Chapter Text
Seraphina Fife strode through the square, her bloody, mangled right arm clutched tightly to her chest with her left, keeping carefully and particularly to the shadows, weaving around the orange sodium-cast glow of the lampposts. Should she be required to dive quickly into her pocket for her wand, she knew her weaker left hand would be useless against a skilled dueller. If she could only remain unnoticed for another minute, she would reach Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place almost in one piece. Her eyes, tired and strained as they were, darted constantly around her, alert to the slightest sign of movement in the darkness, ready to catch the swish of a dark cloak along the grubby London pavements.
How her arm ached. She could feel her concentration ebbing away as she rounded the corner from West Cherrybank Lane, with its proud, well-kept white townhouses, to face the familiar, gloomy facade of the single blackened sandstone terrace that formed Grimmauld Place. She staggered along the street, feeling herself blanche and her eyes begin to flutter when she finally reached the join of Numbers Eleven and Thirteen. Clumsily and painfully slowly, she fumbled in the inside pocket of her denim jacket with her left hand, her injured right slumping agonisingly at her side. She had to lean on the broken iron gate to keep herself from collapsing with the pain and the great curtain of fatigue that was being drawn over her. With one last great effort, she clasped her fingers around the tiny piece of paper carrying the tall, slanting writing that she sought. She let her eyes focus on the words, and let her brain dwell on their meaning as she knew she must.
The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.
To her great relief, the creaking, four-storey silhouette of Number 12 loomed over her where seconds before there had been a mere drainpipe. She opened the gate and stumbled up the three stone steps that led to the huge, battered black door, managed to bang her fist against it three times, and then descended into the blackness that had been hovering around the edges of her sight for some time.
****
The following hours passed in flashes of consciousness, vague impressions and snippets of conversation. She was aware at one point of the cool skin of a hand on the back of her neck, gently tilting her head forward, and the curious, tickling sensation of warm liquid as it passed her slightly parted lips. She was sure that someone remained sat close to her head, an anxious, energetic presence muttering words like how and when and who.
When Seraphina finally woke, it was to the atmosphere of damp and decay bombarding her senses. As she struggled to open her eyes in the dim light of whatever room she lay in, she immediately noticed that where, before she had lost consciousness, she had felt an unbearable, ripping, gut-churning pain, there was now only a dull ache. She closed her eyes again and sighed. A death-eater wouldn't have mended her arm. She was safe.
She tried again. This time, she managed to make out the outlines of two people, one who seemed camouflaged perfectly in the dark surroundings and the other who clashed spectacularly against them. She got only as far as registering black and bubblegum pink before she was hit by a strong urge to vomit and had had to close her eyes yet again.
"-Blood-replenishing potion has done its job," one of the figures was saying in a slow, measured voice that Seraphina had the vague impression she should know well, "But she'll be groggy and nauseated when she wakes. She'll have to rest."
"But what could have happened to her?" demanded a high, anxious voice that she definitely knew. "She was supposed to be undercover in the muggle world. Who would have attacked her there?"
Seraphina tried to speak, tried to reassure her friend, but all the escaped was a weak croak. Tonks gave a little squawk and jumped to her knees beside her.
"You're awake! How do you feel? Are you alright? What happened, Fifey? Did someone recognise you?" She blurted all in one breath. Despite how lousy she felt, Seraphina took comfort in her bright-haired, bubbly friend reacting exactly how she had expected. Asking a thousand questions a minute and leaving her no time to answer any.
"M'alright," mumbled Seraphina, "Just gi's a minute to sit up."
She pushed herself up onto her elbows and then wriggled her right wrist, testing its strength. It twinged a little but the deep, bloody gashes that had torn down her forearm were reduced to faint white lines, like a second set of veins. She glanced quickly at Severus Snape, hook-nosed, sallow-skinned and with as shrewd eyes as ever. He may be sour, curt, unpleasant even, but thank Merlin he knew how to brew a potion, she thought. They had lain her on a mouldy, moth-eaten silk divan in what might once have been a rather grand drawing room. But despite its high ceilings, the room was dark and dingy with heavy, tattered curtains stopping any glint of light from outside intruding and peeling black wallpaper covering every wall bar one which was decorated with an enormous tapestry. The ancient gas lamps on the walls cast a murky yellow glow over the room and seemed to create more shadows than light.
"So," said Seraphina, wrinkling her nose, "This is headquarters."
"Yep, it's disgusting," agreed Tonks, "But we can explain about that later, Fifey. Now please, please, tell us what happened."
"Are we the only ones here?" she asked, not wishing to have to repeat herself in ten minutes time.
"No, unfortunately." Snape replied drily. Seraphina gave Tonks a questioning glance and Tonks rolled her eyes.
"Two other order members are here as well," she said, ignoring Snape's indignant little scoff, "Remus and Sirius."
"Sirius?" Seraphina had heard Tonks talk about Remus Lupin before, the outcast werewolf-turned-professor-turned-double agent and was quite curious to meet him, but she had never heard of a Sirius. "What, like Sirius Black?" she laughed. Tonks gave a nervous half smile, half grimace and Seraphina's grin faded. "Tonksy, you're not saying-"
Just at that moment, the door creaked open to reveal two men standing in its frame. Both thin and shabbily dressed. One with short sandy brown hair flecked with grey, a scarred but kind face and dark, tired eyes. The other with long dark brown hair less matted and a haughty, handsome face less gaunt and hollowed than she had seen before but which was instantly recognisable as that of the notorious mass-murderer, Sirius Black.