The Death Eaters

Grimmauld

Chapter Four- Grimmauld

Grimmauld Place was a towering manor house on the outskirts of Hogwarts, grey brick blending into the grey sky and the grey smoke that spluttered from Malfoy & Sons on the hill above it. The windows were dark and if Harry didn't know better, he'd think it derelict, devoid of all life, just empty bricks and closed doors and dark windows that never saw the light of day.

He hadn't been here since before the war, when things were happier, when his parents were alive and the man who inhabited the lonely, haunted house in the valley was more than a wisp of an alcoholic, running on distant memories. Harry stole a moment for himself when he got to the gates. The iron was browning. The insignia of the Black family red with rust. He peered through the bars to look at the house, wondering if his Godfather would even recognise him.

The gate wasn't locked, though it creaked crudely as he pushed it open and closed it behind him. Overgrown blades of grass tickled his ankles as he made his way up the winding road to the front door. The fountain had dried up in the driveway, lily pads shrivelling and grey.

Harry hoped against hope that his uncle was in better condition. He prayed to the God he didn't believe in.

The brass knocker was stuck when he tried to use it, so he knocked on the door, politely at first, before realising that he'd have to use a little more force to be heard, and pounding on it.

"What is it?" A gruff voice sounded through the wood. "What the fuck do you-" The door opened. "James?"

Harry's throat closed up. He grappled for something to say but all he could manage was, "No- Harry."

Sirius blinked, before he opened the door a little wider so he could lean on it. Harry took him in.

The man stood before him could not possibly be compared to the war general lauded in The Daily Prophet throughout the war. His shirt, which looked as though it might have once been white, was beige, open and billowing around his neck, hanging over the waistband of his slacks. His knuckles were white, clenching the neck of a half-empty bottle of rum.

"Oh." Sirius exhaled shakily. He stepped aside. "Come in. Can't let James' kid freeze to death on my doorstep."

Harry stared at him and, once again, wondered how this man was the same man who had led the cavalry charge through France, the same man who had tucked him up in bed and told him animated bedtime stories when he was just a baby, the same man who had been his father's partner in the force.

"What can I do you for?" asked Sirius, voice husky and broken from lack of use, stopping in the entryway once Harry had closed the front door behind him.

Harry swallowed, eyes darting around the house, conscious not to stare at the peeling wallpaper and broken stair, nor the cobwebs the size of a car bonnet which draped in the corners of the room.

He looked at his Godfather. "I need your help."

Sirius' eyes narrowed. "I don't consult with the force anymore. Pettigrew should have told you that." He paused, scratching at his chin. "Is Pete still there? Nervous fella, he was, kept saying he was going to quit after every dead body that turned up."

"Yeah," said Harry. "He's on the front desk. Admin work now."

Sirius hummed. "Probably for the best. Decapitation wasn't good for his anxiety."

He turned on his heel and started further into the heart of the house. Harry reluctantly followed, keeping his bag close to him, as though a shadow from his past might leap from the walls and steal it from him, when it was all he had left.