Chapter 260 – The Crazy Black Family
James Potter—what kind of man had Harry's father really been?
After everything that had happened the previous school year, Harry's impression of him had changed. Once, he had only seen James as a hero who died resisting Voldemort.
Now, he saw him as more—a father who had died to protect his wife and child, and a brave, righteous wizard who had joined the fight against Voldemort as a proud pure-blood.
But as a student at Hogwarts, James hadn't been the perfect saint Harry once imagined. His grades were good, yes, but he had also bullied Snape and stolen his childhood friend—Harry's mother.
Yet after hearing Lupin's story earlier, the image of his father as a young man had grown taller in Harry's mind once again.
Kind, loyal, and willing to risk everything for his friends.
After all, learning to become an Animagus was incredibly dangerous magic.
Harry felt a quiet sense of relief. Maybe his father really had only been targeting Snape because of his feelings for his mother. He certainly couldn't have known Snape was Dumbledore's undercover agent.
"Harry, I hope you won't let the surroundings get you down," Sirius said dryly, pulling him out of his thoughts.
By now, they had reached the stairwell of Number 12, Grimmauld Place.
Harry blinked and finally understood what Sirius meant.
The decor was… impressive, in the darkest way imaginable. Though the furnishings were luxurious, everything around them exuded a sinister energy, reflecting the taste of the darkest pure-blood families.
A large umbrella stand made from a troll's severed leg stood by the entrance, and beside it hung a row of shriveled heads mounted on the wall.
"Those… those are house-elves!" Alexander Smith said, frowning as he stepped closer.
"I finally understand why Kreacher's so deranged," Ron muttered, noticing that every single head bore the same large nose and sharp features.
"Ron," Sirius said helplessly, "this is already as tidy as I can get the place. My delightful ancestors used all kinds of permanent dark enchantments here."
He sighed, spreading his hands. "That's part of why I let you all stay at the Burrow first."
Of course, the other part was because of Hogwarts itself—now that a young version of Voldemort was teaching there.
Harry swallowed. "Not bad," he said weakly, though he couldn't help but feel queasy at the sight. The severed elf heads made him think of Dobby, and that made his stomach twist.
"My dear Aunt Elladora started this charming tradition," Sirius said bitterly. "To be fair, she was stopped eventually."
"It seems like everyone in your family is crazy," Ron blurted out.
"Ron!" Harry and Draco both snapped at once.
But Sirius only laughed. "No, Ron's right. Well—almost right."
"Nearly everyone in my family was mad. My brother and I were the only ones relatively sane—though he was just too weak to fight back."
He pointed toward a portrait nearby. "That's Phineas Nigellus Black, my great-great-grandfather—the most unpopular Headmaster in Hogwarts history. And Araminta Meliflua, my mother's cousin, once tried to push a law through the Ministry that would've legalized killing Muggles."
"The only reason they stopped Aunt Elladora from beheading more elves was because the others felt a house-elf wasn't worthy of such an honor."
He paused, smirking darkly. "But Aunt Elladora argued that house-elves were part of the great Black family—hardworking, noble in their own way—so they deserved the honor. And thus, amid the 'joy' of all the elves, those too old to carry trays had their heads cut off and magically preserved to decorate the halls."
Sirius said it all with a disturbingly calm tone, like one too used to recounting horrors.
Harry shivered. He wondered if his father had heard these same stories once—and whether that was the real reason he and his friends were so opposed to Slytherin ideology.
Lupin, who had been quiet this whole time, looked grim. From his expression, Harry could tell he'd heard it all before.
Draco looked pale, almost sickly. "This… this is where my mother grew up," he murmured, horrified.
The ideals he'd been raised with—the polished image of wizarding nobility—felt suddenly hollow.
As a Malfoy, born into a newer branch of the pure-blood aristocracy, Draco had been shielded from the uglier truths of old family traditions. Now, seeing the Blacks' macabre "heritage," he looked shaken to his core.
Aside from the familiar serpent motifs on the chandeliers and doorknobs, nothing about this house resembled his own home. The Black family's madness made even the Malfoys seem almost normal.
"Wait," Ron said, brow furrowed. "You're saying your aunt actually loved the house-elves?"
Sirius chuckled humorlessly. "Oh, yes. The Black family loved everyone in their twisted way—even the elves."
"In their eyes, this was affection. Whenever someone in the family turned out normal, they simply disowned them—cut them off from the family tree. That was their version of mercy."
By now, they had reached a large room lined with dark green wallpaper. Covering an entire wall was a massive, ancient tapestry.
Its colors were faded, but Harry noticed it seemed to be slowly regaining its brightness, as if alive. Several small holes on it appeared to be healing before their eyes.
Embroidered across the top, in gold thread, were the words:
> The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Forever Pure
"See there?" Sirius said, pointing to a small, charred hole. "That's where I was blasted off. Same with my uncle Alphard—he left me a nice pile of gold when I ran away."
"But it's healing," Draco interrupted suddenly. "The tapestry—it's mending itself."
Sirius gave him a surprised look. "Ha, you noticed too."
"Since I legally inherited the Black estate, it's like the house has… come alive. The furniture, the relics—anything bound to the family's magic is slowly restoring itself."
"But the holes where names were burned out—like mine and my uncle's—don't heal. It's as though the tapestry understands why they were destroyed."
He pointed to another mark. "These burns—caused by that blasted doxy Vixen—those are already fixed."
He sighed softly, his tone carrying both humor and melancholy. "Guess I've got more in common with my deranged ancestors than I thought."
Harry looked around at the room—the heavy curtains, the ancient heirlooms, the creeping shadows. For a moment, he could almost hear the whispers of generations past, proud and cruel.
When they reached Sirius's old room, he pushed open the door with a grin.
Inside, the walls were plastered with permanent-sticking charms—pictures of Muggle motorbikes, Gryffindor banners, and even a few posters of Muggle girls in bikinis.
Alexander raised an eyebrow. "You really haven't changed much, have you?"
Sirius smirked. "What can I say? Some of us never grow out of rebellion."
Harry chuckled softly, feeling—despite the house's darkness—that this, at least, was home.
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(End of Chapter 260)
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