At last! I finally have another chapter for you.

St. Mungo's actually had a whole ward for those suffering the effects of dark curses; Hermione was the only one in it. That was both a good thing and a bad thing, though she wasn't really sure what was good and what was bad. Apparently she'd been unconscious for a full day, during which time the healers had filled her with potions of every imaginable kind. Well, maybe not every imaginable kind. Despite it all she was feeling worn out, and a little twitchy.

She'd awoken to a mediwitch hovering over her, which quickly became two mediwitches and a healer when she opened her eyes. They'd then poked and prodded at her, all while casting an assortment of charms over her, asking nonsensical questions - how did they think she felt? - and giving her more potions to drink.

Hermione suspected she'd get well a lot sooner if they left her alone.

But now she was alone and ignoring the phial of dreamless sleep next to her bed while trying to think. She was going to have to practise duelling, and learn to cast faster, and certainly not let her guard down as easily as she had. A war was brewing, the Dark Lord was biding his time... and apparently she'd picked a side.

Maybe that could be useful though, she could get in touch with Barty for some help with duelling. He'd certainly made a good professor - for her at least - at Hogwarts last year. Maybe they'd let her practise some curses on Malfoy, either of them. There was a bone to pick there; but at least they were pure-bloods.

She was just drifting off to sleep when a healer came in and insisted on her taking the dreamless sleep potion. Seconds later she was fast asleep.

The next morning Hermione was thoroughly confused, she had awoken to the sounds of an argument just outside the door. After a few minutes a frazzled looking mediwitch came in and checked her over. She was quick and methodical in her tasks, before offering Hermione a flat lipped smile that just barely wasn't a grimace and telling her "You've got visitors."

Hermione didn't need to ask who, as just moments after the older witch had shuffled out the door a witch and wizard in scarlet robes entered her room. After she'd corrected her name - and explained about the lineage test when they'd asked about that - the two Aurors had proceeded to question her thoroughly on the night of the 'attack' on her parents home. Having just woken up worked to her advantage to some extent, as she hadn't had to fake confusion as much as she otherwise would have. On the other hand Auror Tonks' hair seemed to shift colour at random, while Auror Peters had winked at her and rubbed his left forearm.

She still had no idea what to make of that. Was he trying to tell her he was a follower of The Dark Lord, and knew the story? Some of his questions had been almost leading her: "You were trying to put the fire out with Aguamenti when you were hit in the back by the Cruciatus?" Or perhaps he was suspicious of her and trying to get her to slip up: "Was there 2 or 3 of these supposed Death Eaters?" Maybe it was neither and he just had an itch?

Whatever it was, she was just glad the hurried mediwitch had come back in and made them leave before too long. Though she suspected it may have been over an hour. So she was left with a plate of sausages and eggs, and a thousand questions to ponder over. At least the rest of the day was quiet.

The next day started much the same, the two Aurors came back; supposedly just to clear some things up. But as they were leaving, Peters slipped something into her hand as he shook it, and Tonks mentioned that she was looking after Crookshanks, and that Dumbledore had arranged somewhere for her to stay "now that her parents were gone." Hermione's wide eyed silence probably looked like that of a shocked teen, as she tried to get her head around the fact that the two Aurors appeared to be on complete opposite sides.

She wondered if either of them were loyal to the Ministry at all.

She spent the hours until lunch puzzling over the slip of parchment that had been slipped into her hand. "Tap tap, the last place you saw me." What was that supposed to mean? When she finally worked it out she shook her head in shame, who else would send her cryptic notes? Tapping the parchment twice with her wand, she said "the shrieking shack," and the parchment grew in size till it looked to be a page torn from a journal.

She snorted a laugh at the first words, then settled down to read.

Bet that took you a while.
Peters is only a half blood, don't let him give you any trouble, he has
his uses as an owl but he's new and stupid, I doubt he'll be around long.
Malfoy was punished rather heavily for putting the Dark Mark over your
parents' house; The Ministry are denying The Dark Lord's return, and he
sees no reason to make anyone think otherwise. Better to quietly build
our numbers back up while no one's paying any attention.
I'm telling you this because he is quite impressed with your work in
cleansing your family line, and I must say that he's not the only one.
Don't let the fact you had to do it get you down, The Dark Lord himself
admits we all have to trim the weak parts out from time to time in order
to keep our families strong.
I have some things to discuss with you that can't be put in a letter, so
when you get out of there buy an owl and send me a message.
The parchment was soaked in Menson's Burnclear, so get rid of it now that
you've read it.

