Bernard reaches down into the trunk and picks up the odd mirror-thing again, and is startled to find somebody else's face staring out of it. He stares into a pair of green eyes blinking myopically back at him through a pair of John Lennon glasses, and lets out a small shriek.
“Hello?” says Bernard. “Is this a magic mirror?” He thinks wildly of Snow White, and wonders whether he could poison Rowena with an apple. “Mirror mirror in my hand, who's the fairest in the land?”
“Sirius?” says a voice out of nowhere. “My God, Sirius! Is that you?”
“Er – no,” says Bernard. “No, it's me, Bernard. Hello?”
“Bernard who?”
“Bernard Black,” Bernard replies. And then he realises he's talking to a mirror, and it occurs to him that he has no idea quite what he's just drunk. The thought that he may even now have some mysterious drugs coursing through his bloodstream cheers him up enormously.
“Black?” says the figment of his imagination. “My God. Right – er – hang on. Where are you?”
“I'm here, silly,” says Bernard, smiling down at the mirror. “Holding you. In the garden.”
“Yes, okay – but where is the garden, exactly?”
So Bernard tells him.
* * *
“...and so that makes us sort of family, almost. Because Sirius was my godfather, you see,” says the young man, looking very earnest. There is a suspiciously wobbly note in his voice.
Bernard makes winding up motions with one hand. “Yes yes yes, heroic sacrifice, wrongfully arrested, shapeshifting disguise – I got all that the first time. So you're saying that the house belongs to me? A whole house? A big house?” He beams.
“Well, pretty big, yes. And really – I mean, okay, they disinherited Marius for being a squib, but the Ministry is in the process of changing a lot of the laws relating to Squibs and Muggles, and – I mean, legally it's mine, but in all conscience I can't carry on living there when I know that you're out here, you know, Sirius's cousin, all disinherited just because of Slytherin pride.” Bernard nods approvingly. He always knew that he'd been terribly wronged by someone. “And I've got pots of money, you know. Pots and pots of the stuff. I'd been thinking about moving to somewhere a bit – well, a bit more cheerful, frankly. Now that the war's over, there's really no need to keep it hidden. I can move it into Muggle London without too much bother, and key the door to you properly. And I can take it off the Floo network, and get it all made a bit more Muggle-friendly – shouldn't take too long.” He hesitates. “Well. Er. Maybe a month or two. Six at the most.”
“You realise that I only understand one word in ten of all this, don't you?” asks Bernard conversationally. “But I'll have the house. Yes please. Do I have to sign something?”
“Er – good point. I'll get the lawyers to draw something up, make it all official,” says this Harry person, raking a hand through hair almost as dark and almost as messy as Bernard's own. “There's – I should probably tell you, though. There's a sort of a catch.” Bernard's eyes narrow. He knew it was all too good to be true.
- * *
Number 12 Grimmauld Place is the most beautiful house Bernard has ever seen. He loves its dark corners, its musty smells, its dust, its tapestries, its bookshelves and its four poster beds. He even loves the shouty portrait of the old woman, and thoroughly enjoys yelling abuse back at the old bat, and threatening to torch her favourite possessions. Most of all, though, he loves the catch.
Because the catch, as it turns out, is more of a perk.
Bernard Black may be losing his personal slave to the wretched Rowena, but he finds that he can cope with this an awful lot more easily now that he has gained a House Elf of his very own. Not to mention an extensive cellar.
“Wine!” he yells, and Kreacher is there with a dusty bottle of claret before he's finished pronouncing the word.
(continued...)