Disclaimer: Just pretend it's here.

AN: Thanks, everybody, for reviewing (you know who you are)! Now, I'd like to apologize in advance - I can't help the feeling that I missed something in this chapter, but I'm not doing too much editing on it...I just sat through two hours of higher order mixed partial derivatives of functions of five variables...if that sounds confusing, multiply it by ten, add a headache, and that's how I feel right now :P

Chapter 18: Of House Elves and History Professors

The next month passed rather quickly, Harry's days filled to the brim with various preoccupations – his job at Borgin and Burke's, making plans with Hermione, and trying to find a way to locate Peter Pettigrew foremost among them. His part time employment proved, in the end, to be a reprieve – getting paid for doing work that was most of the time mindless and idle was quite a novel experience. The shop was usually quiet, for the most part, with only a few customers showing up per day; but most of them were very fascinating, Harry found – witches and wizards with obscure tastes and knowledge, many of them more than happy to satiate his curiosity. He had already met a few curse breakers and crafters, a collector of ancient torture devices, an man who worked as an executioner, and another who guarded Azkaban, some ex-aurors (all discharged for the usage of questionable spells), and a witch who still actively worshipped the Norse deities. Borgin was even starting to allow Harry to assisting him with appraising and pricing items, as well as organizing the inventory – all in all, Harry decided that his part-time job was a worthwhile endeavour.

His project with Hermione was coming along slowly – both were neck-deep in complex research, both wishing that they knew more about the subjects they were studying. They had met a few times over the summer, once more at Hermione's house, another few times at a park. She had even taken to helping him with locating a locator spell – although in that, he seemed to have hit a brick wall. By the time the end of July was nearing, he was considering asking Cassiopeia Black for advice on the matter – since their original greeting, they had met briefly at Borgin and Burkes once more, and the elderly woman had seemed pleased to see him, eager to answer some of his questions about a few cursed objects he found in the shop inventory. The woman was also curious as to how Harry was enjoying the book she had given him – raising an eyebrow when he told her that he was trying to find a way to expel a troublesome spirit. The book had proven extremely insightful on not only spirit expulsion but also cultural differences in both wizarding and muggle communities. He had recently lent the book to Hermione, who was eager to read it after he told her about it, even if the text was rather morbid.

Hermione, however, was the only one of his classmates that he had contact with through the summer. He hadn't received a single owl throughout the entire seven weeks – which he found quite depressing. And suspicious. He would have thought that at least Michael and Terry and Neville would have sent letters, but none arrived. On top of that, for the past two weeks, the disconcerting sensation of being watched had been itching in the back of his mind. He had a sneaking suspicion that his summer would be getting even stranger than it already was.

Early in the afternoon of July 31st, Harry left the Dursley household, being begged to stay away until late at night – seeing as it was his birthday, and he was in a decent mood, he complied amiably. Nevertheless, Vernon saw fit to threaten him, shoving him into the wall; but upon noticing the fierce, green-eyed glare fixed his way, the man was cowed, and Harry left the house without another word. Vernon, for some reason, couldn't quite seem to register that Harry wasn't scared of him - even after Harry had lit is coat on fire a week prior, he had gone back to being a fat, pompous moron the next day. In the end, Harry could only shake his head. Some people just never learn.

Borgin, for some reason, had given him the day off; Harry hardly believed that it was a present from the ill-mannered shopkeeper…perhaps he thought that Harry would be distracted that day, and therefore useless. Not that Harry was ever, really, useless – honestly, he had no idea how the disorganized old man had ever managed the shop without him. Sighing as he walked down the quiet, smouldering hot street, toward Jean's Hollow, Harry could not help but grin – even though he hadn't gotten any mail all summer, he expected a package that day…only a day ago he had sent Neville a package and letter from Diagon Alley; a copy of Sun Tzu's The Art of War and a birthday note. Neville wouldn't forget to send him a present back.

