Hearing Walburga's words, Veratia didn't respond immediately. Instead, she tilted her head to glance at Harry.
Seeing that Harry showed no signs of displeasure toward Walburga, she smiled and replied, "I'm honored as well, Mrs. Black."
Walburga was positively elated. In the past, under the shadow of the second Dark Lord's dominance, all pure-blood families had to tread carefully, speaking with deference and overstepping their bounds. But now? Things were different.
Not only was the first Dark Lord her son's godson, but even the infamous dark wizard Grindelwald's sister was showing her such warmth...
The contrast couldn't be starker, especially for someone like Walburga, whose mind was gripped by a particular kind of obsession.
So, the Dark Lord? Pfft, who even cares about him?
If the Dark Lord had his way, even if Regulus were still alive, the Black family might not have fared well. They'd have to follow him like trembling sycophants, always fearing an Avada Kedavra might come their way if they misstepped.
But this Dark Lord in front of her...
Ha! Could he really mistreat his own godfather?
Walburga's obsession wasn't about blood purity—it was about restoring the Black family's glory. And besides, the two standing before her were, broadly speaking, pure-blood wizards. Nothing unacceptable about that.
"I'll take Veratia upstairs, Mrs. Black," Harry said with a polite smile toward Walburga's portrait.
"Please, make yourselves at home," Walburga said, her smile warm. "I'll instruct Kreacher to treat you well. Don't be shy—think of this as your own home."
Veratia returned a courteous smile to Walburga and followed Harry up the stairs.
"It's clear Mrs. Black likes you," Harry said softly to Veratia.
Veratia shot him a playful, teasing glance. "Oh, yes, and she likes you too, doesn't she? After all, you're the first Dark Lord and her dog of a son's godson…"
"Hey!" Harry protested. "That's still my godfather you're talking about. How did he become a 'dog of a son'?"
Veratia slipped her arm through Harry's, pulling him closer with a gentle squeeze. "Oh, come on, Harry. Our godfather—doesn't his Animagus form happen to be a big black dog?"
Well, our godfather…
"Er, yeah," Harry admitted, momentarily distracted. He knew Veratia was using her little tricks on him, but he couldn't help falling for her sugary charm.
And, to be honest, that charm was very sweet.
"So, there you go," Veratia said, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "Doesn't that make him Mrs. Black's dog son?"
"Well… I suppose," Harry conceded with a nod.
"See? You're agreeing with me, aren't you?" Veratia giggled, tugging his arm playfully.
Harry thought it over and, in the end, couldn't argue with her logic.
Not that he'd admit he was swayed by her persuasive charms.
When they reached the upstairs, they found everyone still gathered in Sirius's old bedroom.
Sirius was sprawled on the floor, reaching under the bed for something.
"No spiders this time," Sirius said, trying to reassure Ron. "Relax, Ron, trust me, the spider was just a fluke. Look at this…"
He dragged out a wooden chest from under the bed, something inside it wriggling and struggling.
"Take a look," Sirius said proudly, patting the chest. "This is my old collection—Quidditch gear!"
"Brilliant!" Ron's eyes lit up as he crouched to inspect the chest.
Scrawled across the top in red paint were the words: "Do Not Open—Unless You Want a Bludger to Knock Your Teeth Out."
"As it says, you'd better not open it…" Sirius began.
But before he could finish, Ron had already flipped the chest open with a loud snap.
The moment it opened, a massive Bludger shot out and slammed straight into Ron's face with a thwack.
"Merlin's cricket bat!" Ron mumbled, his voice muffled. "I think my front teeth are gone!"
"I warned you," Sirius said, quickly distancing himself from blame. "It's written on the chest. Don't say I didn't tell you."
"It just hurts," Ron groaned, clutching his face as he turned to Hermione. "I'm not disfigured, am I? Hermione, check—am I disfigured?"
Hermione gave Ron's swollen face a disdainful look and shook her head. "I'd say a better word for it is reconstructed."
Cassandra, standing nearby, pressed her small fist to her lips, barely suppressing a laugh.
You had to admit, Gryffindors could have some redeeming qualities—like their knack for sharp-witted snark.
"You okay, Ron?" Harry asked, concerned.
Ron finally noticed Harry's return, still holding his face as he whined, "Merlin, it hurts like hell, Harry."
"No worries," Harry said, stifling a grin. "Like Hermione said, maybe it's just giving you a bit of a makeover."
Teasing a friend like this? Honestly, there was no better feeling.
"Professor Lupin, Mr. Black," Veratia greeted the two "elders" politely.
Lupin gave her a warm smile, while Sirius looked up, catching Harry's frantic eye signals. With a long sigh, he relented.
"Hello, Miss Grindelwald."
Veratia was a bit surprised. She'd expected Sirius to make a fuss, maybe even try to drive a wedge between her and Harry. Since he was being so reasonable, she didn't mind, for Harry's sake, acknowledging him as an elder—however reluctantly.
"So, what are you all up to?" Veratia asked curiously.
"I'm giving them a tour of my old stomping grounds," Sirius said, hands on his hips as he surveyed the room. "This was my room back in the day…"
"Looks like you were quite fond of Muggle girls," Veratia said with a sly smile, glancing at Sirius and then at Harry. "Pity you didn't set a better example for your godson."
Sirius's face flushed red. "Sticking up Muggle girl posters doesn't mean I liked them!" he protested, muttering about "just pictures" and other incomprehensible excuses. For a moment, the room was filled with lively, cheerful banter.
