Sirius took a slow breath noting how far they had come in transforming Grimmauld Place from a dark, oppressive relic into something bright and hopeful. The entrance hall, once dimly lit with heavy drapes and lined with grotesque portraits, now gleamed with polished cream walls that reflected the light from a newly installed chandelier. The floors were stripped of their decayed carpets, revealing pale oak boards that extended down the hallway. The grand staircase, previously a menacing dark walnut, had been sanded and painted with white spindles and a natural wood banister that felt smooth and warm beneath his hand.
The bathrooms had undergone a complete overhaul. Gone were the cracked tiles and dismal fittings. In their place were sleek white subway tiles on the walls, offset by light wooden flooring. The fixtures gleamed in brushed copper, and a freestanding clawfoot tub stood as a centerpiece in the largest bathroom, framed by a frosted glass window with Georgian bars that let in soft, diffused light.
In the library, Sirius had insisted on preserving the character of the space, but not the gloom. The towering bookshelves were repainted in a creamy white, and new, adjustable brass sconces illuminated the rows of books. Pale wood floors stretched beneath a thick cream-colored rug, softening the room's acoustics. He had already begun to fill the shelves with new tomes—works he thought Harry might like, alongside a few treasured volumes Sirius couldn't part with.
Upstairs, the transformation continued. Each bedroom had been stripped of its heavy drapes and oppressive wallpaper. Light flowed freely through white-framed windows, the Georgian bars adding a touch of elegance to the outside view. The walls were painted in soothing shades of vanilla and ivory, and the floors had been treated with the same pale oak as the rest of the house. Simple, airy curtains fluttered gently in the occasional draft.
At the front of the house, the finishing touch was the new oak front door, its rich, warm tone framed by white-painted trim. The brass doorknob gleamed in the light of the streetlamp outside, and Sirius took a moment to run his fingers over its smooth surface, imagining Harry stepping through it for the first time. It was no longer a house of shadows and curses. It was becoming a home.
Next week, they would move the new furniture into the rooms, and the kitchen installation would follow the day after. Sirius lingered in the living room, thinking about the last room left hat was the kitchen, to what had once been a dreary, cluttered space at the back of the house, imagining its transformation. The design plans had been pinned up for weeks: light cream cabinetry with clean shaker-style panels, solid oak countertops, and a large farmhouse sink beneath the newly installed Georgian-barred window. The room would be bathed in natural light during the day, the pale cream walls reflecting the sunshine that filtered through the garden beyond.
A central island was planned as the heart of the kitchen, topped with polished oak and surrounded by high-backed stools for casual meals or conversations over tea. Above it, pendant lights with soft, frosted glass shades would cast a warm glow in the evenings. The floor was to be laid in wide stone tiles of a muted beige, durable yet elegant, with underfloor heating to keep it cosy in the colder months.
Along one wall, Sirius had opted for open shelving to display crockery and a few well-chosen ornaments—he had a vision of cheerful, mismatched mugs and jars of spices adding warmth to the otherwise clean aesthetic. Against the opposite wall, a new, modern range cooker would sit beneath a sleek extractor hood, both in a soft brushed steel that balanced the rustic charm with a hint of practicality.
The dining nook, once neglected and barely used, would become a focal point. A sturdy oak table, long enough for guests, was set to arrive with the rest of the furniture. Sirius had chosen a set of cream-upholstered chairs to complement it, imagining meals shared with Harry and friends. For a finishing touch, a simple vase of fresh flowers on the table would make the space feel alive, vibrant, and far removed from the house's old, cheerless past.
But as the paint dried, reality pressed back. Stacks of ancient tomes from the Black family library surrounded Sirius, their cracked spines and ominous titles a grim testament to his family's twisted legacy. The air, heavy with the mingling scents of drying paint and aged parchment, seemed to close in around him. He flipped through brittle, yellowed pages, each one more disturbing than the last—curses, blood pacts, and forbidden rituals written in his ancestors' meticulous hands. Dark times, indeed.
