We can get rid of illness with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair and hopelessness is love. There are many people in the world who die of hunger, but there are even more who die because they lack love.
(Mother Teresa)
***
At first glance, the house looked depressing. It was immediately clear that no one had lived there for a long time. Dust, cobwebs... Brrr.
Sirius remembered this place quite differently, although he perceived it more as a cage in which circumstances had imprisoned him. Walburga was a strict mother, and her temper was balanced by Sirius's father, Orion, who, unfortunately, had been ill for a long time. This did not add to Walburga's kindness.
Walking down the long corridor leading to the cloakroom and living room, I approached a pair of long, dust-covered curtains with some trepidation. They were closed, but I knew what was behind them. I stood there for a few seconds, gathering my courage.
"Hello, Mother...
Valburga Black looked at me from the portrait as if she were alive. She was an elderly but still beautiful woman in an old-fashioned dress and black bonnet. In Sirius's memories, she was completely different. Younger, slimmer... And her green eyes had never held so much hatred and contempt mixed with deep sorrow and pain as they did now. Now she stood, straightened to her full height, her hands folded over her chest, staring straight into my eyes. In typical Black fashion, she did not look away or blink.
"Oh, you finally called me mother. It was worth dying for this moment, wasn't it, Sirius?" Walburga's face twisted into a bitter smile.
It was true. After their first big fight, Sirius had only ever referred to his mother as "Lady Black." At first, he had done it to provoke the perpetually cold and strict woman, but then it had simply become a habit.
"It works both ways, Mum," I blurted out.
And that was also true. Lady Black only called her son by his name during moments of maternal tenderness or when she was angry. Raised in a strict family of old aristocrats, Walburga rarely allowed herself what she considered to be "excessive" tenderness, and her rebellious son resisted the manners instilled in him in every way possible. So the second case of expressing feelings was more frequent.
"Damn..." I already reproached myself for the phrase that had slipped out. It hurt the old woman, and now I could literally see the emotions changing on her face. Now she would scream, as she had done in childhood, in an authoritative, deep voice, her lips curling familiarly and a little blood rushing to her cheeks. But Walburga unexpectedly... simply laughed.
"It seems to run in the family," Lady Black said, and after a smile lit up her face, she seemed transformed. Even the colours on the canvas seemed brighter. After laughing, she looked back at me, brushing a single tear from her cheek.
"I've been waiting for you, son.
***
I stood near the canvas for a long time, talking to my mother about everything that had happened to me. About Peter, about the cold days in Azkaban, about my escape and my first meeting with my godson, about my thoughts, about Dumbledore and the Ministry. I didn't say a word about Artem's life. I don't think Walburga would accept it... Besides, no matter how much it seemed to me that I was talking to a living person, it was just a portrait.
I had heard from an old master once that a portrait was an imprint of the soul on canvas, containing the strongest emotions, thoughts, memories, all the good and bad. It was really true. Walburga wasn't alive in the full sense of the word... But she was still my mother. Let it be so.
After thinking about it for a while, I realised that I, Artem, no longer separated myself from Sirius, at least not as much as I had in the early days at Azkaban. I don't know when it happened, but only now did I realise that I could not be called either Artem or Sirius in the full sense of the word. The real me was different, as if I were two people...
But let's leave the soul-searching for next time.
After talking to my mother, I promised that when I was done with everything, I would open her portrait again. Right now, both she and I needed a little rest. The portraits had a dreamlike effect, although the people depicted in them didn't really need to rest; it helped them cope with boredom and not go mad from loneliness.
Passing by the umbrella stand that clumsy Meda loved to trip over, I went out into the living room, from where I could go to the library and the head of the house's study. And I discovered... Yes! Again, that damn dust that made me want to sneeze all the time. Something had to be done about it.
"Kricher!" I knew for sure that at least this elf had to stay in the house after Walburga's death. The rest... Most often, house elves die after the death of their master. I didn't know if this was because the race of funny, eared magical creatures had to feed off their owner's magic, or because they became very attached to their masters, even to the point of attempting suicide after their loss. There used to be many house-elves in the Black house, but most likely only this old grumpy one remained — Regulus's personal house-elf.
"Kreacher!" I called again. "Where the hell are you?!"
A second later, the house-elf appeared in front of me with a soft thud. He was completely naked except for a dirty loincloth and looked very old. His skin seemed so large that it could have fit several of his kind, like a wetsuit five sizes too big stretched over a skeleton. Although Kreacher was bald, like all house elves, a fair amount of grey hair protruded from his large, bat-like ears. His eyes were watery grey with redness, and his long, fleshy nose resembled an animal's snout.
"Master..." the House-elf began, but immediately hunched over and muttered under his breath in a hoarse, guttural voice that sounded like a frog croaking: "Master, you ungrateful offspring of the Mistress, you broke your mother's heart..."