Slipping through the broken window leading into the hollow, Harry nearly fell over when he found it already occupied – by a house elf, of all things, staring at him intently with wide, practically bulging green eyes. Harry thought that if they widened any more, the eyeballs might fall out - which would be sort of funny, but quite awful for the poor, bedraggled elf.

Harry took a deep breath. "Who the hell're you?"

"Harry Potter!" the small creature shrieked, tears of joy gathering in his eyes. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir…such an honour it is…to meet the great wizard, Harry Potter! Dobby is so honoured! So, so honoured!"

Harry gaped at the tiny, expressive elf, as it looked up at him with pure adulation in his eyes. Suddenly, he felt very awkward. "So…your name is Dobby? Nice to meet you, I guess…"

Tears welled up in the elf's eyes again, as he began to hyperventilate. "My name, my name! The great Harry Potter says Dobby's name! And he's happy to meet Dobby! Oh…oh, what an honour!"

Harry backed away slowly. "Dobby…Dobby. You really need to calm down. If you hyperventilate, your body will start to be affected by oxygen deprivation, and you may even suffer from cardiac arrest – that means you'd die. And then I'd have to find your owners and explain why your heart stopped…and then they'd be pissed at me…"

Dobby froze. "Oh no...Dobby's causing trouble for great, wonderful, caring Harry Potter sir…Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!" The poor deranged elf began to smack its head against the wall, causing Harry to cringe, alarmed – he wanted to be amused, he really did, but for some reason, he couldn't quite bring himself to laugh at the poor thing.

"Wait, Dobby, stop! It's alright. I mean, it isn't – I don't want you to die, but it's not really my problem. It's not like I'd be that troubled if your heart gave out - it would just be better for both of us if it didn't. So…so just calm down, and let's talk about this."

The elf paused, slowly looking over to Harry with teary green eyes.

"Alright, good. So first, dry off your eyes. Yeah, that's right, now take deep breaths…calm ones – and if possible, empty your mind. Completely."

Dobby looked at him confusedly at that, but then his expression turned into one of awe and reverence. "Harry Potter is so great, so magnificent, that Dobby cannot even understand his great words!"

Harry sighed. At least the elf was calming down…sort of. "I don't know who you've been speaking to, Dobby, but I'm really not that great – I mean, I'm not a god or anything – though that would be cool, and I'd be really kick-ass god…but the fact is, I'm not."

"Harry Potter is so humble and modest," Dobby gasped, wide green eyes twinkling – reminding Harry of Dumbledore, for some reason.

"Er…most people would disagree…but anyway, we should talk – why're you here? Did your master send you?"

Dobby shuddered. "Oh, no, sir, no…Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir –"

"In the oven door? Is the oven hot when you do it? That would hurt...a lot." He shook his head. "But, anyway, won't shutting your ears in the oven door, I don't know, let them know you did something wrong?" Harry asked carefully.

"Dobby truly doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments…"

Harry blinked. Must be a really defective house elf…or some bat-shit crazy owners…or both… "Right…so you're here of your own volition?" Harry asked confusedly – house elves almost never did things that went against their master's wishes.

"Indeed, Harry Potter sir – Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later…Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts."

"What?" Harry exclaimed, finding the prospect quite horrifying, "No! I have to!"

"No, no, no," Dobby squeaked fearfully, tossing his head about rapidly. "Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he is in mortal danger!"

Harry sighed patiently. "And why is that, Dobby?"

"There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year," Dobby whimpered, trembling. "Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!"

"Ok then…who's plotting, and what are they plotting? I'd really like to get in on it, like seriously…"

Dobby made a strangled choking noise, and began to violently bang his head against the wall once again.

Harry's arm darted out and seized the elf, pulling him away from the wall. "It's alright…I get it, you're not allowed to tell me – just say so next time."

Dobby nodded miserably, before his eyes lit up. "Harry Potter touched me…"

"Don't…don't start on that…just…give me a good reason why I shouldn't go, and I'll consider it."

