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Author: Myth & Legend Story: The Shadows Of Silence Rating: Teens Setting: Pre-HBP Status: Completed Reviews: 8 Words: 113,891
I, Sirius Black, being of sound mind and emotion do hereby bequeath all that remains of the Black estates and Properties to Master Harry Potter, to use or destroy as he sees fit. Until he is of adult age by law, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore is to be given full control on the condition that he ensures Harry's wishes are taken into consideration before action is pursued. Signed: Sirius Black. A man rustled the sheets of the Daily Prophet. The soft whisper of the sheaves should have been lost within the large, busy halls of Gringotts, but it reached Harry's ears. The boy was leaning back against one of the towering, opalescent pillars that were so prominent in the goblin bank's architecture. His stance was casual and relaxed. Someone who had been watching him for the past few minutes might have described him as loose-limbed, but his eyes were alert, always scanning the crowd, jumping from figure to figure and back again. Other than that the only time he moved was when he brushed against the smaller form of Ginny Weasley standing next to him. Then he would flinch sideways ever so slightly before resuming his watch. ‘How long are they going to be?' Ginny asked. She was referring to Ron and her mother, who had journeyed down to their vault to collect any funds that could be spared for school supplies. ‘Not much longer, Hermione's just about done.' Harry motioned to where the witch stood at the counter. Her eyes were watching the goblins' actions without blinking, counting along with them as they changed pounds and pence for Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. ‘I don't feel safe here.' Ginny's admission made Harry consider her a bit more carefully before his eyes returned to the crowd in front of them. ‘I know how you feel,' he reassured, ‘but we're being watched by at least three people.' ‘Like who?' ‘Moody's behind the paper, at least I think it's him. He hasn't turned the page for a fair while because he's been busy watching us.' As if he had heard them, the page turned and rustled, making Ginny smile. ‘The young boy who knocked over the pot plant was Tonks, I'll bet anything, and there's a man over there who keeps glaring at us. I don't recognise him though.' ‘Perhaps he's not on our side.' ‘I'd like to see him try something here if he isn't.' Harry smiled grimly, ‘He'll be blown into the next century.' He dug his hands into his pockets and tightened his right hand around his wand. His left brushed against his money pouch and the small key that allowed him access to his vault. He was always terrified of losing it, fearful that he'd never get to the money and would have to rely even more on the Dursleys' charity. It hadn't happened yet, thank goodness! He had retrieved the money he would need earlier with Lupin at his side. Now the older man had disappeared on some errand for Dumbledore, promising only to return to Fortesques' at four. ‘They are so tight. They were going to short change me by almost three Galleons!' Hermione huffed as she approached, her money cradled close to her body. Her fluffy hair was tied back out of her face today, but the rainy day had not helped its condition, and despite its restraint it had frizzed almost beyond control. Her face was flushed with indignation, but it changed to concern when Harry shifted uncomfortably. ‘Is your back still hurting?' ‘Not as much, and I'd rather have the pain than the lack of sleep.' Harry's smile was sincere, but it quelled under the force of Hermione's glare. ‘I still think it's a bit extreme. I mean perhaps a small insignia, but it covers most of your back!' ‘Oh come on Hermione, it was necessary,' Ginny soothed, a wicked gleam slipping into her eyes. ‘Besides, you've got to admit it does tarnish Harry's noble image, makes him a bit more rebellious.' ‘I'm right here, you know,' Harry pointed out. ‘But a sword!' Hermione scoffed, 'A whopping great big sword with thorns all around it. There's no symbolism for that! Nothing!' She sighed as she pocketed her money. ‘Those designs are meant to be specific to the wearer. Some show Animagi forms, others strengths or hidden flaws. For the past week I've been looking for the relevance of the picture, and there isn't any. As