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Harry took his time coming down the stairs, letting each step announce his approach.
Mundungus Fletcher hung suspended three feet off the ground in the center of the hall, wrapped in chains that looked like they'd been forged in a particularly creative nightmare. His arms were pinned behind his back at an angle that had to be agonizing after eight hours. His legs were bound together so tightly the chains had disappeared into his filthy trousers. Every few seconds he'd shift his weight, and the chains would constrict further with a wet, grinding sound like metal chewing through leather.
Kreacher sat on the bottom step, watching his prisoner. The elf looked more animated than Harry had seen since arriving—his bat-like ears perked up, eyes bright with malicious satisfaction. When he noticed Harry, he pressed his lips together tightly, remembering the command not to speak.
"Morning, Kreacher." Harry moved past him toward the kitchen, not even glancing at Mundungus yet. "You may speak to report on the prisoner's condition."
"The thief has been most uncomfortable, Master Harry," Kreacher said with glee. "Tried to escape six times. The chains tightened appropriately each time. Tried to lie about his thievery four times—the chains burned beautifully. Kreacher particularly enjoyed the screaming."
"Did he lose consciousness?"
"Only twice, Master. Kreacher revived him both times as instructed." The elf's smile was ugly on his already ugly face. "The thief is functional, if somewhat damaged."
"Please, Harry—Mr. Potter—" Mundungus's voice came out as a rasp, like he'd been screaming himself hoarse. Probably had. "There's been a terrible misunderstanding—"
"Quiet." Harry didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. "I haven't had breakfast yet, and I don't talk to thieves on an empty stomach. Kreacher, the usual. And coffee, please. Strong."
Kreacher scurried toward the kitchen, actually humming under his breath—a sound Harry hadn't known house-elves could make. He followed the elf, leaving Mundungus to contemplate his situation.
The kitchen was as spotless as the rest of the house, though the ancient Black family crest carved into the stone hearth still managed to look menacing despite the thorough cleaning. Harry sat at the head of the table, Sirius's seat, and waited while Kreacher prepared breakfast.
Eggs, toast, bacon, fried tomatoes. The smell of proper food filled the kitchen, probably drifting out to torture Mundungus, who Harry would bet hadn't eaten since breaking in last night. Small cruelties, but satisfying ones.
"Master Harry may resume silence on Kreacher whenever he wishes," the elf said, setting down a pot of coffee that smelled like it could wake the dead. "Kreacher understands Master has limited tolerance for house-elf voices."
"You've done well, Kreacher. You may continue speaking while we deal with the thief." Harry poured coffee, letting the silence stretch. "Tell me—how many times did he try to bribe you to let him go?"
"Thirteen times, Master." Kreacher's expression suggested he found this both insulting and amusing. "Offered Kreacher money, magical items, even tried to promise Kreacher 'a better life' if Kreacher helped him escape. As if Kreacher would betray the House of Black for a thief's promises."
The irony wasn't lost on Harry, Kreacher, who'd betrayed Sirius for Narcissa Malfoy's approval, lecturing about loyalty. But he had a point. Mundungus represented everything the House of Black would have despised: common thievery, cowardice, a complete lack of style in his criminality.
Harry took his time with breakfast, savoring each bite while Mundungus's increasingly desperate sounds echoed from the entrance hall. The bacon was perfectly crispy. The eggs had runny yolks that soaked into the toast just right. Kreacher, for all his faults, knew how to cook a proper English breakfast.
"Mr. Potter—Harry—please, I can explain—I didn't know you were here—thought the house was empty—"
"Still talking." Harry took another bite of toast. "Kreacher, can you do something about the noise?"
"With pleasure, Master."
A snap of Kreacher's fingers and Mundungus's voice cut off mid-plea, though his mouth kept moving frantically. Perfect. Silence returned to the kitchen, broken only by the scrape of Harry's knife against the plate and the satisfied sounds of Kreacher cleaning dishes that were already spotless.
