When the questioning became circular, Bronach called a halt. "It is near the supper hour, you are repeating yourselves, and I have guests and a ward to settle," she said, staring down the table. "You are welcome to see if I will tolerate further questioning on the morrow, but for tonight, I have not the patience to continue. Good evening."

She rose before they could lodge a coherent protest, caught Kreacher's eye and signed bedroom at him, and then swept out of the kitchen, her entourage around her.

"Glorfindel," she asked quietly, mindful of the portraits watching eagerly, "would you please show Faramir and Éowyn to the suite while I attend to Miss Potter?"

"Of course," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Prince Faramir, White Lady, please allow me to give you the short tour of the house."

Bronach lingered in the entry, allowing the others to go by, and then she made her way to the room that she suspected the younger cohort was gathered in, reaching into the house's magic to confirm it. When she knocked, Hermione was the one to open the door, suspicious face like a wound in Bronach's side. "Yes?"

"I would like to borrow Miss Potter for a brief moment."

There was a chorus of furious whispers and the sounds of bodies rearranging themselves, but eventually her younger self slipped out through the gap that Hermione had been determinedly blocking, looking vaguely irritated. "You needed me?"

"I promised I would tell you what when on during my conversation with the adults," Bronach said with a shrug. "And I intend to retire for the night, so I should show you your room."

"They said I'd room with Hermione and Ginny," the girl looked confused.

"If that is what you wish, you may," Bronach started up the stairs to the next landing. "However, as my heir, you have a right to the Heir suite."

Technically Sirius was still Heir to House Black, but she doubted he'd want to move into his parents' rooms. So Bronach intended to offer them to her younger self, who was Heir to House Potter regardless. And Gringotts had informed her, when she named her heirs, that while they may not care about the legal status of their patrons, the Ministry did, so on paper her younger self was also Black Heir, at least until Sirius' legal status was cleared up.

"The Heir suite?" Her younger self seemed bewildered by the concept, but was following along.

"Heirs often are married with children of their own by the time they are called upon to step into their place as Head," Bronach explained. "Or, in the case of the Blacks, the position often skips a generation. The Blacks, most recently Arcturus Black, Sirius's grandfather, felt that it was better to have fewer Heads over longer periods of time, and such replaced their children as heirs when suitable grandchildren were born."

"So, Sirius would have been Heir to House Black." The girl was quiet. "Why isn't he in the Heir suite?"

"Because of his parents," Bronach said dryly. "Walburga Black was…a strong personality, and demanded that her marriage to her cousin take place despite the general distaste for such close pairings. She then demanded occupancy in the Seat of House Black, this house, because she and her husband would produce any future Heir to the House. Arcturus, who I suspect disliked Grimmauld Place, gave them the Heir suite to occupy, as Orion was the named Heir at the time, and as soon as Sirius reached the age of one he decamped to one of the country estates and remained their until his death."

Her younger self snorted. "But that doesn't answer why Sirius isn't in the Heir suite."

"Orion and Walburga could not have moved into the suite reserved for the Head of House because this was still Arcturus' house," Bronach stopped in front of the door, glad that Kreacher had successfully prevented Sirius from lodging Buckbeak inside Walburga's old room. The house elf had been gone from the kitchen for long enough earlier that she was certain the rooms were clean, if old-fashioned. "And they were too proud, or fond of luxury, to give them up to a child not yet of age. If Sirius hadn't run away before his majority…well, he would have had the grounds, and the authority, to challenge them on it. I doubt he would be interested in moving into them now, and as you are Heir to House Black in the eyes of the Ministry, you have every right to dwell in them."

"I'm what?"

Bronach smiled as gently as she could. "I promise, I will explain it all in the next few days. But right now, let me show you your rooms."

Stepping through the door, she found the traditional layout, instead of just Walburga's bedroom as it had been when she first came to Grimmauld. The Heir suite was a slightly smaller version of the Head's suite, with a sitting room and two bedrooms, should the couple wish to sleep separately. Each bedroom had an ensuite, and the nursery could be added should there be a need. Kreacher had cleaned the sitting room, but left the furniture untouched.

