Chapter Twenty Six - The House Elf
Chapter Twenty Six - The House Elf
A house-elf existed to serve, and what was a creature like Kreacher without that purpose? Yet his father, with his unyielding sense of morality, denied the elf the fulfillment of that role. Cooking was strictly off-limits; the elf’s duties were confined to the hidden corners, the shadows, and the unused rooms of the house—places no one in the family ventured. Kreacher, in many ways, was like a ghost—A presence that lingered on the edges of their awareness, only surfacing in rare moments, a relic of a life long past.
When James had been younger, he’d taken to pranking the ancient elf, the kind of harmless mischief that only encouraged Kreacher’s sharp tongue and muttered slurs. James had found it hilarious, of course, laughing as Kreacher sputtered and cursed under his breath, retreating further into the sanctuaries of Grimmauld Place that the Potter children couldn’t access. Albus often followed his brother, not out of any love for the pranks but because he found the elf intriguing. There was something about Kreacher’s bursts of anger, his muttered threats to tell Mistress Walburga, calling James, Sirius; hinted at a life far richer than the one he now endured.
James, of course, laughed it all off, calling the elf senile whenever Kreacher mistook him for Sirius Black. But as they grew older, even James seemed to find the elf’s bitter retorts more upsetting than amusing, and the pranks gradually ceased until they stopped completely. For Albus, though, Kreacher remained a source of fascination, of intrigue. He wanted to understand the creature—not just the elf himself, but the history he carried. What stories lay buried in his sharp remarks and his silence yet worn gaze? Who had walked these halls before, leaving traces of their lives for Kreacher to cling to as the last, loyal keeper of the Black family’s name?
There was something hauntingly admirable in the elf’s dedication, however warped it had become. Albus couldn’t help but wonder about the people who had lived here, the steps that had echoed in these corridors, and the countless generations who had shaped this house into a monument to their pride. Kreacher was the last link to that legacy, a thread frayed and worn but unbroken, and Albus couldn’t help but feel drawn to unravel it.
Though the elf was bound by strict rules—magical ones, Albus assumed—set by his father, the so-called "Lord Potter, the master of the House" Albus had an inkling that Kreacher bent those rules for him. The tea Kreacher brewed for him, the warm traditional pureblood meals he knew his father never cooked; the carefully plated sweets, and even the potions that mysteriously appeared during the long summer months when Albus had barely dragged himself out of bed—these small gestures felt too intentional to be mere coincidence. The house-elf's magic fascinated him. It was unlike wizarding magic yet just as powerful, though it carried an ancient, almost grim weight.
House-elves needed to be bound to wizards to thrive, to remain sane, their very existence tied to servitude. To a Muggle, the arrangement might look like slavery, but Albus had come to think of it more as a twisted form of symbiosis, after he had actually talked to an elf. Still, the thought unsettled him, something deep within his core, his beliefs—How had this bond come to be? Most pureblood academics dismissed such questions, writing as if elves had simply been born to serve, an immutable fact of magical history. Yet Albus couldn't help but see the gaps in their reasoning. Elves wielded magic in ways that seemed almost superior to wizards—they needed no wands, no incantations. Their magic was fluid, instinctive, like breathing. What held them back, Albus thought, was not some inherent limitation but the magical contracts that bound them.
He often wondered if those contracts had been born out of fear. Perhaps, in a time long forgotten, pureblood wizards had seen the raw, untamed power of house-elves and sought to contain it. Maybe those ancient agreements were forged in an age before the lands had names, when wild forests ruled and "half-breeds" and Muggles mingled freely with magical creatures. Back then, the bindings might have been a necessity for survival, but over the centuries, the reasons had faded, leaving only the ritual. And yet, as Albus knew, magic never truly forgot.
Curiously, families who mistreated their house-elves often suffered strange misfortunes—madness, accidents, or even the birth of a Squib. Purebloods, quick to assign blame, claimed their elves cursed them, though the truth seemed more complicated. Albus had read of foreign scholars who suggested that the misfortune came from the magic itself, a kind of karmic backlash from the ancient contracts. Of course, purebloods rarely accepted that theory. Many, fearing retaliation, would kill the elf outright, as if erasing the source of their bad luck, ironically it only made it worse. Those families, supposedly, often disappeared soon after, their bloodlines dying out like extinguished flames.
