Before Harry knew it, three days had passed rapidly. Between himself and Kreacher, the lower floors of the Black house were rapidly decontaminated if not precisely brought up to snuff.
The various infestations that had caught his eye that first night had been caught, trapped or otherwise contained. He'd sold some to a couple of animal enthusiasts, breeders and collectors. Others he'd released into the wild on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forrest. Some just got Vanished.
This left the lounge or drawing room – whatever it was called – generally safe to be in, although the scent of dust and mildew was still heavy.
Harry cast a few reparos at the furniture, which fixed frayed fabrics and faded designs. However, he wasn't convinced as to the efficacy of his actions and wasn't quite willing to risk his own behind on sitting on any of the newly repaired seats.
"Whaddya reckon?" he asked his newest companion, who had a tendency to follow him around the house whenever Harry attempted to wander.
"Kreacher is seeing the mad half-blood Potter is trying."
Harry shot a look sideways. "Hey! This is pretty good for a first timer!"
Kreacher nodded his head wisely. Supportively, Harry might have said. Hermione would have called it indulgently, if she were here.
"The young mad half-blood is doing his best."
"…Sure." Harry nodded. "Yeah, I'll…I'll keep working on that, I guess."
He added a couple of household hints and furniture restoration books to his wish list and decided to renovate the rooms when he was sick of studying and looking after Sirius.
He couldn't have Kreacher looking down on him, after all.
Speaking of whom, Kreacher was all for taking down the curtains and giving them a good wash, now that his laundry system was up and running again. Apparently Harry's words had sent the small house-elf into paroxysms of cleaning. Harry had to rather forcefully point out that the Ministry watchers were still in front of the house and might just manage to notice whole windows being cleaned and polished and redecorated.
To Harry's amusement, Kreacher's complaints focused on Ministry priorities for a good few days.
Meanwhile, in a similar manner to what had eventually happened in the last timeline, the kitchen became the warmest, friendliest part of the building.
Harry woke up on the second day and wandered into the kitchen to find it as fresh and bright and clean as it had been in his recent memories of seventh-year. Had it really been only his seventh year in Wizarding Britain, after all of that? Things seemed to different now. Seventh-year seemed so long ago.
Harry's mind returned to the present.
The dust and mould, the two of them had dealt with together that first day when Harry brought back the groceries. They'd both had baths, eaten soup for dinner and Harry, at least, had gone to bed to sleep the sleep of exhaustion.
Now Harry was beginning to think that Kreacher hadn't slept at all, because the kitchen had been transformed when he woke up.
The countertops and table were no longer clean, but gleaming with polish and shine and Merlin only knows how much elbow grease.
The cast-iron stove had been emptied of old ash and scrubbed free of rust, as had the open fireplace where the huge cauldrons tended to hang.
Cupboard hinges no longer squeaked, the stone tiles shone and the gaps between stone slabs were apparently scraped clean by some determined kind of detailed work at goodness-knows what time of night.
Apparently, allowing Kreacher to destroy and keep the locket had had similar results as last timeline.
"This looks fantastic, Kreacher," Harry exclaimed as he wandered into the warm, cheerful room in the first minutes after he woke up.
Kreacher had the fire going cleanly, and was pottering around getting breakfast porridge sorted as Harry stumbled in.
"The mad half-blood is being getting Kreacher things to eat and leaving him to get on with it," Kreacher insisted in return, so Harry settled down at the table to watch the house-elf at work, and spun his wand for want of anything else to do.
Kreacher, newly washed and dressed in a neatly mended toga, looked like a changed house-elf.
"How are you this morning?" Harry asked, lacking anything else to do and wanting to confirm their improved relationship.
"Kreacher is being a good house-elf," the little being replied, toddling over to a clean and shining kettle that he promptly hung over the fireplace.
"Great!" Harry exclaimed. "And how are you feeling this morning?"
Kreacher turned to stare at Harry with a somewhat comical expression. "Kreacher is feeling like a good house-elf."
Oh. Oh. "That's awesome," Harry grinned. "I feel pretty good myself, after yesterday.
Kreacher nodded wisely. "The mad half-blood is doing much better work than Kreacher is expecting."
"…Thanks."
