"Letting In the Light"
Title: "Letting In the Light"
Author/Artist:auntbijou
Rating PG-13
Beta softly_sweetly
Featured Character or Pairing(s): Harry/Ron
Summary: Sometimes, cleaning house can be a bigger undertaking than you anticipated.
Warnings: EWE, AU, scary situations, implied m/m relationship
Word Count: 7, 702
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters contained therein belong to J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made from this, and it is for entertainment purposes only.
Author's/Artist's notes: Written for the weasley_fest over on LJ as a gift for etsu_88. This was a lot of fun to write, though it gave me fits at first. In fact, the Husbandly One came very close to banning me from the computer for a while, until I figured out how to get around the corner I'd painted myself into!! This might be one of my favorite stories that I've written so far!
Ron Weasley really didn’t want to live at 12 Grimmauld Place. For one thing, it gave him the creeps. Not that it was haunted, because if it had simply been haunted, the place might have been somewhat bearable. No, it was more the complete emptiness of the place, and yet, one still got the sensation of someone being just around the corner, someone you could never quite catch up to or see, because really, there was no one there. No one.
Sometimes, it was voices just at the edge of hearing, a conversation that he couldn’t quite make out, and whenever he tried to move closer, whenever he tried to focus on it… it faded, like an old wireless losing the magic that powered it… No, there were no ghosts, but the old townhouse was crammed full of memories, and that was almost worse than ghosts.
Memories darkened the walls, filled the corners with black smudges like moldy growths, dusted and filmed the windows and webbed the beams of the ceilings until the place fairly groaned under the weight of them. And Ron knew a fair bit about memories. He had the scars around his arms to prove it. No, he didn’t want to live in the bloody old place, and wished he dared tell Harry he should just burn it to the ground and think about getting a new place. Maybe one of those swanky new flats being built on Diagon Alley in place of the buildings destroyed in the war. The …what was it Hermione had called them? Oh, right… lofts. Yeah. Full of light and air and no spaces crowded with old memories, because they were new. Completely blank slates, because no one had lived in them yet.
Harry, though, seemed determined to stick with the old place… because it had belonged to Sirius. "No, Ron," he’d said when Ron tentatively suggested perhaps abandoning it, or donating it to the Ministry. "It belonged to Sirius, and he left it to me. I thought he was mad at the time… but I think I’m beginning to understand." He’d turned those green eyes up to Ron and smiled, that same happy-little-boy smile that had made Ron catch his breath from the moment he’d met Harry. "It’s just a creaky old house now, but I reckon the two of us can turn it into a home. Besides," he’d said, giving Ron a sly nudge as they sprawled together on the couch in the old library, "what business do I have being an Auror if I can’t clear a little gloom and doom out of an old house?"
"You’re mental," Ron had replied, shaking his head.
"And that’s different from usual how?" Harry had asked with a challenging gleam in his eye. When Ron had snorted, Harry’d laughed. "Too chicken to help a mate out?" he’d said as he got up to crawl on top of Ron, a different sort of gleam in his eye as he used an entirely different sort of persuasion, one that Ron was all too willing to listen to, damn him.
Of course, Ron had to help Harry after that. Besides, this was Harry they were talking about; if he couldn’t do it, no one could!
Four months later, though, Ron was losing his enthusiasm and his optimism was flagging. They’d had Bill come in and help identify every cursed object in the house. Those that could be safely destroyed were dispatched quickly to Charlie in Romania, since dragon fire was the best way to get rid of such things. Those that had curses that could be broken were taken outside for Bill, Fleur, and Hermione to work on, and then put away in the Black vault at Gringotts. And those that could not, and were portable, were consigned to a special vault that Sirius had set up in the depths of the Wizarding bank during his initial attempts to clean up the house.
However, there were some curses that could not be broken, or ended so easily, because they were a part of the house itself. Bill had stood for hours in front of Mrs. Black’s shrieking portrait, casting charm after charm and studying the results before turning to his brother and a grim Harry. "I think most of the curses on this house stem from this portrait," he had said thoughtfully over the old bat’s insults and imprecations. "If this portrait could somehow be removed, it is possible that the rest of the curses would unravel."
"Filthy blood-traitors!! Half-bloods, staining the honor of the house of my fathers! The shame of it!! Would that my eldest had died aborning rather than name a half-blood whelp as heir!!!" Mrs. Black had shrieked. "Ah, t’is bitter as a serpent's poison, betrayed by my own blood, our noble house in tatters, our name lower than the most base, craven…"
"I’m sure it is," Harry’d said dryly. "Except your family name pretty much sank below contempt when everyone except Sirius decided to follow a mad half-blood named Voldemort." When her mouth had fallen open in shock, Harry’d twitched his wand and her curtains slammed shut. He’d then looked up at Bill. "Any suggestions?"
Bill's crooked smile spread easily across his scarred face, still as charming and warm as ever. "Well, it’s a pretty sure bet that whatever method she used to secure this portrait to the wall is probably up in the library. I mean, it’s far beyond the standard Sticking Charm, isn’t it?"
"What do you mean?" Ron remembered frowning as he looked between a thoughtful Harry and a thoroughly mischievous Bill. "A sticking charm’s a sticking charm, right? It’s made to keep something in place…"
"Yes," explained Bill patiently. "But a standard charm comes undone when you say the countercharm. I mean, if you use a Sticking Charm to keep your great-grandmother’s priceless teapot on the tray when you carry it into the sitting room, you want to be able to take it off again so you can lift the teapot off the tray when you get there. Otherwise, you won’t be able to pour, which sort of defeats the purpose, right?"
Ron had blinked, understanding washing over him. "Oh, I get it. And you can’t un-stick Mrs. Black using the countercharm, because she used something different."
"Exactly," Bill had said warmly, with a ruffle to Ron’s hair. Ron grimaced, remembering that Bill hadn’t had to reach so far down to do that, and that it had made Bill wince, but then smile.
And now, Ron was sitting in the kitchen, eating a makeshift lunch. Earlier, he and Harry, with help from Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and most of their friends and family, had spent hours trying to clean the place up. After most of the dark objects that could be removed had been removed, they’d been rather hopeful that the clean up would be that much easier. Only Kreacher had shaken his head mournfully and said, "Poor Master, you will soon understand. Kreacher does his best, but the house is the house, and it wants what it wants."
They had tried cleaning the drapes, tried beating them out, tried spraying the doxies, tried just picking the doxies out by hand, tried smashing the spiders, tried everything, even suggestions from Auntie Muriel’s house elf… and when they came back from a short break, the drapes were full of doxies, dust, and spiders again. Finally, in a burst of frustration, Harry had just ripped every single curtain and drapery in the house off their rods, stuffed them in bags, dragged them out into the overgrown back garden, and set them all on fire. They’d gone up in a great puff of smoke, and it was rather amusing for a while to listen to the Muggle fire trucks driving desperately around Grimmauld Square, sirens blaring while trying to find the fire, and of course, completely failing, since Number 12 was still under Fidelius.
It had been very funny, until they’d all trooped back into the house to find… all the windows covered with the same natty, dirty, doxy infested drapes and curtains. The very same damn drapes, even as they peered out the grimy windows and saw the lumpy bags still smouldering outside.
No, thought Ron as he munched disconsolately on a chip. It was hopeless. He looked at his shriveled, wrinkled fingers, the results of four hours of scrubbing the entry and hallway floors, finally getting what seemed like the grime of centuries off of them only to turn around and see the grime of centuries grow back over the gleaming wood like a fungus on fast forward. No, he wasn’t doing it again. The only room where any cleaning seemed to last was the kitchen, and Ron decided that this is where he was going to stay. He would eat here, sleep here, hopefully with Harry, and that was it.
"Master Wheezy wants another sandwich?"
Ron winced, but nodded around his mouthful. He really wished Kreacher would stop calling him that, but then he figured it was Kreacher’s left-handed way of saying he’d liked Dobby, and this was his tribute to him. Well, Ron liked to think so, anyway.
"Is Master coming down to eat, Master Wheezy?" Kreacher’s knife paused hopefully over the loaf of bread he was slicing.
Ron swallowed carefully. "No. He’s gone to one of those ‘house improving’ stores, says he wants to get a few things." He shook his head. "I don’t think we’re going to get him to give it up, Kreacher. He’s too determined to make this place over."
Kreacher sighed, shaking his head. "Master is a very powerful wizard, but even Master cannot get around Mistress’ enchantments."
"Well, it would help if you would just tell us what they were!" Ron said with a little more heat than he’d intended, even though he knew it was useless, and he didn’t need Kreacher’s mouth snapping shut, and his mournfully bulging eyes to tell him so. Kreacher could tell them nothing. It seemed along with the house elf magic that kept house elves from telling their owners’ secrets, Mrs. Black had added something that kept the elderly house elf from telling them anything useful about how to reverse any of the remaining curses on the house.
The front door slammed, Mrs. Black started screaming, and Ron sat up.
"Ron! Ron, where are you?" Harry sounded excited.
Ron put his sandwich down and made sure he had no crumbs on his shirt or his pants. Not that he was a girl or anything, but he did try to make an effort not to have food on his front. May as well save it for the one room that could actually be cleaned, he told himself as he hurried through the door and into the entry hall. He believed it, too. Sort of.
