The wind rattled the heavy curtains of the Black ancestral ho—those thick,
velvet drapes that had seen centuries of dust—allowing thin, wavering ribbons of
moonlight to flicker across the room.
The parlor was filled with a thick, restless silence. Sirius Black paced a tight
circle, his eyes darting to the hallway every few seconds. He was impatient, yet
he allowed no trace of irritation to show. He waited with the fervor of a man in
prayer, like the dark of night waiting for the first sliver of the moon.
Beside him, Kreacher stood as a silent witness. To the house-elf, the passage of
ti had beco a blurry, indistinguishable cycle. He had watched the weeds in
the center of Grimmauld Place wither, turn brittle, and yellow in the sun for
years, his existence as unchanging as the stone walls around him.
For a long ti, Number 12 had no guests. The Muggles of the square had grown so
used to the ridiculous architectural error of Number 11 sitting directly against
Number 13 that they no longer even saw the gap.
But today was a day unlike any other.
Kreacher glanced down at the fake locket resting against his chest and felt
"new." The house itself seed to share the feeling. The kitchen below had been
scrubbed until it was nearly unrecognizable to Sirius. Every surface glead:
the copper pots and pans shone with a rose-colored luster, the wooden table had
been waxed to a mirror finish, and the dinner service was laid out, sparkling in
the glow of the hearth where a great cauldron simred with a rry fire.
The house-elf scurried forward to et Sean, looking far more dignified than he
had in decades. He was wrapped in a snow-white towel, the hair in his ears as
fluffy and white as cotton wool. Regulus's locket—the symbol of his
burden—bounced against his thin, bony chest.
"Master Green!" Kreacher croaked with delight.
"Mr. Green," Sirius added, offering a respectful, slight smile.
Directly ahead of them, a figure erged from the shadows of the staircase.
Sean Green's dark, ssy hair caught the dim light, and his erald eyes
remained sharp and bright even in the gloom. Following close behind was the
small, ever-vigilant figure of Will the Pukwudgie.
But it was what the boy carried that drew every eye. In his hand, Sean held a
long, elegant blade. It was sharp, noble, and ancient, with a massive, blood-red
ruby set into the hilt.
"The Sword of Gryffindor?" Sirius blurted out, his face pale with shock. He knew
that blade. Every student of the red-and-gold house knew the legend, but seeing
it in the flesh was another matter entirely.
"You've got a good eye, wizard," Will the Pukwudgie huffed.
"How... how is this possible?" Sirius breathed. He was utterly baffled. He knew
his "Lord" was a Ravenclaw through and through. How was a student of the eagle
house walking around with the most sacred relic of the lions?
Where did he find it? How did he draw it? And why, in rlin's na, did
Hogwarts allow him to just walk out the front door with it?
"To destroy a Horcrux, one requires a powerful magical dium," Sean explained
calmly, as if he were discussing a textbook assignnt. "The Sword of Gryffindor
was forged by goblins; it absorbs only that which strengthens it, taking into
itself the power of the things it slays."
"But..." Sirius found himself at a loss for words.
rlin's beard—what Gryffindor hadn't spent their school years fantasizing about
finding that sword? What lion hadn't dread of being a duelist like Godric
himself, wandering the world with that magnificent blade at their side?
And yet, here it was, in the hands of a Ravenclaw who spoke of it with such
terrifying casualness. His tone suggested a simple, undeniable logic: I required
the power of the Sword of Gryffindor, so it appeared, and thus, it belongs to
.
"May I... may I touch it? Ah—forgive , Mr. Green. I'm just... I'm
overwheld." Sirius quickly checked himself, regaining his composure.
"It's quite alright," Sean said.
He understood the impact the sword had on a true Gryffindor. Truthfully, even he
hadn't fully expected to be able to draw it. The Sorting Hat had always insisted
he possessed the brand of courage Gryffindor favored, though Sean often felt he
was simply a man moving toward a goal.
"Will," Sean said softly.
The Pukwudgie butler nodded and reached into a lead-lined, sealed box. The
mont the object was revealed, the temperature in the room seed to drop.
Sirius stared at it with a mixture of awe and visceral fear. He looked at the
serpentine "S" inlaid with glittering green eralds. In the flickering light,
it was easy to imagine it as a real snake, coiled and waiting on a cold stone
floor.
Kreacher imdiately began to shriek.
"That is it! That is it! Kreacher could not leave a single mark upon it!" the
elf wailed in a desperate, piercing hiss. "Kreacher tried everything! Every way!
Every spell! But not one, not one worked...
"The magic on the box is too strong. Kreacher believed it could only be
destroyed from the inside, but it will not open! Kreacher punished himself,
tried again... punished himself, tried again! Kreacher failed his Master!
Kreacher could not destroy the locket!"
The elf was gasping for air, his voice thick with tears. Even Sirius looked
pained.
"You miserable thing! How could you have possibly destroyed it?" Sirius said,
though his voice lacked its usual bite. "If it requires sothing as powerful as
the Sword of Gryffindor to leave a scratch—where would you have even found such
a thing?"
"Kreacher could not find it... Kreacher failed Master Regulus's final wish..."
The elf slumped, letting the cold wind bite at his fingers, which were scarred
from years of self-inflicted punishnt.
"It is alright, Mr. Kreacher," Sean said gently. He raised the sword.
In an instant, a sudden gale seed to sweep through the house. The heavy
curtains billowed inward, and the moonlight flooded the room, outlining Sean's
silhouette. He stood tall, his grip on the sword steady, his eyes as sharp as
the edge of the blade.
But he did not strike yet. Sean had rembered one final, crucial detail. The
locket was protected by layers of ancient, defensive magic. Striking the casing
would be futile. It had to be vulnerable.
"Open," Sean commanded.
But he didn't speak in English. He spoke in Parseltongue.
The word ca out as a low, sibilant hiss. Everyone froze, their eyes locked on
the locket. The erald "S" seed to writhe. Inside the golden casing,
sothing began to rustle and scuttle like a swarm of caged cockroaches.
With a final, hissing roar from Sean, the golden lid of the locket clicked and
sprang open.
Inside, behind two small glass windows, were two living eyes. They were dark,
bright, and alert—the eyes of Tom Riddle, just as they had looked before they
turned blood-red and his pupils thinned to slits.
☆☆☆
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