Harry Potter: Fire Lord Black

Edward did not know how long he sat with the letter in his hands. The candles shortened. The house settled around them with old creaks and distant whispers. The portraits had gone quiet, whether out of respect or fear of Kreacher's glare. Moonlight touched the glass bottle and turned the silver mist inside it pale blue.

Destroy it, the letter had said.

He could. That was the cruelty of it. A choice was easy only when no part of you wanted both paths. He could burn the bottle and be free of whatever grief waited inside. He could spend the rest of the holiday at Malfoy Manor, eat Narcissa's caramel pudding, listen to Draco boast about his Egyptian wand, return to Hogwarts, and pretend his life was strange but manageable. He could let his mother remain gentle handwriting, a scent of lily of the valley, and a flame that loved him without demanding answers.

It was what she had wanted for him. Safety. Happiness. A life bright enough to make the past unnecessary.

But his eyes kept returning to one line. If you still feel even the smallest attachment to me and to your father.

Attachment was too small a word for the hunger in him. He wanted to know her face. He wanted to hear her voice outside ink. He wanted to know whether Regulus had loved her, whether they had laughed, whether they had been afraid. He wanted to know why she had hidden him, why she had died, why his childhood contained a blank space where a mother should have stood. He wanted the truth because not knowing had become its own wound.

He reached for the bottle.

"Master! No!"

Kreacher's hand closed around his wrist with surprising strength. The old elf's voice was sharp, almost panicked. "Not like that. Never like that. It is not a potion. Memories taken without a Pensieve can swallow the mind. At best, madness. At worst, Master may forget himself entirely."

Edward froze. The hunger in his chest recoiled, not gone but checked. He looked down at the silver mist and forced his fingers to loosen. "Is there a Pensieve in the Black house?"

Kreacher's ears drooped. "No, Master. The old master collected many rare things, but not that. Pensieves are too rare. The Ministry has some. Hogwarts has one. A few old families may, but Kreacher cannot say which ones without lying, and lying badly is for humans."

Edward almost laughed. It came out as a rough breath. "Then I wait."

"Only a little," Kreacher said quickly. "Mr. Malfoy has connections. He is a Hogwarts governor and knows half the Ministry, even the half pretending not to know him. Kreacher will write at once."

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Edward nodded, but his gaze returned to the letter. A new fear took hold, smaller and more practical, therefore easier to bear. The parchment had already suffered one tear. Time, damp, insects, and carelessness could do what Dark magic had failed to do: steal what little his mother had left him.

"Kreacher," he said, voice lower. "Can this letter be preserved? Permanently?"

The elf's expression changed at once. Grief and panic gave way to purpose. "Yes, Master. House-elf magic can preserve what a family loves, if the family truly loves it. Old magic. Small magic. Stronger than wizards think because wizards rarely think about what servants remember."

He drew a small silver badge from his pocket. It bore the raven totem of the House of Black, polished at the edges by age and handling. Without hesitation, Kreacher bit the tip of his finger and let a dark drop of blood fall onto the badge. Black smoke rose. The tiny raven seemed to move, wings trembling in silence.

Edward watched, startled. "Kreacher—"

"A little blood is nothing," the elf said, offended by the concern. "Young Master will allow Kreacher to be useful."

He pressed the badge to the back of the letter and whispered in a language Edward did not know. The words were rough, old, and strangely intimate. The silver sank into the parchment. The page brightened from aged yellow to a soft ivory, and the blurred ink at the bottom cleared without erasing the mark of the tear. The letter looked whole, but not untouched. That mattered. Some damage deserved to remain visible.

"A Blood-Bond Protection Charm," Kreacher said, with a shy pride that made him look almost young. "Water will not ruin it. Fire will not eat it unless Young Master wills it. Insects will leave it be. It can be carried close, like... like Mistress is accompanying you."

Edward folded the letter with reverence and placed it inside his inner pocket. The parchment was warm against his chest. "Thank you."

Kreacher bowed so low his nose nearly touched the floor. "It is Kreacher's honor."

The next three days were miserable. Waiting always was. Edward tried to read, failed, tried to sleep, failed worse, and spent more time than was dignified touching the pocket where the letter rested. He placed the memory bottle on the desk and watched the mist move. Sometimes it curled in a way that made him imagine his mother blinking at him. That was foolish. He knew it was foolish. Knowing did not help.

On the third morning, a snowy owl landed at the window with a letter sealed by the Malfoy serpent. Edward crossed the room so quickly one slipper abandoned him halfway. He tore the envelope open.

Edward,

The matter is settled. The Ministry will permit the use of a Pensieve within the Department of Mysteries. It may not be removed from the building. The time is set for ten o'clock the day after tomorrow. I will escort you personally. There should be no difficulties.

Lucius Malfoy

There should be no difficulties. It was a very Lucius way to describe entering a government department to view the memories of one's dead mother. Edward stared at the letter until the words fixed themselves in his mind.

"Kreacher is going," the elf said.

Edward looked at him.

Kreacher stood stiffly, hands clenched at his sides. "When Young Master visited Malfoy Manor, Kreacher stayed because there was no need. This is different. The Ministry is full of strangers, officials, and people who think rules make them wise. Young Master's heart has been unsteady. Kreacher will go."

Edward should have refused. It would be cleaner, less conspicuous. Instead, he nodded. "We go together."

Kreacher's eyes shone.

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