(Gilderoy Lockhart)
Dumbledore cleared his throat softly, the sound polite yet deliberate, like a man tapping crystal to command attention at a formal banquet.
"But before that," he said, folding his hands within his sleeves, "there is a favour I would like to ask of you, Sirius."
The air shifted.
It was subtle. Most people would not have noticed it. I did, of course, because I possess a remarkable sensitivity to magical atmospheres. Also because the tiny blue shimmer that spread outward from Dumbledore's wand hand was rather difficult to miss if one happened to be looking directly at it.
A very discreet privacy ward.
The distant murmurs of Ministry officials and lingering Wizengamot members faded into a dull, watery hush, as though we had suddenly been placed at the bottom of a lake made of velvet.
Sirius noticed too. His brows lifted slightly.
Dumbledore's tone lowered.
"Before departing this world," he continued gently, "your brother performed an act of considerable bravery. He removed an object of great importance from Lord Voldemort. We believe it may now reside within your family home."
Sirius blinked.
"Reggie did what?"
The words came out halfway between disbelief and a laugh. He ran a hand through his hair, staring at nothing as though trying to reconcile two completely incompatible versions of reality.
"Wow," he breathed. "I… that's… I don't even know what to say."
For once, Sirius Black was speechless. I would have applauded the rarity if the moment had not been so sincere.
A strange light entered his eyes. Pride, hesitant and unfamiliar, like a guest unsure whether he was truly welcome.
"I guess," he said quietly, "he finally managed to crawl out from under our mother's thumb."
Silence followed as Sirius took his time to reflect on what he'd just heard.
Then, as if catching himself being sentimental, he straightened and slapped a grin back onto his face with theatrical determination.
"So," he said, voice deliberately brighter, "you want access to the old house?"
He tilted his head, one brow raised.
"I suppose I can arrange that. Though I should ask… isn't there technically anyone else in my delightful family tree still alive who might object?"
Dumbledore's eyes softened.
"I fear," he said carefully, "that you are the last of the direct line. Aside from your cousins, of course."
The words landed gently, but they still hit like stones.
Sirius's smile faltered. Not dramatically. Just a small fracture at the edge. His shoulders sank half an inch.
"I see."
A pause.
"Well," he added after a moment, attempting nonchalance and almost succeeding, "at least I won't have to deal with that old banshee anymore."
His tone was light, but his eyes were not.
I knew enough about family to recognize that particular expression. It is the look people wear when relief and grief arrive hand in hand and neither has the decency to leave.
He shoved his hands into his pockets.
I decided intervention was required. Preferably charming intervention. Possibly dazzling intervention.
"At least," I said warmly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, "you still have your cousins. Family branches may twist, but they do remain attached to the tree."
Sirius's face soured so quickly it could have curdled milk.
"Well," he said, lips tightening, "there's Andy, I suppose."
His expression softened slightly.
"And Nymphie. She must be grown by now."
Ah.
Yes.
Nymphadora.
My smile froze for one microscopic fraction of a second. Fortunately, I possess reflexes honed by years of public appearances, autograph ambushes, and countless incidents involving enchanted fan mail. My expression recovered before either man could notice.
Internally, however, I experienced what scholars might classify as A Moment.
Not a large moment, or a dramatic one. Just a neat, compact realization that I had, at one time, taken Sirius Black's niece on three dates, two moonlit walks, and one ill-advised broom ride that had ended with a shrubbery casualty.
I cleared my throat lightly.
Outwardly serene. Inwardly calculating.
Best not to mention that.
Dumbledore, mercifully unaware of my brief romantic flashback, inclined his head.
"Your cousin Andromeda is, by all accounts, a remarkable witch," he said. "Kind. Strong-willed, and devoted to her family."
Sirius nodded once.
"Yeah," he murmured. "That sounds like Andy."
There was affection there. Real affection. The kind that survives blood feuds and family madness.
The old headmaster watched him for a moment, then spoke again, voice gentle but purposeful.
"If the object your brother hid is indeed where we suspect, retrieving it could prove… significant."
Sirius glanced up.
"How significant?"
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed faintly behind his spectacles.
