appears from under a rug* Hello hi how are you, are y'all good? Feeling cosy during the holiday season? Excited to go into 2025? Love that for you, come join me!
So welcome to... this LOL.
Listen. Come closer. Brace yourself for the disclaimer of a lifetime because... well, y'all get it. It's a scary world out there on the internets. There's violence and sad feels and mentions of rape/sexual assault, depression, trauma, abuse, sex scenes, violence, emotional and psychological trauma, etc. I'll provide warnings at the start of each chapter, but I feel like if you're reading, you're and adult, right? Right. This is fiction. A fictional depiction of fictional characters! If you cannot separate fiction from reality or from the characters depicted in this story, close the tab and walk away.
OK YAY that all sounds very scary but again, as I tagged, there's a vibe to this. Remember that if you continued reading before checking my author's note, you've agreed and are willing to consume adult content :D so don't come at me, please.
Also, a million thanks to my sister, for betaing for me. Also many many thank to on instagram listening to me ramble on and on about this fic lmao. Go check her out 3 her binds are amazing.
Also x2! J.K. Rowling is a TERF and a bad person, and you should not support her. Don't give her any money! Please support queer people instead. If I get any comments trying to deny this fact, the user will be swiftly blocked ️ so don't test me. My human rights are not up for discussion, thanks! Fuck you, Joanne, and fuck you if you support her
OK BYE SEE YOU! xoxoxo
"I can teach you to live with a Minotaur,
like a bezoar in your stomach."
Five years had passed since the war, but Grimmauld Place still felt like an empty grave.
The house loomed in the dim light of a rainy afternoon, its crooked windows and weathered brick facade an accurate reflection of the filth within. Harry stood on the threshold, staring at the peeling black paint of the front door as though it might lash out at him. He was drenched from the rain, but he hardly noticed over his resignation. The cold bite of the downpour on his skin, the heavy weight of his soaked clothes clinging to his frame—none of it registered. He never seemed to notice much these days—at least not the physical things. Pain, discomfort, hunger, the chill that seeped into his bones, they all blurred together, fading into the dull ache of his existence. The storm above him was nothing compared to the one that raged quietly within him, a ceaseless torrent of emotions that left him numb to everything else. But above that was the house's magic, restless and uncooperative, that kept him on edge. It seeped into him like a wolf sinking his claws onto its prey, its wild and unpredictable nature a constant reminder of just how broken everything was around him.
Grimmauld Place was no longer the sullen, orderly place it had been under the Black family. Instead, it had become an ever-shifting, unrecognisable realm of misery.
Harry stepped inside, the door closing with a heavy groan, as if the house itself resented his return. The hallway stretched out before him in gloom, illuminated only by the sad, flickering of a single candle on a wall sconce. The wallpaper, once richly patterned with what looked like silver serpents upon green, had disintegrated into shreds, curling away from the damp walls like moulted skin. Dust layered every surface, thick and undisturbed, though Harry could swear he and Kreacher had cleaned the place just yesterday. Spells of all kinds, even Molly's own, nothing ever worked here. Not even Muggle means.
The house didn't want to be cleaned.
He dropped his bag by the door, uncaring as it slumped against the wall. He'd spent the better part of the day trying to sort out the kitchen, which had decided overnight to relocate to the second floor. Again. He'd found it perched precariously in what used to be Sirius's old study, its cupboards and mechanical appliances clinging to the walls as though they'd sprouted there. The fireplace had been shoved into a corner, and the range was somehow jammed halfway into the window. He had tried, futilely, to coax the kitchen back to its proper place in the basement, but the house had refused, kicking him out of the room with a huff and a poof. It was stubborn like that, always rebelling, as though it didn't know what it was supposed to be anymore.
Kind of like him, if he was honest.
He trudged up the staircase, his trainers leaving damp prints on the scuffed wooden steps. Halfway up, the railing trembled, and Harry paused, narrowing his eyes at it in suspicion. The staircase groaned, the wood beneath him creaking ominously, as though considering whether it wanted to collapse altogether or save him the indignity.
"Don't you dare," he muttered moodily. The house seemed to sneer back in defiance with another sharp creak, but it held—for now.
The upper floors were no better. What should have been the hallway leading to his room opened instead into a long, cavernous library he'd never seen before. The shelves stretched into shadowy heights, their books rotting, the pages whispering as though alive and mouldy like old cheese, their smell so strong it made his nose itch.
Harry swore under his breath.
"Bloody hell, not now," he whined, turning back and closing the door. But when he glanced behind him, the staircase was gone, replaced by a narrow, spiralling passageway brimming with cobwebs and huge spiders. A scene straight out of Ron's nightmares.
This was his new normal, how the house punished him: by toying with him, reshaping itself until it made no sense. He had stopped keeping track of the number of times he'd gone to sleep in his room, only to wake up in a completely different part of the house. He'd learned to sleep with his wand in hand, though the disorientation never lessened.
Some days, his room didn't exist at all.
By the time he found his bedroom, Harry's nerves were frayed. All this time, his room was exactly where it was supposed to be all along, but it felt different. Colder. He stepped inside and found the bed stripped bare, its mattress yellowed and lumpy, the sheets missing entirely. The desk was overturned, the chair nowhere to be found, a horrifying mummified merfolk in its place; and the walls seemed to close in tighter than usual. Was the room smaller?
"Brilliant," he muttered, his voice flat and devoid of energy. He waved his wand to summon the missing sheets, but nothing happened. The house swallowed his magic like it always did when it was not in the mood to be helpful, rejecting his efforts with a petulant silence.
