Chapter Text
First Part
The Portrait and the Child
Hermione Granger had imagined many things when Professor Dumbledore informed her she would be spending the last weeks of summer at Sirius Black's hiding place, his childhod home. The fact that the place was called 'Grimmauld Place' should have been an omen
She had imagined a gloomy house, with dust in every surface and an understandably distressed Sirius, since Dumbledore had forced him to house a teenage girl because, apparently, the place was safe enough to repel any attempt by Peter Pettigrew to get to them to eliminate all the people who knew he was still alive. Hermione still thought the headmaster was exaggerating, but she couldn't deny that it was better to be safe than sorry. It wasn't every day that one of your best friends' pet rats turned out to be a serial killer. She had to admit it wasn't unreasonable to think Pettigrew might come after her or Ron, given that he couldn't go near Harry. Still, she wished she could have stayed home with her parents until the end of the summer.
The letter she had received yesterday said she would be able to just come in without trouble, so that's what she did. She had imagined that she would see Sirius when she opened the door to the address indicated, a large magical house that looked like a haunted mansion. 12 Grimmauld Place.
She had, certainly, not imagined the screaming.
The front door had barely opened before a voice like a thunderclap tore through the entrance hall.
"FILTH!"
Hermione jumped so violently she nearly dropped her trunk.
A curtain at the far end of the hall had flown open. Behind it hung an enormous portrait of a woman.
She was hysterical, that was Hermione's first thought. Completely Hysterical.
Hermione noticed the sharp cheekbones first, suspiciously similar to Sirius’, then the dark hair piled elegantly atop her head. Fine robes. The sort of face that looked as though it belonged in an old painting.
Which, Hermione supposed, it did.
Her second thought was that the woman looked furious enough to kill somebody.
"HALFBREEDS! BLOOD TRAITORS! MUDBLOODS!"
The portrait's face had gone scarlet. The walls literally trembled.
She looked far too angry. By pure logic, she could deduce that the woman was a sort of pureblood aristocrat, the kind of people Hermione expected to despise her. But the odd thing about the portrait was its fury. It wasn't cold nor contemptuous like Lucius Malfoy’s, it was explosive, as though every emotion she had ever experienced came out at the same volume.
The portrait looked less like a woman delivering a speech and more like an old lady having a nervous breakdown.
"—DESECRATING MY HOUSE—"
The front door slammed shut behind Hermione. A tall man with dark hair stepped forward.
Sirius.
He smiled at her, looking definitely healthier and cleaner than the last time she had seen him some months ago. But Azkaban still clung to him somehow. He was far too thin. Yet, he grinned when he saw the girl who saved him from the Dementor's Kiss.
"Hermione, there you are."
Before Hermione could answer, the portrait noticed Sirius. That mmediately made everything worse.
"YOU!"
"Oh, not this again."
"YOU DARE RETURN TO THIS HOUSE?"
"I live here."
"YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE!"
"Yeah, yeah, I've heard that before, Mother. You need new material."
Hermione just looked at them in confusion. The sheer speed with which the argument escalated was impressive.
"You DESTROYED this family!"
"I wasn't even here."
"YOU BETRAYED YOUR BLOOD!"
"James' coffee was better."
"YOU CHOSE THOSE PEOPLE OVER US!"
Sirius laughed, sounding tired. None of this sounded particularly funny. "Oh, we're starting with that today, are we?"
The older lady looked ready to climb out of the frame and murder him personally. Hermione watched, fascinated despite herself. Her hatred looked old, raw, definitely not the hatred of strangers, but the hatred of people who knew exactly where to stab.
"YOU TOOK EVERYTHING YOUR FATHER AND I GAVE YOU—"
Sirius finally snapped. “AND YOU TOOK MY BLOODY NAME OFF THE TAPESTRY!”
“I SHOULD HAVE DONE IT SOONER!”
Something changed in Sirius's expression, but it was gone so quickly Hermione might have imagined it. Then he just rolled his eyes. "Right, excellent conversation. Let's go, Hermione, sorry for this,” said Sirius leading her towards the stairs.
"COME BACK HERE WHEN I'M SPEAKING TO YOU!"
“LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!”
"I AM YOUR MOTHER!"
"FUCK OFF!”
The portrait began screaming again.
Sirius grabbed Hermione's trunk. "Come on."
Hermione hesitated. The woman was still shouting, still raging and hurling insults.
As they moved forward, Sirius noticed she was still looking in the portrait's direction. His face immediately closed off.
"Trust me," he said. "You don't want to listen to her."
Then he started up the stairs, and Hermione decided she should follow her and get away from the screaming portrait.
Behind them the woman's s furious, outraged voice echoed through the house. Hermione looked back only once. The portrait was still screaming, the elegant woman in the frame looking as though she was trying to tear the entire world apart.
And for some reason Hermione found herself feeling curiosity, wondering why that woman was so angry.
Sirius led Hermione up the narrow staircase. The house seemed determined to complain about their existence. Floorboards creaked, something rattled inside the walls, and the portrait's voice kept echoing through the entrance hall.
"—BLOOD TRAITOR—"
The door slammed behind them when they finally came into what looked like a guest room.
"Sorry about that," said Sirius.
Hermione looked up. "Who's she?"
"My mother."
"Oh." Hermione pursed her lips. "She looked ready to kill you through sheer force of personality.”