"No, you've got it wrong," Veratia said after Sirius's frantic attempts to salvage his dignity. "I just meant you haven't done your duty in teaching your godson how to properly understand romance."
The subtext was clear: You're so caught up in chasing beauty—can't you help your godson figure things out too?
What she didn't know was that Harry had already figured things out—perhaps a bit too well. Right now, Harry's mind was on claiming as much as he could, thinking, You're all my wings, and I don't want to let any of you down.
"You've got some nerve, Grindelwald," Cassandra said lazily from the side. "I'm not worried about Sirius leading Harry astray. I'm more concerned about you corrupting him."
"Oh?" Veratia's eyes narrowed as she turned to her lifelong rival, Cassandra. "And how exactly would I corrupt Harry?"
"No need for me to spell it out, Grindelwald," Cassandra said, arms crossed. "You know exactly what I mean."
In her mind, Cassandra was fuming. This Grindelwald has spent years scheming to turn Harry into some dependent little pet, instead of letting him grow into the legendary wizard he's meant to be. She's as cunning as they come—those Germans and their endless tricks!
Veratia ignored her, assuming Cassandra was just poking fun.
"Alright, we should head down for dinner," Sirius interjected, trying to smooth things over. "Right, Miss Sweeting?"
He called out, but Poppy didn't respond.
Turning, he saw Poppy standing off to the side, head lowered, fast asleep.
"Miss Sweeting? Miss Sweeting?" Sirius called again.
Poppy jolted awake, hopping in place and wiping a bit of drool from her mouth. "What? What's going on?"
Cassandra gave Poppy a once-over, smirking. "Looks like she's spent so much time with unicorns, she's forgotten how to sleep like a human. Seems she still thinks she's a donkey."
"You're the donkey!" Poppy shot back, undeterred. "You venomous old snake!"
"Oh, Poppy," Veratia said, stepping to her side and gently ruffling her hair. "Don't listen to that sharp-tongued woman. You know she never has anything nice to say."
As she spoke, Veratia shot Cassandra a triumphant glance.
She'd read in one of Mr. Granger's forbidden books that one must unite all possible allies. And Poppy? She was exactly the kind of ally Veratia needed to rally—especially to keep her from being swayed to Cassandra's side.
Before Cassandra could retort, Kreacher appeared before them. "Honored young master, Master Potter," he said with a bow. "Old Kreacher has prepared a splendid feast for you and your guests. Please proceed to the dining room."
"The dining room?" Ron muttered. "It's not as neglected as this place, is it?"
Kreacher didn't respond, only mumbling something about "Weasley, the blood traitor," before leaving Sirius's bedroom.
"He's always like that. Don't mind him," Sirius said with a carefree smile. "This family instilled a lot of outdated notions in him. It's not something that changes overnight."
"What can I say?" Ron shrugged. "For the sake of dinner, I won't hold it against him—especially if there's chicken legs. I might even thank him."
"You and your chicken legs, Ron," Hermione sighed, shaking her head.
To her, Ron was hopeless. In his eyes, nothing seemed more important than chicken legs.
Contrary to Ron's fears, the dining room wasn't neglected at all. It was as resplendent as ever, gleaming with the opulence befitting the Black family, a style established long ago by Phineas Black.
"He practically wanted to plaster the walls with gold," Cassandra remarked about Phineas.
Even as a fellow Slytherin and pure-blood, Cassandra didn't hold back her disdain. After all, Phineas was Hogwarts' most unpopular headmaster ever—even his own son, Sirius II Black, despised him.
"Wow!" Ron cheered, plopping into a chair. "Chicken legs! How did Kreacher know I love them?"
"Maybe he just happened to prepare a chicken leg recipe," Hermione said, sitting beside Ron. "But honestly, Kreacher must be exhausted from all this work. I just don't understand why wizards enslave house-elves, ordering them around like servants and even mistreating them. Don't house-elves deserve respect?"
Ron looked up, baffled, clearly unsure what had gotten into Hermione.
But Veratia understood. The girl was having a classic case of bleeding-heart syndrome. Back at the palace, there were always noblewomen with too much time on their hands, pouring their energy into performative displays of compassion—some for cats, some for dogs, but never for the homeless or starving.
Some did it to feel good about themselves; others were just crafting a persona. Hermione seemed like the former, and Veratia figured she could use a dose of reality.
What Veratia didn't expect was how quickly Hermione's lesson would come.
"That filthy Mudblood dares to shower old Kreacher with her misplaced pity," Kreacher muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear. "She doesn't know if she's trying to move herself or someone else here, but old Kreacher doesn't need a filthy Mudblood's sympathy. It's disgusting."
The words rang clear, and everyone heard them.
Hermione froze, clearly unprepared for Kreacher's harsh rebuke. She'd been advocating for him, only to be insulted so viciously. The poor girl's eyes reddened, tears welling up.
"Sometimes, this is a better lesson than any book," Cassandra remarked coolly from the side.
Sirius coughed twice, his voice stern. "Kreacher! Apologize to Hermione!"
Kreacher looked up, glancing at Sirius before reluctantly grabbing a rag to wipe a nearby table. "Fine, old Kreacher apologizes to Miss Granger," he said, his tone utterly devoid of sincerity. "Let's hope she doesn't waste her time playing savior when she's got nothing better to do."
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