"Stop," I interrupted the House-elf, who was getting carried away, "your behaviour is unworthy of a servant of the Black family.
"As you wish, sir," the house-elf replied with a ridiculously low bow, his snout flat on the floor. However, he did not stop muttering curses. "Kreacher has always served the noble and ancient House of Black faithfully, which was betrayed by the vile..."
"Enough!" I interrupted the house-elf again. "What has become of this house? Why must I, the heir to the Black family, clean the dirt off my mother's portrait myself?!"
The last sentence made the house-elf's eyes bulge like a fish thrown ashore.
"I...
"Quickly, tidy up the house. Remove the dust and cobwebs, start with the study and the living room," I gave orders in a commanding tone to the startled house-elf. "Then prepare dinner and serve it in the family library, I'll be there."
I slapped my pockets and threw a couple of Galleons to the House-elf who caught them mechanically. This amount should be enough to buy food for at least a while, I'm willing to bet that whatever was in the magic refrigerator had long since gone bad.
"And tidy yourself up, what would your mother say if she saw you like this?" I snorted discontentedly, shaking my head.
"Yes, master!" Kreacher almost rammed his forehead into the floor as he fell to his knees in front of me. Then he disappeared.
"Phew..." I wiped imaginary sweat from my forehead. It was very difficult to find the right words for this creature. He would have obeyed me anyway, but with my "remarks" about the heir, the Black family, and my tone, which was completely copied from my strict mother, I managed to get through to his trained mind so that he would listen to my orders and not just hear them and twist them, as House-elves are so good at doing. Although, of course, he would go to the portrait first. Ah, he's already gone...
Another bang, and it was as if a small tornado had settled in the living room. The elf moved so quickly, wielding a rag and his magic, that he was almost invisible behind the cloud of smoke. While Kreacher was cleaning, I decided to examine the other portraits of Sirius's famous ancestors, as I remembered from my childhood memories that they loved to talk to the little heir. Now, however, they were all silent.
Walking through the portrait gallery, I didn't notice a single talking portrait. Just ordinary paintings, nothing magical. Strange. I'll have to ask Walburga about this. I knew something about the fact that portraits needed to be cared for periodically... But it was too vague to remember the details, and Sirius had certainly never been interested in such things.
By the time I had checked the paintings on the walls, Kreacher had finished cleaning the living room and, judging by the noise coming from the study, was cleaning there. I took an appraising look at the old colourful sofa. Fortunately, it was clean. I decided to rest for a while. I still had a lot to do, and I needed a clear head.
***
In my dream, I saw Harry. He had grown up, and Dumbledore had aged. They were standing on a small island in the middle of a black lake so vast that the other shore was invisible. The lake was in a very high cave, so high that even the ceiling was out of sight. In the distance, perhaps in the very centre of the lake, there was a misty greenish glimmer reflected in the completely still water.
"Do you think the Dementor is here, sir?"
"Yes, of course," Dumbledore leaned even closer to the tank. Harry saw his upside-down face reflected in the smooth surface of the green potion. "But how do we get to it? The potion cannot be destroyed by hand, scooped out, made to disappear, divided, or turned into something else. you can't put a spell on it or change its nature in any way," Dumbledore raised his wand absent-mindedly, waved it in the air again, and then caught a crystal goblet that appeared out of nowhere. "I can only conclude that this potion must be drunk.
"What?" Harry exclaimed in his sleep. "No!"
"Yes, I think so. Only by drinking it can we empty the tank and see what lies within...
Suddenly, the image of a stunned Harry was swallowed up by a whirlpool, the whole picture crumpled like a sheet of notebook paper, and lines appeared before his eyes, written in neat, all too familiar handwriting.
I know I'll be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that I'm the one who revealed your secret.
I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I look death in the face with the hope that when you meet someone equal to you in strength, you will once again become a mere mortal...
***
I woke up with a start, sitting up and gasping for air as if I had drowned in that very lake. This strange dream reminded me of another very important detail. Namely, the Slytherin locket. Kreacher had kept it after Regulus's death, but in such a way that no one even suspected it. Walburga told me how, after my wayward brother's death, he suddenly appeared in the house, completely distraught, shouting incoherently. At that moment, Regulus's name faded from the family tree, and beneath his name, after his date of birth, a second date appeared. The date of his death.
No matter how much the inconsolable Walburga tried to question the stubborn house-elf (and I highly doubt she meant it figuratively), he could not answer her, bound by his master's order to remain silent. The fact that my brother was dead did not stop Kreacher; by that time, he was already a little mad and clearly out of his mind. And now I remembered an episode from the film where Harry took a locket with a note from his brother out of the "bottomless cup." Maybe my appearance at Grimmauld Place influenced my subconscious, or maybe it was something else. Oh, Reg... Why didn't you tell anyone? Not even your mother? Didn't you trust her? Or did you not want to put her in danger, thinking you could handle it yourself... Since my brother died because of this amulet, I had to find it. And it had to be somewhere in this house, I remembered that clearly.