Contrary to what most people—including his own family—believed, the oldest and most prominent pureblood families treated their house-elves with respect, if not kindness. To own a long lived elf like Kreacher was itself a symbol of status, proof of a family's grace and adherence to higher morals. Elves were nearly immortal, after all. The oldest known elf still served the same family, tracing its lineage back to the Islamic Golden Age. Before Grindelwald’s war, there had even been an Egyptian family whose elf’s origins supposedly predated the pyramids.
Albus tapped with his quill on the pile of parchment that laid in front of him, his homework, which he had regretfully procrastinated in doing. Scorpius would surely had disapproved if he was aware—Yet Albus didn't really find an interest in human transfiguration, and the dangers; Transfiguration was his worst subject, only after charms. He leaned back with a groan.
“Kreacher” He uttered lazily eyes on the ceiling.
Within a second, a pop was heard and the old house elf stood to his side.
“Little Master called Kreacher, what can Kreacher do for the Little Master?” The elf asked.
“Bring me some refreshment and tea.” He said. And the elf popped away. Leaving him once more, his gaze fell, returned towards the parchment that laid before him.
The elf popped in, just like before, but now with a tray in hand, which he carefully and orderly put down beside Albus on his desk.
The elf stayed, as if he was waiting for another order–For meaning.
Albus knew he was the only one to call the elf to ask for things, to order him. It was clear the elf was lonely, missing being of use. Albus hands went towards the laid out scrolls on his desk, his gaze settling on his undone charms homework.
“Kreacher, I have this homework about wards.” Albus began. the elf piquped up. Albus continued, taking in the elfs expression, playing lazily with his quill “Which made me interested in our wards.” he said. “What can you tell me of them?”
“The wards of grimmauld place are the Black wards.” the elf said proudly.
Albus raised an eyebrow as he reached for the hot tea cup and put it up to his lips, taking a sip before continuing. “There arent any Black living here though? Dont blood wards, such as what I suppose the Black wards are, need someone with black Blood to keep the wards up, or atleast write others into them?” Albus asked the elf, who nodded tight lipped.
“There is Black blood living here, Little Master.” The elf answered.
“Who, Kreacher?” Albus asked curiously as he leaned slightly toward the elf, his mind going towards Teddy, who supposedly could be considered Black, through his Grandmother Andromeda Tonks née Black.
“Kreacher shouldn't tell if the Little Master doesn't know.” The elf said, clearly a bit bitter.
“It’s alright,” Albus said as he smiled. “I know, I'm just testing you and your loyalty to The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” he said manipulatively.
Kreacher fixed his posture, as much as an ancient elf with a hunch could do. “Kreacher lives to serve The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” The elf uttered.
“You do.” Albus replied as he carefully nodded approvingly.
“All Potters, except the blood traitor—” Kreacher begun. he must mean their mother, a Weasley ”—Are of Black blood.” The elf finished.
“That's a lie Kreacher, there has been no Black blood that has married the Potter line for generations.” He said, trying to remember the family tree, or the little knowledge he knew, at least three, possibly four generations there was no direct blood link to the Blacks that he was aware of.
“Little master is not aware.” the elf said, a bit bitter about being tricked. But continued still, maybe, in spite of his father; or maybe because Albus was the only one speaking to the elf, and actually listening to him.
"Previous blood traitor Master, Sirius Black blood adopted current Master Harry Potter, making him the last heir of the main family line.” the elf uttered a bit regretfully, spite and disgust seemed to almost make him grimace at even calling Sirius Black for Master.
Yet that wasn't the most surprising part, nor the one that shocked him, he had no idea that Sirius Black had blood adopted by his father, as he had never mentioned it.
“Kreacher, when did this blood adoption happen?” he asked. Blood adoptions were part of older traditions, and surely considered dark, even back then. His father had always spoken of Sirius as a hero, a Gryffindor, a man of the light. Who despite his upbringing did not hate muggle borns, and kept his way from the dark magic which had consumed the rest of his family and driven them all into madness. Even if his father sometimes admitted that his godfather Sirius, shared some of his family madness, but his father spoke of it as if it was more an aftereffect from being in Azkaban.
