Chapter 202: The Old House Cleaning (Part 2)
Everyone, even Busy, began casting spells, and the once-chaotic kitchen began to clean itself at an astonishing pace. Heavy iron pots and basins gradually gleamed like new, while decades-old grease stains on stone walls and the floor dissolved and vanished in moments. Wooden tables, from bottom to top, transformed into a radiant champagne hue.
The once-greasy, dark furniture—passed hand to hand among the tiny humanoids—was sprayed with cleaning agents, scrubbed, rinsed, and wiped dry. By the time the final piece was returned to its cabinet, every surface was spotless.
Even Neville, who came from a traditional wizarding family, and the Weasleys had to admit: nothing they’d ever seen felt more magical than this.
Michael sniffled, eyes glistening. “Wade… you should’ve come sooner to help. I had no idea you’d prepared so much stuff…”
“It’s not all my preparation,” Wade said. “Mr. Machionni lent me a new batch of products. I’m just testing their performance.”
Neville sighed wistfully. “I’ve always wanted one… but magic puppets are too expensive. Gran wouldn’t let me have one.”
“Aslan Magical Workshop is working hard to lower costs and increase production,” Wade replied. “Magic puppets will get cheaper over time. I was actually struggling to decide what to give everyone for Christmas—now I don’t have to worry anymore.”
“That’s impossible!” Neville flushed red, waving his hands frantically. “It’s far too expensive! I can’t accept such a gift!”
“It’s pricey in stores,” Wade said calmly, “but for me, it’s just cost price—about two Galleons.”
Neville exhaled in relief. Now he knew how to return the favor.
The boy was both thrilled and embarrassed, stammering out a quiet “Thank you.”
“No need to be so formal,” Wade grinned. “As long as you don’t mind, everyone gets the same gift.”
The others laughed. They remembered last year’s Christmas, when Wade had given everyone identical Books of Friends. No one had thought it was lazy or cheap—on the contrary, it felt meaningful. It was hard not to feel a little envious, though. Who wouldn’t want to be the kind of person who could casually create trinkets that were both useful and delightful, bringing genuine surprise to others?
...
Once the house’s magic no longer resisted, the Cleaning Crabs and Tiny Humans worked with astonishing efficiency. The wizards mostly assisted, handling tasks the creatures couldn’t manage—like dealing with the mischievous, seductive spirits hiding behind curtains, or the Boggart lurking inside a writing desk.
Two adult wizards took the chance to give the younger ones a quick lesson. If it weren’t for the darkening sky, Remus Lupin would’ve had each of them face a Boggart firsthand.
“It sees into your soul,” Remus warned. “It becomes your deepest fear. The spell to defeat it is simple, but don’t underestimate it. I’ve seen wizards freeze up completely, forgetting even how to cast magic.”
As he spoke, he gently guided the floating full moon into a box—apparently intending to keep the Boggart as a specimen.
Some ordinary-looking objects—like a snuffbox or a pair of tweezers—suddenly sprang to life during cleaning, revealing they had been enchanted with powerful dark magic.
One Tiny Human was suddenly severed at the neck. Two others were destroyed beyond repair. The young wizards were heartbroken.
These automatons weren’t mere tools like brooms or dustpans. They had human-like appearances, were hardworking and capable, and when harmed, they emitted real, agonized screams. Their deaths felt like losing real companions. Hermione couldn’t hold back a few tears. She turned away quickly, discreetly wiping her eyes.
No one said anything. They all pretended not to notice.
Ginny Weasley, who had arrived shy and reserved—just like any ordinary, timid girl—surprised everyone with her sudden strength when banishing a spirit. Her performance far exceeded that of her peers.
Even more astonishing was Percy.
The Weasley boy, who in the original story often came across as dull and pompous, now displayed remarkable leadership. Once he’d adjusted, he swiftly began organizing the group, assigning tasks, and turning their chaotic efforts into a coordinated operation.
Wade wasn’t opposed to mixing fun with work—but the improved efficiency was undeniable. After clearing the bedroom, they even had time to move on to the garden.
Percy’s flaws were obvious, though. Every few sentences, he’d bring up his Prefect status, standing stiffly like a model of authority—only to be instantly undone by the twins’ pranks, leaving him flustered and furious.
Dinner was prepared by Kreacher.
The house-elf effortlessly cooked a lavish meal for everyone. His French onion soup was particularly praised, its rich aroma and delicate flavor winning universal approval.
But joy was short-lived.
Their laughter and chatter grew too loud—and accidentally woke the portrait of Mrs. Black.
The painting shrieked, voice sharp and venomous:
“Filth! Whore! Death to the Mudblood! How dare you enter our home, you rotting vampires! Traitor! Kreacher! How could you betray me? Betray the Black family?!”
The other portraits joined in, their voices rising in a chorus of fury.
Kreacher’s face turned pale. His frail body trembled. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he whispered, “Kreacher… Kreacher has served the great Black family faithfully for generations!”
Suddenly, he lunged toward the fireplace, grabbed the red-hot poker, and plunged it into his own chest.
“Wait! Stop!” Harry cried, diving forward and tackling Kreacher to the ground, trying to seize his arm. But it was too late—the elf had already branded himself. The stench of burning flesh filled the air.
The girls were frozen in horror. Several boys rushed over, pinning Kreacher down together to stop his self-inflicted torture.
Remus Lupin tried to pull the curtains shut—but this time, it was agonizingly difficult.
Sirius Black sat motionless in his chair, head bowed, utterly still.
Wade clamped a hand over his ears, then pulled out the Book of Friends. He scribbled a single sentence on a page, then pulled Remus aside and shook his head, signaling everyone to wait.
Moments later, a shadow appeared in the blank portrait on the third-floor bedroom.
The figure moved swiftly from one painting to another, passing through them like smoke. In no time, it reached the Great Hall—and stood before the portrait of Sirius Black’s mother, Walburga Black.
“Walburga,” the figure said.
The woman’s furious screaming ceased instantly. Her wild, darting eyes locked onto the intruder. Her expression, once frenzied, now settled into icy pride and disdain.
After a long silence, she rasped, “Phineas Black. What do you want?”
Remus Lupin stared, stunned. He had never known a portrait could speak normally—only scream and curse.
The figure sighed. “Walburga… you should call me your great-grandfather.”
(End of Chapter)
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