Harry's head swam as he came to, the world tilting beneath him in a nauseating sway. Harsh white light flickered overhead. A steady beep… beep… beep filled the air, speeding up slightly as his mind clawed its way back to awareness. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mingling with something metallic, something sharp. A siren howled faintly in the distance. The entire cabin rattled and shook. He was in the back of a moving vehicle, an ambulance by the look of the monitors.

A woman's face loomed over him—older, sharp-nosed, her brown hair streaked with grey and tied back in a messy bun. She wore a paramedic's uniform. She smelled faintly of burnt toast and something bitter, and she was holding a scrap of paper in front of his face.

"Go on, then," she prompted, her voice brisk. "Read that for me, love."

Harry's fingers twitched. His head pounded, thoughts tangled. The beeping quickened as he came to.

"W-where—" His throat was dry. He swallowed hard. "Where's Dudley? Pierre?"

"Never mind that," the woman said with forced cheer, nudging the note closer. "Just have a look, yeah? Tell me what it says."

A voice from the front of the ambulance—male, irritated. "What the hell are you doing back there? Just give him the morphine."

"In a second, love," the woman replied breezily, not taking her eyes off Harry. "Checking his… ah, ocular-cognitive coherence response."

A sharp double beep from the monitor as Harry squinted at the note. His heart was hammering.

"What?" the driver scoffed. "That's not a real—"

His partner cut in, voice suspicious. "And who even are you? You weren't the one who—"

Harry blinked down at the note. The words swam, then sharpened:

12 Grimmauld Place

He frowned. "What number twelve G—?"

"Oh, brilliant," the woman interrupted, her entire posture shifting. With a flick, she pulled a wand from her paramedic's vest, turned in her seat, and pointed it at the two paramedics in the front, currently turned in their seats and berating the woman next to Harry.

"Ollie, call—"

"Obliviate."

The driver's stopped mid sentence, his hands slackened on the wheel for a fraction of a second before steadying again. His partner had already turned back to the monitor, flicking a switch with a vacant sort of purpose. Neither of them spoke. Neither reacted.

The woman turned back to Harry, grinning now, tucking her wand away.

"Wotcher, Harry."

Before he could react, she grabbed hold of him. A sharp pull yanked at his stomach, and the world vanished in a rush of color and crushing darkness. The pressure felt unbearable, but as soon as it had begun, it was over.

Harry felt his body hit a wooden floor hard, the breath knocked out of him as he sprawled across the dusty wooden boards, both from the fall, and from being ostensibly sucked through a garden hose. Above him, the woman—dressed as a paramedic—straightened, grinning sheepishly at Harry as she dusted off her knees. This was not the same woman that had loomed over Harry moments before in the back of the ambulance, though from context clues Harry gathered that she probably were. This was a young woman with spiky pink hair, and a slightly upturned nose, though wearing the same coverall muggle paramedic uniform.

"Well," she said, voice only slightly breathless. "That could've been smoother."

Before Harry could get his bearings, before he could process the dimly lit corridor, the peeling wallpaper, or the oppressive, musty air that clung to the place, a shriek—a horrible, bloodcurdling shriek—split the silence.

"FILTH! BLOOD TRAITORS! HALF-BREEDS! SCUM IN MY HOUSE!"

Harry flinched as the sound rippled through the walls, shrill and furious, bouncing off the high ceiling. The paramedic winced, slapping her hands over her ears.

"Ah. Shit." She grimaced.

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall. A figure skidded into view, wild-haired and frantic.

"Shut up, you old bat—shut up!" Harry's godfather roared, grappling with the edges of a large, moth-eaten curtain that had fallen open to reveal an ornate, dust-covered painting of a furious, grey-haired woman. Her eyes bulged, spittle flying from her lips as she ranted, her voice somehow growing even louder.

Sirius fought with the curtains, wrestling them closed with a herculean effort. As soon as the painting was covered, the noise cut off like a snuffed-out flame. Silence settled, save for Sirius's ragged breathing.

Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows, still reeling, as Sirius turned to face him, brushing his hair out of his face with a hand that trembled slightly from exertion.

"Well," he said, breathing heavily. "Welcome to my ancestral home, Harry." He jerked his chin toward the now-silent painting. "You've met my dear old mother."

Harry pulled himself to his feet, still dizzy from the sudden transition from ambulance to absolute chaos. He barely had time to take in the looming chandelier, the peeling serpent-carved wallpaper, the severe, aristocratic gloom of the place before Sirius clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Come on," he said, guiding him toward a door off the hall. "Best not to wake her again."

Harry followed, vaguely aware of the paramedic trailing behind them, still dusting herself off. They stepped into a large, dimly lit kitchen, where a long, scarred wooden table dominated the center of the room.

Seated around it, looking as though they had just been roused from their beds, were Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Fred, George, and Mrs. Weasley. Standing next to the table was Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody, and another wizard Harry did not know.

They stared—each one looking more shocked than the last to see Harry standing there.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sirius let out a bark of laughter and pulled Harry into a tight, one-armed hug, thumping him on the back.

"Knew you'd be all right," he muttered, voice rough. "Knew it."

Before Harry could respond, Mrs. Weasley surged forward, wrapping him in a fierce, teary embrace that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

"Oh, Harry—thank goodness—thank goodness," she whispered, squeezing him so tightly he thought he might suffocate. When she finally pulled back, her face was blotchy, her eyes red, as though she'd been crying for hours.

Hermione was next, silent tears streaking her face, clutching him like she wasn't entirely sure he was real. Ron clapped him on the back, looking somewhere between relieved and dazed. Then Ginny, Fred, George—each one hugging him in turn.

Last was Lupin, his grip firm but brief, his tired eyes scanning Harry's face as though checking for something unspoken. Then a tall, broad-shouldered wizard Harry hadn't seen before stepped forward.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt," he said, offering a hand. His voice was deep, measured, and strangely calming. "Auror."

Harry shook his hand, still feeling somewhat adrift in all of this.

"And I'm Nymphadora Tonks," she said, shaking his hand with a bit too much enthusiasm. "But for the love of Merlin, just call me Tonks."

Harry barely had time to nod before his own confusion caught up with him. He frowned, glancing around at the group. "What's everyone so up in arms about?"

Ron gave him a look, as though the answer was obvious. "We heard what happened."

Harry blinked. "What do you mean?"

There was a gruff noise from the corner. "Quite the operation to retrieve you before you were sent to Azkaban," Alastor Moody growled, shifting his weight on his wooden leg. His magical eye spun toward Harry, fixing him with a pointed stare.

Harry stiffened. "Why would I be sent to Azkaban?"

Moody sighed. "The Muggle boy had dark magic done to him."

Harry scoffed. "Yeah, he was kissed by a dementor."

Alastor exhaled through his nose, slow and heavy. "Yeah," he muttered. "That would do it."

Harry took a breath, steadying himself, then told them everything. How he and Dudley had been walking home, how the air had turned ice-cold without warning, how the shadows seemed to crawl in around them. How the two dementors had descended, their skeletal hands grasping for him, their rotting cloaks billowing in the dark. How Pierre had collapsed almost instantly, his eyes rolled back, his breath rattling in his throat—and how, as Harry had tried to fight them off, one of them had latched onto him, dragging him up, its gaping maw coming closer and closer—

And then, nothing.

