Sirius wasted no time lingering in the hall. Without a glance back, he led them straight upstairs.
To one side, the entrance hall opened onto the dining room, where the cabinets were filled with porcelain and picture frames emblazoned with the Black family crest.
As they climbed toward the second floor, a chilling sight greeted them on the staircase wall: a row of shriveled house-elf heads, mounted as macabre trophies, casting twisted shadows across the steps.
A cold sweat broke out on Harry's brow. He suddenly recalled what the detective club had uncovered about the Blacks—they were infamous for their mastery of the Dark Arts. Were these some sort of dark ritual relics? No wonder his cousin had immediately layered himself in defensive spells upon entering.
Dobby piped up quietly, "Some ancient wizarding families consider it an honor for their house-elves to have their heads mounted in the family home after death."
Harry muttered under his breath, "That's just mental."
They didn't pause on any of the lower floors. Sirius led them straight to the fifth, stopping before a bedroom door.
With a triumphant grin, Sirius pried up a floorboard outside the door and retrieved a key—so rusted and corroded it looked ready to crumble. With a tap of his wand, the key shimmered, instantly restored to its original bronze gleam.
"They all pride themselves on being noble pure-bloods, far too superior for Muggle tricks," Sirius said, a note of mischief in his voice. "So I charmed the lock so magic can't open it. Only a Muggle method will work. I knew they'd never stoop so low."
Harry blinked, glancing at Douglas. If he remembered right, his cousin had once pulled the same stunt. Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, had bragged about it for weeks.
When the door swung open, the room inside was a riot of color and rebellion—Gryffindor gold and scarlet banners everywhere. For a moment, Harry felt like he'd stepped right back into the Gryffindor dormitory at Hogwarts.
Sirius waved his wand, lighting the lamps. The room was thick with dust. He started to flick his wand again, then hesitated, looking sheepish. "Er, Dobby, would you mind giving the place a clean? I'm not exactly an expert at that kind of magic."
Dobby beamed and bowed low. "With pleasure, Mr. Black!"
Nearby, Kreacher muttered curses under his breath, but no one paid him the slightest heed.
A few quick spells from Dobby cleared most of the dust away. He looked apologetic. "Sorry, sirs, this is as much as I can manage by magic. For a real shine, you'd have to scrub by hand."
Sirius waved him off. "It's perfect. Really."
Harry couldn't help but notice—Sirius treated Dobby and Kreacher as if they were from different worlds entirely.
With a broad grin, Sirius threw an arm around Harry's shoulders and ushered him inside. "Come on, let me show you around!" He began pointing out every oddity and keepsake, recounting tales of his rebellious youth, his clashes with the Black family, and how he'd finally been thrown out.
The room was spacious and, even after all these years, still beautiful: a carved four-poster bed, velvet curtains, a branching chandelier, and candles—who knew how old—flickering to life once more.
Harry glanced around. The walls were plastered with pictures of Muggle motorcycles, and he suddenly remembered Hagrid once telling him he'd borrowed a flying motorcycle from Sirius.
Then Harry's gaze landed on a few posters of Muggle girls in bikinis. Sirius hurriedly stepped in front of him, grinning awkwardly.
Harry gave an embarrassed smile and looked away, fixing his eyes on the room's only wizarding photograph. He recognized it instantly—Hagrid had once collected it for him, though Lupin had quietly taken it back later.
Four young men smiled from the frame: his father, messy black hair sticking out and glasses perched on his nose; Sirius, handsome and reckless, with a touch of arrogance; Lupin, a bit scruffy but grinning with surprise and delight; and the shortest, pudgiest of them all—Peter, his eyes shining with excitement and just a hint of tears.
Sirius gazed at the photo too, lost in thought.
Out in the corridor, Douglas turned to Kreacher. "Could you show me to Sirius's brother's room? Regulus Black, wasn't it?"
Kreacher's eyes went wide. He stumbled back, disbelief and a flicker of pain twisting his features. He muttered, "Merlin's beard, a Mudblood speaking to Kreacher? And talking about Master Regulus, as if he were a friend…"
Douglas caught Dobby's arm before he could react.
But Dobby bristled, glaring at Kreacher. "Don't you dare speak about my master like that!"
Douglas eyed Kreacher, who'd been watching him with open suspicion. No wonder Sirius despised the elf—his tongue was venomous.
His voice went cold. "I don't want to hear that word again. Understand?"
Kreacher shivered involuntarily.
Then Douglas's demeanor shifted, a friendly smile on his lips. "As I understand it, Regulus was once a Death Eater, wasn't he? With the Black family's influence, he must've held some position under Voldemort. I imagine Voldemort would have rewarded him, perhaps with something special?"
Douglas knew exactly what was hidden in that room—and where it had come from. Still, he needed to coax the truth from Kreacher bit by bit, if only to give Dumbledore a plausible explanation later.
Kreacher began to tremble, tears streaming down his face. He shook his head violently, refusing to say a word.
Nearby, Lupin frowned, watching the exchange. He couldn't shake the feeling that Douglas's motives were far from simple. Had Regulus truly been given something by Voldemort? And what on earth could it be that interested Douglas so much?
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