I had walked that very street several times before, but it always seemed more monstrous during the night. The streetlights stood too tall and too far apart.
Maybe everything just looked a little more monstrous after the war.
"Would you do the honors, Mr. Jackson?" Dumbledore held out a small silver lighter in his left hand. I knew his right to be burned and blackened. I'd been much too exhausted to ask him what had happened.
"Sure," I said quietly, taking the lighter, and giving it a flick. The street lamp nearest number four, Privet Drive darkened abruptly, the light falling away from it like a drip of water, shrinking as it was sucked into the Deluminator.
As we walked down the garden path just a day after we had won the Second Titan War, I looked up at one of the second floor windows, catching a wide-eyed expression belonging to my good friend, Harry Potter.
"I'd bet you anything that he hasn't packed at all," I said, a flicker of amusement igniting in me as Harry darted away from the window.
"Yes, that does sound like Mr. Potter. It is hard, for some, to believe something good will come their way when all they've known is bad, even when good tells them the time and date of their imminent arrival."
"No need to get all philosophical, Professor, just sit back and imagine how he looks running around his room. I'm picturing a baby harpy looking for her mother.... Does that make Hedwig his mom?"
"But of course," Dumbledore said, one long, crooked finger pressing against the Dursley's doorbell. It was a falsely charming chime, not at all reflective of the family that lived there.
Faintly, I could hear the patriarch of the house call, "Who the blazes is calling at this time of night?" The door opened, revealing the man who had always, at least to me, looked like a walrus. It was the mustache, I think, because that's where the true similarities ended — a walrus was much better looking.
"Wassup?" I held up a peace sign.
"Good evening," Dumbledore bowed slightly, amusement twinkling in his blue eyes. "You must be Mr. Dursley. Percy has told me much about you. I daresay Harry has told you we would be coming for him?"
I snorted at the look on Mr. Dursley's face, shocked and full of detest.
"Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that we were coming," Dumbledore said politely. "However, let us assume that you have invited us warmly into your house. It is unwise to longer overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times."
That's what the pamphlets the Ministry, under the guidance of their new Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, had said, anyway. They seemed a little ridiculous to me, and definitely caused more panic than any peace of mind.
Dumbledore casually walked through the door, and I was left to follow after him, shutting the door behind us.
"It is a long time since my last visit," Dumbledore paused in his movements, staring down Mr. Dursley. "I must say, your agapanthuses are flourishing."
"Is that some sort of disease?" I mused, shrugging off my backpack and letting it slam against the floor. "Or some Greek dude? It sounds like the name of an Ancient Greek dude."
"The blue flowers outside are agapanthuses. I believe you grew some for Professor Umbridge."
"Don't call her Professor, Professor. And those flowers were Lily of the Nile."
"Same plant, different name."
"Oh," I looked up, past Dumbledore and Mr. Dursley, and saw Harry. He was standing on the stairs, face shining with disbelief at the sight of us. He seemed to be going through the motions, expressions shifting so rapidly I couldn't make them out, until he settled on pure elation, eyes boring into mine. "Hiya, Harry."
"Ah, good evening, Harry," Dumbledore spoke. "Excellent, excellent."
Mr. Dursley, finally breaking through his shocked silence, spat, "I don't mean to be rude —"
"— yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often," Dumbledore said morosely. "Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, and this must be Petunia."
And Petunia, wearing rubber gloves and wielding a sponge, stepped out of the kitchen, clearly half-way through her final sweep of the house. She looked kind of like Blackjack whenever he found out I didn't have any donuts, what with the shocked look on her horse-like face.
"Albus Dumbledore," Dumbledore introduced himself upon seeing that Mr. Dursley wouldn't be doing it on his behalf. "And you've met Percy, I'm sure. We have corresponded, of course. And this must be your son Dudley?"
Dudley, stepping round the living-room door, had grown even more since I'd last seen him, much of his bulk shaped into muscle now. Luckily, he hadn't been nearly as strong when he'd been bullying me. It was sad, though, that he looked like a beefed-up pig — that was a cow's job.
"No, that's their pet," I told Dumbledore. "He can even do tricks, see. All right, Dudders... Run!" And I sprinted down the hallway, reveling in the squeal that erupted from Dudley as he did exactly what I said, running back into the living room. "Oh, you deserve a treat for that one."
"Shut up, Percy!" Dudley growled, gathering his wits as he realized I was a lot smaller than he was.
"No," I shrugged, flopping back on the couch, listening as Dumbledore invited himself into the living room, Harry trailing after him.
Dumbledore placed himself in the cushiest seat available, right beside the fireplace, and with a wave of his wand, the TV, showing a game of soccer, flicked off.
"Aren't — aren't we leaving, sir?" Harry asked nervously.
"Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to discuss first," Dumbledore told Harry. "And I would prefer not to do so in the open. We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer."
"You will, will you?" Vernon grumbled, shuffling into the room as Harry sat on the arm of my armchair.
"That sentence was symmetrical," I pointed out. "And yes, I think we will."
