Chapter 17 - Screaming Portraits and Seashells

June 26, 1998

Harry stood outside 12 Grimmauld Place with George Weasley. The two of them stared up at the worn, grimy facade of the old townhouse. It had been weeks since Harry first started the renovations, but some of the house's more stubborn remnants of the Black family's legacy refused to go quietly—most notably, the screeching portrait of Walburga Black and the massive Black family tree tapestry in the parlor.

"You sure you're ready for this, Potter?" George asked, rocking back on his heels with a wicked grin. "That portrait alone has survived Dumbledore's ingenuity. That's no small feat."

Harry huffed. "That's why you're here, isn't it? If anyone can figure out how to break a Permanent Sticking Charm, it's you."

George gave an exaggerated sigh, clapping a hand over his heart. "Flattery will get you everywhere. But seriously, mate, if this thing puts up too much of a fight, I say we just set the whole wall on fire and call it a day."

Harry snorted and shook his head. "Let's try not to burn the house down just yet."

With that, he pushed open the door, bracing himself for the usual musty scent of old magic and dust. Grimmauld Place was changing, slowly but surely, but there were still ghosts of its past that refused to let go. If today went well, though, they'd finally silence one of its loudest voices for good.

As they made their way down the corridor, Harry couldn't help but notice how different Grimmauld Place felt compared to when he'd first stepped foot inside years ago. The oppressive weight that had once seemed stitched into the very walls had lessened. The air, though still stale and filled with dust, no longer carried the heavy scent of decay. The soft glow from newly installed sconces lit their path, revealing clean floors and fresh paint where once there had been nothing but gloom. Bit by bit, they were reclaiming the house—not just from its past, but for something new.

Andi had put them in touch with a friend—well, an interior decorator who had become a friend. Or maybe it was the other way around. Harry was still a bit unclear on the details. What he did know was that Faye had been the mastermind behind Andi's house, and Andi trusted her implicitly to keep things simple.

Faye had taken one look at Grimmauld Place and declared it "a historical treasure buried under a century of bad decisions." With her wand tucked behind her ear and a notebook charmed to float beside her, she set to work undoing the gloom and clutter that had plagued the house for generations.

Her first order of business had been light—both magical and natural. Harry, Ginny, and Fleur had already removed the heavy drapes that had suffocated the windows, and Faye replaced them with enchanted sheer curtains, allowing sunlight to spill in while still maintaining privacy. Dim, flickering gas lamps were upgraded to sleek, floating sconces that provided warm, steady illumination without the eerie greenish glow the Black family had favored.

The walls had undergone a complete transformation. The peeling, oppressive wallpaper—some of it literally cursed—was stripped away and replaced with deep, elegant paints that brought a modern richness to the house without losing its old-world charm. The grand staircase, once an ominous dark wood nearly black with age, had been carefully restored, the banisters polished to a soft gleam, and the steps reinforced to remove the ghostly creaks and unsettling groans they used to emit.

Faye was still working her way through the furniture, determining what she could repair, and what needed replacing. Some original pieces could still be salvaged, while other items would need to be replaced entirely—no one had protested when Faye had banished a particularly ghastly armchair that had once been enchanted to bite their ankles.

"Pity you got rid of that troll foot," George said, staring wistfully at the corner where the umbrella stand had been. "It would have been a great conversation starter."

"I don't think I want any part of a conversation that starts with a severed troll foot," Harry said.

George sighed dramatically and patted Harry on the back. "Oh, where did Freddie and I go wrong with you, Harrykins?"

Harry snorted. "If you want it so bad you can have it," he said. "I gave it to Kreacher but I can ask for it back."

George blanched. "And suddenly I don't want anything to do with it anymore." He glanced around at the remade dining room and whistled appreciatively. "Looks nice. Little plain, but maybe once you…" he made a vague gesture, waving his arms around. "You know?"

And yet, not everything had changed.

As they rounded the corner into the front hall, there she was.

Walburga Black's portrait loomed like a specter on the wall, her regal face frozen in a scowl of perpetual disdain. The thick, gilded frame gleamed in the low light, stubbornly resisting every attempt to remove it, just like the wretched tapestry upstairs. The heavy velvet curtains that had once muffled her outbursts were long gone, leaving nothing to shield them from her inevitable wrath.

For now, though, she was silent. Her painted eyes were shut, her expression slack in uneasy slumber.

George let out a low whistle, rocking back on his heels as he examined her. "Blimey, she's even worse up close. I almost feel bad waking her up." He smirked at Harry. "Almost."

"Haven't been by much since we took down the curtains," Harry admitted sheepishly.

"Can't imagine why," George deadpanned. "The shrieking banshee doesn't tickle your fancy? Could make a pretty useful alarm clock."

"Maybe you can market it at your shop," Harry shot back. "Could make a great new product line; troll feet accessories and screaming pureblood portraits."

"Oi, mate, I'm trying to get the doors back open, not close up for good," George said, running a hand through his hair. "What're you gonna do with her once we get her down?"

"If I can keep her quiet I was gonna give it to Kreacher," Harry said. George gave him an incredulous look. "I'm trying to keep him happy. This has been hard for him."

"Hard" was an understatement. If Harry thought the grumbling while he, Ginny, and Fleur went through the house clearing it of dark objects and curses was bad, that hadn't compared to the fit Kreacher threw once Faye had shown up and started on her work. After a particularly vehement outburst, Harry had allowed Kreacher to retreat to his boiler room nest and put some silencing charms on the door. He was worried this would be what caused the old elf to crack.

"Let's get it over with," Harry said with a sigh. He rubbed the back of his neck. "She's going to wake up the second we try anything, so we'd better be ready."

George grinned, rolling up his sleeves. "Oh, don't worry. I've been waiting for this moment my whole life."

George ran a hand over his chin, inspecting the portrait of Walburga Black with a critical eye. "Right, so, permanent sticking charms," he began, cracking his knuckles as if preparing for a challenge. "Fred and I, err—we gave them a lot of thought when we opened the shop."

Harry didn't miss the slight hitch in his voice when he mentioned Fred's name. He knew the Weasleys were still struggling with Fred's death. Hell, he was still struggling with it, but they didn't have the benefit of having spoken to the dead, died and come to grips with mortality.

"They're called 'permanent' for a reason," George continued, and Harry forced himself to focus. "But fortunately, they're not actually unbreakable—just really, really stubborn."

Harry crossed his arms. "So how do we get rid of it?"

George grinned. "You've got a few options. The easiest is convincing the person who cast it to undo it themselves, but I'm guessing dear old Walburga isn't about to pop back from the afterlife and do us a favor." He tapped the frame with his wand. "The next best method is brute force—tearing the surface off along with the charm. That works for posters or tapestries, but with something like this…" He gestured to the ancient, heavy frame. "We'd probably take half the wall with it. And I have no idea how that would work with the wards all over this place…or if it would work at all."