Barty

Hermione read through the note again in case there were any hidden meanings, not finding any she set it alight with a silent Incendio; it left no ash, the flames consuming it entirely. She spent the rest of the day puzzling over what Barty could want to talk to her about, while sneaking out of bed to stretch her legs when the healers weren't about.

The days that followed were slow and drawn out, she was feeling fine - or at least considerably better - and kept sneaking out of bed when she thought no one would notice. Of course she was caught a few times by an upset mediwitch or wizard who would demand she got back in bed "this very instant." She thought things might be a little less dull when she managed to convince one of the healers to get her something to read. But old copies of Witch Weekly weren't exactly what she had in mind.

Still, it was better than nothing, and they weren't that old. She resolved to try out a new hair potion that claimed to "tame wild hair for up to three months with a single use." And there were also some nice looking boots at Gladrags she wanted to check out when she was released. But the thing that really brought a smile to her face was a small article about their missing gossip columnist Rita Skeeter. There was even suggestions that Dumbledore was involved, as part of whatever he was doing with this nonsense about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

While that amused her to no end, it probably wasn't the best thing to be thinking of when the old fool waltzed into her Hospital room late Friday morning. She had to fight to keep the smirk off her face.

He watched her for a few moments with that damned inscrutable sparkly-eyed look of his, before reaching into his robes and pulling out a small paper bag.

"Lemon drop Miss Dagworth-Granger?" He asked by way of greeting, holding the bag out to her.

"No, uh, thankyou Professor. How, how do you know about my name?" She asked somewhat confused; she certainly hadn't told him.

He smiled at her, then flicked his wand to conjure a chair, and sat down before answering. "You informed the Aurors, who updated your records at the Ministry. They of course informed me, as Headmaster of Hogwarts; though it was entirely unnecessary as Miss Tonks had already let me know." He popped one of his sweets in his mouth and leaned back in his chair, sucking away happily.

"She's looking after Crookshanks." Hermione said of Tonks, before shaking her head and sitting up straighter in her bed. "Sorry Professor, I'm sure you didn't come here just to talk about a change of name and a cat."

"Pleasantries and small talk are becoming a lost art Miss Granger," he informed her as she twitched at the name. "We mustn't forget them. However you are quite right: I have arranged for temporary guardianship of you until school returns, at which time it was agreed your head of house will take on the roll."

Hermione thought of protesting, as no one had spoken to her about the matter. But just frowned faintly instead as the old wizard continued on, seemingly oblivious.

"As the healers have released you, I've come to show you to your home for the next few months. It's owned by a mutual acquaintance of ours, so I'm sure you'll settle in nicely. Especially as your friends the Weasleys will be coming to stay in a few weeks, and likely Mister Potter," Hermione twitched, "as well before we all head back for another year at Hogwarts."

He seemed quite pleased with himself, and lacking any other firm offers Hermione accepted and thanked him. A healer came in not long after, and officially released her to the Headmaster's care. She was given a few minutes alone to change into some simple robes which Auror Tonks had apparently supplied for her, as Dumbledore settled things with the healers.

Then before she knew it she was taking the Headmaster's arm and being squeezed through a garden hose.

The apparition her family had sold to the masses was ever so primitive, Hermione thought to herself as she fought to keep her stomach inside where it belonged. She was kneeling on the rough patchy grass of the small square they'd appeared in, swallowing repeatedly as she tried not to fall over completely. Dumbledore stood tall beside her, acting all mysterious and powerful; as if he'd just done something more spectacular that she couldn't teach a first year.

The houses surrounding them were run down and many looked abandoned. Peeling paint and broken windows were everywhere, with piles of rubbish covering many of the houses' front steps. Hermione was just about to ask what they were doing in such a dump when the Headmaster handed her a small note.

Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion, but she read it nonetheless, it didn't help her confusion at all. It said:

The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number
twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

"What's the Order of the... ?" Hermione began to ask as she looked up, but stopped as her eyes caught sight of the houses in front of her. A new door was pushing its way out between numbers eleven and thirteen. She stared in wonder as the door was followed by more grimy walls and unwashed windows, and before long a whole new house had appeared out of nowhere.

"If you'd care to step inside Miss Dagworth-Granger, we'll acquaint you with your new home for the holidays." Dumbledore spoke cheerily as he made his way across the street.

