Edward's gaze swept over the old sofa in the room, over the plastic bottles piled in the corner, and finally landed on the familiar alley outside the window. He had lived here for three years; he couldn't say he liked it much, but it was just a place to stay that kept the wind and rain out.
He paused, simply feeling that before leaving, he should just mention it offhandedly: "I need to lock the door."
This remark sounded different to Kreacher's ears. It thought Edward wanted to keep ties with the Muggles of this wretched place. Its face instantly darkened, its sharp voice suddenly rising as if it had heard something extremely filthy, and it wrinkled its nose in disgust: "Lock the door? Master Edward, you still want to come back? This place is full of the smell of Muggles, it is filthy!"
Edward frowned. Muggle. This term had been mentioned when Dumbledore came to find him; he hadn't paid it much mind at the time, but hearing Kreacher say it with such gnashing of teeth, a hint of confusion arose in his heart. He looked up at Kreacher, his eyes still holding their usual coldness, but with a bit more inquiry: "Muggle... what does that mean?"
Kreacher seemed surprised that he would ask such a question, then, with a condescending tone filled with thick disdain, shrilly explained: "Muggles are trash without magic!" It said, waving its hand in disgust as if mentioning the word dirtied its own mouth. "They will never know of the existence of the wizarding world their whole lives, only guarding those broken Muggle trinkets, living in a daze! We noble pure-blood wizards should not have any involvement with them at all!"
As it said this, its chest heaved slightly; clearly, its hatred for Muggles was etched into its bones. Finally, it looked at Edward again, its tone suddenly softening, carrying a bit of pleading and a bit of unquestionable stubbornness: "Master Edward, you are of the blood of the House of Black, the noblest pure-blood; you cannot be entangled with Muggles! Come home with Kreacher, Grimmauld Place is where you should be!"
Edward was silent. He felt no unhappiness, let alone anger. The goodwill of those Muggles was, to him, something dispensable. A farewell? Even less necessary. He was merely a passerby in this world and would not have long-lasting connections with anyone.
Furthermore, Kreacher's attitude was too forceful, and those murky eyes were filled with such hatred for Muggles that it clearly would not allow him to stay in this wretched place for one more second.
Edward looked at Kreacher's eager and adoring appearance, nodding expressionlessly.
Kreacher's eyes lit up instantly, like a lamp that had been covered in dust for years being ignited. It rubbed its withered hands excitedly, cheering shrilly: "Wonderful! Master Edward! Kreacher will take you home now!"
Saying this, it stood on tiptoe, its withered hand carefully gripping Edward's wrist. That hand was cold and rough, yet carried a strange strength. Edward instinctively wanted to pull away, and the flame at his fingertips shot out a bit, but he forcibly suppressed it. He looked at the undisguised closeness in Kreacher's eyes and, in the end, did not move.
"Hold on tight, Master Edward!" Kreacher's voice was full of joy. "Apparition!"
The moment the words fell, a strong sense of dizziness washed over him. There was a whistling wind in his ears, and the scene before him twisted into a blur of colors. The musty smell of the apartment and the dusty scent of the alley were instantly swept away by a biting wind. Edward clenched his fists instinctively and closed his eyes tightly; the flame in his sleeve danced uncontrollably but never shot out.
This dizzying sensation was very brief, lasting only a few seconds before disappearing completely.
Edward slowly opened his eyes.
What met his eyes was a tall, gloomy manor. On the black iron gate were carved patterns of thorns and stars, which in the morning light exuded an ancient and majestic aura, as if silently proclaiming the former glory of this family. The walls of the manor were covered in withered vines, the leaves long fallen, leaving only bare branches. Viewed from afar, it looked like a dormant beast, silent and oppressive.
The wind blew from deep within the manor, carrying a hint of damp chill and the faint scent of fireplace smoke.
Kreacher's voice sounded in his ear, filled with incomparable pride, its tail end trembling: "Welcome home, Master Edward. This is 12 Grimmauld Place, the ancestral home of the House of Black."
The moment the dizziness dissipated completely, a damp chill, mixed with the scent of dust and rotting wood, crept up Edward's limbs from his trouser cuffs.
He stood before a towering black iron gate. The intricately carved thorns and silver star patterns on the lintel shone with a cold, hard luster in the morning light. The tips of the thorns tilted slightly upward, as if silently warning intruders. The surrounding walls were overgrown with withered ivy, the brown-yellow vines twisted like ghost claws, clutching the mottled stone walls tightly, making the manor behind them look like a tomb that had been silent for a century. The air was filled with a faint musty smell, mixed with the lingering warmth of fireplace smoke, making one's chest feel stifled.
"This is 12 Grimmauld Place, Master Edward!" Kreacher's voice was as shrill as a stretched thread, yet full of irrepressible pride. He stood on his withered, thin toes, his rough palms stroking the cold iron gate over and over, his fingertips tracing those ancient patterns as if caressing a priceless treasure. "It is the ancestral home that the House of Black has passed down for thousands of years! The purest pure-blood wizard residence! Even those fellows at the Ministry of Magic dare not set foot here easily!"
Edward's gaze swept through the gaps in the iron gate, vaguely seeing the pointed attic of the manor deep inside, its window lattices covered in thick dust like pairs of closed eyes. He didn't speak, just lowered his eyes, his light gray irises devoid of emotion, but the fingertips inside his sleeves were slightly hot; that cluster of flames was jumping restlessly, pressing against his cold skin.
Kreacher, seemingly unaware of his coldness, trembled with excitement, his withered fingers clenched into fists, and he shrieked as he pushed open the iron gate. The heavy iron gate made a harsh "creak - " sound, startling several crows perched on the wall, their black wings slicing through the pale golden morning light, leaving behind a flurry of panicked shadows.
"Come in quickly, Master Edward! Kreacher will take you to see your home!"
Edward was pulled along without a word, treading over the stone path covered in rotting leaves. The fallen leaves underfoot made a crisp, crackling sound, mixing with Kreacher's rapid footsteps, exceptionally clear in the silent manor. He followed Kreacher into the entrance hall of the old house, and a thicker, stale atmosphere rushed towards them.
The entrance hall was as dim as a sealed cellar; light could only squeeze in through the high transom windows, barely illuminating the huge family tapestry on the wall. The tapestry was twice the height of a person, its background long since yellowed, embroidered with portraits of the House of Black's successive members. Beside the golden names were silver thorn emblems; some emblems beside the names had already dimmed and turned Black, even marked with glaring black crosses - the mark of family traitors. Below the tapestry, more than a dozen portraits were hung in a row, the frames carved with intricate patterns. The men and women in the paintings were all wearing vintage Black wizard robes with the family crest embroidered on the collars, their expressions arrogant, their eyes as sharp as ice-quenched knives, as if they could jump out of the paintings at any moment to judge every intruder.
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