Sirius barked a laugh. "That's her, yup," he replied, looking embarrassing. That surprised her. "This place is a mess, sorry. There's an elf somewhere under all this dust but he's kind of a git.”
"It's not that bad."
"Hermione."
“I mean it. It's fine, Sirius,” said Hermione trying to make him feel a little less embarrassed by the whole situation.
Sirius rubbed the back of his neck. "I know Dumbledore basically forced you to spend the rest of the summer here."
"He didn't force me."
"Oh no he just strongly suggested and took the time to explain it to your parents personally.”
"That's not the same thing."
Sirius snorted. "When Dumbledore strongly suggests something, most people eventually realize it wasn't actually a suggestion."
In theory, that was probably true.
She looked around her. The bedroom was small but clean. Someone, probably Mrs. Weasley or Sirius himself, had clearly made an effort. Fresh sheets covered the bed, a vase of flowers sat on the windowsill and heavy orange curtains covered what looked like a window to the garden. The room felt surprisingly welcoming compared to the rest of the house.
Sirius set her trunk down. "There."
Hermione looked around. "It's nice."
"It'll do for now, I guess."
Sirius still looked slightly embarrassed of the less than ideal welcoming she had received.
"Your mother really hates Muggleborns, doesn't she?" asked Hermione, to break the silence.
Sirius gave a short laugh. "Hermione, my mother hates almost everyone."
"Almost?"
"I think she's fond of the elf, and other kinds of vermin,” said Sirius rolling his eyes.
Hermione smiled despite herself, then sat on the edge of the bed. "Was she always like that?"
Sirius's expression darkened. He looked toward the window, as though searching for the answer somewhere outside. "More or less."
The answer surprised her. "More or less?"
"It's complicated." For a moment he seemed much older than the man who had greeted her downstairs. "But yeah, my earliest memories of her are mostly shouting.”
Hermione thought of the portrait, her fury, the volume, and then the way the very essence of her being seemed to become rage the moment she saw Sirius.
"She hates you." The words slipped out before Hermione could stop them.
Sirius laughed in a humorless sound. “Yeah." He shrugged. "But the feeling is mutual so don't feel bad about it. Just ignore the portrait and try to pretend this place isn't a dumpster."
“Well, the house has character.”
“The house has mold.”
“Sirius, it's fine. Really, I've survived worse.”
He sat down in a chair opposite the bed. "It'll be just for a few weeks and then you'll be back to Hogwarts, kid. But enough of this. Tell me, do you like pizza? That's the thing I missed the most in Azkaban, pepperoni pizza."
His smile returned, smaller and more tired. And even though she smiled back and nodded, Hermione kept thinking about the argument downstairs, the way the woman screamed and how Sirius had answered. And the way both of them seemed to know exactly which wounds to touch.
It hadn't felt like two people who were strangers. It had felt like two people who knew each other far too well.
"So… What happened between you and your mother?” asked Hermione after a big bite of pizza, both of them having dinner in the kitchen. It was one of the only rooms in the house that looked clean enough.
Sirius sighed. "That's a very long story."
"I've got time."
"Ugh."
For a second Hermione thought he might actually tell her. Instead, he shook his head.
“I mean, it's fine if you don't want to talk about it. Sorry, just curious."
His gaze drifted toward the door, toward the hallway and the portrait. "My mother believed certain things."
"That muggleborns are inferior, I suppose.”
"Among others."
"And you didn't."
"No." The answer came immediately, without hesitation, without any doubt. "I didn't."
Hermione nodded. That part she understood. Then another thought occurred to her. "If she hates Muggleborns so much, why was she screaming at you?"
Sirius blinked.
Hermione continued. "I mean, she called me a mudblood. That part makes sense."
"Glad to know someone's following along."
"But she seemed angrier at you, and you're a pureblood.”
For a moment Sirius just stared, then he laughed, a genuine laugh this time. "Congratulations, you figured out the Black family."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "I'm serious."
"So am I." Sirius ate a little piece of pepperoni. "My mother hates Muggleborns in general, but she hates me personally."
The smile he gave her was light, almost joking.
Almost.
"Trust me. It's completely different."
And with that she dropped the topic.
Hermione kept eating quietly in a comfortable silence. Down the hallway, she could just barely hear a muffled voice shouting through several walls. Sirius's mother, still screaming, still hysterical. Like a ghost haunting her own house.
Hermione found herself thinking about Sirius's answer.
My mother hates Muggleborns in general, but she hates me personally.
For some reason, she couldn't understand why the portrait was so angry. And that bothered her far more than it should have. Sirius’ mother was proving to be particularly difficult to ignore.
Hermione lasted approximately two hours after she started reading that Transfiguration book McGonnagall had recommended personally. Two hours of telling herself that Sirius was probably right and that she should ignore the portrait.
Then curiosity won, as it usually did.
The house was quiet when she descended the stairs, or at least as quiet as Grimmauld Place could be. The grandfather clock muttered to itself, floorboards creaked beneath her feet, and something that sounded vaguely like an elf cursed from another room.
Hermione followed the corridor until she reached the entrance hall, her eyes finding the portrait on the wall.
The curtains covering it were pulled back, but the woman was silent for the first time since Hermione had arrived. She sat in her painted chair, with eyes closed, but didn't exactly look like a dead woman. Ron had said once that portraits weren't exactly the same as the ghosts from Hogwarts. They weren't alive, but not exactly dead either. Hermione hated to admit she didn't understand it completely.