“When Master Potter was little, and Mistress and Master were still alive.” The elf said almost mournfully at the mention of his previous Master Orion Black and Mistress Walburga Black.
That was before Voldemort went and tried to kill his father, and before he had killed his grandparents—
Albus blinked. The revelation started to bear down on him; this wasn't what he had been after, sure there had been a curiosity about the wards that surrounded him, and overall about the history of the house, and who had walked the halls before him—
Yet his question had been just that; wanting to know more about the Blacks, not coming upon such a revelation.
He narrowed his eyes. This could not be well known information could it? Was he really that naive? He grimaced beneath his carefully constructed appearance, maybe it was as Nott had said; that he was in fact very much naive. Irritation flared within at the prospect, the notion of Nott being right. He pushed those thoughts away as quickly as they rose.
“Kreacher,” he said calmly even though his heart beat hard against his chest. A poised smile hanging on his lips “How many know of this? The Blood Adoption?” He clarified.
Kreacher thin lips were a line, and he stood quiet, for a moment, as if he was considering whom, or if he should tell at all.
The House elf breathed in, “Little master, Everyone who knew is dead. Kreacher is not sure if Master Harry knows.” he said, his voice showing the toll of the years, of his age.
“How then does my father hold lordship?” Albus asked, perplexed.
“Master Sirius was Master Harry's Godfather, and the magic accepted Master Harry as heir.”
“Because of the blood adoption.” Albus concluded with furrowed brows.
He knew somewhat why Kreacher had not uttered that part, saying it out loud felt as if he spoke it into existence—The magic had accepted his father, not simply because of Sirius Black being Lord Black and made his father the written heir—No, the reason the magic had accepted him was because of the blood adoption.
Adding to it, the only ones aware of that fact were the ones in this room.
It seemed to dawn on the house elf as quickly as for Albus and Albus could almost swear he saw the house elf ashen as his ear fell even lower, eyes becoming rampant as he realised his mistake.
Kreacher made a sound of disagreement and muttered “Kreacher has told too much,” and then the elf began to hit himself.
Albus just stared.
Then blinked.
“Kreacher, you have done no wrong. Father does not know this; hence you have not gone against him.” Albus said calmly towards the elf. Who seemed to calm down a bit.
“You did well Kreacher—Well to The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” Albus continued carefully yet strongly taking in the shifting emotional display of the creature. Planning his words carefully—
“Mistress Walburga would be proud, that you’re teaching the new generations the right way.” he continued, as he watched. His chest begins to hammer, hot boiling blood pumped out into his veins. He took a quick inhale to calm his nerves before finally uttering the last words;
“Kreacher, you need to teach me.”
“Master Harry will not agree.” Kreacher said weakly, as if he already was worn down.
“Master Harry does not need to know.” Albus finished curtly, heart beating in his eardrums.
Albus watched, as the elf before him changed, the dull doom that had become natural, constant in his big eyes, where now replaced with a burning fire. His form no longer hunkered as before, it was as if the years returned towards him, as the magic softly hummed, as if meaning had returned.
Kreacher only nodded, before he popped out of existence.
Albus stared at the place the elf left behind. After a few minutes, he ran his hand through his hair as he breathed out, nerves relenting.
Yet his mind never wavered, trying to make sense of it all. He felt another rush of adrenaline flow through him, so overwhelming, he feared his heart might cumburst; as if he might explode.
He let out a nervous laugh.
Blood adoption.
The words swirled in Albus’s mind, pieces of the puzzle snapping together in rapid succession. Sirius Black had blood-adopted his father, and his grandparents—Albus’s own grandparents—had been alive at the time. They must have known, must have been involved somehow. Could they really have consented to it? It didn’t match the image of them he’d always been told—the bright, righteous Potters. Or maybe that image was never entirely accurate. Maybe they’d held on to more of those old traditions than anyone knew.
It made sense, though, didn’t it? Blood adoption was blood magic, and blood magic was considered dark, and back then not illegal, but still... considered tainted. It wasn’t something light families were known for, not unless they were desperate. And it was rare, especially outside of pureblood circles. It wasn’t just some ceremonial thing—it was deeper, older.
The ritual did more than just adopt a child in name; it tied their magic, even their blood, to the adoptive parent. Albus frowned, the thought of what that really meant prickled at the edges of his mind. It altered you, surely—The genes, the magic, the core—it all shifted, taking in a third influence. Not enough to erase what was already there, but enough to make you... part of them—Recognized by magic.
