"I never thought I'd die alone, another six months I'll be unknown. Give all my things to all my friends, you'll never step foot in my room again" - Adam's Song, Blink 182
I wake early the next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing-room floor. A chink of the sky is visible between the heavy curtains: It is the cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything is quiet except for Ron and Hermione's slow, deep breathing.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," whispers Harry, who appears to have just risen from his own sleeping bag. I roll onto my back to face him and shake my head, yawning all the while.
"It's fine, I was having a shit sleep anyway," I murmur, pulling myself into a sitting position. All night, my dreams were plagued with visions of Draco at Voldemort's bidding, doing unthinkable things just to keep himself somewhat safe. I glance over at the dark shapes that Hermione and Ron make on the floor beside us. Ron has a fit of gallantry last night and insisted that Hermione sleep on the cushions from the sofa so that her silhouette is raised above his. Her arm curves to the floor, her fingers inches away from Ron's. I wonder whether they fell asleep holding hands. The idea makes me feel lonely. "Weird," is all I say.
I look up at the shadowy ceiling, at the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was watching Bill and Fleur get married. It seems a lifetime away. What is going to happen now? I think about the Horcruxes, of the daunting, complex mission Dumbledore has left us...Dumbledore.
"If you're up," Harry whispers, "come for a walk. I need to tell you something."
Seeing as the alternative is lying here with nothing but frantic worry for Draco and bitter thoughts for his company, I follow Harry out of the room. On the landing, I whisper, "Lumos," and we begin to climb the stairs by wandlight, and Harry begins his story.
"At the wedding," he says in whispers, gradually getting louder the further away we get from Hermione and Ron as not to wake them, "I was speaking to Krum, and I figured out who Gregorovitch is; he's a wandmaker! That's why his name sounded so famillar, we heard it during the Triwizard Tournament.
"You're brilliant," I breath, "good one."
So Voldemort is looking for a celebrated wand-maker, and I don't have to search hard for the reason: It is surely because of what Harry's hand had done on the night that Voldemort pursued him across the skies. The holly and phoenix wand had conquered the borrowed wand, something that Olivander had no anticipated or understood. Will Greogorovitch know better?
"But that's not at all," Harry continues, and the excitement in his voice turns into weariness. "Later on I was talking to Elphias Doge about Rita Skeeter's article on Dumbledore. He told me not to believe a word of what she said."
"I agree," I say, "it's just gossip."
"Yes, well, then Ron's Auntie Muriel decided to chime in," he says, and I roll my eyes. "She started talking about Dumbledore's sick sister, the one that died; apparently she was actually a Squib."
"Why does that matter?"
"Well, it doesn't," he says hastily. "Muriel started talking about Ariana being locked in a cellar while Dumbledore was at Hogwarts, and how Dumbledore's mother was ashamed of her for being a squib. She was never allowed to leave the house, not even to visit St. Mungos, which is --"
"-- Strange," I finish his sentence for him, "if she was actually ill. Keep going."
"Worst of all," he says, "Muriel didn't think that Ariana died of natural causes, she thinks that she was murdered, possibly by Dumbledore!"
"Surely not!" I shook back, horror-struck. I can't help but liken Ariana to us, except she was locked up for not having magic.
"Muriel reckoned her mother was friends with Bathilda Bagshot --"
"The famous author?"
"Yes! And Bathilda said that halfway through the ceremony, Dumbledore's brother shouted that Ariana's death was Dumbledore's fault and punched him in the face!"
"Shit. But Dumbledore couldn't have...he would never..."
"I don't know," Harry shrugs, frowning. "In any case, Bathilda Bagshot lives in Godric's Hollow, she was Dumbledore's neighbour!"
I choke on air. "You don't mean to say that Dumbledore lived there, too?"
He simply nods, and I can tell that he feels the same as I. Never once in six years had Dumbledore told us that we all lived and lost loved ones in Godric's Hollow. Why? Were our parents buried close to Dumbledore's mother and sister? Had Dumbledore visited their graves, perhaps walked past our mother's to do so? And he had never once told us...never bothered to say...
"That was all I heard," he finishes. "I don't know what any of it means, or why it feels so important, but..."
"We have to go to Godric's Hollow," I say plainly, as we pass by the bedroom Hermione, Ginny, and I had stayed in the last time we were here: someone has cleared searched the place, judging by the mess.
"I agree." His words hang in the air, and I feel a small sense of accomplishment: at least we have this one plan, even we're walking into our Horcrux hunt blindly. "Anyway, where did you disappear to, last night? I barely saw you at the wedding..."
Images of George and his rose in the garden flash through my mind, and I pray my cheeks don't turn red. "Oh, well..wait, look, this is Sirius' room."
