This was Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place—hidden between Numbers Eleven and Thirteen, visible only to wizards.
Yes, this was it. The girl stared at the spot until the inconspicuous house number gradually came into view.
Hermione Granger slammed the car door shut, waved to the BMW parked at the kerb, and smiled at the driver's seat. "Off you go, Mum and Dad—you've still got a long way to drive!"
"It's alright, Peanut. We'll wait until you're safely inside before we leave," Mrs. Granger said cheerfully, leaning out of the window.
"Please give my love to Grandma and Grandpa, and apologise for me, won't you?" Hermione said, holding a lazily draped Crookshanks in one arm and a small suitcase in the other. "I really did want to visit them."
"We will—don't worry." Mr. Granger rested his hands on the steering wheel and gave her an understanding smile through the window. "We know you want to help your friend, and that's a good thing. From the way you've described it, he sounds like he's in quite a bit of pain."
"Yes—feeling weak for days at a time every month, rather like that particular misery we ladies know all too well, isn't it?" Mrs. Granger winked at her daughter. "Not a pleasant experience at all!"
Hermione shrugged at her mother.
Mrs. Granger leaned against the corner of Mr. Granger's headrest, tilted her head, and said warmly, "Since you're the only one who knows how to brew that potion, of course you should help him. We're truly proud of you for this, Peanut. And please give our regards to Harry—and do thank his godfather for being so willing to take everyone in."
Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she asked casually, "By the way—will your best girlfriend be there too?"
"Yes, Mum. Ginny's arriving today as well; we'll be sharing a room," Hermione said.
"Wonderful!" Mrs. Granger said, visibly relieved.
She waved enthusiastically. "Go on then, little Peanut—hurry inside! Once you're in, we really must be on our way..."
Hermione said her goodbyes and climbed the somewhat dilapidated front steps.
In the Grangers' eyes, their daughter vanished into thin air within just a few paces.
Mr. Granger kept staring at the empty air, his smile slowly fading.
He let out a quiet breath and murmured, "Oh—I'm going to miss her terribly."
"It's only a week. Then we're taking her to Avignon for that theatre festival you've been dreaming about—remember?" Mrs. Granger said brightly, reaching for the car's music player. "Always look forward! Come on, my dear."
The speakers crackled to life with The Proclaimers' "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)"—all jangling electric guitars, acoustic strums, Irish fiddle, mandolin, and driving percussion, with two Scottish voices singing in emphatic unison.
As if his thoughts had been read aloud, Mr. Granger immediately began to protest: "Oh no! Darling, not this one! You know perfectly well I'll start singing along and simply won't be able to stop!"
"Then sing! As long as we're happy!" Mrs. Granger said merrily, turning the volume up a little more.
And so Mr. Granger started the engine and, almost without realising it, began to sway in his seat and sing along—casting aside the ache of their brief separation with five hundred cheerful, stomping miles.
Hermione stood at the top of the steps, in no hurry to knock, and listened for a moment to the world behind her.
She heard the distant rumble of the engine; she heard her father's favourite road-trip song drifting from the car; she heard her parents belting along together with unselfconscious enthusiasm—and then the car pulled away.
A smile crept onto her lips.
Even in her absence, her parents still knew perfectly well how to enjoy themselves.
She took a deep breath, set down the impatient Crookshanks to pick his own way up the steps, then raised one hand and tapped the large, serpentine silver door knocker.
"Hermione!" A few seconds later the door swung open, and Ginny Weasley's excited face appeared.
She launched herself forward and wrapped Hermione in a fierce hug. "I'm so glad you're here!"
Behind Ginny, the long hallway was brightly lit, the old-fashioned gas lamps polished to a gleaming shine.
Old portraits hung along the walls in gilded frames. The subjects looked thoroughly drowsy—some resting with their eyes closed, others snoring softly with their chins on their chests.
"Sirius dropped the protective enchantments on the entrance for a little while, otherwise you'd never have found this place!" Ginny led her inside, chattering all the way. "He really is such a good man. Dad and Mum have gone to Romania to visit Charlie; Bill and Percy have rented a flat near Diagon Alley for work and are hardly ever home; Fred and George are always at the joke shop... It's entirely thanks to Sirius that Ron and I have somewhere to stay!"
