— — — — — —
"Tom, just give me a minute. Almost done!"
The moment Sirius ushered him inside, he bolted straight into the kitchen. A second later, a whole barrage of swearing burst out from there. Judging by the noise, he was probably starting those steaks over again.
Harry had just come down the stairs. He gave Tom an embarrassed smile. "Don't mind him. Sirius is just… direct. Very direct."
Tom shook his head. Honestly, compared to the family-based verbal curses, wizarding insults sounded like someone writing a mildly annoyed essay. Nothing here could faze him anymore.
They went into the living room. Tom found a comfortable spot on the couch and asked, "So you're living with Sirius now?"
"Not really." Harry shook his head. "I'm still at my aunt's. I just spend the daytime here. I have to go back before they go to bed or they lock the door."
Then he suddenly leaned in, lowering his voice mysteriously. "Tom, I heard Grindelwald sent someone to invite you yesterday?"
Tom raised an eyebrow. "News travels fast."
"I overheard Sirius and Lupin talking last night…" Harry mumbled, clearly admitting to eavesdropping. "They said you didn't turn him down?"
"Yeah," Tom said, completely open about it.
"But why?" Harry blurted. "He's a Dark Lord! Just as evil as Voldemort!"
"Um… Slytherin kind of produces dark wizards by the dozen?" Tom looked at him like it was obvious. "I'm a Slytherin. If following Grindelwald has benefits, why wouldn't I consider it?"
"What, so if he tells you to kill someone you'll just go along with it?" Harry stared at him like he'd gone mad.
"Of course not."
Talking to a sweet pure child was exhausting. And even though Harry wasn't particularly sweet or pure, he was definitely simple.
"Forget it. Not worth arguing. Anyway, the headmaster treats me well enough, so I don't need to switch sides for now."
Yesterday, to prove he could offer everything Grindelwald had promised and more, Dumbledore had given Tom a notebook from his youth as a New Year's gift.
According to him, this was only the second notebook he'd ever given away — the first had gone to Aberforth.
See? That's how competition starts.
The notebook was packed with insight. The Transfiguration theory alone was sharp enough to impress even Rowena Ravenclaw. Legendary wizards were strong, but not omnipotent. After centuries of magical development, Dumbledore's Transfiguration skills were already brushing up against Gryffindor's level.
Pure spellcraft, unaffected by raw magic power or mystical perception.
...
Finally... To avoid getting dragged into another round of Harry's cluelessness, Tom steered the conversation toward something Harry always had opinions about: Draco Malfoy.
And it worked. All Tom had to do was sit back and listen to Harry rant happily for a good hour.
Almost sixty minutes later, Sirius finally emerged from the kitchen carrying lunch for three. Harry shot Tom a "may Merlin have mercy on your soul" look and headed over first.
"You've got to be kidding me." Tom stared at the tableful of… half-cooked, possibly still-alive food. He turned toward Sirius. "Are you mad at me? Or is this your way of repaying a favor by poisoning me?"
If it were Daphne cooking, he might have tolerated it. Anyone else? Absolutely not.
"I think it looks… fine?" Sirius tried to grin. He grabbed a piece of steak, shoved it into his mouth, and his face immediately went from pink to blue to an alarming shade of white.
Silently, he spat it out, pulled out a wad of Muggle cash and handed it to Harry. "Order takeout."
Harry looked like he'd been pardoned. He snatched the money and sprinted back to use the phone.
Sirius sighed and explained, "I do have a house-elf. Kreacher. But we don't get along. My mother ruined him. He bought into all that pure-blood nonsense. Doesn't respect me at all. The only 'true master' in his eyes is my brother."
"But he still cooks for you, right?" Tom asked, puzzled.
"It's not that he refuses…" Sirius rubbed his temples, face turning green. "It's that he uses wilted vegetables, spoiled meat, expired spices… and that's before you consider his hands. Tom, I swear those hands haven't been washed in decades. And he… handles everything with them. You get what I mean?"
"How am I supposed to eat anything he cooks?"
Tom went pale too. Even when Harry came back with takeout, the story had killed any appetite he had. He forced down a few bites and prepared to leave with Sirius and Harry for the Black family's ancestral home.
"I'm not going," Harry said immediately, horrified. Before they stepped out, he tugged Tom aside and whispered, "Kreacher's insane. Really hates… anyone not pure-blood. And there's this portrait. Just be ready."
"Okay."