Harry winced. "Yeah, let's not," he said, thinking of his unsuspecting Muggle neighbors on the other side of the wall.

"Figured as much," George said. "Which leaves us with the tricky route: disrupting the magic binding it to the wall." He rolled his shoulders. "See, calling it a 'sticking charm' is actually a misnomer. There's no adhesive or anything like that. It works by magically removing the space between an object and a surface so that they're no longer two separate items. So, to undo it, you have to either override that connection or scramble it beyond repair."

"And how do we do that?" Harry asked.

George twirled his wand dramatically. "First, you weaken the enchantment with Finite Incantatem—doesn't break it, but it loosens it up. Introduces some imperfection. Then, you have to confuse the charm by flooding it with conflicting magic—Summoning charms, Banishing charms, even a good old-fashioned Knockback Jinx. You're trying to introduce space between the sticker and the stickee, which weakens the charm. And if that doesn't work, we brute-force it with controlled magical burns."

"Controlled magical burns?" Harry repeated, raising a wary eyebrow.

George waggled his wand. "Fancy way of saying 'we blast it with just enough fire to split the magical bonds without actually setting Grimmauld Place on fire.'" He shot Harry a look. "Probably best if I handle that part."

"Have you ever done that before?" Harry asked warily.

"Harry, mate, would I ever try a combustible, volatile, potentially dangerous process on someone without proper testing first?"

"Yes," Harry said insistently. "I've seen you do that many times."

"Not to you, though."

Harry fixed him with a pointedly unimpressed look.

George sighed. "Yeah, that's fair." He shrugged. "Wanna give it a go anyway?"

Harry didn't get a chance to answer before a sharp, grating shriek split the air. The portrait had awoken.

"Filth! Half-blood filth defiling my home! Traitors, scum—"

Harry reacted on instinct, whipping his wand up and casting a silencing charm. The screaming stopped mid-word, but the effect was anything but soothing. Walburga's lips twisted in fury as the portrait fought against the magic, her face contorting grotesquely. The more she tried to scream, the worse the air around them became—cold and brittle, like a creeping frost settling into their bones. A shrill, piercing pressure built in Harry's ears, not quite sound but something close enough to make him wince.

George swore under his breath. "Well, that's unsettling. We might wanna speed this up."

Harry nodded tightly, adjusting his grip on his wand. "Finite Incantatem."

A faint shimmer rippled across the portrait's surface, but it remained stubbornly in place. Walburga's image buckled, warping slightly as the magic fought against Harry's efforts.

"Good, it's shifting," George said, already moving to the next step. "Revelio!"

The spell flared against the wall, illuminating the web-like pattern of the permanent sticking charm that bound the portrait in place. Threads of magic pulsed erratically, disturbed but not yet broken.

"Flipendo!" Harry followed up, slicing his wand through the air. The edges of the frame trembled, and the chill in the air intensified as Walburga redoubled her efforts, her silent screams distorting the energy around them. The invisible weight pressing on Harry's eardrums grew sharper, his vision almost swimming with the force of it.

Harry huffed in frustration, rolling his shoulders as he eyed the stubborn portrait. "Alright," he said, louder than he wanted to overcome the ringing in his ears. "Let's try everything."

He started systematically, running through spells almost on instinct. Accio was the first and most obvious attempt, but Walburga barely budged, her frame rattling uselessly against the wall, and Harry actually felt himself being drawn towards the portrait. Alohomora came next, even though it wasn't exactly a lock he was trying to break—it was worth a shot. Nothing.

George caught on quickly. "Oh, we're just flinging anything at it now?" He cracked his knuckles. "Brilliant."

Harry nodded, and they both went to work, aiming at the seam between the frame and the wall, where the magic clung stubbornly. Carpe Retractum shot out a golden rope of magic that latched onto the portrait, but when Harry tried to yank it free, the force rebounded, nearly wrenching his shoulder. Circumrota made the frame spin wildly in place for a moment before it snapped back to its original position with a loud thunk.

George snorted. "Well, that did a whole lot of nothing."

But Harry was already moving on. Colovaria turned Walburga's frame a hideous shade of pink, which didn't do anything for removal but was oddly satisfying. Confundo made the entire portrait shimmer as if it were momentarily out of focus, but the sticking charm remained unaffected.

Harry realized, somewhere between Expelliarmus (which sent a brief shock through the portrait but didn't dislodge it) and Langlock (which at least stopped Walburga's silent screaming for a few blissful seconds), that he had started running through spells alphabetically.

George apparently noticed, too. "You're actually going in order, aren't you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harry didn't look away from his target. "If we're going to throw spells at the wall, might as well do it methodically."

"Where's your sense of whimsy?" George asked with a grin. He prodded his ear with a finger. "What happens when you get to Waddiwasi?"

Harry didn't answer, mostly because he was too busy casting Relashio, which produced a jet of sparks that crackled along the edges of the frame, loosening it just a fraction. Encouraged, he kept going. Rictusempra sent a wave of tingling magic through the portrait, making Walburga's frozen image twitch oddly before snapping back into place. Scourgify did nothing but clean the wall around the frame, and Spongify made the entire surface look briefly rubbery before it settled again.

By the time Harry reached Surgito, which sent a pulse of counteracting magic into the enchantment, he was sweating with effort. The portrait trembled, the sticking charm flickering dangerously.

George clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright, alright, I think we're getting somewhere. But before you go through the entire bloody index of The Standard Book of Spells, how about we give it one last good shove?"

Harry exhaled sharply, gripping his wand tighter. "Yeah. Let's finish this."

George shot Harry a mischievous grin that did absolutely nothing to reassure him. "Time for some good old-fashioned firepower."

"George—"

"Controlled magical burns," George reminded him with a wink. "Although it may help if you follow along with a Severing Charm." He leveled his wand at the portrait. "Incendio!"

A jet of blue-white fire, like a blowtorch, erupted from the tip. It licked at the edges of the frame but didn't catch on the wood behind it. Harry squeezed beside George, flinching at the intense heat, and traced a Severing Charm through the air. The magic binding the portrait flickered violently, its web unraveling as the heat scorched through the enchantment. The pressure in the room built to a near-breaking point before, with a final, dramatic lurch, the portrait peeled away from the wall and crashed to the ground.

The moment it landed, the oppressive weight vanished. The cold dissipated. The buzzing in Harry's ears faded into a ringing silence.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place was free of Walburga Black.

