Chapter Text
October 26, 1986
Number 12 Grimmauld Place
London
The heavy oak door of 12 Grimmauld Place groaned open like the final breath of a dying patriarch, admitting Narcissa Malfoy into the shadowed maw of the vestibule. It was precisely one year since Walburga Black's emaciated frame had finally succumbed to the wasting curse that had devoured her from within. The air inside struck Narcissa like a physical blow: thick, cloying, saturated with the musty perfume of decaying velvet, moth-eaten tapestries, and the persistent, sour tang of doxie eggs that Kreacher's obsessive cleaning could never fully eradicate.
Narcissa's stiletto heels clicked with military precision against the threadbare Persian runner, each step echoing through the cavernous hallway like accusations. Her silver-fox cloak, lined with cloth-of-gold, draped elegantly over her left arm, while her right hand rested lightly on the head of her cane—a slender rod of blackthorn topped with a silver serpent that was far more decorative than functional. She had come alone. Lucius was entangled in Ministry machinations, weaving his golden webs through Fudge's insecurities, while their seven-year-old son Draco remained safely ensconced with Madame Lefevre, the French governess whose pure-blood lineage and rigid disciplinary methods made her worth every Galleon.
The house was a sepulcher of living memories, its walls lined with the judgmental gazes of long-dead Blacks. Their painted eyes—some cruel, some merely indifferent—tracked Narcissa's progress through the gloom. Phineas Nigellus Black glowered from his frame near the staircase, his lips moving silently as if reciting ancient grievances. Over the umbrella stand, Ignatia Black's portrait whispered to itself, thin strands of spittle frozen on her painted chin. Narcissa felt their collective disapproval like needles pricking her skin, each one reminding her of what she had forsaken by wedding Lucius Malfoy.
She was the last. Andromeda Tonks had been blasted from the family tapestry twenty years prior, her union with that mudblood Ted Tonks an unforgivable betrayal. Sirius rotted in Azkaban, his name a curse that even Walburga hesitated to speak. Regulus lay dead at the feet of the Dark Lord for his cowardice. Only Narcissa remained. The last pure Black daughter to honor this mausoleum with her presence. Or so she told herself as she steeled her resolve.
From behind a tarnished suit of armor, there came a shuffling sound like dead leaves scraping stone. Kreacher emerged, his bat-like ears twitching nervously, his single working eye gleaming with fanatical devotion. The house-elf was older now, his skin more parchment than flesh, but his loyalty to the Black family burned as fiercely as ever.
"Mistress Narcissa," he croaked, bowing so low that his hooked nose scraped the floorboards, leaving a faint smear of dirt. "Kreacher is... is honored beyond all deserving. The tea is prepared in the drawing room, just as Mistress Walburga commanded. She has been waiting. Kreacher has polished the silver twice, and beaten the carpets thrice, and—"
"Enough, Kreacher," Narcissa interrupted smoothly, her voice cool as winter marble. "Ensure we are not disturbed. Is that understood?"
The elf's bulbous eyes widened with fervent agreement.
"Yes, Mistress! Kreacher obeys! Kreacher will guard the door with his very life!" He vanished with a sharp crack, leaving only the faint smell of burnt flannel in his wake.
Narcissa drew a steadying breath and pushed open the double doors to the drawing room.
The chamber was a monument to faded glory, preserved in amber like an insect drowning in sap. The Axminster carpet, once vibrant crimson and gold, had faded to the dull hues of dried blood and old coins. The chandelier above hung like a petrified jellyfish, its crystal pendants coated in decades of dust and spider silk that shimmered faintly in the weak light filtering through grimy windows. Heavy brocade curtains—black velvet shot through with silver thread—hung motionless despite the chill autumn breeze rattling the windowpanes outside.
At the room's heart stood a long mahogany table that had witnessed generations of Black family councils. It was set for tea with ritualistic precision: the family silver polished to a ruthless mirror shine, bone china cups painted with the Black crest (a shield bearing three stars above three serpents), and delicate saucers edged in gold. A massive silver teapot steamed gently, its surface etched with scenes of Black ancestors dueling dragons and binding demons. Beside it sat a tiered stand bearing untouched delicacies: seedcake studded with crystallized violets, butter biscuits stamped with the family crest, and tiny jam tarts filled with blood-orange preserve.
Above the blackened marble mantelpiece loomed the portrait of Walburga Black.
It was a monstrosity of magical artistry—ten feet tall and six feet wide, framed in ancient oak carved with snarling wolves and writhing serpents. The painting had been enchanted with the most sophisticated portrait magic available, when Walburga commissioned it: the figure within could move, speak, and even extend its influence beyond the canvas through subtle spells woven into the paint. Currently, the portrait was shrouded by heavy black velvet curtains embroidered with silver constellations, but as Narcissa crossed the threshold, they twitched and began to part with an ominous mechanical whirring.
“Narcissa!" The voice that erupted from behind the curtains was thunder trapped in a coffin—a deep, resonant bellow that shook the crystal glasses and sent a nearby vase toppling from the mantel with a crystalline crash. "At last you deign to visit your ancestral home! I had begun to think you'd abandoned your blood entirely for that simpering, perfumed peacock you call husband!"
