Chapter 177: The Basement
"So—which one of you wants to go first?" Sirius asked with a grin.
"Harry, you go ahead," Russell gestured.
"Alright."
Harry stepped forward, drawing his wand as he approached the door.
"Alohomora," he muttered.
A flash of magic struck the lock, and it clicked open—but the thick chain wrapped around the door remained firmly in place.
"Incendio."
A thumb-thick stream of flame burst from his wand, licking at the chain. Yet even after burning for a long while, the metal showed no sign of heating—no glow, no weakening.
Sirius waved his wand, extinguishing the fire, then glanced toward Russell.
Harry quietly stepped aside.
Russell raised his wand upright. His left hand's index and ring fingers pressed together as he traced upward along the wand's length.
For a fleeting instant, both Harry and Sirius thought they heard the faint, ringing note of a blade being drawn.
Russell stepped toward the chain—then paused, glancing back.
"If I break it… I don't have to pay for it, right?"
"Of course not," Sirius replied without hesitation. "Even if you burned the whole house down, I wouldn't ask you for a single Knut."
He meant it.
The Black family vault could easily afford dozens of such houses—and more importantly, it was thanks to Russell that he was even free.
Russell nodded.
With a subtle motion, he traced a line through the air with his wand.
Clink—clatter—
The heavy chain split apart instantly, the severed links dropping to the ground one after another.
It was his first real attempt at a modified form of Sectumsempra—and the result was… satisfying.
"Impressive spell," Sirius said, clearly approving. He knew that at Russell's age, he himself wouldn't have been nearly as capable.
As Harry pushed the door open—
A squad of marching nutcracker soldiers charged out, brandishing tiny spears.
They barely reached his knees, but their momentum was fierce, accompanied by unintelligible battle cries.
Cornered, Harry reacted on instinct.
"Tarantallegra!"
The moment the spell struck, the soldiers dropped their weapons and began wildly tap-dancing in place, spinning in circles as they went.
The absurdity of the scene made Harry burst into laughter.
But as he laughed—
His eyes fell on something nearby.
A crystal ball.
Curious, he reached out… and picked it up.
Sirius leaned casually against the doorframe, a faint smile on his lips. He had originally planned to step in and help Harry—but hadn't expected him to handle the nutcracker soldiers on his own.
"These little fellows?" he chuckled. "James, Remus Lupin, and I made them back when we were at Hogwarts. Caused quite a stir at the time."
"You should've seen James in third year—he tried casting a growth charm on a Christmas tree and ended up creating a troll that ate mistletoe—"
His laughter suddenly stopped.
His gaze fixed on the crystal ball in Harry's hands.
Snow drifted inside the sphere.
It showed a scene from 1971—four boys wrapped in scarves having a snowball fight. One of them, a black-haired boy in Gryffindor robes, had a sneezing rat perched on his head.
It was a memory—one Sirius had extracted and preserved.
Inside the glass, a miniature blizzard swirled. A younger Sirius, his dark hair dusted with snow, hurled an ice-packed snowball at James Potter's neck.
Nearby, a younger Lupin crouched in the snow, coughing as he shaped another snowball with reddened fingers.
The rat clung tightly to James's hair, sneezing repeatedly as icy powder splashed against it.
"That's Scabbers?" Harry murmured, his fingers almost touching the surface. "He looks… healthier than when I saw him."
"Of course," Sirius said quietly, his throat tightening. "He was younger then. Well-fed, well-rested… of course he looked lively."
"He and James were close. That's why I made him the Secret-Keeper."
A pause.
"That… was the greatest mistake of my life."
The crystal ball suddenly trembled.
The scene shifted.
Now it showed Christmas night at Grimmauld Place. A young Regulus Black curled by an upstairs window, secretly watching the four boys playing in the snow outside.
From behind him, Walburga Black's shrill voice cut through the storm:
"Come back inside, Regulus! Don't let those filthy Gryffindor voices pollute your ears!"
A crack spread along the base of the crystal ball.
The memory began to distort.
The rat on James's head suddenly had glowing red eyes.
A snowball meant for Lupin veered off course—smashing the small snowman on Regulus's windowsill instead.
"…This isn't right," Russell said, drawing his wand.
"If this were a real memory, it wouldn't change like this. Unless—"
"Unless someone tampered with it."
Wednesday had appeared silently, holding Regulus's umbrella. The snake-shaped handle hissed faintly.
From deep within the basement came the dragging sound of chains.
A hoarse, broken voice echoed through the walls:
"Filthy traitors disturbing Master Regulus's rest… Kreacher will tear out their throats…"
"Kreacher," Sirius snapped, his voice turning cold. "What are you doing down here? Did you tamper with the crystal ball? Answer me!"
He looked genuinely distressed—the crystal ball was more than an object. It held one of his most precious memories.
With a flick of his wand, the entire basement lit up.
There, in the shadows—
stood an elderly house-elf.
Kreacher looked ancient. His skin hung loose like a rotting gray sack, covered in lumps and web-like purple veins. His nose bulged grotesquely, his long ears drooped to his shoulders, and his cloudy, bloodshot eyes glared with venom.
Around his waist was tied a filthy rag embroidered with the Black family crest.
A dented scar marked his forehead—evidence of repeated self-inflicted punishment. His swollen, twisted fingers clenched as he stared at them with pure hatred.
"And what does this have to do with Regulus?" Sirius demanded. "That's my crystal ball!"
"The filthy, disgraced young master returns… but Master Regulus will never return," Kreacher muttered, ignoring him entirely.
He shuffled forward.
Harry instinctively recoiled—the stench coming from him was unbearable.
"It's all that traitor Sirius's fault! He disgraced the noble House of Black! He drove away Mistress Walburga's portrait… and let filthy Mudblood vermin defile Master Regulus's bed!"
"Kreacher should tear off his own ears for having to serve such scum…"
He turned, muttering viciously as he moved away.
Russell narrowed his eyes slightly.
The "Mudblood" Kreacher spoke of… likely referred to Lupin.
After all, he hadn't even met Hermione yet.
No wonder Sirius despised him.
Even Russell found it difficult not to feel a surge of disgust.