Sighing, he sank onto the bare mattress, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands dangled between them, slack, and his head fell forward, his rain-soaked fringe clinging to his forehead. He didn't cry. He rarely cried anymore. The weight in his chest was too heavy for tears, a suffocating ache that had rooted itself deep inside him, just beneath the locket's scar that had long since become pale under his sparse chest hair.
He wasn't sure why he insisted on staying here. Grimmauld Place was a ruin, a relic of a family steeped in darkness, and yet he couldn't bring himself to leave. Well, that was a lie. He knew perfectly well why he put up with the house's attempts to drive him mad.
It was Sirius's house. His last connection to his godfather. To his past.
To some vague, unreachable notion of family.
But it wasn't Sirius's house anymore, not really. It was something else entirely, warped and hollowed out by years of neglect and weird magic. It had become a place filled with ghosts, with memories he didn't want to confront, a gnawing emptiness he couldn't escape.
The house groaned, a low, mournful sound that made the hair on Harry's arms stand on end. He lifted his head, listening. The walls seemed to tremble faintly, the plaster cracking as if the house were trying to speak to him, trying to say something he couldn't understand. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. The house always did this—pressed on his mind, whispered things he couldn't quite make out. Sometimes he thought it was alive, as much a prisoner as he was. And sometimes he thought it hated him for being here, for intruding when he didn't belong.
The rain outside intensified, lashing against the windows with a fury that matched the trepidation in Harry's chest. He leaned back against the headboard, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he listened to the storm. His wand lay forgotten at his side, his fingers twitching occasionally as though grasping for something just out of reach.
Somewhere deep within the house, a door slammed, the echo reverberating through the walls. Harry didn't flinch. It happened all the time—doors opening and closing on their own, footsteps sounding in empty hallways, voices whispering just on the edge of hearing. He'd grown used to it.
And wasn't that just pathetic?
As he sat there, staring at the cracked ceiling, the weight of the house's magic pressed down on him again, as if testing his limits. It was like being smothered, the air thick and cloying, filled with the scent of dust and decay. His chest tightened, his breathing shallow, and for a moment, he wondered if the house was trying to consume him.
Maybe that wouldn't be so bad.
The thought came unbidden, and Harry shook his head, trying to banish it. He was just tired, he told himself. Tired from the constant battles—with the house, with his own mind, with the memories of the war that haunted him even in his dreams.
But no matter how hard he tried, the house never let him forget.
The rain had stopped by the time Harry ventured out of his room the next morning, but the stifling atmosphere inside Grimmauld Place had not lifted. It never did. The house seemed to revel in its misery, and Harry was beginning to suspect it was dragging him along for the ride.
He stretched as he trudged down the staircase, half-expecting it to shift beneath his feet and dropping it into another obscure room. The house had been merciful for once, allowing the stairs to remain intact. But he didn't trust it. Not anymore. The hallway was quiet except for the faint creak of floorboards beneath his weight. Dust motes floated in the thin stream of light leaking through the half-shuttered windows, and Harry couldn't help but thank whatever deity was watching over him that they weren't doxys, again. The time he had opened a newly-created cupboard near the kitchen door that lead to the backyard and had found a huge nest of them inhabiting it, had been more than enough for a lifetime. He avoided the little fairies like the plague now.
A hushed murmur drifted from downstairs, so faint he might have dismissed it as the groaning of the old pipes if it hadn't been followed by a soft laugh. He froze mid-step, ears straining to catch the sound again. Another creak, this time not beneath his feet but further ahead, and the unmistakable clink of a teacup settling on a saucer. His heart gave a jolt.
Apart from him, only Kreacher should've been around, and that wasn't Kreacher's gruff voice. That could only mean...
His friends were here.
Relief washed over him, though it was tinged with unease. They shouldn't have been in, or at least, not without telling him. Still, the thought of company stirred something warm in the hollow recesses of his chest, a welcome reprieve from the house's suffocating quiet. He adjusted his footing and headed toward the sound, his steps quickening despite himself. The house, as unpredictable as it was, had at least delivered him something familiar this time around.
Hermione's voice carried through the air before he even reached the kitchen—firm, insistent, and tinged with exasperation. He couldn't make out the words yet, but he knew the tone. She was lecturing. Again.
Ron's deeper voice joined hers, lower and softer, but no less serious.
Harry hesitated at the door, resting his hand against the peeling frame. He didn't need to hear the conversation to know what it was about. It was always about the same thing.
"Harry," Hermione said as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. Her dark face lit up in that determined way that meant she had a plan—though Harry knew by now that her plans often ended with him feeling cornered.
"Morning," he mumbled, heading straight for the kettle.
Ron sat at the kitchen table with a heart breakfast in front of him, his arms crossed, and a frown etched onto his face. Hermione stood beside him, hands on her wide hips, her eyes following Harry as he moved around the room. The kitchen itself looked surprisingly normal today, its cupboards and appliances in their proper places. For once, it seemed the house had decided to play along—though Harry suspected it had only done so because it wanted to discourage Hermione from whatever she was about to say.
"You look awful," Hermione said, her voice gentle but firm.
"Gee, thanks, Mione" Harry muttered, pouring water into the kettle. He kept his back to her, unwilling to meet her gaze.
"You know I don't mean it like that. Harry," she tried again, softer this time. "You can't keep living like this. The house—"
"It's fine," Harry interrupted, setting the kettle on the stove. He turned to face her, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed as he waited for the water to boil. "I've managed this long, haven't I?"