He frowned. "I—I don't remember what happened after that. I must've passed out because the next thing I know, I'm waking up in the back of an ambulance and being kidnapped by her." He nodded toward Tonks.

Tonks gave a bright, unapologetic grin.

Across the table, Moody exhaled sharply, arms crossed over his chest. "Right. Well. That tracks." He shifted, his wooden leg clunking against the floor. "Far as anyone knew, it was you who got kissed."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"We had an eyewitness," Moody went on, scratching his scarred chin. "Someone who saw the whole thing from start to finish. One of Dumbledore's people. Someone you know, actually. A Mrs. Figg."

Harry gaped. "What?!"

"Oh, now he believes me," Tonks muttered under her breath.

Moody ignored her. "Figg says she saw a Muggle boy get attacked first. Then you—lifted up, two dementors on you. She swears she saw them kiss you, right before they were driven off by a Patronus."

Harry's heart stuttered. "A Patronus?"

Moody gave a grim nod. "Large deer, great big antlers."

Harry let out a slow breath. "Yeah. That's mine."

"Ministry caught the magic, of course," Moody continued. "And then, lo and behold, there's a Muggle boy left effectively dead in the aftermath. Not dead, exactly, but…" He gestured vaguely, his magic eye flicking toward a thick binder of parchment sitting on the table.

Harry followed his gaze, stomach twisting.

"They're charging you with a host of crimes," Moody said. "Seeking ten years in Azkaban."

A tense silence followed.

Harry scoffed, trying to ignore the cold weight settling in his chest. "First of all, I clearly wasn't kissed."

Fred muttered, "Ha. Virgin."

Harry sniggered.

Molly whipped around. "Fred!"

"Oh, come on," George protested.

"It's not a laughing matter!" she snapped.

Harry stifled his grin, shifting uncomfortably. "And second of all—how is underage magic an Azkaban-level crime?"

Moody's mouth tightened into a thin line. "They're saying you attacked the Muggle boy."

Moody continued after a pause, "Obviously, this is a sham. But the fact remains—there are two eyewitness accounts from that night." Harry frowned. "One is that fat cousin of yours."

"Dudley" Harry offered.

"That one. Arthur said the Ministry has his recollection of events from an Unspeakable."

"They have Dudley?" Harry's voice rose slightly, a cold pit forming in his stomach. "Did they kidnap him? Where is he?"

"No, no," Arthur said quickly, hands raised in a calming gesture. "He was taken to St. Mungo's after the attack. A Memory Extractor pulled his recollection of the events before he was released."

Harry curled his hands into fists. "Is that even legal?"

Tonks made a face. "It's…not not illegal?"

"It's a gray area," Arthur admitted, looking deeply uncomfortable.

"No," Moody growled. "It's absolutely illegal. They just don't care, because it's a Muggle." His scarred face twisted into something close to disgust. "It's 'fine when we do it,' you see."

Harry's stomach churned.

"The second recollection came from Mrs. Figg," Moody continued, leaning back. "Dumbledore has that locked down. And, well—he seems convinced you were kissed."

Harry let out a sharp laugh. "That's impossible. I'm standing here talking to you."

"The concern here," Moody said, fixing him with a steady look, "is that we want to keep this privileged and quiet."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you keep to one line: You weren't kissed."

Harry folded his arms. "I wasn't."

Moody grunted. "Attaboy."

"But Dumbledore seems to think so," Harry pressed.

"He'll swing by tomorrow," Arthur reassured him. "He'll explain everything."

Harry huffed. "Do I really have to wait until then? What even is this place? Where are we? Why are you all here?"

Remus sighed, casting a glance at Tonks before answering. "This is the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. You weren't supposed—"

Harry blinked. "The what?"

"The Order of the Phoenix," Sirius repeated. "It's a secret organization fighting against Voldemort."

Harry absorbed this, glancing around at the assembled group. "And you're all here because…?"

George smirked. "Because you had the poor judgment of being the target of what looks suspiciously like an assassination attempt."

Molly swatted him. "George!"

Molly shot him a glare.

Harry straightened his back. "Well, okay then. I want to join."

A brief silence followed, broken only by the faint creak of the house settling around them. Then—

"Deal," Sirius said immediately, a grin spreading across his face. "He's in."

"WHAT?" came a chorus of protests. Fred, George, Ginny, and Ron erupted at once, their voices overlapping.

"If he can join, so can we!" Ginny said hotly.

Molly slammed a hand onto the table. "Absolutely NOT," she said in a voice that brooked no argument. "He is a child."

Sirius held up his hands. "Alright, alright. Let's leave it open for discussion later on."

"There will be no discussion later on," Molly snapped.

Sirius arched an eyebrow. "We'll see."

Molly's eyes flashed dangerously, and for a moment, Harry thought she might actually throw something at Sirius.

"We've been sneaking around this place for weeks trying to figure out what you lot are up to—"

"—and Harry waltzes in and gets a membership card?"

Molly rounded on them, her face livid. "You absolutely will not join the Order of the Phoenix!" she said, her voice rising above the chaos. "You are all underage, and I will not have my children involved in this!"

It seemed this was a common argument, for it burst unexpectedly fast from little provocation, voices rising and falling, but eventually, Molly clapped her hands together sharply. "That is enough," she declared. "It's been a long night. Bed. Now."

There was grumbling as chairs scraped back and the group started to disperse. Moody gave Harry a nod, Tonks winked, and Lupin offered a weary smile before heading upstairs.

Sirius led Harry through the dim hallways, the air thick with dust. "Here," he said, opening a door. "It's yours for now."

Harry stepped inside. The room was dark, cool, and surprisingly quiet. A single four-poster bed sat against the far wall, the old covers neatly made. The window rattled faintly in the breeze, and the distant murmur of voices in the hallway faded as Sirius shut the door behind him.

For the first time that night, Harry was alone.

He kicked off his shoes, climbed into bed, and lay staring at the ceiling. He didn't lie there long before the door creaked open softly. Ginny was the first through, taking a few quick steps before sitting herself down next to Harry on the bed. Harry shifted over to give her space, and the others—Ron and Hermione—followed, both at the other side of the bed.

"So, what's it like kissing dementors?"

Harry blinked, unsure how to answer. The smirk on Ron's face gave him away though. Harry snorted quietly.

"Funny."

"Never mind that," Hermione said, her tone light but tense. "Why haven't you replied to our letters?"

The question hung in the air, as Hermione's eyes flicked down briefly.

He offered a small, apologetic shrug. "I didn't... feel like I could talk about it. Not with everything that's been going on. I didn't know how to say it."

Ginny's gaze softened, "How are you doing, Harry?"

He paused, his eyes drifting towards the window, where the pale moonlight seeped in, casting long shadows across the floor. "I'm not sure," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I don't feel... right. Something's wrong, deep down. I've got this feeling in my stomach, like, but I don't know what."

