The air inside Number 12, Grimmauld Place was heavy with dust and old, forgotten magic. The moment Harry stepped through the threshold, he could feel it—something ancient, bitter, and left to rot. Dust layered every surface. Faded tapestries of scowling witches and wizards hung from the walls, and cobwebs draped over furniture like mourning veils. Sirius slowly followed behind, his face set in a grim frown as he looked around at the home he had once run away from. Harry could feel how much Sirius hated this place, not just because of how it looked now, but because of what it had always been. A dark home for a darker family.
"This is where I grew up," Sirius said, his voice low, with a bitter edge.
Harry walked toward an ornate candlestick, its silver dulled by years of grime, and ran his fingers over it. He could imagine the grandeur it once held. Sirius watched him in silence for a moment.
"I hate this place. My parents—pure-blood supremacists. They raised me to hate Muggles, Muggleborns… even Half-Bloods."
"Then why stay here?" Harry asked, his voice curious but not judgmental.
"I've got other properties. Ones that aren't cursed with blood magic and portraits that scream. But…" Sirius gave him a knowing look. "We're in London. Hidden. We can move freely in the Muggle world from here."
Harry nodded. It made sense. No one would think to look for the the death eater in a muggle place. He reached again for the candlestick and gave it a proper swipe with his sleeve.
With a loud pop, a house-elf appeared in the hallway, its wrinkled nose twitching and its eyes wide with shock and suspicion. Its ears flopped and quivered as it stared at Harry with anger.
"Thieves! Thieves in the house of my Mistress! Thieves in the noble and most ancient House of Black!" Kreacher wailed, his bulging eyes glaring at Harry. Then, without warning, the elf raised a gnarled hand and unleashed a burst of powerful elf magic straight at him.
The air shimmered as Harry instinctively threw up a magical barrier. The spell exploded against his shield with a crackle of light, pushing him a step back. But before the echo faded, another wave of force came hurtling from Kreacher's fingertips. This time, Harry was ready. He reinforced the shield and absorbed the blow with calm precision, the kind he had honed during his training with Salazar.
A loud voice shouted from behind them.
"Kreacher, stop it!"
Sirius came rushing in from the hallway, wand out, his tone furious. Kreacher froze mid-motion, his wrinkled face twisting in hatred as he looked at Sirius.
"The blood traitor returns," Kreacher muttered venomously, his eyes narrowing. "Brings filth into Mistress's house, dares command Kreacher—"
But Sirius cut him off by raising his hand and flashing a silver ring—the crest of the House of Black embedded in black onyx.
"I am Lord Black now. You will obey me."
Kreacher fell silent at once. His body trembled with visible reluctance, his mouth twisted in silent fury, but he gave a stiff bow.
"The blood traitor thinks he can—"
"You will only address me as Lord Black," Sirius said sharply.
That stopped Kreacher entirely. The elf looked like he had swallowed a wasp. Then gave a glare at Harry.
Harry dusted off his sleeves, his own wand still in hand. He turned to Sirius with a dry, raised brow.
"When you said you had a place we could live," Harry said, brushing cobwebs from his shoulders, "I didn't know it would be a haunted ruin. Is this how the noble House of Black keeps its properties?"
Sirius gave a snort of laughter, half-amused, half-embarrassed.
"The other ones aren't much better. Though none come with murderous elves."
"If you want this place cleaned," Harry offered, "I can call one of my house-elves. They can do it faster, and they are not hostile towards their master."
Kreacher glaring at Harry like he'd been insulted beyond recovery.
"Kreacher serves the House of Black. Kreacher will clean! You don't bring another elf into Mistress's home! Kreacher will do it himself—"
Harry turned toward the elf, his voice calm but firm.
"You'll clean it as a house worthy of the Black name. But I want you to rest between tasks. You're not a slave. Take your time."
Kreacher's wide eyes narrowed into slits. He said nothing, only gave a jerky bow and vanished again.
Sirius blinked at Harry, visibly stunned.
