Chapter Text
"Dear Mr Potter, We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle. The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling on your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand. As you have already received an official warning for a previous offence under section 13 of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 A.M. on August 12th. Hoping you are well, Yours sincerely, Malfalda Hopkirk"
— Malfalda Hopkirk, received 2 August 1995 by Harry Potter
Harry stared up the blurry ceiling, listening to Ron’s snores. In his first year at Hogwarts he’d enjoyed the sounds of the other boys in his dorm, a constant reassurance that he wasn’t back in his cupboard, but as the years went on and sleep got harder he’d started to resent it. Struggling to sleep was bad enough. Struggling to sleep when someone was sleeping soundly a couple metres away was a particular form of torture.
Eventually he gave up, leaving the warmth of the bed and slipping his feet into the slippers Mrs Weasley had pressed on him. They were nothing like the M&S slippers Uncle Vernon would wear, though he suspected his Uncle would have liked them - they had particularly hard soles, all the better for throwing at the head of an unwanted nephew. The hardness was nicely offset by the fur lining that Harry suspected was real (Puffskein if he had to guess, given it was bright yellow). He was clearly the latest in a long line of owners, but he didn’t mind. They were nicer than anything he’d ever worn before, even his dress robes.
They were, Harry thought, like the house itself. Sirius the last in a long line of owners, the house old but serviceable, high quality once, but faded now. It was impressive in a way, a memory of a grander time, but there was something sad about it too. As if it remembered that it had once been better. As if the house was mourning itself. Sirius was the last of the Blacks, and certainly not inclined to any sort of sentimentality regarding his ancestral home. Maybe it knew there was no one left to love it. Magical houses were funny like that, he’d heard.
He wandered through the hallway and down the winding staircase, running a hand over the intricately carved rail. Lights flickered to life as he passed; he’d have said they were gas lamps in a muggle home, brass based with shaped glass tops, but the light inside was a blue so bright it was almost white. He turned behind him and saw - yep, as he’d suspected - the lights furthest away had already flickered back out. It was a marvel he knew most wizards would never appreciate.
It took longer to get to the kitchen than he’d expected; he’d taken at least seven wrong turns, ended up in rooms thick with dust, and more than once he seemed to end up on the same floor he’d just left. Eventually though the creaking floors led him down into the cavernous basement kitchen. Even gloomier than the rest of the house, it lacked the tired opulence of the other floors with a suspicious air of practicality; Harry doubted the Blacks ever came down here. There was a large old fashioned metal range oven, and wooden units at oddly different heights and sizes. He rummaged through the drawers and cupboards looking for a mug and a teaspoon, only his seeker reflexes allowing him to remove his hand before a drawer bit him.
“Molly’s been trying to get the place up to scratch, but it’s a hell of a job.”
Harry spun round, clutching his chest. “Christ Sirius, I didn’t hear you come in!”
Sirius smiled slightly, leaning against the doorway. He looked younger in the dim light, dwarfed by some kind of dressing gown robe that looked like it would match Harry’s slippers. He looked less like a convict every time Harry saw him, and for a moment he could imagine him as the master of the house that he’d been raised to be. He shared a sharpness of face with Malfoy, something naturally a bit arrogant in the shape of his bone structure.
“Your mum used to say that,” Sirius mused. “Christ.” He walked into the kitchen and to one of the larger cupboards to Harry’s right. “You can always tell a muggleborn from a pureblood by hearing who they curse to - or pray to, depending on the circumstances.”
Rarely given the opportunity to ask about his mum, Harry grabbed it with both hands. “Was she religious?” He asked, as Sirius brought out a couple mugs and a teaspoon.
“Are you?” Sirius countered with.
“We went to church when I was little,” Harry replied. “Mostly so they could throw me into Sunday School every week, and Aunt Petunia never missed an opportunity to be holier-than-thou.”
He didn’t say they told me once that I was a devil, that only God could save my soul. He didn’t say we loitered outside the church the first time, and for once Petunia held my hand tight, and I’ve wondered ever since why that was. He didn’t say I stopped believing in salvation when I was seven, and have never once believed in it since.
“Why did you stop?” Sirius asked, boiling water on the stove in some kind of old fashioned kettle.
