The taxi pulled up on a cold and gloomy London street. I found myself at the beginning of it, by house number one, and so I slowly walked through the grey suburb toward my destination. The houses were tall, shabby, and dark. The plaster was peeling off them, the windows were broken in many places and only hastily taped over. It looked like a street of ghosts. There weren't many people around, and if any did appear, they just hurried along the pavement and disappeared into the side alleys.
I felt the magic as early as number ten. It pulsed strongly—I would compare it to an eager dog with its tongue hanging out. It grew stronger with every step until I stood before the building marked number 12. Even at first glance, it stood out from the surrounding Muggle houses.
It didn't have broken windows or a neglected appearance. The house was dark, built in a pure Gothic-Victorian style, and looked unexpectedly well-preserved. Only the door—massive and black—was a bit scuffed and bore the marks of kicks. It looked as though someone substantially shorter than me had kicked it furiously, but thanks to its massiveness, it had held firm. There was no marking on the door, no nameplate or doorbell. Instead, only a silver snake-shaped knocker and a silver handle gleamed upon it.
I paused before it for a moment. The house's magic pulsed like an excited retriever. I could feel it, yet I was still technically out of its reach. It was a strange sensation—as if that dog were watching me from behind a sturdy fence. It couldn't come to me; it could only watch longingly.
"I don't suppose it'll lick me," I muttered under my breath, grabbed the silver knocker, and struck the wood three times.
I waited for about a minute, but not a sound came from inside. So, I grabbed the handle and simply pushed. The door wasn't locked. Without a single creak, it opened smoothly, and with a deep breath, I stepped right into the embrace of that magical "beast."
In an instant, two powerful sensations hit my consciousness. The first came from my magical sensitivity. The magic of my mother's line welcomed me like a long-lost son. I felt it as a gentle breeze embracing my shoulders and neck; it pressed against me so urgently, yet tenderly, as if it wanted to enter right inside me. It was pleasant, reminiscent of the feeling when a loved one scratches the back of your neck. For a moment, I lost myself in it—the magic in this house was substantially more concentrated per square metre than at the Rosier castle. And with a small dose of reluctance, I had to admit it was also more powerful.
The second sensation was the smell. The scent of mustiness, damp, and rot, underlined by age and dust. In the gloom of the hallway, I saw thick layers of cobwebs.
While the house's magic caressed me, I looked around in disgust. I recognised the troll-leg umbrella stand immediately—who on earth would want such rubbish in their home? My ancestors must have been madmen. On the wall, a row of shrunken house-elf heads was mounted.
"Disgusting," I snorted quietly. I felt the magic in the house pulse in agreement. It was definitely the liveliest aura I had ever experienced. In terms of consciousness, it was comparable to Hogwarts, but given the smaller area, it felt much more intense.
I walked quietly down the hall. I had only gone a few paces when I heard a shuffling movement and unintelligible mumbling in the shadows. I stopped immediately.
A filthy old elf appeared before me. While the others I had met so far radiated joy and respect, this one radiated only pure hatred and rage. It didn't surprise me at all when he immediately launched into his tirade:
"...broken in... the cheeky, low-born beast... smells of the Muggle street... miserable boy... if only my Mistress were alive, she would skin you alive and nail your head next to my mother's..." He paused for a moment and glared at me hatefully.
In a split second, I summoned my wand to my hand and raised it threateningly. In his eyes, however, flashed mockery and dark anticipation. Without the slightest hint of fear, he continued:
"...thief... a rat comes into my Mistress's house... I see you, you filth! You think the house is empty? That old Kreacher won't protect the silver of the House of Black?!"
The house's magic pulsed with anger. The insults of that filthy elf were enough for me. Although I didn't take them personally, I knew that if I didn't shut him down now, I would have to listen to them with every step I took in this house. The tip of my wand glowed purple—my magic knew exactly what I wanted to do. The elf waited for the curse with cruel expectation. He was just opening his mouth to speak again when I fired:
"Aculeus!"
The purple bolt hit him square in his wrinkled forehead. He shrieked in pain immediately. However, I felt I was still being too kind compared to what he likely experienced under his Mistress, so I followed up with another spell:
"Everte Statum!"
The orange blast slammed into his stomach and threw him back like a ragdoll. He spun through the air but didn't hit the hard floor—he crashed directly into a wall covered by a thick, dark green curtain. He slumped to the ground and began to wheeze like a wounded animal, gasping for breath.
In an instant, the curtains drew back of their own accord, revealing a life-sized portrait of a woman. She had thick dark hair streaked with grey, sharp grey eyes, and full, deep red lips. Her face was pale and angular, but a dangerous shrewdness gleamed in her gaze. She didn't start screaming; instead, she calmly began to observe the scene. The wheezing Kreacher on the floor and me—with the composure of an Englishman and a charming smile. I had to admit, Sirius's mother had been a truly attractive woman in her time, a total MILF.