At the thought, a vivid image flashed in his mind—Pierre, lying still on the ground, the Dementor's kiss having stolen everything from him. The cold emptiness that had filled Harry during the attack crept into his chest again, and he shuddered involuntarily.

"Harry?" Ginny's voice cut through the haze, gentle but insistent.

"I'm fine," he lied, forcing a smile to cover the unease. But the image of Pierre's face—still, lifeless, after the kiss—refused to leave his mind. It gnawed at him, an image too real to ignore. And there was another image, a new one. The cold hands of the dementor prying his jaws open slowly, it's wide sucking mouth closing in on his. Nausea rose in him.

"I think maybe I was kissed," Harry said quietly, his voice distant. "I know I said I wasn't just now, I can't recall it all clearly, but I have these flashes, these... images." He trailed off, looking at the floor.

Hermione's brow furrowed in concern. "How's your scar, Harry? Does it hurt at all?"

He paused, searching his mind. It felt like a weight in the center of his forehead—but now, it was as if it had disappeared entirely.

He frowned. "No.." he said slowly, "Strangely, nothing."

Hermione's eyes widened slightly. "Nothing? But that's—usually, when it's like this, it's... well, foreboding like, right? Dark magic, I mean."

"Only Voldemort's, I suppose," Harry replied, his voice almost sounding detached. "I guess." He sat up straighter and rubbed his forehead, still trying to make sense of it. "Really, nothing?" he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

Another long pause passed between them. Then, finally, Harry spoke again, his voice softer, almost like he was confessing. "I dunno. It's been troubling me all summer, barely slept for it most nights... but it's just... gone." He couldn't explain it. A weight he hadn't noticed lifting, but the absence of it left him more uneasy than before.

Hermione was silent, too. Ginny and Ron exchanged a glance, sensing there was more to this than Harry was saying, but for the moment, they all just sat there, letting the words hang in the air.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of his words before he even spoke them. "I—I didn't know what to say," he began, glancing at each of them. "With everything that happened with Voldemort, and then, afterwards... and then my uncle, he was just... really nasty towards Dudley. I've been helping him save up for his own flat. It's just... been really bad, and I didn't want to drag you into all of it." He shifted uneasily on the bed, feeling like his explanation was more of an excuse than a reason.

Ginny's brow furrowed, and she was about to speak when Ron cut in. "You can't just shut us out, mate. We're your friends. You don't have to go through all of that on your own."

Harry felt a pang of guilt. He looked down, feeling suddenly stupid. "I know. I shouldn't have kept it from you. Looking back, it feels... dumb, I guess. But at the time, it felt like everything was just an endless stream of bad, and I didn't want to add to it."

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look, and Ron nodded in understanding, though his words were firm. "You've always let it be just you, Harry. You don't have to do that anymore. We're here for you, alright?"

Harry sighed, his shoulders slumping as he met their eyes. "Yeah, I get that now. It just... felt like everything I touched was turning to crap, and I didn't want to make it worse. But I should have let you in." He paused for a moment, the weight of the summer still sitting heavy on him. "I'll do better, I promise. No more keeping things from you."

Ron frowned. "So you've been working Muggle labour to help your cousin, or what? What do Muggles even do for money?"

Ginny, smirking, added, "We heard from the secret meetings that you've been sneaking off. Couldn't really figure out where you went." She sniggered.

Harry laughed weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I noticed there were wizards around Privet Drive. Figured they weren't after me since they just stood there. I'd see these strange shimmers from their Invisibility Cloaks and stuff. Eventually, I just learned to spot them easily. I'd use random distractions or my own cloak to lose them. Got so good at it I didn't even need the cloak anymore." He shook his head. "Can't believe they didn't just follow Dudley, though. I always met up with him."

Ron chuckled. "Morons."

Hermione, still looking puzzled, repeated Ron's earlier question. "But what did you actually do for money?"

Harry hesitated, then exhaled. He'd decided to be honest with them. "Well… I've been kind of boxing," he admitted.

Ginny gave a laugh. "You've been beating up Muggles for cash?"

"Well, it's a sanctioned sport. Mostly." Harry gave a crooked smirk.

"Though the events we took part in were more… underground."

Hermione gasped. "A fight club? And you made money from this?"

Harry shrugged. "Dudley's a boxer, but he's huge, so nobody ever bets against him. But I'm scrawny and kind of small. And I usually took on older kids, so they figured it was a right slam dunk to bet against me. But I usually won." He smirked slightly. "Mostly through just… taking enough of a beating, really."

Ron snorted. "Wizards are generally pretty resilient to blunt trauma."

Ginny scoffed. "As if you'd be able to win a Muggle fight, Ron."

Ron sat up straighter. "I'm tall."

"And then what," Ginny laughed.

Harry continued. "Anyway, I kept winning fights, we kept making money, and Dudley was supposed to put a deposit down on a flat. Somewhere away from my aunt and uncle."

Ginny's expression softened. "Were they really that bad?"

Harry nodded. "They were. They used to only go after me when I was younger, but once I got my Hogwarts letter, it turned on Dudley instead. They were probably afraid to mess with a wizard, and once Sirius came into the picture, well.."

Ginny looked concerned, but Harry continued. "I'd kind of lure Vernon to go after me, I could take it a lot easier, and nothing he did really stuck, he'd use my aunts dog whip, his belt and so on, and it left these awful marks on Dudley, so I just kind of started taunting him to make him turn on me instead. And, well, it worked."

Hermione looked horrified. "He did what?"

"Well, I could take it easier," Harry said matter-of-factly. "So whenever I was home for the summer, I just made sure to provoke Vernon before he could go after Dudley." He shrugged. "It worked."

Ron and Ginny exchanged uneasy glances.

Harry sighed. "With Voldemort and everything, it maybe went a little too far at times…"

He trailed off, staring at the floor, a strange tightness settling in his chest.

"Anyway," Harry went on, rubbing a hand over his face, "we'd just come back from an event. We made a lot of money that night." He exhaled sharply. "I took three fights, one after the other. Dudley bet on all of them."

Ron's eyes widened. "Three fights in one night?"

"He didn't want me to," Harry admitted. "But I convinced him."

Ginny looked at him skeptically. "You convinced Dudley?"

"Well, he was nervous. Thought I'd get knocked out if I kept pushing my luck. But I knew I could handle it." Harry smirked faintly. "And when I won, he had more than a year's rent. We were good to go."

Hermione was staring at him, expression unreadable.

"And then the dementors found us on the way back," Harry said quietly.

The room fell silent.

"No idea how they even found us."

With a pair of loud cracks, Fred and George appeared in the room, grinning smugly.

"What are you kids talking about?" Fred asked, leaning casually against the bedpost.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "They qualified for Apparition just before the summer," she muttered to Harry, "and they've been driving everyone up the walls."

"Walking is for losers," Fred declared.

Ron scowled. "I'm jealous."

"Kids aren't allowed," George said airily.

Ron crossed his arms. "I'm basically one year younger than you."

Fred smirked. "And when you are no longer a child, dear brother, perhaps you too can aspire to our greatness."

George turned to the others. "So, what are we talking about?"

Ginny shot Harry a sideways glance. "Harry's been beating up muggles for cash."

Both twins' jaws dropped.

