Chapter 273. Slytherin's Locket
Kreacher suddenly slunk out of a corner just as Black was animatedly recounting James's exploits, carrying a tray of cheese mottled with mould.
He set the cheese in the middle of the dining table and rasped, "Please enjoy the delicacy, honoured guests."
Black's smile froze at once; his face went thunderously dark.
"Kreacher!" he barked. "Take this filthy rubbish away immediately—and then get back to your cupboard!"
A vicious gleam flickered in Kreacher's cloudy eyes, but he used the humblest tone. "Kreacher only wished to present the Black family's treasured delicacy to the noble guests… This was the mistress's favourite cheese…"
"Your mistress has been dead for twelve years!" Black gave a cold laugh. "Don't tell me this cheese has sat for twelve years as well. Vanish—now!"
Kreacher bowed low. "As you wish, Master."
That word "Master" came out especially grating, as if he were chewing something rotten.
He did not take the cheese with him as he left; Black flung it out of the window in disgust.
"Mm… Good thing my nose isn't very keen, or I doubt I could taste a Sherbet Lemon," Dumbledore blinked and drew a sweet from his robe pocket, giving it a little flourish for all to see.
Very funny, Headmaster. Don't tell that one again, thought Wesson silently.
After Kreacher's little performance, the mood at dinner turned odd and the meal broke up in short order.
Night. Time to rest.
The Black townhouse was large enough that every guest could be given a room.
Wesson finally understood what Black meant by "tidied as far as possible"—at least the rooms they were using were spotless.
His room, in the bend of the third-floor corridor, had dark green wallpaper. A four-poster bed dominated the centre, stacked with brand-new bedding.
In an inconspicuous corner on the wall, Wesson found three letters: R.A.B.
It seemed to be something left by the previous occupant of the room.
Just then, there came a soft knock at the door.
Wesson raised an eyebrow, turned, and opened it—and on the threshold stood neither Harry nor anyone else he expected.
Kreacher was there, his bulbous eyes glinting eerily in the dim corridor.
"You cannot stay in this room, sir." Kreacher's face was blank, but Wesson heard a thread of urgency in his voice.
"Why?" Wesson asked with interest. "Oh, I'm not refusing—changing rooms is no great matter. I'm just curious…"
"Out!" Kreacher's voice turned sharp; his withered fingers clenched the frayed edge of his garment. "This is not for outsiders… This is Master Regulus's room!"
The aged house-elf suddenly raised his voice, then spoke again: "Sir, change to another room. Any room."
Wesson crouched so he was eye to eye with Kreacher and smiled faintly. "Of course, Kreacher. But before that, there are some things I want to tell you."
Kreacher took a step back, puzzled.
He had no idea what Wesson was about to do—what could possibly need saying to a decrepit house-elf?
"I'm looking for a box," Wesson said quietly, meeting Kreacher's eyes.
"A box?" Kreacher looked nervous.
"Ah, yes—a box," Wesson gestured. "About this big, and there are likely serpentine ornaments on it."
Kreacher's pupils shrank. His bony chest heaved; he clutched his ears in a death grip and rocked back and forth.
"N-no… no box!" he stammered. "Kreacher knows nothing of any box… Bad Kreacher! Mustn't talk to outsiders!"
He began to batter his head hard against the wall, cursing himself under his breath—apparently a necessary skill for all House-elves.
Wesson had not expected such a violent reaction.
"Kreacher! Stop!" He reached out to restrain him, but Kreacher's strength was astonishing.
"All right, Kreacher, have it your way. I'm here to help you," Wesson sighed. "Regulus…"
At the name Regulus, Kreacher's movements froze. He slowly lifted his head; clarity came into his murky eyes at once.
It worked!
Wesson spoke at once. "I know the locket is in your keeping. Give it to me, Kreacher. I'm going to destroy it—believe me, I have the means."
Suspicion washed that clarity away in an instant.
"D-don't… don't try to trick… Kreacher…" he babbled, backing away. "Many wizards said they'd destroy it… but they all wanted to keep it… to use its power."
Wesson was at a loss for words. The old creature in front of him had clearly sunk into paranoid delusions—persecutory fantasies, even. Who besides him knew that You-Know-Who's Horcrux was here?
"Perhaps this will help."
Wesson took a calming draught from his pocket—though he wasn't entirely sure whether a wizard's potion would work on a House-elf.
After Kreacher (not at all under duress) swallowed the draught, he finally calmed down.
"Can Kreacher trust you?" he asked hesitantly.
"Of course," Wesson shrugged. "And if you don't, never mind. Let me guess—did you put the locket in your cupboard?"
Kreacher's ears drooped. "Sir… please come with Kreacher."
He knew he had no way out of this; he could only choose to trust. Look at him—a worn-out House-elf was no match for a professor from Hogwarts.
Wesson followed the aged elf through dim corridors and down stairways, stopping at the kitchen door.
"Wait here."
Kreacher hobbled over to the cupboard in the corner and soon came out holding something.
Wesson took it. It was a golden locket the size of an egg, with an "S" of green gemstone set in the middle.
"Mm. Fine gemwork," Wesson turned it over in his hand. "Sadly, there's an evil soul hidden in it—so there's no salvaging the materials."
The instant he had the locket, he had the Tree of Wisdom analyse it—and the locket before him was indeed a genuine Horcrux.
"Kreacher tried many ways," Kreacher rasped. "Cut with a knife, burn with fire—but it always stayed the same. You said so, sir. You would help me destroy it."
"Don't be hasty, Kreacher."
Wesson beckoned lightly to him. "Let's go somewhere with more space. I noticed there's a courtyard here, yes?"
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