Sanctuary

The carpet feels faintly damp under her bare toes as Hermione walks down the long, cold, musty corridors. She carries a candle and the wax steadily slides onto her fingers, first stinging and then abating into a warm glow. To pass the time, she counts the number of serpents entwined in the architecture, doorknobs, tapestries, tables, chairs, candleholders. She soon loses count.

There is nobody else in the house and Hermione feels this in her very bones. It is obvious from the almost silence, broken only by the creaks of the old house as it settles itself. There are no sounds of footsteps barring her own, not even a sound of a faint voice. Hermione suspects that the Black family put up wards to block out the sounds of their Muggle neighbours. She listens intently, hoping, fearing any noise out of the ordinary, but nothing. Even her breathing seems far too loud and she automatically tries to soften it.

It is the holidays and everybody is gone.

Even the normal rabble of Order members that have been in this house for the last two summers seem to have slowly disappeared. Probably off on missions, Hermione thinks despondently. She knows that Ron is back at the Burrow with his family, but that has been considered too dangerous for her. Too dangerous for the Muggle-born Head Girl. Certainly her own home, a two story redbrick building in the suburbs, her Muggle home was too dangerous. Hermione learnt that the night it was turned into a smouldering ruin with her parents still inside.

But she doesn't think of that. Hermione knows she cannot afford to think of that because if she does, she will break, shatter into a thousand pieces and that's exactly what they want.

She doesn't know where Harry is but suspects that he is being tutored in hiding somewhere. Perhaps even at Hogwarts.

Hermione wishes that she was with Harry. Or Ron. Or anybody else really. Anywhere else other than here, waiting for the occasional injured or tired Order member to stumble in the front door.

Dumbledore himself told her that she must remain here. He had sat her down and looked her in the eye, his own devoid of customary twinkle and said: "You need to stay here, both for your own safety, and to guard the place. You need to renew the wards every three days. The Order trusts your abilities, and so do I."

Hermione couldn't do anything else but agree. Renewing the wards is a simple job for her and only takes half an hour. Most of the other time, Hermione spends pacing the hallways of the large house. The occasional Order member is far and few between and most don't need or want her assistance. If they do, all they need is a simple Sonorus and she'll know. The library was long exhausted by her. Most of the books in there are in the Hogwarts library as well and Hermione isn't sure whether she was willing to try some of the darker texts yet.

So she has taken to exploring the house. With a wry smile, Hermione thinks that Ron and Harry would have enjoyed doing this. Her smile falters. Perhaps not Harry. This house holds too many memories of Sirius.

She stops suddenly and realises that she has reached a dead end. Holding up the candle, she notices that the door in front of her has two conjoined serpents entwined above the doorframe. "As if anybody could mistake this to be anything but a Slytherin house," she says quietly under her breath. Her voice sounds strange, scratchy from non-use.

Reaching out her hand, Hermione turns the doorknob and is surprised when it turns smoothly. She opens the door, expecting to see another dusty, doxy-infested room, but instead the room in front of her seems like a rather well kept up bedroom. There is only a light layer of dust over the furniture and the heavy drapes are open letting bright sunlight stream through. Hermione blows out her candle.

Looking around, Hermione wonders whether this was Sirius's room when he was alive. Perhaps that is why it is so well cleaned. Maybe other Order members were using it now. It made a strange kind of sense to her. If she were an Order member, she wouldn't want to sleep in any of the other bedrooms. Memories of previous occupants tended to linger in rooms and from what she knew about the Black family, they were - with the sole exception of Sirius - some of the Darkest of witches and wizards.

The room is large, perhaps twenty metres from the door to the other wall. There is a high bed, draped in green velvet against one wall and opposite the bed is the window. The ceiling is domed and there are still candle-holders drifting around. Hermione steps into the room and notices immediately that the carpet is in far better condition than the corridor outside. It is dry and plush. She feels immediately awkward. What if some Order member is in here? She thinks that she would have heard if somebody had entered the house, but there is still the possibility.

"Hello?" she says, feeling silly. "Is there anybody here?"

Hermione jumps when she hears a reply.

"Finally, somebody other than that dratted, senile old house elf to talk to. Somebody ought to chop his head off and stick it in the gallery. Can't get a straight answer out of him. And even he hasn't been here for a while."

She stares around wildly until she suddenly notices a painting on the wall beside her. Turning around, she looks at the painting directly. "Hello," she says, rather stupidly. A frown creases her face. The young man in the painting looks rather like Sirius, black shoulder-length hair and rather imperious expression. He is seated in a carved wooden chair. "Sirius?" she asks, questioningly.

The imperious expression on his face changes and twists into a rather petulant expression. "No," he says, rather sulkily. "I'm Regulus Black."