“Dudley didn’t like getting up early, and the congregation didn’t much like Dudley.” He used to talk through the sermons, even the good ones that sounded like poetry, begging for chocolate and ice cream and Sunday morning cartoons. “Anyway, Uncle Vernon always said it was a load of rubbish. Called them a bunch of looneys, said people only went every week because they were lonely and their lives were shit and if they believed in a god they could pretend there was a point to it all.”
Sirius hmm’d in consideration, pouring the boiled water into a teapot emblazoned with a coat of arms. “What did your aunt think?”
Harry bit his lip thoughtfully. “I always thought she believed, at least a little.”
Sirius nodded, bringing the teapot over to the table crammed into the kitchen, followed by the mugs.
“Your mother believed in things,” Sirius said, sitting down. Harry followed him, bringing the bottle of milk he’d found, cold despite the lack of fridge. “She wore one of those muggle crosses the first year or so. Over time she replaced that belief with others.”
“Like what?” Harry asked, spooning sugar into this mug.
“Ah all sorts. Our world is full of things to believe in, if you have a mind to. And your mother had a mind to do all sorts of things.”
Harry thought Sirius was being unclear on purpose, until he saw the way his hand spilled sugar all over the table. Hermione had mentioned that Sirius seemed a bit out of it at times, vanishing for hours and mood erratic. Harry couldn’t blame him. If anything, he was surprisingly lucid after 12 years in Azkaban. He wondered if talking about the past made things worse.
“They don’t teach us much about religion at Hogwarts,” Harry said, trying something more generic.
“They never have,” Sirius said. “Such things were taught at home, there was never any need. And different families worship in different ways. The purebloods will tell you it’s the muggleborn's fault that Hogwarts doesn’t celebrate the festivals, but I think they just got sick of families arguing over which colour candles to use and whether burning sage should be walked clockwise or widdershins.”
“Do those things matter?” Harry asked, intrigued.
Sirius shrugged. “The Malfoys would say yes. But I think the gods gave up on us centuries ago.” He chuckled lightly, but there was something off about it, something hollow. “Look around you Harry! Look at this grand old house of my ancestors, a noble and most ancient house. Tell me, does it look god-touched to you?”
“I…” Harry had become adept at guessing what adults wanted to hear, a skill that he exercised carefully lest the Dursleys catch on and it fail when he needed it most. But he was lost here, unsure what answer would calm the gleam in Sirius’ eyes.
“This place is a tomb, Harry. If any gods exist, they've never deigned to turn their gaze here.”
They drank their tea in silence. Harry returned to bed more unsettled than when he'd left.
—-
The days leading up to the trial dragged until they didn't, days spent cleaning and reading and playing games. The Weasleys did their best to keep his spirits up, and Harry forced himself to smile at their efforts - he’d done enough shouting his first night here.
The rage came out at night when he couldn't sleep, or woke after a few short hours, head pounding. He wandered a house that seemed determined to lose him in its shadows, silent and seething. In his mind he cursed the Ministry, the Dursleys, the Dark Lord Voldemort himself. Dumbledore, who still hadn’t come to see him, Pettigrew, who ruined his life so many times, Ron, who fell asleep the second his head touched a pillow and didn’t wake until the scent of bacon wafted up the stairs.
Rooms that had been cleaned in daylight were filthy again in the darkness. He swept up dust as thick as snow until it hurt to breathe, cleaned mould off the walls with such ferocity that his fingers bled. He’d never hated spiders, but he crushed them with his hands until his hands were covered in legs and the fog in his mind cleared enough for him to feel guilty. Now and then he’d catch a glimpse of Kreacher down the other end of a hall, a flash of his big eyes as he fled a room Harry entered. He wondered if Kreacher was scared of him, if he’d seen the arachnid corpses littering the rooms and thought he’d be next. Most likely he just hated him.
Sometimes he saw Sirius. He didn’t think they were searching for each other at the start, he’d just find Sirius leaning in a doorway, watching him scrubbing the floors with a raised eyebrow and quirked lips, or else he’d hear sounds of shattering and find his godfather flinging fine china at the walls. The first couple times he wasn’t brave enough to interrupt, well aware that angry adults could be unpredictable. But the third time he inched into the room and slid down to sit on the floor and watch, safely out of the line of fire. By the fifth he was using Reparo to keep a steady supply of crockery going until Sirius exhausted himself and walked him back to bed.