"Good day," I greeted politely with a slight inclination of my head.
"Good day," she returned sternly. "What is your name, young Black, and whose son are you?" she asked curiously after a moment of silence, completely ignoring Kreacher's painful wheezing.
"What makes you think I am a Black?" I asked with a slight smirk.
She rolled her eyes and her face contorted into a grimace, as if she had bitten into a lemon.
"If you were not, the magic of our house would have killed you instantly," she replied sourly. "So my worthless son, the traitor to our blood, has a son after all," she concluded coldly. "But apparently with a good witch," she added, casting a meaningful glance at Kreacher, who was now sitting up and clutching his chest. "Furthermore, you have our features, though your colouring is different."
I watched her with an amused smile. She seemed much more "alive" than the paintings at Hogwarts, but I felt no unnatural shade of magic from her—so no Horcrux or cursed artifact in the style of Dorian Gray. She was simply Walburga, trapped in canvas and paint, but still possessed of a sharp mind.
"Information for information," I suggested with a smile.
In her grey eyes, the sternness vanished for a moment, replaced by a flash of pride mixed with amusement.
"Information for information," she nodded with a slightly strained smile.
"How is it that you seem so alive?" I began first. "I have never encountered such a portrait."
"We are Blacks, boy... Portraits are essentially neutral magic, where the artist mixes magic into the paints along with the sensations, feelings, and knowledge that animate the subject. For a Black, however, it is no problem to erase everything from a portrait that they do not want there and adjust it to the desired reality," she answered me with calm pride. Upon my nod, she immediately followed up with her own question: "Who are you?"
"Hm, that's too broad a question. So tell me instead—can you be taken down from the wall?"
She immediately frowned at me sternly.
"I will answer that question, but then it is your turn."
Kreacher sat between us, leaning against the wall and painfully holding his swollen forehead. His head, however, darted between us as he watched us both in silence.
"No, I cannot be taken down. I used a Permanent Sticking Charm, and so I shall welcome visitors to this house for all eternity."
I remembered this detail, but the question served my cold calculation.
"Thank you. Before I tell you anything about myself, allow me a little story." She wanted to interrupt me, but I raised my hand. She scowled but remained silent. "Once there lived a noblewoman named Elizabeth Bathory. A high-born lady from a family related to the King. She was so cruel and people feared her so much that instead of executing her, they had her immured in one of the rooms of her castle. Though she screamed, no one ever heard her... until she died."
Walburga's face, already pale, now took on a deathly hue. She realised where I was going with this.
"Can you imagine it? For all eternity in total darkness, without a single witness. It would likely trouble a realistic painting more than a human... But you needn't worry about that; you are, after all, a proper and attractive lady," I smiled calmly. "And so, who am I? As you correctly noted, I am a Black, but only half."
She remained silent. She did not dare to interrupt me because she understood my threat very well. So, I continued with the introduction.
"My name is Patrik Evan Rosier," I said with a slight bow. "My mother was Carina Druella Black."
I saw anger flash in her eyes. Her jaw was tightly set, but when she loosened it and opened her mouth to speak, she clicked it shut again at the sight of my smile.
"Correct, my mother was a Squib, but still a Black. And according to the reaction of this house's magic, my blood is pure enough to be welcomed like a long-lost son." I turned to Kreacher with a smirk. "If I hear a single insult again, the next spell might be the Cruciatus or..." I held out my hand and a bright flame flared in my palm. "...or there will be nothing left of you but a pile of ash."
"Which would perhaps be a redemption for this house," I added after a moment of deathly silence, in which only a strange rustling from the walls could be heard. "I haven't seen such filth, mess, and stench in a long time." I frowned alternately at Walburga and the trembling elf. "It is a massive disgrace. Were it not for the family magic and history, I would burn this place to the ground."
Walburga observed me in silence. The anger had vanished from her eyes; she remained deathly pale, but her jaw was no longer clenched in a spasm.
"Well?" I prompted. She still said nothing, but she didn't look as though she were gathering the courage for an insult. "How is it possible that the proud seat of the Blacks has fallen so incredibly into ruin, even though it has a living portrait and a servant at its disposal? Does it not bother you to live in such filth? Are you not even slightly ashamed? The Most Ancient and Noble House, Toujours Pur... and yet there's a bigger mess here than in a squatters' den," I added mockingly.