"Harry Potter is in danger, sir…"

"Yes, I was in danger last year, too. I mean, seriously, when Voldemort wasn't shooting curses at me and hellhounds weren't trying to eat me, teachers were trying to kill me with detentions and point deductions and those disapproving stares they fix you with when you're honest with them. But I've got professors to talk to, books to read, research to do, classes to take – hell, I've even got friends to see –"

"Friends who don't even write to Harry Potter?" Dobby tried desperately.

"Well, that's another thing entirely – I – wait a minute," said Harry, frowning. "How do you know my friends haven't been writing to me?"

Dobby shuffled his feet nervously. "Harry Potter mustn't be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best –"

Harry chuckled with enraged disbelief. "You've been intercepting my mail?"

"Dobby has the letters here, sir," said the elf, trembling. Stepping nimbly out of Harry's reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the filthy pillowcase he wore, and then he snapped his fingers, causing a large package to morph into existence. He turned his huge, wretchedly anxious eyes toward Harry.

The table in the corner of the hollow began to tremble, and the incessantly running record player began to skip. "Give them back, Dobby. Right now."

"Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word that he will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this is a danger you must not face! Say you won't go back, sir!"

Harry sighed heavily, taking every ounce of concentration he had to calm himself. "Alright, Dobby," he said quietly, "I'll give you my word. That I won't fly off to Hogwarts on September the first. I'll buy my books and do my work here."

Dobby nodded gratefully. "Thank you, thank you Harry Potter, sir! Thank you for listening to Dobby's pleas!"

Harry nodded stiffly. "Right. Okay, shouldn't you get going before your masters notice you're away?"

Dobby's eyes widened fearfully. "Oh! Oh yes! Thank you, Harry Potter, sir, thank you!" The tiny creature snapped its fingers and disappeared, leaving the package and the small pile of letters behind.

Harry sighed explosively, collapsing on the ground and pulling Jean's portrait out of his B3.

"Hey brat, what took so long?"

Harry shook his head. "Curiouser and curiouser…"

"Huh?"

"My summer, Jean – it just keeps getting stranger. You know how I haven't gotten any letters?"

Jean nodded, frowning.

"Well, it turns out some whack-job house elf with a fanboy man-crush on me has been intercepting them."

"Dude, what?"

"I'm serious!"

Jean burst out in hysteric laughter.

"It's not funny!" Harry growled. "It's bloody annoying."

Jean's rapturous laughter quieted into chuckles. "You have to admit – it's quite funny. Almost as funny as being kidnapped by Cassiopeia Black was."

Harry groaned, sitting up and picking up the pile of letters – there were three written in Terry's messy script, two in Michael's neater longhand, and three from Neville. There was also one addressed in some unfamiliar handwriting. He started reading Terry's first – most just detailing how Terry spent his summer with his parents, travelling around Europe, as well as nagging Harry about not responding. Michael's were much the same – only he, apparently had been coerced by his father into assisting with his work as a curse-breaker. Poor Neville was stuck in Longbottom Manor with his crazy relations, spending most of his time in his greenhouse. He seemed quite thankful, though confused, for Harry's gift. Apparently, he didn't quite understand the historical context of Sun Tzu's work. Neville's last letter was a birthday note, drawing Harry's attention to the package in the corner. Ripping it open, he was thrilled to find a package of one hundred chocolate frogs.

"Wha'dya get?" Jean exclaimed, trying to peer over Harry's shoulder.

"Chocolate frogs," Harry said, his voice shivering with ecstasy, "Lots of 'em."

Jean sighed melodramatically. "These are the times I wish I was still alive."

"Yeah - Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha - they're all mine!"

"All ye chocolate frogs, kneel before the great Harry Potter!"

Harry chuckled. "I suppose I should write replies…explain to them that I haven't been avoiding them and a nutty house elf has been stealing my mail."

"Yeah, that'll give 'em a good laugh."

Harry glared at him.

"But what about that last letter?"

Harry blinked, staring at the last, unfamiliar letter in the pile. He frowned. "It's from Saint Mungo's."