Harry finished his coffee, poured a second cup, and considered the morning ahead. Mundungus had stolen from Sirius. Had been robbing the house while his godfather's body was barely cold, probably while Harry was still at Hogwarts grieving. That deserved something more creative than a simple trip to the Aurors.
"Right." Harry stood, draining the last of his coffee. "Time to have a chat with our thief. Kreacher, you may restore his voice but nothing else. If he tries to apparate, let the wards handle it."
"The wards will be most... enthusiastic, Master Harry." Kreacher's smile returned. "They have not had a proper victim in many years."
They returned to the entrance hall where Mundungus hung like a grotesque chandelier, his face purple from either rage or restricted blood flow. Probably both. When Kreacher restored his voice, the curses that poured out were impressively creative—Harry hadn't known some of those words could be combined that way.
"Finished?" Harry conjured a chair and sat directly in front of him, close enough that Mundungus could see his face clearly in the weak morning light. "Because we can wait until you run out of insults. I've got all day. You, on the other hand, look like you might lose circulation in your arms soon. Kreacher's chains are quite thorough."
"You can't do this!" Mundungus spat, literally—Harry had to lean back to avoid it. "I've got rights! Ministry protection! I'll report you to—"
"To who, exactly?" Harry leaned forward again, letting his voice go soft. Soft was more frightening than shouting, he'd learned. "The Ministry that just made me a special case with Auror protection? The Minister who personally negotiated with me? Or maybe you'll report me to Dumbledore, who has no authority over me anymore?" Harry smiled without humor. "Please, do tell me who you think will care about a known thief being caught in the act of robbing a dead man's house."
Mundungus's face cycled through several shades of red before settling on a sickly gray. "I didn't know you'd claimed the house—thought it was abandoned—just trying to preserve valuable historical items—"
"By selling them to private collectors?"
He blinked. "How did you—"
"Kreacher saw everything. You made notes. Planned return trips." Harry stood, circling him slowly like Tonks had circled him during Legilimency practice. "So let's skip the part where you lie badly and waste both our time. You stole from the House of Black. Multiple times. Sold the items for profit. I want to know three things: where the items are now, who bought them, and why you thought that was acceptable."
"Look, Harry—Mr. Potter—can we discuss this reasonably? Man to man?" Desperation made Mundungus's voice pitch higher. "I could cut you in on the profits—thirty percent—forty! The Black family had items worth thousands of Galleons just gathering dust—"
"Forty-five percent of nothing is still nothing, Mundungus." Harry stopped directly in front of him. "And you're not offering me anything I don't already own. This is my house. My inheritance. You stole from me."
"I didn't know!" The chains constricted as he struggled, and he cried out. "Thought the house would go to the Malfoys or—or be claimed by the Ministry—no one said you were the heir—"
"So your plan was to rob it blind before anyone noticed?" Harry pulled his wand, watching Mundungus's eyes track the movement. "Efficient. Cowardly, but efficient. Now—the buyers. Names and locations. Start with the most recent."
"I can't—they'll kill me if they know I talked—"
"And I'll let Kreacher get creative if you don't." Harry glanced at the elf, who vibrated with anticipation. "He's been very restrained so far. But house-elves have excellent imaginations when it comes to punishing those who wrong their masters. Apparently the really old families had some fascinating disciplinary traditions."
Mundungus looked at Kreacher's eager expression, and something in him broke. "Borgin and Burkes," he said quickly. "Sold most of the smaller items there—silver, jewelry, some books. They don't ask questions if the price is right."
"What else?"
"Private collectors in Knockturn Alley. A wizard named Caractacus Burke—different from the shop Burke—he specializes in Dark artifacts. Bought the black crystal orb and those cursed mirrors." Mundungus swallowed hard. "And... and there was a Ministry woman. Toad-faced thing in pink. She bought several items."
Harry's wand hand twitched. "Describe her exactly."
"Short. Fat. Looked like someone had put a wig on a toad and taught it to talk." Mundungus's voice picked up speed, sensing he'd found information Harry wanted. "Always wearing pink. Giggles like a little girl but has eyes like a shark. She wanted anything connected to the Blacks—said she was 'preserving important magical heritage' or some rot."
