Welcome to House Black
Harry, Ron and Hermione’s catch up is something of a roller coaster. He takes Myron’s advice and yells all his frustrations at his friends, because really, the fact that the person who’s been the most decent to him all summer is some homeless whackjob he just met sort of tells you what kind of friends they’ve been lately. He knows the line wasn’t secure, but they could’ve at least told him that! Being left to the Dursleys… it’s… it’s not something anyone should make their friend go through.
There’s no real way to tell them that, because they don’t understand what it’s like there, and he hopes they never do. Once he’s got all that out of his system, though, he does feel better, and they’re more than happy to update him on all the goings-on he’s missed. Or at least, what they know.
They’re just off to dinner when Ron flings an arm out to stop them walking any farther.
“Hold it!” he hisses, “They’re still in the hall, we might be able to hear something —”
Interestingly enough, the huddle of witches and wizards packed into the gloomy hallway look to be doing something quite similar to what they are, Sirius and Mrs. Weasley going as far as to press their ears to the door of the dining room. Harry casts around for his friend, but both Myron and Dumbledore are missing. At first there’s a gut wrenching fear that he might have left, but the frazzled intrigue on the faces around the place suggest he’s still around.
Oh. They must be in the dining room.
Harry strains his ears and eyes and picks up a surprised ‘Imperturbable?' from some older witch amongst the excited whispering.
“Wonder what’s going on,” Ron muses.
“Myron,” Harry responds cryptically. His friend shoots him a look, but nothing more comes of it as things are set in motion rather quickly. Snape leaves with a muttered ‘good riddance’ from Ron, and then all of a sudden the world explodes.
No, seriously, that’s what it feels like. Harry nearly topples over the bannister in pain and shock at the inhuman screech that rends the air. He inhales himself sharply back into focus, body screaming fight-or-flight, and zeroes in on the response below him. No one seems terribly worried or shocked, but hands are thrown over ears and groans sound out under the horrific shrieking. The dining room door bursts open and out flies Myron, Harry a step behind him as they both charge to the source.
Out in the grand entrance hall, the moth-eaten velvet curtains have torn open to reveal no opening or door, but a demon. She might’ve been a woman once, but there is nothing human in her bulging, hateful black eyes, her mouth almost unhinged, entire bony body contorted around this scream. She claws forward as if to tear apart the canvas that is keeping her from the world, regardless of the fact that something like her never could and never should touch it. Harry’s never heard screams like it. Harry didn’t know hate like this could be.
“FILTH! SCUM! BY-PRODUCTS OF DIRT AND VILENESS! HALF-BREEDS, MUTANTS, FREAKS, BEGONE FROM THIS PLACE! HOW DARE YOU BEFOUL THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS —”
She screams, and the house screams with her, every portrait and floorboard and mounted head wailing black murder that drips down the walls and threatens to flood the place, drown them all within. Harry screws his face up and covers his ears.
People race around him for a bit, boots scuffle and orders fly, and then-
“RIGHT, THAT’S IT!”
And then silence.
It’s almost painful after the violent sound that ate the world completely just a second ago, like blinking in the light after too long in the dark. But ohh, it’s better. That’s so much better.
Everyone stares, dumbfounded, at Myron Emrys, who heaves a rather huffy breath and adjusts his scarf disapprovingly, tucking his wand away and glaring at the space that the wall was just a moment ago. Which he seems to have disappeared.
“Really, there’s no need to shout,” he chides. “It’s the middle of the night, and it’s terribly rude.”
Possibly the most gob-smacked is Sirius, who charged in just in time to see her off. He turns his amazement on Myron, where it quickly bleeds into unfiltered delight, and then he flies at the man and kisses him square on the mouth.
“YES! YES, SHE’S GONE, THE WICKED HAG IS GONE! YES, I LOVE YOU! MOONY, I’M FREE!” he cackles, picking Myron up in his arms and spinning him around the room.