George exhaled heavily, giving the fallen portrait a nudge with his boot. "Well, that was satisfying." He glanced at Harry. "Still got both eyebrows?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair and let out a shaky laugh. "Still in one piece. And you didn't set the house on fire. I'm impressed."

"See?" George grinned. "Told you it'd work." He looked down at Walburga's fuming face. "What do we do with her now? Dunno about you, but I think she'd make an excellent dartboard."

"Maybe if Kreacher doesn't want it," Harry said, propping the frame against the bottom of the stairs. He'd bring it down to the basement storage room once they were done with the Black Family Tapestry and the Muggle posters in Sirius's old room.

George merely shrugged as he followed Harry up the stairs. He couldn't exactly blame George; only Ron and Hermione had really been there to see Kreacher's transformation from vindictive, surly cretin into a helpful, cooperative, surly elf.

There was still so much to do, however, and Harry knew he would need Kreacher for it. He could probably manage living alone if he needed to, but there was no telling what kind of schedule he'd have as a brand new trainee Auror, and Grimmauld was a lot of house to keep. Kreacher deserved more than what he'd been given. Not just because he'd become helpful; not just because he'd stopped shouting about blood-traitors; but because he was a living, breathing being. To deny that; to treat him as anything less would be an insult to Kreacher and everything he'd done for them. It would be spitting in the face of everything they'd all fought for.

"Bet you could make a mint if you slapped a picture of Voldemort on a dartboard," Harry said, hoping to change the subject. George stopped in his tracks and Harry winced. That had been a stupidly-callous comment. "Sorry. Bit too soon to joke like that, I know."

But when he turned he found a gleam in George's eyes and a smile curving his lips. Harry could see the gears turning in his head. "With 'Harry Potter' darts—No!" George gasped, his eyes dancing almost wildly. "Darts that shoot red sparks like an Expelliarmus—No! Darts that turn into noses once they land. Merlin, Harry, if this Auror thing doesn't work out…"

Harry laughed, glad to see the old George shining through a bit, then stuffed down a pang of guilt.

"I'm sorry I haven't been by the shop much to help out," Harry said, continuing up the stairs. He let a satisfied smile slip through at the lack of creaking.

"Ah no worries, mate. Been kinda crowded actually," George waved him off as they made it to the first landing outside the drawing room. "Mum, Percy, Lee, Verity—the old Quidditch team comes by on the weekends, too." He shook his head. "Bit mental if you ask me."

"It's almost like they really really love you or something," Harry said offhandedly.

George nodded in agreement. "Like I said, a bit mental." They rounded the stairway and headed into the room. The Black Family Tapestry loomed large on the wall. "To be honest I think you got the arse end of the deal from what Bill told me."

"I did almost get strangled by some wallpaper," Harry admitted.

"And you want to live here?" George asked. "Barmy."

"Well if I need to live close enough to the Ministry, this seems like a good option," Harry said, starting to get defensive.

George raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm just saying. Though I guess I can't really say all that much, seeing how I'm still staying at Mum and Dad's house."

Harry frowned, another pang of guilt racking through him. "No one thinks anything of it," he insisted. "I think they like seeing you there, too."

George nodded in defeat, his fingers idly skimming the surface of the tapestry.

"How's the flat…looking?" Harry dared to ask, knowing that if Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had been trashed by Death Eaters and Snatchers, the flat above the shop wouldn't have fared any better.

George knocked on the tapestry. "Kind of a breeze by comparison," he said. He gave Harry a cautious glance before gesturing back at the wall. "It's safe for me to do this, right?"

Harry nodded. "Fleur took care of the Castration Jinx that was on that wall."

George's eyes widened, but he leaned in closer and pressed his good ear against the tapestry, knocking a few times and listening—though to what, Harry didn't know.

He fought a grin and forced a look of innocent confusion. He pointed to the opposite wall. "Or was it just that wall she'd cleared?"

George leaped backward with a gasp and his hands crossed defensively over his crotch. Harry snorted loudly and George shot him a nasty glare.

"Merlin, Harry—you can't joke like that with a bloke," he said, smoothing his shirt in an attempt at nonchalance. Harry fought to keep his grin contained. "If you ever figure out a way to monetize that sense of humor you let me know. Until then, leave the jokes and pranks to the professionals."

"I just wish more people had been here to see that," Harry teased.

"Oi, d'you want my help or not?" George shot back.

Harry chuckled. "You were saying about the flat?"

George quirked an eyebrow curiously. "Eh? Oh, right. You mean before you threatened my bits," he said, shooting Harry a mock glare. "Flat's fine. Got that fixed up pretty quick. Just…" He stepped away from the wall and looked away sadly. "I don't know…don't think I can go back there. Home's hard enough—our same room, you know? But Mum and Dad are there, Charlie's there, Ginny's there," he nodded at Harry. "You're there."

Harry's chest swelled at the inclusion.

"It's easier to feel normal there," George admitted. "But at the flat it was just me and Fred. Not having him there is…" George shook himself, drawing some fire back into his eyes. "I've been letting Lee and his girlfriend stay there since their old flat got rented out while they were on the run."

Harry nodded. That was a Weasley trait, it seemed; to look after everyone who came into your life and treat them like family. The sheer, blind, dumb luck he had stumbling upon them at King's Cross all those years before must have been astronomical. The only Weasleys who hadn't yet expressed the same had been Percy and Charlie. But Harry had watched Percy work with all his might to repair his relationship with his family. And between working with dragons abroad and searching for dragons in England, Charlie never had the opportunity.

George grinned, though the smile didn't quite fully reach his eyes. "Though I'm severely tempted to kick Lee out and move back knowing how often you're sneaking down to Ginny's room."

Harry groaned. "You know too?"

George let out a bark of a laugh. "Mate, everybody bloody knows. We all just ignore it and pretend not to know for our sanity and moments like this when we can lord it over you."

"Great," Harry muttered. "Why do I even bother with the silencing charms then?" George gave him a horrified, open-mouthed look. "Not like that. On my feet."

George eyed him warily. "Bloody hell, Potter. I don't know how Ron puts up with it."

Harry chuckled and watched as he continued to knock against the wall while listening carefully. "What are you listening for?"

George shrugged. "Honestly? Haven't the foggiest," he said, stepping back to take in the view of the whole thing. "Was just hoping it'd come to me, you know?" He twirled his wand absently. "You sure we can't just torch this one?"

"Andi asked to save it for Teddy," he said with a shrug. They'd spoken about it at "Tonks family dinner" after he'd started working on Grimmauld Place, and Andi's first instinct was to burn everything and start from scratch. But then he'd received her frantic letter, delivered at midnight by her owl tapping frantically at Ginny's window asking him to save the tapestry.

