novelraw Chapter 76: Kreacher Slays His Enemy
Chapter 76: Kreacher Slays His Enemy
Chapter Seventy-Six: Kreacher Slays His Enemy
Kreacher's shouting drew all eyes to Draco in the Headmaster's office—even the phoenix Fawkes stared at him in surprise.
If he could, Draco would like to look in a mirror right now and see his own ridiculously comical appearance.
Stealing?
This was nonsense and an insult to a Malfoy.
Draco composed himself, his expression returning to its usual indifference. He slowly and deliberately used his wand to cast "Scourgify," cleansing away the grime from touching Kreacher.
He faced the gazes of everyone in the room with an arrogant attitude, his tone turning cold. "I do not accept such insulting accusations."
"Kreacher didn't lie!" Kreacher jumped up and down, shouting with conviction. His ugly face looked even more distorted and angry.
Draco glanced at it dismissively, his tone laced with threat: "To accuse a Malfoy without evidence—do you know the consequences?"
"Kreacher, I demand an explanation!" Sirius glanced at Draco, then finally spoke sternly to Kreacher.
Kreacher glared at Draco fiercely, like a vicious dog chained in place, baring his teeth and snarling: "Kreacher didn't lie! The day he came to the Black townhouse, he took Master Regulus's locket, and that heartless Master Sirius just gave it to him so casually!"
Draco's mouth fell open, sudden inspiration striking him.
On the day of the visit to the Black ancestral home, Dobby had sorted out a large bag of Dark artifacts, among which there was indeed an unassuming locket.
Dobby had once said the locket contained "extremely powerful magic," but unfortunately nobody had noticed anything at the time, so the locket was set aside and casually tossed into the bag.
Later, the bag ended up in Draco's hands. He'd asked Sirius Black for it, intending to give it to the Weasley twins so they could use it for pranks.
However, because they'd been so busy these past days since term started, they hadn't had a chance to speak privately, so the bag remained in his possession.
Since term began, the bag had been sitting in a dragonhide pouch in Draco's dormitory.
Of course, it could very well be a Horcrux.
Draco remained silent for a moment, then suddenly remembered the series of strange occurrences over the past few days.
Since his rebirth, he'd been very careful to use Occlumency to control those memories and emotions so they wouldn't overwhelm him.
However, since receiving the locket in early August, everything had been spiraling out of control:
Poor sleep, jumbled nightmares lingering in his mind, terrifying memories swirling around—green lights, screams, falling, death...
The Occlumency that repeatedly spiraled out of control, the unpredictable mood swings, the inexplicable fatigue and gloom, the uncontrollable impulses, the frequent bitterness in his heart, and the sarcastic remarks that slipped out unbidden...
He'd been urging his horse onward, galloping in the opposite direction of "calm and self-control."
There must be a reason for this.
Something as evil as a Horcrux could certainly have negative effects on him.
When the Ravenclaw Diadem was destroyed, it had emitted that mesmerizing voice. Tom Riddle's diary could converse with people, manipulate their behavior, and even drain their life force. So the locket—as a Slytherin relic—should also have some extraordinary negative effects to match its widespread fame.
Looking back now, Draco broke out in a cold sweat. It would be truly bizarre if his dazed state over the past month hadn't been influenced by the Horcrux in the slightest.
"I never imagined that ugly, grey thing would be—" Draco began, but stopped mid-sentence.
Sirius Black knew nothing about Horcruxes. He couldn't continue.
He turned his head and glanced at Sirius Black, wanting to see his reaction.
A look of understanding appeared on Sirius's haggard face. "I seem to remember it. Indeed, I thought it was some worthless thing... and was about to throw it away... Draco, do you still have it?"
"Of course! Give me five minutes! I think that thing should be in my dormitory." Draco said, nodded to Dumbledore, and strode from the Headmaster's office.
The sky above Hogwarts was already showing the first light of dawn.
Draco rushed back to his dormitory, opened his wardrobe, and pulled out a dark green storage bag.
Indeed, the dusty locket lay there quietly, creating a perplexing atmosphere.
When Draco held it in his hand, it felt heavier than he remembered, and he even thought it was making some kind of rustling whispers.
