It was going to be a chance to start afresh, he thought. More than the singular act of that May, this was going to be a step towards making the actual change. This was where the hard work started, the hard graft of turning 12 Grimmauld Place into a home.
Harry spent many days alone in Grimmauld Place, ripping down wallpaper, pulling up floorboards and wrestling with permanent sticking charms. Sometimes he used magic, sometimes he let himself indulge in the visceral sensation of tearing down a wall hanging, or chucking mouldering chair rails into a rapidly growing pile, levitating the massive piles of debris into a skip at the back of the property and enjoying the terrific crash the old made when it went out.
At first Ginny thought it was amusing, and came to help whenever she could. They painted the kitchen yellow and banished doxies out of age-old curtains, and chased each other about the house, finding all the secluded corners and punctuating Harry's reclaiming of the space by enjoying each other's company there. But when the project wore on into its third week, Ginny began to give him some space. Harry suspected she knew there was something he was getting out of it that she couldn't quite fathom, though she tried and he thought it unfair to demand she accompany him all the time.
For this was more than a matter of claiming the house for himself. When Sirius had bequeathed the property to him, in effect he was transferring it from the House of Black to the House of Potter, something Sirius himself had done when he was sixteen all but in name. There was too much going on for Sirius to make the necessary changes to the house himself, by the time he got out of Azkaban. Harry remembered a day back before fifth year where they had made a start at dragging the place out of the Noble and Moste Ancient House of Black and all that entailed. There would have been more of this. Harry was sure Sirius would have wanted it. And so he continued.
The work was cathartic. When paintings protested at certain artifacts, and especially themselves, being confined to a storage locker in Diagon Alley, Harry consoled them with the knowledge that at least these items had been deemed historically significant enough by himself to be worth saving. However, they deserved never to see the light of day again, as far as he was concerned. Harry debated whether the tapestry of the Black family tree should go to a museum, but ultimately decided against it, fearing the historical record would fall into the hands of those who would still glorify it. Besides, he thought, remembering what Hermione had said when she stopped by before she and Ron left for Australia, the records existed in books already. No point putting these things in a museum, at least not now.
Some days Harry found himself battling with the portrait of Walburga, shouting every counter-charm he knew against that permanent sticking charm, visualising the painting finally clattering unceremoniously to the ground, though it never did. They would get into slanging matches, he and the portrait of Sirius's mother. How Harry thought he could change the mind of a woman long since frozen in paint and time, he didn't know, but by Merlin did he try. At first the conversations were polite, but they quickly devolved from there.
On the odd night that Ginny came to stay and help, she told the old bat to shut up with her prejudice as much as Harry did. Ginny did not have Harry's stamina with the painting's removal, and after the second time, tried to persuade him that maybe he would have to shift the rest of the house around this reminder of the past, permanently stuck under velvet drapes that could only trap the sound, but never get rid of its presence. Harry hated the idea that no matter how much he tried to bring the rest of the house into the present, the portrait of Walburga Black insisted on remaining deeply entrenched, pride of place, in his home, even when hidden and silenced. He did not want, every time he came home, a reminder of the kind of thinking that led to Tom Riddle taking his parents' lives and so many others, the kind of thinking that corrupted the Ministry, that led to one of the people he loved most having to walk through life with a slur scarred into her arm. Harry absolutely could not allow this curtain-covered blemish to remain.
When inevitably Harry got stuck, Ginny convinced him to come to the Leaky Cauldron with her and Luna after they finished their school shopping, to take his mind off of things. But this project had consumed Harry, and he was almost immediately puzzling over the questions of the permanent sticking charm to Luna, much to Ginny's resignation. Luna's immediate response cut through them both.
"Well it's obvious isn't it? It's stuck to the wall."
Harry and Ginny blinked.
"...you need to take down the wall."
The rush of affection Harry felt for Luna could not be overstated. He practically leapt out of his seat to go home and set to it, but stayed after Ginny shot daggers at him with one look, begging him to please be social this once.
After three more rounds, talking over the news of Hermione's parents and their imminent return, Harry, Ginny and Luna retreated to Grimmauld Place. Despite Ginny's protestations that they put on the wireless and dance, Harry, emboldened by perhaps a little too much Firewhisky, insisted that it must happen tonight and enlisted their help.
Harry squared up with the painting, and aimed his wand above the offending artwork. On Luna's advice, he blasted partially through the wall in four corners around the portrait, and she and Ginny then helped him sever the plaster off the brick. It tipped like a falling tree and hit the ground, where the plaster crumbled impressively around the permanent sticking charm, and stayed eerily, perfectly solid behind the portrait. Harry knew that behind those soundproof curtains, Walburga Black was screaming a bloody streak, and he knew it would soon be the last he'd ever have to hear from her.
Once the rest of the wall was stabilised, and the plaster rubble cleared, Harry hovered the solid bit of wall that housed the painting into the garden, chucking it in a wheelbarrow to be dealt with in the morning. He did not want Hermione and Ron to miss this.
Harry didn't sleep that night, half out of anticipation of seeing his best friends again, half out of watching Ginny sleep, preoccupied as to whether he had really gone down the rabbit hole with all of this. He feared he'd misconstrued the understanding he thought they'd had with one another, and wondered if, perhaps, he could be more attentive to Ginny and if she'd soured on him. He vowed to do better as light appeared in the sky, and he drifted into a fitful half-sleep that rested his eyes and not much else.
Morning came, and with it, Luna wandering down from one of the house's many half-finished bedrooms to the half-finished kitchen, where she made scrambled egg on toast for her friends to calm their stomachs and soothe their aching heads. After a strong cup of coffee, Harry sent his Patronus to Hermione, telling her to bring her parents along. They might want to see what they were about to do.
The aim of the day was to keep everyone awake. Jet lag was even more extreme via Portkey, and Mr. and Mrs. Granger were still getting their bearings back in their old life -or at least one that resembled it. Harry welcomed everyone through, shaking the hands of Hermione's bewildered parents, clapping an exhausted, sullen Ron on the back and pecking Hermione on the cheek before he led them to the back garden, where Ginny and Luna stood, happy to see everyone but confused as to why they were all standing by a wheelbarrow.
It was symbolic, Harry said. He explained to Hermione's parents about the portrait, about how he'd inherited this place from his godfather, who had been miserable here, in no small part due to the woman in the painting. He wasn't going to uncover it because no one needed to hear the awful things she was going to say. But he, as was abundantly obvious, was giving this place the fresh start Sirius never had the chance to give it, and it couldn't truly be a fresh start with this horrible portrait shouting things that didn't belong in a world where Voldemort was gone. And so, Harry drew his wand, and encouraged his friends to do the same, and together they set the painting alight.
Harry put an arm around Ginny as they all watched the portrait burn, and they lost themselves looking at the flames, tired and hungover and emotionally drained. Suddenly, he felt another hand slip into his free one. He looked to find Hermione reaching over, tears in her eyes and a small smile on her face. She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, and they all stood there for a long time.
This was right, Harry thought to himself, before they all broke from their reverie and retreated inside Number 12 for tea, watching the glowing and then dying embers through the window. It was only a house but it was right. This was the first step of many, and there was a long way to go, but they were on the right track. And for the first time in years, Harry felt unburdened, like anything was possible. He felt free.