Keep It Clean!

From the south of Great Britain to the northwest, a distance of two hundred miles.

They were worried about Harry.

The Death Eaters' loyalty to their master was far deeper than it appeared. At the very least, Barty Crouch Jr. had proven that—since he had been exposed for impersonating Professor Moody, he had completely disappeared.

Many in the Order of the Phoenix suspected that the man might not have actually been Barty Crouch Jr., but whether he was or not, the undeniable fact remained: Voldemort had at least one servant utterly devoted to him.

No matter how powerful Harry was—stronger than most of them, even—

In their eyes, he was still just a child. A child who had been forced into a battle far beyond his years.

The next day, Tonks and Arthur set out to retrieve Hermione. Sirius went along as well—he hated the gloomy, oppressive atmosphere of Grimmauld Place. For him, it was no different from Azkaban.

Arthur agreed to let Sirius drive.

Even though motorcycles and cars were entirely different machines—

But both had wheels, and to Sirius, that was close enough. A car was just a motorcycle with two extra wheels.

Arthur saw no issue with this. Sirius, full of confidence, assured him there would be no problems.

They returned that night.

Judging by Hermione's pale face, Tonks' dull, yellowish hair, and the scratched-up paint and broken headlights of the car, it was clear their journey had been far from pleasant—though Sirius and Arthur were absolutely thrilled.

But the most exciting part was that now that the rightful Black heir was home, they could finally clean the house properly.

Only—cleaning was useless.

The Black family home was riddled with counter-charms. Magic refused to work inside.

Molly had attempted to forcibly dispel one of the curses, only to destroy a table in the process. The entire Weasley family had been horrified—the thought of how much a medieval table would cost to replace had been terrifying.

Sirius, however, couldn't care less.

Anything bearing the Black family crest, he wanted to throw out.

Every day, after their studies, Harry and the others helped Molly with cleaning.

The dust and grime in the corners were manageable—even if magic couldn't clean them directly, they could still use spells to control cleaning tools. The real headache was the creatures that kept crawling out of unseen corners.

Especially the doxies.

These pests, more resilient and prolific than cockroaches, usually lived in curtains and cabinets. They had no set mating season, no instinct to regulate their population according to available resources.

One mating cycle could produce five or six hundred eggs. Those eggs hatched in two to three weeks, and within another fortnight, the newborn doxies reached maturity—ready to lay the next batch.

Grimmauld Place had become a doxie paradise.

And despite their tiny size, they were dangerous. Their bites were venomous. One or two weren't a problem, but being bitten by dozens at once could be deadly.

Sirius and Lupin took charge of exterminating the doxies. It was slow work—Harry, meanwhile, requested that they collect doxie venom while they were at it. It was an extremely rare commodity in the market—not because it was valuable, but simply because it had no real use.

The younger wizards were assigned the less exhausting tasks.

Like removing everything in the house that Sirius found offensive.

Such as the decorations lining the second-floor hallway.

Hermione frowned as she stared at them—row upon row of house-elf heads, preserved by magic, their expressions disturbingly lifelike. "Merlin… how could… Even house-elves shouldn't be treated like this."

She didn't particularly like house-elves—they had caused Harry plenty of trouble in the past.

But these creatures had still served the Black family faithfully. To end up like this—

It was just too—

"Filthy little Mudblood, you don't understand. This is a mark of hon—"

A raspy, ancient voice came from behind them, filled with disdain, contempt, and hatred, all tangled together into a single poisonous sentiment.

But the words were cut short.

Harry turned, raising his hand.

Ard!

A wave of force struck the speaker, slamming them into the wall. The sharp crack of wood splintering mixed with the sound of breaking bones.

With another flick of his wand—

Shadow Lock!

A thick, viscous distortion spread across the space, sealing it completely.

Only then did Hermione and Ron see the creature clearly.

An aged house-elf, draped in a filthy, tattered cloth. His sagging skin hung in pale, wrinkled folds, his body hunched and frail. His ears drooped like wilted leaves, and his head was entirely bald—except for the tufts of wiry white hair sprouting from his ears.

"A Black family house-elf?" Harry asked, inspecting him.

The elf, Kreacher, nodded stiffly.

