Three days passed, and Harry still hadn't had the chance to visit the Black family house. But today, he finally could. That morning, he got up early, determined to make the trip. He got dressed quickly, packed a few essentials into his bag, and made sure Asha, his snake, was coming with him as always.
As he descended the stairs for breakfast, he noticed something unusual—his aunt Petunia was still in her pajamas, sitting at the kitchen table with a tired look in her eyes. Normally, she would be up and dressed long before anyone else, making sure everything was spotless and in order. Harry found it odd but didn't dwell on it too much. He had more important things to focus on today, and his aunt's strange behavior wasn't one of them.
He poured himself a quick cup of tea, grabbed a piece of toast, and kept to himself. Petunia didn't say a word, and Harry was more than happy with the silence. The arrangement they had—his money in exchange for her silence—was still working well, and he wasn't about to complain.
As he ate, his thoughts wandered back to what awaited him at the Black family home. There was so much he still didn't understand about his connection to Regulus Black, and the only way to get answers was to visit the house. With Asha coiled lazily around his arm, he finished his breakfast, eager to finally uncover more of his mysterious past.
Just as Harry was about to leave, Petunia stopped him in his tracks. It was rare for her to initiate any conversation with him, and her face was harder than usual.
"Where are you going?" she asked sharply, though there was a strange hesitation in her voice.
Harry turned to face her, feeling a surge of frustration. "Out," he replied shortly, not bothering to elaborate.
Petunia frowned, her eyes narrowing. "You've been going out a lot lately, Harry. You're not... you're not getting into trouble, are you?"
Harry almost laughed at the irony of her concern, but he held it back. "No, I'm not. Don't worry about it," he said, a little more coldly than he intended. He had no interest in discussing his business with her, especially after years of being treated like a burden.
Petunia stared at him for a moment, her lips pursed. "Just... be careful," she said in a tone that was almost begrudging, as if she didn't want to show concern but couldn't help herself.
Harry froze. That was unexpected. He narrowed his eyes and his frustration turned into anger. "Why do you care?" he spat. "You've always wanted me dead. You've screamed it at me since I could understand you—since I could talk. That I should've died with my parents."
Petunia's face went pale, her expression momentarily stunned, like she'd been slapped. For a moment, she looked unsure, maybe even regretful. But it passed quickly, and she pulled herself together, her eyes narrowing again.
"Yes," she snapped coldly. "Yes, I would have preferred it if you had died with them."
Harry felt his heart clench, the venom in her voice hitting him harder than he expected. But there was no use arguing. He turned away, fists clenched, biting back the flood of emotions threatening to rise.
He said nothing more as he opened the door and stepped outside, Petunia's cold words echoing in his mind.
Without another word, he headed out the door, with Asha hissing softly in Parseltongue from beneath his sleeve.
"You ready for this, Asha?" Harry whispered in Parseltongue, his heart already racing with anticipation.
"Alwaysss," she replied, her voice a calm, reassuring hiss.
With that, Harry left Privet Drive behind and set out for the Black family home, his mind swirling with thoughts of the secrets he was about to uncover.
Harry boarded the Knight Bus and made his way to the back, doing everything he could to avoid being recognized. These days, he took extra care to hide his identity, especially from people like Dumbledore. His hair had grown longer, conveniently covering his lightning-shaped scar. He kept his head down, staying as far away from other passengers as possible.
As the bus sped through the streets, Harry's thoughts wandered to practical matters. His eyesight had always been a problem, and maybe it was time to finally do something about it. After visiting the Black family house, he would find an ophthalmologist and maybe get new glasses or even contact lenses. It wasn't a pressing issue, but with everything happening in his life, it seemed like one thing he could easily fix.
The bus came to a stop in the heart of London, just a short distance from his destination: Number 12, Grimmauld Place. This was the ancestral home of the Black family, hidden from the world by powerful enchantments. From the outside, it appeared to be nothing more than a narrow, grimy townhouse squished between two other nearly identical buildings. The Muggles around it paid no attention to its presence.