She had explained that she wanted Teddy to know where he came from, to know that he wasn't a product of his birth, but his choices. She wanted to give him the chance to see the tangible proof of where he came from, and that someone else could also be defined separately from their family. That he always had the choice to be his own person.

It was a very Dumbledore idea.

"No fire on this one then," George muttered.

Removing the Black Family Tapestry was an exhausting ordeal. Unlike Walburga's portrait, the massive expanse of fabric was deeply embedded in the very structure of the house, anchored by centuries of Black family magic. It resisted their efforts at every turn. Harry and George worked methodically, loosening the enchantment before physically prying at the edges, only for the fabric to snap back into place like a living thing. The process was slow, each inch requiring brute force and relentless repetition.

They settled into a rhythm—disrupt, pull, repeat—gritting their teeth as the tapestry fought them with every section they peeled away. The resistance lessened as they progressed, the magic weakening under their continued efforts. After nearly an hour, the final corner gave way with a last, stubborn shudder, and the heavy fabric collapsed to the floor in a tangled heap.

Harry stood over it, breathing hard, hands aching, as he stared at the wall where it had once hung. The faded outline of its presence remained, but the weight of its legacy was finally gone. Grimmauld Place was one step closer to being his.

George dropped next to him, panting. "Harry, mate. Don't take this the wrong way, but let's just burn all the posters in Sirius's room, yeah?" He threw Harry a hopeful look. "There's no way they're worth the effort."

Harry let his head thunk back against the wall, chest still heaving from exertion. He wasn't sure his arms would be of any use for the foreseeable future, and he had half a mind to agree with George's suggestion. After spending an hour wrestling a single, ancient piece of fabric off the wall, the thought of repeating the process for Sirius's school-age posters might have seemed like a nightmare.

But as they stared up at the bikini-clad Muggle girls plastered around Sirius's room, George changed his tune.

George grinned, pushing himself upright with newfound energy. "I take it back. Those might be worth the effort."

Thankfully George was mostly kidding. They made quick work of the Muggle pin-ups, opting for the fastest and most satisfying method—incineration. With a few well-aimed flames, the scantily clad women curled into embers and vanished, leaving behind only faint scorch marks on the walls.

The motorcycle posters, however, were a different story. They tried to salvage them at first, carefully peeling at the edges and attempting to loosen the charms without damaging the paper. But years of neglect and stubborn sticking spells had made them too fragile. The first one they tried to save ripped clean in half, and after a brief moment of regret, they exchanged a look of silent agreement. One by one, the rest went up in flames, reduced to ash alongside the others.

By the time they were finished, Sirius's walls were bare, save for the ghostly outlines of where the posters had once clung.

George collapsed beside the stripped-down bedframe, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Harry dropped down beside him.

"We're done, right? We have to be," George panted—a little dramatically, Harry felt.

Harry nodded before calling out, "Kreacher!" With a sharp crack, the house-elf appeared before them.

"Would you grab us some butterbeers from the kitchen, please?"

Kreacher gave a short nod and vanished.

"Bloody brilliant," George said with a grin.

Harry couldn't help but agree. Stocking the icebox had been one of the very first things he'd done once the kitchen was in working order. He still remembered the moment he'd slid the first bottles of butterbeer and Muggle sodas inside, feeling oddly satisfied. Fleur had made an offhand remark about how men always prioritized drinks when stocking an icebox, and he'd laughed—only for the comment to sink in a moment later. Because for the first time in his life, he was putting something in his own home.

Kreacher returned a moment later with the butterbeers.

"What do you think?" Harry asked, noticing the way Kreacher was gazing warily around the room that, for the first time, had been stripped of Sirius's touches. Kreacher gave him a testing look, but Harry nodded encouragingly.

"Master Harry has…removed the trappings of the old Master," Kreacher said, his grin widening. But then a shadow fell across his face. "Master Harry has removed the trappings of all the old Masters."

Harry took a swig of butterbeer. "I thought it would be good to have a fresh start," he said. He felt George's eyes on him, but didn't look away from Kreacher. "Do—did the Blacks not do that when the house was passed down to the next generation."

"Not so…" Kreacher's gaze swept the room, "thoroughly."

"I guess I'm pretty different from your previous Masters," Harry said with a grin.

Kreacher looked thoughtful. "This is true," he said slowly.

"I know all of this," Harry motioned vaguely to the surrounding house, "has been hard for you. I know it's a lot of change." He sighed. "Merlin, I've said that a lot, haven't I?"

Beside him, George snorted into his butterbeer.

"Thirty-nine times, Master Harry," Kreacher answered with a bow. Then the elf stilled, as if waiting for the punishment to come after realizing Harry had only asked rhetorically.

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Well, I appreciate it, Kreacher. You're a good elf." He grinned as Kreacher straightened and stood proudly. "I was actually hoping for your opinion."

"Kreacher's opinion?" the elf asked, a look of bewilderment flashing across his face.

Harry nodded, considering his next words exceedingly carefully. "I know you were…fond of Walburga." He watched Kreacher's eyes widen, and the elf swallowed hard before expertly schooling his features. "But her portrait says some pretty vile things to and about me and the people I love. I can't have her in the house like that."

Kreacher's jaw clenched and the veins in his neck bulged.

"I'd be willing to let you keep her portrait, if you'd like," Harry said carefully. "We'd have to put it somewhere she won't…scream through the whole house, but…" he trailed off with a shrug.

"In Kreacher's space?"

"Well that's another matter," Harry said, fighting a grimace. "I want to find you a space here that you can make your own. Preferably one that's a bit bigger and not right in the way of the boiler. If we ever need to fix or replace it I don't want anyone trampling all over your things."

Kreacher eyed him carefully, mouthing words silently, as if they were too big to be contained by his inner monologue. Harry had never noticed it before, but there was a shrewdness in Kreacher's gaze that Dobby and the other house-elves he'd met hadn't shared. He supposed it had something to do with being happily bound to such a decidedly Slytherin family.

There was a long, quiet moment before Kreacher finally spoke. "Mistress Walburga is gone," he said, his voice cracking as he spoke. "Her portrait is not her. It has…decayed. It dishonors her."

Harry nodded. "I'll take your word for it." And even those words of trust seemed to leave Kreacher bewildered. "I guess we…burn it?"

Kreacher nodded as well. "This is the tradition."

"Bloody hell, Harry, if you were just going to burn it, why did we go through all that trouble?" George groaned.

Harry nudged his shoulder. "Don't tell me you weren't excited to try to break a Permanent Sticking Charm."

George grinned, raising his bottle of butterbeer. "You know me well, Potter."

Harry clinked bottles with George before turning back to Kreacher. "You sure you're alright with that?" he asked.