The noise had drawn Sirius and Lupin from the drawing room. Sirius peered around the corner. "What's going on?"

"Oh—Kreacher?" Sirius scoffed. "Harry, what did he do?"

"He said some rather unpleasant things to Hermione," Harry replied evenly.

Kreacher, defiant, sneered. "Mudbloods are—"

Scourgify!

Instead of finishing his sentence, Kreacher burped up a stream of soap bubbles.

"I'd like you to understand something," Harry said gently. "We are guests in this house. At the very least, show some basic courtesy. Can you do that?"

Kreacher trembled, eyes full of resentment.

"Kreacher!" Sirius barked. "Listen to Harry. From now on, he is also the master of Grimmauld Place."

Kreacher froze. His wrinkled face twisted with resistance, but in the end, he bowed his head reluctantly.

Scourgify.

The bubbles in Kreacher's mouth vanished.

"Now—do you know what you should say?" Harry asked.

Kreacher lowered his head. "Apologies, Miss… I should not have spoken that way."

He clenched his fists, visibly restraining himself from turning away and spewing more insults.

"Good." Harry nodded, waving his wand to release the Shadow Lock.

The house-elf shot Harry a fearful glance, then shuffled away, keeping his mouth shut until he was at a safe distance. Only then did he start muttering under his breath—insults about "filthy, blood-traitor scum," "disgusting werewolves," and "damned half-bloods"—but notably, not the word "Mudblood."

"Sorry about that, Hermione," Sirius sighed. "I never disciplined him properly."

Hermione shook her head. "It's fine."

"He's been in my family for years," Sirius muttered in disgust. "Just like my dear mother, he's an idiot who only cares about blood purity. His mouth is even nastier than Snape's."

"And yet you kept him?" Harry asked.

Sirius shook his head. "I wanted to give him clothes and get rid of him the moment I got back. But Dumbledore stopped me."

"Of course he did. He always makes these little things far more complicated than they need to be," Harry muttered. He flicked his wand—

The mop on the floor twisted, its strands stretching into grasping fingers, plucking the house-elf heads from the walls one by one.

"I'll bury them in the garden?" Harry asked.

Sirius waved dismissively. "Do whatever you want—throw them out for all I care."

He couldn't stand the sight of them.

"What was that elf trying to say earlier?" Hermione asked, rubbing her nose as the pungent scent of doxie repellent made her sneeze.

As they made their way downstairs, Harry replied calmly, "He was trying to say that this was an honor."

"Honor?" Hermione was incredulous.

Ron nodded. "I mean… we don't have a house-elf, but I've heard some pure-blood families do this."

"Why?" Hermione couldn't comprehend it.

"House-elves exist to serve their masters," Harry explained, pushing open the garden gate. "If they can continue serving after death—as part of the house itself—isn't that the ultimate honor?"

Hermione froze, glancing back toward where Kreacher had disappeared.

Harry waved his wand, digging a hole and burying the heads, then planted a seed over the site.

"My dad would love house-elves," Hermione murmured suddenly.

Ron blinked. "Huh?"

"They work for free, never slack off, and even in death, they still provide value to their master," she said dryly. "My dad would kill to have employees like that. Just last month, he was arguing over labor costs at his clinic."

Ron looked at her in shock. "Wait—you hire people?"

Hermione gave a brief explanation of her parents' dental clinic.

Ron's jaw dropped further. "Your family's clinic has over ten employees?"

Hermione nodded.

Ron counted on his fingers for a long moment, then muttered in amazement, "Hermione, I knew your family was rich, but I didn't realize you were this rich…"

He looked at her as if she were made of gold, radiating the glow of endless Galleons.

They continued with the cleaning.

As they worked, Ron kept asking questions about what it was like to be that wealthy in the Muggle world. Was it the same as being rich in the wizarding world?—though, as a Weasley, he had never experienced either.

Hermione answered patiently.

Just before dinner, Dumbledore arrived.

He waved at Harry and Hermione. "Harry, Hermione, come here for a moment—I have something to ask you both."

Ron followed them.

"Ron, I just need to speak with these two," Dumbledore said kindly.

Ron stopped in his tracks, looking a little put out.

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Powerstones?

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