Jean raised an eyebrow as Harry tore the envelope open, paling as he read. "What is it?"

Harry let out a shaky breath. "Cassiopeia Black is dead…she was admitted to the emergency care unit several days ago after collapsing at the Ministry. She didn't even make it through the night."

Jean sighed, shaking his head sadly. "Sorry, kid."

"It...it's not like I even knew her well..."

"But you liked her a lot - that much was obvious."

Harry nodded slowly. "I should go visit Lady Black and Kreacher."

"I'm sure Cassiopeia would appreciate that."

Harry bit his lip, pulling out a quill and some parchment from his B3. He first penned a note to Neville, thanking for his gift, and then he wrote letters to Terry and Michael, accompanied by a notification for the commencement of 'Brotherhood of Binns Exorcists Operation 2' at twenty-hundred hours that evening.

Finishing, he rose from where he sat, glancing at Jean. "Are you going to be alright here? I might not be back until morning."

Jean blinked. "What are you planning?"

"Well, first I'm gonna mail these letters, and then wait around Diagon Alley for Terry and Michael – I'm hoping that they'll show up at the meeting place, so we can start the operation –"

Jean smirked.

"- After we're done, I'll drop in at Number 12 Grimmauld Place."

Jean nodded. "Be careful, and don't get into too much trouble. Like…don't get arrested, or anything."

"I won't." He stuffed the letters in his B3. "See you. Raido."

After mailing his letters, Harry wandered around Diagon Alley aimlessly for some time, idly looking in shop windows and glancing over books, buying himself an ice cream cone every hour – it was his birthday, after all. By the time evening was encroaching, Harry had traversed the alley at least a few times, and resolved it was time to make his way to the assigned meeting spot, and wait there for his two accomplices.

Now, Harry had never actually used the floo network before – but he had read about it plenty, and was quite clear on how it was to be done. He wasn't worried. He used the floo in the Leaky Cauldron – the small pub was bursting with the evening crowd, and so he slipped through unnoticed, and called out "Eaton Cemetery" unheard, disappearing into a torrent of green flames.

The floo opened up to a round stone storeroom, dusty and cobwebbed, a stairwell opening up on the other side. A number of rolled up tapestries, Eucharist objects, candlesticks, brooms, and various altar paraphernalia lay idly in the corner – Harry took a few of the rolled up tapestries and cloths, piling them into a pleasant little nest for him to rest on until Terry and Michael showed up…if they, in fact, did.

But sure enough, an hour later, the dusty floo flared to life, a disgruntled-looking Michael, dressed in work clothes and dragon hide boots stepping through, casting his eyes about the room, coming to rest on Harry. "Harry!" he snapped irritably, "This had better be important – it was the only part of your letter I could really understand…the rest was just incoherent rambling about maniacal house elves…."

Harry rose from his makeshift sofa, smiling sheepishly. "Well, you see, about that…"

Just then, a green fire flared up again, and Terry shot through, immediately pinning Harry with an embrace. "Oh Harry! I thought you were dead! That your evil muggle relatives had murdered you or something!" he sobbed.

Harry smirked, ignoring the other boy's iron grip on him. "Nah, I'd murder them first."

Terry drew away, grimacing. "Yeah, you probably would."

Michael cleared his throat, drawing the attentions of the other two. "Are you going to explain what's going on? And what the whole house elf thing was about?"

"Well that's obvious," Terry said, "A renegade house elf fan of his was stealing all the post he received…or, er, failed to receive."

Michael gaped at him. "You actually believed that?"

"It's true," Harry interjected, "I wasn't kidding. I went to my…room this morning, and found this house elf staring at me – it started bawling about how it was so honoured to meet me – and then it made me promise not to go back to Hogwarts, or else it wouldn't give me my letters back."

The two boys' jaws went slack.

"You're not going to Hogwarts?" Terry cried.

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "I lied. Of course I'm going to Hogwarts."