There was an awkward lull in the conversation for a moment while Kreacher kept busy, muttering quietly to himself all the while. Harry tried to figure out if more talking would help or hinder the relationship with his new ally.
"Here is being some tea," Kreacher croaked eventually, disturbing Harry from his musings and sliding a very fine china cup in front of him.
"Oh, thanks."
Harry clasped his hands carefully around the body of the cup and inhaled the slowly rising steam. It smelled fresh, with some kind of flavour he hadn't had before.
He lifted the fine china cup up to his mouth and had a sip of the steaming hot drink.
Hot. It tasted like…Harry searched for the word for a moment, taking a second, deeper sip while he searched through his memory for the precise word. While he mused, his fingers stayed curled around the teacup. The warmth seeped into his fingertips gently, warming the knuckles of his fingers and sending soft tingles of comfort up his wrist and forearm.
He took a pensive sip again.
It was green tea, obviously. Something fresh and leafy and ever so slightly sap-like…
His choked back a final sip with a cough and a splutter, and Vanished the cup's contents as soon as Kreacher had his back turned.
It tasted exactly like how one of the plants in the Restricted Hogwarts Greenhouses smelled, when Herbology got up to O.W.L levels.
Had Kreacher braved the garden for him again? Harry was touched, and ever so slightly disturbed. Were the leaves poisonous? He had no way of knowing.
Harry eyed the cauldron full of cooking porridge with some caution and concern. He'd bought all the necessary ingredients yesterday, hadn't he? There was nothing unusual added in?
After the somewhat oddly flavoured meal, Harry sorted out everything lacking in their pantry or kitchen pretty much straight away, buying some good black breakfast tea from a Hogsmeade shop first thing.
He discovered, wandering the shops as he did, a whole bunch of new stores and markets stalls that he had never before needed to notice.
Kitchen herbs and spices were sold at a variety of stalls in Hogsmeade in little paper packets, weighed by the ounce.
A Mr Wilkes provided him with a pile of new firewood, guaranteed to immediately thereafter kept the fire burning clear and fresh. Harry rather looked forward to the effect of fresh, dry pinewood while he stuffed each log into his mokeskin pouch.
A cheerful motherly witch, Madam Shepherd, provided Harry with milk in glass bottles, along with a small range of cheeses, "fresh out'a me own dairy, back on th' farm, they are."
Clayton Ashwood, an elderly, heavily tanned wizard with very grey hair and a bright ginger beard, sold Harry a basketful of soaps straight from his own workshop. He guaranteed they would work for dishes and cutlery and body wash as well – house-elves and wizarding folk both.
Mistress Weatherwax sold Harry and assortment of other culinary delights and honey, which Kreacher would hopefully use to flavour their meals instead of the…leafy goodness of the back garden. She thought Harry was a 'clever young lad' to help his old mum out, and Harry had to agree with the sentiment before she'd finally see him off.
Together with Madam McMillan's Handy Household Hints, a spell compendium worth its weight in galleons, and a couple of do-it-yourself restoration guides, Harry felt that he'd made great progress in his shopping and returned home to work on his own plans. Sirius. The Grimmauld Place do-up. His study.
Back at Sirius' place, Kreacher and Harry found themselves spending many peaceful hours in the newly refurbished kitchen, squabbling peacefully about who would do the cooking, one or both of them pottering around the fireplace or stove, eating and studying.
To Kreacher's delight and Harry's frustration, they were never joined by Sirius. His godfather seemed to be sleeping off his exhaustion and hadn't stepped a foot out of the luggage since he and Harry and first arrived.
"Odd," Harry described it, worrying about the recovery of his godfather and the timing of his plans.
"Good," declared Kreacher, who didn't want Sirius "getting into the Mistress' good kitchen and making a mess of Kreacher's hard work."
"Wait – am I okay then?" Harry asked.
He'd claimed one end of the kitchen table to do his planning on, and pieces of paper and books of all kinds were usually spread out across at least half its surface.
"The young mad half-blood master is cleaning the kitchen," Kreacher muttered to his knees, and Harry took that as permission to stay.
Aside from the odd narration describing Harry's actions – "the mad young half-blood is reading his books and letting the good tea get cold", "the mad Potter is resting his elbows on the table" – Kreacher didn't seem to mind. Harry thought that perhaps the improvement of his household circumstances excused Harry's intrusion.