"Indeed," Dumbledore nodded, pulling out his wand. His shriveled hand waved again, and the sofa shot forward, knocking into the backs of the three Dursleys knees, forcing them into a seat before zooming back to its original place. "We may as well be comfortable."
"What happened to his —" Harry whispered to me.
"Later, Hare-bear," I rubbed tiredly at my eyes. I hadn't gotten much sleep in the past week, and the cushion was quite soft.
"I would assume that you were going to offer us refreshment," Dumbledore said to Mr. Dursley, "but the evidence so far suggests that that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness." Another wave of the wand, and a large bottle of butterbeer popped into existence, accompanied by six glasses. It poured itself into the cups, which then floated over to each person. "Madam Rosmerta's finest oak-matured butterbeer. Non-alcoholic, of course," Dumbledore raised his glass to Harry and me. Harry caught two glasses, and handed me my own. I sipped at it, hoping that it would help me keep awake. Whenever that didn't work, I pouted, but immediately got a boost of energy at the sight of the Dursley's, who were all refusing to take their butterbeer, and thus were getting their heads battered by the glasses.
"Well, Harry," Dumbledore turned to the boy in question, "a difficulty has arisen which I hope you will be able to solve for us. By us, I mean the Order of the Phoenix. But first of all I must tell you that Sirius's will was discovered a week ago and that he left you everything he owned."
"Oh," Harry said loosely. "Right."
"This is, in the main, fairly straightforward," Dumbledore informed. "You add a reasonable amount of gold to your account at Gringotts and you inherit all of Sirius's personal possessions. The slightly problematic part of the legacy —"
"His godfather's dead?" Mr. Dursley asked loudly, swatting at his glass of abusive butterbeer. "He's dead? His godfather?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said, then turned back to Harry, pretending not to notice the butterbeer assault. "Our problem is that Sirius also left you number twelve, Grimmauld Place."
"He's been left a house?" Mr. Dursley's voice lowered, greedier.
"If you even think about it, Vernon, you're going to have to leave your house, because I can and will set it on fire," I said, casually pulling the Deluminator out of my pocket. Seeing the lighter, Mr. Dursley assumed that it produced flame, and paled.
"You can keep using it as Headquarters," Harry told him. "I don't care. You can have it, I don't really want it."
"That is generous," Dumbledore said. "We have, however, vacated the building temporarily."
"Why?"
"Well," Dumbledore ignored the rather loud struggle between Dudley and his butterbeer, "Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct line, to the next male with the name of Black. Sirius was the very last of the line as his younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him and and both were childless. While his will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has been set upon the place to ensure that it cannot be owned by anyone other than a pure-blood."
"I bet there has," Harry said quickly.
"Quite," Dumbledore nodded. "And if such an enchantment exists, then the ownership of the house is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius's living relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange."
Harry shot upward, shoulders stiff and face twisted, "No."
"Well, obviously we would prefer that she didn't get it, either," Dumbledore said, and Harry slowly sat back down. "The situation is fraught with complications. We do not know whether the enchantments we ourselves have placed upon it, for example, making it unplottable, will hold now that ownership has passed from Sirius's hands. It might be that Bellatrix will arrive on the doorstep at any moment. Naturally we had to move out until such time as we have clarified the position."
"But how are you going to find out if I'm allowed to own it?"
"Fortunately, there is a simple test."
Dumbledore, after placing his now-empty glass on the table, was interrupted before he could do anything by Mr. Dursley crying, "Will you get these ruddy things off us?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Dumbledore was clearly not sorry at all, swishing his wand to make the offensive glasses vanish. "But it would have been better manners to drink it, you know." Dursley turned red, a number of scathing insults rumbling under his collar, but he didn't utter a single one of them. Dumbledore turned back to Harry, "You see, if you have indeed inherited the house, you have also inherited —" and he flicked his wand again. With a sharp crack, an ugly feeling welled up in me. A house-elf appeared, with a sneer on his crooked face. I tended to give people the benefit of the doubt, and Kreacher was no exception — that didn't mean I wasn't endlessly pissed off by the death he had caused. I understood why he'd done what he'd done; I most certainly did not agree.
The Dursleys were just as revolted by Kreacher as I was, more so for his appearance rather than his actions. Petunia gave a small shriek, her face growing pallid with faintness as Dudley yanked his legs up, keeping them as far from the floor as he could manage. Mr. Dursley roared, "What the Hell is that?"
"Kreacher," I crossed my arms, pouting.
"Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't!" The house-elf squealed, stomping his foot against the ground. "Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh, yes, Kreacher belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won't go to the Potter brat, Kreacher won't, won't, won't —"
"As you can see, Harry," Dumbledore raised his voice over the volume of the house-elf, "Kreacher is showing a certain reluctance to pass into your ownership."
"I don't care," Harry scowled at the writhing house-elf. "I don't want him."
I wouldn't want him, either.
HEYYOOO, surprise surprise, early update???? Of new book???? Wowza! Yesterday I finally hit 1000 followers, and decided to show a bit of appreciation by posting early. Because the chapters are longer, you won't be getting the usual five to start, but instead three. Each chapter is 2000+ words I believe, so it's more bang for your buck my friends.
Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the sixth book!