We've reached the topmost landing, where there are only two doors. The one facing us bears a nameplate reading SIRIUS. We've never been inside before. I push open the door, holding my wand high as to cast as much light as possible. The room is spacious and a long time ago, I'm guessing, would have been quite handsome. There is a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, and a tall window obscured by long velvet curtains, and a chandelier thickly coated in the dust with candle stubs still resting in its sockets, solid wax hanging in frostlike drips. A fine film of dust covers the pictures on the walls and the bed's headboard; a spider's web stretches between the chandelier and the top of a large wooden wardrobe, and as we move deeper into the room, I hear the scurrying of mice.
The teenage Sirius has plastered the walls with so many posters and pictures that little of walls' silvery-grey silk is visible. I can only assume that Sirius' parents had been unable to remove the Permanent Sticking Charm that keeps them on the wall because I'm sure they wouldn't have appreciated their eldest sons' taste in decoration. Sirius seems to have gone out of his way to annoy his parents. There are several large Gryffindor banners, faded scarlet and gold, just to underline his different from all the rest of the Slytherin family. There are many pictures of Muggle motorcycles, and also (I have to admire his nerve) several posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls; I can tell that they're Muggles because they remain quite stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and glazed eyes frozen on the paper. This is in contract to the only Wizarding photograph on the walls, which is a picture of four Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, laughing at the camera.
With a leap of pleasure, I recognize our father; only appearing mere years younger than he does now. Beside him is Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant fae so much younger and happier than I've ever seen it. To Sirius' right stands Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump, and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much-admired rebels that Dad and Sirius were. On Dad's left is Lupin, even then a little shabby-looking, but he has the same air of delighted surprise at finding himself liked and included...or is it simply because I know how it was, that I see things in the picture. Harry tries to take it from the wall (I'm sure Sirius won't mind) but it does not budge. Sirius has taken no chances in preventing his family from redecorating the room.
I look out the window: the sky outside is growing brighter. Harry begins to sift through the stray bits of paper, books, and small objects littering the floor, while I take a seat on the edge of the bed, trying to imagine our Godfather when he lived here.
"Did you see Rowle last night?" I ask him hesitantly. "With Voldemort, and -- and -"
I can't seem to say his name out loud, but Harry knows exactly who I mean.
"Malfoy," he finishes for me, "yeah."
There's a silence, in which I reiterate to myself that's there is truly nothing we can do to help Draco. He'd hand us over to Voldemort, I tell myself, you know he would. Or you'd put him in even more danger than before.
"I thought you were trying to get over him," Harry says off-handedly.
"Well, yes --"
"You know you're better off without him."
I stutter for a few seconds before Harry cuts me off, feeling irritated and even sadder than before.
"Hey, come here."
I join Harry on the ground, where he has just unearthed a crumped handwritten note, smoothed out to reveal out mother's handwriting. My hearts leaps in my chest.
Dear Padfoot,
Thank you, thank you, for Harry and Haylee's birthday presents! They were their favourites by far. One year old and already zooming along on toy broomsticks, they looked so pleased with themselves, I'm enclosing a picture so you can see. You know they only rise about two feet off the ground, but Harry nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course, James thought it was so funny, says they're going to be great Quidditch players on day, but we've had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don't take our eyes off them when they get going.
We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda, who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry and Haylee. We were so sorry you couldn't come, but the Order's got to come first, and Harry and Haylee aren't old enough to know it's their birthday, yet anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell -- also, Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the news about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard.
Bathilda drops in most days, she's a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore, I'm not sure he'd be pleased if he knew! I don't know how much to believe, because it seems incredible that Dumbledore
My extremities seem to go to have gone numb. We hold quite still, Harry holding the miraculous paper in his fingers while inside me a quiet eruption sends joy and grief thundering in an equal measure my veins. Still silent, though I'm certain we're feeling the same thing, Harry and I sit together on the bed.
I read the letter again, but can't take in any more meaning than I did the first time, and I'm reduced to staring at the handwriting itself.
"She made her 'g's the same way you do," I say quietly, breaking the silence with a teary giggle. Each word feels like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil. This letter is an incredible treasure, proof that Lily Potter had really lived, really lived, that her warm hand had once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into these letters, these words, words about us, Harry and I, her children.
Impatiently brushing away the wetness, I reread the letter, this time concentrating on the meaning. It's like listening to a half-remembered voice.
"We had a cat," Harry murmurs, "I wonder what happened to it..."
Perhaps it had perished, like our mother, at Godric's Holo...or else fled when there was nobody left to feed it...Sirius had brought us our first broomsticks...Our parents had known Bathilda Bagshot; had Dumbledore introduced them? Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak...There's something funny there...
I pause, pondering our mother's words. "Why did Dumbledore have the cloak?" I ask, distinctly remembering our headmaster telling us years before that he didn't need a cloak to become invisible. "Maybe someone in the Order needed it..."
When Harry does not answer, I continue reading...
