by Harry Potter
“Oh, we’re going to Grimmaud Place,” Hermione replied.
“Why in heaven’s name are you going there?” inquired McGonagall.
“Um... we... Ah...” Hermione stuttered trying to find a plausible excuse that would mask their real intentions for going to number twelve.
“We’re going to find... Kreacher...?” Harry offered very weakly. It wasn’t the truth, but he couldn’t tell McGonagall that the three of them were going on a mystical scavenger hunt, now could he?
“Kreacher is missing?” the Headmistress screeched and shot out of her chair. “How did that happen?”
“I kinda... told him he could...leave,” Harry admitted even more weakly. “And then he... kinda... told those Death Eaters to attack us at Godric’s Hollow.”
“That house-elf is too much of a loose cannon to be left wandering around,” McGonagall said. “Summon him here right now.”
“How can I do that?” asked Harry.
“That house-elf is your property, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall explained. “He is bound to you. All you have to do is call for him”
In that moment, Harry felt very slow witted; he had completely forgotten that he could call for his house-elf and that Kreacher would be compelled to obey. But in Harry’s defense, he had forgotten about the traitorous creature shortly after he had realized that it was Kreacher who had told Bellatrix to attack. Of course, the reason that Harry had forgotten was that was the time that a fairly nude Gin-Gin, the Erection Killer had molested him. Any thoughts he had regarding the house-elf had been quickly pushed to the back of his mind.
“Kreacher!” Harry called out in a clear voice. With a small pop, the dirty little house-elf stood in front of him.
“No! No! No! Master Harry Potter brat is supposed to be not living!” Kreacher cried out. “Mistress Bella said you’s be as good as not alive!”
“Where have you been?” asked Harry.
“Kreacher has been preparing the most noble house of Black for its proper owners,” answered Kreacher. Harry could tell that each word that the house-elf spoke was agony; it was obvious that Kreacher didn’t want to respond, but the bond forced him.
The vile house-elf threw himself to the floor wailing, “No! No! No! No!” as Hermione directed her attention to Harry.
“I hate to say this, but I agree with Professor McGonagall; he’s too dangerous to be allowed to roam around,” she said, ashamed to admit that this house-elf couldn’t be saved. “A simple slip of the tongue, and he’ll interpret it as a command to run back to his favored masters.”
“We could tell him that you are the Great One,” offered Harry. “And that he has to...”
Harry paused his line of thought because of the icy glare his girlfriend was giving him. It told Harry without words that she was very uncomfortable with being the prophesized savior of the house-elves and didn’t want to use any power that came with it. The glare also told him that if he ever wanted her to touch ‘Harry, Jr.’ again that he should shut up.
Added to Harry’s fear from Hermione’s expression was a little resentment. Hermione wasn’t opposed to using her status of the Great One to make sure Harry didn’t eat the foods he’d like, but she wouldn’t use them to control Kreacher.
As Harry shrunk from Hermione’s cold stare, Kreacher decided to show how displeased he was that Harry was still alive by biting Ron’s shin.
“You lousy little...” Ron screamed while trying to kick the offending vermin off of his leg. “Call him off Harry!” pleaded Ron.
But Harry had to carefully word his command because, knowing Kreacher, the little shite would take it as an order to leave. If only Kreacher was like Dobby; Harry never had to worry that any order that he gave Dobby would be misinterpreted as “go to the Death Eaters and tell them that they can kill me or someone I care about.” Of course, Dobby tended to be a little overzealous at times, taking the order to extremes much like he had when Harry had asked him to trail Draco last year. Harry’s mind wandered to a very disturbing thought in concern to his “overzealous” nature; Dobby admitted to “finishing off” his former mistress, Narcissa, when his former master, Lucius, had fallen asleep after sex. He imagined poor Dobby being yelled at by Narcissa for his lack of style and talent in the sack.
Then a clever, devious, and very nasty thought came to mind.
“Kreacher, come here,” Harry commanded. The house-elf did try to follow his master’s order, however, his master had not told him to let go of the red haired one and he attempted to drag the screaming wizard by his mouth.
“MAKE HIM STOP!” hollered Ron as the wrinkly house-elf tugged at his leg.
“Let him go and come here,” Harry ordered calmly. With a cross between a whimper and a growl, Kreacher released Ron and crawled over to Harry. “Now, Kreacher, I have something very important for you to do...”
