Before breakfast the next morning, I sat on the end of Regulus's bed, got the two-way mirror out of my trunk and said, "Hermione."
She took long enough to answer that I'd started to think she was still asleep. Then the glass cleared, and I got a close-up of her eyebrows before she remembered to hold the mirror back.
"It's half past seven," she said. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine. I'm doing the wards today."
Hermione sat up. "Already? You've only been there two days."
"You said to tell you about anything enormous before it's done, not after," I said. "So I'm telling you."
"And is it enormous?"
"Yes, a bit. It's the whole house, and it'll take most of the day."
"Then I'm glad you told me." She disappeared off the edge of the glass, came back with a notebook and opened it on her knee. "Tell me what you're going to do. In order."
So I told her. The house already had more protection than most of the Ministry, but the Blacks had built it to keep out Muggles and anyone they'd fallen out with.
None of it stopped a Death Eater with the right blood.
Sirius had one of those in Azkaban. If Bellatrix ever got out, the old wards would probably hold the door open for her.
The plan was to keep the useful parts, stack the strongest ordinary defensive charms I knew on top, and add one of my own.
Mine wouldn't care who your grandmother was. It would only care what you wanted once you got to the door.
Hermione wrote all of it down.
"What happens to the post?" she asked.
"Owls get through, but only as far as the kitchen windowsill. I'll put a charm on the sill that checks whatever they bring for curses, poisons, Portkeys, that sort of thing, and anything it doesn't like stays outside."
"It can only catch what you've taught it to catch."
"I know. That's why I'll still look at anything odd myself."
"Fine." She underlined something. "Then call me back before you start the outside. I want to watch."
After breakfast, I went up to the second floor. The cabinet had to come first; there was no point putting the best wards in London round a house with a cursed cabinet on the landing.
It stood at the top of the stairs, tall and black, with two glass doors gone grey with dust. The landing smelled of old polish and mice.
In daylight it looked like furniture. With my senses, it was the same rotten mess I'd felt from downstairs yesterday, only closer, and now I could pick out three separate things inside it.
"That was my grandfather's," Sirius said behind me. He'd come up with his wand in one hand and a slice of toast in the other. "Arcturus. He kept it in his study, and Father told Regulus and me it was full of sweets."
"Was it?"
"No." He took a bite of the toast. "We found that out the hard way."
Kreacher had come up behind him, holding an empty biscuit tin against his chest, because I'd asked him to bring one.
Sirius clamped the toast in his teeth and reached for the handle. I caught his wrist.
"There's a curse on the lock," I said. "If anyone who isn't a Black touches it, it goes straight up their arm."
"I'm a Black."
"Your mother blasted you off the tapestry. The cabinet might not count you anymore."
Sirius took the toast out of his mouth, looked at the handle and stepped away from it. "Fair enough."
I pointed my wand at the cabinet. "Specialis Revelio."
The cabinet lit up. Thin green lines crawled out over the black wood and across the glass, hundreds of them, crossing and recrossing.
All of them ran down to the handle and knotted together round it in a fat, tangled lump.
"Finite Incantatem!"
The jet of white light was almost solid. The green lines snapped one after another from the glass down to the handle, with a noise like someone breaking a whole packet of spaghetti, and the left-hand pane cracked from corner to corner.
Sirius stepped backwards onto Kreacher's foot. The last of the green died in the handle, and the cabinet door swung open a quarter of an inch by itself.
The first thing out of it was a silver instrument about the length of my hand, with eight thin jointed legs and a pair of pincers at the front.
It came out of the gap and jumped straight at my wrist.
"Impedimenta."
It slowed down in mid-air, legs still kicking, pincers opening and shutting in slow motion.
I steered it across the landing with my wand and lowered it into Kreacher's biscuit tin. Kreacher slammed the lid on and sat on it.
The second thing was on the middle shelf, a heavy gold medal on a purple ribbon.
Sirius held it up to the light. Order of Merlin, First Class, it said on the back, with his grandfather's name underneath.
"For services to the Ministry," Sirius read out. "Which means he gave them a great big pile of gold." He tossed it over his shoulder to Kreacher. "Put that somewhere I'll never see it again."
Kreacher caught it in both hands and tucked it away under his tea towel.
The third thing was on the bottom shelf, wrapped in black velvet. I lifted it out with my wand and let it float onto the landing, where the velvet slid off.
It was a thin silver knife with a black handle, and I could feel a faint red thread of curse running along the blade, small and nasty.
"Mother's paper knife," said Sirius. "Anyone but her picks it up, it cuts them. I've still got the scar from when I was seven."
I pointed my wand at the blade. "Solvo Maledictum."
The red thread unwound from the steel and faded out.
I floated the knife across to Sirius, and he looked at the old white line across his palm before he closed his fingers around the handle.
Nothing happened. He ran his thumb along the flat of the blade, then held a corner of the velvet against the edge. The velvet parted in two.
"Still sharp," he said, and put it in his pocket.
Once the cabinet was empty, we went out onto the front steps and I called Hermione back.