The house-elf was still surly, of course. He stalked around grumbling and scowling at all sorts of things, but Harry realised very quickly that there was no real bite to his complaints. Kreacher just seemed to have matured into a slightly senile and grumpy old man. Harry had dealt with worse.
For at least a few hours every day Harry and Kreacher attacked the very upstairs rooms. Harry's Household Hints book, and his newly found skill with spells – that strange holding, pausing, imaging – came in handy, because the bedrooms and sitting areas were far more complicated to clean than the kitchen. (He didn't even want to think about the library yet. That could come later. Maybe next holidays.)
Meanwhile, in between rattling cupboards and suspiciously echoing fireplaces, these rooms had carpets and curtains and fabrics galore, even if Harry and Kreacher were limited to the backrooms and windows not facing the road.
Harry tried to see what this new perspective on spell-making could do for him. He couldn't do it without the occuluseo, he was quick to realise. That meant that he wandered the rooms with magic glimmering in his pupils and coincidentally noticed a few Dark Creatures to eliminate while he was at it.
Rather than simply snapping out a spell as he had previously, Harry taught himself to draw the casting out, holding the magic and shaping it before release. The magic didn't mind it – if 'mind it' was precisely the word – but years of practice meant it tried to rush through his wand into being without his conscious control.
Hold it back, Harry had to think as he stared at the faded green cushion on the divan in the ground floor drawing room. Build it, hold it…feel the weight and the eagerness and the image in your mind. He pictured a plump and fresh-scented pillow, silken threads bold in colour and compelling in a classic, ageless style. The gold braiding around the edges would be bright and striking-looking.
"Reficio," he breathed, trying out the renewal spell from the Household Hints book, and the threads of magic unfolded out of his wand in a slow, graceful bloom.
With the magic in his eyes, Harry saw the pillow shrug, inhale. Its fibres seemed to breathe in as the stuffing filled with air and threadbare fabric reformed and thickened. Streaks of colour flowed up the twists of fabric and dyed the pillow cover a luxurious green. To Harry's surprise, the faintest of gold threads seemed to run through the otherwise pure green fabric.
Had he…had he been aiming for that?
The single cushion seemed to regrow itself from the inside-out – not the just outside snap to attention, like the previous reparos he'd cast.
Magically enhanced eyes stretching to their limit, until his brain felt little sparks buzz and black spots appeared in his periphery, Harry stared into the magic he was casting. He stared into his own, slow spell as it unfolded as if it was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.
The ripples within him trembled. There was…
Oh. There was an echo. In amongst the stern and austere sound – was it a sound? – the rhythm, perhaps; the sense of the Black pillow, a kind of resonance had formed.
Harry could feel the spell stretch itself to fulfil its purpose. The magic was showing him what once had been there.
And the pool of magic within Harry trembled in response.
All of Harry's senses focused on the unfolding of his one, single spell. Time dilated, travelling slowly. So slowly that Harry's pulse in his ears stopped sounding like an actual heartbeat, but more of a whooshing rush of blood pulsing through his arteries between long moments of silence.
The magic blossomed slowly enough in his mind's eye that Harry could keep up, funnelling more direction from the inside of his being.
Ah, Harry thought. That's the trick. Lasting magic. Deeper magic. No wonder some students could cast slow in exams and get the top marks. This was the next step in his learning.
Harry smiled.
He had far greater control over his spell output now than he ever had before.
They kept up with the cleaning, Kreacher and Harry, although neither was quite ready yet to make changes to front of the house. The Ministry watchers were still outside, although not very alertly, it seemed. They worked in three shifts, Kreacher reported, which seemed to Harry to be perfectly designed for subpar performance. Not that he was complaining.
They didn't dare do any cleaning in the entranceway either, where Mistress Black's portrait slept, or in any of the corridors surrounded by portraits and mirrors.
When Harry walked past Phineas Black's portrait – the one that could walk between the Black House and Headmaster's office – he almost had a heart attack, realising he'd almost ruined his plans once again.
That was resolved with an immediate wand-wave, a drapery of heavy white linen, and the observation that perhaps more cleaning of the upstairs should wait until he'd figured out the Fidelius Charm.
