Chapter 2
A.N: Hello, well here's the next chapter, thank you for the reviews last chapter :D. I'm going to try and publish two chapters a week on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but I may not always be able to stick to this schedule due to work/life. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and find it at least mildly entertaining. I'm thinking about writing a Bellatrix/Hermione one-shot, inspired by the torture scene in DH, like the idea?
Chapter 2
The next day began badly. Harry was woken from a dream in which hundreds of house elves were chasing him and trying to iron his ears by the sound of a thousand sirens having a field day. He shot bolt upright, blinking the sleep from his eyes and trying to focus. He was mildly shocked to see he had his wand in his hand. He was even more shocked to see Ron and Hermione at the foot of his bed.
"Nrgh," Harry said, which in this context meant, "How wonderful to see you guys again, I hope you're not too mad at me for leaving you guys behind."
Hermione sniffed, an eloquent sound that both cleared her nasal passage and conveyed the message, "It's great to see you too, Harry, and of course we've both fuming you left us behind, I mean really, Harry."
Ron just grinned, his wide white grin, his cheerful freckled face looking happy. "Harry, mate, great to see you."
"'S'nice t'see you too, Ron," Harry mumbled, "S'rry 'Mione," he added apologetically.
Hermione shot Ron a frustrated look; clearly he hadn't caught the non-verbal nuances to Hermione sniff, then expelled a breath sharply. Her next look told Harry all was not yet forgiven, but it soon would be. "So," she began, "found any Horcruxes?"
Draco awoke to the murmur of voices downstairs, laughter, the clink of plates and cutlery. The smell of frying bacon, warm sunlight on his face, a comfortable bed. All homely sensations; he knew instantly he wasn't home. He eased his eyes open fraction by fraction. The room he was lying in was old fashioned, the decorations though once rich and ornate now faded. He sat up, wincing as recollection set in. Ah yes, he was at Potter's house, how embarrassing. But how did Potter, with his questionable taste in friends and his downright hideous taste in clothes, end up with this kind of house? It stank of money, blood supremacy and Dark, three things Potter had always shown nil interest in. Because Potter was an abnormal freak.
Draco swung his legs off the bed and padded over to the desk. A slight smell of mould and neglect hung in the air despite the efforts of the house elf last night. It was so faint a smell it was more a feeling than scent, a feeling of loss and decay that covered the house like a shroud. The desk was solid oak, the legs carved into serpents twined around one another. Several sheets of paper lay on the desk, the writing faded into illegibility, the ink in the pot long dry. Draco shivered.
Next he examined the Slytherin banners, lips curling in a faint smile. Whoever this room had belonged to had had great taste. He went to the bookcase and pulled out a book at random, which just so happened to be a book of Dark curses, and opened it. There on the cover was a name; Regulus A. Black. Black, eh? Well that explained it then, obviously Potty had inherited the house when his dear Godfather, that nut Sirius Black, had expired. Clearly neither of the two, both bloody Gryffindors, had properly appreciated this house. How the House of Black had fallen. It made Malfoy feel a little sad to think that there was no longer anyone carrying the name Black; his mother was now a Malfoy, Andromeda had married a Muggle, Sirius was dead, and so was Regulus.
Regulus Black. His mother had mentioned him occasionally, they were cousins after all; how he'd been a Death Eater, and then been killed by the Dark Lord for insubordination, how it had broken his mother's heart to have one son dead and another disinherited and then exiled to Azkaban. Apparently it had driven her insane.
A peal of muffled laughter from below broke into his gloomy reminiscing. Suddenly it struck him, something he'd been too tired to notice last night. Potter had been alone, a state of affairs that shouldn't warrant alarm or confusion, except Potter never went anywhere without his two goons firmly glued to his side. From the sounds of merriment coming from downstairs this was a state of affairs that sadly hadn't continued for all that long.
It hadn't taken much for Potter to forget all about him. It was typical of that idiot, he just went charging about rescuing people and then dismissed them as soon as they were safe. Draco felt a surge of bitterness rise up inside him and was enraged by it. How was it that Potter's dismissal of him hurt? The rejection in first year still rankled. He glared at the floor like it had insinuated something about his parentage, then strode to the door and flung it open, smirking a little at the loud bang as it hit the wall. It stopped that damned laughter.
He briefly considered delaying his grand entrance downstairs to put on a shirt, but decided the hell with it, he had nothing to be ashamed of, appearance wise at least. Draco stalked down the stairs like he owned them, passing a dusty mirror on the way. He gave his reflection an approving nod, and continued down.