"Barely," Ron said. He didn't sound angry, just tired. Tired of having this conversation, tired of watching Harry spiral, tired of the house's grip on him. "It's not safe, mate. You know it's not."
Hermione nodded, her brow furrowing. "This house is falling apart, Harry. It's unstable. You've told us yourself how it moves things, traps you in rooms—it's dangerous."
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Hermione cut him off.
"And don't try to tell me you're handling it, Harry James" she said sharply. "You're not. Look at you, you look exhausted."
Ron leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he took a sausage and inspected it with apparent disinterest.
"You know you can move in with us," he said, his voice quiet but earnest. "We've been telling you that for years. We've got plenty of room, and you don't have to deal with this... this madness," he gestured vaguely around the kitchen with the sausage, careful, as if the house itself might lash out at any moment.
Harry looked away, his jaw tightening. "I can't."
"Yes, you can," Hermione said, stepping closer, her frown deepening. "Harry, you don't owe this house anything. You don't have to stay here."
Harry shook his head, pushing off the counter. "It's not just a house," he said, his voice low and clipped.
"We know that," Ron said, before shoving the whole sausage into his mouth. "It was Sirius', and we get why it's important to you. But Sirius wouldn't want this for you, Harry. He wouldn't want you wasting away in this place," he said between chews.
The words hit harder than Harry expected, and he turned away, gripping the edge of the counter.
"You don't understand," he said, his voice harsh but barely above a whisper.
"Then help us understand, Harry" Hermione pressed.
Harry closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. The kettle began to whistle behind him, but he didn't move to take it off the stove. The sound seemed to fill the room, drowning out everything else for a moment.
"It's the only thing I have left of him," he said finally, his voice raw.
The room went quiet.
Harry turned back to face them, his hands gripping the counter behind him. "Sirius is gone. He's been gone for years, I know that. But this—this wretched house—it's still here, and it's all I have left of him. If I leave, if I let it go, then it's like..." He trailed off, his throat tightening. "It's like he never existed."
Hermione's expression softened, her arms falling to her sides and approaching Harry slowly, as if she was trying not to spook him. Next to her, Ron looked down at the plate in front of him, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood.
"I know it's not healthy," Harry admitted, his voice trembling. "I know the house is..." He gestured vaguely, his hand shaking. "But I can't leave. I just can't."
For a moment, no one spoke. The kettle's whistle had died down, leaving the room eerily quiet.
Finally, Hermione stepped a little closer, placing a hand on his arm.
"Harry," she said softly, "Sirius isn't in this house. He's in your memories. In your heart. You don't have to stay here to keep him with you."
Harry swallowed hard, pulling away from her touch.
"I can't," he said again, his voice barely audible.
Ron sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking at him with worried eyes. "We just don't want to see you hurt, mate" he said. "That's all."
Harry nodded, but he didn't respond. The house groaned softly around them, as if listening.
Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, but they didn't push him any further. For now.
As the two of them settled into an uneasy silence, Harry turned back to the counter, pouring himself a cup of tea with hands that trembled slightly. The warmth of the mug did little to chase away the chill that seemed to seep into his very bones.
He knew they were right. The house was dangerous. It was slowly consuming him, breaking him down piece by piece.
But leaving wasn't an option.
Not yet.
The kitchen settled into a temporary calm as Hermione prepared Harry's tea for him just how he liked it –black, with a teaspoon of honey– and he took his place at the table, nursing it. Hermione fussed with a basket of scones she had brought, setting them out alongside a jar of jam and some clotted cream she'd likely smuggled in from the Burrow. The normalcy of it all—a proper breakfast in the disaster of Grimmauld Place—was almost unsettling, but Harry couldn't deny he liked this. Misery does love company, it seemed.
Ron, as always, was the first to break the silence. He reached for a scone, slathering it with cream with gusto.
"You know," he said through a mouthful, before reaching for some eggs from his plate, "if you'd just let us move in for a bit, we could get this place sorted in no time."
Harry gave him a pointed look, lifting his cup to his lips.
"Not this again, Ron," Hermione sighed, sitting down across from Harry.
"What? I'm serious! You know Mum would send me over with half of the family to get this place cleaned up," he paused, swallowing. "It's what Sirius would've wanted, wouldn't it? A liveable house, not..." he gestured around, his words trailing off as he caught the dark look on Harry's face.
Harry didn't answer, choosing instead to focus on the swirl of steam rising from his tea. He appreciated their concern—he really did—but they didn't understand. This house wasn't just a building to him. It was a tether. A crumbling one, maybe, but a tether nonetheless. It didn't feel right, having them here. Not to mention that he'd never forgive himself if something happened to them because of this house.
Hermione must have sensed the shift in his mood because she nudged Ron with her foot —a little too strongly, if his quiet 'ow, Mione!'was anything to go by— and changed the subject.
"George asked us to stop by today," she said, carefully neutral. "He and Lee have been working on some new products, and he said he could use an extra set of hands to test them. Thought you might want to come along."
Harry glanced up at her, startled.
"Test them? You mean get hexed for free?"
Ron grinned. "It's not so bad. Sometimes you even get a few Galleons for your trouble. And besides, George swears he's fixed the... er... side effects."
"Mostly," Hermione added dryly.
