The Heir to the House of Black
Kreacher shuffled through the dark, musty corridors of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, muttering to himself. His wrinkled hands clutched the hem of his tattered loincloth as he navigated the maze of dusty furniture and peeling wallpaper. Mistress Walburga’s portrait glowered down at him from her perch on the wall, but her once-potent commands had fallen silent since her death the previous year. Now, Kreacher was alone—truly alone—without his beloved mistress to guide him.
The year was 1986, and Kreacher’s world had crumbled into a mess of cobwebs and echoes. The House of Black, once the proudest and purest of all wizarding families, was in ruins. Kreacher’s heart ached with the thought. His beloved Mistress Walburga had passed away, leaving only her brother Cygnus from the weaker secondary branch of the family. But to Kreacher, the line had ended long before, back in 1979, when his dear Master Regulus had met his untimely death.
“Poor Master Regulus,” Kreacher sniffled, his large, bulbous eyes filling with tears. “So good, so kind, and so loyal. The perfect pureblood boy, yes he was. Not like that filthy traitor, Master Sirius. No, Master Sirius broke Mistress’s heart, consorting with mudbloods and blood traitors, abandoning his family for the old coot Dumbledore and blood traitor Potter.”
Kreacher spat on the floor at the mention of Sirius Black, his lip curling in disgust. The bad master had run away at sixteen, leaving the noble House of Black on its knees. Then, to make matters worse, he’d been accused of betraying the Potters—a charge Kreacher knew, deep down, was false.
“Even Kreacher, a lowly house-elf, knows that bad master would never betray those filthy Potters,” Kreacher muttered darkly. “But no, Kreacher will not speak up for Master Sirius. He deserves to rot in Azkaban for abandoning Mistress and leaving the House of Black without an heir.”
Kreacher sighed heavily as he shuffled into the kitchen, the last place where he had shared a meal with his beloved Master Regulus. The memory of Regulus’s gentle voice filled Kreacher’s mind, a balm to his tortured soul. Regulus had been the last good Black, a boy with a soul unmatched in kindness. Kreacher could still see him, clear as day, sitting at the table, his dark eyes filled with the fire of determination as he plotted against the Dark Lord.
“Master Regulus was so good, so brave,” Kreacher murmured, his voice cracking. “He saw how the Dark Lord treated Kreacher, saw how Kreacher was tormented, and he tried to save him. But Kreacher couldn’t save Master Regulus, no, Kreacher failed him…”
The house-elf paused, his gnarled fingers clenching tightly around the edge of the table. He could still feel the cold, slimy water of the Inferi-infested lake, still hear Regulus’s screams as the potion consumed him. Kreacher had been haunted by those memories for years, but now, something stirred in the depths of his mind. An idea. A mad, desperate idea that made Kreacher’s heart race.
Perhaps the House of Black wasn’t truly dead—not yet.
Kreacher paused in front of Mistress Walburga’s portrait, his head bowed low. The dark, imposing woman in the frame watched him with a look of mild irritation, her eyes narrowed as if she could see straight through him.
“What are you mumbling about now, Kreacher?” she demanded, her voice sharp and commanding. Even in death, she was a force to be reckoned with.
“Mistress,” Kreacher croaked, his voice trembling as he looked up at her. “Kreacher is thinking… Kreacher is thinking about the house, Mistress. The house is empty. The bloodline… it is gone.”
Walburga’s expression softened ever so slightly, a glimmer of sadness crossing her features before she hardened again. “Yes, Kreacher. The bloodline is at its end. My son, my precious Regulus… And that vile traitor, Sirius, who—”
Kreacher cut her off with a frantic shake of his head. “Kreacher knows, Mistress! Kreacher knows! But… but Kreacher has an idea.”
Walburga’s eyebrows shot up, and she leaned forward slightly in her portrait. “An idea, you say? What idea could you possibly have, Kreacher?”
“Kreacher still has Master Regulus’s blood,” Kreacher whispered to himself, his eyes widening with a sudden, wild hope. “Yes, yes, Kreacher kept it all these years. A vial of Master Regulus’s blood from when he was just fourteen. Kreacher could… Kreacher could create an heir!” Kreacher’s heart pounded in his chest as he hurried to the old den where he kept his most precious possessions. Inside, nestled among scraps of cloth and trinkets, was a small glass vial filled with dark, almost black, blood. Regulus’s blood. Kreacher cradled the vial in his hands, his eyes gleaming with fervour. Kreacher’s wrinkled face twisted into a smile, and he placed it into into the pocket of his filthy ragged tunic.