“Sorry, I did mean to ask, but no one could hear me. I just moved her, no need to worry, but if you’re that happy I could get rid of her properly for you, of course, if you still want the wall we’d have to figure something out-”
“YOU ARE MY NEW FAVOURITE!” Sirius sings- yes, sings- over Myron’s nonplussed babbling. Myron seems way too casual about being spun around and kissed on the mouth by strange, unkempt men. “MOONY, DID YOU SEE? SHE’S GONE, SHE’S GONE!” He races over to Remus and pulls him into a lively waltz around the room, even spinning him like a girl right into Tonks. Then he catches sight of Harry and skips over to give him the same treatment, plus a massive hug that says ‘I’ve missed you’. “HARRY, HARRY, YOU’RE BACK! Here you are, with me, and you never have to see my mother again! I NEVER HAVE TO SEE MY MOTHER AGAIN! HAHA! IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY TO BE SIRIUS BLACK!”
“Your mother?!” Harry gasps.
“NOT ANYMORE!” Comes the elated reply. Harry employs all his newfound tapdancing skills to keep up with Sirius’ skipping.
Myron claps along happily. Remus gives him the biggest, most grateful smile he’s ever given anyone, and squeezes him into a happy hug too, tears in the corners of his eyes.
“How on earth did you do that!” Molly breathes delightedly, forgetting her qualms with him for a moment.
“The portrait was stuck to the wall, so I moved the wall.”
“Well, that certainly brightens up dinner!” Tonks cheers. “No more stupid umbrella stand!”
“Tonks, you can help with dinner tonight!”
“Really?!”
“Do you see a screeching woman around you’re gonna wake up? ‘Course you can!”
“ALRIGHT!” Tonks whacks Myron on the arm in delight as she bounces off to the kitchen, knocking said umbrella stand over on the way.
-~o~-
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley make dinner while Tonks and Ginny set the table. Sirius pulls Harry and Myron down enthusiastically to speak with him in the meantime, and Remus follows with new life in his eyes, watching Sirius like his old friend’s come back from the dead.
“Harry, you have to tell me all about your new friend, I already love him. What have you been up to? It’s been horrendous without you, I’m so glad you’re here, Moony’s terrible company,” Sirius rambles happily. Remus gives him a weak slap on the arm in protest.
“Oh, Sirius, it’s been rubbish. I hate it so much there. I don’t even want to know what would’ve happened if Myron hadn’t shown up. Mrs. Figg was going to leave me with the Dursleys, I was ready to write my own eulogy right then and there, but Myron got rid of ‘em and stuck around. We played Twister. Have you ever had curry?”
“Too right I have. And I rock at Twister. I’d have welcomed a Dementor attack, myself- a deadly struggle for my soul would have broken the monotony nicely. I’ve been stuck inside for a month.”
“Here? How come?’ asks Harry, frowning.
“Because the Ministry of Magic’s still after me, and Voldemort will know all about me being an Animagus by now, Wormtail will have told him, so my big disguise is useless. There’s not much I can do for the Order of the Phoenix ... or so Dumbledore feels. Tell you what, Harry, this place is almost as bad as it was when my mother was alive. But now the bitch is gone, thank you my friend, ugh, it’s like breathing clean air again! And I know something about that, mind you,” he winks. It’s true that after Azkaban… well, if this place is as horrid as the Dursleys’- no, worse, with that hag screaming and all the dark magic leaking over the grimy surfaces- Harry shudders. Sirius has hardly gained any weight, and he’s still scruffy and pale, hair greasy. Harrry’s so glad he’s here now, and he’s brought Myron with him.
“Think we’ll make some real strides with the cleaning now,” Remus adds.
“What cleaning?” Myron asks curiously.
“Trying to make this place fit for human habitation,’ Sirius snorts, waving a hand around the dismal kitchen. “No one’s lived here for ten years, not since my dear mother died, unless you count her old house-elf, and he’s gone round the twist – hasn’t cleaned anything in ages.”
“Oh, I’m a marvellous cleaner,” Myron chirps cheerfully. “I was wondering if it was a style choice or what. I’m glad it’s not, I don’t much like it. Your snakes are all dirty,” he pouts, polishing the one carved into the table leg with the sleeve of his leather jacket.