"But why wouldn't it want you to go to Hogwarts?" Michael asked, puzzled.

Harry shrugged. "It said something about a plot to make terrible things happen at school, and that I was in danger…"

Michael quirked an eyebrow. "Do you believe it?"

"I dunno – it wouldn't be a surprise after last year."

Terry cringed.

"But that doesn't explain why we're here now," Michael said pointedly.

"Ah, yes," Harry began, smirking rather pompously, "Well it so happens, that amidst the unproductive productivity of my very busy summer, I have found a foolproof way to get rid of our most hated history professor, Cuthbert Binns."

Both boys eyes widened, before Terry cheered triumphantly and Michael glared at him.

"You're sure it will work? You said yourself, that the Hogwarts wards have an unpredictable effect on exorcisms –"

"Ah-ha!" Harry exclaimed, "But I never said it was an exorcism."

Terry frowned, puzzled. "But how else do you get rid of a vengeful spirit?"

"He isn't vengeful, you idiot!" Michael snapped.

"Oh yes he is!" Terry said, "Wreaking vengeance on all us poor helpless students with his boring lectures…"

"Anyway," Harry interrupted, "There is one sure way to send a spirit off and make sure it stays away – a proper burial."

"I'm pretty sure Binns is already buried, Harry," Michael drawled.

"But not properly. You see, there are several different traditions around the world that muggles and wizards use to assure that spirits depart and stay departed. Most of these traditions, however, are now obsolete. For muggles, they fell out of practice in Europe when Christianity spread during the Middle Ages, and pagan traditions died out. Except Christmas and Halloween, that is, though they've been renamed. For European wizards, it happened around the same time – when blood magic and ritual sacrifice was outlawed for being 'dark,' most traditional practices tied with them died out as well. Some places in Asia, Africa, and South America, however, have stuck with their traditions."

"So wait…" Terry said slowly, "You want us to use an illegal ritual?"

Harry scowled, crossing his arms. "The funerary rituals were never actually made illegal – just the practices and beliefs they came from."

Michael nodded slowly. "Alright…so what would this entail?"

"To ensure the eternal rest of a spirit, the Norse and the Angles often cremated a body and buried the ashes in special burial urns engraved with runes designed to ward the spirit away from the earth," he leaned over, reaching into his B3 and produced a small lidded pot, paint worn and engravings faint, yet still readily depicting strings of runes winding about the aged pottery, "Like this one."

Michael gaped at it, stepping forward to steal a closer look. "Where did you get that? They're extremely rare! And they're all supposed to be confiscated by the Ministry…"

Harry smirked. "I know a guy…" Well, he worked for a guy, anyway.

"But I don't understand…wouldn't Binns have to be cremated?" Terry asked.

Harry's smirk grew even wider. "Of course – but he wasn't. He was buried. In the cemetery beside this church, in fact."

Both boys gaped at him.

"But Harry!" Terry cried. "You want us to exhume and cremate him? That's illegal! Like, really illegal! And creepy too. We could be arrested for that!"

Harry nodded. "I know, but that's a risk we'll have to take. The church is old – the cemetery hasn't been used in over seventy years – no one should be around. I've got everything in here -" he patted his B3. "So are you in, or not?"

Michael hesitated, but then nodded firmly, turning to Terry.

"Oh, come on, guys – this isn't just messing around and sneaking into the Restricted Section! This is breaking the law! Like big time!"

Michael waved him off. "Your mum's a lawyer, right? She can get us out of trouble if we get caught."

Harry nodded.

Terry sighed. "It doesn't work like that…"

"Come on, Terry, we've come too far to just give up!" Harry exclaimed excitedly. "Besides, I've always wanted to light someone on fire! Well, someone besides my uncle. Even if they're already dead…"

The other two grimaced at that.

"Fine, fine," Terry said in a defeated tone. "Let's just…get this over with, so I can get home before my parents get suspicious."