Harry was standing in front of Mrs. Black’s portrait, bag in hand as he listened to her insults and wailings. He turned to look at Ron, and Ron stood up straighter at the look in those green eyes. Harry looked…exalted, somehow. He was almost laughing, looking amused at the, "Filthy half-blood, tainting the house of my fathers with your filthy blood, child of a filthy mud-blood, mongrel staining our honor," that she was screaming, instead of annoyed.
"Harry?" he said, wanting to snatch Harry up, pull him close as if some of that excitement, that … daring could rub off on him.
Harry grinned at Ron. "I wanted you to be here for this," he said with barely contained glee. "See, I’m pretty sure I found the spell book Mrs. Attila the Hun here used, and there was no countercharm. So I went to that Muggle store to see if I could find any solvents, thinking I could just, I dunno, dissolve the thing off the wall or something. Then, I was walking past that funny old framing shop around the corner and they were taking this huge painting down off the wall, right by the shop window, and I could see the back of it. It’s a lot like this painting, about the same size and all, and I realized something."
"Yeah?" said Ron, frowning. Dissolving? Maybe Harry had finally gone round the bend, maybe he should be prepared to knock Harry out and call Hermione, see if they could get him to go to the Burrow for a bit of a rest.
"Yeah," said Harry, looking back up at the painting. "You see, this painting… only the frame is touching the wall. All this stuff in the middle, the actual painted part? The … what is it… canvas?"
"Yeah?"
"It’s recessed inwards, just like it is in the front." Harry actually touched the canvas, right over the old bat’s face, and she threw herself backwards, as if afraid Harry was going to punch her or something, which was ridiculous, because she was just a painting. "That means the only part of this panting that is actually stuck to the wall… is the frame."
"Harry," said Ron, starting to catch on.
"Exactly," said Harry, his grin nearly incandescent. "So I went and bought this," and he plunged his hand into the bag, pulling out a carpet knife. Mrs. Black stared at it, her mouth falling open, and Harry laughed. "Never thought of this, did you, Mrs. Black? Wizards… always missing the obvious…" His thumb rolled the knob, advancing the blade several clicks, and he stepped toward the painting.
"Now, now, Mr. Potter," Mrs. Black said nervously. "There is no need to be hasty…"
"Really?" said Harry, summoning a stool and stepping up on it. "My, how your tone has changed. Not even a minute ago, I was the filthy half-blood, and now I’m Mr. Potter? Too little, too late, you old cow." He pressed the tip of the blade into the canvas, and it made a satisfying ripping sound as he started to pull it down.
"How dare you!" she shouted. "How dare you lay your filthy hands on me, you… you… you… mongrel!! You… you excrescent waste of blood!! Stop! Stop!! Kreacher! Save your mistress!!"
Kreacher was standing in the doorway, grasping his ears and twisting them, his face sagging in dolorous lines. "Kreacher is most sorry, Mistress, but Kreacher is obeying Master. Kreacher is not hearing you, Mistress." Fat tears slid down his cheeks as he stared up at Harry adoringly. "Kreacher is listening only to Master now."
"Kreacher!!" she wailed as Harry dragged the blade down the right side of the frame, cutting the canvas just inside the wood. "Kreacher, how could you betray me this way??"
The old house elf twisted his ears and wept, but his eyes were fastened on Harry. "You is doing the right thing, Master. Don’t stop. Don’t stop," he moaned.
Harry finished his cut, and started on the left side. "There is no one to stop me, Mrs. Black. I am the master of this house now. Sirius left it to me. If you had just accepted that…" and he stopped, looking up. "What was that?"
Ron frowned. "What?"
"That sound… did you groan, Ron?"
Ron stared up at the ceiling, which was bulging down toward them as something black seemed to drip from the center toward the floor. "It wasn’t me… uh… Harry…"
Harry jerked the knife as it seemed to stick in the canvas. "What, Ron? I’m a little busy here…" he grunted as he tugged on the blade, trying to force it through whatever was blocking it.
"Look… up."
Harry turned and looked up as a pool of darkness seemed to coil around the center of the bulge in the ceiling. "Oh… shit…"
"Be careful, Master!" shouted Kreacher as a wind seemed to whip up from the floor, and with a massive sound of rending wood, the ceiling split and belched out shadows, shadows that whipped around the room and began to grow from the corners, from the beams, from all the stains on the wallpaper and rug, spreading like ink spilled from a well, thickening the grime on the windows. The wind that tore through the room whipped up the curtains, sending doxies shrieking with joy into the air. It swept out the corners, spreading dust in a thickening cloud that choked them as Ron staggered toward Harry, only knowing he had to protect him, somehow. Cobwebs from the ceiling seemed to thicken and grab at him before he finally made it to where Harry balanced precariously on his stool, hanging onto the knife as he fought to pull it through the canvas. Ron reached up to grasp Harry by the waist, steadying him as he braced the stool with his legs.
"I’ve got you, Harry!" he shouted over the noise of the wind. "You keep working…"
"No, Ron!" Harry shouted back, grabbing the yellow handle of the carpet knife with both hands. "You have to protect us both! You need to face into this, with your back to me! Get your wand out, Ron, I don’t dare let go of this knife!"
"Right!" said Ron, and he let go, though he braced his legs against the stool again as he turned to face the room, pulling out his wand. Of course, he immediately wished he hadn’t when he saw what was facing him.
The shadows had gathered, with the dust, the webs, the doxies, the spiders, the very filth of the old house, to manifest something from his worst nightmares. Aragog had nothing on the monstrous nightmare that seemed to grow with every moment that Ron stood there, trembling as he forced his hand to maintain its grip on his wand. He swallowed hard even as he squinted into the storm of dirt and dust. Merlin, why did it have to be spiders? Thousands of spiders, all clumping together to make one dirty great spider, with what looked like very sharp spikes on its back and on every joint of its large, long, too many legs!!
"It isn’t so easy, is it, half-blood?" Walpurga Black cackled over the storm. "My late, unlamented eldest son may have left you this house, but you will never be its master! Not so long as my portrait remains in it! And you will never remove it, because this house won’t let you!!" Her wild laughter was carried along the wind, which swept up ornaments and knick-knacks from the shelves and tables and sent them crashing into the two young men who half-crouched against the wall.
"Protego!" shouted Ron, and jerked when the spider, which had grown twice its enormous size in the last five minutes, scuttled toward him. "Arania Exume!!" he shouted out of pure instinct. It didn’t send the spider flying as it had the acromantulae in the Forbidden Forest, but it did create a sort of… hole in the giant body, a hole which was filled very quickly by scuttling forms that Ron didn’t want to think about any more than he had to.
Wild laughter almost made him turn, and he heard Mrs. Black cry, "Yes, yes, soon my spider will separate your filthy blood traitor lover from you! It will take him and feed him on his worst nightmares, wrapping him in them before it feeds on his terror. It will drag him to the basement, where his fears will keep it alive and growing for years, and it will terrorize this neighborhood for a century! It will grow fat on the filthy blood of Muggles and Mudbloods as the blood traitor’s nightmares sustain it!!"
"No!" shouted Harry, and Ron felt his legs jerk against his back. "I will cut you from this frame! I will free this house of your hold on it!"
"You won’t!" laughed the woman in the painting. "You won’t!! Sirius never could, and thought I hated him, though I spurned him, I must admit that he was powerful, he was clever, and well-versed in Dark Magic, though he turned his back on it. If he couldn’t remove me from this house, what makes you think you can?"
Ron watched the spider, but kept his back pressed firmly against Harry’s body, both supporting him, and protecting him. "Don’t worry about me, Harry," he shouted. "I’m not leaving you!"
"Ron, you protect yourself! Get away if you can!" Harry shouted. "I can do this…"
"You can’t do it alone, Harry," Ron shouted back, squinting as he watched the spider moving around them, testing the shield spell Ron had thrown up. He couldn’t help but feel the spider was far too intelligent, able to see the gleam of many black eyes on its head, watching the places where the detritus the wind threw up struck the shield, and where objects slipped through to either hit them, or shatter against the wall. "I’m not leaving you, not again!"
He felt Harry’s sudden stillness, then felt a hand slip down to grip his shoulder. "I never blamed you for that, Ron, not really," he heard Harry say. "If you get a chance to run for it, then go! Bring back help!"
But Ron knew that if he somehow did manage to run, there was very little chance he’d actually manage to escape the house. Because it wouldn’t let him go. It wouldn’t let either of them go. Either Harry won… or they were both going down fighting. He gripped his wand tighter as his stomach roiled… then settled. It would be him and Harry. And that was the way it should be, the way it had always been. Harry fighting, and Ron at his back. His Second. His best mate. He swallowed, and nodded, though there was no one to see him but the spider. Mind made up, Ron straightened and braced himself against Harry’s legs. "Help is already here, Harry. I’m here. I’ll handle the spider. Now cut that damn portrait out, and let’s get this over with!"
There was another squeeze on his shoulder before Harry’s hand moved away, and he told himself the wind was making his eyes water, not Harry’s confidence and love. Because that squeeze held a wealth of silent messages, messages he couldn’t concentrate on right now, but he heard them. He heard them all.
"You think my spider is the only thing you have to worry about?" Mrs. Black said, her voice filled with amusement. "What are they teaching at Hogwarts these days?? Believe me, my spider golem is the least of your worries!!"
Harry’s body jerked behind Ron, and he fought the urge to turn and look at him, trusting that it was Harry’s efforts with the knife that was causing that movement, not whatever else Walpurga was throwing at them. "Damn… knife…won’t… move!" gritted Harry.