He understood anger and frustration, felt it burning in his own blood all the time. But one night it wasn’t smashing he heard as he crept down the hall, stomach turning. He knew what he would see when he peered through the doorway but he did it still, hand clutching the frame. In the days since he’d make-believe that he’d gone in, grabbed the bottle from his hand, said something, done anything. Instead he’d turned away. Left him there, curled on the floor, a low keening whine echoing after him. It stayed in his head for hours, and the shame burned so hot he stayed in bed the next day with a fever. When Sirius came to check on him he pretended he was asleep.
—
The day of the trial found him fully dressed at 4am, staring at himself in an ornate old mirror that luckily didn’t speak. He’d worn dress robes for the ball last year of course, but they’d been off the shelf, nice but not…this. These were the sort of robes he saw pureblood wizards wearing in the Daily Prophet, soft and stiff at the same time, with intricate gold and black buttons from his neck to his waist. Mrs Weasley had removed the Black family crest, but it was still embossed on the cuff buttons if anyone got close enough to look. He checked to make sure he was really alone before turning quickly, enjoying the way the robes flared around him and showed the slim black trousers, with a barely there pattern of dark grey. He felt, for the first time, like a Potter. A son of an old and distinguished magical family, who had a right to be in the magical world, who fit as much as Ron or Neville or even Malfoy.
For once Sirius couldn’t sneak up on him, getting closer and clearer in the mirror.
“What do you think?” he asked him sheepishly, not used to thinking much on his appearance.
Sirius smiled, softly and properly. He smoothed down the shoulders of the robe, brushing some lint off the back.
“You look like a proper young wizard,” Sirius said, “ A real pureblood heir.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment coming from you,” Harry said wryly.
Sirius laughed, “Ah, they aren’t all bad. My parents just kept poor company, put me off. I didn’t hold it against your dad though.”
“He wasn’t a proper heir anyway though right, not like you?” Harry asked, trying to fix his hair whilst Sirius messed it up again.
“Not like me, no. But, that doesn’t mean less than. Despite what some families would have you believe, the whole 'Sacred 28' thing is meaningless. And titles don’t make the man, as your grandfather used to say. The Potters still got an invite to every ball and festival and your birth was high society gossip for weeks.”
“Really?”
“Of course! Your father was the last of the Potters, orphaned and married in his teens - below his station some would say, if they’d never met your mother. There were a lot of families hoping to marry a second son or daughter into the Potter family so there were a lot of hearts broken when your parents were married. The birth of a son killed any hopes of a quick divorce. ”
“Wow, good to know I was disappointing the general public from day one!” Harry said, rolling his eyes.
“Weren’t we all Harry.” Sirius said roguishly, ruffling his hair even more. “It’s the curse of the well-to-do. There’s always someone who’s pushed down the line of succession when a new child is born, and someone who benefits with a death. Luckily, I live to disappoint.”
“I hope I do too.” Harry mutters, strolling past Sirius to sink into an incredibly uncomfortable looking chair.
“I don’t know how things will go today Harry, but I’d put good money on you leaving alive. Which, as I’ve come to understand, is better than some days for you.”
“That’s true, if not that reassuring overall,” Harry said. He tried to curl his legs underneath himself, realising quickly that both the tightness of his trousers and the hard bones of the chair made that impossible. No wonder Malfoy had such good posture.
“So tell me, Mr Pureblood Lord,” Sirius mock vomited at the moniker, but motioned him to carry on.
“Who stands to benefit from this?”
“That is a very good question,” Sirius sighed. “Unfortunately, the answer is quite a lot of people. There’s Voldemort and his supporters of course. And that’s not just Death Eaters, they're just the inner circle. There are all sorts of sympathisers out there who could have slipped past the sneakascope. Then there’s the Minister and his sycophants, who probably find you more trouble than you’re worth and would be overjoyed to see the back of you - no offence.”
“Some taken.”
“And then there’s anyone whose kid you might have snubbed at Hogwarts, or whose grandfather fell out with yours 50 years ago. Wizarding memories are long, and grudges longer.”
