"Muggle-sewn rags. Muggle-made boots. Disgraceful… Mudblood filth…"
"Stinks like the gutter and a common criminal. Dirty blood, rotten character. Letting such a wizard set foot in my Mistress's house is an insult to her memory."
"Poor old Kreacher… what can he do?"
The ancient house-elf's voice was feeble yet dripping with venom. Every word echoed through the empty rooms, crystal-clear in Melvin and Sirius's ears.
Sirius's face darkened instantly. "That's my guest, Kreacher! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Melvin, for his part, wasn't remotely bothered by the insults. He studied Kreacher with genuine curiosity. This was only the second elderly house-elf he'd ever seen up close—the first had been Lestrange's dying Scritch.
He never wasted energy on the opinions of bitter old fossils. A wretch's deference meant nothing; what mattered was what useful things could be extracted from them.
"You invited… this…"
Kreacher bowed so deeply his nose nearly scraped the floor. His oversized schnoz didn't stop the venom from pouring out faster.
"Oh, my poor Mistress… if only she knew… if she could see the worthless spawn she raised dragging this scum across her threshold… what would she say to poor Kreacher?"
"Shut. Up." Sirius's voice was ice. "That's an order."
"Kreacher obeys. Kreacher serves the noble and most ancient House of Black forever."
The elf stopped the overt cursing at the direct command, but his lips kept moving in silent mutterings. His eyes fixed on Melvin. "Kreacher should clean… should remove the unclean things…"
Sirius barked a harsh laugh. "Yes—clean house. Start with those portraits behind the velvet curtain. The tapestry covering the whole wall. And you know what else? Useless old elves should be thrown out too. For the last decade-plus, thanks to your laziness, this place has grown darker and filthier every day."
"Young Master always enjoys his little jokes."
Kreacher remained utterly unmoved by the personal attacks. His gaze drifted reverently toward the curtained alcove. "Young Master is a disgusting, ungrateful little brat who broke his mother's heart."
"My mother didn't have a heart, Kreacher." Sirius sneered. "She ran on pure spite."
"Whatever Young Master says. If the House of Black had any other heir, the place would never have fallen to him."
At the word "heir" Kreacher bowed again—deeply, bitterly. "Compared to Master Regulus… compared to Mistress… Young Master is utterly unworthy. Not fit to lick their shoe soles."
Mentioning those two names cracked the elf's composure. A few choked sobs escaped.
"Oh, my poor Mistress… what would she say if she saw Kreacher serving him? How she hated him… how bitterly disappointed she was…"
The keening wail was ear-splitting. Sirius's expression changed. He spun toward the curtain.
A second later an even shriller scream erupted—high, piercing, rattling the walls and making ears ring. A hoarse, banshee-like howl that raised every hair on the body.
The moth-eaten velvet parted like stage curtains. Behind it: a portrait window. An old witch in a black hat stood framed inside, mouth wide in a scream that went on and on.
Hogwarts corridors were lined with talking portraits. The Headmaster's office held every past head. None ever produced this level of visceral revulsion.
Wax-yellow skin stretched tight over screaming muscles. Every wrinkle and sinew stood out. Clawed hands flailed as though she might claw her own face off. Eyes rolled wildly, threatening to pop free.
"Filth! Scum! Spawn of dirt and depravity!"
"Mudblood! Freak! Get out—GET OUT!"
Sirius lunged forward, grabbing both curtain panels and yanking desperately.
"Mistress is awake! Mistress is scolding Young Master!" Kreacher shrieked from the landing. "Poor Mistress… how heartbroken she would be if she still lived!"
Master and servant fed off each other. The shrieking rose and fell in hellish waves. Melvin felt briefly transported back to an opera house—singers warming up, only instead of soaring arias this was pure banshee caterwauling.
Sirius kept apologizing through gritted teeth, face scarlet, hauling on fabric that refused to close.
It clearly wasn't a one-man job. The curtains were magically linked to the portrait. As long as the witch inside refused, no amount of physical strength would override her.
"Quiet."
Melvin's lips barely moved. The word was soft—almost inaudible.
Yet it fell like a hammer.
Silence crashed down. Candle flames steadied. Soft light washed over portrait and elf alike.
Sirius let go of the half-closed curtains. A faint iridescent bubble now encased the frame—like a soap film shimmering with rainbow light.
He glanced back. Another identical bubble sat over Kreacher's head.
No matter how the old witch and elf screamed inside their prisons, the thin membranes only quivered. Not a sound escaped.
Meeting Sirius's bewildered stare, Melvin gave a small smile. "A Bubble-Head Charm variant. Locks sound inside—makes it one-way. Originally developed so I could read in noisy pubs. Works surprisingly well in other chaotic environments too."
"They can hear us… but we can't hear them?" Sirius caught on fast.
"Forgive the presumption."
"You just saved my bloody sanity, Professor!" Sirius exhaled hard. "Teach me that—name your price. I'll empty the Black vault if I have to."
"Free lesson. No extra charge."
"…"
On the landing Kreacher flailed both arms. The bubble over his head trembled violently—betraying pure agitation.
Sirius ignored whatever silent tantrum the elf was throwing. He waved dismissively at his mother's portrait (ignoring her apoplectic expression) and turned back to Melvin.
"You said earlier you wanted something from the Black collection. You've got a specific target now, haven't you? Name it—what do you want?"