The curtains completed their journey, revealing Walburga Black in all her vitriolic glory. The painted woman was terrifying: high cheekbones sharp as flensing knives, lips perpetually pursed in aristocratic disdain, and eyes like chips of polished obsidian that burned with preternatural life. She wore widow's weeds of black lace and jet beads, a high-necked gown that emphasized her skeletal elegance. In her right hand she clutched a wand carved from yew, its tip glowing faintly red as if eager to curse the unwary. The real Walburga had died shrieking imprecations at the Healers who dared touch her, but her magic ensured this semblance endured eternally.
Narcissa did not flinch. She arranged herself in the high-backed chair positioned precisely opposite the mantel, smoothing her emerald silk robes with deliberate, graceful movements. The fabric whispered against the worn leather upholstery.
"Aunt Walburga," she replied, her voice cool and measured as a glacial stream, "it is... gratifying to see you so vigorous. Kreacher, the tea."
The elf materialized beside the table with another sharp crack, his movements precise as clockwork. He lifted the heavy teapot with reverent care, pouring the steaming amber liquid into Narcissa's cup with trembling precision. The aroma that rose was complex and sophisticated: rich Darjeeling blended with subtle notes of bergamot, Lapsang souchong smokiness, and something darker, more dangerous—wormwood, perhaps, or essence of nightshade. A faint greenish steam curled upward, carrying with it the unmistakable tang of powerful magic.
Walburga's painted nostrils flared as if she could smell the brew through the canvas.
"Vigorous?" she spat, her portrait shifting restlessly as if pacing an invisible cage behind the frame. "I am a ghost trapped in gilded torment, girl! A prisoner of paint and magic while the House of Black crumbles to dust around me! And you—you, the last true daughter of our ancient line—sit there sipping tea like some Muggle dowager at a church fete! Have you no shame? No pride? No memory?"
Narcissa lifted her cup with exquisite delicacy, inhaling the fragrant steam before taking a measured sip. The tea was scalding hot, perfectly steeped, with just the right balance of bitterness and underlying sweetness.
"Shame for what, precisely, Aunt?" she inquired, setting the cup down with a soft porcelain clink. "The House of Black endures in Draco. He carries our blood—pure, untainted, and strong. His magic manifested at four years old, stronger than any child his age. He recites the family charter from memory. What more would you have of me?"
Walburga's laugh was a jagged, metallic bark that echoed off the panelled walls.
"Draco Malfoy!" she sneered, the portrait lunging forward until her painted face nearly pressed against the canvas barrier. "A sniveling boy-child with his father's pointed chin and his mother's weakness for comfort! He is a Malfoy, Narcissa. Not a Black! The sacred name dies with him, and you sit there doing nothing! Orion left me no sons worth the salt in their veins. Regulus… My brave, beautiful, perfect Regulus. And Sirius..."
Her voice cracked, a rare fracture in her adamantine facade. The portrait's mechanisms whirred as her painted hands clenched into fists.
"That... that creature. But you! You are still young! Your womb is fertile as the fields of Avalon in springtime! You must give the Blacks more heirs! Strong sons to bear the name Black! Daughters to marry and breed our pure-blood! The family vaults respond to blood, Narcissa—the ancient magic recognizes our lineage above all others!"
Narcissa's long fingers tightened imperceptibly around the delicate handle of her teacup, but her expression remained one of cool detachment.
"I have given the Blacks Draco," she stated firmly. "He is heir to Malfoy wealth and influence, educated by the finest tutors in Europe, destined for greatness in both magical and political spheres. Lucius and I are content."
"Content?" Walburga's portrait seemed to swell with outrage, the canvas bulging outward as if the painted woman might claw her way free of her prison. The room shook; teacups rattled in their saucers, and a shower of dust descended from the chandelier above. "You dare speak to me of contentment while our most ancient and noble lineage withers on the vine? The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, founded by Sirius Black the First, who slew the last goblin king with his bare hands and bathed in its blood to seal the treaty! We who advised Saxon kings and Norman conquerors! We who bred Hungarian Horntails in these very cellars and tamed the wildest Thestrals of the Forbidden Forest!"
The portrait began to pace, or at least simulate it magnificently. Walburga's black skirts swirled around her painted ankles, her jet beads clicking together with each emphatic step.
"Our ancestors walked with Merlin himself! They bound the stars into servitude! They forged wands from the bones of basilisks and wrote spells in dragon's blood! And you would let it all END because you're content with one French platinum-haired Malfoy brat?"
Narcissa's patience, usually as resilient as dragonhide, began to fray at the edges. She set her teacup down with slightly more force than necessary.
"Draco is the finest the Black’s could ask for. At seven years old, he has already mastered his first year charms, speaks flawless French and German, and can trace his lineage back twenty-seven generations without hesitation. He is perfect. Lucius has already secured his place at Hogwarts. Slytherin House will bow to him from his first day."
Walburga was not to be placated. "Slytherin? Slytherin!" she scoffed. "A mere house within Hogwarts, not the ancestral seat of Black power! Have you forgotten Grimmauld Place itself? The ancestral vaults beneath Gringotts? The estates in Wales, Cornwall, and the Scottish Highlands? The Black family star-silver and dragon-claw heirlooms?" She stopped abruptly, her painted eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. "You must produce more children. True Black children, bearing the name!"