Hermione frowns slightly. The name seems faintly familiar. She remembers Harry mentioning it sometime. Somehow, she has the feeling that remembering would be very important. "You are Sirius's brother?" she asks.

"Younger brother," the man says, with a slight curl of his upper lip. "We get mistaken a lot."

Hermione gets the distinct impression that Regulus Black is not pleased about that. She notes that he looks less and less like Sirius when he sneers. What did Harry say about Regulus Black? She thinks intently and finally remembers the short conversation.

"Sirius had a younger brother, Regulus Black," Harry had said, pointing at a tapestry. "Sirius said that Regulus was a Death Eater."

Looking up at the painting, that was situated just above her eye level, Hermione wonders whether the Regulus in the painting has joined the Death Eaters or not. Regardless, she tells herself, he still subscribes to the pureblood mania. She begins to wonder whether she can think of a polite way to excuse herself and leave. Yet, a part of her doesn't want to. Out of every painting she has encountered so far, this has been the only one to talk to her. Doubtless the other paintings have already received word that the girl staying in the house is a Mudblood. Hermione wonders whether the Regulus in the painting knows of her bloodlines but decides not to ask. No use inviting trouble. She also wonders whether he knows that he's dead.

"What is your name?" Regulus asks, breaking into Hermione's musings.

"Hermione," she answers, without thinking and immediately regrets it. She would be terrible as a spy.

"Hermione," Regulus says the name slowly. "An unusual name. Muggle in its origins, if I'm not mistaken. Your parents were progressives, I presume. What are their names?"

She is faintly amused that he has immediately made the assumption that she is a pureblood. Desperately, she pulls a surname out of the air. "Parkinson," she says, and hopes that he doesn't ask for their first names. Fortunately he doesn't.

"Rosemary and Patrick Parkinson's daughter?" he asks

She nods, disliking the speculative expression in his eyes. He's just a painting, she tells herself.

"You are much prettier than Rosemary," he says finally. "In fact, you don't look like your parents much at all." He gave her a wistful look. "If I weren't dead..."

Hermione feels her stomach turn. She isn't sure, but she thinks that he may have just propositioned her. It makes her feel faintly nauseous.

Mistaking her expression, Regulus says, "Yes, I know I'm dead. That was about the only useful thing I managed to get out of that house elf before he began to stop coming to see me. Say, how did you know that blood traitor of my brother anyway?"

She thinks quickly. "He was ... teaching at Hogwarts for a year before he was sacked."

Regulus raises an eyebrow at her. "You're under the habit of calling all of your teachers by their first names? My, how the regulations have changed."

Mentally, Hermione kicks herself. He is obviously quick and intelligent (why then, a part of her wonders, did he join the Death Eaters). She would have to make her stories more believable. A part of her wonders why she was even bothering, but Hermione ignores that voice. She would enjoy the challenge of making Regulus believe her. Assuming she can achieve it, that is.

He gives her a small smile, seeming almost like an apology for his previous comment. "Is there any particular reason to your being here?" he asked. "Is Mother still alive? If not, surely Sirius didn't inherit?" He gives a small bitter laugh. "Or perhaps they're all dead. Ever since I left home, nobody was here for years until that crazy house elf came to clean up a few ye ars ago."

Hermione decides to give a somewhat edited version of the truth. "I'm afraid your family is all dead," she says and tries to soften her voice, but failing. She cannot get over the fact the young man in the painting is in all likelihood a Death Eater. "I'm here as an ... extra-credit project for Hogwarts to help clean up the house for sale." She crossed her fingers behind her back. There. That wasn't too bad a lie, was it?

"Oh," Regulus says quietly.

"I'm sorry," Hermione says, after a pause. She can't help but feel sorry for him, just slightly. A small wound in her chest opens. Her parents are also dead.

"It isn't your fault," Regulus says, and visibly seems to calm himself. The only thing that gives him away is the tightness with which he grips the chair he is sitting on.

"How come you didn't know this before?" Hermione asks, curious.

Regulus shrugged. "I charmed the painting myself," he explained, "and I was never that good at Charms. I can't move to different paintings in the house and the other paintings can't come to visit me."

Hermione cannot think of something to say. She involuntarily takes a step back, bringing the painting to eye level.

"You aren't going, are you, Hermione?" Regulus asks quickly.

"Um," Hermione says.

"It gets terribly lonely here," Regulus says with a sigh. "Please stay."

Hermione has the distinct impression that perhaps he isn't much older than she is. Her curiosity gets the better of her. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," he says. A small gleam of pride appears in his eyes. "I am ... was Head Boy."

"Congratulations," Hermione says. "I'm Head Girl this year."

Regulus smiles, a genuine smile that softens his rather harsh features. "There's something we have in common."

