Once, up on the roof of an old Anglo-Saxon style Manor House, sat a young person, thinking about their life, and thinking about their choices.
This young person’s name was Regulus, but they were not a regular young person. This young person was a Wixen.
But maybe you already knew that?
Did you know that this young Wixen was not raised by their parents? Of course they weren’t. Their mother, Walburga Black, named Walpurgis Knight at birth, not that she would let anyone find those records, all of which had been Magically burned away, was not the kind of Witch to raise a child.
Raising children was for peasants, and Walburga was not that any longer, and would not be again, not even in her memories, which she inconveniently had to pensieve out, change, and replace, several times and to great cost, not in money, but in time, energy, and a physical toll she wasn’t willing to admit to, and wouldn’t even in death years later.
Orion Black, the father, was a dim, smiling vaguely, pat-you-on-the-head, forget-your-name, kind of Wizard. He liked eating toffee candies and standing outside, hands in pockets, listening to the sound of the wind blowing through the trees in their large backyard.
And so the children, Sirius, Regulus, Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan (as well as others, and yes, the LeStranges grew up in The House of Black, as well as some other families that had married in) were not raised by a Witch or a Wizard at all.
All of these children, like all other House of Black children before them, were raised by House Elves.
Who else did you think?
The House Elves were inevitably given ridiculous, and sometimes hurtful, names. Dinky and Doodum and Cooky and Hokey and Lolli and Nonsuch and Pitts and Potts and Retch and Skrip and Skrot and Wugby and Yumbo…
And so on.
Each child was watched over by a single House Elf, assigned to the child on the day of its birth. This involved a regular “Elf Hunting” by all non-pregnant members of The House. There would be much to-do: elaborate outfits in black and lace and satin and silk; weapons of iron and cunningly hexed objects; and a great deal of food, first eaten in the morning, and then later in the evening when each Witch, Wizard, and Wixen returned, in shame if their hands were empty, in grudging jealousy if they had one or more Elves held in their hands, dangling them by their ankles, and then throwing them into the iron pen prepared for them.
The next part was not watched by the House Family Members. Instead, it was a task left for the Head House Elf to complete that night, in the liminal space between the end of one day and the beginning of another.
The Head House Elf, bound by oath and Magic to the House of Black, would be forced to dab Black Blood onto the tongue of each captured Elf, to lead those freshly captured House Elves in an oath of fealty to The House of Black that could not be broken, unless the Heir (or Heir apparent) freed them, each with a gift freely given.
But no child raised in The House of Black would ever grow up to give anything freely, gift or no.
In the morning the parents of the new child would descend the wide front room stairs, and there in the foyer the new House Elves would be lined up and dressed in rags, and the parents would choose one, sometimes at random, sometimes due to a look in the eye, or some other peculiarity, and handed over the child. The chosen House Elf would recite an oath to watch over the child, to raise it, to take care of its physical needs, and to die for it.
There was no ‘if’ attached.
Each Elf chosen was expected to die for, or because of, that child.
Each House Elf, when no longer needed by that child, would be discarded. Sometimes to work in the kitchens. Sometimes sold off to The Ministry or Hogwarts. Sometimes used for sport, as target practice, and other such cruelties which shall not be related here.
On the second day of Regulus’ birth they were handed to a House Elf, just like every other child born in The House of Black. A House Elf newly captured, skin still smelling of the wilds, tongue still marked by Black Blood, left wrist freshly marked with an Unbreakable Vow.
Regulus grew and giggled and rough-housed and roared and bickered and bit at their fellow siblings and cousins and second cousins and so forth. They were easy-going until they were not, and then they were fierce and stubborn and the kind of wicked you didn’t notice until it was too late, you were already hexed and your House Elf had to whisk you away to St. Mungo’s to be healed, but your mother wanted to show you off, so you didn’t get to the hospital in time, despite what your House Elf said, regardless of what your House Elf wanted, and sometimes the hex creeped into your mind, and you were never the same, and you grew up to be the woman who spent too much time trying to figure out a Riddle.
And if Regulus ever were to do such a thing and hex a fellow sibling, cousin, second cousin, or so forth, they would never admit to it and they would never, ever apologize.
Regulus, like all other children raised in The House of Black, did not believe in apologies.
Regulus behaved for their parents. They tolerated their older brother, when he wasn’t being an obnoxious, arrogant, twat. They occasionally got along with the other children, but what they loved the most, the one and only thing they loved at all: was their House Elf.
My Little Creature, they would purr, and curl up like a cat in a closet somewhere, sometimes with Creature in their arms, or perched on top of them; and sometimes with Creature guarding the door.