Umbridge. Of course, it was Umbridge. The woman who'd tortured Harry with a blood quill was now buying stolen items from Sirius's house. The irony was so bitter he could taste it.
"What specifically did she buy?"
"Some jewelry. A set of silver quills. And..." Mundungus hesitated.
"And?"
"The locket. Heavy gold thing with an 'S' in emeralds. She paid five hundred Galleons for it without even haggling. Said it was exactly what she'd been looking for."
Five hundred Galleons for a locket, it was the same locket Kreacher had mentioned yesterday, but Harry hadn't paid much attention to it, all he remembered was that it belonged to Regulus Black. Sirius's little brother.
"When did you sell it to her?"
"Week and a half ago. She took it straight to her office at the Ministry—was bragging about it being a 'genuine Black family heirloom' that proved her pure-blood sympathies or something." Mundungus's laugh came out hysterical. "Didn't even know the Blacks would've hexed her for being a half-blood trying to play pure."
Harry stepped back, processing this information. The locket was at the Ministry. In Umbridge's office. Protected by whatever wards the Ministry used, plus whatever personal security that toad had installed. Getting it back would require either an official request.
"Right." Harry turned to Kreacher. "The prisoner has been moderately cooperative. You may loosen the chains enough that he doesn't lose his arms, but keep him restrained and silent. I need to think."
"And then what?" Mundungus shouted before Kreacher could silence him again. "You can't keep me here forever! People will notice I'm missing! Dumbledore will—"
"Dumbledore," Harry said softly, turning back to him, "placed you on guard duty at my house this summer, didn't he? You were supposed to be protecting me from Death Eaters."
Mundungus went very still.
"How many shifts did you actually work, Mundungus? How many times did you abandon your post to chase some dodgy deal in Knockturn Alley?" Harry moved closer until they were inches apart. "Because I remember at least three occasions where I was completely unguarded. Three times Death Eaters could have walked right up to my front door because you were off stealing instead of doing your job."
"I always came back—"
"Sirius died because people failed to do what they were supposed to do," Harry said, and his voice had gone cold enough to frost the air between them. "Because people made selfish choices and others paid the price. So no, Mundungus, I don't think Dumbledore will be rushing to save you. I think he'll be rather interested to learn how seriously you took your responsibilities."
Harry nodded to Kreacher, who silenced Mundungus with visible satisfaction. The thief's mouth kept moving, eyes wild with panic, but no sound emerged.
"Keep him comfortable enough to stay conscious," Harry instructed. "But not comfortable enough to forget why he's here. I'll decide what to do with him after I've made some calls."
Harry left Mundungus hanging in the entrance hall and climbed the stairs to the library, already planning his next move. The locket was important. He wondered if it was just a simple old locket of House Black, or maybe there was more to it.
Harry stared at Mundungus's silenced, suspended form for a long moment, considering his options. He couldn't exactly walk the thief into the Ministry himself, that would raise too many questions about how he'd captured Fletcher in the first place. The chains, the overnight imprisonment, Kreacher's enthusiastic participation in making the experience as unpleasant as possible. None of that would look particularly good in an official report.
On the other hand, simply letting Mundungus go felt wrong. The man had stolen from Sirius. Had violated Grimmauld Place while Harry's godfather was barely cold. Had been selling family heirlooms—Harry's inheritance—to the highest bidder without a shred of remorse.
And that locket. Five hundred Galleons. A pure-blood heirloom that must have belonged to Regulus Black, important enough that Umbridge had paid without haggling. Harry didn't know why it mattered, but his instincts screamed that it did.
"Kreacher," Harry said finally, moving toward the stairs. "Keep watching him. I need to make a call."
He climbed to the second floor, where he'd set up a temporary bedroom, Sirius's old room felt too much like grave robbing, and pulled out the mirror he'd been using to contact Tonks. She'd charmed it to work like a communications device, linked to a matching mirror she carried with her.
Harry tapped his wand against the glass. "Tonks. I need you at Grimmauld Place. Official business."