It was Sirius that had Harry most worried. They had good moments, now that Sirius was getting three meals a day. And Sirius was warm and comfortable inside Harry's trunk, which could only be good. He wasn't sure if he was imagining things, but Harry hoped he could see Sirius' ribs showing less. His wheezing was slowly improving too, to Harry's relief.
But Sirius steadfastly refused to leave the compartment, stubbornly insistent that he eat and sleep and live within those four walls. On the two occasions that Harry had tried to insist, Sirius had grown very agitated and aggressive, forcing Harry to give in. Harry had simply collected a chamber pot that Sirius could use for his comfort, and resigned himself to a longer wait.
Sirius had also returned to living as Padfoot for most of his day, which had Harry concerned. Padfoot the dog seemed healthier than Sirius the man, which was fine, but Harry had noticed a concerning trend.
Sirius turned human when Harry came with food, waiting at the bottom of the stairs; by the time Harry can fully opened the luggage lid and rested it on the group, and picked up the food to bring down the stairs, Sirius was standing there, looking like he'd always been that way. While he ate, he happily chatted with Harry about the Marauder's adventures at Hogwarts.
JIt was just that when Harry peeked in the compartment through a lid cracked open just an inch, there Padfoot sat and panted. Curled up in a corner in dog form and gazing at the walls, Sirius hadn't moved from there as far as Harry had spied.
He'd been locked up in a small room for years! Surely Sirius should be exploring his limits by now?
His odd choices didn't seem very healthy to Harry.
Harry stepped out of the Apparition point in Diagon Alley on the fourth morning, keeping all this in his mind. He had a To Do list so long that he had actually brought the piece of paper to remind him of everything.
The Post Office was first, and then the bookshop. He needed all of his third-year textbooks, plus anything that could help him understand Sirius' strange behaviour, and to research the Fidelius.
The apothecary was next, and then Harry had to stop by the market to collect enough food for the next three days. The wizarding world had many wonders, but the lack of refrigeration was an unwelcome surprise.
He made it back to Grimmauld Place safely, Apparating into the kitchen instead of the trunk. Kreacher was always surprised by the noise, and tended to sulk for half an hour or so every time after Harry did so. It was apparently breaking some kind of universal rules of etiquette and displaying apparently unseemly behaviour, but Harry didn't have many other options. Sirius might have attacked him if the crack of Apparition happened anywhere near him and the Ministry watcher was still waiting outside.
The crazy old house-elf was the safer option, and wasn't that a sad thought.
So soon Harry had himself spread out over his usual seat at the table, reading his mail.
Dear Harry, the first letter started,
I am so sorry that your birthday present is late! My parents and I are holidaying in the French Riviera, and I had no idea where to find an Owl Postal Office all holiday, until now. There's some incredible historical areas that I've visited so far, and I'm so pleased that my parents let me travel with my wand (not that I've been using magic of course, because that would still be illegal even if I am overseas), because I've been keeping an eye out and managed to find my way to the local wizarding market just today. It's almost like Diagon Alley, you have to walk up a little side alley and tap your wand on a statue set into the wall, and the archway opens up into a beautiful little shopping district. I've taken photos, I'll show you some when I get back.
So I've rewritten my whole History of Magic essay to include some of the interesting things I have learned while I'm over here. I hope the essay isn't too long – it's over two feet longer that what Professor Binns asked for – but everything was so fascinating and I've bought some books on French wizarding history. Can you read French, Harry? I'll loan them to you if you're interested.
Otherwise I've been trying to keep up with England, and I've been getting the Daily Prophet delivered. Have you heard any more about this Sirius Black person? He seems terribly dangerous, don't you think? Do stay safe Harry, although I suppose you are the most mature one out of all of us.
Let me know what you think of your birthday present. I was doing a bit of research for third year and thought you would enjoy this too. I've already read it, so I'd love to hear your thoughts when we see each other next.
Neville says that he and Ron are meeting up in Diagon Alley to do their school shopping the Saturday before school goes back. Have they spoken to you? I thought we might be able to all meet up and spend the day together. My parents would love the chance to meet your aunt and uncle – the muggles should stick together, they've been saying recently.
Happy belated birthday!