"I have told you," Narcissa said, her voice taking on an edge of ice, "Draco is enough. Lucius and I have discussed this at length. Another child would distract from his education, dilute our resources, complicate the Malfoy succession. The decision is final."
Walburga's painted face had flushed an impossible puce, her black lace veil quivering with the force of her rage. Narcissa's normally impeccable composure showed faint cracks—her fingers drummed almost imperceptibly on the arm of her chair, and a muscle twitched in her left cheek.
"Why hoard your womb for more Malfoy spawn? Give me grandsons with the Black star upon their brows! True heirs to carry our name into eternity!"
Narcissa sighed deeply, waving one elegant hand in dismissal.
"It doesn't matter. The Black legacy is lost regardless. Sirius is Lord Black, even rotting in Azkaban."
The room fell silent as if the house itself had stopped breathing. The flickering gas lamps dimmed; the portraits on the walls turned to stare. Walburga's painted eyes widened until they seemed likely to burst from their sockets, her mouth gaping open in a perfect O of shock. The portrait's enchanted mechanisms whirred erratically, causing the heavy curtains to flutter as if caught in a sudden gale.
"Sirius?" Walburga finally whispered, her voice a strangled hiss. "SIRIUS? I disowned him from the family tapestry with my own two hands?"
Narcissa realized her mistake too late, but the words were spoken. The delicate web of diplomacy she had maintained for over an hour lay in tatters. She straightened in her chair, choosing honesty over retreat.
"Nevertheless," she said coolly, "he is Lord Black. The ancient magic recognizes him. You know the old laws as well as I do. The blood speaks louder than any parchment decree."
Walburga's shriek was apocalyptic. It began as a low, guttural moan and built to a crescendo that shook dust from the rafters and cracked one of the crystal glasses on the mantel.
"HOW?" she screamed, her portrait thrashing wildly within its frame. "HOW DARES THE ANCIENT MAGIC MOCK ME THUS? I regretted my decision when the Dark Lord revealed Sirius as his right hand, the faithful lieutenant who guarded his secrets and struck down traitors in his name! I wept bitter tears for my folly in casting him out! He could have been our salvation, our champion! But this... this is BLASPHEMY!"
Narcissa poured herself a fresh cup of tea, her hands steady despite the maelstrom of emotion playing out before her. The liquid steamed gently, innocent of the chaos it had precipitated.
"The vaults confirm it," she said matter-of-factly. "Only one person has access to the Black family Gringotts accounts now. Harry Potter."
If Walburga had been shocked before, this revelation struck her like the Killing Curse. The portrait recoiled as if physically slapped, her painted hands flying to her bosom in horror. The color drained from her face, leaving it the texture of old ivory. Her black veil seemed to swallow the light around it, creating a void at the center of the painting.
"Potter?" she whispered, the word dripping with venom. "That... that half-blood brat? The spawn of James Potter? The child of that mudblood whore Lily Evans?"
Narcissa hesitated only briefly before pressing her advantage.
"Precisely. I don't know the full mechanism, but the goblins confirm it. When Great-Uncle Arcturus died in 1982 after Sirius’ imprisonment, the title passed automatically to Sirius by ancient law of primogeniture. Even in Azkaban, the magic recognized him as Lord Black."
"And his will?" Walburga demanded, though Narcissa could see from her expression that she already dreaded the answer.
Narcissa's lip curled in a sneer of pure contempt.
"Oh, Aunt, his will is the cruelest jest of all. Everything—titles, lands, properties, the entire contents of the Gringotts vaults—passes to Harry Potter upon Sirius's death. It's ironclad, witnessed by goblin magic and bound with blood oaths. Lucius has had the finest curse-breakers and lawyers examining it for years. There's no loophole, no counter. When Sirius dies…"
"...which could be any day in that Dementor-infested hellhole…" Walburga interjected.
"...everything goes to the Potter brat," Narcissa finished. "Draco is entirely cut out. Lucius is displeased. But Draco has something better. He is a Malfoy. The Blacks will die and the Malfoy’s will rise."
Walburga began to pace again—or at least her portrait did, striding back and forth with such ferocity that the frame itself seemed to vibrate. Her painted skirts swirled dramatically, and her jet beads clicked together like castanets.
"This cannot stand," she hissed through clenched teeth. "The House of Black... prostituted to a Potter? Sirius’ went so far in his role for the Dark Lord. He must have thought that it would not matter since he was disowned. He was the perfect spy within Dumbledore’s ranks. But all of our vaults stuffed with gold, ancient spellbooks… All to pass to that... that *whelp*?"
Her pacing ceased abruptly. When she turned back to Narcissa, her expression had transformed from rage to cold, calculating purpose.
"Then we must act, and act swiftly. Narcissa, you must work to free Sirius! Extract him from that Dementer-ridden pit! The Malfoys have influence! Use it! Bribe them! Blackmail them! Threaten them! Kill them! Once Sirius is free, he can change the will! Disinherit the Potter brat! Name Draco his heir!"
Narcissa threw back her head and laughed—a sharp, crystalline sound utterly devoid of humor. It echoed off the panelled walls like breaking glass.