Stepping off the bus, Harry glanced around at the ordinary Muggle street. The houses were tightly packed together, their windows grimy and their brick facades faded with time. It wasn't the grand, mysterious wizarding neighborhood he had imagined, but he knew that Number 12 was anything but ordinary.
Harry approached the space where the house should be, and as he neared, the buildings on either side of it seemed to shift and stretch apart. With a creaking groan, a narrow, dark house squeezed itself into existence between the others. It was tall and foreboding, its blackened stone exterior giving off an air of neglect and gloom. Heavy curtains were drawn across every window, and the door was painted a dull, chipped black with a serpent-shaped knocker.
He took a deep breath and walked up the steps to the front door, pulling the key that the goblin gave him .
Harry entered Number 12, Grimmauld Place, and was immediately greeted by the familiar atmosphere of gloom and neglect that clung to the house like a thick fog. The hallway was dimly lit, with dark, peeling wallpaper and a musty smell that spoke of years of disuse. Ancient, dusty chandeliers hung overhead, casting flickering shadows along the worn floorboards. Cobwebs decorated the corners, and the walls were adorned with old, tarnished portraits of stern-looking witches and wizards from the Black family lineage.
The house felt oppressive, like the very air was heavy with the weight of dark magic and unhappy memories.
As Harry moved cautiously through the narrow corridor, his foot brushed against a dusty umbrella stand. Suddenly, a loud, piercing shriek echoed through the house, making him jump. He looked up, startled, and saw the source of the noise: a portrait of an old woman with wild, furious eyes and a look of disgust etched across her wrinkled face.
Harry had no idea who the furious woman in the portrait was. Her shrieking accusations caught him off guard as he stared at the wild, furious eyes glaring at him from the canvas.
"Filth! Scum! Blood traitor!" she screeched, her voice filled with venom. "How dare you sully the house of my fathers with your filthy presence? YOU—half-blood, abomination! Mudbloods and blood traitors, all of you! Filth in my house!"
The painting rattled violently in its frame as women's shrill voice echoed through the house, causing the ancient walls to tremble. Her bony hands reached out in anger, clawing at the air as if trying to physically remove Harry from her sight.
Harry grimaced, stepping back instinctively as her insults continued to rain down on him. "Get out of my house, you filthy creature! My noble house, defiled by traitors, by that vile son of mine, Sirius Black! And now, you—come to taint what remains!"
Trying to ignore her, Harry pulled the curtains that were meant to hide her portrait, tugging them shut to muffle her cries.
The women_ that harry presume is the women of sirus and regulus continued to scream, her voice a wail of fury that echoed down the dark halls, but eventually, her words grew faint and Harry was left standing in the oppressive silence of Grimmauld Place.
With a sigh, he looked around the eerie house, feeling the weight of its history pressing down on him. This place held secrets—secrets he needed to uncover—but it wouldn't be easy.
At that moment, a small, hunched figure appeared out of the shadows—a house-elf. His skin was grayish and wrinkled, with bat-like ears and bulging eyes that glared at Harry with barely contained disdain. The elf seemed every bit as unpleasant as the house itself.
"Filthy blood traitor!" the elf snarled, stepping closer to Harry, his voice dripping with malice. "This house does not belong to you! You have no place here!"
Harry, already exhausted and fed up with the portrait's screaming and the oppressive gloom of the house, felt a surge of anger. He wasn't going to let an elf or a painting bully him.
"Enough!" Harry shouted, his voice echoing through the hallway. He'd had enough of being pushed around, and he wasn't about to let a deranged portrait and a miserable elf treat him like dirt.
"I am the heir to this house!" Harry glared at the elf, his voice firm and unyielding. "And if you don't both shut up, I'll burn this place to the ground with you inside! This is my house now, and you'll obey me!"
The elf's eyes widened in shock at the threat, and for a moment, there was silence. The elf took a few steps back, muttering under his breath, but the defiance in his posture had noticeably weakened. He didn't dare challenge Harry further. Even the muffled shrieks from the portrait had died down.
For the first time since he entered Grimmauld Place, Harry felt like he had some control. He wasn't about to let this house intimidate him.