This was how the old pureblood families had preserved their lines, wasn’t it? Back when heirs were scarce—when tragedy or infertility loomed—they’d blood-adopt someone close, someone with at least a drop of the same blood. The closer the relationship, the better. That way, the House’ magic would accept them and the mainline wouldn’t die out.
And now—Now it all made sense. His father wasn’t just Harry Potter, the Chosen One. He was a Black, too, even if only partially. The blood adoption had made sure of that. It had to be why the Black family’s magic had accepted him as the new Lord Black after Sirius’s death.
Albus’s thoughts snagged on the implication, his chest tightening. If his father carried that legacy, then so did he. It was strange to think about, he was not quite a Black—but close enough that the magic wouldn’t argue if he tried to claim it. Close enough that the mainline didn’t end—
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair once more. His grandparents had consented—or maybe even arranged it. He still couldn’t wrap his head around that part. What else about his family wasn’t as light as he’d been told?
He swiftly moved over to the wardrobe he had stuffed his trunk into, and dragged it out into the floor. He opened the trunk and rummaged through it, until his fingers grasped at a book. He swiftly opened it, tracing the side numbers in the reference before turning up the page about lordship, and heirs.
Traditionally The first born male is the heir, following male and sometimes female children after are so called ‘spares’. Though in powerful families, or families where one has been accepted by multiple lordships, most holding a maximum of two, if not three, more is simply unheard of. Then traditionally the second male child, the so-called first spare, will inherit the second lordship, and be an heir. The firstborn always, if the magic didn't reject them of course, would be the heir to the main House, in their case, James, to the Potter lordship, him then would be heir to the second House or lordship; The Black lordship.
The rules seemed still to be followed, as he could gather from his memory and Scorpius spiel or ‘gossip’ about pureblood families and their inheritance troubles. Together with the faint information Albus held about his two uncles Bill and Charlie concerning the Weasley Lordship. Bill was the firstborn hence heir to the Weasley lordship, as it was their father's House. Charlie was heir to the Prewett lordship through his mother, Albus grandmother Molly Weasley–Nee Prewett, the last living member of the Prewett main branch after her twin brothers had died during the first war with Voldemort.
The Prewett were an old family part of the Sacred twenty eight, and mostly seen as a grey family, which meant they often married freely with dark and light wizarding families, as if Nott and Blaise was correct in their information meant that they could produce all cores, but the main line always seemed to marry others with grey cores, keeping it cores grey, making the spares and female offspring be the ones to marry freely regarding of core.
When—Molly Prewett, his maternal grandmother, married Arthur Weasley, his maternal grandfather, and thus married the Weasley line, they too were labeled blood traitors as the Prewetts did not disinherit Molly.
Albus could feel a headache building as he tried to piece it all together. If he remembered correctly, and if Nott was telling the truth; the Weasleys’ reputation as blood traitors had begun with Bilius Weasley who had broken the family’s pledge to produce wizards with dark cores by marrying a light witch and therefore broke the sacred pledge to magic that they would produce dark cores and protect the legacy.
This was seemingly generations before his great maternal grandfather Septimus Weasley, who had married his maternal great-grandmother Cedrella Weasley nee Black, who had been disowned after marrying into a ‘Blood traitor’ line, another part of the infamous Black tapestry that was blazed off. Albus vaguely recalled meeting Septimus when he was very young—an old man who had died of dragon pox when Albus was still young. He didn’t remember much about him, just snippets from large family gatherings where Septimus had occasionally mentioned his wife who by that time had already passed.
His thoughts shifted uneasily. For years, he had assumed he wasn’t tied to any heirship, a small mercy that had offered a sense of freedom as he approached wizarding age. But now, the realization gnawed at him. If he wanted the Black lordship, he would need to play a careful game: earn his father’s trust, somehow appease him, and convince him to name him the official Black heir.
But what of James? Was he already the official Potter heir? Did he even know? Their father had never mentioned anything about titles, inheritances, or the responsibilities of heirs. Not once.
Irritation flared, hot and sudden, souring his mood. It was so typical of his father’s neglect. How could he ignore something so important? Both he and James should already be aware of their roles, and should have started heirship training long ago. Instead, they lagged behind their peers.
