{12 Grimmauld Place}
{29th June 1991}
{Harry's POV}
Harry stumbled forward from the fireplace, the emerald flames sputtering away behind him; he was the last one from their small entourage to go through the floo. The journey left a bitter taste of ash on his tongue. Sirius stepped up to steady him as Rigel was already leaving the room. Sirius's strong arm was on Harry's shoulder as the dizzying swirl of Floo travel faded.
"Easy there," Sirius said softly, brushing soot from Harry's robes. "Floo travel takes getting used to."
'Why the fuck is playing Quidditch easier than this? I get tossed around a lot more during practice...' Harry grumbled as he tried to get his bearings right.
Blinking soot from his eyes, Harry took his first real look around. They stood in a dimly lit kitchen, the kitchen, while tidier than he'd expected, was nonetheless deeply oppressive—heavy stone walls loomed inward, painted a deep, muted green. Even scrubbed and clean, the air felt thick, as though the house itself watched their arrival with wary resentment.
'Okay...this is a bit creepy, why are we in a haunted house again?'
The floor beneath Harry's feet was made of uneven, cracked flagstones, worn smooth in the middle from years of footsteps. On one side of the kitchen stood a massive fireplace from which they had just busted it; it was ornately carved with intricate designs: twisting serpents coiled around the mantel, their emerald green eyes glittering strangely in the low light. A blackened cauldron hung unused on a rusted iron hook, coated thickly with grime.
"Why are we in a haunted house, Sirius?" Harry voiced his doubts, his voice hushed instinctively, as though afraid of disturbing something that lay in wait.
"Welcome to Grimmauld Place, Harry," Sirius said softly, his voice echoing faintly off polished wooden cabinets and countertops. It was clean, Harry noted with surprise, yet an undeniable shadow lingered beneath the surface. "I had Kreacher clean it up…but nothing truly removes the darkness here."
Harry glanced around warily, unable to disagree. The house felt more like a mausoleum than a home, cloaked in decades of neglect. Each step echoed hollowly as they moved across the cracked stone floor. He shivered involuntarily. Shelves of neatly stacked china and silverware lined the walls, each bearing the unmistakable crest of the Black family. Above the mantlepiece, polished stone serpents coiled silently, their jeweled eyes glittering in unsettling quietude.
"Who's Kreacher?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper, unwilling to disturb the oppressive silence.
Sirius's expression darkened slightly. "The family house-elf. He served my parents, my ancestors…he serves this house." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Unfortunately."
Sirius motioned toward the doorway at the far end of the kitchen. "Come on, Harry. Let's get upstairs. I'll show you to your room."
Sirius guided Harry gently through a narrow doorway into a dimly lit hallway, walls papered in dark green and black stripes, recently cleaned yet somehow oppressive in their meticulous neatness. Candles glowed softly in ornate iron brackets, their flickering light illuminating the dark, polished frames that held portraits of witches and wizards. Their pale, sharp-featured faces shifted slowly to watch Harry's every step with cold suspicion.
Halfway down the corridor, Harry halted abruptly, a chill running up his spine. Rows of severed house-elf heads were meticulously mounted along the left wall like trophies. Each was neatly preserved, their eyes glassy yet disturbingly alert. Their expressions were frozen in a strange mix of pride and sorrow, as if they'd died believing their sacrifice was both duty and honor.
Harry stared, feeling sickened. "Are those—?"
"The house-elves who served my family," Sirius finished bitterly. "Grimmauld Place keeps all its servants—even in death."
Harry glanced away quickly, uncomfortable beneath their unblinking gaze. Sirius squeezed his shoulder lightly, urging him onward. "Come on," he said quietly. "There's worse to deal with."
As they approached the stairs, a rustle of fabric drew Harry's eyes to heavy velvet curtains hanging across a large portrait frame. The curtains shuddered, the faintest of tremors indicating something beneath them was aware of their presence.
Sirius paused, his voice lowered urgently. "That's my mother. She was easily disturbed, and her temper was legendary while she was alive. Now it's worse."