It was when he reached the passageway at the bottom that he realized he didn't know where the kitchen was. Kitchens were something that happened to other people in his opinion. Menial labour was carried out by other people there, and he'd heard that was catching so he'd never hung around one. Still, he wasn't just going to wait around for the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-A-Prat to remember him. Malfoy's seized the moment, carpe diem, although that wasn't the official Malfoy motto of course. In any case he strode forward purposefully.
It wasn't his fault an troll foot umbrella stand happened to get in the way and trip him. He was the pinnacle of poise and grace. He swore and kicked the bloody thing for good measure.
Someone screamed at him. A curtain he hadn't noticed before flew open, revealing not a window but a portrait of an old lady in ridiculous dress robes, "WHO DARES DEFILE THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK? TRAITORS, MUDBLOODS AND HALF BREEDS!"
Draco went from terrified to insulted in less than three seconds, a speed that even the new Firebolt would find hard to equal. "Who exactly do you think I am?" he asked nastily.
The portrait paused briefly from its list of derogatory remarks and took a good look at him. "Is that you, Lucius?" the portrait asked in surprise, the old woman coming closer to the frame and peering intently at him.
"No," answered Draco shortly, he didn't really feel like talking about his father. "I'm Draco, his son."
"Ah, Narcissa's boy," the old lady seemed pleased, "You don't look much like her."
"I know," Draco said. Everyone knew he took after his father.
"You've got the Black eyes though," the old lady nodded, looking less senile, "Same as me. I'm your Aunt Walburga."
Draco felt momentarily horrified at being related to anyone that old looking, but then became a lot more interested in the other thing she'd said. "Do we?" he started looking at her as intently as she at him. She was right; they both had the same cool, grey eyes. He'd never really given them any thought before, but both his parents had blue eyes.
It felt odd to realize he had something that marked him out as part Black, he'd always thought he was the archetypal Malfoy – white blond hair, supercilious sneer and all that. It felt odd. He surveyed the rest of her face carefully, searching for another sign that they shared blood, but if there had ever been some other similarity between them time had erased it. Her eyes were the only thing that had not aged.
"Malfoy, are you alright? How'd you get Mrs Black's portrait to shut up?" asked a familiar and oh so irritating voice, then hastily, "Malfoy! Put some clothes on, for the love of magic." Draco could hear the blush.
"INTRUDER! DESECRATER! FILTH!" The portrait erupted again, a look of madness twisting her features.
"Quieten down please, Aunt Walburga," Draco said wearily. The portrait snapped her mouth shut, and gave him a cold look. Draco was rather pleased to recognise it as one he often wore. Potter just looked gormless, not like that was unusual for him. "Now while I quite agree with your sentiments, I don't think screaming obscenities is going to do much," he drawled, enjoying the feeling of being in charge.
The calm was fleeting, and broken as usual by that blundering red-head and bushy-haired Mudblood who came rushing in.
"Harry are you alright? Malfoy hasn't hurt you, has he?" said the Mudblood breathlessly, her oversized teeth flashing as she spoke.
"What's this about Malfoy being naked?" the Weasel asked, before screwing up his face as he saw the vision of beauty that was Draco shirtless, "Ew, gross."
Plebeian. Draco thought absently.
"VILE COMMONERS! INSULTING MY OWN FLESH WITHIN MY HOUSE, HOW DARE YOU, YOU –"
Draco distractedly listened to Aunt Walburga spewing vitriol in his defence for a few minutes, while Weasel tried valiantly to pull the curtains shut to no avail, and the frizzy-headed bint rushed off to the kitchen where she'd apparently left her wand. So like those who hadn't been properly brought up, Draco thought serenely, a pureblood never went anywhere without their wand. He coughed politely, "Aunt Walburga?"
"Should've guessed you two would be related," spat the Weasley, whole face flushed pink with exertion, "You've both Pureblood, Dark Arts obsessed loons."
"Your face clashes with your hair," Draco snapped, then turned to the portrait, "Thank you for defending me, Aunt Walburga."
"You're very welcome," said the old lady haughtily, "unlike some others I could mention."
Draco laughed, "I think we have more than one thing in common."
The portrait looked at him with a glimmer of a smile, "Of course we do, my dear. "
Draco smirked at his aunt, enjoying the sound of Weasley spluttering, and Potter looking nonplussed. "Still, that idiot in the glasses saved my life."
