.
The brass knocker sounded ponderously against the heavy front door. Kreacher backed further into the corner of his cupboard.
"Master Regulus said to hide, so hide Kreacher must," he croaked, clutching his spindly arms in a vain effort to comfort himself. Kreacher knew whoever sought admittance was no Muggle, for no Muggle could even see the front door of Grimmauld Place to knock. It had to be a wizard. And what wizards came visiting this house nowadays? Ungrateful Master Sirius had left; Master Orion was dead. No-one came visiting socially. Not now. Not now that Master Regulus had gone.
The knock came again, demanding entrance.
"Master Regulus said to hide," Kreacher repeated, instilling his orders to quell his own rising panic. "Hiding will protect my mistress." He turned around, screwing his eyes shut, desperately trying to ignore years of training. He should be answering the door to admit his mistress's callers - but he knew the only type of wizard who visited this house were his followers - maybe even him – the Dark Lord!
Kreacher stifled a small whimper of fear at the memory of the terrible visions the potion had induced, then a sob of sorrow as he saw again - as he had so very many times - Master Regulus drinking the same foul substance, and screaming his worst fears as the potion maddened him and the thirst that tore at his throat drove him to the lake and to the Inferi that infested it. Kreacher keened, turning around faster, as he remembered Master Regulus ordering him home, to hide, and to destroy the locket. Kreacher stilled and then knelt to retrieve the locket from his crumpled bedding.
"A most evil object," he muttered, and secreted it once more. It had been impervious to everything he had tried so far – none of his elf magic worked. He had failed. He began to breathe more heavily as the weight of his failure seemed to crush his chest and the need to punish his failure overwhelmed him. He braced his hands against the stone wall to dash his head against it in penance when he heard the knocking start again, louder and more insistent. Kreacher pushed himself as far back into his blanket as far he could, willing the visitor to believe that no-one was home.
His mistress would never answer the door herself. She would not even leave her bedroom, now mad with grief for the loss of her son and then her husband so soon thereafter. Kreacher knew Mistress spent her days cursing her first-born son – cursing him for defiling the ancient name of Black, consorting with blood traitors and half-bloods, even Mudbloods, and daring to outlive her own darling. Mistress had set all her hopes on Master Regulus – steadfast, noble Master Regulus. Kreacher had been so proud to serve such a fine young Master, embodying all that was pure and admirable in wizardkind.
And Kreacher had failed him! He began to weep afresh but then the knocking started again – but it was no longer the front door! It was the cupboard door – his own cupboard door.
It was over. He had been discovered …
"KREACHER!"
With a cry, Kreacher launched himself at his door, unable to ignore a direct summons, and stumbled out to meet whatever punishment awaited him - only almost to fall over the small child waiting outside the cupboard door, who looked at him with wide green eyes, his pyjamas, decorated with Snitches, in disarray, as a slow smile dimpled his cheeks.
"Kreacher, there you are! I knocked and knocked and knocked."
Disorientated and slightly reeling, Kreacher realised that he had been dreaming. No, a nightmare – and worse because it was a memory; not one moment of it had been unreal. But it was in the past - and here stood his present. Kreacher's breathing calmed as he felt the oppression of those darkest memories lift. His bony hands fell on the small shoulders of the dark-haired boy.
"Young master is up very early. You gave old Kreacher quite a turn," he said fondly. "Does Master Albus want some hot chocolate? Kreacher will make some."
"It's Christmas morning!" Albus whispered excitedly, and thrust an adult's red sock at Kreacher. "Look! It's your stocking!"
Kreacher's rheumy eyes widened as he wondered what he had done wrong to be freed on such a day, but then realised Master Albus was but a child and didn't have the power to free him. This was that Christmas tradition that wizards had – presents in stockings, not the stockings themselves.
"You are giving Kreacher a Christmas present?" asked Kreacher, holding out his hand uncertainly.
"I made it for you," Albus announced with pride. "It's speshul."
"Special," Kreacher repeated in wonder. He had received a number of gifts from Master Harry and Mistress Ginny over the years. The walls of his cupboard were lined with these gifts: old photographs of Black family members and new photographs of the Potter children, all in fine frames, small trinkets loved by his mistress, a single silk glove Mistress Ginny had found and laundered for him, oddments of monographed china, even a blanket knitted for him. Of course, none were as prized as the locket he wore at all times – the locket that marked Master Regulus's great sacrifice in the first wizarding war – his master's great heroism, without which Master Harry could not have defeated the Dark Lord.
Albus grabbed Kreacher's hand and pulled him into the cupboard and sat cross-legged on the blanket, waiting for Kreacher to join him and open his stocking. Kreacher sat and faced the boy, remembering a time so long ago when another dark-haired child had knelt in this cupboard, holding a finger to his lips for silence, as he played hide and seek with the older brother who would never think of looking for him in a house-elf's cupboard! Kreacher smiled. He liked having a family to serve again.
"Open it!" Albus whispered impatiently. Kreacher reached into the sock to pull out a rolled up parchment and unrolled it carefully before him. "I drawed it," Albus said, pointing a chubby finger at the figure with dark hair and green eyes. "S'me," he said, "and that's you. We're flying!" A figure that was recognisably a house-elf with great bat ears sat behind the wizard on a broom and a very large Snitch hovered just out of the wizard's reach. Kreacher touched the Snitch with one long finger, recalling the other boy who had loved Quidditch.