Her face appeared almost immediately, hair a murky brown that suggested she'd just woken up. "Harry? It's barely eight in the morning. What—"
"Caught Mundungus Fletcher stealing from the house last night. He's currently restrained in the entrance hall. I need you to take him into custody."
Tonks's expression shifted from sleepy confusion to alert concern in an instant. "You caught him? How badly is he hurt?"
"He's functional. Mostly." Harry kept his voice neutral. "How fast can you get here?"
"Five minutes." She disappeared from the mirror without another word.
Harry returned downstairs to find Kreacher still watching Mundungus with undiminished satisfaction. The thief had stopped struggling, hanging limply in his chains like a puppet with cut strings. His eyes tracked Harry's movement with the desperate wariness of a cornered animal.
"Master Harry?" Kreacher asked, barely containing his eagerness. "Will the Auror take the thief away? Or will Master Harry be keeping him for... further discussion?"
The hopeful note in the elf's voice was almost disturbing. Almost.
"The Auror will take him," Harry said, though part of him—a dark, angry part that sounded disturbingly like the worst of the Black family—wanted to say yes. Wanted to let Kreacher continue his work. Wanted to make absolutely certain that Mundungus understood the consequences of stealing from the dead.
He pushed that thought away. He wasn't that person.
The wards shivered—Tonks arriving via Apparition. Harry had keyed her into the protections days ago, giving her the same access the Order members used to have. The front door opened without him needing to move, and Tonks stepped through.
She took in the scene with a single comprehensive sweep: Mundungus hanging from enchanted chains, face bruised and swollen. Kreacher practically vibrating with malicious joy. Harry standing there with his arms crossed, expression carefully blank.
"Merlin's beard, Harry." Tonks moved closer to examine Mundungus, her wand already out and casting diagnostic charms. "What did you do to him?"
"I stunned him when I caught him stealing. The wall did the rest." Harry gestured at the impact site where Mundungus had hit. "Kreacher bound him with family chains. They're designed to tighten when the prisoner struggles or lies."
"And he's been like this all night?"
"Yes."
Tonks's jaw tightened. She turned to look at Harry, and something in her eyes made him want to look away. He didn't.
"This isn't justice, Harry," she said quietly. "This is revenge."
"He stole from a dead man." Harry's voice came out flat, emotionless. "From Sirius. Sold his possessions to collectors and dealers while I was still at Hogwarts grieving. What would you call justice?"
"I'd call justice turning him over to the proper authorities immediately, not stringing him up and leaving him to suffer all night." Tonks waved her wand, and the chains loosened slightly. Mundungus groaned as blood flow returned to his extremities. "You're better than this."
"Am I?" Harry moved closer, dropping his voice so only Tonks could hear. "People are dying every day, Tonks. Muggles are dying because Death Eaters think it's entertaining. Families are being torn apart. Sirius died because someone made a selfish choice." He gestured at Mundungus. "This man was supposed to be guarding my house. Dumbledore assigned him to protect me from Death Eaters. Want to guess how many times he actually did his job?"
Tonks's expression flickered—she knew the answer.
"So yes, I left him hanging overnight. Yes, I let Kreacher use chains that hurt when he lied. And no, I don't feel particularly sorry about it." Harry crossed his arms. "We're at war. Do you really think we have the luxury to act soft? What are we supposed to do, hug them until they turn good? Is that it?"
"That's not—" Tonks started, then stopped. Her hair cycled through several colors before settling on a dull gray. "It's not about being soft. It's about not becoming what we're fighting against."
"I'm not torturing people for fun. I'm not killing Muggles for sport. I'm not trying to establish a pure-blood dictatorship." Harry's voice had gone cold. "I caught a thief who violated my home and stole from my dead godfather. I restrained him and made him uncomfortable. If that makes me as bad as Voldemort, then your moral compass needs recalibrating."
Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Kreacher watched with evident interest, head swiveling between Harry and Tonks like he was watching a particularly engaging Quidditch match.