"Kreacher is a dedicated servant," the house-elf said with a deep bow. But Harry gave him a long look, and he sighed in defeat. "Kreacher is…alright with it. It is…a fresh start, as the Master says."

"Atta boy," George said, raising his bottle to Kreacher. "Grab yourself a bottle and join us, yeah?"

Kreacher shot Harry a scandalized look, but Harry broke into a grin and nodded. "As long as you'll be alright," he said. "I know Winky had some, err…difficulties with butterbeer."

Kreacher scoffed. "Hogwarts house-elves," he grumbled. "Master can be assured that Kreacher is made of sterner stuff."

George grinned. "Well, we saw you going after those Death Eaters during the battle," he said. "So I don't think that was ever in doubt."

Kreacher had a very pleased look on his face as he popped away and returned a few moments later with a bottle of his own. He looked around awkwardly for a moment, before sitting down on the floor across from Harry and George. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his butterbeer, his eyes never leaving Harry, as if waiting for him to snap. When Harry only sipped on his own Kreacher seemed to relax and take further stock of the newly-cleared room.

"This will be Master Harry's room?" the elf asked.

Harry nodded. "With a little more work, at least."

Kreacher looked around thoughtfully, taking steady sips from the butterbeer as he did. He lowered the bottle and looked down. "Master…S-s-Sirius," he forced out, though Harry noticed he didn't flinch violently anymore when saying Sirius's name, "was very fond of you."

Harry smiled fondly at the elf and nodded. "I'm fond of him too," he said. "I'm not…sad anymore—that he's gone. I'm just…sad that I won't be able to share any of this with him…for a while."

Kreacher nodded, staring down at the bottle in his hands. "Master Regulus would have been pleased with what has been done," he said softly.

"With the house?" George asked.

Kreacher shook his head. "With the Dark Lord," he said in a growly voice. "He would be pleased knowing what he did mattered."

"It mattered a lot," Harry said, trying to assure him. "I was thinking about Regulus's room." Kreacher's gaze shot to his and Harry could see the tension flood back into his body. "I know you like having your own space. I'd like you to have his old room as yours, if you want it."

Kreacher's eyes widened and he shook his head furiously. "Too high. Too many windows," he rasped, and tried to hide wiping his tears by scratching his nose. "House-elves like dark spaces. Safe spaces."

"Hence the boiler," George said, and Kreacher nodded. "What about that room behind it? The storage room?"

"Master Orion's office," Kreacher murmured.

"Really?" George goggled. "This whole huge house and he picked the room in the basement without windows?" Kreacher nodded again and George shook his head. "That's bloody—" he gave Kreacher a soft look. "Sorry, mate, but I just don't get that."

"Master Orion experimented with many ingredients that were sensitive to light and humidity," Kreacher said, his guard lowered in a way Harry had never seen before.

"Would that room work?" Harry asked tentatively. "We're already storing a lot of the old Black family artifacts and heirlooms there." He gave Kreacher a gentle look. "What if you just…picked out what you'd like to keep for yourself and let me know if there's anything that has some…historical value, or is pure evil or something?"

"This place has like a dozen bedrooms," George said encouragingly. "You can always turn one of those into the storage room."

"A whole room," Kreacher muttered in disbelief. "Kreacher's…room."

"Where did you live when Sirius was a kid," George asked, staring absently down the neck of his now-empty bottle.

"Kreacher lived in the attic. He had a box," the old elf said in a low voice.

"I thought you didn't like high-up places," Harry said.

"Kreacher was given orders," he said, as if it explained everything. Harry supposed it did, in its house-elf way.

"Merlin, Kreacher, you deserve better than that," Harry said determinedly. "You can take some time to think about it if you want. There's no rush."

Kreacher nodded, looking thoughtful, but then his expression hardened into a focused mask and he looked up. "Kreacher will take the basement room. And," he raised his bottle of butterbeer high, and Harry caught the slight wobble in his movement. "Kreacher will thank Master Harry for his kindness."

Harry raised his bottle as well. "You're welcome, Kreacher. Thank you for working so hard."

Kreacher nodded sharply, his chin raised proudly.

George sniffed loudly beside him, and pretended to wipe away a tear. "That was beautiful," he said. "I just wish Hermione was here to see it."

"Oh sod off," Harry grumbled, shoving George over. But he couldn't help the smile that fought its way onto his face. He shot Kreacher a look and was happy to find Kreacher grinning as well.

He nodded to George gratefully. "Thanks, though."

George just shrugged. "Hey, what are handsome, genius older brothers for?"

Harry's chest swelled at the implication. And he got a sudden, very Weasley-like urge. "So, what do you think? Any of these rooms strike your fancy?"

George looked to Kreacher curiously, then back to Harry in confusion. "You mean me? Why? What?"

"Well, I think Ron has first crack at rooms if he wants to live here," Harry said with a shrug. "But after that…" He trailed off, grinning. "This way you don't have to kick Lee out and you don't have to stay with your mum and dad if you don't want."

"Really?" George said, staring at him shrewdly. "Sure you're not just saying this so I keep my mouth shut about you and Ginny?"

"Isn't the reason you have kept your mouth shut exactly so that you could lord it over me during moments like this?" Harry asked.

George gave him a thoughtful, upside-down smile, nodding his head back and forth. "Alright, Potter, you've got yourself a deal," he said, grinning. "But if I'm going to be living here I'm going to have some say in the decor."

"Oh?" Harry asked.

"You bet! And this?" George gestured vaguely to the air around them. "Way too drab. I'm thinking bright—bright—colors. Neon fuschia, orange, lime. You know I chose the colors for the Wheezes?" he added proudly.

Harry tried to sound impressed. "Yeah, that's…something," he said. "Who chose the uniforms?"

"Also moi," George said, smoothing his shirt in a painfully-smug way.

Harry tried to control his face, chewing his lip so that he didn't give anything away. "So you knew what…all those colors would be and look like…together," he said. He felt his lips twitch; he was failing…

"What's wrong with the colors?"

"Nothing!" Harry said, a bit too quickly. "They're…very bright."

"Yeah? Great. Let me know when you want me to come by and start redecorating."

"Don't push your luck, George," Harry warned, though he couldn't help but smirk.

George just laughed and shoved Harry's arm playfully. "Thanks, mate. I think I might take you up on all that."

Harry grinned. "Hey, what are obnoxiously-wealthy younger brothers for?"

June 29, 1998

Ginny adjusted her grip on her broom and shot forward, the warm morning air rushing past her as she pushed for more speed. The makeshift goalposts in the Burrow's backyard pitch stood tall against the early morning sky.