"It's a fine drawing, Master Albus," rasped Kreacher. "Kreacher will treasure it." Kreacher scanned his wall for a place to hang it. His eyes came to rest on the photo of Master Regulus and the Slytherin Quidditch team that Master Harry had given to him years ago. Yes, his two favourite young masters together – that pleased him. "Here," he said, and, with a click of his fingers, the drawing flew up and stuck itself to the wall in perfect alignment with the prized photo. "No-one can take it down now."
"Really? Not never?" asked Albus in wonderment. "Can I try?" Kreacher nodded, and Albus scrambled over to the wall and tried to prise the drawing from the wall, but it stuck fast. He sat back on his heels with a disappointed air.
"What's wrong, Master Albus?"
"Are all drawings stuck forever? Like the shouty lady who calls me names?"
"The shouty lady?" queried Kreacher.
"Uh-huh," Albus nodded and scrambled to his feet, grasped Kreacher's hand and led him into the hall and to the portrait of his mistress, covered in heavy curtains so she would not scream. "There she is." Albus looked at the curtains fearfully, and leant forward to whisper behind his hand into Kreacher's ear. "She calls me bad words if she sees me. Sometimes, she makes me cry – even when I try to be her friend. But she doesn't like me. Not one bit."
Kreacher's eyes widened and his ears drooped. "That is the portrait of my mistress," he said. "She was very unhappy when it was painted."
"Oh," said Albus. "Is that why she shouts cos she's sad?"
Kreacher nodded, remembering his mistress in that time before – before the Dark Lord had come, before Master Regulus died, when Master Orion lived, even when ungrateful Master Sirius was young and lived at home – when Mistress had all her family around her, and her beautiful and proud nieces danced attendance on her – before it all crumbled around them and his family had been destroyed piece by piece.
"Daddy said he wanted to take it down but it has a per-mer-nint sticky charm. What's permernint?" Albus cocked his head, waiting for Kreacher to answer. But Kreacher didn't answer straightaway. Kreacher looked the innocent eyes of young Master Albus, a boy who was always so kind to old Kreacher. He didn't like to see the boy sad because of name-calling. Kreacher wasn't even sure any more why his mistress called people those names – it was so long ago.
"Kreacher thinks Master Albus means permanent. It means always." Albus nodded, then Kreacher chivvied Albus back towards the kitchen. "Come, Master Albus. Wash your hands and Kreacher will make you hot chocolate before the others wake up."
~oOo~
Harry came running down the stairs, wand at the ready, towards the shriek that had awoken him.
"Harry, look!" exclaimed Ginny, holding Lily, as James whooped again.
"What?" Harry said, turning around, looking for the source of attack, and then – his mouth dropped open. "It can't be," he gasped, stretching out his hand to touch it – to touch the empty alcove wall. "How? Who?"
Kreacher shuffled forward. "Kreacher took the portrait down, Master Harry." He made a small bow. "Master Albus said Master Harry wanted it taken down, so Kreacher has taken it down." Albus peeked at Harry from behind Kreacher.
"Happy Christmas, Daddy!" He held out his arms to be picked up, and Harry scooped his son into the air, as the whole family seemed to remember at once what day it was, and started hugging and kissing each other.
"Merry Christmas!" they all chorused as they started towards the kitchen and the sumptuous breakfast Kreacher had set out on the table.
"Master Harry?"
Harry turned to find Kreacher hovering near the portrait, now resting against one of the hall walls with its heavy curtains draped over it.
"Will it be safe?" asked Kreacher.
"Pardon me?"
"Will Mistress's portrait be safe?"
In that moment, Harry thought he had never seen the old house-elf look as vulnerable as he did then as he ran his fingers nervously over a corner of the ormolu frame that protruded from the curtain.
"We'll keep it in the Black vault in Gringotts. It will be safe there," said Harry, secretly relieved Kreacher hadn't asked to wedge the portrait into his cupboard. Kreacher was satisfied as he knew nowhere was as safe as Gringotts. "And we'll wrap the portrait carefully, I promise."
Later that morning, Harry and Ginny Conjured wrapping around the portrait for its journey to Gringotts.
"All these years, and he never let on he could take the portrait down," murmured Harry, "even when he was helping us take down all the others." Harry found himself unable to suppress a flicker of irritation that they had suffered Mrs. Black's insults needlessly for all these years.
"Why would he? Channelling my inner-Hermione, I'd say we still don't really understand house-elves, even after all this time," said Ginny. Harry looked at her quizzically, and she laughed softly. "We all assumed Mrs. Black stuck the portrait up there. No-one ever even asked Kreacher if that was true or asked him if he could take it down." This stumped Harry momentarily: Ginny was right – Sirius had probably never asked Kreacher, and Harry hadn't either. "And he probably stuck the portrait up because he was here on his own with no-one to serve. He was lonely, Harry."
From the hall, Harry watched the elf shuffle around the kitchen, putting away the breakfast crockery as Lily trailed after him, jabbering happily at him and her new doll, and the boys chased each other around the kitchen table on their toy brooms calling out to Kreacher to watch them.
"Well, not anymore," Harry said, the irritation extinguished by a bright flare of camaraderie with the old house-elf. "We're his family now."
~ FIN ~
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A/N: Written for the Teachers' Lounge Festivus Challenge. The assigned character was Kreacher and the prompts were: no-one home; brothers; one glove; Gringotts; and Quidditch.