"You're right," Tonks said finally, and Harry blinked in surprise. "About Mundungus being scum. About him deserving punishment. About us being at war." She moved closer, close enough that Harry could see the genuine worry in her eyes. "But Harry, if you start down this road—if you start thinking that the ends justify any means—where does it stop?"
"It stops," Harry said quietly, "when people stop dying. When Voldemort's dead and the Death Eaters are in prison or in the ground. When I can actually sleep without wondering if someone I care about is going to be the next corpse I identify."
Tonks flinched at that. They both knew he was thinking about Sirius. About finding his godfather's body. Except there had been no body—just empty air where Sirius had fallen through the Veil.
"Take him," Harry said, stepping back. "File whatever report you need to file. But I want it on record that he was stealing from the House of Black and that he admitted to selling items to Dolores Umbridge, among others."
"Umbridge?" Tonks's attention sharpened. "He sold to her specifically?"
"A locket. Heavy gold with an 'S' in emeralds. Probably belonged to Regulus Black—pure-blood family heirloom type thing." Harry watched Mundungus, who'd gone very still at the mention of the name. "Umbridge paid five hundred Galleons without haggling. Apparently it proved her 'pure-blood sympathies' or some nonsense."
"That toad is buying Black family heirlooms?" Tonks's laugh came out bitter. "The irony would be funny if she wasn't such a nightmare."
"I want it back." Harry met Tonks's eyes steadily. "The locket and anything else Mundungus sold. Can that be arranged?"
"It's... complicated." Tonks began releasing Mundungus from the chains entirely, catching him when he nearly collapsed. The thief's legs had gone numb from hours of suspension. "Umbridge is still a Ministry official. We can't just demand she turn over her property without cause."
"Even if that property was stolen?"
"We'd need to prove it was stolen. Chain of custody, documentation of original ownership, evidence that Mundungus didn't have permission to sell it." Tonks hauled Mundungus toward the door, supporting most of his weight. "It's a bureaucratic nightmare."
Harry considered this. Bureaucracy was designed to slow things down, to make sure proper procedures were followed. But it also meant that people like Umbridge could hide behind paperwork and regulations, protected by the same system that was supposed to bring criminals to justice.
"I'll speak with Scrimgeour," Harry said. "He wanted my cooperation with the Ministry. Well, this is what that cooperation costs. He deals with Umbridge and gets me the locket, or I stop playing nice for the cameras."
"Harry—"
"I'm not asking for something unreasonable. That locket belongs to my house. It's my inheritance. If the Ministry can't handle retrieving stolen property from one of their own officials, what good are they?" Harry moved to open the door for Tonks. "Tell Scrimgeour I want a meeting. Today if possible."
Tonks paused in the doorway, Mundungus hanging half-conscious between them. "You know what scares me?" she said quietly. "It's not that you're wrong. It's that you're right, and I don't have a better answer."
She Disapparated with a crack that echoed through the entrance hall like breaking bones.
Harry stood alone in the silence that followed, Kreacher hovering nearby with an expression that suggested the elf had found the entire confrontation deeply satisfying.
"Master Harry handled that well," Kreacher offered. "Showed strength. The Noble House of Black does not tolerate thieves."
"The Noble House of Black doesn't exist anymore," Harry said tiredly. "Just me, trying not to make a mess of things."
"Master Harry is the House of Black now," Kreacher corrected. "And the House must be strong. Must protect what is theirs. Must show that there are consequences for disrespect."
Harry looked at the elf.
"Kreacher," Harry said carefully. "Did Sirius ever tell you about his time in Azkaban?"
The elf's expression shuttered. "Master Sirius did not speak of it."
"Twelve years in prison for a crime he didn't commit. Surrounded by Dementors that fed on every happy memory he had until there was nothing left but rage and guilt." Harry moved to close the front door. "You know what kept him sane? The knowledge that he was innocent. That he was different from the other prisoners because he hadn't done what they'd accused him of."
Kreacher said nothing, but his ears twitched.
"I'm not planning to become a saint," Harry continued. "But I'm also not planning to become the kind of person who enjoys cruelty. Who tortures people because they can. Who forgets that even thieves are still human." He looked at Kreacher directly. "Do you understand the difference?"
