Contrary to their hopeful outbound journey, the return trip was unnaturally quiet—quiet like storm clouds gathering, heavy and suffocating with unspoken tension.
Snape didn't take Orli to the Waters estate, instead delivering her directly to the Order of the Phoenix. With less than a week until term began, she could remain here until school started.
"Here."
Standing in the corner of a Muggle square in London, Snape spoke quietly, pressing a small piece of parchment into Orli's hand.
"Read it quickly and commit it to memory."
Orli glanced down at the slip. In Dumbledore's distinctive script, it read:
"The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London."
"If you need to understand what the Order of the Phoenix is—" Snape searched for the most economical explanation.
"I already know," Orli replied simply.
Snape's words died in his throat as he realized, with fresh alarm, just how deeply Orli had been drawn into this war.
She stepped forward to examine the house that had materialized before them—it appeared squeezed impossibly between numbers eleven and thirteen. The grimy façade and filthy windows seemed, from every angle, like an unwelcome addition to the neighboring properties.
The newly visible black front door bore peeling, scratched paint. Its silver handle twisted into serpentine coils, and the broad panels showed neither keyhole nor letterbox.
Snape drew his wand and tapped the door once. A loud, metallic click echoed—like heavy chains shifting. The door groaned open on protesting hinges.
"Go in yourself," he said tersely.
"Best not to touch anything. This house is... thoroughly repulsive."
"Goodbye, Professor."
Orli's farewell carried perfect calm as she turned and crossed the threshold. She wasn't perpetually angry with him, but they'd returned to England now. If she was to adapt to this stranger's distance between them, she'd better begin immediately.
She forced herself into Occlumency, ruthlessly suppressing every thought of Snape. Then she stepped into Grimmauld Place's nearly pitch-black entrance hall—even in daylight, precious little illumination penetrated here. A mixture of damp, dust, and sickly-sweet decay assaulted her senses, as though the place had festered in abandonment for centuries.
Drawing her wand, she ignited an ancient gas lamp mounted on the wall. Unsteady, flickering light fell across mottled wallpaper, finally revealing her surroundings: a long, shadowy corridor carpeted in threadbare fabric, crowned by a cobweb-shrouded chandelier that cast dancing shadows. Age-blackened portraits hung askew on crooked walls. Both the chandelier and the branched candelabra perched on a wobbling side table were wrought in the shape of enormous serpents.
Hurried footsteps echoed from the depths of the house. Mrs. Weasley emerged from behind a door at the corridor's far end, her face bright with welcoming joy as she rushed toward Orli—though Orli noticed she appeared thinner and more careworn than their last meeting.
"Orli! How wonderful to see you!"
She enveloped Orli in a bone-crushing embrace.
"We'll be serving dinner shortly—Harry and the others are all upstairs. Keep your voice low in the hall, and whatever you do, don't wake anything up."
Her final words dropped to an urgent whisper, eyes darting nervously toward the shadowed portraits lining the walls.
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