They were still silent. Kreacher was shaking on the floor, covering his ears with his hands so he wouldn't have to listen to my criticism. It looked as though death by burning terrified him substantially more than the Cruciatus—which I was certain I wouldn't be able to cast successfully on him anyway. Walburga was calmer, but she looked as though I had slapped her. Her lips began to tremble.
"Well?" I repeated the question.
"My sons were lost, my husband died, and I was left here alone with the elf. For years. Do you think that in that loneliness, I cared about the order of the house?" she whispered in a cold, broken voice. "I was left only with the mask I wore for years, Rosier."
"Depression is a bitch," I acknowledged. "But now the House of Black must rouse itself to life, otherwise it will cease to exist. And I do not intend to allow that."
At my words, I felt the house's magic—it gently stroked my cheek. I felt hope within it.
"Kreacher!" I shouted at him so he would hear me even through his hands. He jumped to his feet immediately. He didn't dare even mutter anymore.
"Young master... Kreacher will serve. He will serve, he will, he will, he will," he stammered shrilly in his aged voice.
"Start cleaning the house immediately and return it to its former glory. If there is filth and mess here on my next visit, it will be time for a new elf. I will burn you and your trophies on the wall," I commanded him threateningly. "You will stop insulting guests immediately. You will behave politely even to Muggle vagrants, should they happen to wander in here. No insults. I demand proud and proper behaviour, as befits the House of Black, toward every guest."
I paused. The shaking elf remained in a deep bow.
"Do you understand?"
"Understood, understood, young master. Kreacher understands, oh yes, he understands," he nodded so fervently that his long ears flapped together and he struck his nose against the ground.
"Where is your master?"
Immediately I saw his terrified face turn back into a hateful mask. He was just about to insult Sirius, but he checked himself in time.
"In the drawing room, young master. If he is not asleep, he is drinking Firewhiskey."
"And Potter?"
Kreacher visibly struggled with himself again. He squeezed his throat hard with one hand and replied: "On holiday with the Weasleys," he announced in a strangled but clear voice.
"Start cleaning. Now." I flicked my hand, and in a split second, he was gone.
"What do you want with that blood traitor?" Walburga asked curiously. Calm had returned to her face, though she was still unnaturally pale.
"To have a drink, of course," I replied with a laugh. "For the greater good!" I added with bitter amusement and walked on. After a few metres, however, I had to stop. Should I go upstairs, or was the drawing room on the ground floor?
"Where is that drawing room, then?" I asked Walburga, who was looking at me with an aggressively furrowed brow.
"Straight ahead, on the ground floor," she replied disapprovingly. "You shouldn't be drinking at your age, and you certainly shouldn't take an example from that disgrace to our line."
"Thank you," I muttered and continued to the drawing room.
I stepped inside. The air in the room was even heavier and more unpleasant than in the hall. Logs were burning in the fireplace, their crackling echoing sharply in the silence of the room. The windows were shrouded by heavy black curtains, and the space was lit only by the restless glow of the fire.
A man sat in a wide, comfortable-looking armchair. He had shoulder-length black hair and looked to be somewhere in his thirties. He was completely motionless, as if he had momentarily lost both speech and movement. Thanks to that, I managed to look him over calmly—grey eyes, a young and surprisingly well-groomed appearance that I wouldn't have expected in such a house. He held a glass of poured whiskey in his hand just above the table. His muscles were stiff, and with dilated pupils, he stared at me as if he didn't know what to do. I certainly wouldn't have known from looking at him that he had once been in Azkaban. He looked healthy and surprisingly alive.
"Are you my son?" he blurted out before he could stop himself, raspy and confused.
***
Author's note:
Kreacher was intentionally baiting our MC, fully expecting the house magic to strike him down... but boy, did he miscalculate.
In our Muggle reality, Elizabeth Bathory was bricked up alive. It's actually quite chilling.
Walburga wanted to play the proud grandmother, but alas... as for all that filth in such a noble and ancient house? Absolutely not. No way. And now we find ourselves face-to-face with a drunk Sirius who's clearly seeing things. Classic Sirius—what a dog! :D
Sorry Vishruth, but the chapter got a bit wordy again!
***
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Upcoming Chapters – Already Written(16):
73. The Emperor of Mankind
74. Two Romans Walk into a Bar…
75. Tactical Retreats
76. The Twelve-Year-Old Dark Lord
77. Poking the Snake
78. Of False Heroes and Tethered Minds
79. The Casual Intruder
80. The Silent Partner
81. The Black Inheritance
82. The Frequency of Intent
83. Of Blood and Thorns
84. Thorns, Wards, and Sly Foxes
85. As Peaceful and Civilized as Always
86. The Twin in the Shadows
87. Their Addiction, Our Profit
88. Fake Smiles and Sharp Instincts
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