Much love,
Hermione
Hermione was a bit different in this timeline, Harry mused as he dug through his pile of postage to find a parcel that felt like a book. She had not smuggled a dragon out of school, or explored the forbidden third-floor corridor, and certainly didn't believe a teacher had tried to kill Harry. Therefore, Hermione's straight-laced rule-following shouldn't really come as a surprise. But her letters were also…warmer…somehow. More personal. Her family had never expressed a wish to meet his before, Harry frowned as he ripped open the brown wrapping paper. But this timeline Harry's best friend was…well, he'd said it was Ron a few months ago, hadn't he? But he spent more time with Hermione, Harry supposed, or possibly Neville. Not Ron…not really Ron at all, and almost never just the two of them, he had to admit, so maybe that explained the differences. He'd have to head off enquiries into his relatives next time he met with his friends.
Harry wondered idly if Sirius would have any comments for him on that, and then remembered that Sirius wasn't really focussing on any of the complicated friend-stuff yet. He shelved the thought.
Instead, Harry's thoughts trailed off as he removed his birthday present from the thick and glossy paper it had come in and something unexpected caught his eyes. To his mild surprise, Hermione's gift was nothing to do with Quidditch, or even homework. The Intuitive Reading of Modern Runes was a thick book hard-bound in some kind of brown leather.
It definitely hadn't been on the book list for Hogwarts third-years, so Harry wasn't quite sure what she'd been thinking.
It didn't seem the kind of thing…but wait. Harry had been a lot more studious this timeline, after all. He supposed Hermione had noticed him read a few Runes books at the end of last year, and had kindly bought him 'extra reading'. How things had changed.
He carefully cracked open the cover, and saw tucked inside the book a luxury Eagle feather quill, and a neat little inscription on the cover page:
To Harry, with love. Hermione Granger. '93.
Harry smiled as he put Hermione's present aside, and picked up his next letter.
Kreacher plonked another cup of tea on the table in front of him and muttered about the 'mad half-blood looking after his health'. He was being managed, Harry noticed with a thankful grin. It didn't feel all that bad, actually.
Then he took off his glasses to polish them clean, and resettled them onto the bridge of his nose with a thoughtful kind of frown.
This letter looked formal and fancy, with a deep blue ink in a strict kind of handwriting that he was beginning to be familiar with. Harry carefully slit open the wax with curiosity, working his little letter opener with precise control. His smile faded.
Dear Mister Potter,
As you may have learned from the news, a wizard by the name of Sirius Black has recently become the first known wizard to escape the wizarding prison, Azkaban. Remembering what you had told me with regards to your relation to him, namely, your claim that he is your godfather, I have spent the past week researching his trial and subsequent incarceration to ensure that you and your circumstances will remain unaffected by the criminal's actions.
Mr Potter, it is my sad duty to inform you that Sirius Black may be a threat to your safety as long as he is at large and evading capture. Mr Black was arrested on November 1, 1981, on the charges of murdering Peter Pettigrew, twelve muggles, and as an accessory to the murder your own parents, James and Lily Potter.
In light of your concerns, I have attempted to investigate the pertinent trial records, and must confess that thus far the evidence suggests that he was incarcerated without trial. While this is a clear failure of justice, my concerns remain concerning your safety and the intentions of Mr Black himself.
My investigations have revealed that Mr Black weathered his incarceration better than many of his companions, and has reportedly failed to descend into the sedentary madness of other inmates during his time in the most heavily guarded cells in the prison. He is capable of rationality, and witnesses have reported him muttering in his sleep, "He's at Hogwarts". It is my personal belief, and the belief of many who have been forced to interact with him over the years, that Mr Black may be intending to hunt you down in a fury of misguided justice for your role in ending the reign of terror of his master, the Dark Lord. Allow me to warn you that long-term prisoners in general, let alone prisoners of Azkaban's high-security wing, are institutionally unable to readjust to the outside world, and that Mr Black may be unpredictable as he fails to cope with his experiences of freedom, his freewill and his emotions for the first time in years.
Mr Black is not considered armed at this time, but remains the most dangerous wizard currently at large. The Ministry's silence as to his method of escape indicates that no-one has any idea how he managed to break out of prison.
I entreat you to tread carefully this upcoming year. I will continue to investigate the matter pending further instructions from yourself.
Harry allowed himself a pleased little smirk in the direction of his trunk, within which Sirius was safely and secretly ensconced. Then he frowned again, because things didn't seem good for Sirius, even from the perspective of his own personal, apparently unbiased legal representative.