"No way!" Fred said, eyes gleaming.

"That's brilliant," George added.

Hermione frowned but said nothing.

Fred tilted his head. "Is that really how you're preparing to take on You-Know-Who and all, punching the death eaters?"

Harry shrugged. "That's not really why, it was just something to do I guess. Though surprisingly, I'm somewhat of a natural."

"Too bad it's not a sanctioned sport at Hogwarts," George mused.

Ron perked up. "We should join the dueling club next semester."

Hermione made a face. "Those nerds would probably keel over with pleasure if Harry ever turned up there."

Harry laughed. "Maybe we should stop by."

Ginny looked suspicious. "They're actually incredibly talented."

Fred nodded. "Yeah. Me and George stopped by a couple of years ago."

"And got our asses properly handed to us," George muttered, cringing.

"Never underestimate those nerds…"

Harry thought it actually sounded fun.

"Taking a beating is my specialty, after all."

Hermione gave him a look. "That's not funny," she said softly.

Before Harry could reply, George asked, "So… the dementors. What was it like?"

The thought about Pierre. His stomach twisted.

"Yeah… one of my cousin's friends got kissed," he said glumly.

George hesitated. "What does it look like?"

Ginny made a reproachful face at George, and Harry thought that in that moment she vaguely reminded him of Mrs. Weasley.

"It's all right," Harry muttered. He swallowed.

"It was horrifying," he admitted. "It held him in the air—Pierre was all limp from fear—and then it opened its mouth and just… latched on. It was over really quickly, it just stole everything from him, like…" He shook his head. "There was this horrible sound, like a hoarse rattle, or a wheeze. It just sounded like death."

He shuddered, and Ginny placed a comforting hand on his leg.

Harry took a breath and continued, his voice quieter now. "After that, everything becomes hazy. But I have these flashes—images—of two of them holding me. One had its hands around my head, and the other gripped my arm. The one I held my wand in. At first, they covered my mouth, but then they started prying at it, forcing my jaw open, and the last thing I can remember…" He trailed off, staring at the wall. "Both of them had removed their hoods. And those faces…"

He stopped.

Nobody spoke for a moment, until Fred broke the silence.

"Our dad," he said, voice unusually serious, "told us he once visited a place where dementor victims are kept. He said they were all strapped down, because they'd… do things to themselves if they weren't." Fred shifted uncomfortably. "And it was just awful. Dad said it was worse than being around dementors. He said those people…." Fred exhaled and shook his head. He didn't finish.

Harry didn't need him to.

He had seen Pierre.

Nobody said anything after that. The room sat in heavy silence.

They talked for a while longer, and Harry felt better than he had all summer. Just being around his friends, hearing them joke and argue, made the weight on his chest feel lighter. He had spent the last two months trapped in his own head, but now, for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn't alone.

Eventually, they heard a noise outside Harry's bedroom door. In an instant, the twins disappeared with two distinct pops. Ginny rolled her eyes, Hermione muttered something about them being insufferable, and Ron smirked. It reminded them that they were well into the small hours.

"We should get to bed," Hermione said, stifling a yawn.

Ginny stretched. "Yeah, see you in the morning, Harry."

One by one, they slipped out, leaving Harry alone. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to hold onto the comfort their presence had given him, but sleep came fitfully. Several times, he awoke with a start, his heart hammering, the phantom sensation of cold hands grabbing at him lingering long after he had opened his eyes.

By the time morning arrived, he felt no more rested than he had the night before.

Still, he forced himself out of bed and into the hallway. The portrait of Sirius' mother remained covered by the raggedy old blanket, though Harry eyed it warily as he passed. That was when he saw them—his things, all stacked neatly against the wall.

His trunk was there, along with his Firebolt, his bag, and Hedwig's empty cage—all neatly stacked against the wall. Seeing them filled him with quiet relief; at least they weren't planning for him to have to go back any time soon, maybe he would even spend the rest of the summer here, with Sirius.

He ran a hand over his trunk before turning toward the kitchen, drawn by the smell of food.

Inside, Mrs. Weasley was bustling about, and as soon as she saw him, she smiled warmly.

"Good morning, dear," she greeted. "Tonks brought your things by earlier this morning." She gestured toward the stove. "Sit down, I'll fix you a plate."

Harry barely had time to take a seat before she placed a heaping portion of porridge in front of him.

As Harry ate his porridge, Arthur Weasley entered the kitchen, still buttoning his sleeves. He greeted Molly with a kiss on the cheek before pausing mid-motion as his eyes landed on Harry.

"Harry, you're all right," he said, sounding a little surprised.

Harry swallowed his bite of porridge. "Yeah, still ticking."

Arthur let out a breath, shaking his head. "It's chaos at the Ministry. They've still got people out looking for you since you went missing."

"Since you kidnapped me from the ambulance," Harry corrected, raising an eyebrow.

Arthur grinned. "Exactly. Well, they don't know that." He tucked in his shirt and sighed. "I can't stay—just swapping clothes before heading back." With that, he rushed off, leaving the door swinging behind him.

Ron stumbled into the kitchen next, looking barely awake. "Morning," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. He blinked at the empty doorway. "Was that Dad?"

"He didn't stay," Molly said, already bustling about. "He's back at the Ministry."

"Ah."

With a pair of loud pops, Fred and George Apparated straight into the kitchen.

"Morning, everyone!" Fred announced cheerfully.

George stretched, yawning. "Blimey, what a night. Anything interesting happen while we were sleeping?"

Before anyone could answer, Hermione appeared in the doorway, looking much more put-together than Ron but just as groggy. Sirius arrived soon after, shaking out his sleeves as he joined them at the table.

"I was seeing to Buckbeak," he explained when Harry looked at him.

"Is he here?" Harry asked, perking up.

"Yeah, top floor," Sirius said, smirking. "You know, Grimmauld Place is officially a refuge for fugitives now. We've got Buckbeak, me, and now you."

Harry gave him a dry look. "Brilliant."

Molly set a fresh cup of tea in front of Sirius and cleared her throat meaningfully. "That reminds me—Dumbledore will be coming by later. He's requested to see you, Harry. You'll be attending the Order meeting."

The room fell silent. Fred, George, Ginny, and Ron all turned toward their mother, their faces lit with excitement. But before they could argue, Molly fixed them with a pointed stare.

"When the headmaster specifically requests someone's presence, they are permitted to attend," she said, her voice firm.

The excitement fizzled out instantly. The twins muttered something under their breath but didn't push their luck.

"Before that," Molly continued, returning to her usual brisk tone, "I need you lot to help clean up the second-floor ballroom. It's a hazard."

"That's putting it lightly," Sirius said, shaking his head. He turned to Harry. "This house hasn't been lived in for years. The place is crawling with pests—Doxies, Scuttlehexes, you name it."

"Charming," Ron muttered.

"Yeah, well, it's not like the useless piece of work is any help," Sirius added under his breath.

Harry glanced at him. "Who?"

"Kreacher."

Sirius told him of his house elf, and what a piece of work he though he was. Harry listened as they all finished their breakfasts, the conversation light and filled with familiar banter, before getting up to start the day's tasks.

