Scene: Whispers from the Frame
Location: 12 Grimmauld Place, Drawing Room | Night Before Departure to Hogwarts
The night had a weight to it.
Not the kind that could be measured with clocks or calendars — but a heaviness in the air, like the world was holding its breath. Shadows stretched longer than they should have in the drawing room of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The fireplace sat cold, a skeleton of soot and ash, and the portraits along the walls loomed like silent judges, eyes glassy with the boredom of centuries.
Harry sat curled into a wing-backed chair, knees pulled up beneath him, absently picking at a loose thread on his jumper. The house was asleep, or pretending to be. He could hear the creaks of its bones, the low sigh of air through hidden corridors, and somewhere above, the faint rattle of a window sash that never quite closed.
He should've been sleeping — the Hogwarts Express left in the morning — but sleep had become a stranger to him lately. Since the graveyard. Since Cedric. Since that look in Dumbledore's eyes.
Harry's gaze drifted to the cold fireplace — and stilled.
A low cough echoed from the gilded portrait frame above the mantle. The shadows shifted, and then stepped forth a tall man with narrow features, sharp eyes, and an expression of permanent, world-weary disapproval.
Phineas Nigellus Black.
Former Headmaster of Hogwarts. Pureblood aristocrat. And, by unfortunate twist of legacy and bloodline, Harry's reluctant ancestor.
"Well," Phineas said dryly, brushing imaginary dust from his embroidered cuffs, "if this is how the future Lord Black broods, I do hope you don't plan to inherit the drawing room aesthetic too. You're bringing the tone down."
Harry blinked once. "Didn't realize I was supposed to impress the wallpaper."
"Cheeky," Phineas mused. "Good. You'll need that."
Harry leaned forward, brow furrowing. "You don't usually talk unless someone forces you."
Phineas's painted gaze turned calculating. "I don't usually waste time on children who refuse to listen."
There was a beat of quiet between them, filled only by the soft rustle of the curtains and the far-off hoot of Hedwig upstairs.
"…But you're listening now," Phineas said, voice quieter. "Aren't you, heir?"
Harry tensed. "What are you talking about?"
The portrait man gave him a look — not condescending, not mocking, but... almost pitying. "They haven't told you much. That's clear enough. About your inheritance. About what it means to be the heir to the House of Black. About what protections were laid down. What oaths were sworn. What enemies were made — and what friends."
Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Phineas continued, voice low and smooth. "You've noticed it, haven't you? The way the Order looks at you. The way Dumbledore's plans never quite include your consent. The way trust is a currency in short supply."
"…Yeah," Harry muttered, barely audible. "I've noticed."
Phineas nodded once, slowly. "Then consider this your first lesson, Black heir. Allies can wear masks. Some more elaborate than others. And not every war is fought with curses and wands. Some are fought in whispers. In plans made behind closed doors. In sacrifices made without permission."
Harry's breath caught in his throat.
"But don't lose sleep over it," Phineas added lightly, stepping back into the shadows of his frame. "Something is shifting at Hogwarts. Something old. Something powerful. You'll feel it soon enough. Just… pay attention, boy. Trust what your blood remembers."
The fireless hearth glowed faintly for a heartbeat. Then the portrait was empty.
Harry stared for a long time at the space where Phineas had stood, heart beating louder than it had moments ago. He didn't know what any of it meant.
But something in his bones — something ancient and unnamed — stirred with quiet agreement.
This year... would not be like the last.
Scene: The Morning Before Departure
Location: 12 Grimmauld Place, Kitchen | Morning
The scent of fresh toast and sizzling sausages drifted through the air like a comforting spell, wrapping the kitchen of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place in a rare, domestic warmth. The long wooden table groaned under the weight of breakfast — fried eggs stacked on platters, jam glinting like rubies in glass jars, and a teapot that refilled itself with a huffy little puff of steam every few minutes.
Harry sat quietly at the far end, a mug of tea cooling between his hands, his mind elsewhere entirely.
Phineas Nigellus Black.
The name echoed like a whisper across the back of his thoughts, stubborn and sharp. The conversation from the night before played again behind his eyes — not loud, but persistent, like a melody he couldn't shake.
"You'll find allies in the shadows and enemies in the light, boy. Best keep your wand steady and your trust steadier."
He hadn't told anyone. Not Sirius. Not Remus. Not even Ron or Hermione. He couldn't say why exactly — only that something about the way Phineas spoke felt... confidential. As if the portrait hadn't just been sharing advice, but entrusting him with something. A warning.
"…bloody absurd, if you ask me. They've turned the Defense position into a joke."
Tonks' voice broke through Harry's thoughts, buoyant and amused even as she nearly dropped her fork.
Across the table, Moody grunted, eyeing the back of his spoon as if checking it for hexes. "It's not a joke. It's a curse. Dumbledore knows it. Ministry knows it. Everyone just keeps dancing around the truth."
"Still no official announcement on the new teacher?" Kingsley asked, unfolding the Daily Prophet with one hand and sipping coffee with the other.
"Probably still wrestling with red tape," Remus said mildly. "Wouldn't surprise me if they stuck some Ministry puppet in there."
"Wouldn't surprise me if the castle up and threw them out," muttered Molly, bustling by with a fresh tray of bacon. "That school has a mind of its own, it does."
Harry glanced up at that — just a flick of the eyes — and found himself wondering.
What was happening at Hogwarts?
Phineas' words returned like a breeze whispering through closed shutters:
"You'll see the signs soon enough. Just... keep your eyes open."
He poked at his eggs without much interest.
Something was coming. That much he knew now.
But what — and who — remained a mystery.
And all he could do… was wait.