far as I can see it's just a disfiguring waste of space.' She thought about it for a second. ‘I mean, apart from letting you get some sleep, of course.' ‘Well, I'm stuck with it now,' Harry stated with a shrug, smiling as Molly Weasley and Ron marched up to them, both looking distinctly unwell. ‘Oh I hate those carts, they're so unsafe,' Molly moaned, ‘and of course, Ron couldn't get out of it because of the spiders.' ‘Wimp,' Ginny teased. ‘Shut up.' ‘Come on you two, pack that in. Where are the twins and Bill?' ‘Gone to their shop. They said they'd be back by dinner time.' ‘Hmmm, well at least I don't have to buy books for those two this year. Ginny dear, do you need any new copies?' They walked down the exterior marble steps of Gringotts, their shoes slipping in the rain dappled puddles as they went. Hermione was trying to convince Molly of the benefits of having the latest editions of textbooks whilst Ron mourned his ill-fitting robes. ‘I mean look.' He waved a hand of disgust at his tattered hem. ‘It's about half a foot too small for me.' ‘You ought to stop growing then,' Harry replied, only to receive a sly look from his friend. ‘It's not like you're exactly short yourself, mate.' That much was true. He couldn't quite match Ron for height, but he wasn't that far behind. He'd noticed it earlier in the holidays when Hermione complained that she got a crick in her neck from talking up to them all the time. It seemed she'd stopped growing at about five foot five. They'd just kept going. ‘One thing's certain though,' Ron continued, ‘you're not going to get too fat for them in any hurry. Why is it that no matter what Mum feeds you, you still look like you're starving?' ‘I'm naturally thin.' ‘Huh, more like naturally emaciated.' Ron looked smug at his extended vocabulary and poked Harry in the ribs. ‘Never mind, I guess you'll be fast on a broomstick.' They all went into Madam Malkin's and were treated to the shopkeeper's critically and often brutally accurate eye. Ginny and Hermione were hustled in one direction whilst Ron and Harry went in another. The witch measured Harry, muttering to herself as she did before passing him some black robes. ‘Try these on dear. Let me know how they are.' Harry grimaced at the plain black robes, shrugging out of the t-shirt he wore in order to get a better idea of the fit. He had his back to the mirror, but just as he was about to pull the robes down over his body, a movement caught his eye. He looked over his shoulder and stared at his back. The broad sword ran the length of his spine, the hilt resting between his shoulder blades and the point of the blade at his waist. A creeper, covered with thorns, was twined all around it. The thorns flexed like little claws and he could almost imagine them pricking his skin. They snaked and twisted, as though trying to enslave the weapon. He shook his head, dispelling his uncertainty as he covered the mark with his robes. It was normal. He had to admit that, even now, magic still took him by surprise. He found himself caught between thinking of it as very primitive and at the same time phenomenally advanced. He'd been in the world with magic for over half a decade and still, every day, he felt a little thrill that it was under his control. Well, some of it was. Not Potions, and Divination was completely beyond his reach, but he could do Charms and Transfiguration. ‘Are they all right dear?' Madame Malkin's voice made him jump, but he managed to stutter ‘F-fine thanks.' ‘Do you want to wear them? Those ones you've got are looking a little ragged, but there are youngsters at the orphanage who would be happy for them.' ‘Orphanage?' Harry asked, then shook his head at his ignorance. Wizards and witches died just like Muggles, leaving their children behind. Hell, he was an example of that. ‘Take them, please?' ‘Of course, Mr Potter. I think your friends are waiting for you.' Ron and Harry graciously carried the bags, hanging back as the girls and Molly made their way down Diagon Alley. The air smelt of rain and wet hag, and an overcast sky sulked above them. They clung to the edges of the cobbled road, cowering under the shop porches and overhangs in an effort to keep dry. The Magical Menagerie was a humid haven of warmth and they all waited patiently as Ginny bought all sorts of essentials for Genie. Hermione dragged them into Flourish and Blotts, stacking everyone high