"Oh, has the blade gone dull already?" she mocked. "My, my, the quality of Muggle made items is shoddy, indeed! And so undependable!! Tsk, tsk!!"
"I am an idiot," Ron heard Harry say, and looked up in time to see Harry jerk the knife free. He pulled a pair of pliers out of his back pocket. "Keep me steady, Ron!"
Ron leaned back against Harry, forgetting the spider momentarily in his curiosity. Harry used the pliers to grasp the end of the blade, and he bent it down with a sharp twist of his wrist. Ron heard the snap even through the wind, and watched Harry turn the knob with his thumb, extending the blade again. "What is that?" Ron shouted.
Harry grinned. "Breakaway blade. When it gets dull, you break the end off, and you’ve got a brand new sharp blade!" Then his eyes widened. "Ron, look out!"
The spider had found a weak point in the shield spell, and a long, sharp leg thrust between them. Ron got a much closer look at it than he ever wanted, and nearly screamed when he saw what it was made up of. Hundreds and hundreds of the fat spiders that had filled the drapes, built the webs that twisted through the chandeliers, haunted the cupboards, or hid in corners, teemed over each other as they held the form of the massive spider’s leg. And between them, Ron could see doxies peering out with their odd, silvery eyes, their sharp teeth glinting in what little light managed to come through the storm and the filth-streaked windows. It suddenly dawned on Ron that whatever venom this… golem spider, as Mrs. Black had called it, produced would be a mix of spider venom and doxy toxins, a thought that made him shudder even as he moved hastily back from the leg, and then he felt something touch his back that made him scream. Because …it wasn’t the spider.
"Ron? Oh…fu… Ron!!! Ron!!!"
His eyes were squeezed shut as he gripped his wand, fighting down his fear. "Keep cutting, Harry!" he shouted. "Keep cutting that bitch out!! I’ll handle this!!" Sure, you will, said a sarcastic voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Ginny. Shut up, he told the voice, and forced himself to turn and face… whatever it was.
It wasn’t a Dementor, he told himself firmly, even as the hysterical part of him screamed frantically that it was. Because, though it was tall, dark, and hooded, though it was cold and bleak and terrifying… it didn’t make him feel despair. It wasn’t taking his happiness away, because… it wasn’t empty. Ron held his ground, and aimed his wand at the spider again. "Arania Exume Maxima!" he shouted, and a blast of light shot from his wand to strike the spider, knocking three of its legs away and half of its head. It struggled to reform, and he turned his attention back to the Not-Dementor. It was looming over him, and he could hear something that sounded like many voices all talking at once, some shouting, some crying, some screaming in pain, some laughing, and some singing half-mad songs… and even though it made Ron want to scream and grab at his head, made him want to moan, "Too much, too much…" he didn’t. Because he had done this before, though not quite on this scale, and that told him exactly what this thing was, this and the others that were forming behind it. Memories. The memories that had always haunted this house, filling its walls and corners, suffocating some of the rooms and crowding the halls, the memories had taken shape, taken form, and risen to defend the house.
This, Ron knew how to deal with, thanks to his experiences fifth year in the Hall of Mysteries. The old Healer who had treated him at Madame Pomfrey’s request had told him during the worst patch of it, "My boy, memories can’t hurt you. Not unless you let them hurt you. They might drive you a little crazy, but they won’t hurt you. And these memories aren’t even yours." He’d taken Ron’s hands in his, forcing Ron to focus on his odd little wrinkled face. "It is rather like what you have to do with a Patronus. But, instead of a happy memory, you must focus on a memory that is uniquely yours. Yours and yours alone, one that you feel very strongly about, that you would protect with your last breath. A memory that is so strong, so woven through every fibre of your being that it is impossible that it could ever be anyone else’s. You must focus on that memory, make it the shield around your personality, around your very soul, and these other memories, these invaders, will shatter and fall away. They will fade from your mind, leaving only you and yours behind."
He couldn’t use the memory he had used then, because he had changed a great deal in the years since that time. But he did have a memory that he could use, a memory that was uniquely his, one that was so strong, so powerful… He nodded as he glared at the looming shadow-shape. "Enjoy it while you can, mate," he said, smiling. "Because you won’t enjoy this long." He plunged his wand arm into the midsection, and the voices nearly overwhelmed him, pictures flooding his mind, perspectives skewing as he gritted his teeth.
"No, Mumma, no, Mumma, nooooo!" a little boy with dark hair and grey eyes sobbed as hard hands lifted him up by the wrists. "I’ll be good, I’ll be good, Mumma, please, don’t… don’t hex me, Mumma!!"
"You’ve been a very bad boy, Sirius," Ron said to the child. "It’s necessary for you to learn. You cannot talk to Muggles. You cannot allow them to contaminate you with their filth." He raised his wand, smiling in a gross parody of affection at the sobbing boy. "You’ll thank me when you’re older…"
Ron retched, but held onto his own memory as a shield, and felt the thing falter. It struggled, throwing more at him.
A whip rose and struck his shoulders, and he bit his lip hard as he held in his cries, refusing to give in as it rose and struck him over and over again. "How many times have I told you, Bella?" said a man’s voice… his father. "How many times? You may not experiment on the house elves! They are expensive to replace!! How dare you defile the knives I gave you with their blood?"
He twisted his hand, then focused on his memory as he flicked his wand, and shouted, "Recordatio Deleo!"
The shadow memory distorted, then shattered, caught in the winds and blown to the far corners. He turned to the next one.
"I’ve got two sides down now, Ron! Only the top and bottom to go!" he heard Harry shout over the wind.
"No!" screamed Mrs. Black. "You won’t finish! I won’t let you!"
A memory shadow tried to reach and grab Harry, but Ron thrust both his arms up into it, pushing as he focused on his memory, his jaw clenched with determination. A small vase crashed into the wall next to him, the tiny shards driven into his cheek and neck by the spell winds, but he ignored them, focusing on his wand hand, and keeping the shadow at bay.
He was falling backward, clinging to the banister as his mother screamed at him. "You’d choose a Potter over your family?? You’d spurn the place your father has earned for you at the Dark Lord’s side? How dare you?? You are no son of mine!! Out! OUT!!!"
"Recordatio Deleo!" he shouted, even as his heart broke for young Sirius.
Another shadow gone, and another took its place, even as the spider, recovered now, began to approach again. Ron kept on, while Harry broke off another blade and kept cutting. Ron fought the rush of memories Regulus Black, looking small and his face pinched, squaring his shoulders as he stood in front of his mirror, firming his jaw as he resolved to take his brother’s place, even as his heart ached, and he fought his feelings of abandonment with his own. Over and over, he chanted the Memory Obliterating spell until he was hoarse, Walpurga Black, weeping as she beheaded her elderly house elf, her favorite, the one who knew exactly how to do her hair, and make her tea, and had been with her since childhood, as her husband stood over her, wand trained on her back, keeping them away from Harry, Regulus, pinned against the wall by Rudolphus Lestrange, one big hand around his throat, the other sliding up his thigh, until Lucius Malfoy came and hexed him, freeing the teenager who immediately fled, only to be cornered by Lucius later to "show his gratitude," firing Impedimenta! and Repello! at the spider to force it to keep its distance. It was exhausting, he was very small, and very hungry, curled on his bed and staring out the window, looking up at the moon in the night sky, thinking what a very friendly face She had, and wishing it was the face of a mother who loved him, only the firm press of Harry against his back giving him the strength to continue, that and his armoring memory, "No, Walpurga," Arcturus Black said as he glared down at her, "you will learn your place. You are chattel. Property. I may have taken your family’s name in order to keep the line from dying out, but let there be no doubt, I am Master here…", and the sound of the canvas ripping and tearing under Harry’s knife.
"I’m almost done with the third cut, Ron!" he heard Harry shout, and then heard him gasp when a statuette smashed into his shoulder. "I’m all right!" he said before Ron could turn. "I’m still cutting!"
"I’m still fighting!" Ron shouted back and dispatched another shadow memory.
"No!! I won’t let you succeed!!" shrieked the portrait. "You will not win! This is my house! MY house, and no half-blood mongrel with delusions of grandeur will take it from me!"
"Oh yeah?" he heard Harry grunt as he forced the blade through the canvas, while a crystal ball smashed into the wall barely two inches from Harry’s head while Ron fought another memoryNarcissa was so beautiful, so lovely as she stood in the library, looking through the books. Of all his aunts, Regulus loved Andromeda best, but that didn’t stop him from watching beautiful, cold Narcissa, so distant, so unknowable, and so …, trying not to notice the spider had managed to get on their left side, and was getting past his curses and hexes. Harry broke off another bit of the blade and it chimed as it hit the glass that was embedded in the wall. "Funny, but one of my delusions of grandeur is defeating the wizard you tried so hard to force Sirius to follow. And that’s three sides. Only one left!"