Across from her, Demelza looped effortlessly around an invisible defender before sending a sharp pass her way. Ginny caught it with ease, pivoting midair to feint a shot before pulling up hard, imagining a Keeper lunging to block her. Her muscles ached from the repeated motions, but she welcomed the burn—proof that she was pushing herself, sharpening her reflexes, making sure she'd be ready when it counted.

She'd been running drills every day; usually just with Harry, but Demelza would stop by the Burrow a few times a week to get back into prime shape for the upcoming season. With the Nimbus 2000 underneath her, Ginny finally had a broom that could keep up with her, one that could follow what she needed it to do.

"Again," Demelza called, already racing back into position.

Ginny grinned, adjusting her stance. The grueling repetition, the sweat, the strain—this was exactly what she wanted. This was fucking Quidditch!

And she loved it.

They ran the play again, but Ginny was a split-second too early on her slideover and Demelza's pass rushed just past her outstretched fingertips.

She groaned and Demelza stifled a curse of her own, shooting her an exasperated look. Without missing a beat, Ginny dove, rolling upside-down to snatch the fallen Quaffle in one fluid motion before twisting her broom into a sharp climb. She righted herself just as she reached Demelza, already pushing forward to reset.

"Sorry," Ginny grumbled. "Just twitchy today."

"Merlin, Ginny, are you telling me you've been slowing down?" Demelza goggled. She pulled back her hair and tucked it into a tight bun. "I feel like I've been killing myself trying to keep up today and you've been taking it easy on me?"

"No! That's—" Ginny started to object, "I've just been—you know…calibrating…differ…ent…ly."

Demelza's grin stopped her. "Ginny, you've always been good, but," she shook her head in disbelief. "What the bloody hell changed?"

Ginny shrugged helplessly. "I run drills every day?" She shook her head. "I don't know what you're going on about. I'm the one who missed her bloody timing on the slideover."

"That's what I'm saying," Demelza said, floating her broom closer. "You're talking about shit like 'timing' and 'calibrating' while everyone else is playing school Quidditch trying not to forget which way is up."

"I like Quidditch," Ginny said insistently, feeling very much put on the spot.

"Fuck that, Ginny," Demelza said, eyeing her shrewdly. "No, you're…" she fixed Ginny with a glare and then her eyes shot wide. "Oh. Shit, you're really doing it?"

Then it was Ginny's turn to goggle.

"Fuck yeah! Ginny-bloody-Weasley wants to go pro!" Demelze said with a wide smile and a laugh.

Ginny grabbed Demelza's broom. "How do you know? Who told you that?"

"You did!"

"The fuck I did!" Ginny said firmly.

Demelza screwed up her face. "Of course you did. It was in Third year right after we got back from the Yule Ball. You snuck up into Fred and George's dorm and swiped a bottle of firewhiskey."

Ginny frowned. That might have sounded like her. She'd been riding the high that night of going to the Yule Ball as a Third year and not making a fool of herself. She'd dressed up, danced, and had a great time. Michael Corner had noticed her and spent half the evening talking with her. She'd felt more mature, more grown up, than ever before—more in-control.

"I don't remember getting that pissed," she muttered.

"Well I remember you saying you thought playing pro-Quidditch would be the coolest thing in the world," Demelza said with a shrug.

"That's not what that means!" Ginny insisted.

"But you just said you did!"

Ginny snapped her teeth shut and huffed. "Look, you can't say anything," she said. "I've only told Harry and Andi." Demelza gave her a look. "Teddy's grandmum."

Demelza nodded quickly. She had met Teddy a few times after Andi had started going back to work. But then her look turned scandalous. "You told your boyfriend's godson's grandmum that you want to play Quidditch professionally but not your best friend?" she asked with mock outrage.

"The conversation got away from me," Ginny said with a sigh. "Andi was telling me that she approved of me—"

"The fuck do you mean 'approved of you'?" Demelza demanded, mock outrage replaced with very real outrage. "You're Ginny-bloody-Weasley."

"I asked," Ginny insisted, rolling her eyes. "I was feeling insecure, and worried that she wouldn't approve of me dating Harry. She knew Harry's parents, Harry's godfather was her cousin, her son-in-law was Harry's dad and godfather's best mate. Harry was over the bloody moon to have that connection, and I was worried I wasn't…anyway, it doesn't matter."

"Did she at least approve? Of you, of Quidditch?"

Ginny waved her off. "Yeah, of course." She grinned. "I'm Ginny-bloody-Weasley."

Demelza grinned widely and shimmied back and forth chanting, "We're gonna win the Quidditch Cup!" over and over.

But then she gasped. "You haven't told your dad!" Another gasp. "Or your mum! What's she gonna say?" An even louder, more dramatic gasp. "What's McGonagall gonna say?"

"She's gonna say she's looking forward to Gryffindor winning the cup again this year," Ginny shot back.

Demelza shook her head. "She's Headmistress now. She's not allowed to favor one house over another."

Ginny just scoffed. "Oh sure. Let's just pretend Professor Dumbledore didn't give Neville ten points for trying to stop Harry from breaking school rules that he'd just awarded Harry sixty points for breaking."

Demelza laughed. "Something tells me Professor McGonagall will lack a little of his whimsy."

Ginny grinned. "I dunno," she said scandalously. "I think she might have suggested it."

She launched into the story, explaining how McGonagall had called her into her office during her fifth year to discuss career options. They had gone through the usual paths—Ministry roles, Healer training, advanced business studies, commercial potioneering—before McGonagall shifted to the more "nontraditional" routes. She mentioned several former students who had excelled outside the standard career tracks, listing off a volley of jobs and names that Ginny had barely been able to follow outside the quick mention of her brothers, but when it came to Quidditch, McGonagall spent three whole sentences on the subject.

One was a reference to Oliver Wood—who was, as McGonagall had put it with a knowing look, "quite well acquainted with your brothers and Mr. Potter"—and his professional Quidditch career. The second was a mention of how team scouts often attended Hogwarts Quidditch matches to see if there was any promising talent. The third was how professional players tend to transition into other related roles after their prime playing years.

"It was almost like she knew that's what I wanted," Ginny said, warmth in her voice at the memory of her former Head of House. Snape had been a specter as Headmaster. Dumbledore, an enigma. But McGonagall had always been present. There was an unshakable sense that nothing got past her—and when it seemed like something had, it was only because she had allowed it.

"I don't even remember the other stuff she was talking about," Ginny said. "But she said 'Quidditch' about a dozen times."

Ginny spun the Quaffle on one finger for a few seconds before tossing it to Demelza, who caught it easily, muttering "showoff" under her breath.

"Run it one more time, then get ready to meet the girls?" Ginny suggested.