Albus grimaced. His father would never hand him the Black lordship now, not with the suspicion hanging over him. If he asked outright, nothing good would come of it. No, he needed to bide his time, gain his father’s trust first, let him lower his guard—
Albus sighed, running a hand through his hair and leaned back. He would rather deal with Burke and Rosier.
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Albus found it all endlessly fascinating, the interwoven histories of magic and servitude. He often wondered what secrets Kreacher carried within him, what memories lingered of the house’s former masters, and how many generations of Blacks the elf had outlived. Kreacher’s loyalty might have been born from binding magic, but Albus couldn’t help but see it as something deeper—something forged in the unseen layers of history and magic that few cared to understand.
Dead elf heads had once adorned the hallways, a macabre sight his father had often recounted in stories about the cruelty that once lingered within the walls of Grimmauld Place. The tales usually centered around the dreadful portrait of Walburga Black, his father's godfather Sirius's mother, and the oppressive legacy of the Black family. Yet, Kreacher had told him a different tale—
According to the elf, those severed heads were not relics of cruelty, as his father believed, but symbols of honor—memorials for elves who had served the family faithfully until death. In older generations, it was customary for house-elves to choose to die alongside their masters when a branch of the family fell from power or when the lordship passed to a new heir other than the main family. The mounted heads were a way to connect the past to the present, a tangible testament and tribute to their servitude and unwavering loyalty to The Most Noble and Pure House of Black.
His parents, however, had chosen to remove the heads, burying them with the intent of granting the souls peace. To Kreacher, this act was not one of mercy but of disgrace, erasing the legacy of their service and severing the bond between the family’s history and its future. What his parents saw as kindness, Kreacher saw as ignorance and an insult.
Albus nodded along, taking mental notes. After the elf had left him that day, Albus felt a slight unease that it might blow up in his face, that he hadn't persuaded the other, But the elf appeared and began to give small, yet insightful lessons about the Black family legacy, and its traditions. The elf had seemed quite satisfied when Albus revealed that he had read the book the elf had given him the summer before his sorting. Then the elf eased more into it, giving more intricate teachings, and even scolding him when he did some etiquette wrong, seemingly falling back into the position of teaching previous heirs and spares.
It was the week before Albus returned to Hogwarts the elf had woken him up in the middle of night and made him follow him; the elf led him to another room, a part of his home that he never ventured, the building which had been left mostly in its original yet clean form, the tapestry walls on the floor weren't red like the shade he had come to know, but green, Albus took in the decorations, even if old and a bit neglected felt more right in the house. The elf moved them along to a door, one Albus had not seen before, or noticed; perhaps it was beneath a charm. The elf opened the door and went inside, leaving the door open for Albus to follow which he did, with a snap of the elfs fingers the old detailed ceiling light flickered on and the door closed behind them with a soft quiet thud. Albus turned towards where the elf was looking and he was taken out of breath; before him was the infamous black family tapestry. Albus had thought his parents removed it, leaving him shocked.
The tapestry looked immensely old; it was faded, Albus moved towards it, letting his fingers trace over it; he felt a slight magic beneath the seams, it felt alive, and dark. Albus leaned his head slightly to the side as he tried to untangle the seams, there was something else, it was easier to tell apart as it was newer, a preservation charm perhaps? the golden thread with which it was embroidered still glinted and thrummed with magic.
The other was too complex to decipher, yet his magic subtly spoke to it, blood magic perhaps? As he had as Fawley had told, a slight ‘alignment’ to it. He hummed out loud as his eyes traced over the branches of his ancestors, he stepped back, to look over it as a whole, his eyes found the main branch and interestingly, out of the burned tapestry came his father's name, then his and his siblings. He raised an eyebrow. The other burned spots lines did not continue after all. He looked at Kreacher.
“Mistress in anger only burned The blood traitor, never disowned.” Kreacher answered as if he knew the question on Albus' mind.
Albus only nodded, eyes once more on the tree branches. To the side of Sirius's name and burnt picture was Regulus, depicted with a skull that most of the family members on the tapestry had. Further were their first cousins, which technically both Regulus and Sirius were to each other—
Albus did not linger on that thought.