"The sort of significant," he said, "that alters wars."
Sirius's posture straightened. The last traces of melancholy slipped aside, replaced by something sharper. Determination. A spark I suspected had been smoldering in him since the moment he escaped his cell.
"Well then," he said, a wolfish grin beginning to form, "what are we waiting for?"
I clapped my hands once, delighted.
"Excellent! Nothing lifts the spirit like a noble quest involving ancient houses, mysterious relics, and questionable life choices. Shall we be off?"
Sirius snorted.
Dumbledore's beard twitched, which for him is the equivalent of laughter.
And just like that, the air changed again.
The heaviness of endings lifted.
In its place came anticipation.
…
Grimmauld Place, Number Twelve
We arrived before a door that looked as though it had personally offended time itself.
The black paint had peeled in long curling strips, like dead skin shedding from some ancient beast. The brass knocker hung crookedly. Even the number plate seemed tired, its tarnished surface dull beneath the thin London light. The whole entrance radiated the sort of stubborn hostility usually reserved for tax collectors and unsolicited relatives.
Sirius stood very still.
His hand rested on the knob, fingers curled around it, but he did not turn it. Not yet. His shoulders had gone tight beneath his coat, breath shallow, jaw clenched as though he were bracing for impact.
I placed a hand on his shoulder.
Not theatrically this time, just gently.
He glanced at me, and for a fleeting second the reckless fugitive vanished, replaced by a boy about to step back into a house that had never loved him.
Then he exhaled and his grip tightened.
The door clicked and opened with a creak.
Sirius blinked in open surprise.
"Well," he muttered, staring at the gap as if it might bite him, "that's unexpected."
He glanced back at us, one brow raised.
"I was fairly certain Mother had me removed from the wards when she blasted me off the family tree. Thought I'd be locked out for eternity."
He stepped halfway inside, then paused.
"Wait here," he said quickly. "I need to take control of the wards first."
He had just begun to cross the threshold when there was a sharp pop.
An elderly house-elf appeared directly in front of him.
Calling it ugly would have been generous. Its skin sagged like melted wax. Its ears drooped like wilted leaves. Its watery eyes bulged with the tragic intensity of someone permanently offended by existence.
It glared at Sirius with naked loathing.
"Bad master," it croaked, voice like dry parchment scraping stone. "Bad blood traitor. Oh, the Mistress will be furious. Furious she will be. Her traitorous son returns. Wicked boy. Ungrateful boy."
It muttered the last words to itself, rocking slightly, fingers twisting in its ragged pillowcase garment.
Sirius's expression hardened instantly.
"Step aside, Kreacher."
The elf stiffened.
Its thin lips trembled. Its eyes darted toward the dark hallway behind it as though expecting divine punishment to descend from the ceiling.
For a moment it resisted.
You could see it trying. Every muscle in its wiry frame quivered with defiance.
Then magic took hold.
The compulsion of a master's order slammed down on it like invisible chains.
Kreacher's shoulders jerked. His feet shuffled backward against his will. His teeth ground together with audible hatred as he stepped aside.
Sirius did not look at him again.
"I'll be right back," he said, and disappeared into the house.
The door remained open.
For approximately ten seconds, there was silence.
Then the screaming started.
It exploded from inside the house with the force of a cursed trumpet.
Shrill, piercing, and absolutely unhinged.
It sounded remarkably like a banshee who had just discovered someone had rearranged her funeral urns alphabetically.
I winced.
"Yes," I murmured, rubbing one ear, "that would be the maternal portrait."
Beside me, Dumbledore chuckled softly, hands folded serenely as though we were listening to distant birdsong rather than an auditory assault.
The screaming continued for nearly a full minute before it cut off abruptly with a muffled thump and what sounded suspiciously like fabric being wrestled into submission.
A couple minutes later, footsteps approached as Sirius reappeared.
His face was slightly red. One eyelid twitched with impressive rhythm.
"Sorry about that," he said hoarsely. "Mother was thoughtful enough to leave behind a portrait of herself. Short of burning down the wall with Fiendfyre, I haven't found a way to remove it."
He inhaled once, steadying himself.
