novelraw Chapter 65: Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place
Chapter 65: Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place
Chapter Sixty-Five: Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place
On the banks of the Thames, as the hour hand of Big Ben pointed to the number eight, persistent fog still stubbornly lingered over the newly awakened city.
With a soft crack, two slender, hooded figures Apparated into the narrow square. They hurried along, trying to cross the gloomy houses fronting the square.
"Draco, watch out for that rubbish!" A woman's pleasant voice came from beneath a tall hood.
Another figure nimbly leaped over the clutter piled outside the front steps, and a clear boy's voice rang out from under the hood. "It's alright, Mother, I saw it."
Finally, they stopped before an ordinary-looking house. The woman looked up to check the number and whispered to her son, "Number twelve, Grimmauld Place. This is it."
Draco followed his mother up the broken stone steps and noticed the black door, its paint chipped and covered in scratches. Narcissa gently knocked three times on the silver knocker shaped like a coiled serpent.
Several seconds later, there was noise at the door.
A man, thin as a withered leaf, peered warily at them through the crack. He had gloomy eyes and black hair that hung elegantly before his eyes. Although his face was gaunt and haggard, Draco could still tell from his features and bone structure that this face had once been very handsome.
Narcissa pulled her hood back.
Her face was very pale, her lips painted in the latest trendy fuchsia, and her carefully styled golden hair draped down her back, as if she were attending some high-class event.
"Narcissa—" The man opened the door wider, chuckled briefly, and glanced at the face of the boy under the hood behind her, noting his platinum-blond hair. "And Draco—" He turned and invited them in. "What rare guests!"
"Sirius," Narcissa greeted simply, then led her beloved son through the door.
As soon as Draco entered, he smelled a damp, musty odour, along with a sweet, rotting smell. He was quite suspicious he might be poisoned or have an allergic reaction.
"Draco, don't touch anything," Narcissa said warily, wrinkling her nose at the swirling dust.
"That's rich, coming from you," the man ahead said lazily, with a hint of sarcasm. "You've been round here plenty before."
Narcissa pursed her lips and said nothing more.
As they walked through the long hallway, old-fashioned gas lamps on the wall flickered to life with their voices and footsteps. In dim light, Draco could barely make out the darkened objects on the wall—a row of crookedly hanging portraits.
However, what concerned Draco most was the man before him. His long legs, dragging high-top leather boots, made him look like a long-legged heron as he walked wearily into the hallway's depths.
"Harry!" he called toward the end of the hall. "Look who's here!"
With a series of hurried footsteps, Harry ran out from a door in the entrance hall.
"Draco," Harry said cheerfully, "it's so good to see you!"
Then he saw Narcissa beside Draco and hesitated momentarily. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy."
Narcissa didn't put on her usual haughty demeanour. She curved her red lips into a smile that could be described as amiable, and gestured for Draco to take out the beautifully wrapped dark green box. "I heard it was your birthday a couple of days ago. Here, take this."
"You don't need to be so polite," Harry said hesitantly, glancing back at his godfather.
"It's just a small gift," Narcissa said with an unquestionable tone.
"Take it, then take Draco upstairs." Sirius smiled at Harry, suspicion on his face.
What was Narcissa Malfoy's purpose in suddenly showing up at his door? He didn't believe she was simply reminiscing. Unsolicited kindness often had ulterior motives.
Harry led Draco through two long, moth-eaten velvet curtains. Draco lifted his eyelids to examine the curtains, thinking to himself: *I wonder which curtain that foul-mouthed portrait of Walburga might be behind.*
They could faintly hear Narcissa complaining, "Sirius, this place is a hovel..."
Draco followed Harry up the dark staircase, chatting as they walked past a large umbrella stand resembling a giant leg and through a panel made of mounted house-elf heads.
"I heard that the day Sirius came to fetch you, you inflated your Muggle aunt?" Draco asked.
"Oh, you found out too? To be precise, she's not exactly my aunt—she's my cousin Dudley's aunt," Harry said quietly.
"That's rather creative, I have to say—" Draco suppressed a laugh.
"Sirius said the same thing later," Harry grinned. "He told me 'well done,' given that she'd said something insulting about my parents."
