'There's the old bugger, Kreacher...' Lucifer thought to himself, his eyes narrowing as he evaluated the intruder.
The elf's skin seemed to be several sizes too big for his tiny frame, sagging in heavy folds around his limbs. While he was completely bald like all other House-Elves, Lucifer noticed the distinct, bizarre growth of coarse white hairs sprouting directly out of Kreacher's large, bat-like ears. His eyes were bloodshot and a watery, hostile gray, and his fleshy nose was rather large and snout-like, sniffing the dusty air with open contempt.
Kreacher took absolutely no notice of the teenagers standing by the window. Upon further examination, Lucifer deduced that the elf was deliberately avoiding looking at any of them.
He shuffled with a heavy hunchback posture, moving slowly and doggedly toward the far end of the room where the ancient cabinets stood.
He was muttering continuously under his breath all the while, his voice a hoarse, deep bass that sounded like a bullfrog's echoing in a well.
"...Smells like a drain of criminals to boot, but she's no better, nasty old blood traitor with her red-headed brats messing up my poor Mistress's House... oh, my poor Mistress, whoever destroyed you from the wall will pay dearly in blood... if she only knew of the scum and riffraff they've let inside her ancestral house, what would she say to old Kreacher?"
The elf let out a low, hacking wheeze, his watery eyes fixed on the floor boards. Grammatically broken and dripping with spite, he kept counting down his grievances to the floor. "Oh, the absolute shame of it... Mudbloods and werewolves and traitors and common thieves... poor old Kreacher, what can he possibly do...?"
"Hello, Kreacher," Fred said loudly, stepping away from the threshold and closing the door with a resounding snap.
Kreacher froze right where he stood. He instantly stopped his rhythmic muttering and then gave a very pronounced, highly theatrical, and very unconvincing start of surprise, blinking his gray eyes.
"Kreacher did not see the Young Master," the elf said, turning his body and offering a low, sweeping bow to Fred. Then, while keeping his snout pointed firmly at the dusty floor, he added quite audibly to the carpet, "Nasty little brat of a blood traitor it is."
"Sorry?" George spoke up, stepping forward with his hands in his pockets. "Didn't quite catch that last bit, old chap."
"Kreacher said absolutely nothing," the elf replied smoothly, offering a second, identical bow to George. He added in a perfectly clear, venomous undertone, "And there's its twin, unnatural little beasts they are."
Lucifer leaned his head back against the carved wood of his chair, a genuine spark of dark amusement flickering in his chest. I have to admit, I am thoroughly impressed, he thought to himself, watching the elf display such effortless spite. 'Kreacher's ability to throw malicious insults without batting an eye, completely disregarding the physical presence of the person he's slandering, is remarkably impressive. It's almost artistic...'
Kreacher stood up as straight as his curved spine would allow, eyeing the room malevolently. Lucifer noticed that the elf's watery gaze lingered on his own tall frame a moment longer than anyone else, except for Harry—before he continued his rhythmic muttering, clearly operating under the delusion that no one could decipher his undertone.
"And there's the Mudblood, standing bold as brass in the drawing room... oh, if my dear Mistress knew, oh how she'd cry floods of tears... and there are two new boys Kreacher doesn't recognize at all. Kreacher doesn't know their names, what they are doing here, Kreacher doesn't know..."
Lucifer slowly stood up from his chair. Pushing through the residual stiffness in his leg, he walked across the dusty carpet, making his way directly toward Hermione's side.
"This is Harry Potter, Kreacher, and this is—" Hermione started to speak tentatively, trying to introduce them with proper manners, but Kreacher cut her off with another aggressive burst of muttering.
"The Mudblood is talking directly to Kreacher as though she is my equal, as though she is my friend... if Kreacher's Mistress saw him in such foul company—aggh!"
Kreacher's venomous speech ended in a sharp, terrified yelp as his tiny body was suddenly yanked off floorboards, lifted six feet into the air by an invisible, crushing telekinetic grip.
Lucifer stepped forward, his posture rigid, his dark eyes flaring into a burning, demonic red that cast a bloody light across the olive-green walls. The force of his intent locked the house-elf firmly in place against the ceiling.

"Call Hermione that word one more time, and I will send you straight to the exact same void where I sent your Mistress's portrait last night," Lucifer said, the words slipping out with a quiet, menacing weight.
Kreacher's large, bat-like ears flattened against his skull as his bloodshot eyes widened in pure horror. He glared down at Lucifer with a mix of loathing and sudden, instinctual terror. "You... you took my Mistress away from me! You destroyed her canvas!"