"What did you just do?" he asked, staring like Harry had grown two heads.
Remus gave a small chuckle from the stairway.
"You did what Sirius hasn't managed in his lifetime—got Kreacher to listen."
Harry shrugged.
"You just have to know how to speak to elves."
Sirius gave Harry a look of amused disbelief, then turned toward the grand staircase, which was creaking ominously under its own weight.
"Well," he said, "if Kreacher really listens, maybe this place will look like a home again before the end of the year."
They made their way through the dim, dust-choked halls of Grimmauld Place, the wooden floorboards groaning beneath their steps. Kreacher popped in and out of various rooms, muttering curses under his breath as he magically swept away debris, vanished cobwebs, and yanked tattered curtains from broken windows. Though bitter, the elf worked with the grim focus of someone whose pride had been offended, as if redeeming the honour of the house through sheer force of effort.
As Harry passed a grand staircase, he noticed a large, ornate frame covered by an old moth-eaten cloth. Before he could speak, Sirius paused beside him, frowning.
"This wall was always empty…" he murmured. "I never saw anything here."
Sirius reached out and yanked the cloth aside, revealing a faded oil painting of a severe-looking woman with high cheekbones, cold grey eyes, and an expression of pure disdain. She looked down her nose at them with such intensity that Harry almost took a step back.
"This is my mother," Sirius said, exhaling sharply. "Walburga Black. I didn't know she ever had a portrait made."
He glanced around the hallway, as if expecting more frames to appear.
"No sign of Father… or Regulus. That's strange."
Suddenly, the portrait's eyes snapped open, and the woman came to life with a blood-curdling screech.
"Blood traitor! Filth! You dare enter the sacred halls of the House of Black?!"
Harry winced at the sheer volume, and Remus instinctively took a step back. Sirius stared, stunned.
"Bloody hell… it's a magical portrait? When did she do that?"
The painting gave no answer, but turned her fury toward Remus.
"You! That half-breed mongrel! Corrupting my son from his school days! And you—" her eyes locked on Harry, narrowing with revulsion, "—you dare bring a Potter into my home? Disgraceful! Disrespectful!"
"She thinks I'm James," Harry muttered, mildly amused. "Understandable."
Sirius stepped forward, his wand raised. He jabbed it toward the frame, trying every spell he could think of to remove it.
"Off the wall, you mad old hag!"
But the portrait clung firmly to the wall, protected by an ancient and unyielding Permanent Sticking Charm.
"She must've enchanted it herself," Remus said, observing the frame. "No ordinary charm is this strong."
After several more futile attempts, Sirius swore under his breath and stormed off. He returned moments later with a dusty velvet curtain and draped it over the portrait with an angry flourish. Walburga Black's muffled screams finally subsided into hateful muttering.
The hallway fell silent again.
"That," Sirius said dryly, brushing off his robes, "is why I hated living here."
Harry, undeterred, wandered further down the corridor, opening doors and peeking into side chambers. The manor was sprawling and in shambles—but something about it felt perfect. Private. Untouchable. Hidden from the rest of the world. It could be made into a true sanctuary.
"You know," he said over his shoulder, "once we clean this place up… it might actually be the safest house in Britain."
Sirius grinned faintly.
"Well, it's not much… but it's ours now."
They spent the rest of the day scrubbing, vanishing, and charming layers of grime away from the rooms that had once been entombed in dust and silence. Sirius, despite his disdain for the manor, took to the cleaning process with a strange kind of manic energy—part defiance, part catharsis. Harry and Remus helped him uncover and reclaim the house, room by room.
The first three bedrooms were cleaned with concentrated effort. In one room, when Harry opened an old armoire, a cloud of glowing blue pixies erupted from it, chattering wildly and hurling tiny curses.
"Pixies?" Harry shouted, dodging a tiny bolt of lightning.
"Merlin's beard—why are they even in there?" Remus said, raising his wand. "Don't hurt them—just drive them out!"
