A small, dirty little book flies to you out of nowhere. Its covers are a faded black, and it has no title. It flips open to a page three-fourths down, and you begin to read.


CRASH.

The sudden sound was followed by another almighty clang as he dropped the candlestick he was polishing. He glanced ruefully at the perpetrator –a massive barn owl was flapping its wings outside the window, its feathers ruffled as though it had slammed into it.

"Nasty creature," he muttered as he unlocked the window. "You'll wake her with all this racket."

The ruffled owl huffed and deposited the Daily Prophet onto the side table and screeched loudly for payment. He snarled at the owl for the noise and paid it the requisite Knuts, upon which the owl huffed again and took off.

As he latched the window shut, a voice came from behind him, "What is it?"

He turned around to see the old lady looking at him from the doorway, leaning painfully on her cane.

"Mistress, you must not leave your bed!" He gasped, hurrying over to her. "I apologize for the racket! 'Tis only the Prophet and no more."

She extended a shaky, gnarled palm at him. Wordlessly, he handed her the rolled-up newspaper with a deep bow. He watched her carefully as she unrolled it and read the front page. To his dismay, she gasped with shock and her hand flew to her throat.

"Mistress!" He cried. "Here, my Mistress, sit down, please!" Gently, he led her limping self to the nearest sofa, upon which she sank, her face still a mask of disbelief.

"There is news, Kreacher," she said slowly.

News? Could it be…?

"The Dark Lord is dead."

"Indeed? That –that is good news, yes?"

"Yes," she agreed slowly. Then she looked at him, the face he had long-since memorized in his head: that proud, autocratic bearing, the noble brow, the piercing eyes –all dimmed and marred with age and grief. "There is no mention of him. It is certain, then. My boy is dead."

His snout-nose quivered and the tears sprung into his eyes –oh, his Master, his poor young master. What had he done? Why was he the one to do it? Kreacher knew his Mistress was suffering just as he was, but while her suffering was a thousand times more than Kreacher's could ever be, she could never know what he knew, she could never know what her son had done as his last act.

The lady sighed and closed her eyes. "They will be here, they will be coming, from the Ministry. They will have questions. We must prepare to face them."

With a shadow of her old, cold energy, she rose to her feet. "Draw me a bath and set out my receiving robes. And the silver throat-clasp. Dust the hallway and the drawing room. Keep tea ready. We must be hosts as becoming our standing as one of the oldest and noblest Pureblood Houses."

He, of course, agreed readily, and set out to perform the whirlwind of tasks. They had stopped receiving people at Grimmauld Place for more than a year now, since the death of the Old Master, so now, things and tasks that were once familiar seemed surreally new to him. With the Mistress no longer in her prime and the dark, slow, silent grief that was all but consuming them, Kreacher found that it took him three hours to do that which he had always done in twenty minutes.

The rest of the day passed in restless inactivity as they waited for the inevitable inquisition. As he began to turn on the gas lamps, his Mistress stirred, fingering the heavy silver necklace at her neck sullenly. "I do not understand. Is the Ministry so ineffectual these days that they forget to-"

The doorbell interrupted her with a loud clang that made him start with fear. He turned to his Mistress –she had her familiar look of cool pride fixed on her face, and he was assuaged by its familiarity.

Thus emboldened, he scurried to the front door and opened it with a proud flourish. "Yes?"

"I'm from the Ministry to see Mrs. Black."

"The Mistress will see you," he said, bowing slightly and stepping aside. Kreacher narrowed his eyes as the man strode in. He did not like this man –not his tone, nor his prideful gait. His only redeeming factor was his impeccably neat appearance, which Kreacher shrewdly attributed to a diligent house-elf, which in turn implied a well-kept magical household.

The man halted at the end of the hallway and glanced around with undisguised disgust at the fading wallpaper. Kreacher hurried over to lead him away from the dark hallway into the more opulent drawing room. He had to hide a smirk when the man walked into the room –it was so obviously unlike the hallway, so rich and bright with luxury, that the man's look changed to one of surprise.

