The Last Secret Kept - Chapter One
Harry Potter sat in a rectangle of pale sun. It was shining through the attic window of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. He had begun on his next project – find out exactly what his godfather, Sirius Black, had left for him in his will. It had been Arthur Weasley who had suggested it. When Harry had first been told he was the sole beneficiary of his godfather's will, he hadn't been very interested. Then, as time had progressed and he had come to terms with Sirius' death, Harry had embarked upon what he thought was a one-way trip to destroy the Horocruxes and ultimately Lord Voldemort. And now that was complete; Harry was at a bit of a loose end.
He had spent a while determinedly drinking. Not alcoholism, as he kept stressing to Ginny, just determined drinking. Talking of Ginny, Harry's stomach did a funny twist, but he was well used to that now. It was generally a mix of nerves, regret, love, guilt and loss. They had tried, several times, to re-start their relationship, but everything still felt so – precarious, and as though nothing in their lives was tied down. So now they lived in an uneasy, yet simultaneously comfortable, hiatus.
After graduating Hogwarts, Harry had always assumed he would become an Auror. There was one major problem with that – he had never graduated Hogwarts. And although he had one honorary NEWT (Defence Against the Dark Arts), and one honorary BAT (Beastly Advanced Training – the level above NEWTs that were taught and examined in specific career training; Harry's was in Concealment), he had none of the other qualifications needed. So he decided to begin and complete the task he had been meaning to do for years; sort through Sirius' things and define his inheritance.
Harry had looked through countless photo albums; it had been inevitable, they were the most used objects by Sirius, and so were the closet to the hatch that led into the attic. He had caught numerous infections and wounds from obscure objects that were either charmed against intrusion or Very Dark. He also found the keys to Rachel – the red motorbike that Harry had seen photos of and heard stories about that had once flown Sirius across the country. Now, he held the keys in one hand, and a small slip of paper in the other.
The slip had been found inside a small parchment envelope, closely guarded by several nasty spells and hexes, a few of which Harry had fallen foul of. But the thing that kept Harry coming back to this envelope, and not putting it in the Dangerous Things Pile with the others, was himself. For the envelope had been addressed to Harry. Sort of. Well yes, actually, it had. In Sirius' expensively taught copper-plate writing, there read the following words 'For the sole eyes of my inheritor.' And, once that was crossed out, underneath it read; 'For the sole eyes and ears and memory of Harry James Potter, upon my death.'
It had taken Harry three weeks to open that envelope, and now he had done it, entirely by accident. As he had pulled Rachel's keys out of the sealed box, he had caught his fingers on a splinter sticking out of the lid. A drop of blood had fallen and splashed upon the envelope in the box. Harry had watched, fascinated, as the blood had wormed its way, purposefully across the parchment towards the seal, where it pooled, and disappeared. Then the seal had split of its own accord, and Harry had drawn the slip of parchment out.
'Northwood House – Cannis Road, Cawood Common, Leeds, Yorkshire.'
Those eight words were all that was written upon the page. Harry pondered this, as he sat, looking out of the attic window onto Grimmauld Place. It was an address clearly, and address only Harry could know – but what was waiting for him there? Harry was sorely tempted to tell Hermione or Ron, but he trusted Sirius, and Sirius had expressly said that it was for Harry's 'eyes and ears and memory' only. Harry gave up. He stuffed Rachel's keys in his pocket, and disapperated.
There was an unpleasant squeezing sensation, and Harry found himself sitting in the middle of an attic. He looked around him and swore. He was still in Number Twelve. He tried again. The third time he failed, he tried apperating somewhere else. Anywhere, it seemed, he could apperate to – anywhere but Northwood House. "Apparition block." He muttered darkly. He had come across them before, and the intensified squeezing feeling was definitely familiar. Harry sat down heavily. He couldn't take the Knight Bus, or Floo Powder – anywhere that had blocked against apparition surely would block against them too. Flying it was.
Harry clattered down the stairs, drawing whimpers from a portrait of a young child on the second floor and headed for the cupboard for his broom. But as soon as he had flung it open, he changed his mind. With a sly grin, Harry pulled Rachel's keys out of his pocket. So, Rachel the flying motorbike was lost, was she? Well, Sirius had never had the chance to look for her. And Harry had a sneaking suspicion he knew where she was.