Where were Harry and Ron?
"In the kitchen—you're just in time for lunch!" Ginny said, helping her set the small suitcase down by the stairs. "That's got an Undetectable Extension Charm on it, hasn't it? I bet you've packed half a library."
"Only a few books," Hermione said guiltily.
She followed Ginny through the doorway into the kitchen and found herself in a large, immaculately clean room.
Rows of copper cookware gleamed with a rosy warmth, and the wooden tabletop shone brightly. The lunchware was already laid out, sparkling in the glow of the hearth. Not far away, a large pot simmered contentedly over a cheerful fire.
Harry and Ron were at the far end of the long kitchen table.
They were entirely absorbed in a game of Wizard Chess—locked in what appeared to be a fierce and unresolved battle—and had not yet noticed Hermione's arrival.
"They've been at it all morning, ever since we got here." Ginny glanced at them dismissively. "I got so bored I practically worked my way through all of Bleak House. Boys!"
As they were talking, an elderly house-elf shuffled in.
He was draped in a snow-white tea towel, and the hair sprouting from his enormous ears was as white and fluffy as cotton wool. He made his way unevenly toward the large pot.
Hermione looked at him and knew at once who he was.
That had to be Kreacher—the Black family house-elf Harry occasionally mentioned. Quite elderly, and reportedly rather ill-tempered.
Sure enough, a moment later Ginny asked him, "Kreacher, how much longer for the French onion soup?"
"A quarter of an hour," Kreacher said, picking up a long spoon and muttering under his breath, "the daughter of a blood-traitor..."
Then he turned and cast a suspicious look at Hermione beside Ginny. "There's another girl... Kreacher has not seen this girl before..."
"This is Hermione Granger—she's Harry's friend," Ginny said.
"Hello, Kreacher." Hermione gave him a friendly look.
"Another friend of Master Harry's..." Kreacher said slowly, not quite acknowledging her.
He busied himself stirring the pot, a weary expression on his ancient face. "Master Harry's friends come more and more often... and we must trouble Young Master Sirius to personally prepare cat food for the young mistress's cat..."
He suddenly turned and fixed Hermione with a pointed look. "Oh... Kreacher thinks he can smell a Mudblood..."
"That's rude, Kreacher!" Harry shouted from across the table before Hermione could respond. "She's Draco's girlfriend—mind your manners!"
"Oh!" The old elf startled badly, nearly dropping the long spoon.
He assumed an expression of sudden and profound respect, bowed low to Hermione, and then hurriedly hugged the wall and scuttled out of the kitchen in apparent panic.
Ron, who appeared to have just won the chess match, looked up at Hermione with a bright grin. "Oh—hello, Hermione!"
Hermione smiled and greeted them both, then turned to Ginny in surprise. "Why the sudden change? Is Draco's name really that effective?"
"The Black family elves have always revered purebloods—and your boyfriend is about as pureblood as it gets." Ginny shook her head with an air of weary disdain. "His mother's maiden name is Black, and she's Sirius's cousin. Of course Kreacher would show him respect."
"It's not only that—" Sirius Black strolled into the kitchen, casually picking up the thread of the conversation as though he'd been listening from the hallway. "There are other reasons as well. Kreacher was actually rather cold toward Draco initially—and he had quite an unpleasant falling-out with Draco's house-elf, Dobby."
"Isn't that right, Kreacher?" He turned toward the elf, who was creeping back into the kitchen to return the spoon.
Kreacher gave a sheepish nod, dropped the spoon, and shot back out again at remarkable speed.
Hermione watched his retreating figure with interest—he moved as though fleeing some great and terrible foe—and asked curiously, "Is there another reason besides that?"
Sirius glanced around at everyone in the kitchen, then looked at Hermione with a meaningful expression, drawing one finger across his throat in a subtle gesture. "Guess who suggested that Kreacher be the one to destroy that particular object?"
In an instant, Hermione understood.
When they had discussed the Horcruxes before, Sirius and Draco had mentioned that Slytherin's locket had been destroyed by Kreacher—but they had never explained why it was Kreacher who was given the task.