"Why Harry?" ground out the Weasel, "Why did you have to do a thing like that?"
The portrait looked genuinely dismayed, "How terrible. So you're indebted to this hideously bespectacled boy?"
Draco nodded glumly, "Unfortunately."
The portrait sighed, "Can I at least be horrible to the other two?"
"No," barked Potter, dumbly loyal.
The portrait shuddered, "How… noble."
"He is a Gryffindor," said Draco sadly. They were both silent for a moment, ruminating on the misfortune of being beholden to a Gryffindor. They both shuddered.
"And you?" asked his Aunt suddenly.
"Slytherin," Draco assured her, "the hat barely touched my head."
The portrait sighed in relief, wearing the expression of one who'd narrowly dodged an Avada Kedava, "Thank god. I never used to worry until Sirius," she confided, "thankfully Reggie went to Slytherin."
The Boy-Who-Lived, worst luck, couldn't let the insult to his house or mutt of a Godfather slide, "Sirius was a good man, that's why he was in Gryffindor. Better than that precious Death Eater son of yours."
"Shut up Potter!" Draco hated Potter, hated, hated Potter. It was too late; the lucidity started to drain from the portrait's eyes at the mention of her beloved son and the blood traitor who'd broken her heart.
"Reggie," she muttered, eyes gazing vacantly past Draco, back into the past, "my boy, my pride." Her eyes focused suddenly, and Draco felt hopeful at the recognition in her stare, "Where's Regulus?" she asked plaintively, "Lucius, what has the Dark Lord done to my boy?"
"I'm not…" Draco began, then faltered. Did it matter who he was? "I'm sorry, he killed him. The Dark Lord killed your son."
The portrait stared at him silently for a few seconds that felt like hours. Her eyes were as flat and cold as the lake at Hogwarts on a calm day. Expressionless, the way his eyes could be. Then the ripples started, like someone skipping stones along the surface. Anguish clouded her eyes and she let out a sudden high-pitched keen.
Draco winced, and swerved angrily on Potter, "Are you happy now, Potter?"
Potter gaped and opened his mouth but Draco cut off whatever he was about to say, "Just shut her up, will you?"
Predictably Potter was as useful as a dead fish, but the Mudblood finally re-emerged from the kitchen and cast a silencing spell. The quiet was deafening, and he still had his Aunt's screams ringing in his ears. He ignored them all and strode into the kitchen, the Golden Trio bumbling along behind him.
The kitchen was disgusting; drawers pulled out, cupboard doors hanging off their hinges, stale crumbs and smears on all the worktops. Draco felt an icy rage building inside of him. No wonder the portrait had gone mad, watching the house she'd been so proud of fall into disrepair, frequented by people who insulted her and everything she'd ever cared about.
"What was all that about?" It was the Weasley, confusion in a freckled box.
"Malfoy," Potter began, probably about to say in a conciliatory but self-righteous way that he'd been right and Sirius was a martyr and an angel and Draco just didn't want to hear any of it.
"Do you enjoy making old ladies cry Potter? Because if so, then you're seriously sick," Draco turned to face them, sneer fixed firmly in position.
"She insulted Sirius!"
"She was his mother and he broke her heart! And don't you think mentioning her murdered son is a bit of a low blow? Not so noble as you like others to think, are you Potter?" Draco erupted, fists curling by his sides. He was one minute away from punching Potter, and hang the fact he was practically useless at fighting, wandless as he was.
Potter flushed, and stepped to the side, so the table wasn't between him and Draco. Things probably would have got ugly then if the Mudblood hadn't intervened.
"Both of you stop it," she said, stepping in between them, "It doesn't matter what Malfoy says, Harry," she said to Potter earnestly, "so can we just have breakfast in peace?" she smiled desperately. Potter's stony look softened as he looked at her. Draco's stomach turned. Then growled.
That broke the tension somewhat. It's hard to be icily furious at someone when your stomach is doing its best Professor Lupin at a full moon impression. Draco sat down on a chair stiffly, "Fine. Someone bring me toast."
The three of them even spluttered in indignation, Draco observed. Potter finally went to make the toast, gritting his teeth as he did so. The other two sat at the table, while he looked around the kitchen. He found some coffee beans eventually, and filled a mug up with water. Then he sat down again, poured the beans into the mug and glared fiercely at it. Potter placed the toast down next to the mug with a bang, but Draco refused to allow this to break his concentration.
It was the Weasel who finally cracked, "Malfoy, you obnoxious ferret, what in Merlin's name are you doing?"