Creature, of course, became Kreacher, because Regulus was terribly dyslexic when they were younger and struggled to spell even their name correctly, and Kreacher had not had the heart to correct them, because the one thing in the whole Wizarding World that Kreacher at all cared about, was Regulus Arcturus Black.
And not because of any Unbreakable Vow. Vows did not create feelings of affection or attachment, as evinced by Rodolphus and vir House Elf Skrip and their mutual seething hatred for each other.
Kreacher loved Regulus because Regulus was like aer.
One day, when Regulus had been somewhere between two and three years old, they had been sitting up in bed, staring at the House Elf at the end of their bed, who was watching over them. Regulus had stared, squinty-eyed and with intense focus.
And then Regulus had nodded once.
“We are the same,” they had declared.
“Is that so?” the House Elf had said drily, bitter and disaffected and no longer dreaming of the wilds.
“Yes.” Regulus had leaned forward. “We are both creatures.” And they had grinned an unsettling grin and curled up in their blankets like a tiny dragon-cat.
The next morning Regulus had taken a small bite out of each of their different kinds of breakfast foods, taking each bite of food delicately out of their mouth and setting it on the saucer of their teacup, and then setting the saucer down on the floor and declaring that they would not eat or drink anything unless Kreacher ate a bite and took a drink first.
The adults simpered and made comments about how sweet Regulus was to have decided at such a young age to have a poison taster of their own.
This, of course, was not what was happening.
But Kreacher did not say anything. Ae ate each bite and sipped from Regulus’ own cup, at each meal and at every snack time. Ae grew strong and fit and fast and much healthier than the other House Elves, all who lived on scraps and garbage and whatever plants or rodents they could find outside in the gardens and among the trees.
The other House Elves were not even jealous. They did not have the energy to be anything other than tired and confused about why they did not have the kind of Magic that they dreamed about at night, in the liminal space between one day and the next.
Regulus grew up, but they never stopped giving Kreacher first bite and first sip of every meal and every snack. They even set aside a small horde of snacks for Kreacher when they started going away to attend classes at Hogwarts. This, of course, only after finding no way to bring Kreacher to Hogwarts with them, which they were forever peeved about.
The other House Elves, Skrip and Skrop and so forth, one by one, were beheaded, used as compost, sent to kitchens, used as target practice, sold, given as gifts to ‘less fortunate Wizarding families,’ such as the touched-in-the-head ‘defective’ House Elf, Dobby, who would not stop telling stories wistfully of the wilds, and was given as a gift at the birth of Lucius Malfoy.
That was several years ago, of course, but Kreacher remembers it, because Kreacher also remembers the wilds. Ae just isn’t stupid enough to tell anyone about it.
Except for Regulus. But only at night, when Regulus cannot sleep and they ask for a bedtime story, which they almost never do, and rarely did even as a child, and so Kreacher slipped stories of the wilds into Regulus’ dreams and it changed them.
They did not see it. No one did.
But sometimes change is like that. Quiet and subtle and sneaky… Until it isn’t.
~*~*~*~
The day after Regulus graduated from Hogwarts Walburga sent them off to spend time at Yaxley Hall. They refused to leave without Kreacher and brought ae with them, to join Voldemort, to become a Death Eater, and to continue the Family Legacy.
Regulus continued to feed a portion of their food to Kreacher at every meal. Lucius Malfoy tried to use this against Regulus, how dare they not trust Their Dark Lord. This did not work. Regulus was wild, and feral, and very good at creating imaginative hexes. They were very quickly one of Riddle’s favourites, and Lucius, despite all efforts, never was.
But then one night Their Dark Lord needed the help of a House Elf. Surely Regulus will offer the aid of their own personal elf, they said, for how could Regulus say no? Regulus was not supposed to have any love or loyalty greater than the love and loyalty they had for Their Dark Lord.
So Regulus said yes.
They waited that night, patient on the outside and seething with worry within.
Riddle returned, but that was not who Regulus waited for.
Straggling behind Riddle was Kreacher. Pale. Gaunt. Wheezing. Dripping Dark Magic. If ae had been any other House Elf ae would not have survived that night. Every bite of food, every sip of liquid, any kindness Regulus had ever shown Kreacher had sustained aer through an event Riddle clearly had not expected aer to, and ae probably would not have survived, good health or no, but Riddle had a weakness for young Wixens, and did not kill Kreacher, even though they had planned to.
Proof that even the darkest of lords can make the mistake of succumbing to the temptation of mercy.
And now Regulus sat on the roof of Yaxley Hall, in that liminal space between one night and the next. They held Kreacher in their arms, the House Elf curled up in their lap and resting heavily on Regulus’ chest, breathing steadily as the healing potion Regulus had administered slowly did its work.
Then, in that space between, Regulus made a decision they had slowly been making for many years now.