His heart was pounding. Without thinking, he carefully tucked the locket inside a handkerchief and ran back to the Headmaster's office clutching it.
When the locket was placed on Dumbledore's desk, those gathered around it heard a deep, dull thud.
"It sounds heavier than it looks," Dumbledore said thoughtfully.
"That's right," Draco said, examining it closely like the other two. "Very heavy. Very unusual."
"Is this it? That locket?" Sirius asked, puzzled.
"It was so dirty it was hard to tell," Draco said.
"That's right. Do you see the serpentine S formed by those tiny emeralds beneath the dust?" Dumbledore said softly, a hint of fascination in his voice. "Extremely fine workmanship. Definitely the work of a goblin master. I think this is probably one of Slytherin's relics."
"We'll have to ask Kreacher," Draco reminded them.
"Tell me, is this the locket?" Sirius roughly grabbed Kreacher's ear with his uninjured hand and slammed the elf's large head directly onto Dumbledore's desk.
"Yes! It's it!" Kreacher trembled with excitement. It wasn't saddened by Sirius's roughness—instead, it showed a hint of joy as it approached the locket.
Its large, bloodshot eyes stared greedily at the dusty locket, never expecting to live to see the keepsake that its beloved Master Regulus had entrusted to it.
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's destroy it with the sword," Sirius said, looking at the locket with disgust.
"You can try," Dumbledore said, taking the sword down from the wall. "Although I doubt it's that simple."
Sirius released Kreacher and, with his better hand, picked up the gleaming silver sword inlaid with rubies and began hacking at the locket.
"Clang!" Sparks flew between sword and locket. But after the sparks faded, the locket remained intact, lying there unassumingly, dusty and stubborn, seemingly mocking Sirius Black's naiveté.
"As expected." Dumbledore moved closer to the locket, using his wand tip to lift its thin chain, watching the locket sway back and forth in midair. "Kreacher was right—it can only be destroyed by opening it first. I suspect it has a protective mechanism that releases its energy to destroy it only when opened."
"Then open it." Sirius set the sword aside and said fiercely, "Open it with a spell. I know a few useful tricks."
"Well then, I'll try." Dumbledore placed it back on the table, pointed at it with his Elder Wand, and cast several silent spells—Draco guessed they must be profound incantations.
"It's no use." He placed the locket back on the table and calmly announced, "This protective mechanism is flawless. I must say, it's truly a Slytherin relic—perhaps only a descendant of Slytherin can open it."
The room fell deathly silent.
The hands of the grandfather clock behind Dumbledore ticked away coldly, without pausing for any excuse, its sound exceptionally icy and merciless.
Draco sighed quietly.
Where could they find descendants of Slytherin?
The Gaunt family was extinct. The last known member—Morfin Gaunt—had recently died in Azkaban.
What made descendants of Slytherin so unique? Draco pondered, listening to the bubbling sounds coming from the cabinet where the Pensieve was kept, when a thought suddenly flashed through his mind.
This thought originated from a memory fragment—a fragment from the Pensieve:
The Gaunt family's dilapidated, tiled hut, with a dead snake nailed to the door in an S-shape; the hissing sounds made by the Gaunt family members as they communicated—a sound he recognized, the same sound Harry had used to open the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.
"Professor Dumbledore," Draco said eagerly, "try Parseltongue—it's a language only Slytherin descendants know."
Dumbledore glanced at him and nodded in agreement. "It's worth attempting."
"Then we'll need to find Harry," said Professor Dumbledore. Seeing Draco's puzzled expression, he added, "I can understand Parseltongue, but I cannot speak it. Fawkes, could you please make another trip?"
The phoenix shook its head helplessly and flew toward the door again, its once-majestic tail feathers now looking rather bedraggled—it had done considerable work that night.
"Yes, Harry can speak Parseltongue. Asking him to try is the simplest solution." Draco nodded.
Speaking of which, was Harry really a descendant of Slytherin? Why did he speak Parseltongue? Draco wondered, bewildered.
All right, let's consider Harry's talent an anomaly for now. After all, he'd been able to defeat Voldemort as a baby and kill the Basilisk like a warrior, using a sword instead of a wand.