Draco shrugged.
"Even so, I'd guess they sent you a warning letter. You can't do this twice, or you'll get expelled," he reminded Harry.
"I know, I just couldn't resist. But I don't regret it. I don't think I'll get the chance again. Judging from how angry my aunt and uncle are, I probably won't have to go back there for summer holidays again," Harry said cheerfully.
"Congratulations." Draco chuckled and continued following him upstairs.
Harry was clearly familiar with the place—it seemed he'd explored this dark and gloomy mansion quite thoroughly.
The Black ancestral home was unusually filthy.
As they passed a high-ceilinged drawing room on the second floor, frantic scurrying of rats filled the air. Draco glanced into the room and saw that the olive-green walls were covered with grimy tapestries. Dust billowed from the drawing room like smoke, causing the two passersby to sneeze several times.
"I hate dust," Draco said, covering his nose. Now he was certain he was going to have an allergic reaction.
He frowned and continued climbing, listening to Harry cough amidst the creaking stairs. "Indeed, Sirius said this place hasn't been cleaned in ages. We'd better not go in—it's full of dangerous Dark artefacts. He said yesterday he wanted to find time to clean it up properly."
Finally, Harry stopped at the room on the right side of the third-floor landing, opened the door, and said, "Come in."
Draco entered the room and found it dark and damp, with a blank canvas in an ornate frame on the wall. Apart from that, there were large patches of peeling, mottled paint.
He looked out the window, but sunlight wasn't shining in completely because the window was covered with a thick layer of grime.
Several newspapers were scattered haphazardly on the table by the window. Draco could vaguely make out: "The Ministry of Magic confirmed today that Peter Pettigrew is still at large. He is probably the most wicked prisoner ever held in Azkaban..." The last words were blurred by a clump of tea stains.
"How is it?" Harry asked him, hint of smugness in his voice. "I must say, this room is much bigger than the one on Privet Drive. And, most importantly, it's mine."
However, Draco couldn't bring himself to offer the compliment.
The living conditions were completely uncomfortable for him. Even the quilts on the carved bed felt cold to the touch.
The only bright thing in the room was a framed wedding photograph of Harry's parents—placed on the only relatively clean bedside table—a recent birthday gift from Draco to Harry.
"Are you settling in comfortably here?" Draco asked casually, glancing at the unsettling bedroom environment from the corner of his eye.
"It's never been this good," Harry said with a wide grin, genuinely.
Draco gave him a faint smile.
Harry's cheerful demeanour seemed genuine. What kind of life did he lead in his Muggle home? Was it worse than this? But according to Dobby, at least it was clean and tidy.
"It seems you and your godfather get along well." After several seconds of silence, Draco made the most likely conclusion.
"He's brilliant, even better than I imagined." Harry's face lit up with undisguised joy. "He told me loads about my parents."
This remark evoked secret sympathy in Draco. This silly boy—so easily satisfied.
He weighed the box in his hand and tossed it to Harry.
"Look at my mother's gift," Draco said.
Narcissa was always very gracious when asking for favours; coincidentally, Draco knew a few of Harry's hobbies and had offered his mother suggestions on what gifts to give.
"What is this?" Harry asked as he unwrapped it.
"Gobstones. I remember you quite liked this obscure game." Draco shrugged.
"Brilliant..." Harry finally opened the package, exclaimed in delight at the solid gold Gobstones set, and said excitedly, "I've wanted to buy this for ages."
Draco smiled faintly, knowing his advice hadn't been wrong.
However, Harry's bright smile seemed somewhat out of place in the dimly lit room. He hesitated momentarily, then finally abandoned his politeness: "Doesn't the Black house have house-elves?"
"There is one—Kreacher. He's in charge of cooking our meals, but they're not very good. I don't think he likes us." Harry fiddled with the Gobstones, eyes shining, oblivious to the bluntness in Draco's question.
"I should have brought you more snacks. Didn't you ask Kreacher to clean the room?" Draco continued to ask frankly.
"Of course—he claims he's been cleaning for a month. But the house gets dirtier and darker every day," Harry shrugged, as if it were nothing new.