"Locomotor Mirror," I said, and set the spell to trail me. The mirror rose and hung a foot off my shoulder, tilted so she could see the house.
"Morning, Hermione!" Sirius said, leaning in to the mirror.
"Good morning, Sirius," said Hermione, from the glass.
A man walked past with a newspaper under his arm and didn't look at us. He didn't look at the house either. The old Muggle-repelling charms could stay as they were. The rest needed Sirius.
The oldest layers of magic in the house were tied to the family, and they wouldn't let anyone else touch them without the head of the house saying so.
Since his father had died, that was Sirius. He hadn't asked for the job.
He put his hand flat on the front door, just under the knocker.
"I'm the head of this family now," he told it, rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand. "Merlin, help us all. Let him in."
The silver serpent on the knocker turned its head and looked at me.
Then it went still again, and I felt the old wards let go of the door. The cold in the walls was still there, but it had stopped pushing back.
I stepped down onto the pavement so I could see the whole front of the house at once, and raised my wand.
"Protego Maxima."
A thin silver film rose up out of the railings on both sides of the steps. It climbed the front of the house past the windows, folded over the roof between the chimneys and closed.
For a second I could see the whole thing shimmering against the grey sky, and then it faded until only I could feel it.
"Fianto Duri."
The silver went hard. A minute ago it had given a little when I leaned my magic against it. Now it didn't give at all.
"Repello Inimicum."
This one came out of my wand dark red. It spread across the inside of the shield in a thin layer, sank into the silver and went out of sight.
"Where did you find those?" Hermione asked from over my shoulder. "They're not in anything we've got."
"There was a book in the Room about defending castles."
"You didn't show me that one."
"You were busy with the goblin rebellions."
"I was revising," said the mirror.
Then I did the Anti-Apparition Jinx, without a word, and felt it settle into the whole house, from the front steps up to the slates.
"Can I try?" said Sirius.
"Go on."
He walked down to the end of the railings, turned on the spot with his eyes screwed shut, and stayed exactly where he was. He opened one eye.
"Nothing," he said. "Is it meant to do that?"
"It's meant to do that to everyone who doesn't live here." I tapped my wand against his shoulder and added him to the jinx as an exception. "Try again."
He turned. There was a crack, and he was gone. A second crack came from the top step behind me.
"Yes," said Sirius, brushing dust off his robes. "That works."
The last ward was mine. I'd been thinking about it since Dumbledore's office in May.
Every ward I'd read about cared who you were, your blood or whether somebody had invited you in.
I wanted one that cared what you wanted. Merlin's book said magic came down to will, focus and energy, and energy had never been my problem.
The hard part was the will, knowing exactly what I meant and nothing else.
I went back up the steps, put my hand flat on the front door where Sirius's had been and let my magic go into it.
It went through the wood and into the walls, and out through the whole building, until I could feel all of it at once, from the old Black wards in the foundations to the geranium on Regulus's windowsill.
Then I held the one thing I wanted in my head, as clearly as I could. Anyone who comes to this door meaning harm to the people inside won't find it.
The door went warm under my hand. A pale gold shimmer spread across the front of the house from my palm, ran down the steps and soaked into the stone.
"Harry," said Hermione. "Your hand's glowing."
I took it off the door. It stopped.
"Right," I said. "Kreacher? Can you bring the doxies?"
Kreacher appeared next to me with a crack, holding the jam jar from yesterday in both hands.
Most of the doxies had woken up and were pressed against the glass, trying to bite it.
"Take it down to the pavement," I told him, "and let one out."
He went down the steps and unscrewed the lid a crack. A single doxy shot out of the gap, straight at my face in the doorway.
At the top step it stopped and hung there, buzzing, a foot from my nose.
It turned in a slow circle, then the other way, then gave up and flew off down the street to bother somebody else.
"Did it just forget where we were?" said Sirius.
"It couldn't find us in the first place," I said.
Sirius came up the steps and stood looking at the door with his hands on his hips. "Can we add something that hits them on the way in, though?"
"I'm not doing Home Alone."
Hermione burst out laughing in the mirror.
"What's Home Alone?" said Sirius.
"It's a film," said Hermione, still giggling. "Paint tins and a blowtorch."
Sirius considered that.
"Sounds brilliant," he said. "Why aren't we doing that?"
Dumbledore came at five o'clock.
I felt him arrive. He tried to Apparate onto the front step, and the jinx dropped him at the end of the street.
When I opened the front door, he was walking up the pavement towards me with his hands in the sleeves of a plum-coloured travelling cloak, looking delighted.
"I have not been turned away from a front door since I was a young man," he said. "And that was by my brother, who was holding a goat at the time."
He didn't come in at first. He walked the length of the house with his wand held low, murmuring to himself, and wherever the tip passed, the wards showed briefly.
The silver shield glittered. The red under it pulsed once and sank back.
When he reached the front steps, the gold came up out of the stone all at once, bright enough to light the whole front of the house, and faded.
"This one," he said, "I do not recognise."
"It's mine," I told him. "Anyone who means harm to the people inside can't find the door."
"Who decides what harm is?"
"The ward does. It reads what they want when they get to the step."