It wasn't surprising that someone with such extraordinary talent would know some strange and unusual languages... He deceived himself, not wanting to dwell on irrelevant matters at this moment.
At present, the matter of "destroying the locket" had occupied Draco's entire mind, and he no longer had energy to think about anything else.
He blinked his dazed eyes, looked around, and noticed that everyone in the Headmaster's office seemed listless.
Dumbledore wiped his half-moon spectacles and sighed almost imperceptibly. Sirius sat listlessly in his wheelchair, staring blankly at the locket. The house-elf Kreacher, like an ancient child, trembled and gasped for breath, constantly rubbing his swollen, tennis ball-sized eyes with his wrinkled hands.
Kreacher.
Draco initially disliked the elf because of its accusations against him. However, when the truth emerged, he realized that, in some ways, the elf had not lied.
At that moment, seeing the elf's pitiful appearance, he suddenly thought of his own elf, Dobby.
Dobby had also once been equally slovenly and pitiful.
However, Dobby had now undergone a complete transformation. He often appeared before Draco noisily and smugly—although at times he had an unusually strong fixation on Harry Potter—and he was becoming more capable every day.
Now, Dobby could keep everything in perfect order, and it had been ages since he'd been this disheveled.
Draco glanced at Kreacher, a strange tightness rising in his chest.
He didn't know why he felt this way—the feeling was very unfamiliar.
How could he feel anything other than "contempt" toward an ugly, wretched house-elf who was utterly rude to him?
The next second, he found the reason—he couldn't help but think of Hermione Granger.
He remembered her eyes, which were often filled with compassion for the weak. She treated all pitiful creatures with such kindness, never showing any contempt.
She always tried to understand those marginalized beings who were abandoned by society, regardless of whether it would cause her trouble or whether it was a losing proposition.
Hermione. Imagine if, in this early morning filled with distress and tears, she'd heard such a dramatic story, and even discovered a legendary eighteen-year-old Slytherin boy.
What would she think?
The boy's death was extremely regrettable.
His bravery was never revealed—everyone used "cowardice" as his epitaph.
The light within him was never seen—everyone believed he was a faithful follower of the Dark Lord.
His dying wish had never been fulfilled—until today.
Until his house-elf revealed the secret by chance today, giving his short life a new and true epilogue.
He could have survived. He could have used the loyal house-elf.
But he was unwilling to harm Kreacher, so he chose death, leaving the hope of life to it and also entrusting it with one of the most difficult tasks in the world.
This task had tormented it to the point of despair. It tried every possible method but couldn't complete it, and lived in constant anxiety, resentment, helplessness, and sadness.
If she were here, how would she treat the boy's house-elf?
"I have a suggestion." Draco's voice broke the silence in the Headmaster's office, causing both the blue and grey eyes to regard him with suspicion.
He knew he'd been somewhat rash today, speaking without thinking.
Perhaps he was too exhausted, tormented by that locket for too long, so long that he'd forgotten how to write "self-discipline and propriety."
He may have empathized with Regulus Black—the lone-wolf Slytherin boy—to some extent, understanding why he had to bear all of this alone, even at the cost of his own life.
With a certain Hermione Granger-like stubbornness, Draco didn't give himself a chance to back out and continued, "If we can successfully open this locket, could we give it to Kreacher and let it fulfill the mission entrusted to it by its master?"
Sirius looked at him listlessly, completely baffled as to what he was attempting.
Kreacher covered his mouth with his fist, looking at Draco in surprise, his cloudy eyes flashing with tears and radiating an unusual brilliance.
Professor Dumbledore didn't show much surprise—a hint of a smile flickered in his tired blue eyes.
"I have no objection. Sirius?"
"Whatever," Sirius said numbly, still reeling from the truth of Regulus's death.
"Kreacher, we want to continue the work that Regulus started, and we want to ensure his sacrifice wasn't in vain." Draco crouched down, trying to be as kind as possible to it, forcing himself not to notice its nearly naked body and tear-streaked face.
"Yes, yes!" Kreacher nodded eagerly.