“So, basically I’m screwed,” Harry said dejectedly.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Sirius said.
“Helpful."
“Look, being who you are comes with a lot of enemies. But it also comes with power. Forget the boy-who-lived stuff, you’re the last Potter, the godson of Lord Black - disgraced and murderous though he may be - a favourite of the famed Albus Dumbledore-”
“Wouldn’t go that far.”
“That alone would be enough to make the Ministry wary of being seen to be too…extreme in their judgement. The fact that you’re the boy-who-lived is just the icing on the cake. My guess? They’ll want to make an example of you, but nothing they can't come back from.”
“So no wand snapping?” Harry asked quietly.
“Probably not!” Sirius said jauntily. “Buuuuut it's always best to prepare for every eventuality so… close your eyes.”
“Wha-”
“They don't look very closed!”
Harry sighed and closed his eyes. After a bit of rummaging he felt something placed onto his lap.
“Now you can open them!” Harry didn't need to see Sirius to know he was grinning and, once he'd opened his eyes, he was pretty sure he didn't need to open the box to know what was in it.
“Is this?”
“One wand, to your exact specifications!” Sirius bragged, bouncing on his feet.
Harry opened the box and looked over the wand that was, as claimed, exactly like his. Same wood, same length.
“Is this allowed?” He asked, slightly bemused.
Sirius shrugged. “It’s frowned upon, but there’s no law against it. Ollivander rarely agrees to provide a second wand unless it’s for aurors; luckily not all wand makers are so uptight, and they’re used to requests from the British pureblood families. It’s standard to get two wands for their children; one to use and one to lose.”
“So it won’t ruin my bond with my current wand?” Harry asked.
“Not at all. At worst it won’t work as well for you as your first wand, but it’s the same wood and the same core so there’s little chance it won’t work at all,” explained Sirius.
Harry took it out and gave it a swish, small Catherine Wheels shooting from the end.
“I'll take that as a good sign,” he smiled, Sirius grinning back at him. “Thank you Sirius, really. It's…exactly what I needed.”
“You're welcome. When you go back to your room, swap the wands over and take this one with you. And remember what I said - no matter what happens you have a home here with me. They can't take that away from you.”
Harry only nodded, eyes suspiciously wet.
“Come on, let's make some tea whilst we wait for everyone else to crawl out of bed. I'll even bully Kreacher into serving treacle tart for breakfast.”
----------
The trial was fixed from the start, any idiot could see that. By the time they gave the verdict Harry was just glad not to be banished entirely, but that was little comfort as he placed his new wand in the box held by the auror.
“Holly, phoenix feather, 11 inches,” the box said. “Property of Harry James Potter. Sealed for one year.”
There was a light golden glow, then in the space of a blink the lid merged with the rest of the box.
The auror looked at him with more pity than he expected. “It's just a year kid. You'll have it back before you know it.”
One year suspension from Hogwarts, and his wand confiscated for the duration. Exactly like Sirius had said, a safe middle ground for the Ministry. Not what some were hoping for, from the grimace Harry had spotted on Lucius Malfoy's face, but enough to satisfy the court.
Harry's stomach was churning and his wrists ached from the chains on the chair but he refused to look cowed, holding his head high and strolling out with robes billowing in his best imitation of Snape.
He strolled right past Dumbledore who'd finally deigned to show up, and refused to even give him a second glance.
He strolled straight on out of the Ministry, down three roads, into a side alley, and vomited all over a pile of bin bags.
Once he'd regained his composure he considered finding his own way back to Grimmauld Place out of spite, but the robes that had filled him with confidence now made him self conscious. There were lots of oddly dressed people in London, and Uncle Vernon had once told him people in Camden dressed even more freakishly than Harry's lot, but strolling around in full robes without a glamour seemed a bit much.
On the other hand, he really didn't want to slink back to the Ministry with his tail between his legs.
Decision made, he unbuttoned the robe and carefully folded it, grateful for the t-shirt he'd worn underneath. He tried to subtlety join the Whitehall crowd without looking like a weirdo who'd been skulking down an alley and hoped he'd pass as some kind of slightly eccentric fashion student with a taste for snazzy trousers.
He let the crowd carry him to the tube, and slowly made his way back to Islington alone.