with all their books for the term and buying herself some decent parchment and new quills. ‘She's an addict,' Ron muttered, heaving his books along with him as they departed to Fortesque's. ‘I'm telling you, she gets all excited just looking at pens and stuff. It's weird.' ‘No more odd than you getting all sweaty over new broomsticks,' Ginny replied in her friend's defence. ‘But broomsticks have speed, power, beauty. They have purpose!' ‘A broomstick is a branch with a bundle of twigs on the end,' Hermione pointed out. ‘How can you say that? A broom has soul!' Harry gave a small sigh as his pile of books wobbled precariously. He wasn't going to bother getting involved in this kind of argument. It was, when it came down to it, Hermione and Ron's way of paying attention to each other. Besides, Hermione would win. She always did. They slid into the brightly lit ice cream parlour, settling at a table and ordering hot drinks rather than frozen desserts. The smell of hot chocolate and coffee mingled with the more subtle scent of tea as they huddled over their steaming mugs, fielding their warmth on the chilly summer day. ‘Are you positive you've got everything? Potion ingredients, robes, gloves, cauldrons, books?' ‘Mum really, we've got everything we're ever going to need,' Ron replied, leaning back in his chair and taking a gulp of scalding hot beverage. Harry winced as his friend spluttered and panted, trying to cool his burning mouth. ‘Anything we haven't got we can pick up in Hogsmeade.' ‘Well, that's the problem. You see, what with times as they are they might not let you go into the village. It could be too dangerous.' ‘Great,' Ginny grumbled, ‘we're going to be cooped up in that castle all year.' ‘It's not that bad,' Harry replied, thinking of the tunnel that came up in the bottom of Honeydukes before dismissing it. ‘Besides it's better to be bored than dead.' Ron looked like he might want to disagree, but he never got a chance to say anything because Lupin rushed up to their table looking nervous and unsettled. ‘What is it?' Hermione wanted to know. ‘I'm afraid we need to get out of here,' Remus whispered, his hands clenched into fists as he spoke. ‘There's been an unconfirmed sighting of a Death Eater. It's not for certain, but we cannot afford to take any risks.' ‘Back to the Burrow?' Molly suggested, rooting in her bag for Floo Powder. ‘I'm afraid not. Harry,' now his eyes became apologetic, almost wild with regret, ‘we need to get you to Grimmauld Place. I'm so sorry.' Harry gave a rueful smile as he picked up the bags. ‘It's all right. It's safe, and that's what matters.' ‘Is the fireplace unblocked yet?' ‘Yes, we had Kingsley and Emmeline up to their elbows in soot for days. Had a rather unfortunate incident in fact, but Shacklebolt will be all right in a day or two. The Floo Network, however, is still strictly off-limits, Molly. It's not safe, even if it is the easiest way for non-Apparators to travel. Tonks is waiting for us outside.' ‘So what do we do?' Hermione demanded. ‘Walk?' ‘No,' Lupin replied, ‘we walk fast. Come on. We want to stay within crowded areas as much as possible. When this becomes a difficulty, we will Portkey to the Blacks' old residence.' Tonks fell into step in silence. Her hair was long and blonde at the moment, her eyes dazzling silver. Lips, painted dark blood red, were pursed and fixed in lines of anger but she spared Harry a fleeting smile. ‘We are overreacting, Professor,' she murmured to Lupin. ‘I'm not of the Alumni anymore, Miss Tonks, and I would rather overreact than lose anyone else to his hands.' By "his" Remus meant Voldemort, and Harry's thoughts went back to the Muggle who was murdered previously. It had been all over the newspapers, Muggle and wizarding alike. The Daily Telegraph stated that the cause of death was "mysterious circumstances". The Daily Prophet said that, without a doubt, the cause of death was Lord Voldemort. No one knew the motivation, and it seemed that no one knew the victim, a young Muggle woman without friends or family. That had been the last attack, and then it had returned to the eerie silence, at least until now. A number of Death Eater impersonators, kids playing pranks, had been caught and mercilessly prosecuted to the full extent of the law, but even that wasn't the threat it had been. Now that the Dementors had fled Azkaban, the formidable prison had limited