But the next second, a look of apprehension appeared on the little elf's face. It lacked confidence in destroying the locket. "Kreacher has tried everything, but nothing works. Kreacher is worried—"
"Don't worry, Kreacher. We have a method." Dumbledore said kindly, standing, taking the Gryffindor sword in hand, and walking toward Kreacher. "However, it's somewhat special—not everyone can wield it. Here, try first."
Kreacher trembled as he took the sword and held it in his hands.
"Give it a try," Dumbledore encouraged it.
Determination appeared on its face as it strained to swing the sword, only to find in despair that it couldn't budge it.
"Oh no—" it cried out as it knelt on the ground in anguish.
"I'm afraid not. Only Gryffindors can summon and wield this sword," Sirius said indifferently from the side. "Kreacher is a house-elf from the Black family, and at heart, he's received the mindset and education of Slytherins. He is—a Slytherin through and through."
Kreacher returned the sword to Dumbledore, then lowered his head in despair, sobbing again and muttering, "I'm sorry, Master... I've failed you... Kreacher couldn't complete your mission..."
"Don't cry yet, Kreacher," Draco said. "The Slytherins have their own secret weapon. I have one here—a souvenir I acquired somewhere last year."
He carefully took the fang, still wrapped in a leather sheath, from his pocket. He removed the sheath, revealing the venom gleaming with dangerous silver light.
"I suspect it will be useful," Draco said casually, smiling slightly at Kreacher's surprised face.
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.
The basilisk fang—of course it would be useful—it had once destroyed a piece of Voldemort's soul in the diary.
However, this young Mr. Malfoy was remarkably discreet.
He'd never revealed a word about the fang before. Nobody knew he'd taken such a unique souvenir from the Chamber of Secrets. Dumbledore silently observed the platinum-blond boy through his spectacles, his gaze deep and thoughtful.
"Be careful." Draco seemed oblivious to this, busy carefully handing the fang to Kreacher, signaling it to prepare.
Harry Potter, still half-asleep in his pajamas, was dragged by the collar by Fawkes. He stared dumbfounded at the Headmaster's office in the early morning, as if witnessing a Chimaera running amok.
The elusive and eccentric but kind Headmaster, the reclusive godfather who often shut himself in his room tinkering with things, the precocious friend from Slytherin who was cold on the outside but warm inside, and a filthy little house-elf with a tear-streaked face.
This bizarre combination wasn't the strangest thing. The strangest thing was that everyone cast enthusiastic glances at him, as if he were the ultimate prize in a ring-toss game.
The atmosphere was eerily strange.
"What happened?" Harry asked hesitantly.
"You've come at the perfect time." Draco, pale-faced, pulled him over—he seemed unusually excited—and pointed to a small object on the ground, saying, "Can you speak Parseltongue to it? Try saying 'open.'"
There was a greyish, box-like object there that looked somewhat familiar.
"What's wrong with this thing?" Harry asked hesitantly, wanting a better look at it.
"Try quickly—it's very important to us," Draco said eagerly.
Harry saw Professor Dumbledore holding Gryffindor's sword and nodding at him. His godfather, though pale, smiled encouragingly.
He hesitantly walked up to the locket, swallowed hard, gathered his emotions, and hissed in Parseltongue, "Open."
The small gold lid of the locket clicked open. Behind each of the two small glass windows, a bright, lifelike eye blinked.
"Kreacher, now!" Draco shouted.
Kreacher stood stunned for a long moment, its hand holding the basilisk fang trembling slightly.
As it came to its senses, it shakily raised the fang, preparing to stab the locket, when a hissing voice emerged from inside.
"I see your heart—it's mine." The voice laughed hoarsely.
"Kreacher, stab!" Draco shouted.
"Kreacher, I see your fear," the voice from the locket continued cruelly.
From the pair of eyes peeking from the small window, bizarre, soap-bubble-like things emerged.
It was a dark-haired boy. He bore a resemblance to Sirius Black, only more immature, thinner, and more innocent. Draco guessed this was probably Regulus Black.
The boy, in excruciating pain, drank poison, then crawled thirstily toward the island's edge, where he was dragged down by the hands of the Inferi...
This was a recreation of the last image of Regulus Arcturus Black in the world.
Then Great-Aunt Walburga lay weakly on her bed, crying out in pain, her eyes brimming with tears, losing their last glimmer of light as she looked toward the door...
