A Meeting of the Minds (open to Ron and Hermione)
Brrr!
There was a chill to the air that Harry couldn't seem to fend. Twelve Grimmauld Place was never a warm retreat, but somehow it seemed colder, lonelier without its patriarch. How he missed Sirius.
Harry wasn't early, or late, or even on time for their meeting. He arrived at no specific hour, just early enough to cosy the place up a bit. Make it as homey as possible. But Harry thought, in order to do that, a total demolition and a rebuild from the ground up would be what it took to accomplish that. This might have been his house, but it was little more than a hostelry. And he was nothing more than a runaway.
The first thing Harry did was light a fire in the kitchen. He'd require lots of tea if they were going to be up to all hours of the night plotting and planning. He warmed his hands before putting a kettle on the fire, musing, as his stomach growled, that someone might think ahead and bring takeout. To his dismay, the cupboards were mostly barren, and what little he did find he turned his nose up at. Drat.
The house was church-mouse quiet. An eerie silence that reminded him that he was alone in this big, old ugly house. That was, until he thought he heard voices from upstairs. First a word here and there. Then reciprocal conversation. And then his name. Someone was talking about him. Sullying his name. In. His. House. Brandishing his wand, Harry silently crept up the stairs. And there, standing before the portrait of Mother Black was Kreacher.
"THERE HE IS! THE WRETCHED HALF-BLOOD! BESMIRCHING THE LEGACY OF BLACK! BE GONE, FILTH!"
Scissors, Harry thought. The charmed pair Molly used for sewing. Going to cut the canvas of every bloody painting in this damned house!
And just as he rounded the corner for Molly's sewing basket, he crashed into Hermione.
There was a chill to the air that Harry couldn't seem to fend. Twelve Grimmauld Place was never a warm retreat, but somehow it seemed colder, lonelier without its patriarch. How he missed Sirius.
Harry wasn't early, or late, or even on time for their meeting. He arrived at no specific hour, just early enough to cosy the place up a bit. Make it as homey as possible. But Harry thought, in order to do that, a total demolition and a rebuild from the ground up would be what it took to accomplish that. This might have been his house, but it was little more than a hostelry. And he was nothing more than a runaway.
The first thing Harry did was light a fire in the kitchen. He'd require lots of tea if they were going to be up to all hours of the night plotting and planning. He warmed his hands before putting a kettle on the fire, musing, as his stomach growled, that someone might think ahead and bring takeout. To his dismay, the cupboards were mostly barren, and what little he did find he turned his nose up at. Drat.
The house was church-mouse quiet. An eerie silence that reminded him that he was alone in this big, old ugly house. That was, until he thought he heard voices from upstairs. First a word here and there. Then reciprocal conversation. And then his name. Someone was talking about him. Sullying his name. In. His. House. Brandishing his wand, Harry silently crept up the stairs. And there, standing before the portrait of Mother Black was Kreacher.
"THERE HE IS! THE WRETCHED HALF-BLOOD! BESMIRCHING THE LEGACY OF BLACK! BE GONE, FILTH!"
Scissors, Harry thought. The charmed pair Molly used for sewing. Going to cut the canvas of every bloody painting in this damned house!
And just as he rounded the corner for Molly's sewing basket, he crashed into Hermione.