"This is ridiculous. Do you even know how to manage house-elves?" Draco shook his head, unable to stand the filthy environment any longer. He snapped his fingers into the air. "Dobby."
Dobby appeared before the bed with a crack.
Upon seeing Harry, its face lit up with surprise and delight, and it exclaimed in a high-pitched voice, "Honoured young master! And the great Harry Potter!"
"Clean Harry's room. Immediately, right now, the sooner the better," Draco ordered.
Dobby nodded quickly. This house-elf was quite experienced in this matter; not long ago, he'd cleaned up the two-storey house in Hogsmeade Village, clearing away all the old junk and rubbish left behind by Mrs. Mason, earning high praise from the Weasley twins.
While Dobby was cleaning the room, Draco helped Harry try out several rounds of Gobstones, both of them ending up with smelly faces. By the time they wiped their faces clean and looked around, the room had been completely transformed.
The wallpaper was spotless, the windows were immaculate, the furniture was gleaming, the blankets on the bed were soft and fluffy, and the room even smelled faintly of cologne.
Dobby stood respectfully by the door, proudly puffing out his chest. "My esteemed master and Harry Potter, is there anything else Dobby can do?"
"That's enough, that's enough—that's perfect." Harry was speechless at the completely transformed environment; he hadn't yet recovered from the shock.
"Go and clean up the drawing room upstairs for Harry," Draco said lazily. "Put away the rubbish and set the dangerous items aside."
Dobby nodded smugly and then vanished.
"This is the proper way to manage a house-elf," Draco said to Harry with satisfaction. He took out his wand, cast a Muffliato on the door, and then revealed his true purpose to Harry.
"Have you asked about his experience in Azkaban?" Draco asked seriously.
"I asked him, but he wouldn't say. He always brushed it off when we got to that point, so I didn't dare ask again," Harry said, puzzled, not understanding why Draco would bring it up.
"It's normal that he's reluctant to talk about it. Azkaban is a wizarding prison located on a remote island, far from human habitation. It's guarded by a group of terrible creatures called Dementors who feed on happiness," Draco said thoughtfully.
"Dementors?" Harry asked curiously. It was a completely new term to him.
"This is hardly a pleasant species," Draco said with disgust.
At this moment, Harry looked puzzled, completely unaware of the Dementors' horror.
Draco sighed silently to himself.
*Dementors will be your greatest fear, your Boggart.*
"Dementors are called 'soul-suckers.'" After pondering awhile, he decided to give Harry a lesson.
Harry was bound to find out about them sooner or later. Rather than being caught off guard and terrified, it was better to be mentally prepared beforehand.
He gazed at Harry's blank, bewildered face and said solemnly, "They feed on people's positive emotions. Once prisoners are imprisoned for a period, they lose all their hope, good feelings, and happy memories. The darkest, most terrible memories keep replaying in their minds. Some go mad, and some die in despair."
"No wonder Hagrid is so afraid of Azkaban." Harry's face showed thoughtful expression.
In his second year, Hagrid had almost been sent to Azkaban because he was suspected of opening the Chamber of Secrets, and he'd been terrified of it—and he was already one of the bravest people Harry had ever met.
"Most prisoners go insane within weeks. But your godfather stayed there for a full twelve years," Draco said expressionlessly.
"What did he go through there?" Harry couldn't help asking, fear and pity on his face.
In recent days, he hadn't seriously considered what Sirius had actually experienced in the wizarding prison. He'd been completely absorbed in the joy of living with his godfather; besides, Sirius was trying his best to appear indifferent.
"None of us know except him," Draco said calmly. "As you can see, he's physically weak, but he hasn't had a mental breakdown. He must have some way of resisting the Dementors, and those same methods could be used by Peter Pettigrew."
"I understand." Harry frowned, looking worried. "I'll try to talk to him again..."
Whether it was the method to resist Dementors, or his life in Azkaban... he wanted to know about his godfather, he wanted to know everything...
Their conversation was interrupted—several shrill screams, interspersed with curses, came from downstairs.
Draco's Muffliato only blocked outside prying ears, but he could still hear noises outside the room. Hearing the commotion, he and Harry hurried downstairs to the second-floor drawing room to see what was happening.