Upstairs, Remus was doing the same in Harry's room, where he'd spent the morning painting. Sirius had passed by earlier and glimpsed him with streaks of pale vanilla paint smudged on his shirt, humming absentmindedly as he worked. Sirius had briefly envied the simplicity of that moment, but now his mind was entrenched in darker matters. He leafed through another tome, squinting at its faded script in search of anything—any scrap of a clue that might help them.
He paused, hopeful, at the title of one chapter: Bindings and Severances of the Soul. But a few minutes of reading revealed little more than convoluted descriptions of rituals designed to enslave rather than liberate. With a frustrated sigh, he slammed the book shut and let it drop to the floor. The dull thud echoed in the empty room, underscoring the silence that followed.
Nothing.
Then, a shout shattered his brooding.
"Sirius! I think I have something!"
The voice came from above, and Sirius Black, who had once been known for his reckless energy, bolted from the living room. His worn boots thudded against the pale oak floors, skidding slightly as he dashed up the stairs two at a time. The scent of fresh paint grew stronger as he reached the landing, his pulse hammering with a flicker of hope. He burst into Harry's room, his breath uneven.
Remus sat cross-legged on the newly laid carpet, surrounded by piles of books, scrolls, and crumpled notes. Before him lay an ancient tome, its dark leather cover cracked with age, the pages exuding the musty, sour scent of old magic.
"What have you found?" Sirius demanded, his voice tight with anticipation.
But the boy's display at the Bones' ball lingered. A Dementor destroyed? Voldemort still could not fathom it. Dementors were creatures of despair, of void. They did not die; they simply were . Yet, Yaxley's report had been clear: Potter's Patronus had obliterated the creature. If it could die …
No! His mind roared at the momentary doubt, he was Lord Voldemort, Heir of Slytherin, he was not doomed to die like mortal men.
"An anomaly," Voldemort muttered to himself. Yet even as he dismissed it aloud, the faintest flicker of doubt gnawed at him. Could Potter be growing stronger? He pushed the thought away. The boy was insignificant in the grand scheme. A pawn in a game far beyond his understanding.
And yet...
The thought of Dumbledore brought his mind to Draco Malfoy. Voldemort's lip curled as he considered the boy.
Draco's mission was both a punishment and a test—a message to Lucius, a reminder of the consequences of failure. Draco's softness, his lack of true resolve, his obsession with wanting to be superior when he was weak, was an affront to Voldemort. When he had plied the boys mind for information he saw his routine humiliation at the hands of Potter, a small modicum of enjoyment was taken at the Malfoy boy being humbled. Yet the plan was necessary. If Draco succeeded, it would weaken Dumbledore in the eyes of his allies, proving that even Hogwarts was not untouchable. If he failed... well, failure would send a message of its own.
"Dumbledore," Voldemort whispered, the name a curse on his lips. The old man had always been a thorn in his side, his power an inconvenient barrier to Voldemort's plans. But even Dumbledore was not invincible. He would fall, and when he did, the Wizarding World would have no choice but to kneel.
Nagini would find the missing fragment. The Horcruxes would ensure his immortality. Dumbledore would die, and Potter… Potter would learn the true meaning of despair.
The fire crackled behind him, casting long, wavering shadows on the walls, as Voldemort resumed his place by the window. Outside, the grounds of Malfoy Manor stretched into the night, cold and unfeeling. Somewhere out there, his lost piece waited. Somewhere, all the answers he sought lay hidden.
And he would find them.
This was different.
The Snitch dove again, weaving dangerously close to the Slytherin stands. Harry leaned low, the Firebolt streaking downward, but Malfoy was right behind him. He felt a rough jolt as Draco's shoulder slammed into his side.
"Really?" Harry barked, barely regaining balance. "That's your plan? Tackle me?"
Draco didn't answer, his jaw set as he surged forward, momentarily gaining ground. But Harry's experience gave him the edge. He feinted right, then looped back left, forcing Malfoy to overcorrect. The Snitch was now just a few feet ahead. Harry stretched out his hand, fingers grazing the tiny golden wings.