There was Bellatrix Lestrange, Andromeda Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy. With Andromeda's picture burned off and withered, Bellatrix a skull, and Narcissa’ was bright, showing that she still was around. Albus took a step closer, furrowing his brows.
Beneath Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, where there should only have been one head—
were two.
To the side of Draco Malfoy, was another burned off portrait. Albus blinked. Wondering only for a slight moment before realisation hit him like a cold wave, of course—It must have been a squib. Albus let his eyes continue down. Beneath Draco Malfoy and Astoria Malfoy was Scorpius. Albus fingers traced over the figure for a while as he considered touching the bracelet, but stopped himself as it was night.
Albus didn't want to think about the reality that he and Scorpius were distant cousins, he felt conflicted, a weird feeling in his stomach, after all shouldn't he be happy that they were related? Distant cousins? Afterall if he saw him as a brother—
He traced over the name. Why wasn't he happy?
Why did it bring him unease?
Instead of letting his thoughts spiral he forced his eyes away; gaze wandering lower on the tree, trying instead to find his great maternal grandmother who married into the Weasley line. He found her beneath Arcturus Black and Lysandra Yaxley, Cedrella's portrait was burned and withered like that of Andromedas, stopping the line.
“Does the magic stop recording family members that are burned off? Are they considered dead?” he asked the elf.
Who answered through a flicker of his wrist and Albus' eyes grew bigger as new names beneath the burned portraits came forward. He swiftly composed himself and smirked at the showing of the complex magic. Beneath Cedrella's portrait continued the line, showing Arthur Weasley and his two brothers both skulls, then the interconnection with the Prewetts Molly, and finally his uncles and mother showed beneath, and all offspring, the magic seemed to recognize the connection making the tree connect his mother and his father’s marriage relation as well.
“How fascinating.” he mused aloud. Watching the magic shift and change the tree lines in real time. He turned towards Kreacher. “Thank you for showing me this Kreacher.” he said, voice soft, tone telling nothing but the truth.
He returned to studying the tapestry, his curiosity unquenched. He traced the line that connected to the Potters with his eyes. Dorea Black had married his paternal great-grandfather's brother, Charlus Potter. The two had apparently had one child, now long gone—a child who would have been his fraternal grandfather James Potter's cousin.
Another soul lost to the war perhaps? Yet the age, could even line up with Grindelwald's war, as his paternal great-grandparents Fleamont and Euphemia Potter had been quite old when they had James, who all were still on the tapestry, meaning that the Potters were not considered blood traitors—Well until Harry Potter married his mother and into the Weasley line.
Yet their portraits weren't burned, as there was no one else left to do it, except of course his father.
This all confirmed his previous thought, and regretfully did not disprove Notts and Zabini’ tellings, might even further it as Cedrella was burned off.
A smirk widened on his features as his gaze found the creature one more “Kreacher, I have some spells I want to try out, is there any unused room I could use? Where my father wouldn't be able to… notice?” He asked with a sweet tone to his voice.
The elf nodded. “Kreacher lives to serve the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” He said before moving out of the room Albus followed, only to stop in his tracks when his eyes went towards the malfoy branch, beneath the squib there was a line that continued, yet it was nothing alike the others, the names seemed not only foreign to british tongue, but written in a language, an alphabet he could not decipher—
A creek of the wooden board made his gaze return to the elf staring at him outside the door, Albus quickly shot Kreacher an apologetic smile and moved once more, yet his eyes didn't stray from the space beneath the burned picture, until he had no other choice but to walk away.
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Albus's fingers traced over the aged parchment of Obscure and Undetected Curses: An Encyclopedia, his eyes absorbing the dense text with an intensity that bordered on obsession. The movements of his wand, carefully mimicked from the diagrams, had become second nature after hours—Days of practice.
The fluid flick and precise twist felt effortless now, as though his wrist were an extension of his intent.
It was only two days before departure, and already the book had proven invaluable. Several curses had been perfected, each one crawling under his skin with the seductive pull of untapped power, of erratic magic screaming at him to unleash it, to feel its toll. He had learned, the darker the spell, the more naturally it came to him—With an almost unnerving ease that felt as though his magic craved it–As if it was meant to be.
His gaze shifted to the mouse scurrying nervously in the glass enclosure before him. With a slow exhale, he raised his wand and uttered the incantation, his voice sharp and deliberate:
“Ignis Fictus.”