The ballroom was every bit as daunting of a project as Molly had said it would be, and by lunch, Harry's hands were covered in blisters and burns. They took a break for lunch, and when they returned to the kitchen, the room had grown crowded. Lupin had stopped by, Moody was there, Tonks had shown up, Kingsley was present, and to Harry's great surprise, Snape came too. The Order meeting was set to start soon, and one by one, all the kids except Harry were ushered back into the ballroom under Molly's supervision, each of them grumbling but resigned to their fate. A number of other wizards Harry didn't recognize were already there, though he wasn't introduced to them. Eventually, Dumbledore arrived, and everyone settled into their seats.

Dumbledore stood at the head of the table, his voice calm and steady as he addressed the room.

"Welcome, Harry," he said, his blue eyes twinkling as they settled on the young wizard. "Though not a member, we are pleased to have you with us as a guest of honor at this meeting."

Harry awkwardly nodded, feeling everyone's gaze.

Dumbledore continued, "Harry will remain for the first part of the meeting, as he too needs to hear this."

A murmur rippled through the room, and Harry noticed the eyes of the Order members flicking toward him, some with curiosity, others with concern. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Now," Dumbledore went on, "last night, two dementors from Azkaban were sent after Harry with the intent to, for all intents and purposes, neutralize him. An assassination if you will."

He paused gravely.

"They attempted to kiss Harry, and, regrettably, they succeeded in kissing a muggle boy instead."

Harry sat up straighter at the mention of the dementors, his chest tightening at the memory. "I fought them off," he said, before he could stop himself. It felt strange to speak in front of so many, but it was the truth.

Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed, Harry fought them off heroically," he said. "Now, there are two accounts of the events, two memories of what transpired."

He paused, allowing the words to sink in. "One account is in Ministry hands. It has already was extracted from a muggle, the cousin of Harry, and we can safely assume that Voldemort will eventually gain access to it. This memory is the recollections of a muggle, and the consequence of this is that, because muggles cannot see dementors, it will be quite an incomplete account, though I don't doubt Voldemort could make great use of it." He looked at Harry with a solemn expression. "I expect this account to be used in the trial against you, Harry, and we must act swiftly to try and intercept it before it's too late. We have roughly two weeks before it will be available for viewing. Evidence procedure requires the memory to remain sealed until used in a court of law, and should it be opened before that date, it is useless. This is of course quite the conundrum, as I cannot imagine the ministry being less than eager to find out what happened."

"The second account," Dumbledore continued, "has been extracted from a witch—a squib, to be precise. The Ministry is unaware of this one. I have personally reviewed it, and while it holds troubling details, I am not prepared to discuss them further at this time."

Sirius, who had been leaning back in his chair, shot Dumbledore a pointed look. "And it's still believed that Harry was kissed, then?" he asked, his voice laden with skepticism.

Dumbledore glanced at Harry, then turned back to Sirius. "I will not comment on this at this time," he replied slowly. "The evidence is... inconclusive." He looked down at the table for a moment before meeting the eyes of the room once more. "What I can tell you is that both accounts—whether from the Ministry or from the memory I hold—will be of the highest priority for both Voldemort and the Ministry. Luckly only one of this are known to the Ministry. No doubt the one in the possession of the ministry will use it to further their own political agendas, while Voldemort will no doubt seek to exploit it for his own purposes."

He straightened, his voice grave. "We are working to have your arrest warrant rescinded, Harry. I will be going to the Ministry immediately after this meeting to press for it."

Harry blinked. That would be nice.

"Now," Dumbledore said, his gaze softening as he turned to Harry, "it's good to see you unharmed, but I'm afraid this is where I must ask you to leave us. The meeting must continue without you."

Harry felt a strange mix of disappointment and relief. He wondered what even was the point of allowing him to attend this, it didn't really make much sense to him anyway. He stood, his legs slightly shaky, and began to make his way toward the door.

Sirius gave him a small, reassuring smile as he passed, and Harry returned it. He simply nodded and closed the door behind him as he stepped back into the dimly lit hallway.

As soon as Harry stepped out into the hallway, he nearly bumped into his friends, who were huddled close to the door. Clearly, they had snuck away from the ballroom to try and eavesdrop.

Fred grinned. "Well? What did they say?"

Harry sighed. "Nothing we didn't already know," he muttered. "Dumbledore thinks the Ministry's going to try and send me to Azkaban."

Ron swore under his breath. "What?"

"Yeah," Harry said glumly. He recounted the conversation anyway, but as he spoke, they all agreed it hadn't exactly been revelatory.

Harry's gaze drifted to Fred's hand. "What's that?" he asked, pointing at the bright orange cord dangling from his fingers.

Fred's grin widened. "Extendable Ear," he said proudly.

"Not that it's much use," said George. "They put a spell on the door. Blocks out everything."

"Wankers," Ginny muttered darkly.

They all sniggered, but stayed, and Harry never the less told them what he had been told, and what Dumbledore had said in the meeting. The conversation eventually shifted towards various things, until they were interrupted when the door opened and the Order members began filing out.

Dumbledore was among the first to leave. He nodded politely as he passed, but didn't say a word. Harry's stomach sank—he had hoped for a moment alone with him, he had a million questions. But the headmaster was already gone, vanishing through the front door before Harry could even think of what he wanted to ask him.

nape followed shortly after, sneering down at him as he passed. "What's he doing here?" Harry muttered.

Before anyone could answer, Mrs. Weasley appeared, arms crossed. "And why, exactly, are you lot not in the ballroom?"

They all mumbled excuses, but she only sighed. "I know you were trying to listen in," she said, shaking her head. "But I won't ask. Back to work—all of you."

With no other choice, they trudged back up to the ballroom.

That was where Harry met Kreacher for the first time. The house-elf was muttering to himself as he skulked around the room, occasionally shooting Harry dark looks.

"Who's that?" Harry asked Sirius.

"Kreacher," Sirius said with distaste. "House-elf. Filthy, lying old traitor, but he's stuck here."

"Why not just set him free, then?" Harry asked.

Sirius sighed. "Can't. He knows too much about the Order's business."

The old house elf kept mostly to himself, though always near the group. Sirius said he thought the elf was trying to save dark artefacts from his mother, the filthy rat.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Sounds harmless enough, why not just let him have some of it?"

"You don't know what my family keeps around here, they've got some seriously dark stuff."

Harry considered this. Better the elf handle it than them, he mused darkly. Hermione elbowed him in the ribs reproachfully, but the elf seemed perked by this comment, and seemed keen to offer Harry refreshments, while pointedly ignoring everyone else, including his master Sirius, ever since.

They kept cleaning, though it felt almost pointless. The ballroom was massive, and by the time dinner rolled around, it looked no better than when they had started. It remained infested with various magical creatures, each one more unsettling than the last.

Harry sighed as he wiped sweat from his forehead. "Are we sure this place isn't cursed?"

"Wouldn't surprise me," Ron muttered.

And with that cheery thought, they headed down to dinner.

Mad-Eye stayed for dinner, his magical eye whizzing about as he cut into his stew with the same precision he applied to everything else. The conversation turned grim when he set down his fork with a clink and pulled a tightly rolled parchment from his cloak.