Dumbledore nodded. "And a man under the Imperius Curse?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
"He would wish you no harm at all," said Dumbledore. "He would wish nothing whatsoever. The harm would belong to whoever was holding his mind, who might be a long way away, having a cup of tea. The man himself could be a postman, or a Ministry official with a perfectly ordinary letter."
He was right. I put my hand back on the door, found the gold in the stone and added to it. Anyone whose mind isn't their own.
The gold flared under my palm again, brighter this time, and sank back.
"Better," said Dumbledore, and smiled. "Much better. There is one more thing the house could have, of course, if you wished it. The Fidelius Charm. I would be very happy to..."
"No," said Sirius.
He was leaning in the doorway behind me with his arms folded.
"Thank you, Professor," he said. "But I've had enough of Secret-Keepers for one lifetime."
Dumbledore bowed his head a little. "Yes. I imagine you have."
I didn't want one either. A Fidelius was only as strong as the person holding the secret, and the gold in the stone didn't need anyone holding it.
Afterwards we had tea in the kitchen. Kreacher brought out a cake none of us had known he could make.
Dumbledore had two slices and asked for the recipe, and Kreacher was so overcome that he had to go and stand in the larder.
An owl came while Dumbledore was finishing his second cup.
I felt it cross the square, straight and steady. The gold looked it over and let it through, because owls never mean any harm; they just want a biscuit.
It landed on the kitchen windowsill, where the charm I'd put there that morning flickered pale green over the owl and the letter on its leg, and went out again.
It was a large brown Ministry owl with an official expression, and the letter had a purple seal.
The charm had found nothing. It was a Ministry letter, so I went over it with my senses anyway before I touched it. Parchment and ink.
Sirius gave the owl a biscuit. The parchment smelled faintly of violets. I opened it and read it out.
Dear Mr Potter,
I do hope you are enjoying the beginning of your summer holidays. May I say how very pleased we all were at the Ministry to hear of your success in the Triwizard Tournament.
In the course of the Ministry's inquiry into the activities of Bartemius Crouch Junior, the prisoner made a small number of remarks concerning yourself.
The Minister is quite certain that they are the ravings of a deeply disturbed young man. Nevertheless, for the sake of a complete and tidy record, we would be most grateful for the opportunity to clarify one or two small points with you, at your convenience.
There is no cause whatsoever for concern.
With warmest wishes,
Dolores J. Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister
"When the Ministry tells you there's no cause for concern," said Sirius, "it's usually right before they take your wand off you."
In the books, Fudge only started sending Umbridge after Harry because he was panicking about Voldemort being back and wanted someone to keep an eye on Dumbledore.
There was no Voldemort now. She'd found me anyway.
The rest I could guess. Crouch had been questioned under Veritaserum, and somebody would have asked him why his Mark had gone quiet. He'd have told them he felt it go, and that he thought I'd done it, because under Veritaserum he couldn't keep a thought like that to himself.
Fudge had told the whole country that Voldemort had been dead since 1981, so he couldn't admit a fourteen-year-old might have killed him in May.
He couldn't quite forget it either. So he'd sent his most loyal person to find out how much trouble I was going to be.
Dumbledore held out his hand, and I passed him the letter. He read it through slowly.
"Dolores is a thorough woman," he said. "I would write back, Harry, if I were you. Thank her. Tell her you are extremely busy with your summer, and do not mention anything at all about Little Hangleton."
He handed it back. "And if the Ministry still wishes to clarify anything after that, it may clarify it with me in the room."
"And me," said Sirius.
"Naturally," said Dumbledore. "Though I hope you will keep your wand in your pocket."
I called Hermione again that night from Regulus's bed and read her the letter.
She made me read it twice. The second time she stopped me at the end.
"There is no cause whatsoever for concern," she said.
"That's the bit Sirius didn't like either."
"Who's Dolores Umbridge?"
"Fudge's Senior Undersecretary. It says so under her name."
I could hear her pencil going. "And Professor Dumbledore said to write back?"
"Politely. And say I'm busy."
"Then write it. And read it to me first. I want to hear every word before she does."
"Tomorrow."
"Tonight, if you don't mind," said Hermione. "I've got my pencil."
So I wrote it that night, cross-legged on the bed with the parchment on a copy of Nature's Nobility from Regulus's shelf.
Dear Madam Undersecretary,
Thank you for your letter. I'm busy. Please ask Professor Dumbledore.
Harry Potter
I read it to her.
Hermione put her pencil down. "That's it?"
"It says everything Dumbledore told me to say."
"It says you think she isn't worth answering."
"She isn't."
"I know." She pushed her hair out of her face. "Write a better one anyway. For me. I'm the one who'll lie awake wondering what she does with that."
I wrote a better one. It thanked Madam Umbridge for her kind letter and hoped the Ministry's inquiry was going well, and it took a whole paragraph to say nothing at all.
Hermione listened to it, then cut one sentence and put a "very" into another.
By the time she was happy with it, it was nearly midnight and I'd written the whole thing out four times.
I left the last copy on the desk for Hedwig to take in the morning, and said goodnight to Hermione.