The woman in the portrait had her eyes closed as if she were resting. Sleeping, perhaps.
She approached carefully. Nothing happened. No screaming, no insults, and no declarations regarding the corruption of wizarding society. Just silence.
The portrait was enormous, far larger than she'd realized earlier. And with the woman sitting still, Hermione could properly study her for the first time.
She was... eerie.
Not good looking in a gentle way, like the way people described actresses or princesses. She looked like a witch from a fairy tale, the kind children encountered deep in dark forests. Elegant, ageless, a little ethereal, a little terrifying. Her features were sharp enough to cut glass. Her dark robes flowed around her like shadows. Even asleep, she looked intimidating.
Hermione found herself wondering how old she had been when the portrait was painted. She didn't look young, but neither old like Dumbledore. Perhaps fifty, or a little older. It was hard to tell. Wizards and witches didn't age the same way as muggles.
The expression lines around her mouth suggested someone who spent a great deal of time disapproving of things. That seemed accurate, given the little she had learned about the woman in her few hours there.
A strange thought occurred to her. With her eyes closed and her face relaxed, the woman in the portrait looked nothing like the way Sirius talked about her. He had talked about her as if she were a monster, but the portrait looked merely like a person. An angry, prejudiced, possibly impossible person. But still a person.
The realization made Hermione uncomfortable. It was much easier to hate the people who hated you back when they remained abstract. The woman’s face was too human for that.
As if sensing the attention, the woman's eyes suddenly opened.
He had gray eyes, as sharp as shining knives.
They fixed immediately on Hermione and, for a second, neither moved. Then the woman inhaled and all hell broke loose.
"WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT?"
Hermione jumped. The volume was genuinely impressive.
"I ASKED YOU A QUESTION."
The young witch blinked. The portrait was practically vibrating with outrage.
"MUST YOU INFEST EVERY CORNER OF THIS HOUSE?"
Hermione remained where she was.
The portrait blinked.
She supposed most people ran, or at least retreated, but Hermione did neither.
"ARE YOU DEAF?"
"No."
"THEN ANSWER ME."
Hermione supposed she did have to answer. "I was looking at you."
The woman stared at her. The answer had clearly not been satisfactory. "I CAN SEE THAT."
"Well, you asked."
"I WAS BEING RHETORICAL."
The older woman looked personally offended by Hermione's presence, but she continued studying her without moving.
"STOP THAT."
"Stop what?"
"LOOKING AT ME."
Hermione frowned. "I can't."
The woman's eyes narrowed. "What does that even mean?"
Hermione hesitated. The honest answer sounded rude. Unfortunately, it was also true.
"It's a very interesting portrait."
The silence that followed was remarkable. Sirius’ mother looked stunned, not flattered, more like shocked, as though nobody had ever accused her of being interesting in ages, but her face darkened quickly.
"I AM NOT A SPECIMEN."
"I didn't say you were."
"YOU ARE STUDYING ME."
Hermione shrugged. "Just a little."
"INSUFFERABLE SPAWN."
Hermione didn’t respond, just kept looking at her.
The woman opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. For a brief moment she seemed genuinely uncertain how to proceed.
Hermione realized with surprise that the woman had expected her to leave. Everyone else probably did.
The portrait screamed and people went away. That appeared to be the established pattern.
Hermione didn't. Because despite the shouting, the insults, and the hysteria, the woman couldn't actually hurt her. It was just a portrait.
And beneath the anger, there was still something she couldn't quite understand. Something that didn't fit. The same thing she'd noticed earlier: The fury felt too large, constant and practiced. Like a person carrying something impossibly heavy for so long they'd forgotten what it felt like to put it down.
The woman glared at her. Hermione stared back. Neither spoke. The silence stretched until it started to feel awkward, almost absurd, until Sirius' mother snapped again.
"WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?"
Hermione thought about it. It occurred to her that they had somehow skipped a step, possibly several.
"Maybe I should introduce myself?”
The woman looked confused, then offended by the very concept.
"I'm Hermione."
The portrait frowned.
"What is your name?"
Her reaction was immediate. "ARE YOU BLIND?"
Hermione blinked. "What?"
"ARE YOU INCAPABLE OF READING?"
Sirius’ mother pointed dramatically toward the golden plaque attached to the frame. Hermione looked down. There, in elegant letters, she could read her name.
WALBURGA BLACK
Hermione felt slightly foolish. "Right."
Walburga looked smug. An expression that somehow made her even more intimidating.
"Hermione," she repeated, testing the name as though it might be poisonous. Then she narrowed her eyes. "Muggleborn."
It wasn't a question. Hermione stiffened, but remained calm. "Yes."
The portrait's mouth tightened. Hermione recognized the expression. It was the same one Draco Malfoy wore whenever he encountered evidence that the universe was unfair enough to contain her. Walburga made a disapproving noise, but Hermione ignored it, reminding herself that Sirius had told her exactly how his mother was and Hermione had been curious anyway. Instead, she looked back at the plaque.
"Walburga."
The woman immediately looked suspicious. "What."
"I've never heard a name like that."
For a moment Walburga seemed surprised. Then, unexpectedly, she drew herself up in a proud, almost regal way. "It is a Black name."
"It sounds old."
Walburga’s eyes widened.
Hermione immediately realized she'd phrased that badly. "I meant—"
"I KNOW WHAT YOU MEANT." The portrait crossed her arms. The movement was strangely elegant, like an empress preparing to condemn someone. "My family favors traditional names."