"Accio, Slytherin's locket!" I waved my wand, but nothing happened. Although I didn't think it would be that easy, I had to at least try. What a predicament. Where could Kreacher be keeping it? I doubted that he carried that cursed thing with him all the time; part of Voldemort's soul wasn't a friendship pendant. Such artefacts were deadly dangerous, and, judging by the films, they could also influence the mind. Maybe that was why the elf was still behaving so strangely?
But who knows? In any case, the artefact had to be found and destroyed, or isolated somehow. And for that, I needed a better wand than the old artefact of the Muggle. By the way, I'll have to question him later and decide what to do with him.
"Oh..." I grabbed my head. It was too much for me to handle alone. And I couldn't ask anyone else to deal with all this. At least Sirius had friends...
"One of whom turned out to be a coward, the other a traitor," my inner voice suggested maliciously, making me shudder. Yes, that's true, Sirius was unlucky with his choice of friends; all his luck seemed to have run out with James.
All right, enough self-pity, time to get to work!
First, I summoned Kreacher again and sent him to clean the rest of the rooms and the basement. He barely managed to squeak something like "dinner is ready," at least that's all I could make out. By the way, I should probably explain my attitude towards the old man. I've never been in favour of treating servants cruelly, but this particular house-elf needed something to keep him busy. Now Kreacher, recognising me as his master, is starting to feed on the excess magic that emanates from my very existence, and this has a slightly intoxicating effect on house-elves, especially those who have been cut off from magic for a long time. After all, this elf has been on a starvation diet for three years. Better that he cleans up than suffer from nonsense and excess energy, especially considering that this elf also has an excess of cockroaches in his head and will come up with something else that will leave me pulling my hair out again.
First things first, he needed to eat. In the library, he found a cosy table for working with books. Now, various English dishes stood on the polished surface, and the predominant ingredient was meat — just what a former prisoner of the most terrible prison needed.
After paying tribute to the house elf's cooking, I headed for the artefact repository. It was hidden in the most banal way possible: when you pressed the right book, the wall, along with part of the cabinet, moved away with a merciless creak from its unlubricated hinges, opening a passage to a "secret room". It was a relatively small room with an extended space spell, but it was guarded no less strictly than the house itself, as another passage from this room led directly to the ancestral altar — the focus of the family's magic and, incidentally, a large storage device that powered the spells cast on the house. No one but the Blacks could enter here, not even the house-elves, so I would have to clean up myself.
I looked sceptically at the even thicker layer of dust inside the hall. There was a lot of work to be done, but I wasn't here to clean. There were not only wands here, but also various artefacts of dark and not so dark origin. The Blacks had dragged everything that had been lying around for centuries into the treasure room. I would deal with that later; right now, I was only interested in the magical instruments.
They lay in a row under a display case with a massive glass lid, which disappeared as soon as I dripped blood on it. Each of the sticks lay on velvet cushions, not touching each other, so as not to cause accidental resonance. The concentrators came in all shapes, colours and sizes, and somewhere at the beginning of the collection there were even real wands. They were all labelled and belonged to our family, with a plaque under each cushion bearing the name of its owner. True, some were broken or damaged... Not all Blackies passed away peacefully, surrounded by their family, but that was not surprising, as this family had always produced first-class fighters.
I moved along the row of magical artefacts, reaching out and trying to find the right response. In childhood, when a sorcerer cannot yet control their magic, they must hold a wand in their hand to understand whether a concentrator is right for them or not. More mature magicians did not need to do this, but they did need to clear their minds of all thoughts and focus solely on finding their perfect match.
I walked on and on, slowly making my way along the velvet cushions, trying to find the right tool. Some wands seemed unhappy to see me, and I wanted to pull my hand away as quickly as possible, while others pricked me slightly, hinting that they were clearly not right for me. Finally, my palm felt a pleasant warmth emanating from a thirteen-inch black wand with splashes of scarlet.
"Likorus Black — black cherry." That was all that was written on the explanatory label, no description, just the years of its life.
"Laconic," I muttered and picked up the wood, which was warm to the touch. It was my great-great-great-grandfather's wand, if Sirius's memory served him right. As a child, pure-bloods were forced to memorise their family tree back to some distant ancestor.
Taking it in my hands, I felt a sudden rush of energy, and then a wave of fire burst out from me in all directions. For a few seconds, I was really scared, thinking I was going to start a local fire, but I quickly regained control of my magic and calmed the unruly element.The room became hot, but fortunately, only the dust was affected. All the artefacts were protected, probably even from a direct hit by a Bombard, and there were simply no other objects in the hall. Now that I had the right tool, it was time to get down to business. There was a lot of "later" stuff that had piled up. Hmm...
***
The entire story has already been written at:
patreon.com/posts/reborn-as-sirius-142654970