Draco did not move his eyes from the cup, "Attempting to make a cup of coffee using non-verbal magic. Some idiot refuses to give me my wand."
The Weasel snorted, "Too bloody right."
The Mudblood said in tones of false politeness, "Would you like me to make you coffee, Malfoy?"
For the sake of not causing another argument Draco said, "Keep your hands off my coffee, Granger," instead of "Touch anything of mine and die, Mudblood." From the way the prat in the glasses ground his teeth, Draco figured this hadn't been polite enough. Bad luck, he thought maliciously, Malfoy's don't play nicely.
The three idiots held a whispered conference; well, two of them did. The third one just exclaimed passionately and loudly, "But we can't trust him with his wand, it's Malfoy!"
The freckled idiot was apparently overruled. His wand hit the table and started rolling. He grabbed it before it could hit the floor, "Ever heard of treating other people's possessions with respect?"
Bespectacled idiot rolled his eyes derisively, "Wish you'd thought about that before you'd grabbed Neville's rememberall back in first year.
Draco sniggered, Longbottom. His snigger died when he remembered the outcome of that little prank. He scowled darkly, blasting Potter and McGonnagal and favouritism and bratty first years being allowed on the Quidditch team and Nimbus 2000's.
He looked up into Potter's infuriating grin. Potter obviously knew which part Malfoy was remembering. He sneered, and made his coffee for want of something better to do.
The three idiots started talking again.
"Let's see the locket again," said the Mudblood, leaning over the table towards Potter. Potter nodded acquiescence, and pulled a locket out from under his t-shirt. Malfoy watched from under his lashes, as they scrutinised the locket. "I've been looking through some books, looking for an R.A.B," the Mudblood began in a hopeless tone.
The Weasel patted her consolingly on the back, "There, there," he said comfortingly, then ruined it all by adding, "I've always said you can't learn everything out of a book." The Mudblood visibly bristled.
"Um," Potter interjected, Master Diffuser of Rows.
Draco got up lithely and waltzed over. He leaned over Potter's shoulder and hooked the locket by the chain then backed off before Potter realised and took it back. Mudblood and Weasel stopped spitting daggers at each other to focus twin glares at him. Draco was not fazed; they were nothing compared to Pansy that time he bespelled her bra to flash neon pink. He examined the locket with genuine curiosity; it was an old piece, plain but heavy. Expensive, solid silver. He made to open the locket.
"Don't!" Potter said authoritatively, standing up, wand out, "Quit messing around and give it back or I'll hex you."
Draco smirked, and let the locket dangle, spinning on its chain, "I know who R.A.B is."
That stunned them. He didn't know why they needed to know who R.A.B was, but it had to be important. Draco was a Slytherin, which meant he loved secrecy, he guarded his own secrets fiercely and delighted in uncovering other people's. He quirked a lip, "Let's trade; I'll tell you who R.A.B is, and you tell me everything. "
"You're bluffing," Potter said, scar livid red against his suddenly pale face.
"Maybe. Do you know that for certain?" Draco said, "Can you risk passing up this information?"
"One name for all our information doesn't seem very fair," the Mudblood said quietly.
Draco rolled his eyes, "Fair is an adjective only ever used to describe my colouring. I'm a Slytherin."
"We don't trade with Death Eaters," the Weasel growled, "we can just torture it out of you."
Draco nearly laughed at the idea of these do-gooders torturing anyone, then he saw the grim expressions on their faces. He kept his expression coolly amused, "You could torture it out of me, but you'd have no guarantee I wouldn't just lie."
Potter pulled his heroic, traumatised face; Draco thought it made him look constipated. "How do we know you won't just lie anyway?"
"Simple," Draco said. He got up from the table and went upstairs. He was back down in a few minutes, The three idiots were all sat around the table, anxiously discussing as he re-entered the kitchen.
"-don't like this at all, Harry."
"We've got no choice," said Boy Wonder with a tragic sigh.
Draco cleared his throat. They all looked round at him with identical looks of distrust and anxiety. He wondered if anyone ever told them they spent too much time together. "Tada," he said sarcastically, pulling out a vial of colourless liquid.
"Great," said the Weasel, "What is it?"
Water, thought Draco, water from the upstairs bathroom I just put in a potions vial.
"Is that Veritaserum?" said the Mudblood.
Draco nodded. He poured four glasses of water, and added drops of the water in the vial to all of them. "You lot first," he nodded to the glasses.
