Chapter Text
Like many of the magical ancient buildings, Grimmauld Place became sentient a couple hundred years ago. The Blacks have built it on the ley lines and stuffed it with magical objects and trinkets which piled up higher with each generation.
At some point, the magical power has become dense, filling the air like thick fog. It seeped into dark velveteen wallpaper, then its thick brick walls; and when ex-headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black hid pilfered time turners in one of its stuffy corners, the presence of time dust helped Grimmauld Place awaken.
Sirius Black was the last Black of the main line who grew up in the old nest. He knew all the hiding places to the tiniest closet, courtesy of his mother’s character and strong vocal chords. It was easy to escape her when the house helped him, although it helped little Regulus far more often (just as biased as the old house elf, this place was!).
So when Harry asked him why he can see the door into the attic, and Hermione cannot, Sirius laughed and said, “Of course, the house likes you!”
“What do you mean, likes me?”, Harry tilted his head. Sirius’s hand flew to sink his fingers in the soft and wild, messy hair. He could never resist it when his baby Harry looked so much like a confused little kitten.
Then he hummed, satisfied, “I mean exactly that. This place knows what happens inside it and sometimes tells you what it wants. Well, it can’t really talk, but trust me, you’ll know what I mean when it happens.” As soon as he said it, a huge bang almost knocked him over, followed by howls of “FRED! GEORGE!” coming from the kitchen. Grinning, Harry looked at Sirius and ran downstairs, conversation forgotten.
It would have stayed in the dim back corners of Harry’s mind if after the war the house did not launch an attack onto his guilty conscience in its efforts to have its last true owner stay.
It all started when Harry realised that he had no desire to join Ron in the Auror Corps. The thought of spending the rest of his life the same way after he tried to escape Voldemort all this time plagued him at night, often making him wake up exhausted.
Harry remembered how excitedly Ron talked about finally joining the Aurors and tried to muster up a smile to keep the atmosphere light. He did not want to upset Ron or the rest of the Weasleys during the time when they desperately clung to any reminder of future stability after the war ravaged their family. It became increasingly harder to sound energized and not like life has been sucked out of him whenever someone asked the dreaded, “So, the Aurors, huh?”
He started noticing Bill giving him a side eye at one of the dinners when he and Fleur came over to visit the rest of the Weasley clan and Harry, who was reminding him of their upstairs ghoul more and more.
At some point in the evening, when the family relocated to their quidditch field, Bill pulled Harry aside.
“I’ve noticed you aren’t looking so good. Is something happening that we don’t know about?”, Bill asked. He was quite perseptive when needs be, instincts honed by his cursebreaker job where small details could spell catastrophes.
“It’s nothing, really”, said Harry, averting his eyes. “Just a bit unsure about something, that’s all.’ He tried to make his voice even as he said it, knowing Bill wouldn’t let it go so easily. He rolled his shoulders back and gave Bill a sad smile.
Bill looked at him and sighed. He knew that if it was about another person, Harry would have already kicked up a storm; but he never did anything for himself. Hermione was trying to remedy that but it was tough going when all Harry was ever taught was to forget about himself.
“Well, what if you took a couple months of vacation? You know Kingsley will take you any day, so just take some time off for yourself, do something you’ve always wanted to do.”
Always wanted to do? Harry was not sure what it was. When he lived at Privet Drive, he imagined a beautiful cozy cottage not unlike Bill and Fleur’s where he would live with his family and Hedwig. He lost Hedwig and he could not imagine a family without her right now. The only thing he had left that had the remnants of family were his cloak, the map, and a dark house that was slowly becoming more decrepit without proper care.
This was the thought that led Harry to move into Grimmauld Place. He showed up at the doorstep of the old headquarters, pausing when he raised his hand to knock. ‘This is your own house’, he chided himself ,’It’s only Kreacher in there’. Before he could touch the bronze handle, the door opened by itself.
That is strange, thought Harry. If the door opened with no prompting, was there any point to having it as a hide-house?
He causiosly walked in, half expecting Walburga’s portait to yell and curse at him, but he was met with silence.
The hallway looked as he remembered it – dimly lit, with dark swirly wallpaper leading into darkness ahead. The musty smell churned his stomach unpleasantly and he briefly made a note to throw out the troll stand.