"Free Sirius? And why precisely would I soil the Malfoy name by associating with that disgraced blood-traitor?"
“He is the Dark Lord’s most faithful!" Walburga screeched, her painted hands reaching threateningly toward Narcissa. "Your blood! The magic will recognize the family connection! Once freed and able to act he will take up his rightful place. With the Dark Lord gone, he will stand as the reincarnation of…"
"I have already visited him, Auntie," Narcissa interrupted coldly, drawing out the words like an assassin would enjoy the thrill of a kill.
The portrait froze mid-gesture.
"You... what?"
"Last spring," Narcissa continued, her gaze drifting to the cold, empty fireplace as if watching memories play out in the ashes. "Lucius pulled strings, considerable strings. Barty Crouch owed him a favor. It's the height of irony. A leader of the light bowing to us. It was delicious. But as I was saying Auntie, I went to Azkaban."
Walburga leaned forward, her painted face filling the entire canvas.
"And? He must’ve had more instructions from the Dark Lord. He must’ve been groomed to take over the mantle… He… "
"He laughed. Actually laughed right in my face,” Narcissa's lips twisted in a wry smile. “He is not a Death Eater in disguise, as the rumors claim. He claims he was set up framed by one of his other friends. A Peter Pettigrew. A poor excuse of a wizard that everyone thought Sirius killed after dealing with the Potters. Sirius swore it on his magic, and I..." She hesitated, then finished softly, "I believe him."
The portrait recoiled as if struck by a physical blow.
"You believe him?" Walburga's voice rose to a shriek. "Just when I had begun to forgive the wretch. When his supposed loyalty to the Dark Lord shone like a beacon in my eye?! When I imagined him as the faithful servant who guarded our master's secrets? LIES! All lies! He remains the traitor he always was!"
"Believe what you will," Narcissa snapped, her composure finally cracking to reveal the steel beneath. "But he will not change that will. He adores the Potter brat—some sentimental godfather nonsense. He spoke of the boy with actual tears in his eyes, even after years with the Dementors. Freeing him would only hasten the inheritance transfer. The Potter child would claim everything within weeks. Especially with Sirius most likely sterile…"
Walburga's rage simmered down into something far more dangerous: pure, predatory calculation. Her eyes narrowed to glittering slits, and a slow, serpentine smile crept across her painted lips.
"Then we bypass Sirius entirely," she murmured. "The boy. Harry Potter. Where is he?"
Narcissa scoffed, draining the last of her now-cold tea.
"No one has seen him since that fateful night in Godric's Hollow. Dumbledore spirited him away under the strongest secrecy charms imaginable. He sealed the Potter’s will. The Ministry doesn't know his location, even Lucius with all his connections, can't pry that particular secret loose from Dumbledore's grasp."
The portrait's smile widened into something genuinely terrifying.
"Then you will find him, Narcissa," Walburga said, her voice smooth as poisoned honey. "You will bring him here. Here, to Grimmauld Place. The house itself will recognize his claim; the ancient wards will bind him to us. We can... persuade him. A child is malleable clay in skilled hands. We will mold him to our will. You are his nearest pure-blood kin. The magic will recognize your guardianship rights!"
Narcissa rose slowly from her chair, the legs scraping against the floorboards with a sound like a drawn wand. Fury had been building within her throughout the entire afternoon—a cauldron bubbling just below the surface, now threatening to boil over. Her normally porcelain complexion was flushed, and her blue eyes blazed with barely contained wrath.
"Bring that half-blood brat into my house?" she hissed. "I think not. You cling to ghosts and fairy tales, Aunt Walburga, while the real world moves forward without you! Draco is the true Heir to the world. My world. My Malfoy world! I am no Black pawn to be moved about a chessboard of your making!"
Walburga's voice rose to a banshee wail that shook the very foundations.
"You are Black by birth! By blood! By every sacred law of magic! You will not abandon your duty! You will not doom our lineage to oblivion!"
"I already have," Narcissa stated, her tone as final as a guillotine's fall. "This is the last time I will set foot in this rotting pile of stones masquerading as a house. I am Narcissa Malfoy; wife, mother, and Lady of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy. I am no simpering Black heiress to be commanded by a painted corpse. Farewell, Auntie."
She turned on her heel, her robes billowing dramatically behind her like the wings of an enraged phoenix. As she swept from the room, Walburga's enraged howl pursued her.
"TRAITOR! BLOOD-TRAITOR! The house will CURSE you! Your son will wither unnamed! The Black magic will REACH you, wherever you hide behind Malfoy gold!"
Narcissa did not look back. Her heels clicked with finality against the hallway floorboards. The front door of Grimmauld Place slammed shut behind her with such force that several of the smaller ancestral portraits crashed from their hooks. Outside, under the gray London sky, she Disapparated with a sharp crack that echoed like a gunshot.
Inside the now-silent drawing room, Walburga Black's portrait thrashed like a dragon in chains. The canvas buckled and bulged; the frame splintered slightly at the corners.
"KREACHER!" she screamed, her voice booming through the entire house, rattling windows and causing the remaining portraits to cover their ears. "KREACHER, YOU FILTHY, LOUSE-RIDDEN RAG!"
