The street was ordinary. Unremarkable. Identical rows of townhouses, windows dark, doors shut against the wet. Then Dumbledore stopped, withdrew a scrap of parchment from his robes, held it close to his face. Water dripped from the brim of his hat, but he seemed not to notice.

And then—a sound like stone grinding against stone, deep and wrong. The air seemed to flex, to stretch—and between numbers eleven and thirteen, a house shoved its way into being. Dark, narrow, and tall, its windows stared out like blank, judging eyesim. Number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Remus said nothing, but his hand rested briefly on your shoulder—a silent warning, or perhaps a reassurance. He mounted the steps, raised his wand, and tapped the door once. It creaked open, spilling faint, yellow light into the rain.

Inside, the hall was dimly lit, walls lined with peeling wallpaper and the faded portraits of long-dead witches glaring down their noses. Dust hung in the air, old and thick, and somewhere deep in the house, a clock chimed a half-hour that did not exist. You heard voices—muffled, from a room to your left. One of them, gruff and impatient.

The voice fell silent. A door opened. And then you saw him—standing tin the doorway of the drawing room, dark hair damp around a gaunt face, sharp grey eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made the house feel smaller. He was thinner than the photographs, harder, but there was no mistaking him. Sirius Black.