Harry stepped further into the house. The back of his neck tensed slightly and he looked around, only to see nothing.
‘Hermione might be right about my paranoia”, mused Harry. Once he made his way through the hallway into the familiar outlines of the kitchen, he hear the front door bang shut.
As soon as it happened, the candles illuminated the kitchen and a fireplace roared to life.
‘I am going to die here’, thought Harry to himself. This place was creepy even when the whole Order populated it and filled it with chatter, and now it moved into the downright spooky category from muggle horror films. And, thought Harry, nothing good comes from something that acts so nice.
He pulled out his wand from the arm holster, and looked around for any signs of intruders. It was silent. Harry threw caution to the wind and called, “Kreacher!”
Immediately he hears a crack in the air and the old elf glowers at his from underneath his thin eyebrows. “What does halfblood Master wants?” croaks Kreacher, unused to speech after so many years of solitude.
“Did you light up all those candles?”, asks Harry. He crouches down to Kreacher’s eye level. Hate as he might, he did not want to be nasty to the elf who had only a couple years of life left to him by the looks of it.
He thought of Hermione’s underground elf liberation movement with a wry smile.
“No”, finally said Kreacher, after a pause. “The house welcomes Master.”
“What do you mean, “the house”? asked Harry, half-alarmed. He thought of a boggart who terrified Mrs. Weasley into tears, and God knows how many pixies currently infesting the wardrobes. If there was anyone new added to the swarm of pests, it would be best to tackle that first before he makes any move to settle in.
“Mistress’ house has a mind of its own, halfling Master Harry”, says Kreacher. He shuffles towards the fireplace and puts his wrinkled fingers against the warmth. “It needs magic of a Master to be healthy again, and here Master comes…”
Harry wants to groan. It explained what was happening a little bit, and he was willing to believe in a house that can think on its own, fully aware of his lapses of what is considered normal in wizarding world.
What it did not explain is why the house is so inviting and what does he mean, needs magic? He thought houses just stay as they are once they are built.
“So it wants to leech my magic for itself?”, asked Harry, morbidly interested now that the shock of self-lighting candles wore off. It could be somewhat expected of a house of Black, just thinking of artifacts it likely still contained. Harry was sure it would make Borgin and Burkes salivate.
“Nooo”, mumbled Kreacher,” Master gives his magic willingly, to strengthen the wards and make house proper. My poor mistress, all etiquette gone with her…” Kreacher wrung his ears in despair.
Bad Master Sirius never learned proper manners, and with Master Regulus gone, the house is surely headed to ruin with the Potter scion at the head of the House of Black. “It can only be Master, no one else”, he stared at Harry imploringly. Ignorant as Master Harry was, house was unlikely to survive until another offshoot heir could come and right the wrongness of a lonely Grimmauld.
Harry was startled by elf’s sincerity. He remembered how downright nasty he had been to Sirius and the borderline niceties he says to Harry now are certainly out of character.
What concerned him in Kreacher’s words was a mention of strengthening the wards. Harry was of the impression that the wards did not need any help – in fact, he had only heard about ward strengthening for Hogwarts, and he never questioned it considering it was a magic castle of giant proportions.
The Weasley’s certainly haven’t talked about wards on the Burrow at all even in passing, so they probably did not have them set up there. Harry admits he doesn’t know of his other classmates’ houses, but he imagines something like Malfoy manor might have wards, at the very least to show that they have them.
So it would be a pity to lose the wards just because he did not know something about a house’s upkeep.
Harry looked at Kreacher and sighed. “Could you make me some tea, please? I am going to stay here for a couple of weeks and would like to settle in.”
It would be his way of extending an olive branch to Kreacher. While he might get poisoned tea, at least he could say that he was being cordial to the elderly elf.
Kreacher snapped his fingers and nodded his head almost eagerly.
Master Harry was far from an ideal head of house in his opinion, but he had promise. Besides, considering how long wizards live, Master Harry could still be considered a baby in Kreacher’s eyes. It has been a long time that Kreacher was needed, and there was a baby in the house. He was going to raise this one well, yes he will.