Harry took a deep breath and approached the heavy curtains that concealed the painting. With a swift motion, he pulled them aside, revealing the stern visage of a woman with dark hair and sharp features, her expression a mix of shock and disdain.
"State your name and stop shouting, or I will find a way to destroy this painting," Harry commanded, his tone unwavering.
The woman's eyes widened, clearly taken aback by Harry's audacity. "You dare speak to me in such a manner?" she replied, her voice cool yet trembling slightly. "I am Walburga Black, and I—"
"Just Walburga will do," Harry interrupted, narrowing his eyes. "And you will do well to answer me without that shrill voice, or I will find a way to silence you for good."
The shock on Walburga's face shifted to something more akin to grudging respect, though it was hard to tell if it was fear or mere surprise. "Very well, I shall speak in a civil tone… for now," she huffed.
As Walburga composed herself, the house-elf stood by, eyes darting between Harry and the portrait. "Kreacher is here as well," he muttered, reluctantly offering his name after his mistress.
"Great, now I have a name for both of you," Harry replied, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Now that introductions are out of the way, let's discuss what you both will do to ensure I don't turn this house into a pile of ashes."
Kreacher's expression shifted to one of grudging compliance, and Walburga, despite her initial defiance, seemed momentarily disarmed by Harry's unexpected assertiveness. The atmosphere in the room had changed, and Harry could feel a newfound sense of power coursing through him.
" I am Harry Potter Black," Harry said, standing tall and steady as he introduced himself. "Not only am I the son of Lily Evans Potter and James Potter, but according to a goblin I spoke with recently, Regulus Black is also my father. I never knew any of them, so I can't fathom how Regulus could be my father, and no one else seems to know this either."
As the words left his mouth, he noticed Kreacher's expression shift dramatically. The old house-elf's eyes filled with tears at the mention of Regulus, his voice trembling as he whispered, "Master Regulus…"
Walburga, on the other hand, seemed frozen in shock, her mouth forming the name of her son, "Regulus…" as if she were trying to comprehend the revelation. Without a word, she abruptly closed the curtains, shutting Harry and Kreacher out from her sight.
Harry felt a wave of emotions crash over him—anger, sadness, and confusion all mixed together. He had come here seeking answers, and instead, he had stirred memories and feelings that seemed to linger in the air like an unwelcome ghost.
"Why are you crying, Kreacher?" Harry asked, softening his tone just a little. "What did my father do?"
Kreacher wiped his eyes with a ragged sleeve, his voice cracking as he spoke. "Master Regulus was brave. He was good. He cared for Kreacher, treated him like family, unlike the others." The elf's voice fell to a whisper. "He died for what he believed in… for a cause… for the light."
Harry took a deep breath, feeling the weight of those words settle in his heart. "And me? What am I supposed to do with this information? I'm just trying to figure out who I am."
Kreacher looked up at him, his expression turning serious. "You are the heir of this house, Master Harry. You have the blood of the Blacks running through you. You can choose to honor your father's legacy or forge your own path."
Harry nodded, feeling the gravity of Kreacher's words. "I want to know more about him. I want to understand what he stood for."
Kreacher's eyes brightened with a flicker of hope. "Then let Kreacher show you, Master Harry. There is much to learn about the Black family and the choices they made."
Kreacher led Harry through the dimly lit corridors of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, each step echoing with the weight of history. The air was thick with dust and the remnants of long-forgotten memories. Harry felt a strange mix of apprehension and anticipation as he followed the old house-elf deeper into the heart of the house.
Finally, they reached a large wooden door at the end of a narrow hallway. Kreacher paused, glancing back at Harry with a hint of reverence in his eyes. "Master Harry, this is the family room where the Black family held important meetings and discussions. It is here that the tapestry of the Black family hangs."
With a flick of his wrist, Kreacher opened the door, revealing a vast room that seemed to resonate with the whispers of the past. The walls were adorned with dark wooden paneling, and the atmosphere felt heavy, almost suffocating. The centerpiece of the room was an enormous tapestry that stretched across one wall, displaying the intricate family tree of the Black family.