"This arrived for you at Privet Drive," he said gruffly, tossing it onto the table in front of Harry. "One of our lot fetched it before your relatives could get their grubby hands on it."

Harry unrolled the parchment, his stomach sinking as he took in the Ministry's seal stamped at the top. It was long—longer than he'd expected. His eyes darted over the words, but before he could make sense of them, Mr. Weasley let out a quiet curse under his breath.

Molly, reading over his shoulder, paled. "This—this is outrageous!" she spluttered, clutching at her apron as if steadying herself.

"What does it say?" Ron asked, leaning in.

Hermione's eyes were already racing across the parchment. "It's an indictment," she whispered. "A formal charge."

Harry's hands tightened around the edges of the parchment. His name stood stark and bold at the top of the page, followed by a long list of offenses. His stomach churned as he continued reading.

Then he reached the final lines.

His breath caught.

Dear Mr. Potter,

This letter serves as official notice of the charges brought against you by the Ministry of Magic. You are hereby summoned to appear before the Wizengamot on the twelfth of August at eleven o'clock in the morning at Courtroom Ten, Ministry of Magic, London.

The indictment is as follows:

Statement of Offense:

On the second of August of this year, in a residential Muggle area, you have willfully and unlawfully performed magic in the presence of Muggles, in violation of multiple statutes governing the use of magic by underage wizards. Specifically, you:

Inflicted grievous bodily harm upon a Muggle child through the use of a magical curse, an offense under the Dark Arts Prohibition Act.

Recklessly endangered the lives of two Muggle minors, an offense under the Protection of Muggles Act.

Breached the International Statute of Secrecy by performing magic in the presence of Muggles.

Contravened the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, by unlawfully executing advanced magic without Ministry authorization.

Furthermore, the prosecution asserts that your actions resulted in permanent and irreparable harm to one Muggle minor and caused severe psychological distress to another.

In light of the severity of these allegations, the prosecution intends to seek a custodial sentence of no less than ten years' imprisonment in Azkaban.

You are advised to attend the hearing as summoned. Failure to appear may result in further legal action.

By order of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,

Ministry of Magic

Harry's knees wobbled, and before he could steady himself, something hard jabbed into the back of them, sending him collapsing into a chair. Kreacher stood beside him, looking disturbingly pleased with himself.

"Master must sit," the house-elf croaked, bowing low.

Harry barely registered him. He slumped back, gripping the parchment with numb fingers.

"Suck up," Sirius muttered, shooting Kreacher a withering look.

"Why is he so fond of you all of a sudden, anyway?" Though his mutterings were largely ignored.

"This is outrageous!" Hermione burst out, her cheeks flushed with anger.

"Yeah, well, if you ask me, you should just go into hiding," Ron said darkly.

"Enough," Sirius cut in, raising a hand. "Listen, you heard Dumbledore—oh, come off it, Molly, you know he told the lot the second he left the meeting."

Harry grinned sheepishly. Across the table, Molly huffed, clearly torn between disapproval and resignation.

"I can't say I'm surprised," she admitted.

Sirius smirked. "It's what James would have done."

Molly sighed, but she didn't argue.

Sirius leaned forward, tapping the parchment. "They're using this to leverage Dumbledore. Fudge is losing control, and he knows it. He needs Dumbledore in his fold to stay in power—or he needs a way to fight Voldemort. Either through you—" he waved the indictment in one hand, "—or through Dumbledore." He waved it again.

Harry frowned. "How could he possibly think this would get either of us on his side?"

"He's desperate," growled Moody. His magical eye whizzed as he scanned the room. "They can't deny Voldemort is back anymore, not after this. People are disappearing. We haven't had directed Dementor attacks in fifteen years. The signs are clear as day—even to someone as thick as Fudge."

"Then what's the plan?" Ron asked.

Moody grunted. "It's stupid, but he wants a plea deal. He wants you to publicly back him, Harry. Said as much to Dumbledore today."

Harry blinked. "And?"

Sirius snorted. "And he got nothing, obviously. The Ministry's too corrupt for you to touch with a ten-foot pole. Besides, we've got reason to believe Voldemort's been back for far longer than we initially thought."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

"Then why the whole stupid plot with the Tri-Wizard Tournament?" Harry asked, his voice sharp with frustration.

"That was Death Eater business," Moody said gruffly. "Seems they had their own plan going. You-Know-Who was largely unaware of it until very late, and from what we understand, he wasn't particularly interested. In fact, he still considers the whole affair unnecessary and convoluted." Moody let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Can't say I think he's wrong."

Harry reeled. "But they succeeded! They delivered me to him!"

Sirius let out a cold laugh. "And look what came of it. And at what price?" He leaned forward, ticking off on his fingers. "To get you into the Tournament, one Death Eater breached the Goblet magical contract business—died a terrible death for it. Then, because you were trying to impress that lass—" he shot Harry a knowing smirk, "—which, by the way, is something James would have done, and frankly, aside from how it turned out, can't say I disapprove of—"

"Sirius!" Molly snapped.

Sirius cleared his throat. "Right. Anyway. Their whole plan relied on you excelling in a competition meant for adults, despite being three years behind. We know for a fact Voldemort considers you little more than a squib, so already that tells you this wasn't his design."

Harry flinched. The words stung.

"Nobody could have foreseen you dominating the games like you did," Sirius added, with a touch of pride. "Again—James would've been proud."

Harry smiled despite himself.

"And let's not forget the other casualties," Sirius went on. "That Seeker kid—the bulgarian. Pureblood, world famous, and dead. Doubt that thrilled Voldemort. Not a lot of good will from offing international Quidditch stars. Then there was that second champion who drowned—also from the Death Eaters' own school. The champion from the second drawing" He held up three fingers. "That's three deaths for this ridiculous plan, and we are barely two months into the semester."

Harry swallowed hard, but Sirius wasn't finished.

"And then, you arrive at the graveyard, and from how he treated you, we can only assume he wasn't actually expecting it to happen."

Ginny gasped. "He crucified him."

"Aye," Moody said brusquely. "A medieval Muggle execution method. Hardly fitting for the so-called supreme wizard overlord and Muggle-hater. Frankly embarrassing."

Harry's breath caught in his throat. "He also used the Killing Curse on me," he said quietly.

Sirius hesitated, considering. "Well, yes. But it's Dumbledore's belief—and I agree—that it was somewhat… lacking, for Voldemort."

Harry clenched his fists, running his thumbs over his palms. He could still feel the ghost of the wounds, where the spikes had been driven through his hands. He remembered the way Voldemort had smiled, mocking him, calling him Dumbledore's golden boy, the so-called King of the Muggle-lovers.

"So fitting," Voldemort had whispered, "that you die like the King of the Muggles."

Harry shuddered. If that was how Voldemort improvised, he'd hate to see what one of his actual plans looked like.

Fred leaned back, arms behind his head, and mused, "Still, the way you offed that dragon in the first task?

By far the coolest thing I've ever seen. Bar none."

"Agreed," Ron and George said at once.

Ginny nodded, but Hermione looked somewhat nauseated, as if the memory still haunted her.

