Faery Heroes

Chapter 18: Family Momentos

Disclaimer: Did Molly throw out the Blacks' (and therefore Sirius's) things that she thought were "Dark" without asking permission? If so, I don't own the Harry Potter franchise; it belongs to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Press, Warner Bros., and whoever else she sold the rights to.
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Harry had just sat down to breakfast the next morning when he, along with the rest of the Weasleys, heard a series of loud thuds coming down the stairwell and ending with a soft, "Bloody hell. What else can go wrong today?"

"Ronald Weasley!" Molly yelled as she stormed towards the kitchen door. "What have I told you about using that sort of language?! I'll wash your mouth out with soap if you — Oh, Ronnie! What happened?!"

Ron staggered into the kitchen in obvious pain. His right hand was hanging limply from his arm, his shirt was covered in blood from his flattened nose, and he didn't appear to be able to put his full weight on his left leg. "Tonks, this is your fault. Your klutz curse got me!"

"Don't blame me for this! Metamorphs are always clumsy; our bodies are constantly shifting and throwing off our balance. Besides, last I checked, it wasn't contagious. You have my sympathies, though." The smile Tonks couldn't quite hide leeched all sincerity from her words.

While her son and the Auror were talking, Molly had cleaned Ron up and fixed his nose, and was now focused on his broken wrist. A few muttered words caused it to straighten with a sharp crack. "How did this happen, dearie?"

"I don't know. I fell flat on my face when I got out of bed, then the dresser slammed itself shut when I was getting my clothes out, and then something tripped me at the top of the stairs." He blindly reached for his utensils to eat breakfast, only to cry out as he squeezed the blade of his knife, cutting his hand. Apparently, Molly had laid a razor-sharp filet knife at his place by accident.

It was only thanks to his Occlumency that Harry didn't snort out loud, even if he was positively cackling on the inside. Much like malaclaw venom or Felix Felicis, the Dire Misfortune Curse somehow manipulated chance; in this case, the chance of almost anything bad happening was made a near certainty. As he had told Hermione the night before, a few days under the curse was enough that some people seriously prayed for death.

After Ron's remaining injuries were healed and the rest of the room had the opportunity to see him stab himself multiple times in the cheeks and lips with his fork as he ate, the dumpy matriarch shooed them into the drawing room. The velvet curtains that had been so quiet in the night now buzzed ominously, and it was to these that Molly directed their attention. "We're going to start cleaning this room today, starting with getting rid of the doxy infestation here. I expect us to be done in a few days if we don't slack off —"

"I'm sorry, what?" Harry asked, looking about the room. In the light of day, the filth really wasn't that bad, certainly less than what had been covering the Manor when he first saw it. "A few days? Most of what this room needs is some Scourgify spells, maybe a Reparo or two on the furniture. It shouldn't take five minutes."

"Harry, you, Ron, and Ginny aren't allowed to use magic during the summers, and I think Fred and George are too young to be doing so, too. Besides, a little honest work never hurt anybody."

"So instead of saving everyone a lot of time and effort, you're drafting us to do everything by hand. How... inefficient." That was not what he wanted to say, but telling Molly he shouldn't have expected anything more thought out from a gormless, prejudiced, inbred harpy probably wasn't the best option at the moment.

She ignored him and pointed to a collection of spray bottles. "Now, everyone take a cloth and bottle of Doxycide and — ah, Sirius, you can join us."

"What?" Sirius asked, stopped mid-stride in the hallway.