—---
Harry could hear shouting as soon as he opened the door to 12 Grimmauld Place, mostly Mrs Weasley by the sound of it. He suddenly remembered he'd abandoned Mr Weasley back at the Ministry and felt a twinge of guilt, but he had very little sympathy for anyone but himself today.
He presumed they were all in the dining room and reluctantly went to meet them, grateful when it took longer than it should. He could see Mrs Weasley pacing, and was glad that Mr Weasley was hovering nearby and wasn't still waiting for him. He spied Professor Lupin as he got closer, looking troubled as usual, and aurors Kingsley and Tonks became visible as he pushed open the door.
Mrs Weasley was halfway through shouting about ‘poor wandless Harry’ when she noticed him in the doorway and ran over to give him a hug.
“Oh Harry there you are, you poor thing. We've been worried sick! When Arthur said you'd run off I was beside myself, thinking about you -”
“Mrs Weasley-”
“All alone and wandless in London.”
“Mrs Weasley I'm fine, I promise. I just needed some time to think.”
She grabbed him tightly and he dropped the robe he’d been carrying in surprise. Smothered as he was in Mrs Weasley’s chest, he didn’t realise Dumbledore had entered until he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Harry, my dear boy, I’m glad you’re safe.” Dumbeldore patted him on the shoulder in a manner that was probably supposed to be comforting. Harry would have shrugged him off, if he’d managed to escape Mrs Weasley’s continued affections.
“I understand it’s been a trying day, and I’m very sorry for what’s happened.”
“What’s happened?” Harry muffled, before extricating himself. “What’s happened?! I’ve been expelled, that’s what’s fucking happened!”
“Harry, your language!” Mrs Weasley exclaimed.
“And where the hell were you, huh? When I was chained to a chair, made out to be a liar in front of the entire bloody Wizengamot?! Where the bloody hell were you?”
“Chained?” Lupin repeated, shaking his head.
Dumbledore looked at him sadly. “I don’t blame you for being angry, Harry. What went on in that courtroom was a grave miscarriage of justice.”
“Miscarriage of justice? It was a-a-a character assassination, that’s what it was!” Harry shouted, fuming and flustered. “I was humiliated while bloody Lucius Malfoy looked on and you weren’t there!”
“It was the change in time,” Kingsley said, in a calm tone that might have been soothing if Harry wasn’t suddenly incandescent with fury. “Unfortunately, we didn’t manage to let Albus know in time.”
“So you’re all knowing when it suits you,” Harry sneered, trying to catch Dumbledore’s eye, “but you can’t predict that the Ministry will go out of its way to fuck me over?”
“Harry that really is enough!” Mrs Weasley exclaimed, a hand clutched to her chest.
“Now Molly, it’s okay. Harry has a right to be angry, and to express it with such…colourful language if he chooses. Though it may be helpful to point out that you are only suspended Harry, not expelled. You will be welcomed back to Hogwarts next year.”
“So that’s it?” Harry asked, voice more choked than he would like, feeling so small all of a sudden. “There’s nothing you can do?”
Dumbledore looked at him sadly, “I’m afraid not my boy. Fighting the Ministry on this may incite them to further punishment. It’s best to stay out of their gaze for a time, let them be distracted by other concerns.”
All the adrenaline had fled now. Harry just felt tired and empty and like a herd of hippogriffs was rampaging through his head.
“Fine. Fine. I guess I’ll…I’ll study by myself and Sirius and Professor Lupin can help and there’s loads of books in the Black library and I’ll take my OWLS and come back to Hogwarts sixth year and everything will be fine, right?” Harry rambled, looking to Lupin whose face was pained, back to Dumbledore who was studiously avoiding eye contact. The silence was awkward and long and Harry looked between the adults more frantically, Mr and Mrs Weasley clasping hands, Tonks shifting from foot to foot.
“What?” Harry asked. “What is it? I can take my exams right? I don’t have to go back into fifth year?”
“No, provided you succeed at your OWLs you’ll be welcomed into your sixth year,” Dumbledore said softly, “But I’m afraid you won’t be able to stay at Grimmauld Place.”
“I..I…what? What do you mean?” Harry asked. He searched the room for Sirius. He still wasn’t there. Where was he? How could he not be here? He must have known what had happened.
