Verus

thirteen

1996, 12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London

"Kreacher!"

Harry called out for the House elf as loudly as he possibly could. It was a desperate attempt to drown out the treacherous wailing he'd accidentally started and had been unable to since stop. He only hoped that the elf knew someway around it.

It wasn't as though he'd actually gone out of his way to cause the unpleasant shrieking. He had simply awoken from his long, and very much needed, slumber a little while ago, and had wanted to get a feel for the house he'd somewhat taken over. He'd scolded himself for not having done so the night before, it seemed that his body had just been far too exhausted.

So once he'd gotten dressed for the day, he'd wandered and perused the lengthy halls, letting the portraits which lined the high walls watch him as he did them, making note of who followed along and who met his eye. He explored the second and third floors, but had wanted to discover the majority of the downstairs before he tried climbing his way up any higher.

For an unornamented town house, Harry was surprised to find that the building had been buried under years upon years of magic. All sorts, in fact. It held layers of wards and charms that rivalled even some of the most ancient magic he'd known and read about. It had moulded itself in thick layers within the place's walls and floors, in its stairs and a lot of its furniture. It seemed to expand the house, making the uncomplicated two-story home it feigned to be into something else entirely, whilst also doing its very best to continue preserving what it could.

It truly was incredible, but as he'd wandered down the entry hall, fingers jumping from pulse point to pulse point, trying to reach out towards the entangled wards, Harry had unknowingly disturbed a large curtained frame.

Which had turned out to be a very grave mistake on his part.

"Krea-ture!" He howled out again, before continuing with his task of scowling up at the infuriating portrait in utter annoyance.

It was of a woman, a positively evil looking figment, though he supposed during her glory days she could have disguised it quite effortlessly. She had to have done to now have her portrait displayed so openly in a Noble House.

From what Harry could see, the older lady wore only black garments with accents of white lace, as well as a fine veil most purebloods tended to use during times of grievance. Her face was plump with a narrow hooked nose and wide eyes, and her jet black hair was slicked back against her head, accentuating the large jewels which rested on either one of her ears. Her lips were pursed in displeasure and rather thin, as well as deeply wrinkled around the edges.

Perhaps from a slight distance, you could imagine her to have come from a long line of royalty- what with all the grand jewellery and expensive clothing. But up close, you could see the slow decay that crept across the paint, that tinged her very image.

Harry went to call the elf again, but was met with the slitted eyes of Kreacher himself, who was now stood between his person and the offending wall.

The lady in the portrait seemed not to care, nor take even the smidge of interest in the elf's sudden appearance, just continued on with her constant complaining, using the most uncouth of language that Harry had ever had the pleasure of hearing. If he wasn't so infuriated he might have laughed, or even joined in on the heckling. But as it was, he felt almost deafened by the sheer noise the woman was creating and wasn't too fond of the terminology she was using to describe him.

"How do we get her to stop?" Harry questioned the elf, a finger plugged in one ear whilst he used the other to jab towards the harrowing portrait.