The house-elf materialized beside the tea table, where he had been silently gathering the untouched delicacies with reverent care. He bowed so low his nose scraped the floorboards again.
"Yes, Mistress? Kreacher obeys. Kreacher heard everything."
"You heard?" Walburga hissed, her painted face contorted into a mask of pure fury. "You heard the House of Black—OUR Noble and Most Ancient House—stolen by a Potter whelp? You heard Sirius proclaimed Lord Black while he rots in chains? You heard his will—a traitor's final insult—bequeathing our birthright to that Potter brat?"
"Kreacher heard," the elf whimpered, wringing his filthy rag between trembling hands. "Mistress Narcissa is lost to the Malfoys. She has forsaken her blood. But the blood... the blood must endure."
"Indeed it must," Walburga said, her rage coalescing into something far more dangerous: cold, methodical purpose. Her eyes gleamed with the predatory fire of a thousand ancestral vendettas. "And you, Kreacher, will ensure that it does. You will find Harry Potter."
The elf's bulbous eyes widened in shock.
"The Potter boy? But Mistress, he is hidden! Mistress Narcissa said…"
"Silence!" Walburga snapped. "You will never address that woman as Mistress again!”
Walburga took a few steadying breaths before continuing.
“You can go where wizards cannot. You will scour the alleys of London, from Diagon to Knockturn and beyond. You will listen to the whispers of your kind in every great house. You will track the boy's scent if you must. Your magic can slip such protections like rats through cracked floorboards. You will find him. You will bring him here—alive and unharmed. Do you understand me? The house itself will do the rest."
Kreacher's fanatical devotion transformed into something approaching religious ecstasy.
"Yes, Mistress!" he croaked, his single eye blazing with purpose. "Kreacher will fetch the Potter boy! For the Noble House... for Master Regulus! For you. Kreacher will not fail!"
"GO!" Walburga commanded.
The elf vanished with a pop that echoed like a thunderclap.
Now truly alone, Walburga's portrait settled. The mechanisms whirred softly as she composed herself, her mind already spinning intricate webs of conspiracy.
“First, secure the boy,” she thought. “Grimmauld Place's wards will do the rest. The ancient blood-oaths etched into these very stones will recognize his claim as Lord Black. Once he's within these walls, he will be ours.”
She envisioned it clearly. Harry Potter, wide-eyed and bewildered, standing before the family tapestry. The ancient magic would awaken. Doorways opening to secret vaults, portraits whispering counsel, the house itself bending to serve its new master.
“But he will be our master,” she corrected herself. “A child of seven is clay to be molded.”
The possibilities unfolded before her mind's eye like a serpent uncoiling.
“Yes. If he defeated the Dark Lord. If he is Heir Black. I will make him everything. Despite his filthy blood. I will make him the most feared Dark Lord. Voldemort will tremble at his failure. His failure will give rise to the Greatest of Blacks.”
As the enchanted curtains began their slow journey closed, Walburga's obsidian eyes remained open, burning in the gathering darkness.
"And Harry Potter," she whispered to the shadows, "whether he wills it or not... will be the instrument of our resurrection."
July 2nd, 1987
12 Grimmauld Place
London
The summer heat hung over London like a damp shroud, but within the ancient walls of Grimmauld Place, the air remained cool and stagnant, preserved by centuries-old cooling charms etched into the foundation stones. The house seemed to breathe with malevolent anticipation, its floorboards creaking under invisible feet, its shadows shifting when no one watched. In the drawing room, the massive portrait of Walburga Black loomed above the mantelpiece, its heavy black velvet curtains drawn tightly shut. The painted matriarch had spent the past nine months in restless vigil, her enchanted mind consumed with schemes to restore the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Kreacher had not returned since October. But on this sweltering Friday afternoon, as the grandfather clock in the hall struck three, a sharp crack split the silence of the drawing room.
Kreacher materialized on the threadbare Persian rug, his appearance more wretched than ever. His single working eye was bloodshot and sunken, ringed with dark circles that spoke of sleepless months. His loincloth hung in tatters, stained with mud, and his parchment-like skin bore fresh scratches and burns. In his gnarled hands, he clutched a filthy rag and a small, grimy object wrapped in oilskin: a broken piece of chalk, its surface etched with barely legible runes.
The portrait's curtains flew open with a violent mechanical screech. Walburga's painted face filled the canvas, her obsidian eyes blazing with hunger.
"KREACHER!" she bellowed, her voice shaking the crystal decanters on the sideboard. "MONTHS! Months you've left me rotting in this gilded prison without a word! Have you found him? Have you found the Potter whelp?"
Kreacher threw himself to the floor, pressing his forehead to the dusty boards.
"Mistress! Kreacher begs forgiveness! Kreacher has failed to bring Master Potter to Grimmauld Place, but Kreacher has…" He choked on his words, trembling violently. "Kreacher has news. Important news! News of the blood!"
Walburga's portrait leaned forward, the canvas bulging unnaturally.
"Speak, you worthless speck! What news? Is the boy dead? Captured? Where is he!"
The elf scrambled to his knees, clutching the oilskin package to his chest.