Hermione thought about Sirius, or Phineas Nigellus. Names of the Black family she'd heard mentioned.
"They're all stars."
Walburga raised an eyebrow.
Hermione felt pleased she had made the connection herself. "Sirius is a star."
"Obviously."
"And Nigellus is one too. The Black family names are all stars."
The older witch looked mildly less displeased, for about three seconds.
Then Hermione pointed at the plaque. "What about Walburga?"
She drew herself up immediately. "What about it?"
"Is that a star too?"
"Of course it is."
Hermione frowned. "I've never heard of it."
The expression on Walburga's face suggested this was a personal insult. "Walburgis."
"Oh."
Hermione searched her memory. Nothing.
Walburga noticed. "You have never heard of Walburgis."
Hermione winced. "Sorry."
The portrait looked scandalized. "Do they teach anything at Hogwarts!?"
Hermione crossed her arms. "They teach quite a lot, actually."
"Apparently not astronomy!”
"They do. I got an Outstanding."
"On an examination designed by idiots!"
Hermione stared and Walburga stared back. Then, despite herself, Hermione smiled. Because for the first time since she'd met her, Walburga wasn't screaming, she was arguing. There was a difference.
The portrait still looked furious, though.
But beneath the fury, Hermione caught something unexpected. Pride. Not pride in herself, exactly, but pride in the name. In her family. In things that had existed long before her.
The realization was interesting. Hermione had expected Walburga Black to be nothing but anger.
Walburga continued staring at her. Hermione was beginning to suspect the woman regarded eye contact as a competitive sport. Her gaze traveled slowly over her, her hair, her muggle clothes, and her face.
The expression that followed suggested Walburga had reached a conclusion she found deeply disappointing.
"What even is one of your kind doing in my house?"
Hermione opened her mouth, but Walburga didn't give her the chance.
"Oh, don't tell me. It's more than obvious why you're here.” The woman's lip curled. "You're Sirius' bastard!"
Hermione blinked. "What?"
"Why am I not surprised at all!? That lousy boy must have fathered a whole army of bastards!"
For a moment Hermione was too startled to answer. Then she laughed out of how absurd it sounded.
The portrait immediately looked offended. "What's so amusing?!"
"I'm not Sirius' daughter."
Walburga narrowed her eyes. "Then why are you here?"
"Dumbledore asked me to stay here."
The reaction was immediate. "Dumbledore," she hissed, the name sounding like an accusation.
"Yes, for some weeks."
Walburga made a disgusted noise. "Of course he did." Hermione wasn't entirely sure what that meant. The portrait crossed her arms. "So the old fool has decided to fill my house with mudbloods now."
Hermione felt irritation rise immediately. She was used to prejudice, but used to it didn't mean she accepted it. Still, she forced herself to remain calm. She wouldn't give Sirius' mother the satisfaction of looking offended. She'd remain perfectly polite, even if the woman insisted on being rude.
"If it's worth anything," she said carefully, "I know it must be awkward."
Walburga looked suspicious. "What?”
"Having strangers in your house."
The portrait stared.
Hermione continued. "I didn't exactly choose to be here either."
That wasn't entirely true. She could have argued with Dumbledore, but questioning her professors wasn't her fort. That seemed to confuse Walburga. She frowned, deeply, as though Hermione had spoken a language she didn't recognize.
"I wanted to introduce myself."
The silence that followed was strange.
Walburga simply looked at her. The expression wasn't anger this time, or not entirely. More like bewilderment. "Why?"
Hermione blinked. "Why what?"
"Why would you do that, you insufferable child?"
The question sounded genuine. Hermione frowned. "Because I have to stay here."
"So?"
"So..." She hesitated. The answer seemed obvious. "... It felt polite?"
Walburga stared. Hermione stared back, wondering if it was going to become an habit. The portrait looked increasingly horrified, as though Hermione had just revealed a deeply disturbing personal habit.
Finally Walburga spoke. "You're introducing yourself to me."
"Yes?”
"A portrait."
Hermione shifted uncomfortably. "Well, when you put it that way…”
"Why?" The question came again, sharper this time.
Hermione found herself thinking about it. Why had she come back downstairs? Why was she standing here talking to a woman who clearly disliked her? The honest answer was embarrassingly simple. Because she was curious. Because Sirius seemed determined to ignore her.
And because Walburga looked lonely.
Hermione settled on a safer answer. "I didn't want to be rude.”
Walburga stared at her for several seconds and then she laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. It sounded rusty, like something she hadn't done in years.
"Merlin help me."
Hermione blinked. "What?"
The portrait looked at her as though she were the most baffling creature she had ever encountered. Then, in a tone of profound disbelief she yelled: "Sirius has brought an idiot into my house!”
Hermione frowned. “For your information, I got the highest marks in my year."
"That only makes it worse!” The woman growled and covered her face with her right hand in an elegant gesture of frustration. At least, now she sounded less like she wanted Hermione gone and more like she couldn't quite figure out what to do with her. Walburga continued to stare at her as though Hermione were some particularly baffling magical creature. Hermione shifted her weight. "Why are you still here!?"
Hermione considered the question. It was a fair one. Most people probably would have left. She should leave.
Instead, she glanced up at the portrait.
"Well..."
Walburga looked immediately suspicious.
