After Kreacher finished his story, the room seemed to shrink around us.
Not physically, of course. I would have noticed. But the air had grown dense, heavy with grief that did not belong to any of us and yet pressed against our lungs all the same. Even the dust motes drifting through the thin light appeared reluctant to move, as though the memory of Regulus Black's last moments had settled over the house like a mourning veil.
Kreacher stood hunched, trembling, his long fingers twisting the edge of his filthy pillowcase. His swollen eyes flicked anxiously between us, as if waiting for punishment simply for having spoken.
I softened my expression. A reassuring smile, gentle voice, calm posture. The full professional charm. House elves, like readers of autobiographies, respond very well to tone.
"Kreacher," I said kindly, inclining my head, "would you be so good as to bring us the locket? We can help you destroy it."
The elf stiffened.
Suspicion crept into his face with surprising speed. His eyelids narrowed. His lips puckered. He leaned back half an inch, as though distance alone might protect him from deception.
"You is lying," he said hoarsely.
It wasn't a question, but an accusation.
I placed a hand over my chest, scandalized in the most dignified manner available to a man of my stature.
"My dear fellow," I said solemnly, "I swear to you that I have already destroyed objects of similar… temperament."
That was true. Admittedly those objects hadn't truly been destroyed, considering we used a ritual to remove the soul fragment in order to save them, but technicalities rarely improve reassurance.
Kreacher searched my face.
House elves are astonishingly perceptive when they choose to be. He studied my eyes, my mouth, the angle of my shoulders. I allowed him to look. Honesty, when selectively deployed, is a very convincing disguise.
At last his shoulders sagged, and with a reluctant snap of fingers, he vanished.
A soft pop echoed through the room.
Sirius exhaled slowly beside me. "If he bites you," he muttered, "I'm not intervening."
"I would expect nothing less from a man of your loyalty," I replied pleasantly.
He gasped dramatically. "How dare you? You can question my judgement, you can even question my hygiene, but you can never question my loyalty. My animagus form is even a dog for Merlin's sake!"
There was another pop, interrupting Sirius's dramatic act.
Kreacher reappeared clutching something in both hands as though it were made of acid and blasphemy.
The locket.
I felt it even before I saw it clearly.
Cold intent leaked from it like breath from a crypt. The metal surface seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it. An ornate green S curled across its face, elegant and serpentine, and the moment Dumbledore's eyes fell upon it, recognition sharpened his features.
"Salazar Slytherin's locket," he said quietly.
His voice held no excitement. Only certainty.
Sirius leaned closer.
Then he recoiled.
A visible shudder ran down his spine, his shoulders twitching as though something icy had brushed the back of his neck.
"That," he said, staring at it with open distaste, "is the darkest artifact I have ever seen. And that is saying something, given my family's decorating habits."
Kreacher whimpered faintly, still holding it out, arms trembling from the effort of touching the thing.
Dumbledore stepped forward and accepted it with great care. His long fingers did not tighten, yet they did not relax either. He handled it the way one might handle a venomous creature that had not yet decided whether to strike.
"Thank you, Kreacher," he said gently. "You have done your master proud. We will see that it is destroyed as soon as possible."
The elf's red-rimmed eyes filled with tears. He bowed so low his nose nearly brushed the floor.
"Good master Regulus…" he whispered.
I watched him for a moment, thoughtful.
Then an idea arrived, bursting into my mind with the enthusiasm of a fan spotting me in public.
"You know," I said suddenly, tapping my chin, "we might consider retrieving Regulus himself. His body should still be in the cave."
Both men and a house-elf turned toward me.
Sirius's expression changed first. Surprise, then realization, then something softer and far older than either.
"You're right," he said quietly. His voice had lost its usual edge. "We can't just leave Reggie there."
I nodded once.
"The least we can do is give him a proper burial."
For a moment Sirius did not speak. He simply looked at the locket in Dumbledore's hand, jaw tight, eyes distant. When he finally inhaled, it sounded steadier.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. We do that."
…
The journey to the cave was mercifully swift.
Between Dumbledore's legendary skill and my own considerable magical aptitude, distance proved more a suggestion than an obstacle. The sea wind greeted us the moment we arrived, sharp and salt-heavy, whipping Sirius's hair across his face and tugging impatiently at our cloaks.
The cave entrance yawned before us, black and silent and waiting.
Even from outside, the place radiated wrongness.
You could feel it in the stone. In the air. In the faint echo that lingered half a second too long after each footstep. Magic soaked the cavern walls, old and sour and deeply unfriendly.
Dumbledore was about to cut his hand to open the entrance, which demanded a blood offering in order to weaken the intruders, but Sirius insisted on doing it himself.
As the cave opened, we kept going.
The darkness thickened as we moved inward, our wandlight stretching long pale beams across wet rock. Water dripped somewhere in the distance. Each drop struck stone with a hollow plink that echoed like a counting clock.
When the underground lake finally came into view, its surface lay perfectly still, like a sheet of black glass.
And beneath it, shapes.
Many shapes.
Sirius inhaled sharply when he saw them.
Inferi.
They drifted below the water like corpses suspended in ink, limbs slack, hair floating, faces pale and empty. Hundreds of them. Perhaps more. Waiting, patiently watching.
"Well," I said briskly, rolling my shoulders, "shall we?"
Dumbledore inclined his head.
The first corpse lunged the instant our light touched the water.
It erupted upward with a splash, skeletal hands clawing, jaw hanging open in a silent scream. Dozens followed, then hundreds, the lake exploding into motion as the dead surged toward us in a rotting tide.
Sirius swore and shot a Confringo, successfully destroying one.
Meanwhile, I simply raised my staff and fire answered.
The crimson flames of Fiendfyre roared outward in a sweeping arc, heat rushing past us in a fierce wave as the Inferi shrieked soundlessly and recoiled. Beside me, Dumbledore's magic blazed bright and controlled, ribbons of orange flames lashing across the water like living whips, driving the creatures back.
They did not stand a chance.
Within minutes the lake had fallen still again, scorched hands sinking beneath the surface, smoke curling faintly where flames had kissed ancient flesh.
Sirius stared in awe.
"I'm starting to feel slightly sorry for anything that ever decides to fight you two," he muttered.
We stepped forward and I used Accio to summon Regulus' body from underwater.
Time and water had not been kind, yet enough remained to recognize him. Dark hair. Fine bones. The remnants of noble features softened by death but not erased.
Sirius stopped beside the body silently, just looking down.
When he finally knelt, it was slow and careful, as though afraid the movement might break something fragile that had already been broken once before.
"Hey, Reg," he murmured.
The cave did not answer.
Behind him, I remained respectfully silent.
Some moments do not belong to an audience.
And this one, unquestionably, belonged to brothers.
…