The door to number twelve, Grimmauld Place swung open like the maw of death, or worse, like some dank, moth-eaten hell. Hermione looked up, checking to see if there was a Dementor nearby to explain away this feeling that suddenly came over her, but she saw nothing. Looking back at the door with a grimace, she knew she wasn’t so lucky. Refusing to look at her new husband, she wondered momentarily if he would carry her over the threshold, but that grim thought was mercifully quashed when she saw him stride over it alone, the familiar billowing of his black robes beckoning her mockingly to follow. She took a deep breath and, as Dante suggests, abandoned all hope.