The House Reclaims Its Own
12 Grimmauld Place was alive.
No longer the cold, decaying tomb of Sirius Black’s childhood, the house now thrummed with power—ancient, awakened, and vengeful. The magic embedded in the very walls sang, reacting to the Black family’s true heirs taking their rightful place.
Sirius stood at the center of the drawing room, his bandaged arm throbbing, staring at the now permanently sealed entrance. The Order of the Phoenix was gone, cast out like unwanted filth. The house had rejected them.
He turned toward Harry, who still looked stunned after Walburga’s final decree.
Heir Black.
Merlin’s bloody balls.
Harry caught Sirius’ gaze, eyes wide with disbelief. “Did that… really just happen?”
Before Sirius could speak, Hermione Granger answered for him.
“Yes!” she snapped. Her wild curls bounced as she took an angry step forward, her hands clenching and unclenching. “They betrayed you, Harry! They attacked Sirius! They tried to STUN HIM so they could take you! And if you think for one second that I’m just going to sit around and let them try again—”
She spun on her heel, storming toward Sirius and Walburga’s smirking portrait above the fireplace.
Sirius raised a brow, mildly entertained. “Granger?”
Hermione turned sharply, eyes blazing. “We prepare,” she said, her voice eerily calm—the kind of calm before the storm. “The Order won’t take this lying down. Dumbledore is going to try something. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon.”
She whirled around, her wand already drawn, pointing at the entrance as if expecting an ambush. “And when he does? We need to be ready.”
Sirius grinned like a wolf. “I love where this is going.”
Walburga Black tilted her head, assessing Hermione for the first time. "You are not Black by blood, but you understand power, little one," she mused. "Yes. I can call the others."
Sirius gasped dramatically. “Mother, are you approving of a Muggle-born?”
“I hate weakness,” Walburga corrected sharply. “And that one has none.”
Hermione beamed, delighted at being recognized by a centuries-old blood supremacist ghost.
Harry stared. “Hermione… are you okay?”
Hermione turned to him, her hands shaking from sheer rage-fueled adrenaline.
"No, Harry. I am not okay. You were almost kidnapped by people who were supposed to protect you. Dumbledore GREW ANTLERS. I dragged him across the floor like a sack of potatoes. I just went to WAR with a hundred-year-old cult leader—”
She stopped, pressing a hand to her chest like she was physically steadying herself.
“…I am having a lot of emotions right now.”
Sirius cackled. “Granger, you are glorious.”
Kreacher, who had been polishing his hammer menacingly in the corner, suddenly beamed at her. “Missy Granger fights for the House of Black,” he croaked approvingly. “Kreacher likes Missy Granger.”
Harry, looking increasingly nervous, whispered to Sirius, “Are we sure Hermione hasn’t joined the Dark Side?”
Sirius just grinned. “No idea, kid, but we’re keeping her.”
That night, Walburga called the others.
In the vast network of Black family portraits, magic surged like lightning through a storm, traveling across centuries of history to every grand hall and private study where a Black had ever lived.
In the ancestral Black family estate in France, a regal-looking man in gold-trimmed robes stirred in his frame.
"Walburga?" His voice was deep, rich, and steeped in authority. "What summons me at this hour?"
In a dimly lit study in Knockturn Alley, a shady-looking Black cousin raised a brow as his frame flickered to life.
"You actually called, cousin? Thought you were too dead to care."
Across the halls of ancient pureblood homes, Black family portraits snapped awake, their painted faces sharpening in interest and alarm.
And Walburga Black, for the first time in decades, stood proud and victorious in her frame.
"The House of Black has been attacked."
Murmurs rippled across the portrait network.
"By whom?" asked Cassiopeia Black, her sharp features narrowing.
Walburga smiled coldly. "By Albus Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix."
The roar of outrage from the Black portraits shook the very walls.
"Dumbledore dares strike against the Ancient and Noble House of Black?!" one cousin raged.
"Disgraceful!" sneered Phineas Nigellus Black from his portrait in the headmaster’s office at Hogwarts.
"The fool forgets his place," another said darkly.
Walburga’s smile grew sharper. "And so we will remind him."
The portraits murmured darkly among themselves, their voices uniting in a single, sinister truth:
The House of Black bows to NO ONE.
Within hours, Hermione had turned the drawing room into a war room.
The Black family grimoire sat open on the table, enchanted quills scribbling furiously over parchment as Hermione rattled off tactical moves.
Step One: Fortify the Wards.
“We’re making this place a goddamn fortress,” Hermione declared. “The house already expelled them, but I want more.”
She turned to Walburga’s portrait. “Can we weaponize the wards?”
Walburga smirked. “Oh, I like you.”
Sirius beamed. “I love her.”
Step Two: Psychological Warfare.
Hermione grinned viciously. “Dumbledore thrives on control,” she said. “So we take it from him.”
She turned to Walburga. “I want every single Black portrait in Britain to start spreading a new truth: The House of Black stands against Dumbledore.”
Walburga laughed darkly. “Consider it done.”
Sirius whooped.
Step Three: Financial Disruption.
Hermione turned sharply to Harry.
“We need to check your Gringotts vaults.”
Harry blinked. “Why?”
“Because Dumbledore has controlled your finances since you were a BABY,” Hermione said flatly. “And I don’t trust him.”
Sirius gasped in delight. “Granger, I could kiss you.”
Hermione ignored him.
Step Four: A Message.
“We need a message,” Hermione mused, flipping through the Black Family Cursebook. “Something that makes them fear us.”
Kreacher perked up. “Does Missy Granger want vengeance?”
Hermione nodded.
Kreacher’s wrinkled face split into a ghoulish grin.
“Kreacher shall help.”
When Dumbledore woke up, still recovering from antlers, nausea, and humiliation, he found something new waiting for him.
A message—carved in black, glowing letters across the stone walls of his office:
THE HOUSE OF BLACK RECOGNIZES NO MASTER BUT ITS OWN.
THIS IS YOUR ONE AND ONLY WARNING.
Dumbledore stared.
The letters did not fade.
And across Britain, the Black family portraits whispered:
Dumbledore is no longer welcome.
The House of Black has risen.
Back inside Grimmauld Place, Sirius sat at the dining table, a firewhiskey bottle in one hand, staring at his mother’s portrait.
Walburga was watching him carefully, expression unreadable.
“You did well, boy,” she finally said.
Sirius snorted. “Are you complimenting me?”
“You embraced your duty,” Walburga corrected. “The House of Black has always demanded strength.”
Sirius hesitated, then nodded. “I get it now. Blood doesn’t mean obedience. It means loyalty.”
Walburga nodded approvingly. Then she turned her gaze toward Harry, who stood silently beside him.
“You, child,” she said, voice ringing with finality, “are Heir Black.”
Harry blinked.
Sirius smirked, nudging him. “Guess you’re stuck with us, kid.”
Harry swallowed hard but then grinned. “Guess I could do worse.”
Walburga straightened in her frame, regal and proud.
“The House of Black stands whole once more.”
And across Britain, the pureblood world trembled.