"I did," Lucifer said, stepping right up beneath the suspended elf, his face inches from Kreacher's large snout. "And I don't care a single shred that you're a House-Elf or that you've been driven mad by isolation. You call Hermione that name again, and I am going to remove your mouth from your 'face' permanently. Do you understand me, creature?"
"Lucifer, please, it's alright. I've been dealing with his comments ever since I got to the house," Hermione said quickly, reaching out to place a calming hand on his arm, trying to de-escalate his rising temper. "It doesn't hurt me."
Lucifer turned his head slightly, his red eyes looking at her in genuine surprise. "You've been casually dealing with a racist, insulting House-Elf since you arrived?"
"I've just been ignoring him, Lucifer," She explained, her chin held high. "I may want all House-Elves to be legally free and treated fairly by the Ministry, but that absolutely does not mean I am going to defend Kreacher's malicious actions... I just choose to ignore him half the time because he's pathetic."
Kreacher's watery gray eyes darted between their joined hands, and then back to Lucifer's burning crimson gaze. A sudden realization seemed to click within the elf's primitive understanding of magic. "Lucifer...? Lucifer Morningstar?" the elf whispered, his wrinkled skin turning a pale, sickly shade of gray.
"The one and only," Fred said with a smirk from the doorway, crossing his arms. "The very same Lucifer Morningstar that Sirius told the Order might just be the Devil walking the earth."
Even while suspended completely upside down in mid-air, Kreacher's tiny frame began to tremble violently. He stretched his webbed fingers out, desperately trying to gesture a bow of submission through the air. "The Light Bringer... The Fallen Angel of the Deep," Kreacher whimpered, his voice cracking into a desperate, croaking sob. "Please... please forgive old Kreacher's unpardonable insolence! Have mercy on his wretched soul, My Lord!"
A sharp, clanging sound echoed from the open doorway. Lucifer turned his head and saw Sirius Black standing in the threshold, his grey eyes wide with shock.
With a casual flick of his fingers, Lucifer released his telekinetic grip, setting Kreacher back down onto the floorboards. The moment his webbed feet touched the ground, the house-elf promptly dropped onto his hands and knees, pushing his wrinkled face flat into the dusty carpet in a display of absolute, groveling worship.
Lucifer's eyes stopped glowing red, returning to their natural dark state. Sirius remained standing in silence, completely stunned by the display. He stared blankly down at his groveling servant. "He... he certainly didn't act like a sniveling coward like that when I was talking about your lineage to the Order last week..."
"My dear Mistress talked about the Great War of Old," Kreacher whimpered into the fabric of the carpet, his voice muffled by the dust. "The 'Archangel named Lucifer Morningstar...' she spoke of his dark majesty with great admiration. If there was a single entity in the history of creation that she held in higher regard than her own bloodline, it was Satan himself. She taught Kreacher how the very foundations of modern dark magic originated after Lucifer's glorious Fall... about the Celestials, the purest, most dangerous beings of the Universe..."
"'Blood purity... it was an absolute sickness to my family," Sirius spat bitterly, looking down at the elf with deep disgust. "They'd worship the Devil himself as long as he didn't associate with Muggles."
Lucifer looked back down at the prostrate elf. "Don't bow to me, Kreacher. I am not your Master, and I have absolutely no interest in your pure-blood theology. But let me make this entirely clear: don't you ever use that word toward Hermione again, or we are going to have a catastrophic problem. Understood?"
"Yes, my Lord... yes, of course," Kreacher croaked from the floor, his tiny shoulders shaking. "Kreacher will never refer to the young lady as a Mudblood ever again..."
It surprised every single person in the room when the elf stood up and didn't immediately begin muttering insults under his breath. The silence was absolute. Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling and exhaling slowly to soothe the lingering ache in his chest.
"What exactly are you up to in here anyway, Kreacher?" Sirius asked, his facial expression flattening into a hard stare.
"Kreacher is cleaning, Master," the elf said, standing up and dusting off his loincloth, though his eyes kept darting nervously toward Lucifer. "Kreacher lives exclusively to serve the noble House of Black—"
"—and the house is getting blacker and filthier by the day," Sirius snapped, gesturing to the dust. "It's absolutely disgusting."
"Master always loved his little jokes," Kreacher said, offering a low bow. He immediately continued in a distinct, rapid undertone, "Master was a nasty, ungrateful swine of a boy who broke his poor mother's heart into pieces—"
"My mother didn't possess a heart, Kreacher," Sirius snapped back, his jaw clenching. "The old hag kept herself alive out of pure spite."