“I know you are not…particularly fond of your relatives Harry. They are your family, however, and so your place is with them. It’s where you’re safest.”
“Safest?” Harry whispered. “That’s where you think I’m safest?” He made a noise that almost resembled a laugh and saw Lupin flinch from the corner of his eye.
“What would you know about my safety?” Harry asked, seriously, coldly. “I’ve been attacked every year I’ve been at Hogwarts, every year where you were supposed to keep me safe.”
“That is true,” Dumbledore agreed, eyes glistening, “And for that I am more sorry than you could imagine.”
“And the Dursleys? Safe? I…I’ve literally just been attacked by Dementors at the Dursleys.”
“The wards only stretch so far, you need to stay inside them.”
“So what, your suggestion is I stay in my bedroom for a whole year and just read my school books and hope I pass my exams without ever doing any practice?”
“Harry-”
“Stop saying my name like that!” Harry shouted. “God, you really are ridiculous. Malfoy was right.”
The windows had darkened, panes rattling in their frames. Harry knew his hands were shaking and he dug his nails into his palm, trying to calm the rage that was threatening to burst out of him.
“I’m sorry my boy,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head sadly. “It really is for the best.”
“But Sirius promised!” Harry yelled, voice breaking, holding back tears, holding back the magic that was prickling his skin like electricity.
“He promised…”
He could feel himself shaking, feel the room shaking, hear the rattling of windows and vases and lighting and the wallpaper was peeling off the walls and the floor was rotting at his feet and -
Suddenly, the room was still.
“Harry’s not going anyway.” Sirius growled, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him back into his chest, the warmth and weight of him like an army at his back. “His home is here, with me.”
“Be reasonable Sirius,” Dumbledore urged. “This house is no place to raise a child, you know this better than anyone.”
“I think the time for raising is mostly over,” replied Sirius. “Harry is old enough to know his own mind, and it might be a grim old place but this house is as safe as any house could be. He stays.”
“I’m afraid I must disagree,” said Dumbledore firmly.
“Disagree all you like, Headmaster. Harry is no longer a student at Hogwarts, which means he’s no longer under your jurisdiction. You have no say over where he goes.”
“Perhaps not. However, the Dursleys are his legal guardians; should they petition the Ministry to confirm his whereabouts, uncomfortable questions may be asked.”
Harry scoffed. “I can promise you that the Dursleys have never once cared about my whereabouts. And they wouldn’t know how to contact the Ministry even if they wanted to. Which they wouldn’t. Ever. They aren’t expecting me back until July, and if I don’t turn up then they’ll probably throw a party to celebrate.”
The room was uncomfortable and tense. The adults kept giving each other strange glances; Lupin looked like someone had bought him a puppy only to strangle it to death right in front of him.
“I have precedence here. In the magical world, when it comes to Harry, what I say goes. And I say that Harry stays.” Sirius said with a tone of finality. Harry didn’t need to see his godfather to know his chin was raised, eyes defiant, channelling all that haughty pureblood arrogance that was his birth right.
Eventually, Dumbledore nodded in defeat. Harry could breathe again. He turned around to face Sirius, and he wanted to thank him, wanted to laugh, but his body was so full of sadness and relief that he couldn’t make any noise come out and Sirius’ eyes were red and tired but they gleamed in the sunlight and in that moment Harry had never loved anyone or anything more.
—-------
Harry knew he should make the most of still having his friends around, but it was hard to feel anything but resentful about being left behind. The walls of Grimmauld Place felt darker than ever, closing in on him the second he was left alone, so he trailed after Ron and Hermione as they went about their chores, half heartedly pretending to help.
“Harry, mate, I know mum said to clean but I don’t think she was worried about the…heads,” said Ron, giving him an odd look. Harry was sure she wasn’t either, and yet here he was, dusting between the ears of an ancient looking house elf head. Gnasher it said in gold calligraphy and, yep, it had the teeth to match.
“Who names them?” Harry asked.
“Names what?” Ron replied, distracted by a doxy pelting him with pellets of mouse dung.