"This is the sitting room," Bronach said, gesturing at their surroundings. It was, thankfully, free of portraits, so they were guaranteed privacy for the conversation she was about to have. "It needs redecorating, but there is nothing in here that will harm you. We can certainly adjust it to your tastes and preferences."

Crossing to the door in the wall, she opened it, finding Walburga's bedroom, stripped of any personal touches but the furniture and the wallpaper. "Here is your bedroom. Once again, it needs redecorating, but it will suit for the next few days. There's a bathroom through the door on that wall, and Kreacher has brought up your trunk."

"Who's Kreacher?" the girl asked, looking around with a shell-shocked gaze.

"Kreacher is the house elf bonded to the House of Black," Bronach said. "If you call for him, he will answer. I ask that you remember that he is a person, and that he will disobey orders that place either himself or yourself into danger."

She doubted that would be an issue, but it was still worth saying, considering the act Kreacher had been putting up for the Order. "Now, would you like to hear the summary of my discussion with the adults?"

Her younger self nodded, and Bronach gestured for them to return to the sitting room, where she sat down on one of the couches. "There were a number of questions about my identity, and I provided Gringotts-verified documents that explained them. It's a bit of a long story, but I am your…second cousin, I believe? Your grandfather Fleamont was my grandfather's brother. My grandfather, Charlus Potter, married Dorea Black, who would have been Walburga's, Sirius's mother's, aunt, making me related to both you and Sirius, if slightly distantly. My grandparents were killed during the first war, leaving behind a young son who they were hiding from some of the more fanatical members of the House of Black who disapproved of Dorea marrying a Potter."

"That child," Bronach said, seeing her younger self connected the dots, "was my father. He and my mother died when I was very young, so it took me quite some time to discern the truth of my origins. And when I did, it took some time to make arrangements for a discreet return to Britain. I hadn't intended on making myself known, but then…"

"But then you found me," her younger self said, frowning slightly. "Why didn't you write to me?"

"Because I didn't know, at first, that you were in an unhappy living situation," Bronach said, mindful of her conversation with the girl before she left Hogwarts. She would have to be very careful. "And then, when I discerned that you were not well-placed, I knew that it would take time to go about things properly. It was something I was working on when I came to Little Hangleton that night, though I've certainly sped up the process now."

"Okay," the girl said, clearly not wanting to express anything further. "What else?"

"A great deal about my intentions: for the war, for the house, for you," Bronach sighed. "I refused to tell them much about my intentions for you, mostly because we have not had a proper conversation. You deserve to be involved in that discussion, not hearing it secondhand. And there is a difference of opinion about what I can, and should, do with my own house." The girl's lips quirked up in a slight show of amusement.

Allowing her own amusement to show for a moment, Bronach then turned more serious. "As for the war, I intend to end it as quickly as possible. It has already taken too much from the Wizarding World, let alone our families."

"Now," she said, after letting that thought linger. "There is one thing that I was not aware of until the Order asked me about it. Apparently, despite using blessed starlight to repel the dementors, it registered with the Ministry as underage magic, likely because you were in the vicinity. Because the Minister has been running a smear campaign, he is insisting upon a full hearing before the Wizengamot, the only concession that the Headmaster was able to win."

"A trial?" her younger self sounded defeated.

"Yes," Bronach said, still furious that it was coming to this. "They will call it a hearing, but it will be a trial."

"Oh," the girl slumped. "What do I do?"

"You will wear the clothes I source for you, answer the questions we have prepared together, and otherwise let me do the heavy lifting," Bronach told her, the plans she'd cobbled together in the back of her head solid despite the short planning period. "I have the time and energy to make enemies of the Wizengamot, let me make myself a target."

"You don't have to," her younger self tried to protest. "You only just met me."

"I am the Head of House Potter and House Black and it is my job to," Bronach said fiercely. "And not only that, it is my pleasure to. I have only heard some of what you have endured since nineteen eighty-one, and I do not like it at all. The adults in your life have not acted the way they should have."