"There are lots of portraits at Hogwarts."
The suspicion deepened.
"But I'm usually too busy studying to talk to them. And the concept in itself is interesting, don't you think? Portraits are fascinating."
The portrait looked horrified, as though Hermione had just confessed to a crime.
Hermione tilted her head, studying her. "When were you created?"
Walburga blinked, once, twice, very slowly. "Excuse me?"
"The portrait." Hermione pointed at the frame. "When was it painted?"
She somehow looked even more offended. "You dare make questions to me?"
Hermione frowned. "I was just asking…”
"I am aware of what you were doing." Walburga drew herself up. Every inch of her radiated aristocratic outrage. "I am not giving answers to someone like you."
The words landed exactly as intended. Dismissive.
Hermione felt irritation immediately. There it was again. Someone like you. The phrase always meant the same thing: Muggleborn. Unworthy. Less.
Hermione crossed her arms. "Fine."
Walburga blinked. The answer clearly wasn't what she'd expected. "Fine?"
"Don't answer if you don't want to."
The portrait narrowed her eyes. "You are remarkably insolent."
"I think I'm being perfectly polite given the circumstances."
Walburga looked as though she wanted to say something particularly cutting. Instead, she simply glared. Hermione glared back. The standoff lasted several seconds. It was starting to feel repetitive.
Then a voice echoed from the staircase.
"Hermione?"
Both of them looked up.
Sirius appeared on the landing. He stopped and looked at Hermione, then at Walburga, then back at Hermione.
A look of complete disbelief spread across his face.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Hermione blinked. "Talking."
"To the portrait?" The disbelief in his face made her stomach twitch. Sirius looked genuinely alarmed. "Why the hell are you talking to her?"
Hermione opened her mouth, but wasn't entirely sure she could explain it to him. Curiosity wasn't usually considered a sufficient explanation for voluntarily conversing with a hostile portrait.
"I was asking her questions."
Sirius groaned. "Oh, Merlin, this is rich.”
Walburga looked delighted. It was the first pleased expression Hermione had seen on her face. "See?" she announced triumphantly. "Even he thinks you've lost your mind, child."
Sirius pointed at the portrait. “You stay out of this!”
"She approached me." Walburga folded her arms.
Sirius looked at Hermione as though the portrait had just informed him she was spending her free time wrestling trolls. "Hermione."
"What?"
"There are easier and less masochist ways to entertain yourself."
Hermione glanced back at the portrait. Walburga was watching both of them closely, still disdainful.
Gently, Sirius took her arm, still glaring at his mother's portrait as he pulled her softly toward the garden, as if he were ensuring a hungry dragon stayed put. "C'mon, help me feed Buckbeak. If you want someone to talk to, he's infinitely better company. Don't go near that bitch again, I mean it."
Behind them, Walburga Black launched into another string of insults at her son's words.
By the second day, Hermione had developed a routine. Not because Grimmauld Place encouraged routine (quite the opposite), but because the house seemed actively hostile to organization. Doors stuck for no reason, portraits muttered at inconvenient hours, and the pipes produced sounds that Hermione preferred not to investigate. Still, she managed: breakfast with Sirius, studying in the library of the house, lunch, more studying, dinner.
And, scattered throughout the day, several scheduled shouting matches between Sirius and his mother.
Hermione hadn't actually confirmed they were scheduled, they simply occurred with such regularity that she was beginning to suspect both participants would be disappointed if one failed to happen.
By now she'd identified the most common topics: Sirius' friends, Sirius' life choices, Sirius' existence, the state of the house, the decline of civilization, some random tapestry, Dumbledore, and sometimes all six at once. It was honestly impressive. This morning's argument had begun because Sirius had tried to open the windows. It had somehow evolved into a tirade about the collapse of the House of Black. Hermione still wasn't entirely sure how. Not that Sirius seemed surprised, he simply yelled back.
Not everything was so depressing, through. The day before, a letter had arrived from Professor Lupin. Hermione had found Sirius reading it by the kitchen window, looking less restless afterward, less trapped. As though receiving proof that somebody out there remembered he existed was enough to lift his spirit.
The effect didn't last long, but Hermione noticed it, as she noticed lots of things.
The rest of her time was spent studying, which was fortunate. Because if she was going to be trapped in a secret house for weeks, she intended to emerge with significantly less school work.
Unfortunately, the essay Hagrid had assigned was turning out to be a problem.
Dragons.
Specifically: 'The breeding and behavioral differences between the major dragon species of Europe.'
Hermione hated it. It wasn't that dragons weren't interesting, they were. The problem was that every source contradicted every other source. One book claimed Romanian Longhorns were solitary, another insisted they nested communally, and a third appeared to have been written by a man who had never seen a dragon in his life.
After two hours Hermione had accumulated fourteen feet of notes and absolutely no certainty.
She sighed, then looked up.
The library stretched around her in tall shelves, dust, and hundreds upon hundreds of books. The Black family, whatever their faults, had clearly never believed in owning too many books.
At least she could approve that.
She wandered deeper between the shelves: a section on alchemy, a section on ancient runes, a frankly alarming number of books about bloodlines…
Then, near the back, she noticed something. A shelf devoted entirely to magical creatures.
Hermione's eyes lit up. At last.
She approached immediately. She could see books on unicorns, kelpies, and acromantulas. Several other books appeared dangerous enough to bite.
Then she stopped.