After a final drill, they headed inside to shed their sweaty Quidditch gear and change into swimsuits. A few quick Floo calls later, the sitting room began filling with people. Luna arrived first, stepping lazily through the fireplace and pulling Ginny into a fierce hug. Vivienne and Jocelyn came next, followed by Anya Wells and Cora Langley.

"So this is the famous Burrow we've heard so much about," Cora said, spinning slowly to take in the sitting room, her honey-brown curls bouncing with the movement. "I've always wanted to come here."

"Kind of mental that it took us six years to secure an invite," Anya teased, stepping forward and enveloping Ginny in a firm hug. Before Ginny could react, Anya effortlessly lifted her off the ground and gave her a playful shake.

"Alright, alright, put me down, you menace," Ginny huffed, fighting her way free, though she couldn't quite suppress her grin. If Anya could stomach being on a broom for more than twenty minutes, she'd make an incredible Beater. Her strength and precision were undeniable. Years of farm work had left her with a grip like iron and an instinct for timing that would put most Quidditch players to shame. But the sky wasn't her element. The one time Ginny had convinced her to try flying drills, Anya had turned an alarming shade of green and nearly taken out a flock of pigeons in her desperate attempt to land.

Cora settled onto the nearest couch, tucking one leg under her as she glanced around the room with interest. "It's exactly how I imagined it," she said, taking in the mismatched furniture, the well-worn books stacked haphazardly, and the faint scent of something freshly baked lingering in the air. "Feels lived in. Like it holds stories."

Ginny smirked. "That's a poetic way of saying it's a bit of a mess."

Cora shrugged. "All the best places are."

Anya leaned against the arm of a chair, arms crossed, then tilted her head toward the window. "So, where are these infamous garden gnomes? I've heard horror stories from your brothers."

Ginny gestured vaguely toward the garden. "They're out there, probably causing trouble. You'll see them soon enough."

Cora perked up. "I'd love to get a closer look. I've only ever seen pictures in textbooks."

"They're just pests, really," Ginny said with a shrug.

"Maybe," Cora admitted, "but I like seeing things for myself. You can learn a lot from how creatures behave in their own environment."

Ginny smirked. "You'll learn that they bite. Imagine having to de-gnome the garden without magic."

Cora grimaced. "Noted."

Luna, who had been absently twisting a strand of Vivienne's hair between her fingers, chimed in thoughtfully, "They do have their own sort of logic, though. My dad once said they operate on a system of territory and barter, even if it mostly involves stealing from each other."

Cora made a thoughtful noise, tucking that bit of information away. "That's fascinating. I'll have to look into it more."

Anya shook her head, amused. "Only you would be interested in gnome politics."

Ginny rolled her eyes fondly before clapping her hands together. "Alright, enough about gnomes. Fleur is expecting us soon, and I, for one, am not missing out on a full day at the beach because we got distracted."

That was enough to get them moving. They gathered their bags, Luna humming as she looped her arm through Jocelyn's, and Anya and Cora discussing whether Bill's house would be as spectacular as the Burrow. The energy shifted as they stepped toward the fireplace, anticipation crackling between them like magic itself.

With a handful of Floo powder and a swirl of green flames, they vanished one by one, only to appear, stumbling on top of one another in the sitting room of Shell Cottage.

Ginny winced and grumbled as she pulled herself from the bottom of the pileup, but even that had failed to dampen Cora and Anya's enthusiasm. They gasped and marveled at the house, lit up by the huge kitchen windows and the ocean past them.

"Welcome to Shell Cottage," Bill said, rounding his way in from the kitchen. He introduced himself and Fleur to Ginny's friends, although that was hardly necessary.

"Oh, we know who you are," Anya said with a smile. "Ginny talks all about her cool, curse-breaking older brother and his awesome Triwizard Champion wife."

"Does she?" Bill said, throwing a grin her way. "Am I really the cool older brother?"

"Not if you have to ask," Demelza said.

"Hey, Demelza," Bill said. "How's your mum?"

"She's great," Demelza said, with a pointed glare. "Says you don't return her owls."

Fleur shot Bill a curious look. He waved off her concerns with, "this is Theresa's daughter" and she nodded knowingly before her stare began to mirror Demelza's.

"Tell your muzzer zat I appreciate 'er constant owling," Fleur said, shooting Bill a pointed look. "Per'aps one day, she will get through my 'usband's thick skull."

But Bill just grinned. "How can you say 'no' to a good tomb?"

Fleur rolled her eyes, casting an exasperated look at Ginny and her friends. "Do you see what I must put up wiz?" Her gaze softened as she turned to Bill with a sly smile. "Eet is most unfortunate that I find eet so endearing."

"We call that the Weasley Charm," Bill teased with a rakish grin.

"Speaking of charming Weasleys, did you hear? Ron and Hermione have a return day," Ginny said excitedly, pulling their letter from her bag.

Bill gave it a once over, eyes widening as he read. "Wow, they're really still in the Spell Damage Unit." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Says if everything goes well—"

"They'll be able to take the first portkey home on July fifth," Ginny interrupted.

Bill pulled Ginny aside and nodded once to Fleur, who began taking over the conversation with her friends and leading them on a bit of a tour. Ginny gave him a frustrated look but the worry on his face drained the fight out of her.

"No, it says he will be able to take the first portkey back," Bill corrected. He pointed to a line on the letter where Ron had written: 'I'll be able…' He gave her a worried look. "Nothing about Hermione or her parents."

Ginny waved off his concerns. "It's Ron, he's not going to quibble over grammar," she said. "You're lucky he used punctuation at all."

Bill shook his head. "Ron's pretty consistent with the way he words things."

"Why are you studying Ron's grammar so closely," Ginny said, entirely bewildered.

"Syntax and grammar are important for curse-breaking," Bill said with an equally-bewildered look on his face. "Especially with runes: the meanings change depending on where in the script the—" He scoffed. "Oh you don't care. Anyway, we should try and get a message back to them and see if he needs any help with that."

"You think something went wrong?" Ginny asked. She forced herself to unclench her fists; she'd seen that look in his eyes before as he grabbed her to stop her from stumbling upon Fred's body unprepared.

Bill let out a deep sigh, forcing his shoulders to relax. "It's probably nothing," he murmured, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "Ron wouldn't just take off if Hermione still needed him. Maybe her parents have had their fill of magic for now and want to travel the Muggle way. I could see that. And Hermione's going with them because she hasn't seen her parents in over a year."

Ginny nodded purposefully, as if willing herself to believe it.

Bill hesitated before adding, "And Ron's coming back by portkey because… well," he grimaced, glancing around, "maybe there's less of a Mum, Dad, and Harry feel and more of a Mum, Dad, and Fleur feel…from two years ago."