“House elves. They all have such odd names - Gnasher, Kreacher, Winky…”
“That’s because they have pet names,” Hermione said crossly. “They might as well be called Spot or Buttons for all the effort that goes into naming them. I mean, Kreacher? Honestly! I’m surprised they didn’t just call him ‘Elf’."
“Nah, it’d get too confusing,” Ron said. “Old families like the Blacks, they have tonnes of elves. You’d at least have to give them numbers, you know? Elf One, Elf Two…”
“Ron!”
“What, I’m not saying I agree with it! I like Dobby as much as the next bloke. But these pureblood families, they don’t think like you and me.”
“You are a pureblood Ronald.” Hermione said with an eye roll.
“Yeah, but not like that. We’re pure, but we don’t have a fancy house and a coat of arms and the like. Blood matters to that lot but money matters just as much and Merlin knows we’ve never had much of that.”
“What about Harry?” Hermione asked thoughtfully.
By this point Harry had stopped dusting and started trying to figure out how to get the head off the wall. It had taken him a good minute to realise that looking for screws or nails was futile; clearly the Blacks wouldn’t stoop so low as to hang their decorations? Memorials? By muggle means. But he was still pretending the Ministry had taken his wand (and rather enjoying looking mournful or wistful every time someone brought out their own) so there was no getting it off unless he asked an adult.
“The Potters are old blood,” Ron said slowly. “Not as fancy as the Blacks and that, but well off in their right. And well respected. Think that added to the whole ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ mystique really. A muggleborn would have got some people’s backs up, but the Potters were a mix of traditional and modern. Hard to hate.”
“Tell that to Voldemort,” Harry scoffed, climbing down from the chest of drawers he’d been balancing on.
“He doesn’t count,” Ron argued. “The man hates babies. And unicorns. Probably hates baby unicorns as well.”
“Maybe that’s how we win the war,” Harry said. “Bombard him with baby unicorns until he gets so furious he explodes.”
“I really don’t think this is a laughing matter,” Hermione said sternly. But her lips were twitching in the corners in that way they did when she was trying not to laugh at something inappropriate, and Ron couldn't hold it in any longer. Even Harry felt a smile reluctantly growing as he flopped onto the floor, bored of cleaning.
“I’m going to miss this,” Hermione said quietly.
Ron grimaced and picked at the frayed carpet.
Harry sighed.
“Yeah, me too.”
—-
The Weasleys and Hermione went to Diagon Alley without him. Mrs Weasley had insisted he wasn’t under house arrest, but Harry couldn’t bear to see how everyone would look at him. The same way, he suspected, as they had in second year - when they thought he was the Heir of Slytherin with zero evidence - or last year - when they thought he had put his name in the Goblet of Fire, again with zero evidence. Now he was a convicted criminal, admittedly at least with some evidence this time, dodgy though it was. He wasn’t sure he’d ever show his face in Diagon Alley again. In that sense, he was rather glad to spend the upcoming year in Grimmauld Place. At least he wouldn't have to deal with the rumours and the whispers, didn't have to see his peers flinching away from him in the halls.
The rest of the summer passed in a blur, unfairly quickly compared to the weeks he used to spend alone at the Dursleys, cooking and cleaning and weeding and - not that different to this summer, actually, but somehow so much worse. If he forgot about his suspension it would almost have been enjoyable; sharing a house with his friend; no Dudley chasing him around the street; food whenever he wanted. Even with his suspension it was still the best summer he’d ever had.
The constant in and out of Order members had grown on him. Tonks was his favourite, always ready to share a story from her auror training days and look over Hermione’s Defence Against the Dark Arts homework, but Kingsley was a close second. Moody still made him a bit uncomfortable, and Mundungus reminded him of the cloaked weirdos he’d seen skulking around that time he ended up in Knockturn Alley, but he’d still take them both over Uncle Vernon.
Having the Weasley’s around was even better. It was the first time he’d really got to experience what it would have been like to grow up in a proper family: Mrs Weasley bustling about making cake, Mr Weasley talking about the latest Ministry gossip, the twins emerging from their hideout to test a new prank on unsuspecting visitors.