"No, Mistress! Kreacher has found traces! Kreacher has heard the name of Harry Potter spoken by the enemy's own lips! Kreacher knows where the blood-traitor Dumbledore has hidden our Heir!"
The portrait fell silent. For the first time in months, Walburga's painted features showed something other than rage. Calculation, anticipation, the predatory gleam of a basilisk sensing prey.
"Explain. Every detail. Omit nothing, or I'll have the house curse your miserable hide to flinders."
Kreacher nodded frantically, his bat-like ears flapping.
"Yes, Mistress! Kreacher obeys!" He shuffled closer to the table, perching on the edge of a chair far too large for his small frame. His voice dropped to a reverent whisper, as if speaking prophecy. "Kreacher was in Hogsmeade, lurking in the shadows of the Three Broomsticks as house-elves do. Kreacher heard voices—important voices—coming from a private room upstairs. Kreacher slipped through the floorboards, through the brick and mortar, unseen and unheard."
The portrait's eyes narrowed.
"Whoses?"
"Minerva McGonagall, Mistress!" Kreacher hissed, his single eye gleaming with triumph. "The strict one, the Gryffindor witch with the square spectacles and lips like a lemon slice! And with her... Cornelius Fudge, the fat little Minister himself! They thought themselves private, but Kreacher's ears are sharp! Kreacher heard everything!"
Walburga's painted hands clenched into fists.
"Continue."
Kreacher leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial croak.
"They spoke of the boy, Mistress. Of Harry Potter. McGonagall was angry—sharp words, like knives! She said Dumbledore had done something foolish, something dangerous. She said..." The elf paused dramatically, savoring the revelation. "The boy is with Muggles. Lily's sister and her family. Dumbledore insisted on it."
The portrait recoiled as if struck.
"Muggles? MUGGLES! That half-blood brat… Our Heir Black… Abandoned to Muggle filth?"
"Worse, Mistress!" Kreacher continued, his excitement mounting. "McGonagall called them the worst muggles imaginable. If she feels that way then they must be…”
Walburga's shriek rattled the windows.
"That sanctimonious old fool! To leave the Head of our House with Muggles! The arrogance! The disrespect to ancient blood!"
Kreacher nodded vigorously.
"But Kreacher listened more. McGonagall said 'Albus believes it's the safest place. No one would think to look for the Boy Who Lived in a Muggle suburb in Surrey.'"
The portrait began pacing—or simulating it with frantic energy.
"Surrey," she hissed. "Those detestable outer London counties—those soulless grids of identical brick boxes! The boy is there!"
Kreacher held up the oilskin package, unwrapping it with reverent care to reveal the broken chalk.
"Kreacher found this, Mistress! In the alley behind the Three Broomsticks, where McGonagall dropped it! See the runes? Kreacher knows them—ancient house-elf script! 'Surrey. Privet Drive.' That's all Kreacher could salvage before a passing Auror nearly spotted him!"
Walburga snatched the chalk fragment magically from Kreacher's hands, the portrait's power extending beyond the canvas to make it hover before her painted eyes. She examined it with predatory intensity, her lips moving silently as she deciphered the faded runes. "Surrey," she murmured. "Little Whinging. Privet Drive. Yes... yes, it fits. The Muggle obsession with tidy streets and conformity. Dumbledore would choose such a place to hide in plain sight."
The portrait's eyes snapped back to Kreacher. "You have done well, elf. Better than I expected from such wretched material. But you have not brought me the boy."
Kreacher prostrated himself again, whimpering.
"Kreacher failed, Mistress!"
Walburga's rage subsided into cold calculation. She studied the chalk fragment, then Kreacher's exhausted form.
"Maybe I’m too hasty," she said finally. "The boy is there, but we cannot simply snatch him. That would alert Dumbledore, the Ministry, every sympathizer from here to Godric's Hollow. No. We must be subtle."
The elf looked up, confused.
"Mistress?"
The portrait smiled—a terrifying, serpentine expression that made even the other portraits flinch.
"New orders, Kreacher. Listen carefully, for your life depends on perfect obedience."
Kreacher scrambled to attention, his single eye wide and fervent.
"First," Walburga commanded, "you will return to Surrey. You will find the boy. I suspect, for its very banality appeals to Dumbledore's twisted sense of humor. But do not enter. Do not reveal yourself. You will observe."
The elf nodded eagerly.
"Observe how, Mistress?"
"You will watch the boy," Walburga continued, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Learn his routines, his weaknesses, his protectors. Note when the adults leave for work. Note when they go to his Muggle school. Note when the boy is alone, vulnerable. Watch for signs of his magic. Children of his age cannot fully control their power."
Kreacher's ears twitched with excitement.
"And when Kreacher learns these things?"
"Then you return here," Walburga said. "You report everything. Every detail, no matter how trivial. How he takes his tea. Whether he favors the upstairs or downstairs bedroom. Whether the Muggles feed him properly or starve him like the unwanted burden he must be. Whether he shows any sign of awareness about his heritage, his titles, his destiny."
The portrait leaned closer, her painted face filling the canvas.