Occupying nearly an entire shelf was a collection devoted exclusively to dragons. Not one or two books. Dozens. Some looked ancient, others were heavily worn.
Hermione took one that read ‘Dragon Migration Patterns Across Western Europe’ and opened it. It appeared to contain handwritten notes in the margins. The handwriting was elegant, sharp and precise, dark ink filling the margins with corrections and observations, arguments with the author, and entire paragraphs added beside the printed text.
Hermione blinked, then turned to the first page. Written neatly inside the cover was a name.
Walburga Black. Paris, 1945.
Hermione stared, then looked back at the notes. There were dozens of them, perhaps hundreds. Some disagreed violently with the author, others expanded on obscure points.
One passage simply read:
‘Absolute nonsense. The author has clearly never encountered a Welsh Green in person.’
Hermione laughed. The comment sounded so much like Walburga she could practically hear it.
She turned another page and found more notes. Another page, and there were more. The woman hadn't merely read these books, she had studied them obsessively.
The realization surprised Hermione. Not the fact that Walburga was studious, that much had become obvious almost immediately. No. What surprised Hermione was discovering evidence that Walburga had once cared deeply about something. Enough to fill pages with observations and spend years learning. Enough to argue with authors long dead.
The furious portrait in the entrance hall suddenly became harder to reconcile with the woman who had written these notes.
Hermione ran a finger gently along the margin.
A strange feeling settled in her chest. Not sympathy, because she knew that you shouldn't feel sympathy for people like Sirius' mother. Just curiosity, again. Always curiosity.
She had discovered something about Walburga Black that didn't fit. And Hermione had never been particularly good at ignoring mysteries.
Hermione found Walburga Black exactly where she expected. In the entrance hall, sitting inside the portrait, looking profoundly unhappy about everything.
The woman appeared to be bored, or perhaps simply ignoring the world.
She approached.
The moment her footsteps echoed against the floor, Walburga's eyes found her, immediately, as though she'd sensed an intruder.
For one brief second Hermione watched the familiar sequence begin. Recognition, annoyance, and finally outrage.
The portrait visibly drew breath. Hermione braced herself.
“FILTH-!”
The word never came.
Walburga stopped. Her mouth closed, her eyes narrowed. Instead of screaming, she simply stared with a deeply suspicious expression, the sort usually reserved for unexploded cauldrons.
Hermione stared. Walburga stared back as the silence stretched. Hermione suspected they had spent more time staring at each other than actually talking.
Then, in a tone suggesting Hermione's presence was a personal inconvenience, she spoke. "What do you want?”
She was so surprised by the absence of shouting that she almost forgot her question. "What?"
"You came here." Walburga crossed her arms. "What do you want?"
The portrait looked irritated. But beneath the irritation Hermione detected something else. Expectation. She suddenly wondered whether anyone else had voluntarily approached her in years. The thought was oddly uncomfortable.
"I have a question."
Walburga groaned. "Of course you do."
"It's about dragons."
The reaction was immediate. A tiny pause, a flicker, gone almost instantly. "Dragons."
"Yes."
Walburga studied her carefully. "What about dragons?"
Hermione brightened. That sounded significantly less hostile than usual. "I'm writing an essay."
"A tragedy."
Hermione ignored that. "And I found some books in the library."
Walburga's expression became guarded. "Did you?”
"With your notes in the margins."
She remained silent for endless seconds. Interesting. For the first time since meeting Walburga Black, Hermione had apparently found a topic the woman didn't immediately want to scream about.
"You were snooping."
"I was researching."
"You were messing with my things."
"The books were in the library."
"And?"
"And there's where you go when you need a book."
Walburga looked deeply dissatisfied by this logic.
Hermione pressed on. "You know a lot about dragons."
The portrait sniffed. The gesture was remarkably elegant. "I know enough."
Hermione nearly laughed. Enough. The woman had practically rewritten half the books. One of the margins contained an entire page of corrections. Another included a very good sketch. A third appeared to be a lengthy argument with the author, who had been dead for decades.
"You know much more than enough."
Walburga looked suspicious, again. Everything seemed to make her suspicious. "Why do you care?"
Hermione hesitated.
The honest answer was simple. Because she'd spent two days trying to understand Walburga Black. And discovering the dragon books felt like discovering a hidden room inside a familiar house. A piece that didn't fit the picture. Something she wanted to understand.
Instead, she lifted the essay in her right hand so Walburga could see it. "I'm stuck."
The portrait stared. Hermione stared back. Again.
Finally, Walburga said: "On what."
It took Hermione a second to realize what had happened. Walburga hadn't told her to leave, hadn't insulted her nor refused to answer. She had asked a question.
Hermione immediately opened the parchment. "The migration habits of Welsh Greens."
Walburga rolled her eyes spectacularly. “Let me guess, the book by Rufus Caronte?”
“Yeah?”
"That fool knows nothing."
Hermione smiled before she could stop herself. And for some reason, Walburga looked annoyed by that too. She lifted her pen to write ‘Rufus Caronte: not a reliable source’ in her notebook.
“What's that?” asked Waburga looking at the pen in Hermione's hand as if it had personally insulted her.
"My pen?"
Walburga looked vaguely disgusted. "What muggle aberration is that?"
Hermione felt confused for a second until she remembered. Of course, the woman had probably never seen one.
"It's a pen."
"I heard the word." Walburga leaned forward slightly, suspiciously radiating from every inch of her. "What does it do?"