Wormy was here...Pettigrew, the traitor, had seemed "down", had he? Was he aware that he was seeing James and Lily for the last time?
And finally, Bathilda again, who told incredible stories about Dumbledore. It seems that Dumbledore --
"That Dumbledore what?" I question. There are a number of things that would seem incredible about Dumbledore; that he once received bottom marks in a Transfiguration test, for instance, or has taken up goat-charming like Aberforth...
"C'mon, the rest of the letter's got to be here somewhere," Harry mutters, and we drop to our knees and scan the floor. We seize papers, treating them, in our eagerness, with as little consideration as the previous searcher; we pull open drawers, shake out boots, stand on chairs to run our hands over the top of the wardrobe, and crawl under the bed and armchair.
At last, lying facedown on the floor, I spot what looks like a torn piece of paper under the drawers. When I pull it out, it proves to be most of the photograph our mother had described in her letter. Two black-haired babies are zooming in and out of the picture on tiny brooms, roaring with laughter, and a pair of legs that must belong to Dad is chasing them. I tuck the photograph into my pocket with our mother's letter and continue to look for the second sheet.
After another quarter of an hour, however, we're forced to conclude that the rest of our mother's letter is gone. Has it simply been lost in the sixteen years that have elapsed since it was written, or had it been taken by whatever has searched the room? We read the first sheet again, this time looking for clues as to what might have made the second sheet so valuable. Our toy broomstick could hardly be interesting to the Death Eaters...The only potentially useful thing I can see here is possible information on Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore -- what?"
"Harry? Haylee!"
"We're here!" Harry calls. "What's happened?"
There is a clatter of footsteps outside the door, and Hermione bursts inside.
"We woke up and didn't know where you were!" She says breathlessly. She turns and shouts over her shoulder, "Ron! I've found them!"
Ron's annoyed voice echoes distantly from several floors below.
"Good! Tell them from me they're gits!"
"Harry, Haylee, don't just disappear, please, we were terrified! Why did you come up here anyway?"
"Look what we've just found."
I hold out our mother's letter. Hermione takes it and reads it while we watch her. When she reaches the end of the page she looks up at us.
"Oh, Harry and Haylee..."
"And there's this too."
I hand her the torn photograph, and Hermione smiles at the baby zooming in and out of sight on the toy broom.
"We've been looking for the rest of the letter," Harry says, "but it's not here."
Hermione glances around.
"Did you make all this mess, or was some of it done when you got here?"
"Someone had searched it before us," I say.
"I thought so. Every room I looked into on the way up had been disturbed. What were they after, do you think?"
"Information on the Order, if it was Snape."
"But you'd think he'd already have all he needed, I mean, he was in the Order, wasn't he?"
"Well then," Harry says, "what about the information on Dumbledore? The second page of this letter, for instance. You know this Bathilda my mum mentions, who know who she is?"
"Who?"
"Bathilda Bagshot, the author of --"
"A History of Magic," says Hermione, looking interested. "So your parents knew her? She was an incredible magical historian."
"And she's still alive," I say," and she lives in Godric's Hollow! Harry said Ron's Auntie Muriel was talking about her at the wedding, and she knew Dumbledore's family, too. Would be pretty interesting to talk to her, don't you think?"
There is a little too much understanding in the smile Hermione gives me for my liking. I take the letter and photograph and tuck them into my pocket, so as not to have to look at her and give myself away.
"I understand why you'd love to talk to her about your mum, and Dumbledore too," says Hermione. "But that wouldnt' really help us in our search for the Horcruxes, would it?" Neither of us answer, and she rushes on. "Harry, Haylee, I know you really want to go to Godric's Hollow, but I'm scared, I'm scared at how easily those Death Eaters found us yesterday. It just makes me feel more than ever that we ought to avoid the place where your parents are buried, I'm sure they'd be expecting you to visit it."
"It's not just that," Harry says. "Muriel said stuff about Dumbledore at the wedding. I want to know the truth..."
He tells Hermione everything Muriel had told him. When he has finished, Hermione says, "Of course, I can see why that's upset you, Harry --"
"I'm not upset," he lies. "I'd just like to know whether or not it's true or --"
"Harry, do you really think you'll get the truth from a malicious old woman like Muriel or from Rita Skeeter? How can you believe them? You and Haylee knew Dumbledore!"
"I thought we did," he mutters.
"But you know how much truth there was in everything Rita wrote about you! Doge is right, how can you let these people tarnish your memories of Dumbledore?
"She has a point," I say quietly, and Harry looks away, clearly trying to conceal his resentment. "I want the truth, too," I add quickly. "But --"
Hermione gives me a look. "Shall we go down to the kitchen?" she interrupts. "Find something for breakfast?"