Ron was getting so tired. He’d held onto his dearest memory, and it shone in his mind, clearer than ever, stronger than he’d ever made it before. But between standing against the wind, dodging the missiles it flung at them, and trying to keep the spider away, Ron was stretched to his limits. He fired a Reducto! at the spider, not caring if it destroyed something, since everything was pretty much being trashed by the winds and the shadows, nearly chanting under his breath, "C’mon, Harry, c’mon, Harry, c’mon!" He never doubted that Harry could do it. He knew Harry could do it. And he would continue to protect Harry to allow him that chance, as long as he could. A young woman slipped down the stairs, wand in hand, trunk in her pocket. A letter was on her vanity, a letter that it had taken her hours to write. Freedom and love lay just beyond that door, and all she had to do was go through it. The house was dark and quiet, it breathed oppression, pressing in on her from all sides, and she shuddered as she forced her heavy feet down the stairs. One by one, step by step, until she was at the door. Only Kreacher stood there blocking her way, and she froze, waiting for him to raise the alarm. But he only touched the door and opened it for her, making her gasp at his loyalty, knowing it was only his touch on the door that kept it from screaming her escape. She touched his forehead gently, and fled out the door, eyes only for the young man waiting in the park across the street, brooms in hand, and the freedom he offered her…
Ron gasped, trying to clear his head of that last memory, heard Harry’s warning cry, and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Then he screamed as what felt like thousands and thousands of spiders were flowing over his shoulder and up into his hair, his body shuddering as he flailed, and fought, slapping himself, clawing at his own face as doxies bit into his arms and neck…
"Ron!"
It was Harry’s voice, furious and calm, and Ron heard him shout, "Lumos Solem Maxima!!" and the light of what felt like a thousand suns was erupting through the shadows, frying the spiders, driving the doxies shrieking and tumbling into the wind, and he felt Harry’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him up. "Only a little more, Ron… can you hold on?"
"Do it, Harry!" he said shakily, wondering if Harry could even hear him. "Do it! Don’t worry about me! Finish the old bitch off!"
Harry squeezed Ron’s shoulder again, then let go, and he heard the snap of the pliers on the blade again. "This is it, Walpurga Black!" Harry shouted. "Last chance. Remove the curse on this house, and I’ll repair your portrait, and hang you in one of the bedrooms."
"Fool!" she spat. "Never! I will never remove it! You will never be Master of this house!!"
"It’s your choice!" said Harry, and with a jerk, severed the final bit of the canvas.
The wind became a maelstrom, almost a hurricane, and Harry just managed to grab the canvas and stuff it into his shirt before sliding to huddle with Ron on the floor. Ron was shaking and shivering, fighting nausea as he realized the toxins from all the bites he’d gotten were starting to affect him. He nearly screamed when a long, spindly hand grasped his wrist. He opened his eyes to see Kreacher bent nearly to the floor.
"Masters must follow Kreacher," he bellowed to them.
Ron grabbed Harry, tugging at him, and pointed at the house elf. Harry nodded, and the two of them began to crawl after him. He led them into the kitchen, where pots and pans were flinging themselves around the room, and crockery was smashed everywhere. The floor crunched under their hands and knees, cutting and slicing palms and clothes alike, but they followed the elderly house elf, not to the main hearth, which was empty and cold, but to a smaller, more sheltered hearth near the far corner, where a small fire still managed to burn. It took only a quick glimpse to realize Kreacher had managed to shield it somehow with house elf magic.
"Here!" Kreacher said, nudging Harry toward it. "Master must burn it!"
"What?" Harry grasped the canvas in his shirt. "But, I cut it out, this storm will die down…"
"Master must burn it!" Kreacher said stubbornly. "It’s the only way!"
Harry grimaced, and looked at Ron. Ron nodded, teeth chattering. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and close his eyes… but he couldn’t. "Go on, Harry!" he managed to say. "Go on, burn it!"
Harry pulled the portrait out. "No! No!" she was screaming. "You can’t! You won’t!"
"Watch me," he said, his green eyes flashing, and his face stern. He rolled the canvas tightly, and fed it into the fire, making sure it didn’t fly out, or roll away, until he had to shove it in or get burned.
A scream rose up from the burning roll, a scream of despair and fury, the entire house writhed, and then, with a massive shudder, the wind reached a crescendo… and then slowly faded. The pots and pans fell to the floor with clangs and clattering that made their teeth ache, glass shattered across the floor, and there were thuds and crashes from all over the house. The two men on the floor held still, holding their breaths, waiting. Kreacher sat up, looking around from behind his fingers, and then he croaked, "Oh… look, Masters… look."
Light was slowly filling the kitchen, filling it from dingy windows that were rapidly losing the film of grease and dirt that had coated them for years. The dark smudges that had covered wall and floor, even in this, the cleanest of the rooms in the old house, were receding, and fading even as they looked. Kreacher got up and hobbled to the door that led out into the back garden, opening it to let daylight stream in, and in that hopeful, ordinary light, the kitchen looked almost… cheerful.
"Well, will you look at that!" said Harry, wonderingly.
Ron’s response was to throw up, then faint.
Someone was wiping his face with a blessedly cool, damp cloth. And he heard someone else, someone who was standing too far away to be doing the wiping say, "He should be fine now. I’ve given him the anti-toxin potions, and he’ll be dozy for a while, but he’s taken no lasting harm, Mr. Potter. Keep him in bed for a few days, and let your friends do the cleaning up."
"Thank you, Madame Pomfrey. And thank you for coming so quickly," he heard Harry say.
"Oh, that’s quite all right, Mr. Potter, but let’s not make a habit of this. After all, I am the Matron at Hogwarts, I can’t continue to make house calls, even if it is for one of Hogwarts' more famous students." The Matron’s voice was tart, but he could hear the underlying affection that told him she would come no matter how many times Harry called, no matter where from. And that was oddly relieving to him.
"I’m sorry, Madame Pomfrey, but when Ron fainted, I sort of lost my head, and you were the only one I could think of." Harry sounded embarrassed.
"There, there, dear, he’s going to be just fine. He should be waking soon. I’ll just go see to your house elf, and I’ll leave a few potions for Mr. Weasley and be on my way. No, no, I’ll see myself out. You stay with Mr. Weasley. It wouldn’t do for him to wake up alone."
He heard her departing footsteps, and waited until the door closed to open his eyes and catch Harry’s hand in his.
"You’re awake!"
Ron grinned sleepily. "You panicked?"
Harry flushed. "After all we had just gone through, and you just… fainted there at the end!"
"Can you think of a better time, mate?" he asked as he pulled on Harry’s hand, pulling him closer.
Harry smiled as he leaned in, and answered the tacit bid for a caress, stroking Ron’s cheek. "You have a point."
Ron smiled, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of Harry’s fingers stroking across his cheekbones, and then up over his eyebrows. "So… what happened?"
"Well, after Mrs. Black’s portrait burned, the storm died down, and then you passed out. I called Madame Pomfrey and she treated you from the effects of spider and doxy bites." He climbed into the bed, lying next to Ron and smoothing the hair away from his face. "She called Bill, who came over and said the curse on the house was gone. And you know what?"
"What?" asked Ron lazily, nearly purring under Harry’s caresses that were now moving down his neck.
"All that cleaning we did?"
"Mmmm… yeah?"
"Turns out it really worked. It’s just… the curse made everything look grimy and dirty. You know the damned curtains and drapes are gone?" Harry almost laughed. "They really did burn up that day."
"No way!" said Ron, arching his neck.
"Oh, very much way," said Harry, smiling. His finger traced Ron’s clavicle slowly. "Of course, everything’s been trashed, but the windows and floors are clean. We can sweep out all the broken stuff… and start all over again…"
"Mmmmm… that’s nice," said Ron dreamily.
"Ron?"
"Mmmmm?"
Harry’s fingers slid back up to his forehead, stroking gently in just the way Ron liked, soothing and comforting. "Tell me… the memory you used to keep those things from overwhelming you…"
"Yeah?" he said slowly.
"What was it?"
Ron felt himself go red from the tips of his ears to the tips of his toes. "Well… Harry… you see…"
"It’s okay, Ron," Harry said softly. "You don’t have to tell me…"
He caught Harry’s hand in his and opened his eyes. "It was that night in the Forest of Dean. When you had dived into that pond after Gryffindor’s sword?"
Harry frowned, puzzled. "Er… yeah?"
Ron sighed. "I dove in after you?"
"Yeah?" Harry said, a bit more slowly, though he still looked puzzled.
"That was the first time I ever really held you in my arms," he said, blushing even harder. "Up till then, we’d hugged, but we’d never really… well, you know, we’re guys, we don’t… hug… exactly." He looked at Harry’s hand, at the long, tapered fingers, and the faint lines of the scar on the back. I must not tell lies, it said, and Ron took it to heart. "But that night, I dove in after you, and I wrapped my arms around you, and my first thought was that you were so small, so thin, so… fragile. And I hauled you out of the water, and we were lying there for a moment on the snow, and I had pulled you close, trying to warm you up, and I suddenly realized that… I liked it."
"You liked it?" Harry was grinning now, his fingers lacing through Ron’s.
"Yeah, you prat," laughed Ron. "I did. I liked having you in my arms, and I knew that’s pretty much where I always wanted you to be. And then you took in a deep breath and flailed, and I was so glad, because you had scared me to death. I thought how strong you were, how strong and how much… how much…."
"Yeah?" said Harry softly, encouragingly.
"How much I needed you." He pulled Harry’s hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. "My memory, Harry," he said, yawning. "Mine, and mine alone."
Harry watched him as he dozed off, stroking the bright hair with his free hand. He smiled as he bent to kiss his forehead. "Yeah, Ron," he said quietly. "Me, too. Me, too."
"Harry?" The voice was groggy, and Ron's eyes were still closed.
"Yeah?"
"Don't ever wanna see another spider… s'long as I live…never…"
Harry laughed softly and settled himself in more comfortably. "No more spiders, Ron. Ever."
Ron's only answer was to wrap his arm around Harry, pulling him close, breathing in his reassuring scent as he fell into a deep sleep, a sleep filled with light, laughter… and Harry.
