Dudley looked up and smiled softly, a look Harry had never seen on his normally brutish cousin before, and Harry realised that this might actually work.

Chapter 4: Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow (Or Not)

Harry mounted the hand mirror Sirius gave him to the wall of his bedroom with despair. Leaving the mirror at No. Four Private Drive felt tantamount to abandonment. The construction grade double sided tape nicked from Uncle Vernon's rusting tool shed held steadfast on the wall; he was sure any attempt to remove it would strip the wall of its horrid wallpaper. After a close to an hour of wandlessly trying to cast a notice-me-not charm on the mirror, he finally felt the magic take place and he collapsed on his thin mattress, readier than ever to leave his prison cell.

At four seconds to nine, Harry cast his best attempt at a wandless Alohomora on the door. It quietly unbolted from the outside and he slipped past the frame, thankful his door could open and close out of view of the window. Cloak covering his frame and a noiseless, weightless charm muffling his feet, he was down the stairs in a flash and out the front door, taking advantage of the Order's few moments of distraction during patrol change.

He knew Mad Eye Moody would want to take the three am to six am charge, as those hours seemed to be some strange opportunity for witches and wizards to commit their bizarre crimes (it reminded him of the 'witching hour' from his Roald Dahl story books as a child) so he safe from constant vigilance during this hour.

Once he passed the wards, the strange bubble of weight he had become accustomed to noticing and feeling over the summer, he began to sprint down Private Drive once more. His knapsack floated weightlessly on his back and his shoes made no noise in the late hours around the neighbourhood. A few open windows blared the evening news and a dog barked in the distance; Harry took comfort in the distracting noise.

Once he had run for a good fifteen minutes, and stopped to crouch and reclaim his breath, Harry pulled out a small vial of Polyjuice potion from his pocket. He had kept four for himself, knowing that his own glamour charms wouldn't be up to scratch if done wandlessly, and tipped a brown, greasy strand of hair from Dudley's head in the concoction. Unlike earlier, this potion seemed to roil and boil angrily, spitting and spilling slightly over the edges as it mixed with Dudley's DNA.

The Polyjuice finally ended in a smelly potion remarkably similar to Gregory Goyle's. Pinching his nose, Harry tipped the nasty substance down his throat and was surprised to find that, while it looked and smelt like Goyle's in second year, it was bitter but not nearly as putrid and had a soft, nearly absent aftertaste. Shrugging mentally, he braced himself for the transformation and shuddered uncomfortably as the potion took effect.

Once he had finally finished transforming into his obese cousin (and ever more grateful for Madam Malkin's self-tailoring robes), Harry stashed away his invisibility cloak and raised his wand in the air. A few stressful minutes later in which Harry wasn't sure if he could even summon his transportation in this form, a roaring noise alerted Harry of the oncoming Knight Bus.

An enormous beast of a bus stopped with alarming alacrity at his feet, the smoke belching, purple three-decker humming with magical energy. Two small doors swung open to the face of Stan Shunpike leaning over the railing to peer out into the night.

"'Ello!" Chirped Stan, who studied him critically.

"Hello," Harry answered politely, carefully swallowing his surprise at hearing Dudley's deep voice echoing out of his chest. "Are you heading into London this evening?"

Stan burst into laughter and waved the boy in. "Aye, boy, we're 'heading inta London'," he chuckled alongside Ernie, making Harry blush uncomfortably. "Eleven sickles, that is."

Harry handed over the money obediently. "Highbury Fields, Islington, if you please," he requested. A ticket was quickly shoved into his hands and Harry dashed to take a seat on a nearby bed before the Knight Bus took off.

It appeared not being Harry Potter saved him the chatter of the talkative conductor and grunts of the concentrating driver, Ernie. Stan chose to natter on to some rather green looking passenger, who held a mug of hot chocolate in his shaking hands and wore a good portion of the sloshing beverage on his lapels.