Together, they herded the pixies out a window with a combination of barrier spells and a magically amplified dog whistle that Sirius conjured from memory. Once the creatures were gone, the room fell eerily silent again—until a deep growling came from one of the old wardrobes.
"Not again," Harry muttered, just as the door creaked open and a dark shape lunged forward.
A Boggart slithered out in a puff of smoke, immediately twisting itself into a skeletal Voldemort. Remus and Harry both raised their wands at once.
"Riddikulus!" they cried in unison, transforming the Boggart into a break-dancing Snape wearing a green tutu.
Sirius nearly collapsed laughing.
"This house is full of surprises," he wheezed. "Better than Hogwarts, this."
They cleared the Boggarts, fixed the broken shelves, and finally claimed bedrooms of their own. Sirius chose his old room, which he hadn't seen in years. Its walls were still plastered with wizarding band posters, Quidditch team banners, and half-naked pinups of witches posing beside broomsticks or cauldrons.
"I put those up with a Permanent Sticking Charm," Sirius said proudly, smirking. "Try to take 'em down, I dare you."
Remus rolled his eyes while Harry grinned and quickly backed out of the room.
"You do you, Sirius."
Harry was assigned the master bedroom, a grand chamber with tall windows, a canopy bed, and a massive wardrobe that—thankfully—held nothing magical inside it. Remus claimed a spacious study-turned-bedroom nearby, already filling its shelves with his own books.
The next morning, they were greeted by a much-changed Kreacher. He wore a fresh, well-stitched pillowcase and had polished the silverware to a shine. The house still had a long way to go, but the transformation was undeniable.
Kreacher bowed stiffly and served them a hearty breakfast of fried eggs, sausages, toast, and pumpkin juice. He didn't speak much but didn't mutter insults under his breath anymore either.
"Is it just me," Sirius muttered over his tea, "or is Kreacher actually being... civil?"
"You showed him strength and leadership," Remus noted. "And Harry spoke to him with respect. That matters more than blood."
After the hearty breakfast, as the last of the sausages disappeared from Sirius's plate and Kreacher cleared away the dishes, an unfamiliar owl tapped sharply at the window with its beak. It wasn't carrying the usual Hogwarts seal—this one had the distinct silver ribbon of personal correspondence. Remus took it with a quiet frown and unrolled the parchment as Harry and Sirius watched.
As his eyes scanned the words, Remus's expression tightened. His jaw clenched slightly, and he exhaled through his nose before folding the parchment back up and setting it on the table.
"What is it?" Sirius asked sharply.
Remus sighed. "It's from Dumbledore."
Harry leaned forward. "What does he want?"
Remus rubbed his temple. "He's not pleased. Apparently, Arabella Figg—one of his agents—saw that Harry never returned to the Dursleys. So he went to check himself. Petunia told him I was the one who picked Harry up from the station."
"And what's the problem?" Sirius growled, arms crossed.
Remus shook his head. "He says Harry must return to the Dursleys. That living there is... 'vital to his protection.' That I had no right to interfere with the arrangements."
Harry stood up abruptly, knocking his chair back.
"I'm not going back to that house," he said firmly. "I don't care what Dumbledore says. I'd rather live in a dragon's nest."
Sirius leaned forward, his tone cold and final. "He's not going back. And that's the end of it."
Remus looked torn. The loyalty in his eyes warred with the guilt on his brow. "I owe Dumbledore a great deal," he said quietly. "He gave me a chance when no one else would. But I owe James more. And Lily. And you, Harry."
Harry softened slightly. "You've done more for me this summer than the Dursleys ever did in ten years."
Sirius looked at Remus. "You know Dumbledore means well, but he's wrong about this. That house was killing Harry slowly. Not physically—emotionally."
Remus gave a tired nod. He looked at the letter one last time, then picked it up, folded it into thirds, and tossed it into the fireplace. The parchment caught fire instantly and curled into ash.
"Then we'll forget this letter ever came," Remus said simply. "And get on with things."