“You’re a bit weird, mate, but I like you and I like your jacket,” Sirius concludes.
“Thank you!” the man chirps before turning his attention to the cutlery and frowning. “Are these silver?”
“Yes,” Sirius admits, surveying the forks with distaste. “Finest fifteenth-century goblin-wrought silver, embossed with the Black family crest.”
“Well why on earth are you having dinner with a werewolf and using silver cutlery?” he asks. “Be right back. Oh, Harry-” he stands and ducks in close to mutter this next part under his breath so only the three of them hear. “I’m onto something that should let you in on meetings. Tell you later.” And in the next half a second he’s gone.
Sirius blinks. “Bit of a whirlwind, that one, isn’t he?”
“You get used to it,” Harry shrugs. “It’s rather contagious, actually.”
“You’re one to talk, you just waltzed me around the house,” Remus reminds Sirius fondly.
“Well I just escaped the confines of the wicked witch that’s plagued my every waking breath since birth, and been reunited with my two favourite people in the entire fuckin’ world,” Sirius growls playfully, scooping them into either side of him with his arms. “What’s his excuse?”
“He doesn’t need one,” Harry laughs, feeling lighter than he has- maybe ever. “He’s just like that.”
“Oh, know him so well, do ya? Spill,” Sirius dares.
“Look, it was only three days. I know that. But he’s crazy. For some reason I felt like I could trust him immediately, and that just doesn’t happen. Like, he’s so… weird. And we talked about all sorts of things. He makes things easier. He made that horrible house happy for a little while. Just by talking nonsense about Marilyn Monroe and the man of his dreams and the difference between a house and a home. I don’t know, Sirius. I feel like we’re already close.”
“The man of his dreams, huh? Well, if he was already talking about me before he met me-”
“I’m right here,” Remus snorts.
“No no, it’s- Remus, you remember what he said, about reporting to lost loved ones? That’s what he meant. We talked about it. He said he didn’t miss him ‘cause he sees him every night, even when he doesn’t want to. But he wasn’t sad about it? I don’t know. His life seems a mess but he’s always so happy.”
Remus takes this in thoughtfully while Sirius raises his eyebrows and snorts. “Maybe he’s just nuts.”
“Maybe,” Harry chuckles. “But I’m keeping him.”
-~o~-
Given the matron of the house’s very loud and violent opinions, Merlin wouldn’t be surprised to find that the silverware was pure silver on purpose. It’s terribly harmful stuff, in the wrong hands.
Well, where to start, then? There’s a lot of work to be done. This house is connected to someone, though, an ielf m carseld. Merlin thinks the wizard-folk call them house-elves now, which is a very misleading translation that makes them sound like they were made for the use of humans, but either way, that would be who to talk to. He tugs a little on their connection to the house- politely, of course. They’ll know where he is, if this is their house.
Sure enough, in hardly any time at all the ielf scampers in, batty ears flapping. He’s an old creature, bent into himself quite unnaturally, drowning in rags even the peasants of Merlin’s time would’ve stuck their noses up at. He smells like dead things. His eyes are as sunken as bulging things can be sunken into his large face, creased with dozens if not hundreds of wrinkles, most of which come not from age, but hate. His smock is soaked through, and he’s sniffling something awful… has he been crying? Oh, dear. He seems a mighty troubled fellow. Merlin hopes he isn’t bothering him.
The creature bows deeply enough that those great sad ears of his, lined in warts, trail on the ground.
“Hello,” Merlin begins, knowing the ielf can’t speak until he has spoken himself. He’s long since stopped protesting the old ways of magical creatures where he is concerned. Creatures with natural magic of their own have always treated him thusly. He is, after all, Magic. “I do not mean to intrude on your domain. Will you accept my presence here?”
“It is not Kreacher’s place… to accept- M-master Emryssss…” the raspy thing hacks into the floor.
“I'd still like you to. Do you accept the others?”
“Pah!” Kreacher spits automatically before he checks himself with a fleeting glance up at Merlin. “No, no, no, no, never. Mistress would be… she would never… b-but Mistress is go-o-one, n-now…” he sobs brokenly, trying to snap his bones into taking up even less space.