Harry nodded cautiously, stepping carefully on the carpeted runner, holding his breath as they passed the portrait. He nearly made it—but the floor beneath him creaked loudly.
The curtains flew violently open, revealing a skeletal, imperious woman seated in a high-backed chair, her pale eyes wild with rage. "FILTH! BLOOD-TRAITOR!" she screeched, her voice echoing shrilly. "YOU DARE BRING HALF-BREEDS AND MUDBLOODS INTO MY HOUSE! SHAME OF MY FLESH!"
Harry recoiled sharply, heart hammering. Sirius raised his wand swiftly.
"Enough, mother!" he snapped, waving his wand, struggling to pull the curtains back together. "This is my house now, not yours!"
"DISGRACE!" she shrieked as the curtains finally swung shut. "TRAITOROUS, UNGRATEFUL—!"
Her voice faded abruptly into silence, though the curtains continued to quiver angrily. Sirius released a weary breath, tension draining slowly from his posture.
Harry stared at the curtains, shaken. "Sorry."
"Not your fault," Sirius sighed, brushing back his hair. "She's always like this."
They continued up the stairs cautiously, leaving Mrs. Black's outraged whispers behind. On the landing, Sirius paused by another portrait. Unlike the others, this one watched them with cool, calculating curiosity.
"Phineas," Sirius greeted curtly.
"Ah, Sirius," drawled Phineas Nigellus Black, lounging elegantly within his gilded frame. "More company today, I saw Rigel going up just now, and who's this... the young Mr. Potter, I see." He observed Harry with faint disdain, sharp eyes appraising him critically. "You certainly keep unusual company for a Black."
"Spare me your opinions, Phineas," Sirius replied shortly.
Phineas smiled thinly, turning to address Harry directly. "The House of Black may appear to be sleeping, boy, but rest assured—it's always watching. Don't forget that."
Harry held the portrait's stare unflinchingly, sensing a subtle threat beneath the warning. "I'll remember."
"See that you do." Phineas inclined his head mockingly before strolling casually out of the frame, leaving behind only an empty chair.
Sirius shook his head irritably. "He's a former Headmaster of Hogwarts. Always interfering. Come on, your room is up here."
They ascended another staircase to the second floor, the corridor here quieter, though no less foreboding. The polished wood gleamed faintly in candlelight, but Harry still felt as if hidden eyes watched their every move. They stopped outside a heavy wooden door, intricately carved with twisting serpents and delicate leaves.
Sirius pushed open the door gently. Inside, the room was modest but tidy, recently cleaned, yet retaining the distinct atmosphere of careful neglect. The four-poster bed stood freshly made, draped in emerald-green velvet embroidered with faintly glittering silver stars. A small desk sat under a window, freshly polished, but still holding a sense of secrecy within its dark wood. The wardrobe stood half-open, empty and waiting, the scent of old cedar faint in the air.
Harry stepped in quietly, taking it in slowly. "It's nicer than downstairs."
Sirius nodded. "Kreacher's work. He does the bare minimum to make it livable, but even cleanliness can't hide this house's true nature. I thought you might prefer a room less…burdened by memories."
Harry moved toward the window, pulling aside heavy drapes to peer down at the quiet street below. The faint warmth of the fading daylight was a welcome relief.
"Thank you," Harry murmured softly, feeling a strange blend of gratitude and unease.
Sirius came to stand beside him, gazing down with distant eyes. "We can't erase what this place was," he said slowly. "But maybe, together, we can change what it will be."
Harry turned to Sirius, feeling a spark of determination push away the lingering chill. "I'm willing to try."
A small smile crossed Sirius's face, genuine despite the lingering darkness. "That's all I ask."
Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, and shadows gathered at the edges of the room. Grimmauld Place seemed to settle around them, watching, waiting—but for the first time, Harry felt hope mingling with the house's darkness. It might resist them, but he and Sirius could push back together.
They could reclaim it.
And perhaps, eventually, they might even call it home.
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AN: Double release.
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