The red light shot from his wand and struck the mouse squarely. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
The mouse froze, its tiny body trembling lightly, Then—Violently. Its movements turned frantic as it darted in wild, erratic circles, squeaking in distress. It rolled onto its back, its legs kicking furiously as if trying to extinguish invisible flames. Albus watched with cold fascination as the creature’s instincts betrayed it, the illusion forcing it to enact the desperate, futile motions of a victim engulfed in fire.
When it finally stilled, the mouse lay on its side, chest heaving, its small body shuddering with residual terror or tremors as a psychological aftereffect? Albus furrowed his brow as he wrote it down in his notes.
He clicked his tongue, unimpressed. Fifteen seconds.
Barely enough to make an impact. He scribbled the result in his notebook, annotating the duration and the vividness of the effects–Aftereffect?
He leaned back, gaze once more in the encyclopedia.
The tome described Ignis Fictus as a curse of masterful subtlety. The illusion attacked the nervous system, distorting the signals until the brain believed it was engulfed in flames. Heat, pain, even the acrid stench of burning flesh—all fabricated with agonizing detail. And yet, the victim remained physically unharmed, their suffering purely mental.
Its undetectable nature made it lethal in its own way. No magical residue. No visible effects. To the outside world, the victim might appear mad, caught in the grip of a psychotic break. Few would suspect a curse, and fewer still could break it without advanced Occlumency. Even then, the sensory manipulations made it nearly impossible to distinguish reality from illusion.
He snorted, laughed to himself—
Maybe he should teach Scorpius the spell, so he in turn could use it on Albus—As a test of his own mental defenses. He was really interested in knowing exactly how good his own defenses were and if they could withstand the spell. Yet he knew Scorpius would never do such a thing, and Albus knew painfully better than to teach the curse to Fawley—
Well, he didn't exactly have good faith in his ability to keep it from her, if she really tried—Yet that in itself could be a value practice, he mused as his eyes fell on the little mouse before him.
He raised his wand again, a faint smile curling his lips. His tone grew colder, devoid of hesitation. “Ignis Fictus.”
The new wave of red light hit the mouse. This time, its agony was more pronounced, and the warmth that spread inside Albus more predominant. The creature flung itself around the enclosure, colliding with the glass walls in its frantic bid for escape. It rolled violently, pawing at its face as though trying to smother invisible flames. The pitiful squeals rose in volume, then tapered off as the mouse collapsed, twitching on the floor.
Albus kept his eyes fixated on it, counting the seconds silently in his head. Twenty-five. Progress. But not enough progress. It wasn’t nearly enough.
He looked down at the mouse, its chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic breaths. His expression was unreadable as he called, “Kreacher.”
The house-elf appeared immediately, his bat-like ears twitching as he surveyed the scene.
“Take this one,” Albus instructed, gesturing to the enclosure, half lazily, “Feed it to Merlin, and bring me another.”
Kreacher eyes flicking between Albus and the trembling mouse. with no hesitation he nodded. “Yes, Little Master,” the elf rasped. He scooped up the mouse and vanished with a sharp pop, reappearing seconds later with another.
The fresh mouse was placed into the enclosure, its small frame quivering as it sniffed hesitantly at its new surroundings. Albus stared at it, his grip tightening around his wand.
It wasn’t as though he enjoyed this. The thought of torturing animals should have been distasteful—unethical, even. But necessity outweighed sentiment. He needed to test the curse’s limits, refine its duration, and ensure its effectiveness. The Muggles used mice for experiments all the time, didn’t they? And at least he wasn’t wasting their suffering for something as simple as makeup products.
He exhaled slowly, raising his wand once more. Albus knew he should feel disgusted, guilty even. His hand should tremble with revulsion; his conscience should scream at the cruelty unfolding before him. He should feel dirty, ashamed of what he was doing. Only, he didn’t.
He didn’t have the privilege of such sentiments; guilt, and mercy, was a weakness he couldn’t afford, not when his enemies played with different rules, with different morals.
The mouse froze, sensing the shift in the air, its whiskers quivering as it shrank back into the corner of the enclosure.
“Ignis Fictus,” Albus whispered, his voice devoid of warmth.