"One day Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus was always gentle with everyone—even lowly house-elves like Kreacher. He told Kreacher the Dark Lord needed an elf. Kreacher was the perfect one for the task."
"Master Regulus offered Kreacher. It was an honour, he said—for both of them."
"Kreacher had to do everything the Dark Lord commanded… and then come home."
"Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord didn't explain what was wanted. He simply took Kreacher to a cave by the sea. He made Kreacher drink a terrible potion that burned inside. Kreacher watched him drop a locket into an empty stone basin, refill it with more of the potion, and then leave Kreacher alone on the island."
"Kreacher needed water. He crawled to the edge of the lake. Hands—dead hands—reached up from the black water, trying to pull Kreacher under."
"Kreacher thought he would stay there forever. But Kreacher always remembered: Master Regulus had said Kreacher must come home."
…
Morning light filtered weakly into Grimmauld Place.
Melvin woke in the guest room. The goose-down duvet had delivered the deepest sleep he'd had in weeks. For all its gothic decay and pure-blood pomp, the old house clearly prioritised comfort where it mattered most—beds, chairs, anything meant for actual use.
He fumbled through the ancient bathroom routine, washed, and came downstairs.
No breakfast waited. Instead he found Sirius and Kreacher sitting opposite each other at the long kitchen table—both red-eyed, hollow-cheeked, clearly neither had slept.
Last night, in front of the family tapestry, Kreacher had recounted the events of thirteen years earlier. Sirius had fixated only on his brother's fate; the Horcrux itself interested him far less. He'd demanded the cave's location over and over, every detail, finally ordering Kreacher to take him there immediately.
But the elf had been sobbing too hard, too distraught, too mentally frayed. Melvin had quietly suggested they all wait until daylight—safer, saner.
Now a heavy golden locket lay between them on the scarred wood.
An octagonal Slytherin crest gleamed dully on its face. Millennia of existence had tarnished the gold to something ancient and grave. Tiny emerald snakes coiled across the surface. It was tightly shut. A faint, cold magical pulse emanated from it—subtle, but unmistakable.
Melvin recognised it instantly.
Voldemort had made five Horcruxes. All five now sat in Melvin's possession: the diary from his school days, the Gaunt ring taken at sixteen, the diadem located through Helena Ravenclaw's shade, Hepzibah Smith's cup, and this locket.
What interested Melvin more was the second signature layered beneath Voldemort's parasitic soul fragment.
This was an alchemical artefact—older than the Horcrux conversion. Faint ancient runes were etched into hidden inner surfaces. Salazar Slytherin's handiwork, judging by the style—something to do with souls. Intricate. Purpose unclear.
One thing was certain: the alchemy carried a strong Dark taint. Even sealed, the locket leaked a thin thread of emotional interference.
Without wearing it, the effect was negligible. Yet the two who'd spent the entire night staring at it showed clear signs of distortion—eyes bloodshot, grief and desperation sharper now than when they'd started. They hadn't calmed at all.
"Kreacher. Tell me about the cave again." Sirius's voice was raw.
The elf's own voice cracked like dry parchment.
"It was a cave by the sea. Inside was a black lake. In the centre of the lake was a small island. On the island stood a stone basin… full of potion…"
The early parts were geography and layout—disjointed, trivial. Melvin listened while mentally cross-referencing his own memories. When Kreacher reached the potion itself, the frail body began to shake violently. The elf shook his head again and again, terror plain in his sunken eyes.
"Kreacher drank it. When Kreacher drank… terrible visions came. Kreacher's insides felt like they were on fire. Kreacher screamed for Master Regulus. For Mistress. Begged the Dark Lord to save Kreacher. Kreacher's throat burned raw. Kreacher only wanted to put out the fire… so Kreacher crawled toward the lake…"
Even second-hand, Melvin and Sirius could feel the frantic, clawing panic radiating from the elf.
Then came the second visit.
Regulus himself drank the poison. Stayed behind in the lake of corpses. Forever.
This Regulus Black had clearly never been a typical Death Eater.
"Kreacher should have noticed sooner. Kreacher should never have taken him there. Master Regulus had been… strange for weeks. Not himself. Kreacher could see his mind was troubled…"
The old elf trembled harder. No more tears came—his face was already streaked and dry—but his breathing still hitched with silent sobs.
Melvin flicked his wand. Heavy blackout curtains parted. Summer sunlight slanted across the table, falling over master and servant alike.
The locket's influence recoiled like a night creature slithering back into its hole.
Warmth touched Kreacher. The shaking slowly eased.
Sirius said nothing for a long time. Memories rose unbidden—years before he'd finally walked out for good.
The decisive break with his parents. Countless smaller fights. The moment the Sorting Hat called "Gryffindor" and their disappointment became permanent.
He'd tried—once—to please them. Brought home decent marks. But praise never came. Instead he was berated for associating with "Mudbloods and blood-traitors."
And somewhere in those years, the distance with Regulus had grown.
From shared laughter and games… to awkward silences… to strangers sharing a dinner table.
"Brother, I got my Hogwarts letter yesterday. We can share a compartment on the train, right?"
"Which House are you hoping for?"
"S… Slytherin."
"I'm sitting with my friends. Find your own seat."
Sirius—expressionless—packing trunks in front of the wardrobe mirror. Watching in the glass as his little brother left the room looking broken.
The Sorting Ceremony. Slytherin table erupting in applause for Regulus. The two of them staring at each other across the Great Hall divide.
"Brother, I want to try out for Quidditch. Will you practise with me?"
"I'm Gryffindor. We're rivals."
The summer he turned sixteen. One final shouting match. Sirius storming upstairs, throwing clothes into a case. He couldn't stand another day in this gloomy, obsessive house—or the fanatical witch who ran it.
Just before he Disapparated for good, the thin boy had stood in the hall and said quietly:
"Brother… I've joined the Death Eaters."
Sirius's thoughts snapped back to the present.
He heard Kreacher's final words.
"He ordered Kreacher to leave. Not to interfere. He told Kreacher to go home. Not to tell Mistress what he'd done. But Kreacher had to destroy the locket. Then… he drank. He drank it all."
The elf was almost fainting from sobs.
"Kreacher swapped the locket… watched… Master Regulus… dragged under… and then…"
Kreacher clung to the table edge to stay upright. Greenish mucus ran from his nose. Eyes swollen scarlet. No tears left to cry.
Sirius kept staring at the locket. His face showed almost nothing.
After a long silence he spoke—very softly.
"Melvin. I need to ask you for a favour. Name anything—anything at all."
Melvin already suspected what was coming.
"Go on."
"Help me bring Regulus back. Bring him home."
Melvin wasn't surprised.
"Rest first. I'll contact Dumbledore immediately. The moment he arrives—we leave."
Sirius nodded once.
His eyes closed.
A single wet track slipped down his cheek.