It was early June when I slowly climbed the stairs to the top of Grimmauld Place and properly braved the attic rooms for the first time. Amongst the overwhelming piles of crap, I found a collection of portraits, mostly of disowned Blacks. I also found a Boggart and, in what had clearly once been an Owlery, found some of Sirius's old stuff, including a record player and boxes of vinyl. I locked the Boggart in a clearly marked trunk for the time being and focused on Sirius's record collection. I took it all downstairs, cleaned off the shit, and once I worked out how to get it working using magic, I spent hours working through the records, playing them all, filling the house with life and joy. And when I wasn't sorting things out, I danced by myself around the dark, half-empty rooms, typically awkwardly for me, but I didn't care, I liked it, especially when doing silly tasks or cooking for myself. I know I can't dance, but I just didn't care. I suppose it was the freedom and just living in the moment. I decided my home was definitely a space where, as the saying goes, I could dance like nobody's watching. I decided that music was the way forward. I wished, on more than one occasion, that Sirius and Remus were in the house with me. I could imagine Sirius dancing round with me, the two of us being carefree idiots together while Remus leant against the doorframe, watching fondly but pretending to roll his eyes.
I'd come to imagine the two men like that after sifting through some of Sirius's old photograph albums and after I found some letters between them, including some of Remus's letters that he'd received from Sirius. I'd finally realised the exact nature of their relationship before Sirius had been sent to Azkaban because Sirius's letters to Remus were liberatingly graphic when it came to describing what he wanted to do to Remus or wanted Remus to do to him when they next got together. Sometimes it was eyewatering reading, but also pretty bloody compulsive because it was damned hot. It was clear they'd been desperately in love and were very sexually active too.
With hindsight, I knew the clues had been there all along, it was just, well, I'm me; I know I'm a bit oblivious sometimes. But perhaps it was also because I'd only finally come to a clear conclusion about my own sexuality after the war had ended.
Admittedly, I conveniently created a gap in my memory about Remus and Tonks, not because I didn't like Tonks—I loved her dearly and made every effort to visit Dromeda and Teddy frequently since I'd got back—it was just that I wanted Sirius to have that happiness. It saddened me that they'd lost their relationship due to the war and Sirius's wrongful imprisonment. It also saddened me that I hadn't been able to share something of that with them after Sirius's offer of a proper family-life with him had been ripped away from us by Snape and Fudge. And when I found a more recent beautiful photograph of Sirius with arm around Remus's waist and Remus leaning in, looking at Sirius with aching fondness, that was when I decided I needed to get their portrait done. I felt like it was a positive, happy sort of thing to do, even if it couldn't be magical portrait. I found more photographs too that I decided I wanted to add to my collection. This was about making Grimmauld Place my own with my choices of what would be on the walls of my home, namely, my family and friends, though I decided to keep some of the Black family too. I'd kept the old headmaster, Phineas Nigellus Black, because I'd become rather fond of the grumpy old sod, plus he'd helped in the end. And he was a useful link to Minerva. I had taken to calling him Phineas N. because I'd found a portrait of his son, Phineas II, hidden in the attic. It turned out Phineas II was disowned for supporting Muggle Rights; I decided he deserved a spot on one of my walls somewhere, once I was a bit clearer. Of course, the other portrait that remained was Walburga Black's on the first midway landing of the grand u-shaped stairs that ran all the way from the basement up to the attic rooms. She only remained in her indominable central position that overlooked both down onto the entrance hall and dining room and up into the first floor sitting room because I hadn't worked out how to remove her from the wall. For the time being, I tried to forget she was there, which was aided by the fact that she hadn't shouted or screamed once since I'd returned. At the very least, I hoped she might have left for some reason but I couldn't quite pluck up the courage to check behind the curtains that hid her picture.
And then, just over some six weeks after returning to Grimmauld Place, things changed unpredictably. Eventually for the better, considering. There were definitely a few teething problems but I do think it all changed for the better – though sometimes I think everything is all a bit mad.
On the morning of Wednesday 13th June, Walburga Black's voice greeted me as I came down the u-shaped stairs and crossed the grungy midway landing. She was, at first, unrecognisable considering she wasn't shouting and hollering and being generally bloody foul. 'Mr Potter, Mr Potter,' she called, somewhat haughtily. 'Come back here and draw open these curtains at once, young man.'
I turned back on myself and tentatively opened the curtains.
The older woman stared down at me harshly, studying me intently. 'So, you're Harry Potter?'
'Yes, mam,' I said with a bold edge to my voice and briefly narrowed eyes. I really didn't want to be intimidated in my own home by the old hag but I was also hedging my bets because this was the first time she actually deigned to speak to me, let alone with a hint of civility.
I was surprised at how quickly Kreacher appeared by my side, looking defiantly at his old mistress as if ready to curse her. She didn't give him a second glance.
'Phineas says you're the most powerful wizard of our era, if not ever, and you were at a mere seventeen years old.'
'Which Phineas?' I asked.
'Phineas Nigellus...'
I raised an eyebrow, mostly because I couldn't quite believe that Phineas N. had said that about me.
'And you defeated Lord Voldemort and that he was potentially the worst advocate to live regarding the ideals of Purebloods and the Dark Arts. That his ideals were dangerous to the extreme.'
'Yes, mam.'
'At least you're polite.'
'I can change that easily enough. And there're no honourable ideals when it comes to the Dark Arts.'
'Hmmm,' she said, her brow drawing together in disapproval. 'Phineas says that you and that crackpot Albus Dumbledore consider Lord Voldemort akin to that Muggle they called Hitler.'