Author/Artist:auntbijou
Rating PG-13
Beta softly_sweetly
Featured Character or Pairing(s): Harry/Ron
Summary: Sometimes, cleaning house can be a bigger undertaking than you anticipated.
Warnings: EWE, AU, scary situations, implied m/m relationship
Word Count: 7, 702
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters contained therein belong to J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made from this, and it is for entertainment purposes only.
Author's/Artist's notes: Written for the weasley_fest over on LJ as a gift for etsu_88. This was a lot of fun to write, though it gave me fits at first. In fact, the Husbandly One came very close to banning me from the computer for a while, until I figured out how to get around the corner I'd painted myself into!! This might be one of my favorite stories that I've written so far!
Ron Weasley really didn’t want to live at 12 Grimmauld Place. For one thing, it gave him the creeps. Not that it was haunted, because if it had simply been haunted, the place might have been somewhat bearable. No, it was more the complete emptiness of the place, and yet, one still got the sensation of someone being just around the corner, someone you could never quite catch up to or see, because really, there was no one there. No one.
Sometimes, it was voices just at the edge of hearing, a conversation that he couldn’t quite make out, and whenever he tried to move closer, whenever he tried to focus on it… it faded, like an old wireless losing the magic that powered it… No, there were no ghosts, but the old townhouse was crammed full of memories, and that was almost worse than ghosts.
Memories darkened the walls, filled the corners with black smudges like moldy growths, dusted and filmed the windows and webbed the beams of the ceilings until the place fairly groaned under the weight of them. And Ron knew a fair bit about memories. He had the scars around his arms to prove it. No, he didn’t want to live in the bloody old place, and wished he dared tell Harry he should just burn it to the ground and think about getting a new place. Maybe one of those swanky new flats being built on Diagon Alley in place of the buildings destroyed in the war. The …what was it Hermione had called them? Oh, right… lofts. Yeah. Full of light and air and no spaces crowded with old memories, because they were new. Completely blank slates, because no one had lived in them yet.
Harry, though, seemed determined to stick with the old place… because it had belonged to Sirius. "No, Ron," he’d said when Ron tentatively suggested perhaps abandoning it, or donating it to the Ministry. "It belonged to Sirius, and he left it to me. I thought he was mad at the time… but I think I’m beginning to understand." He’d turned those green eyes up to Ron and smiled, that same happy-little-boy smile that had made Ron catch his breath from the moment he’d met Harry. "It’s just a creaky old house now, but I reckon the two of us can turn it into a home. Besides," he’d said, giving Ron a sly nudge as they sprawled together on the couch in the old library, "what business do I have being an Auror if I can’t clear a little gloom and doom out of an old house?"
"You’re mental," Ron had replied, shaking his head.
"And that’s different from usual how?" Harry had asked with a challenging gleam in his eye. When Ron had snorted, Harry’d laughed. "Too chicken to help a mate out?" he’d said as he got up to crawl on top of Ron, a different sort of gleam in his eye as he used an entirely different sort of persuasion, one that Ron was all too willing to listen to, damn him.
Of course, Ron had to help Harry after that. Besides, this was Harry they were talking about; if he couldn’t do it, no one could!
Four months later, though, Ron was losing his enthusiasm and his optimism was flagging. They’d had Bill come in and help identify every cursed object in the house. Those that could be safely destroyed were dispatched quickly to Charlie in Romania, since dragon fire was the best way to get rid of such things. Those that had curses that could be broken were taken outside for Bill, Fleur, and Hermione to work on, and then put away in the Black vault at Gringotts. And those that could not, and were portable, were consigned to a special vault that Sirius had set up in the depths of the Wizarding bank during his initial attempts to clean up the house.
However, there were some curses that could not be broken, or ended so easily, because they were a part of the house itself. Bill had stood for hours in front of Mrs. Black’s shrieking portrait, casting charm after charm and studying the results before turning to his brother and a grim Harry. "I think most of the curses on this house stem from this portrait," he had said thoughtfully over the old bat’s insults and imprecations. "If this portrait could somehow be removed, it is possible that the rest of the curses would unravel."
"Filthy blood-traitors!! Half-bloods, staining the honor of the house of my fathers! The shame of it!! Would that my eldest had died aborning rather than name a half-blood whelp as heir!!!" Mrs. Black had shrieked. "Ah, t’is bitter as a serpent's poison, betrayed by my own blood, our noble house in tatters, our name lower than the most base, craven…"
"I’m sure it is," Harry’d said dryly. "Except your family name pretty much sank below contempt when everyone except Sirius decided to follow a mad half-blood named Voldemort." When her mouth had fallen open in shock, Harry’d twitched his wand and her curtains slammed shut. He’d then looked up at Bill. "Any suggestions?"
Bill's crooked smile spread easily across his scarred face, still as charming and warm as ever. "Well, it’s a pretty sure bet that whatever method she used to secure this portrait to the wall is probably up in the library. I mean, it’s far beyond the standard Sticking Charm, isn’t it?"
"What do you mean?" Ron remembered frowning as he looked between a thoughtful Harry and a thoroughly mischievous Bill. "A sticking charm’s a sticking charm, right? It’s made to keep something in place…"
"Yes," explained Bill patiently. "But a standard charm comes undone when you say the countercharm. I mean, if you use a Sticking Charm to keep your great-grandmother’s priceless teapot on the tray when you carry it into the sitting room, you want to be able to take it off again so you can lift the teapot off the tray when you get there. Otherwise, you won’t be able to pour, which sort of defeats the purpose, right?"
Ron had blinked, understanding washing over him. "Oh, I get it. And you can’t un-stick Mrs. Black using the countercharm, because she used something different."
"Exactly," Bill had said warmly, with a ruffle to Ron’s hair. Ron grimaced, remembering that Bill hadn’t had to reach so far down to do that, and that it had made Bill wince, but then smile.
And now, Ron was sitting in the kitchen, eating a makeshift lunch. Earlier, he and Harry, with help from Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and most of their friends and family, had spent hours trying to clean the place up. After most of the dark objects that could be removed had been removed, they’d been rather hopeful that the clean up would be that much easier. Only Kreacher had shaken his head mournfully and said, "Poor Master, you will soon understand. Kreacher does his best, but the house is the house, and it wants what it wants."
They had tried cleaning the drapes, tried beating them out, tried spraying the doxies, tried just picking the doxies out by hand, tried smashing the spiders, tried everything, even suggestions from Auntie Muriel’s house elf… and when they came back from a short break, the drapes were full of doxies, dust, and spiders again. Finally, in a burst of frustration, Harry had just ripped every single curtain and drapery in the house off their rods, stuffed them in bags, dragged them out into the overgrown back garden, and set them all on fire. They’d gone up in a great puff of smoke, and it was rather amusing for a while to listen to the Muggle fire trucks driving desperately around Grimmauld Square, sirens blaring while trying to find the fire, and of course, completely failing, since Number 12 was still under Fidelius.
It had been very funny, until they’d all trooped back into the house to find… all the windows covered with the same natty, dirty, doxy infested drapes and curtains. The very same damn drapes, even as they peered out the grimy windows and saw the lumpy bags still smouldering outside.
No, thought Ron as he munched disconsolately on a chip. It was hopeless. He looked at his shriveled, wrinkled fingers, the results of four hours of scrubbing the entry and hallway floors, finally getting what seemed like the grime of centuries off of them only to turn around and see the grime of centuries grow back over the gleaming wood like a fungus on fast forward. No, he wasn’t doing it again. The only room where any cleaning seemed to last was the kitchen, and Ron decided that this is where he was going to stay. He would eat here, sleep here, hopefully with Harry, and that was it.
"Master Wheezy wants another sandwich?"
Ron winced, but nodded around his mouthful. He really wished Kreacher would stop calling him that, but then he figured it was Kreacher’s left-handed way of saying he’d liked Dobby, and this was his tribute to him. Well, Ron liked to think so, anyway.
"Is Master coming down to eat, Master Wheezy?" Kreacher’s knife paused hopefully over the loaf of bread he was slicing.
Ron swallowed carefully. "No. He’s gone to one of those ‘house improving’ stores, says he wants to get a few things." He shook his head. "I don’t think we’re going to get him to give it up, Kreacher. He’s too determined to make this place over."
Kreacher sighed, shaking his head. "Master is a very powerful wizard, but even Master cannot get around Mistress’ enchantments."
"Well, it would help if you would just tell us what they were!" Ron said with a little more heat than he’d intended, even though he knew it was useless, and he didn’t need Kreacher’s mouth snapping shut, and his mournfully bulging eyes to tell him so. Kreacher could tell them nothing. It seemed along with the house elf magic that kept house elves from telling their owners’ secrets, Mrs. Black had added something that kept the elderly house elf from telling them anything useful about how to reverse any of the remaining curses on the house.
The front door slammed, Mrs. Black started screaming, and Ron sat up.
"Ron! Ron, where are you?" Harry sounded excited.
Ron put his sandwich down and made sure he had no crumbs on his shirt or his pants. Not that he was a girl or anything, but he did try to make an effort not to have food on his front. May as well save it for the one room that could actually be cleaned, he told himself as he hurried through the door and into the entry hall. He believed it, too. Sort of.
Harry was standing in front of Mrs. Black’s portrait, bag in hand as he listened to her insults and wailings. He turned to look at Ron, and Ron stood up straighter at the look in those green eyes. Harry looked…exalted, somehow. He was almost laughing, looking amused at the, "Filthy half-blood, tainting the house of my fathers with your filthy blood, child of a filthy mud-blood, mongrel staining our honor," that she was screaming, instead of annoyed.
