Homecoming
Harry slowly approached the door to Number 12.
The afternoon sun of uptown London beat down on him, and yet despite that, he felt inexplicably cold.
He slowly laid his right hand on the doorknob, making sure his Black heir ring was touching the door. When nothing happened, he let go of a shaky breath he hadn't even realized he was holding.
Silverclaw had warned him that there may be certain measures to prevent intruders from entering, and though he shouldn't be classified as such, it was best not to take any chances.
Slowly pushing open the dark wood, he took a tentative step inside the building.
The first thing he noticed was that everything was very, very dusty. A literal cloud of dust poofed up where he'd stepped. The second thing was that despite his inheritance test saying the house had recently been used, it seemed as if no one had been here in a long time.
It unsettled him for more than one reason.
He shuffled his trunk in, setting down Hedwig's cage next to it and shutting the door behind him. His owl looked at him curiously, if not a bit annoyed. Before she could start making noise at him though, he held a finger to his lips. He didn't know if the house was truly empty, and if not… well, it was best to keep the element of surprise.
Before he could even take another step, a loud pop! resounded in front of him.
He quickly drew his wand, pointing it at the creature—no, house elf—the very old house elf in front of him.
The elf leveled him with a stern glare so reminiscent of Professor Mcgonagall that he instinctively lowered his wand.
"Boy is not where he should be! What is intruder child be doing in the House of Black?"
The elf's voice came out in a raspy snarl, and Harry was briefly plagued by the idea of Dobby and this house elf interacting somehow, and consequently causing some unspeakable havoc.
Shaking the frankly terrifying thought from his head, he moved to reply- but the house elf who's name he still didn't know responded before he could.
"Intruder child wears the heir ring… Kreacher was unaware." The elf—Kreacher, apparently—gave him a cold, suspicious look, before stepping closer.
"...You is Harry Potter – but you is not being the blood traitor's spawn, no?"
Harry blinked. His first instinct was to defend Sirius, but reasoned that such a harsh first impression wouldn't do him any favors here. No, he rather felt a bit emotional, because no he wasn't Sirius's – he was completely unaware of who's he was, and the full reality of that seemed to now be hitting him all at once.
He had no idea who one of his parents was, and by God, how does he reckon with that?
Instead of doing the sensible thing and bursting into tears on the spot, he rather shoved down the urge to emotionally break, and simply responded,
"No."
He sank to his knees, on equal level with the elf. This seemed to spark something in Kreacher, as he peered at him with his furrowed eyes, seemingly searching for something that he apparently found.
The elf ghosted a gnarled little hand over Harry's brow, and simply asked one more question.
"...Who?"
Harry smiled, a sad thing that didn't reach his eyes.
"I don't know."
It came out far more pathetic-sounding than he'd intended.
Kreacher suddenly got an odd look on his face, large eyes squinting as a gnarled hand came to clutch his head.
Panic shot through Harry, and he hurried to support the swaying elf. The wood beneath his knees creaked with the sudden movements, and desperately he wished he knew any spells to help whatever this is-
Kreacher staggered back until he was leaning against the bannister of the foyer stairs, kicking up more dust, still clutching his little head.
"I-... Kreacher feels unwell. An ache of the head, it seems." He suddenly straightened himself, a bit of pain still present on his face.
"Young Master would do best to be making himself at home- without waking Mistress that is." Kreacher gave a meaningful glance to a large portrait covered with black velvet curtains. "Kreacher… Kreacher will be going to rest now."
Harry blinked at the sudden change of tune, stammering to say something, anything, when Kreacher popped himself away with nary another word.
What just happened?
Harry doesn't move, and it sinks in as he sits with dust settling on their shoulders, that it's just him. Him, an apparently insane old house elf, and a portrait he shouldn't wake.
There's no one else.
Suddenly Grimmauld Place seems much, much emptier – yet simultaneously filled with ghosts that Harry can't even see.
Hours later, Harry stands in front of the Black family tree. Of every room in the house, this is one of the cleanest. Not a speck of grime has touched these walls, no dust settled upon a single stitch of the large, sprawling tapestry.
Because of this, he has no trouble letting his eyes wander down to the very bottom of the branches. There, he finds what he's looking for.
Or rather, where what he's looking for should be.
He's scoured the entire family tree, looking for anywhere his name could even possibly be.
Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere, save one spot.
One spot, at the very bottom, where a section of the tapestry has been torn off.
Harry crouches down, kneels before the record of a thousands years old bloodline, his blood, and his Protestant-raised mind impulsively wonders if a prayer would receive any answer.
He thinks it would be more sacrilegious than anything, to pray in a house that is so—at least by the church's, and therefore Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's standards—unholy.
The wood under his knees digs in, and he's inexplicably brought back to a thousand hours spent kneeling on cold tiles in prayer at the Christ Church Guildford.
His fingers ghost over golden leaves and green background, tracing his supposed lineage all the way to the ragged edges where the torn piece would've been – and he's sure it was torn, given the marks where he can tell the fabric was gripped tightly and pulled 'til it gave way.
There's at least two or three generations missing from the stolen area, and he thumps his head against the wall in frustration. Of course the one piece he needed to answer his biggest question would've been removed.
He doesn't bother trying to look for the piece here, given that the entire room is devoid of any furniture or decoration aside from this mass-obituary.
