Harry Potter: Fire Lord Black

Edward stopped at the threshold.

There was an old sofa against the wall. A dark blue knitted blanket lay across its back, the stitches uneven. On a small table beside it stood a vase filmed with dust, holding dried lilies of the valley. A bookshelf filled one side of the room. Ancient magic. Egyptian sacrificial rites. Blood theory. A few Muggle poetry books placed between them with no concern for hierarchy. Isabella's books, most likely. The thought struck harder than it should have.

A small window faced the rose garden. Moonlight slipped through the lattice and cut the floor into pale squares.

Edward stepped inside.

The room was quiet. Not dead. Preserved.

The memories rose before he could stop them. Isabella on the sofa, reading from a Muggle poetry book with solemn attention. Regulus standing beside her with a lily of the valley conjured poorly enough that one petal was missing. He tucked it into her hair, then looked away as if affection were a crime and he had been caught. Sunlight through the window. Dust in the air. Her smile.

So this was where they had come.

Not a grand hall. Not a ballroom. Not some dramatic place suited to tragic lovers and family curses. A small hidden room beneath an old house, with a bad sofa, a crooked blanket, and enough silence to breathe.

That was worse, somehow.

Edward's gaze moved to the gap between the sofa cushions.

He remembered.

In one of the memories, Regulus had hidden sweets there. Sherbet Lemons. Isabella's favorite. When they argued, he would leave one in the gap and pretend not to care whether she found it. It was a stupid method of apology. Naturally, it had worked.

Edward crouched.

Kreacher made a soft sound behind him but did not interfere.

Edward reached into the gap. His fingers brushed dust, fabric, then paper. He drew out a small package. The wrapping had yellowed, but it remained intact. A Preservation Charm clung to it, faint and old. Regulus's magic. Edward knew that without needing proof. Some things announced themselves to the blood.

His hands shook as he unwrapped it.

Inside were several Sherbet Lemons. The wrappers had faded, but the Honeydukes mark remained visible. The sweets had hardened with age. They still smelled faintly of sugar and lemon.

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Edward stared at them.

Regulus had remembered.

Years had passed. The house had gone silent. Voldemort had fallen, then survived in the ugly ways monsters did. Regulus had died in a cave, dragged beneath black water. Isabella had died giving Edward the flame under his skin. Yet here, in a gap between sofa cushions, a small apology had waited for someone who would never come back to find it.

The first tear fell before Edward noticed he was crying.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, annoyed by the weakness and unable to despise it properly. Grief had poor manners. It arrived when it liked.

"Young Master?" Kreacher whispered.

Edward folded the paper carefully and placed the packet inside his robe, beside his mother's letter. Warmth over his heart. Sugar and grief beneath it. A ridiculous inheritance. A precious one.

Then he stood.

"Kreacher," he said. His voice was rough, but steady enough. "Bring out Slytherin's locket."

Kreacher bowed his head.

At the far end of the room stood a cabinet set into the wall. Kreacher opened it with three taps and a whispered charm. From a hidden compartment he drew a black velvet box. Dust lay over it despite the protections. Kreacher wiped it with his sleeve before placing it on the stone floor.

The box opened.

Cold entered the room.

It was not ordinary cold. Ordinary cold belonged to weather and badly heated houses. This had intent. It crawled along the floor, slipped beneath the cuffs, and tried to make a home in the bones.

Slytherin's locket lay inside.

It was silver, not gold as some tales made old treasures in children's books, though silver suited it better. Gold would have looked proud. Silver looked patient. The serpent worked across the lid seemed almost alive, its body coiled around a raised S. The clasp was shaped like a snake's head, set with two black stones for eyes. Beautiful, if one liked beauty that watched back.

Edward reached out.

Kreacher caught his wrist. "No, Master."

Edward looked at him.

"Let Kreacher show you first," the elf said, suddenly grave. "Let Master see why Kreacher failed."

He placed the locket in the center of the stone floor and stepped back. His hands trembled, but his voice held when he cast.

"Diffindo."

Silver light struck the locket.

The sound was sharp and clean, metal against metal. Nothing else happened. No scratch. No dent. The serpent remained exactly as it had been, smug in the way only objects could be when they had outlived too many people.

Kreacher swallowed.

"Incendio."

Fire rose around the locket. The flames burned orange and bright, hot enough to make dust curl from the floor. They died after several seconds, leaving the stone warm and the locket cold.

Still untouched.

"Reducto."

A crack of force hit it and scattered back in a shimmer. Kreacher stumbled, caught himself, and tried again with a piercing charm, then a severing charm, then a nasty little curse Edward did not know and intended to learn. The locket accepted them all with the indifference of a rich man receiving criticism.

At last Kreacher lowered his hand. He was breathing hard.

"Nothing," he said. The word sounded old in his mouth. "Kreacher tried for years. Blades. Hammers. Fire. Charms. Curses. Muggle tools too, though Kreacher hated touching them. The knife bent. The hammer dented. The locket did not care."

Edward studied it.

"What else does it do?"

Kreacher blinked. "Master?"

"Besides refusing to break. Does it attack? Whisper? Curse anyone nearby? Twist thoughts? Drain magic?"

The elf hesitated. "No. Not while sealed. Kreacher has kept it hidden for years. It is cold and wicked, but quiet. Kreacher did not wear it. Kreacher is not stupid."

"That is reassuring."

"Kreacher is sometimes stupid," the elf admitted miserably. "But not that stupid."

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