"Harry?" he said, wanting to snatch Harry up, pull him close as if some of that excitement, that … daring could rub off on him.
Harry grinned at Ron. "I wanted you to be here for this," he said with barely contained glee. "See, I’m pretty sure I found the spell book Mrs. Attila the Hun here used, and there was no countercharm. So I went to that Muggle store to see if I could find any solvents, thinking I could just, I dunno, dissolve the thing off the wall or something. Then, I was walking past that funny old framing shop around the corner and they were taking this huge painting down off the wall, right by the shop window, and I could see the back of it. It’s a lot like this painting, about the same size and all, and I realized something."
"Yeah?" said Ron, frowning. Dissolving? Maybe Harry had finally gone round the bend, maybe he should be prepared to knock Harry out and call Hermione, see if they could get him to go to the Burrow for a bit of a rest.
"Yeah," said Harry, looking back up at the painting. "You see, this painting… only the frame is touching the wall. All this stuff in the middle, the actual painted part? The … what is it… canvas?"
"Yeah?"
"It’s recessed inwards, just like it is in the front." Harry actually touched the canvas, right over the old bat’s face, and she threw herself backwards, as if afraid Harry was going to punch her or something, which was ridiculous, because she was just a painting. "That means the only part of this panting that is actually stuck to the wall… is the frame."
"Harry," said Ron, starting to catch on.
"Exactly," said Harry, his grin nearly incandescent. "So I went and bought this," and he plunged his hand into the bag, pulling out a carpet knife. Mrs. Black stared at it, her mouth falling open, and Harry laughed. "Never thought of this, did you, Mrs. Black? Wizards… always missing the obvious…" His thumb rolled the knob, advancing the blade several clicks, and he stepped toward the painting.
"Now, now, Mr. Potter," Mrs. Black said nervously. "There is no need to be hasty…"
"Really?" said Harry, summoning a stool and stepping up on it. "My, how your tone has changed. Not even a minute ago, I was the filthy half-blood, and now I’m Mr. Potter? Too little, too late, you old cow." He pressed the tip of the blade into the canvas, and it made a satisfying ripping sound as he started to pull it down.
"How dare you!" she shouted. "How dare you lay your filthy hands on me, you… you… you… mongrel!! You… you excrescent waste of blood!! Stop! Stop!! Kreacher! Save your mistress!!"
Kreacher was standing in the doorway, grasping his ears and twisting them, his face sagging in dolorous lines. "Kreacher is most sorry, Mistress, but Kreacher is obeying Master. Kreacher is not hearing you, Mistress." Fat tears slid down his cheeks as he stared up at Harry adoringly. "Kreacher is listening only to Master now."
"Kreacher!!" she wailed as Harry dragged the blade down the right side of the frame, cutting the canvas just inside the wood. "Kreacher, how could you betray me this way??"
The old house elf twisted his ears and wept, but his eyes were fastened on Harry. "You is doing the right thing, Master. Don’t stop. Don’t stop," he moaned.
Harry finished his cut, and started on the left side. "There is no one to stop me, Mrs. Black. I am the master of this house now. Sirius left it to me. If you had just accepted that…" and he stopped, looking up. "What was that?"
Ron frowned. "What?"
"That sound… did you groan, Ron?"
Ron stared up at the ceiling, which was bulging down toward them as something black seemed to drip from the center toward the floor. "It wasn’t me… uh… Harry…"
Harry jerked the knife as it seemed to stick in the canvas. "What, Ron? I’m a little busy here…" he grunted as he tugged on the blade, trying to force it through whatever was blocking it.
"Look… up."
Harry turned and looked up as a pool of darkness seemed to coil around the center of the bulge in the ceiling. "Oh… shit…"
"Be careful, Master!" shouted Kreacher as a wind seemed to whip up from the floor, and with a massive sound of rending wood, the ceiling split and belched out shadows, shadows that whipped around the room and began to grow from the corners, from the beams, from all the stains on the wallpaper and rug, spreading like ink spilled from a well, thickening the grime on the windows. The wind that tore through the room whipped up the curtains, sending doxies shrieking with joy into the air. It swept out the corners, spreading dust in a thickening cloud that choked them as Ron staggered toward Harry, only knowing he had to protect him, somehow. Cobwebs from the ceiling seemed to thicken and grab at him before he finally made it to where Harry balanced precariously on his stool, hanging onto the knife as he fought to pull it through the canvas. Ron reached up to grasp Harry by the waist, steadying him as he braced the stool with his legs.
"I’ve got you, Harry!" he shouted over the noise of the wind. "You keep working…"
"No, Ron!" Harry shouted back, grabbing the yellow handle of the carpet knife with both hands. "You have to protect us both! You need to face into this, with your back to me! Get your wand out, Ron, I don’t dare let go of this knife!"
"Right!" said Ron, and he let go, though he braced his legs against the stool again as he turned to face the room, pulling out his wand. Of course, he immediately wished he hadn’t when he saw what was facing him.
The shadows had gathered, with the dust, the webs, the doxies, the spiders, the very filth of the old house, to manifest something from his worst nightmares. Aragog had nothing on the monstrous nightmare that seemed to grow with every moment that Ron stood there, trembling as he forced his hand to maintain its grip on his wand. He swallowed hard even as he squinted into the storm of dirt and dust. Merlin, why did it have to be spiders? Thousands of spiders, all clumping together to make one dirty great spider, with what looked like very sharp spikes on its back and on every joint of its large, long, too many legs!!
"It isn’t so easy, is it, half-blood?" Walpurga Black cackled over the storm. "My late, unlamented eldest son may have left you this house, but you will never be its master! Not so long as my portrait remains in it! And you will never remove it, because this house won’t let you!!" Her wild laughter was carried along the wind, which swept up ornaments and knick-knacks from the shelves and tables and sent them crashing into the two young men who half-crouched against the wall.
"Protego!" shouted Ron, and jerked when the spider, which had grown twice its enormous size in the last five minutes, scuttled toward him. "Arania Exume!!" he shouted out of pure instinct. It didn’t send the spider flying as it had the acromantulae in the Forbidden Forest, but it did create a sort of… hole in the giant body, a hole which was filled very quickly by scuttling forms that Ron didn’t want to think about any more than he had to.
Wild laughter almost made him turn, and he heard Mrs. Black cry, "Yes, yes, soon my spider will separate your filthy blood traitor lover from you! It will take him and feed him on his worst nightmares, wrapping him in them before it feeds on his terror. It will drag him to the basement, where his fears will keep it alive and growing for years, and it will terrorize this neighborhood for a century! It will grow fat on the filthy blood of Muggles and Mudbloods as the blood traitor’s nightmares sustain it!!"
"No!" shouted Harry, and Ron felt his legs jerk against his back. "I will cut you from this frame! I will free this house of your hold on it!"
"You won’t!" laughed the woman in the painting. "You won’t!! Sirius never could, and thought I hated him, though I spurned him, I must admit that he was powerful, he was clever, and well-versed in Dark Magic, though he turned his back on it. If he couldn’t remove me from this house, what makes you think you can?"
Ron watched the spider, but kept his back pressed firmly against Harry’s body, both supporting him, and protecting him. "Don’t worry about me, Harry," he shouted. "I’m not leaving you!"
"Ron, you protect yourself! Get away if you can!" Harry shouted. "I can do this…"
"You can’t do it alone, Harry," Ron shouted back, squinting as he watched the spider moving around them, testing the shield spell Ron had thrown up. He couldn’t help but feel the spider was far too intelligent, able to see the gleam of many black eyes on its head, watching the places where the detritus the wind threw up struck the shield, and where objects slipped through to either hit them, or shatter against the wall. "I’m not leaving you, not again!"
He felt Harry’s sudden stillness, then felt a hand slip down to grip his shoulder. "I never blamed you for that, Ron, not really," he heard Harry say. "If you get a chance to run for it, then go! Bring back help!"
But Ron knew that if he somehow did manage to run, there was very little chance he’d actually manage to escape the house. Because it wouldn’t let him go. It wouldn’t let either of them go. Either Harry won… or they were both going down fighting. He gripped his wand tighter as his stomach roiled… then settled. It would be him and Harry. And that was the way it should be, the way it had always been. Harry fighting, and Ron at his back. His Second. His best mate. He swallowed, and nodded, though there was no one to see him but the spider. Mind made up, Ron straightened and braced himself against Harry’s legs. "Help is already here, Harry. I’m here. I’ll handle the spider. Now cut that damn portrait out, and let’s get this over with!"
There was another squeeze on his shoulder before Harry’s hand moved away, and he told himself the wind was making his eyes water, not Harry’s confidence and love. Because that squeeze held a wealth of silent messages, messages he couldn’t concentrate on right now, but he heard them. He heard them all.
"You think my spider is the only thing you have to worry about?" Mrs. Black said, her voice filled with amusement. "What are they teaching at Hogwarts these days?? Believe me, my spider golem is the least of your worries!!"
Harry’s body jerked behind Ron, and he fought the urge to turn and look at him, trusting that it was Harry’s efforts with the knife that was causing that movement, not whatever else Walpurga was throwing at them. "Damn… knife…won’t… move!" gritted Harry.
"Oh, has the blade gone dull already?" she mocked. "My, my, the quality of Muggle made items is shoddy, indeed! And so undependable!! Tsk, tsk!!"