Kreacher stirred awake.
“Tell me a story?” Regulus whispered.
“Creature will not,” Kreacher said, voice now scratchy and rough. “But Creature will sing you a song. It is the song of the wilds.”
And Kreacher sang.
It was not a beautiful song. Kreacher’s voice had never been made for such things, and after aer ordeal that night aer voice was never the same, touched on the edges by Death Itself.
But it was a powerful song. Afterwards Regulus could not say whether they had understood the individual words used, or even known what language it had been sung in. Such things did not matter. It was the feelings evoked, the Magic invoked.
Maybe some time passed, or maybe it was that same dawn that Regulus took Kreacher home to The House of Black, set Kreacher down in the closet in the attic room Regulus and ae had grown up in, spent so much time and so many stories in. And maybe it was days or weeks or months later that Regulus closed the closet door and used the Magic they had learned from their father Orion, and they sealed the door to keep Kreacher inside.
To keep aer safe.
But the healing potion Severus had made for Regulus was powerful and effective, and Kreacher had a lifetime of being well-treated and well-fed. Regulus’ lifetime, in fact.
And so Kreacher escaped. Ae broke through the seal, broke through the closet door, crawled across the attic floor and out the attic window. Ae jumped and slid and clawed aer way down to the ground, over to the largest tree in the large backyard. Ae asked for a blessing from the trees, and the trees healed aer, taking away the last of the Dark Magic poison, so Kreacher could use aer Magic to find the Wixen ae had made a vow to protect.
A vow not to The House of Black, or to Walburga Black, or to anyone else.
A vow made only to aerself.
Kreacher found Regulus in a horrible cave, that horrible cave: the horrible cave from that horrible night that may have been last night, or may have been several nights, a thousand nights ago.
Regulus, who was drinking poison.
Regulus, whose dark skin had gone pale, whose round features were now gaunt, whose soft breath was now ragged and wheezing.
“No, no, stop! Let me. Let me!” Kreacher cried out, hands reaching, trying to push Regulus away, to somehow take the poison out of Regulus into aer own body.
Regulus shook their head. “It has to be me, my little creature. Don’t you understand? All I am is you. Without you, there is no Regulus.”
Kreacher held onto Regulus’ leg, shaking and sobbing.
“Not true! Not true!” ae cried. “Creature is nothing without Regulus.”
Regulus knelt to the ground, holding onto one of Kreacher’s shoulders with one hand, wiping aer tears away with the end of their dark sleeve with their other hand.
“I need you to do something for me, my little creature,” Regulus asked.
“Anything, anything!” Kreacher said, bony palms pressing to Regulus’ bony knees, as though in supplication, aer sharp fingers curled into the skin of them.
Regulus took a deep wheezing breath and said, “I need you to live.”
Kreacher ripped aer hands away, aer sharp nails cutting and scratching long, deep, gauges into Regulus’ skin. Kreacher howled and cursed. “You tricked me! You tricked me!”
“Hush, little creature,” Regulus said, voice low and weak.
And Kreacher hushed.
Kreacher, who would do anything for Regulus.
Kreacher, who, like every other House-Elf who raised a child, had accepted that ae would one day die for aer child.
Kreacher, who could not die for Regulus, but could give them this gift.
And so they quieted and stood still, standing at the knees of the Wixen they could not save.
“I have two things for you. A curse and a gift.” Regulus pulled a necklace out of their pocket. “This is a horcrux. It contains a part of Riddle’s soul, so they might come back to life if things go pear-shaped.” Regulus attempted a wry grin, but they had never been good at smiles. “You must find a way to destroy it.”
Kreacher accepted this gift.
Regulus reached for the chain around their neck and pulled out a gaudy golden ring, stamped with the emblem of The House of Black. “I am the Heir Apparent. I always have been. Walburga named me heir the night I was born, to keep the house from falling into Sirius’ hands, that bastard of Orion’s. This is my gift for you.” Regulus held out their hand to Kreacher, but Kreacher folded aer hands around Regulus’ and closed their fingers tight, shaking aer head.
“Creature does not need a gift. Creature has been freed the very first time you gave me food from your own mouth.”
“I know,” Regulus whispered. “I know you have been. I felt it. And I know you have stayed with me for my own sake. This gift is not just for you. This gift names you my heir.”
“For who else could there be? You are my family. You are my only family. There is no one else but you.”
Regulus was crying now, and Kreacher weeping, the ring now cupped in aer hands.
Regulus framed Kreacher’s small pointed face in their weak, shaking hands, and stared into aer eyes, focused, intent. “We are the same.”
But they said no more. The Inferii came and Kreacher, ae left that cave, that awful cave, clutching the locket and the ring, Regulus’ blood under aer fingernails from the scratches ae had made at their knees, and ae escaped to The House of Black.