Harry hesitated, staring down at the tea in his hands. The idea of leaving Grimmauld Place, even for a few hours, filled him with unease. He didn't usually, unless he had something pressing to do, or he was out of food to survive —Kreacher refused to do any kind of Muggle grocery shopping and Harry had grown used to certain creature comforts from the Muggle world, so a compromise was made. But at the same time, the thought of being surrounded by laughter, by people who weren't constantly tiptoeing around him, was... tempting.
He took a deep breath and set his cup down.
"Fine," he said finally. "I'll go with you."
The streets of Diagon Alley were busier than Harry had expected. Autumn hadn't fully set in yet, but the chill in the air was enough to send most people scurrying from shop to shop, their robes and jackets pulled tight around them.
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes stood out like a beacon of chaos and colour amidst the greyness of the season. The front windows were crowded with displays of fireworks, joke wands, and an enormous enchanted sign advertising their latest creation:Perilous Pudding—A Sweet with a Surprise!
Harry followed Ron and Hermione into the shop, immediately hit by a wave of noise and the faint smell of burnt sugar. The store was packed with customers, most of them children darting between shelves with wide eyes and sticky fingers, laughter on their lips.
"Oi, there you lot!" George's voice rang out from behind the counter, where he was demonstrating a Fanged Frisbee to an eager group of teenagers. He looked up as they approached, grinning. "Harry Potter, gracing us mere mortals with his presence! To what do I owe this honour, my Lord?"
Harry rolled his eyes, but there was no malice in it.
"Hermione said you needed guinea pigs."
George's grin widened. "Ah, yes. The fearless trio, always ready for a bit of danger. Come on, then."
He led them to the back of the shop, where a table was cluttered with half-finished prototypes, scraps of parchment, and a truly alarming number of glittering, neon-coloured potions.
"What's all this?" Hermione asked, eyeing the table warily.
"Progress," George said proudly. "Or, you know, explosions waiting to happen. Either way, it'll be entertaining."
Ron leaned over to inspect a small, glowing orb.
"What's this one do?"
George snatched it out of his hands.
"That," he said, holding it up, "is a Mood Muddler. Supposed to swap your emotional state with whoever you're closest to. So if you're feeling all cheery and someone else is a grumpy git..." he paused, his eyes flicking to Harry with a mischievous glint. "Well, you can see how it might be useful."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "And you want us to test that?"
"Don't worry," George said, waving a hand dismissively. "We've got other things for you to try first. Less... experimental."
And so, for the next three hours, Harry found himself immersed in the chaotic energy of the shop. George kept them busy, handing out products to test and occasionally dragging them into impromptu experiments that left Ron sneezing glitter that changed colour depending on how many times he sneezed, and Hermione muttering about safety regulations. For the first time in what felt like weeks, Harry found himself laughing. It was a strange, almost foreign feeling—light and fleeting, like a snitch taking flight.
But even as he laughed, a small part of him couldn't help but feel the pull of Grimmauld Place. The house was never far from his thoughts, its shadows stretching across his mind like a tether he couldn't break.
Still, for a little while, he let himself forget.
And when George's latest concoction —a Yule special, said George— exploded in a shower of green smoke, leaving Ron with a pair of glittering antlers and a glowing red nose, Harry couldn't stop the cackle that erupted from his lips.
For a moment, it was enough.
Harry stood at the threshold of what had once been the library, staring at the gaping hole that had replaced the doorway. The jagged edges of the frame seemed almost alive, splintered and raw, as if the house itself had wrenched the room away in a fit of wickedness. Beyond, there was nothing but swirling darkness, an abyss that breathed like a living thing, low whispers threading through the air in a language he couldn't decipher. The sound wasn't loud, but it crawled under his skin, wrapping around him like smoke and leaving an acrid taste of unease in his mouth. He had tried stepping closer, one hesitant foot bridging the distance, but the void had pushed back. It wasn't a violent shove; it was worse. An invisible pressure swelled against his chest, suffocating, almost tender in its refusal. It pushed as though the house was keeping him from the room, and he stumbled back into the hallway, the whispers rising in a faint crescendo before fading again.
Just what he needed—now the house wasn't just shifting—it was actively shutting him out. The library had been his refuge, a tiny oasis in the madness of this place. Rows of forgotten knowledge, crumbling leather-bound spines, the faint musk of paper and time—God, he was sounding like Hermione, now– it was a piece of normalcy in a house that seemed determined to erode every scrap of it.
Now, it was gone.
This was the third time this week a room had vanished completely. First, the sitting room, with its faded armchairs and the heavy curtains that always smelled faintly of damp wood. Then his bathroom—his bathroom—and now, the library. Each disappearance felt like another piece of himself being torn away, a slow dismantling of whatever fragile claim he had left in this place. It was a reminder, clear and cruel, that he didn't belong here. He never had.
"Kreacher," he called hoarsely, running a hand through his already messy hair.
With a softpop, Kreacher appeared at his side, bowing low, though his hunched frame trembled with age and frustration.
"Master Harry calls Kreacher, but Kreacher can do nothing. Kreacher tries and tries, but the house... the house will not listen."
Harry felt a pang of guilt as he looked down at the old House-elf. Kreacher's once-proud demeanour had crumbled in the face of the house's ever-changing chaos and disarray. His large, watery eyes were ringed with exhaustion, and his movements were slow and laboured, as if the constant struggle against Grimmauld Place's wild magic was wearing him down more than time itself. The elf loved this rickety place, treasured it maybe even more than Harry himself, and he knew that what was happening to it because of Harry must be crushing him.
