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“…smells like a drain and a criminal to boot, but she’s no better, nasty old blood traitor with her brats messing up my mistress’s house, oh, my poor mistress, if she knew, if she knew the scum they’ve let into her house, what would she say to old Kreacher, oh, the shame of it, Mudbloods and werewolves and traitors and thieves, poor old Kreacher, what can he do…”
“Hello, Kreacher,” said Fred very loudly, closing the door with a snap.
The house-elf froze in his tracks, stopped muttering, and gave a very pronounced and very unconvincing start of surprise.
“Kreacher did not see young master,” he said, turning around and bowing to Fred. Still facing the carpet, he added, perfectly audibly, “Nasty little brat of a blood traitor it is.”
“Sorry?” said George. “Didn’t catch that last bit.”
“Kreacher said nothing,” said the elf, with a second bow to George, adding in a clear undertone, “and there’s its twin, u
Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or not. The elf straightened up, eyeing them all malevolently, and apparently convinced that they could not hear him as he continued to mutter.
“…and there’s the Mudblood, standing there bold as brass, oh, if my mistress knew, oh, how she’d cry, and there’s a new boy, Kreacher doesn’t know his name. What is he doing here? Kreacher doesn’t know…”
“This is Harry, Kreacher,” said Herrmone tentatively. “Harry Potter.”
Kreacher’s pale eyes widened and he muttered faster and more furiously than ever.
“The Mudblood is talking to Kreacher as though she is my friend, if Kreacher’s mistress saw him in such company, oh, what would she say—”
“Don’t call her a Mudblood!” said Ron and Gi
“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione whispered, “he’s not in his right mind, he doesn’t know what he’s—”
“Don’t kid yourself, Hermione, he knows exactly what he’s saying,” said Fred, eyeing Kreacher with great dislike.
Kreacher was still muttering, his eyes on Harry.
“Is it true? Is it Harry Potter? Kreacher can see the scar, it must be true, that’s the boy who stopped the Dark Lord, Kreacher wonders how he did it—”
“Don’t we all, Kreacher,” said Fred.
“What do you want, anyway?” George asked.
Kreacher’s huge eyes darted towards George.
“Kreacher is cleaning,” he said evasively.
“A likely story,” said a voice behind Harry.
Sirius had come back; he was glowering at the elf from the doorway. The noise in the hall had abated; perhaps Mrs. Weasley and Mundungus had moved their argument down into the kitchen.
At the sight of Sirius, Kreacher flung himself into a ridiculously low bow that flattened his snoutltke nose on the floor.
“Stand up straight,” said Sirius impatiently. “Now, what are you up to?”
“Kreacher is cleaning,” the elf repeated. “Kreacher lives to serve the Noble House of Black—”
“And it’s getting blacker every day, it’s filthy,” said Sirius.
“Master always liked his little joke,” said Kreacher, bowing again, and continuing in an undertone, “Master was a nasty ungrateful swine who broke his mother’s heart—”
“My mother didn’t have a heart, Kreacher,” snapped Sirius. “She kept herself alive out of pure spite.”
Kreacher bowed again as he spoke.
“Whatever Master says,” he muttered furiously. “Master is not fit to wipe slime from his mother’s boots, oh, my poor mistress, what would she say if she saw Kreacher serving him, how she hated him, what a disappointment he was—”
“I asked you what you were up to,” said Sirius coldly. “Every time you show up pretending to be cleaning, you sneak something off to your room so we can’t throw it out.”
“Kreacher would never move anything from its proper place in Master’s house,” said the elf, then muttered very fast, “Mistress would never forgive Kreacher if the tapestry was thrown out, seven centuries it’s been in the family, Kreacher must save it, Kreacher will not let Master and the blood traitors and the brats destroy it—”
“I thought it might be that,” said Sirius, casting a disdainful look at the opposite wall. “She’ll have put another Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it, I don’t doubt, but if I can get rid of it I certainly will. Now go away, Kreacher.”
It seemed that Kreacher did not dare disobey a direct order; nevertheless, the look he gave Sirius as he shuffled out past him was full of deepest loathing and he muttered all the way out of the room.
“—comes back from Azkaban ordering Kreacher around, oh, my poor mistress, what would she say if she saw the house now, scum living in it, her treasures thrown out, she swore he was no son of hers and he’s back, they say he’s a murderer too—”
“Keep muttering and I will be a murderer!” said Sirius irritably as he slammed the door shut on the elf.
“Sirius, he’s not right in the head,” Hermione pleaded, “I don’t think he realises we can hear him.”
“He’s been alone too long,” said Sirius, “taking mad orders from my mother’s portrait and talking to himself, but he was always a foul little—”
“If you could just set him free,” said Hermione hopefully, “maybe—”
“We can’t set him free, he knows too much about the Order,” said Sirius curtly. “And anyway, the shock would kill him. You suggest to him that he leaves this house, see how he takes it.”
Sirius walked across the room to where the tapestry Kreacher had been trying to protect hung the length of the wall. Harry and the others followed.
The tapestry looked immensely old; it was faded and looked as though Doxys had gnawed it in places. Nevertheless, the golden thread with which it was embroidered still glinted brightly enough to show them a sprawling family tree dating back (as far as Harry could tell) to the Middle Ages. Large words at the very top of the tapestry read:
The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Toujours Pur
“You’re not on here!” said Harry, after sca
“I used to be there,” said Sirius, pointing at a small, round, charred hole in the tapestry, rather like a cigarette burn. “My sweet old mother blasted me off after I ran away from home—Kreacher’s quite fond of muttering the story under his breath.”
“You ran away from home?”
“When I was about sixteen,” said Sirius. “I’d had enough.”
“Where did you go?” asked Harry, staring at him.
“Your dad’s place,” said Sirius. “Your grandparents were really good about it; they sort of adopted me as a second son. Yeah, I camped out at your dad’s in the school holidays, and when I was seventeen I got a place of my own. My Uncle Alphard had left me a decent bit of gold—he’s been wiped off here, too, that’s probably why—anyway, after that I looked after myself. I was always welcome at Mr. and Mrs. Potter’s for Sunday lunch, though.”
“But… why did you…?”
“Leave?” Sirius smiled bitterly and ran his fingers through his long, unkempt hair. “Because I hated the whole lot of them: my parents, with their pure-blood mania, convinced that to be a Black made you practically royal… my idiot brother, soft enough to believe them… that’s him.”
Sirius jabbed a finger at the very bottom of the tree, at the name “Regulus Black.” A date of death (some fifteen years previously) followed the date of birth.
“He was younger than me,” said Sirius, “and a much better son, as I was constantly reminded.”
“But he died,” said Harry.
“Yeah,” said Sirius. “Stupid idiot… he joined the Death Eaters.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Come on, Harry, haven’t you seen enough of this house to tell what kind of wizards my family were?” said Sirius testily.
“Were—were your parents Death Eaters as well?”
“No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea, they were all for the purification of the wizarding race, getting rid of Muggle-borns and having pure-bloods in charge. They weren’t alone, either, there were quite a few people, before Voldemort showed his true colours, who thought he had the right idea about things… they got cold feet when they saw what he was prepared to do to get power, though. But I bet my parents thought Regulus was a right little hero for joining up at first.”