"Giftus Revealus," said the Mudblood, pointing her wand at a glass. Nothing happened.
"Never mind, 'Mione, we all have off days," said the Weasel sympathetically.
She glared at him and Draco snickered, "She's checking for poison you idiot."
She finished checking all the glasses one by one, and then they drank. Draco held his breath, heart beating wildly; this was a massive gamble…
Potter started, awkwardly, haltingly. The whole story about the Hocruxes from beginning to end. Draco's urge to laugh at his trickery faded away as he listened to Potter. The bit about Dumbledore was obviously painfully fresh in Potter's mind, if the glare he gave Draco was any indication. Draco flushed a little; he'd done a lot in sixth year he wasn't very proud of. Weasley and Granger occasionally made one or two comments, but that was it. By the end, he was fairly certain he had the right R.A.B.
Then they finished and gazed expectantly at him. He waited, comfortable enough in the centre of attention.
"Bottoms up," the Mudblood said drily.
"What?" said Draco, momentarily thrown.
Potter rolled his eyes, "Drink up then."
Draco shrugged elegantly, and downed it.
Potter licked his lips, anticipation lighting up his green eyes, he leaned forward to ask, but the Weasel beat to it him, "How many girls have you slept with?"
Draco raised his eyebrows and lied smoothly, "Thirty-two. I'm shocked; a Gryffindor taking advantage."
"Ron!" said the Mudblood, clearly also shocked her freckly boyfriend would do such a thing.
"That's not fair, Ron," Potter said, but his grin said otherwise.
"Thirty-two? Really?" gasped the Weasel.
Draco nodded.
"I always knew you Slytherins were depraved," the Weasel muttered enviously, "but how'd you find thirty-two girls who'd sleep with you?"
"Well," Draco began, enjoying himself, "First I slept with all the girls in Slytherin in the same year, and then Ravenclaw, then there was the Beauxbatons girls and then –"
"Enough!" Potter looked horrified. Who'd have took Potty for a prude? He shook his head like a dog shaking off water droplets and focused, "Who is R.A.B?"
The Weasel and the Mudblood leaned forward, expressions serious. Draco fought back an urge to giggle. "Regulus Arcturcus Black," he sat back, "I think he's a second cousin."
They all looked dumbfounded. "No way," Potter breathed, then louder, more vehemently, "No way!"
Draco shrugged, "Why don't you ask the house elf?
No way, thought Harry numbly, unable to believe what he'd just heard. Still, Malfoy had taken Veritaserum so he couldn't be lying, but he might be mistaken… but Harry knew he wasn't. It all fitted too neatly; Sirius's little brother, who'd joined the Death Eaters and then had been killed because he wanted out. Except this way, he hadn't been a cowardly, evil Death Eater. He'd made a bad choice, but had tried to redeem himself. Harry wished he could tell Sirius.
"Why don't you ask the house elf?"
Harry stared blankly at Malfoy, thoughts whirling. Those cool grey eyes stared back at him unflinchingly. Finally he tore his gaze away and barked, "Kreacher!"
There was a loud pop and the house elf appeared. "More filthy unwanted guests," he muttered, glaring at Hermione and Ron, "the young Malfoy is still here," a look of adoration, "and my master, stupid halfblood, not even a Black, who does he think he is, playing with Master Regulus' locket?" The house elf did a double take. "Master Regulus's locket!" he shrieked, wringing long thin fingers in agitation.
Harry nodded, feeling that queasy sensation that was half pity, half revulsion again.
"Bingo, Malfoy," he whispered, then scowled darkly at Kreacher, "So you recognise this then? Have you got any idea if Regulus had another locket? Looked a bit like this with an S on the front?"
"Kreacher has no idea," said the house elf, reaching out a hand yearningly for the locket, "Kreacher is not telling that filthy half blood, Kreacher keeps Master Regulus's secrets."
"So you do know!" shouted Harry, fists clenching by his side, "Listen, elf, this is important. If you don't tell us thousands of people will die!"
"Kreacher is sorry Kreacher can't help," then muttered, "People always die, why should Kreacher care? Mrs Black is dead, and Master Black is dead and Mistress Bellatrix is never coming back…"
Harry narrowly restrained himself from kicking the house elf. "Malfoy," he said through gritted teeth, "Have you got any more Veritaserum?"
Malfoy, who had gone pale and unusually quiet, shook his head, "That batch was all I had."
"Harry," that was Hermione, also looking pale but also looking determined, "Harry don't do this."
He turned away from her, "He knows, Hermione, and we need to know."