Hermione gets the impression that he is flirting with her yet again. How strange, she thinks, a painting flirting. Then she wonders whether she only thinks it is strange because of her Muggle upbringing. "I must go now," she says quickly. "I think I hear somebody calling me from downstairs."

"I don't hear anything," Regulus says, frowning.

"I have good hearing," Hermione says, with a stammer and walks towards the door. As she opens it she hears Regulus call from behind her, "Please come and visit again, Hermione Parkinson."

As Hermione traces her footsteps back down to the kitchen, which is one of the few perfectly clean rooms in the house, she doubts that she will ever go and visit Regulus. She heats up water and makes herself a cup of strong, hot tea and curls up in an armchair. She opens up a packet of biscuits that are always on the table next to her chair, and nibbles on them. They are chocolate and the taste is comforting.

The sound of a door bangs in the distance and somebody storms into the room. Hermione looks up from where she is nursing her cup of tea. Somehow, irrationally, she thinks that it could be a Death Eater, but it is only Professor Snape, looking pale and nasty as ever. She notices that he looks thinner than when she last saw him. There is a nasty curved scar on his left cheek, curving down towards his chin.

"I was here over half an hour ago," he says, sneering. "Where were you?"

"I decided to explore the house," she tells him.

"Stupid girl," Snape says. "This place wasn't always a place for the side of the Light, you know."

Hermione suddenly wonders whether he has been here before. Perhaps he had Death Eater meetings when he was younger. Doubtless the house would have looked far better then. Maybe he even knew Regulus? It is on the tip of her tongue to ask, but she refrains. A part of her knows that it is foolish to want to keep Regulus a secret. Perhaps the part of the young, now-dead, Death Eater trapped in the painting would know something of use to them? She doubts it, but it was possible. She should tell.

Yet, Hermione holds her tongue.

Snape must have seen something flicker over her face, for he immediately asks, "Miss Granger, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says, quickly. "I'm fine."

He gives her a probing look. "This house has many secrets. Don't fall into the trap of keeping them," he tells her before picking up a bottle from inside a cabinet and leaving the room with a swirl of his black cape.

Hermione sits there and continues to sip her tea. She wonders why she did not tell Professor Snape about her talk with Regulus. I won't go back and visit him again, she tells herself. She isn't sure why even a small part of her wants to visit and suspects that it is something to do with lack of companionship. She is suffering from the same loneliness that she saw flickering in Regulus's eyes.

Over the next few days, Hermione keeps her promise to herself not to visit. To do so, she stops herself from wandering and instead spends her entire time ensconced in the Black family library, reading. She tells herself that she is only reading Blood Curses in the hope that it will help Harry, but knows that she is lying to herself. It is a fascinating book. Briefly, she wonders why this isn't taught in the Hogwarts circiculum, but cannot bring herself to ask any of the few people who drop in and then leave.

The only time she leaves the library is to renew the wards. This time, instead of simply renewing them, Hermione decides to add her own touch to them. It takes two hours and when she is finished, she is covered in sweat, but she feels that it is worth it. She is proud of her augmented wards, which she is sure are stronger than the original wards created by Mr Weasley and Professor Snape.

But still, Hermione realises that the books she reads can only keep her busy for so long. She is careful not to leave any mark, any sign that she has entered the library. To all of the Order members who have dropped in so far, she is simply doing homework and renewing the wards and keeping the hideout in liveable condition.

Hermione wishes she could have somebody to share her new interest in the Darker Arts to. She suspects that most of the Order would be severely displeased if they found out. Yet, she knows through her reading (and books cannot lie, can they?) that the Dark Arts can help them in their upcoming battle.

Nevertheless, books can only stave off the gnawing loneliness for so long.

She wakes up one night, covered in a cold sweat, having just dreamed of her parents screaming as men in black cloaks cast Crucio and Avada Kedavra. They writhe before her eyes, turning inside out, their blackened innards making her gag before they finally collapse and are consumed by flame. Lighting a candle, Hermione gets out of bed and grabs a dressing gown off the chair beside her bed. Wrapping it securely around her, she retraces her footsteps back to Regulus's bedroom. A part of her giggles insanely at the thought of seeking comfort from a Death Eater because of a nightmare about Death Eaters, but she ignores it. Regulus isn't necessarily a Death Eater, after all.

Standing in front of the door, she knocks on it, feeling rather foolish. Opening the door a crack, she sticks the candle through it and looks towards the painting.

Regulus seems to be snoozing lightly, with his head pillowed in his hand. To Hermione, he looks strangely innocent asleep. As she watches, he blinks and sits up straight. "Hermione?" he asks, his voice still rough with sleep. "Is that you?"

"Yes," she says. "Sorry to disturb you." She takes a step backwards.