Could it be—
She looked at Sirius with wide eyes, and was rewarded with a look of quiet approval.
It was Draco who had proposed it?
Draco had actually done something like that? Her eyes lit up at once.
He had suggested the house-elves be the ones to destroy the Horcruxes—and he had never breathed a word of it to her.
Good heavens. He continued to insist, with great conviction, that he had absolutely no interest in S.P.E.W. Who on earth would believe him?
Hermione broke into a quietly smug smile. She couldn't wait to see that infuriating boy and give him a thoroughly undeserved, heart-stopping kiss.
"Could you tell me the details?"
"You'll have to ask him for the details," Sirius said. "I was rather out of sorts at the time and didn't pay close attention."
Ginny had been listening to this exchange with growing bewilderment, and pressed for answers: "What does all of that mean?"
"Right then—back to practical matters! Ladies, before lunch is served, let's go and choose your rooms!" Sirius said, adopting a businesslike tone, and led them upstairs to look at the empty rooms one by one.
"I originally thought to put you on the second floor, but it's right next to the sitting room where people are constantly passing through, so it isn't very private. I've converted it into the potions room." Sirius smiled and nodded at Hermione. "There are two empty bedrooms on the third floor, right next to Harry and Ron's room—you can take your pick. If you don't like those, the fourth floor has several empty rooms as well."
"The third floor is perfect," Hermione said quickly, catching Ginny's barely concealed hopeful look. "It'll be more convenient for going downstairs."
"Right." Sirius shrugged and called down the stairs, "Kreacher—bring their luggage to the third floor!"
For Hermione, the old Black family home was an entirely novel place—quite different from the Weasleys' Burrow.
It was a five-storey detached townhouse, concealed by a powerful enchantment. Neither Muggles nor wizards could find it unless the head of the Black family lifted the protective spell. The family had chosen their location with considerable cleverness—nestling their mansion in a Muggle neighbourhood offered the best of both worlds: the privacy of seclusion with all the conveniences of city life, a far cry from living exposed in the open countryside.
In purely practical terms, there were Muggle shops nearby, and it was only a twenty-minute drive from King's Cross—a thoroughly respectable location even by Muggle standards.
But the advantages of living in a wizarding household did not stop there.
If Hermione wanted to go to Diagon Alley, she no longer needed to take the bus from home, trudge all the way down Charing Cross Road, and peer through shop windows hunting for the scruffy Leaky Cauldron sign. She simply had to take a pinch of Floo Powder, step into the emerald flames, and say "Diagon Alley" clearly—and she would be spun like a top before landing, rather less gracefully than she'd prefer, in that cramped and smoky pub.
A few minutes later, she could stroll out to the back courtyard, tap the correct sequence of bricks beside the dustbins, and step into Diagon Alley itself—to browse Flourish and Blotts for a good book, buy some flea repellent for Crookshanks, or treat herself to one of Florean Fortescue's chocolate ice creams topped with cherry sauce.
She had also discovered that Mr. Fortescue appeared to be an enthusiastic Harry Potter admirer. Entirely untroubled by the recent unflattering coverage in the Daily Prophet, he attempted to refill Harry's ice cream bowl every half hour with generous and unwavering hospitality—much to Harry's visible embarrassment.
And there were magical books hidden throughout the Black family home—some of which even the Hogwarts library might not possess.
Sirius had apparently been using several of them to prop up wobbly table legs. What a waste. Hermione spent the entire afternoon rescuing the poor volumes and carefully arranging them on an empty shelf, already looking forward to working her way through them.
Not to mention, she could now cast spells freely with her wand and get ahead on next year's coursework.
While the Wolfsbane Potion simmered on the floor below, Hermione wandered through the house with a bright and irrepressible expression, sharing her impressions through the ring with undiminished enthusiasm—letting its warmth pulse repeatedly between distant fingers.
She summed it all up in one sentence: "What a magical life!"
When the ring stopped warming, the platinum-blond boy on the other end kissed it gently. "Delighted to hear it."
Draco was in the Malfoy library, doing his best to pass the time by reading.
He might have managed it, too, had Dobby not been there to distract him.