For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air. Then, a slow smile spread across Walburga’s face, and she clapped her hands together in glee. “Kreacher, you always were my favourite elf!"
"Kreacher was Mistress Walburga's only house-e-" Kreacher replied.
"Don't interrupt me when I am speaking, you insolent little whelp!" Walburga screeched, before composing herself. "You saved Regulus’ blood! But what do you intend to do with it?”
Kreacher nodded eagerly. “Kreacher will brew a blood adoption potion, Mistress. Kreacher has seen Master Regulus' books and notes on the perfect way to create an heir for the family. Kreacher now needs only a strand of hair from a worthy witch.”
But who? The thought gnawed at Kreacher and Walburga’s minds as he paced the room and she paced around her portrait frame. It had to be someone pureblood, someone who could be worthy of the House of Black. Walburga searched her memories, recalling the old pureblood families. The problem was that if the House of Black were to claim a union with a daughter from a family like the Malfoys, Notts, Lestranges, or Rosiers, the lie would quickly be uncovered. The purest of the pure tended to keep their family members under close supervision. It would be a nightmare to have eighty year old Paul Rosier or sixty four year old Thaddeus Nott crawling out of the woodworks and accusing the Black family of line theft. They would truly never recover from that. The other alternative was even more deplorable, as the list of self-respecting families in the Sacred twenty-eight was at an all-time low. It simply would not do to have an Abbott, or Merlin forbid a Weasley, polluting the Black lines. They might as well find a common street urchin at this rate! No, it would be best to steer clear of the Sacred twenty-eight for the time being.
That, unfortunately, still did not solve their problem. Walburga mused, as she tried to recollect which families had been aligned to the Dark Lord before 1982. In truth, for a portrait to do any degree of thinking beyond the normal daily functions was nothing short of remarkable, and so was the old witch's determination to find a prospective (ideally also-deceased, so she would not be a bother) daughter-in-law. The silence continued for a few more minutes, until one name floated to her mind's surface.
“Ariadne Wilkes,” Walburga hissed, a crooked smile spreading across her face. “Yes, yes, she was a pureblood, just like my darling Regulus. She would do nicely.”
Ariadne Wilkes was dead, killed by the filthy half-blood Auror Alastor Moody back in 1981, just a few days before the fall of the Dark Lord himself.
Kreacher’s smile faltered for a moment, as he wondered how on Earth he would find a sample of the Wilkes girl's blood. Then he remembered something. Miss Wilkes had once visited Grimmauld Place, back when the Dark Lord was rather fond of pureblood soirees (really just a façade for recruiting new followers), and Kreacher had kept one of her hairbrushes. His eyes gleamed with renewed determination as he scuttled off to find it.
It took him several hours of searching through the cluttered attic, but finally, Kreacher found the brush, buried beneath old robes and broken trinkets. He plucked a single strand of hair from its bristles and held it up to the dim light. It was a dark, lustrous lock, still strong despite the years.
“Yes, yes, this will do,” Kreacher muttered as he hurried back to the kitchen.
He placed the strand of hair beside the vial of Regulus’s blood, then set about preparing the potion. His hands shook with excitement as he added each ingredient, muttering ancient incantations under his breath. When the cauldron was ready, Kreacher carefully measured out seven drops of Regulus’s blood, letting each one fall into the bubbling liquid with a hiss. Then, he added 13 centimetres of Ariadne’s hair, watching as the potion turned from a sickly green to a brilliant, regal purple.
Kreacher’s eyes shone with pride as he watched the potion bubble and froth. The colour was perfect—a deep, royal purple, symbolizing the ancient and noble blood of the House of Black.
“Mistress Walburga, Kreacher has done it!” he cried, turning to the portrait on the wall.
Walburga’s painted eyes gleamed with approval, and she clapped her hands together, a smile spreading across her stern face.
“Well done, Kreacher,” she purred. “You have served our family well. Now, go and fetch a boy. The House of Black shall rise again.”
Kreacher bowed deeply to the portrait, his heart swelling with pride. Yes, he had served his mistress well. Now all he needed was the boy. The new heir.