I groaned, ignoring the dig about the late-headmaster. 'I'm getting a coffee and then I'll come back. But yeah. It's hard to differentiate the two when you start to compare their motives, their actions, and their end goals, all of which involved pointless hatred and genocide.'
'Hmmm,' she repeated.
Kreacher was watching his old mistress with narrowed eyes. 'Would Master Harry like Kreacher to be bringing his coffee here?'
'I'll come down, Kreacher. I want to collect my post too.'
I went and got my coffee. When I returned, she watched me rather enviously as I sat on the dingy stairs facing her and sipped my coffee carefully. I have to admit, since Kreacher decided he likes me, he makes the best mug of coffee in the world. I'd also brought my mail up to sort through it, ignoring the sycophantic fan-mail from strangers, as flattering as they were. They were the sort of thing that could go to one's head.
I opened a fancy Ministry-stamped envelope and an invitation to another Ministry function slid out. I'd managed to find an excuse to get out the last invite but they were horribly persistent.
'Merlin help me,' I muttered when I read it and saw the date.
'What is it?' she said, clearly intrigued and unable to help herself.
'An invitation to a Ministry Gala Dinner, a delayed celebration of my success because I've been away. I'm guest of honour. On my bloody twenty-first birthday because they want to celebrate that too. As if it's their right to decide how I spend my birthday. You know, I find these things fucking embarrassing and mortifying and just plain awkward.'
'Language, young man!' She paused and looked at me shrewdly. 'We used to have beautiful gatherings and parties in this house when I was young. Carriages pulling up outside... women in beautiful dresses... the men looking so elegant... the music... the dancing... Sacred Twenty-Eight only, of course, our sort...' she caught my look and her voice faded.
I said, 'I believe you wanted to discuss the rise of fascism in it's different forms, despite the anti-sociable time in the morning?'
'There's no need for that,' Walburga said. 'I have considered Phineas's rather bleak framing of the Pureblood lineage and I can see the parallels, no matter how hard it is to admit. And one does rather want to avoid be likened to a Muggle because I still believe, at heart, that Muggles are inferior to Magical Beings.'
'Which Phineas?' I asked.
'Phineas Nigellus...'
I raised a disapproving eyebrow. 'So I hope you understand that people are people,' I said emphatically. 'A life is still a life. No one has the right to deem themselves superior to another or take another's life because of their blood status or race or whatever other false reason they can dream up. It's as arbitrary as picking out Regulus and claiming he has to die because he's only 5'7" tall—'
'That's ridiculous—'
'Indeed,' I said with a raised eyebrow. 'History has shown time and time again that the excuses for purification of race are nothing short of fucking criminal and are invariably created by narcissistic jingoists who are after a power grab. I would prefer not to be associated with such behaviour. You should be proud that both your sons felt the same.'
'Phineas and I have argued for some time about this,' she said, as if to placate me.
'Which Phineas?' I asked.
'Both...'
I snorted softly to myself. 'The cleverest witch I know is a Muggleborn.'
'So I am led to believe.'
'Mistress Hermione is the fairest and kindest witch as well as the cleverest,' put in Kreacher as he appeared with a plate of toast for me. He disappeared off with a haughty flick of his ears.
I smiled, partly at how much Kreacher had changed over the past few years. 'Yep. Believe me, she's far from inferior and has far greater integrity than all Voldemort's bloody followers put together. It begs the question of what her blood lineage has to do with her character.'
She glared at me. 'It has everything to do with her character—'
'In what way?'
'Purebloods have entirely different ideals—'
'Which are better in what way, exactly...?'
She opened her mouth to answer and then closed it again.
'Because so far,' I continued, 'I've seen nothing good about the wish to control and kill indiscriminately, including children. All I've witnessed is hatred and bigotry and fucking dangerous and consuming obsessions with the Dark Arts. You do realise that the Unspeakables have proven that Muggleborns actually come from a long line of Squibs so they do actually have magical ancestry.'
She harrumphed and ignored that. 'Why you would condemn a whole branch of fascinating and engaging magic? Particularly when you are so powerful. You could become more so if you embraced the Dark Arts.'
'Did you not hear the bit about "fucking dangerous and consuming and obsessive"? Besides, why would I want to become more powerful?' I asked, genuinely confused by her proposal.
Walburga frowned, opened her mouth to speak and then shut it again, clearly equally confused by my reply.
'I don't want to be like Voldemort,' I said. 'I would have thought it was apparent from my reaction to that invite just now that I have no desire to have people hero-worship me or bow down before me, simply because I'm considered "powerful". And I don't want to go near the Dark Arts because they embrace hatred, harm, control, and avarice. They corrupt the soul until the practitioner embodies that narcissistic superiority that I've already told you I don't value.'
'So, what do you value?' she asked carefully.
'Love,' I said simply.
'Yet you lock yourself away here in my house, alone...' she sneered.
'It's not your house anymore,' I said with a small smirk. 'And I don't need to surround myself with people every second of the day to know that I'm loved. Mind you, for that matter, I don't particularly want to invite anyone over at the moment. At least Ron and Hermione have seen Grimmauld Place at its worst and understand what I'm achieving because this place is a shithole and an embarrassment. I hope it didn't look like this when you had your fancy Pureblood dos, they all would have been sniggering at the Blacks behind your stiff and unaccommodating backs.'
She looked affronted and took herself off.
I took a risk in leaving the curtains open.
***