"Not this time!" Draco snarled, lunging toward him.
Harry twisted sharply, the Firebolt spinning in place to avoid Malfoy's desperate grab. With a final push, his fingers closed around the Snitch, the familiar burst of warmth radiating through his palm.
The whistle blew, signaling Gryffindor's victory. Cheers erupted from the Gryffindor stands, a deafening roar of celebration. Harry turned, Snitch in hand, and allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction.
But it was short-lived.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught a flicker of movement—a Bludger, launched with brutal precision by Slytherin's Beater, Harper. It was headed straight for him, the game's end apparently no deterrent to foul play.
Harry reacted instinctively, throwing himself sideways on his broom just as the iron ball whizzed past his head. The near miss left his ears ringing, and he spun to see it continue on its wild path—directly toward Malfoy.
Draco crashed into the stands with a thunderous thud , scattering students and snapping wooden beams. The Slytherin crowd erupted in gasps and cries, rushing toward the wreckage as Draco lay sprawled amidst the debris, groaning faintly.
Madam Hooch's whistle blared again, and her voice cut through the chaos. "Who hit that Bludger? Harper, I saw that! Get here right now!"
The roar of the crowd faded into the background as Harry hovered midair, his eyes fixed on the wreckage of Draco's crash. For a split second, the adrenaline of the game gave way to the basic concern for a fellow human being—Malfoy had hit the stands hard . Even with all their animosity, Harry couldn't quite ignore the sight of Draco sprawled among the broken planks of the Slytherin stands.
He sighed and adjusted his broom, descending into the stands where the Slytherins had gathered in a loose, chaotic circle around Malfoy. A few students were glaring up at Harry as he landed, while others seemed more preoccupied with Draco's condition.
Draco was groaning, propped up against a splintered support beam, his robes torn and his pale face streaked with dust. His Nimbus lay in pieces nearby, one jagged fragment still clutched in his hand.
Harry stepped closer, brushing off the tense stares of the surrounding Slytherins. "You all right, Malfoy?" he asked, his voice neutral.
Draco's eyes flicked up to meet Harry's. For a moment, there was no sign of the usual sneering arrogance, just a flicker of something raw—frustration, pain, maybe even humiliation. But it didn't last. His expression hardened, and his lip curled into a familiar sneer.
"Here to show everyone you're a saint Potter?" he spat, his voice hoarse but laced with venom. "Piss off."
Harry raised an eyebrow, his grip tightening on the Firebolt as he looked down at him. "Suit yourself," he said dryly. He turned to leave but hesitated for a beat. "Perhaps if your teammates could aim you wouldn't be in your current condition"
Draco's face twisted with fury, but he said nothing, his fingers clenching around the broken shard of his broomstick.
Harry mounted his Firebolt again, shooting a glance around the Slytherins. Their reactions were mixed—Pansy Parkinson glared at him, hissing, "Get lost Potter!" while Blaise Zabini merely crossed his arms, watching the scene unfold with detached interest, though his eyes shone with amusement. Harry noted Daphne was not in this section of the stands so must have been further away.
To Harry's surprise, one of the younger Slytherins—a third-year boy with dark hair—muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "He was trying to help." Another girl frowned at Draco, her arms folded. "He didn't have to snap at him," she said, her voice cool but pointed.
Harry shook his head and pushed off the ground, soaring back into the air to rejoin the Gryffindors. Below, the murmurs of discontent among the Slytherins grew fainter as he climbed higher.
As he flew toward his celebrating teammates, a wry smile tugged at his lips. Some things never change. Draco might have been desperate for a win, but it seemed he wasn't desperate enough to let Harry help. Typical.
The Gryffindor locker room buzzed with the electric energy of victory. The team was still shedding their Quidditch gear, their laughter and shouts of excitement ricocheting off the stone walls. Harry sat on the bench nearest the wall, peeling off his gloves with a grin he couldn't suppress. The Snitch was still in his pocket, its faint fluttering a reminder of the win.