Tom made a casual hand gesture, and Sirius side-alonged him away. A moment later they landed on Grimmauld Place.
"The Black family home is at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place." As soon as Sirius said it, a building squeezed itself into existence between Eleven and Thirteen, pushing both aside like bullied neighbors.
'Much better concealment work than the Graves,' Tom noted.
"Most of the books are in the library, but there's weird stuff stashed all over. I once dug up a whole notebook on dark magic from some ancestor's junk room."
Sirius pushed open the door to Number Twelve and they stepped in.
A wave of must and rot hit them. Tom almost thought he was back in the Slytherin dorms. The entrance was dim and narrow, with branching hallways snaking out like a labyrinth carved underground.
"No wonder you hate living here," Tom muttered.
Sirius shrugged helplessly and led him deeper inside. Wherever they walked, the sconces along the wall flickered to life, revealing ornate ceiling moldings and carved stone pillars. Much of it was chipped or crumbling, but the place still radiated the ghost of its old grandeur.
The whole house was a mirror of the Black family itself, Tom thought. Once glorious, now falling apart.
Then they reached the end of the hall just as the heavy velvet drapes snapped open on their own, revealing a massive portrait. It showed a gaunt old woman with sallow skin, a black bonnet, and a hooked vulture-like nose.
A shriek exploded through the room.
"Filth! Disgrace! Shame of our family! My worthless spawn! I should never have birthed you! Your father should've spilled you on the wall!"
"You dare return! And bring a—"
The stream of obscenities cut off abruptly. Tom lowered his hand. The portrait still screamed and raged, but no sound came out.
"Paintings are affected by Silencing Charms too. I learned that from Phineas. Sirius, hope you don't mind."
"What's the point of minding? You've already done it," Sirius said. He didn't look even slightly upset. If anything, he seemed relieved. He'd probably wanted to do this for years but could only muffle her with curtains.
"Wait, Phineas… Phineas Black? The ancestor who was a Hogwarts headmaster?"
Sirius finally processed what Tom had said.
"That's the one. He and I had some unpleasant history, but we're on decent terms now. Mostly thanks to you."
"He acknowledged me?" Sirius let out a dry, bitter laugh.
Tom nodded. "Of course. You're the only one left who can continue the Black family line."
Sirius blinked. "So I'm basically a breeding tool? What's the difference between me and Kreacher then?"
Maybe it was hearing his name, but Kreacher finally appeared. The house-elf shuffled down the stairs like a corpse that had forgotten to lie down. He looked older than any elf Tom had ever seen.
Kreacher shot Sirius a bored look and gave a half-hearted bow. "The useless master returns to the mistress's home. As if turning it into a rubbish heap wasn't enough. Werewolves, mudbloods, and now he brings a—"
Tom didn't let him finish. He flicked a finger and sent Kreacher flying into the wall, slamming him right next to the portrait. A velvet curtain whipped over and wrapped around his mouth.
He knew the little wretch ran on insults. No need to give him the chance.
"Sirius, you should give him a strict order. He's not allowed to say anything insulting or complain in front of me. And you need to set clear rules, or he'll twist your wording every way he can."
"Brilliant idea!" Sirius's eyes lit up.
And Tom was absolutely right. Kreacher always found loopholes just to spite him. "But setting rules… that's going to take forever. I can't think of everything on the spot."
"I can lend you a house-elf to train him. Parker!"
A small explosion popped in the air, and Parker appeared, landing neatly on the floor. He bowed so deeply his long nose nearly touched the ground. "Master Tom."
Sirius looked at Kreacher as if to say, Look at that. That's how an elf behaves.
Kreacher stopped struggling and stared in disbelief. How could a filthy mudblood have a house-elf obeying him?
"Parker, this elf doesn't know proper manners. He tried to insult me just now. Teach him how to behave and how to treat guests correctly."
Parker's big eyes blazed with fury at Kreacher. "Yes, Master. This old creature is a disgrace to all house-elves. I will set him straight!"
Tom waved for Sirius to continue upstairs. As they reached the second floor, Kreacher's shrieks and Parker's furious scolding echoed up from below.
Sirius ignored the noise, though his face grew oddly conflicted.
"You want to say something?" Tom asked when he noticed.
"Well…" Sirius hesitated, clearly embarrassed. "Tom… do you have any potion that could help me recover faster? Maybe even restore my body better than before?"
"Name your price. I'll pay whatever you want."
.
.
.