Sirius led him through the dark, labyrinthine halls of 12 Grimmauld Place, a place steeped in centuries of his family's history. He showed him portraits of sneering ancestors, their faces frozen in perpetual disdain, all hexed silent by Sirius himself.
They passed rooms with stasis-locked curtains, preserving dust and decay, and cursed musical instruments that would shriek if touched by anyone, not of Black blood. He pointed out a library that required a password in ancient Greek, a testament to the family's arcane knowledge and their penchant for exclusivity.
"Most Blacks have been a disappointment in their own way," Sirius muttered, his voice tinged with a familiar bitterness as they passed a dusty shrine dedicated to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. "Either too cruel, too cowardly, or too proud. I was a disgrace for leaving. Regulus… my brother, he was the perfect heir who stayed."
Harry stayed quiet, listening, sensing the deep-seated pain beneath Sirius's flippancy. He could feel the echoes of the family's rigid, prejudiced past clinging to the very air.
Sirius stopped at a room with a large, faded tapestry, its threads depicting the sprawling, intricate family tree. Names were burned away where members had been disowned.
"Look at this thing," he said, his voice thick with a mixture of contempt and sorrow. "Bloodlines. Purity. All that rot. They cared more about names and status than they ever did about people." He traced a finger over a faded section. "But Regulus…we were close once before he went and joined those death eaters."
Harry looked at him, remembering the locket. He knew that Regulus had tried to do the right thing in the end despite it going against his family's blood status belief "What was he like?"
Sirius sighed, a heavy sound. "He was young. He believed them, believed in the pure-blood nonsense, He would always do as he was told, and that made Mother very happy. He was the type to never disobey her regardless of what she put him through." He looked at the old tapestry with something close to raw grief. "We fought a lot, but then he just vanished, nobody knows what happened to him. Apparently, some say he got himself killed by Voldemort himself."
They walked a little more, the silence between them companionable rather than awkward. Eventually, Sirius clapped him on the shoulder, pulling him out of the morbid history.
"I'm glad you're here, Harry," Sirius said, his voice softening, a genuine warmth radiating from him. "Even if things are still rough, I hope you know… this house, this place—if it ever feels like home to you, it'll mean it became something better than what it was. Something different."
Harry nodded, his throat a little tight with emotion. "Thanks, Sirius. It… it already feels better."
Sirius smiled a genuine, open expression. "Alright. I'll leave you to wander. Explore. Just try not to open any doors that hiss, and definitely don't touch anything that looks like a shrunken head."
Once Harry was alone, the silence of the old house settled around him, a different kind of quiet now. He made his way silently to the drawing room, the ancestral heart of the Black family.
He lit a few candles with a flick of his fingers. Magic hummed around him, subtle and obedient, a testament to his new nature. The room, usually oppressive, felt merely old beneath his heightened senses.
"Kreacher," he said softly, his voice carrying clearly through the stillness.
The old house-elf appeared with a soft crack, his large eyes fixed on Harry, a perpetual glower etched onto his wrinkled face. He wore his usual grimy rag-robe, and his ears twitched with ill-concealed resentment.
"What does the Halfblood want?" Kreacher croaked, his voice raspy and grudging, not even hiding the disgust at the word half blood, clearly annoyed at being summoned.
"Kreacher is busy cleaning up after the blood traitors and their half-breed friends." He sniffed disdainfully, his gaze sweeping over Harry with a hint of insolence.
Harry's eyes narrowed slightly, pinning the elf with his gaze as he released some of his aura but he kept his voice calm. "I need something. The locket. Regulus's locket."
Kreacher's eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock and fear crossing his ancient, wrinkled face. He visibly stiffened, his bony hands twisting around each other, a familiar sign of his distress and reluctance.
"Kreacher does not know what the Halfblood speaks of—Kreacher was commanded not to speak of it!" he rasped, his voice rising in agitation, a desperate attempt to deflect. "Kreacher knows nothing of lockets!"
"I know about the cave," Harry interrupted gently, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the elf's frantic protestations. "The Inferi. The potion. I know what Regulus tried to do. I know he gave you the locket to destroy it, and that you tried, but couldn't."
The house-elf trembled violently, his whole body shaking. Tears welled in his large, bloodshot eyes, and he began to wring his hands frantically. "He… Kreacher tried… it would not break… Kreacher is a bad elf! Kreacher failed Master Regulus!"
"You didn't fail him, Kreacher," Harry said, stepping closer, his voice laced with a quiet authority that seemed to compel the elf, forcing him to listen. "You did exactly as he asked, and it wasn't your fault it couldn't be destroyed by normal means. It was dark magic, beyond anything a house-elf could manage." He looked directly into the elf's eyes, his gaze steady and unwavering. "I can destroy it. But I need it. When I'm ready, I'll finish what Regulus started. I'll complete his mission, and honor his sacrifice."
Kreacher hesitated, his gaze fixed on Harry, a mixture of disbelief, desperate hope, and a flicker of something akin to awe warring on his face. "Why? Why would the young Master care for what the old Master did? Why would the young Master do what Regulus failed to do? You are not of the Noble House of Black!" he rasped, the last part a dying ember of his ingrained prejudice.
"Because he died doing the right thing," Harry said, his voice firm, resonating with a conviction that seemed to reach the elf's ancient heart, overriding centuries of ingrained prejudice. "And because Voldemort doesn't get to win. Not this time. Not ever again."
He stepped closer, extending a hand, his posture radiating a quiet power that even Kreacher, for all his stubbornness, could not deny. "Give me the locket, Kreacher. I'll honor Regulus's sacrifice. I'll keep it safe until the time comes. Then I'll destroy it, and you can be free of its poison, free of this burden that has haunted you for so long."
Kreacher's eyes brimmed with silent tears, streaming down his wizened cheeks. After a long, shaky pause, a decision made in the depths of his loyal, broken heart, he reached into his grimy rag-robe and pulled out a small, blackened locket. It was cold to the touch, heavy with dark magic, and bore a serpentine 'S' engraved on its front.
Harry accepted it with care, his fingers brushing the cold metal. He could feel the insidious, corrupting magic emanating from it, a foul echo of Voldemort's fractured soul, a whisper of ancient evil.
"I won't destroy it yet," he said, pocketing it securely, the locket now a cold weight against his side. "But when I do I'll give you the remains to have. to hold something that regulus entrusted to you."
Kreacher bowed low, lower than Harry had ever seen him, his forehead almost touching the dusty floor. His tears fell silently, no longer of despair, but of profound, gratitude.
"Thank you, Master Harry." His voice was a barely audible whisper, filled with a newfound reverence.
Harry said nothing, merely giving a slight nod. But inside, a quiet fire burned a little brighter. One piece down. The rest to follow.
With this, he had or destroyed, three in total. The Diary, The Scar, and now the Locket
That remained the Ring, Snake, Cup, and The Diadem.
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