Kreacher’s heart swelled with pride as he watched the potion brew. Yes, this would work. This would bring honor back to the House of Black. But there was one last thing to do. He needed a child.
"Which family would you like me to take the child from, Mistress? The Weasleys? Kreacher hears that they be having seven children, Mistress Walburga.”
"No, you imbecile!" Walburga screeched, causing Kreacher's right ear to start bleeding, "Do think that the Weasleys would suddenly forget how to count up to seven! They may be foolish bloodtraitors, but are not illiterate.”
Kreacher hung his head in shame. "Where shall Kreacher go to then, Mistress?"
Walburga rolled her eyes. "You will have to go to an orphanage, Kreacher. The filthy muggle animals will not notice the absence of the odd child. Grab the best looking mudblood child and return at once!" she shouted.
Kreacher almost felt faint. A mudblood? For his precious Master Regulus' son? "But Mistress, Kreacher cannot -" Kreacher hesitantly began
Walburga cut him off. "The boy's parentage does not matter now, elf, as we will be giving him the potion to wipe away his parents' filthy genes. He will be a pureblood in all aspects once he has consumed the potion," she explained coldly.
With a snap of his fingers, Kreacher disapparated, reappearing in the shadowed alleyway beside a dingy, run-down building on the outskirts of London. The Muggle orphanage. The place was dreary and unremarkable, much like the Muggles themselves. Kreacher’s lip curled in disgust as he peered through a cracked window, spying on the children within. They were all asleep in their small, shabby beds, unaware of the house-elf watching them. Kreacher sneered as he approached, his nose wrinkling at the smell of filth and poverty that permeated the air.
The house-elf slunk through the shadows, his eyes scanning the rows of tiny, uncomfortable beds where the Muggle children slept. They were all pitiful creatures, with their pale, thin faces and ragged clothes. But Kreacher wasn’t interested in them. He was searching for someone special.
Finally, he found him—a small, sleeping boy with messy brown hair and a face still round with the remnants of childhood. The boy’s cheeks were flushed with the warmth of sleep, and his small hands clutched the edge of a threadbare blanket. His bed was marked with a simple wooden sign: David Reed.
Kreacher sneered at the name. A common, filthy Muggle name. But as he crept closer, he could feel the faint hum of magic radiating from the child. This boy was magical, just as Kreacher had hoped. And he was perfect. Well, moderately acceptable (he was still a mudblood, after all).
“Perfect,” Kreacher whispered to himself, his eyes narrowing as he studied the boy’s face. David’s features were soft and rounded, with a delicate, almost ethereal quality. His skin was pale, but not sickly, with a healthy flush of colour on his cheeks. His hair was a tangle of loose, wavy curls, the colour of dark chocolate. Kreacher could see the potential in those features—features that could be moulded and shaped into something worthy of the House of Black.
Kreacher reached out a bony finger and brushed a lock of hair from David’s forehead. The boy stirred slightly but did not wake. Kreacher allowed himself a small, satisfied smile before wrapping his long fingers around David’s wrist and disapparating back to Grimmauld Place.
When they reappeared in the dim, imposing hallway of the Black family home, David awoke with a start. His wide, frightened eyes took in the dark wood panelling, the shadowy corners, and the towering portraits that lined the walls. The house was cold and silent, the air heavy with the weight of centuries of pureblood magic.
“W-where am I?” David stammered, his voice trembling with fear. He tried to pull away from Kreacher, but the house-elf’s grip was ironclad.
“You are home, young master,” Kreacher replied, his voice low and soothing. “This is your true home, the place where you belong. You are magical, young master. It is time to reclaim your heritage.”
“Magical?” David echoed, his eyes widening in confusion. “But… but that’s impossible! Magic isn’t real.”
Kreacher chuckled darkly, a sound that sent shivers down David’s spine. “Oh, but it is, young master. Magic is very real, and you are special. You are the heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.”
David blinked in confusion, his fear mingling with a flicker of curiosity. “Black? But… my name is David Reed. My parents… they’re… they…”
Kreacher’s smile widened, revealing his sharp, yellowed teeth. “Your parents were Regulus Black and Ariadne Black, née Wilkes,” he lied smoothly. “You were taken from them, and given a false name when you were just a baby. But now, Kreacher has brought you back. Your true name is Polaris Regulus Black, and you are the last heir of this grand estate.”