Melvin glanced at the wildly gesticulating Kreacher—face twisted in what looked like an impending stroke of pure rage—and shook his head.
"I hear the Blacks have a rather famous family tapestry. May I see it?"
"That old thing? Why?"
Sirius was puzzled but didn't argue. He led Melvin to another wall.
Kreacher dragged his frail body after them. The hatred in his eyes toward both men was almost physical—skin-crawling, murderous. He looked ready to flay them, burn one to ash in the hearth, mount the other's head on the wall.
And there it was: the Black family tree tapestry.
Ancient. Faded. Moth-eaten holes everywhere. Fox bites along the edges. Yet the golden threads still gleamed—real gold, not gilt brass.
A faint thrum of blood magic clung to it. The tree stretched back seven centuries to the Middle Ages.
The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Always Pure
Exotic early names—Ursula, Eldora, Isla—showed the family arrived with Caesar's legions and put down roots. Phineas (the old Headmaster) sat in the middle. Narcissa and Bellatrix occupied the second-to-last row, linked to Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange. Draco appeared as a small golden name at the very bottom.
"I used to be up there too." Sirius pointed at a charred black circle. "My name reached me in the third generation. When I ran away at sixteen my darling mother burned me off. Kreacher loves whispering that story."
His eyes held a distant, almost wistful look. One word from Melvin and he would have poured out every scar and storm of his past.
But Melvin's attention was already on the name beside the burn mark.
"Tell me about Regulus."
Sirius stared at him, stunned into silence for a long moment.
"Regulus was younger. Weak-willed little fool. Whatever our parents said, he believed. Swallowed the whole pure-blood supremacy rubbish, the 'Blacks are born superior' garbage. Everyone kept reminding me how much better he was—as a son, as a Black."
"Got Sorted into Slytherin, just like they wanted."
Sirius's gaze lingered on the name. His expression was painfully complicated.
"He wasn't some evil dark wizard. Just… stupid. Got swept up by friends and classmates. Joined the Death Eaters when a lot of pure-bloods still thought Voldemort had the right idea—keep the blood pure, crush Muggle-borns, sideline half-bloods, let pure-bloods run everything."
Melvin listened without interrupting. Kreacher stood nearby, mouth opening and closing soundlessly inside his bubble.
"But when Voldemort stopped pretending—when the mask came off and the teeth showed—they all lost their nerve. Backed away. Regulus too. That's when he was killed. Or rather… when someone killed him on Voldemort's orders. He wasn't worth the Dark Lord's personal attention."
Sirius gave a bitter laugh that cracked in the middle.
To him, Regulus had never been as hateful as their parents. Just trapped. Naive. Stupid. And—unlike most Death Eaters—carrying a scrap of kindness the movement couldn't stomach.
"From what I pieced together after his death… he regretted it when it was already too late. Got terrified of the things they were doing. Kept trying to dodge assignments, make excuses, find a way out. But you don't just hand Voldemort a resignation letter."
"Either serve forever… or die."
Kreacher's sunken eyes brimmed with tears. They rolled unchecked down his face and pattered onto the carpet. He beat frantically at the bubble, desperate to break it—yet the delicate-looking membrane held firm no matter how he tore and pounded.
Sirius noticed the frantic motion and scowled. He had zero intention of engaging.
"Maybe we should hear what the loyal servant has to say," Melvin suggested quietly.
"Terrible idea," Sirius muttered. "But you're the guest. Don't say I didn't warn you when he starts defending Regulus and cursing me again."
Melvin reached out. The bubble over Kreacher popped with a faint plink.
The elf gasped, chest heaving. He opened his mouth—then snapped it shut again. Tears streamed into his open mouth, showing greyish teeth.
"You were ready to scream yourself hoarse when you weren't allowed to talk. Now that you can, you pull this pathetic act. What exactly do you want?" Sirius snapped, patience fraying.
"Kreacher cannot say… Kreacher must not say…" The elf covered his face. Tears poured between his fingers.
"Do you want Regulus to stay dead and forgotten—body rotting in a ditch, no one ever knowing the truth?"
Melvin's calm question cut the sobbing short.
He stepped closer, studying the repulsive creature—so different in manner from Dobby despite being the same species.
"If you'd left this house to chase freedom, I might actually respect you a little. But you stayed. Didn't clean. Didn't cook. Let the whole place rot. Then Sirius returns—cleared, rightful owner—and you obey his orders in word only, trying to force your own will on him. Do you think you're the heir of the Blacks now?"
"No! That is not—!"
Kreacher's crying stopped. Neck cords stood out as he roared:
"Kreacher is loyal to the House of Black! But Young Master—"
"If you refuse Sirius proper respect because he was disowned… what about the previous master? Regulus?" Melvin spoke very slowly, staring straight into the elf's eyes. "You've forgotten his dying wish. You've hidden the truth from Sirius. You know exactly who should have been told. Yet you've refused to do it all these years."
The elf's entire belief system shattered in seconds. He clutched his head, shaking it violently. His frail body swayed.
Sirius—still half in the dark—suddenly understood that Regulus's death was far more complicated than anyone had told him.
"Kreacher. Speak." His voice was steel. "Tell me everything. That's an order."
Kreacher gave a broken whimper. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and thick.
"It was… one year after Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord's ranks. He was seventeen…"