Dumbledore gripped the Gryffindor sword tightly.
"Sirius," a hint of reluctance flashed in his blue eyes, followed by determination. He spoke to the slumped Black family patriarch, reminding him, "You must help him."
Sirius seemed to snap from his daze. He gave the order, his voice as hard and cold as frosted steel: "Kreacher, destroy it!"
With a flash of silver light, the aged elf finally lunged at Slytherin's locket.
It was finished. The terrifying phantoms that had appeared from the two small windows vanished without a trace, leaving only Kreacher standing there trembling, the fang slipping from his hand onto the carpet.
Draco quickly retrieved and stored his precious fang again.
Wisps of smoke rose from the locket's wreckage. The thing that lived inside the Horcrux—whatever evil spirit it was—had been annihilated and shattered.
Kreacher looked down at the shattered locket, his legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground. His thin, bony chest heaved rapidly, each breath potentially his last.
It let out a series of piercing cries, a mixture of excitement and pain: "Master, Kreacher is finished! Master, look! Kreacher is finished!"
"Kreacher—" Sirius had always hated the noise it made. He instinctively wanted to silence it, but the words caught in his throat.
"Master... look... Kreacher is finished." It said with a pale face, large tears streaming from its cloudy eyes and falling onto the carpet.
Draco closed his eyes briefly. The "Master" he spoke of probably didn't refer to the living Sirius before him, but rather to Regulus, who lay buried at the bottom of the cave lake.
"You've accomplished your task." Sirius sighed, glancing at Kreacher with a dejected expression, for the first time not showing any disgust toward the little elf. "Go back to Grimmauld Place and rest."
Kreacher struggled to his feet—with the utmost humility he could muster—and bowed deeply to Sirius, Draco, Dumbledore, and Harry.
Then, with a "crack," it Disapparated.
Everyone was somewhat stunned. In the gradually brightening light, they suddenly realized they were utterly exhausted.
As the first rays of gold crept into the Headmaster's office windows, Dumbledore summoned Madam Pomfrey.
She gave Dumbledore a disapproving look, then shooed Sirius away angrily like a mother hen protecting her chicks. Draco could hear her grumbling to Sirius, "You look dreadful. What were you doing last night?"
Harry followed anxiously behind the incessantly chattering Madam Pomfrey as his godfather left. Draco guessed Harry probably had numerous questions for Sirius.
The portraits on the wall were all yawning one after another. After such a complicated and thrilling night, they were unsure whether to rest or stay awake, whether to discuss everything heatedly or keep the matter to themselves.
"Please keep this confidential," Dumbledore said to them. "Thank you."
The portraits all nodded in agreement, except for Phineas Nigellus Black, whose frame was already empty. Draco guessed the excessively grieving Black ancestor had most likely gone to visit his portrait at number twelve, Grimmauld Place—to relay the exact news of Regulus's death back to his family.
In the end, only Draco Malfoy remained at the desk.
The platinum-blond boy lazily shook the teapot, poured out a cup of cooled tea, took a small sip, and frowned.
"I'm truly amazed, Draco," said Dumbledore.
He was bending down to pick up the locket from the ground, shaking the chain, examining the shape of the remains, a look of wonder on his face.
"Yes, I didn't expect it either." Draco looked at the locket, now completely shattered, and suddenly felt exhausted. "Slytherin's locket is destroyed like this—it's like a dream."
"Actually, I was speaking about Kreacher." Dumbledore placed the locket on the table and looked at him quietly across the desk. "Draco, I never thought you would make such a suggestion."
"What? Do only those who can wield the sword of Gryffindor have the right to destroy Horcruxes?" Draco briefly met his gaze before looking away. "There are brave people in Slytherin too, even if they're just Slytherin house-elves."
"If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have thought such a statement came from a young pure-blood wizard," Dumbledore said calmly. "Can you tell me how you conceived the idea of having Kreacher destroy the Horcrux?"
Draco remained silent. How could he easily reveal his empathy for Regulus, or his understanding of Hermione's perspective?
