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Chapter 8: Seven

Tempting as it was to make use of his open access to Dark Headquarters, Harry ultimately made his return to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place shortly after Voldemort dismissed Assistant for the day. He'd anticipated arriving in the foyer, where other Portkeys were routed by the house's wards; instead, he found himself back in the same spot in the dining room as he'd left from.

Well. That resolved his worry about being caught in the entryway.

He flopped down in the seat at one end of the long table, flipping the hood down, and grinned to himself at the warm, fuzzy feeling that the extra magic was giving him. For a while, Harry remained there, too comfortable to move beyond stowing the hood in his mokeskin pouch.

Eventually, though, the clock Sirius had hung on the wall chimed for midafternoon. Merlin, was it really only three o'clock? It felt like he'd been there for far longer. Harry rose, stretching, from the chair, to make his way downstairs. On the way, he paused by a mirror in the hall to look at his new earring -- before he remembered it was invisible. Sure, he could take it out to look at it --

And then Sir would have to put it back, came the thought.

Harry felt his cheeks heat at the memory of that shockingly gentle, clinical touch on his cheek. It was a good thing no one was in the hallway to see him right now.

"There you are, Harry," Hermione exclaimed from behind him. Harry jumped about a foot in the air, turning around to face her. "Would've been nice of you to warn us you'd be out all morning," she scolded fondly. "We liked the souvenirs, though."

Souvenirs? What -- oh, right, he'd been in Diagon in the morning. Bloody hell, that really feels like a whole day ago. "Glad you liked them," Harry rushed to agree. "Sorry I wasn't clearer in the note," he went on, smiling sheepishly. "It was pretty urgent. What did you guys do while I was gone?"

Hermione told the story of her and Ron's trip to the local flea market. Harry followed her downstairs and into the kitchen, taking the seat that appeared for him at the table. Kreacher immediately popped tea and biscuits into place on the otherwise empty table; Harry's four housemates (the others were already in the kitchen) stared, expressions almost identical, at the gesture, and at Harry stuffing a biscuit into his mouth without comment.

"Does he always do that?" Sirius muttered under his breath.

"You aren't going to thank him, Harry?" Hermione asked sharply, eyeing him.

Harry shook his head, washing down the biscuit with tea. Each sip was warming him considerably; he could almost go for a glass of pumpkin juice. "He knows I'm enjoying myself."

A minute or so later of awkward silence -- Harry's cheeks pinked under their collective gaze -- a larger platter of biscuits and a tea set appeared on the table for the rest of the household. Sirius rolled his eyes, reaching for a teacup, only to find an ant in it. Harry resisted the urge to giggle at the house-elf's antics (and his godfather's high-pitched shriek as he flung the ant away from him).

While they reached out to fill their cups and plates, Harry set his teacup down and fanned himself with his hand a bit, satisfied by the prompt appearance of a glass of ice-cold pumpkin juice as Kreacher took notice. He downed half the glass in one go, tapping the fingers of his other hand restlessly on the table; then leaned back, rolling a sugar cube between his fingers till it smoothed out.

...Why was everyone staring at him? Harry followed the stares to his currently-active hand and discovered he was not playing with a sugar cube at all, but a bunch of little colorful lights which, when he raised surprised eyebrows, winked out of existence.

"James used to do that," Sirius observed, gnawing on a stale biscuit. (Harry sunk his teeth into a perfectly chewy one.) "Never took you for the type to do idle magic, Prongslet. Guess you're taking after your dad in little ways after all."