We agree and follow her out onto the landing and past the second door that leads off it. There are deep scratch marks in the paintwork below a small sign that I did not notice in the dark. I pause at the top of the stairs to read it. It is a pompous little sig, neatly lettered by hand, the sort of thing that Percy Weasley might have stuck on his bedroom door:
Do not enter
Without the expression permission of
Regulus Arcturus Black
Excitement trickles through me, but I'm not immediately sure why. I read the sign again. Hermione and Harry are already a flight of stairs below me.
"Harry, Hermione," I say, surprised that my voice is so calm. "Come back up here."
"What's the matter?"
"R.A.B. I think I've found him."
There is a gasp, and then they run back up the stairs.
"In our mum's letter? But I didn't see --"
I shake my head, pointing at Regulus' sign. They read it, and Harry grabs my arm so tightly that I wince.
"Sirius' brother?" he exclaims. "He was a Death Eater, remember? Sirius told us about him, he joined up when he was really young and then got cold feet and tried to leave -- so they killed him."
"That fits!" Hermione gasps. "If he was a Death Eater he had access to Voldemort, and if he became disenchanted, then he would have wanted to bring Voldemort down!"
She leans over the banister, and screams, "Ron! RON! Get up here, quick!"
Ron appears, panting, a minute later, his wand ready in his hand.
"What's up? If it's massive spiders again I want breakfast before I --"
He frowns at the sign on Regulus' door, to which Hermione is silently pointing.
"What? That was Sirius' brother, wasn't it? Regulus Arcturus...Regulus...R.A.B! The locket -- you don't reckon --"
"Let's find out," I say. I push the door only to find it locked, so I instead point my wand at the handle and say, "Alohomora." There is a click and the door swings open.
We move over the threshold together, gazing around. Regulus' bedroom is slightly smaller than Sirius', though it has the same sense of former grandeur. Whereas Sirius had sought to advertise his difference from the rest of his family, Regulus had striven to emphasize the opposition. The Slytherin colours of emerald and silver are everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest is painstakingly painted over the bed, along with its motto, Toujours Pur. Beneath this is a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crosses the room to examine them.
"They're all about Voldemort," she says. "Regulus seems to have been a fan for a few years before he joined the Death Eaters..."
A little puff of dust rises from the bedcovers as she sits down to read the clippings. Harry and I, meanwhile, have noticed another photograph; a Hogwarts Quidditch team is smiling and waving out of the frame. We move closer and see the snakes emblazoned on their chests: Slytherins. Regulus is instantly recognizable as the boy sitting in the middle of the front row: He had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller and rather less handsome than Sirius.
"He played Seeker," Harry says.
"What?" asks Hermione vaguely, still immersed in Voldemort's press clippings.
"He's sitting in the middle of the front row, that's where the Seeker...Nevermind," says Harry, realizing no one but me is listening: Ron is on his hands and knees, searching under the wardrobe. I look around the room for likely hiding places: yet again, somebody has searched before us.
"There's an easier way," says Hermione, as I join Ron on the ground, searching underneath the bed. She raises her wand and says, "Accio Locket!"
Nothing happens. "Is that's it, then? It's not here?" Ron asks, looking disappointed.
"Oh, it could still be here, but under counter-enchantments," says Hermione. "Charms to prevent it being summoned magically, you know."
"Like Voldemort put on the stone basin in the cave," I say to Harry, remembering how he had been unable to Summon the fake locket.
"How are we supposed to find it then?" asks Ron.
"We search manually," says Hermione.
"That's a good idea," says Ron, rolling his eyes, and he resumes his examination of the curtains.
We comb every inch of the room for more than an hour, but we're forced, finally, to conclude that the locket is not here. The sun has risen now; its light dazzles us even through the grimy landing windows.
"It could be somewhere in the house, though," Hermione says in a rallying tone as we walk back downstairs: As Harry, Ron, and I have become more discouraged, she seemed to have become more determined. "Whether he'd managed to destroy it or not, he'd want to keep it hidden from Voldemort, wouldn't he? Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of when we were here last time? That clock that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that tried to strangle Ron; Regulus might have put them there to protect the locket's hiding place, even though we didn't realize it at...at..."
Harry, Ron, and I look at her. She is standing with one foot in midair, with the dumbstruck look of one who has just been Obliviated; her eyes have even drifted out of focus.
"...at the time," she finishes in a whisper.
"Something wrong?"
"There was a locket."
"What?" says Harry, Ron, and I together.
"In the cabinet in the drawing-room. Nobody could open it. And we...we..."
I feel as though a brick has slid down through my chest into my stomach. I remember: I even held it as we passed it around, each trying, in turn, to prise it open. It was tossed into a sack of rubbish along with the snuffbox of Wartcap powder and the music box that made everyone sleepy.
"Fuck."
"Kreacher nicked loads of things back from us," Harry says hurriedly, making my head perk up again. It's the only chance, the only slender hope left to us that this locket isn't lost forever. "He had a whole stash of stuff in his cupboard in the kitchen. C'mon."