"I don't care if it won't listen," Harry snapped, the edge in his voice harsher than he intended, his guilt fraying his nerves. "Just... do something. Please. You've lived here longer than I have—you know this house better than anyone."
Kreacher flinched at the desperation in Harry's tone, his bat-like ears flattening against his head.
"Master Harry is not of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The house... it knows this. The house remembers its masters, and Master Harry is not—"
"That's enough," Harry interrupted, his voice cracking. He couldn't bear to hear it. Not from Kreacher. Not when the truth was already weighing on him like a stone in his chest.
Kreacher fell silent, his shoulders sagging further as he twisted the hem of his tea towel. Harry knew the elf meant no harm, but the words cut deep nonetheless. It was not that he wanted to be a Black, another family lost to time and of whom he knew next to nothing about. He was a Potter, and that hurt enough. But it was what Kreacher's words meant that rattled him.The house doesn't recognise you. It doesn't want you.He knew that. God, of course he knew.
But still, it hurt to hear.
Later that evening, Harry found himself sitting in the kitchen—or at least, what the kitchen had decided to be that day. The room was smaller than it should have been, the walls creeping in closer every time he looked away. The stove was in the middle of the room, alone, its burners flickering weakly as if even it wasn't sure it belonged there.
He clutched a mug of tea, though it had long since gone cold. The faint clatter of Kreacher moving about in another part of the house was the only sound, and even that seemed muffled, swallowed by the oppressive silence that filled the space. He'd even take the doxys now, just so it didn't feel as desolate.
The house was rejecting him. Not out of spite—no, this wasn't personal, the house wasn't alive, after all. It was instinctual, a reaction to his bloodline, or lack thereof. The magic at the core of Grimmauld Place, ancient and sentient, didn't recognise him as its master. He wasn't a Black.
The realisation had been gnawing at him for months, but now, as more and more rooms vanished, and the corridors twisted into impossible labyrinths, it was impossible to ignore. Hell, even Kreacher knew it by now. Every shift in the house's structure felt like it was pushing him out, like it was trying to force him to leave.
And yet, Harry couldn't bring himself to do it.
Leaving Grimmauld Place felt like a betrayal—not just to Sirius, but to the fleeting sense of family and belonging he had found here. This was the place where Sirius had laughed, where they had talked about the future, where Harry had dared to hope for something more, something real. If he left, he would lose that hope.
Even now, the thought made his chest tighten painfully.
But the house wasn't safe anymore. He knew that. The wild magic was growing stronger, more erratic. Just last week, he had woken up to find his bedroom gone, replaced by a crumbling staircase that led nowhere. He had stumbled down it in the dark, his back hurting from having been sleeping on the steps, only to have it collapse beneath him, leaving him bruised and battered in the basement and covered in old soot.
And yet, he stayed.
"Kreacher should punish himself," the elf muttered for the fourth time that day, wringing his hands as he stood in the corner of the kitchen.
Harry, who had been trying to coax the stove into lighting, slammed the kettle down on the counter.
"Kreacher, stop it! I told you, none of that."
"Kreacher has failed Master Harry," the elf croaked, his voice thick with shame. "Kreacher cannot control the house. Kreacher is useless. Oh, what would my mistress say if she saw Kreacher..."
"You're not useless," Harry said, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. He didn't know how to fix this—not the house, not Kreacher, not himself.
Kreacher turned away, muttering under his breath as he disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, probably towards where he instinctually knew his cupboard was. Harry let him go, too exhausted to argue. He knew Kreacher was struggling, knew the house's state was as much a burden on the old elf as it was on him. But knowing didn't make it any easier. The truth was, they were both powerless. The house's magic was beyond either or both of them, wild and unyielding. It didn't matter how many times Harry tried to reason with it, or how many spells he cast to stabilise the shifting rooms. Grimmauld Place was rejecting him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
And yet, as he sat there in the dimly lit kitchen, staring at the flickering stove and the cracked tiles beneath his feet, he knew he would never leave.
It was all he had left ofhome.
The knock at the door startled Harry out of his thoughts. He had been eating burnt toast that the stove had spit out for him thirty minutes ago in the dim light of the kitchen, the faint hum of the house's restless magic prickling at the edge of his awareness. When he opened the door, Andromeda Tonks stood there, tall and composed as always, looking very sharp in her long walking skirt and crisp white shirt under her cloak, her expression a curious mix of sympathy and determination.
"I heard what's been happening in here," she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her voice was calm, but her sharp eyes darted around the hallway as though the house itself might attack. "Hermione contacted me."
Harry's jaw tightened. "Of course she did," he muttered. "What a snitch."
Andromeda raised a slender eyebrow but said nothing, instead shedding her travelling cloak and taking in the gloom of Grimmauld Place. Her presence was beckoning, her bearing most reminiscent of Sirius during Harry's summer before fifth year, though her dark gaze lacked the biting edge of Black family arrogance. Instead, it held empathy.
"I know why you want to stay here, Harry, I truly do" she said softly, her voice cutting through his defensiveness. "And I don't blame you. But this house... it has always been unpredictable. The magic here is old, stubborn, and deeply tied to our bloodline. I'll do what I can to help, but I don't know if it'll let me do much."