security, and anyone with any amount of determination could break out. They paced for a handful of minutes, dodging and darting through the crowds of rain-soaked shoppers. It was as they reached the exit to Diagon Alley and stepped out amongst the dustbins and boxes that lined the back of the pub that Lupin looked around in puzzlement. ‘Damn.' It was the first time Harry had heard his dad's old friend use any kind of swearword. ‘What is it?' ‘The Portkey is a dustbin lid.' He waved a hand around the old-fashioned silver cans. ‘The question is, which one?' ‘Surely we'll know if we touch it.' ‘It's set to activate only once. So we all have to touch it simultaneously.' ‘What if someone's already thrown the rubbish away and accidentally been taken to Grimmauld Place?' Molly asked, her tone appalled. ‘It's tuned to my and Tonks' magical signatures. It's only us who can trigger it.' Lupin approached the nearest dustbin and ushered everyone around it in a circle. ‘On the count of three, touch the lid all right? One, two, three!' Nothing happened; they all just stood there in the rain feeling like fools. ‘All right keep moving, we'll try them all.' They repeated the process three more times before there was a flicker of ebony light and the familiar sensation of something tugging at the navel whipped them through space and into the dim confines of the noble and most ancient house of Black. Ron landed in a large brass pot. It was filled with soil and a small tree, and it toppled with a clang as he stumbled on the unexpected surface. Mud scattered across the rug and the tree uprooted itself, trying to walk away, but Molly scooped it up in a second and shoved it back into its pot before helping her son to his feet. ‘Are you all right dear?' she whispered. ‘It's a blessing you didn't wake Mrs Black.' Ron nodded, rubbing his twisted ankle as Molly ushered them all into the living room, leaving the bags in the hall. Only Harry hung back, stacking the various robes and books neatly to one side; it was best to limit the amount of stuff available for Tonks to fall over. The house itself was brighter and less forbidding than it had used to be. The troll leg umbrella stand had been done away with, as had most of the portraits. The floor, once a grimy wood with moth-eaten, threadbare old rugs had been polished to a shine. A massive clock ticked quietly in the centre of one wall. It was a nice clock. The wood of its massive case was a deep red, mottled with the grain of the tree it had come from. Just like the clock from the Weasleys' house, it had descriptions rather than numbers and a great deal of hands—one for each of the Order and their families. ‘I can see you,' a little voice whispered, chilling his skin. He turned his eyes to the black drapes that hung across Mrs Black's portrait. There was a little gap where the two met and between it he could see a bloodshot eye, peering at him. ‘You foul child. You should never have been born.' The whispering continued its abuse and Harry crossed his arms and leant his weight back slightly, listening to her. Normally Mrs Black would shriek and scream in a fit of rage. The whispering was strange, and whilst he knew it was emanating from the portrait, it felt as though the hatred and the loathing were seeping from the walls themselves. ‘He's dead. Shame of my flesh, at last he died. Bellatrix is a good girl. She killed him for me. What a good girl.' Harry felt bile rise in his throat at those cruel words, but he was prevented from saying anything by Ginny who stuck her head around the living room door. ‘Harry, don't listen to anything she says. She's gone mad, completely mad.' Harry nodded in understanding and went to walk towards the living room, but Mrs Black had other ideas. As soon as she saw Ginny through the drapes, an invisible wind stirred, whipping the curtains into a horizontal, thrashing cloud of fabric. The canvas bulged alarmingly as the old witch struggled to reach out to them. ‘Filth! Foul, disgusting, tarnished filth! You shall die within this house. You will suffer for tainting the noble and most ancient house of Black!' ‘That's enough.' Harry's quiet statement shouldn't have been audible above the woman's tirade, but it seemed to carry across the air with ease. Whether from shock or fear, the woman fell silent, her mouth hanging open and her body frozen in mid-blow. The drapes flattened back against the