"In any case, I don't need you to deliver flowers on my behalf any longer," he told Dobby, with studied indifference.
"Dobby has been dismissed by his little master again—this is the second time!" Dobby wailed, clutching the front of his pillowcase. A large tea stain had appeared on the pristine white fabric, though he seemed entirely oblivious to it and showed no inclination to clean himself. "Dobby did everything perfectly, and Hermione accepted every single flower! But Dobby is still being dismissed!" He fixed his enormous, watering eyes on his young master and could not quite hold back a sob. "What did Dobby do wrong this time?"
Draco felt the beginning of a headache.
"You did very well," he said, making an effort to sound consoling. "As a reward—you may have a holiday."
Dobby's crying stopped as abruptly as if someone had thrown a switch.
He stood perfectly still, mouth hanging open, stunned into silence. "A holiday—"
"Hermione told me you've always wanted to see other countries," Draco added, watching his expression.
Dobby shook his head slowly, his ears beginning to tremble with excitement, and a look of dawning comprehension spread across his face.
"Oh—little master!" He had finally understood.
He clasped his small hands together over his heart, a dreamy look overtaking him. "So happy! Dobby is so very happy! Dobby never dared hope for this—Dobby thought he was about to lose his position!"
His great eyes flew wide, already brimming with tears of gratitude.
"Dobby never expected—" he shrieked, launching himself into a series of wild, joyful leaps, his little hands raised above his head and tears streaming down his face like a garden hose left running. "The great Miss Hermione Granger is so very persuasive! Little master always listens to every word she says!"
Draco, who had been on the verge of speaking, nearly choked on his own saliva at that. An unwelcome warmth crept up the side of his face.
"Stop!" he said sharply. "I will not sit here and watch you weep and cavort all over the library, Dobby. Tell me—where do you want to go?"
"Africa!" Dobby exclaimed, bouncing in place and sniffling frantically. "Dobby is going there to buy clothes—red ones, green ones, yellow and purple—the clothes there are so beautiful!"
Draco's cheek twitched. He felt, not for the first time—nor even for the thousandth—a profound aesthetic disconnect with his house-elves.
"Fine," he said, in a tone that clearly communicated it was not fine at all. He tossed a bag of coins in Dobby's direction and waved him off with an impatient flick of the wrist. "Go. Come back in a fortnight. Go on—right now—and keep away from me."
With a sharp, reverberating crack, Dobby's joyful wailing cut off mid-sob.
Draco rubbed his temples and at last turned, in peace, to a book called Spellcraft Milestones. He had already decided to recommend it to Hermione once school began.
His hope of not being disturbed by any further house-elves proved, however, rather optimistic.
A short while later came a knock at the library door.
"Young master, the mistress asked me to bring you some black tea," said Mia, a house-elf, entering with respectful care. She set the teapot and cups on the slightly worn rosewood side table—a slender-legged thing with a carved waist—and received a faint "mm" in acknowledgement from the boy on the chaise.
"You may go," Draco said, with a faint edge of wariness. "There's no need to linger."
He had no particular wish to be observed by some elf his mother had dispatched to keep an eye on him.
Mia curtsied properly and retreated backwards to the library entrance.
Seizing one last unguarded moment, she let her gaze travel curiously to a gilded mummy's sarcophagus standing in the corner, its surface covered in hieroglyphics—then, remembering her mother's firm instruction never to let her eyes wander, she gently and quietly drew the library's heavy copper-inlaid door shut behind her.
Mission accomplished. She lifted the empty silver tray and, finding the corridor deserted, set off at a brisk little shuffle along the cool passageway.
In some of the ornate gilt-framed portraits on the walls, Malfoy ancestors dozed, or wandered idly into neighbouring frames.
Mia glanced up at them as she passed and caught, for just a moment, her own reflection in the polished glass of one of the frames.
She, like them, had beautiful grey eyes.
Was that the only thing they shared?
Perhaps she should not be thinking such thoughts—her mother had never approved of her thinking too hard about things, saying it was dangerous for a house-elf to do so.
She ought not to be making these comparisons. The portraits depicted noble masters. She was only what her mother had always said she was: a house-elf, born to serve.