"Oh, Kreacher should fulfill the mission given to him by his master, shouldn't he? Besides, for the Dark Lord, having his Horcrux destroyed by a house-elf he despised might be the greatest humiliation." Draco wore a gloating expression.
"I appreciate your sense of humor," Dumbledore said easily. "Yes, he shouldn't have underestimated Kreacher. Nor should he have underestimated Regulus. They are both among the finest Slytherins."
"Perhaps," Draco said casually, seemingly unconvinced, but inwardly he felt certain agreement.
"In that case, as long as we find the whereabouts of the Peverell Ring—" Dumbledore said thoughtfully, stroking one of his wand's joints.
"Sir, don't expect me to find the ring for you first thing tomorrow morning. I have absolutely no clue about it," Draco hurriedly interrupted him.
"You said the same thing yesterday, but in less than half a day you found me the locket." Dumbledore said with a smile. "I must admit, you've raised my expectations for Slytherin resourcefulness."
"Yesterday was an exception." Draco said with a grimace, emphasizing righteously, "But you—can you ensure Sirius Black won't ask too many questions? And Harry—I think he's curious from head to toe, always ready to pry into everything."
"This isn't my fault. You were the one who asked me to summon Sirius, and you were the one who suggested getting a Parselmouth to solve the problem," Dumbledore said, his tone tinged with helplessness. "Once they realize what's happening, they'll definitely come seeking answers."
"It's your problem to deflect them." Draco showed no sympathy for the busy old man and reiterated, "When you're deflecting them, please ensure you don't involve my parents."
"Of course," Dumbledore said in good spirits, and asked amiably, "Anything else you require?"
"I need a day off to sleep—the kind where I don't have to do any homework," Draco said stubbornly.
Merlin above! If he didn't rest soon, he might actually collapse.
Merlin knew what kind of hell he'd been living lately—under that locket's influence! Severe sleep deprivation! Absolutely no peace of mind!
Dumbledore smiled wryly. This smile seemed much more genuine than his previous ones. He nodded, agreeing to the somewhat childish request, and waved him out.
Draco emerged from the Headmaster's office as if sleepwalking, yawning wearily—his eyelids were starting to droop uncontrollably.
Exhaustion. Emptiness. Bizarre. Hallucinatory.
He swayed in the corridor, his steps unsteady, feeling as if he were floating on clouds.
Everything was going too smoothly—so smoothly that Draco felt a sense of unreality.
The sense of unreality lingered. It shouldn't have been lesson time, yet Hermione Granger's voice suddenly rang out from the end of the silent corridor.
"Draco, did you come from the Headmaster's office? Are you all right?" Her voice was sweet and crisp, like the green apple he loved to bite into.
He half-opened his eyes, yawned lazily, opened his arms, and naturally caught the girl who rushed before him.
The golden sunlight dazzled him. He must be dreaming again.
Draco pulled the girl, who exuded a sweet fragrance, into his arms and chuckled softly, just as he had done countless times in his dreams.
He took a deep breath of the fragrance from her hair, feeling a sense of joy, and tightened his arms around her.
"I'm so glad, Hermione," he whispered in her ear.
"Draco? What's wrong?" Her voice was surprised, like a cat that had just realized something was amiss.
She's always so adorable. Bushy hair, a slightly dazed voice, and eyes full of curiosity about everything.
He released her, looking at her with a dazed gaze, at the bright-eyed girl, and gave her a silly smile.
She looked at him with innocent eyes, tilting her head to examine him. The morning breeze ruffled her hair, her brown locks swaying as if in a dream. She watched him, waiting for him, as if curious about his response.
Oh, Hermione. I need proper sleep—I can't keep dreaming about you. He thought groggily.
So he cupped her rosy cheeks in his hands and gave her a resounding kiss on the forehead.
Suddenly, she froze in place. In a daze, his brows and eyes relaxed.
He staggered past her, drifting like a ghost toward the Slytherin common room, shouting "Goodnight!" as he went.
"He's probably gone mad," Hermione murmured, watching the rising sun and the boy walking farther and farther away in its light.
The whisper that rang in her ears burned them.
The touch on her forehead felt like an electric shock.
Her heartbeat was as fierce as a drum, as passionate as an epic poem.
Oh no! That damned fever seemed to have returned.