Holding onto the side bracing of the bus, Harry watched patiently as the bus zipped to and fro through busy downtown London, arriving in the bustling city within moments of departing Surrey. He was once again grateful for his never-mind-the-weather Quidditch training, for the sharp movements would have nauseated him in any other state. He was lulled into a state of meditation, glad to be mostly invisible to the other passengers despite his enormous size in the skin of Dudley Dursley.

The great purple bus finally heaved to a stop outside of muggle London's Highbury Field park and Harry unsteadily dismounted from the vehicle. With a nod from the conductor and driver, the Knight Bus shot off into the night, leaving Harry alone in a dimly lit street alongside a darkened city park. Once he was in the shadows and sure no prying eyes watched him in the night, he wrapped the invisibility cloak around his shoulders and walked the few remaining blocks to the entrance of No. 12 Grimmauld Place.

Grimmauld Place was both what he remembered and not. After sneaking in the front door as quietly as possible while under his cloak, he sidestepped the troll leg umbrella stand and tiptoed past the fluttering curtains of Walburga Black's portrait. He had honestly expected the Order of the Phoenix to still be exploiting the safe house as headquarters. But silence met his ears and dust covered the entrance carpet where it normally was cleared by the passing of multiple feet.

Harry realised with a start that Grimmauld Place was indeed his now. He had originally come to seek Sirius' mirror and then continue on, hiding from the Order during his break to freedom. But since the house now technically belonged to him, and he had never explicitly given permission for Dumbledore or the Order to use the house, he supposed they were momentarily blocked from entering despite knowing the Fidelius'd house address. While he once would have considered that the Order refrained from entering the house out of respect until permission was granted, he was slowly coming to understand that Dumbledore did what he thought best, what he considered for the greater good, and those on his side obeyed no matter the cost nor toll.

The thought weighed on him heavily.

Harry jumped suddenly as his skin began to bubble and shift, realising with a start that an hour had already passed since leaving the streets of Surrey. He leant against the wall in the hallway, bracing himself against the rough transition into his own form while safety hidden under his cloak. Once his bones and flesh had ceased shifting, Harry carefully made his way up the staircase, having no interest in going down to the kitchens and chancing an encounter with the sullen Kreacher.

The monstrous little house elf is probably still rejoicing the death of his master, Harry thought bitterly as he climbed the stairs to the highest floor of the house.

It never ceased to enrage Harry that Kreacher still lived while Sirius was gone. That the little creature held together with hatred and bigotry roamed the earth while Sirius had simply disappeared, not a body to bury nor a funeral to be had.

The thought shocked Harry so deeply that he froze on the stairs mid-step.

A funeral.

Had there been a funeral? Why hadn't he considered this before? Even just a symbolic goodbye. A burial without a casket.

Harry felt the walls closing in on him, the shrunken elven heads leering closer and closer with every passing second.

A funeral.

Did the Order host a funeral? Would he have even been invited, especially considering he was the sole reason Sirius had died? The reason brave and gentle Neville had his face and father's wand smashed, why innocent Luna was hunted and stunned, why his adopted brother Ron was confunded and then lashed by those horrible brains and adopted little sister Ginny had smashed her ankle, why his pseudo sister was Hermione cursed so darkly by Dolohov that she had to be treated with unending potions day in and day out lest she fall dead at a moment's notice.

Hermione's begging words of reason, desperate to get Harry to think logically before running to Sirius' help, played over and over in his mind.

Harry collapsed on the stairs, leaning against the wall and holding his head in his hands. The memories flashed behind his eyelids as he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, emotions in turmoil over the pain and horror he had brought upon his friends and his last remaining family. Watching Bellatrix curse Sirius through the veil once more brought a broken sob to his lips, begging his mind to please stop stop stop.

Harry awoke in the last place he would have expected to. He lay on his stomach in a ridiculously comfortable four poster bed and craned his next to look up at the obnoxious gold and red trimmings decorating the room. Muggle pinup posters were tacked haphazardly to each wall, including a couple posters of Betty Boop, a character Harry recalled from his earlier childhood. Though she certainly looked a fair bit naughtier in these posters than he had seen on the telly.