Now Ron started to look uneasy, "That's right mate, but you're not going to really hurt him, are you?"
Harry felt sick; why were they looking at him like that? Like he was a monster? This was war, they couldn't afford to get upset over the feelings of one house elf. Especially not the one who'd killed Sirius, his mind whispered. No, that's not what this was about. He looked at Kreacher, small and hunched, googly eyes bloodshot and old and half-mad. I don't want revenge on this, he felt tired, overwrought. I'm doing this because I have to. "There's no other choice."
He lifted his wand and pointed it at the house elf, trying to conceal his hand shaking. An image of Dobby flashed into his head, "Dobby is a free elf!", helping Harry with the second task for the Triwizard Tournament. Harry lowered his wand, "I can't do it."
Ron expelled a nervous sigh of relief. Hermione flung her arms around his neck and gasped, "I knew you couldn't Harry," and Malfoy rolled his eyes and drawled, "If you can't even torture a house elf, how did you think you could torture me?"
Harry grinned, feeling a bit weak with relief himself. "That's different," he told Malfoy, "no Malfoy had ever been my friend."
Malfoy recoiled for a second and Harry had the surreal thought that he'd hurt Malfoy's feelings. The feeling passed; if Malfoy had been hurt he gave no sign of it when he drawled, "Well, this is all very touching, but how do you propose to find out about the locket now?"
A grim silence descended on them. Well, apart from Malfoy who apparently had decided he wanted another cup of coffee, and of course Kreacher went on muttering maliciously to himself.
A minute or so passed before anyone spoke. Unsurprisingly it was Hermione who broke the silence, "I have an idea," Harry and Ron exchanged relieved looks, good old Hermione, "but you're not going to like it, Harry."
Harry's feeling of relief evaporated like morning dew. "What are you going to do?" he began apprehensively.
Hermione bit her bottom lip, her big brown eyes soft and worried. She took the locket off Harry, but didn't explain. Harry wondered whether he should protest and demand she explained herself, but Ron caught his eye and mouthed "Leave her to it". Harry shrugged, but decided to trust Hermione.
Hermione knelt down next to Kreacher, "Kreacher, it's very important that you tell us all you know about this locket," she said gently.
Kreacher froze, batlike ears pointing backwards like a dog hearing an unpleasantly pitched noise. "The Mudblood is talking to Kreacher! Filthy, disgusting…"
Hermione paled, the look of hurt that always accompanied the Mudblood insult crossing her face briefly before she composed herself. "Listen, you cared about Regulus, didn't you Kreacher?" she asked desperately, "Well, we're on Regulus' side, we're going to kill the ones who killed him. Don't you want that?"
The house elf peered up at her suspiciously, "Can't trust Mudbloods, all filthy liars, not even proper wizards…"
Harry's hand tightened on his wand, and he saw Ron's face turn a brilliant shade of red. Even Hermione flushed slightly, and her eyes narrowed in anger. There was an awkward moment when no one knew what to do, then Hermione seemed to remember the locket, "Kreacher, would you like this?"
A scream of protest rose up in Harry's throat, but he choked it down, remembering to trust Hermione. It was hard though, to watch the locket Albus Dumbledore had died for being passed willingly over to a cowering house elf. Kreacher took it, a look of revolting happiness covering his face, "This is for Kreacher to keep?"
"Yes," Hermione said anxiously, "but you must tell us where the other locket is, please, Kreacher."
At the mention of the Horcrux locket Kreacher's expression changed to something dark and furtive and sly, "Kreacher promised Kreacher wouldn't say, promised Kreacher'd not give it to anyone, but you was throwing everything out, and that thief was stealing all Mistress' precious things, and Kreacher couldn't let that happen, so Kreacher thought he'd give it to the young Miss Black, not that she's called that anymore, but –"
"Wait," Harry interrupted, feeling sick, "you gave the locket to Bellatrix?" He and Ron and Hermione all exchanged identical horror-struck looks. Malfoy looked suddenly thoughtful.
"Might as well have gift-wrapped it and given it to the Dark Lord," groaned Ron.
"No," it was Kreacher, still muttering, "not Miss Bellatrix, wonderful Miss though she is, making Kreacher iron his ears and boil his nose, not her, she works for the Dark Lord who killed poor Master Regulus, and not Miss Andromeda either, filthy blood traitor that she is, dirty Muggle-lover," his long, bony fingers caressed the locket lovingly, "no, why, I gave it to Miss Narcissa of course."