And so, for the next few hours, Andromeda worked unrelentingly at trying to tame her ancestral home. She started with a spell Harry didn't recognise—a low chant in Latin, her wand tracing intricate patterns in the air as small, golden light orbs —they reminded Harry of fireflies— spilled from its tip. Her lips pressed into a thin, determined line, and her voice grew steadier, louder by the second, the Latin incantation flowing with an unwavering rhythm. The golden lights that streamed from her wand grew brighter, more intense, spilling into the darkened corners of the dilapidated house. Harry stood back, his arms crossed and his shoulders tight with tension as he watched her. He could feel the house resisting her, its magic vibrating angrily beneath his feet, shaking loose dust from the cracked ceiling. The orbs seeped into the walls, the floor, the ceilings, spreading like roots seeking something hidden. They crawled across the faded wallpaper, over the crooked door frames, down the splintered floorboards.
For a moment, Harry dared to hope. Maybe she was stronger than the house's chaos. Maybe her connection to the Black family would make the difference where his efforts had failed.
But then the house fought back. The walls groaned, and violently spit out the lights before creaking, as if mocking them.
"Stubborn thing," Andromeda muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing as she prepared to try something new.
"Is this safe?" Harry asked hesitantly, his voice slightly strained as he glanced around the room. The wild magic was so thick now that it felt stifling, making his skin itch. The air crackled with tension, and he swore he could hear faint whispers—low, sibilant murmurs that seemed to crawl along his skin.
"It won't bring the house down, if that's what you're worried about," Andromeda replied sharply, her tone clipped. Her wand was already moving again, drawing newer, more complex patterns in the air. "But Grimmauld Place is a creature of pride. Its magic is confused, but it's not aimless. It doesn't wantmehere, and I can feel its magic pulling at mine; like a tingle underneath my skin. It's quite uncomfortable, I must say."
Harry grimaced at the implication but didn't know what else to say. That sounded uncomfortable. He already felt like an intruder in the house, a squatter in a place that clearly didn't want him.
Next came a ritual Harry couldn't make sense of, involving a basin of shimmering silver metal with milky white liquid inside that Andromeda called a Vaderbloed, an ancient Black family relic. She pricked her finger and let a single drop of blood fall into the liquid. It rippled, glowing faintly as she murmured an incantation. Then it bubbled and turned an ugly shade of brown. Like mud, Harry thought grimly. The house responded with a low rumble, the air becoming chilly, as though it were acknowledging her blood but rejecting her authority.
"It knows me," Andromeda said, frustration seeping into her voice. "But it doesn't accept me. It's the magic—it's tied to the Black magic, not just the blood. Being blasted off the Family Tree... well, it seems I'm just as much an outsider as you are."
Harry tried to hide his disappointment, but it was impossible. Watching Andromeda struggle only deepened the ache in his chest. If even she, with all her knowledge of the Black family and its tangled magic, couldn't control the house, what hope didhehave? Seeing his crumbling expression, Andromeda placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, her gaze warm despite her inability to help him fix his blasted house.
"This place is testing you, Harry," she said gently. "It may not recognise your blood, but that doesn't mean you can't find a way to make it yours. Sirius left this house to you for a reason. Don't forget that."
Her words were meant to comfort him, he knew and loved her for it, but they didn't. The house loomed around him, its magic pulsing faintly in the walls, an ever-present reminder of its resistance. As Andromeda packed her things and prepared to leave, Harry was left standing in the hallway, the weight of the house settling on his shoulders like a shroud. The thought that he might never belong here, that this place might always reject him, pressed heavily against his chest.
He glanced at the jagged hole where the library had once been, the swirling darkness within almost daring him to try again.
Andromeda lingered in the hallway for a moment longer, her hands folded tightly over her bag as she took one last, thoughtful look around the dimly lit space. She looked tired, as if this ha taken more out of her than she had expected. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line of frustration as she gazed at the walls, the air still thick with the echoes of her magic and that of the house, refusing to hide or be tamed. It was clear to Harry that, despite her quiet poise, she was frustrated by her failure.
Her shoulders sagged, just slightly, as she turned to face him.
"I'm sorry, Harry," she said, her voice softer now, tinged with regret. "I truly thought... I thought I could help."
Harry opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. What was there to say? She had tried, and that effort, however earnest, was only another reminder of the distance between him and the Black family legacy, of the vast gulf that separated him from the very magic that held this house together.
Together, they walked back to the entrance of the house, the silence between them uncomfortable and awkward, a rarity between them. Andromeda hesitated at the door, her hand resting lightly on the doorknob.
"I'll keep researching, of course. There might be something I've missed, some spell or ritual I can—"
"No," Harry cut her off, his voice tight with something he hadn't expected to feel: frustration. "I'm not asking you to fix it, Andromeda. You've done enough."
She turned back to him then, her expression unreadable for a moment. But Harry could see the flicker of understanding in her eyes, as if she recognised the helplessness and frustration in his voice, the weariness in his posture that he tried so hard to hide. She gave him a small nod, but her face changed, a quiet empathy replacing the distant determination that had driven her earlier.
"This house," she said, her voice low, almost to herself, "has always had a mind of its own. The magic here... you must understand, it's more than just a house—it's a reflection of what came before. And the Black family blood, its magic, for all its faults, is powerful. You're not part of it—not by blood, not by name and not by magic. That's why it keeps rejecting you, Harry. It would've happened to anyone," she met his eyes, her gaze steady and tender. "But that doesn't mean you can't fight back. You just have to find your own way."
Harry looked away, unable to meet her gaze. The words stung, even though he knew they weren't meant to. He had suspected as much, but hearing it aloud, spoken by someone who understood the weight of that history, made it feel far more real than he was prepared for.