Hermione looked at the pen, then back at Walburga. The question was so unexpected she almost laughed. "You can write with it."
The portrait's eyes narrowed. "Without ink?"
"It does have ink."
"Where?"
Hermione clicked it and the tip emerged. Walburga flinched, but Hermione pretended not to notice. "Inside."
The portrait looked scandalized. "Inside."
"Yes, in a small tube."
"That's ridiculous. It must be a trap.”
"It's not a trap, it works for real."
"How?"
Instead of answering immediately, Hermione opened her notebook. "Here, I'll show you.”
Walburga watched suspiciously as Hermione lowered the pen to the page. In neat handwriting, she wrote:
Hello Walburga :)
Then she turned the notebook around and held it up so she could see it.
The portrait stared.
Hermione smiled. "See?"
Walburga continued staring at the greeting, handwriting, and smiling face at the end, her expression becoming increasingly offended. "What is that?”
"What thing?"
"The points and parenthesis."
Hermione looked at the page. "The smiley face?"
"Why is it smiling?”
Hermione blinked. "It's just a little drawing."
"Why?”
Hermione opened her mouth, but closed it and after some seconds. "I don't actually know, it's just a thing people do."
A strange silence followed. For a moment Walburga seemed oddly distracted, as though she hadn't expected to see her own name written there. As though it had been a very long time since somebody had written it at all. Then she recovered immediately. The glare returned. "Your handwriting is acceptable."
Hermione grinned. "Thank you."
"I was not complimenting you."
"You said it was acceptable."
"That is not the same thing."
Hermione's grin widened. Walburga looked deeply dissatisfied by this development.
“So, Rufus Caronte isn't a reliable source,” prompted Hermione, ready to take notes.
"No, he's an idiot. It's different."
Hermione immediately lowered her pen to the page. Walburga stared at the pen with visible annoyance.
"He confuses migration with territorial displacement."
Hermione's pen raced across the paper.
"It's as if he's never spoken to a dragon handler in his life.. ."
Walburga stopped, her eyes narrowing as Hermione kept writing. The portrait stared at her, then at the notebook. A look of growing alarm appeared on her face.
"What are you doing?"
Hermione looked up. "Taking notes?"
"I can see that."
"Then why did you ask?"
Walburga ignored this, as she often did when Hermione said something inconvenient. The portrait folded her arms. "I should not be talking to you."
Hermione paused. "What?"
"It is improper."
The word sounded important, the sort of thing purebloods repeated since birth.
Hermione thought about it, then shrugged. "Well, we're not really talking."
Walburga blinked. "We are quite literally talking."
"No we're not." Hermione gestured at the notebook. "This is simply a dissertation about dragon knowledge. It's not the same.”
The portrait stared.
Hermione continued in her most academic voice. "Knowledge is impersonal, after all."
For several seconds Walburga looked too stunned to respond. "That is not…"
"You're merely correcting inaccuracies in modern scholarship. It's not the same as an actual conversation.”
Walburga opened her mouth. The argument was clearly ridiculous. The problem was that it was also annoyingly difficult to refute.
Hermione could practically see the internal battle taking place.
Finally, Walburga sniffed. "Modern scholarship is full of inaccuracies, indeed."
Hermione immediately wrote that down.
The portrait looked horrified. "I did not mean—"
"Please continue."
Walburga glared. Hermione smiled. For a brief moment the older woman seemed on the verge of ordering her out of the room. Instead, she sighed heavily. It was the sigh of someone making a terrible life decision.
"Fine."
Hermione's smile widened.
"But only because your author is an idiot."
"Of course."
"And because I refuse to allow such nonsense to circulate unchallenged."
"Naturally."
"And not because I'm particularly interested in helping you."
Hermione looked down at the rapidly growing pages of notes. "I never said you were."
Walburga narrowed her eyes.
Hermione lowered her head before the portrait could see the smile threatening to escape.
A minute later Walburga resumed her lecture.
And a minute after that, she became so distracted criticizing nineteenth-century dragon researchers that she forgot to be offended anymore.
"...most attempts at relocation fail because dragons possess stronger territorial instincts than most wizards realize."
Hermione wrote quickly.
Walburga watched with visible irritation. "Must you do that, child? I am not a textbook."
"I know."
"Then stop taking notes."
Hermione ignored her. The portrait looked offended.
Then a voice exploded from the staircase.
"WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING?!"
Hermione jumped so violently she nearly dropped her notebook. Walburga's head snapped upward.
Sirius stood halfway down the stairs. For a second, he simply stared at Hermione, at the notebook, and then at Walburga. The color drained from his face as if he had seen her talking to a Dementor, until anger rushed in to replace it.
"Hermione, get AWAY from her!"
"But-"
"NOW."
Hermione blinked. "We were just discussing dragons!"
Sirius looked genuinely horrified. "Why would you discuss dragons with HER!?"
Walburga drew herself up immediately. "Oh, do stop being dramatic."
"YOU STAY OUT OF THIS."
"I was merely answering a question."
"DON'T TALK TO HER."
"She asked about dragons."
"I DON'T CARE IF YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT KNITTING." The words echoed through the hall. Sirius pointed at the portrait. "YOU WILL STAY AWAY FROM THIS HORRID OLD HAG, HERMIONE!"
Walburga exploded. "HORRID OLD HAG?!"
"YES!"
"HOW DARE YOU."