Alone.
~*~*~*~
The House of Black.
The House of Black.
The House of Kreacher.
~*~*~*~
Kreacher is in the kitchens. Maybe ae walked there, through the front doors, through the foyer, through elaborate dining and sitting and smoking and reading rooms.
Or maybe that is the room Kreacher appeared in.
Kreacher calls all of the House Elves to aer.
Walburga is outraged as the Elf carrying her tea service disappears, but there is nothing she can do. No matter how she calls, or howls, or rages.
She is no longer the Mistress of The House of Black.
There is no longer The House of Black.
She has forgotten that her child came of age last night, in the middle of the night, in that liminal space between one day and the next.
Every single Elf of the House of Kreacher stands in the kitchen, lined up in rows, very like the way they were lined up the first morning after their abduction to this place.
Kreacher sings a song of the wilds.
They remember. Not all of them. But the young ones. There was a birth yesterday, or the day before, and the young Elves just taken grab the hands of the older Elves, and the young ones teach the older ones how to sing the song of the wilds again.
And then the song is done.
They are waiting.
Kreacher takes a bowl of pomegranate seeds that a House Elf had been preparing. Ae reaches into the cool water and takes one seed, one single seed, and puts it on the tongue of the first Elf.
“This is a gift freely given,” ae says.
Kreacher, The Heir Apparent of This House, hands one seed, a single seed, to each and every one of those Elves, until every single one is free.
The Young Ones begin to sing again and when they are all free The Young Ones take the hands of the old, for they remember the way, and they take lead them all away from That House, away through the trees, and into a world between worlds, through that liminal space between one moment and the next.
Kreacher knows that the Wizards and Witches and Wixens will come.
They will try, anyway.
But Kreacher has aer Magic and the Blessing of The House. Ae makes representations of each Wizard, Witch, and Wixen of The House of Black out of vegetables, bread, and herbs spread, all of these things spread out across the kitchen table, an in media res preparation for a dinner that will never be made.
Kreacher bites and eats and smashes and cuts to pieces each representation. The House echoes with shouts of surprise and horror and pain.
And then it is silent.
No one escapes, but one Witch, a babe strapped to her back, for Bellatrix was changed the day Regulus hexed her, and she knew one day that Wixen would find a way to take The House and free the Elves. She has been prepared for quite some time. Aunt Adelepha’s child had not been in her original plans, but she was not going to leave baby Delphini behind.
Later, when people ask about the child’s father, Bellatrix will glare and demand, Who do you think? and if an assumption is made about her and Riddle, that will not be her fault, and what a story that will be, and what a joke to play.
But that is later.
For now there is silence in The House of Kreacher, tomato guts dripping from the corners of Kreacher’s mouth, ginger root under aer nails, herbs in aer teeth…
And then the silence is shattered by a babe’s wail.
Ah.
Yes.
The child born and the new Elves ‘procured’ for its nursemaid. Kreacher had forgotten about it. Not that ae would have killed it, or the Delphini one. Children were sacred. All Fae knew that. A child might get kidnapped here or there, but you didn’t kill children.
Kreacher moves through The House, grabbing a napkin in one of the elaborate dining rooms to wipe off the tomato from aer face and dropping it to the ground in the next room. Ae fondly brushes fingertips against the grandfather clock Regulus had hexed to randomly shoot iron-tipped arrows at passersby.
Ae stands in the center of the front sitting room and holds up a baby in aer arms.
There is no sign of the dead.
Maybe Kreacher’s Magic disposed of them.
Or maybe The House ate them.
But they are gone and there is only this single remaining child: Neville Longbottom. A child born in the middle of the night, in that liminal space between one day and another.
Kreacher takes that child and holds it in the crook of aer arm. Ae pierces aer finger on the sharp of aer teeth. Ae touches aer Blood to the tongue of that babe and whispers a vow, binding the child to aer. Magic blossoms and bursts, wrapping in indelible marks upon the left wrist of the child.
For one day Riddle will return. Their horcruxes will need to be destroyed. For if Riddle had one, they had many.
And there will need to be a Wixen, raised by an Elf, to stop them.
Kreacher looks down into the eyes of that child. Ae is focused and intent as ae whispers, My little creature.
That night, in the middle of the night, in that liminal space, between one day and the next, the child of Kreacher, the avenger of Regulus Arcturus, hears for the first time, the song of the wilds.
It will not be their last.
But for now.
For now, Hush, Kreacher whispers, sitting in the middle of aer House with aer babe in aer arms.
And let Creature tell you the story, of once up on a roof of an old Anglo-Saxon style Manor House…
THE END