"And Kreacher—when you have what I need, you will identify the optimal moment. The moment when the boy can be taken cleanly, quietly, without trace. The house will do the rest. Its ancient wards will bind him to us. But until that moment..." Her voice hardened. "You will not touch him. You will not speak to him. You will not even let him see your shadow. Do you understand?"
"Kreacher understands, Mistress!" the elf croaked, practically vibrating with purpose. "Kreacher will watch! Kreacher will wait! Kreacher will bring Master Potter to Grimmauld Place when the time is perfect!"
Walburga scowled, but nodded, somewhat satisfied.
"Good. Now go. But before you leave—"
She snapped her painted fingers, and a small wooden box floated down from the mantelpiece, landing before Kreacher with a soft thud. The elf stared at it in confusion.
"Open it," Walburga commanded.
Trembling, Kreacher lifted the lid to reveal a single object: a small, silver amulet shaped like the Black family crest, its surface etched with glowing runes. The chain was fine but unbreakable, forged of goblin silver.
"Put it on," the portrait said.
Kreacher obeyed, fastening the amulet around his scrawny neck. Instantly, his form shimmered and blurred, becoming nearly transparent—a chameleon charm of the highest order.
"This will hide you from all but the most powerful detection spells," Walburga explained. "It will muffle your Apparition signature. Wear it always. And Kreacher—"
"Yes, Mistress?"
"If you fail me again," she said softly, "this same amulet will strangle the life from your worthless body. Do not test me."
The elf bowed so low his nose scraped the floorboards.
"Kreacher will not fail! Kreacher swears on his magic! On Master Regulus's memory! On the Noble House itself!"
With a final, reverent nod, Kreacher vanished with a soft pop—the amulet ensuring his departure was silent as a whisper.
July 30th, 1987
12 Grimmauld Place
London
In the drawing room, Walburga Black's portrait brooded behind its half-drawn velvet curtains. For twenty-nine days, Kreacher had faithfully fulfilled his amended orders. Find and observe Harry Potter, but do not interfere. Learning the Muggle family's routines, the layout of the house, the precise strength of Dumbledore's blood wards.
Tomorrow he would return, Walburga would plan and they finally have their Heir Black. But tonight, as the clock struck half-past eight, the house trembled.
A violent CRACK split the drawing room air, louder and more desperate than any Apparition Walburga had ever heard. Kreacher materialized on the Persian rug, collapsing immediately to his knees. The house-elf was a vision of utter ruin: his eyes wild with panic, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead, his tatters of clothing shredded and soaked with sweat. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, and in his trembling hands he clutched a broken shard of mirror—its surface still flickering with images of a darkened suburban street.
The portrait's curtains flew open with explosive force, mechanisms grinding in alarm.
"KREACHER!" Walburga thundered, her painted face contorted with fury and concern. "What is the meaning of this? You were ordered to observe silently! Your extraction is not until tomorrow! Why do you return in such a state? Have you compromised everything?"
Kreacher crawled forward, leaving a trail of blood and dirt across the priceless carpet.
"Mistress!" he croaked, his voice raw with urgency. "Emergency! Kreacher brings news! The boy—Master Potter—Master Black—he is in danger! He plans to flee! Tomorrow night! Kreacher had to come! Kreacher had to warn you!"
Walburga's portrait froze, her obsidian eyes narrowing to slits. The other ancestral portraits—Phineas Nigellus, Ignatia Black, and grim-faced Phineas the First—leaned forward in their frames, suddenly alert, but silent to their mistress.
"Speak clearly, elf!" Walburga commanded, her voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. "What do you mean, 'flee'?"
Kreacher nodded frantically, dragging himself to the edge of the tea table. He set the broken mirror shard carefully before him, its surface still showing faint glimpses of Privet Drive: neat lawns, glowing streetlamps, the distant shape of a tabby cat slinking through shadows.
"Kreacher was watching, Mistress! Just as ordered! Kreacher hid in the attic of Number 4, invisible with the amulet! Kreacher saw everything!"
The elf's single eye darted wildly as memory overtook him.
"The boy... oh, Mistress, the things Kreacher has seen these past weeks! The Muggles—they hate him! They torture him! Kreacher watched it all!"
Walburga leaned forward, the canvas bulging unnaturally.
"Abuse! What happened!?"
Kreacher's voice dropped to a horrified whisper, as if speaking blasphemy.
"Every day, Mistress! Every single day! The fat one… He roars at the boy like a troll! Calls him 'freak!' This very morning… Kreacher saw it!... The boy burned the fat boy’s favorite toy on purpose. The glass shattered! Vernon grabbed the boy by his scrawny neck, shook him like a rag doll!"
The elf's hands trembled as he mimed the violence.
"He dragged Master Harry across the kitchen—by his hair! Slammed him into the wall so hard the pictures fell! Then..." Kreacher choked. "Then he locked him in the cupboard under the stairs! Kreacher heard the boy sobbing through the door—quiet little gasps, like a wounded kneazle!"
Walburga's painted nostrils flared.
"A cupboard!"
Kreacher shook his head violently. "Yes Mistress! His prison! A cupboard! Six feet by three feet! Spiderwebs! Broken mop handles! Mouse droppings! That's where they keep him! Every night! They chain him like an animal! He’s about to be seven years old!"
"Seven?" Walburga's eyes narrowed. "Tomorrow is his birthday?"