Harry couldn't help but smile.

"Must be terribly annoying for Voldemort," Alastor remarked, his scarred mouth twisting into something that almost resembled a grin. "Not only did the whole plan fail miserably, but you came out looking like a bona fide hero. Knight in shining armor, all that nonsense."

Ginny perked up. "Oh, speaking of nonsense—there are books now, you know."

Harry blinked. "Books?"

"Ahem. Romantic books," she clarified, eyes dancing. "With you on the cover. Saving women from dragons. They can't keep them on the shelves."

Harry snorted. "That sounds stupid."

"It isn't," Moody said firmly. "This war is just as much about perception as it is about power. If you look like someone capable of leading the—" He waved a gnarled hand vaguely. "The armies of the light, or whatever those pansy books call it—"

Hermione, quite without thinking, corrected him primly. "The Order of the Rising Dawn," she supplied.

A beat of silence. Then her face turned scarlet.

Moody gave her a toothy grin. "Ah. Thanks for that, Granger."

Ginny and Ron both turned to her, their grins nearly identical. Harry just raised an eyebrow.

Moody pressed on. "If people believe that version of you, Potter, then Voldemort's power weakens. He needs people to scatter. To believe there's no hope. That he's got overwhelming support. His true power lies in perception—and I can't emphasize enough how much you damaged him during the Tournament."

"Same with the second task," Sirius added.

Fred snorted gleefully. "Oh yeah, the way you finished that in less than a minute—" he gave a theatrical wipe of his eyes, as if overcome by mirth. "Hilarious. Absolutely killed me."

"Nearly did me too.." Harry remarked mock darkly, for he had never figured out how to actually hold his breath by magic, and thus had to resort to the muggle fashion, and subsequently nearly drowned himself.

Ron nodded. "The newspapers are still debating how that was even possible. And, as a consequence, whether future tournaments need to be harder."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "The task had one death and one 'Did Not Finish.'" She gave Ron a pointed look. "So I hardly think the difficulty was the issue."

Harry smiled, remembering.

Sirius, watching him, smirked. "That reminds me—letter came for you earlier. Left it on your bed." His expression turned shrewd. "Might want to have a look at it."

Dinner stretched on long after the plates were cleared, conversation ebbing and flowing until, one by one, everyone drifted off to their rooms.

Harry entered his chambers, feeling the weight of the day settle over him. On his bed, a letter rested atop the covers. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It was addressed to him, the sender—Fleur Delacour.

Before he could open it, his door creaked. He turned just as Ginny slipped inside, dressed in her pajamas, her hair in a loose bun.

"Hey," she said quietly. "Do you have a moment?"

"Sure," he said, setting the letter down on his nightstand.

She hesitated for only a second before perching on the edge of his bed. Harry remained standing.

"I've been thinking about the dementors," she said, her voice unusually soft. "Ever since I heard what happened. About how you think they might've actually… you know."

She didn't say the words, but Harry understood.

She let out a breath. "I still have nightmares about my first year."

Harry tensed. He knew what she meant—Tom Riddle, the diary, the possession.

She continued. "When the dementors were around in my second year, they made me hear him again. His voice. I'd feel like I was… being possessed all over again." Her fingers twisted into the fabric of her pajama bottoms. "You got so much grief for passing out left and right, but you weren't the only one. I did too, the first time. And I saw plenty of others do it."

Harry frowned. He'd never known that.

"But unlike the rest of us, you just up and learned the Patronus," she laughed.

"You probably could too," Harry said. "It's actually not that hard."

"For you maybe," she muttered.

A small silence stretched between them.

"Anyway," she said, shaking her head slightly. "I couldn't sleep last night. Kept thinking about it. The dementors. You being attacked again."

Harry exhaled through his nose. "I didn't sleep much either," he admitted. "But I was thinking more about Pierre."

Ginny looked over at him. "The Muggle boy?"

"Yeah. We weren't close or anything. But he was friends with Dudley when we were younger. And since me and Dudley started hanging out…" Harry shrugged. "He was just kind of… there. And, I dunno, he started being nice actually."

They talked for a long while, the quiet murmur of their voices filling the space as the minutes stretched into hours. Eventually, Harry shifted, settling more comfortably on the bed. Ginny did the same, and without either of them meaning to, the warmth of easy conversation and exhaustion finally pulled them under.

For the first time in a long while, Harry slept through the night.

It wasn't until the soft rustling beside him stirred him from sleep that he blinked his eyes open. Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a muted glow over the room.

Ginny was shifting, carefully extricating herself from his side. Sometime during the night, they had gravitated toward each other, limbs tangled, warmth shared.

She stilled when she saw his eyes open.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she whispered, voice hushed with morning rasp. "I should get back before—" she gestured vaguely, "—before people get up and start asking questions."

Harry hummed sleepily, watching as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"Go back to sleep," she said over her shoulder, standing now.

"I'll try," he murmured. But as he watched her slip toward the door with cat-like grace, he doubted he would. His bed suddenly felt colder. Emptier.

He sighed, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. He tried to drift off again, but his mind wouldn't settle. He stayed that way until the muffled sounds of footsteps outside his door told him the house was waking.

With a stretch and a resigned sigh, he got up and headed for breakfast.

When he entered the kitchen, Molly, Fred, George, Hermione, and Ginny were already gathered around the table, plates filled with eggs and toast.

"Morning," he greeted, sliding into an empty chair.

A firm slap on his back made him jolt forward slightly.

"Morning," Ron grinned as he flopped into the seat beside him, reaching for a piece of toast.

Harry caught Ginny glancing at him, but she looked away the moment Harry's eyes caught hers, she quickly looked away, focusing intently on her plate.

The day started in the same tedious pattern as the one before—another grueling attempt at making Grimmauld Place remotely habitable. This time, they tackled the hallway, which was dominated by the foul, screeching portrait of Sirius's mother.

Kreacher lurked nearby, watching them with the air of a guard dog, though, pretending not to care.

For hours, they struggled to remove the portrait of Sirius's mother, only for whatever ancient enchantments holding it in place to resist every spell and tool they tried. The more they pried at it, the louder the verbal abuse became, until the entire house seemed to ring with her screeching.

Frustrated, Harry wiped sweat from his brow and muttered at the looming house-elf, "Aren't house-elves supposed to be good at household spells and, you know, witchcraft?"

Kreacher stiffened, his large eyes flickering with something unreadable before he gave a begrudging nod.

Harry turned to him, exasperated. "Couldn't you just vanish it or something?"

Kreacher gave him a long, considering look. "Kreacher could," he rasped. Then, without another word, he shuffled away.

Harry blinked after him in disbelief. "So why doesn't he, then?"

Sirius scoffed. "Because he enjoys his little jokes," he said bitterly. "He didn't say that he would, did he?"

Harry huffed, giving the cursed portrait a glare before following the others to lunch.

Arthur Weasley had come by to eat with them, bringing news.

"They've rescinded your warrant," he told Harry over a plate of shepherd's pie.

Harry exhaled in relief. "That's brilliant, I'm no longer a fugitive."

"And so there were two.." Sirius mused with a smirk at Harry.