Quidditch flyers were Spell-o tapped carelessly between the suggestive posters, unfamiliar characters zooming around on brooms and cheering as goals were scored and snitches were caught. A wooden dresser stood in the corner of the room, overflowing with silk shirts and boxers. A built-in closet door peaked open, displaying carefully hung leather jackets and pants from a bygone era. A mirror was even tacked to the ceiling, showing full view the bed and making Harry blush a mottled red the implications.

Ignoring the room and its strange decorations, Harry turned back to the bed and breathed in deeply the scent of the plush comforter, the heavy duvet still smelling strong of his godfather even after all this time.

Unlike the ugly memories from before, Harry suddenly was reminded of a simpler time when Sirius used to come by the Potter house as an infant. The memories were slippery and difficult to grasp at best, so he simply absorbed the emotions and felt a warmth spread across his chest, enjoying the brief recluse. For a moment, Harry felt loved and he grasped onto the emotion tightly, ignoring reality and snuggling deeper into the comforter.

"Does the Harry Potter want dinner in the kitchens?" Came an unexpected, harsh voice.

Harry jumped in shock and whipped his head around, spectacle-less eyes coming on the blurry shape of Kreacher. His first reaction was to scream at the little creature the way Sirius had, just months ago, but the words stuck fast in his throat. He looked at the tiny, withering beast as best he could without his glasses and saw a miserable, hunched creature facing the door. It was clear that Kreacher had brought him here during his breakdown on the stairs and still expected cruel treatment. Hermione's protests rang loudly in his ear, He's a person, Harry! Listen to me! It's not right!

For once, Harry listened to her despite every instinct screaming at him to beat the little monster senseless.

"Yes please," Harry croaked. "Thanks."

Both knew it wasn't for the suggestion of food, but Kreacher merely ignored his peace offering and snapped his fingers, disappearing into the depths of Grimmauld Place. Harry sighed and let his head fall back into the pillow. It was going to be a very long summer indeed.

Harry slowly made his way down to the kitchen after ensuring his invisibility cloak was safe and his satchel untouched. The stairs groaned unhappily as he lightly stepped down the stairs and he wondered if the ancestral home of Black was miserable to be owned by a half-blood.

Once making his way into the room, Harry sighed at the sight before him. A bowl of barely passable gruel and a glass of brown water had been placed on kitchen table. Kreacher sat in the corner of the room, grumbling as he knitted what appeared to be a tiny winter coat.

"Thank you, Kreacher," Harry ventured a little more genuinely than before, sitting down at the table.

Kreacher looked up at the boy with such surprise that even Harry heard the cracking of his neck. "Filthy half-blood," Kreacher murmured in distaste as he returned to his knitting.

It was obvious though, from Kreacher's appearance and stature, that Sirius' death had affected even him. Harry spooned the nasty concoction into his mouth, hoping not to offend the house elf by his slight grimace of disgust. On the contrary, it seems to entertain the elf more.

After eating what little he could stomach, Harry walked his bowl of gruel and untouched water to the sink, washed the dishes, and placed them on an overly ornate rack to dry. He returned to the kitchen table and sat in silence. A large grandfather clock chimed eleven o'clock somewhere in the house and Harry looked down at his twisting fingers, wishing he knew how to start a conversation with a racist elf.

"Kreacher knows Harry Potter is new master," Kreacher grumbled while continuing his knitting, pearling violently.

Harry looked up in surprise. The little elf had never initiated a conversation before other than to insult, but it was clear he couldn't hold back expressing his disgust.

"I'll set you free, if you'd like," Harry offered. In a flash, Kreacher had dropped his knitting and was howling silently in horror, maw gaping and eyes wide open, hands clawing at his ears as he knelt pitifully on the floor.

"No!" Harry whispered hoarsely, standing quickly from the table. "You don't have to be free, Kreacher, only if you want!"