His eyes skated further down the letter to read the final paragraph.
On a more mundane matter, the intricacies regarding your inheritances continue to be cleared up nicely. It seems that your accountant, Mr Rowle, estimates that much of the gold you have been bequeathed will go towards backdated payments. However, you will certainly end up with a net gain consisting mostly of furniture, trinkets and at least one small property just outside of Aberdeen. A full report is forthcoming.
I await your reply with all diligence,
Yours respectfully,
Erasmus Lloyd-Elliot
Harry folded the letter up thoughtfully. He had been half-convinced that Sirius' protestations about his lack of trial had been confused. Surely no legal court that would give a trial to Bellatrix Lestrange would refuse to do the same to Sirius Black. But Mr Lloyd-Elliot seemed like the type who would only pass on reliable information.
What the lawyer had said about Sirius' freedom, free will and emotions rang bells though, and Harry wondered precisely what it meant. Sirius had the freedom and free will to do as he wished now, and was apparently dedicated to hunting down Wormtail. Upon reflection, Sirius' refusal to leave the luggage compartment was keeping Harry off-balance for more reasons than simply its contrast to the previous timeline's living in a cave. Sirius should want fresh air, exercise and sunshine, now that he wasn't stuck in his cell.
Harry scratched his head in thought. The emotions bit made sense though, now that someone had pointed it out. For eleven-and-a-half years Dementors had been stealing all of Sirius' positive emotions, so it seemed natural that now he had to deal with them again, Sirius seemed unhinged. It would also explain why he felt better as Padfoot: there was less disconnect between his current and prior states.
Harry scribbled a quick note back and moved on.
Kreacher wandered around him muttering under his breath, but didn't actually scold Harry for his mess. Instead, he just grabbed the other purchases from Harry's shopping back and put them away, leaving the kitchen full of the domestic sounds of earnest efficiency.
The week passed. Harry failed to find any information on the Fidelius, but when not cleaning the back rooms, he and Kreacher spent time only in the downstairs kitchen. Presumably, the watchers never saw anything suspicious, because their number never increased.
Harry also mucked around a bit with his potions textbooks, finally brewing a very few, very gentle potions that could help Sirius without endangering his health. Dreamless Sleep. Calming Draught. Vitamix. He longed to get rid of all Sirius' pneumonia symptoms with one good dose of Pepper Up, but he knew enough from his own studies that it worked by stimulating the body. Logically, that might put a sensitive body, already weakened through long-term health problems, into shock. He just couldn't risk it yet.
He kept up his studies in the Grimmauld Place kitchen, where Kreacher soon grew accustomed to his presence. The elf was still reluctant to house his master, the prodigal Black, however, until one fateful afternoon.
"Is the odd half-blood Potter staying here?" Kreacher inquired as he slipped Harry some freshly brewed tea. "And is the bad, naughty master still hiding in his box?"
"Only for one more week," Harry admitted, secretly feeling quite chuffed he'd been promoted again from 'mad' to 'odd'. "I have to go back to Hogwarts. I was planning for Sirius to stay here with you, since I know you can look after him, but I just don't know now if that's going to work."
Kreacher sniffed sullenly. "Kreacher is not minding the odd half-blood Potter, who is helping restore the House of Black to its glory, and is working with young master Regulus. But nasty, naughty master is not welcome in Mistress' good house."
"Did you know that he was in prison for something he didn't do?" Harry enquired.
Kreacher scowled heavily. "Nasty master is a blood traitor and a failure of a son, and befriends mudbloods and half-bloods to make his mother cry."
Harry found himself unable to argue with the specifics of the accusation, even if the language it was couched in was less than ideal. "Well, the Black family were followers of Lord…of the Dark Lord, were they not?"
"Proper good Blacks is giving good gold and advice to the Dark Lord," Kreacher nodded uncertainly.
Harry went on uncertainly. "But…did you know that the reason your young Master Regulus died was because of the Dark Lord?"
After a long and terrible pause, Kreacher shivered, "The...the hands, the dead hands, and the empty eye holes, and the Dark Lord is leaving on his boat and Kreacher is so thirsty…my poor master, my poor, poor young Master Regulus…the thirst, the hands…"
"Kreacher," said Harry hesitantly. "Just like how your Master Regulus was willing to die to bring the Dark Lord down, Sirius has been trying to do that too. It was their parents who were his followers. Master Regulus changed his mind, you know. To agree with Sirius."