"Kreacher understands," the elf said slowly, "that Master Harry is trying to be better than the old Masters. Better than the family that Kreacher served."
"I'm trying," Harry agreed. "Doesn't mean I'll always succeed. But I'm trying."
He climbed the stairs back to the library, leaving Kreacher to clean up the entrance hall. His reflection caught in one of the hall mirrors as he passed, an expression that belonged on someone older and more bitter than sixteen.
The library welcomed him back with its usual silence, books whispering their dark knowledge from the shelves. Malysic's portrait watched him enter with those calculating gray eyes.
"Trouble with your Auror friend?" the painted man asked.
"Difference of opinion on methodology," Harry said, settling into the chair he'd claimed as his own. "She thinks I'm becoming too ruthless. I think she's being naive about what it takes to win a war."
"Ah, the eternal debate." Malysic's smile held no warmth. "Your friend is correct that cruelty for its own sake corrupts. But she's wrong if she thinks you can win a war with gentle words and kind thoughts. The Dark Lord certainly won't be using them."
"So what's the answer?"
"There isn't one. Not a simple one, anyway." Malysic gestured with one painted hand. "The Blacks learned that the hard way. We prized strength and power above all else, and it destroyed us. But the alternative—being soft, being weak, letting others walk over you—that destroys you differently."
Harry thought about that. About Dumbledore's philosophy of love and sacrifice. About Voldemort's philosophy of power and domination. About trying to find something in between that didn't require dying or becoming a monster.
"I want the locket back," he said finally. "The one Umbridge bought. It belonged to this house, and I want it returned."
"A matter of principle?"
"Something like that." Harry didn't mention the five hundred Galleons, or the way Umbridge had bragged about her pure-blood sympathies, or the simple fact that the woman had tortured him with a blood quill and now possessed something of Sirius's. "I'm going to ask Scrimgeour to handle it. Make it official."
"Using your political capital for a family heirloom." Malysic studied him. "Interesting choice. Most would save such favors for more critical matters."
"It matters to me," Harry said, and left it at that.
He spent the rest of the morning reading about magical contracts and Ministry protocols, preparing for his meeting with Scrimgeour. If he was going to demand the Minister's help, he needed to understand exactly what he was asking for and how to frame it in terms Scrimgeour couldn't refuse.
The books provided answers. They always did. The question was whether Harry would like what he learned.
Harry stared at the page in front of him, the words about Ministry procurement protocols blurring together into meaningless ink. His mind kept circling back to the locket. Five hundred Galleons. A pure-blood heirloom with an 'S' in emeralds. Regulus Black's possession, now in Umbridge's greedy hands.
It was just a locket, right? Yet, he couldn't help but feel that the locket was more than just a precious locket from a pureblood family. There was more to it than that, but what was it? Well, there was only one who could answer that question.
Harry closed the book with more force than necessary, earning a disapproving look from Malysic's portrait.
"Problem, boy?"
"I need to talk to Kreacher." Harry stood, already moving toward the door. "About the locket."
"Ah. Family history lessons." Malysic's expression suggested he found this amusing. "Do try not to break the elf. They're remarkably difficult to replace."
Harry ignored him, taking the stairs down two at a time. He found Kreacher in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot that already gleamed like new silver. The elf's ears twitched when Harry entered but he kept his mouth firmly shut, remembering his orders.
"Kreacher. You may speak freely to answer my questions." Harry pulled out a chair and sat. "I need you to tell me about the locket. The one Mundungus stole and sold to the Ministry woman. Why did it matter to Regulus?"
Kreacher's hands stilled in the dishwater. The elf remained there, just standing for a good few seconds. Then Kreacher's shoulders began to shake.
"Master Regulus," Kreacher whispered, and his voice cracked in a way Harry had never heard before. Not with malice or hatred, but with grief so profound it made the air feel heavy. "Master Regulus served the Dark Lord. Was so proud. So certain he was doing right thing for the Noble House of Black."
The elf turned to face Harry, and his eyes were wet. Actually wet.
"One night, the Dark Lord came. Asked if Kreacher could serve him. Master Regulus said yes, so proud that the Dark Lord wanted his house-elf." Kreacher's voice had gone hollow, like he was reciting from a script written in scars. "The Dark Lord took Kreacher to a dark cave. So dark. Water everywhere, black as ink, cold as death."
Harry leaned forward. "What did he want you to do?"
"Made Kreacher drink." The elf's hands twisted his pillowcase so hard the fabric began to tear. "Potion in a basin. Had to drink it all. The Dark Lord said so. Made Kreacher drink and drink and drink until—" He broke off, shuddering. "The pain. The visions. Kreacher saw things. Terrible things. Saw her again."
"Saw who?"
"Mistress Walburga. Dead. Dying. Screaming. The potion made Kreacher see her dying over and over." Kreacher's voice had risen to something close to a wail. "So thirsty. Needed water. But the water in the lake—the hands—dead hands reaching up—"
"Kreacher." Harry kept his voice gentle, despite the ice forming in his stomach. "What happened after you drank?"
"The Dark Lord placed the locket in the empty basin. Then he left. Left Kreacher to die in that cave with the dead things in the water and the terrible thirst." The elf's tears were flowing freely now, dripping onto the pristine kitchen floor. "But Master Regulus had ordered Kreacher to return to him after the job was done. House-elf magic is different. Kreacher could return. Did return."
Harry tried to imagine it. Voldemort using a house-elf as a test subject, forcing the creature to drink poison, leaving him to die. It fit perfectly with what he knew of the Dark Lord.
"And then?"
"Kreacher was so sick. Three days, maybe four. Master Regulus was worried. Kept asking questions. Finally, Kreacher could speak. Told Master everything." Kreacher wiped at his face with the pillowcase. "Master Regulus went very quiet. Very still. Then he ordered Kreacher to take him to the cave. To show him exactly where the Dark Lord had gone."
The kitchen felt too warm suddenly. Harry's scar prickled with warning.
"What did Regulus do?"
"Drank the potion." Kreacher's voice barely rose above a whisper. "All of it. Told Kreacher to keep making him drink no matter what he said, no matter how he begged. Screamed. Cried. Begged Kreacher to stop. But Kreacher obeyed. Always obeys Master's orders."
Harry felt sick. "He drank it voluntarily?"
"Had to. Only way to get the locket. When basin was empty, Kreacher took the locket as ordered. Master Regulus had brought a fake one. Made Kreacher write a note on parchment, put it inside the fake locket. Master Regulus placed it in the basin to replace the real one." Kreacher's hands were shaking now. "Then the water. Master Regulus tried to get water for the thirst. Leaned over the lake. The inferi—dead things—they came up. So many. Dragged Master Regulus down."
The elf's voice broke completely. "Master Regulus ordered Kreacher to take the locket and leave. Ordered Kreacher to destroy it. Ordered Kreacher to never tell anyone what happened. House-elf magic brought Kreacher home. Left Master Regulus in the dark with the dead things pulling him under."
Harry sat frozen, trying to process what he'd just heard. Regulus Black, teenage Death Eater, proud pure-blood supremacist, had discovered something about Voldemort. Something important enough that he'd sacrificed himself to steal it. Had forced his house-elf to watch him die to protect whatever secret that locket contained.
"You tried to destroy it?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer.
"For years." Kreacher's voice was empty now, drained of everything. "Kreacher tried everything. Fire. Smashing. Cutting. Spells. Nothing worked. The locket would not break. Would not burn. Would not even scratch." His eyes met Harry's, and the despair there was absolute. "Kreacher failed Master Regulus. Failed his final order. The most important order. And then the thief stole it, and Kreacher failed again."
Harry's mind was racing. A locket that couldn't be destroyed by any conventional means. Important enough for Voldemort to hide in a cave filled with poison and inferi. Important enough for Regulus Black to die for. And now it was sitting in Dolores Umbridge's office, a pretty pure-blood trinket she wore to prove her imaginary heritage.