David’s confusion deepened, but there was something in Kreacher’s words that resonated with him. He had no memory of his parents, no family to speak of. Could it be true? Could he really be part of something as grand and noble as the House of Black?
Kreacher could see the doubt and curiosity warring in the boy’s eyes, and he knew he had him. “Would you like to see magic, young master?” Kreacher asked, his voice a soft whisper.
David hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. Kreacher grinned and snapped his fingers. A sudden gust of wind blew through the hallway, and from the shadows emerged a large, leathery-winged bat. It flapped its wings noisily, circling above David’s head before landing with a screech on the floor in front of him.
David gasped, his eyes wide with wonder. Kreacher watched the boy’s reaction with satisfaction, then snapped his fingers again. The bat transformed in an instant, shrinking and reshaping itself into a simple quill pen. David stared in amazement, his mouth hanging open.
“That… that’s incredible!” David breathed, his fear momentarily forgotten. “How did you do that?”
Kreacher chuckled softly. “That is but a simple spell, young master. You have much to learn, but you will become powerful—more powerful than any wizard alive. But first, you must drink this potion. It will awaken the magic within you.”
Kreacher led David to the cauldron, which was still bubbling with the purple potion. The boy eyed the frothing liquid with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. Kreacher handed him a silver goblet, an old heirloom that had once belonged to his Master Orion.
“Drink, young master,” Kreacher urged, his voice dripping with false kindness. “This potion will make you who you were always meant to be.”
David hesitated, glancing at Kreacher for reassurance. The house-elf nodded encouragingly, and after a moment, David took the goblet in his small hands. The potion was warm, with a faint, bitter smell that made his nose wrinkle. But something in Kreacher’s words had sparked a longing in him, a desire to belong, to have a family, a history. He brought the goblet to his lips and drank deeply.
The potion slid down his throat, thick and syrupy, filling him with a strange warmth. But as soon as he swallowed the last drop, pain exploded in his chest. David gasped, the goblet slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor. His vision blurred, and he doubled over, clutching his stomach as the pain intensified.
Kreacher watched with a twisted smile as the transformation began. David’s features contorted, his body wracked with spasms as the magic took hold. His skin began to pale, the soft pink hue fading to a ghostly, alabaster white. His hair, once a messy tangle of brown curls, darkened to a rich, inky black, the curls tightening into a mass of short, dark coils.
David’s eyes, once a dull brown, shifted to a piercing grey, the colour of storm clouds. His jawline sharpened, the roundness of his face giving way to a more defined, aristocratic structure. His nose grew slightly longer and more aquiline, and his cheekbones became more pronounced, giving him an air of quiet dignity.
The transformation was over in moments, but to David, it felt like an eternity. He collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, his entire body trembling with the aftershocks of the change. Slowly, he lifted his head, his new eyes locking onto Kreacher’s.
“What… what happened to me?” David—no, Polaris—whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and awe.
Kreacher’s smile widened. “You have become who you were always meant to be, Master Polaris. You are the heir to the House of Black, the last of a noble and ancient line. Welcome home.”
Polaris stared at Kreacher, his mind reeling with the enormity of what had just happened. He raised a hand to his face, feeling the unfamiliar contours of his new features. He looked down at his hands, now pale and elegant, a far cry from the dirty, calloused hands of the boy he had been just moments ago.
“I… I’m really a Black?” Polaris asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“Yes, young master,” Kreacher replied, his voice filled with a twisted pride. “You are a Black, through and through. Your father, Master Regulus, would be so proud.”
Polaris’s eyes filled with wonder as he looked around the grand, imposing hallway of Grimmauld Place. This was his home, his heritage. He had a family, a history, a purpose. He was no longer just David Reed, a forgotten orphan in a Muggle world. He was Polaris Black, heir to the most noble house in all of wizarding Britain.
This strange being had even told him that he had parents who had loved and wanted him!
“Tell me more about my father,” Polaris said, his voice filled with eager curiosity.
Kreacher’s grin grew even wider, and he bowed low before the new heir. “Of course, young master. Kreacher will tell you everything.”
As Polaris listened intently, the portrait of Walburga Black beamed down at him, her painted eyes filled with a fierce pride. The House of Black had a new heir, and Kreacher’s heart swelled with fulfilment.
The blood of Master Regulus lived on and with it, the noble legacy of the Blacks would rise again.