"That was brilliant !" Ginny exclaimed, tossing her crimson jersey into her locker. Her cheeks were flushed from the game, her hair plastered to her forehead. "Harry, that dive you pulled—Malfoy looked like he was going to cry."
"Not before he tried to flatten me," Harry replied, smirking. "Honestly, I think he'd take me out of the air if he could get away with it."
"Would've been worth it if we'd got to see you send him flying in return," said Jimmy Peakes, the younger of the Gryffindor Beaters, as he ruffled his messy hair with a towel.
"I think Harry's diplomatic gesture after the match was even better," said Ginny with a sly grin. "Did you really offer to help him up? I wouldn't have bothered."
Harry shrugged. "Figured I'd be the bigger person. Didn't exactly work."
"Draco Malfoy, being gracious? Not in this lifetime," quipped Ritchie Coote, throwing his arm over Peakes' shoulders.
As the banter continued, Ron emerged from the back of the room, still grinning like a Cheshire cat. He'd had one of his better games as Keeper, saving some truly difficult shots, and the glow of triumph hadn't left his face since the final whistle.
"Ron!" Fred's voice rang out as he and George strolled into the locker room, having been spectators for the match but clearly intent on joining in the celebration. "Hero of the hour! Three incredible saves and only… what, two near-fumbles? You're practically a professional."
"Don't forget the one where he nearly fell off his broom!" George chimed in, miming an exaggerated wobble that had Peakes and Coote laughing.
Shove off," Ron retorted, though he was still grinning. "I didn't see either of you volunteering to play Keeper when we were a player short last year."
"True, true," Fred conceded, leaning against the lockers. "But we were busy with important matters—joke shop research, after all. Still, we're very proud of you." He gave an exaggerated sniff and wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.
"Proud enough to notice someone else is proud of you too," George added, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
"What are you on about?" Ron asked warily, glancing between the twins.
"Oh, nothing," Fred said, waving a hand. "Just that Lavender Brown seemed very impressed with your saves today. Did you see her clapping, George?"
"Like her hands were about to fall off," George confirmed solemnly. "Eyes glued to Ron every second. Honestly, it was adorable."
Ron turned a bright shade of red. "You're both mental," he muttered, yanking at the laces on his boots with unnecessary force.
"Ronniekins, we're just saying," Fred continued, ignoring him. "It's good to be admired, isn't it? What's next? A sweet love note passed in class?"
"Maybe a candlelit dinner in Hogsmeade," George added, grinning wickedly.
"Shut up," Ron snapped, though his ears were now the color of the Gryffindor banners.
Harry and Ginny exchanged amused glances. "Leave him alone," Harry said, chuckling. "He's got enough on his plate just keeping the Quaffles out of the goal."
"And his dignity intact," Ginny added with a smirk, earning an exaggerated gasp of betrayal from Ron.
"Well, enough chatter," Fred said, clapping his hands together. "On to the important question: when's the party starting?"
"Party?" Demelza Robins looked up from tying her hair back, her eyebrows raised.
"Of course there's a party," George said, as though it was obvious. "We won! Gryffindor tradition demands it. Common room. Snacks. Firewhisky."
"Firewhisky? With Mcgonnagal potentially walking in?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, Butterbeer for the younger ones," Fred said with a wink. "But we've got a reputation to uphold."
Ron looked horrified. "McGonagall will have kittens if she finds out!"
"McGonagall knows the drill by now," George said airily. "She's probably already put an Extinguishing Charm on the armchairs just in case. Now, all we need is for you, Captain Potter, to give the go-ahead."
Harry grinned, shaking his head. "Does it matter what I say? Fine, fine. Party in the common room tonight. Ron, just remember to practice safe se-."
"Chosen one or not I will punch you" Ron glared.
"Brilliant!" Fred declared, already heading for the door. "I'll see if I can smuggle in some snacks from the kitchens."
"And I'll bring the entertainment," George added, slinging an arm around Ron, who looked like he regretted agreeing to play Keeper in the first place.
As the locker room erupted in chatter and laughter, Harry leaned back against the bench, feeling a rare moment of pure contentment.
...