Kreacher bowed again, his large ears flopping. "Whatever Master says, of course," he muttered furiously in a rapid undertone. "Master is not fit to wipe the common slime from his dear mother's boots... oh, my poor Mistress, what would she say if she saw Kreacher serving such a disappointment of a son, how she hated his guts, what a failure he w--"
"I explicitly asked what you were up to in here," Sirius said, his posture settling into an imposing stillness. "Every single time you show up pretending to be cleaning the drawing room, you covertly sneak a dark object off to your bedroom so we can't throw it out in the rubbish."
"Kreacher would never dream of moving a single thing from its proper ancestral place in Master's home," the elf said quickly, his large eyes shifting. He then began muttering at blinding speed to his knees, "Mistress would never, ever forgive Kreacher if the great Black family tapestry was thrown into the bin... seven centuries it has hung proudly in the family line, Kreacher must save it from the trash, Kreacher will absolutely not let Master and the blood traitors and the ginger brats destroy our history—"
"I completely thought it might be that," Sirius said, casting a long, disdainful look at the opposite wall where a massive, ancient tapestry hung, covered in golden thread. "The old hag will have placed another 'Permanent Sticking Charm' on the back of the fabric, I don't doubt. But if I can find a way to get rid of it, I certainly will... Now go away, Kreacher. Out."
Recognizing the direct, binding order from his legal Master, Kreacher proceeded to make his way out of the drawing room. But on his way through the threshold, he threw Sirius a look of the deepest, most vitriolic loathing a face could ever display, muttering furiously as the door clicked.
"—comes back from Azkaban acting like a king, ordering poor old Kreacher around... oh, my poor Mistress, what would she say if she saw her treasures thrown into the street? Scum living in her bedrooms... she swore to the tapestry he was no son of hers and now he's back... they say the boy's a bloody murderer too—"
"Keep muttering like that, you old rodent, and I will actually become a murderer!" Sirius shouted irritably, slamming the heavy wooden door shut on the elf's retreating form.
"Sirius," Hermione said softly, stepping forward. "Kreacher has been left entirely alone for far too long... his mind isn't right because of the isolation. I don't think he even consciously realizes that we can easily hear his internal muttering."
"I agree he has been alone for too long, taking mad, paranoid orders from my mother's portrait," Sirius said, running a hand through his dark hair. "But he won't anymore, now that the canvas is gone... which actually reminds me, Lucifer." He looked across the room, his eyes fixed on him. "Do you think you could successfully get rid of that massive family tapestry on the wall, just like you did with my mother's portrait last night?"
It was a manifestation of 'Blood's True Name' magic, binding generation after generation to a legacy of madness.
Lucifer turned his head, his dark eyes analyzing the complex magical weave of the fabric hanging against the stone, "I can most certainly try," he answered smoothly, calculating the structural magic required. "But the tapestry is significantly thinner than the heavy portrait frame was, and the 'Sticking charm' is laced directly into the thread. I'll need to set aside at least a half-hour of uninterrupted concentration to dissolve the magical alignment, especially if you don't want the stone wall... behind it completely destroyed by feedback."
Sirius smiled broadly, looking thoroughly satisfied. "That is exactly what I wanted to hear, Morningstar. Take all the time you need."
xxxxxx
Then he walked across the room, his boots clicking softly against the warped floorboards, stopping right where the Tapestry Kreacher had been desperately trying to protect stretched the entire length of the wall. The fabric looked immensely old, faded to a sickly, bruised greenish-black. It was gnawed and frayed at the edges, the unmistakable work of doxies---yet the golden thread still glinted brightly enough to trace a sprawling, chaotic family tree dating back to the Middle Ages.
At the very top, large, arrogant words were stitched into the fabric:
The Noble and Most Ancient
House of Black
"Toujours Pur"
Lucifer let out a quiet, dry hum. "Always Pure," he thought, a flicker of dark passing through his mind. Humans and obsession with lineage. They drew borders in the dirt and lines in their blood, convinced it made them gods, completely ignorant of what true, eternal existence felt like.
"You're not on here!" Harry said, his voice breaking the heavy silence after scanning the dense cluster of names at the bottom.
Sirius pointed to a small, scorched hole in the fabric, explaining that his mother had burned his name off after he ran away, a story Kreacher frequently muttered about.