"I am an idiot," Ron heard Harry say, and looked up in time to see Harry jerk the knife free. He pulled a pair of pliers out of his back pocket. "Keep me steady, Ron!"
Ron leaned back against Harry, forgetting the spider momentarily in his curiosity. Harry used the pliers to grasp the end of the blade, and he bent it down with a sharp twist of his wrist. Ron heard the snap even through the wind, and watched Harry turn the knob with his thumb, extending the blade again. "What is that?" Ron shouted.
Harry grinned. "Breakaway blade. When it gets dull, you break the end off, and you’ve got a brand new sharp blade!" Then his eyes widened. "Ron, look out!"
The spider had found a weak point in the shield spell, and a long, sharp leg thrust between them. Ron got a much closer look at it than he ever wanted, and nearly screamed when he saw what it was made up of. Hundreds and hundreds of the fat spiders that had filled the drapes, built the webs that twisted through the chandeliers, haunted the cupboards, or hid in corners, teemed over each other as they held the form of the massive spider’s leg. And between them, Ron could see doxies peering out with their odd, silvery eyes, their sharp teeth glinting in what little light managed to come through the storm and the filth-streaked windows. It suddenly dawned on Ron that whatever venom this… golem spider, as Mrs. Black had called it, produced would be a mix of spider venom and doxy toxins, a thought that made him shudder even as he moved hastily back from the leg, and then he felt something touch his back that made him scream. Because …it wasn’t the spider.
"Ron? Oh…fu… Ron!!! Ron!!!"
His eyes were squeezed shut as he gripped his wand, fighting down his fear. "Keep cutting, Harry!" he shouted. "Keep cutting that bitch out!! I’ll handle this!!" Sure, you will, said a sarcastic voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Ginny. Shut up, he told the voice, and forced himself to turn and face… whatever it was.
It wasn’t a Dementor, he told himself firmly, even as the hysterical part of him screamed frantically that it was. Because, though it was tall, dark, and hooded, though it was cold and bleak and terrifying… it didn’t make him feel despair. It wasn’t taking his happiness away, because… it wasn’t empty. Ron held his ground, and aimed his wand at the spider again. "Arania Exume Maxima!" he shouted, and a blast of light shot from his wand to strike the spider, knocking three of its legs away and half of its head. It struggled to reform, and he turned his attention back to the Not-Dementor. It was looming over him, and he could hear something that sounded like many voices all talking at once, some shouting, some crying, some screaming in pain, some laughing, and some singing half-mad songs… and even though it made Ron want to scream and grab at his head, made him want to moan, "Too much, too much…" he didn’t. Because he had done this before, though not quite on this scale, and that told him exactly what this thing was, this and the others that were forming behind it. Memories. The memories that had always haunted this house, filling its walls and corners, suffocating some of the rooms and crowding the halls, the memories had taken shape, taken form, and risen to defend the house.
This, Ron knew how to deal with, thanks to his experiences fifth year in the Hall of Mysteries. The old Healer who had treated him at Madame Pomfrey’s request had told him during the worst patch of it, "My boy, memories can’t hurt you. Not unless you let them hurt you. They might drive you a little crazy, but they won’t hurt you. And these memories aren’t even yours." He’d taken Ron’s hands in his, forcing Ron to focus on his odd little wrinkled face. "It is rather like what you have to do with a Patronus. But, instead of a happy memory, you must focus on a memory that is uniquely yours. Yours and yours alone, one that you feel very strongly about, that you would protect with your last breath. A memory that is so strong, so woven through every fibre of your being that it is impossible that it could ever be anyone else’s. You must focus on that memory, make it the shield around your personality, around your very soul, and these other memories, these invaders, will shatter and fall away. They will fade from your mind, leaving only you and yours behind."
He couldn’t use the memory he had used then, because he had changed a great deal in the years since that time. But he did have a memory that he could use, a memory that was uniquely his, one that was so strong, so powerful… He nodded as he glared at the looming shadow-shape. "Enjoy it while you can, mate," he said, smiling. "Because you won’t enjoy this long." He plunged his wand arm into the midsection, and the voices nearly overwhelmed him, pictures flooding his mind, perspectives skewing as he gritted his teeth.
"No, Mumma, no, Mumma, nooooo!" a little boy with dark hair and grey eyes sobbed as hard hands lifted him up by the wrists. "I’ll be good, I’ll be good, Mumma, please, don’t… don’t hex me, Mumma!!"
"You’ve been a very bad boy, Sirius," Ron said to the child. "It’s necessary for you to learn. You cannot talk to Muggles. You cannot allow them to contaminate you with their filth." He raised his wand, smiling in a gross parody of affection at the sobbing boy. "You’ll thank me when you’re older…"
Ron retched, but held onto his own memory as a shield, and felt the thing falter. It struggled, throwing more at him.
A whip rose and struck his shoulders, and he bit his lip hard as he held in his cries, refusing to give in as it rose and struck him over and over again. "How many times have I told you, Bella?" said a man’s voice… his father. "How many times? You may not experiment on the house elves! They are expensive to replace!! How dare you defile the knives I gave you with their blood?"
He twisted his hand, then focused on his memory as he flicked his wand, and shouted, "Recordatio Deleo!"
The shadow memory distorted, then shattered, caught in the winds and blown to the far corners. He turned to the next one.
"I’ve got two sides down now, Ron! Only the top and bottom to go!" he heard Harry shout over the wind.
"No!" screamed Mrs. Black. "You won’t finish! I won’t let you!"
A memory shadow tried to reach and grab Harry, but Ron thrust both his arms up into it, pushing as he focused on his memory, his jaw clenched with determination. A small vase crashed into the wall next to him, the tiny shards driven into his cheek and neck by the spell winds, but he ignored them, focusing on his wand hand, and keeping the shadow at bay.
He was falling backward, clinging to the banister as his mother screamed at him. "You’d choose a Potter over your family?? You’d spurn the place your father has earned for you at the Dark Lord’s side? How dare you?? You are no son of mine!! Out! OUT!!!"
"Recordatio Deleo!" he shouted, even as his heart broke for young Sirius.
Another shadow gone, and another took its place, even as the spider, recovered now, began to approach again. Ron kept on, while Harry broke off another blade and kept cutting. Ron fought the rush of memories Regulus Black, looking small and his face pinched, squaring his shoulders as he stood in front of his mirror, firming his jaw as he resolved to take his brother’s place, even as his heart ached, and he fought his feelings of abandonment with his own. Over and over, he chanted the Memory Obliterating spell until he was hoarse, Walpurga Black, weeping as she beheaded her elderly house elf, her favorite, the one who knew exactly how to do her hair, and make her tea, and had been with her since childhood, as her husband stood over her, wand trained on her back, keeping them away from Harry, Regulus, pinned against the wall by Rudolphus Lestrange, one big hand around his throat, the other sliding up his thigh, until Lucius Malfoy came and hexed him, freeing the teenager who immediately fled, only to be cornered by Lucius later to "show his gratitude," firing Impedimenta! and Repello! at the spider to force it to keep its distance. It was exhausting, he was very small, and very hungry, curled on his bed and staring out the window, looking up at the moon in the night sky, thinking what a very friendly face She had, and wishing it was the face of a mother who loved him, only the firm press of Harry against his back giving him the strength to continue, that and his armoring memory, "No, Walpurga," Arcturus Black said as he glared down at her, "you will learn your place. You are chattel. Property. I may have taken your family’s name in order to keep the line from dying out, but let there be no doubt, I am Master here…", and the sound of the canvas ripping and tearing under Harry’s knife.
"I’m almost done with the third cut, Ron!" he heard Harry shout, and then heard him gasp when a statuette smashed into his shoulder. "I’m all right!" he said before Ron could turn. "I’m still cutting!"
"I’m still fighting!" Ron shouted back and dispatched another shadow memory.
"No!! I won’t let you succeed!!" shrieked the portrait. "You will not win! This is my house! MY house, and no half-blood mongrel with delusions of grandeur will take it from me!"
"Oh yeah?" he heard Harry grunt as he forced the blade through the canvas, while a crystal ball smashed into the wall barely two inches from Harry’s head while Ron fought another memoryNarcissa was so beautiful, so lovely as she stood in the library, looking through the books. Of all his aunts, Regulus loved Andromeda best, but that didn’t stop him from watching beautiful, cold Narcissa, so distant, so unknowable, and so …, trying not to notice the spider had managed to get on their left side, and was getting past his curses and hexes. Harry broke off another bit of the blade and it chimed as it hit the glass that was embedded in the wall. "Funny, but one of my delusions of grandeur is defeating the wizard you tried so hard to force Sirius to follow. And that’s three sides. Only one left!"