"Yes, Mistress!" Kreacher hissed. "Tomorrow he turns seven! And the Muggles—they hate his birthday! Kreacher watched. Kreacher heard them planning! 'No special treatment for that little monster,' they said. 'He gets nothing!'"
The portrait began pacing—or simulating it with frantic energy, her black skirts swirling dramatically.
"Barbaric," she muttered. "Muggles should know better than to mistreat their betters."
Kreacher leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"But tonight, Mistress... tonight everything changed. Kreacher was watching from the attic—through a knothole in the floorboards. Dinner was worse than usual. Dudley—that bloated toad—demanded second helpings, third helpings! When the food ran out, he screamed! Threw his plate! Vernon blamed Master Harry!"
The elf's hands clenched into fists.
"He struck him, Mistress. With his belt. Ten lashes—Kreacher counted! Across the back, across the legs! The boy didn't cry out—not once! Just bit his lip until it bled! The horse woman watched, smiling! Then they locked him in the cupboard again—double-locked this time, with a chain!"
Walburga's painted hands gripped her yew wand so tightly the wood seemed ready to splinter.
"And after?"
"Kreacher waited," the elf continued. "Two hours. Three. Then... Kreacher heard movement. Through the keyhole—Kreacher saw it! The boy had picked the lock! With a... a bent hairpin! Such clever fingers! He crept around…"
The portrait's eyes gleamed.
"Go on."
"He packed a bag, Mistress! Small cloth bundle—old clothes, half a chocolate bar he'd been hiding! Then he knelt by the window—whispering to himself! Kreacher heard every word through the amulet's magic!"
Kreacher closed his eye, reciting from memory with eerie precision:
"'One more night,' the boy whispered. 'Just one more night, then I'm gone. Birthday or no birthday, I can't take this anymore. There's got to be somewhere else—someone else."
The elf opened his eyes, trembling with excitement.
"He means to run away, Mistress! Tomorrow! When the Muggles sleep! Kreacher saw him testing the window latch! Saw him hide the bundle in his cupboard! He plans to steal money from wallet, slip out, and disappear into the Muggle world!"
Walburga's portrait fell utterly still. The room itself seemed to hold its breath.
Phineas Nigellus murmured, "Remarkable," from his frame.
Ignatia Black whispered, "The blood calls to him."
"This changes everything," Walburga said finally, her voice smooth as poisoned silk. "The boy seeks freedom. He rejects his Muggle tormentors. This is our opportunity—but we must act with precision."
Kreacher looked up, confused.
"But Mistress? The extraction was for tomorrow! The wards are mapped! The Portkey is prepared!"
"Tomorrow is too late," Walburga snapped. "If the boy flees into the Muggle world unprotected, Dumbledore's agents will find him within hours! Busybodies, Ministry trackers, even common urchins who recognize the scar! No—we take him. While he's desperate. While he craves rescue."
The portrait's painted lips curved into a predatory smile.
"New orders, Kreacher."
The elf scrambled to attention, his exhaustion forgotten. "Kreacher obeys!"
"First," Walburga commanded, "return to Privet Drive immediately. Hide there."
"Yes, Mistress!"
"When the boy emerges,” she continued, “Do not speak to him. Do not touch him. Simply drop this."
She snapped her painted fingers, and a small object materialized on the table: a silver pocket watch, its surface engraved with the Black family crest.
Kreacher gasped.
"The heirloom!"
"Precisely," Walburga confirmed. "When the boy appears, ensure he sees it. Accidentally in his path, glinting in the moonlight."
"And then?" Kreacher breathed.
"The Portkey will bring him directly here," Walburga said. "To this very room. The house wards will seal behind him. Dumbledore himself couldn't breach them without the family signet ring."
The elf nodded frantically.
"And if he resists? If he doesn't pick it up?"
Walburga's smile turned feral.
"Then you have permission to speak. But only these words. 'Master Black, come home.' The blood will do the rest. Our magic runs in his veins. He won't be able to resist the call."
Kreacher clutched the pocket watch reverently.
"Kreacher will not fail! Kreacher will bring Master Harry home tonight!"
"One final detail," Walburga added, her voice hardening. "When he arrives, do not coddle him. Serve him a proper Black family supper. Roast pheasant, red wine, treacle tart. But speak firmly. He is Heir Black now. He must learn his place immediately."
The elf bowed so low his nose scraped the floorboards.
"Yes, Mistress! Kreacher will prepare the dining hall! Kreacher will polish the silver! Kreacher will…"
"GO!" Walburga thundered.
Kreacher vanished with a desperate CRACK, the silver watch clutched tightly in his hand.
As the clock struck the top of the next hour, Walburga murmured to the empty room.
"In just hours, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black rises again."
Phineas Nigellus chuckled from his portrait.
"Bold move, Mistress. The boy could prove troublesome."
Walburga's eyes gleamed.
"Or he could prove perfect. Blood will out. He might not be what I wanted, but he has more potential than any Black in history. I will make him a wizard that even Merlin would bow to."
Across London, in the quiet suburb of Little Whinging, a seven-year-old boy packed his meager belongings, unaware that destiny was closing around him like a velvet noose.