Best of all, of course, was having Ron and Hermione with him. It wasn’t a care-free Summer by any means, but their presence made it easier, soothed the angry prickly thing that was hiding under his skin. They cleaned rooms and read books, baked cookies and played Monopoly (Wizarding Britain edition). When he woke up screaming Ron would wander over to his bed, half asleep and dragging his duvet, too tired to ask questions but awake enough to crawl onto the bed and top-and-tail with him, keeping him company in the darkness. When everyone talked about exams and Harry got quieter and quieter, Hermione would write him out lesson plans, recommended reading lists, supplementary texts upon supplementary texts. Reminded him that their Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers were dire, that Snape’s teaching skills left much to be desired, that Trelawny was a hack who should be struck off the teacher’s register (if they had one, Hermione suspected not).
And Sirius was there, those nights when sleep wouldn’t come for either of them.
In the daytime he was rarely seen.
But those days were done. Grimmauld Place was alive with activity, as many households would be across Britain. There was only an hour until the train left for Hogwarts, and everyone was scrambling to pack the last of their things before leaving for Platform 9 and 3/4s. Ron had, predictably, scattered his belongings across the house and failed to find half of them the night before (not helped, Harry suspected, by the twins’ penchant for hiding his things). Hermione had packed everything far in advance of course, but was wandering around the small Grimmauld Place library in a panic, half reaching for every fifth book before muttering under her breath and going for the next. The twins were causing chaos and Ginny was impressively nonchalant about the whole thing.
Harry had started the day intending to be helpful, but had quickly turned to drowning his feelings in copious amounts of sugary tea, hiding in the kitchen out of the way. It wasn't that he was dreading the year, exactly. He rather thought it might be enjoyable, learning at his own pace, using magic whenever he wanted, getting to know Sirius.
On that note, Sirius was nowhere to be seen.
Eventually everyone was finally ready to leave. Mrs Weasley crushed him in the longest hug he’d ever received, pressing a kiss on his unruly hair.
“Don’t you worry Harry,” she said with false cheer, “Christmas will be here before you know it and we’ll all be back again, it’ll be like we never left.” She grasped him by the shoulders and looked at him critically before dragging him back in for another hug. “It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”
Harry thought she rather sounded like she was trying to convince herself, but didn’t think she’d appreciate having that pointed out.
Mr Weasley clasped him out the shoulder and smiled down at him. “He’ll be fine, won’t you Harry?”
“Of course Mr Weasley,” Harry said dutifully.
“See Molly,” Mr Weasley said jovially, “No need to worry. It’s not like he’ll be alone, he’s got Sirius to look after him.”
Mrs Weasley pulled a face that was surprisingly similar to the look that Snape got when peering into Neville’s cauldron.
“Order members will still be in and out, and Mr Lupin will be back soon and I’m sure Dumbledore-”
“I’ll look after him, Molly.”
Harry wasn’t sure when Sirius had snuck in, but his face was hard and his tone harder. There was a bleary look in his eyes that told Harry he’d been drinking again last night, but he stood tall despite it, uncharacteristically stern.
Mrs Weasley looked more uncomfortable than Harry had ever seen her, though she wasn’t easily intimated. She smoothed down her skirt and smoothed down Harry’s hair, harder than strictly necessary.
“I was only -”
“I know exactly what you were ‘only’ saying,” Sirius snapped, a slightly unnatural growl just audible in his voice. “I’m neither mad nor stupid.”
“I wasn’t suggesting -”
“We both know what you were suggesting. And I’d thank you not to suggest it again. This is my house, not that anyone seems to remember it, and I don’t appreciate being undermined by my own guests.”
“I-”
“Molly.” Mr Weasley said firmly, slipping his hand into hers as she visibly restrained herself.
“Forgive us Sirius,” he said, tone friendly. “We love Harry like one of our own, we can’t help but worry.”
Harry appreciated the sentiment, if not the hair ruffling that came with it.
Sirius didn’t look too mollified, but he seemed to bite his tongue and just nodded instead before sweeping out of the room.
Harry groaned internally, reluctantly hugging Hermione, Ron and Ginny goodbye and waving off the twins with a promise to let them know if he found any prank worthy spells in the library.
Then they were gone, the front door shutting gently behind them.
And Harry was alone.
Sirius was somewhere sulking, and Kreacher was somewhere skulking, and Buckbeak was in the attic but really, when it came down to it, as it always did, Harry was alone.