The pale, shaky elf looked struck by this logic and trembled a little where he stood. His ears drooped remarkably. Harry didn't want to look at the expression in Kreacher's eyes.
"Master Regulus was not…?"
"Master Regulus was so clever," Harry continued, settling in to the manipulation that was necessary, "that no one knew he was trying to help the Dark Lord die. And…and Sirius tried that too, but maybe he wasn't quite so clever about it, but he has been doing his best for so long."
"His…best?"
"I…" Harry tripped over his tongue, "Kreacher do you remember that horrible drink in the middle of the lake that you, and Master Regulus, that you had to drink? And how it made you feel that all the happiness had left the world, that you were a failure, that all the bad thoughts you had ever had came back, and it made you…feel all the bad feelings? Master Sirius, he's been in Azkaban for years and years, and the Dementors, they made him feel that way all the time. And he's been strong for so long, but he's so tired, and he can't remember what the good feelings felt like any more. Kreacher, is it so bad that I want Sirius to be happy and healthy again?"
"The…the bad master…"
Harry hurried on. "And, and after everyone else had died, and your Mistress Walburga, and Master Orion and Master Regulus had all gone, Sirius is still a pureblood Black, right? Did you know that the Ministry never even gave him a trial? They locked up a Black in a place that's that nasty and horrible, for something he didn't do. And they didn't even bother to check? Imagine if it had been Regulus."
"...If it was...?"
Harry chose his words carefully. "Even if he's your least favourite Black, he's still from the most Noble and Ancient House, right? And the Ministry just didn't care?"
Kreacher was rocking back and forth on his toes, his ears clutched tightly in he fists. There was a low whine coming from deep in his throat, and Harry didn't know what it meant.
"I know that you and Sirius don't get on. And, and that's okay. But I want to keep Sirius safe, and I know you're a good house elf and I can't do it without you. I…Kreacher?"
Kreacher's rocking and moaning got greater, and Harry paused for a moment. Then, when Kreacher's pain continued, he sat back and waited for Kreacher's attention to return.
After many minutes, Kreacher finally looked up. "The odd young master Potter says…?"
Harry looked at the pitiful little elf, and couldn't think of a way to make him feel better. "You can call me Harry, Harry Potter, if that helps," he eventually managed. "I…I know I'm a half-blood, and I know it was important to your mistress, but, but your Master Regulus changed his mind about many things, and... I…are you feeling okay?"
"Kreacher is– Kreacher is not well," the old house elf admitted. "Kreacher is listening to the mistress, and Kreacher is obeying Master Regulus. But Kreacher is not killing the locket and not cleaning the house. Bad Master Sirius is not welcome in the house, but Kreacher is– Kreacher is obeying Harry Potter. Kreacher is…Kreacher is…"
Harry judged that he had pushed the house elf far enough today.
"How about you take another nice long bath," Harry suggested. "I can transfigure up the nice bathtub with the Black heral…er, that's a no, then?"
He paused as Kreacher's rocking and moaning began again. The old elf was muttering something under his breath. Something about, "not worthy…young master Potter…but the Mistress…but the master…" and, "Bad Kreacher, naughty Kreacher…"
"Well, it doesn't have to be so flash," Harry tried. "We can take the biggest cauldron and pop it over the fire until the water warms up just right. And then you can…would you like to polish the silverware? I have my potions ingredients and can whip up some…what do you use to clean silver? Silver tonic? I think there was a page in my Household Hints book with a recipe, and maybe you can polish and relax and take it easy. What do you think?"
Kreacher slowly started nodding his head. "Kreacher is taking a bath if he must," he agreed, apparently wanting to seem reluctant. "Kreacher is not wasting the hot water, no, Kreacher is a good house elf. And then Kreacher is wanting to polish the silver please."
"I'll find the recipe now," Harry agreed and left the elf to his thinking.
Harry was a much better manipulator now than he had been a few years ago. It was quite lucky that the Sorting Hat had agreed to Sort him into Gryffindor when he was back redoing first-year. Harry rather suspected that he would not be so lucky if he had to go through that again now.