Harry grinned and nodded, leading them up the stone stairwell. "I scoped out the place last week." He tugged open a side door in a little alcove, leading outside. "Binns's grave is right over there."

The three of them trekked through the lines of monotonously carved grave markers, soon stopping in front of on that read:

Cuthbert Binns
1672 – 1813
May He Rest In Peace

Harry snorted. "That sure didn't happen." Reaching into his B3, he pulled out three shovels almost as tall as him, handing one to each of his companions. "Now be careful," he said, "Stay quiet, and work quickly."

The two boys nodded, and followed his lead, digging their shovels into the dry ground, still warm from the heat of the day.

"I wonder what my parents would say if they knew I was digging up my professor's grave," Terry moaned.

"My mum would probably arrest me herself," Michael groused. "My dad would be more interested in the burial urn."

"My parents probably don't care," Harry piped up, "So long as it's not their graves."

Terry and Michael cast him looks bordering between incredulity and sympathy.

"What, it's true!"

Michael shook his head. "Just…never mind…"

As the hole became deeper, Harry leapt in, the other two reluctantly followed, continuing to dig, labouring to keep the dirt from falling back into the hole, onto their heads. Forty-five minutes passed, and the sheen of sweat was dripping from their brows, their clothes wet with perspiration as they finally hit something hard. Setting the shovels aside, they eased the coffin lid open, finding a frail skeleton lying inside.

Harry smirked. "Hullo, Professor Binns."

"I'm so glad he's been dead a hundred and eighty years," Terry breathed.

Michael grimaced. "Indeed. Now, how are we going to burn him?"

Harry held up a finger and reached into his B3, pulling out a large plastic jug with a flourish.

"What's that?"

"Petrol," Harry answered, opening the bottle and pouring the strongly scented liquid on Binns's bones. "Muggles use it to run their automobiles – it's easy to find and an excellent accelerant. Come on, we don't want to be this close when we light the fire."

The three boys clambered out of the grave, Terry and Michael looking at Harry expectantly.

"You gonna light it, mate?" Terry asked.

Harry nodded, crouching down and knitting his brows stiffly.

"What are you doing?" Michael drawled.

"I've been working on this for a while," he grunted. A few moments later, the bones in the coffin burst into flames.

"Blimey!" Terry exclaimed. "Wandless magic, Harry? That's amazing!"

Michael was just staring, wide eyed.

Harry shrugged, straightening himself. "I didn't have to make the spark that big, because of the petrol…"

"But still, mate! That's wicked!"

"You will be teaching us that, eventually," Michael said suddenly.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Sure."

Below them, as the minutes ticked away, the fire was blazing furiously, the frail bones within starting to break down, collapsing into the coffin.

"So what now?" Terry asked.

Harry bit his lip, willing the magically-enforced coffin lid to swing shut, smothering the fire. "We wait a few moments, for it to cool, then we open the lid carefully, put the ashes in the urn, and rebury the whole thing – then we're done."

Terry nodded. "Well, that was easy enough – except for the digging…that was awful."

Harry smirked. "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

Michael snorted. "Somehow, I doubt that."

Harry shrugged. "What makes you weak in one way will make you strong in another."

Michael and Terry looked at him oddly.

"What? Just thinking out loud…"

"You have weird thoughts," Terry stated.

Harry sighed. "Whatever." He waved his hand, causing the coffin lid to swing in, climbing carefully back into the grave. "Hand me the urn, will you?"

Michael nodded and carefully picked up the antique piece of pottery and handed it to Harry, who removed his shoe and used it to shovel the hot ashes into the urn. He placed the lid on the jar carefully, closing the lid of the coffin over it and climbing out of the grave.

"Alright, let's bury it and get out of here."

It took much less time to put the dirt back on the grave than it did to take them off, and in no time at all, the three Ravenclaws were creeping back to the door in the side of the church, and then down the stairs to the storage room in the basement where the floo was.

"Don't forget to write," Michael said as he grabbed some floo powder from atop the hearth.

"As long as a crazy house elf doesn't steal the letters, they should reach you," Harry muttered.