“Oh, I’m sorry to take her away. I just sent her elsewhere, you should know, unharmed.”
Kreacher looks widely up at him, eyes wide and wet and tortured. “Ohh, thank you, Master Emrys! Th-thank you! Bless youuuu!”, he wails, falling to his knobby, flaking knees.
“Of course. But she and her son- that’s Sirius, right? They don’t get on. You serve him, don’t you?”
“Filthy!” Kreacher spits viciously. “Horrible! Never good to family, to Kreacher… not like Master Regulus, not like my Mistress, no…”
“Oh, it’s not the werewolves and otherfolk you don’t like, is it?”
“Mistress doesn’t like them.”
“No, but she’s not here right now. She won’t be mad at you, Kreacher. And you know Sirius is a Black, at the end of the day. He is a part of this house that is a part of you. It’s none of my business, but I’m glad you let us stay, even when your mistress is unhappy. I promise she’ll be safe with me. I’m going to help them clean up a little, if you don’t mind, and maybe we can make this house shine like it used to, but for now I just wanted to ask if there was any more cutlery. Some that’s not silver,” Merlin soothes, handing over the fork in his hands with care. This is Kreacher’s house, his carseld, and thus everything within it would be very precious to him.
Kreacher takes it with reverence, and looks up with those huge eyes seeming to un-sink as he stares at Merlin.
“Master- Master Emrys means it? Master Emrys would save the house of Black?”
“I will do my very utmost, Kreacher.”
The tears bubble out of the little critter explosively, and run down his pointy face in great streams. “Th-thank you. Thaaank you, Master Emrys. You are good to Kreacher. To Black…” he sniffles and wipes his eyes on his snot-rag. “Come. Come…”
Kreacher leads him not-so-steadily on through the house, through haunted room after haunted room, to a dresser on its side in some kind of lounge room. He cracks it open with no fear at all, though Merlin can sense there are many infestations around. Kreacher would sense them too, in his carseld. They are assaulted by a healthy (or unhealthy, depending on your point of view) plume of dust, but nothing more. Kreacher collects up an antique trunk and unlocks it with an ornate key he conjures, and presents the complete set of ancient cutlery embossed with the crest of Black to Merlin. Merlin gives him a great big smile.
“Thank you, Kreacher. I mean it, we’re going to work it out here. Thank you for trusting me.”
So, with that out of the way, Merlin crashes into dinner late by sliding down the railing on his butt and promptly tripping over himself. He does manage to save the cutlery, and that’s the important thing.
“Oh, good, Myron, I got you some soup, I hope that’s alright, but it’ll be cold if you don’t-”
“Soup? For me? Seriously? Oh, that’s marvellous, Mrs. Weasley, you didn’t have to!”
Molly blinks. “It’s dinner time.”
“Well, yes, but I didn’t help or anything, I didn’t expect you to feed me! Gosh, aren’t I spoiled?” he chuffs at Harry, pulling up a seat beside a redhead he doesn’t know. “Oh, Remus, here you are.”
Merlin plonks the gold-embossed trunk heavily before the man, shaking the table. He waits for a moment, just to make sure he’s not missing out on any cultural tidbits like grace or anything, and then politely digs into his cauliflower soup. It’s fantastic, and he tells her so. She seems a little too stunned at the trunk to respond, though. Honestly, once again, why is everyone so slow?
“Erm, thank you- whatever that is, can’t it wait until after dinner?”
“Well I suppose, but I don’t know what use he’d have for it after dinner,” Merlin frowns.
Curiously, Remus pops the trunk. His eyes widen and he shoots forward. “Where’d you get this? It’s not-?” he picks up a spoon gingerly, and sure enough, no harm comes of it.
“WEH-HEEY, THE MIRACLE MAN DOES IT AGAIN!” Sirius cheers heartily.
“They’re not silver? Remmie’s been looking for them for ages!” Tonk gasps. She leans over and Merlin receives another happy arm-punch. She would’ve made an excellent knight.