"Mrs. Black? Bartemius Crouch, Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

The lady stood up to greet him and gestured to a sofa. Mr. Crouch declined, bringing him further down in Kreacher's eyes, since etiquette demanded the lady remain standing as well.

"My cousin Charis married a Caspar Crouch."

"Indeed, many years ago. However, I am not here to connect family ties."

His Mistress drew herself up, so proud, so magnificent in her velvet robes and the emeralds glimmering at her throat! "I did not think so. Very well, begin your questioning. I will have you know I would never deign to-"

"Mrs. Black," said Mr. Crouch abruptly, "I am not here to question you. This is purely a formality."

His Mistress seemed to falter. "I do not understand."

"I hear you have not been in touch with the other… members of your social circle, so I don't think you know the news. Lord Voldemort is gone. We have won." The pride of the man, just simmering under the surface, seemed to brim over at this statement.

"I already know this."

"Indeed?" Mr. Crouch seemed to perk up, as though he could smell something different.

"I subscribe to the Daily Prophet."

"You surprise me," he said insolently. "Then my job is easier. You are already aware, of course, of your younger son's involvement in the Dark Side's murderous antics. You are also aware, I think, of his death."

"You are dredging up the past, Mr. Crouch."

"I ask you to bear with me for a few more minutes. His death last year had mostly been the stuff of rumour, and so I would like to officially confirm that he is indeed dead. His former colleagues have all testified to the same."

Kreacher could see his Mistress' hands curled into fists. Oh, the poor, grieving lady! "Your thoroughness and alacrity must be lauded."

"Thank you. I'm sure they will be." The self-assurance of the man disgusted him. "Now, moving on to the second matter."

"I thought there would be no questions?"

"There aren't. This is concerning your eldest, Sirius Black."

Fury all-too-familiar to Kreacher spread through his Mistress' countenance. With admirable self-control, she declared, "He is no son of mine."

Mr. Crouch shrugged. "Then it will not pain you to hear that he has been arrested and convicted to Azkaban for life."

Her face blanched, she swayed slightly and sank into the sofa behind her. Shock was making the blood pound in Kreacher's ears, but he rushed to his Mistress, his first and most important concern. "My lady Black!"

She ignored him completely. "Arrested?"

"As a traitor and a murderer. He killed a former friend and ally of the Ministry and the Order, Peter Pettigrew."

"Peter Pettigrew was his friend," she said weakly.

"Indeed, as I mentioned earlier. He has been charged with betraying the Potters, leading to their deaths and orphaning their infant son. Then when their friend Peter Pettigrew confronted him, he killed him and twelve other Muggles. He has been convicted, without trial, in accordance with the prevalent laws concerning crimes of this nature."

There was a small pause, and then -"That is not my son."

"I'm sorry?"

Walburga Black glared at Mr. Crouch. "My firstborn Sirius is a Muggle lover, a bloodtraitor, just like those Potters –that Potter woman was a Mudblood herself! Sirius denounced my noble and pure line for those filthy riffraffs. He went back on every ancient tradition of this family and this household and chose to consort with that –that scum! He has shamed me for being of my flesh, and he has shamed my blood and my name by insulting and mocking everything my fathers and their fathers before them have stood for!" Her voice, amplified with each word, seemed to echo in the grand room.

Mr. Crouch sniffed impatiently. "Your point being?"

"Sirius Black would not have murdered those Muggles."

"But Regulus Black would have?"

She stiffened, her eyes widening. "How dare you. How dare you take his name with such unconcern, such callous irreverence. Regulus was ten times the man Sirius ever could be!"

"And now Sirius won't be half the man he ever was. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has not one man left in its ranks." Still coolly insolent, Mr. Crouch dusted imaginary dust off his shoulder. "And I have said my piece, as required by the official regulations. Good evening, Mrs. Black."

With that he strode out of the drawing room and their lives forever.


The book snaps shut and floats away. Let it go. Never hold a book hostage. Ever.

Congratulations, you read the first book. Relax, drink some of that tea from the thermos you've brought along, and wait.

The stories will come to you.