Ginny's nod slowed as the implication sank in. It did make sense. She had never introduced Michael or Dean to her parents, not even in passing at the Hogwarts Express. If she was honest with herself, she'd never intended to. Her parents' relationships with Harry and Hermione were different—she was fairly certain her mum and dad had unofficially adopted them long before she and Harry had gotten together.

"I mean—I love Fleur's mum and dad, don't get me wrong," Bill said loudly, his voice carrying through the house, "but if my options were traveling alone by portkey or being crammed next to them on an aeroplane for five hours…"

"Five hours?" Ginny repeated, eyes widening.

"At least, right?" Bill shrugged. "Australia's far. Even with international portkeys, you need a layover to avoid getting keysick. I think they said it's a five hour trip with stops. So aeroplanes must take at least that long, yeah?"

"'Five hours' what now?" Cora asked as she and the others rejoined them from their quick tour. After a brief—if reluctant—explanation, Cora paled.

"Try twenty-four hours, minimum."

Ginny and Bill goggled at each other before Ginny let out a low whistle. "Well, shit," she muttered. "I'd leave our Mum and Dad behind if that were the other option."

Bill nodded, a little more at ease. He and Fleur led the girls outside towards the beachfront where a few wand waves set up a series of umbrellas and towels charmed not to flap around in the breeze. He made sure they were all settled before telling them that he would be returning to work.

"Yeah, what were you doing home?" Ginny asked.

Bill sighed and carded a hand through his long hair. "Charlie needed a bit of rescuing," he admitted. "He went out with that dragon bloke—shaman or what have you—searching for the Ironbelly. Search turned up nothing, except a pub. Where they spent the entire night drinking." He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Charlie got so pissed he couldn't Apparate. So I picked him up and let him stay here. He's still upstairs."

"Did you meet the dragon guy?" Anya asked excitedly.

Bill shook his head. "Bartender said he left after Charlie tapped out. Told him he was going to go back out and look for the dragon while Charlie slept it off."

"Barmy dragon blokes," Ginny said with a look somewhere between a grimace and a grin.

"That's our brother's aspiration," Bill shook his head. He checked his watch, eyes widening, and walked off with purpose. "Don't forget to use your sun potions or you'll turn into a lobster!" he said, stepping through Shell Cottages wards and Disapparating.

"So," said Fleur, wand in hand. "Do you want to swim before or after your Defense tutoring?"

Ginny glanced at her friends and smirked. "Swim first. Harry won't be here for a bit anyway, and I'd rather be in the water than throwing curses in this heat."

There were murmurs of agreement as they made their way down the sandy path toward the shoreline. The midday sun reflected off the waves, turning the water a dazzling blue, and a salty breeze rolled in from the sea. Ginny kicked off her sandals as soon as they reached the sand, hissing slightly when the warmth stung her feet before she sprinted toward the water.

Cora was the first to follow, laughing as she twirled out of her cover-up and tossed it onto the shore. "I can't believe you lot get to come here whenever you want," she called as she waded in. "If I lived here, I'd never leave."

"You say that now," Ginny teased, diving forward into the cool waves. She surfaced with a satisfied sigh, shaking the water from her hair as she turned back to the others. "But wait until you get Fleur or Bill grilling you on your Defense knowledge—then you'll see how fun it is."

"Many cultures believe that certain skills and abilities are transferable through physical contact," Luna said offhandedly. She'd stooped over to poke at something unseen under the wet sand. "I imagine you must be rather skilled at Defense now."

Ginny felt herself flushing the telltale Weasley red, but was saved from further teasing when Fleur called out:

"One hour, zen we train." Fleur settled onto a nearby chair, angling herself to catch the sunlight. "I will time you."

As the group splashed and swam in the cool water, Ginny happened to glance toward Shell Cottage and spotted a familiar figure emerging from the house—Charlie, looking like he'd just been through a special kind of hell. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, his face was pale and drawn, and even from a distance, she could see him squinting against the bright sunlight like it personally offended him.

He stumbled down the path toward the beach, rubbing his temples and muttering under his breath. Ginny smirked.

"I'll be back," she told the others before wading out of the water and making her way up the sand to intercept him.

"Rough night?" she asked, crossing her arms as she stopped in front of him.

Charlie groaned. "Ginny, if you have any mercy in that heart of yours, you'll keep your voice down."

Ginny snorted. "That bad, huh?"

Charlie dragged a hand down his face and sighed. "I spent all last night drinking with Sarkhan."

Ginny raised an eyebrow.

"The dragon expert we brought in to help track down the Ironbelly," he explained. "Bloke must be part dragon himself, because there's no way I drank more than him, and yet here I am—feeling like I got trampled by a herd of them—while he's still out there looking for the damn thing."

Ginny smirked. "Fleur's about to put us through some Defense training in a bit. Want to join?"

Charlie let out a pathetic laugh and shook his head. "Not a chance. I need about three more hours of sleep, a full meal, and possibly a resurrection spell before I'm of any use to anyone."

Ginny studied him more closely. He really did look awful—up close, he had an almost greenish tinge to his face. "I bet Fleur would brew you a hangover potion if you ask her."

Charlie groaned, rubbing his eyes. "She already did," he muttered, his voice thick with despair. "I already drank them."

Ginny frowned. "Them?"

Charlie held up three fingers.

Ginny gawked at him. "Merlin. And you're still like…this?" She gestured vaguely to his miserable state.

Charlie made a noise that could only be described as a tearless sob.

Ginny patted his arm sympathetically. "Well, enjoy your suffering. I'm going back to the water."

As she turned to leave, Charlie groaned again. "If Mum asks, tell her I'm helping with something important."

Ginny grinned over her shoulder. "Sure thing, big brother."

Bit of a lighter chapter after last week's heavier subject matter. Harry's growing up and learning how to give back. I felt it was fitting that he offers help the same way that others offered help to him, with welcome hospitality. It's a very Weasley trait; and—if it wasn't clear by now—Harry holds them all in high regard.

Also, I didn't expect it, but I kinda love writing Kreacher. The surly, ornery elf has kinda wormed his way into my heart.

But all is not calm on the horizon. What's going on with Ron and Hermione? Will things have settled nicely? Or is there trouble Down Under?

GinnyPotter6891: Thank you for the review, detailed as always! I went with the idea that Bilius isn't necessarily a direct uncle but a great uncle, the brother of Septimus Weasley (Arthur's father). It seemed like an easy adjustment that wouldn't change much but also let me keep with some Arthurian naming structures for Arthur's siblings and all of their children. Plus it lets me lean into the family drama and the "why" regarding where all the other Weasleys are. Expect more drama once Bedivere Weasley returns!

Next Time: Chapter 18 - Grand Reopening