Seeing that the girl didn't understand completely, and knowing that it had taken her the better part of two hundred years to fully understand and accept, Bronach let the subject drop. "The only other thing you need to know at this moment is that I have taken you as my ward." Which wasn't fully disclosed to the Order yet, but if they had half a braincell they would figure it out in the next day. "That means that I will act as your legal guardian from now on. We can discuss the specifics of that tomorrow, or anytime this week, but I wanted to give you time to think about it and come up with any questions or concerns you might have. Now, I am sure your friends are worried about you and Mrs. Weasley was charming together dinner when I left the kitchen."

"Can they come visit me?" the girl asked, looking around at the room and its antiquated formality.

"Anyone who you invite in can enter these rooms," Bronach said, having adjusted the wards to that effect as they were talking. "Normally, they are hidden, as the house has a number of public spaces for conversations, but I recognize that the house is in rather a state at the moment and it will take time to put it to rights. If you want me to hide the rooms from anyone but myself and Sirius, I can do so."

"Why Sirius?"

"He's currently the magically recognized Heir to the House of Black, and he's your godfather," she explained as she stood. "As you're marginally more familiar with him than I am, it makes sense for me to allow him to be able to access you in an emergency situation. Also, I cannot hide much in this house from the Heir to the House of Black, as it is expected that they know and understand the house so that when they become Head it is not as big of a shock."

"Oh," the girl said, clearly overwhelmed. "Uh, thank you?"

"You're welcome," Bronach said. "I'll see myself out."

"I see Kreacher has not wasted a moment," Bronach said, when she entered her sitting room to find her companions gathered around a familiar spread.

Much like the Heir suite, the furniture in the sitting room of the Head's suite was antique and out of style. It hadn't been touched since Arcturus and Melania had fled for the country estate, likely out of a desire to avoid Walburga's mad temper. There were far fewer cursed items at least, and the furniture, while being out of style, was sturdy and serviceable instead of being gaudy and pretentious. Even so, the group lounging around the coffee table where Kreacher had set out food looked out of place.

"Come eat," Glorfindel said, gesturing to the empty place beside him where a full plate waited. "I made sure to save you something."

"As if Kreacher would let me starve," Bronach said, but sat down anyway. He'd chosen to fill her plate with her favorites, a move which made her heart give a pang that she brushed aside. "Have the others given you the tour?" she asked Faramir and Éowyn.

"It was short, but thorough," Éowyn smiled. "Sitting room," she gestured to the room around them, "your room, the room the Arnorians and Glorfindel share, and we assume that's our room through the door since Glorfindel said it was new."

She pointed to the doors in order, and Bronach nodded. "It feels like the nursery in the House ward structure," she said, nibbling at her food when Daervunn eyed her suspiciously. "Congratulations, you're living in the most defensible room in the house."

"How so?" Faramir asked.

"This house is layered with wards," Bronach said in between bites of food, not wanting Daervunn to start making a scene if she wasn't visibly eating. "The outermost layer is on the exterior house: hiding it from non-magical persons, hiding it from those who do not know where it is, keeping those unwanted from entering the house, protecting it from damage, so on and so forth. Comparatively, the ground floor is relatively empty of spells, but for those related to household management, such as spells to dampen sound leaving a room, spells to discourage dust…it is how the house can be managed efficiently with a single house elf on staff, though it is better at that point to have a smaller active house."

"Active house?" Daervunn asked, reaching for another roll.

"Rooms currently out of stasis." With a shrug, Bronach gestured at the nursery door. "The nursery has not been used in…oh, thirty or so years. Maybe less. So when there was no need for it, the Head of House placed it in stasis, removing it from the main area of the house. It is an odd application of magical space, but it is a bit like tucking the room in a pocket and just…leaving it there. Nothing changes, as if time itself was frozen."

"Like Lothlorien," Glorfindel supplied, and she shrugged.