The dark green walls, with their golden flowers and bone skulls, are briefly illuminated by a sudden ray of light through the windows on the far side of the room. Harry's eyes downturn to the dark planks of wood beneath him. There are echoes in every inch of this place, and he finds that the shoe scuffs and slight heel imprints aren't any less tragic than the ripped tapestry.
Turning away toward the sun-filtered windows, he briefly thinks that he may regret this.
Despite that, he gets up anyway, walks over to the windowsill Hedwig is perched on, and ties the letter to her leg.
As he watches her fly off, he's sure.
I'll definitely regret this.
He's very much not sure that the regret will be worth the potential reward.
Harry wanders the halls of Grimmauld Place, the dark oaken floorboards creaking under his trainers.
What is he supposed to do? That letter was a spur of the moment thing, and will more likely than not be torn to shreds the second it's received.
It's the wallpaper's fault, really.
He was surrounded by green, green wallpaper, and God, it must've been arsenic based because all he could think of was that he needed help, and bloody green was all that came to mind.
He doesn't really regret it, but he isn't so sure that it'll be well-received.
He fiddles with the drawstring of his hoodie, and takes a sharp turn at the staircase.
Maybe- maybe there's answers somewhere in these dusted halls, but what he may find along with them, well… he's not exactly in a hurry to shatter the illusion of hope he's constructed around his new parentage.
Harry is not an idiot.
James Potter was a schoolyard bully — no matter what Sirius or Dumbledore said. And… and his mum married him. He really doesn't know much about their actual relationship, especially their morals, considering that all anyone ever cares to say is that they loved him, that they sacrificed themselves for him. No matter what love they held for each other or him, no matter the tragedy of their lives, that did not make them good people.
Based on that, he's especially unsure what kind of person his other parent was. A member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, at least, which does not instill much moral confidence in Harry.
He's known about them for all but half a day, and best believe he is in no rush to put them on a pedestal, despite the deep love and care he holds for the strangers that are his parents. Because that's what they really are: strangers. He hardly knew them, and he never will again.
His train of thought abruptly stops as he comes face to face with a hallway lined with portraits. The frames all look to be pure silver, shining in the window light. The wallpaper lining the hall is not a deep green as most of the house, rather pure black. Harry takes a tentative step closer, noticing the shine of the light on details in the paper.
Constellations, he realizes.
Every sleeping portrait—they're all sleeping, he notices—has a golden constellation under it in place of a nameplate. Some have certain stars enhanced with embellishments, some don't.
The nearest portrait seems to be relatively recent, and as he examines the hard jawline framed by a neat, short beard and sharp waves, his hand drifts to twist around the heir ring. He leans closer to the constellation, racking his brain for anything from Astronomy class.
It takes him a moment, but then he realizes.
This man has his face.
Not literally, but the resemblance is suddenly so fucking overwhelming that he has to tear his eyes away.
Maybe he's seeing things, maybe he's losing his mind under the stress, but suddenly it seems like every dark-haired, pale-skinned portrait is himself in a different light.
His eyes are wide open as they flit from one portrait to the next, and he resolutely does not blink as he slowly backs out of the hallway. He'll- he'll just find another way, yeah. Yeah.
Fuck, fuck, fuck-
He cannot do this.
It hits him like a goddamned train—probably red—that he can't fucking do this. He cannot, will not, be surrounded by the ghosts of something (someones) he has never had and will never have. It's like this entire place is taunting him, laughing in his face that he is finally where he is supposed to be, and he is the only one here. Kreacher does not count, Kreacher is half fucking insane.
The walls are suddenly much too close, the ceiling far too low.
His chest is tight, like his heart and lungs are being constricted.
He spins around, hurriedly looking for anywhere to run.
His eyes land upon a lone door tucked in an alcove, just out of sight. He doesn't even care where it leads, anywhere but this is bloody fine.
He hurriedly stumbles to it, rushing to open the door and fall through it.
Shutting it behind him, he leans back against the cold wood in darkness.
Harry squeezes his eyes shut, hands desperately splayed across his chest as he curls in on himself.
He can't, can't fucking breathe, and everything aches, and, and God, make it stop.
God, please-
He couldn't tell you how long he stays like that, but eventually some dust makes its way to his nose and he can't help but sneeze, startling him enough to open his eyes.
From the dim light coming through the bottom of the door, he can make out a few shelves opposite him, with nothing but dust upon them.
Oh, he's in a cupboard.
He instantly deflates, the panic knocked from him.
This is familiar, this is safe.
The bottom shelf is far enough from the floor that he can easily shuffle under it, curled against the back wall. Neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon ever came inside his cupboard, it was too small and dirty for them to bother trying.
If he was in his cupboard, then he was safe from all the scary things. Nothing had ever hurt him there, it had only ever held him. Sometimes he'd think to himself that not even the Devil could see him there, even though Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon and Father Matthews and everyone said that the Devil was everywhere.
Devil child- repent, boy!- sinful freak-
Surely, even in this mausoleum, his faith in the safety of cupboards bears weight. No ghost of a lost life would reach him here. He pulls his knees against his chest as he lay horizontally under the long shelf, serving to seclude him more.
More shielding, more cover to hide under.
Curled up in a dark closet, wooden floor under him and his back pressed against the wall, Harry slowly blinks his way to sleep, and he can almost pretend he's eleven years old again.
That shouldn't comfort him as much as it does, he thinks, before he's dead to the world.