towards her as she entered, accompanied by Regulus, and the guests were visibly intrigued by the presence of the long-lost Macmillan cousin. "Who is she?" whispered a masked guest, their curiosity piqued.
Engaged in conversation with the host, Viola, Hermione's attention was drawn to a tall man who approached them. "Miss Macmillan, a pleasure," he greeted, his voice smooth and captivating.
The contrast between his pale skin and ebony hair immediately caught her attention, piquing her curiosity. The way the Malfoy matriarch spoke to him revealed that he held a significant role in the gathering. "It's delightful to have you here," Viola expressed, her tone filled with respect.
"Would you honor me with a dance?" he asked, extending his hand. Unable to refuse his invitation, Hermione accepted his offer.
The enigmatic wizard addressed her by her name, but when she inquired about his identity, he skillfully changed the subject. "Just a humble acquaintance," he replied, his mask hiding any hint of a smile.
As they began to dance, Hermione couldn't help but notice the audacious and unconventional way he led their waltz. "You lead with such... confidence," she commented, slightly breathless from the dance.
The touch of his cold hands sent shivers down her spine, contrasting with the intensity of his fiery, almost black, burgundy eyes.
Time seemed to blur as they twirled around the ballroom, with the witch feeling both suffocated and entranced by the man's enigmatic charm. Her thoughts were abruptly brought back to reality when he broached a polemic topic. "Blood magic, Miss Macmillan, what are your thoughts?" he inquired, his tone curious yet commanding.
A peculiar sensation coursed through the witch. "It's a field worth exploring, despite the Ministry's stance," she replied, her mind racing with the implications of their conversation.
Intrigued by her knowledge, the man posed another question, asking if she could envision alternative uses for blood magic beyond defense. "Perhaps... for empowering rituals," Hermione suggested, her voice cautious.
The wizard expressed his interest, mentioning that she possessed more understanding than most of his followers. "You surprise me, Miss Macmillan," he said, a hint of admiration in his voice.
The mention of followers left her bewildered, but her confusion was swiftly replaced by a chilling realization. "My Lord," Regulus said, bowing slightly as he approached.
It was then that Hermione understood the grave danger she was in. The mysterious man was none other than the Dark Lord himself. "Voldemort," Hermione whispered to herself, her heart pounding in her chest.
The nefarious wizard acknowledged Regulus and expressed his intrigue regarding his cousin. "I've heard much about your talents, Miss Macmillan," he said, his voice laced with a chilling curiosity.
Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of Bellatrix Lestrange, the deranged witch throwing herself at Voldemort and making a crude comment. "My Lord, who is this... squib?" she sneered, her eyes wild with madness.
Sensing Hermione's distress and near-collapse at the sight of his cousin's, Black quickly intervened. "My Lord, may we be excused?" he asked, his voice steady despite the tension.
With the night growing late, they made their way to the fireplace at the Malfoy's drawing room. Yet, as they entered the chamber, the sight of the drawing room, with its dark wood paneling and portraits of stern-looking ancestors, triggered a flood of dark memories for Hermione.
"Not again," she cried out, her voice trembling as the memories overwhelmed her. Overwhelmed, she succumbed to unconsciousness. "Hermione!" Regulus exclaimed, catching her as she fell. "To Grimmauld Place," he said, throwing the floo powder into the flames.
The Black heir gently carried the witch's limp form to Sirius' room, carefully laying her down on the bed. "Rest now," he murmured, concern etched on his face.
He was preparing to leave when she grabbed his hand with a terrified expression in her tear-filled eyes. "Please, don't leave," the witch pleaded, her grip tightening.
In that moment, Regulus's initial inclination to argue dissipated. "I'll stay," he promised, his voice soft and reassuring.
The wizard sat by the bed, his presence a silent promise of protection. "You're safe here," he assured her, his hand gently squeezing hers.
As the night wore on, Hermione's breathing steadied, and he remained vigilant, watching over her as she slept. "I won't let anything happen to you," he vowed silently.
The room was filled with a sense of calm, a stark contrast to the chaos of the evening, and Regulus found solace in the quiet. "Peace, at last," he thought, his eyes never leaving Hermione.