"Fitting, too," Harry added, "I need to get my supplies for school."

Ron and Hermione perked up immediately, eager at the thought of escaping the dreary house.

Mrs. Weasley, however, frowned. "You can't very well prance about Diagon Alley so soon after an attempt on your life was made," she said kindly, though the tone was very final.

Harry saw the sense in that, but it didn't stop him from feeling a pang of disappointment.

"All of your supplies have already been ordered," Mrs. Weasley continued, "and they should arrive within the week."

Ginny, looking skeptical, pointed out, "Our letters haven't even arrived yet."

Sirius smirked and leaned back in his chair. "And who do you think the head of the Order is?"

"Drats!" George muttered, slumping in his seat.

After lunch, they moved on to clearing out the salon, where they uncovered a trove of peculiar artifacts—including a particularly unflattering, dust-covered portrait of Sirius's mother. It was small, no larger than a postcard, but Kreacher seemed strangely fond of it.

Harry picked it up and turned to Sirius. "Is this one loud too?"

Sirius glanced at it with disdain. "Nah, it's just like a bedside thing. These are more like postcards or something."

Harry shrugged. "So why not let him keep it?"

Sirius stared at him as though he had suggested inviting Voldemort over for tea. "Are you serious?"

"What's the worst he could do with it?"

Sirius sputtered, looking half-amused, half-appalled. Behind them, Kreacher's head peeked hopefully around the corner, his bulbous eyes gleaming.

Sirius exhaled sharply. "Fine. Whatever, I guess."

In the blink of an eye, Kreacher had shuffled in front of Sirius, standing so expectantly that even Harry was surprised at the elf's speed.

Sirius hesitated for a beat, then folded his arms. "Alright, then. Is it true you can get rid of the large portrait?"

The elf's ears twitched. "Oh yes," he croaked. "Though I cannot see why Master would wish to destroy such a glorious and noble specim—"

"If you help us remove the big one," Sirius cut in, "I'll let you keep this."

Before Sirius had fully finished his sentence, Kreacher snatched the miniature portrait from his hands and scurried off, his muttering sounding suspiciously like praise for "the most magnanimous and generous master."

Sirius shot Harry a look. "If this comes back to bite me in the ass, this is on you."

Harry shrugged. "What's the worst that could happen?"

He got his answer mere minutes later.

When Mrs. Weasley called them down for supper, they walked into the dining room—only to find a scene of sorts.

The long table was covered in an extravagant feast. Plates overflowed with golden-brown roast chicken, glistening with butter. Baskets of freshly baked bread sat beside bowls of rich, steaming stews and platters of roasted vegetables, all glistening under the warm glow of the chandeliers. A massive pie, its flaky crust decorated with intricate patterns, sat temptingly near a silver dish of thick gravy. There were towering stacks of honey-drizzled pastries, and even a cauldron of what smelled like the richest, most fragrant onion soup Harry had ever encountered.

Mrs. Weasley, meanwhile, stood beside the stove, looking utterly dumbfounded. Her own pots of stew—clearly the result of a good hour's work on the counter, also sending up warm curls of steam.

She turned slowly toward Kreacher, who was standing by the table, looking disturbingly self-satisfied.

"Why," she asked, her voice heavy with exasperation, "couldn't you just tell me you wanted to act like a proper house-elf all of a sudden? Before I slaved away like a house-elf myself the better part of the afternoon?"

Kreacher ignored her happily, grinning toothily at Sirius.

Ron, grinning, nudged Harry. "Brilliant, this is great."

Fred, however, hesitated. He eyed the feast warily, then turned to his mother. "Wait—so is this one of those things where we have to eat your food, or else it's like we're picking sides or something?"

He glanced longingly at a particularly juicy piece of fried chicken.

Mrs. Weasley sighed, rubbing her temples. Her eyes flicked toward the table, taking in the luxurious meal, and Harry swore he saw a flicker of genuine longing cross her face.

Finally, she shook her head. "No, it's fine," she said, though she still looked thoroughly put out. "I just—next time

She looked sternly at Kreacher, "I'd like to know beforehand."

Sirius hesitated for a moment, then muttered to the elf.

"Hey, this is great and all, but, like, acknowledge you heard that.."

Kreacher bowed deeply, and then repeated the gesture towards the dumbfounded Kreacher. She spoke to Sirius, her tone as flabbergasted as Harry had ever heard her,

"Did you just imperius the elf?"

They had a glorious supper, the table laden with more than they could possibly eat, yet they made a valiant attempt. The atmosphere was light, filled with laughter and the occasional friendly bicker. Mrs. Weasley seemed to drop her frustrations with the elf, smiling as she joined in the cheer.

When they had finally finished, their stomachs heavy with good food and their bodies tired from hours of battling the house, there was little motivation to linger. The plates were cleared, and everyone slowly made their way to their respective rooms, their movements sluggish from the weight of the evening's indulgence.

Harry trudged up the stairs, grateful for the warmth of his bed. The house had worn them all down, and he could feel the exhaustion creeping in. He barely made it to his bed before he collapsed onto it, letting the soft sheets envelop him. As his eyes fluttered closed, the events of the day seemed to fade into a quiet, peaceful haze.

Harry woke up the next morning, the soft glow of early sunlight filtering through the curtains. But that is not what roused him. A mess of red hair obscured his vision. He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the dimness of the room, only to realize Ginny was curled up beside him, her red hair spilling across the pillow in a messy tangle, and her warm body pressed up against his under the cover.

He had stirred awake because she was moving. She seemed to realize he was awake almost immediately.

"Sorry," she murmured, her voice a little sleepy. "I couldn't sleep, and it seemed to help last night, so I figured I'd try again."

Harry gave her a small, understanding smile, his voice quiet. "It's fine. Seems it worked for me too."

Ginny began to sit up, her movements slow and drowsy.

"Right," Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Better get back before anyone notices."

As Ginny carefully slid out of the bed and grabbed her things, Harry lay there for a moment longer, watching her move with practiced quietness. This time he fell into a brief sleep, before the movements outside his door awoke him again.

The days that followed were a blur of routine. Each night, Ginny continued to sneak into Harry's room, sometimes with quiet conversation stretching until the early hours, other times with both of them falling into an easy, silent sleep. Harry found himself looking forward to those moments more and more, their shared time becoming the highlight of his days. Every morning, she slipped out before the house awoke.

During the day, life at Grimmauld Place took on a pattern. The house, with all its dark corners and oppressive atmosphere, became a project of sorts for everyone. Hours were spent cleaning, clearing debris, and trying to make the house more livable. Harry, Hermione, and Ron also kept their focus on the upcoming trial. Hermione tirelessly researched the charges, but with every detail, it all felt more senseless. Despite her frustrations, Harry found himself agreeing with her.

The night before the trial, though, something was different. Ginny hadn't come to see him, and for the first time, Harry couldn't shake the feeling of something missing. His thoughts spiraled as he waited for her knock, but it never came. And so, as the house slept, Harry found himself alone with the weight of the trial on his shoulders, unsettled and restless, unable to quiet the racing thoughts in his mind. Before he knew it morning had come, and he hadn't slept at all.