"You ran away from home?" Harry asked, his eyes widening as he stared at his godfather.
"When I was about sixteen," Sirius replied, running a hand through his long, tangled hair. "I'd had enough of the madness in this house."
Lucifer leaned back against a nearby dusty cabinet, crossing his arms. "Sixteen is a volatile age," he observed drawing a brief glance from Sirius, "But running away from a nest of fanatics takes a specific kind of spite. I respect that...."
Sirius chuckled grimly, noting that it was indeed a strong motivator. He explained that he went straight to James Potter's home, where his parents, whom he described as "brilliant," welcomed him as a second son. He camped there during holidays before securing his own place at seventeen, thanks to a generous inheritance from his Uncle Alphard, which unfortunately led to his name being removed from the 'family tree.'
Sirius added that despite becoming independent, he was always welcome for Sunday lunch at the Potters'.
"But... why did you...?" Harry trailed off, looking between Sirius and the scorched patch of silk.
"Leave?" The smile was a sharp, bitter slash across his face as he stared at the blackened silk. "Because I absolutely loathed the whole lot of them. My parents, with their 'pure-blood' mania, genuinely convinced that carrying the name Black made you practically royal." He turned his eyes toward Lucifer, a self-deprecating smirk playing on his lips. "Though I suppose to someone like you, Lucifer, our hierarchies must look utterly pathetic."
Lucifer let out a soft chuckle that carried a distinctly cold edge. "To be fair, Sirius, watching you squabble over blood purity is like ants argue over who owns the slightly shinier grain of dirt. It is amusing, but mostly tragic..."
"You're not wrong," Sirius sighed, turning back to the wall. "And my idiot brother was soft enough to swallow every single word they fed him. That's him." He slammed a rough finger against the very bottom of the family tree, right over the neatly embroidered name: 'Regulus Black.' Directly beneath the golden text, a stark date of death—roughly fifteen years prior, stared back at them.
"He was younger than me," he muttered, his voice dropping into a rough scratch that echoed off the damp walls. "And a much better son, as my mother never failed to scream in my face."
"But he died..." Harry said slowly, his thumb tracing the edge of his wand pocket. "How?"
"Yeah, stupid idiot," Sirius said, a heavy wave of grief and anger rolling off him in a scent like stale rain. He locked eyes with Harry. "He joined the Death Eaters."
"You're kidding!" Harry shouted, the loud noise cutting through the stifling atmosphere of the room.
"I wish I were," Sirius barked out a humorless laugh. "But believe me, the family thought Voldemort had the right idea from the start. They wanted the purification of the wizarding race. Getting rid of Muggleborns, putting pure-bloods in charge. My parents thought Regulus was a right little hero for putting on that mask."
Lucifer adjusted his posture, the faint scent of ozone following his movement. "A classic tale of a cult," he remarked casually, though his eyes narrowed with interest. "The promise of power always blinds the fragile ones. Did he realize he was just a pawn before the end?"
"Exactly," Sirius nodded grimly at him. "From what I gathered after the fact, he got in way too deep. Then he panicked about what he was being ordered to do and tried to back out. But you don't just hand in a resignation letter to Voldemort. It's a lifetime contract, signed in blood. You either serve, or you end up in a ditch."
"Was he killed by an Auror, then?" Harry asked, his voice tight.
"Oh, no," He said darkly, his fingers clenching into fists. "No, he was murdered by Voldemort himself. Or on his orders, more likely. I highly doubt Regulus was ever important enough to warrant a personal visit from the Dark lord...."
"Lunch!" Molly's sharp, commanding voice shattered the grim conversation from the doorway. She stood there balancing a massive silver tray piled high with thick sandwiches and slices of rich cake on the tip of her elevated wand. Her face was flushed bright red, her breathing heavy, still vibrating with remnants of her earlier argument.
Hermione immediately stepped away from the group and approached Lucifer, her soft footsteps almost silent on the dusty rug. She looked up at him, her eyes scanning his face for any signs of discomfort. "Stay right here," She whispered, her fingers briefly brushing against his sleeve. "Don't move. I'll bring you something to eat before the boys inhale it all."
"I am entirely at your mercy, pet," Lucifer murmured back, a lazy, genuine smile breaking through his usual detached expression.
"Good," She smiled, turning quickly to join the rush around Molly's tray.
Left alone by the tapestry, Sirius bent closer to the fabric, his eyes tracking the older branches. "I haven't looked at this monstrosity for years," he muttered, pointing out a sneering face labeled 'Phineas Nigellus'. "My great-great-grandfather. The least popular Headmaster Hogwarts ever had."