Andromeda's fingers tightened on the door frame before she stepped out into the night. Her lips parted as if she was about to say something more, but after a long pause, she simply shook her head. She gave him a small, reassuring smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Take care of yourself, Harry," she said softly. "If you need anything, anything at all, you know where family is."
Her voice trailed off as she turned toward the street. He heard her footsteps recede into the distance, the faintest rustle of fabric as she made her way toward the apparition point at the end of the front steps. But Harry remained frozen in place, his eyes lingering on the spot where she had stood, where her presence had filled the silence of the house like a fleeting breath of fresh air. It wasn't until the door clicked shut that the full weight of her departure settled in. Harry stood alone in the hallway, the house pressing in around him once more. The faint hum of its magic pulsed through the air, thick and suffocating, as if it were mocking him.
He ran a hand through his tangled hair, trying to shake off the gnawing feeling that had taken root deep inside him. Despite not asking for her help, Andromeda had been his last hope, the last person with enough knowledge and power to possibly bend the house to his will. If she couldn't do it—if even the Black family couldn't tame this place—then what was left for him? The house had rejected him from the very beginning. It wasn't just its magic—it was the bloodline that ran through its walls, the history of generations that Harry had no part in.
And no matter how hard he tried to carve out a space for himself here, it would always make him feel like a stranger in his own home.
He closed his eyes, a sharp ache settling in his chest, and leaned against the wall. Even the whispering darkness in the library, still swirling in the distance, seemed to call out to him in a way that only deepened his sense of disconnection.
Andromeda's footsteps had faded into the distance, but the house remained—silent, cold, and unyielding.
Kreacher shuffled into the foyer a while later, his movements slow and stiff. He looked around at the broken chandelier and the lingering shadows with a deep frown, his wrinkled face lined with frustration.
"Master Harry should leave this place," Kreacher muttered, though his voice was barely audible. "The house... it is not safe. It will not listen to Kreacher. It will not listen to Master. It won't even listen to Miss Andy."
Harry didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the door.
"Kreacher cannot fix it," the elf continued, wringing his hands anxiously. "Kreacher is useless. Kreacher should punish himself for his fail—"
"Stop," Harry interrupted, his tone sharp. "You're not useless, Kreacher. So just... stop."
The elf fell silent, his ears drooping as he shuffled back toward the shadows. Harry watched him go, a fresh wave of guilt crashing over him. Kreacher had served the Black family his whole life, and now evenhewas powerless against the chaos that gripped Grimmauld Place. Harry sighed, rubbing his temples as the oppressive atmosphere of the house seemed to close in around him. For now, all they could do was wait—and hope that Andromeda's efforts would make a difference.
The days after Andromeda's visit dragged by in an endless blur of disappointment and a creeping feeling of hopelessness. The house had been more of a home to him than Privet Drive had ever been, but it had become a prison—a living, breathing prison that rejected him at every turn. Was this how Sirius had felt during that year he had been cooped up here? The strange, dark magic within its walls hummed in his ears constantly, like the buzz of a wasp too close to his skin. Each room, each shadow, seemed to close in on him like a vice, and he was always paranoid, his nerves on point, expecting to be dropped into a new room every time he took a step. He was drowning under the weight of it, and there was nothing, no one, left to turn to.
It was on one of those miserable evenings, sitting at Andromeda's dining table with her and Hermione –Ron had to stay behind at the shop with George–, that Harry felt the gnawing desperation inside him reach its peak. The meal was warm —a delicious cottage pie with a rocket salad from Andromeda's garden—, the conversation light, nothing out of the ordinary, but Harry felt like he was watching it all through a foggy window. He could hardly focus on the words they were saying, too lost in his own whirlpool of thoughts. Across from him, Teddy giggled happily as he played with his enchanted stuffed dragon, his innocent laughter the only sound in the room that felt real. It was the last thread of joy he clung to, the small face of a child who still saw him as a loving protector. But even that couldn't ease the suffocating feelings festering inside him.
After dinner, when they were cleaning up, Harry felt the quiet urge to finally speak. He had been holding it back for days—weeks, if he was being honest—but he couldn't ignore it any longer. His voice, when it came, was quiet, almost too soft, as if afraid of its own weight.
"I can't do it anymore," he muttered, not looking at either Andromeda or Hermione. His hands trembled as he wiped down the table, his eyes fixed on the spot where his fingers brushed the worn wood. "I can't keep living in that house."
Hermione froze at the sink where she was spelling the dishes clean with her wand, a tense silence filling the room. Andromeda, however, was unperturbed. She gave him a knowing look, her gaze still warm but touched with concern.
"You don't have to, Harry," she said gently, her voice carrying the unspoken understanding of everything he had endured. "You don't have to do this alone."
Hermione, too, turned to face him after making sure the spell was stable enough to keep washing the dishes by itself, her expression a mixture of disbelief and determination.
"Harry... I know I've been nagging you to just move in with Ron and me but, you can't give up yet. Not if it's so important to you," she set down her wand and shoved it into her hair bun atop of her head, her eyes filled with purpose now, as though the force of her words was propelling her. "You can't just resign yourself to leaving it to crumble. If you're not willing to come live with us and Andromeda can't help, then you need to look for a professional."
Harry's head snapped up, his heart stuttering.
"What do you mean by 'look for a professional'?" He almost felt as though he were grasping at some final lifeline she was offering. Desperation clung to him like a second skin.
Hermione hesitated for a moment, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve, before speaking again, each word more determined than the last despite the fact that she couldn't seem to look him in the eye.
"Draco Malfoy has been working at Borgin and Burkes. He's a magical repair specialist."