He runs down the stairs taking two steps at a time, the rest of us thundering in his wake. We make so much noise that we wake the portrait of Sirius' mother as we pass through the hall. "Filth! Mudbloods! Scum!" she screams after us as we dash down into the basement kitchen and slam the door behind us.
Harry runs the length of the room, skids to a halt at the door of Kreacher's cupboard, and wrenches it open. There is a nest of dirty old blankets in which the house-elf has once slept, but they are no longer glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had salvaged. The only there is an old copy of Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Refusing to believe his eyes, Harry snatches up the blankets and shakes them: a dead mouse falls out and rolls dismally across the floor. Ron Groans as he throws himself into a kitchen chair; Hermione closes her eyes.
I could almost cry again out of frustration. "What do we do now?"
"We call --"
Harry's words fade into nothing, and every nerve in my bod seems to tauten: somebody has opened the front door. I pull out my wand, and Ron, Hermione, and Harry follow suit.
"Spilt up," I whisper, "make sure we have all the entries covered."
With a nod, I Disapparate to the top of the stairs, just in time to see two cloaked figures edge into the hall, closing the door behind them. In my perphirals, I see Harry, Ron, and Hermione appear in the corridor below, hiding in the shadows. The intruders take a step forward, and Moody's voice asks, "Severus Snape?" Then the dust figure rises from the end of the hall and rushes them, raising it's dead hand.
"We didn't kill you, Albus," says a quiet voice.
The jinx breaks: The dust-figure explodes again, and it is impossible to make out the newcomers through the dense gray cloud it leaves behind.
I point my wand into the middle of it.
"Don't move," I say quietly, careful not to wake Mrs Black portrait unless we absolutely have to. The others appear from their hiding spots, wands held high.
"Hold your fire! It's us!"
"Sirius and James!"
"Oh, thank goodness," says Hermione weakly, and I see her and Ron lower their wands. Harry and I, however, keep ours held high.
"Show yourselves!" Harry calls back.
Dad and Sirius move forward into the lamplight, hands held high in a gesture of surrender.
"I'm Sirius Orion Black, also known as Padfoot or Snuffles, I was the first man to escape Azkaban, and I bought you your Firebolts after your old brooms got blown into the Whomping Willow."
"And I'm James Fleamont Potter, also known as Prongs, my animagus is a Stag, I was married to Lily Evans, and I'm your father; I was with you yesterday night at the wedding of Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour, Haylee, I saw you snogging George Weasley --"
"All right, all right!" I say, my cheeks beginning to burn as I lower my wand.
"We had to check, right?" Harry says defensively.
"Always check," Dad says. "Ron, Hermione, you need to be more careful next time."
I descend the stairs and hug them both, though my pink cheeks and glare remains.
"Haylee, did you really --?"
"Not the time, Ron," I snap, shooting him daggers. "What're you two doing here? Is everyone okay?"
"Yes," Sirius says, "everyone's a bit shaken, maybe a bit bruised, but nothing too serious. What about you? Did you come straight here last night?"
"It's a long story."
"Good thing we brought some drinks."
We return to the kitchen and gather around the table, where Sirius pulls out six bottles of Butterbeer.
"We didn't come straight we," I begin, "only after we ran into a couple of Death Eaters in a cafe on Tottenham Court Road."
Dad slops most of his butterbeer down his front.
"What?"
We explain what happened; they we've finished, they look aghast.
"But how could they have found you so quickly?" Sirius asks. "It's impossible to track anyone who Aparates, unless you grab hold of them as they disappear!"
"And it doesn't seem likely they were just strolling down Tottenham Court Road at the time, does it?" says Harry.
"We wondered," Hermione says tentatively, "whether Harry and Haylee could still have the Trace on them?"
"Impossible," says Dad. Ron looks smug, and I feel hugely relieved. "Apart from anything else, they'd know for sure Harry and Haylee were here if they still had the Trace on them, wouldn't they? But I can't see how they could have tracked you to Tottenham Court Road, that's worrying, really worrying."
They both look disturbed, but as far as I'm concerned, that question can wait.
"Tell us what happened after we left," I say. "We've barely heard a word."
"Well, Kingsley saved us," says Sirius. "Thanks to his warning most of the wedding guests were able to Disapparate before they arrived."
"Were they Death Eaters or Ministry people?" interjects Hermione.
"A mixtutre; but to all intents and purposes they're the same thing now," says Dad. "There were about a dozen of them, but they didn't know you were there, Harry and Haylee. Arthur heard a rumour that they tried to torture your whereaouts out of Scrimgeour before they killed him; if it's true, he didn't give you away."
I look at Ron, Hermione, and Harry; their expressions reflect the mingled shock and gratitude I feel. I never liked Scrimgouer, but if what Dad says is true, the man's final act had been to try to protect Harry and I.