"But I've taken control of the wards. You can come in now."
"Thank you," said Dumbledore pleasantly, stepping inside.
I followed.
The door closed behind us on its own with a dull, final thud.
The smell hit immediately.
Dust, damp wood, and old fabric. The stale breath of a house that had been holding its lungs for years.
Every surface wore a grey film. Cobwebs draped corners like abandoned lace. The floorboards creaked beneath our steps in long complaining groans that echoed down the hall.
I frowned.
Curious.
Magical residences, especially old family seats, tend to preserve themselves through layered enchantments. Cleaning charms, preservation wards, structural stabilizers. Even neglected ones rarely decay this quickly.
Walburga Black had died less than a decade ago.
This level of deterioration suggested interference.
I let my senses stretch outward.
Ah.
There it was, the reek of dark magic.
It clung to the air like soot. Not active. Not attacking. Simply present. Saturating the structure, slowly eroding every benevolent spell woven into its bones.
Dark enchantments are terribly rude houseguests. They do not merely linger. They spoil everything they touch.
We moved deeper into the house, our footsteps stirring faint clouds of dust that glittered in thin shafts of light. Sirius suddenly raised a finger to his lips and gestured sharply toward a heavy set of curtains hanging along the wall.
Behind them, I could feel it.
The portrait.
Even muted, it radiated indignation.
We passed quietly.
Once inside what must have once been the drawing room, Sirius stopped and spoke aloud.
"Kreacher."
Pop.
The elf appeared again, arms folded, glare sharpened to a knife's edge.
"Yes, bad Master."
The title sounded like poison, but Sirius did not react to it.
"Did Regulus hide something here connected to the Dark Lord?"
Kreacher's expression did not change.
I tilted my head thoughtfully.
"A locket, perhaps?" I offered.
Kreacher's eyes widened.
Ah.
There it was.
The reaction lasted less than a second, but it was enough.
Sirius saw it too, and his gaze sharpened.
"I order you," he said quietly, "to answer."
Kreacher froze.
His entire body went rigid. His jaw clamped shut so hard his teeth clicked. His hands began to shake violently at his sides.
He tried not to speak.
Tried very hard.
But the magic did not care.
A strangled noise tore from his throat. His face turned blotchy red. Then, with a wail of despair, he spun and ran headfirst into the wall.
Thunk~
"Bad Kreacher!" he sobbed, striking it again. "Bad Kreacher failed! Bad Kreacher could not obey! Bad Kreacher could not destroy the locket! Bad Kreacher is wicked!"
He hit the wall a seventh time and blood appeared at his hairline.
Sirius flinched.
"What happened?" he demanded. "Tell me everything. And stop hitting yourself. That's an order."
Kreacher froze mid-motion and turned slowly.
His eyes were red. Blood trickled down his temple. His chest hitched as he fought sobs.
Then he began to speak.
"The Dark Lord asked for a house-elf," he whispered. "Good Master Regulus offered Kreacher."
His voice trembled.
"He took Kreacher to a cave. A terrible cave." The elf shuddered violently. "There was a basin of stone. A potion inside. The Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it."
His fingers clawed at his chest as if remembering the sensation.
"Kreacher wanted to die. Kreacher wanted to tear his own skin off. Kreacher begged for water. Begged. But the Dark Lord laughed."
The room felt colder.
"Then he placed a locket in the basin. Filled it again with potion. And he left Kreacher there."
A tear slid down the elf's nose.
"But Kreacher is a house-elf. Kreacher could Apparate. Kreacher returned home."
He swallowed.
"Good Master Regulus was waiting. He listened. He asked questions. Then he told Kreacher to take him there."
Sirius's breathing had gone very quiet.
"He drank the potion himself," Kreacher whispered. "Kreacher begged to drink it instead. Begged. But Master Regulus said no. He said Kreacher must take the locket and destroy it."
The elf's voice broke.
"The last thing Kreacher saw…"
His lips trembled.
"…was Master Regulus being dragged into the lake."
Silence filled the room.
"A lake of the dead," Kreacher croaked. "Hands. Rotting hands. They pulled him under."
He covered his face.
"Inferi." I muttered.
…