Percy Jackson and the Department of Mysteries

18) I Don't Run On Spite, I Run On Sprite

Kreacher flung himself to the ground in an extraordinarily low bow (it reminded me vaguely of demigods begging Zeus not to smite them), but it was somehow sarcastic.

"Stand up straight," Sirius sounded irritated. "Now, what are you up to?"

"Kreacher is cleaning," Kreacher said. "Kreacher lives to serve the noble house of Black —"

"— and it's better blacker every day, it's filthy," Sirius said.

"Hey, what's wrong with things getting blacker?" I questioned. "I'm with Kreacher on this one. Preach, little man."

Kreacher spoke to the floor in an undertone, "The half-breed says he agrees with Kreacher, but if Mistress knew what he was saying her heart would break —"

"My mother didn't have a heart, Kreacher," Sirius groaned. "She kept herself alive out of pure spite."

Same, I almost said, but decided against it. Sure, I'd be dead a thousand times over if monster didn't piss me off by bragging that they would be the one to finally kill me, but that was a different kind of spite. The kind of spite I got from a monster stepping on my soda was entirely different than the only reason I'm moving around is because I will it kind of spite.

"Whatever Master says," Kreacher bowed, but spoke furiously under his breath, "Master is not fit to wipe slime from his mother's boots, oh my poor Mistress, what would she say if she saw Kreacher serving him, how she hated him, what a disappointment he was —"

"I asked you what you were up to," Sirius reminded. "Every time you show up pretending to be cleaning, you sneak something off to your room so we can't throw it out."

"Kreacher would never move anything from its proper place in Master's house," Kreacher said, then continued, "Mistress would never forgive Kreacher if the tapestry was thrown out, seven centuries it's been in the family, Kreacher must save it, Kreacher will not let Master and the blood traitors and the brats destroy it —"

"I thought it might be that," Sirius glared at the opposite wall. "She'll have put another Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it, I don't doubt, but if I can get rid of it, I certainly will. Now go away, Kreacher."

I knew Kreacher would never disobey a direct order from Sirius, but the look he gave him was full of hatred, and he spoke darkly beneath his breath as he stepped out, " — comes back from Azkaban ordering Kreacher around, oh my poor Mistress, what would she say if she saw the house now, scum living in it, her treasures thrown out, she swore he was no son of hers and he's back, they say he's a murderer too —"

"Keep muttering and I will be a murderer!" Sirius snapped, slamming the door closed behind Kreacher.

"Sirius, he's not right in the head," Hermione said weakly, "I don't think he realizes we can hear him."

"He's been alone too long," Sirius said, "taking mad orders from my mother's portrait and talking to himself, but he was always a foul little —"

"If you just set him free," Hermione pleaded, "maybe —"

"We can't set him free, he knows too much about the Order," Sirius pursed his lips. "And anyway, the shock would kill him. You suggest to him that he leaves this house, see how he takes it."

Sirius walked across the room to the tapestry, and we all followed. I had avoided the tapestry — Draco had described the one at his own home too many times. I knew how sad it could be — the faces burned out, the perfect, unsmiling people, the scarily recurring last names in a family line, marking incest for the sake of purity.

The tapestry looked old, and the doxies had definitely gotten to it. Still, the golden thread gleamed and marked the massive family tree, dating back to sometime in the Middle Ages. Large words at the top read: