The wind stirred the curtains of the old Black house. Along the edges of those heavy, luxurious, timeworn drapes, faint streaks of moonlight kept flashing through.
The room was silent and restless.
Sirius paced from time to time, clearly impatient, yet not showing the slightest trace of irritation.
He waited for that one with reverence, the way the night waits for moonlight.
As for Kreacher standing beside him, he had long since grown used to it.
Days always passed like this. The patch of wild grass in the middle of Grimmauld Place withered in the sunlight, turning dry and yellow, while his own days remained exactly the same.
Number Twelve had never had any tenants, and this house had never once been noticed by the neighboring families.
As for the Muggle residents of Grimmauld Place, they had long grown used to the ridiculous mistake of Number Eleven standing right beside Number Thirteen.
But today, after all, was a special day.
Every so often, Kreacher glanced at his locket and felt that he himself had become much "newer," just like the kitchen downstairs.
The kitchen, in fact, had changed so much Sirius could barely recognize it.
Now everything gleamed with new life. The copper pots and platters had been polished to a rosy shine, the wooden tabletop gleamed as well, and the cups and plates for dinner had already been set out, glittering in the firelight. A large pot simmered over the cheerful flames.
But the changes in the house-elf hurrying toward Sean were even greater than the changes in the house itself.
He was wrapped in a snow-white towel, the hair in his ears soft and fluffy as white cotton, and Regulus's locket bounced against his bony chest.
"Master Green!"
Kreacher cried out in delight.
"Honored Mr. Green."
Sirius, too, smiled slightly, respectfully.
Right before their eyes, the figure of a young wizard emerged from the shadows of the staircase.
He had thick, tousled black hair, and vivid green eyes that still shone even in the dark. At his side stood a small creature who remained alert at all times.
But the most striking thing of all was this:
when the young wizard stepped into the dim room, he was carrying a long sword in his hand—
sharp, magnificent, with a blood-red gem set in the hilt.
"The Sword of Gryffindor?"
Sirius's expression changed at once. Of course he recognized the sword, recognized the legend, because he himself had once belonged to Gryffindor House.
"You've got a good eye, wizard,"
the Pukwudgie butler snorted.
"How is that even possible…"
Sirius simply could not make sense of it. He clearly remembered that his god walked the halls of Hogwarts as a Ravenclaw—so how could he appear carrying the Sword of Gryffindor?
Where had he found it?
And how had he been able to draw it?
And Hogwarts had actually allowed him to walk around with the Sword of Gryffindor?
"To destroy a Horcrux, we need certain powerful magical artifacts. The Sword of Gryffindor was made by goblins and can absorb the power of whatever it wounds…"
Sean explained calmly.
"But…"
Sirius suddenly found himself speechless.
Merlin—
what Gryffindor had never fantasized about finding the Sword of Gryffindor?
What Gryffindor had never dreamed of becoming a duelist as brilliant as Gryffindor himself, wandering the world with a magnificent, powerful sword at his side?
And yet here it was, in the hands of a Ravenclaw.
What was even more astonishing was that Sean did not seem to notice how shocking any of this was. His tone was flat, as though he were simply stating a fact:
—I needed the power of the Sword of Gryffindor, so it appeared, and became mine.
"May I… may I touch it… Sorry, Mr. Green, I'm just too excited."
Sirius quickly realized he had lost his composure and immediately reined himself back in.
"It's alright,"
Sean said.
He understood perfectly well what kind of impact it was, for a true Gryffindor, to see him holding the Sword of Gryffindor. Truth be told, even he himself had never expected to be able to draw it.
Mr. Sorting Hat was always saying that he possessed the sort of courage Gryffindor would recognize, but sometimes Sean himself did not quite understand it…
He was only moving forward.
"Will,"
Sean called softly.
The Pukwudgie butler immediately understood. From a sealed box, he took out an object that drew everyone's gaze the instant it appeared.
Sirius stared at it in shock, mixed with a touch of fear. He looked at the serpent-shaped "S," formed from glittering green emeralds. It was easy to imagine it as a little snake coiled upon cold stone.
Kreacher, meanwhile, let out a shrill cry at once.
"It's that! It's that! Kreacher couldn't leave even the tiniest mark on it!"
the house-elf wailed in despair.
"Kreacher tried every way, every way! But not one of them, not one of them worked…
There's so much powerful magic on the box. Kreacher believed it could only be destroyed from the inside, but it wouldn't open…
Kreacher punished himself, then tried again, punished himself, then tried again.
Kreacher failed to carry out the order. Kreacher could not destroy the locket!
Mistress was mad with grief because Master Regulus disappeared, and Kreacher could not tell her what happened, could not, because Master Regulus for—forbade him from telling the fam—family about the c-c-cave…"
Kreacher spoke so quickly he choked on his own words several times.
Even Sirius could not bear listening to it anymore.
"You idiot! How could you possibly destroy it? If only something like the Sword of Gryffindor can harm it—then where were you supposed to find the Sword of Gryffindor?"
"Kreacher couldn't find it. Kreacher couldn't fulfill Master Regulus's final wish…"
Kreacher looked so miserable, letting the cold wind blow across the fingers scarred by self-punishment, letting the ruined street cast its pale white lamplight over his face.
"It's alright, Mr. Kreacher,"
Sean said gently, and raised the sword.
In an instant, a fierce wind swept through the room. The curtains flew violently forward, and moonlight poured in, tracing the outline of the black-haired young wizard.
He stood straight and still, gripping the sword with cold steadiness, his eyes as sharp as the blade itself.
And yet the sword hung suspended, unmoving.
Only then did Sean remember something important.
The surface of the locket was layered with powerful magic. Trying to hack it apart directly was nothing short of fantasy. They had to…
"Open,"
Sean said in Parseltongue.
At once, everyone fixed their eyes on the locket, on the letter "S" in its design, imagining a serpent—while something inside the locket rustled like a cockroach trapped in a cage.
Then Sean spoke the final word, hissing it like a command.
With a click, the little golden lid of the locket sprang open.
It revealed its inside:
there were two tiny glass windows, and behind each one blinked a living eye—dark and bright, the way Tom Riddle's eyes had once looked before they turned red and the pupils narrowed into slits.
~~~
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