“Be careful, Harry,” implored Hermione.
“Narcissa Malfoy’s husband has been in Azkaban for over a year now,” Harry began.
“Master Luci only there because Master Harry Potter brat put him there,” interrupted Kreacher.
“Yes, I know it’s my fault,” agreed Harry. Ron, McGonagall, and Hermione looked at Harry as if he had lost his mind. “So I want to make it up to Narcissa. She has been very lonely these past few months and I want you to keep her company. But you have to keep her company in a very special way.”
“What kind of way would Kreacher have to keep mistress Narci company?” the house-elf asked dubiously.
Harry paused for dramatic effect before replying; “Amorous company.”
“What?” everyone in the Headmistress’ office screeched (including every single magical painting).
“Yes, amorous,” repeated Harry. “I know for a fact that Narcissa likes the touch of an elf.”
Kreacher shrugged his shoulders in acceptance. Everyone in the office could tell that the house-elf wasn’t keen on the idea of bedding a witch, but he liked it over the idea of being at the castle with blood traitors, the unclean witch, and his half-blood master.
“There are a few rules, though,” added Harry. “First; you must not communicate with anyone in any manner. No speaking, no making sounds what-so-ever, no hand gestures, no writing, nothing. Second; you must be vigorously affectionate and amorous to Narcissa every waking moment - that’s your waking moments, not necessarily hers. Third, you can only be affectionate and amorous to Narcissa’s lower part of her right leg, her shin or calf only.
“Do you understand?” concluded Harry to which Kreacher nodded his head pitifully. “Repeat my orders.”
“Kreacher mustn’t be talking or nothing to anybody...” the house-elf gulp nervously before continuing. “And Kreacher must be making big fun-time with Mistress Narci’s leg.”
“The lower part of her right leg,” corrected Harry.
“Yes, Kreacher must be making big fun-time with Mistress Narci’s lower right leg all the time,” the surly elf repeated angrily.
“Fine then, go and do your duty” Harry commanded. Kreacher frowned and disappeared with a crack.
After staring dumbly at Harry for a good minute; Hermione asked, “Let me get this straight,” she began. “You ordered Kreacher to hump Narcissa Malfoy’s leg?”
“The lower part of her right leg,” Harry corrected.
“Constantly?” questioned Hermione.
“Yes, constantly,” answered Harry with a devilish smile.
All at the same time, Ron, McGonagall, and Hermione shuddered. Harry assumed that they were quite disturbed by the image of the wrinkly old house-elf rubbing his bits on Draco’s mother’s calf while kissing her knee.
“Alright,” Harry said, drawing everyone out of their disturbing images. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Wait a second,” interrupted McGonagall. “Why are you still going to Grimmauld Place if you’ve already taken care of Kreacher?”
“Um...” Harry began. He was all out of ideas so he turned to his left to face Hermione.
“Err...” Hermione muttered and turned to Ron on her left, because, apparently, she was out of ideas as well.
Ron didn’t even try to hem or haw, he just immediately looked to his left. Unfortunately, no one was to Ron’s left, which left him in a pickle.
Now, it was very unfair of Harry and Hermione to do this to Ron. When he was under pressure, Ron tended to either lock up, babble incoherently, or sometimes scream much like he did when he asked Fleur out to the Yule Ball. This time, he managed to do all three at the same time.
At first, he spent a good ten seconds staring at McGonagall in shock. The Headmistress watched Ron with a calm demeanor for the first five seconds of silence, but then her appearance became quite stern because she was obviously upset that Ron wasn’t answering. This caused Ron to become even more nervous and made his blood pressure spike - mind you; Harry and Hermione were looking at him expectantly as well, which just increased his blood pressure even more. Ron’s face turned an unhealthy shade of red and sweat poured off of his body.
Then, he finally forced himself to speak. Which was a mistake.
“I like kittens,” he mumbled at such a low volume that his audience of McGonagall, Harry, and Hermione leaned in very close to Ron. Which was unfortunate on their part, seeing that Ron was about to enter his shouting phase. “I HAVEN’T GOTTEN WOOD IN DAYS”
All three of the listeners recoiled and began rubbing their ears in an attempt to ease the pain - that and vainly try to physically remove the sad image that Ron just gave them.