Ron was getting so tired. He’d held onto his dearest memory, and it shone in his mind, clearer than ever, stronger than he’d ever made it before. But between standing against the wind, dodging the missiles it flung at them, and trying to keep the spider away, Ron was stretched to his limits. He fired a Reducto! at the spider, not caring if it destroyed something, since everything was pretty much being trashed by the winds and the shadows, nearly chanting under his breath, "C’mon, Harry, c’mon, Harry, c’mon!" He never doubted that Harry could do it. He knew Harry could do it. And he would continue to protect Harry to allow him that chance, as long as he could. A young woman slipped down the stairs, wand in hand, trunk in her pocket. A letter was on her vanity, a letter that it had taken her hours to write. Freedom and love lay just beyond that door, and all she had to do was go through it. The house was dark and quiet, it breathed oppression, pressing in on her from all sides, and she shuddered as she forced her heavy feet down the stairs. One by one, step by step, until she was at the door. Only Kreacher stood there blocking her way, and she froze, waiting for him to raise the alarm. But he only touched the door and opened it for her, making her gasp at his loyalty, knowing it was only his touch on the door that kept it from screaming her escape. She touched his forehead gently, and fled out the door, eyes only for the young man waiting in the park across the street, brooms in hand, and the freedom he offered her…
Ron gasped, trying to clear his head of that last memory, heard Harry’s warning cry, and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Then he screamed as what felt like thousands and thousands of spiders were flowing over his shoulder and up into his hair, his body shuddering as he flailed, and fought, slapping himself, clawing at his own face as doxies bit into his arms and neck…
"Ron!"
It was Harry’s voice, furious and calm, and Ron heard him shout, "Lumos Solem Maxima!!" and the light of what felt like a thousand suns was erupting through the shadows, frying the spiders, driving the doxies shrieking and tumbling into the wind, and he felt Harry’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him up. "Only a little more, Ron… can you hold on?"
"Do it, Harry!" he said shakily, wondering if Harry could even hear him. "Do it! Don’t worry about me! Finish the old bitch off!"
Harry squeezed Ron’s shoulder again, then let go, and he heard the snap of the pliers on the blade again. "This is it, Walpurga Black!" Harry shouted. "Last chance. Remove the curse on this house, and I’ll repair your portrait, and hang you in one of the bedrooms."
"Fool!" she spat. "Never! I will never remove it! You will never be Master of this house!!"
"It’s your choice!" said Harry, and with a jerk, severed the final bit of the canvas.
The wind became a maelstrom, almost a hurricane, and Harry just managed to grab the canvas and stuff it into his shirt before sliding to huddle with Ron on the floor. Ron was shaking and shivering, fighting nausea as he realized the toxins from all the bites he’d gotten were starting to affect him. He nearly screamed when a long, spindly hand grasped his wrist. He opened his eyes to see Kreacher bent nearly to the floor.
"Masters must follow Kreacher," he bellowed to them.
Ron grabbed Harry, tugging at him, and pointed at the house elf. Harry nodded, and the two of them began to crawl after him. He led them into the kitchen, where pots and pans were flinging themselves around the room, and crockery was smashed everywhere. The floor crunched under their hands and knees, cutting and slicing palms and clothes alike, but they followed the elderly house elf, not to the main hearth, which was empty and cold, but to a smaller, more sheltered hearth near the far corner, where a small fire still managed to burn. It took only a quick glimpse to realize Kreacher had managed to shield it somehow with house elf magic.
"Here!" Kreacher said, nudging Harry toward it. "Master must burn it!"
"What?" Harry grasped the canvas in his shirt. "But, I cut it out, this storm will die down…"
"Master must burn it!" Kreacher said stubbornly. "It’s the only way!"
Harry grimaced, and looked at Ron. Ron nodded, teeth chattering. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and close his eyes… but he couldn’t. "Go on, Harry!" he managed to say. "Go on, burn it!"
Harry pulled the portrait out. "No! No!" she was screaming. "You can’t! You won’t!"
"Watch me," he said, his green eyes flashing, and his face stern. He rolled the canvas tightly, and fed it into the fire, making sure it didn’t fly out, or roll away, until he had to shove it in or get burned.
A scream rose up from the burning roll, a scream of despair and fury, the entire house writhed, and then, with a massive shudder, the wind reached a crescendo… and then slowly faded. The pots and pans fell to the floor with clangs and clattering that made their teeth ache, glass shattered across the floor, and there were thuds and crashes from all over the house. The two men on the floor held still, holding their breaths, waiting. Kreacher sat up, looking around from behind his fingers, and then he croaked, "Oh… look, Masters… look."
Light was slowly filling the kitchen, filling it from dingy windows that were rapidly losing the film of grease and dirt that had coated them for years. The dark smudges that had covered wall and floor, even in this, the cleanest of the rooms in the old house, were receding, and fading even as they looked. Kreacher got up and hobbled to the door that led out into the back garden, opening it to let daylight stream in, and in that hopeful, ordinary light, the kitchen looked almost… cheerful.
"Well, will you look at that!" said Harry, wonderingly.
Ron’s response was to throw up, then faint.
Someone was wiping his face with a blessedly cool, damp cloth. And he heard someone else, someone who was standing too far away to be doing the wiping say, "He should be fine now. I’ve given him the anti-toxin potions, and he’ll be dozy for a while, but he’s taken no lasting harm, Mr. Potter. Keep him in bed for a few days, and let your friends do the cleaning up."
"Thank you, Madame Pomfrey. And thank you for coming so quickly," he heard Harry say.
"Oh, that’s quite all right, Mr. Potter, but let’s not make a habit of this. After all, I am the Matron at Hogwarts, I can’t continue to make house calls, even if it is for one of Hogwarts' more famous students." The Matron’s voice was tart, but he could hear the underlying affection that told him she would come no matter how many times Harry called, no matter where from. And that was oddly relieving to him.
"I’m sorry, Madame Pomfrey, but when Ron fainted, I sort of lost my head, and you were the only one I could think of." Harry sounded embarrassed.
"There, there, dear, he’s going to be just fine. He should be waking soon. I’ll just go see to your house elf, and I’ll leave a few potions for Mr. Weasley and be on my way. No, no, I’ll see myself out. You stay with Mr. Weasley. It wouldn’t do for him to wake up alone."
He heard her departing footsteps, and waited until the door closed to open his eyes and catch Harry’s hand in his.
"You’re awake!"
Ron grinned sleepily. "You panicked?"
Harry flushed. "After all we had just gone through, and you just… fainted there at the end!"
"Can you think of a better time, mate?" he asked as he pulled on Harry’s hand, pulling him closer.
Harry smiled as he leaned in, and answered the tacit bid for a caress, stroking Ron’s cheek. "You have a point."
Ron smiled, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of Harry’s fingers stroking across his cheekbones, and then up over his eyebrows. "So… what happened?"
"Well, after Mrs. Black’s portrait burned, the storm died down, and then you passed out. I called Madame Pomfrey and she treated you from the effects of spider and doxy bites." He climbed into the bed, lying next to Ron and smoothing the hair away from his face. "She called Bill, who came over and said the curse on the house was gone. And you know what?"
"What?" asked Ron lazily, nearly purring under Harry’s caresses that were now moving down his neck.
"All that cleaning we did?"
"Mmmm… yeah?"
"Turns out it really worked. It’s just… the curse made everything look grimy and dirty. You know the damned curtains and drapes are gone?" Harry almost laughed. "They really did burn up that day."
"No way!" said Ron, arching his neck.
"Oh, very much way," said Harry, smiling. His finger traced Ron’s clavicle slowly. "Of course, everything’s been trashed, but the windows and floors are clean. We can sweep out all the broken stuff… and start all over again…"
"Mmmmm… that’s nice," said Ron dreamily.
"Ron?"
"Mmmmm?"
Harry’s fingers slid back up to his forehead, stroking gently in just the way Ron liked, soothing and comforting. "Tell me… the memory you used to keep those things from overwhelming you…"
"Yeah?" he said slowly.
"What was it?"
Ron felt himself go red from the tips of his ears to the tips of his toes. "Well… Harry… you see…"
"It’s okay, Ron," Harry said softly. "You don’t have to tell me…"
He caught Harry’s hand in his and opened his eyes. "It was that night in the Forest of Dean. When you had dived into that pond after Gryffindor’s sword?"
Harry frowned, puzzled. "Er… yeah?"
Ron sighed. "I dove in after you?"
"Yeah?" Harry said, a bit more slowly, though he still looked puzzled.
"That was the first time I ever really held you in my arms," he said, blushing even harder. "Up till then, we’d hugged, but we’d never really… well, you know, we’re guys, we don’t… hug… exactly." He looked at Harry’s hand, at the long, tapered fingers, and the faint lines of the scar on the back. I must not tell lies, it said, and Ron took it to heart. "But that night, I dove in after you, and I wrapped my arms around you, and my first thought was that you were so small, so thin, so… fragile. And I hauled you out of the water, and we were lying there for a moment on the snow, and I had pulled you close, trying to warm you up, and I suddenly realized that… I liked it."
"You liked it?" Harry was grinning now, his fingers lacing through Ron’s.
"Yeah, you prat," laughed Ron. "I did. I liked having you in my arms, and I knew that’s pretty much where I always wanted you to be. And then you took in a deep breath and flailed, and I was so glad, because you had scared me to death. I thought how strong you were, how strong and how much… how much…."
"Yeah?" said Harry softly, encouragingly.
"How much I needed you." He pulled Harry’s hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. "My memory, Harry," he said, yawning. "Mine, and mine alone."
Harry watched him as he dozed off, stroking the bright hair with his free hand. He smiled as he bent to kiss his forehead. "Yeah, Ron," he said quietly. "Me, too. Me, too."
"Harry?" The voice was groggy, and Ron's eyes were still closed.
"Yeah?"
"Don't ever wanna see another spider… s'long as I live…never…"
Harry laughed softly and settled himself in more comfortably. "No more spiders, Ron. Ever."
Ron's only answer was to wrap his arm around Harry, pulling him close, breathing in his reassuring scent as he fell into a deep sleep, a sleep filled with light, laughter… and Harry.