She was still turning this over quietly in her mind when she heard voices drifting from the smoking room ahead.
"I went to the Ministry and made some enquiries—asked a few old contacts, kept it casual... It seems no one knows anything about Bagman..." The measured, unhurried cadence was unmistakably the master's voice.
Mia drew a sharp breath, stilled her shuffling feet, and—before her masters could notice her loitering—switched back to the quiet, careful, near-invisible steps befitting a house-elf. She slipped past the open smoking-room door without pausing.
"I paid a visit to a hairdresser's—had a chat with the wives of a few Ministry officials I know... Nothing seems out of the ordinary at the Office of the Deputy Minister..." That was a pleasant female voice—the mistress.
As her mother had always said: it was best not to overhear the masters' private matters. Mia quickened her pace and continued toward the kitchen.
"Two possibilities, then." The master's voice drifted after her, growing fainter. "Either our son is mistaken. Or this is so closely held that no one outside Fudge's innermost circle has been told..."
"The Ministry of Magic keeping a secret—how long could that possibly last?" The mistress's voice faded to a murmur. "No, what concerns me more is Draco's certainty. He's confident—perhaps too confident. I wonder if Dumbledore hasn't led him somewhere he doesn't quite see yet..."
Mia gave her head a small shake, doing her best to let the incomprehensible words drift away, and pushed open the kitchen door. A wave of warm, steaming air immediately met her face.
She looked back once at the ornate, chandelier-hung corridor, took one final, appreciative breath of the cool evening breeze, and then descended the steep stone steps into the kitchen below.
On such a sweltering summer evening—even well past sunset—the air in the potions room at Grimmauld Place was still close and warm.
While the semi-finished Wolfsbane Potion simmered on a low flame, Hermione had slipped out of the workroom and made her way to the sitting room next door, where the windows stood open to the summer night air.
Harry and Ron were sitting utterly motionless in the sitting room doorway, craning their necks to peer up the staircase like a pair of meerkats posted side by side—wearing identical expressions of blank anticipation.
"What on earth are you doing?" she asked, puzzled. She walked up behind them and glanced in the same direction they were staring.
"Shh!" Harry whispered, a gleam of excitement on his face. "Quiet—it's nearly time!"
"Time for what?" she whispered, still baffled.
"Sirius." Ginny appeared at her elbow from nowhere, seized her arm, and whispered directly into her ear. "He slips out at this exact time every single evening—not once has he missed it—"
She had barely finished speaking when the black-inlaid nine-tube grandfather clock in the corner of the sitting room began to strike eight.
Soft, unhurried footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Someone came briskly down from the upper floors. A subtle, clean scent—gin, with a hint of sharp juniper—drifted ahead of him.
Sirius Black, dressed all in black, nearly walked straight into his godson, who was stationed in the sitting room doorway watching him with bright, expectant eyes.
He gave a slightly startled laugh. "Harry—uh—I've got to pop out for a bit."
"Go early and come back early," Harry said, leaning against the doorframe with an expression of studied nonchalance, and gave him a casual wave.
The moment the front door of Grimmauld Place closed, however, Harry's expression transformed entirely.
"Who do you think he's going to see? He's been doing this at the same time every evening since I got back from holiday—every single day for a week!"
"Who knows?" Ron said with a shrug. "Think about it—he was locked up in Azkaban for years. Now that he's free, I imagine loads of people want to see him. Friends, people he hasn't caught up with..."
"I don't think so," Ginny said flatly. "He's going to see the same person every time. The timing is too consistent—and he's wearing cologne. Don't you think so, Hermione?"
"Well—" Hermione raised an eyebrow, suddenly recalling Rita Skeeter's characteristically reckless recent article.
"By the way," she asked, pulling a book that had been wedged between the grandfather clock and the wall—Born Noble: A Wizarding Genealogy—and flipping it open with interest, "is Fleur Delacour back in France, or is she still in England?"
"Oh! Of course! It could very well be her!" Harry, Ron, and Ginny exclaimed in near-perfect unison.
And so, while Hermione steadily turned the pages of her book, the other three—eyes shining with conspiratorial delight—settled in to gossip with great enthusiasm about the romantic life of Sirius Black.