“Aw, that’s too bad, boy,” a gruff voice sounded from somewhere in the shadows. “Might I suggest a good ol’ fashioned ‘Hogwarts Express Pleasure Train’? Granger can be the engine, Potter the coal cart. Minerva can be the passenger compartment, Weasley the luggage compartment. And I’ll be the caboose!”
“Don’t you bother anyone else?” Hermione hissed irritable as the ghost of Gryffindor stepped out of the darkness.
“I bother a number of people, love,” Gryffindor said proudly. “You lot are my favorite, though.”
“Did he... did he just offer to bugger me?” asked a now very white face Ron. You see, it wasn’t everyday that a ghost stated that he wanted to bum-shag him. In fact, no one ever had; living or dead.
“Any port in a storm, boy,” Gryffindor confirmed with a very scary smile causing Ron to shudder.
“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Harry. He didn’t know when he had moved, but Harry suddenly found himself standing in front of Hermione, shielding her from the lecherous spirit.
“I’m a ghost, I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I get bored,” explained Gryffindor.
“We’d like to stay and chat,” began Hermione. Harry turned to see her throw some floo powder into the fireplace. “But we have to leave.”
Once the flames turned green, Hermione stepped in and announced her destination in a loud and clear voice, “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.” And she disappeared.
Harry tried to follow directly after Hermione but Ron halted him. “Let me go first,” Ron offered nervously. “That way I can catch you when you fall out of the floo.”
Harry could tell that wasn’t Ron’s real intention by the fearful look in his eyes. Even though Harry wanted to put as much distance between Gryffindor’s ghost and himself as soon as possible, he allowed Ron to go first. Harry reckoned that with all the troubling images that Ron had suffered lately he deserved to get away from the ghost who wanted to part of a McGonagall/Ron/Gryffindor sandwich.
After Harry nodded, Ron hopped into the floo and shouted, “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!” and disappeared.
Harry grabbed a pinch of powder and stepped into the green fire. He looked apologetically at McGonagall whose face was a mask of dread. He could tell that the Headmistress was pleading with her eyes; saying something along the lines of “Don’t leave me alone with Gryffindor!” Harry hated to abandon McGonagall with the perverted specter, but he had to go and destroy the Horcrux. “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place,” he declared and began spinning.
Ron was true to his word and caught Harry when he came flying out of the floo. However, this only caused both wizards to go crashing into the kitchen table causing a very loud racket which woke up the magical painting of Mrs. Black.
“WHAT GOING ON?” the painting screeched. “WHO’S THERE?
“I hate that thing,” said Hermione as she covered her ears to protect herself from Mrs. Black’s unnaturally loud voice.
“WHO DARES TO ENTER MY HOUSE?” shouted Mrs. Black.
“Let’s shut her up before we find the Horcrux,” said Harry.
“ANSWER ME OR FACE MY WRATH!”
“I agree,” replied Hermione.
“KREACHER! KREACHER, MY FAITHFUL SERVANT, WHERE ARE YOU?” the painting called out. “IF THEY BE OF GOOD STOCK, WELCOME THEM! BUT IF THEY BE BLOOD TRAITORS, OR WORSE, THROW THE FILTH OUT!”
The trio scampered out of the kitchen and into the hall. Harry had hoped to draw the heavy curtains to muffle Mrs. Black, but he was surprised to see them missing.
“Where the hell are the curtains?” Ron asked, apparently he had the same idea as Harry.
“VILE COMTEMPTUOUS VERMIN!” Mrs. Black screamed even louder upon noticing Harry and his friends. “YOU FILTH ARE NOT WELCOMED HERE!”
Hermione whipped out her wand and began to wave it in front of the painting as Mrs. Black continued to scream and holler. A curtain made out of some kind of thin fabric appeared in front of the bellowing Mrs. Black. Unfortunately, it did little to stop the dead woman’s screams. In fact, her screams tore the curtain to threads.
“She’s distracting me too much,” admitted Hermione. “I can’t concentrate properly to make a strong enough fabric!”
“THAT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE A MUDBLOOD AND A HARLOT!” called out Mrs. Black.
“I am not!” defended Hermione.
“ARE TOO!” retorted the painting.
“AM NOT!” counted Hermione.
“ARE TOO!”
Hermione took a step back and a calming breath. “I cannot believe I’m having such a childish argument with a painting of a dead person!” She turned to Harry and simply said, “Make her stop.”
“How?” asked Harry.