Terry patted him on the arm. "See you in a month, then?"

"And you'll owe us," Michael added, "For dragging us out here on a whim like this."

Harry shook his head. "Let's say it's my birthday present and call it even."

Terry gaped at him. "It's your birthday!"

"Yup."

"I didn't get you anything!"

Michael rolled his eyes. "He just said this is good enough. I'm inclined to agree." He nodded to Harry. "See you, and happy birthday." He stepped into the floo, tossing the powder and disappearing into a torrent of green flame.

Terry smiled at him. "Now, don't get any other mad ideas, but that was kind of fun."

Harry smirked at him. "Right, no more mad ideas…for now."

Terry shook his head. "Happy birthday, mate. I'll get you something really great next year."

"As great as an illegal cremation? I'd like to see you try."

Terry laughed. "Sure. See you."

After Terry had disappeared, Harry glanced around the room, and then dusted his soiled clothes off as best as he could before calling, "Kreacher!"

A moment later, the old, thin, decrepit house elf popped into existence before him, bowing deeply. "Master Harry called?"

"Yes, thanks, Kreacher, for coming so promptly."

The small creature looked up at him, wide eyed. Harry didn't know what it was that he liked so much about the shriveled old elf, which always seemed to be disgruntled and distressed and not that far from being malevolent - it was just so...cute.

"I was wondering if you could take me to visit your mistress?"

Kreacher nodded slowly. "Yes, Master." He grabbed onto Harry's outstretched hand, snapping his fingers, instantly popping them into the entrance hall of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

"Thanks Kreacher."

The house elf nodded, its gaze lingering on Harry curiously for a moment, and then it disappeared.

"Who's there!" called out a frantic, shrieking voice, suddenly.

"It's Harry, Harry Potter, Lady Black," Harry replied, turning the corner and finding himself in front of the life-sized portrait.

"Oh! It's you!" She bit her lip and began wringing her hands. "I thought you might be Aunt Cassie."

Harry cringed, hesitating a moment, before deciding it was probably best to be blunt. "I'm afraid, Lady Black, that she passed away a few days ago. I'm terribly sorry."

The old woman's eyes went wide, as she gasped hoarsely. "D-dead? Cassie? Oh…oh dear. C-Cassie? She...she's gone...?"

Harry could do nothing but resist a nervous grimace as the pitiful woman's lower lip began to tremble.

"She…was she in pain?"

Harry shook his head, relieved by the question. "My understanding is that it happened quickly."

Walburga's portrait took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Good…good…Aunt Cassie didn't deserve to be in pain. She was a good, strong woman, you know – cursed anyone who crossed her. Had a glare that struck fear into the hearts of men!"

Harry grinned. "Is that why she never married? Because they were all too scared of her?"

Walburga cackled weakly. "Oh, oh no. No man was ever good enough for her – I remember, Octavian Mulciber once tried to court her – ended up with three missing fingers, he did! Presumptuous fool he was."

Harry chuckled. "You didn't like him?"

"Of course not," the old woman sniffed, "He was a snivelling fool with no pride – could never be good enough for a lady of the House of Black!"

Harry nodded musingly. "The Blacks were a proud family, weren't they?"

Walburga sobered slightly, her eyes tearing up. "But pride is a fickle thing, boy, you'd do best to remember that. Pride's no good to you dead – and life's no good to you when you've got no pride."

"That's very true, Lady Black."

The woman scowled harshly. "Call me Aunt Walburga!" she snapped loudly.

Harry blinked. "Er…alright, Aunt Walburga."

"Very good." Walburga sniffed and nodded, glancing over him, and then shrieking. "And your clothes!" she suddenly exclaimed, horrified, "They're filthy!"

"Er...yeah, sorry about that. I was digging up a grave before I came, you see."

Walburga blinked. "Whose grave?"

"Uh...Professor Binns's, actually - some friends and I thought it was time he retired, so we helped him on, a bit."