wall and Harry and Ginny made certain they were pulled firmly closed. ‘She's never done what anyone has told her before,' Ginny muttered, ‘stupid old hag.' The drapes twitched and the girl rushed back into the living room. A fire was crackling in the grate, filling the room with warmth. The rain continued to drum against the windows as Lupin prodded and poked the embers. ‘This house has every ward and protection the entire Order could think of,' Molly grouched, rubbing her hands together, ‘and yet none of them could come up with a decent insulation charm.' ‘How long are we likely to be here for?' Hermione asked as she shook out a large feather duvet and spread it out across the sofa, giving Mrs Weasley some as she made herself comfortable in its depths and picked up a book. ‘We'll stay until Dumbledore gives us the all clear.' ‘I can get Arthur to bring over your trunks and possessions dear, and your examination results should find you without a problem, so you needn't worry.' ‘We should have received those in July!' Hermione's tension was clear in her voice. ‘It's almost the end of August now!' Remus cleared his throat uncomfortably and jabbed at the fire, causing sparks to leap up into the chimney's gaping maw. ‘Yes, there was a problem with some of your theory examinations. Professor McGonagall told me at great length about it only a few days ago. It appears that Dolores Umbridge took it upon herself to, er, fiddle with some answers to reflect better on some students than others. Restoring the papers to their original condition has taken a lot of time, but you should have your results any day now.' ‘I don't want to know,' Ron decided miserably. ‘I've probably got T's for everything.' ‘Ron, you are more intelligent than a Troll,' Molly chided. ‘Besides, even Fred and George managed a few O's, and Academia isn't exactly their strong point is it?' ‘It's all right Ron,' Harry muttered from where he sat at the fireside. ‘I need an O in Potions. What hope have I got?' ‘Harry, you're good at Potions,' Hermione said encouragingly. ‘It's just Snape is a- well he's a very narrow-minded person.' ‘There's no point in even thinking about it,' Ron said unhappily. ‘The last thing I need to be thinking about is exam results, or even exams. Maybe we were a bit too eager to buy stuff. I mean, what if I've failed them all?' The hours marched onwards, the wet day becoming a blustery night. Lamps were lit to ward off the darkness and Arthur arrived, along with Kingsley and Moody carrying trunks and various pets. Hermione had tempted Ron, Harry, and Ginny into a game of Muggle Monopoly and currently had possession of hotels on Mayfair and Park Lane, as well as all the stations and utilities. She was winning and being smug about it as she steered the boot around "Go." They didn't notice all the adults leave the room, drifting one by one up to bed. It was only when Tonks came back down in her nightie and told them it was gone two in the morning that they packed the game away. ‘We're going to sleep down here, and I think Ron and Harry should too, our rooms are really damp and cold,' Ginny pointed out. ‘We've got duvets and everything. I promise we'll be quiet.' ‘Humph,' Tonks crossed her arms and looked from one innocent face to another. ‘All right, but if Molly shouts at you tomorrow then I'm in no way involved, all right?' ‘Thanks.' Ron grinned, collapsing on the sofa and lying back in the warm cocoon of the quilt. It was only when the woman had retreated upstairs that he muttered, ‘It's so hard to sleep in this place. Even now it's a bit creepy.' ‘I know what you mean,' Hermione agreed. ‘It's a bit better, but I think there might be something living under our floor, don't you Ginny?' ‘I had hoped it was Crookshanks.' ‘It's not that bad,' Harry stated, grabbing a pillow and blanket and laying them in front of the fire. ‘Especially now that most of the gross things have gone. It would be a hell of a lot better without Mrs Black though.' ‘Stupid woman's stuck to the wall, she's here to stay.' ‘Just like Kreacher,' Ron grumbled. ‘Paintings like that, are they alive?' Harry asked, turning to Hermione. ‘No, not really. They're a memory, sort of like an imprint. If you destroyed any painting, you would simply be destroying a symbol of their physical and mental presence, not the person themselves.' ‘So what's to stop you from just cutting the picture out of the frame? If