“I don’t know,” stated Hermione. “You’re the most powerful one here. Just tap into your love core and cast a spell on her.”
“I’ll try,” Harry said dubiously. He leveled his wand at the painting.
“DO YOUR WORST, BOY!” Mrs. Black taunted. “BETTER WIZARDS THAN YOU HAVE TRIED AND FAILED! AND YOU”RE NOTHING MORE THAN A WORTHLESS HALF-BLOOD!”
Harry tried to focus on his love, but it proved rather difficult. The mad witch in the painting did a good job of pissing him off, and therefore he had too much trouble focusing on loving thoughts or memories. Hermione must have realized that her boyfriend was having difficulty because she placed her hand in his. Harry turned and looked into her lovely hazel eyes. She placed a chaste kiss on his lips and Harry felt a tingle wash over his body. He turned back to the portrait and pushed that tingling sensation through his wand. A flash of white light erupted from Harry’s wand and Mrs. Black’s eyes glazed over.
“What was that?” Hermione asked as she looked at the still form of Mrs. Black. “What spell did you use?”
“I dunno,” muttered Harry. He turned his attention to his girlfriend and tried to explain. “I just focused on my power is all.”
“Oh, Harry,” a sing-song voice called softly from the portrait. The trio of friends all turned back to the painting and gasped at what they saw. The overall picture had not changed; it was still an elderly Mrs. Black sitting in front of a bookcase. But what had changed was her demeanor and expression. Her cheeks were flushed and she had a twinkle in her eyes; one might even argue that it was a loving twinkle. “Hullo, my dear, dear Harry,” Mrs. Black greeted with a cute little wave. Harry cringed. “It’s been so long since my husband passed away. I’m in need of a good rogering!�
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Harry felt very dizzy. Here was a painting of an old woman asking him to shag her.
“I know I’m just a painting,” Mrs. Black continued. “But you can rub your willy against the canvas and we can pretend.”
Harry turned to look at Ron and Hermione for help. But both of them were staring, open mouthed and in shock at the painting.
“Here, let me give you something that will stimulate you, my beautiful Half-Blood,” Mrs. Black offered and began to pull down her blouse. Harry ran like a bat out of hell before Mrs. Black could reveal even an inch of pasty flesh! He tore around the corner and was up the stairs before he heard Ron and Hermione scream. Thunderous footfalls announced that his friends had finally come to their senses and ran. Hermione dove at Harry and wrapped her trembling arms around his chest. Ron slumped against the wall and muttered, “So saggy... so very saggy...”
“Did you see the tattoo?” Hermione murmured with fear evident in her voice.
“Tattoo? I thought that was a birthmark,” replied Ron in a dead, lifeless voice.
“No, it was a tattoo of the Black Family crest,” corrected Hermione. She buried her face into Harry’s chest and cried softly. “Why would anyone do that to their own tit?”
Harry gently ran his fingers through his girlfriend’s hair in an attempt to sooth her troubled mind. Of course, while he was doing that, he was valiantly trying not to imagine the Black Family Crest tattooed on any part of Mrs. Black’s body much less her so very saggy boobs.
The three friends sat in silence for a good long time... well mostly in silence. Every once in a while, Mrs. Black would call out things like “Harry, I’m waiting for you,” “I know what a wizard really likes,” and Harry’s personal mind scarring favorite; “I’m so wet I need a mop!”
“Okay, let’s get this over with,” Harry stated with just a sight tremble in his voice. The trio came up with the ingenious plan to sneak by Mrs. Black’s painting with their eyes shut (so they wouldn’t see the wrinkly hag) with Harry in the lead. Harry bolted by Mrs. Black (who was shouting “Harry, my heart of hearts; look what I can do with my fist!) with his eyes firmly shut. He was hoping that his memory would lead him to the kitchen. This, as many things in Harry’s life, didn’t go as planed. He ran into a wall twice (Harry was fairly certain it was the same wall), tripped over Ron’s feet when he had tried to backtrack (he knew that it was Ron’s feet because of their size), and bumped up against Hermione a grand total of three times (the first two times were accidents - the third time, however, was a blatant boob squeeze moment; Harry couldn’t help it, he really did like her boobs and he was a teenager after all). The trio finally came crashing into the kitchen with Mrs. Black still calling out; “Oh, Harry, my wondrous love, imagine your trouser basilisk in here instead of my fist!”
