Chapter 272. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place
One afternoon in mid-August, Harry came to Adrian Wesson with a letter.
It was from Sirius Black, brief and to the point—an invitation for Wesson and company to stay at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place for a few days. "Shall we go?" Harry asked hesitantly.
Wesson took the letter and read it carefully.
"Of course," he nodded. "He's your godfather, after all, and Sirius seems a decent fellow so far. We've nothing else planned, and you do want a few days' rest, don't you?"
Harry scratched his head, embarrassed. He did in fact want a few days off.
Lately, Wesson had abruptly increased his training load: loads of spell practice and physical conditioning every day, and even Animagus acclimation training. It had left him a bit tired.
When Harry asked Wesson why he was doing this, Wesson told him that Lord Voldemort was going to return and a great war was coming, and that he had to be ready for it—at least to be able to protect himself.
Harry had always trusted Wesson implicitly, so no matter how hard the training got, he gritted his teeth and pushed through; it was, after all, for his own safety.
But given the chance to catch his breath now, he naturally wasn't going to pass it up.
The next day, Wesson set off with Harry and their temporary house-guest Hermione for Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place—he had asked Black in advance, and Black didn't mind them bringing one more.
Grimmauld Place was in London. With one precise Apparition, the three of them appeared in a quiet little street.
The buildings here were classic London terraced houses. The street was tidy, but you could clearly feel the wear of the years—in plain terms, an old neighbourhood.
"Number 10… 11… here we are." Wesson stopped between Numbers 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place.
"But there isn't—"
Hermione hadn't finished speaking when the space between the empty Number 11 and Number 13 seemed to be slowly forced apart by some invisible power; an ancient, sinister brick house surfaced out of thin air not far ahead. They immediately went closer to take a look.
The blackened exterior paint was peeling; the windows were furred with dust; the silver, serpent-shaped door knocker on the door glinted coldly in the sunlight.
Hermione instinctively took a step back, and Harry frowned; it obviously didn't look like a place someone lived.
Wesson had just raised a hand to knock when the front door opened from within and a lanky figure appeared in the gap.
"Ah, there you are at last!" Sirius Black grinned, came forward and said cheerfully, "Wesson, Harry, and—Hermione, I've not got that wrong, have I? Welcome."
"Sorry to impose, Mr Black." Hermione nodded politely, though her eyes couldn't help straying towards the hall.
"Don't stand on ceremony—come in!" Sirius stepped aside, and the three of them crossed the threshold into Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.
Black moved to sling an arm around Harry's shoulders, but Harry nimbly slipped out of reach, and Black's smile froze for a moment.
As they walked along the corridor, a stale reek rushed to meet them, a mix of musty wood and some odd spice. The walls of the passage were hung with numerous portraits; in the largest frame, a severe-faced woman with her black hair in a bun was glaring at them: "&%£$%!"
That portrait had had a Silencing Charm cast on it, but from her ferocious mouth-shapes, Wesson had no trouble guessing she was spewing nothing fit to repeat.
Seeing them still looking about, Black explained a little awkwardly, "I promise I've tidied as much as I can, but you know—I was in Azkaban for twelve years, and this house has been left to rot for roughly that long. The House-elf hasn't been doing his duty either…"
He hadn't finished when a hoarse voice came from the shadows: "Filth… bringing back more dirty half-bloods and Mudbloods… befouling my mistress's house…"
A House-elf shuffled out from the corner, hunched, with wrinkled grey-white skin, a scrap of rag hanging from his body, and eyes brimming with undisguised malice.
"Kreacher!" Sirius barked, his face instantly darkening. "Back to your kitchen—now!"
The aged House-elf did not argue. He slouched away at a snail's pace, still muttering under his breath: "Traitor… filthy blood… if only poor mistress could see…"
When Kreacher's figure had disappeared, Black turned back and apologised, "Sorry—he's always like that. He's old, and his wits aren't what they were."
Watching Kreacher's retreating back, Harry couldn't help thinking of Dobby.
Dobby was certainly a great deal better than him.
After a while, they came to a vast wall-hanging embroidered with the Black family tree; one patch was scorched. Black said it had been his own name—he'd been blasted off, disowned by the family. But since he was the only male Black left, he had, as a matter of course, become the house's heir.
Soon, they reached the sitting room.
It was at least brighter than the corridor, and the sofa was clean—at last they had somewhere to sit.
While Black popped to the kitchen to make tea, Wesson took in his surroundings.
He went over to a shelf laden with what looked like Dark artefacts: a sinister set of silverware and a few dried, shrunken heads. He thought Black ought to stash these first—what normal person kept skulls in the sitting room?
"If I were you, I wouldn't touch those, Wesson. Sirius and Remus started dealing with them yesterday." A familiar voice spoke beside him.
Wesson turned and found his old Headmaster smiling at him.
"Professor Dumbledore!" Wesson was a little surprised. "This really is an unexpected delight. What brings you here?"
"It was Sirius who asked me to come—to help him sort out the surplus Dark objects," Dumbledore said with a cheerful smile. "And I've nothing pressing on over the summer. Oh, and Remus is here too—he's in the kitchen."
I see… Though Dumbledore made it sound offhand, Wesson couldn't shake the sense that he had some deeper purpose in coming.
By now Harry and Hermione had also noticed Dumbledore's arrival.
"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry blinked—seeing the Headmaster outside Hogwarts always felt a bit odd.
"Harry, Hermione," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "Very glad to see you during the holidays."
Dumbledore's appearance had not been within Wesson's expectations.
Even so, their arrival lent a little life to this dead-still house.
Dinner time.
The kitchen at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place turned out to be far more spacious than they'd imagined. A long wooden table dominated the centre, laid with polished cutlery, and the air was rich with the scent of food.
Over dinner, Black spoke to Harry with effusive warmth. The man's enthusiasm left Harry a bit at a loss, even if that man was his godfather.
He didn't dislike it, though.
Wesson and Lupin, meanwhile, discussed Lupin's post-resignation plans—he'd scraped together a fair bit of money lately and was thinking of taking a shop with Black in Diagon Alley to trade in herbs. Hermione listened in, nodding now and then as if weighing the feasibility, while Dumbledore had taken an interest in a plate of pancakes drenched in syrup—Lupin's own speciality, and sickeningly sweet.
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