"To a point, but in stasis, the room stops experiencing time completely. You just…take it out of the flow of time. But anything living in the room…well, they did experiments and it was not pretty. So you cannot put a room with someone or something inside it in stasis. There is a special type of stasis that the healers can use, but it is magically entirely different from the stasis we're talking about now."

"So the ground floor doesn't really have spells," Halbarad got them back on track. "That implies the other floors do?"

"There is a library on the first floor that is hidden from view unless you know it is there," Bronach told them. "The study occupied by the Head of House is also there, though the entrance can be moved around to suit the current occupant. The Heir suite could be hidden from everyone except the Head of House and the Heir and their immediate family, but it is currently not, since Miss Potter is occupying it."

"And the others in the house would protest if she vanished," Glorfindel rolled his eyes. "Does it have other protections?"

"Further wards," Bronach paused, considering the scheme. "Mostly defensive, several secrecy wards. It should suffice to say that someone wishing to break in would find it incredibly difficult and very painful. This suite is similar, but even more so. But wards on a nursery…I am not certain that I could overcome them. Not without knowing the ward structure, which only the Head of House would know the complete nature of it. The entire house will become practically impregnable once I raise the war wards tomorrow at dawn."

"You mentioned that," Daervunn eyed her warily. "What exactly does that mean?"

"Currently this house is actively protected by the standard array of wards and spells that a paranoid magical family would use, plus several that are originally crafted by the Blacks and not shared outside the family," Bronach said, considering the scheme in her head. "The layered nature, combined with the length of time they have been standing, along with what I suspect to be periodic refreshing by past Heads," blood sacrifices, or perhaps magical sacrifices "has led them to be charmingly lethal to all but the most skilled wardbreaker. I can perhaps think of one to two individuals in the world who might be capable of pulling these wards down, and it would certainly take them long enough and leave them vulnerable enough that the occupants would be able to pick them off while they were doing so."

"Charmingly lethal," Halbarad snorted.

"It is also covered by another charm, like a blanket covering a large rock," she continued. "The fidelius charm hides a secret, but the Headmaster was not particularly bright in crafting his secret. What is being hidden is that The Order of the Phoenix headquarters is at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place."

"Which is why none of us lost access to the house," Daervunn said after a moment. "He did not hide the house, only that his group of vigilantes was meeting here."

"And since you were invited by the Head of House, it surpassed the protection. Besides, I carried the secret before, and when he died the right to share it passed to me and any other who knew the secret. It feels as if that permission remains. And the house does not like it, which somewhat weakens the spell."

"The…house…does not like the spell?"

"The longer a building is subjected to magic, and the greater the quantity of magic, the more likely it is to gain some sort of sentience," Bronach told Faramir, who looked vaguely uneasy. "In the case of Hogwarts, the castle where the school is hosted, the amount of magic and the length of time has contributed to a near-sentient building. As for Grimmauld Place, it has enough sentience to form a vague opinion of the occupants and the state of the house. The first time I returned after the fidelius was cast, it felt as if there was a fly on me that I wanted to brush off, but could not."

"War wards," Daervunn said firmly. "I want to know what raising the war wards entails."

"Not much, so to speak of. At dawn, I go to the ritual room in the cellar, raise the wards by magical manipulation, and then go about my day in what might be the third-most protected place on this island." Bronach shrugged. "I am not entirely sure what the magical draw will be, but it should be well within my capabilities. What the wards are, I also cannot say since I believe they are older than the main warding scheme of the house, but where I describe the current wards as charmingly lethal, the war wards will be anything but charming."

"If they are so effective, why are they uncommon?" Glorfindel asked.

"Because they are very complicated, very temperamental, and they require something of the caster to place." Bronach sat quietly for a long moment, trying to figure out how she could explain it. "It is said that the first war wards were created out of someone's pure desire to protect that which they guarded. The wards were instinctive, reactive, and could not be replicated. Many of the oldest houses have wards like these, cast by an individual or group of individuals with the intent to shield the land or building from any and all perils. While this house is comparatively new construction, this land has been owned by those of Black blood for long enough that the land remembers and the old wards remain. Currently, they are dormant, replaced by the modern ward schemes that allow for the type of visiting and socializing that the ancient wards would not allow."