This was an unimaginable mess—two house-elves were wrestling in the dust.
An ugly house-elf twisted Dobby's ear, yelling incessantly, "Thief! Scum! You took the young master's things!"
"Kreacher, stop!" Sirius Black appeared in the doorway like a ghost, glaring impatiently at the elf. The hideous elf immediately released poor Dobby—whose neat clothes were now covered in dust.
Kreacher reluctantly bowed deeply to his master, his large nose flattened on the ground.
"Stand up straight when you speak," the man said, gaunt face filled with weariness. "What are you doing?"
"Kreacher caught the thief! He stole the young master's things!" Kreacher said angrily in a hoarse voice.
Draco glanced at it with annoyance—it was a very old-looking house-elf, naked except for a filthy rag around its waist, and its two large, bat-like ears were covered in clumps of white hair.
"Dobby is not a thief! Dobby is cleaning the drawing room for the esteemed Harry Potter at his master's behest!" Dobby glared with his big, aggrieved eyes and argued shrilly, extremely unhappy about being mistaken for a thief.
"That's right," Harry quickly told his godfather. "He was brought by Draco, and he just cleaned my bedroom..."
"Only Kreacher has the right to clean the mistress's house!" Upon hearing this, Kreacher became even more furious, displaying an insulted expression.
"You call that 'cleaning'?" Sirius said to Kreacher with a cold expression. "Don't think I don't know that every time you come out of your cupboard, you pretend to clean, but actually you're secretly taking something back so we can't throw it away."
"It wasn't stealing, it was safekeeping! Kreacher would never take anything from the young master's house from its proper place! Kreacher was safeguarding the belongings of the noble mistress and the young master!" Kreacher gritted its teeth and bowed to Sirius again, bloodshot eyes glaring fiercely at Dobby. "Unlike him—he took the young master's things, that filthy thief! The scum of house-elves!"
Even though Draco didn't want to engage with Kreacher, he couldn't help but feel offended by such a harsh rebuke.
It was accusing the Malfoys' house-elf, which, in essence, meant the Malfoys themselves. Draco, of course, was displeased. He looked at Dobby. "Did you take something?"
Dobby twitched his large ears indignantly, as if he'd been deeply humiliated. "Dobby is a good elf and never does anything immoral! Dobby was just putting away some dangerous Dark magical items from the cabinet for the noble Harry Potter to deal with!"
He pulled out a thick, large sack from behind, opened it, and shook it to show everyone present. Draco glanced inside and saw a silver snuffbox, a particularly ugly tweezer-shaped silver instrument, a music box, a bunch of antique medals, and a dusty ornate box.
"Yes, he didn't lie." Harry nodded to his godfather.
It hadn't actually stolen anything; it was simply faithfully following the commands Draco gave it.
"You did a good job." Draco softened his tone, offering gentle comfort.
Dobby tilted his head and looked up at him, looking somewhat uneasy, eyes watery.
Now that the truth had come out, there was no need for further questioning. "Right, go back to your cupboard. Don't show your face in the drawing room again without my permission," Sirius said sternly, giving Kreacher a disgusted look.
Kreacher dared not disobey the direct order.
It cast a look of deep, piercing hatred at its master, then slunk away, muttering to itself, "The young master isn't even worthy to shine the mistress's shoes! The noble mistress... what will she say if she sees Kreacher serving the young master? The young master is going to throw away the mistress and all her things; she'll be so heartbroken. Kreacher must stop him..."
Draco watched coldly from the sidelines.
He bet Kreacher had secretly taken something when he left, something that seemed to be a large gold locket with the Black emblem on the coffee table.
"I think he's gotten a bit senile from old age—he's always saying nonsensical, mad things," Sirius said to the two boys in the drawing room, softening his tone.
"Where is my mother?" Draco suddenly realized something was wrong with the number of people, and he glanced at Sirius.
"She has to go out for a bit—she'll come pick you up later to go home." Sirius tried to give him a kind smile, but his high cheekbones made the attempt less effective. "She asked me to tell you not to touch anything suspicious."