Harry's stomach dropped at the mention of Malfoy's name. The suggestion, in its simplicity, felt like a slap in the face. After everything—after all that had happened, before and during the war—he was supposed to go toDraco Malfoyfor help? The idea was almost unthinkable, the bitter remnants of old hatred swirling in his chest. Malfoy, with his sneering arrogance, his smug, calculating smile—wasn't he the one who had stood by while his father had worked against everything Harry had fought for? The memory of the pale face at the Death Eater meetings, of the ice behind Malfoy's eyes, still cut through him like a knife.
Yet here Hermione was, suggesting it as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her words, as much as they were meant to offer a solution, only deepened the unease that bloomed in Harry's chest like a shadow slowly suffocating the air around him. He could hear the quiet urgency in her voice, the impatience as she urged him to consider her idea. But how could he? How could he look past the years of animosity, the things Malfoy had said and done—how could he possibly forget?He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers cold and unsteady. To ask Malfoy for help felt like an unbearable betrayal of everything he'd fought for and believed in—everything that still burned inside him. There was still a part of him that could hear the sneering voice from school, the sharp, cruel words that had been spat at him with such ease."Potter,"Malfoy had said, always with that tone, as though Harry's very name was a slur.
The more he thought about it, the more it twisted inside him, the more the idea gnawed at him. The house was falling apart around him, its wild magic driving him to the edge, and here was a potential lifeline. Draco Malfoy. Harry closed his eyes, a low sigh escaping him. The irony of it all was almost hilarious. Of all the people,Draco Malfoy... he was the very last person he would ever consider as someone capable of saving him from this madness.
"Are you serious?" His voice cracked, almost too forceful. He opened his eyes to look at Hermione, trying to read the intent behind her words, the stubborn, insistent look in her eyes. There was no mockery there, no spite. Of course there wasn't, it was Hermione. There was just...truth. A statement she believed in. She was asking him to consider Malfoy, to put aside the history between them so he could end the misery he was in.
But Harry didn't know how to do that.
Hermione seemed to sense the conflict brewing inside him, and she leaned forward slightly, her hands braced against the table as though she, too, was trying to steady herself in the face of something she couldn't quite control.
"Harry, think about it. After all, Draco," Hermione continued, "is the last living male of the Black family. That means he might meet the conditions needed to help with this house—the magic, the blood... It's also hisjob. He might be the only one who can calm it down, restore it to something closer to normal."
Andromeda, who had remained silent up until now, nodded slowly in agreement.
"Draco is talented," she added softly, her tone measured but firm. "And he's inherited a great deal of the family's magic. If he's working as a magical repair specialist, then he's trained in ways that could be useful in dealing with the house."
Harry's mind spun. Malfoy. Of all the people. The last person he would have ever imagined reaching out to for help. But as he stared at Hermione and Andromeda, he realised they weren't wrong. Malfoy's connection to the Black family—however twisted it might have been—was the very thing that could allow him to have access to the house's magic.
The problem was... asking.
"I—how do you evenknowabout this?" Harry finally asked, his voice tense. "And what are you doing hanging around Knockturn Alley? I thought you'd never go near that place again."
Hermione's face flushed at the question, her gaze narrowing. "I've been there on occasion for research, Harry. Forwork." She snapped, the edges of her words biting. "And, well, a witch has her secrets! Now, do you want help or not?"
Harry flinched at her shrill tone, but he couldn't argue. Her face softened a fraction then at seeing his expression, but there was still an unmistakable fire behind her eyes that reminded him that she was much more stubborn than he was.
"I'm not asking you to forgive Malfoy," Hermione continued, her voice quieter now, but no less insistent. "I'm just asking you to consider it. For your own sake."
Harry's heart thudded painfully in his chest. The thought of reaching out to Malfoy, of putting himself in a position where he might have to beg for help, was almost more than he could bear. The idea burned through him like fire, hot and stinging, an unbearable humiliation. He could almost hear Malfoy's voice in his head, mocking, belittling, as he rejected Harry and laughed at him for his inability to control his own house. But there was nothing left. The house was falling apart around him, its magic tearing him apart, and Andromeda's failure to control it had only deepened his sense of helplessness, making him feel more like a prisoner than ever before. If Draco Malfoy was the only one who could help him, then Harry had no choice but to ask.
The alternative was far worse—letting the house swallow him whole, letting the magic consume everything until there was nothing left of him. With a long, shuddering breath, Harry looked at Hermione and Andromeda, his eyes dark with the weight of his decision.
"Alright," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I'll do it. But I swear, if this goes wrong and Malfoy tries to—"
Hermione gave him a pointed look, cutting him off.
"If youdon'tdo it, then I'll drag you kicking and screaming to the Burrow, and let Molly have at you."
The words were harsh, but they were meant to push him forward, he knew. With a final glance at his two closest allies right now, Harry nodded. The path ahead was treacherous, and the thought of asking Malfoy for help left a bitter taste in his mouth, but the alternative—giving up, letting the house consume him—was something he wasn't ready to face. Not yet. Not when Teddy's innocent smile was still a flicker of hope in his life.
"Fine, I'll ask him," Harry said, more to himself than to anyone else.
The decision was made. His pride, his hatred for Draco Malfoy, would have to be set aside, even if something inside resisted against it like a captive dragon. For now, though, not being killed by his own bloody house mattered more than anything else.
I'll be updating this story every Friday at 19:00 EST! I have a good chunk of this fic written already, so I expect consistent uploads 3
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