Lucifer kept his expression perfectly neutral, keeping his inner thoughts entirely to himself. He remembered the whispers of the old portraits. He knew for a fact that Phineas had secretly acknowledged Sirius as the true, noble heir to the 'Black lineage,' desperately wishing for him to continue the bloodline. But telling Sirius that now would only invite an explosion of rage, so he remained silent, watching the golden thread gleam in the dim light.
"And there's Araminta Meliflua," Sirius continued, gesturing to a name nearby. "A cousin of my mother's. She actually tried to legalise Muggle hunting through a Ministry bill. Pure evil, the lot of them. Look here, anytime the 'family' produced someone with an actual soul, they were blasted off. I see Tonks isn't on here. That's probably why Kreacher ignores her orders; the old elf is only hardwired to obey recognized blood."
"You and Tonks are related?" Harry asked, his eyebrows shooting up toward his messy fringe.
"Oh yeah, her mother, Andromeda, was my absolute favorite cousin," Sirius said, tracing a jagged, fresh burn mark located squarely between the names 'Bellatrix and Narcissa.' "But as you can see, Andromeda is gone too."
"The same Narcissa who married Lucius Malfoy?" Harry asked, his tone dripping with disgust.
"The very same," Sirius spat, looking sick. He caught the bewildered expression on Harry's face and sighed. "The 'pure-blood' families are all horribly interrelated, Harry. When you refuse to let your children marry anyone outside a tiny circle of families, your options get incredibly narrow." He turned his head slightly toward Lucifer. "What about you? Do you have pure-blood lines, or 'Ambrosius's Tapestry' not bother with such nonsense?"
Lucifer crossed his arms, his expression turning distant and cold, a wall of stone dropping over his features. "I am a celestial," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a dying star. "We are not born the way you mortals are. We do not possess blood to spill or lines to trace." He trailed off, his eyes darkening, signaling clearly that the topic was entirely closed for discussion.
"Right... of course," Sirius muttered, clearing his throat awkwardly and shifting his attention back to the wall. "Anyway, if you're looking for the Weasleys, don't bother. Arthur is something like my second cousin once removed, but my mother considered them the ultimate blood traitors. They'd never be allowed on this wall."
Harry's eyes drifted to a different cluster of gold lettering. "Lestrange..." he read aloud, the name hitting the quiet room like a physical blow.
"They're in Azkaban," Sirius said shortly, his entire demeanor turning rigid and icy. "Bellatrix and her husband, Rodolphus, went inside right alongside Barty Crouch Jr. Real nasty pieces of work. Rodolphus's brother, Rabastan, was right there with them too."
Before Harry could press further, Hermione returned, cutting through the heavy tension. The sweet, comforting scent of fresh bread and berry cake followed her as she walked up to Lucifer, holding a plate. "Sorry that took so long," She said, a faint blush creeping up her neck as she handed him a neatly cut sandwich. "My stomach started growling the moment I smelled the food, and I couldn't wait another second."
"And how many did you manage to eat in that short window to justify the delay?" Lucifer teased softly, taking the plate. His thumb brushed against her knuckles, sending a spark of genuine warmth through his chest. "Thank you, beautiful."
Hermione's face flushed a deep, vibrant crimson. "Just two... and a half," She admitted, looking down but unable to hide her small smile.
Lucifer laughed, a rich, low sound, and took a bite of the sandwich. Across the room, Harry and Sirius finally stopped staring at the wall, their stomachs seemingly catching up to the conversation as they moved toward Molly to grab their own shares.
Hermione watched them walk away, waiting until they were entirely out of earshot and buried in conversation with the others. Once the coast was clear, she stepped closer into Lucifer's personal space, the heat radiating from her body cutting through the damp chill of the room. "I managed to sneak something else over for you," she whispered, her eyes shining with a playful, mischievous light.
Lucifer swallowed his food, matching her low tone. "Oh? And what would that be?"
Instead of answering, Hermione leaned in quickly. Capturing his lips, she gave him a risky, breathless, two-second kiss that tasted faintly of sweet cake. It was fast, thrilling, and dangerous given the crowded room just a few yards away.
As she pulled back, Lucifer smirked down at her, his eyes flashing with a wicked brilliance. "Is there enough of that for later?"
"Always," Hermione murmured back with a matching smirk, leaning in one more time to press a deliberate, lingering peck against his lips before stepping back into the light.
xxxxxx
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