she won't unstick by magic, surely you could just destroy her the Muggle way.' ‘I think she'd scream her head off and kick up a right fuss.' ‘It would get rid of her though, Ron.' There was a curse out in the hall, followed by a shriek and another rant began to fill the air with livid words. ‘Oh you stupid woman!' Bill's voice hissed. ‘Fred, George, give me a hand before she wakes everyone up.' Harry went out into the hall and passed the struggling Weasley boys. He padded down the steps into the subterranean kitchen and found the sharpest knife he could. It probably wasn't the best tool for the job, but it would have to do. ‘Is there any way to muffle the amount of noise she makes?' he asked as he returned to the hallway where Bill was shooting charms at the portrait as the twins struggled to silence her. ‘No. Bloody hell, if she's like this as a portrait what must she have been like when she was alive?' Fred muttered before he spotted the knife in Harry's hand. ‘What are you doing with that?' ‘Solving a problem.' He started at the bottom edge of the canvas, ignoring the threatening ripples and distortions of the ancient surface. The knife didn't make any impact, and for a moment, he thought it might be protected against any kind of damage. But as he applied more pressure, it plunged through and came in contact with the wall on the other side. The woman fell silent, her eyes bulging horribly as her mouth hung slack. She didn't scream, but she spoke in a voice full of hatred. ‘Your father, that wretched Potter boy. I remember him. He used to come here and foul this house with his filthy name. He was a useless wizard, a fool, just like you. Your mother had him wrapped around her little finger. It was she that killed him in the end. She gave birth to you. You demon child. Unholy magic that you don't even know you have!' The shriek fell to a whisper, ‘But you'll know. One day soon, you'll know and you'll wish you were dead with your pitiful poor parents.' Now she was crouching in the landscape, trying to put her fingers in the way of the knife blade, trying to stem the flakes of paint that chipped away and crumbled to dust. ‘Stop it. Stop it you murderer, you killer!' ‘Got to start somewhere,' Harry muttered, turning the corner and picking up speed. ‘Kreacher! Kreacher!' Fred and George spun around, wands at the ready as Bill stood close to Harry. ‘Hurry up. If the house-elf gets here he'll blow us all away.' ‘No he won't.' ‘How are you so confident, Harry?' he asked in amazement. ‘How do you know he won't?' Harry kept cutting. Here and there, the parchment had thickened with age and he had to use sawing motions. Flecks of paint landed on his hands and skin, but he was almost there, almost. ‘Fred, George, don't get in Kreacher's way. I don't want you to get hurt.' ‘What are you going to do with her once you've cut her out? Lock her up somewhere?' ‘Burn her.' ‘Harry!' That was Hermione's voice. She was standing in the doorway with Ron and Ginny. The Weasleys didn't seem surprised, but Hermione seemed horrified. ‘You can't do that!' ‘Why not?' ‘Because-' ‘Hermione, is she a horrible woman?' ‘Yes.' ‘Is she living in a time that is no longer appropriate?' ‘Well yes, but-' ‘Do you think that if she was alive today that she would be on Dumbledore's side, or Voldemort's? Do you think she would hesitate to kill your parents?' Hermione was stunned into silence, her brown eyes wide. ‘But she hasn't killed anyone.' ‘Hasn't she?' The canvas fell to the floor just as Kreacher's shuffling footsteps approached. The old house-elf lifted watery eyes to the naked frame and gave a squeal of rage. ‘Mistress! Mistress, what have the horrid ones done to you?' ‘Mrs Black?' Harry asked, curtailing any response from the woman still huddled in the canvas in his hands. ‘Are you sorry for how you spent your life, how you treated your children and the people around you?' ‘Never.' ‘Do you feel pain, Mrs Black? Do you feel pain like the Muggles you killed?' Harry knew that it was only a guess, but his face distorted with distaste at her reply. ‘One family, it makes no difference. Diseased and pestilent country!' Harry rolled her up, muffling her spiteful words and stalked off to the kitchen, ignoring Kreacher's threats and the scrape of his claws across the skin of his arms. ‘He won't really do it, will he?' he heard Hermione whisper. An adult voice replied, ‘If he