The tapestry was a chaotic mix of names, many of which were crossed out, denoting those who had been disowned. At the top, the name "Walburga Black" was prominent, and just below it, Harry's gaze was immediately drawn to "Regulus Arcturus Black" and, surprisingly, "Harry Potter Black." The revelation sent a shiver down his spine.
"Master Harry, this tapestry shows all the purebloods of the Black family," Kreacher explained, his voice almost a whisper. "It is a testament to their lineage and their beliefs."
As Harry studied the tapestry, his eyes widened as he noticed the name "Sirius Black" directly above "Regulus Arcturus Black." It was a striking connection, solidifying the bond between the two brothers in a way he had never fully appreciated. Under Regulus's name, he found his own name—"Harry Potter Black"—etched prominently.
"This is surreal," he murmured to himself, feeling the weight of the family ties he had only just begun to understand.
Continuing to scan the tapestry, he spotted the name "Narcissa Black," followed by "Draco Malfoy." Harry couldn't help but let out a scoff. "Draco Malfoy, really? That spoiled brat is linked to me?"
He shook his head, a mix of amusement and irritation flooding through him. The connection felt ridiculous. Draco had always been insufferably arrogant, with his entitled attitude and belief that purebloods were superior. The notion that they were family, even if distantly, left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He moved further down the tapestry, encountering the names of other Black sisters—"Bellatrix Lestrange," "Andromeda Tonks," and their mother, "Cygnus Black." Each name bore its own weight, representing a lineage that had once been powerful and influential, but also steeped in darkness.
Harry felt a tug of frustration as he absorbed the information. "Why is it that the family I never knew seems to come with so much baggage?" he wondered, reflecting on the heavy expectations and dark legacies tied to these names.
Kreacher observed Harry's reactions closely, sensing the turmoil within him. "Master Harry, the Black family has a long and complex history."
As Harry continued to study the tapestry, his eyes fell upon the name "Dorea Black," followed by the name "Charlus Potter." A spark of realization ignited within him. "Wait… if Dorea Black married Charlus Potter, then I'm connected to the Blacks even further back," he thought, tracing the family line with his fingers.
His gaze moved down the tapestry, revealing the names of his ancestors. "Dorea Black is my great-grandmother. That means Charlus Potter is my great-grandfather." He took a moment to absorb this information, feeling a strange sense of pride and connection to a lineage that seemed both distant and intimate.
Continuing further, he saw that Dorea and Charlus had a son named Fleamont Potter, who had later married Euphemia Potter. "So that makes them my grandparents," he mused quietly, a smile creeping onto his face. "And they had my dad, James Potter."
Feeling a rush of affection for his family, he pressed a finger against Regulus's name, contemplating the brotherly bond that he had only recently begun to understand. To his astonishment, a thin line appeared, connecting Regulus's name to James's. "What's this?" he exclaimed, his heart racing.
As he traced the line with his finger, another name emerged: "Lily Evans Potter." Harry's breath caught in his throat. The connection between them felt electric. "She's part of this tapestry, too," he thought, feeling a profound sense of belonging wash over him.
Kreacher, still lingering by his side, looked up at Harry with a mixture of awe and concern. "Master Harry, I have never seen such a change occur in the tapestry before," the elf said, his voice filled with surprise. "This connection—it is extraordinary."
Harry turned to Kreacher, eyes wide. "So, you're saying this hasn't happened before? I'm the first?"
"Indeed, Master Harry. The Black family tapestry is a record of bloodlines and ties. For a new link to form in such a way… it has never been witnessed in my lifetime," Kreacher replied, his ears twitching with excitement.
Harry felt a thrill run through him. "This means something," he thought. "Maybe my family isn't just a collection of dark histories and tragic endings. Maybe I can find a way to honor them all."
He glanced back at the tapestry, tracing the names with newfound determination. "I'll figure this out. I'll learn about my family, my heritage, and I'll make my own path—one that honors Regulus, my parents, and all those who came before me."
Feeling a sense of purpose, he straightened up, ready to dive deeper into the mysteries of his newfound legacy, with Kreacher faithfully at his side.
Chapter End Notes