Chapter 3
Number Twelve, Grimmauld's Place welcomed its master without fanfare.
The grooves of fissures sprawled throughout the worn set of front steps. The battered front door bore only a silver knocker in the shape of a twisted serpent instead of any keyholes or handles. Harry grasped the heavy metal ring and pounded it against the dilapidated wood. It shuddered once and Harry stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. For a moment, he merely stared into the mass of shadows before removing his shoes. He raised his hand, pressing his middle finger against his thumb, and snapped his fingers.
Lights kindled in the gas lamps attached to the walls and the wicker of the candles seated in the chandelier ignited, illuminating the long hallway. The carpet was almost colorless, the once variegated threads faded into a listless gray. Lifting a foot off the ground, he gently thumped the wall. A faint rustling noise rebounded off the walls and cobwebs showered him. The dwelling had fallen into utter disrepair in his absence and teemed with dust and decay as it had following Sirius's imprisonment before him. He could have sworn he heard the faint squeal of vermin skittering around.
Altogether, in much better condition than he had expected.
Since officials in the Ministry were prohibited from using Fidelius Charms without permission, it was accessible to anyone with a mind to break through the rudimentary security measures.
He ambled down the hallway cautiously.
"Good evening, Harold," a patronizing voice greeted him.
He whirled around, wand drawn. Then he blinked sheepishly as he faced the portrait of the Madame Black, who examined his skinny form with a clinical expression. Unlike him, she had been left untouched by the ravages of time. When not shrieking at Mudbloods infesting her household, she looked rather pleasant, immortalized in her matronly years by a talented painter's brush. Her portrait was enormous, the framework towering from the ground to the banisters of the second floor's landing.
"Oh. Evening, Walburga."
"They released you," she observed, sounding pleased. "Much earlier than they did my son."
"They did indeed…"
Harry had never known his mother, but he was certain Lily would not have shunned, rejected him over a clash of ideology, like Walburga did her son. Still, Walburga had advised him and helped fashion an image that beckoned to the public conviction. He would not have won Voldemort's trust nearly as completely without her.
"No cutthroats waiting in the dark for me, right?"
"None."
"Good. That's very good."
"I expect you to devote yourself to familiarizing yourself with current events immediately. Hm. After you hire a housekeeper," Walburga added, once her eyes had swept everything that lay within her field of vision. "And reconstruct the wards."
The warding arrays were an urgent matter, he thought with a frown. He would have to purge the place of any foreign magics and disarm any traps before he could be at ease.
"Alright," Harry agreed.
He strode toward the end of the entry hall, not waiting for Walburga's approval, and descended the set of narrow stairs into the basement. The kitchen was cavernous, dominated mostly by a long wooden table where the Order of the Phoenix had convened in the past and where he had eaten in solitude for years. Iron pots dangled from the ceiling, rust accumulating on them. A silver platter gleamed dully at the center of the table and he reached for the apple gleaming amid the rotten fruit. Its skin was still polished and a vibrant cherry red, as if freshly taken from the branch.
He grasped it by the stem, conjuring a carving knife and reducing the apple to its core. It was unsoftened by age. Harry absently wiped his hands and gathered the blood-red seeds into his palm. He dismissed the knife and returned to entry hall. Then he climbed the grand staircase leading to the upper floors of the house. At the first landing, he entered the drawing room. Windows overlooked the street in front of the house and an entire wall was covered with a tapestry of the Black family tree.
The tree split into numerous branches, the Blacks marrying with the Yaxleys, Crouches, Prewetts, and Malfoys.
There were many stories in the lines tracing those branches.
And more tales lost, in the scorch marks where the names of the disowned members of the family once were.
He took loose blackened threads that bordered each blank patch and sewed a seed onto each of them, muttering an incantation under his breath. It was a relatively uncomplicated invocation rite to call the house's wards to life. He waited patiently for the feeling of ambient magic to well up from within the walls, the near-silent hum of the energies of past Black patriarchs and matriarchs manifesting themselves into a protective shell around the ancient abode.
They didn't.
Instead, a voice echoed down the halls, ringing with exaggerated formality and pompousness, the hallmark of the Ministry official.
"Unauthorized resuscitation of familial wards is strictly prohibited by the Lords' and Ladies' Assent. Instructions to obtain approval available upon request at the Ministry of Magic. Attempts to further restore wards will be met with prosecution."
Harry scowled, but there was a hint of resignment in his non-reaction.
What kind of deranged nonsense had been going on while he was gone? The Assent implied that the purebloods themselves had voluntarily relinquished one of their oldest traditions and most unquestioned privileges, but that didn't make any sense whatsoever. Every pureblood head of house treated his home as the most priceless possession of the family after the family members themselves; each generation contributing their efforts to strengthening the wards and making them more and more unassailable. What was responsible for this incredible development? Moreover, what force could be strong enough to drive such a phenomenal change? It was unimaginable that any faction could become strong enough in the time of his imprisonment, which was the blink of an eye by the measure of historians and the livespans of societies.
Mind wandering as he made his way to the patriarch's study, he began throwing temporary enchantments to substitute the warding platform built by the Black forefathers. He would need to find alternative accommodations to hide in until he could restore Grimmauld Place's protections. If his release was well-publicized - if it was publicized at all - people would be coming for him with knives out, and he couldn't stay awake forever.
In a way, he was expecting something of this nature. His release from Azkaban was a result of a sickened Wizarding World, but logic and the rules of probability dictated that it couldn't be the sole symptom.
He seated himself at the grand desk in the private study of Cygnus Black, unconsciously pressing his stomach against the edge of the desk to exert pressure against the hunger pangs he was beginning to feel. He hadn't eaten a proper meal in years. He hadn't had so much as tea and biscuits in forever, and he could barely remember the last time he'd enjoyed someone's company without being burdened by his deceptions and hidden intentions.
He realized he missed Molly Weasley's cooking. The meals were a residual memory scattered into pieces in his brain; a mixture of nearly-forgotten-but-not-quite flavours, scents, textures, and the sound of laughter and warm conversation. What he'd enjoyed most was that he was never alone; he was with his friends, other Order members, a big family that he had a place in. Before it was ripped apart, he remembered a time of his life that had been uncomplicated, honest and optimistic, all things that were lost to him now.
The sound of tapping on glass drew him from his musings.
He looked up at the wide-panelled window, an eagle-owl perched on the window-sill, insistently knocking its talon against the glass, a letter tied to it. He debated ignoring it outright and denying it entry, but noticed the red ribbon wrapped around the paper. It marked the letter as a general missive to all wizarding families, sent across the wizarding world when a new law was on the brink of being decided.
It was comforting that one tradition had stayed alive.
He heaved a sigh and pushed himself upright, leaning across the desk to open the latch and let the messenger bird inside. He shrugged apologetically as it looked around hopefully for owl treats and untied the letter, unfurling it.
It read:
The Wizengamot convenes on the morrow.
Late evening session.
He pondered the wisdom of attending that session. A public appearance would be disastrous and recognition unavoidable - no glamors, no disguises to hide behind. But it would be a first step to see the political situation and the state of the Ministry firsthand. All that he needed was to exercise care, and be ready to defend himself should the need arise.
Mind made up, he rose and strode to the wardrobe. It swung open at his command, and he began vanishing the mothballs as he began searching for a suitable dress robe.
Best not be late.