does, then he's done nothing wrong. Just rid this house of its last demon.' The stove in one corner was hot, the fire in its belly still burning bright. Harry opened the door, stepping back from the wave of heat and embers as he spoke again. ‘Last chance, Mrs Black. Last chance to preserve your memory.' ‘Demon child!' the woman spat. Those were the last words she said as he put the parchment deliberately into the flames and watched the paper begin to curl and the paint bubble and blister. He was about to shut the door when Kreacher darted forwards, tears pouring down his face as he plunged his hands into the flames and tried to pull the portrait out. He squealed in pain and rage as Harry dragged him away, slamming the stove door and hanging on tight to the struggling house elf. He winced as the claws gouged deep into his arms but said nothing, curling protectively around the servant and hanging on for all he was worth. ‘No, Kreacher no, come on. You'll hurt yourself. Mrs Black is dead. She died a long time ago.' ‘Mistress! MISTRESS!' ‘Can you remember when she died, Kreacher?' ‘Just now, you killed Mistress!' ‘No Kreacher, I didn't kill her, but I think I know who did. So do you, don't you?' ‘Mistress was good to him, good to him!' ‘And he didn't care did he?' ‘Kreacher will not tell. Let go, let go!' ‘No, I won't let go. You can hurt me, bite me, and push me away, but it won't work.' Harry said the words without thinking as he held the insane house elf, trying not to think of the trickery and deceit it had committed so casually, and the consequences of those actions. ‘Harry.' He looked up at Ron who was standing in the doorway. ‘Well done, mate.' ‘What for?' ‘You did what no one else dared to. You were ruthless enough to face the past and deal with it whilst the rest of us just kept hiding it behind drapes and trying to ignore it.' ‘Yeah, well I got fed up of her muttering things about Sirius.' ‘Maybe you should come and see this. There's a picture behind where Mrs Black used to be.' ‘Fantastic,' Harry muttered sarcastically. ‘It hasn't screamed abuse at us yet.' Ron gave a tired smile and waited as his friend gathered up the sobbing Kreacher and carried him out into the hall. The heavy gilt frame had fallen to the floor, where it lay fractured and tarnished in the light of the lamps. It seemed the whole house had woken up and was crowded around the new picture. No one spoke; they all just stared at it. A young woman with long, dark hair sat on a throne. Her robes were resplendent in rich reds and blues and a graceful crown encircled her temples. At her left side was a lion, on her right a large serpent. A badger was settled in her lap in the fashion of a domesticated cat, and an eagle was perched on the back of her throne. All around the border were words, Latin words for spells. They flickered and changed so rapidly that there was barely the time to read and recognise them, although Hermione was trying. As Harry approached, the woman stood and put the badger to one side. She bowed low and then rose, a serene smile on her face, before resuming her seat. There was a brief expression of concern on her face, and quietly, she spoke. ‘You all face great things. They may change the world beyond the stretch of the imagination. Beware the old race. They will thwart you should they live, but will destroy you in death.' ‘The old race?' Ginny questioned, but the woman remained silent, her face impassive as though, for now, the spirit was elsewhere. ‘Probably an old recording spell,' Arthur reassured his daughter. ‘It's a pretty generic message. A general warning. I assume, Harry, that Mrs Black is no longer with us.' ‘No.' ‘You don't think perhaps you should have asked the owner of the house first?' ‘I think Dumbledore will see my reasons.' Moody looked surprised before a small smile spread across his lips. ‘Yes boy, I'm sure he would. Now all of you to bed, you might as well enjoy what's left of the summer holiday while you can.' Sleep slowly claimed them one by one, and although Harry held Kreacher close, the tears never abated. It was in the darkest hour before sunrise that the house-elf vanished with a pop and life expired from his old frame. No head on the wall for Kreacher, and no family left to serve. All he could do was preserve the warped honour of darkness and take his secrets to the grave.
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