Sirius barked out a laugh. A sharp, ugly sound. Hermione watched both of them, the dragons forgotten completely. The moment mother and son looked at each other, everything else ceased to exist.
"YOU THINK I WILL LET YOU POISON HER?" Sirius shouted.
"You think I need YOUR PERMISSION to speak in MY HOUSE?"
"YOUR HOUSE? THAT'S RICH. YOU'RE DEAD. THIS ISN'T YOUR HOUSE ANYMORE.”
“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO THIS HOUSE ANYMORE YOU UNGRATEFUL HELLISH DEMON” Walburga's face twisted. For one brief moment, something raw appeared beneath the anger. Then it vanished, buried again. "YOU LEFT! YOU LEFT US!”
“YOU MADE ME!”
The same words, again and again. Hermione felt something sink inside her. Every argument eventually returned to those two words.
You left.
Sirius laughed again. That same terrible laugh. “I WISH I COULD JUST BURN DOWN YOUR BLOODY PORTRAIT.”
Walburga looked as though he'd struck her. The expression lasted less than a second, then the fury returned, greater than before.
The curtains suddenly snapped shut.
The sound cracked through the entrance hall like a whip. Then absolute silence.
Sirius stood there, breathing hard, staring at the closed curtains. His hands were clenched into fists. For a moment Hermione thought he might open them again.
Instead he looked at her, madly angry. Still shaken.
"Hermione."
"W-What?"
"Don't. talk. to her." The words came immediately, without hesitation. "She's poisonous."
Hermione glanced at the curtains and back at Sirius. He looked unmistakably angry, but he sounded afraid and worried, almost scared. And Hermione was beginning to suspect that Sirius Black feared very few things in the world.
Yet somehow, he seemed terrified of what might happen if she kept talking to his mother.
That night, Hermione couldn't sleep, not matter how many hours she wasted in counting sheeps. She just staring at the ceiling as moonlight filtered through the curtains.
Hermione rolled onto her side, closed her eyes, and opened them again.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Sirius and Walburga screaming at each other. All their anger, and the hurt beneath it, as though neither of them knew how to say anything that didn't hurt each other.
Hermione sighed, the guilt returning immediately.
She knew the argument wasn't her fault, objectively speaking. The fight would have happened eventually, probably several times.
Still…
She couldn't shake the feeling that she'd been the spark. That she'd wandered into a wound she didn't understand and made it worse.
After several more minutes of staring at the ceiling, Hermione sat up. Carefully, she slipped from the bed.
The floorboard near the door creaked as she stepped into the corridor. The house felt different at night, even older than what she assumed it was. The shadows seemed deeper, and the silence, densely heavier.
Hermione moved carefully down the staircase, past sleeping portraits and darkened windows, until she reached the entrance hall.
The curtains were open.
Walburga sat motionless in her frame with her eyes closed. The portrait appeared asleep, or whatever portraits did instead.
Hermione approached quietly.
For a moment she simply stood there, loooking up, studying the witch again, her sharp features and elegant robes, the way that not even with her eyes closed she looked relaxed. Her face somehow looked disapproving even while resting.
Then Walburga's eyes opened, as though she'd sensed Hermione's presence. The familiar flash of irritation appeared in them. Hermione braced herself, but when Walburga opened her mouth no scream came out.
"You," she said instead, sounding annoyed, but not surprised.
"Hello."
Walburga looked personally offended by the greeting. "What are you doing here?"
Hermione hesitated. Honestly, even she knew it was ridiculous. "I couldn't sleep."
For a few moments neither spoke, as everything around them remained quiet, and moonlight spilled across the floor through the window.
Walburga studied her. "You look guilty."
Hermione blinked. The observation had been so immediate it caught her off guard. "What?"
"You look guilty." Walburga tilted her head slightly. "Why?"
Hermione stared. For all the woman's faults, she was annoyingly perceptive.
Finally, she looked down at her hands. "Because..." The words felt strangely embarrassing. "...I think I made things worse."
Walburga raised an eyebrow.
Hermione continued. "Today, with Sirius."
Something changed in the portrait's expression. Not much, just enough for Hermione to notice, before it vanished. "You did not." Walburga's gaze drifted toward the staircase and the upper floors, where Sirius slept. "You did not make anything worse."
"Are you sure?"
The portrait laughed, short and bitterly. "You vastly overestimate your influence."
Hermione wasn't sure whether that was comforting.
Walburga crossed her arms. "If Sirius and I wish to fight, we hardly require assistance.”
Hermione smiled despite herself. The portrait glared, but her smile remained.
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Hermione asked quietly: "Will you keep helping me with the dragons?"
Walburga immediately looked, somehow, even more offended. "No."
"You know way more than the authors my professor put in the list."
Walburga narrowed her eyes.
Hermione smiled a little, hyperaware or the fact that, for a brief moment, in the pale moonlight of the entrance hall, Walburga hadn't mentioned blood status, or Sirius. Not even the argument. Instead, she had simply let them exist in the same space.
An exhausted young girl who couldn't stop asking questions. And a furious old portrait who, despite every intention to the contrary, kept answering them.
“I guess I could spare some time, if you don't irritate me too much.”
Several doors away, somewhere else in the vast house, Sirius would be asleep. Or attempting to sleep. Hermione wasn't entirely convinced Sirius Black slept much. But it wasn't necessary for him to know.
The house itself felt a little more alive around her.