Regulus squints at her. "Bring the candle closer so that I can see you, but don't you dare set me on fire. What time is it anyway?"

Hermione walks closer so that she's standing directly in font of the painting and looking upwards. "It's about three o'clock in the morning," she says, looking at her watch.

"Couldn't sleep?" Regulus comments.

Hermione nods. "I had a nightmare."

"Do you want to talk about it?" He looks uncomfortable and shifts in his chair.

"No, not really. But I did want to talk to somebody." Hermione looks around for a chair, finding none, she draws her wand from where she stuck it inside her dressing gown and draws one up.

"You're good," Regulus tells her. "You must have had good tutors when you were younger."

Hermione finds nothing to say to this and makes a non-committal sound.

There is a silence and Hermione wonders whether it was a bad idea for her to return here. Yet, strangely enough, she finds herself comfortable in Regulus's company, if you could call a painting company. Of course, she tells herself sternly, you haven't told him the entire truth. Besides, he's a pureblood fanatic. Everybody knows that.

"Can I ask you a question, Hermione?" Regulus says.

She wonders what he would ask. "What's the question?"

"What happened?" Regulus asks. Hermione is confused for a second before he elaborates. "What happened in the past ten years in our world? Did the Dark Lord win? Just, what happened? I've been wondering this ever since my real self left."

And Hermione finds herself telling him about the first victory of the Light, and the current battle against Voldemort. She is careful to keep her accounts entirely neutral, and even makes herself say the Dark Lord a few times. Just staying in character, she tells herself. As she finishes, she asks, "I'm sorry if this is a personal question, but are you a Death Eater?"

In response, he rolls up his left shirt sleeve and Hermione draws a sharp intake of breath at the Dark Mark.

"Why?" she asks.

He gives her a considering look. "I take it that you're not planning to join the Dark Lord anytime soon. You must come from one of the pragmatic families. I joined for a matter of pride. The Mudbloods were, and undoubtedly still are, taking over our world. Surely you must see that?" He looks at her.

Hermione nods dumbly.

"Sooner or later, if the trend of letting Mudbloods into our world continues, our blood is going to be diluted beyond repair. Then magic will die out. Mudbloods simply aren't as strong magically as us purebloods."

Hermione wonders what he would say if she tells him of her bloodlines.

"Besides," he continues, "more Mudbloods in our world, the more chance of Muggles wiping us out. The tolerance, or lack thereof, of Muggles in history is widely documented. I'm in favour of putting a block on Mudblood powers."

As much as she hates to admit it, Hermione begins to see his point. She remembers reading, as a Muggle, about the Spanish Inquisition and shuddering at the brutality. Now, as a witch, she sees it from an entirely different angle. Now it is her that is threatened.

She gives a loud yawn. "You have given me a lot to think about. Thank you. I'm going back to bed now."

"Good night, Hermione," Regulus says as she closes the door.

As she walks away, she thinks she can hear his soft voice say, "Please come back soon."

Harry comes back to 12 Grimmauld Place a few days later and he expresses his deepest sympathies over her parents. Hermione hugs him and tells him that there are more important things to worry about and she doesn't know why he looks at her strangely. She gives him a book on wards from the Black family library and tries to explain the benefits of augumenting their current wards with blood. Harry simply backs away.

Hermione doesn't understand. She broached the idea with Regulus a few days before and he had taken to it enthusiastically.

She finds herself being seated down by Professor McGonagall who looks at her through weary eyes.

"We all know how hard the past few weeks have been on you," Professor McGonagall says. "I can understand how lonely it is here all by yourself most of the time, but it is dangerous to read some of the books in this house."

Hermione looks at her impatiently. "I'm fine though," she argues.

Professor McGonagall stares at her intently. "You've changed."

When Hermione tells Harry this, he tells her the same thing. "You seem different," he tells her.

"Well my parents are dead," she snaps and immediately regrets the words because Harry's face turns white. "I'm sorry," she tries to apologise, but he brushes past her.

"I'll talk to you later, Hermione. I need to study."

She stares helplessly as he left the room.

Why doesn't anybody understand, she wonders as she walks along the long musty corridors. She is beginning to wear a path to Regulus's bedroom so she decides to find another way there. There are several and Hermione uses all of them regularly.

As strange as it sounds, she finds that Regulus understands and he's always there to listen.

"Thank you for being here," she tells him one day and he smiles at her, his features softening.

"I'm glad you're here too, Hermione."

Hermione sometimes wonders what would happen if she told Regulus the truth, what would happen if he was alive today, what would happen... so many ifs.

She tells him that she is going to roll up his painting and hang it in her Head Girl rooms at Hogwarts. He agrees.

And she feels some of the aching loneliness ebb away.