As all of the mouths in the room opened, probably with the same question, she hurried to explain. "The ancient wards believed in a binary. Friend or foe. There was no room for an emissary or ambassador from an enemy party who you might admit to hear terms. Nor was there much nuance to allow for friend becoming foe, or foe becoming friend. Or an ally who you might trust, but not with your home. Modern, or rather, more modern since the current scheme is mostly made up of wards that are about five hundred or more years old, are more flexible, but lose some of their teeth in doing so. The war wards on this house…I cannot tell the full shape of them, but I do know that the Order will not be endangered here as I will sanction their presence. It will shred the fidelius though."

"So, you're going to make the house practically impregnable," Glorfindel mused. "What next?"

"Officially filing the paperwork to make Miss Potter my ward," Bronach sighed. She'd filled it out, in case she needed it, but she'd hoped to not have to use it. "It will give her the best protection I can offer, particularly in light of the upcoming trial."

"The others said it was a hearing," Faramir said slowly. "That usually does not imply trial."

"Fudge, the current Minister for Magic, is an absolute blowhard," Bronach said shortly. "He is in deep denial that Riddle has returned, and is doing his best to discredit anyone who might say or prove otherwise."

"Like Miss Potter," Glorfindel's eyebrows rose. "So he plans to put her on trial."

"For the charge of underage magic," Bronach nodded. "She has not broken that particular law, so I should be able to argue in favor of dropping the charges, but it will take some careful manipulation of the circumstances. I will write Madame Bones in the morning."

She yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. "Sorry."

"It was a long day," Daervunn said with a shrug. "To be expected."

"Go to bed," Halbarad told her. "Nothing needs doing tonight, and you have to be up at dawn."

"I hate when you are right," Bronach muttered, but bid the others farewell, checking the nursery to make sure it was set up to host Faramir and Éowyn before retreating to her own room.

Since they'd arrived, she'd found excuses to stay at Grimmauld for only short periods. If she was honest with herself, Bronach knew that she feared the return of the easy domesticity that she'd fallen into with Glorfindel over the many, many times she had found herself recuperating in Imladris. Even so, with Kreacher's devoted assistance, her room had slowly transformed from what had likely been Melania Black's style to a comfortable hybrid between her decorating choices before and the styles she had gravitated towards in Middle Earth.

Her tapestries covered the walls, obscuring the bulk of the white plaster that had replaced the faded, dusty wallpaper. Underfoot, a richly patterned rug that she'd acquired in Gondor covered the dark floorboards, restored to their original state. The large four poster bed had been replaced by the sleep couch that she'd come to love in Imladris, somewhere between a bed and a mattress on the floor, easily movable if one wanted to rearrange. Kreacher had heaped it with the linens and blankets she'd used during her last few years before…whatever had happened happened, their warmth and weight a comfort.

More so now than before, the room reflected her hobbies and interests. The broom rack by the door had been there once before, but now her spinning wheel sat in the best spot before the fire, a waiting basket of fiber next to it. She suspected that if he'd had the room, her loom would be assembled, but there was only so much magical space built into the house.

With the door shut securely behind her, she sagged into the chair by the fire, resting her head in her hand.

Dementors, in Little Whinging, she thought tiredly. Of all the complications I didn't want. Bronach had suspected that Umbridge would act, but she'd hoped against all hope that it wouldn't happen as she recalled it. And she'd done her best to attempt to avoid the trial, only for it to play out nearly the exact same way.

She is safe here at Grimmauld, and she was not alone, Bronach told herself, rubbing her temples. You did for her what you could, gave the others a chance to change, and now you can move forward without guilt.

It was easier said than done. Rising from her chair, she sat herself at her desk, reaching for the creamy, expensive parchment she had owl-ordered earlier in the summer. There were letters to write, paperwork to file, and plans to set in motion.