"The Death Eaters searched the Burrow from top to bottom,"Sirius goes on. "They found the ghoul, but didn't want to get too close -- and then they interrogated those of us who remained for hours. They were trying to get information on you two, but of course, nobody apart from the Order knew that you had been there.
"At the same time they were smashing up the wedding, more Death Eaters were forcing their way into every Order-connected house in the county. No deaths," he adds quickly, forstalling the question, "but they were rough. They burned down Dedalus Diggle's house, but as you know he wasn't there, and they used the Cruciartus Curse on Tonk's family. Again, trying to find out where you went after Harry visited them. They're all right -- shaken, obviously, but otherwise okay."
"The Death Eater's got through all those protective charms?" Harry asks: I remember him telling me how effective they had been the night he crashed in Tonks' parents' garden.
"What you've got to realize, Harry, is that the Death Eaters have got the full might of the Ministry on their side now," says Dad. "They've got the power to preform brutal spells without fear of identification or arrest. They managed to penetrate every defensive spell we'd cast against them."
There's a long silence: everything has just become multitudes harder. I never liked Scrimgeour's Ministry, but at least it was on our side.
"Why is there a dead rat on the floor?" Sirius asks. "I never thought I'd say this, but this place is worse off without Kreacher."
I perk up a little; judging by Harry's face, he's just had the same brainwave as me.
"Wait, Dad, Sirius, do you remember the locket we found in the drawing room? The one we couldn't get open?"
They both nod. "We threw it out, didn't we?"
"Yes," Harry says quickly, "but do you reckon Kreacher could of saved it? Have you seen it anywhere around the house since?"
"It's really important," I add, imploring them to think long and hard.
"I don't think I've seen it," Sirius says, honestly. Upon seeing all hope disappear from my face, he quickly adds, "but that doesn't mean it's gone forever! We can ask the bugger ourselves."
He stands up, raises his voice, and calls "Kreacher!"
There is a loud crack and the house-elf which once stalked Sirius' house appears out of nowwhere in front of the cold and empty fireplace; tiny, half-human sized, his pale skin hanging off him in folds, white hair sprouting copiously from his batlike ears. He is still wearing the flithy rag in which we had first met him, and the contemptuous look he bends upon Sirius shows that his attitude has not changed since his time in Hogwarts.
"Master," croaks Kreacher in his bullfrog's voice, and he bows low, muttering to his knees, "back in my Mistress's olf house with the blood-traitor Weasley and the Mudblood --"
"Silence!" Sirius snaps. "You're forbiddon to call anyone 'blood traitor' of 'Mudblood' in this house. The only traitor here is you," he growls. I would find Kreacher, with his snoutlike nose and bloodshot eyes, a distinctly inlovable object even if she elf had not betrayed us to Voldemort.
"Harry and Haylee have some questions for you," Sirius continues, "and I order you to answer them truthfully. Understand?"
"Yes, Master," says Kreacher, bowing low again: I see his lips moving soundless, undoubtedly framing the insults he was now forbiddon to utter. Everyone looks expectantly towards Harry and I.
"Two years ago," I say, my heart now hammering against my ribs, "there was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you steal it back?"
There is a moment's silence, during which Kreacher straightens up to look me full in the face. Then, he says, "Yes."
"Where is it now?" Harry asys jubilantly, his tone matching my excitment.
Kreacher closes his eyes as though he can not bear to see our reactions to his next word.
"Gone."
"Gone?" I echo, elation flooding out of me. "What do you mean, it's gone?"
The elf shivers. He sways.
"Kreacher," Sirius says fiercely, "I order you --"
"Mundungus Fletcher," croaks the elf, his eyes still tight shut. "Mundungus Fletcher stole it all; Miss Bella's and Miss Cissy's pictures, my Mistress's gloves, the Order of Merlin, First Class, the goblets with the family crest, and -- and --"
Kreacher is gulping for air: His hollow chest is rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes fly open and he utters a bloodcurdling scream.
"-- and the locket, Master Regulus's locket, Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed in his orders!"
Harry reacts instinctively: As Kreacher lunges for the poker standing in the grate, he launches himself upon the elf, flattening him. Hermione's scream mingles with Kreacher's, but Sirius bellows over all of them: "Kreacher, I order you to stay still!"
The elf freezes beneath Harry. Kreacher lays flat on the cold stone floor, tears gushing from his sagging eyes.
"Harry, let him up!" Hermione whispers.
"So he can beat himself up with the poker?" Harry snorts, kneeling beside the elf. "I don't think so. Right, Kreacher, we want the truth: How do you know Mundungus Fletcher stole the locket?"
"Kreacher saw him!" gasps the elf as tears pour over his snout and onto his mouth full of graying teeth. "Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher's cupboard with hands full of Kreacher's treasures. Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus Fletcher laughed and r-rang..."