Kreacher ceased his horrific display of despair, slowly rising from his position on the floor. "Kreacher can stay?" The elf ventured fearfully.

"Of course, Kreacher," Harry answered softly, returning to his seat. "I'd never make you leave. After all, you belong in the house more than I ever could. This is your home. I can only hope this will become mine too one day."

The answer seemed to shock Kreacher to the bone and the elf stared at Harry in awed silence.

Harry felt himself soften at the evil little git. The little creature seemed devastated at having lost everyone, even Sirius, and Harry couldn't bear to let him destroy himself in the madness of solitude.

"I don't want the Order here, anymore," Harry admitted into the silence. He wasn't sure what made him say it, but it came tumbling out of his mouth in embarrassing honesty.

Kreacher appraised the boy for a while. "Kreacher knows how to stop the mudblood and traitors coming into the house," he stated, beady eyes daring Harry to challenge him.

Harry sighed at the terminology but accepted the gesture with grace. "That would be great, Kreacher. I just want this place to be… Brought back, I guess. To its formal glory. But better than ever. Want to help me?"

Without warning, Kreacher burst into tears and ran across the room towards the table, briefly terrifying Harry, and embraced Harry's leg. The little elf gripped the pant leg with fervour, burying his face into Harry while he sobbed into the fabric helplessly.

Harry patted Kreacher's back soothingly, though a little sickened by the feeling of the sobbing elf blowing his nose into his trousers, and pondered what exactly he had gotten himself into.

The next day, Harry was invited down to a large English breakfast complete with sweetened tea and strawberry jam for his scones. It surprised Harry to no end that simply being nice to Kreacher resulted in such a turnaround but, then again, the elf was completely insane and Harry wouldn't dare mention it for fear of insulting the elf's sensibilities.

Over breakfast, Harry discovered that Kreacher's knowledge of wizardry and witchery was far more expansive than even a few established professors at Hogwarts. Kreacher had led Harry into the library after breakfast (and thoroughly washing his hands), an enormous study with a fair few dangerous books trying to draw him close to their sides. Kreacher gripped Harry's hand as he led the boy past the compulsed tomes and sat him down in the centre of the room.

"Master needs to become with the wards," Kreacher explained, though this only confused Harry more.

"One with the wards?" Harry asked, deferring to the elf's knowledge and experience.

Kreacher scowled and placed a heavy tome in his lap, making Harry cough at the sudden puff of dust wafting into his face.

"Master will read. Master knows less than a mudblood. Shameful," the elf scolded harshly, wagging a finger at Harry's watering eyes.

"But I –"

"Shameful!" Interrupted the elf in a loud voice. "No talky until finished reading!"

Harry stared at the house elf as if slapped, holding the tome close to his chest. "But –"

Kreacher suddenly drew a large wooden spoon out of thin air and shook it at Harry warningly. "Shameful." The elf's eyes narrowed and Harry realised the creature wouldn't hold back on whacking him with the utensil.

Harry opened the book and began to read.

After being forced to read four ridiculously large tomes in less than eleven hours straight, Harry felt that his brain was about to explode. Kreacher fed him all kinds of 'study food', as the elf liked to claim. Strawberries, nuts and even peppermint tea was plied into his mouth as he absorbed the heavy text regarding Fidelius Charms.

Harry had a much greater appreciation for warding as a whole. And curse breaking. Merlin, he thought, Bill must be a genius.

While the texts were difficult to understand at first, the theories became significantly easier to process once Kreacher explained the terminology. To the elf's credit, he never left Harry's side with the exception of bringing more snacks or allowing a five-minute study break. Harry realised that Hermione would kill for this power and study ethic; he vowed to never let the two get onto speaking terms.

"Now Master Harry be writing an essays," Kreacher announced. Harry whipped his head around and looked at Kreacher, appalled. "The promptsies being on the paper." A piece of parchment was thrust into Harry's face and he groaned with the horrified realisation that Kreacher was completely serious.