"Oh, that's alright then." She scowled. "Pitiful, mudblood loving bastard, he was."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"So...when did you find out?"

"What? Oh, about...Aunt Cassie... just this morning."

"And what day is it today?"

"July the thirty-first."

Walburga's portrait clapped her hands suddenly. "Oh! It's your birthday, isn't it!"

Harry smiled slightly and nodded.

"Twelve? It is twelve, right? Kreacher!" she shrieked, causing the elf to pop between Harry and her. "It's Harry's twelfth birthday! Get him a present!"

The elf's eyes widened, and he disappeared, appearing again a moment later with a an old, thick book with black binding in his hands, bowing deeply as he presented it to Harry; though no small amount of anticipation and pride was evident on the weary elf's face.

Harry took it, opening it, eyes lighting up when they saw the title page. "Magick Moste Evile?" He wasn't sure what sort of woman would give a child a dark magic book for its twelfth birthday - not that he minded, in the end.

"I gave it to Sirius, on his twelfth birthday – he threw it out, he did! Selfish, ungrateful, self-righteous brat!" She glared at him piercingly. "You'll read it, won't you?"

Harry grinned nervously under the portrait's scrutiny. "Better than that, I'll memorize it."

The woman cackled gleefully. "Splendid! Splendid! Now Kreacher, go make him a birthday cake, and quick! Before his birthday's over!"

Harry stared at her, gaping slightly as Kreacher bowed and popped away.

"Shut your mouth, boy, it's undignified!" she snarled.

Harry's mouth snapped shut. "Sorry, Aunt Walburga…it's just, I've never had a birthday cake before."

The woman's eyes flashed. "Why not?" she snapped.

Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to lie to the woman. "Well, my relatives sort of hate me...they're muggles, you see, awful ones, and they hate magic," Harry said sombrely, suddenly feeling the brief but perennial I'm-lonely-on-my-birthday depression sink in.

However, it didn't last for very long at all, as the woman in the portrait shrieked in rage, so loud that Harry had to cover his ears, and the other paintings on the wall rattled. "Filthy, stupid muggles! Scum of the earth! I'd flay them alive, boil them in oil, curse them until there's nothing left! Filth! Worthless filth!"

Harry wasn't sure why, but a distinct warmth was welling up in his chest, and he smiled as the woman ranted. Though he doubted that Lily Potter would be so...psychotic...he wondered if this was something like how it felt to have a mother looking after you. "Don't worry, Aunt Walburga. It's fine. In fact, I tossed Uncle Vernon, the most awful of the muggles, into the wall just the other day, because he hit me. I lit his coat on fire, too."

"Oh! What a good boy!" Walburga crooned.

Harry smirked, jumping a few centimetres as a small table materialized between him and the portrait, a small cake with candles set on it neatly, a chair appearing behind him.

"Oh, here it is!" she said, her voice bounding with glee. "Now sit down, and do exactly as I say," she snapped. "Close your eyes, and then make a wish, while you blow out all the candles! And don't tell anyone what it is - it won't come true, then."

Harry bit his lip, leaning over carefully, glancing up at the elderly woman in the portrait before focusing on the glittering candles. But suddenly, his head snapped up, to the side, eyes darting up the stairs. The strangest sensation of a presence, not far away, singed his senses - and suddenly, he thought he saw a shadow, a figure shaped like a man flicker at the top of the stairwell, standing in one of the darkened doorways, before disappearing, as though it was never there.

"Well, get on with it!"

Harry chuckled before he closed his eyes and blew, making a wish – but somehow, even he wasn't quite sure what it was.

Okay, so anyone who liked Cassiopeia…sorry? Walburga was my main interest here, for Harry, and Cassiopeia had more use dying than living at this particular point (also, she does die in 1992, according to canon, I believe…). However, you may have noticed – I have a penchant for talking portraits. So she may make a comeback, who knows? I certainly don't.

And reviews are like the raspberry jam I put in cottage cheese – they make it all perfect!