Draco glanced at him and nodded perfunctorily.
He wondered what his mother was up to.
How could she leave him alone at the Black mansion, given her temperament?
She'd left in such a hurry, without even saying goodbye, that she probably had something urgent to do.
"I've delivered the message; whether you listen or not is up to you." Sirius noticed Draco's distraction and assumed he was dissatisfied, so he casually added another sentence.
In his view, it was impossible for a normal boy of this age not to be interested in dangerous items.
Draco raised his eyebrows, no longer bothering to think about Narcissa's whereabouts, feeling astonishment rising.
Was this something a responsible parent should say? He felt that Harry's godfather wasn't much more reliable than Hagrid.
"Also, Draco, I haven't formally thanked you yet. You captured Peter Pettigrew, which saved me." At this moment, Sirius's smile seemed much more sincere.
"You're welcome." Draco looked at the gaunt young man and gave him a distant smile. "I just stumbled upon this by accident."
---
Narcissa didn't know when she'd be back. To pass time, Draco patiently helped Harry comfort the sobbing Dobby.
Then, it continued its cheerful tidying of the filthy drawing room for the great Harry Potter it spoke of. The other three people in the drawing room, who had nothing else to do, squatted before the large sack, curiously looking at the things Dobby had defined as "extremely dangerous."
Sirius Black picked up a plain-looking ornate box with a bored expression and looked at it, seemingly unable to open it at all. Draco followed suit and tried to open it, but was equally helpless with this heavy, dusty object.
It looked harmless, yet Dobby was quite certain it contained extremely powerful magic. House-elves were very sensitive to objects emanating magical energy, but Draco still doubted whether Dobby had misjudged it.
But then, Dobby's discernment was recognized. The ugly silver instrument Harry was holding suddenly crawled up his arm like a spider, trying to pierce his skin. Sirius, quick as lightning, snatched it away and grabbed a book—Draco recognized it as *Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy*—and smashed it.
This little scare actually sparked a hint of interest on Sirius's dejected face.
He tentatively touched the silver snuffbox in the corner of the sack, only to be bitten hard by it. Within seconds, an unsightly hard shell formed on his bony hand.
"It's nothing," he said, examining his hand intently. He tapped it lightly with his wand, and the skin returned to normal. "Must be Wartcap Powder inside."
Draco gradually began to understand what Harry meant when he said his godfather was "brilliant."
It was hard not to like Sirius after spending time with him. Lucius and Narcissa would never let him touch any Dark artefacts, much less watch or learn from them—even though Lucius himself was a Dark artefact enthusiast.
Sirius, however, was different. He didn't seem to be a fan of Dark artefacts, yet he didn't forbid the boys from touching them. "It's good to take a closer look. You need to learn how to deal with these things, don't you?" he said lazily to Harry, casually stunning a buzzing pixie with a book.
He was completely indifferent to these things. This made any curious boy feel relaxed and at ease, and quickly develop a liking for him.
Of course, Draco had to admit that, in terms of his sense of responsibility in raising children, if he hadn't been exceptionally talented and adept at handling those Dark magical artefacts, his behaviour could easily have been labeled "reckless and irresponsible."
But he had the right to be confident. Those dangerous Dark artefacts were as obedient as insects in his thin hands, easily controlled.
This was exactly what teenage boys idolized—the Weasley twins would absolutely adore him.
"Are you planning to throw them away?" Draco asked with interest, holding up the sack.
Dobby's diligent cleaning revealed a pile of rusty daggers, animal claws, a coiled snakeskin, a decorative crystal bottle filled with unknown liquid, and numerous dull, tarnished silver boxes.
"Of course—it's all useless now," Sirius said absently.
Draco noticed that he seemed to be thinking about something else. The evidence was that he was daydreaming as he tried to dispel the Dark magic from the old objects.
"Can you give them to me? I have a few friends who really enjoy tinkering with prank products," Draco asked, disregarding his usual reserve.
"Take them all, take them all." Sirius, preoccupied with his own thoughts, tossed a rather suspicious-looking music box back into Draco's sack, waved dismissively, and walked out of the chaotic drawing room filled with unconscious pixies, returning to his room.