A/N: For the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. Optional prompts: 3. Everything happens for a reason, 13. Train, 14. Feathers. Enjoy:)
Kreacher's Fire
For days, Kreacher had been ferociously working at the task set to him by Harry Potter: Find Mundungus Fletcher. A fire had been started in him, fueled completely by Master Regulus's locket, and it would never be put out. Over years and years of being alone, he'd lost that fire completely, and a depression worse than any dementor attack had grasped him, refusing to let go. After Harry Potter had shown him Master Regulus's locket, the flame had reignited. Now, as long as Kreacher lived, that fire would burn on. And today, as he stood before the disgusting, leering man, it burned the brightest.
"Kreacher has orders to bring you," he croaked fiercely, glaring at Mundungus. The man only laughed. If he hadn't had orders, Kreacher might have tied him to the tracks and let any and every train run over his body. Anybody who had the nerve to steal Black artifacts deserved nothing short of that.
"Oh yeah?" he sneered. "Bring me, eh? And where might you be bringin' me?"
"To Harry Potter," Kreacher responded immediately. He would do it, he would do it if his life depended on it, for the locket that Harry Potter had given him.
"Yeah? And what are you gonna do, little elf?" Mundungus cackled. With that, he made to turn away, but Kreacher refused to let this happen.
He'd been festering away in Grimmauld Place for too long. It had been simply too long since he'd felt drive to do anything but barely survive. Kreacher remembered the dark days when there was no family in the house, no Mistress to serve. How he'd cried…how he'd suffered…And then there were the days when those blood traitors and filth stormed his wonderful Mistress's house. Worst of all, his Mistress's shameful son, with his feathered creature, had tainted the house almost to the point where Kreacher could not hope to scrub it clean. Sometimes, he thought those times might have been worse; at least before, he could protect the house from falling apart, if only just barely. But then Harry Potter had called him, given him something to do, something he would die for, and now Kreacher would stop at nothing to do it.
"You will not leave," he said firmly, raising his wrinkly little hand to stop the thief. Mundungus grinned, showing his mossy teeth. Kreacher felt a surge of hatred for him—then, without warning, the thief had gone flying into the air. He fell back down instantly with a loud THUD and a pained groan.
"What the bleedin' hell—" But before he could finish his sentence, Kreacher had let out a raspy, delighted laugh, and done it again. Seven times Mundungus Fletcher was thrown into the sky or against the alley walls, Kreacher laughing all the while.
"This is your punishment," Kreacher growled. "This is your punishment for defiling the House of Black, for splattering my Mistress's house with your filth…"
At this point, Mundungus could no longer yell curse words through his groans of pain. Finally, he shouted, "Bloody—just STOP! Okay, okay, I'll come! I'll come!"
Though Kreacher was not entirely satisfied with the punishment, he did have orders, and he instantly bound the thief to himself, grumbling to himself madly. As he Disapparated, it struck him that for the first time in a long time, he felt happy. It was tarnished happiness, incomplete, but happiness nonetheless. Perhaps, he thought, when he reached Grimmauld Place again, he might give it a good scrubbing. Maybe he would even make some dinner—roast chicken sounded quite delicious.
For the first time in his life, Kreacher thought that maybe it was true, maybe everything did happen for a reason.
A/N: Please leave me your thoughts.