"The note," Harry said suddenly. "You said Regulus made you write a note to put in the fake locket. What did it say?"
Kreacher's mouth worked silently for a moment. Then, in a voice that sounded nothing like his usual rasp, he recited: "To the Dark Lord. I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.—R.A.B."
The kitchen was completely silent. Even the usual creaks and groans of the old house seemed to have stopped, as if Grimmauld Place itself was holding its breath.
"Horcrux," Harry repeated slowly. The word felt wrong in his mouth, tasted of dark magic and death. "What's a Horcrux?"
"Kreacher does not know." The elf looked as confused as Harry felt. "Master Regulus never explained. Just said he'd discovered the Dark Lord's secret. That it was worse than Kreacher could imagine. That it had to be destroyed."
Harry stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. A Horcrux. Voldemort's secret. Something so terrible that a Death Eater had turned against his master to destroy it. Something that made the Dark Lord "mortal once more,"
His scar throbbed with dull warning.
"You've done well telling me this, Kreacher." Harry forced his voice to remain steady. "You haven't failed Master Regulus. The locket still exists. That means we can still destroy it. Can still complete his final order."
Kreacher looked up, and for the first time since Harry had inherited him, there was something like hope in the elf's eyes. "Master Harry will destroy it? Will finish what Master Regulus started?"
"Yes." The word came out before Harry could think it through, but he meant it. "I'll get the locket back from Umbridge. I'll find a way to destroy it. And I'll make sure Regulus's sacrifice meant something."
"Master Harry is kind." Kreacher's voice was thick with emotion. "Kinder than Kreacher deserves. Kreacher betrayed Master Sirius. Should be punished forever. But Master Harry gives Kreacher chance to make things right."
Harry did not say anything to him.
"Master Regulus was brave. Braver than Kreacher. Braver than anyone knew."
Harry left the kitchen and climbed back to the library, his mind churning. Horcrux. The word echoed in his head like a curse. Whatever it was, Voldemort had hidden it in a cave designed to kill anyone who tried to retrieve it. Had made it so that destroying the thing was practically impossible. Had kept it secret enough that even his Death Eaters didn't know about it.
Regulus's note said "when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more." Which meant the Horcrux somehow made Voldemort immortal. Or harder to kill. Or brought him back from death—hadn't he come back after fourteen years of being "dead"?
Harry burst through the library door with enough force to make Malysic's portrait jump.
"I need books on Horcruxes," Harry said without preamble. "Everything you have."
Malysic's painted face went very still. "That's not a word I expected to hear from you, boy. That's not a word anyone should be saying."
"But you know what it means."
"I know enough to tell you that you're treading in very dark waters. Darker than blood magic. Darker than most of the curses in this library." Malysic's expression had gone grave. "Where did you hear that term?"
"Does it matter? Do you have books about it or not?"
The portrait studied him for a long moment. "Third shelf, far right. Behind the false backing. You'll need to say 'Secretum Revelare' to access them. And boy? Whatever you think you're looking for, I promise it's worse than you imagine."
Harry was already moving toward the shelf. "That seems to be a theme lately."
He pulled aside the false backing, revealed the hidden compartment, and stared at the three books concealed there. Each one looked ancient, bound in materials he didn't want to examine too closely. The titles were written in languages he didn't recognize, but he knew—instinctively, the way he'd known how to use Sectumsempra—that these books held answers.
Dangerous answers. Terrible answers. But answers nonetheless.
Harry pulled out the first book and settled into his chair, already reading. Somewhere in these pages was the truth about what made Voldemort so hard to kill. About what Regulus had died trying to destroy. About what was currently sitting in Umbridge's office, mistaken for a pretty piece of jewelry.
A Horcrux. Whatever it was, Harry needed to understand it. And if Harry was going to survive this war, he needed to know exactly what he was fighting against.
The book's first page opened to reveal a warning written in elaborate script: "Herein lies knowledge of the darkest magic. Read at your own peril, for to know of Horcruxes is to understand the price of immortality, and that price is always paid in blood."
Harry kept reading.
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