"You called the locket 'Master Regulus's," Sirius interjects, an air about him he only ever gets when speaking of his late brother. "What did my brother have to do with any of it? Kreacher, sit up, and tell us everything you know about that locket, and everything Regulus had to do with it!"
The elf sits up, curls into a ball, places his wet face between his knees, and begins to rock backward and forward. When he speaks, his voice is muffled but quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.
"Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my Mistress's heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper pride; hw knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns...and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve...
"And one day, a year after he had joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus always liked Kreacher. And Master Regulus said...he said..."
The old elf rocks faster than ever.
"...he said that the Dark Lord required an elf."
"Voldemort required an elf?" I repeat, looking around at the others who look just as puzzled as me.
Oh yes," moans Kreacher. "And Master Regulus had volunteered Kreacher. It was an honour, said Master Regulus, an honour for him and for Kreacher, who must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord ordered him to do...and then to c-come home."
Kreacher rocks still faster, his breath coming in sobs.
"So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord did not tell Kreacher what they were to do, but took Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave there was a cavern, and in the cavern was a great black lake."
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Kreacher's voice aseems to come to me from across that dark water. I see what happened as clearly as though I was present.
"...There was a boat..."
"Of course there was a boat; I knew the boat, ghostly green and tiny, and bewitched to carry a wizard and their victim to the island in the center. This, then, is how Voldemort had tested the defenses surrounding the Horcrux; bu borrowing a disposable creature, a house-elf...
"There was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The D-Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it...."
The elf quakes from head to foot.
"Kreacher drank, and as he drank, he saw terrible things...Kreacher's insides burned...Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed...He made Kreacher drink all the potion...He dropped a locket into the empty basin...He filled it with more potion. And then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving Kreacher on the island..."
I can see it happening. I watch Voldemort's white, snakelike face vanishing into the darkness, those red eyes fixed pitilessly on the thrashing elf whose death would occur within minutes, whenever he succumbed to the desperate thirst that the burning potion caused its victim...But here my imagination can go no further, for I can't understand how Kreacher escaped. Harry and I lock eyes; he too is confused.
"Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the island's edge and he drank from the black lake...and hands, dead hands, came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under the surface..."
"How did you get away?" Harry asks, and I'm not surprised to hear him whispering.
Kreacher raises his ugly head and looks at Harry with his great, bloodshot eyes.
"Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back," he says.
"I know -- but how did you escape the Inferi?"
Kreacher does not seem to understand.
"Master Regulus told Kreacer to come back," he repeats.
"I know, but -"
"Well, it's obvious, isn't it, Harry?" says Ron. "He Disappeated!"
"But...you couldn't Apparate in and out of that cave," I say, "otherwise Dumbledore --"
"Elf magic isn't like wizard's magic, is it?" Ron says. "I mean, they can Apparate and Disapparate in and out of Hogwarts when we can't.
There is a silence in which I digest this. How could Voldemort have made such a mistake? But even as I think this, Hermione speaks, and her voice is icy.
"Of course, Voldemort would have considered the ways of the house-elves far beneath his notice, just like all the purebloods who treat them like animals...I would never occur to him that they might have magic that he didn't."
"The house-elf's highest law is his Master's bidding," intones Kreacher. "Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher came home..."
"Well, then, you did what you were told, didn't you?" Hermione says more kindly. "You didn't disobey your orders at all!"
Kreacher shakes his head, rocking as fast as ever.
"So what happened when you got back?" Harry presses on. "What did Regulus say when you told him what had happened?"
"Master Regulus was very worried, very worried," croaks Kreacher. "Master Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then...it was a little while later...Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master Regulus was strange, not as he usually was, distubred in his mind, Kreacher could tell...and he asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord..."
And so they set off. I can visualize them quite clearly, the frightened old elf and thin, dark Seeker who had so resembled Sirius...Kreacher knew how to open the concealed entrance to the underground cavern, knew how raise the tiny boat; this time it was his beloved Regulus who sailed with him to the island with its basin of poison...
"And he made you drink the potion?" I ask, disgusted.
But Kreacher shakes his head and weaps. Hermione hands leap to her mouth: She seems to have understood something.
"M-Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like the one the Dark Lord had," says Kreacher, tears pouring down either side of his snoutlike nose. "And he told Kreacher to take it, and when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets..."
Kreacher's sobs come in great raps now; I have to concentrate hard to understand him.
"And he ordered -- Kreacher to leave -- without him. And he told Kreacher -- to go home -- and never tell my Mistress -- what he had done -- but to destroy -- the first locket. And he drank -- all the potion -- and Kreacher swapped the lockets -- and watched...as Master Regulus...was dragged beneath the water...and..."
"Oh, Kreacher!" wails Hermione, who is crying. She drops to her knees beside the elf and tries to hug him. At once he is on his feet, cringing away from her, quite obviously repulsed.
