Beams met in a series of intricate arches overhead. It was dimly lit in the attic, with storage cluttered in enormous piles without any semblance of organization. If one looked closely at numerous trinkets, they’d see the story of a proud, ancient family who fell to ruin.
A small figure shuffled toward the back of the room, muttering irritably under his breath. This was a house-elf by the name of Kreacher. He was incredibly old – over 500 years – with a bulbous, snout-like nose, bloodshot eyes, and many folds of skin hanging off his frame. White hair grew out of the long, pointed ears that drooped past his thin shoulders.
“Kreacher is sorry, Master,” the elf bemoaned as he clawed at his leg. He didn’t care about the pain. He deserved it for failing his Master so many times. “He tried. Oh, yes, he did, but he couldn’t disobey Young Master. That traitor will try to ruin everything. Kreacher won’t let him, dear Master Regulus. Kreacher will keep his promise, no matter what it takes. He will.”
He wished to be left alone with his Master and the locket he swore to destroy. He didn’t want the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black to be filled with those disgusting peasants.
Years have passed, but the pain of loss hasn’t gone away. Kreacher feels the broken bonds inside of him, continuously throbbing since the deaths of his beloved Masters and Mistress. It was a gaping hole that would never be filled again. Kreacher often felt numb, disconnected from everything. It was preferred to drowning in heartbreak and guilt. Those feelings always followed another failed attempt at destroying the evil locket. The only time he was capable of happiness was when he visited Master Regulus in the attic.
Kreacher picked up the pace as he neared a floor to ceiling wall of Black family treasures. It was enchanted to withstand any attempts to tear it down. He couldn’t risk any mudbloods stumbling upon the Inferius, after all. The old elf could have gone straight here without all the walking, but he wouldn’t risk it. Paranoia clung tightly to his chest. What if Young Master demanded to know where he disappeared to? If he went directly to his dead Master, that’s what he’d have to say.
This way, he could reply ‘the attic’ without their pesky, unwanted bond forcing words out that he’d rather keep in.
“Master Regulus,” Kreacher breathed in delight after he finally deemed it safe to disapparate.
Master Regulus stared back with dead white eyes, misted as though filled with cobwebs. His right cheek was ripped off – showing teeth and rotted gums. It was his only visible injury. Master was safe here; Kreacher wouldn’t let anything else hurt him. The elf might’ve been forced to leave The Crystal Cave with the locket, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go back.
Loopholes were beautiful things. They allowed him to bring his Master home where he belonged.
“Young Master brought mudbloods and bloodtraitors,” the elf felt a cold rage at the thought. It began in his heart and spread throughout his entire body, settling deep in his bones. “Kreacher thought he was dead. If only Kreacher could be so lucky. Oh, how he wishes he could alert the Aurors and get nasty Master thrown back into Azkaban where all the other wretched things go.”
His Master stared back without any expression on his dead face. The black magic used to perform this level of necromancy poured out of it in waves. He’s been less violent since Kreacher removed him from Crystal Cave, where other victims lie waiting for the water to be disturbed. Unfortunately, he is still primarily controlled by the Dark Lord. However, Kreacher was able to tweak the ritualic enchantment enough to have minimal influence over the Inferius.
It wouldn’t do to have Master Regulus attack Kreacher. It would break his heart, even if it was no longer beating. He was a good, kind Master.
“Kreacher will get rid of them,” the house-elf promised. “He doesn’t know how, but he will find a way, for you Master.”
Young Master Sirius didn’t deserve to access the House of Black. He crushed Mistress’s heart and turned his back on Master Regulus when the boy needed him. How many times did Kreacher have to see their tears or hear the betrayal in their voices?
Too many.
~~~~~~~
Vitriol was highly corrosive and ranged from colorless to a slightly yellow viscous liquid. It was sold in apothecaries in small, safe doses. Kreacher disregarded the recommended dosage and filled a cauldron to the brim with it in its purest, deadliest form. Once that was done, he gathered up his strength and lashed his magic out at the cauldron. Pulsing from his thin fingertips was a bright light. It flickered from amber to black and back to a golden hue. The same powerful energy swirled around the old elf and attacked the cauldron from all sides, causing the acidic liquid inside to come to a dangerous boil.
Kreacher poured his all into making the vitriol as destructive as possible. When he could do no more, he collapsed onto the ground, breathing heavily. A coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth, and it felt like a fire was burning through his veins— Kreacher blacked out for a few moments from overexertion.
“Up, Kreacher,” he whimpered after his brain swam uneasily into consciousness. Every move he attempted to make felt more like a negotiation than a demand. “UP! UP! UP!”
The house-elf forced himself to stand on wobbling, spindly limbs. This is for Master Regulus. He thought. Keep going for Master Regulus. With a snap, Slytherins' locket appeared in his small hand. Holding it still made him nauseous, even after all these years.
WRONG! WRONG! The object seemed to shout. EVIL! ABOMINATION!
Horcruxes were a crime against nature. They were worse than almost any other kind of magic. They shouldn’t exist. If they didn’t, his Master would still be alive!
“Die!” Kreacher hissed at the locket and threw the horrid thing; loathing etched onto his wrinkled face.
When the locket fell into the cauldron, an explosion seared the air, intent on destroying everything in its path. He barely managed to disapparate fast enough to avoid injury. Did that do it? Did Kreacher finally succeed? He’s done everything he could think of. The vitriol was an idea that came to him out of desperation. Kreacher tried so many different things; he could hardly keep track of them all. There HAD to be away. Master Regulus was upstairs counting on him!
Fear and anxiety tied his insides into knots as he worked up the nerve to go back and check.
“NO!” Kreacher wailed at the sight that awaited him in the room. For the only thing left was Slytherins’ locket, lying on the floor without so much as a scratch. The cauldron had melted into a puddle of goop on the ground.
His heart shattered in his chest. The sound that escaped him was more than just weeping; it was the type of desolate sobbing that came from being depleted of all hope.
“Bad, Kreacher!” He slammed his head onto the ground. “Bad elf! Bad!” Pain stabbed his skull, but it didn’t matter. He deserved it. He was a failure. A disgrace. “Shame on the House of Black!”
How could he show his face in the presence of Master Regulus ever again?