Hermione scrambled to her feet and followed him. Opening the door, she stepped into the shabby entrance of the run down old house. "This is your headquarters?" She asked the Professor in disbelief, but didn't get a reply as the curtains flew back from a painting which started screeching obscenities at a volume Hermione hadn't heard a painting reach before. She jumped, startled, and turned to look at the painting as Dumbledore continued into the house, as if he hadn't even noticed the sudden mayhem that had broken out.

The frame was as shabby as the rest of the house appeared to be, but the portrait it held was immaculately kept. The woman in the painting seemed to pause a moment as Hermione's eyes met hers, her hair lost it's wildness, and her posture straightened up to a more regal, respectful, pose. Then, with a faint nod of her head, she resumed her rant as quick as she'd paused it; without returning her gaze to Hermione.

Hermione turned away as Sirius ran in and started tugging at the curtains trying to hide the screeching portrait of Wulburga Black - as the polished brass plate beneath the frame declared her to be. The screaming rant reached new heights - in volume and vitriol - when Sirius told the portrait to "shut up you old hag" as he yanked on the curtains. Silence settled over the hall as he finally pulled the curtains closed.

"Sorry," he said with a huff, "that's my mother. She wasn't all there in life either."

Hermione nodded as she looked at the haggard man before her, before a thought brought a faint tugging to her lips. She answered him, "and yet if you'd listened to her you wouldn't have just spent ten years in Azkaban." Not waiting to see if he had a response to that, Hermione turned and followed after Dumbledore.

The Order of the Phoenix was Dumbledore's personal little club for fighting The Dark Lord, Hermione discovered. She was just beginning to wonder what more she could learn about it, when she was shut out of the kitchen while they had a meeting. Standing at the door for a few minutes she tried to listen in, but failed to hear anything but nonsensical mutterings and decided to explore the house.

She was just rounding the stairs near the entrance hall when her eyes caught the curtains covering Sirius' mother's portrait, pausing for a moment, she walked over and pulled the curtains back.

The witch in the portrait seemed to arch back and prepare to scream and rant but then stopped, mouth closing to a thin line as she looked around the entry hall before settling her steely eyes on the room's sole occupant.

Hermione took half a step back before stopping herself and straightening up to match the late witch's gaze. Walburga Black smiled.

"You're not at all like those disgusting muggle-loving traitors in the other room." The portrait stated in a quiet knowing voice, laced with a hatred Hermione was beginning to know well. "Oh, they may think you're one of them, but I know that you're not."

Hermione opened her mouth to... protest? But nothing came out before Walburga continued.

"I can see it in your eyes dear," her smile widened, "it is ever so nice to see a burgeoning young dark witch again after all these years." The portrait paused, and her eyes took on a plotting look. "Perhaps we can be of use to one another."

"How?"

Walburga's nose scrunched as if she'd smelled something particularly vile. "Those traitors in the other room are doing their best to defile this house, they plan to purge the library of it's many volumes of dark magic. That half blood Auror has Black blood in her - her mother was cast out for marrying a mudblood - and she may be our last hope of returning the House of Black to it's great status." Pure revulsion poured from her as she finished, "If she can keep her eyes off that filthy half-breed they've let in to my home."

"You want me to protect the half-blood by killing the wolf?" Hermione asked trying to work it all out in her head.

"I don't care about the half-blood!" Walburga snapped, "Once she's given a pure heir and named him Black she's of no further use. But I'm greatly restricted in what I can do, help me out and I'll gift you the Black library. I can tell you how to handle the cursed books so you may study and move them. They need to stay with someone who can appreciate them, not destroy them."

Hermione thought for a moment, then smiled disturbingly as she stepped closer to the portrait. "My own family's library is lacking in the darker arts, but we have always been quite talented with love potions; I can ensure your heir easily." Her eyes darkened considerably as she continued, "The half-breed will be out of the picture very soon. You just be sure to uphold your end of the bargain with the library."

Walburga shivered at the clear menacing threat in the young witch's words and tone, before her lips pulled up in a smile of joy laced with a dark madness. "With pleasure Miss..." The portait paused, and narrowed her eyes at the young witch before her. "What is your name?" She asked with a tinge of suspicion, as the kitchen door opened and the sounds of people leaving the meeting floated up the stairs.

"Hermione Dagworth-Granger." Was Hermione's whispered response, as she quietly made her way up the stairs to her room. A moment later her smile grew as she heard Walburga begin screaming at the Order members. Stepping into her room she sat on the bed and ran her hands over Crookshanks' soft fur. before calling for Fipsy. There was much to do.