"The Mudblod touched Kreacher, he wil not allow it, what would his Mistress say?"
I anticipate Sirius' reprimanding snarl, but Harry speaks before he can; "We told you not to call her that!" But the Elf is already punishing himself; he falls to the ground and bangs his forehead on the floor.
"Stop him -- stop him!" Hermione cries. "Oh, don't you see how sick it is, the way they've got to obey?"
"Kreacher --- stop, stop!" Harry shouts, but Kreacher does not halt. "Kreacher!"
"K-Kreacher," comes Sirius' suddenly frail voice, "stop it."
Only then does Kreacher stop, and he collapes on the floor in a pile, the epitome of pity. But I'm more concerned about Sirius.
"Are you all right, Padfoot?" I say instantly, turning to see his face near transulcent in shock. I know hearing all of this will come as a shock, even if he and his brother weren't close.
"Fine," he says quickly, waving his hand dismissively.
"So you brought the locket home," Harry continues. "And you tried to destroy it?"
"Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it," Kreacher moans. "Kreacher tried everything, everything he knew, but nothing would work...So many powerful spells upon the casing, Kreacher was sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it would not open...Kreacher punished himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried away. Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not destroy the locket! And his Mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared, and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-f-forbiddon him to tell any of the f-f-family what happened in the c-cave..."
Kreacher begins to sob so hard that there is no more coherent words. Tears flow down Hermione's cheeks as she watches Kreacher, but she does not dare touch him again. Even Ron, who was no fan of Kreacher, looks troubled. Yet, Sirius is the worst, stoic yet clearly riddled with grief, ignoring even the comforting words of his best friend.
"I don't understand you, Kreacher," I say finally. "Voldemort tried to kill you, Regulus died to bring Voldemort down, but you were still happy to betray us to Voldemort? You were happy to go to Narcissa and Bellatrix and pass information to Voldemort through them..."
"Haylee, Kreacher doesn't think like that," says Hermione, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. "He's a slave; house-elves are used to bad, even brutal treatment; what Voldemort did to Kreacher wasn't that far out of the common way. What do wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He's loyal to the people who are kind to him, and Mrs. Black must have been, and Regulus certainly was, so he served them willingly and parroted their beliefs. I know what you're going to say," she goes on as I begin to protest, "that Regulus changed his mind...but he doesn't seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does he? And I think I know why. Kreacher and Regulus' family were all safer if they kept to the old pure-blood line. Regulus was trying to protect them all."
"Sirius --"
"Sirius is horrible to Kreacher, Harry, and it's no good any of you looking at me like that, you all know it's true. Kreacher had been alone for a long time when Sirius came to live here, and he was probably starving for a bit of affection. I'm sure 'Miss Cissy' and 'Miss Bella' were perfectly lovely to Kreachr when he turned up, so he did them a favour and told them everything they wanted to know. I know all along that wizards would pay for how they treat house-elves. Well, Voldemort did...and so did you, Sirius."
None of us have any retort. As I watch Kreacher sobbing on the floor, I remember what Sirius had said to us about his brother all those years ago: Yeah, stupid idiot, he joined the Death Eaters. Beside me, he gives a quiet sniffle and wipes at his eyes with his sleeve. The last time I saw him like this was during his trial...
"Kreacher," he says after a while, clearing his throat, "when you feel up to it please...please it up."
It is several minutes before Kreacher hiccups himself into a sitting position. Then he pushes himself into a sitting position again, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes like a small child.
"Kreacher, I'm going to ask you to do something very important," Sirius continues calmly. "I want you to -- please -- go and find Mundungus Fletcher. We need to know where Regulus' locket is. It's very important, we want to finish what he started and --" suddenly, Sirius' voice cracks, and I see tears pooling in his eyes "-- and make sure that he didn't die in vain."
Kreacher drops his fists and looks up at Sirius.
"Find Mundungus Fletcher?" he croaks.
"And bring him back to Grimmauld Place," Sirius confirms.
Kreacher nods and gets to his feet, and I see Harry take out the purse Hagrid had gifted us, and remove the fake Horcrux in which Regulus had hidden his note.
"Kreacher, I'd, er, like you to have this," he says, pressing the locket into the elf's hand. "This belonged to Regulus and I'm sure he'd want you to have it as a token of gratitude for what you --"
"Overkill, mate," says Ron as the elf takes one look at the locket, lets out a howl of shock and misery, and throws himself back onto the ground.
It takes us nearly half an hour to calm down Kreacher, who is so overcome to be pretented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he was too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he is able to totter a few steps we all accompany him to his cupboard, watch him tuck up the locket safely in his dirty blankets, and assure him that we will make it our first priority to protect it while he is away. He then makes gives a low bow in our directions (ignoring Sirius and Hermione) before Disapparating with the usual loud crack.